The MISSing factor

On this boring Sunday afternoon, as I was flipping through the channels, I suddenly came across this beauty pageant show held at Chennai. It was a search for the girl who was to be Miss Chennai. There were models queuing up for the initial tests.

What I could make out was that they had to be minimum of 5ft 6inches tall, 34'-24'-34' in size, have a clear skin and be able to speak in English. I must admit all of them were drop dead gorgeous.

Many got eliminated during the initial tests. Those who got selected, were trained on how to walk, how to talk , how to carry themselves about and many other things.

When it came to the D day all of them were called and asked to introduce themselves. The whole show went off in a very organised manner and it was very pleasing to see so many beautiful women walk the ramp. Finally three were chosen as winners. One was Miss chennai and the other two were the runner-ups.

Then I realised something. Most of the girls who were to be called Miss Chennai didn't even know how to speak Tamil or have any idea about Madras(It sounds better doesn't it?).

In a state which makes it compulsory for every child to study Tamil at school, bans films with English titles and fights for Tamil to be the national language, relaxes its rules when it comes to its beauty representatives.

The entire ideology of Tamil and Tamizhan is confusing . Isn't it?
Any way tamizh thai vazhga.....

Reminiscences

Its been so long since i revisited this special place once again. It felt like visiting a dilapidated house a displaced clock showing the wrong time,google ads which dont pay me, it was literally in shambles.
They were the links to the blogs of few fellow bloggers who atleast were more active than me.It reminded me of both good and bad things in life. I did start off as a very enthusiastic blogger and always wanted to spend my time in this little world that gave me tremendous happiness. Here i could do what I love doing - expressing my thoughts without any hindrances. My computer never argues with me it just listens . But doesn't appreciate me at the same time. It gave me a sense of pride , satisfaction, happiness and what not.
I want to visit this world more often and revamp this little space of mine. Hello dear reader. Await the new beginning.

confessions (part 2)

With all enthusiasm and excietment I approached the teacher incharge of the play, for my role. I always managed to score well in Hindi and the Hindi teacher was my favourite. She asked me to sit quietly in the corner of the room, where everyone belonging to the hindi play had assembled. I was filled with excietment and started imagining all sorts of things. Maybe I had a very important role to play and thats why she asked me to sit in a corner. Maybe I'd do my part so well that even the chief guest for the day would come and garland me.
I was sitting in the corner for one whole scene and didnt quite understand what was going on.
Finally after one whole rehersal I figured out my role. I was sure in a crucial scene that was the most dramatic part in the play. It was the scene that changed Siddhartha into Buddha. But neither my role was crucial nor did I have any dialogues to speak. My role was to cry for a Dead body. The whole thing came upon me like a ton of bricks. I wanted to disappear somewhere deep under the earth below me. I was so ashamed of myself. My role. How would I tell my parents that I had no dialogues to deliver when two of my best friends had major roles.

With huge tears rolling down my cheeks, I went home, quietly went to my crying hide out and cried for an hour or two. The crying hide out was my bathroom. Whenever I was in this huge state of depression I went there to vent out my feelings to the huge mirror there, and I would feel better. I felt much better because I wasnt assigned the role of the dead body itself.
Finally, I decided that I would not tell my parents anything about the annual day or the play.
I would do my role and run away from the scene before anyone saw me or asked me anything.

The grand day arrived and all my friends who had the roles like that of the princess were getting decked up with so much care no one bothered about this lonely mourner. I was wrapping myself around this old sari of my mother's which I sneaked out from the cupboard. While everyone ws busy rehersing their dialogues I was busy popping the free cakes the management had provided for the participants.

When I was on stage I tried to cover my face with the saree so that none saw me. Finally they introduced all the participants and introduce me as the mourner I wanted to do simply run away.

Today, when I think back I feel stupid rather than embarassed. It is every small role that makes big plays happen. So what if one did not have dialogues? So what if one did not get decked up? Every role was important. I have realised this.
But still the teacher's havent and every mourner feels the same way as I did.

confessions

I havent posted anything worth while for quite sometime, so thought why not kill my boredom by blogging.

The other day I went to the beach with my friend, which brought back many memories of school life.Those memories good or bad never get washed off from one's mind. As I was coming back home in my scooter I was thinking about this one very embarassing experience I had, during my school days.

This was during the annual day , otherwise called "parent's day" in school where all the mom's and dad's await to see their chilren perform on stage. The preparation for this great show begins a month in advance. It was a tradition my school followed that made it compulsary for each student to take part in atleast one play. There were many plays in hindi, tamil, english, sanskrit. There was a dance drama and even an orchestra too , and those who were more musically inclined preferred to go for those.

It was during this time that I fell ill with fever and couldnt attend school for about two weeks. After two weeks I found out that I had been assigned a role in the Hindi play. I was very excieted as two of my very good friends in class were also taking part in the the same event. The play was about the life of Gautama Buddha , about how he becomes the enlightened one from Siddhartha.
Most of the roles had already been assinged to the students by then and only the small one's were remaining.(to be continued).....

The greatest come back

The long absence from blogging was due to an unavoidable episode that occurs twice a year in my life and lasts for about 15 days. The aftermath of it , is the scariest part.

Yeah the episode was my exams. And I survived it. Three cheers to me. yeppeeeeeeeeeeeeee. A semester with 9 papers. Reading 9 books in 15 days. Which amounts to reading a minimum of 400 pages in a day. Not only reading but also remembering what i read. Gosh i survied it. But as i think about the future a cold rushes down my spine. How am i gonna survive 6 more semesters .ie. 40 more papers. Rite now its over and I have decided I’ll worry about the aftermath later.And take the future as it comes.

Mean while I can spare some time with the pen and paper – a favourite pass time.

This post is not to inform the regular readers (who are very few) of my blog , but to make a tress passer not wonder about the long absence.

Life's worth!

I read this somewhere actually forgot where but it was a good one just think about it...

A couple of small kids were playing next to a small pond in the country side.
Suddenly , the ball they were playing with fell into the pond, and the boy who went to retrive it fell into the pond.
They was a lot of hue and cry and everyone was trying to save the boy.
Later, one man came out of the blue and saved the boy's life.

The boy had lost all consciousness by then. After he got back his conscience he went in search of the man who save his life. He wanted to thank the man and said , "I am indebted to you for the rest of my life. Thank you soo much".

The man replied " Its ok boy! make sure was life was worth saving."

The race

I was reading the book chicken soup for the soul and came across this very inspiring poem. I read it over and over again and thought why not post it.


The Race

Whenever I start to hang my head
in front of failure’s face,
my downward fall is broken
by the memory of a race.
A children’s race, young boys,
young men; how I remember well,
excitement sure, but also fear,
it wasn’t hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope,
each thought to win that race
or tie for first, or if not that,
at least take second place.

Their Dad's watched from off the side,
each cheering for their son,
and each boy hoped to show his Dad
that he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they went,
to win, to be the hero there,
was each young boy’s desire.

One boy in particular,
whose dad was in the crowd,
was running in the lead and thought
“My dad will be so proud.”
But as he speeded down the field and crossed a shallow dip,
the little boy who thought he’d win,
lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself,
his arms flew everyplace,
and midst the laughter of the crowd
he fell flat on his face.

As he fell, his hope fell too;
he couldn’t win it now.
Humiliated, he just wished to disappear somehow.
But as he fell his dad stood up
and showed his anxious face,
which to the boy so clearly said,
“Get up and win that race!”

He quickly rose, no damage done,
behind a bit that’s all, a
nd ran with all his mind and might
to make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself,
to catch up and to win,
his mind went faster than his legs.
He slipped and fell again.
He wished that he had quit before
with only one disgrace.

“I’m hopeless as a runner now,
I shouldn’t try to race.”
But through the laughing crowd
he searched and found his father’s face
with a steady look that said again,
“Get up and win that race!”

So he jumped up to try again,
ten yards behind the last.
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought,
“I’ve got to run real fast!”
Exerting everything he had,
he regained eight, then ten...
but trying hard to catch the lead,
he slipped and fell again.

Defeat! He lay there silently.
A tear dropped from his eye.
“There’s no sense running anymore!
Three strikes I’m out!
Why try? I’ve lost, so what’s the use?” he thought.
“I’ll live with my disgrace.”
But then he thought about his dad,
who soon he’d have to face.

“Get up,” an echo sounded low,
“you haven’t lost at all,
for all you have to do
to win is rise each time you fall.
Get up!” the echo urged him on,
“Get up and take your place!
You were not meant for failure here!
Get up and win that race!”

So, up he rose to run once more,
and he resolved that win or lose,
at least he wouldn’t quit.
So far behind the others now, the most he’d ever been,
still he gave it all he had and ran like he could win.

Three times he’d fallen stumbling,
three times he rose again.
Too far behind to hope to win,
he still ran to the end.

They cheered the boy
who crossed the line and won first place,
head high and proud and happy
-- no falling, no disgrace.

But, when the fallen youngster crossed the line,
in last place, the crowd gave him a greater cheer
for finishing the race.

And even though he came in last
with head bowed low, unproud,
you would have thought he’d won the race,
to listen to the crowd.
And to his dad he sadly said, “I didn’t do so well.”
“To me, you won,” his father said.
“You rose each time you fell.”

And now when things seem dark
and bleak and difficult to face,
the memory of that little boy
helps me in my own race.

For all of life is like that race,
with ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win is rise each time you fall.
And when they shout "Quit give up you are beaten"
another voice within me says, “Get up and win that race!”