Tom And Steve
It's one thing to pay homage. It's another to feel nostalgic. And, it's quite another thing to take away my precious happy memories. Sure, everything old becomes new again and perhaps the greatest of...
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Are you appearing for an exam? If you are—whether it's school exams, the SAT, GMAT or IIT-JEE—this post offers some useful tips. Many times, we might hear children or ourselves say, "I don...
Be warned. This is not me talking about knitting. Not really. Knitting is just the process I engage in. It's not what I do. What I do -- as the needles sing, clinking against each other, the matte metal zinging in a tiny bubble of yarn, as the knot slides out gently, magically, as the fuzz of the string lazes on my leg -- is exist. In that moment I exist. And I am at peace.
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Ambhora is a village that has been abandoned, left to the ghosts. All the people are gone. The houses are breaking and nature is reclaiming the habitation. The village lies on the banks of the Wainganga and in more habitable times, in the not too distant past, boys played cricket and held wrestling matches on the sandy banks. As the water level rose due to the damming of the river families started leaving. Ambhora has not disappeared, yet, but the water is not far away.
I feel a pervasive sense of helplessness, of danger, of responsibility, a sense of guilt and unreality. It is as though our earth has shifted on its axis and something unfathomable has occurred in the galaxy in which I live. Even as I realise that, I know his confusion must be so much more. It is a whole new world to him -- in an awful, confusing way, he must be in a city where the street signs are missing.
Like other tools of popular culture, the tape recorder was a rage in the early eighties. Its demise compels me play the somewhat broken record of my memories. And the tape gets stuck around my red Sony Walkman -- a birthday gift from my father.