A reflection on what mirror reflects …

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Mirror mirror on the wall

Who is the slimmest of the all?

Mirror mirror on the wall

Who is the wrinkle free of the all?

My bundle of joy, my little boy is six now. Never in fourteen hours of his wakefulness, he stands in front of mirror or catches a glimpse of himself unless in some blue moon he feels like making a fancy face or poke a joke on his own image. He just doesn’t feel the need for it. I know he will not stay the same, but that story rests for some other day when I face the gun. Is he not aware of his existence?

What is that makes a child not to be that self-conscious about his or her body?

Our body image is our reflection on the appearance that we carry or to say the personality we offer, which indeed is a part of our existence. But what is that makes us grown-up feel so conscious about our physicality and right here I am hinting on the attributes that we manifest aesthetically. The morning mirror throws a reality check as we brush our teeth or tidy up, to face the world. Our face and body stands there sometimes as welcoming as it could be and many times as a challenge to overcome. We agree or not but amidst all the engagements or hustle, we all do find a few seconds to steal a glimpse of our own self in mirror and adjust our demeneaour depending upon the reflection it throws at us. If not so, then why on earth would your profile pictures in social media sees you in the chosen best of the light?

While it’s not wrong to be conscious about your presentability but if believing or obsessing on ‘what you look like’ determines your value as a person, then somehow it carries unfavourable implication on your own self worth. Being fixated to physical appearance and trying to fit into this new found definition of beauty which changes every now and then with trending and sponsored media galleries, causes a superficial approach to find and feel the real you. The media hungry obsession of picture perfect body images of celebrities has done no good to us or to our coming generation, where mostly many pictures are photo shopped to the point of achieving a totally impeccable body shape or bearing. As it is there’s nothing left to fancy for or charm about with the abundance of incongruity and shamelessness exhibited in the name of glam or sham.

This reminds me of a day few years down the lane, while I used to work for a media house and was a part of a management team, who coordinated the supposedly most prestigious beauty contest of India. When I met the contestants backstage almost all of them between 18 to 24 years maidens sans make up or designer ensemble, I felt a sense of hollowness as if the air surrounding smelled of something so over-pretentious or affected. There was something not natural about it as almost all the girls looked alike or similar as if measured, dissected and pruned accordingly as to fit into a cast which defies their originality, for a reason which does not resonate with the very essence of beauty.

When all are almost same, how do we measure? But then why should we measure?

Doesn’t the beauty lies in the uniqueness of each one of us?

To add to the glory there were few who were mugging the jarred lines on women empowerment and social obligations to score a point or two. After delivering my duties which was little tiresome being into the core of the event, once I was out of the backstage and then making my way through the crowd and then out of the venue and stepped towards my vehicle, which was parked in that vast airy space outside the auditorium meant for parking, I felt a sense of relief, away from that stifling air inside which was nothing less than the mockery on the entirety of beauty. I was almost of the same age group of the beauty pageants but totally from different side of the world. I was neither as tall nor size zero like them, but there upsurged this strange sense of confidence within me which made me feel more beautiful inside as every day I lived I have seen the sense of appreciation and look of admiration of people around me who know me and may be even physically find me endurable enough and thankfully I was not a part of that pointless inane beauty parade.

Back home I switched on the TV and the same contest was going on live and this was something I have watched consistently in my teenage days. For the first time, I rejected it. Somewhere I felt a woman cocooned out of a girl. I was 23 then. It lost that charm or attention of mine after being exposed with the real manoeuvres of how it really works and what damage it actually does to the young ones projecting skewed versions of beauty. And ever since I have just stopped watching it. It doesn’t amuse or thrill me at all, no more. Infact it dissuades or makes me feel rather dismayed. Should we then blame the media alone. A family is a powerful system too. I have seen girls of as early as ten or twelve following dieting or exhibiting eating disorders just to be part of the insane race or to feel validated by peer group and the surroundings.

Quite recently I attended a puberty ceremony(sort of sweet sixteen) of my neighbour’s daughter. She was dressed in traditional attire with golden brocade silks and rich ornate jewelleries. She wore makeup, may be for the first time. She is not that typical beauty which certain set standards proclaim but at plumper side. But there flickered a sweet smile on her face and a sense of delight lingered in her poise. At that moment I was so sure of what I wanted to tell her being a woman who has passed that impressionable and sensitive phase of girlhood. I just looked at her eyes as there were people around and noise and told her assuredly that ‘you look beautiful today as you are a gorgeous, gorgeous girl.’ I could feel the twinkle in hers eyes sparkled a bit more with sort of a sense of achievement. And I am sure that with years to pass by, when certain days will be harsher to her, words of appreciation and assurance like this treasured in her innermost self will give her the spunk to fight back and have belief in her own being.

Our body is this amazing gift; appreciating and respecting all the things it can do will help us to feel more positive about it and notions like this if instilled at right age into our sweet little ones will create a more self-reliant and secure generation.

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And now comes the formidable question once again to be grappled with:

What is that makes a child not to be that conscious about his/her body image?

Perhaps if we think deeper, we will realise that childhood to certain stage lacks that state of self- consciousness as somewhere their physical state of being is in tandem or harmony with their mind, emotion and intellect. A child accepts his body the way it is, without making any fuss about what he is not or what he should be in terms of appearance. And there lies a subtle message for us in this as the day we accept our physicality the way it is like a child, instead of grouching on that extra inch gain or freaking on one fine line appearing in forehead, may be we will understand the true beauty God has bestowed on each of us; the beauty of being you.

The beauty which defines you and only you and no one else. It’s being accepting who you are rather than trying to chase a never ending unrealistic race of being who you are not. It’s having learned to appreciate how each part of your body connects, and how wonderful it is to be able to use it fully in harmony with your senses alive. It’s being comfortable in your own skin. It’s been feeling beautiful by being alive in itself.

It’s not about what mirror reflects,

but rather about how we reflect

on what we see is the key.

Just give your body some love and that’s what all it needs to feel the real beauty in you. Until then I wonder, How the world would have been with no mirrors around? Does it even matter as long as you feel you are beautiful inside and out!

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My Divine

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In the stones
On scriptures
In places
Through rituals
In object
And on subject
I seek
I hope
I dig
I pray
But in vain.
That light
That power
The divinity
That flower
Which blossoms
Inside my concrete,
That flame
Which burns
With each heartbeat,
That faith
with which
even death can’t compete,
That’s my GOD.
My life source
My energy resource
My only love
My sole companion
Who will never retreat(me)
In my prosperity or even defeat.

 
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But I will yell this…

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Even if it sounds cliche,
I will tell this.
I know,
You heard it ten times
But I will yell this.

She didn’t ask for it.
Did she?
She was thirteen
Fun, frolic and promises.
With hope abound
Filled with effervescence.
Very First time –
Those crude intrusive
Unwelcoming eyes
Pricked every essence of her.
The deeds of brazenness
didn’t stop there.
Only thrusted through acts
More lewd and outrageous.
Cat Calls and hoots,
Groping, stalking and abuse.
The years passed
Only names and faces changed.
Every step outside
Never felt normal,
But then with time
Even the wretchedness became natural.

How can her own body
Be the cause of offence!
The very frame
Which carries the soul
Under her skin,
And offers a living chance.
The soul which lays
Tattered and smothered
With years of untold hurts
And tainted reality that hovered.

The stained trust
In deep recess of her heart
will never be speckless.
For the want of
Dignity and Respect,
the battle continues regardless.
While the mind amends
For survival,
But the soul cries in disguise.
The Woman in her
now questions each and every eye.

Even if it sounds cliche
I will tell this.
I know,
You heard it ten times
But I will yell this.

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To my MoonLight

This one is going to be little personal; that corner of my heart, which has a softer, kinder and warmer touch in my life. Though I am always little jittery about writing things personal, being an introvert. But this kindred bond in my life with that faint, frosty beautiful bluish radiance of calmness and love like a moonlight holds my attention today, to let it out and share. Share what I always wanted to and be glad for what I have or am blessed with.

“Blessed be the ties that bind generations.”

She is the moonlight of my life and will always be, as I mentioned she is that antique little girl, with whom I share a doting bond and an affectionate link. She is my Grandmother, my Dad’s Mother.

Now she stays far away from me around thousand kilometres away. It’s not that I talk to her everyday but once in a full moon. But then when life becomes too demanding, even talking over a phone once a month surely seems suitable some of the time. But she is always there in my prayers. In my that self-made inner circle which consists of few of the precious ones in my life, she stays intact in there, always.

Why it is that I share such an exclusive tie with her? One of my very first early childhood memories, when she was not that old but a middle aged lady in her late forties may be, I remember distinctively how she used to make homemade kajal(modern day kohl) for me and my sister with great attention and care; kind of a traditional secret recipe mixed with pure charm. I grew up applying those on my eyes. That burnt castor oil traces still lingers in my sub conscious and I miss them dearly while applying my neatly packaged smudge free Maybelline colossal today.
As a saying goes in my homeland that applying kajal makes one’s eye appear beautiful. So I thank her today for filling my eyes with beauty; of beauty that encompasses pureness and richness of unconditional love. That beauty which surpasses physicality and reaches eyes of the soul and never smudges.

I always felt myself to be beautiful, though aware I am an average looking person. Somewhere this confidence in me was instilled by the loved ones all through out my growing up. Especially my Grandmother played a major role in this. She has always made me feel that beautiful. She made me believe that I am worth more than what life can offer, through her kind words. Today as a Mom, when I think deeper about it, I know What boost it did offer me being a child, having a belief on myself. So my earnest thankfulness to her to make me face those not so perfect days with the gift of tenacity through this faith that I can do it no matter what. I am always that twinkle in her eyes which shines brightly.

A Grandmother is a Mother with extra frosting.
And those days when I used to return back from my college classes, she will pull me to kitchen and put a succulent syrupy piece of sweetmeat; a mouthful of joy dripping all down my face, quite stealthily avoiding the prying eyes. As it was a big joint family and she didn’t wanted me to be devoid of these delectable relish before it’s been consumed by others. A sign of love which saw no boundary and is all pervasive and all powerful.
Thank you Grandma for imbibing in me the values of what love means which I can pass on as an inheritance; a lesson that you do whatever it takes to ensure that your kids are being loved and nourished.

And her innumerable tales with that warmth in her voice, which lavished my innocent tender years of growing up sprinkled with stardust. So how can I thank you for that priceless archives of imagination and a life beyond worldly that you planted on the seed of my mind in that impressionable years of mine!
Sleeping on your lap under the summer night stars or inside the winter blankets and listening to those inane yet virtuous fables will be treasured in safe haven of my heart ever, forever. And there were times when you fell short of a new story, even repeating the same ones still felt meaningful as if some zest added afresh or newness I found which I might have missed unintentionally.

And my gratitude for the innumberable times you stood for me, for against anyone even your own blood if they tried to hurt me in some way or other. Unconditional positive regard is rarely given by anyone except a very few and that’s what you offered me by trusting me effortlessly.

A grandmother’s love knows no distance.
And that special day of my life I was getting married to the man of my dream and you crossed 400 miles to be with me even if warned not to, for your deteriorated health conditions. I still remember what you said,
” How can I be not with my princess in this blissful day?, if I miss this then I will not forgive myself ever.”
And as I am penning these lines down, my eye are moist with tears but they don’t fall for the sheer strength of perseverance that you fostered in me through out the years with instances of grit like this.

And there are one and many more instances like these where you made an imprint on my heart with your loving, compassionate and affable selfless spirit. And I know I am your precious little thing that you will not bargain for anything or with anybody. And if in one line I can presume of what you assimilated on me, then that would be:
‘Never give up on Love’.
And I truly live with this surmise each and every day of my existence.

You are almost 85 now. As you have reached the autumn of your life and years of survival has wearied you down. These days when I call you and you still soak me with your warm loving words and then weep like a child grumbling and protesting why you should not be alive as being so primitive! That your eyes, knees, breathings and whole other systems are giving up day by day and that each day of existence is effortful and filled with pain at this stage of life. I hear but I pray and I still pray that you stay. That you don’t give up now. I know I am self-centerd in this but I don’t want to loose you ever as your love and affection is irreplaceable for me. We should all have at least that one person in our life who knows how to bless us no matter what and that’s what you are to me.

“They say genes skip generations.
Without my final acknowledgement, this piece of writing will remain unfinished and incomplete. I do remember when during one of your story sessions you revealed that how your Mother was a lady endowed with power of imagination and expression. You told me that she was a woman ahead of her generation. In those days of pre independent India, she was a connoisseur of words and literature and a gifted poet. Little did I knew at that point of time, what the word ‘Poet’ meant until I reached my School days.
But then sometimes when I write a verse or a note, and people ardently appreciate my effort or may be my skill, I wonder did my genetic code played a role in this. Surely, I don’t know the reason or have a clue for what makes me the way I am or aids me in expressing the things the way it is that might touch someone’s sensibility. But my heart do feel intensely grateful for what you passed on to me as a legacy knowingly or unknowingly.
“God Bless you My Moonlight, My Grandmother and Wish you Happy 85th Birthday.”

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Love’s labour’s lost…

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Broken jar
Wasted dinner
In kitchen sink.
Shaken bed
Tumbled sheets
Pillows distressed.
Piles of magazines
Never been touched.
The only thing speaking
Is the TV
On the living room.
The only beats resounding
Is the flicker
On the mobile.
Mind just races
While the heart so bleeds.
Broken beyond repair
Love in despair.
Loneliness slumbers,
Unfulfilled yearnings
they are struck to.
Unforgiving hurts
they cling to.
When destiny mocks,
Trust is tossed.
Promises seems surreal,
And the heartbreak it cost.
Union of convenience breeds
As Love’s labour’s lost.

 
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The Heart of the Rose

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Our love affair with flowers is well known. From offering saffron hues of Marigold for worshiping God to the decorative malas(garlands) made out with choicest of fragrant Mogras and Rajnigandhas for wedding ceremonies, filling the ambience with sweet calmness and craving belongingness and a grand affair to spill over, seems surreal. Even making a beauty statement further, a dainty jasmine flower chain is worn in the hair in form of Gajras(small garland chains) by the bride and some of the dames virtuously, during the ceremony and even on day to day life; Flowers, the epitome of nature’s beauty are surely for real even though ephemeral.

The flowers with its pure exquisite beauty sometimes professes a pristine hope and at times teases the heart with new desire. The queen of flowers is not behind though. Something mystical about it. Rose is a rose is a rose. It’s like an alluring beauty having a profound deepness in it’s belly to be expressed. As if whispering a tale to tell:
“But he who dares not grasp the thorn,
Should never crave for the rose.”
– Anne Bronte…

The story doesn’t end but rather begins here. It’s the tale of a flower-seller and the story of a regular urban girl like you and me, two people from totally different realms of world.
Every morning Ganga, who is almost sixty, will walk down nine kilometres with her chapped, barren feet at a stretch to the nearby highway road to sell Rose bouquets. Those bouquets couldn’t match with the ones which we find in city boutiques. They were not as refined and never did had the touch of artistry unlike them.
Her’s were the bunch of roses knitted together as naturally as they are meant to be; untouched and unspoiled by any. City people and passers-by will pick up those for the bargain they get, as it is half the cost of freshness being offered. At days, she will reap One-fifty Rupees and if lucky may be Three Hundred, which was pretty rare. But then some days will mock her hardships further and she will return home almost empty handed to feed two ever-urging stomach, burden of non-refilled medicines, reconciling with the bare minimum necessities.

It’s been almost seven years that she started this meagre income source after her husband Hari was diagnosed with Cirrhosis coz of excessive liquor consumption and was left partially paralysed. Ganga was married when she was hardly seventeen. At that tender age, only purpose for which she got married was to get three times of meal which her father couldn’t provide belonging to a poor landless tribal belt. Her entire life she was devoted to Hari as she laboured, toiled hard to support him over the years.
It was not like this before as Hari was a skillful young man and kept Ganga well nourished and cherished. Things started crumbling as he fell prey to intoxicant and the days of misery just added bit by bit to the extent that today he lay there motionless, half decayed forgoing Ganga to God’s mercy. Even if childless, the marriage was fruitful as Hari always was a faithful husband and Ganga a true consort.

The month of July this year was falling short of rain. Scattered drizzles could not uplift the brazen spirit longing for rain. That morning when Ganga reached her usual spot besides the highway road, a few minutes to nine, a car halted just across the crossing and a figure walked towards her.
A girl in her late twenties, pleasent and cherubic, yet something frazzled and somber about her demeanour approached. She picked up a bouquet and without any hesitation paid the price leaving no room for negotiation. Ganga felt relieved as the day began with a happy note.

Quite attentively and heedfully, Maya placed the bouquet on the front seat of her car, as if a mother settling her baby gently. As she started driving, her tenacity could not uphold the leftover anguish and her red, tear rimmed eyes dripped with the showers of intense bereavement.
Roses are so special. Especially special are these red ones as those were dearest to Mom, she gasped. Mother herself planted, watered, pruned and nurtured them….these beautiful babies, she used to call them playfully. Roses are God’s best gift to nature, according to mom it was.
“These satin silk petals in those fragile layers spreading along with it a tender, warm aroma is like a magic, which can uplift any wearied heart,” Mother used to confess. And every time she will handpick a few and knit them together and decorate them besides the bed.

And that fine day, when she was just twelve and she saved some money to buy a bouquet for mom’s birthday, and with the gleeful expressions on mom’s eyes, tears of gladness rolled down her cheek, she accepted and kissed those roses and murmured,
“How blessed a mother can be having a girl like you! “
Perhaps that was the best surprise she ever received in her life. Through out the years, Maya knew that her Mother was a tender, sensitive soul just like the Roses. So much so that even life’s natural toils and trials were harsher to her. She was too good, too fragile to be in this jagged world. And just like that one day abruptly, she gave up the ultimate fight; the fight for life and with that collapsed Maya’s affectionate existence too.

It’s been ten years, she lost her and on every birthday of Mother, she would pick up a bouquet filled with brightest of bright red roses and will place it besides her bed, the way Mom used to. Over the years even the pain and agony to bear the loss became a routine.
As if nothing is in our hand. And this ceaseless toil to win, to capture, to gain, to impress, to fight it out anyhow, continues and never ends.
“If nothing is in our hand and we are mere puppets then why this perennial toil! What an irony!” Perhaps that’s what is Life; you eat, you sleep, you love, you work, you cry, you smile, you scream but you live knowing the unknown. Life is hope and to have hope is life.”, she reflected.

But today was an unusual day. There was something about the day. Something hopeful, may be. When she woke up and drifted her bedroom curtains aside, the morning sky looked a little more azure and the birds chirping felt like a sweet Mozart Piano Sonata to soothe a crying newborn.
She was well aware that it was Mother’s birthday today but she didn’t feel forlorn, rather a strange smile flickered on her face and she brushed her fingers across the belly quietly and softly. She knew if alive, Mom would have jumped to glory out of sheer happiness after getting the blissful news.
But truth like roses have thorns and she is not there in this transient mortal world, where she can hug her tight and Mom would kiss her belly and bless the new lease of life to flourish and prosper, which is breathing within her. For where, she can cry her heart out with tears of sorrow as well as happiness clutching mom tight, for one last time.

While driving through the mist and drizzle, Maya made up her mind. She reached where she left from. She went to the usual spot and rendered the bouquet to Ganga. Quite astonished, Ganga was dismayed as she hardly made any earning today. Little hesitatingly, she took out money and offered Maya back her amount.
Maya expressed,
“Do not as these are for you; from me to you. If only anything in this world, these beauties will aptly match the beauty of your soul….a soul which has seen and faced it all valiantly all through and still smiles…a soul liberated.”

All these years she was just a flower seller. But today, Ganga was more than that. She felt like a woman, like a human after all, a sensation which was lost in these many years, within the intricacies of survival and to top that being wretched and poor was nothing less than a sin. Though already wilted after a full day exposure, the Rose still appeared luminous as if for the first time it’s heart swelled and overflowed  with joy for being with a beautiful soul like her. Ganga caressed those delicate petals for once gently, but with her coarse, withered fingers as if it was the most invaluable thing in this world to her. For the first time in life, she held those bunches of Roses on her hand like a proud owner, rather than a caretaker or to say a seller. She smiled at Maya with heartfelt thankfulness.

But then while she was still in that sudden unexpected state of indulgence, Maya scouted her purse and took out a Five Hundred Rupee note and placed it on Ganga’s palm and clasped them intact with her own hands and looking straight deep down to Ganga’s eyes, kind of gaze which pierces through one’s soul, she whispered calmly to Ganga,
” Today is my Mother’s Birthday. She is not with us anymore. I want you to get some sweets for your family to celebrate this auspicious day with me. Would you mind doing that?”
Ganga couldn’t stop the inner battle and sobbed with gratitude and accepted the grant. She smiled and mulled over that finally tonight Hari’s medicines could be replenished.
And saying so, Maya left the place. While walking back towards the car, as the gentle supple drizzles slid down her face and then neck and a sense of repose and feeling at peace sank in, she was reminded of what mother used to say,
“The Rose always speaks of love silently in a language known only to the heart, my dear.”

 

Image Courtsey: The Rose Seller by Uday Narayanan @http://udaynarayanan.com/

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Note: The story is incomplete without this note. Few days back I happened to visit Uday Narayanan’s photography blog ‘Slice of Life’. It’s an work of art with exquisite, impressive shots. To say less, Uday for me is an amazing photographer. Quite playfully, I mentioned on the vivid capture I used in this story ‘The Rose Seller’ to him, that it’s an intriguing photograph and I would love to write a piece on this. Uday gave me the consent for the visual and I hope I gave right words to it with my humble effort. Thank you Uday for having faith.

 

Thank You Note

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The first time it was a feeling of exhilaration. On second one, it was contentment and then when it was third and fourth or fifth may be….it was happiness but sans excitement. Even if without the exuberance or rush, it do offered me a sense of repose and gladness. For the reason being it was presented by someone whom I hardly know but who somehow follows some of my writing expressions and indeed like them. Thank you Abbie as there’s no better word than this if you tell it from your heart and that’s what I am doing right now. Only semblance at cursory level is we are women but totally from different worlds. Abbie belongs to New Zealand and most of you as are aware of, I am an Indian. Her words touched me. She is a genuine and sensitive person and never shies away from even expressing her vulnerable side out. Her blog @abbiesbabble.wordpress.com encompasses her warm and affable spirit.

Going by the rule of the game,

Answer the questions the award-giver asked you and make 11 more for your nominees.

1. Read on screen or old school book?

Ans: Given anyday, old school books. But quite recently the ease or the practicality of it makes me stick to my digital pad more.

2. You have a night in, what’s the best way to spend it?

Ans: No two words on this, absolutely with my husband and son having good time.

3. Favourite book (sorry, two book questions already, can’t help myself!)?

Ans: There are many. But on recentness I enjoyed Hurley’s Eat, love and Pray. Every word reverberates of how I feel too and filled with thoughtfulness and wisdom.

4. Favourite place in the world – that you’ve been to?

Ans: it was a remote hill station and the place we stayed was a hut beside a river bank. Idyllic, scenic and tranquil – what more one can ask for!

5. The place you would most like to go?

Ans: My hometown, my birthplace. It’s been quite a time, I miss it’s smell, touch, the air and the faces which I hardly interact with but somewhere I connect to.

6. Bungee jump or skydive (I haven’t done either but would probably skydive)?

Ans: Probably none of them as I have tremendous height phobia even though I am adventurous for other pursuits.

7. What’s the best part of blogging for you?

Ans: Connection, of course. When I could touch someone’s heart through my writing, there’s no feeling better than that in this world of blogging. Secondly if I can make some positive impact or influence in any form or kind for betterment to an individual or society at large. I am sorry but that’s how I feel. Didn’t want to bore you guys though.

8. Most played song over the last month?

Ans: Can you believe this…it’s Black Eyed Peas with ‘Tonight’s gonna be a good night’ as my son loves to dance to it’s tune.

9. Favourite smell (for me, fresh cut grass, home baking, the beach)?

Ans: There’s something about coffee and the drizzle…it smells heavenly together.

10. Best holiday memory?

Ans: It’s the same idyllic serene I mentioned above and the memorable part from it was my son’s journey towards first steps…he was trying to walk on his own and we could capture those indelible moments with free spirit while holidaying.

11. Best tip for other new bloggers?

Ans: Just be in your skin. You are unique and share that uniqueness through your creativity.

I will be skipping on the ‘facts about me’ part as I don’t want to nag you guys more. Moreover it’s already there in my other awards posts.

Questions from me to you:

  1. What made you start blogging?
    2. What makes you laugh out loud?
    3. Which book made an impression in your life?
    4. Who is your favourite author?
    5. Who inspired you most?
    6. Which song defines you?
    7. What’s your favourite mantra or quote?
    8. Three things you cannot live without.
    9. What is love for you?
    10. What is writing as per you?
    11. Do you have any idiosyncrasies? What are they?

I have varied taste. My nominees as per my taste, choice and affinity are:

http://incandescentmoonpoetry.wordpress.com/ – Some of the best poetry I have read while my blogging journey. It surpasses good and tends to be great.

http://pamkirstblog.wordpress.com/ – Amazing Writer.

http://katienaum.com/ – Reflective and natural flow of words.

Permacooking.com – Healthy and Holistic lifestyle tips.

Cookingwithawallflower.com – food and cooking with variety and one step ahead.

http://epiphanyinthecacophony.wordpress.com/ – Creativity personified.

http://kmihran.wordpress.com/ – A person who with his blog spreads and shares positive energy.

http://uthamz.wordpress.com – exquisite, vibrant photographs.

http://loveinshallah.com/ – her blog reflects her grit and admirable spirit.

Propelsteps.wordpress.com – a blog with a humanitarian cause.

http://avian101.wordpress.com/ – My love for birds of any flock brings me here.

1.Thank the person who nominated you and provide a link to their page.
2. Proudly display the award banner on your page.
3. List eleven facts about yourself.
4. Answer the questions the award-giver asked you and make 11 more for your nominees.
5. List your nominees.

 

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