Look to your dream...

Look to your dream; reach out and touch the skies
Let nothing fight your drive to carry on
Don’t ever let your spirit drown or die
So will you walk ahead; you must be strong
In every child there is a little light
So leave the darkest nights and come away
The sun will light our souls, and make them bright
We will come through, we’ll make a better day
And when it’s tough remember, say a prayer
Then you will never walk your path alone
And in your heart, know always, someone’s there
To help you grow and come into your own
So shine dear child, you are a shining star
So shine dear child, and cast your light afar

Enigma

Another work of art by my ex-roommate SARA.
Your comments, appreciation, criticism and interpretations are welcome :)

SARA

What does your Birthdate Mean?

Have to say this was pretty accurate or at least I'd like to hope it is ;)
The part about being artistic couldnt be more wrong though!!!

My Birthdate: December 30

Your birthday on the 30th day of the month shows individual self-expression is necessary for your happiness. You tend to have a good way of expressing yourself with words, certainly in a manner that is clear and understandable. You have a good chance of success in fields requiring skill with words. You can be very dramatic in your presentation and you may be a good actor or a natural mimic. You have a vivid imagination that can assist you in becoming a good writer or story-teller. Strong in your opinions, you always tend to think you are on the right side of an issue. There may be a tendency to scatter your energies and have a lot of loose ends in your work. You may have significant artistic talent and be very creative.

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

Charcoal

This is done by an extremely talented artist, my ex-roommate SARA. I think her artistic style is so unique and wonderful, that her work needs to be seen. I've used "Hello" to post this. Unfortunately, I can't see pictures on my own blog and on some other blogs. Can't figure out why. So I hope it's clear and all. So...whaddya think?


SARA 

The Legacy of The Braganza's

Braganza & Co. that now stands proud on Marquis street, Kolkatta has risen from humble beginnings. Today, it is the primary music store in the city and true to its slogan, “Everything Musical” is a dealer of pianos, electric and acoustic guitars, drum sets, manuscript books and a host of other music related paraphernalia.
It is interesting to go back in time, re-live the days that put this enterprise in operation and more importantly the people who were behind it all. It all began when Francis and Thomas Braganza, an amazing partnership of brothers invested in a venture that they could only dream would become as huge a success as they witnessed later in life.

Already, musicians in several bands, Francis a drummer and Thomas a saxophonist would play several nights a week at clubs in the city. The profession was certainly not “paying” and compelled by the needs of growing families, the two brothers realized the necessity of an additional source of income. The owner of the music store where they were employed part-time, was handing over his business to his own son and so the Braganza brothers did what they only knew best- set up a music business of their own. They began by buying old pianos, refurnishing and repairing them and then renting them out. With the beginning of the world war, the demand for musical instruments, from British soldiers only grew. Also, distress sales of instruments owned by many British families helped the brothers to set up shop. Thomas was quick to learn the technical operations of the musical instruments and taught the trade to a few other employees. Francis, the naturally charismatic, people-loving person was equivalent to an entire marketing team! And this is what was so utterly mesmerizing about the partnership. In their starkly different personalities, the brothers complimented each other and together saw the business grow before their eyes. Having taken off to good start, the income from the business went toward buying a small plot of land on 1/6 Collin Lane where now stands tall, “The Braganza Building”. A flat was built for each of the two brothers and their families and later a second floor was added. This enabled them to move out of the small place at 5 Collin lane where they were formerly residing as paying guests.

Is this another remarkable rags to riches story? Undeniably. As I recall my grandfather, Francis Xavier Braganza tell stories of his childhood, it only re-instates the admiration that I feel for him. He told us of how he was adopted by an uncle, taken away from his home in Goa, to live in Rangoon after his father died. At the age of 9 or 10, an earthquake forced them to flee to Calcutta and this is where he made his life, ever since. Money was short and hardly enough to go around for little luxuries like a “haircut”. He would have his hair finely cropped so that it would see him through the next few months. His pants were made a size too large, so that he would not outgrow them quickly. Yes, it is these little sacrifices that made him a man of character. And a man who will be remembered for his determination, sincerity and goodwill.

Today, Braganza & Co. has passed into the hands of the next generation. Music is in the blood and it is a tradition, that every Braganza must learn a musical instrument. Thus, with music in our hearts and in our souls we carry with pride, the Braganza name.

Nonsense Verse

SING SANG SONG
(a tribute to Spike Milligan)

At the sing sang song
Where the words go wrong
And the audience all go BOO!
There’s a song sang sing
It’s a teacher’s thing
Where they all go jibber jabber joo
At the song sing sang
All the students bang
On the piano, till spanked blue
So its sing sang song
Words go wrong
Song sang sing
Teacher’s thing
Song sing sang
Students bang
A raucous squeal of a song
It’s the sing sang sing sang song!


THE SAD DEMISE OF THE VEGETABLE

I lost my head the lettuce said
A bounteous mop of green
And someone even spilled
An agitated string of beans
Then Potato lost an eye
And Corn Cob lost an ear
A pink and sentimental onion
Shed a lonesome tear
A mushy heart of artichoke
Welled up with such compassion
A hand of bananas was chopped off
In such a ruthless fashion
No rib of celery was spared
No neck of squash released
And sad to say, this was the way
The vegetables deceased.

Prostitute

Sweety bar and past midnight,
She throws herself to the neon lights,
It’s not a job, this is her living
Losing herself in this soul giving.
Seductively, she will allure
A sleazy beast to buy this whore,
Not for love, but for the money
For one night, become his honey.
A one night stand, used and abused
A 100 bucks and AIDS infused,
A last resort to make ends meet,
Up for the money, slave of the streets.

Rain

The rain came like a blessing
From the glorious skies of heaven,
And it poured and poured
Tears of simple joy, crystal clear beads,
The earth soaked it in thirstily.
And I...the rich girl, with a beautiful house
Born to riches and spoiled with luxury,
I ran out and danced in the rain,
Free at last...from a promising future
That I could only see as a demon.
And then, when the rain let up
I felt the nip in the air, tingling my neck
And creeping down my spine,
I shared a quiet moment with the sweet man,
A man with no ambition and no desires,
We gazed above, as a rainbow smiled at us,
I looked on at the colours, as he whispered,
"Walk on my child and climb on high
But never miss the rainbow in the sky."

Children of Our Nation

Children of our nation,
Babies, born under the burning sun
On Indian soil.
And they grow, only naturally
Pot-bellied and nearly limp,
Eyes dull, weak and tear-lit,
Festering wounds on their arms and legs
Infested with sickness and disease.
Little bodies, enlarged heads
Undernourished and dying
Like mounds of dirt on the footpaths;
Infants, children, mothers
Breeding in filth.
Poverty-stricken streets
Where beggar children, like flies
Hover around eating houses,
Breathing in the stale air
Of yesterdays cooking smell.
Hungry stomachs, big hearts
They beg the feed of dustbins,
Letting not one scrap to waste.

A Match Unmatched

(If you think marriages are made in heaven, well, think again!)

There were no telephones in those days. And yet, certain bits of news seemed to fly across the globe at lightning speed. Never underestimate the power of “word of mouth” - especially, when it’s a woman’s mouth. The next visit from the city aunt would confirm the worst. Time to get married. The sparkle in the eyes, the hushed whispers and the letters that you were not allowed to open, lest you fall in love with the wrong man. They had been finding the man of your dreams all along. And you knew zilch about it.

Now, when you try to open your mouth to speak, to tell them that you have no intentions of getting married, they dismiss you, wondering how you could want to pass up this opportunity for eternal happiness! The woman who will change the course of your life forever, the matchmaker, the destroyer of destiny, comes in all disguises. Sometimes she is the favorite auntie who always served you a big bowl of pudding. Other times, it is that haggard old lady who has been “on her way to heaven” for the last seven years but managed to hold her breath for every last wedding. It was no different this time. On hearing the news, there was an unmistakable twinkle in her eye as she unconsciously decided once again that life was worth living.

When all family members have been consulted and everyone is convinced that the boy decided upon will be a match “unmatched”, the day is set for when the two should meet. Instructions are given on how to behave and the manners expected of a girl from a fine family. You are taught how to make good tea and how to serve, how to blush at appropriate intervals and never voice your opinion. “Never look him in the eye” adds Auntie Sheela. So you practice looking up at an imaginary “hero” while looking down at the same time. It wouldn’t really matter if you went cock-eyed in the process considering you couldn’t see straight anyway, since the last few days. Then begins the practice sessions, all aimed at converting this modern good for nothing. The right outfit is chosen, something stylish from a good boutique, yet making sure not to expose too much skin.

The moment arrives. By now, you are actually quite excited about meeting this Casanova.
As the doorbell rings, Auntie Sheela gives you one final look of warning and then a pasty smile. Mummy comes over and whispers – “just be yourself”. He enters with a hoard of people accompanying….Pink shirt, hair slick back, reeking of coconut oil, Elvis like pants under a huge paunch. The huge black rimmed spectacles accentuate ogling eyes. He puts on a fake American accent and all the aunties look impressed.
Mother makes a lame excuse and follows you into the kitchen. So…what do you think?
HE’S A TOAD!!!

Outside you can hear the ladies talking about how you make perfectly round chapattis and excellent sabzi. Perhaps they all believe that while you cook, feed him, keep his stomach happy and produce children by the dozen, the frog might turn into prince charming!

Platform No. 6

From the rusted tin roof, rainwater drips on to the worn frayed chattai and throughout the night, there is a spray that enters through the skylight. The men had climbed up there earlier, to patch up the opening, to no avail. Instead, they got into another feud with the policemen who chased them away with sticks, laughing as they watched them run for their lives. Curses were sworn at deafening decibels, enough to invoke terror in all who lay there that night. It was always the platform dwellers who were at the receiving end of the policemen’s frustration. Sometimes, these poor people were pounded until they lay limp and near lifeless from the bashing. They had no voice to raise in this city where you learnt to keep your mouth shut or otherwise die. They had no money to give these policemen, yet the little living space that they had created for themselves was regularly raided. On finding nothing but a few rupees, the policemen would get further outraged and turn them out on to the streets.

Ramu returned, feeling less than a man, for his inability to defend his family and further dismayed at the state of their lives. Yet, he was lucky to have escaped without too much of a beating, this time. He could contain himself no longer. For the first time, his children saw their father weep, rub his nose on the dirty railway platform and shout, “we are lower than the pariah dogs, we are nothing”.
“The family is fortunate enough, to not have to sleep on the cold platform floor, like some others”, says Meena who lays a few cloths on the chattai for her two girls and holds the baby close at her bosom, providing whatever little warmth that she can provide. The baby is hungry and cries for hours, but there is nothing that can be done. There is no more milk to give.

Outside, the rain pelted down in torrents, refusing to let up until the wee hours of the morning. The children slept through all of this, safe in the lap of their mother. Meena, pretending to sleep, was filled with a deep fear for her husband’s life. Their troubles were far from over. They would be back, to harass her family. Why didn’t they instead go and bring down the houses of those rich politicians? The ones who were eating well, drinking well, sending their children to good schools and year after wretched year, winning the elections on the poor man’s vote?

Under the midnight breeze, Ramu dreams of life before the city and a time when there was enough to go around for everyone. Lives were simple, yet dignified.
Then times changed, corruption raised its ugly head. The industrialists came and set up big industries that dumped toxic chemicals into their agricultural lands and the rivers. They brainwashed the villagers into believing that this would create huge job opportunities for them all. The famine that followed, took away so many members of Ramu’s family. The field that would not yield any produce was the reason that forced him to take up a job as a simple vendor, living in squalor among the rats and lowest of creatures in this forbidding city. Now, losing any sense of self-worth he left his family there on Platform No. 6 and walked away towards the liquor shop drowning his sorrows, like all the rest of them miserable men.

For The Love Of....!?!

Parents have a knack of saying all the wrong things at the wrong time. It is an unwritten rule that every mother must embarrass her child (with all good intention) at every golden opportunity. At some point, you will realize that you are never going to win this battle, as mothers so adore their precious little darlings. They truly believe that the world is privileged to have their little genius. So all you can do is cross your fingers, toes and eyes and hope that these occasions of heart and soul-bearing are few and far between.

Somehow luck isn’t very kind, and there is always that wonderful opportunity to brag about how beta sat at the table in pampers and walloped 12 chapattis at one go. Most likely, the other equally ambitious mother will dismiss it, saying that her kid could put down 24 at the age of four (exaggeration only proves a stronger point). The point being…..this silly exchange is not as silly as you think! It is a perfect way to boast about their perfect children and is also a compliment to their cooking skills. Mummies are smart people. Another thing that most mamas are particularly proud of is their children’s in-born musical abilities (never mind if they sound like frogs). So they bring out that old dusty tape that you'd forgotten had even existed, of that concert where you were singing "My Favourite Things" while the judges and everybody else was cringing.

Baby days, tweens, teens and finally….you’re all grown up! But what have you really learnt in life? Most importantly, that there are enough of people who care so much about you so as to literally advertise the fact that you are the biggest embarrassment to yourself and to the entire concept of the “human”!
Perhaps, I have confirmed that you are in a no-win situation. But then again, maybe the only ultimate solution is to have kids of your own. It’s a vicious circle baby; I assure you that their grandparents will spare no opportunity to shower the “love and praises" on the NEXT generation.

The Rag-Picker

The evening sun set into the murky waters of Chowpatty beach, drowning in the sounds and sights of the evening fair, that was past. When the laughter of children was heard no more, the florescent lights dimmed and the milling crowds receded into the safe of their homes, the rag-picker went about her evening ritual. Her tattered clothes fluttered in the salty sea-breeze and the evening chill penetrated to the bone. Her feet were dry and blistered; her wispy hair infested with lice. With a dirty old canvas sack slung across her gaunt frame, her beady eyes, now failing vision, inspected every spot on the beach for what the sea had left behind. The scavengers surrounded her, squabbling over a half-eaten butta. The frail woman hobbled along to escape these ominous creatures, picking up polythene bags and shells along her path.

Hers was not an easy living. It was barely a hand to mouth existence. Her meager earnings of 6-7 rupees a day, would on the rare occasion earn herself and her children one square meal. On most days, however this pittance was snatched by that drunken fool, abusive father and wife-beater and squandered on cheap liquor. Her family had paid to marry her off, the girl child, the nuisance. She was still paying the dowry that would never be enough. The slum was a place of violence and terror. She would return, weary from the physical effort as well as the mental strain only to be given a sound thrashing and see her children being beaten black and blue. She had already lost one child and now she fell down on her knees, weeping, begging their release.

From the moment the village mid-wife shrieked in shock and obvious disappointment at her deliverance of her eldest child, a baby girl, her fate was doomed. There was the family debt situation that only worsened each generation with the curses of inflation and large dowries to provide for. Her children, malnourished and dying, lay like mounds of dirt on the footpaths under the scorching sun. Her own ill-health made each passing day more difficult than the first. What would she do on a rag-pickers wage? The politicians, hypocrites, did nothing to improve their lot as one government superseded the next with huge empty promises of rehabilitation.

As nightfall silenced the city of Mumbai, the rag-picker stole into the darkness, carrying within her heart, the burdens of her world. Where was the mercy of this unjust God? Her world was caving in, engulfing her being and trapping her in the clutches of poverty and despair.

Her fight for survival continues....Who will hear her story?

Poetry, Please!

Some of my childrens poems...

DANCING

Mum does Bharatnatyam
Sister does Ballet,
Brother goes out now and then,
To dance the cabaret.
Aunt Elma does belly dancing,
Uncle Fred, the waltz.
Even little poochie,
Does splits and somersaults.
Now if you ask me, I would say
My family’s off the brink,
My grandma was a “tap dancer”
Till she fell in the sink!


THE CATS WHISKERS

There once lived a cat of Manchow
Who was spiteful and snobbish and how!
When her whiskers were chopped
Her whole ego went flop
And all that was left was MEOW !


LADYBUG (haiku)

Lovely ladybug
Is going rather dotty,
Blushing a bright red.


- Nicole Braganza

The 8th Bad Habit of Highly Defective People

(with all due respect for Mr. Steven Covey)

Wondering why the slap in your face, hope-you-feel-like-a-rotten-egg title above? Because, YOU are the defective person being addressed!

Doesn’t it just annoy you? I mean how long a list of “miss-goody-two-shoes” qualities can the word “effective” categorize? You and me work our behinds off to get A grades in the college examination (ok, maybe not, but lets assume so) and we’re still not “effective” human beings?
The seven habits are full of such profound words of wisdom that to the common man is actually a load of nonsensical gibberish. Let me lay it out for you…..
1) Get up with a peaceful mind : Nevermind, that there are ten gazillion cars hooting their horns off, a herd of cows mooing to the dairy and a handful of pesky siblings who seem to have descended from the “uncivilized” civilization.
2) Put First Things First : From the only logical perspective, I see that the first thing on the agenda would be “set the sibling rascal straight”. Gosh…just swiped the “peace” away!
3) Allocate time to improve your Productive Capability- NOW we know why family planning is still not as successful as we hope! All the wrong habits!
4) Think Win/Win, “Winning” is “beating” :…..Just when I decide to adopt the non-violent strategy to my problems! .….now I’m getting really confused!
5) Seek First to Understand, then to be Understood : Yes, I am beginning to understand that you think I am a spoilt brat, that I am devoid of sympathy and that I have the brain the size of a pea. Now I seek to be understood. My problems are the very same ones that I’ve just understood. Does that make any sense?
6) Synergize : What is synergy? Simply defined, it means that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts." Are they trying to tell us that frog-eyed, frizzy-haired, pimple-struck teenagers like me are actually pretty? The world does not work that way honey!
7) Sharpen the Saw : Don’t worry, no ones talking yet of “sharpen the saw, then try slicing your head off”! This is supposed to be about physical, mental, spiritual and emotional renewal! RENEWAL?They've gotta be kidding right? Nope. That’s why we told you it’s all a vicious cycle!

And finally, the 8th bad habit of highly defective people :
This one kind of sums up all the 7 Bad Habits. It is simply,
8) BE YOURSELF : This is translated as live your life uniquely, setting your own standards for yourself and not by a book of rules!

And thus I conclude by saying that while we HIGHLY DEFECTIVE PEOPLE might be teetering on the edge of insanity, I take pride in believing that we are not as vain as to think that we’re little pieces of machinery who run effective lives following the 7 Habits.

Let's Talk About Love...

I have promised some people that I will share my recently written articles. This one is straight out of Bollywood (filmi ishtyle) - no you still havent convinced me that Hindi movies have had a makeover!!!


LET'S TALK ABOUT LOVE…

Love is blind. That is an understatement, and besides I am so tempted to add to that. Wouldn’t it be just right to say, Love is blind and lovers too! While the cupid-struck lot find it extremely important to publicly enact the passion of their lives, the not so lucky love hopefuls can at least have a free demonstration. Indians have always been very considerate.
Love certainly calls for extreme measures in a city with a teeming population of other love hopefuls, fighting for breathing space, let alone romantic settings. By extreme measures, I am referring to every type of stunt you have ever seen in the world of Bollywood. In case you’ve missed the latest Hindi film because you couldn’t get a ticket even in black, don’t fret. A visit to "Scandal Point" will reassure you that you can have live off-screen entertainment of an equally good standard, for free. The sea breeze and the rocks beckon several young couples who cannot afford exotic dinners at five star restaurants. Of course, unfortunate encounters of girlfriends falling off the rocks has been quite common and hence many have taken to tying dupattas (always available at hand) around themselves so that if a strong breeze does blow, both should die together in the true spirit of filmi love. Even the dogs think the rocks, the ideal place to "shed" all inhibitions. And well, Indians have always celebrated “togetherness”.
There are however those boring people who love to spoil the fun for anybody who isn’t leading a life as miserable as their own and wake up one day deciding to protest against Public Displays of Affection. It beats me why we cannot all just live and let live. It is commendable that Indian cinema has improved so much, now offering really jhakass tips on romance. I’m sure you can now move from Chowpatty beach to the Swiss Alps in a flash. From dupattas to mini skirts, it's the whole package. Ah the many faces of love. Love has got a double promotion.