Speak geek to me, And see me light up brighter than a Christmas Tree. Speak nerd to me, And see me unravel the complexities of this universe. Speak music to me, And sway with me till hours are long forgotten. Speak silence to me, And see me reverberate in response with profound understanding.
Careless whispers make their way from hushed undertones to pen and paper written down in indelible ink passed around without a word back and forth they went till every pair of eyes had seen the scene that had unfolded yesternight
If you're a reader, a fan of books, passionate about words, you know all too well that a nursery rhyme is never just that. Right from Dame Agatha Christie who very creatively incorporated lines from rhymes as book titles to set the stage for her mystery sagas (A few notable examples of Christie's titles being One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, A Pocket Full of Rye, Three Blind Mice, Hickory Dickory Dock - Please feel free to treat these as book recommendations), to Sidney Sheldon whose use of the nursery rhyme quoted above still sent chills down my spine. In continuation of my regular series aimed at spreading Mental Health Awareness, today I shall be basing my post on a novel titled "Tell Me Your Dreams" by the aforementioned Sidney Sheldon. If you've already read the book, then i do not need to fret over revealing spoilers. If you haven't yet, then, really? why haven't you?! And do I really need bother about revealing details to such people? Eh, No! Jokes apart, I wouldn't dream of spoiling any book for anyone, yet, the topic that I intend to cover today is more important than any of this. So, here it goes. (Please read on, I assure you, you will still enjoy the book even after this.)
Recently, I came across a Tweet that unsettled me. I live in a country where child marriage had been the norm for centuries. Even after its abolishment, the practice is still carried out in in a lot of cities. Hence, the enforcement of the Protection of Children from Sexual Offences Act, 2012, came as quite a welcome relief. However, its effect has been significantly curtailed by a major legislative blunder that could very easily have been foreseen. This is what that tweet had pointed out. This is what I am going to be addressing today. Why? Because can anyway actually even begin to question why children need to be protected from any harm at all costs? I will try to explain the situation in the simplest possible terms, however, being a lawyer I might get slightly technical at places. Please bear with me, I assure you it will all make sense if you continue reading. I actually implore you to read because the importance of this topic of discussion cannot possibly be overstated. So, here it goes -
The number sizes on your garment Do not define the size or shape of your personality. The number scores on your marksheets Do not measure your worth. The number of inches in your heels Cannot determine your stature. The numbers holed up in your bank account Cannot increase your happiness. The number of donations you make Cannot diminish the darkness of your soul.
Yesterday aws indundated with Father's Day wishes doing the rounds. In all the happiness, good wishes, cheers and celebrations for the man who makes me feel like I can do anything, there was something that dampened my joy. While scrolling through my feed on almost every social media platform, I ended up seeing posts from beautiful people who had lost their dads and yet had the heart to not only share their memories, but wish everyone who was celebrating the day with their fathers yesterday. Yet some other posts talked about how their fathers or "birth-givers" had been deadbeat dads, but they were really happy for all the children being raised by people who take being a father to an altogether new level. To all such bravehearts, thank you!
I would have written something but I got to wondering if words would ever be enough. So here's just a big thank you, Daddy, for being the man that you are. To all the fathers out there, keep doing what you're doing, your children love you and are inspired by you. Your care and nurturing…
Lather. Rinse. Repeat. A girl's daily cleansing ritual. Twice a day 'tis needed To lather, rinse, repeat. The first to rejuvenate in the freshness of the morning. The latter to clean away the grime of the day. To scrub off the leers that men through along your way. To wash off the stench of unwanted advances. And of jeers hidden behind subtle nuances.
Due to a scheduling error, one of my poetry posts got messed up and might not be visible to most of you. I'm sharing the link here. I hope you enjoy reading it and give it the love and support you've been so kind to provide to all my other poems too. Thank you! (Please don't let the mess-up stop you from reading it, it's very close to my heart, so, pretty please?)
In a world that is becoming exceedingly visual/image oriented, where CGI effects are taking over storylines, you get a more than nagging feeling that something's lacking. Fortunately, the old world charm of books and stories can still hold its own. Our very much needed respite. Where books, on the one hand, leave a lot open to the interpretation of readers, the art of story-telling is so much more than that. Haven't we all fallen prey to a misinterpreted text because someone did not get the intended "tone" and "tenor" of it, hence, resulting in major misunderstanding? Thus, the written word is somewhat more concerned with the perspective of the reader, which, in its own place, is invaluable. Hearing stories, on the other hand, is not only a lesson in imagination, but the charm of experiencing feelings, expressions and emotions, in the way originally intended by the story-teller, accompanied by a voice that dips and rises, hums and croons, tremors and powers through is a pleasure that has no parallel.