Uncontrollable Unbosomings!

“Smile all the way, and you’ll be fine. Master the art of smiling, that of turning up the corners of your mouth, lifting up your cheeks, and perhaps sport a dimple.”     This is what has been taught to us. Smiling is good. Faking it every time, even better. It is a custom that we have to retort to every “how are you” by showing that Mona Lisa smile. You are quintessentially frustrated, angry, melancholy, irritated, sullen or crabby. And the supreme solution for it is to smile. Show your teeth. Grin. The smile therapy. But it doesn’t seem to work. Not for me. I smile often. But that doesn’t mean it is a genuine spread of my lips. Well, I was in a morose mood the other day, and this girl came up to me and asked, “How are you doing?”. And I waspishly replied, “I’m grumpy and angry. But I’m bound to say that I’m fine, isn’t it? Because the word ‘fine’ apparently describes everything- whether you’re happy, sad, joyed, bored, angry, or whatever. So, I’m fi...

Note:  Before you read this crap, let me remind you that I'm insane, and this post is COMPLETELY RANDOM. So, someone made fun of me again. Why am I not surprised? It's not that I make a clown of myself. And it occurred to me- Tit for Tat. I had read this in a story long ago, probably in class two. Anyways, I just thought of and analyzed the fact that whatever I do seems to happen again to me. Unexpectedly. Well, (this is embarrassing) I threw a bottle in the direction of my teacher, which didn't hit her, and the next day someone threw a bottle at me, which didn't hit me. If I criticize someone, I get double the criticism. And in one of my idiosyncratic mood, I realized that every time I just can't avoid it by terming it to be a coincidence.      I complain of people always choosing me as a target for making fun of, without any reason most of the time. I get agitated and violent. But it never crops up to me that the one I make fun of,...

Aim : To get A1 in maths. Materials required: Some fat books with endless number of theorems, 25 sample papers, tuition teacher Procedure: Solve each and every sum of all the books. Devote your time to sample papers. Instead of chatting and writing on your blog, clear your doubts on social networking sites. Do maths during science. Do maths during english. Do maths during maths. Do maths for 2 months, 24x7. Observation: You faint after seeing the paper. You realize that your principal is a PhD in maths. You know that the sum of the squares of sine theta and cosine theta is 1, but you don't know the sum of sine theta and cosine theta. Results: You get B2, and eventually start hating maths again. You slap yourself for considering to opt for maths in 11th. Note: This cycle is repeated every half year.

Memories of the past, still hovering in my mind. If those moments can reoccur, I still try to find. Learning how to walk, step by step. Knowing the value of words, their deepening effects. Getting a star in my notebook was immense victory, Which gave me more joy when mom gave a chocolate to a jocund me. Learning the world, their modus operandi, Mystified me always, the ways of living leurs vie. Crying on the first day of school.. My intense agony of being separated from my mother still makes me drool. The bygones retrospect inside me, As my nostalgic gaze lingers to find the same ecstasy. Those waves of happiness are perhaps imposter moments, Escorting you for a moment before exploding into silence.

Wrote this long time back..when a five-year-old was brutally raped in Delhi. She has a story to tell, A story of every other woman Where criminals ain't criminals, They are prestigious godmen. Aloof from the chaos, Lost in her own thoughts, Her gaze lingers, Searching for her own world. Her thoughts go back to that day, Playing in the park innocently, A man offers her chocolates, And she follows him with glee. But those sweet chocolates were never received, For the man turned out to be a dog, And she howled with pain, Having faced such brutality, Left to be buried under the grave. But she was alive, Found after two days, With an oil bottle and a candle The candle not giving light, The candle giving throes. Her life was all wan, She was treated to be stable, Which was pretty ironical As mentally she was highly unstable. A mere girl aged five, Occupied with the horror, Afraid to step out, Her dignity had been murd...

A random poem written during the maths slot. She tries to be her best Not to show her flaws A person of repressed emotions Nevertheless she is neglected. With all the makeup Lest not to be called ugly It took all her courage But still, never appreciated. What is it with first impression? Carving a big mark on one's mind Even with repeated kosher It never seems to shed its plight. What is it with first impression? Paving a road of negligence Cavorting with emotions In the already woebegone deep well. What is it with first impression? Which distances our support Perhaps trust when broken Can never again mold.

Bringing down the poverty line is no doubt a harsh joke played on the poor. This move has inevitably led to thousands of people deprived of the benefits associated with people below the poverty line. Our great government is trying to show that many people have come out of poverty all these years, by lowering the poverty line.  After the disturbing statement by congress spokesman Raj Babbar, who said, "One can have a full meal for Rs.12" and the congress Rajya Sabha member Rasheed Masood's statement "You can eat well in Rs.5 in Delhi", I think that these people seem to live in a bygone era. Even a minister from Assam has seemed to join the line, by commenting that anyone can have a full meal in Rs.20. Have they become so austere that showing a little sensitivity towards the plight of the poor is too much for them? Such pretentious behavior needs to witness strong condemnation. Such derisiveness towards the poor completely shows the lack of connectivity and sensi...