The Rebelle blog

Ever since I was a child, I heard my Dad constantly speak of moral values to me. And not just speak about them, I've seen these being practised too. Integrity and Character are two important assets that I've learned from my father. He always stressed on importance of character in a person. To him, honesty, morality, integrity, compassion are not merely words or virtues but essential components (yes, I use this word!) for all of us to live with in this world. So today something happened that shattered my belief in honesty of character. I kept thinking about how idiotic people like me exist in this world who still trust people with all their heart. We mustn't, clearly. But then it also made me think about kindness and the loyalty that still exists. So why are there such contrasting feelings being played by people? What joy do certain people get from breaking someone's trust? My anger subsided relatively easily when I realized that we cannot take responsibility for peop

Today I received a reply from a friend to something I had messaged her about 37 weeks ago. That's almost a year. For a second, I went utterly clueless as to what context it referred to. A lot of strange things can happen over delayed responses, missed messages, phone texts. Our fast lives can hardly accommodate everything. Add to it, the woes of missed replies to emails and texts and it creates havoc in our lives. Or maybe it isn't that important. We might just be too dependent on all these extra mediums of contact. Didn't our ancestors or why go that far, our parents and grandparents communicate despite lacking internet messaging services or cell phone texts and emails? While I kept thinking as to what to reply to her message because we no longer speak to each other, I just decided to go silent. Not reply at all. After all, it's been a year now. I don't even fancy doing whatever I had proposed in the text back then. It was making a list of books. Certainly, it&#

Festivals have ceased to make me happy since a couple of years. They don't carry the same innocence and excitement any more. And since India is a nation that celebrates culture and life so vivaciously, it's weird to feel this way about culture. Really, but what is culture? Is it merely being happy and celebrating and spending money while many more can't afford a one-time meal? I think it is. We have commercialized and categorized celebrations too. Festivals no longer bring happiness because while the rich can splurge however they wish the poor worry about meeting expenses and trying to make their children not feel the brunt of being helpless and poor. Do they not have any right to be happy any more? And when I see this blatant display of wealth everywhere with not an iota of discomfort on the faces of those who are flaunting it, it makes me wonder as to whether we have ceased being humans after all? Poverty can't make everyone move to tears. Why don't we, the commo

I missed a dear friend's Bridal Shower. Something that me and a few other friends were planning since a month. Uncertainty is such a game twister. When we are so excited about something, and looking forward to it, and this disappointment creeps in. It has happened with me quite a many times. When it happened in childhood, I would sulk and forget about it. Now when it happens, I go back in time, think about the preparations, excitement, my happy state of mind and the sulk returns and never goes for a long time. Usually it reflects on the family. I blame them if they are responsible or I do torture my own self constantly thinking about what an ungrateful friend I am. I must say, it spirals me into a near depression state and its the worst feeling ever to let down people you love. This time, a lot of things happened in succession. First, my phone gave up, then I had some health (ENT + Dental) issues, which surprised and terrified me. And, it just makes me feel so guilty evermore

Some books never leave us. They remain fixed in our minds and psyche. One such that remains in mine is A Tree grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith.  The title of this novel refers to a tree that grows persistently up through the concrete and harsh conditions of a poor tenement neighbourhood in early 1900's Brooklyn. It also symbolises Francie Nolan's struggle through her life. When I first read it in 2010, I was going through a very important academic submission- an Architecture  thesis. As I read through the pages, I looked at Francie as myself. I grew up with her along the pages. She lived in me. I remember sobbing, and crying while reading her plight but she also gave me tremendous courage and filled me with an undying fighter spirit. The book was written in 1943 and describes a turn of the century story of the Nolans from 1900-1919. I recall reading and visualising Francie sitting in the Fire Escape harbouring dreams of an education and better life for her family and herself.

I was rummaging through some old stuff at home after a tedious week of last minute panic attacks and submissions (these two go hand in hand), that I came across an old copy of my Dad's books. As was my Dad's habit in the late 90's, the book was covered with a plain white sheet. I saw the book title written in neat lettering in blue ink and lots of pencil scribble on the cover. As I guessed it to be made by my younger sister who must've been a toddler then, I couldn't help smiling and opening the book to find more scribbling inside in blue ink. She must have got hold of the pen and unleashed her creativity on the inside pages. I wondered if my Dad ever saw this scribbling or not. And I felt extremely happy to have discovered something that belonged to my kid sister from her childhood. As I recall, she learnt everything pretty fast- walking, running, speaking and writing, too. So this scribble felt like a cherished piece of treasure. I remembered the walls of our dr