The Rebelle blog

I have had too much to do and see in the past two days. So much so that as I look back, it stuns me to recollect all the energy and experience to be collated into a single narrative. At best, I shall be able to list down the activities and then reminisce the vigor of the people with me.  On Friday, along with a large group of youngsters some of us adults ventured to see the city in a new light and lens. We took breaks and pauses as multiple pairs of eyes looked high up the skies to spot elements of architecture strewn on fading and shiny surfaces. There were brief interludes as we waded through the traffic of people and buses, honking taxis and the many dug road sites. Somewhere in quiet streets, bougainvillea blossoms shone with sunlight and buildings gleamed in delight even as we gathered in groups to take in the beauty of horizontal lines around us. There's a certain madness when lots of young hands are raised in motion to capture the many fascinating sights around them. I felt ...

Early in August this year, I went to a book exhibition with Shree and we spent a delightful four hours amidst all that treasure trove. That day, I had to let go off a few books including Ruskin Bond's The Writer on the Hill and I regretted it for a while.    Last Saturday, while strolling through the familiar lanes of Fort, I found myself walking towards Strand Book Stall and once inside, lost in its charm. To my delight, I saw a lone copy of Ruskin Bond's anthology of selected fiction and non-fiction nestled among Harry Potter's new shiny editions. Mr Bond shines from anywhere. Before anyone else came to claim it, I pounced on it and held it close. Many of the stories are from his books on Dehra and Mussoorie. I have read them all before, have them memorized since my growing years. His charm never fades away. December reads are always special.  This year is coming to an end. I can still recollect the first day of 2017 and how I spent it. Every single detail. Yet it...

Doesn't that happen with all of us? At some point in our lives, there comes a moment when everything seems to dissipate into nothingness, without any meaning and further direction. There are these mocking days and then there are good ones! And sometimes there's a delightful feeling when one thing leads to another... Today evening, I immersed in one such serendipity. It started with Ezra Pound's poem that got me and an acquaintance talking for a long hour and then I got hooked further on Homer's Illiad, Garcia Lorca's verses, Blake's Songs of Innocence and the very surprisingly lyrical Anne Bronte. I have an utterly beautiful hardback copy of Anne Bronte's Agnes Grey, and I haven't read it yet. It sits on a low shelf in my drawing room surrounded by David Copperfield and The Yearling.  Anne Bronte truly took me by surprise. One of her poems, A Reminiscence tugged at my heartstrings. She died very young, aged 29. Somehow I feel a close bond with wri...

SO TODAY has been a very mixed productive work day. I believe I have absolutely tired my eyes out staring at the computer screen so much in 9 hours. More than that actually. Do we ever stop working by the clock? I envisaged two lines of a story throughout the day just to keep up with my energies for some creative output for the day.  I was very happy in the morning after my dance class and decided to paint something today. The morning breeze and slight drizzle on the way back home put me in high spirits. I felt charged and every atom within me bounced with endless energy. Something about witnessing the bright day and chaos on the streets had me unexpectantly cheery for my usual self. There is a madness in routine and habits. Anthony Trollope is said to have written meticulously every day. He wrote every day for three hours, 250 words in 15 minutes and 66 pages per week was his decided course for a book draft. This kind of routine is sure to produce good writing habits. I have...

I have always given book recommendations to friends and cousins, even strangers I've met at bookstores or during train journeys who have approached me after seeing books in my hands. So, it's still always amazing when I hear my newly-acquainted-with-reading-and-loving-it friend to thank me and share her book buys via text messages. It gives me immense pleasure to go back into my memories and relive the happiness of our shared book reads.  Having spoken to a number of readers, mostly women, I have come to a conclusion that women tend to read more classics and go by reading lists recommended by book sharing websites than men do. It is slightly oddball that there is a category called Women's Fiction but none that is called Men's Fiction. I wonder why? Also, the fact that women tend to keep a track of other books mentioned in novels or generally note down a list of books in fiction and memoirs gives a perspective on the reading patterns of men and women. A few years a...

My first computer was in 1998 and I remember being excited, curious and a bit nervous about handling it. Dad showed me how to switch it on and off and the first application I ever worked on was MS Paint. My first drawing was a house or an attempt of drawing a house, that is. The neighbourhood uncle came and saw me painting on the computer. He stood next to me and was surprised at my Dad letting me use the new machine, his words. It was wonderful. I would come home from school and use the computer, mostly paint. One of the themes that played while the computer started was "Can't fight the moonlight" sung by LeAnn Rimes from the movie, "Coyote Ugly". I was very amused and fascinated by the starting lines of the song. To a child, new things bring lot of joy. My Dad taught me using Word, Power point and it was a great source of entertainment to explore and make new slides in PP. Internet was not yet available back then at my place. But I was too young to use i...

April's coming to an end. So quick. On my birthday, while waiting for a dear friend's call I thought about life's bittersweet moments. The ones where I dreamt big, where I accomplished some task that my heart had written off as unachievable, when I genuinely felt happy and felt alive. After talking to my friend, I realised how our lives seem sprinkled with oddities and yet we sieve our ways through them?! What is that fuel that rockets our dreams? And, will I ever get to realize my dream? Actually, what is my biggest dream? I haven't thought about it; I only see fragments and bits of light in my mind, fluttering through pages and freshly dried ink. I smell words hanging in the air, and my eyes piece stories and ideas somewhere on an invisible canvas. Is writing deceitful? Do I write the truest things? Do I mean what I always write? Or my ideas find mere allegiance to words and they dissolve in the mind itself? What is it to be in love with life? Why am I asking so ma...

In the end, we all become stories. -Margaret Atwood. Every one of us, infamous, famous or ordinary, live on the tales told about us. My children didn't know their great grandmother, but she is alive to them because of the memories I share with them. Whatever we might accomplish in our lives eventually decays and the only way we live on is through stories. Read this on http://www.dailyliteraryquote.com/ and its so true, isn't it? I always have these moments of reclusiveness about if the future generation let alone my own friends or family will remember me once I am old or gone? Afterall, you get inscribed in history but for me as being that someone- how important would it be? Anyway, this site is pretty interesting and I am already loving my stay on it. Always dreamt of finding book lovers as obsessed as myself and share literary anecdotes, book lists and stories, poems and my readings! Glad that I would meet them here! A happy sunday reading to everyone~