A Tim Burton Fan

I have tried to watch as many of Burton’s movied as I could, and I am an admirer of his direction!
His movies are a riot of senses. I don’t think I could have imagined Wonderland any more weird than he makes it to be in Alice in Wonderland. I wish Through the Looking Glass was also directed by him.
He takes the impossible, and gives us a wonderful, believable creation out of it. Yes I escape into the demonic world that is inhabited by Elizabeth Bonham Carter and the apt Johnny Depp. I didn’t as much mind the gore that was Fleet Street or Sweeny Todd as long as the imagination ran haywire.
Also, the hues! The dark, difficult times are in blues,greys, flinching between blacks and browns. The hopeful happy times are drenched in brightness of green, gold and as much as light as could enter the Earth on a hot summer day.
Edward Scissorhands could not have been in better hands.
Imagine my delight, when I watched the trailor of the new movie.

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Releasing this September, I cannot wait to watch it. I have this belief that many of Burton’s movies celebrate peculiarity. It is a motif oft repeated, he embarks on bringing to life the glory of being ‘different’- perhaps an introvert, or an amazingly kind heart behind a formidable exterior. He gives people like me a chance to look into our eccentricities and be glad about them because that makes us unique.
I can be THAT Alice.

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The smell of Ink

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A few days back, I got the most beautiful gift from a friend. This apple of my eyes, a fountain pen 🙂
What a long time it seems to have passed since I held another betwixt my fingers.Identifying this smell, that has a hint of rustic vagueness, takes me back to school. We were supposed to use ink pens. The daily ordeal of filling them up with ink! And in retrospect, it almost feels magical to have done so, religiously.
And I lost that habit to time, and convenience.
But today, when I filled it up and the smell reached me, it was an avalanche of memories that came tumbling down the little hillock that had been my childhood.
The smell of a classroom painted grey,
The whiff of air that invaded it on a humid August morning,
The everyday drill,
Neat lines,
Blue skirts.
Vigilant seniors,
Hands at the back.
And the halls echo,
With prayers and hymns;
Raised on high we lift the Carmel banner,
The corridors it fills.
And the day, passes by in a haze,
The rest of it,
Is burnt up in a devious blaze plaguing my memory.
But what I remember,
Is not the chatter,
But the rusty breeze,
That has followed me here,
Seven years later,
Oh the smell of ink!

Beat the heat without spending a fortune

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Summer in India, is an atrocious dread. Temperatures touch the sky and it becomes almost impossible to be out when the sun shines. But we cannot stay at home and expect our coffers to be full. So ever since I was little, summer meant indigenous ways to keep our body temperatures normal and ward off heat stroke, the brutal squall of mid noon and dehydration.
And the best thing is, when I looked around the kitchen, I found all that was needed!
Ingredients:
Salt
Gram flour(sattu) 2-3 tablespoon
Curd 2-3 tablespoon
1 chopped green chilli
One chopped small size onion
Lemon juice squeezed from half a lemon
Roasted cumin(jeera) (Roast about a pinch of seeds on the pan and grind it)

1. Mattha मट्ठा
Take a glass.
Mix curd in cold water and add salt according to your taste. Add chopped green chilli(as much as you think is okay for you) and top it with the ground cumin seeds. Dont forget to drop in half of that onion you chopped. Voila!
And yes about 10 drops(I have no idea how you are going to count) of the squeezed lemon.
It all depends on your customization. How thick you want it, how salty. I mean this is no set down recipe. I love it this way.
Serve:1

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2. Sattu
Sattu actually is gram flour.
It makes for one refreshing drink along with the same ingredients minus the cumin.
I dont put cumin in it.

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Now, the health benefits. Both have a cooling effect on your body. If you go out in the sun after having a glass, be assured it will be a lifesaver. Curd helps in proper digestion and also is easily digestible as opposed to milk. And no need to count the calories too! Scout around in the kitchen and get yourself some refreshment without spending a lot.

The Scarlet Letter

Here, I shall be sharing excerpts from the text of the books I’d be currently reading. These excerpts will be shared when they interest me, give me an insight into the writer’s mind or a peek into the contemporary society
Basically, these extracts shall have something to say.

Here goes the first one. I just began Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter.

“The room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy with old paint; its floor is strewn with grey sand, in a fashion that has elsewhere fallen into long disuse; and it is easy to conclude, from the general slovenliness of the place, that this is a sanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of magic, the broom and mop, has very infrequent access. “

Asking for it.

Look how the table turns,
For it made me wonder:
If we would say,
“He was dressed inappropriately”
Or that
“He provoked it”
When it is a man,
A victim.
But the fatal shame,
And the onus of blame,
Shifts so easily onto a woman.
Almost as if,
She perpetrated a henious assault,
On the weak male sensibility.
By baring perhaps, too much of her faith in a wicked world,

Born in a body she cannot do anything about.
Born in a world,
That thrives on billboards,
Vying to catch your eye- short skirts, pretty faces,
Abounding cleavage
To sell anything,
From cars to horror stories.
Born in a world, where you take her to parties,
And politely excuse yourself to talk about politics.
Born in a world so obsessed with gratification forgone,
That a woman,
Must have asked for it.

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The voices are all dead,
All my head now remembers is the statistics.
Another post.
A couple of likes,
Another day,
A march through conspicuous obsession,
Over faces,
Bodies,
And kind acts.
The voices,
That made me sing when the day was rough,
Made me dance when the music played,
Made me smile on petty jokes,
I don’t know when they faded away.
I carry a frame,
Soul bereft.
There is no spark,
The mind wide shut is a place so dark,
I shudder,
At the thought of visiting it again.
Perhaps,
And I hope,
When I sit down with Woolf or Barnes once more,
They shall get me back home I am sure.

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