Oh No…Its another wedding pic.

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If I see another wedding pic on FB, I am going to puke! Say Aye if wedding pics make you throw up! All that extravaganza for a life of future misery. Jewellery, costumes, huge decadent banquets, decked-up guests. Come wedding day, and you are suddenly transformed into a prince and princess for a day. A fr…g day! And then after a few years….you feel like throwing up to see your own and your husband’s sugary smiles…full of hope for god knows what! And then when I see wedding pics now, It just makes me feel like throwing up or laughing till I die! If there is anything that can be clubbed as the fakest thing in this world…its marriage.


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Hey how are you today?? No, don’t answer that cos I already know the answer. Are you thinking why your husband or boyfriend left the home without saying bye? Or why your wife or girlfriend slept on while you crept out of the house at early dawn to catch the bus or train to work? Did you listen to your favorite song while sipping your coffee which you got from Dunkin’s while driving or just idly gazing at the trees on a train? And when you reached your workplace did you just start working and kept out all these thoughts about why noone cares, or noone loves you? Yet, when the day was done, there they were again, the feelings of being alone without a soul to connect with….Did you stare at the faces online, on FB, on Instagram, your favorite singers, actors, and tried to see if you could connect with someone? And yet you felt no, noone really cares. If yes, I thought maybe I should let you know, I am thinking of you today, and I am wondering how you are. And wondering if you are feeling loved and cared for..dont become a stone and cry today if you feel like…

Sending my love to this world…loving the world..and its people today….and you out there…connect with someone today…care for somene or some event which happened…dont be a stone…share your feelings, your heart or maybe just your food, :)…

Beautiful kite….I am letting you go today.

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A note of love lost I wrote to someone I love, who never loved me back, and which

I never sent…Its a note of misery and failure, and loserdom, yet its honest and so

I share it.

I want to be the girl who you call everyday, who you talk to when you need to unburden

about the day. I wait for you everyday, to call or message me, or some sign that you

are still there for me, but everyday comes and passes by with no message for you.

After days if I write back, yes, you write back to me, but then if I don’t, the days just

keep passing by. I am tired or waiting for you, tired of waiting for a day which will never

come. Ah, I know perhaps you are sickening and almost about to throw up at this blatant

statement of my misery, as I feel like when someone who loves me and I don’t love,

professes his love for me, but have patience for some more time, and at least do me the

honor of reading through my misery. Sometimes, I wish you would be kind enough to put

the bullet to my head and shoot me, saying that you are not there for me anymore,

and will never be, but maybe I don’t even deserve that kindness. So I am putting the bullet to

my head and letting go of you in my mind. Oh, the horrors of unrequited love, nothing reeks more

of hell than that, putrid and miserable.

You were my kite, my beautiful, beloved kite, and I thought

I would fly with you, but I guess you just kept tugging and my hands are too tired

to hold on, so I am cutting the string today, and watch you fly away to an unknown

horizon, never to return. I look at you till I can see you no more, and then I walk back,

lighter, free, sadder and yet happy for you. I will always love you, my kite and I hope

you find peace and happiness. Me, I have the string which once bound you to me, and

thats the piece of you, I have, the broken piece, to remind me that you were once there,

and yet not there. I love you.

This land is my land….This land is your land.

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Continuing with my series on immigration and feelings of immigrants in a foreign land. Since I am from India, I focus on my experiences from the perspective of my country and the connection with this land. The british immigrants who were the founding fathers of this land, also ruled in India for close to 100 years but the influence of the East India Company started around 1700 or so . So, when they claim that this land is theirs, by virtue of the fact that they landed here first, I would like to question that claim, I question it not because I would like to deny that this land is theirs, but because I would like to them to open up to the possibility that this land is also mine. The argument goes like this : The time that the British people came to India, India was flourishing and had all the riches imaginable. By world standards of those days, it was richer than many places in Europe. We welcomed them in our land, not as immigrants, but as business partners, with whom we would carry out trade. But unfortunately, the division and factions within India, and our inferior military led to our falling under a more stronger country. Of course, those were the barbaric times, so one cannot question the fairness or unfairness of it. All was fair in love and war as they say.  And there were no non-nuclear proliferation or arms control treaties in those days. :). India was called the “Sone ki Chidiya”, or the “Golden Bird”, because it yielded so much riches.

In any case, the truth in all its nakedness was that India was marauded and plundered and mowed down to the 3rd world nation that it is now. We became the mix of cultures, confused and astray, as we succumbed to a more powerful people, powerful not by intellect, but by sheer military might. That is the story of India and that is how the immigrants took over our country, in short.

Now, if the story is turned around Indians are immigrants in a nation mostly built by European immigrants. But is it really their land? After our land was turned upside down and our people eroded, dont we have the right to come to your land, but we come in peace, not as rulers, but as workers, to work side by side with you. Is it really fair to ask whether this land is my land too? Don’t I have an equal share in jobs? Unfortunately, the new immigrants are still looked upon as foreigners, preference is stil being given to color, race, and origin. We are still asking questions on job forms : Asian, Black, Hispanic…etc. etc. Hasn’t each country plundered the riches of other countries since beginning? When the British landed in India, their economy was in shambles, there was poverty in their country. Did we question their right to enter our land? Perhaps we did, but they found their way in. Perhaps it was right and justified. Because, does any land really belong to anyone? Doesn’t this whole world belong to each one of us?

Aren’t we all free to choose where we want to be? A cold land or a warmer place, a land of the rivers, or a land of snow, a land full of forests, or the land of sandy deserts, or the rocky mountains? This land is your land…This land is my land…And that is the only truth. And that is how the world was meant to be.

Am I Indian?

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Often I have heard some American say to an Indian, “Why don’t you go back to your own country and work there? “After all, you are an Indian”. Many Indians do go back, others stick on in a land which is not their own. Far from it. Some stay just for the comforts that this country affords as compared to their own. For me, it was more complicated than that. Being more comfortable was part of it, but my comfort zone extended from mere physical comfort to something more. For the first part, could I identify myself as an Indian? This part is difficult for an American to understand without knowing the history of India and Indian life. There is a wide divide among lifestyles in India. India is a world country, just like America. Vast and diverse.

My father belonged to the Armed Forces, a doctor, an intellectual. I grew up in bungalows, left over from the British Army. Beautiful shady trees in front of my home, gardens, walkways. Our house had household help from batmen, as they were called. They were men of the soldier rank who were recruited to work in officers’ homes. I grew up on Hans’ Anderson’s Fairy stories, oblivious of the political and civilian life of India. I imagined myself in England, dreamed of foggy castles, and turrets, and princesses in ballroom gowns. I imagined that in my past life I was an English princess, that I was born in the wrong place and the wrong time. I grew up on a mix of American oldies, country and British music. Jhon Denver, Beatles, The Seekers, Joan Baez. Where was the Indian in me? All I knew about India were some of the old black and white movies I watched with my mother. We spoke English at school, were discouraged to use our local language in class and at school. Yes, the Indian in me was because I could speak our language at home. I was divided up into two parts, the beautiful Indian princess and the beautiful British princess, both lived inside me, together. But one of them always overtook the other. At times I receded into my Indian self, and listened to Bengali songs. At other times, I was a European.

Literature was mostly British, and I had no dearth of them, as our home had a huge collection of books.  Enid Blyton, Charles Dickens, Jane Austen, O. Henry, H.H. Munro, Agatha Christie, Nancy Drews….I lapped them all up. And when the time came for me to choose, I chose America. However, strangely I had no idea that America and Britain were hugely different. I had a hunch, but nothing concrete.

But then America was symbolized by Dirty Dancing, Ghost, Gone with the Wind…so, there was nothing too much different. So, when someone asks me, “Why don’t you go back to India”, I just wonder, But why? Where is my real home? India? America? England? Do I really belong to any of these countries? Perhaps I am more at home in America. Yes, my skin is a few shades darker than the whites, but I already lost the Indian in me, long time back. And yet living in this home of mine, the inmates of my home don’t see me as their own. And I can only smile, a cynical smile, a mirthless smile, a helpless smile, and wonder at how the world can only see the color of the skin, and nothing beyond it.

So, am I Indian? You decide.

Immigrants are second class residents

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Equal opportunities are bullshit. Equal opportunities exist only in your own country, and for a country like India, not only in your own country, but in your own state. The world is divided into fragments based on the way you speak, the way you look, what you think about, what you like to eat, which sports you are involved in. Nobody cares for actual work.

And equal opportunities in America are non-existent for immigrants. Highly skilled, highly educated Indians find themselves languishing in jobs which are not at par with their skills. Indians, chinese, most immigrants in general. We are just second class citizens.

And thinking from the perspective of native americans, why shouldn’t we be treated as such? After all, what have Indians contributed to the world? Very less, compared to countries like Europe, or England and so on. Indians were losers with their soft hearts, losers to allow themselves to be conquered. But whatever may be the case, the world does not look at excuses. They don’t care that a whole nation was colonised and systematically eroded. Bottom line is we have made no significant contribution to innovation. Yes, we have been workers : engineers, doctors, IT software engineers. But innovation? No. We don’t figure in that. So, we live like second class citizens, struggling for jobs, or taking up jobs beneath our educational standing or our capabilities. We are paying for the sins and the laziness of our forefathers. Even if we work hard all our lives, were among the top 10% in our own country, once we step out of it, we are worthless.

Why am I complaining? I am complaining because, I expect more from America. I expect that there should be some country which is truly honest. I thought this country was so, but I was wrong. Somewhere underneath the veneer of honesty, there is a rot. A rot which is growing, or perhaps it was always there.