काश ये दुनिया रंगहीन ही होती

कभी सोचती हूँ कि काश दुनिया में कोई रंग ही न होते।

न गोरा न काला न भूरा 

न गुलाबी न नीला। ... 

कोई भेदभाव न होता

संकीर्ण मानसिकता न होती

समरंगी ये दुनिया होती। .... 

आज पक्षपाती दूषित विचार

मानवता पर कर रहे हर रोज़ अत्याचार

मनोहर रंग-भरी दुनिया को मैला करते

अब कहाँ हम रंगों को पहचान पाएंगे?

सब द्वेष से ढका दिखाई देता है

कोई होता जो हमें सिखाता

इंद्रधनुष के जैसा बनना

विभिन्नता का सामंजस्य

विविधता की संगति

बहुरंगी मिलाप की सुंदरता 

कभी सोचती हूँ कि काश ये दुनिया रंगहीन ही होती

गर एक दिन सब रंग खो जाएँ

शायद सब रंगों की महत्ता समझ जाएँ

बस एक दिन बिना रंगों की दुनिया की कल्पना करके देखो

नीले आसमान ,हरे पेड़ों और रंग-बिरंगे फूलों के बिना जी के देखो 

अपने वर्ण का दम्भ भी मिटा के देखो 

रंग हैं तो हम हैं 

रंग ही जीवन की परिभाषा हैं 

रंग ही जीवन का सार हैं। ....  

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Linking it to IndiSpire #125

Linking to Day 1 of Write Tribe Festival of Words # 5

A Spectacle called Ritual

 When considered thought is tied together with appearances, that is ritual; and then people can work on with their eyes closed, effortlessly, and not vacillate with their eyes open.”  

                                 - Ritual and Reform by Rabindranath Tagore.

“Way back before you were born, Calla and Persephone and I were messing around with things we probably shouldn't have been messing around with--"

"Drugs?"

"Rituals. Are you messing around with drugs?"

"No. But maybe rituals"

"Drugs might be better.” 

                                           ― Maggie Stiefvater, The Raven Boys

Rituals and society go hand in hand. Ever since man started living in groups, it is assumed that certain acts, certain practices took the form of rituals. They were repeated, they were attached with symbolic meanings, and they gradually became indispensable to the specific groups that practiced those rituals. 

My knowledge about the history of rituals is limited. But as I perceive them today, I feel that they are acts of communication within social groups that share a common belief. They are also a way of integrating certain social systems. They consolidate and assert social identities in a world that is shifting to global oneness. Rituals help assert one's uniqueness and diversity. In that sense, they remain essential.

Rituals belong not just to Hindu societies. They are part and parcel of every community that functions in the social sphere. 

Are they relevant to our society in the present times? When practices took shape thousands of years ago, critical thinking was developing. Man tried to find meaning to his existence by way of certain acts. He created certain stories that made him feel secure about who created the world, and about his own place in that world. It gave him a certain sense of security. It aided in bringing a sense of  singularity to his little world.

With time, it changed. Diversity popped up. Different beliefs crossed paths. Confusion, doubt, further interrogation set in. He still needed to comfort himself amidst all the uncertainties. So, he persisted. He persisted in the beliefs he had 'learnt' to believe in. He passed it on to his progeny with no questions asked. It was a matter of faith. It became his religion. Power structures of the society he belonged to were happy too, because these rituals helped maintain status quo.  

The highly spectacular nature of rituals today has heightened the social drama. When anthropologists read about us years later, we will make an interesting case study of a society driven to display and extravaganza. We will be read as day-observing, ritual-fastidious, globally-aware, diversity-hugging, ceremony-finicky secular nation. 

By the way, do read Tagore's story Ritual and Reform, from which I quoted in the beginning. The irony of action and thought is beautifully brought out in the narrative.

Written for IndiSpire #115

#ThatDay .....

I attempted one-liners for this prompt. The second on is personal, while the other two are based on some harsh realities many people face. Do leave your feedback. Thanks!



That day, it rained so hard, not a drop of water was left to drink.

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That day, I bid final goodbye not just to my father, but to my childhood as well.

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That day, I couldn't stop crying as I saw the child-bride say goodbye to her toys.

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Written for IndiSpire #110

A Stretch of Lazy Limbs....

Getting to a place of comfort can be uncomfortable. Remember being born, eh? No...? The witnesses do. The spectators, the participants, the assistants. They are eager to hear the cry - the cry of life. If the child has to live, s/he ought to cry. That will ensure a life. So they strain their ears to hear it - the cry of life. Isn't it incredible how life and tears are inseparable? You cry the moment you are born. You do not remember the pain of birth you have experienced at the time you first saw the light of the day. Out of the womb, out of the comfort zone you inhabited for months, out of that cocoon you thought was your home. A place where you were curled up, literally, with just the fluid you made to keep yourself safe. But you had to come out, and come out you did, to a place that gave you more room, physically speaking, and mentally too. A place for you to grow not just vertically. A place you would know as your home, your city, your country, your planet, your universe. A place to expand your horizons, a place to spread and flap your wings, to get ready for the flights that might define your very being. 

What after that .....?

And then the preparation begins. Parents prepare you. Teachers prepare you. At least they try to prepare you - for life. But something else happens too. A clipping of wings, perhaps. An adherence to age-bound, time-bound, culture-bound norms. You question, you are snubbed. You wonder, but your imagination is nipped. You wiggle. You cannot give up. No. You were not born for this. Struggle ensues. There is a rebellion somewhere. A toppling state of affairs. A new birth, maybe. Of new thoughts. Of freedom. From shackles. From bondage of worn-out thoughts. 

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It is a better place in some sense now. But it was not easy to reach here. Not easy to cross the obstacles. To win over the muddled mazy paths. No - comfort ain't that comfortable. It comes from a stretch of the lazy limbs. 

But what if there was no struggle. Would there be a birth then? There would just remain a lull, a halt. No end-point. No beginning. No in-between. No life.

But that does not happen. There has to be life. There has to be action too. Action, willing or otherwise. And it impacts you. It impacts those around you, living and non-living. You don't believe me. Well, sit. Just sit and do nothing. And then get up. Check the seat you sat on. If it is cushioned, it is bumped in. It bears a little indent where you sat. If it is not cushioned, it has still taken your body's heat. It is warm. So, whatever you do, it will have an impact. Willing or otherwise.

A gesture, a smile, a tear, a wind, a rain-drop, a fall, a getting-up, a friend, a foe - they all impact you. They characterize you too. Your smile impacts you and your surroundings by spreading invisible waves of happiness. These waves cheer up the horizon, so to say. Your tears release you from pain, from guilt. They cleanse you and everything around you. Winds impact with the whiffs of scents they carry. Someone is close to you, you are not alone, never. A rain-drop titillates. A cooling sensation it is. A trickling titillation. 

You fall. You bruise. You get-up. You put a balm. Bruise covered. But lesson learnt too. What if the lesson was cryptic? What if you fail to understand? Well - simple. You fall again. To get-up again, and again and again. That's how you learn or not learn. That is what spells out your life's path. The actions that you take or refuse to take, and the impact that they leave behind. That is who you are. It is up to you what life you live. A life of living moments or a mere existence of quietus. You choose, you decide. Willingly or otherwise, the day you are born, you get busy living or get busy dying.

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This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

Linking it to B-A-R

We Need Each Other

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I see a big house - not luxurious in the way big houses today are. But displaying abundance in another way. It has people. It has smiles. It has echoes of loud laughter. Jokes are shared, songs are sung. I see a different life there. Kids play in the yard, not with technology but with each other. If someone cries, there is a hand to wipe the tears. No hands are needed to text emoticons of sadness and sympathy. Humans exist. Humans interact. Humans hug and laugh and cry and talk.

It is long gone now. That human touch. Touch has been redefined. Touch-screen. We flip pages on the screen, rather than a book. We touch keypads to send across our half-hearted smiles, our un-felt tears. That is what touch has become. And yet we feel we are connected. Are we, really?

There is a disconnect. A rupture. A major chasm. It divides us. It takes us apart. We reach technology again. We want to take control of our destination. We have to reach it. But we have no oars to row our boat. We try to build virtual bridges using social media. We have many friends there. We are very social beings, socially active on our phones, sitting in our isolated houses, talking to 'friends' we hardly ever meet.

And then, we lose it all. Our sanity, our peace. We wish for a way out. But the only navigation our GPS can offer is from one physical place to another. We try to stretch. But we have been sitting so long in that abjectly stooping posture, that we have stiffened ourselves. We wish, too late, for deliverance. Who can rescue us?

Is it too late now? We try to look inside. There is pain in there, a throbbing pain. It tells us that we are alive. That there is hope. We just need to try. We just need to utter. We just need to articulate. We just need to get in touch again. Touch - Feel - Talk - Converse. In a social way, in a physical world, on a personal level, on a plane of consciousness.

We have the will. We can find a path too. All we need is navigation through our heart - from my heart to yours, and the other way round. All we need is voyage from deep within us. All we need is a steering away from the mechanical responses to a more sentient reality.

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This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

A Life Lived to the Hilt, A Music Played Well....

“Life is for the living.
Death is for the dead.
Let life be like music. 
And death a note unsaid.” 
― Langston Hughes, The Collected Poems

My life has been an ordinary tale, like that of many. Just like others, I too have had my share of joys and sorrows. Born to parents who loved me, in a household that was full of good food, love and music, there was not much I wished for. Happiness was something I lived with during much of my childhood. Yes, happiness - that fleeting thing that escapes your mind and heart as you grow up with an endless burden of desires and wishes. For a child, happiness is simple. For adults, it is everything other than that. As I sit back and reflect on the goodness that was bestowed upon me by my parents, I realize that one thing stands out - the love for music.

Some of you might have read my earlier posts where I have talked about my mom. Mothers are so special, aren't they? Whatever they do, they leave an indelible impression on our minds and hearts. They love you, scold you, inspire you, goad you. You might not feel like it some days, but she knows. And that's the reason she pushes you. Even when she is not doing that, her little actions impact your thinking.

My early childhood was a time when there was no cable TV, no internet, no computers. We had Doordarshan, and we had radio and we had those special family times when all of us would sit together and watch movies on weekends. Music came to us through special programs like 'Chitrahar' and through that small rectangular box which we called the radio. Mom had memorized most of Lata's sad melodies and Asha's peppy numbers. So, when I first heard songs, I heard them through her. She had a Master's degree in vocal music. It was something that had happened to her just by chance. She had loved music throughout her life but language and literature was another passion she held deep in her heart. As luck would have it, the government college in her home city Gurgaon, did not offer a Master's degree in English and she opted for music instead. Music, as she understood like most of us, was filmy songs. So, with a heart beating loudly and a mind listening to only romantic Bollywood numbers, she went to her first music class. Only she knew what a shock she was in for when she had to listen to alaaps and ragas. Instead of cool guitars, she saw herself holding a tanpura while besides her sat her teachers playing harmonium and tabla. It was sometime before she got into the depth of soulful music and then there was no turning back for her.

Listening to all these stories was something that always brought a smile on my face. Mom's eyes would beam with delight as she remembered her heydays. College gave her some beautiful memories in the songs she sang during Youth Festivals. She must have been a heart throb in her time, I must say. And although I was and still am a bad singer, I learnt to play Sitar, all owing to her encouragement. After school, I bade goodbye to my instrument which had given me lot of peace and satisfaction. (Ironically, I pursued not music but literature, something my mom had so wished to learn.) But that farewell to the instrument was not a farewell to music. I carried within me a streak of love for it which has remained like that even though it has been years since I last touched it.

As they say, 'the best legacy you can give your children is not for them but in them' (Deborah Roberts). The resonating musical atmosphere my mom provided was a gift that happened to land in my hands. My brush with Sitar, though for just about three years, sowed inside me a seed which would blossom much later when I became a mother. I had unknowingly nurtured that seed by listening to good music and by listening to my mom's words and songs. When I became a mom, even before my baby came in the world, I started singing songs for him. I was an avid reader and had read somewhere that music benefits the unborn one, so I would do just that. When my son came into the world, he would, unlike other kids, choose not peppy dance numbers but slow sentimental notes. This used to intrigue me. He gradually developed interest in other kinds too, and started showing affinity to what I personally felt was 'good' choice. He would not dance, but try to sing. One of his first favorites was Aaj Jaane ki Zid Na Karo... and ...Jaane Kya Chahe Mann Bawra. I would wonder whether he had inherited the genes from my mother, given the choice of his music.

As time passed, I bought a keyboard for him. I don't know much about music, but I could manage to play certain tunes by hearing them. So, I would select some songs, rhymes and tunes that my son liked and would play them out on the Casio. That amazed his little brain. What amazed me in turn was that he started picking the tunes I played for him. And he was just four at the time. That was the beginning of another love affair with music in our family. What started with my mom had navigated through the generations silently, unknowingly, and reached the heart of my son.

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The two of us, that's me and my son, spent many such moments together which gave us melodious joy. And slowly I realized that I needed to nourish my son's talent. Given my limited abilities, I could not give him enough room to fly. I had to find a teacher for him who would be formally able to polish his skills. As he turned seven, he went for his first formal music class. He has started learning piano, the king of instruments. The day he got his first lesson, I sat in the adjacent room, listening to the serene and uplifting notes the teacher played for him. It sounded divine, sublime. My own fingers twitched to touch the chords and my heart felt a strange titillation as I pictured my son playing the instrument one day with complete perfection. That day is far away, but who can stop me from dreaming...!

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As per the teacher's instructions, we had to buy a piano for him now. The search began and we went to a few homes and stores to search for a good quality piano that would be affordable and also play well. Our search took us to a home with three cats, and to a storage house with just some extra stuff. It is funny how music finds its way into unimaginable places. Our search ended in the storage house and we finally bought the piano. The night we finalized the piano was a beautiful night. Mesmerizing in a strangely tranquil way. The moon shone bright. It wasn't a full moon yet, but its brightness captivated me. It seemed to sing a music only I could hear. And I felt like a wanderer, chasing the placidity it seemed to offer. My heart hummed Moon River, making me feel like a 'drifter'. There was a lull, and in those few quiet moments, I wished for nothing. 

The piano came home. It is a huge, heavy instrument. Bringing it up the stairs was a daring task. The man from whom we bought it was a ridiculously funny man who claimed to be the 'strongest man in New Jersey'. In front of my own eyes, he managed to transfer the four hundred pound piano in his van! I could only say to my son - That's what you call a superhero! I was awed by his strength and wondered at that moment how reality offers some 'fantastico' moments - it was both a fabulous as well as an unbelievable spectacle.

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Music is an exceptionally unique sound, to put it in the simplest terms. It is a sound that produces harmony. It is a sound that helps a devotee connect to his God. It is a sound that resonates with profundity, bridging the chasm between mind and heart. It is melodious magic. Life itself is like music. We can play it well with our tears and our smiles, as long as we are willing to. Some notes may makes us cry, some notes may help us laugh. But together they are proof to a life lived to the hilt, to a music played well. 

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This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.

Delighting Only in the Flight.....

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The red light brought his mind and car to a halt. He had been thinking a lot lately. His heart had questions his mind could not answer. He wished for a navigation system that could steer his life towards happiness and fulfillment. He had everything one could wish for in terms of prosperity. Then, why did he feel empty? He looked for answers in books. Eliot's poetry made him ponder over the hollowness inside him.

We are the hollow men

  We are the stuffed men.

 He felt stuffed too - stuffed with satiety. He knew not what to anticipate. Deadlines met, landmarks achieved, milestones reached. What lay ahead? What was it all for? For whom?

He felt hot. The air-conditioner was working fine. He needed to breathe. He inhaled deeply. It did not help. He opened his window. Car honks blared. Impatient glares stared at him. Traffic piled up from all directions. 'Empty men', he murmured quoting Eliot.

"Balloons, colorful balloons - your kids will be happy....Balloons....Sir...Sir...Take a balloon sir....just one sir." The voice startled him. He had heard it in ages - the unfeigned, unrefined voice. He looked around but could see nothing. He sank back in his seat and raised the volume of his radio.

Barely a few seconds passed when he heard the voice again. The peppy music that was playing in the car seemed artificial in comparison to the voice. He shut the music at once and straightened up to look outside. That's when he saw him there - a boy, probably nine or ten year old. He turned around just in time and their eyes met. Thin feet sprang towards him with an unmarked agility.

"Balloon sir - one for your kid. Which color you want sir - blue, green, yellow, red.....?"

"I don't have kids."

"Oh...." The confident gaze fell just for a moment.

"Girl-friend sir? Girls like it sir.....Surprise her sir.....I have heart balloon sir....See...?...."

"No girl-friend."

"Oh....sorry sir...."

He started moving.

"Here, take this money...."

"No Sir....Thank you...."

He moved to the next car.

"Listen. Come back....."

"I don't need it but give me the blue one."

"Blue, Sir? Good color Sir My favorite sir..". A big smile passed as the boy untangled the ribbon of the blue balloon and passed it on to his customer. As he took the money and waved goodbye, the man asked him, " Why are you so happy?"

The boy started laughing. "Sir, you not happy? Big car sir....suited-booted....not happy? Joking sir?"

This stunned the man. "Want a ride?"

The boy jumped up at the thought. "Me Sir? Ye-----yes sir.."

"Come inside. Quick...."

The boy clumsily put the inflated balloons in the car. Then he sat next to the driver.

"Belt...."

"What Sir.....?"

"Nothing." The man leaned forward and buckled up the little fellow.

They waited a few more minutes before the congestion cleared up. Questioning glances from around seemed to agitate the restless driver, but the boy beamed with joy. He even waved in response to some lousy looks.

"My name is Amit. What's yours?"

"Sameer, Sir.....No music in car Sir....?" The boy asked.

"Oh yes.." He turned on the radio.

The boy started tapping to the tunes. He seemed familiar with the song as he was humming too.

"Your car is good sir...very good. But why no girlfriend sir? "

"What do you do the whole day Sameer?"

"I sell balloons Sir."

"No school?"

"Sometimes Sir. Not every day."

"Why are you so happy?"

"You not happy Sir?"

"I don't know."

"No family sir?"

"No."

"Friends?"

Amit didn't answer.

"Girl-friend Sir. You need a girl-friend." Sameer giggled.

Amit managed to smile. "See sir. She will make you happy sir. Why live alone Sir? "

"You have a girl-friend?"

"What Sir? Joking Sir....!" Sameer smiled.

Amit stopped to buy Sameer an ice-cream. As he was about to pay the vendor, Sameer asked, "You not eating sir?"

Amit took one for himself.

Sameer licked the ice-cream greedily, savoring every bit of it. Amit finished his quickly.

"Let me drop you back now." Amit steered through the busy road. They reached the spot they had started from.

"Bye Sir. Thank you Sir."

"Bye Sameer."

"Sir...Girl-friend sir....Then you will be happy Sir..", shouted the boy one last time.

Amit smiled as he watched the boy slowly disappear with his colorful balloons. His prance and his artless smile had impacted upon him like a balm for his smarting soul. He got down from his car, took the blue balloon and released it in the sky. He watched it fly away lazily, unmindful of the destination, delighting only in the flight.

This blog post is inspired by the blogging marathon hosted on IndiBlogger for the launch of the #Fantastico Zica from Tata Motors. You can apply for a test drive of the hatchback Zica today.


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It's Still Okay...!

He remembered the time he had proposed to her. She had blushed. He had hugged her. Their love story had been perfect. Their marriage blissful. There were no complaints. She had asked him to love her unconditionally. He had promised. She had said," Promise me you will always love me. When I am angry, when I am happy, when I am sad, when I am upset...Even when I grow old and stoop and wrinkle, you will always love me." And he had promised. He had asked her to promise something too...'Never leave me". She had said 'Yes!'

It was five years ago. An accident had changed things now. A severe head injury had made her lose her memory. She did not remember anything now. Her name, his name, their love, their promises. 

He reminded her everyday. He told her stories about their past. He declared his love to her an umpteen number of times, a declaration that only evoked a response of confusion. 

One day, after he had told her that he loved her, she asked, "Why?"

"I had promised to love you. You are my life."

He told her about the promise they had made to each other five years ago.

"I am not old, but I am not yours either. I don't remember anything. I have broken my promise. Even then you love me?" A look of bewilderment passed on her face.

"Yes, I still love you. You have not broken your promise. You survived the accident, even though the doctors had given up. There was something that stopped you from going. I want to think that it was our love."

Tears trickled on her cheeks like rain drops. He wiped them off. 

"You don't mind when I look away? You don't feel heart-broken when I shrug off your touch? Is it still okay?"

He held her hands with a warmth that she felt, perhaps for the first time, in so many months. 

"Yes, it's still okay."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Her palpitations had increased. Her speech was incoherent. She had hardly slept. She could not sit. Her eyes seemed to be popping out of her head. Medicines were not helping. Friends reached out to her to tell her to try relaxation techniques. Stop the pill, they told her. She could not hear them. She had faith, faith in her husband that he would cure her. 

He had faith too - faith in the medicine. 

He sat there. He was working on his computer. He had promised to be with her. 

The chest pain suffocated her. She gasped for fresh air. 

She had not slept for days. She had lost count.

The phone rang. She did not pick. She could hardly talk. He answered.

"Yes, she is fine......She has the pain, still......No, no the medicine will help her.......No....she did not sleep......"

".....the palpitations are there.....No, she could not sleep.....Don't worry.....It's still okay...."

Written for IndiSpire Edition 96 

'The World opened to me when I learned to read' - Mary Mcleod Bethune

Writing blog posts in response to prompts is a common practice in the blogging community. Prompts help channelize creativity in a direction the blogger might not have thought of. Ever since I started my blogging journey, I have been writing posts whenever a prompt attracted me. Indiblogger and Blogadda have been great tools in this regard. Weekly prompts have helped bring a regularity to blogging, not just for me, but for many others as well. It was a surprise this time when the current prompt on Indiblogger did not get many entries. I wondered. When I was looking at the prompt suggestions last week, my 'blogger' sense had told me that many people would vote for the 'blog review' in the hope that they would be featured by some other fellow blogger. It was a bigger surprise however when the prompt was selected but hardly got any response.

I had personally refrained from voting for the prompt for two reasons. One, I knew I was going to be busy on the weekend and would not be able to write on it. Two, I thought that writing a blog review is a difficult task and would require lot of time and focus on the specific blog I would pick. Then, when the responses came, one from Sir Tomichan himself, who had suggested the prompt, I wondered if others too had felt what I felt and yet had voted under the spell of what Sir Tomichan correctly points out, "subconscious longing for adulation from others". (Read the post here if you haven't already.)

As writers, we expect our posts to be read. We hope to be praised. We also wish that we are liked. But writing is a skill that affects different people differently. Some might have a natural liking for poetry, and others might hate it. Some might drool over a satirical or a humorous post and others might fail to understand it. In keeping with the taste of the reader, a writing gets appreciated or disregarded. And this makes reviewing a complex task. A reader may love one post of the blogger and dislike some other post by the same blogger. Sometimes, the way a post is structured, or the layout of a blog might evoke certain likes or dislikes. For all these reasons, I felt that I cannot review a blog. 

Having said that I have certainly appreciated and learned a lot from the blogging fraternity. There are some really really good bloggers who have inspired and added value to my life. They have made me think. They have made me interrogate myself. They have also made me google up a lot of stuff I was unaware of. Then, there are some who by the magic of their camera have captured a world that I have not been to. Those images have sometimes given wings to my imagination. And lately, there have been some sensitive minds whose acute observations in their fictive and non-fictive posts have brought out the glaring harshness of the present day terrors. 

I am going to share link here of some of the posts that have touched me deeply. These posts will give you a peek in their writer's mind. It might not be a defining post of the blogger's style and skill but it is something with which I have been able to connect deeply. It is something that has made me revere the writer and made me wish I had a mind like theirs, a skill like them.

#UnitedWeStand by Saru Singhal (Read all her HashTag Stories. She excels in it, seriously. Food for thought in a few words.)

Śāntam {peace} – Navras 9 by Shweta Dave (Read all her posts on Navras.)

बूँदें : RainDrops by Kokila Gupta (Read all her Hindi poems....They are delightful like a child and they always make me love life.She had been absent for sometime but has made a comeback. I wish her lots of luck.)

Merciless Beauty by Sir Tomichan Matheikal (It is very difficult to pick one from Sir Tomichan. Read as much of him as you can.)

Camouflage by Archana Kapoor (Read all her Haiku-poems. She is an expert on this.)

The Smartphone Revolution by Alok Singhal (Laugh your way through the post. Read some of his personal posts and travelogues too.)

Micro-tales by Maniparna Sengupta Majumdar (It is difficult to pinpoint one style of writing that she excels at for the simple reason that she excels in everything she writes!)

Treasure of Nature by Purba Chakraborty (A poetess - What more should I say!)

Wordless Wednesdays by Indrani Ghose (I am getting addicted to these posts which feature a picture and caption responses by her readers. Her travel articles are good too.)

पसंदिदा तीन शब्द by Jyoti Dehliwal (Very well written posts in Hindi. Do read to get a sense of the writer's sensitivity.)

#Haiku इंतज़ार by Manisha Sharma (Short poems in Hindi. Thought-provoking, they touch your heart.)

सिलसिला by Amit Agarwal (Like Manisha, he too writes short poetry in Hindi. It is sure to leave an impression behind.)

Lei - A Wreath for your Soul by Somali Chakrabarti (This is the title of her book. Her posts are well-written, informational, introspective and engrossing.)

Lighting up the Special Light by Sreedhar Sir (His posts speak from experience.)

Twinkling Eyes  by Joshi Daniel (His snapshots say it all!)

35 Best Sites For Free Images by Prasanna Dasari (I have started following this blog lately. Prasanna comes up with good information and interesting insights in his posts.)

This list is by no means exhaustive. I might have missed out on a lot of good writings. This is a purely subjective choice and as I said, it is not a review. 

Image Source here

I want to urge all the bloggers out there to share something that has added value to their lives. 

Written for IndiSpire Edition 94