Outdoor is where I love to be, no matter what the climate is. And here are some pictures that Apartment Therapy readers shared about their outdoors. Sigh!
Reports say that the roads in Bangalore (and Pune) are empty this week.
In Pune, I could get parking at Ozone, on a Sunday evening. Something that I didn’t dare attempt in 2 years! No traffic jams on any roads, peak or non-peak hours. It was surreal. Proof that outsiders are infesting these places (I am no insider, BTW).
And in a separate report, there is unbelievable traffic on the Mumbai roads. Now you know whom to catch if your city is bulging at its seams!
It used to be exciting to look out of the window when you land or take off. I still remember the red tips of the Golden Gate bridge emerging out of the thick white fog like the two horns of a holy cow on the banks of Ganges. That was a special memory, but in recent times, the generic ‘from-sky-views’ arent that exciting. Why bother, when one can check them out, not as a glance, but in detail on Google Earth?
evolution and revolution
the mis-spelled art of typography
electronic intimacy over speed lines
murmurs from a light coffin
information and/or junk
oh God, life SUCKS
in a w0rld 0f and lif3 af+3r ; wh3r3 +alking ab0u+ mul+ifac3+3d in+3rn3t jarg0n5 i5 clich3d; and jac0b neil50n i5 c0n5id3r3d by s0m3 a5 a fak3; and w3bpag3s+ha+5uck ha5 giv3n way +0 fuck3dc0mpany; d0+c0m shar3s hav3 5+ar+3d g0ing again; i5n'+ i+ na+ural +ha+ i am 5cared +o 5ay +ha+ +hi5 5i+3 b3l0ng5 t0 a
She walked up the ‘ramp’ and in a very shy whispering tone said her name. She did say a few words more, which just as her name no one heard. She stood there, looking very fragile and seeking the first chance to get way from all the prying eyes. (Handle with care, I thought). But for the brown top, she reminded me of a pigeon (I do not know why, but may be the scene was very similar to a pigeon among cats).
She had left her hair untied – may be to look young (She can pass as a 27 year old, though her eyes said an older story. I guessed that she is 30). May be to look casual or free or for an I-don’t-care-about-all-these feel. There was some kind of deliberation in her air that set my mind thinking.
Over the lunch table, talking about her previous nights party that went wild, I knew she is an interesting character to study. She talked about people. Men but not a man. There is something about her. Something.
I stopped talking to her lest I get biased. I started observing her (but casually). Many a times, she seemed to get lost in thoughts. She sure has disturbances in her mind. Her notepad margins were full of scorings with pen, that made black dots. First I thought they were aimless circles. But then, lost in her thoughts, was her subconscious mind making her draw all those? She said that she has been making them for years! (How many, I should have asked and solved my problem in hand-Ha!)
She was becoming a contradiction by herself. She had the air of being free, but it looked like she blamed herself for that. What could it be?
I concluded that she has lost something that made her free, but is chained by thoughts because of that. A forced freedom? The black aimless dots? Ha! She is an underline to the phrase – women are complex. I racked my brain and then it struck me – she had lost her life, somewhere. She said once, “I don’t drive. I have been driven around quite a lot in my life”
I started writing about her. I could not conclude so, but I had a feeling that she was divorced. She was 30 (or nearing it), from an affluent conservative family where marriages are arranged very traditionally (by norms, as soon as one finishes the studies), had snaps of her family taken across the globe pinned on the board, and her way of writings – be it the thought for the day scribbles on her whiteboard or her article about being old and waiting for an older man to sweep her off her feet.
She needs security. Not the one that the 12 feet high garden walls of her home gives her. A security that old men seem to carry with, or the security of an assurance that she is doing just fine in her life. She seems to tell herself not to play games with her own mind. She really needs assurance.
I would never have thought of putting these scribbles together like this but for the day when she lost her watch. It was a birthday gift, she told me. She did not know how she could loose such a precious thing. She blamed her fate. I assured her that she would get it back in some form or the other if she deserves it. And loves it. (Sincere it survives, else it parts away).
She said, “I am those kind of people who looses something in life and can never even dream of getting it back”.
This time I heard her, clear. The whispering shy tone remained, but with a bit of tumble and choke. Her eyes hid her age for once as I walked away to leave her to tie her hair at the back, and then sit refreshed to do those aimless circles on the margin spaces of her new notepad. She picked her pen;