“Since political correctness has become the norm in our society the normal man in the street has had a lot to be angry at. The normal man in the street has found the life in which he lives in is beset on all sides. No longer allowed to voice an opinion or make an intelligent humorous joke (to which he is entitled to do), for if it offends anyone, ultimately opening himself up to possibly losing his job, online bullying, loss of the respect of his peers and in extreme cases physical abuse and confrontation. All justified because he is an “offender” and anyone who felt offended has rights that far outweigh the initial offending act.”
Author Archives: MissUnderstood Genius
An old man was selling watermelons. His price list read: 1 for £2 and 3 for £8.
A young man stopped by and bought 3 watermelons one by one, paying £2 for each.
As the young man was walking away, he turned around and told the old man, “Hey, do you realize I just bought three watermelons for £6 instead of £8? May be business is not your thing.”
The old man smiled and mumbled to himself, “People are funny. Every time they buy three watermelons instead of one, yet they keep trying to teach me how to do business.”
I complain: The laundry basket never stays empty.
God reminds: Your family never goes without clean clothes to wear.
I complain: I hate to cook.
God reminds: Your family never goes without food to eat.
I ask: Why can’t my kids chill out for 10 minutes?
God reminds: You have never seen the inside of a children’s hospital.
I say: There isn’t enough time to do everything I need to do, much less what I want to do.
God reminds: So few of these things did I ask of you.
I say: I look older reflected in my minivan window.
God reminds: Yes. I gave you these years.
I ask: Will I ever be enough?
God asks: For who?
I say: I keep messing up. I worry. I raise my voice. I forget how lucky I am.
God reminds: Luck has nothing do with it. Everything in your basket, I put there with purpose. And I never asked you to carry it alone.
Credit: Mama Dickinson: Musings Of A Daydreaming Mom
Still shying away from new people yet loves to cuddle with the ones she knows. Loves belly rubs from Kam and definitely understands the word ‘food’. She is naturally curious, processes stimuli more quickly, and reacts faster than I can. She can expertly read my body language and clearly see my intended plan before I am even fully thinking of it. I am finding myself having to play a lot of ‘catch up’ if I can’t stay one step ahead of my intelligent, hyper-active puppy. I am acquiring proficiency in a new language as I learn the many subtle and not-to-subtle sounds – barks, whines, growls, yodels, and sounds I did not even know she could make. I have a new, nosy companion trying to ‘help’ me complete my chores, or even trying to do them for me! Every day is a new day with her.
Showing all signs of being the world obedient and well-mannered dog, I am keeping my fingers crossed and knocking on every wood to ensure she grows up like so 😍
Let me give my fur baby another cuddle before she soon grows up in a big dog and hugs me instead 🤪
If you feel you’re knocking on closed doors, keep knocking. But only if they seem to have a window. At least make sure they would look out to see who’s there.
Then persist. For it’s a rare rock that doesn’t break by repeated hammering. Unless you’re not it’s weapon of choice.
Part of the beauty of this idea, this hypothesis of love, is its abstraction. Like water, it takes any shape, any form. Fills wherever it enters, empties whatever it leaves. Like it was never there.
For some, love is like a new idea in an artist’s mind. It takes shape in the head before it does for real on paper.
Sometimes the imagination is much better. At other times, you let go with the flow. Succumb and let your fingers take you to an ethereal creation. You stand back, breathless at what you’ve done.
Don’t be boggled by “what you thought” as opposed to “what it is”. The former will trap you, the later will let you know. And maybe let go.
You guard yourself like an ice bag, that would melt, time and again but never impart with all that it has. You would feel most yourself when frozen.
Unless someone manages to pierce right through. With a gentle hand of course. And then you realise you aren’t losing yourself. You’re just amalgamating into something better.
What you think is a leak, is a part of a higher process of creation. Let’s say you’re a machine. Your beloved laptop. You got to do away with the existing system to upgrade to a higher one. Something’s gotta end for a new one to begin.
Why do we hate endings so much? Why don’t we let things that run out their course, be? Attachment is wonderful till it becomes a leach.
Change. How wonderfully exciting and fearsome at the same time! Next to love, it’s perhaps the only thing that flaunts its oxymoronic capacity.
You guard your heart like a doorman. Watching strictly who passes by. Frisking them for anything they can use against you. For you think you’re precious. Or vulnerable. You are.
But so is everybody. Precious. Irreplaceable. For themselves anyway. Why not then make it a freeway? Let those come that seek to enter. Let those stay that meet your approval.
For everyone else, there’s always a well-spent goodbye. The gentle turning away and gradual fading as opposed to shocking them out of their wits by closing the door on their face, with a thud.
Selfless loving is seldom understood, let alone be appreciated.
Don’t stand with your high horse intimidating the curious eye. Don’t judge before knowing. Or write off before testing. Or succumb without doubting.
It’s a matter of life and death you know. This business of giving your heart to someone. You bestow them the power to enliven you or benumb.
But without love, the existence is merely perfunctory. Even animals exist. Even plants grow and wither. Even machines upgrade. That heart wasn’t given to you just to pump blood.
You’re subconsciously told and drilled to be ordinary, no matter how much they tell you to strive to be not. While the truth is, you’re supposed to move towards being a legend, no matter how much you strive to blend.
Or maybe the heart really was meant to just pump blood. Stupid humans dribbling it off course with their dirty mushy fingers. Then letting the poor heart dangle by their sleeve. But then we evolved into a multitasking race, didn’t we? Let’s explore it’s full potential.
We all take birth and do die. They say it’s the in between that matters.
The in between of being hopeless and hopeful. Of being raised to exultation and dumped into mourning. Between “what if” and “why not”. It’s never the extremes that teach us the survival skills anyway. Ah, the comfort of slinking into oblivion of the in-betweeness.
And then they still ask, why love? Why ain’t I enough? Because you aren’t programmed to be. Because no matter how much you master solitude, you’re slave to your desires.
Howsoever you bask in your self love, you crave appreciation. Some outspokenly. Some in hush hush subtlety. We love being loved.
Why fear a heart ache or a heart break? Do you fear death? Do you not get into your car each day knowing millions of people die in road accidents without it being their fault?
Do you not want to bungee jump or go trekking or scuba diving? Or for the less adventurous ones, visit a foreign land, taste exotic food, drive on an empty road by the sea at night?
We’re tuned differently in degrees, but like those toy soldiers made from a single teaspoon, we originate from the same base.
Find what gives solace to your heart and hold on tight to it. For however they’ve spoilt through over usage of this saying, but the truth is, you do only live once. And you’d die once and for all too.
Live, love, let live.
P.S. These were supposed to be random thoughts and hence probably the lack of any structure. But then I thought, let me put it here. Maybe the shoe fits someone.
I love reading…rather I enjoy reading but I have got into a habit of putting it off for later and never getting back to it. To encourage myself to read, I have created a list of categories (instead of books) to keep it interesting. Feel free to join me in the challenge or recommend me a book to read in any of the category.
- Book written by a celebrity
- Young adult bestseller
- My husband’s favourite book
- A prizewinning book
- Political memoir
- A Book from Oprah’s book club
- Book recommended by a friend
- An Autobiography
- Book that takes place on an island
- Book with a blue cover
- Book with over 500 pages
- Book with a number in the title
- Book published this year
- Book with a one word title
- Book set in a different country
- Book by an author I love but haven’t read yet
- Book based on a true story
- Book chosen based entirely on cover
- Book with a colour in the title
- Book you own but have never read
- Book by author I have never read before
- Book made into a film
- Book by author of different ethnicity
- Book with weather in the title
- Book from a celebrity book club
- Book set in decade I was born
- Goodreads Choice Awards winner
- Author with same first or last name as me
- Book set in country I have never been to
- Book with a name in the title
Is it because foreigners really have low expectation from a developing country like ours? Or is it that Indians want optimal value for money?
Well, I am talking about hospitality – the way it is conceived, provided and expected by Indians.
Not just our country – maybe all of the Middle East and SE Asia. Every time I look up a property (AirBnB or hotels) in any of these parts of the world, it seems the Indians are just not happy enough. I think hospitality is such a big thing for us – Athithi Devo Bhava (Guest is GOD) that we expect more. Even when we visit people in the West we are horrified by how much we have to do ourselves. But a guest comes home and we fall overselves offering 8 dishes even for a simple chai meeting.
It’s the same way how cleanliness is to Japan? I guess every culture at large has its peculiarities or quirks , smothering guests is ours 😉
Or being overbearing guests!
I think no country does hospitality like the hotel industry in India. Just the simple act of almost affordable room service is an exception pretty much everywhere else. Amreekan hotels are functional. Of course there are fancy hotels that do desi kind of hospitality but they are way out of our reach least. Back home even at MTDC property you can order chai and pakode when it’s raining!
I think all of SE Asia does hospitality beautifully. Even in our homes – you call someone over for chai and you’ll have 6 snacks, home made.
It’s high threshold of Indian hospitality that does us in like you said. That is why the ITC managed hotels are so popular with the western and Indian travellers..they’ll throw in everythingin the name of hospitality to make you happy.
Indian hotels are the most overstaffed in comparison to similar hotels across categories anywhere in the world. Partly the reason foreigners can’t get over Indian hospitality. We, of course, take it for granted and then throw a tantrum when our expectations aren’t met.
Indians are also considered to be the rudest guests outside India. We’re so used to servility and the salaam-saab culture here that we forget when outside India, it’s considered basic courtesy to thank the staff for opening the door or serving your food, to the bell boy for having the honour of carrying his bags?
I feel Indians are used to a very high level of hospitality. Stay in any Indian five star and it’s obvious. Europe has no concept of hospitality – but any well travelled Indian would know and expect that. I for one have a problem travelling in European airlines – they just don’t know how to take care of you. Having moved to England to live here with my husband, I guess I will accept the reality…and look forward of being pampered when back home.
So often its written about sexual harassment and about being abused as a child. I believe social media will set us free in many ways and bring a lot of taboos out of the closet. I realise not everyone can speak so openly and freely about it. But we’ve all experienced it.
The guy who smacked you hard across the chest as he went by on the bike so that you secretly nursed a purple breast for weeks. The man who just randomly thrust a hand between your legs as you climbed up ahead of him into the bus. The doctor who under cover of his stethoscope, felt up your non-existent 11-year-old chest. The colleague who always insists on bending over you and trying to look down your shirt. The uncle who pulls a 21-year-old girl into his lap and strokes her thigh, calling her beta all the while. The lecherous cousin your parents insisted would chaperone you to tuition.
There are plenty of people wondering how the #MeToo tag helps. Who think it is a waste of time. It helps because women who would NEVER have acknowledged it, or written about something of this sort have shared it today. And that is a big deal for them. It frees them from the burden of what feels like a deep dark secret. I’m watching the #MeToos pop up on my Facebook wall and I’m not surprised. And yes, there are men too.
No tag, no effort is perfect and complete in itself. So if this made you talk about the effectiveness of such a campaign, if you came up with the idea that people who have harassed other men or women should run a me too campaign, whatever, then that too, is proof that it worked. Just like an #IceBucketChallenge gave birth to a #RiceBucketChallenge.
Let’s not bitch about why something doesn’t work. If it’s made you think, then *you* improve on it. *You* start your own hashtag. *You* change your DP on Whatsapp. And it would have achieved its purpose.
Solidarity, strength in numbers, gaining and giving others the courage to speak out, a hashtag could do a lot – sure, it’s not “the ultimate solution” but it’s one more step in breaking the culture of silence, which in turn perpetuates the problem. And it speaks of the magnitude of the problem, which it says it has set out to do.
Change will come, slowly but surely.
#MeToo and a #MeToo again for those who can’t.
Many of my friends are initially going to be upset with what I start out saying, but it will make sense if you read it to the end.
The killing and mayhem at the concert in Las Vegas was heinous, brutal, evil, despicable, and should be categorically condemned by every decent human being. The incident elicits revulsion, horror and terror, *but it is not terrorism*.
I believe that the law enforcement agencies may be correct in not categorizing it as an act of terrorism. This has nothing to do with whether the mass murderer was white, black, yellow, brown, or fifty shades of beige. It has to do with the definition of terrorism, and subsequently with how law enforcements need to deal with it.
Terrorism is not about inflicting terror. It is not about the scale of the mayhem, but about motive. Terrorism, by definition, is about inflicting terror *as a strategic means to a political end*.
In the world of law enforcement, categorizing an incident does not end with identifying the act, but is a beginning towards enforcing (and amending, if necessary) the policies, frameworks, and activity to anticipate, detect, and prevent such incidents in the future.
The frequency of such events in the recent past is frightening. These are symptoms of a new disease that must be diagnosed correctly so it can be eradicated. The reason I find this more frightening, is because terrosim has context, connections, threads that can be unravelled and followed to the source. This is much more frightening, and the measures to counter this will necessarily be more invasive and intrude further into every individual’s personal space.
To misdiagnose a crime is to initiate the wrong preventive measures. To society, it is as fatal as misdiagnosing a brain tumor as a migraine.😥