Lots of people commented on my last post and several have asked for the link to Shobhaa De's comments on NDTV last night. For those of you who missed it, here's the link.
or watch the video below:
I've successfully managed to stay away from invitations to MySpace, Ringo and god-know-what-else. I had a dormant account on Facebook, but managed to avoid being a regular. That was until people began finding me - college mates, cousins, fellow writers on other forums.
The trick to enjoying being on Facebook is to keep the numbers small and limited to people you really know. This month has been extra special because I found two great friends from college (admittedly, one I found on batchmates.com - it pays to occasionally check old, really old, email accounts) and it adds a whole new dimension to my life because I've missed having them around.
It's also great to have cousins and other members of the extended family all in one place. This gives me a chance to get to know what's going on with them and to keep in touch without sending long emails back and forth. Having grown up in different continents and cities means we are not close, but at least we can start afresh.
I found Shoefie there as well - she's a fellow writer and I do feel I know her rather well (at least the public persona!), so that meets my criteria :)
Here's to more reunions.
Mr. R and I spent the most of yesterday morning in the garden, enjoying the sunshine. It's wonderful to feel the grass beneath your feet (as great as sand!). With books to keep us company and drinks to refresh, we read, pondered, wrote and enjoyed the quiet morning. Except for the general hum of traffic, lots of spring birds, there was only the sound of guitar strings from upstairs. A lovely way to spend a morning...
A few days ago, an e-friend from a writing forum posted this to explain her absence :
I'm sorry I haven't reported in. Something is disturbing me deeply... random violence against my Bangladeshi friends. Tonight on the news they reported that a Bangladeshi chef - my boyfriend's ethnic background and profession - was mugged and stabbed to death in a nearby suburb. This is a few days after our upstairs neighbor, also Bangladeshi, was badly beaten and mugged near the bus stop in our own town. He was beaten so bad that his face was unrecognizable, and he had to be taken to the hospital. This was about two weeks after another upstairs neighbor - Bangladeshi, as well - was beaten and mugged, also needing emergency room care for his jaw. I'll be writing about this and submitting to local papers - and if I'm not heard, I will send again and again without worry if I'm bothering the editors or not...
You'll be forgiven for thinking this was the work of some yobs in the UK or trouble makers in the bylanes of India. Actually, this happened in NSW,Australia.
Is there any corner of this planet that is not filled with hate?
"Crocodile Hunter" Irwin dies
SYDNEY (Reuters) - Steve Irwin, the quirky Australian naturalist who won worldwide acclaim, was killed by a stingray barb through the chest on Monday while diving off Australia's northeast coast, emergency officials and witnesses said.
"Steve was hit by a stingray in the chest," said local diving operator Steve Edmondson, whose Poseidon boats were out on the Great Barrier Reef when the accident occurred.
"He probably died from a cardiac arrest from the injury," he said.
Police and ambulance officials later confirmed Irwin had died and said his family had been advised.
Irwin, 44, was killed while filming an underwater documentary off Port Douglas.
Irwin had been diving off his boat "Croc One" near Batt Reef northeast of Port Douglas. A helicopter had taken paramedics to nearby Low Isles where Irwin was taken for medical treatment but he was dead before they arrived, police said.
Irwin won a global following for his dare-devil antics but also triggered outrage in 2004 by holding his then one-month-old baby while feeding a snapping crocodile at his Australian zoo.
He made almost 50 of his "Crocodile Hunter" documentaries which appeared on cable TV channel Animal Planet and won a worldwide audience.
The series ended after he was criticised for the incident with his young son and for disturbing whales, seals and penguins while filming in Antarctica.
Khaki-clad Irwin became famous for his seemingly death-defying methods with wild animals, including crocodiles and snakes.
He made a cameo appearance alongside Eddie Murphy in the 2001 Hollywood film Dr Dolittle 2 and appeared on U.S. television shows such as "The Tonight Show With Jay Leno" and on children's television alongside The Wiggles.
Irwin was married with two children, Bindi Sue and Bob Clarence. His American-born wife Terri was his business partner and frequent on-screen collaborator.
(Additional reporting by Michael Perry in SYDNEY)
Read the article here,with pictures
Have you known people in your life that make you feel unequivocally loved and blessed, irrespective of what you do? I've been blessed knowing a few people like that. Funnily enough, these people turn up in your life just when you need them the most, like angels, though don't tell them I said so! My friend AR, is one such person. My ex-Parish priest, Fr. Hugh is another. Let me tell you our story. Make sure you've got a nice cup of warm coffee and some time before you go on. This could take a while, but I promise to be quick!
I first got to know Fr.H in school. He was in charge of the Student Leaders Movement (SLM) in the deanery and based in SakiNaka while we were in Chembur, in the 8th std, I think. We trekked regularly to Sakinaka, for meetings with student leaders from schools all over the place. We discussed, as 'leaders' are prone to do, matters of national and social importance. Fr. H was (still is) a firebrand. He imbibed in us a strong sense of social justice and we felt we could change the world. From exhibitions, demonstrations, rallies, street plays...we did everything to raise awareness about issues like child labour (a hot topic then), women's rights, communal harmony and other clichéd topics. It was a great movement to be involved with and I'm glad we had the chance.
School over, we made promises to keep in touch and be a part of the SLM. Of course, once college took over, who wants to go back to school? Years passed and we occasionally heard about Fr.H, transferred to other parishes.
Life took over and although I still felt that I had the power to change the world, things were not happening at the pace I hoped they would. Still, that optimism of the impact that we can make as individuals has never quite dwindled. So if you find me making complaints about shoddy service, corrupt or lazy bureaucrats, bad behaviour or just someone being cheated, you can easily blame Fr.H for his early inspiration.
Fourteen years after leaving school, we moved to Borivili from Chembur and it turned out that my favorite Fr.H was now the parish priest. Surely he wouldn't remember me after all those years. I had changed, grown up. He had , in those intervening years, come across hundreds of students and youngsters out of which I was probably just a blur, if any. I saw him at Mass one morning, older, in a wheelchair having hurt his back after a fall. The sparkle was there, so was the wit. He hadn't changed.
I didn't bother to get in touch, knowing that he won't recognise/remember me. Then one night, almost 6 months after we moved, I dreamt that he had died. Now if there's one thing I swear by, it's the policy of not having any regrets. The next morning, I wrote him a letter and dropped it in the church office on my way to work. I could have called or walked in and said hello, but words have always been my shield and I preferred the safety of paper. Atleast, I consoled myself, I tried.
I was in the train that morning when my cell phone rang. It was Fr.H. Of course he remembered me. And my sister. And my mum. And that my dad died. And he remembered Charu and Rishi and some other school friends from the SLM. I didn't expect him to. It was so great talking to him. He said he'd box my ears for not getting in touch earlier. I said I'd be happy to let him. I promised to drop in to see him over the weekend and went to work a happier person.
I did visit him. He was the same. It is such a relief when people stay the same, even when their bodies change, become more fragile over the years. Fr.H has this reassuring air about him. You feel that everything is going to be allright. Those were the days when I was in my 'questioning the point of going for Mass' stage. Suspecting that he would rope me into some parish activities, told him that. He said, don't come for Mass, do something else. Hmmm. Was stuck there. Just dropped in to say hello and ended up helping with the editing of the parish bulletin and conducting sessions for local council meetings.
I took Mr.R to Fr.H for his approval and blessing. He also said my sister's wedding mass. We've kept in touch via email since I've moved here and I've promised that it will not be another 14 years before I come to see him again.
This June, he's moved out of Borivili, to Mahim as parish priest of St. Michael's. Lucky Mahim. We're going to miss him. I remember conducting some training programs at St.M's. Doing it again with Fr.H around would be great fun. Hope he's around when I get around to doing it again. Till then, all you Mahim-wallah's, if you meet my jolly old Fr.H, tell him I said hello and am thinking of him. Hope you love him as much as I do!
Identity of 'Piano Man' remains a mystery as French lead goes cold
By Terri Judd and Ruth Hetherington
19 May 2005
It proved a fittingly bizarre twist in an increasingly intriguing tale. Days after health workers appealed for help in identifying their patient - the mysterious silent "Piano Man" - succour came from an unexpected source. A Polish mime artist approached a police officer in front of the Trevi Fountain in Rome and named the enigma as a French friend and musician.
West Kent NHS Trust had appealed to the media for help in identifying the young man, discovered wandering in the dark on 7 April, wearing a dripping wet tie and black suit with the labels removed. While he has not said a word or offered any clues as to his identity, he plays the piano "beautifully".
The news reached Rome, where the street artist Dariusz Dydymski, 33, spotted a photograph. He told the authorities he was "99 per cent sure" the man whose face he had seen staring from a newspaper was Steven Villa Massone, a pianist with whom he had worked on the French Riviera. Italian police immediately contacted Interpol.
Not for the first time, however, the trail led to a dead end. Last night, The Independent tracked the reportedly missing man down in Nice. The 24-year-old said he was flattered by the attention, but was most certainly not the young man in the care of a Kent hospital.
Having not heard from Mr Dydymski, his ex-flatmate, for more than a year, he said: "I found out this morning when I saw in the Italian papers that he had said that man was me. I didn't understand what had happened, and suddenly I had lots of calls asking if I was the pianist."
For health workers in Britain, it meant a return to the drawing board in the hope that their patient's identity is somewhere in the dozens of names that have been suggested from countries as far afield as Australia, Japan and Canada.
So far the national missing persons helpline has received more than 600 calls, half of which suggested names. Now it will be a slow process narrowing down the suggestions to more credible leads for investigation. At least half a dozen British names have come up repeatedly.
"The overwhelming response from the public, both in the UK and abroad, means there is a large quantity of information to sift through and this process will begin today," a spokesman for West Kent NHS Trust said.
Michael Camp, a social worker who has looked after the Piano Man since he was found in Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey, added: "It is a slow process. We need to be thorough so we do not miss the one that is right. I would love to know who he is."
A team of health professionals is being established to follow up leads, while others continue to try to find adequate treatment for the man at a secure mental unit. His carers believe he may have suffered amnesia or a breakdown, but are unable to offer full treatment without identifying the cause.
He surprised carers with a four-hour virtuoso performance during his early days in hospital, and continued to play repeated renditions of well-known classics, as well as what are believed to be his own compositions. It was the only time, health workers said, that the agitated young man looked relaxed and happy.
Yet, Mr Camp said yesterday, all efforts to communicate with him continue to prove fruitless. While he no longer has a piano, he has quickly fashioned himself a substitute: "He has drawn a life- size scale keyboard and plays that in his mind. That is probably all he has got at the moment."
Mr.R forwarded me this very intriguing bit of news lately...
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Mystery of the silent 'Piano Man' whose only language is music
By Cahal Milmo
17 May 2005
He was found in tuxedo, white shirt and tie - from which all labels were cut. His shoes were rubbed clean of identifying marks. And in the five weeks since he was found in north Kent, walking in darkness by the sea in dripping clothes, the slightly built man with deep brown eyes has not said a word.
But he does make beautiful music. He plays the piano for hours at a time, providing repeated renditions of his own classical compositions. According to those who have heard him, he is talented - some say exceptionally so.
The "Piano Man", as he has become known, also draws - producing sketch after perfect sketch of himself and grand pianos.
He sits, incommunicado, in a locked, hospital ward close to the M25, possibly in expectation of someone claiming him as their own or offering a clue as to his identity. But those caring for the 6ft-tall virtuoso, who is in his twenties or thirties and was found on a beachside road on the Isle of Sheppey on 7 April, admitted yesterday there was a chance they would never know his real name, or where he came from.
His social worker, Michael Camp, said staff were at a loss to help a patient who seemed to have gone out of his way to ensure his own anonymity.
Mr Camp, based at the Medway Maritime Hospital in Gillingham, said it was a "possiblility" his client would never be identified. "But I'm rather hoping it won't be. It's been such a long time, it would be difficult never to know. But if nobody can name this guy I don't see how we can possibly find out. Every label has been removed from his clothing so we do not know where he might have come from. In 20 years of working in mental health, I have never seen anything as severe."
His carers are working on the basis that he has suffered amnesia or a breakdown due to a sudden trauma. But they say without an identity it is impossible to offer full treatment.
The National Missing Persons Helpline and care workers said they had been inundated with calls, both from the UK and overseas, following the publication of a his picture. A number of those calls were from America. But they said claims to have identified the man, variously placing him in locations from Sussex to concert halls across Europe, were being treated with caution.
Ramanah Venkiah, manager of the health unit in Dartford where the man is being cared for, said: "He is a vulnerable young man and we must be careful."
The blond-haired enigma, who goes nowhere without a sheet of manu-script music, has given no indication as to how he came to be wandering on the seafront. Such is his fear of strangers that the picture taken of him by carers to help publicise the case had to be taken paparazzi-style from a distance.
Although he was soaking wet when found, he was physically uninjured and he remains fit and well. Initial theories that he may have been attending a funeral or playing a concert in the area have led nowhere.
Interpreters fluent in Latvian, Polish and Lithuanian who visited him to see if he was eastern European also failed to elicit a response. Theories that he is an asylum-seeker who was dropped off the Kent coast have also been dismissed.
Reports that he had drawn a Swedish flag were downplayed yesterday after it emerged that he had, in fact, drawn a flag with a cross but in pencil and with no colours. Mr Camp said: "I believe he understands English. He gives slight nods, I think to show he understands something I've said."
The man has recovered enough to cater for his basic needs, but he avoids television and radio, choosing instead to produce a detailed pencil drawing every few days of a piano casting a deep shadow from its open lid. He has also written musical script.
Staff at the West Kent NHS and Social Care Trust say his only solace is his music. Mr Camp said: "When I first saw him in Gillingham, he was left with a pencil and paper and when we came back he had drawn a perfect piano.
"We took him to the hospital chapel where there is a piano. The first time he played it was for four hours, non-stop. He plays beautifully and he sounds professional.
"If you put him in front of a piano, his whole demeanour changes. He completely relaxes and is oblivious to people around him."
Although his current accommodation does not have a piano, managers said they have provided an electronic keyboard. Among the pieces he has played are extracts from Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake and longer pieces that seem to be his own work.
The plight of Mr X drawn parallels with David Helfgott, the pianist whose breakdown was the subject of the 1996 film Shine, starring Geoffrey Rush, who won an Oscar for his performance.
Marjorie Wallace, head of the charity Sane, said: "It is not uncommon for the language of music to remain intact even when all other mental processes may be shattered by physical, emotional or mental trauma."
Anyone who recognises the man can contact the National Missing Persons Helpline on 0500 700 700.
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So few of us have friends that we can be absolutely proud of knowing. My friend Adrian is one of those. On his birthday today, I am so grateful for his friendship and I hope that even with the distance, this bond will flourish. This is the story of our friendship.
I first met AR sometime in 1990 when I took part in a three day residential workshop in Bandra on interpersonal relationships called 'Choice'. The workshop was tough and I can rightly say that it changed me quite a bit. I left that weekend with a lot. And I had made some friends for life. I stayed in touch with most of them, including AR over the years. In 1998, I did the 'Choice' program again and then stayed on as part of the team that conducted the program. It was during this period that I formed some of the most enduring friendships that I've had and amazingly, they are all part of the same family. But more about them later.
AR, my friend, has been like a rock in my life. He is one person you can count on any time of the day or night for support, help or encouragement. He's a good shoulder to cry on and is there for you no matter what. It is a rare quality these days to find someone like him. Oh, he has his faults, no doubt. He can be pretty stubborn when he wants to. And he'll rather eat ice-cream than dinner. But without him, I would not have started writing and getting my articles published. AR was my writing agent. We had a deal. I would write and he would get my articles published. For every one that was, I owed him an ice-cream. All these years later, the ice-cream count has gone up and I might be bankrupt if I start to repay that debt.
With our penchant for wild ideas, we started a lot of projects together. We began Writers Bloc, a group started to encourage amateur writers in Bombay and Infinity, which was our little 'company' that offered training programs. We had dreams, the two of us. We share an almost abnormal sense of idealism and we can go to absurd lengths just to prove that if we try, the world can indeed be a better place.
AR believes, like I do, that anyone and everyone can change the world. He pushes himself and others to absurd limits. His family gets involved with everything, sometimes because he doesn't leave them an option. But all of us, friends and family who have been at some time, bullied to do things, still love him for his zeal and enthusiasm.
AR gave up a career with an international computer firm to do what he loves and to stay in the city. A decision like that requires a lot of courage or perhaps a good dose of foolishness, you would say. Today he's a full-time trainer, very busy and pre-occupied with his work, moving between cities for assignments. His non-existent 'free time' is spent doing stuff like running a 'Food Project' in Khar where every week lunch is served for people who need a full meal. This is our version of the Western 'Soup Kitchen' where a hot meal is available for the people on the street. Bring a plate and you'll be fed. No questions asked about whether you can afford it or whether you deserve it. Slum dwellers, beggars, street children - they're all there. And are welcomed. The meal has often been cooked in the R family kitchen and then served by the local YCW unit. The Project runs entirely on donations and we could do with a lot more projects like this all over the city. (Shameless plug here : If you would like to get involved or start something similar in your area, let me know and I'll give you details.)
This whole family of AR's (All their names start from A - parents, siblings and now spouse!) is quite special. At the Choice program, I got along famously with AR's sister first and Al, his mad wife. Al and I are like soul sisters. When we get together it's like a laugh riot. We just can't stop. For some reason, a visit to their house always leaves me in very good spirits and smiling for days afterwards. Al was my maid of honor for my wedding and that shows how special she is to me. These are good people, these R's. And I'm blessed to have all of them in my life.
So, AR, my friend, Happy Birthday. You may be a year older, but remember, good souls never wrinkle! Happy Birthday, Grumpy :) Thank you for sticking by me at the best of times and at the worst of times. I have not always been 'nice', but that's who I am and thank you for being my friend inspite of it! For your birthday, here's a poem to say 'Thank you'. God bless.
One hundred years is a long time to live. For those of us who have not yet reached the half century mark, it seems unlikely that we'll live to see seventy, forget hundred. Even with higher life expectancy these days, I wonder if old age will creep on us gradually or 'middle-age' will be all that we see. It's a scary thought, because as the days go by, one realises that time is running out and there might not be a tomorrow.
The birthday boy, however had no such thoughts as his children, grandchildren, relatives, friends and well wishers gathered to celebrate his centenary. Mr.R and I received an invitation because of a family connection and although we didn't know the family, we were glad in the end that we went. Driving to the venue in Croydon wasn't memorable at all, though. The route map from the internet took us in a roundabout way through Central London. Two hours and several wrong turns later, we reached the school where the mass and reception was to be held; already dreading the anticipated stress of finding our way back. Fortunately, the route back took us on the motorway straight back home. Which made us wonder why on earth they (the online route providers) couldn't reverse the same route in the first place instead of taking us on a tour of the city??
The reception itself was like being in Goa or in Bombay. A predominantly Goan guest list, familiar Goan food and music that was reminiscent of Catholic weddings, socials and other gatherings where old songs, familiar songs take precedence over the chartbusters. It was nice to see the older people looking at the pictures that were displayed and pointing out with delight as they recognised someone or the other, and sometimes themselves. It was a momentous occasion. Although one hopes our parents and friends live that long, who knows if another 100th birthday will come by in our lifetime?
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The walks/runs are progressing quite nicely. Saturday morning saw a bunch of us meeting on the Rye to take a short run. This was not part of the course, just a few willing people wanting to run together. It was great also because Mr.R joined us along with the spouse of another runner. Running in a group takes away the solitude and keeps your mind from telling you to quit and go home to lounge in the warmth of the heating instead of breaking your ankles on the wet footpath. I'm looking forward to each morning, even though the weather does its best to make me stay at home. Hope you are getting some exercise too :)
I'm watching the Pope being laid to rest. The cardinals in red, the millons in the Square, on the roads, the Presidents, Prime Ministers and other dignitaries and we who watch at home, pay tribute to this man who was part of our lives somehow even though we never knew him personally. The mass has begun, the choir singing the entrance hymn, the Vatican flag at half-mast; it's a very poignant moment for most Christians, Catholic and otherwise. It is the end. It is the beginning.
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Earlier this week, I got news that LC, our erstwhile school headmaster also died after a battle with cancer. My memories of LC are of a strict man, always disciplining the boys (for they were unruly!). But he was someone we could go to with a complaint or a problem and he would listen. He also encouraged teachers and students to be innovative. I remember he introduced a 'news reading' program where students from the higher classes took turns to read the daily news headlines on the school intercom from where it was relayed to each classroom. That was an exercise in public speaking, in getting us to share our voice with others, in pronounciation and general knowledge. Of course, at that time, it only meant getting house points and getting out of class for a few minutes :). My most cherished memory of LC is of when my father died. This man wrote us a letter then, sharing our grief and taking the trouble to 'be' with us even though he wasn't close to us in anyway. That was a gesture I have never forgotten. I met him again after decades at a close friend's (and for him, former student's) ordination last year. He remembered us and the family and the classmates. He seemed the same and I had no inkling of the cancer that was chewing him up. I hope he died without much pain.
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Arafat is dead.
It is an irreplaceable loss. And I don't care what the rest of the world thinks.
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After a long time, I actually enjoyed a train journey home. As the train moved from suburb to suburb, it seemed as if the whole world was suddenly celebrating something. Every building was gloriously lit up, some even decorating terraces in order to stand out from the crowd. There were fireworks all along the way to keep the train company - glorious lights, mysteriously breaking into a thousand stars and then disappearing into nowhere. It was lovely watching fireworks blaze into the sky, narrowly missing planes at Santacruz, shooting into stars over clear skies at Kandivili. At Diwali, the city gets transformed magically, especially at night, into a sort of mini-fairyland; lights all over, celebrations, diyas, sweets..everybody seems so happy. One only wishes that it were true.
And that this lasts.
One can almost forgive the noise in order to experience the lights.
I walked through Bombay Central station again yesterday (had to) on my way to Byculla and what do I see, the station is spotless!!!! (well, spotless may be too strong a word....)
The permanent beggars were gone at 3 pm. They were still not there at 7.30 pm. The hawkers spawning the entrance were cleared. There was a lady on the overbridge at 7.30 , sweeping, clearing bits of paper from the .... It was too much to believe. My eyes were surely giving me dhoka. This is what happens, I thought, pleased with myself, when you feel very strongly about something. Some cosmic intervention takes place and the unthinkable happens. Like streetlamps being repaired the morning I sit to draft a letter to the newspaper. Like a deadly pothole being filled a day after I decide to something about it. Like a plaque at Churchgate being resurrected after I mention it on my blog...... My life is lately full of strange coincidences, or maybe they have been there all along and I've never noticed them. But, still........
I was so pleased with the new look of the station that I forgave the gropers, the spitters, the loafers with no life to lead except sit at a railway station and eat up women with hungry eyes. I forgave them all. The Railways can't do anything about them, anyway. That's upto me (and you). Next week, I might not feel so generous. Especially if the beggars are back. Especially if the clean-up is a by-product of the elections on Wednesday. That would be unforgivable.
I think I'll drop a thank-you note to the station master.
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Happy B'day, Big B.
AB is my favorite actor. He beats Naseer, Aamir and Harrison Ford to the post. That's another funny coincidence that Mr.R and I have - our admiration for the angry old man. Our devotion to Sholay is another coincidence that's really too strange for words. We've both seen the movie umpteen times (my latest count is about 22, not sure about Mr.R's tally). That's one of the first things I discovered when I met Mr.R. We've had many moments discussing the finer points of Sholay, repeating dialogue that is now immortal, wishing for that era to return.
Talking about coincidences, I remember one Saturday evening, when I, here in India, was watching a Sholay re-run on TV. I sent a text to Mr.R in the UK telling him about the movie. And lo! He replied with funny shock that at that very moment, he's listening online to a track from Sholay which was emailed to him by someone!!
It's really eerie thinking about the two of us, on two different continents, watching/listening to Sholay at the same time. Very eerie!!
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12.
Nine am. Friday morning. The day looks good. I'm walking toward office and it's drizzling, but not enough to make me open my red umbrella. The cell rings. It's my mother. Asking if I heard the news. I instantly thought for a moment that there was a disaster like a bomb-blast or trains had stopped or something like that (If it was something to do with the family, she would have just given the news). And she says "Nafisa Joseph died". And I was stunned. Not that I know her personally, but it was one of those things - you react with shock at unbelievable news. The TV channels say that she apparently committed suicide by hanging herself in her apartment. And I'm at a loss for words. It reiterates what we always knew - people are not what they seem. Behind smiling faces could lie a broken heart, shattered dreams, torn lives..... Who could have said that she was so depressed that she had to end her life? She hosted a successful show on telly, was actively involved with PETA, and did hundreds of things - during none of which she showed signs of being desperate enough to use the last resort. I liked her poise, the way she dressed and carried herself......
What must it be like to have nothing to look forward to? What must a person be going through to reach a point when there seems to be no option but to take your own life? I've felt like that sometimes, but I've always recovered from those blues, because there's always tomorrow. Perhaps it's not as easy for many others........
Tum itna jo muskura rahe ho....kya gam hai jisko chupa rahe ho......
