"marks" centered society

Hi, here I am posting the following story 'the vendetta' in a cyber cafe in rajokari on 29th of May.... Did the date strike something ? Well yes if you are in Xth. Cbse is announcing its Xth results today.

As i am typing, parents have flocked around for thier sons'/daughters' much awaited result. A seargent here just exclaimed " Agar cbse jaise checking mein science mein 98 se kam aaye to ladke mein dum nahi hai." ( probably his son got it and an aggregate of 92% as well.)



Now this gentelman is soo happy, but more than that boastful of his sons' performance.... Here 5-6 people have gathered around a round table just like women do while gossiping....Another gentelman exclaims " Sir ! bete ko IIT karaa do... clear ho jayegaa. " Then what, the dad's bossom swells as much as a helium balloon and in the absense of the son, a decision has been made. By tommorow evening the poor chap will have " 30 yrs IIT-JEE 'solved' papers " in front of him.

Okay people, let me make it clear that i got no problems with this gentelman or for that matter his son, but i am against this attitude.

Now its not the dads' fault... Here we've got a custom. A custom that once a poor guy gets a 90% and above in Xth, Hes automatically into the 'race of IIT' Now he has more books than the number of TV channels you see at your house. He wants to take time off studies, but he is constantly reminded by his 'well-wishers' that he has come onto this earth to achieve something BIG...(divine motive) He isn't ordinary. He must forget the following words ... fun, play, TV, Internet........and sometimes sleep(over 6 hrs).
I guess most of us have heard " Beta/Beti do saal aur mehnat kar lee.."

Now in two months, he keeps going on and on and on......... Now hes got eye-glasses, a proof that hes studying. His face sulks and he looks worse than that of a nerd. school - coaching - self study - school - coaching........ is the routine he has got.

I hope you get my point......... Okay, i can hear most of you complaining that "I got a 90% and my parents ddnt force me into IIT and stuff" or "I took commerce or humanities"........................................... I was going by the law of averages.

Well the bigger picture is that this needs to be changed. So today evening get out of the house and spend some time in the neighbourhood park. Take a break and yes ! dont leave that hobby of yours !

Now people, I would love if you too interact with me over this topic. I have made many assumptions though......... But if your perspective differs from mine, lemme know. Leave a comment here or just scrap me on orkut.

hey yaa........ Heres another short story by Guy De Maupassant .....

Its tittled " The Vendetta "...
The story is about revenge taken by a helpless widow against a guy who killed her son. Fascinating ! Go ahead...



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PAOLO SAVERINI'S WIDOW LIVED ALONE WITH HER SON IN A poor little house on the ramparts of Bonifacio. The town, built on a spur of the mountains, in places actually overhanging the sea, looks across a channel bristling with reefs, to the lower shores of Sardinia. At its foot, on the other side and almost completely surrounding it, is the channel that serves as its harbour, cut in the cliff like a gigantic corridor. Through a long circuit between steep walls, the channel brings to the very foot of the first houses the little Italian or Sardinian fishing-boats, and, every fortnight, the old steamboat that runs to and from Ajaccio.

Upon the white mountain the group of houses form a whiter patch still. They look like the nests of wild birds, perched so upon the rock, dominating that terrible channel through which hardly ever a ship risks a passage. The unresting wind harasses the sea and eats away the bare shore, clad with a sparse covering of grass; it rushes into the ravine and ravages its two sides. The trailing wisps of white foam round the black points of countless rocks that everywhere pierce the waves, look like rags of canvas floating and heaving on the surface of the water.

The widow Saverini's house held for dear life to the very edge of the cliff; its three windows looked out over this wild and desolate scene.

She lived there alone with her son Antoine and their bitch Semillante, a large, thin animal with long, shaggy hair, of the sheep-dog breed. The young man used her for hunting.

One evening, after a quarrel, Antoine Saverini was treacherously slain by a knife-thrust from Nicolas Ravolati, who got away to Sardinia the same night.

When his old mother received his body, carried home by bystanders, she did not weep, but for a long time stayed motionless, looking at it; then, stretching out her wrinkled hand over the body, she swore vendetta against him. She would have no one stay with her, and shut herself up with the body, together with the howling dog. The animal howled continuously, standing at the foot of the bed, her head thrust towards her master, her tail held tightly between her legs. She did not stir, nor did the mother, who crouched over the body with her eyes fixed steadily upon it, and wept great silent tears.

The young man, lying on his back, clad in his thick serge coat with a hole torn across the front, looked as though he slept; but everywhere there was blood; on the shirt, torn off for the first hasty dressing; on his waistcoat, on his breeches, on his face, on his hands. Clots of blood had congealed in his beard and in his hair.

The old mother began to speak to him. At the sound of her voice the dog was silent.

"There, there, you shall be avenged, my little one, my boy, my poor child. Sleep, sleep, you shall be avenged, do you hear! Your mother swears it! And your mother always keeps her word; you know she does."

Slowly she bent over him, pressing her cold lips on the dead lips.

Then Semillante began to howl once more. She uttered long cries, monotonous, heart-rending, horrible cries.

They remained there, the pair of them, the woman and the dog, till morning.

Antoine Saverini was buried next day, and before long there was no more talk of him in Bonifacio.

He had left neither brothers nor close cousins. No man was there to carry on the vendetta. Only his mother, an old woman, brooded over it.


On the other side of the channel she watched from morning till night a white speck on the coast. It was a little Sardinian village, Longosardo, where Corsican bandits fled for refuge when too hard pressed. They formed almost the entire population of this hamlet, facing the shores of their own country, and there they awaited a suitable moment to come home, to return to the maquis of Corsica. She knew that Nicolas Ravolati had taken refuge in this very village.

All alone, all day long, sitting by the window, she looked over there and pondered revenge. How could she do it without another's help, so feeble as she was, so near to death? But she had promised, she had sworn upon the body. She could not forget, she could not wait. What was she to do? She could no longer sleep at night, she had no more sleep nor peace; obstinately she searched for a way. The dog slumbered at her feet and sometimes, raising her head, howled into the empty spaces. Since her master had gone, she often howled thus, as though she were calling him, as though her animal soul, inconsolable, had retained an ineffaceable memory of him.

One night, as Semillante was beginning to moan again, the mother had a sudden idea, an idea quite natural to a vindictive and ferocious savage. She meditated on it till morning, then, rising at the approach of day, she went to church. She prayed, kneeling on the stones, prostrate before God, begging Him to aid her, to sustain her, to grant her poor worn-out body the strength necessary to avenge her son.

Then she returned home. There stood in the yard an old barrel with its sides stove in, which held the rain-water; she overturned it, emptied it, and fixed it to the ground with stakes and stones; then she chained up Semillante in this kennel, and went into the house.

Next she began to walk up and down her room, taking no rest, her eyes still turned to the coast of Sardinia. He was there, the murderer.

All day long and all night long the dog howled. In the morning the old woman took her some water in a bowl, but nothing else; no soup, no bread.

Another day went by. Semillante, exhausted, was asleep. Next day her eyes were shining, her hair on end, and she tugged desperately at the chain.

Again the old woman gave her nothing to eat. The animal, mad with hunger, barked hoarsely. Another night went by.

When day broke, Mother Saverini went to her neighbour to ask him to give her two trusses of straw. She took the old clothes her husband had worn and stuffed them with the straw into the likeness of a human figure.

Having planted a post in the ground opposite Semillante's kennel, she tied the dummy figure to it, which looked now as though it were standing. Then she fashioned a head with a roll of old linen.

The dog, surprised, looked at this straw man, and was silent, although devoured with hunger.

Then the woman went to the pork-butcher and bought a long piece of black pudding. She returned home, lit a wood fire in her yard, close to the kennel, and grilled the black pudding. Semillante, maddened, leapt about and foamed at the mouth, her eyes fixed on the food, the flavour of which penetrated to her very stomach.

Then with the smoking sausage the mother made a collar for the straw man. She spent a long time lashing it round his neck, as though to stuff it right in. When it was done, she unchained the dog.

With a tremendous bound the animal leapt upon the dummy's throat and with her paws on his shoulders began to rend it. She fell back with a piece of the prey in her mouth, then dashed at it again, sank her teeth into the cords, tore away a few fragments of food, fell back again, and leapt once more, ravenous.

With great bites she rent away the face, and tore the whole neck to shreds.

The old woman watched, motionless and silent, a gleam in her eyes. Then she chained up her dog again, made her go without food for two more days, and repeated the strange performance.

For three months she trained the dog to this struggle, the conquest of a meal by fangs. She no longer chained her up, but launched her upon the dummy with a sign.

She had taught the dog to rend and devour it without hiding food in its throat. Afterwards she would reward the dog with the gift of the black pudding she had cooked for her.

As soon as she saw the man, Semillante would tremble, then turn her eyes towards her mistress, who would cry "Off!" in a whistling tone, raising her finger.

When she judged that the time was come, Mother Saverini went to confession and took communion one Sunday morning with an ecstatic fervour; then, putting on a man's clothes, like an old ragged beggar, she bargained with a Sardinian fisherman, who took her, accompanied by the dog, to the other side of the straits.

In a canvas bag she had a large piece of black pudding. Semillante had had nothing to eat for two days. Every minute the old woman made her smell the savoury food, stimulating her hunger with it.

They came to Longosardo. The Corsican woman was limping slightly. She went to the baker's and inquired for Nicolas Ravolati's house. He had resumed his old occupation, that of a joiner. He was working alone at the back of his shop.

The old woman pushed open the door and called him:

"Hey! Nicolas!"

He turned round; then, letting go of her dog, she cried:

"Off, off, bite him, bite him!"

The maddened beast dashed forward and seized his throat.

The man put out his arms, clasped the dog, and rolled upon the ground. For a few minutes he writhed, beating the ground with his feet; then he remained motionless while Semillante nuzzled at his throat and tore it out in ribbons.

Two neighbours, sitting at their doors, plainly recollected having seen a poor old man come out with a lean black dog which ate, as it walked, something brown that its master was giving to it.

In the evening the old woman returned home. That night she slept well.




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After 20 years.

Hi again.........

Here is a short story by O Henry, I loved it... hope u like it too.
Well about him, wikipedia says.....

" His wit, characterization and plot twists were adored by his readers, but often panned by the critics. Yet, he went on to gain international recognition and is credited with defining the short story as a literary art form."

"His wit, characterization and plot twists were adored by his readers, but often panned by the critics. Yet, he went on to gain international recognition and is credited with defining the short story as a literary art form."

Well, enjoy.....




The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The impressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few. The time was barely 10 o'clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with a taste of rain in them had well nigh depeopled the streets.

Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and artful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown the pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and slight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The vicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the lights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the majority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since been closed.

When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his walk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man spoke up quickly.

"It's all right, officer," he said, reassuringly. "I'm just waiting for a friend. It's an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little funny to you, doesn't it? Well, I'll explain if you'd like to make certain it's all straight. About that long ago there used to be a restaurant where this store stands--'Big Joe' Brady's restaurant."

"Until five years ago," said the policeman. "It was torn down then."

The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light showed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white scar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly set.

"Twenty years ago to-night," said the man, "I dined here at 'Big Joe' Brady's with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the world. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers, together. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was to start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn't have dragged Jimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well, we agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years from that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from what distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years each of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made, whatever they were going to be."

"It sounds pretty interesting," said the policeman. "Rather a long time between meets, though, it seems to me. Haven't you heard from your friend since you left?"

"Well, yes, for a time we corresponded," said the other. "But after a year or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty big proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But I know Jimmy will meet me here if he's alive, for he always was the truest, stanchest old chap in the world. He'll never forget. I came a thousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and it's worth it if my old partner turns up."

The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with small diamonds.

"Three minutes to ten," he announced. "It was exactly ten o'clock when we parted here at the restaurant door."

"Did pretty well out West, didn't you?" asked the policeman.

"You bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder, though, good fellow as he was. I've had to compete with some of the sharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York. It takes the West to put a razor-edge on him."

The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two.

"I'll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to call time on him sharp?"

"I should say not!" said the other. "I'll give him half an hour at least. If Jimmy is alive on earth he'll be here by that time. So long, officer."

"Good-night, sir," said the policeman, passing on along his beat, trying doors as he went.

There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from its uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir in that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars turned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store the man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain almost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and waited.

About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat, with collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite side of the street. He went directly to the waiting man.

"Is that you, Bob?" he asked, doubtfully.

"Is that you, Jimmy Wells?" cried the man in the door.

"Bless my heart!" exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other's hands with his own. "It's Bob, sure as fate. I was certain I'd find you here if you were still in existence. Well, well, well! --twenty years is a long time. The old gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so we could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you, old man?"

"Bully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You've changed lots, Jimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches."

"Oh, I grew a bit after I was twenty."

"Doing well in New York, Jimmy?"

"Moderately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on, Bob; we'll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk about old times."

The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West, his egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history of his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with interest.

At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When they came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze upon the other's face.

The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm.

"You're not Jimmy Wells," he snapped. "Twenty years is a long time, but not long enough to change a man's nose from a Roman to a pug."

"It sometimes changes a good man into a bad one, said the tall man. "You've been under arrest for ten minutes, 'Silky' Bob. Chicago thinks you may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat with you. Going quietly, are you? That's sensible. Now, before we go on to the station here's a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it here at the window. It's from Patrolman Wells."

The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him. His hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by the time he had finished. The note was rather short.

"Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match to light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago. Somehow I couldn't do it myself, so I went around and got a plain clothes man to do the job. JIMMY."

Hi......... I came across these witty one liners...
Enjoy...




If it's sent by ship then it's a cargo, if it's sent by road then it's a shipment.
-- Dave Allen

I refuse to answer that question on the grounds that I don't know the answer.
-- Douglas Adams

In view of the fact that God limited the intelligence of man, it seems unfair that he did not also limit his stupidity.
-- Konrad Adenauer

The two most common elements in the universe are hydrogen and stupidity. But not in that order.

-- Brian Pickrell

Dancing: The vertical expression of a horizontal desire legalized by music.
-- George Benard Shaw

Those who can do, those who can't teach.
-- George Benard Shaw

Youth is a wonderful thing. What a crime to waste it on children.
-- George Benard Shaw

Martyrdom is the only way a man can become famous without ability.
-- George Benard Shaw


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Enough of fun people, Heres something which is closer to life...

#1.
~~

A story is told about a soldier who was finally coming home after having fought in Vietnam. He called his parents from San Francisco.

"Mom and Dad, I'm coming home, but I've a favor to ask. I have a friend I'd like to bring home with me.

"Sure," they replied, "we'd love to meet him."

"There's something you should know," the son continued, "he was hurt pretty badly in the fighting. He stepped on a land mind and lost an arm and a leg. He has nowhere else to go, and I want him to come live with us."

"I'm sorry to hear that, son. Maybe we can help him find somewhere to live."

"No, Mom and Dad, I want him to live with us."

"Son," said the father, "you don't know what you're asking. Someone with such a handicap would be a terrible burden on us. We have our own lives to live, and we can't let something like this interfere with our lives. I think you should just come home and forget about this guy. He'll find a way to live on his own."

At that point, the son hung up the phone. The parents heard nothing more from him. A few days later, however, they received a call from the San Francisco police. Their son had died after falling from a building, they were told. The police believed it was suicide.

The grief-stricken parents flew to San Francisco and were taken to the city morgue to identify the body of their son. They recognized him, but to their horror they also discovered something they didn't know, their son had only one arm and one leg.

The parents in this story are like many of us. We find it easy to love those who are good-looking or fun to have around, but we don't like people who inconvenience us or make us feel uncomfortable. We would rather stay away from people who aren't as healthy, beautiful, or smart as we are.

Thankfully, there's someone who won't treat us that way. Someone who loves us with an unconditional love that welcomes us into the forever family, regardless of how messed up we are.... I call him God.


#2.
~~

Dear Patrick,

I was then an only child who had everything I could ever want. But even a pretty, spoiled and rich kid could get lonely once in a while so when Mom told me that she was pregnant, I was ecstatic. I imagined how wonderful you would be and how we'd always be together and how much you would look like me. So, when you were born, I looked at your tiny hands and feet and marveled at how beautiful you were.

We took you home and I showed you proudly to my friends. They would touch you and sometimes pinch you, but you never reacted. When you were five months old, some things began to bother Mom. You seemed so unmoving and numb, and your cry sounded odd --- almost like a kitten's. So we brought you to many doctors.

The thirteenth doctor who looked at you quietly said you have the "cry du chat" (pronounced Kree-do-sha) syndrome, "cry of the cat" in French.

When I asked what that meant, he looked at me with pity and softly said, "Your brother will never walk nor talk." The doctor told us that it is a condition that afflicts one in 50,000 babies, rendering victims severely retarded. Mom was shocked and I was furious. I thought it was unfair.

When we went home, Mom took you in her arms and cried. I looked at you and realized that word will get around that you're not normal. So to hold on to my popularity, I did the unthinkable ... I disowned you. Mom and Dad didn't know but I steeled myself not to love you as you grew. Mom and Dad showered you love and attention and that made me bitter. And as the years passed, that bitterness turned to anger, and then hate.

Mom never gave up on you. She knew she had to do it for your sake.

Everytime she put your toys down, you'd roll instead of crawl. I watched her heart break every time she took away your toys and strapped your tummy with foam so you couldn't roll. You struggle and you're cry in that pitiful way, the cry of the kitten. But she still didn't give up.

And then one day, you defied what all your doctors said -- you crawled.

When mom saw this, she knew you would eventually walk. So when you were still crawling at age four, she'd put you on the grass with only your diapers on knowing that you hate the feel of the grass on your skin.

Then she'd leave you there. I would sometimes watch from the windows and smile at your discomfort. You would crawl to the sidewalk and Mom would put you back. Again and again, Mom repeated this on the lawn. Until one day, Mom saw you pull yourself up and toddle off the grass as fast as your little legs could carry you.

Laughing and crying, she shouted for Dad and I to come. Dad hugged you crying openly.

I watched from my bedroom window this heartbreaking scene.

Over the years, Mom taught you to speak, read and write. From then on, I would sometime see you walk outside, smell the flowers, marvel at the birds, or just smile at no one. I began to see the beauty of the world through your eyes. It was then that I realized that you were my brother and no matter how much I tried to hate you, I couldn't, because I had grown to love you.

During the next few days, we again became acquainted with each other. I would buy you toys and give you all the love that a sister could ever give to her brother. And you would reward me by smiling and hugging me.

But I guess, you were never really meant for us. On your tenth birthday, you felt severe headaches. The doctor's diagnosis --leukemia. Mom gasped and Dad held her, while I fought hard to keep my tears from falling. At that moment, I loved you all the more. I couldn't even bear to leave your side. Then the doctors told us that your only hope is to have a bonemarrow transplant. You became the subject of a nationwide donor search. When at last we found the right match, you were too sick, and the doctor reluctantly ruled out the operations. Since then, you underwent chemotherapy and radiation.

Even at the end, you continued to pursue life. Just a month before you died, you made me draw up a list of things you wanted to do when you got out of the hospital. Two days after the list was completed, you asked the doctors to send you home. There, we ate ice cream and cake, run across the grass, flew kites, went fishing, took pictures of one another and let the balloons fly. I remember the last conversation that we had. You said that if you die, and if I need of help, I could send you a note to heaven by tying it on the string of any balloon and letting it fly. When you said this, I started crying. Then you hugged me. Then again, for the last time, you got sick.

That last night, you asked for water, a back rub, a cuddle. Finally, you went into seizure with tears streaming down your face. Later, at the hospital, you struggled to talk but the words wouldn't come. I know what you wanted to say. "Hear you," I whispered. And for the last time, I said, "I'll always love and I will never forget you. Don't be afraid. You'll soon be with God in heaven." Then, with my tears flowing freely, I watched the bravest boy I had ever known finally stop breathing. Dad, Mom and I cried until I felt as if there were no more tears left. Patrick was finally gone, leaving us behind.

From then on, you were my source of inspiration. You showed me how to love life and live to the fullest. With your simplicity and honesty, you showed me a world full of love and caring. And you made me realize that the most important thing in this life is to continue loving without asking why or how and without setting any limit.

Thank you, my little brother, for all these.


.
.
.

:-(

I felt soo bad after reading the second one.

Loved with everlasting love.

Hi !!! HEres a piece of poetry i came across recenty...

Its tittled " Loved with everlasting love "....

Its been written from the perspective of a girl who is in love with a guy.
Go on.... Read it slowly, twice if necessary. ITs an amazing piece of art.

Loved with everlasting love
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Led by Grace that love to know
Spirit breathing from above
Thou hast taught me it is so
Oh this full and perfect peace
Oh this transport all divine
In a love that cannot cease
I am His and He is mine

Heaven above is softer blue
Earth around is sweeter green
Something lives in every hue
Christless eyes have never seen
Birds with gladder songs o’erflow
Flowers with deeper beauties shine
Since I know, as now I know
I am His and He is mine

Things that once were wild alarms
Cannot now disturb my rest
Closed in everlasting arms
Pillowed on the loving breast
Oh to lie for ever here
Doubt and care and self resign
While He whispers in my ear
I am His and He is mine

His for ever, only His
Who the Lord and me shall part
Ah with what a rest of bliss
Christ can fill the loving heart
Heaven and earth may fade and flee
Firstborn light in gloom decline
But while God and I shall be
I am His and He is mine


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Ahh ! I get soooo soppy after reading this.....
Am not aware of the author.... But that shouldn't stop u frm posting comments.

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communication styles............continued

Okay ppl............. I ll be continuing my blog post on eff. communication.....

Akshay chari(in a comment) pointed out that the techniques require an overhauling.....

So here i go...


# 4. Never the naked names

You've been there. You are introduced to someone in a party or school.

" Rohit, I'd like u to meet this buddy of mine Shalini. Shalini, this is Rohit."
Duh, what do u expect Rohit and Shalini to say now ?

"Rohit? Umm thatz R-O-H-I-T, isnt it?"
The talks at a standstill. None of the parties know wat to say next...
Dont blame Rohit or Shalini here for being less than scintillating. The fault lies with the person who introduced them this way - with naked names.
Good conversation can be like...

"Shalini, I'd like u to meet Rohit. Rohit has an awesome hand at painting... Rohit, this is Shalini. Shalini's stamp collection would amaze you."

Thats called padding the conversation. Padding it gives Shalini to ask wat themes does Rohit paint ? It gives Rohit an opportunity to ask if he can see her stamps some day...
So, next time u introduce ppl, never use the naked names.... Give the two of them some bait to start the conversation between themselves.


#5. Boomeranging the compliments

Upon recieving a compliment, many ppl demure or proffer an embarassed little "thank you". Worse, they protest," Well not really, but thanks anyway". When you react this way, you visit a grave injustice at the complimenter. You insult a well meaning person's power of perception.
You would have witnessed it. Compliment anyone on orkut about a nice pic. of thiers and all u recieve is a

"thank you."

A small little thank u.

They say french is one of the sweetest languages.....right ? ( some of us in XII read that in the chapter "the last lesson")....
In french when someone compliments you, ppl say
"Vous Etes Gentil"
....
Which, roughly translated means

"How kind of you."

Its called boomeranging. Just as a boomerang returns right back to the thrower, let compliments boomerang right back to the giver. Like the french, quickly murmur something that expresses "That's very kind of you."

Lemme explain...

She says,"I like those shoes." You say,"Oh i am so happy you told me.I just got them."

He says,"You really did a very good job on this science/economics project."
You say,"Thats so nice of you to tell me. Thanks for the positive feedback."

He:"How was ur vaccation to dehradun ? "
You say,"Oh you remember i went to dehradun ! It was great,Thanks."

Your friend,"Are you over your cold now ?"
You answer,"I appreciate your concern.I feel much better now."




Whenever someone shines a little sunshine in your life in the form of a compliment or concerned question, reflect it back to him/her. He/she will love you for that.



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That was it ppl......... Theres more to come on the same topic. And i sincerely thank Akshay Chari for showing me his genuine goodwill.
Post a comment. Direct me .....

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On the river

Heres one of the finest short stories i've come across in my lifetime.
Its Worth a read. The end will send a chill down ur spine... i gaurantee !!!

"Guy de Maupassant, is generally considered to be the greatest French writer of short stories.Maupassant's style has been imitated by countless writers, and his influence can be seen on such masters of the short story as W. Somerset Maugham and O. Henry."



ON THE RIVER

-by Guy de Maupassant

I rented a little country house last summer on the banks of the Seine, several leagues from Paris, and went out there to sleep every evening. After a few days I made the acquaintance of one of my neighbors, a man between thirty and forty, who certainly was the most curious specimen I ever met. He was an old boating man, and crazy about boating. He was always beside the water, on the water, or in the water. He must have been born in a boat, and he will certainly die in a boat at the last.

One evening as we were walking along the banks of the Seine I asked him to tell me some stories about his life on the water. The good man at once became animated, his whole expression changed, he became eloquent, almost poetical. There was in his heart one great passion, an absorbing, irresistible passion-the river.

Ah, he said to me, how many memories I have, connected with that river that you see flowing beside us! You people who live in streets know nothing about the river. But listen to a fisherman as he mentions the word. To him it is a mysterious thing, profound, unknown, a land of mirages and phantasmagoria, where one sees by night things that do not exist, hears sounds that one does not recognize, trembles without knowing why, as in passing through a cemetery--and it is, in fact, the most sinister of cemeteries, one in which one has no tomb.

The land seems limited to the river boatman, and on dark nights, when there is no moon, the river seems limitless. A sailor has not the same feeling for the sea. It is often remorseless and cruel, it is true; but it shrieks, it roars, it is honest, the great sea; while the river is silent and perfidious. It does not speak, it flows along without a sound; and this eternal motion of flowing water is more terrible to me than the high waves of the ocean.

Dreamers maintain that the sea hides in its bosom vast tracts of blue where those who are drowned roam among the big fishes, amid strange forests and crystal grottoes. The river has only black depths where one rots in the slime. It is beautiful, however, when it sparkles in the light of the rising sun and gently laps its banks covered with whispering reeds.

The poet says, speaking of the ocean, O waves, what mournful tragedies ye know-- Deep waves, the dread of kneeling mothers' hearts! Ye tell them to each other as ye roll On flowing tide, and this it is that gives The sad despairing tones unto your voice As on ye roll at eve by mounting tide."

Well, I think that the stories whispered by the slender reeds, with their little soft voices, must be more sinister than the lugubrious tragedies told by the roaring of the waves.

But as you have asked for some of my recollections, I will tell you of a singular adventure that happened to me ten years ago.

I was living, as I am now, in Mother Lafon's house, and one of my closest friends, Louis Bernet who has now given up boating, his low shoes and his bare neck, to go into the Supreme Court, was living in the village of C., two leagues further down the river. We dined together every day, sometimes at his house, sometimes at mine.

One evening as I was coming home along and was pretty tired, rowing with difficulty my big boat, a twelve-footer, which I always took out at night, I stopped a few moments to draw breath near the reed-covered point yonder, about two hundred metres from the railway bridge.

It was a magnificent night, the moon shone brightly, the river gleamed, the air was calm and soft. This peacefulness tempted me. I thought to myself that it would be pleasant to smoke a pipe in this spot. I took up my anchor and cast it into the river.

The boat floated downstream with the current, to the end of the chain, and then stopped, and I seated myself in the stern on my sheepskin and made myself as comfortable as possible. There was not a sound to be heard, except that I occasionally thought I could perceive an almost imperceptible lapping of the water against the bank, and I noticed taller groups of reeds which assumed strange shapes and seemed, at times, to move.

The river was perfectly calm, but I felt myself affected by the unusual silence that surrounded me. All the creatures, frogs and toads, those nocturnal singers of the marsh, were silent.

Suddenly a frog croaked to my right, and close beside me. I shuddered. It ceased, and I heard nothing more, and resolved to smoke, to soothe my mind. But, although I was a noted colorer of pipes, I could not smoke; at the second draw I was nauseated, and gave up trying. I began to sing. The sound of my voice was distressing to me. So I lay still, but presently the slight motion of the boat disturbed me. It seemed to me as if she were making huge lurches, from bank to bank of the river, touching each bank alternately. Then I felt as though an invisible force, or being, were drawing her to the surface of the water and lifting her out, to let her fall again. I was tossed about as in a tempest. I heard noises around me. I sprang to my feet with a single bound. The water was glistening, all was calm.

I saw that my nerves were somewhat shaky, and I resolved to leave the spot. I pulled the anchor chain, the boat began to move; then I felt a resistance. I pulled harder, the anchor did not come up; it had caught on something at the bottom of the river and I could not raise it. I began pulling again, but all in vain. Then, with my oars, I turned the boat with its head up stream to change the position of the anchor. It was no use, it was still caught. I flew into a rage and shook the chain furiously. Nothing budged. I sat down, disheartened, and began to reflect on my situation. I could not dream of breaking this chain, or detaching it from the boat, for it was massive and was riveted at the bows to a piece of wood as thick as my arm. However, as the weather was so fine I thought that it probably would not be long before some fisherman came to my aid. My ill-luck had quieted me. I sat down and was able, at length, to smoke my pipe. I had a bottle of rum; I drank two or three glasses, and was able to laugh at the situation. It was very warm; so that, if need be, I could sleep out under the stars without any great harm.

All at once there was a little knock at the side of the boat. I gave a start, and a cold sweat broke out all over me. The noise was, doubtless, caused by some piece of wood borne along by the current, but that was enough, and I again became a prey to a strange nervous agitation. I seized the chain and tensed my muscles in a desperate effort. The anchor held firm. I sat down again, exhausted.

The river had slowly become enveloped in a thick white fog which lay close to the water, so that when I stood up I could see neither the river, nor my feet, nor my boat; but could perceive only the tops of the reeds, and farther off in the distance the plain, lying white in the moonlight, with big black patches rising up from it towards the sky, which were formed by groups of Italian poplars. I was as if buried to the waist in a cloud of cotton of singular whiteness, and all sorts of strange fancies came into my mind. I thought that someone was trying to climb into my boat which I could no longer distinguish, and that the river, hidden by the thick fog, was full of strange creatures which were swimming all around me. I felt horribly uncomfortable, my forehead felt as if it had a tight band round it, my heart beat so that it almost suffocated me, and, almost beside myself, I thought of swimming away from the place. But then, again, the very idea made me tremble with fear. I saw myself, lost, going by guesswork in this heavy fog, struggling about amid the grasses and reeds which I could not escape, my breath rattling with fear, neither seeing the bank, nor finding my boat; and it seemed as if I would feel myself dragged down by the feet to the bottom of these black waters.

In fact, as I should have had to ascend the stream at least five hundred metres before finding a spot free from grasses and rushes where I could land, there were nine chances to one that I could not find my way in the fog and that I should drown, no matter how well I could swim.

I tried to reason with myself. My will made me resolve not to be afraid, but there was something in me besides my will, and that other thing was afraid. I asked myself what there was to be afraid of. My brave "ego" ridiculed my coward "ego," and never did I realize, as on that day, the existence in us of two rival personalities, one desiring a thing, the other resisting, and each winning the day in turn.

This stupid, inexplicable fear increased, and became terror. I remained motionless, my eyes staring, my ears on the stretch with expectation. Of what? I did not know, but it must be something terrible. I believe if it had occurred to a fish to jump out of the water, as often happens, nothing more would have been required to make me fall over, stiff and unconscious.

However, by a violent effort I succeeded in becoming almost rational again. I took up my bottle of rum and took several pulls. Then an idea came to me, and I began to shout with all my might towards all the points of the compass in succession. When my throat was absolutely paralyzed I listened. A dog was howling, at a great distance.

I drank some more rum and stretched myself out at the bottom of the boat. I remained there about an hour, perhaps two, not sleeping, my eyes wide open, with nightmares all about me. I did not dare to rise, and yet I intensely longed to do so. I delayed it from moment to moment. I said to myself: "Come, get up!" and I was afraid to move. At last I raised myself with infinite caution as though my life depended on the slightest sound that I might make; and looked over the edge of the boat. I was dazzled by the most marvellous, the most astonishing sight that it is possible to see. It was one of those phantasmagoria of fairyland, one of those sights described by travellers on their return from distant lands, whom we listen to without believing.

The fog which, two hours before, had floated on the water, had gradually cleared off and massed on the banks, leaving the river absolutely clear; while it formed on either bank an uninterrupted wall six or seven metres high, which shone in the moonlight with the dazzling brilliance of snow. One saw nothing but the river gleaming with light between these two white mountains; and high above my head sailed the great full moon, in the midst of a bluish, milky sky.

All the creatures in the water were awake. The frogs croaked furiously, while every few moments I heard, first to the right and then to the left, the abrupt, monotonous and mournful metallic note of the bullfrogs. Strange to say, I was no longer afraid. I was in the midst of such an unusual landscape that the most remarkable things would not have astonished me.

How long this lasted I do not know, for I ended by falling asleep. When I opened my eyes the moon had gone down and the sky was full of clouds. The water lapped mournfully, the wind was blowing, it was pitch dark. I drank the rest of the rum, then listened, while I trembled, to the rustling of the reeds and the foreboding sound of the river. I tried to see, but could not distinguish my boat, nor even my hands, which I held up close to my eyes.

Little by little, however, the blackness became less intense. All at once I thought I noticed a shadow gliding past, quite near me. I shouted, a voice replied; it was a fisherman. I called him; he came near and I told him of my ill-luck. He rowed his boat alongside of mine and, together, we pulled at the anchor chain. The anchor did not move. Day came, gloomy gray, rainy and cold, one of those days that bring one sorrows and misfortunes. I saw another boat. We hailed it. The man on board of her joined his efforts to ours, and gradually the anchor yielded. It rose, but slowly, slowly, loaded down by a considerable weight. At length we perceived a black mass and we drew it on board. It was the corpse of an old women with a big stone round her neck.









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How did you find this story to be ? Shall i post more of these ? Didnt u like it ? Tell me all this and more. Leave a comment...
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So, I was telling you ppl about myself. Here i remember sth... Its an aspect of shubhangi's thinking.(Told u she thinks a lot !)....

It goes like...
She had noticed that everytime you meet a person - friend, classmate, uncle-aunty, or for that matter anyone... you are asked a question " How are you ?"...

As for me, i used to reply "fine.... and you ?".

Regarding this, she thinks that neither me, nor the second person wants to know my well-being and ppl have started using it as a conversation starter. And i personally feel that she is right. So ... where is the fault ?

I'll tell you something today... something close to me.

I call it communication skills. Most ppl lack effective communication skills.This is no seminar on that so am not asking you to procure a book on that, neither am preparing u for an interview. but yes...

Have you ever wondered why that guy/girl is a hit with ppl, even though i am smarter and for that matter, better looking ?

To be genuine, I have.

One such person is Ishan. Just look at his talks... he knows everything about effective communication.Just listen to him carefully next time.

here r 3 topics you can lay stress upon...i got them frm a book by "leil lowndes"

#1. Sticky eyes.

I have read that 'sticky eyes' is a gr8 comm. skill. Lemme explain...
while talking to a person, stick your eyes to his/her face...(ie establish an eye contact)... dont have an aggressive look... The person will feel that you have got genuine intrest in whatever hes telling you about. Dont you like getting attention ? well everybody does. And yes, this technique is more affective with gals. Guys tend to get uncomfortable with too much eye contact.

#2. Smile.

Yes ! just smile. A small little smile .

:-)


I bet all of you have heard about it. But heres a trick of making this weapon more lethal : I call it personalised smile. Suppose all my friends are talking in a group... chatting. And say i want surbhi to know that shes the center for my attraction...(I said suppose... so stop giggling).
Yaa... so i will give every body the general smile i have... but when she looks at me, i give her that nice soft smile of mine. She will notice it and will certainly have a better impression about me.

So, reserve your smile. look at a person, stare him for a second.... and then shower him with that smile of yours. she will feel that that smile was for her.... especially for her. otherwise she'll feel "ye to sabsee aise hi smile karta hai... Whats special ?"

#3. Know thy target

Theres a way of getting into the tone of your target... say karan comes to me and is disappointed by his AIEEE result... Now say i had to discuss our plan to go to connaught place together. Now, if i say directly "chor yaar chal cp chalte hain", he might feel i didnt listen to him at all.
So, i'd rather get into his tone by saying "haan, mere exams bhee bahaut acchee nahi hue thee... koi baat nahi kisi aur college mein ho jayegaa. Cheerup dude !!! chal cp chal.... u will refresh urself".... u guessed it right, this will have a +ve effect on him and he might as well go with you.

Nature has got its own ways... Have you ever noticed how a mother soothes the child when hes crying ? She doesnt say bluntly " chup hoo jao."

Instead, she first catches the baby's tone (the crying one) and starts imitating it... She too starts... "areee aree areee kyaa huaaaa ??? choot lag gaye ???" and then modulates her voice to a normal tone " koi baat nahi....brave boy hoo..." and finally to cheer him up, she laughs and cheerfully says " challo challo chocolate khaate hai...."
See, how simple, yet so enchanting it is... We all are like big babies here. So, go by that way and see if it helps you.




Hah ! am tired and my backside is paining. As always please send feedback... It gets me going.

Thanks for that patience of yours.

About me....................

I'll introduce myself to you...

Whenever in real life (offline) one asks me to introduce myself, i feel nothing awkward... but here in orkut, i find it wierd to describe myself. I mean do you believe what i write ? I can put a picture of a handsome guy....( though my looks suck !)... and show off fake attitude.... But thats not where i belong to. I myself don't believe the profile of a stranger if theres too much of goody-goody stuff in there.

So... who am i ?

Well i am what i am ... this tag-line by rbk is a hit ! Every tom dick and harry is using it to cover himself up ! Ppl have failed to understand the crux of the statement...
I feel it means that " i love being what i am and i am unique... i a may not be a national level badminton player, nor an acclaimed guitarist... my writing skills may suck, but still... i am not disgusted from being who i am."
But most ppl take out the meaning that "i am the best.Let heavens fall, i won't improve. i wont copy anything. i am what i am. i may not be a good human being but because i am what i am... i wont change."
I hate that attitude.....I tell u. Say at a gathering i discover that anurag has got gr8 manners..... The correct approach is learning something from it and absorbing it into myself. Its not about being arrogant about ur fake attitude.

I presume you know who Winston Churchill was... He was a man of great wit and a former British prime minister.He had quoted...

" Its courage what it takes... to stand up and speak........
and its also courage, what it takes to sit down and listen."

So, go by it. Read the quote again and understand the true essence of his words.

And next time you see a person sporting fake attitude, give him some words or still better guide him to this link.

I'll continue on this post... and please.... Comment. U liked this or you didn't, let me know. Let me know you came here.

Thank you for your patience.

Rock the day !!!