quaint&quirky

BY R.K.MISRA It hurts to separate but it is interesting to expect.  Particularly at the cusp. Between the old and the new, between yesterday and tomorrow.   A baby to be born and a child moments old. From antiquity to anticipation ! As 2018 is set to become history, one seeks to look back one last time before crossing the threshold to 2019.There are a legion of pundits to dissect   the politics of the year gone by. I too shall endeavor to do so but at a different   word venue. For now and here, I heed my heart and not my head. The last month of the past year -2018- saw a global extravaganza at one end of the spectrum and a soundless ,simple wedding , at the other. The world swirled in a manna- dipped ,mesmeric daze   at one end while   the other passed on padded feet, the way it was meant to, simple as simple could be. In fact almost a non-event except for the near and dear ones. Nevertheless , it interests me for the simple reason th...

BY   R.K.MISRA How do you describe a garment that heats up half of humanity and cools down the other half ? Poised perilously between male fantasy and feminine felicity ,the panty remains the softest thing between two legs. This piece of attire   has waxed and waned over a hundred years to emerge from a coarse   legging to a soft as satin statement of an iron hard resolve. Along the way it has picked up a matching upper body companion piece and the twain possess the fabled capacity to have long   entombed pharaohs   come alive and run to a Nile on fire, pep-pill in hand ! Nevertheless, it’s shrinking   wafer thin size should in no way be seen as a sign of weakness. Symbolisms do empower. More so at a time when social scientists predict the beginning of   an era of ascendency for womanhood globally. At a more mundane level, the fact of the matter is   that it has also given the feminine of the species a sense of   cosy comfort a...

BY R.K.MISRA Strange things   happen when you’ve gone too far, been up too long, worked too hard and you’re separated from the rest of the world. These words are not mine but a weird   filial   relationship developed with them as I sat in the New Jersey home of my daughter mid this year. Last year , a nerve wrecking 2017 had turned me , a journalist based in the Western India state of Gujarat, into a cross between a hot dog and a cold cucumber roasting on a Teflon’ tava’. Gujarat, the Indian Prime Minister’s home state was up for grabs(elections) and politicians of   varied political hues were targeting voters with a rare anatomical aggression. No part of the body was safe. They would touch toes, lick feet, appeal to the heart, fool the head and even kiss the   arse. Post-poll, the order stood reversed. All along their face remained the only constant ! But this is not about them . It is about me and myself. A journo   clothed in the hustle an...