Love In A Laundromat (?)


I have a fascination for everything Japanese – art, literature, serials and philosophy….

Today I finished watching the Japanese Web Series “Until The T-shirt Dries” (with English subtitles).

Mrs. Sonada and Mr. Seo , neighbours who happen to strike an odd acquaintance in a coin laundry shop, go missing on the third Friday of a month , which is an off day from work for both of them. They leave behind their distraught other halves with a pile of unanswered questions.

The bus , Mrs. Sonada and Mr. Seo are riding on, meets with an accident in which Mrs. Sonada dies. Mr. Seo, having luckily deboarded at a rest stop right before the mishap, is saved. But he does not return home either.

As the police discontinue the investigation, Mr. Sonada and Mrs. Seo decide to carry on the search on their own. Bound by a common thread of loss, loneliness and grief they find solace in each other’s company which develops into an unusual bond that the society wants to give a name to.

Carrying memories of a happily married life with them, Mr. Sonada and Mrs. Seo oscillate between the past and the present. A year later, as they both finally make up their mind to move on , Mr. Seo comes back home.

Does that mean a “they live happily ever after” end to the story? No. The unexpected return invokes doubts, ignites fury and births friction. While the threesome try to discern a ‘perfect reason’ (read socially acceptable) for the disappearance of Mrs. Sonada and Mr. Seo, the Series probingly raises a few uncomfortable questions on fidelity, friendship, understanding and accountability in marriage. It obliquely toys with privacy and personal space in relationships too.

Like every Japanese work of fiction and poetry, this series too leaves much unsaid for the viewers to fill in, in accordance with their own interpretation.

The end is characteristically abrupt. Viewers grapple with indecision as to whom to fix the responsibility on.

My take on the series is that a dysfunctional childhood cannot justify an escapist attitude and relational imbalances in later years. It is an individual’s choice and will  how happy and wholesome one wants life to be.

Also, respect is due for the efforts being put in by the partner(s) towards emotionally strengthening and sustaining a relationship.

Love is the ultimate unifier but one has to believe in it. And value it. A truism –  only the Japanese have a different way of saying it.

Streaming on Netflix.

If you want to watch a Series that goes deeper than what is seen on the surface.

Aggression


As I have said many times earlier , aggression is very much a part of this world. The National Capital Region (NCR) encompasses the Capital as well as parts of two neighboring States. As one crosses the borders, the zabaan (language) changes, so does attitude and outlook.

Moreover, NCR sees a convergence of people from all the other parts of the country as well as outside. The influx of certain communities, who are essentially rough, tough and gruff, and their occupying positions of prominence, has lent the city the predominant culture.

Additionally, this is also the “Centre of Governance”. Here the public has a tendency to be cosy with anybody who has the slightest scope of wielding authority. Everybody tries to be a who’s who. For the littlest of things the conversation begins with , “Tu jaanta hai main kaun hoon?” Meaning ” Do you know who I am?”

Here politeness is taken as weakness and a courteous person is deemed as trample-worthy. More so in the case of the weaker sex. Aggression, thus, at times takes the colour of false bravado. But most times that works. One of my bosses once told me to deal with people the way they were used to being dealt with. “Sophistication with a person who has never experienced it is fruitless.” He would say.

I had a female colleague who had a different tactic. The way she would say hullo over phone was her master stroke. If the opposite sex was on the other end of the line one could rest assure that the job would be done even before it was uttered. 

A few years back I impulsively purchased a robotic vacuum cleaner. This year the thought of putting it to regular use occurred to me. Unfortunately, the gadget refused to work. I sent it to the Company’s Authorised Service Centre for repair (Pick-up arranged by them).

Upon several follow-ups they communicated the issue and the corresponding repair charges which seemed exorbitant. I told them to return the product as it was. It was then that they started haggling with me for taking another machine in exchange, which, according to them, was the latest. I was not interested. They continued to negotiate on WhatsApp.

In the meantime, as per procedure, I paid off the minimum service charges that were due to get the machine back. But it did not get delivered. Surprisingly, when I said I’d collect it personally they would not confirm their location. It was when I threatened to lodge a police complaint in my deadliest tone that they delivered the product within an hour’s time.

But I didn’t like the way things went.

I’d rather be like my colleague – a husky voice, a demure countenance, a helpless look – believe me I tried that route but failed miserably. 😞

God made me out of a different mould.

Yet once, in a desperate attempt I had told one of my male colleagues, “Main abala naari…”

His immediate response was “A hathaa do…” Which meant “Remove the a from abala”

Abala in Hindi means a poor, pitiable woman. I had tried to give myself that epithet.

Subtract the ‘A’ and the word takes the exact opposite meaning – bala meaning danger…!!! That’s what my public image is 😳!!!! 🤭

Should I be ashamed of myself????

Just A Day…


On account of that sudden attack of Vertigo I kept away from WP the whole day and focussed on daily chores. But come evening I am lurking around but at a slow pace.

Today Kali, my stray pet, got her monthly bath, ear, teeth and anal (gland) cleaning. By now she has come to terms with it and does not panic.

I have been planning to get Chhin Chhin, the second stray pet,  vaccinated for some time. This afternoon the mission was successfully completed. It was not easy and required three people to control her for the yearly anti-rabies injection. Though she is a quiet one but today she got agitated and almost uncontrollable out of fear. Credit goes to my vet’s assistant Kanhai, his nephew and Aakash the assistant at the neighbourhood Spine Clinic where Chhin Chhin stays – all three had to handle her for the dosage.

It was a noisy affair – everyone was out in the muggy afternoon when Chhin Chhin started howling aggressively – the lawyer next door, the neighbours on the floors above – all wanting to know what’s happening. Soon after the vaccination Chhin Chhin scooted off. Akash was almost in tears that she might not come back to him again but I assured him not to worry.

The Hon’ble Supreme Court has ordered that all street dogs should be vaccinated. I explained its importance to Aakash. In the evening when I was going for Physiotherapy, Chhin Chhin was coolly dozing under a bike. I called out to her and she came to me wagging her tail. I petted and told her the vaccine was not to give pain but to save her from a deadly disease. I guess she understood because the next moment she was running after a perceived enemy.

At the Physio’s the technician asked me why I did not come earlier.

“It’s bad”, She said.

Entering my name in the Register she queried, ” Aunty, your name is J…., isn’t it ?”

“No…no… I am her sister”, I exclaimed.

“Then you must be twins”

After another round of explanation the girl was apologetic, ” Sorry, I thought you were her.”

“It’s a common misunderstanding.”I said.

Walking black home I thought what a  coincidence. Born seven years apart we still manage to look like twins. If this is not weird what is???

Chhin Chhin

Tattoo


A few days back on respected Professor Rajendraji’s post @Veerite, in response to a WP prompt on tattoos, a long conversation ensued with dear blogger, Nusrat @Her Daily Doses, which spun me into research mode on the subject in the Indian context.

What I found was interesting and shareworthy.

Tattooing is deeply embedded in the socio-cultural fabric of  India since ancient times. It’s called by various names in different regions like godna in North of India and  panchakuthar, pachutra or trajva in South of India. 

Traditional tattoos have served as identity markers, rites of passage, protective talismans, social status, indicator of military prowess and even as spiritual symbols particularly in tribal and rural communities.

The origin of tattooing can be traced back to the Indus Valley Civilization (3300–1300 BCE). References to it are also found in Vedic literature. It’s a traditional practice among  the Bhil, Gond, Santhal, Baiga, Apatani, Wancho and Konyak tribal communities.

In Baiga (Central India) women were known for extensive body tattoos which were believed to be the only adornments carried into the afterlife.

Symbols such as the trident (trishul), Om, and depictions of deities like Shiva and Kali used in tattoos expressed devotion as per Hundu tradition.

In certain communities, women tattooed visible parts of their bodies as safeguards from unwarranted male advances and kidnapping by enemy tribes.

In various rural areas, tattoos were believed to possess medicinal or protective properties. Specific designs were considered to be curative and protection against evil spirits. For example, ear tattoos (karna godna) were considered remedies for headaches and earaches.


In rural South and among Devadasis (woman “married” to a temple deity – the practice is now banned) auspicious symbols were tattooed during religious ceremonies.

Traditionally, sharpened thorns, needles with pigments derived from soot, ash, plant extracts were used for tattooing. Procedures were painful and performed without anaesthesia. The craft was passed down through generations of female tattooists, known as godharins.

Tattooing traditions declined significantly during the 20th century due to urbanization, modernization, and changing social attitudes.

However, in the late 19th Century, in  Chhattisgarh (East India), the lower-caste communities considered to be  “untouchables”, and hence barred from entering Hindu temples and using public wells, used tattoos as an act of religious and social rebellion against the beliefs of caste purity. They tattooed “Rama” (name of Hindu God) across their entire bodies implying that they were carrying their place of worship with them everywhere.

Contemporary urban Indians use tattoos as body art denoting self ownership against conservative familial expectations, religious proscriptions and traditional ideas of bodily purity.

(Source: Wikipedia)

An Unfound Trail


Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.

Mr. Ambarish Khashnobish died peacefully in his sleep. Massive cardiac arrest. Interestingly,  the  night of his death his house was also broken in. Since nothing was found stolen it was deemed to be the work of a petty thief.

But the gossip mongers got very active. The rumour that the old man’s death was not natural caught the imagination of the public. However, the Police, due to lack of evidence, closed the case unceremoniously.

As is with the affluent, Mr. Khashnobish’s will was read out by his lawyers a fortnight later. His estates and liquid assets were equally divided between his two NRI sons – Amar and Aman, who had arrived from the US of A to perform their father’s last rites. The house in which the octogenarian breathed his last was sold off to Mr. Mohit Manchanda of Manchanda Builders a month later.

Two months after the Police  received an unsigned note which hinted that Mr. K did not die a natural death.

“We keep getting such anonymous useless tips.” Said Rakesh Singh, who had been dealing with the burglary at  Mr. K’s. “The Department has more important matters to handle than follow up such baseless insinuations.”

Rakesh was our family friend.

We were having dinner together. Most of what I knew about the Khashnobish Affair was through him.

***

The Khashnobish Mansion was about to be demolished when rumours again went wild that the premise was haunted. A shadowy figure had been seen in the dead of the night lurking around. A few odd accidents later the project was stalled indefinitely.

“You know how these labourers are. They refused to work at the site.” Supplied Rakesh.

***

One year had passed. Manchanda Builders were proposing to resume the demolition when another mishap struck. Mr Manchanda passed away the exact same way as Mr. K had. However , no foul play was detected. Since, he did not have any kith or kin his entire wealth came to be regulated by a Trust towards various philanthropic causes.

With one exception – it appeared that the Khashnobish Mansion had changed hands six months before Manchanda’s sudden demise.

***

It took two years for the Luxury Resort to come up where once Khashnobish Mansion stood. Soon it became a pet destination of worn out celebs’ relaxation and myriad recreations.

Rakesh remarked that it was strange the turn of events that the K Affair had taken. 

We were having an after dinner chat on a quiet Sunday.

“I have a theory. Of course, no proof”, I said.

Everyone present looked at me with interest.

“Like what ?” Asked Rakesh

“Well, it’s just a hunch. Suppose Mr. K did not die a natural death. Even if he had, I think, the burglary was for a purpose. Somebody was looking for something there. I’d say the property documents which the intruder thought would be inside K’s locker in his bedroom.”

“We looked up that angle.” Said Rakesh.” But it was with his lawyers.”

“Exactly,” I said. “Perhaps old K had suspected that someone was interested in those papers and thought it wise to keep them with his legal advisors.”

Rakesh shrugged.

“Then the property got sold to Manchanda’s who could not demolish the building because it was rumoured to be haunted. It’s so hard to pinpoint the source of the rumour. Maybe it was planted to purposely halt the construction. Then as Manchanda was about to start again he died the exact same way that K did. Of course, it’s not possible now to establish whether there was foul play in M’s death or not. But why would he sell off the property right before his death? He was not short of funds.”

“Perhaps he thought it was not a lucky acquisition. You know how these businessmen think.” Said Rakesh.

“Or could be the property never changed hands.  The Ownership Documents and Sale Deed could be obtained in liue of a handsome payment (or a lucrative deal) to Manchanda’s Solicitors who were in possession of those papers. Now ! Now ! Rakesh , you know, everyone is saleable.”

“But why would anybody do that?” The question was simultaneously asked by Rakesh and my family who were listening intently.

“If those who initially sold the property got greedy and wanted it back without repaying the huge sum they had pocketed earlier.”

“I know it would be difficult to locate the trail back to the sons. The Real Estate Group who built and ran the show could be a facade.” I continued hastily.

“Too far fetched,” said my father dismissively.

Rakesh was quiet.

Before bidding good night he turned to look at me piercingly from the door and said,” You do have a fertile imagination, don’t you?”

***

A few months after this conversation Rakesh’s visits to our place became very infrequent. I heard he was made a part of a Special Investigation Team (SIT). Once when we bumped into each other at a gathering he was very tight lipped about the investigation he was into. I came to know that he often had to fly out of the country on his current assignment.

***

It was five years later that the Khashnobish Case made headlines again. Amar and Aman were arrested on charges surprisingly somewhat similar to the theory propounded by me in the presence of my dismissive family and Rakesh on that fateful Sunday evening. The Daily said the arrests were an outcome of  an undercover investigation by the SIT following a credible lead…

I was eager to know more but the person who could fill me in had now been promoted and become too busy to be easily contacted.

***

As days passed the K Affair became stale news.

It was a lazy summer afternoon when we received an unexpected guest – one Sharanjeet Monga.

Father brought him in to the living room,”He wants to see you.”

Sharanjeet carried a big fat folder under his arm. He respectfully folded his hands, “Namaste Ma’am! I work under Rakesh Singh Sir. He has asked me to see you.”

Sharanjeet took out his mobile, “He instructed to give him a call on his private number as soon as I reach here. You see ma’am,  he wants that I should unofficially brief you about a high profile case that we are currently looking into….”

PS 1 : Guys, if you find any loopholes in my theory please feel free to let me know.

PS 2 : Dear Friends, I have had a sudden attack of the Vertigo. So going slow on the reading and commenting. Please bear with me.

Learning


I have a habit of asking questions about topics on which I don’t have sufficient knowledge. And I tell you it can be anything and everything under the sun.

Though theoretically I knew everything about a car practically I tried my hand at driving for a very short spell of time. But when it came to servicing or repairing any parts I made it a point to personally go to the workshop and ask the mechanics a lot of questions. 

Now, in our society even if a woman drives a car she seldom goes to the Service Centre or to the roadside mechanic for repair/service. It’s the duty of the husband or any other male member of the family. Reason? Firstly,  it’s not considered respectable for a lady to interact with the men of that profession. Secondly, what would a woman know about automobile engineering?

But yours truly being an exception (ahem…!!) did just that. The roadside mechanics thought I was crazy. When I showed interest in understanding the cause of malfunction they imparted their domain knowledge with undisguised amusement or reservation, whichever. The service personnel of the Authorised Service Centres were a little more polite perhaps because they had to maintain goodwill and also because of B-I-L who too got his cars serviced there. Condescending or otherwise, though I inwardly bristled, I tolerated their attitude being at the learning end.

At the office front, I was entrusted with a job which required adequate knowledge of engineering. In order to fully understand the subject I had to ask the concerned Department (all technocrats) for requisite inputs – again a lot of questions. However, they would patiently explain the nitty gritty of the matters to me. It was a humbling experience because for them time was precious. Yet they appreciated the problem and satisfied my queries which eased work to a great extent.

In fact, throughout life I have learnt much by eliciting information from those who are experts in their fields. Once I make my intentions clear that I, as a layperson, want to learn from them most help willingly and some grudgingly.

I have never felt ashamed to admit my lack of knowledge. And my eagerness to know, I guess, gratifies a few too.  My father often said that one should always respect a person who knew better than I did, no matter what their stature was in society or their attitude. Those words must have got ingrained in my brain for good. So, whosoever it be and howsoever hard it may be I have somehow managed to extract whatever I can from them in my quest for knowing. And honestly, what you gather by asking people in flesh and blood even the AI won’t be able to provide  that much for sure.

Having established myself as a perennial knowledge seeker (read questioner) yet I have to comply with the standing instruction of my family which is “puccho par us bechaarey ki dimaag ka dahi mat banaa dena” which means “Question but keep in mind that the poor chap’s sanity remains intact.”

So now I have to contain my curiosity in accordance with that caveat.

😂😂😂😂

Surprise!!


I read a story a long time ago which was part of an anthology  written in Bengali. I have forgotten the name of the author.

The story went like this :

A man was in the habit of buying a lottery ticket everyday with the hope that some day he’d hit the jackpot which of course he never did. Yet he was not deterred from buying the ticket. 

Then one day the man fell sick. Days went by but his health did not recover. His physician said that he required a mental boost to regain his will to live.

The next morning his family bought a lottery ticket in his name. In the evening when the results were out the family was surprised to find that the man had won the jackpot.

They rushed to his bedside and gave him the good news.

On hearing the news the man died of a massive heart attack.

***

I have been thinking about the moral of this story for quite some time now. 

Is sudden and overwhelming happiness equally unbearable as  irreparable loss and inconsolable grief ?

A Public Library, Books And A Feast


“Coforge is a prominent global IT Services and Solutions Provider headquartered in Noida, (India). The Company specializes in artificial intelligence engineering, data, cloud, and digital integration. It focuses primarily on sectors like travel, insurance, banking, and financial services.”

As part of their CSR (Corporate Social Responsibility) activities, Coforge proposes to open free Public Libraries in Delhi (In their words they propose to open one Free Public Library in every pin code of the city). They have, at present, one in Gurgaon, one in Greater Noida, one in Hyderabad (Andhra Pradesh) and one in Vasant Kunj (Delhi). Last week, on Didi’s birthday,  we visited the one at Vasant Kunj – at the far end of the city.

The Library is spread over 10,000 Sq.Ft. of space in a Mall with a good collection of 15000 plus  books in English, Hindi and Braille. One time registration is online and free but if one wants to borrow a book then a membership fee of Rs. 1000/- will be charged. The fee is refundable. One book will be issued at a time for a fortnight each extendable to one month provided the reader gets the book reissued after completion of the period of initial issuance.

We (I, Didi and B-I-L) had a great time browsing through the various sections – fiction as well as non-fiction. I had fun almost reading  half way through a graphic novel. Didi skimmed through more serious stuff. While checking out we asked the librarian whether Coforge has any plan of opening a library down our side to which she replied in the affirmative elaborating that the CM, while inaugurating this library, has promised them space for one  in her constituency of which our area is a part. I hope the CM keeps her promise.

No gadgets are allowed inside the library. Use of mobile is also not permissible. So we couldn’t take any pics. But I found a link to an Instagram reel which I am sharing  here.

As an outing without feasting is simply not done we had a simple South Indian lunch in one of the eateries in the Mall. As we came out of the restaurant we spotted a stall selling books at a heavily discounted rate on the occasion of Raksha Bandhan which falls on the 28th of this month. It’s the day sisters tie rakhi on their brothers’ wrist and brothers promise to take care of their sisters throughout their lives.

I bought three books – all kid stuff including one Enyd Blyton (The Famous Five), one Sudha Murthy (Noonie’s Adventures Series) and the classic Anne Frank’s Diary (which was gifted to me by my cousin but I somehow misplaced it). After strolling a bit inside the Mall and buying a few household articles we called it a day.

Keeping my fingers crossed that the library opens soon near home.

PS: WP has informed that I have utilised 90% of my allotted free space. Once the remaining 10% gets utilised uploading of posts, images, videos etc. will not be allowed. WP is offering Upgrade Plans for a paid site. Wondering which one to opt for. Any suggestions?

In God’s Own Company


Between the two Blocks (ours and the adjacent) is located the Jagadish Temple on the right and Kali Temple on the left frequented by the residents of all the Blocks around. It also has a Charitable Dispensary with good doctors and a Physiotherapy Centre with efficient technicians. These amenities again increase footfall to the premise.

Just before the gate to the Temple there lies a pile of garbage on the left. Somebody has thoughtfully placed a broken table there too. Crossing over the gate the heap of the pile gets an extended space by the wall of the Kali Temple.

Old chacha sweeps the rain splashed street to the temple and shoves the dirt into the pile. But the pile is a fixture. It’s never cleaned or removed.

He happily agreed to be photographed while contributing to the dirt load.

Next to the pile is a strategically placed  water cooler from which the aam junta (mostly the Temple helps and the beggars) drinks water.

There is a huge banyan tree, as you turn slightly left towards the Kali Temple, which can now be called ancient by the thickness of its girth, the spread of its branches and the length of its shade. Needless to say, the devotees place diyas underneath for all the blessings it brings to humanity.  Right behind the tree is a hand pump or tube well which rightfully keeps the ground beneath wet in all seasons.

Amidst all these paraphernalia, snackes in a thick, wide iron pipe, recently laid by the Delhi Jal Board, to pump out the excess  water that gets accumulated in the adjacent Block after rainfall. The muddy, turbid water flows straight into the ground in front of the Kali Temple (metaphorically at the feet of the deity), the left side path to which, has been barricaded by an iron mesh.

As a result, we now have to cross over the pipe onto the wet grounds around the hand pump and then again manoeuvre our way over a makeshift  speed breaker, on which a long roll of plastic water pipe seems to be perpetually kept, to reach across to the deity.

While I was clicking a devout was reverently bowing to Mother Goddess. 

This is also the way to the nearest Metro Station by the left side of the main Temple.  Besides the Temple visitors, a large part of the crowd being the elderly, commuters of different age groups too use this short cut to catch the train. There’s a school behind the Temple and a Market next to it.

As evening falls the way to the Temple darkens in the absence of street lights. If one has to avoid this route the longer detour is through the huge park (about which I have already written many times) at the back of  the Kali Temple.

Didi (elder sister) took the initiative of writing a letter to our Resident Welfare Association (RWA) signed by the residents, detailing the difficulties faced by all, more specifically by the old and aged members, to reach the Temple, the Metro Station and the big park (This is also an easy way to the park for some residents). This was followed by a talk with the Temple priests by Didi and a former Councellor and Block resident, They were advised to speak to the Head Priest. Yesterday evening, Didi spoke to him who in turn told her to speak to the current Councellor. As we requested him to re-position the water cooler his clear answer was that it would be done when the pipe gets re-placed. The removal of the dirt pile was not even considered.

In the meantime, the RWA , which formally  received the letter two days later – evidence of how ‘busy’ they are in “other more important matters” – directed that the letter be written to the Chief Minister (bypassing the RWA???). Incidentally, our locality falls in her constituency.

We learnt through a very reliable source that the Municipal Councellor (who accorded approval for the laying of the pipe) was evasive on the issue while visiting the premise. The ladies of the Block, who had enthusiastically signed the letter, now avoids active participation in the follow-up course putting the responsibility squarely on my sister. Some even went on to suggest that the responsibility should now be delegated to me.

This rainy morning as I was walking past the Temple the loud speaker crooned Jagjit Singh’s immortal bhajan ” tu hi bigaade tu hi sawaare” (You are the breaker You are the maker). Perhaps a divine intervention is required to resolve the issue.

Walking through the park I see two swallows chasing each other on my favourite red bench. Two for Joy…as we used to believe in our carefree childhood days.

I wind back to that innocent belief. Perhaps Mother Goddess is listening to our prayers!!!

A Note Of Apology


I have an absurd habit of using things (appliances…furniture…etc.etc.) till they reach  breaking point. I let go of my first car when its gear rod broke in two pieces in the middle of the road. It’s not a good practice, I realise, as one of the ACs breaks down followed by the microwave and then the water purifier. All indispensable items in a city where humidity now is at an extreme, where directly consuming tap water can be a health risk and where extreme weather conditions and fast paced lifestyle (howsoever you may slow down) require an easy, time saving and alternate system of warming/cooking food.

In this era of swiftly changing technology, buying any cooling/cooking/purifying system is not easy. A whole lot of on and off line market surveys precede the actual purchase. So I deep dive into upgrading my knowledge on the latest, most efficient and most durable products available in the market. The problem of a consumerist society is unfortunately the brand strategies…sales gimmicks…. marketing techniques….In plain words, the sweet talking showroom guys adept at entrapping a customer with the most beguiling offers.

They will not leave any stone unturned to lure you into buying machines with multiple utilities. For example, an air conditioner can double as an air purifier with a disinfecting mechanism to boot to give the optimum air quality inside your house so that as soon as you step out you can contact n  number of infections floating in the air because living in an insulated atmosphere has already lowered the immunity level of your body to sub zero.

Also, the greater the number of utilities of a machine the more technologically sophisticated it is. The more fancy it is the more trouble it gives in the long run. As a result, the maintenance cost goes up every succeeding year. This I speak from my personal experience. The bottom line, therefore, is one has to be adequately informed and alert in order to make the right choice.

The long and short of the whole story is that I have to devote more time in this quest towards material comforts than I really want to. In doing so, I am lagging behind on WP and unable to write as many posts as I wish of my own and also read, like and comment on the posts of my dear friends. In between though I am stealing time to read and comment on a few I sincerely apologise for those I am not able to. I am hoping to get back soon to my normal routine. Till then I request you all to bear with me please.

In the meantime, the fake subscribers (chat bots ??) are still  continuing to trespass my blog space. As I delete more come in hordes to invade. This sudden love for my writing!! I am more worried than enamoured. Hope WP has some mechanism to counter this onslaught.