Mumbai - futility of life

Three days of terror in Mumbai has made me think of the futility of life, not for those who lost their loved ones, not even for those who lost themselves but for those who sit on the golden chair and call themselves people's leader. For life has lost its value in this day and age because of the attitudes of these leaders. 

Killing people for no reason has become a fashion. Especially in India people are killed not only by the natural calamities like Tsunami but also by these terror attacks most of the time. On top of that the leaders leave no stone unturned to make extremists kill people for stupid reasons like regional or religious differences. Where is the stop to this? Why don't people get united and once for all put an end to these leaders who have been playing politics for such a long time that they have forgotten they are human as well and even they come with an expiry date. 

In other countries one life lost is a huge loss but in India hundred lives lost is a way of life because for us life goes on?! The city revives, bounces back, off course it does, who wouldn't but other countries make small issues so big so as to avoid it ever happening again. India makes big issues look so small and result, it happens again and again and again and no one is bothered. The pain has reached a stage where it itself has become the medicine.

My heart goes out to all the people in Mumbai and I hope this time they are not known for their resilience but for their anger and courage to dethrone the anarchists of the country and put their faith on someone who comes true to their expectations.

My salute to the city and its people.


The White Tiger

This year again the Man Booker prize went to the Asian writer Arvind Adiga for his debut novel White Tiger. The novel is a rags to riches story of a man told in a letter written over the span of seven days.

Please click on the link to read his interview:


We at Vaani are reading the book and we will post our discussions on the blog as soon as possible.



She sat there, her knees knocking each other, her elbows resting yet not resting on them, her palms joint and her dimpled chin resting on top. Dark wisps of hairs swoop around her round face, going into her huge sea eyes, her pert nose, her wonky lips with a cut the size of a nut. Hurried people went past, so did the swishing trains, the beggars who sang, the tracks that rang; irrespective of her sitting there, moving. As the people hurrying, the trains swishing, the beggar's singing, the tracks ringing increased, the knees knocking decreased, gradually coming to an end. The train to her destination had arrived ready to depart.

Smita Singh

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