#bhagyasri

[bigtvmojify]

భాగ్యశ్రీ బోర్సే అవకాశాల పై మిస్టర్ బచ్చన్ ఎఫెక్ట్ | Actress Bhagya Shri Borse | BIGTV Entertainment

భాగ్యశ్రీ బోర్సే అవకాశాల పై మిస్టర్ బచ్చన్ ఎఫెక్ట్ | Actress Bhagya Shri Borse | BIGTV Entertainment #bhagyashriborse #bhagyasri #misterbachchan #harishankar #raviteja #bigtventertainment #bigtvet Watch LIVE Stream : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ueJsgNKeq8c 🔔 Subscribe to our channel ✅ Stay Connected to Us. 👉 Website: https://ift.tt/MnID9F7 👉 Facebook: https://ift.tt/EC28i60 👉 Twitter:…

[sibillyn-blog]

My mother has a habit of twisting her lower lip and keeping it bitten under her teeth. She looks like a twisted person. Exactly like how she is within. A twisted woman with an unhappy past, and an unhappier present. A face-reader had once told my grandma at a party that my mom is like a frog in the well. Unhappy with everything because she is too blind to see the sun above her. Too sad to jump herself out of the well. I imagined my mother as a toad in a pit. Bottomless because she made it so. No matter how beautiful or talented her daughters were, how much wealthier she was after marrying into the Coldrey family, how many miracle-working gurus and gods had blessed her, she kept digging her pit further and further. So deep that it obscured the world around her. Daughters had become shaitans, wealth was a farce, and the gurus were dead. Her new guru were the astrologers. Her new daughter the maidservant who she belittled and patronized every day to lift her own spirits.

[newsresults]

Meet Odisha’s Bhagyasri Sahoo who impressed PM Modi with her Pattachitra art

Meet Odisha’s Bhagyasri Sahoo who impressed PM Modi with her Pattachitra art

After years of doodling and painting, Bhagyasri Sahoo had never imagined her passion for art would bring her nationwide acknowledgement. “I have been recognised because this craft stands out,” says the 27-year-old engineering student who was recently mentioned by Prime Minister Narendra Modi in ‘Mann ki Baat’ programme for popularising ‘Pattachitra’ — the traditional cloth-based scroll paintings…

[summerhillspa-blog]

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Watch "నేను చేసిన తప్పు ఏంటో మీరైనా చెప్పండి ప్లీజ్ | What is the mistake i made | Bhagyasri Telugu Vlogs" on YouTube

[thatisymagazine-blog]

ఫిమేల్ లీడ్ రోల్స్ తో కిట్టి పార్టీ

#Sadha #BHAGYASRI #MADHUBALA #HARITEJA #KITTYPARTY ఫిమేల్ లీడ్ రోల్స్ తో కిట్టి పార్టీ

ఆచార్య క్రియేషన్స్‌, బ్లూ సర్కిల్‌ కార్పొరేషన్‌ పతాకాల పై భోగేంద్ర గుప్తా నిర్మిస్తున్న సినిమా ‘కిట్టి పార్టీ’. ఈ సినిమాతో నూతన దర్శకుడిగా సుందర్‌ పవన్‌ పరిచయం అవుతున్నారు.

ఆసక్తిరేపుతున్న 28°c ఫస్ట్ లుక్

ఈ సినిమాలో మధుబాల,సదా,’మైనే ప్యార్‌ కియా (తెలుగులో ‘ప్రేమ పావురాలు’) ఫేమ్‌ భాగ్య శ్రీ,,’పెళ్లి సందడి’ఫేమ్‌ దీప్తీ భట్నాగర్‌,సుమన్‌ రంగనాథ్‌,హరితేజ,పూజా జవేరి ముఖ్య పాత్రలు పోషిస్తున్నారు. హైదరాబా…

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[sibillyn-blog]

There are two ways to ascertain how good a mother has been at her job. Look at her children. And study her garden.

[sibillyn-blog]

We miss the dead because we will never be able to ask them questions only they could have answered. We miss them because we can never find peace in their wisdom ever again.

[sibillyn-blog]

I will never forget that evening on your terrace. How we laughed, stone sober, as you left to bring the smoking things we had forgotten about again. I leaned on the parapet as my eyes caught the aching darkness. The abandoned factory gaped, its maw waiting for death, or worse, change. The jungles creept silently around and over and through and through. The only thing that battled this great arboreal abyss was the tiny folding chair under a feeble but firm lamplight. Its cushion was still warm from use by the night guard who had excused himself from his ghostly charge of the rot dead factories for a cup of tea. I stood there, preoccupied with death, breathing air that smelt like life. So, this is what life is like in the country.

You were back. We climbed to the highest part of your palatial abode and drowned ourselves in decadence, smoking, laughing and lost in ourselves. You pointed out the fireworks but I could not see them. It made you pout, a sad pout, which I wished to erase with a kiss. But no. This was one bond I could not taint with my secrets.

So I turned around and looked up at the sky. "I'll see them now, I promise," I said. My heart was, however, empty. You grabbed me by my arm and let out a gentle shriek. "You missed the beginning," you said, as I turned to see it tear into the clouds and end smokily. You did not know I had seen it, from the corner of my eye. I smiled, as my heart felt something.

- "Jaago"

[sibillyn-blog]

I know exactly the kind of man I need. Me with my travels to lands not part of reality, me with my living there, sketching out characters and people and places, gushing riverine civilizations and craggy mountaintops, snow covered fortresses and locked cities. I'm here, creating my own world, which needs me in its years of creation, as I am their Mother, their God. Not many men will enjoy me. Me slipping into weekends filled with fantastical living, as I drudge through the weekdays for some hard paid labour. The weekends should belong to us, he would say. I don't disagree. I'd love you to join me. Let us sit, two Gods, building our worlds, sometimes coalescing, so that the characters in our heads and their stories untold can finally live and breathe and thrive. Over cupfuls of coffee, and wine and cigarettes we are trying to quit. Over lunch and dinner made at home but reminiscent of the societies of our fantasy worlds. Here we sit, two writers, two lovers, one husband, one wife, both Mothers, creating worlds to escape into. And for the progeny to read and remember, in the darkest hour of the Kalyuga, that beauty, kindness, decency, peace and magic are still there within those who still believe. May the light of that revelation be the fire in their cold hearts, that melt away the blackness and demand nothing but a beautiful world.

[sibillyn-blog]

#1 Letters to Stranger

Dear Stranger,

I don’t know what kind of love it is that I need. I don’t know whether I deserve any, or if my soul demands any. Sometimes, you see, I think differently than my soul. In moments when my mind is overtaken by a most plain humaneness, a most genteel kind of submission that shows me what I am. You know, what I am, stranger. You know, because I come to you for love.

Dear stranger, don’t fret. At last, I am here again. Your little student, you little slave, call me what you will, words matter little to me. And that’s why I can use them to speak to you. Because otherwise, I’d be lost. I’d be hanging on your every silence, waiting. Like a lamb looks on to a big bad world, waiting to be culled or cuddled. I am here with you, your lamb, waiting. Always, always waiting, for you to tell me what happens next.

In the real world, I’m a king. But in yours, I am just a seeker. A seeker of a place within your world. A seeker of a love within your capacity.

[sibillyn-blog]

As I sit reading Kafū, I find myself lost in his mossy autumn garden. Its bamboo hedges prickling the red sky, its yellow chrysanthemums that twinkle like stars. Nothing like the cracked verandah where I am sitting, back turned to the noisy, polluted main street. I can smell the old, clear Ichikawa air of my bookish escapade as my lungs fill with the soot of rotten fish being cooked by street dwellers and the fumes of a hundred thousand scurrying cars.

It is only when a quick breeze blows and yellowing leaves fall overhead like snow that my mind jump cuts back into the present. I lower the book and face the reality of my lifeless potted garden. The ancient verandah that holds on to useless things like rain-soiled cardboard boxes, torn slippers and a withering bookcase in its corners. The rusted ribs peeking through the broken balustrade. I wonder how Kafū could indeed be lonely in the bounteous grounds of his father's estate. I wonder if he would be able to spend a single evening at mine.

My eyes tear away from daydreams and search for the fallen leaves. Mindfulness is a coping mechanism for me. I notice each leaf is of a different age and growth. Like them, not all writers were made the same. Perhaps some lonely soul will find comfort in my unhappy surroundings someday. I wonder if Kafū thought the same.

Where the vines of the blue peaflowers twist around the ladylike necks of the periwinkle and shiuli, a cobweb string holds on confidently to the tail of one of the dead leaves. Browned to a crisp by the sun, the hanging leaf twirls like a ballerina inexhaustibly, one way, and then the other, whenever the wind blows right. The solo puts a smile to my face. The jasmine leaves notice and smilingly sigh back. Unkempt. Blighted. Stained with ash and dust. They have been noticed for what they are. Imperfect and thriving still. "I finally feel like I belong," I hear them whisper through muted thank-yous. It all fills me with an overwhelming sense of guilt, acceptance. And then, joy. Wonder. Ah...magic.

There is beauty in my ugly garden.

[sibillyn-blog]

It's not lonely, to be without a friend. I have had many friends at several points in my life. And then none. And then many more. And then none again. One can say that I have been desensitised to the bonds of friendship. And so, perhaps, I have turned to family. The one bond that is impossible, or at least hard, for someone to sever without guilt.

[sibillyn-blog]

I watched 'Capote' today. As a journalist who's spent three years being in the profession in the Space Age, it was a little too late. It stirred something haunted inside me. Pachi came back to me again, smiling, bright and vivacious. Happy. Alive. In my mind made of boxes and compartments, a forsaken, dusty old door reopened itself to me. Burning was the universe she had created in me. A universe made of some hellos and a handful of childish jokes. And the words 'big sister'. I opened the balcony and went our for a smoke and diluted vodka. Without music plugged into my ears for a change. I found the door open up as I breathed in the dry winter air. I could not see Pachi. But the desire to know what happened to her was still aflame. And all-consuming.

[sibillyn-blog]

"Shall I get you your chair?"

Daisy nodded an uh-uh.

Mother Coldrey sneered at her eldest.

"She'll be here for two minutes at most. I don't see the point of your question."

Theo gulped down her response again. It was easier this time, with the taste of the morning coffee still lingering. She could forget how her every word was triggering something stale in her mother's heart, turning into venom on her lips.

"Ah but there is a point, Mother," she thought to herself. "It's called basic human decency".

And although she felt very victorious, tuning into her inner Buddha and coming up with wise internal exclaims, her heart quaked slightly with an unspeakable wish. That her mother could finally be a Coldrey and weed out the ways of her uncivil, baseborn upbringing.