Some Telugu movies

  Neti Yugadharmamu.........http://www.youtube.com/movie/neti-yugadharmam?feature=mv_e_shr
  Kotikokkadu....................http://www.youtube.com/movie/koti-kokkadu?feature=mv_e_shr
  Iddaru Iddare...................http://www.youtube.com/movie/iddaru-iddare?feature=mv_e_shr
  Gaju Bommalu.................http://www.youtube.com/movie?feature=mv_e_shr&v=or8MwR7a2hQ
   Vivaha Bhojanambu........http://www.youtube.com/movie/vivah-bhojanambu?feature=mv_e_shr
    Prema Sandadi..............http://www.youtube.com/movie/prema-sandadi?feature=mv_e_shr
   Panduragadu..................http://www.youtube.com/movie/pandurangadu?feature=mv_e_shr
  Chantigadu......................http://www.youtube.com/movie/chantigadu?feature=mv_e_shr
  Na Autograph..................http://www.youtube.com/movie/na-autograph?feature=mv_e_shr
  Neerajanam......................http://www.youtube.com/movie/neerajanam?feature=mv_e_shr

ABCDs ; The Culture-Conflict. 105

                                                (Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)


          In a moment she would hear the beeps of the security system, the garage door opening, car doors closing, her children's voices in the house. She applied lotion to her arms and legs, reached for peach-colored terrycloth robe that hung from a hook on the door. Her husband had given her the robe years ago, for a Christmas now long forgotten. This too she would have to give away, would have no use for where she was going. In such a humid climate it would take days for such a thick material to dry. She made a note to herself, to wash it well and donate it to the thrift shop. She didn't remember the year she had gotten the robe, didn't remember opening it, or her reaction. She knew only that it had been either Gogol or Sonia who had picked it out at one of the department stores at the mall, had wrapped it, even. That all her husband had done was to write his name and hers on the to-and-from tag. She didn't fault him for this. Such omissions of devotion, of affection, she knew now, did not matter in the end. She no long wondered what it might had been like to do what her children had done, to fall in love first rather than years later, to deliberate over a period of months or years and not a single afternoon, which was the time it taken for her and Ashoke to  agree to wed. It was the image of their two names on the tag that she thought of, a tag that she had not bothered to save. It reminded her of their life together, of the unexpected life he, in choosing to marry her, had given her here, which she had refused for so many years to accept. And though she still didn't feel fully at home within these walls on Pemberton Road she knew that this was home nevertheless ; the world for which she was responsible, which she has created, which was every where around her, needing to be packed up, given away, thrown out bit by bit. She slipped her damp arms into the sleeves of the robe, tied the belt around her waist. It had always been a bit short on her on her, a size too small. Its warmth was a comfort all the same.


There was no one to greet Gogol on the platform when ha got off the train. He wondered if he was early, looked at his watch. Instead of getting into the station house he waited on a bench outside. The last of the passengers boarded, the train doors slid to a close. The conductors waved their signals to one another, the wheels rolled slowly, the compartments glided forward one by one.He watched his fellow passengers being greeted by their family members, lovers reunited with entangled arms, without a word. College students burdened by backpacks, returning from Christmas break. After a few minutes the platform was empty, as was the space the train had occupied. Now Gogol looked onto a field, some spindly trees against a cobalt twilight sky. He thought of calling home but decided he was content to sit and wait awhile longer. The cool air was pleasant on his face after his hours on the train. He'd slept most of the journey to Boston, the conductor poking him awake once they'd reached South Station, and he was the only person left in the compartment, the last to get off. He'd slept soundly, curled up on two seats, his book unread, using his overcoat as a blanket, pulled up to his chin. 

Yamagola - Gudivada Vellanu - Spicy Song

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9O1oVFRq2s

ABCDs ; The Culture-Conflict. 104

                                                   (Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)


           Ashima finished breading the final croquette, then glanced at her wristwatch. She was slightly ahead of the schedule. She set the platter on the counter next to the stove. She took a pan out of the cupboard and poured in the oil, several cupfuls, to be heated in the minutes before her guests are expected. From a crock she selected the slotted spatula she would use. For now, there was nothing left to be done. The rest of the food had been prepared, sitting in  long Corning Ware pans on the dining room table : dal coated with a thick skin that would rupture as soon as the first of it was served, a roasted cauliflower dish, eggplant, a korma of lamb. Sweet yogurt and pantuas for dessert sat on the sideboard. She eyed every thing with anticipation. Normally cooking for parties leaves her without appetite, but to night she looked forward to serving herself, sitting among her guests. With Sonia's help the house had been cleaned one last time. Ashima always loved these hours before a party, the carpets vacuumed, the coffee table wiped with Pledge, her dimmed, blurry reflection visible in the wood.
          She rooted through her kitchen drawer for a packet of incense. She lighted a stick and walked from room to room. It had gratified her to go to all this effort - to make a final, celebratory meal for her children, her friends. To decide on menu, to make a list and shop in the supermarket and fill the refrigerator shelves with food. It was a pleasant change of pace, something finite in contrast to her current, overwhelming, ongoing task : to prepare for her departure, picking her bones of the house clean. For the past month, she had been dismantling her household piece by piece. Each evening she had tackled a drawer, a closet, a set of shelves. Though Sonia offered to help, Ashima preferred to do this alone. She had made piles of things to give to Gogol and Sonia, things to give to friends, things to take with her, things to donate to charities, things to put into trash bags and drive to the dump. The task both saddened and satisfied her at the same time. There was a thrill to whittling down her possessions to little more than what she had come with, to those three rooms in Cambridge in the middle of a winter's night. Tonight she would invite friends to take whatever might be useful, lamps, plants, platters, pots and pans. Sonia and Ben would rent a truck and take whatever furniture they had room for.
           The walls of the house reminded her of the house when they had first moved in, bare except for the photograph of her husband, which would be the last thing she would remove. She paused for a moment waving of the incense in front of Asoke's image. She went upstairs to shower, getting into her beige bathtub, behind the crackled sliding glass doors. She was exhausted from two days of cooking. from her morning of cleaning, from these weeks of packing and dealing with the sale of the house. Her feet felt heavy against the fiberglass floor of the tub. For a while she simply stood there before tending to the shampooing of her hair, soaping of her softening, slightly shrinking fifty- three-year-old body, which she must fortify each morning with calcium pills. When she was finished, she wiped the steam off the bathroom mirror and studied her face. A widow's face. But for most of her life, she reminded herself, a wife. And perhaps, one day, a grandmother, arriving in America laden with hand-knit sweaters and gifts,leaving, a month or two later, inconsolable, in tears.
          Ashima felt lonely suddenly, horribly, permanently alone, and briefly turned away from the mirror, she sobbed for her husband. She felt overwhelmed by the thought of the move she was about to make, to the city that was once home and was now in its own way foreign. She felt both impatience and indifference for all the days she still must live, for something told her she would not go quickly as her husband did. For thirty-three years she missed her life in India. Now she would miss her job at the library, the women with whom she had worked. She would miss throwing parties. She would miss living with her daughter, the surprising companionship they had formed, going into Cambridge together to see old movies at the Brattle, teaching her to cook the food Sonia had complained of eating as a child. She would miss the opportunity to drive, as she sometimes did on her way home from the library, to the university, past the engineering building where her husband once worked. She would miss the country in which she had grown to know and love her husband. Though his ashes had been scattered into the Ganges, it was here, in this house and in this town, that he would continue to dwell in her mind.

ABCDs ; The Culture-Conflict. 103

                                              (Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)


          Ashima had decided to spend six months of her life in India, six months in the States. She would live with her younger brother, Rana, living in Calcutta, when she would visit India. Her brother used to live with his wife, and their two grown, as yet unmarried daughters, in a spacious flat in Salt Lake.There she would have a room, the first in her life intended for her exclusive use. In spring and summer she would return to the Northeast, dividing her her time among her son, her daughter, and her close Bengali friends. True to the meaning of her name, she would be without borders, without a home of her own, a resident everywhere and nowhere. But it was no longer possible for her to live here now that Sonia was going to be married. The wedding would be in Calcutta, a little over a year from now, on an auspicious January day, just as she and her husband were married nearly thirty-four years ago. Something told her that Sonia would be happy with this boy - quickly she corrected herself - this young man. He had brought happiness to her daughter, in a way Moushumi had never brought it to her son. That it was she who had encouraged Gogol to meet Moushumi would be something for which Ashima would always feel guilty. How could she had known ? But fortunately they had not considered it their duty to stay married, as the Bengalis of Ashoke and Ashima's generation did. They were not willing to accept, to adjust, to settle for something less than their ideal of happiness. That pressure had given way, in the case of the subsequent generation, to American common sense.
          For the final hours she was alone in the house. Sonia had gone with Ben to pick up Gogol to the train station. It occurred to Ashima that the next time she would be by herself, she would be travelling, sitting on the plane. For the first time since her flight to meet her husband in Cambridge, in the winter of 1967, she would make the journey entirely on her own. The prospect no longer terrified her. She had learned to do things on her own, and though she still wore saris, still put her long hair in a bun, She was not the same Ashima who had once lived in Calcutta. She would return to India with American passport. In her wallet would remain her Massachusetts driver's license, her social security card. She would return to world where she would not single-handedly throw parties for dozens of people. She would not have to go to the trouble of making yogurt from half-and-half and sandesh from ricotta cheese. She would not have to make her own croquettes. They would be available to her from restaurants, brought up to the flat by servants, bearing a taste that after all these years she had still not quite managed, to her entire satisfaction, to replicate.  

ABCDs ; The Culture-Conflicct. 102

                                          (Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)


          It was the day before Christmas. Ashima Ganguli sat at her kitchen table, making mincemeat croquettes for a party she was throwing that evening. There were one of her specialties, something her guests had come to expect, handed to them on small plates within minutes of their arrival. Alone, she managed an assembly line of preparation. First she forced warm boiled potatoes through a ricer. Carefully she shaped a bit of potato around a spoonful of cooked ground lamb, as uniformly as the white of a hard-boiled egg encased its yolk. She dipped each of the croquettes, about the size and shape of a billiard ball, into a bowl of beaten eggs, then coated them on a plate of bread crumbs, shaking off the excess in her cupped palms. Finally she stacked the croquettes on a large circular tray, a sheet of wax paper between each layer. She stopped to count how many she'd made so far. She estimated three for each adult, one or two for each of the children. She reviewed the exact number of guests once more, saw that an extra dozen of them arranged on the plate, to be safe. She poured a fresh heap of bread crumbs on the plate, their color and texture reminding her of sand on a beach. She remembered Gogol and Sonia helping her on such occasions, when they were children.
         This would be the last party Ashima would host at Pemberton Road, the first since her husband's funeral. The house in which she had lived for the past twenty-seven years, which she had occupied longer than any other in her life, had been recently sold, a Realtor's sign stuck into the lawn. The buyers were an American family, the Walkers, a young professor new to the university where her husband used to work, and a wife and daughter.. The Walkers were planning renovations. Listening to their plans of renovation, Ashima had felt a moment's panic, a protective instinct, wanting to retract her offer, wanting the house to remain as it had always been, as her husband had last seen it. But this had been sentimentality speaking. It was foolish for her to hope that the golden letters spelling GANGULI on the mailbox would not be peeled off, replaced. That Sonia's name, written in Magic Marker on the inside of her bedroom door, would not be sanded, restained. That the pencil makings on the wall by the linen closet, where Askoke used record his children's height on their birthdays, would not be painted over. 

ABCDs ; The Culture-Conflict. 101

                                           (Source : The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri)


             Gogol decided to try the Barnes and Noble, a book stall, at the northern edge of the square. But staring at the immense wall of new titles on display he realized he'd read none of those books, and what was the point of giving her something he hadn't read ? On his way out of the store he paused by a table devoted to travel guides. He picked up one for Italy, full of illustrations of the architecture he had studied so carefully as a student, had admired only in photographs, had always meant to see. It angered him, yet there was no one to blame but himself. What was stopping him ? A trip together, to  a place neither of them had been - may be that was what he and Moushumi needed. He could plan it all himself, selected the cities they would visit, the hotels. It could be his Christmas gift to her, two airplane tickets tucked into the back of the guide. He was due for another vacation, he could plan it for her spring break. Inspired by the thought, he went to the register, waited in a long line, and paid  for the book.
            He walked across the park toward home, thumbing through the book, anxious to see he now. He decided to stop  at the  gourmet grocery that was opened on Irving Place, to buy some of the things she liked : blood oranges, a wedge of cheese from the Pyrenees, slices of soppresata, a loaf of
peasant bread. For she would be hungry - they serve nothing on these days. He looked up from the 
book, at the sky, at the darkness gathering, the clouds a deep, beautiful gold, and was momentarily stopped by a flock of pigeons flying dangerously close. Suddenly terrified, he ducked his head, fee pedestrians had reacted. He stopped and watched as the birds shot up. He was unsettled by the sight. He thought of Italy, of Venice, the trip he would begin to plan.
           The lobby of the apartment was warm when he entered, the building's heat restored. "She just got back," the doorman told Gogol with a wink as he walked past, and his heart leaped, unburdened of its malaise, grateful for her simple act of returning to him. He imagined her puttering around the apartment, drawing a bath, pouring herself a glass of wine, her bags in the hallway. He slipped the book he would give her for Christmas into the pocket of his coat, making sure it was  concealed, and called elevator to take him upstairs.