Sunday, June 30, 2024

LIFE LESSONS FROM THE WRITE PATH

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‘Celebrating the Introspective and Reflective Aspects of Writing.’

To write or not to write has never been the question. From an early age, I grew up with books strewn around me at home. Everyone I knew was a reader or a writer. When people asked me if I wanted to be a writer, my answer was always a resounding ‘Yes!’ In fact, I wrote my first poem at the age of ten.

However, that first poem of mine did not get written for altruistic reasons or because I wanted people to read and savour my writing. Instead, I was bitten by the green-eyed monster of envy. A young friend of mine would come with her poems to my mother, herself a lover of the English language, and spend hours showing off her prowess. There were evenings when she would attach herself to my mother, and leave only three or four hours later. What was worse was that mom would wax eloquent about her talent, her flair and her dedication, all the while casting sidelong glances at me. When the pressure got too much for me, I sat down and promptly wrote my first poem, only to enjoy the process so much that I continued to write on whatever little scrap of paper I could find. Much later I realised that my mother had played the smart card and got me hooked on to writing.

That was Lesson Number 1 that I learnt from the Write Path.

 Often, positive results can come out of negative emotions.

The green-eyed monster having vanished by them, I fervently thank that friend who was the catalyst for my writing.


                                                                     The Green Eyed Monster - Alamy

My father was an Army officer, and we were posted in the picturesque city of Vizag. I was in the 11th and there was a Naval Week essay competition that I took part. I recall Dad telling me, “Make sure that your opening paragraph has a punch strong enough to catch the eye of the readers.” I took his advice and wrote out an introduction which was catchy and had an apt quote. I used the dictionary to find words that would enhance the narrative. To make things easier, I learnt the whole introduction by heart.

On the day of the competition, I began writing with an air of confidence while my fellow writers were nibbling on their pens to put words to paper. Once I had finished the first bit, I continued writing everything else which I had compiled earlier. When the results came, I was adjudged the winner and received a certificate and prize money, but what was priceless were the words from the chief judge.

“What an amazing introduction you presented! You have a flair for writing.” Elated, I went home to tell my parents about my win, and gave my father an extra special hug, saying, “Dad, if I did well today, it was due to your amazing suggestion.” Lesson Number 2 had come my way.

It is vital to hook the reader right from the beginning, something I try and do with my short stories and my novels.

By the time I got married to a smart young Army Captain, I had already written several stories and articles for magazines like Woman’s Era, Femina and Mirror. Our first posting was to Bhuj, a tiny cantonment which came into prominence during the Gujarat earthquake.

As a bride I was welcomed into my husband’s regiment by the Commanding Officer’s wife, along with three other young brides who had also come in along with me. We were all royally pampered by the senior officers and their spouses, who invited us for every meal for almost a fortnight. It was such a lovely feeling that I would sit down and write about everything to my mother and sisters back home. By then Dad was no more, but his spirit hovered above us, as though he wanted to make up for having left us so early in life.

We moved on to Deolali, where my husband was posted for a course, I wrote regularly for a little newsletter called ‘Deolali Doings’. I found so many amusing things to write about my life in the Army – right from the accommodation, the cooks, the parties, the pets and just about everything. That is how my first book titled ‘Arms and the Woman’ was born, a book that took a light-hearted look at my life as an army wife. Lesson Number 3 presented itself.

Humour is a useful way to get your point across.

Lesson 4 sneaked in deviously into my life, as subtly as my fascination for thrillers of all kinds. Starting with Agatha Christie, Conan Doyle, Daphne du Maurier, Victoria Holt and Mary Stewart, whose intriguing books I devoured as a teenager, I moved onto the equally suspenseful books of Jeffrey Archer, Dan Brown and Mary Higgins Clark. I loved the twist in the tale concept, avidly searching for red herrings and mysterious clues that these stalwarts threw in, often to confuse readers.

When I wrote my first thriller short story, I realised that the bug had bitten me as well. From then on, many of my stories and books revolved around thrills and chills… my Shadow quartet and my thriller story anthologies. I was even invited as a Guest editor for a horror anthology titled The Abandoned House Horror from the Chrysanthemum Chronicles publishing house curated by Monalisa Joshi.

That is how Lesson Number 4 crept in.

Childhood interests grow into lifelong passions.

Very early in life, I also understood how important it is to love your writing and make it sparkle. If what you write bores you to death, how on earth would you expect it to interest your readers? 

"I know nothing on the world that has as much power as a word. Sometimes I write one, and look at it, until it shines." Emily Dickinson

Thus, I learnt to sift quality over quantity, only writing about what interested me, adapting to the times and the interests of readers. Sometimes, it felt terrible to discard a piece I had written or a plot that had fascinated me, but I would steel my heart and run a red pen over it because it was not convincing enough. Lesson Number 5, I would say, is one of the hardest lessons learnt, and one of the most vital ones as well.

Write with your heart and edit with your mind.

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It was Oscar Wilde, that delightfully witty writer, who said,

 "It is always a silly thing to give advice, but to give good advice is absolutely fatal." 

I have always believed that it is better to talk about your own learning experiences than to give dollops of advice to others. I continue to be an aspiring writer because I feel that there is scope to improve with every piece of writing. In fact, look upon writing as a blessing and a pleasure. Let it be an activity that takes the stress out of your life, instead of a tiresome chore that you must complete due to a Damocles sword of a deadline hanging over you. Make friends with reader and writer groups and communicate with like-minded folks. The more you share your work with others, the more joy you get out of the whole exercise. Lesson Number 6 catapults its way from this trampoline. 

Keep reading, writing and sharing your writing for you never know where your next reader is going to spring from.

"You should write stories because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different pages on a page." Annie Proulx 

THIS POST IS PART OF 'THE WRITE PATH BLOG HOP' HOSTED BY SWARNALI NATH. 

https://theblissfulstoryteller.com/


 




 


Thursday, June 20, 2024

NO COOK COOK BOOK!

 

Don’t we all have those days once in a while when we want to sit back, watch a movie, read a book and just chill? Maybe this feeling comes over us after a heavy day at work, or a festival break when every day has been an eating marathon, and the sight of food makes us want to run away.

It was probably on one of these occasions that I walked into a book shop and looked pointedly away from the recipe section. There was a great ‘3 for 2’ offer where one could pick up three books and pay for the two more expensive ones. I have always been a sucker for these book bargains and have often come across some treasures. In fact, it is difficult to prise me away at such times, as people around me have realised to their consternation.

To cut a long story short, I had picked up two amazing books by my favourite author and was scouring around for a third, when my eyes fell upon an intriguing title… NO COOK COOK BOOK! For one, it rhymed, and it began with the words ‘NO COOK'. Of course, I was intrigued, and I picked up the slender volume and browsed through it.

The author, Satarupa Banerjee, had obviously realised that there was a market out there to be conquered, one for all those who needed to put their feet up for a while and not worry about cooking over a flame.

The foreword said just that.

“Whatever the reason, give yourself a holiday from cooking, as you rush around doing your everyday chores. Rustle up a simple no-cook meal – an appetiser to begin with, followed by a cold soup and a sandwich; then a chilled dessert.” It ended with a promise.

“With the interesting new ideas that this book offers, I wish you many enjoyable no-cook meals.”

The first recipe is a coffee eggnog, followed by a meal in a glass which consists of curd, sugar and fruits, garnished with nuts. The recipes go in a natural progression – soups like Gazpacho and chilled Avocado Soup give way to Chicken and Rice Bowl, Cucumber Cheese Mousse and Savoury Prawn Cheesecake.

Gazpacho Soup - Unsplash

It is but customary to have salads in the next section. The names of the recipes are rather intriguing – Come to Lunch Salad which is a putting together of cooked rice and cooked prawns (probably prepared a day earlier) along with an easy salad dressing, Elegant Chicken Salad, which is served in lettuce cups, Cucumber Cheese Mousse and a most unusual Popcorn Salad.

                                                                      Cucumber Cheese Mousse - morsels & sauces

Pinwheel sandwiches and Tivoli sandwiches precede Chicken Chaat, Papri Chaat and Jhal Muri, a Kolkata special which goes well with hot tea, coffee or cold drinks.

The desserts sound equally striking – Papaya Fool, Lychee Pearls, Kesaria Shrikhand and Paneer Gateaux! That is not all. There is an exotic sounding Bavarois Diplomate, which is a souffle that can be prepared several hours in advance and left to chill.

Papaya Fool - BetumiBlog

For those with simpler tastes, Vanilla Ice Cream and Date and Nut Fingers are easier substitutes.

While the book has no illustrations, I thought it would make my post brighter if I added a few just to add colour to my post.

No guesses for what I will be delving into the next time I want to put my feet up! 😊

 


This post is part of #BlogchatterFoodFest.

Wednesday, June 19, 2024

YUMMY FOR MY TUMMY - SAGO FRUIT CUSTARD IN A JIFFY

 
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There is no doubt that even after a sumptuous meal, people still think that the best is yet to come. Their mouths water when they think of the dessert to follow, be it ice cream, kheers/payasams, mousses and cheesecakes, or a gift box replete with Indian sweets.

Once I got the hang of cooking, and had tried my hand at many a dessert, there was one that seemed perfect, given its consistency and taste… sago fruit custard. Every time I made it, people seemed to savour it. If you enjoy the softness of sago and the tartness of cut fruits, the sweetness of condensed milk (who doesn’t love licking the last spoon?) and the crispness of nuts fried in ghee, this dessert is for you.

 


Ingredients (All good!)

Sabudana / sago – ½ cup

Water: 3.5 cups

Milk: 500 ml

Sugar or condensed milk: 1 cup (add more if you want it sweeter)

Custard powder: 2 tablespoons, mixed in 1/3 cup milk till no lumps remain

Ghee: 2 tablespoons

Cashew nuts and raisins: 2 tablespoons each

Pomegranate, mango, apple, grapes, bananas – all ½ cup each

Method: (Gets done in a jiffy!)

Wash sago well and rinse. Drain it and soak in fresh water for three hours. Boil 3.5 cups of water in a pan and add soaked sago in it. Boil for 13 to 15 minutes on a medium flame. Stir well till soft.

Next, add 500 ml milk into the pan and boil on medium flame. When it thickens, add one cup of sugar or condensed milk. Keep stirring and add the mixed custard powder. Boil for 5 minutes on medium flame. Remove from fire.

In a small pan, fry cashew nuts and raisins in ghee well and add to the custard. Stir and cool completely.

Add all the fruits, stir well and refrigerate. Serve chilled.

If you do ever try this recipe, I would love to know how it turned out!

Bon appetit! 😊

 This post is a part of #BlogchatterFoodFest

Sunday, June 16, 2024

'EASY PEASY'!!!

 

For all those who have read my two earlier posts in the #BlogchatterFoodFest, cooking was not something that came easily to me when I was first married. Hence, I have wonderful memories of friends who taught me the rudiments and helped me out with easy recipes that I diligently put down in a little brown diary that turned into my Bible whenever I needed to prove my culinary prowess later in life. I recall being very excited when an aunt of mine gave me some stickers which actually smelt of food… for example, a pizza sticker that gave off the aroma of a pizza and a sticker of a peppermint that smelt divine. I stuck them down in my brown diary along with my collection of ‘easy peasy’ recipes that grew over the decades. Today, my diary is dog-eared and unmanageable with over 240 recipes, and I can say without hesitation, that they are all time-tested and dear.

One of the earliest recipes that I picked up at a friend’s house was peas pulao. When I went over, she was in the process of making it, and she volunteered to show it to me… this was over forty years ago, and yet, this ‘easy-peasy’ peas pulao is one that I still make, sometimes with my eyes closed. If I could manage it at a stage when I was a fledgling cook, anyone can do it.

‘Easy Peasy’ Peas Pulao: Recipe number 104 (Brown diary)

Soak basmati rice.

Cut onions in rings.

In a saucepan, take ghee, fry broken spices (bay leaf, clove, cinnamon, cardamom). Add a little jeera.

Sauté the onions rings.

Add soaked rice and peas and fry.

Add double the quantity of water (2 cups of water to 1 cup of rice) and add salt to taste.

Let it bubble and simmer till the rice is cooked.

                                                                                                    Pinterest

Over the years, I have collected so many cookbooks that anyone seeing them would assume that I am a MasterChef. What they don’t realise is the sacrifices that have gone into acquiring these books… for those who are keen on knowing, I would refer them to my husband’s cast iron stomach, one that he has developed after being a scapegoat to my umpteen culinary trials and tribulations! Add Instagram and Facebook recipes to the mix, and you have millions of recipes to try out, and only one lifetime to do so, unfortunately!


Of course, it also goes without saying that if you throw a stone at my family, chances are that it would go and hit a person genuinely fond of churning out culinary masterpieces, be it my grandmother  and grandaunts (in the hoary past), my sisters, real and acquired, my better half who had to survive and realised that he actually enjoyed the process (Thank God for that!), our daughter and son-in-love, and just everyone in the latter’s family, who make a ceremony out of good food. In fact, our entire family has a WhatsApp group aptly dubbed ‘Fun, Food and Family’ because we religiously believe in the significance of all three.

The moral of my post is patently clear. Get a good diary and write down all the recipes that matter. Watch MasterChef and Gordon Ramsay (shutting out his colourful language!), keep trying out your culinary skills (or lack of them) on anyone who is willing to take a chance.

And voila – await the emergence of a new MasterChef!

This post is written as part of #BlogchatterFoodFest

Saturday, June 15, 2024

THE BHINDI CONUNDRUM

 
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All through childhood, I loved bhindi, the ubiquitous lady's finger, a vegetable that rose to the occasion every time it was fried with onion, chillies and spices. It went beautifully with chapatis and parathas, blended well with rice and curd and, in general, warmed the cockles of my heart.

When I tied the knot at the age of 22, I knew nothing about the rudiments of cooking. At home, delicacies appeared magically on the table and vanished in a jiffy. I could not even boil an egg! Later, when I got married to an Army officer, he assumed that I would be a culinary wizard, judging by the food he had eaten at our home. Those illusions were dispelled very soon.

Immediately after marriage, as is the custom, I was welcomed into my husband's regiment as a brand new bride. The Indian Army is an extremely hospitable organization and since there were three other brides apart from me, all of us were given royal treatment by the senior ladies and gentlemen. We were out for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and often brunch and tea as well for around a fortnight.

Once that 'honeymoon' period was over, it was time to explore our own kitchen. Luckily, my husband had a batman who knew his beans and dals. He painstakingly explained the different dals to me, all of which were in shades of yellow, red, green and white.


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The first few trials were rocky. I delved into the few cookbooks I had, desperately striving to discover recipes that I could make sense of. Potato, onion and chillies seemed the safest bet. Unfortunately, the potatoes were not very obliging and remained rock hard. The dal, likewise, lay like pebbles at the bottom of the ocean, wide-eyed. To give full credit to my better half, his resolute Army genes kicked in and he manfully consumed all my burnt offerings without a demur. 40 years of marital bliss later, I can truthfully say that not once has he complained about my cooking, though he had many occasions to do so. 

Came the day when I decided to try my hand at making bhindi. How difficult could it be? Wash it, dry it, cover it and forget about it! I did just that, adding all the masalas, and finally, a generous amount of water. I let it simmer, humming a tune to myself. Simmer it did, and as I looked on, horrified, it congealed into a gluey, blubbery mess. I tried to prise it out, but it was next to impossible. Even our normally ravenous Labrador, Bozo, turned his nose up at it. 

As the years trundled by, my culinary skills got better. After all, there was no way they could get worse!

Today, when my husband and I cook meals together, sautéing vegetables, baking bread, steaming momos and recreating dum biryani, we laugh at those initial days. Our daughter and our son-in-love are MasterChefs in their own right. Our little grandchildren cook us breakfast on certain Sundays. Life has come full circle, one lives and learns, and thank God for that! 

After all, nothing brings people together like good food! 

Kitchen Quotes Images


This post is written as part of #Blogchatter Food Fest.


LOVE IS LOVE - OUT AND ABOUT BLOG HOP

 
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“Oh, we have been friends forever!” Mansi said airily to the gathering of new friends she had made in college in the first week. “Samar and I grew up together and we can read each other’s thoughts.”

The girls tittered as they glanced at her enviously. Samar was the best-looking boy around and many of them had gazed at him from beneath their long eyelashes. Yet, he seemed impervious to their glances, and now they knew the reason why. Mansi smiled at their glum expressions. She was used to girls throwing themselves at Samar, but then, he and she had always had a special relationship, right from when their parents had been best friends, which made it easier. They had moved on from childish delights to teenage ones, and now that they were almost adults, their parents had also begun making plans to bring them together in wedlock.

Nothing could go wrong, or so it seemed. Till the fateful missive arrived, one that cast a pall of suspicion around. It was addressed to both sets of parents and written in crude verse form, in a handwriting that had obviously been cleverly disguised.

“Open your eyes and look at what is before you,

The one you love does not love you,

There are days of darkness and gloom nigh,

Your so-called love will desert you, leave you high and dry!”

The missive caused pandemonium in both households. There was an emergency meeting of all the parents who stared at the two youngsters, who sat in silence, obviously unsettled. For once they were tongue-tied, unable to explain this bolt from the blue. Who could have written this, and for what reason? Was it someone who wanted to break the strong bond between the two families?

Hours earlier, the two had gone to a restaurant so that they could talk alone. As they sipped at their lemonades, Samar began, “Mansi, how do we address this problem? My parents are extremely put out.” Mansi nodded in agreement. It was an unforeseen situation, especially now that their parents had been dragged into it as well.

Meanwhile, the parents were distraught. The missive gave out no names, no clues. Mansi’s mother wept on Samar’s mother’s shoulder. “What is all this, Sheela? Who could write something so vicious?”

Sheela looked at her, a frown on her attractive face. “I have no idea, Madhu. Maybe it is just a gossipmonger, wanting to stir up trouble. Or someone jealous of how close we are!”

The fathers sipped at their whiskey and grumbled in turn. “I wish I could lay hands on this villainous letter writer. He will not survive to tell the tale!” Mansi’s dad was vociferous. Samar’s father nodded vigorously as he downed his drink.

“Well, what explanation is there for this nonsense?” Samar’s father asked belligerently. Samar and Mansi looked at each other. It was time to let the cat out of the bag. Their faces were set, and they were aware that they were going to shock quite a few people around. Samar cleared his throat, fumbling for words because he knew how delicate the topic they were going to broach was… a dream that was going to be shattered.

As he began to talk. The colour faded from the faces of both sets of parents.

“Mansi and I are the best of friends, and have always been so. We love each other dearly but not in the way you think.” After a pause, he continued. “Mansi is in love with someone else, someone who means the world to her. Santosh is a wonderful person, just right for her. Their interests, their mindsets, their ideas match. In fact, they are the quintessential made-for-each-other couple.”

Mansi’s mother interrupted, her voice quavering. “How is it that we have never met this Santosh? Is he from her college? Her workplace? How did they meet? And why didn’t Mansi tell us about him earlier?”

Mansi could not hold back any longer. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked at her parents.

“Ma, Papa, you have never met the love of my life because Santosh is a girl, not a boy. We love each other with all our heart!”

It was as if a dagger had been thrust into their hearts. Mansi’s father stood up with a jerk and advanced towards her. “What… what… how is that possible? We have brought you up in the right way. How dare you betray us like this? How can you fall in love with a girl?” His voice exploded in disbelief. Her mother burst into tears.

“How will we explain this to our family? We will not be able to hold our heads up in society ever! This is not natural.”

“There is nothing unnatural about our relationship, Ma,” Mansi replied, clinging on for support to Samar’s hand. “People are wired differently. For me, falling in love with a man would be unnatural.”

Samar’s parents had been looking on, shocked at the revelation.

“Why did you stand for this charade, son?” Samar’s father asked.

“Dad, I have known Mansi all my life. She has never hidden anything from me. I knew about her preferences very early in life. She has been my best friend, my confidant, and often she has guided me with my relationships because she knows the kind of girls I would fall in love with.”

His parents gave a sigh of relief as his mother remarked, “Thank God you are normal!” Realising what she had said, she looked apologetically at Mansi’s parents.

“Mansi is normal too,” Samar interjected. “Society has begun to accept alternative relationships. Being gay is not something to be kept under wraps any more. Article 377 of the Indian Penal Code which criminalized homosexuality was struck down by the Supreme Court of India in 2018. Ever since, so many people have come out of the closet.”

He put his arm around Mansi who was still pale, but unafraid. A burden had slipped off her shoulders and she realised that it would take time and effort to bring her parents around to her way of thinking. At the moment, the wound was raw, but she hoped that they would accept her decision in due course of time. Her own mind was firmly made up, and her heart, which had its own reasons, even more so. She looked forward to a beautiful life ahead with Santosh and she hoped that her parents would be there to share it with her.


This post is part of the Out and About Blog Hop hosted by Sukaina Majeed and Manali Desai.

                                                                                       
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Monday, June 10, 2024

OUR VERY OWN MASTERCHEF - PARVATHY AMMA!

 
                                                                               Our beautiful Parvathy Amma

When I was around six months old, a miracle took place at home. A young lady walked into my parents' Army home and knocked at the door. When my mother opened it, the lady smiled toothily and said,

“Do you need a cook?”

My mother’s first reaction was a sigh of relief as she ushered Parvathy Amma in. Stuck with a six-month old baby, Mom, who had always been a whirlwind rushing around with a million things to do, had been feeling the dire need to hand the said baby to someone and just put her feet up.

That is how Parvathy Amma came into our lives. She was a diligent worker, a home manager and above all, a MasterChef in those days when the programme was not even a twinkle in someone’s eye. She had magic in her fingers and over the years, she not only honed her culinary skills, but also perfected the art of knowing exactly what everyone in the house enjoyed. By then, my two sisters had also come along and since our maternal grandparents also lived with us, there were diverse tastebuds that needed to be pleased.

Come morning, Parvathy Amma would be up along with the rooster, and after a shower, she would throw herself wholeheartedly into the preparations of breakfast. This list went this way – idlis for my grandparents, with chutney and dosa podi ( the powder that is mixed with oil), crispy, almost transparent dosas for my mother, porridge and eggs for my father. We girls had our own whims and every day would see three kinds of egg preparations on the dining table – sunny side up, or down, scrambled eggs with cheese or a savoury omelette – all of which would be whipped up in a jiffy. Of course, her coffee was to die for and there were days when I would have around six cups of coffee, the last one late at night when I was burning the midnight oil.

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Lunch and dinner would progress in the same manner. We would have guests dropping in at all hours and not one of them was allowed to leave without eating. Now when I think back, I find myself amazed at how effortlessly Parvathy Amma created a table filled with dishes, each more delicious than the other. Her sambar had people licking their fingers, her chicken curry and stew were eagerly sought and her pulaos and snacks were out of this world. Since Dad was in the Army, we would get posted out every two to three years, and when we met old friends, apart from the rest of the conversation, there would always be a query from them.

“How is our dear Parvathy Amma? We can never forget her delicious food!”

Decades went by, and when she started slowing down, we had a girl come in to be her helper. Yet, Parvathy Amma was extremely possessive about her kitchen. She refused to relegate her duties to anyone else. In fact, as we were growing up, she never allowed us to brush up our culinary talents, and hence, when I got married, I could not even boil an egg. It was only after assiduously burning much food and maltreating my poor better half’s stomach that I finally got the hang of cooking palatable food. Of course, my sisters barged into her kitchen before they tied the knot, unwilling to subject their spouses to the same torture.


iStock 

It was after our daughter was born that Parvathy Amma retired from cooking. However, she would sit on a chair and bombard the girl in the kitchen with instructions, step by step, handing over her precious recipes to her, as a result of which we continued to have delicious food.

The day came when she was bed-ridden and we would all go and sit by her, offering her delicious mango slices and anything she asked for.  We even got her a small television so that she could watch her favourite serials. When she was ready to go, we all sat by her and prayed till her last breath left her. That was truly the end of an era. We had been lucky to have Parvathy Amma in our lives and the tales of her culinary skills and her immense loyalty to our family still live on.

 

                                                                   Freepik

Written as as part of #BlogchatterFoodFest

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