Lokomotion From Inner To Outer...

The Nomad-2 (Vijay)

2011-09-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

Vijay’s father Meher was a man of shortcomings. He was a drunkard, never gave himself an option of education and had no such plans for his kid too. Woman as expected in the village catered to cattle, they had no say in the way of running a family. Meher used to wake up early, have a glass of tea, and go to the lake outside the village to do his morning chores. The lake was a bathing place for cattle of the village and the great amount of keekars and bushes around the lake made it an ideal place for shitting purposes. The place around the lake was divided into sections. The Brahmins had a different sect reserved for them, the Jats (who were also the zamindars over here) had a huge area cordoned off to themselves and the others had the rest. From here he used to go to sweep the streets. He was supposed to clean the shits coming out houses but never allowed to enter the houses. When he used to be thirsty, he was supposed to shout for water, outside the house he was sweeping. A head to toe covered woman or a man donned in white kurta pajama used to come out with a jug of water and pour water from a height of three to four feet into a separate glass kept reserved for him. There were days when due to absence of milk at home, tea was served to him in a similar manner. He used to return home at noon time to have a bath followed by lunch. He used to sleep in the afternoon and by the time Sun used to set Meher used to pour his third glass of drinks.

Signs of being different were visible from Vijay’s birthday. One of the rarest things worth observing was- he never cried; even the shortage of milk at home did not make him shout and whimper. His mother used to tell the village folks that the last time she saw him cry was when he came out of my womb. Village ladies used to whisper in soft breaths, “Oh, God … is he mentally challenged?” His mother used to break up such remarks with a horrible fight. She used to feed him once every morning and he never used to ask again. One morning when Vijay was six months old and his mother did not get up from the meshed cot, he fell down his cot, crawled to the next house across the street paved with kiln bricks and started crying. The neighbor cobbler lady on seeing him at the gates came out running to his house to find his mother pale white. She had died in the silence of the night.

Poor Vijay was motherless ever since. The neighbor lady on request from Meher took up the task of feeding him daily. Vijay started to walk when he was eight months old; by the end of nine months he used to walk across the paved street seeking for food.

Vijay had an olive radiating skin in contrast to dull dark complexion of Meher. His eyes were akin to his mothers, light brown. He had already reached the age of two and had not spoken a single word. Children by the age of nine to ten months start saying their first word- Maa. A worried Meher had consulted umpteen hakims and healers only to find a non-assuring answer. All of them used to say, “he is probably a slow learner. He will speak in due time.” On a morning, when Meher was out for his duties the village milkman came to their house to find two year old Vijay fidgeting with the knife. He hurried to remove the knife from his hands and was dumbfounded to find an oddly crafted flute lying by his side. Probably he had learned to use the knife by looking at the cobbler family. The milkman thought of the name “Murlidhar” crossing his mind, and to his amazement Vijay picked up the flute and offered it to the milkman speaking his first word, “moorliii”.

The only class which can compete with women in delivering news is the Milkman; and the best way to know if some news has been spread properly is to go for a haircut. The barber has access to all the gossips circulating the community. He knows who is having an affair with whom, he knows who is getting married and he also knows which couples in the community are on non-speaking terms. Sooner than expected, Vijay became a common topic on the tongue of the barber.

By the time Vijay reached five years age he used to sit outside the village temple and play his flute. The same flute which he had crafted when he was two years old. There were significant changes in the flute since then. He had removed the wood bristles that hang out of improperly carved wood; constant friction by wiping it with a piece of cloth made it look decent and gave it a polished look. But the most astounding thing to happen was when he played it for the first time. The temple’s priest, who was offering prayers to Ram and Sita idols, was taken to a hallucinating world. He forgot his prayer and as if walking in a dream came and sat beside Vijay. For an hour Vijay played the flute non-stop and the priest listened to it, as if it was Vijay who was offering the Morning Prayer to the Gods of the temple.

The lower caste of the village was allowed to enter the temple only on Sundays. Vijay never entered the temple; he hated his people not being allowed into the temple. Everyday he simply sat at the white marble stairs and played his flute. The mellifluous tune that emanated from his lips landed directly on the heart. It mesmerized the brains and the poor brains used to ask his tunes what to do next and his tunes used to order them not to stop breathing. The music emanating was serene and peaceful. During rainy seasons when there used to be rains, torrential rain as if it would drown the whole of village; when water level of the lake used to come up to alarming levels raising concerns of crops getting flooded, Vijay used to play his flute and a melancholy used to sweep the whole village. His melody used to describe a land where there is no hope, where only destitute and unhappiness breeds. His music used to bring the whole of village to a point where their hearts used to give a flutter and seek repentance of their life long sins. Hardly any men, women and children were left who weren’t dragged on the verge of tears. Calmly the rains used to deplete and the trance generated by him used to subside.

However how long could all this continue? How long could the upper caste bear a sweeper’s son in the limelight? It had to stop and eventually it will stop. Everything that has been created will be destroyed, worth observing will be- destroyed on its own accord or untimely brought to destruction. It is said three witches weave the fabric of fate, and whenever there are three women involved things cannot be smooth and perfect!

[Posts will updated weekly.]

The Nomad-1

2011-09-17T01:06:00.000-07:00

Kanwaali is an old rustic village, untouched by modernization, in the heart of Haryana. The village is surrounded by acres and acres of rich, fertile and cultivable land on all sides.

(pic by AK)

This land, owned by the richer section of the village, is ploughed and seasoned by the poorer section of the village. Clout comes with money, and the richer section has formulated traditions which benefit them. Over a period of time these traditions became unwritten but adhered laws. The women of the village still follow the pardah system. They keep their faces covered with “duppata” from each and every men of the village, save their husbands. They have their duties assigned. In the morning they cater to cattle, in the noon they cater to cooking, in the evening they again cater to cattle and cooking and in the nights they cater to their husbands. Swift black uncovered drains, resembling rivulets, carrying wastage water from households run by the sides of homes to join the main bigger drain outside the village. Mehar, an old man in his sixties, prevents these drains from clogging.

Mehar a childless man till now was on cloud nine these days. His wife was expecting after many unsuccessful years of unsuccessful trails. She was in the ninth month of her pregnancy. Besides Mehar but for different reasons, the whole village prayed the child to be a boy. Mehar wanted a boy to keep his lineage alive and to bring another helping hand to his meager income and the village prayed for a boy to find a replacement who would prevent their drains from clogging.

The second month of the year 1990 witnessed Mehar becoming a father. He named his child Vijay after the name Amitabh Bachann used to take in most of his films.Each and every child borne in Indian villages falls under one of the two categories. The first child is more out of curiosity when newly married couples are trying to fidget with their newly found amatory explorations; the second child and the trail that follows is on account of desire for a boy or the absence of Idea’s 3G in villages! India has a population of over 1.2 billion; let us give Abhisekh Bachann some credit. To be frank and tell you the truth, Indian’s don’t give birth to children- they mint them as Federal banks mint money and call them gifts from god. Even god must be amazed to hear this and would be retorting back with, “what did I do?” and I can vouch my life on the reaction and hard time the God’s wife (and in most cases wives) would be giving them. If Lord Shiva was on facebook his update messages would have been something similar to, “Sleeping empty stomach on the icy Kailash floor tonight. Sati refused to give me food after some x villager in y village called his son my gift!” The mockery of population is to such an extent that the government happened to pass a law about limiting children per family to two, and the chair person of the House had four children and one of the veteran member boasted of a complete football team.

Most of the families, I am not counting the ultra rich in the village, have enough means to decently educate one child, but insufficient means to insufficiently educate and feed their siblings. Mehar a drunkard by habit and a sweeper by profession neither had enough resources nor savings to bring up the boy with a fine education. The amount he earned per day was exactly to suffice his family two meals and hooch for himself at night. Was Vijay supposed to be flushed down the gutters as his father; be nothing more than a speck of dust that happens to gather after a storm and be wiped out clean by the first rain? Was he destined to do nothing but stay illiterate and sweep the drains of illiterate villagers, or had fate decided to unleash a mutiny? Only time will say!!!

FREEDOM…

2011-08-13T10:28:00.000-07:00

Here I am caged by the iron bars of my window pane
The unfathomable bars with a tortured mind
Living in a world concealed in oblivion and gloom
Gazing the outside world with my startled eyes…

The turmoil outside making scary noises
The trees mocking at my solitude
The roof tops echoing in unison the void in my life
Yet my consciousness is oblivious to it…

Here I lay enslaved by my own misery
Afraid to be found out
Anticipating to be laughed at my weak heart
Having no disguise to hide my tears…

There comes the rain splattering down
Tip- toeing its way to meet its soul mate
Roaring its way, surpassing all the obstacles
Declaring it to be the master and not a slave…

I want to bathe in the very essence of its spirit
I want to feel its unruffled drops
To revive my freedom in its wake
All I want is a chance to live…

The sea beneath the island...

2011-06-10T01:54:00.000-07:00

She shivers in the wind like a last leaf on the tree. The wind raises electric. She’s sweet, warm and looks exquisitely stunning in her crimson gown with her curves exposed slyly. He lets her hear his footsteps; he saunters forward and wraps his arms around her. His warm breath brushes past her curly locks to send shivers deep down her body. The air has awe in itself. He grabs her shoulder to a firm grip and suddenly shakes them violently. His mid night blue eyes flare with so much rage. His jaw clenches tight, he raises his fists and hits her so hard to knock her down to the ground. She could taste blood in her mouth. A perfect countenance was smeared by nasty bruises.
When life offers you a dream so far beyond any of your expectations; it’s not reasonable to regret when it comes to an end.
Abhay was a guy you could not but fall for. His mid night blue eyes set deep above the high planes of his cheekbones, russet coloured skin, jet black tousled disarray of spiky hair and tall-masculine physique made him stand out like an archangel amidst the vile human clan. Half the college population craved for him (the fairer sex) while the other half despised him out of envy. He didn’t have many friends in the college owing to his high profile repute except one who had accepted him with all his flaws; Shravani. Shravani, a teenage girl with brown curls marked by golden highlights, topaz coloured eyes and enticing curves; a stimuli to arouse the ogler in you. Abhay and Shravani were like two poles of magnet, never apart. Both of them seemed to cherish there out of the world friendship. They had created their own world; a world so perfect with no boundaries, no responsibilities and no one to be answerable to.
Everything seemed to fall in pieces until their life was jolted by a tornado named Priya. She joined the college in mid semester. She seemed like a beautiful angel descended from above with the innocence of a neonate in her obsidian eyes. She entered the college draped in a white salwar kameez. Her aura seemed to cast a spell on anyone and everyone. Even Abhay seemed to have fallen for this beautiful angel. He wanted to change himself for her, desired to make her a part of his yet so solitary life. He craved for spending more and more time with her. Time started rolling and the spark of love between Abhay and Priya started growing into a flare. Their closeness created a wedge between the friendship of Abhay and Shravani. Abhay still cared for their friendship but Shravani’s heart was jolted by a hurricane of emotions which were beyond her comprehension. Her friendship had taken the form of obsession and irrational craving. She held Priya responsible for stealing Abhay from her (as if he was her monopoly). Shravani did see the concern of Abhay for her but that seemed to not suffice her craving. There was a conflict between her irrational emotions and her valued friendship. Now the very same Abhay’s touch made her heart thud erratically. She had fallen in love with him and there was nothing she could do to deny it. Her love made her reason to let him have his happiness yet whenever she saw Abhay and Priya together her heart was overwhelmed with an unbearable ache. She had to do make a decision.
25 December; it was the prom night, the last day of the college. Abhay was still unaware of the feelings which Shravani had for him though Priya could sense the turmoil. She sympathized with Shravani and trusted her reasoning. But the vicious night had a plan of its own. The sight of Priya cuddled in the arms of her beloved aroused the flare of rage and envy in her. Seeing Abhay out of sight, overwhelmed by wrath, she started accusing Priya of having stolen her love from her. She referred her as a ‘perpetual parasite in their relationship’; a girl no more worth than a whore who enticed Abhay by her nasty yet alluring tactics. Priya could not contain such an insult in front of the huge gathering and she fled with tears streaming her eyes. On returning Abhay heard what had underwent in his absence. His jaws clenched tight and he went out to look for Shravani and make her repent for what she had done.
There she was standing still in her crimson gown contrasted by the sylvan surroundings and engrossing darkness. She shivered like a last leaf on the tree…
The only gift Shravani got from her futile love was nasty bruises smearing her face. Though she regretted insulting Priya in a fit of anger, she could not regret falling in love with Abhay. In the time being Priya too had come to stand besides Abhay in his most distressing moment of life. A distressing and piercing calm spread all over. The tranquil was disrupted by a gun shot. Pools of blood spilled over.
What could have happened in that iota of time? Who lost his life in the pangs of vicious, dark love? Could it be Priya who paid the price of having stolen Shravani’s most prized possession? Or would Shravani have killed Abhay so that if he couldn’t be hers, he could also not be someone else’s? Maybe Shravani thought of killing herself only to become insensitive to all the pain to lie in the womb of never lasting slumber and give her love the only thing she had- her life.
Can jealousy out rule a person’s rationalism to the extent of making him commit a murder? Or is it the ‘sublime love’ which reigns supreme?
I leave the answer to the readers to decide what that crucial moment might have brought with itself…

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xvii)- Maya speaks

2011-05-22T13:20:00.000-07:00

It has been an year since you left us. A week after you went, our child was born, and yes it is she. She has small eyes of yours but thankfully rest of her features are on me. She has a beautiful smile and on seeing me goes to a bliss spree spreading her lips to form two dimples. I believe “the two dimple smile” has become a family heirloom now. Dad and I have named it Shatabdi as you wished. Thank you for the wonderful gift.

She has started walking now, and calls dad as “Daa”. She hates water like you and I am having troubles making her bath daily. Dad agrees that you were a nuisance too! Last week she was admitted to hospital on account of fever; dad did not sleep for two nights. She is all fine now and sleeping with her granddad.

Nishith and his wife came to lunch last week, and his wife is a chatterbox. She made me laugh for two hours at a stretch. Aniket and the babe got married, though the babe looks more like a bob now. Manish is engaged, but his habit of ogling is annoying and unchanged. Davesh has stopped making friends who are girls; now he has a girlfriend. Neeraj and Maanvi have kids now, but they usually go for non-cooperation movement with each other once every fortnight.

Do you remember the talk about our children names? When you mentioned about Shatabdi, for a moment I felt kind of jealous, but ultimately I realised it was me for whom you fell. All the moments that you spent with me since college, all you had in your heart was me. So I didn’t mind it at all. Moreover, I am more beautiful than her, so I am kind of okay with it. As a matter of remembrance, how pure your feelings were I have agreed to name her Shatabdi. Though I have to agree our daughter Shatabdi is more beautiful than me.

Over the last one year I have made few realizations. One is I love you for sure. If it wouldn’t have been for our daughter I would have ended my life too. She reminds me of you; makes me realise you are present along with me; and gives me immense strength to fight the reality.

Second realisation is, it was your presence around me that made me feel I am beautiful. The affectionate gaze with which you used to look at me, used to make me feel I am special. I miss your gaze. Thank you for loving me.

The third realisation is, out of all the requests you made to me, I won’t be fulfilling two. First being not to cry after you died. I had promised not to cry, but I have been breaking this promise and shall keep on breaking it. It is something out of my control.

(Painting by: Jaspreet Kaur)

Second thing you had asked was to remarry. I won’t be remarrying even for all the happiness in the world. I cannot bear to replace your thoughts with a third person. Would you have remarried, if I would have died before you? I am as sure as the Sun is to rise tomorrow, you wouldn’t have. Then how can you be so ruthless and non-understanding to ask me of such a thing? Man can love God even though he has never seen him; can’t I love you for the rest of my life? Especially when, I have seen you, I have lived with you and I have loved you. The time I spent with you, though small in the time frame try to see it through my eyes. It was an eternity of time to know someone and to love someone!

Now, I must say good bye. I am on the verge of tears and if dad sees me in this state he starts crying too and remains upset for the rest of the day. He wishes to remember you fondly, to remember what a loving son and a loving husband you were!

Did and shall always love you,

Maya.

(This is the last post of the chronicles.)

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xvi)- The Setting Sun

2011-05-20T22:49:00.000-07:00

Maya is into the sixth month of her pregnancy and she looks extremely sexy with the stomach. Dad is too much concerned about her safety and has made both of us shift from the first floor to the ground floor. He has disallowed Maya from climbing stairs and from going to office. He has even refused her to cook and goes nuts when anyone does things that might remotely upset her. He himself doesn’t smoke in the house anymore! All Maya is doing these days is sitting in front the T.V., morning and evening walks and yogic “Anulom-Vilom”.

Last week had been a terrible week for me; both on the work front and health front. I had two seizures in which I lost consciousness. Probably the work stress is taking a toll on me. However, yesterday while coughing, a lump of blood came out of my mouth and compelled me to visit the hospital. The doctor did some blood tests and x-rays and called me an hour ago for a consultation. I think he will advise me to some days of bed rest.

Doc: “Hello, Mr. Ajay. How do you feel?”

Me: “Fine; just a bit of headache. Will eventually get over I assume.”

Doc: “I am sorry to break this news, but please take some rest and spend time with your wife.”

Me: “Yeah, the work pressure has become too much. I will take the next week off!”

Doc: “No, you don’t get it. Please stay calm. You are suffering from terminal leukemia.”

Me: “What?”

The whole world seemed to have been uprooted by this heavy blow. The blow carried the whole building along with the foundation. “How can this happen? There must have been some mistake with the report?”

The doctor with an empathic face looked straight in my eyes and said, “we have checked the report thrice and I am sorry to say that is how it is! All you have is two months or max three! ”

Images of dad, Mom, Enya, Maya, our child started shattering alike a glass breaking upon falling on a concrete floor. So many years of love and affection were being snatched from me with this single blow.

Somehow I reached home from the hospital. Maya came up to me and hugged me tightly. To keep her away from unwanted tension I hadn’t told her about the seizures. After seeing her sweet two dimple smile I don’t have the heart to tell her about the Leukemia.

I settled the insurance papers, pensions and office work in the next two days. On one evening when Maya had gone on a walk with the neighbor lady, I told dad about my leukemia. Ever since my birth I had thought of dad as a person who could bear anything. I had never considered him being old and weak. Even mom’s death he had stoically accepted it, and came out of it. Will he ever recover from my death? Today, after hearing about my condition, deep furrows appeared on his forehead. I realized even he has turned old. I could feel how weak he was. The pain and grief was palpable and etched on his face. His hands were shaking. Maya completely unaware of the talks returned back from her walk.

Dad: “Beta, come. Take the remote, and watch some T.V.”

He slowly got up from the sofa and went to his room. He closed the door slowly and did not open it till the next morning. Maya took dinner to his room, but he calmly resent her back without opening the door. Maya got the hint something was wrong.

Next morning after dad came out of his room; Maya came and sat on the sofa beside me.

Maya: “what is it that’s bothering both of you?”
I had been expecting this question. I hadn’t mustered the courage to lie to Maya and by telling her the truth I couldn’t ruin her.

Me: “Nothing; just feeling off the rocker these days.”

Maya: “I have lived with you for more than three years, and I have loved you each and every moment I have spent with you. When you happen to even sneeze, the sound is ricocheted in my heart. Damn, don’t insult my love and intelligence. I have observed the missing insurance papers. What is going to happen?”

She took and my hand, and kept it on our unborn child. “For her sake speak the truth.”

Me: “You cannot bear it! Better let it stay buried till it can.”

Maya: “Truth is always preferable to lies; and by avoiding the truth you will bring a forced but tensed silence in our lives. Living with the silence will be much more unbearable than the truth itself. I do realize the truth will be painful but by telling me now it will be less painful than when it opens in future.”

Me: “Please… The truth is unbearable, but please keep a strong heart. I am dying of leukemia!”

The grief that swept her that day is inexplicable in words. Dad was trying to console Maya, and Maya was trying to console him. I sitting in between them, amidst hugs and tears realised how much I am going to lose!

[I died on 28th September, 2018. Death wasn’t a pain. It came as easy as falling down to sleep, however this time there was going to be no Maya to wake me up. This time there won’t be Enya to fight for the T.V. remote. This time there won’t be dad to reprimand me for oversleeping. This time there won’t be Nishith to speak to me of his troubles. This time there won’t be Sanu to selflessly share my loss. This time there won’t be Davesh to make me laugh; and most important of all there won’t be Maya’s beautiful smile which spread across her cheeks like a bridge joining two dimples.]

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xv)- The Supreme Happiness

2011-05-19T10:12:00.000-07:00

Maya and I did not wait long to get married. Maya being a non-Haryanvi and my family being from Haryana had certain issues about the marriage. Especially since the place I belong to makes monthly news over honour killing. Dad was all cool about Maya, however his brothers and sisters were boasting off about their honour and rich tradition. Despite their best efforts, and not on one but several occasions, I had refused several marriage proposals that were sent by them. Even for Enya they had seen some veterinary doctor, who if given a black dress would have resembled the monkey man!

Dad’s sister: “Bhaiyaa, you have given too much freedom to your children. Who is he to decide whom he shall marry? Are we his enemies to think good about him? He can get thousand girls from our place and from our own caste. ”

I stifled the urge of retorting back with, “Like the monkey man you saw for Enya?” It was my marriage; I had to live with the girl throughout my life; and there they were intervening in my marriage! When they did not even know how I felt for Maya. Laughable matter being, I cannot even distinguish between the two sisters my father has.

Listening to their talks I felt how fanatic and sadist people are. I pitied their children! I wished to thrash their ears and ask them where is the honour in bloodshed and kills? Where does this honour go when they go for female foeticide? My father's elder brother has three sons, that too born after seven female abortions. Listening from him about honour was frustrating. Each and every word he spoke reeked with hollowness, and if it wouldn't have been for my father I would have insulted him. My dad though belonging to the same family had a refined thinking and Enya was a standing example.

Marriage was fixed in the month of February. The relatives were called in the marriage for the sake of formality, their presence and their absence meant the same to me. Dad wanted them to be present. Enya was too happy about me getting married, and she was more excited because it was Maya. She could be sighted at times chatting for hours with Maya.

Maya and I are happily married for two years now. Today Maya had preferred to stay at home. She felt a bit giddy and nauseated. Enya and his one year old son are home for summers. I left the work early today.

On reaching home Maya came to me and sat on the sofa beside me. She took my hand and started caressing it.

Me: "How do you feel?”

Slowly she kept my hand on her stomach, and a crooked smile broke on her face. She was pregnant!

The happiness I was experiencing was of a different nature. It was palpable and could be seen shining on my face. In thousands of dreams that I had dreamt of Maya and me, I had pictured us sitting on a beach and the waves washing our feet. In front of us used to be a small girl, our daughter, building castles in the sand. Images of a small fairy running to my arms started playing in my mind. Have I already decided the child to be a girl?

Enya was standing at the door of the hallway and was looking at us with moist eyes and smile on her face. I went up to her and if speaking to myself in a reverie said, "I am going to be a father! Did you hear that?" Enya replied in a soft tone, "Yes."

The house on lane number 42 was expecting a new member!

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xiv)- The beautiful rain

2011-05-18T11:02:00.001-07:00

Winter has set in and Delhi's winter is extremely abysmal. When in college I had gone 18 days without a bath; that was my maximum ever. The only reason I took a bath on the 19th day was because I was invited for coffee and Maya was to come too. I had even given up my month long beard. Please don't inquire further about my summer records. Ask me no questions I will tell you no lies. Thanks to my dad staying with me, he compels me to take a bath daily in this winter too.

Enya is happy with Rahul and these days they are in Mumbai. Good thing about Mumbai is, it has no winters. Both Enya and Rahul are into journalism and both are doing well.

Rahul: "Never, let truth come in the way of a good story. As long as I do that I will be earning well."

Enya has started to cook and gives tips to Maya on how to cook sambhar. Amazing thing is I hate sambhar, and every time I am offered I have to lie about the taste.

On one dreadfully winter evening Maya and I were caught up with some extra work. By the time we left office it was already 9 'o clock, and it was chilling outside. No sooner had we stepped outside it started raining. Maya's apartment comes prior to mine so most of the days I drop her home and then go to mine.

By the time we reached her apartment, we were completely drenched. If it would have been a summer night I would have gone to lengths describing the actions and childlike reactions of Maya; but it was a winter night. When near zero temperature water entering through my collar trickled down my back, shivers ran through my body. I was shuddering and carved for warmth. Weak winds easily trespassed our clothes and flailed our bones paralyzing us. If the white door in front of me wouldn't have been Maya's I would have broken it down.

Maya ran into a wild chase after opening the door and switched on the heater. We sat in front of the heater for some ten minutes, till we felt comfortable. Still our clothes were dripping water. The pelting water made a rhythmic sound on the window pane; outside the rain had not stepped yet.

Maya brought a pair of her loose t-shirt and pyjama for me. The clothes though a bit girlish, did fit me snugly. As soon as I came out of the bathroom the very first words that emanated from my mouth were, "I am sorry!"

Maya was standing in front of the heater soaking her hair dry with a towel. She was wearing a t-shirt, ending shorter than a mini skirt! Her hair was completely dishevelled falling forwards on her left arm and a few curls beautifully covered her eyes. If this was a dream, then I never wished to be woken up. I wished it to be endless and eternal. I had not dreamt a more beautiful dream ever. If not for the place and the awkward position I was standing in, I would have rest assured I was dreaming. I took a right about turn the moment my senses returned.

But I am sorry??? What was I thinking when I spoke this?

What the hell on earth was I sorry for? For her being so beautiful? Or for her being dressed in semi-nude clothes? I wasn't sorry for either I am sure. Even in the present scenario she looked gorgeous; rather for me she looked the most beautiful lady I had ever seen and would ever see! Nevertheless of what she was wearing she would still be the most beautiful girl I ever met!

Slowly she came close to me and wrapped her arms around me. Keeping her face on my back, she spoke the three most beautiful words, which can melt any man's heart.

"I LOVE YOU!"

[Sketch by Rajeev Nandan]

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xiii)- Enya

2011-05-17T21:59:00.001-07:00

After the baraat arrived, at the gates ‘jaymala’ was done in which Enya put the garland on the groom and the groom reciprocated it. My cousin Sangeeta made a hefty sum that moment as she became stubborn on not allowing the groom to garland Enya unless he paid 5000 Rs. Poor groom! For him this was the spending spree’s trailer. A lady was yet to move in his home.

Majority of the crowd was sent to the food court and few relatives, parents and the groom's friends were taken to the mandaap. The pandit started the incantation and the ceremony began. The first phase took some half an hour where the groom was endowed with cloth, money and gold. After this phase the pandit spoke his favourite line: “Dulhan ko bulaayei.”

My maternal uncles carried Enya on their shoulders and sate her beside the groom. The priest re-went back to his incantations, and after a while asked me to tie the famous “gatjod”. This part was supposed to be done by my mom, but I believe she was watching from above. She won’t miss it at any cost!

The pair started making rounds with the sacred fire as the witness. My dad and mom had taken seven “pheras” but these days they have been reduced to four. Each round has its own significance. The first three were lead by Rahul and the last one by Enya. Finally, after the pheras my dad did the “kanyadaan”. Enya and Rahul was a couple now!

Rahul and Enya were taken to the house’s mandir and were made to put their palm prints on a square made on the wall beside the idols. First palm print was daubed in ghee and the second one in mehendi. The couple were then parted for dinner. Rahul was led by his friends and Enya by Sangeeta and Maya. Dad signaled me to take Enya’s in laws to the food court and return back to the attic. He had something on his mind!

Dad: “Enya was adopted by your mom and me when she was six months old. She had the hazel eyes similar to your mom.”

Me: “what?”

Dad: “Your mom and I never intended to tell anyone, and wanted the little secret to die with us. But, now I cannot bear it any more. ”

Me: “Well... still it must go with you. She is family, and by raising her in such wonderful way you have proved to be her father; a better man than the one who left her at the orphanage. She is a sister to me and will remain so no matter mom gave birth to her or some xyz woman. I love her too much.”

Dad whispered thanks in an extremely low voice. His eyes had started watering and tears were rolling down his cheeks. Enya spotted us with tears while returning back from the attic, she came running back to us the way she used to do when she was a kid and hugged us tightly.

“You need not cry. I am not going anywhere.” Dad, Enya and I broke into heavy tears.

Enya was sent to her new home along with Rahul. The last rite was done by my eldest mausi. She had to smear her hand in mehendi and make a palm print on the shirt of Rahul’s grandfather. Haryaanvi’s love mehendi and harbor greater love for consecrating everything they see with it!

Enya was gone, to build a new home. She left me with Lata Mangeskar's two lines:

मेरा कहा सूना सब माफ़ करना
कुछ रोज़ तेरे घर रह चली वे ...

मैं देस में दुसरो के चली वे...
भरी प्यार की झोली;
मेरी, पर देख खाली
कोई चीज़ भी साथ न ले चली वे

I was going to miss her, and miss her like hell! Maya was standing beside me wiping her moist eyes with her handkerchief.

Suddenly Sangeeta came running to us and said, “bhaiyaa, out of the five, thousand rupee notes three have been issued by the Children’s Bank of India. They are nakli!”

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xii)- Marriage

2011-05-16T09:44:00.000-07:00

Days flow like water. They originate at the glaciers (feelings), melt down under the relentless Sun (time) and end in the wide arms of the eternal Ocean (memories). Maya and I have started dating regularly, and by dating I mean only food! At lunch we are usually joined by other colleagues and dinner is usually done outside. Maya doesn’t know how to cook, and my culinary skills have no charms either!

On our last date I gave a set of 50 different bands to tie her hair, along with few roses. “Oh, you are such a “special true” friend…” came the reply with a thousand pauses and an expression similar to Aishwarya’s after she became the Miss World. After every meet a new adjective adorns the noun-friend. This time the adoration was provided by "special true".

Enya is getting married today, and in the red lengha she looks close to a princess. At times I doubt if she was born in my family? I mean, I and dad have typical round faces, prominent nose and small eyes; she on the other hand is as tall as me, a few inches short, and a perfect thin oval face with a thin nose. She has a face for which any man would die for! My mom was beautiful but I am sure never of such breath taking beauty. However, the hazel eyes of Enya are akin to mom’s and remind me of her in very sweet ways.

Maya was amongst the first ones to have come. She was in a pink sari embellished with shining reflecting kadhai. She had sporadic gold bangles amongst pink glass bangles on her right hand and a watch on the other. Her hair were open and for a change were perfectly straight which intermittently revealed silver rhomboid earrings, embedded with jade. It wasn’t until Enya broke into a fit of laughter that I realized I had been staring at Maya for quite some time.

Most of my school and college mates were present to grace the occasion. Manish was silently sitting in a corner and ogling at girls and in certain cases their mothers; Nishith was oscillating between the bar and the food court; Anshul was deep immersed in thoughts of why do the birds chirp; and greatest of all Neeraj and Maanvi had made it. Maanvi had dumped Neeraj and was on the verge of getting engaged before she created a fiasco. She called off her engagement at the D-time when her to-be-husband had the ring in his hands and honeymoon thoughts on his mind; and returned back to Neeraj.

Most of the relatives from both my parents’ side were present, and he was busy entertaining them. The bridegroom is a journalist and can be often sighted in the morning news with Rajdeep Sardesai. He belongs to Uttarakhand and Enya and he were classmates during their mass media graduation classes; and the marriage is going to be as per Haryanvi customs. Enya and Maya could be sighted together talking in low voices, and whenever I popped in the hearing vicinity they would turn mute.

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (xi)- Lady on wheels

2011-05-15T11:55:00.000-07:00

Statuary warning for ladies, so that later on they don’t complain- I don’t know how to drive cars! So in case of any parties or tours I am the one who has to be picked and dropped. Maya was supposed to be borrowing Panchhi’s car and be coming at 9 to pick me up. You can never expect ladies to be on time and I had no such expectations either. However, when going on a date (calling it a date gives me morale boosting) boys are usually hyperactive. They don’t wish to mess it up. I was all set to go by the time she called me up. She was at the gates.

I had a last look at the mirror and found myself to be looking okayish! What I am wearing is inconsequential, as boys don’t have a wardrobe to choose from. All they have is either black or blue jeans. It has nothing to do with our favorite colors; it is just a camouflage to make washed trousers indistinguishable from unwashed ones. For a t-shirt all our options are too smeared in dirt, or spared ones have become fodder for mice. Mostly gifted t-shirts by mom for birthday occasions come to our rescue at this juncture. However, I took a black sweat shirt in case the girl feels cold; I didn’t wish the chance of feeling like a hero!

My first glance at Maya reminded me of a dialogue from Titanic. Ladies and machines never work together. Today, i understood what he meant to say. He wished for the welfare of the entire "man"kind- as ladies on cars looked lethal. Maya was casually dressed in a blue jeans and white kurta. There is something about ladies and especially pretty ladies- all dresses look beautiful on them. Still they take hours choosing what to wear. She welcomed me with her two dimple smile. She had tied her hair with a black band. Observing Maya over few years have taught me one thing about girls. Girls should go with tied hair on jeans and open flailing hair with saris (open hair flails our hearts).

She was driving me to CP. Connaught Place is a pretty happening place. It has become happening because of rich people, big cars and expensive joints. Major of the corrupted Delhi can be either found at Karol Bagh or at CP. Boys behave as if they are the sole inheritors of Tata’s empire and girls wear clothes putting PETA supporters to shame. Anyways, I don’t mind it unless I am with Maya.

Throughout the drive we chatted about the office workers, her brother, her sister happily married with two kids, Enya and so on. We stopped at Hotel Imperial.

I had never been to this place before. Who on earth goes for such luxurious hotels, when cheaper options exist? I was half in a mood to protest, but my thoughts were cut off in the middle by Maya’s laughter.

Maya: “Look at your face. You men can spend thousands on drinking, but won’t spend a few on quality food. Don’t worry it’s my treat, moreover I know the manager here.”

We ordered and ate to our hearts (not stomach) delight. The food was fine if not excellent, but the manager was a far stretched relative of Maya’s. So we were saved from exorbitant charges. On our return journey we took a longer route, and taking my chances I played the 98.5 FM. It plays sweet romantic songs at this time of the hour. After reaching home she said and did something which she hadn’t done before.

Me: “thank you for the wonderful treat and good night. See you tomorrow in the office.”

As I was opening the door she said in a soft tone, “wait.”

She came close to my right ear and said, “thank you”, and in one swift motion planted a kiss on my cheek.

What was I suppose to do? Kiss her back? Or open the door and move back to my apartment? Or ask her to come upstairs?
However, she solved my dilemma as she re-started her engine, indicating me to get down.

Today has proved one thing- ladies look sexier when they drive. So I won’t be learning how to drive throughout!

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (x)- True Engineer

2011-05-14T09:23:00.000-07:00

Four years of extreme slogging in an Institute of National Importance has taught me many things. One of them is to be morally corrupt. It required four years of intense begging to become an engineering graduate; begging for attendance, begging for marks, listening to endless stories and lectures of Profs and begging to God to lighten up the earth by lifting them. It wasn’t an easy task to become depraved; especially when you come from a middle class family where at least one hour of your mother goes into speech delivery on moral ethical values. Moms are too smart to reveal their script writers. If I found him someday, I would strangle him.

So, on the next morning after I dropped Maya home I went to the babe and Aniket to lobby for Maya. I am sure, making requests to Aniket is tougher than lifting Earth and fulfilling Galileo Galilee’s dream, but as I said- the Vodka shots in my bottle have always been difficult to neglect. It makes the earth- feather light!

Me: “when you came for recruitment to our insti, do you remember Maya? She had lunch with us in the guest house and when she couldn’t get through created a furrow. She wishes to apply back.”

Aniket: [in his western accent, after consulting with his appointments] “oh… ask her to come day after tomorrow at 3. We will see what can be done!”

Now, getting in my company as lateral entry is pretty difficult. You have to crack a written test set by the managers of the company, who have long white hair and in some cases beard and have spent better half their lives amongst mobile equipments than enjoying in bed with their wives. You need to be a topper to crack it.

Here is the part where engineering came to rescue. Chain Singh is the peon who manages the printing and Xerox work of the managerial section. Babe can behave as Mohini at times! A simple bribe of 200 Rs and a slight help from the Babe got me a copy of the paper beforehand. As expected, nothing out of the blue happened. Maya cracked the paper as if it was toddler’s game. She is now my colleague.

She has asked me to dinner tomorrow night. Treat time!

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (ix)- Superintendent of Police

2011-05-13T11:41:00.000-07:00

Mr. Aniket got down from the car to have a look at the man, who had lost his senses. He was lying on the road in Robert Ludlum’s favorite position (the Vinci pose). Unfortunately for Aniket the accident happened in front of the judicial complex of Tis Hazari. SP of the region was coming out of the building and he witnessed it. I am sure Aniket’s trousers needed laundry after this.

The rickshaw puller was taken to the hospital. The babe was still in the car behaving as if petrified by the glance of the Silver Basilisk, and Mr. Aniket wished he had never applied for a driving license. He was taken to the local police station on the order of the SP where a case would be registered when the rickshaw puller came back to his senses. The babe was set free; on account of some law disallowing a woman to be arrested unless a woman constable arrests her. Poor Aniket swore to undergo a sex operation with his next pay. Discrimination!

The babe after reaching home started making frantic calls to all the employees of the company; and the moment she called me it was night 9 ‘o clock. Oblivious to all the happenings I was drinking Vodka with the SP himself.

The SP is an alumnus of NIT Hamirpur, my Alma mater. In my final year when I was the Training and Placement Representative, I had got in touch with him. He had happily given me the contacts of some 20 of his friends at respected positions in good companies. Moreover, it never hurts to be in touch with people who can pop you in and out of lock ups.

My contact with the SP worked. Mr. Aniket returned back home at 2 a. m. in the morning. He had to bribe the rickshaw puller with a compensation to keep his mouth shut. So ever since that incident I never had problems with leaving early, arriving late or at times non- arrival. All were taken care of!

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (viii)- Boss and the Babe

2011-05-12T10:48:00.000-07:00

Mr. Aniket is my boss. He has a few habits which are pretty obnoxious. One of them is picking his nose when he assumes no one is watching him. He has a particular beautiful assistant who can be categorized as a babe.

Girls in general have to fit in one of the following grades:-

1) Every girl by the right of her sex is ex-officio CHICK.

2) A hotter chick is a BABE.

To be a babe she must qualify the following criteria
a) 1 > Body to Mass Index > .7
b) 1.1 >= (1: 1.667: 1)/FNR >= .990 [Figure Number Ratio]

3) A chick with a height of 5’6” and above, and a dressing sense is a BOMB. They are most popular in colleges.

4) A BOMB with a height of 5’ 8” and above, an Hour Glass Body, and a Waist to Hips Ratio (WHR) of .7- no relaxation allowed; is “UNGETTABLE”.

So Mr. Aniket was once dropping this babe home after work, and to impress her pushed the accelerator with all the force his male ego could afford. He was undoubtedly trying to impress the babe.

Babe: “sir, I am in no hurry. You can drive slowly.”

Aniket: [in flamboyant western accent which would make you believe G. Bush is related to Indians]
“Oh, this is nothing. In US I hardly go below 100 miles an hour. Stay tuned. You will enjoy it.”

Seconds later, an Indian rickshaw puller originated out of nowhere in front of the car whose driver had started believing Indian roads are meant for fast cars. Aniket braked the car with all the force his calf muscles had. The car screeched. Aniket and the babe closed their eyes till the car came to a halt.

The babe appeared to have riveted her hands on her face. Her hands were digging deep into her face, which had lost its colour and luster. A little pressure more and her eye balls would have popped out of the sockets. (If I would have seen her in such livid shape, I would have demoted her to a chick!)

Aniket, whose head by now was soaked in sweat, spoke in an Indian accent- “Is the man dead?”

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (vii)- Heaven

2011-05-11T09:24:00.000-07:00

My hangover lasted the entire day. I went back home the following night after dinner. I was in no mood to leave Maya alone with her troubling thoughts and her broken marriage, but I cannot be drunk every evening. Well, it is not that I cannot, but I will not! Wishing to stay the following night would have been optimism to the point of foolishness.

A lot of messages were exchanged that night before I succumbed to sleep. I won’t discuss my dreams here to maintain a good image of myself.

We did meet at lunch the following day and bitched a lot about Deepak (I am sure by now his name was Deepak), and if God would have happened to be granting our wishes Priya would have been a toad right then.

On the later half of our talks, we shifted our topic to her work. Somehow, I convinced her to quit her last job on account of the proximity of the work to Deepak’s father. Deepak’s father was her boss there; and asked her to apply at my office.

On our return it started raining. Maya was taking out her umbrella; however with an outstretched hand I stopped her. A sly, childish smile erupted on my face. A similar childish smile was acknowledged. Like two small children watching the first rain we started walking on the streets of the national capital. The low, rhythmic and systematic humming of the rain pelting on the clayed desert was being vanquished by the “tak-tak” sound made by our footsteps. The city cars, the city people were hurrying to reach their places, but two fools were in no hurry.

By the time we reached her home, the rain had stopped. All I could observe at her door steps was her. A single rain drop had somehow entangled itself in one of her curls. It was now clinging with all its might and fighting against gravity. Gathering even the slightest strength it can muster, to be settled somewhere in her curls. It slowly trickled down her hair to her cheek, and from her cheek it went up to the chin. From the chin it crashed down on the floor. All of this happened in an instant, but it felt as if an eternity of beauty and perfection had just slipped before my eyes.

With some mutterings on my lips I bade her good bye and returned back. She was saying something about coffee; however the coffee had no stand before the happiness I had just witnessed. The serene feeling was different, something unique which I had never experienced before. Even death seemed a trivial matter right now.

I have a long day tomorrow at work. Have to convince my boss to take Maya in. However, I doubt that will be a problem, especially when I have some shots still left in my bottle!

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (vi)- Silver Lining

2011-05-10T02:28:00.000-07:00

Maya: “Hi…”

There she stood in the hall way in a blue jeans and a white top. Her hair was neatly tied in a whipping tail. Most of her attributes had remained unchanged. Her eyes were a bit red and moist. That can happen when you have a drunkard in your drawing room blabbering something throughout the night. Just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming about Maya I asked, “are you Maya?”

Maya: “That is the 16th time you are asking me. Yes, I am Maya!!!”

Me: “Oh.. Sorry…how did your marriage go?”

I did not remember the name of the guy she was getting married to. It was some Deepak or Dipesh. I tried to get up from the sofa but my head hurt abysmally bad. So, I decide to stay put and to assume the boy was named Deepak.

Maya: “well, that guy was a crook. He had an affair with Priya. She used to work at his office. You know Priya right?”

She threw the question at me with such innocence and pity in her eyes that I dared not say a yes; what if she started crying? To keep her in good spirits I politely replied, “No. Was she worth knowing?”

Maya: “Probably you don’t recall her. She was a slut in college who changed boyfriends faster than traffic lights; and he fell for her.”

Her already moist eyes were on the verge of overflowing. To avoid her from cracking up I asked,“How did I reach here?”

In one swift motion she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Maya: “Oh… after I got the truth about Priya I broke the marriage. Luckily I got the truth out before the marriage had started. Panchhi to lighten my mood took me out. I wanted to get drunk to lighten up my mood. There in the pub we saw you. It wasn’t actually seeing you. You were out of your senses.”

Panchhi was an old classmate of ours. She and Maya used to be close friends.

"Panchhi had to take a flight to Mexico or else she would have stayed too.”

I didn’t discuss the matter further, however the thought of what all I blurted out last night gave me severe tremors. I asked for a cup of hot tea to reduce my head hurting.

Nevertheless, of the incidents that occurred; despite all the troubles Maya had to go through; behind this was a happy man! A happy me!

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (v)- Maya

2011-05-08T08:17:00.000-07:00

I woke up in a quite unfamiliar room. The room was dimly lit and the curtains were drawn to a close. A good replica of Da Vinci's Mona Lisa was hanging in the room; a sweet, light fragrance that comes from well organized, decent, rich rooms wash fresh in the air. Such well managed property either belongs to some girl or to a married family, and I had full faith on either of the two mentioned, they will prefer to die than bring an unknown drunk boy home.

It was she- Maya!

Wasn’t she supposed to get married and by now be in some part of Europe romancing in next to naked clothes with her husband? I abhorred the thought completely because in my previous thoughts the boy used to be me!

During college days, Maya was many things. She was a beauty, she was a damsel adorned in sari, she was a sculpture crafted through generations and she wanted to be a danseuse but ended up in an engineering college. She had short hair similar to Meg Ryan’s, may be a bit longer just to be tied indecently in a pony tail, however the smile of Maya was something special. Her bright full face had two dimples grounded when she smiled. She looked wonderful when she tied her hair, and even if she didn’t I still found her attractive. She had to wear spectacles and like all girls she hated to wear them. I promised myself to gift her a pair of lenses some day.

I still recall the gtalk status message I had put on the college farewell day.

“Yes, I am in love with you. Unlike many others I don’t experience the exuberance of yours by running alongside; I bath in the fragrance emanating from your thoughts.”

By others I meant the guy who bore semblance to Pakistanis. After reading the status or I believe it to be the cause to convince my poor heart, she chatted for two hours.

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (iv)- The Invitation

2011-05-07T10:04:00.000-07:00

When in college days, I had fallen in love. I doubt she had anything other than mere respect for me. I tried to come in her good books, however I never had the guts to speak to her frankly and openly.

She is getting married today, and has invited me to her marriage. I doubt I am going to make through. Probably I will spend the evening in some bar, thinking of the old times, dreaming about a future which existed within me and had taken birth for both of us. Life has never been best to us. It has been a mixture of happenings and non-happenings.

I am already 4 pegs down. I wish to cry but the odd ego which we males carry along with us is stopping me to do that. Memories and dreams are flashing before my eyes.

"I think I should have proposed her."

"She was always sighted with that other guy, who bore resemblance to a Pakistani. Even he had it for her."

"She never liked him. Didn't you observe the way she treated him..."
and the talks went on and on.

After another two pegs, the pain inside me became unbearable. I wished the clammy agony within me to be siphoned to someone else. I wanted to call her, message her, or storm into her house to tell her how I felt.

However, once again the good self, the decent gentleman meddled. This decent gentleman that resides inside us is the worst selfless human being I ever came across. It only meddles when the girl of your dream is involved, and it never comes out to your support. It always opposes the thing you want to do most.

"What would she think? How embarrassed will she be by the incident?"
The decent gentleman made me drop the Romeo alike stunt I was planning to do.

I don't know how the day ended, how I reached back home, who dropped me and the biggest question who paid. about one thing I am sure, I was in no condition to wash utensils or serve as a waiter that night to repay.

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (iii)

2011-05-06T07:58:00.000-07:00

I think dad is going into depression. He has stopped going out and usually keeps himself alone. He spends late nights in office. His appetite has dropped to an alarmingly low level, dark eye bags and crow's feet have become more prominent; and the worst of all he has gone back to smoking.

I and my sister on the other hand have started to move forward. We won't deny the chasm left by her departure, but words of Strider on Gandalf's death, "we must do without hope" provides a lot of solace.

It has been two months since she died. Fight between me and my sister have restarted over the handling of the remote. My dad not so actively involved in the tiff has started to re-mingle with people. I and him had a fight a few days ago regarding the self-immolation path he was treading. after an exchange of a few heavy words all three of us were down on the floor crying. Since then, dad makes it a point not to stay late alone in the office. Most of these days he has dinner with us. Though i am sure he wont quit smoking again.

Me: "Dad, stop this smoking. It has caused the whole room to suffocate."

Enya, who has her hazel eyes similar to my mom's, would get up from her couch and in one swift motion would snatch the cigarette from his hands quite like the way my mom used to do.

Dad: "thanks."

Enya and dad both would smile at each other. Dad humming away would go to his room to sleep.

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (ii)

2011-05-05T07:30:00.000-07:00

My mom died last week and my father is devastated. He is not showing it, but i have seen him crying in his room. He doesn't wish me to see him broken down. His trials of brave front are as hollow as this house without her.

I miss her in lot many ways. Inadvertently after coming out of the bath a few days ago I shouted, "Mom, where are my clothes." Suddenly I recalled she wasn't there. My sister, Enya, came out running from her room, and both of us cried like 3 year old kids.

After a gap of fortnight dad went to work today. I went to drop him till his workplace. Suddenly old memories flashed back. There were days when mom and dad used to drop me to work and go for long drives. at times they used to go up to 300-400 kms and I had to hire a taxi back home.

God plays games, and few of them are brutal ones.

the chronicles of the Singh's on lane 42 (i)

2011-05-04T08:27:00.000-07:00

Mr. Virender Singh fell in love with Geeta when he was in college. He used to bunk classes to smoke cigarettes, and she used to ignore him taking him to be a local goon. On the contrary Virender was mad and crazy and undoubtedly in love with her. They two later on became imprisoned in a social rite called marriage; and i am their son.

On one fine day, during their college days, when the sun was a bit lazy and decided to doze off when on duty, my dad went up to my mom and asked her out, "Would you go out with me?"

My mom had a charm around herself which at times attracted eve-teasers. She had made it a point to learn karate ever since her kindergarten days. If my dad had moved an inch forward, I am sure his balls would have been giant footballs and my birth an aborted mission.

She replied, "aren't you the smoker across the gate?"

"a question for a question? yes, I smoke and the future of the pack in my pocket depends upon your answer."

"You are either going to smoke it indifferent of my answer. Take a breath; go finish your pack."

That is how they met; and how they fell in love is a mystery to me. No matter how much i coax them they refuse to bat an eyelid. They say, "we are saving it for our grandchildren. ask us no questions, we will tell you no lies."

(i hereby promise to make an effort to be regular. :P)

MIDNIGHT HUES

2011-04-11T22:56:00.000-07:00

The tenebrous night descends
Along with its encroaching darkness,
Hanging out like a canopy.
Mystery and death silence are its two escorts...

It glares into my eyes with all its awe and might,
Beckoning me to embrace it…
It intends on stealing away my only soulmate
I feel like condemning it of being so callous,
I feel like despising it of being a mugger,
Yet again I fail; yet again I’m helpless…

Undulating between the desire to be possessed and the fear to be enslaved,
Scared by the vicious veil of night,
Robbed off my better half,
There I lay yet again, all alone…

The yearn to be embraced by my only admirer,
The desire to feel its touch,
These unstrung melodies yet again harp my senses.
But there I see the triumphant night,
The ache of being abandoned strikes yet again…

Meekly I decide to surrender to the master
But there I see my savior
Adorned in a blend of cerise and azure,
Approaching me with a gleam of hope
Rejuvenating the promise of reuniting me with my soulmate…

The sea that saw no tempest...

2010-07-31T23:53:00.000-07:00

Plunge deep into the blue sea,
A mystery awaits your arrival…
In the womb of immaculate shell
Lays a thing as sanctified as an apostle
A piece of pious beauty…a pearl
It peeps for your hands to reach it.

It has a story of its own
Concealed in it is the chronicle of pain, a yearn of life
This yearn has added leaps and bounds to its beauty
People say it’s inanimate, an embodiment of passive beauty
Can a thing which itself unveils the tale of its evolution be inanimate?

It lies hidden in the heart of the sea
Having seen the sea in and out of its varied moods
Having confronted the wrath of puissant sea during the tempest
It also witnessed the tender love of its waves
Nurturing and sheltering it like a guardian angel …
It has in store for you all such untold truths about its abode
The entire anecdote of its life to disclose unto you

Just yours for years, decades and ages
Waiting patiently for you to seek it
Pay it the reward of all the yearns it had confronted
Be a patient listener to its unheard accounts
And make it worth it…
Reveal its pristine exquisiteness onto the entire human clan
Make it the pride of the temptress of Adam

Just open it….reveal it…discover it...

Welcome to the museum part 1- “Kinder garten”

2010-06-07T07:32:00.000-07:00

The honourable, greatness personified, the legendary Ajay Kumar- My certificates state I was born in 1990. My parents however till date argue between each other in which year I was born. My birth was a matter of happiness to the whole of India and Australia. Both the nations distributed sweets on the fruitful timing and date of my birth, therefore I call myself honorable.

I had a frequent habit of falling in love. My history of crushes goes long back when I had just entered school. There was a girl named "Roo" in kindergarten and her nose used to flood with a frequency of .6Hz, and I had a crush on her.

On one fine day she came upto me with her nose hidden behind her handkerchief and said, “Ajay, I am leaving. Bye…”

The scene was extremely melodramatic. I did not go to school that day, and the day next to that. I decided to miss a day’s food in her honour. However, as soon as evening came by Chandrama entered my life. She was not as sweet as “Roo” however her chubbiness and cuteness gave competition to “Kavita”. Kavita was the bombshell of my Kindergarten school, and the fisrt girl of my life I shall call ‘Sexy’! The whole school fought to have lunch with her. She used to bring buttered bread in her lunch box, and the boys sitting around her used to bring chocolates for her everyday. She used to exchange her tiffin boxes with the admirers of her. As I always used to take half burnt rotis to school, I never dared to exchange my tiffin box with her, so I settled for Chandrama. She had no problems with my half burnt rotis. She never touched it though is a different matter altogether.

Time moved on, Chandrama and I came closer. We started sitting on the same seats in the school bus.

On another fine day on which Chandrama was absent on account of typhoid Purbita came and took the seat beside me. My heart started beating faster. I was too happy that day. She was the best friend of ‘Kavita’. My small mind played the first politics of my life. Our conversation went as such-

HH(His highness) Ajay Kumar- “who all are your friends? Will you introduce me to them?”

Purbita- “My friends are Sabya, Nishith, Shristi and Meher. I had fight with Kavita yesterday. I won’t talk to her ever. Yeah I will---”

By the time she completed the list I got up from my seat and took to my heels. I ran from the seat and went beside Kishore. The boy I believed to have come from Nigeria. I did not talk to Purbita for upcoming three years.

Ultimately I was successful in dating (lunching) with Kavita. I had somehow convinced my mother to give me bread and chocolate that day. I wore washed and ironed dress, polished my shoes myself and TOOK A BATH on a rainy day. The palpitating beats of my heart were at an all time high. It was raining heavily that day, and most of the boys were absent. Chandrama was absent too. Probably her mother thought it better not to disturb her sleep. So on the fortunate day of 19th august, 1994 I dated my first sweet heart ‘Kavita’.

However, our relationship did not last long. On the next day I saw her eating with Nishith. I went up to him and broke his nose. His nose is still crooked.

With every blow I delivered I said, “How dare you eat with my girlfriend? Kutte, I will finish you off.”

It was good the Kavita chapter came to an end. After a few months she looked like-

A gonna be "legend" is back!

2010-05-08T05:11:00.001-07:00

On the onset i would like to thank all those who commented and never grew tired of wiling my absence. Unfortunately most of the comments were anonymously send in Chinese, but surely i believe they were appraisals for my previous posts and wanted the reputed miss X back. I missed all of you, and especially the site links and pics which the chinese links directed to!

For a lower level sample of the directed site visit-

http://i44.tinypic.com/1610yn9.jpg

Long ago, a score years back i had a dream. In my dream the sexiest lady of all times (the one above is awesomely grotesque bitch in front of her) came to my dream and said, "one day you will lead an astray blogger to the path of glory!"

And as you all know today chronicwriter is famous and blogspots most known comic blogger.

Moving on, i have once again forgotten the last time i took a bath. However, as per my personal statistical average and my room mates it was not long ago; and as we have our final semester papers going on i am quite sure the auspicious moment is yet to come. To add to my worries is the dog who keeps on stealing my underwear. He has grown immense fondness for my underwear, and has stolen two of mine till date. He gifts the pilfered memento to his wife (i believe). May god do her good!

My papers will be ending on 12th and i believe the mess in which my room is will be relieved on the same day.

I became the student's editor of the annual magazine "SRIJAN" of my institute; so next year if you find a dumb,literature-less or with too much literature, less colourful or extra colourful, flamboyant or lusterless or for that matter anything as per your dislike then all the disputes are subjected to bharatnitham@gmail.com only.

I am spending this summer in Ericsson India pvt. Limited, Noida and I am praying every night before going to sleep.

"Dear God, please let the receptionist be damn hot and unmarried."

I have started working upon my looks, and presently i look much hotter than Bradd and Butler combined.

NB: 1) NOT TOO LONG is a milder way of saying it was at least two weeks ago!
2) Bradd and Butler never meant Brad Pitt and Gerard butler. Both of them are unmarried stock past the age of 40 living in my colony.
3) Bush came to visit me yesterday and as i was busy I refused to meet him.
(I had a phone call from my childhood crush She had called me bro by mistake and i was
squabbling over it.)

Treading the troubled lane...

2010-04-17T10:59:00.000-07:00

I wake up in the morning,
A beautiful dawn awaits.
With the firmament so blue,
And sunlight of crimson hue.
Birds chirping their morning raga,
The people continuing their daily saga…

Ambling down the city streets,
I witnessed the hell lying beneath my feet.
Nay the heavens cursed the mob,
All the happiness of their life it did rob.
The grave gravity of clouds had camouflaged the city,
People started to pray to God and their deity…

The earth shook like an unsteady chair,
With the sooty gunpowder filling the air.
One could see pools of blood watering the land,
Once a living being was now turned into mere sand.
The wails of women, the innocent cries of a child,
Reverberated and turned everyone wild…

And now the bureaucrats come forward to compensate,
I doubt their wisdom as they can’t see it is too late.
Can this compensation bring those innocent people back to life?
Will it prevent their beloveds from living a life full of misery and strife?
Such defensive and irrational measures will,
Surely add grist to the Maoist mill…

Will history repeat itself, and will India ever learn?

2010-04-07T08:56:00.000-07:00

Respected minister,

On the onset I would like to wish you best of luck for the very brave ,and beyond doubt much needed, step against the naxalites. Indeed the present alarming stature which naxalism has reached is indeed threatening to the security of the nation. I call it much needed because of the values lost somewhere when it evolved. When it must have been against the law breakers and the power misuser it became against development and against the people. However, i would like to take you another step deeper into this issue which can by now be cited into the category of crime. Was it easy for brilliant students from IITs in the 1970's dropping the aim of living a luxurious life and adopting the ideology of a homeless hunter?

No, it was not. It is never easy for upcoming brilliant students to forsake their dreams and pick up guns. it was not easy then, it is not easy now. On a broader sense it is never easy for anyone. But, every action has a reason behind it and every reason a cause! The cause here was pity. Pity of seeing the innocent being ruthlessly tormented, encountered, raped and what not.

The problem with our nation is the power wielders have enough guts to misuse their powers and they never use it for the purpose they are bestowed with it. If the power holders of yesteryears would have been truthful to their work and the oath they took before joining, India would have never stood on this brink. If power and authority had remained in the hands they were meant for and had never becomes whores of the wealthy, India would have been a different India today. The states of Bihar and U.P. ,for example, in-famed for their image of lawlessness and Money Raj has seen and shall continue to see many innocent people being slaughtered, and many of them turning into criminals; and the story does not end here. The simple task of getting a form signed by a government authority takes two to three days without the weight of a politician or some higher authority attached to it. Has the land of Buddha, Krishna and Rama fallen to such a lowly state? Has the land of the Ayodha prince who forsook wealth succumb to such abyss where wealth has become important than humanity and duty.

If education of today does teach politics and laws without morality and principles than this nation has no other option but to wait for its doom. However, unfortunately "patriots" do exist. I call them unfortunate because they are destined to die without seeing the tree turned from a sapling watered with their bloods; and these patriots originated because of some "cause". The "cause" in most cases was torture at the hands of power while in some others it was the inability to see doom of their nation.

I belong to this nation and I cry over every split blood on my mother land. I mourn with every mother who mourns at- the death of her son whether a student, whether a student turning into a criminal or whether a soldier. Ultimately it is the loss which my Mother had to bear. In the war of Mahabharata Hastinapura suffered and I have to say history will repeat itself. Human have gone far ahead and stopped paying attention to history.

The true use of education is to teach us humility and simplicity. Hope every power bearer learns that!

yours truly,
Ajay Kumar
(an Indian and above all a human!)

Where I belong....

2010-03-19T09:30:00.000-07:00

Standing besides a curvy road,
Alone on a no-man’s-land
Flashed back my desire
Which once I had engraved on sand…

Those hissing of the waves
That pounding of the stones
I again heard the screeching and
Roars from the caves…

That treacherous night had befooled my heart,
A new storm of emotions in my life did start
Enticed by that perfect figure
A desire to make it mine in my heart did linger…

The austerity of his face,
The profundity of his eyes
The smoothly combed flaxen locks
Now on my plight here mocks…

I had confined him to my ambit
A flame of love in my heart was lit.
Many a dreams about our life did I intertwine
I nurtured the illusion that he was all mine…

Nay the destiny intervened
He had an ambition floundering in his mind
An ambition to be at the pinnacle
Owing to which colossal complications we had to tackle…

We had united to see each other throughout the trials of life,
Never wanting to be each others’ weakness during times of strife.
Nay I had to free him of our sublime relationship
With his evocative memories now I have to live…

Today I’m standing on the same road by the sea
This road leading me to a no-man’s-land
But today I don’t have our names engraved on sand…

He has become a distant memory,
But never for our alliance will I ever be sorry…
He’ll always be my most cherished desire
I’ll still love him though I know he was a sheer liar…

Woman,mighty is thy name.....

2010-02-19T10:00:00.000-08:00

Stroll through a posh locality in the evening, you’ll find yourself in an ambience of fragrance of scents. A half clad angelic form whisks by your side—ruddy cheeks, ruby lips, flamboyant attire, curly locks, poignant eyes and all curves exposed slyly. Her fantastic sight arouses the ogler in you. You have to glance at her, you may mean it stealthily. But it must register with her or else you’ve treaded on her corns. After all what for has she appraised herself before the mirror for an hour? Just to entice her Romeos…. Be courteous to her for she is ‘Eve’, the temptress of Adam.

The Adam in man is inherent. He has not turned his eyes from the temptress. In this machismo culture, women remains a commodity well adorned individually, well placed in the showcase of social showroom-a figure to be had- merely an thing to satisfy man’s passions. She is meant to be kept confined to heart and home. She is ordained to remain in his ambit. Her tragedy is that she has accepted her role nay she is coquettish about it. Cosmetics are her life buoys. Tempting and enticing man is her perpetual interest at the same time lambasting man for his masculine culture is her pet hobby-what a paradox.

There is a notion that the status of women has undergone an overhauling in the past few decades. Names of various eminent women are cited to justify this notion. But does this advocate the fact that women enjoy a respectable position in this machismo world? All this is a mere hoax. The words of William Shakespeare “Frailty thy name is women” have left a permanent etching on my thought process. Such contemptuous remarks were again echoed by Khushwant Singh who referred women as a ‘perpetual parasite’ on male from the cradle to the grave—on a father before tying a nuptial knot, on a husband as a better half and on son as the ‘evening’ of her life.

How can one doubt on the strength of a woman, knowing that, even as a neonate she did endure the shock given by her own ‘not- so happy’ parents at the time of her birth. During her teenage she valiantly confronted the persistent gazes of one and all. Then during the later half of her life, she simultaneously did justice to her triple faceted countenance that of a mother, a daughter and a better half to a novice in handling the relationships.

How can an individual who has such a multi faceted dimension to her life be possibly so worthless a creature??
I leave the answer to you readers to decide whether God’s most sublime creation, woman, is just meant to be despised at.
Has she just been created to be kept confined to heart and home………..

In Conversation With God-1;

2010-02-12T10:19:00.000-08:00

"Man proposes God disposes." For a supreme soul like me dedicated solely to the uplift-ment of mankind, a few things don't come easy! I belong to the breed of engineers infesting this planet who consider few acts as a lethal sin. Today on this propitious day of Maha Shivratri, in front of Lord Shiva, I am going to make the confession of the sin I did today.

me: "O' mighty and the most puissant Lord Shiva. I come to thy gracious abode to seek forgiveness!"

god:"yes, my son first tell me who are you and what is your model number? then tell me what have you done?"

me:"O omniscient, I am Ajay Kumar, model number 8:05 am,26th january 1990, House number 420 Haryana, India."

god:"My register shows no registered Ajay Kumar in it. Were you illllllll???"

me;"no my lord. I am a perfectly legal born son .sorry it is 1989. the habit of bluffing people on this earth made me think i could even bluff you and postpone my death... "

god:"I am omnipresent, omnipotent and the maruti omni. Yes my register has the following entry---
name:ajay kumar
born:26 jan, 1989
time of birth:delivery order signed at 7:58am, earth timings may vary as per urgency
death:one year after he loses his virginity
unique qualities:flirty, falls in love with every second girl, proposes to every third girl, gets ditched by every girl(and a die hard fan of Jessica Alba) "

(suddenly God shouts in havoc reckoning voice,"Parvati don't come outside. We have a very bad human here.")

god:(husked voice)"how is Jessica these days? The connectivity of metacafe is weak here up in these Himalayas; these politicians need to be taken to task."

me: "lets discuss it some other day. when we have vodka and rum with us. girls sound bad unless you are drunk"

god:"true..true...come to your confession part, you are wasting my time. Katrina has some problems with Salman going on. I have been called in the form of Allah to help. Morever, i have to see the movie My name is Khan, hope Karan Johar doesnt teach us to flee with our moms in this movie! The cosmos was full of eloping gods after KANK."

me:"Today, I put a disgrace to engineering breed. I took bath twice a week.(both time alone)"

god:"YOU SCOUNDREL, A**E HOLE; I send you to this earth for upliftment of mankind. Save water and teach the world the importance of water, and what have you done today you took a bath. You scum bag, you don't deserve to be here. I am going to make sure you don't live another second. I am going to open my third eye now!!!"

me:"NO, my Lord. It is Shivratri today, so I took a bath."

god:"ohhhhh, then it is ok. Take bath on every Maha Shivratri."

happy shivratri:-

chronicwriter!

2010-02-07T13:00:00.001-08:00

"Mr. Prason Christopher Robin" is one big time blogger, he is the official owner of "www.chronicwriter.com" and writes under the pen name of "chronicwriter" famous for his red undergarment. Incase, Mr. Thackrey is reading this,which I doubt he will, chronicwriter shall delete his facebook account and deny the links with the blog. One thing I curiously need to know, why do south Indians have names worth giving wrist aches, and in some cases even tongue aches for illustration try to speak "Pilavullakandi Thekkeparambil Usha"?

Chronicwriter’s last post "save the tigers in the woods", did put me in a funny state. I read his blogs fortnightly not on a daily basis. So yesterday while suggesting a few juniors of mine interested in reading blogs, I without hesitation referred them to the ingenious poster-"chronicwriter". A few of my suggestion takers were girls!

A few moments later when I for my own updating turned to chronicwriter's blog, I was surprised to see his first adult post(it's not that I didn't enjoy it; he is too awesome not to make anyone laugh). So basically I made a "poo-poo" of myself.

On saturday I had a test in my CAT coaching test, and I am proud to inform everyone despite my best efforts( which include keeping the most beautiful girl's picture near me, copying from the nearby person, giving the test with katrina kaif's name) I topped. Please don't ask me from which side, but I topped!

We had a GD session after that which humorously turned into a fish market. A batch mate of mine, pronounced a beautiful sentence on marriage which ran thus-“marriage is not an institute where you experiment things”. Even in case it’s an institute I am eager to join it, please tell me the exam details. I will work doubly hard and make sure I top this exam, and this time from the front.

While typing this blog I received a chat message on gtalk from a CSE friend:

abhijeetranjan90: tomorrow is total mass bank for cse guys…

ajay: cool;

bt class also consists of girls…

abhijeetranjan90: dey can attnd

ps: 1)I would like to seek forgiveness from miss X for not including her in this post. I tried my level best but could not fit her in here somehow. I promise her a spot in the next one, and no charges.

2) My list for 14th February is up to date and complete, anyone interested can contact me at 14febonedaylover@gmail.com or st.valentinerocks@gmail.com

3) This is a free advertisement for chronicwriter, i wont regret the same from his side.

Uphill time going on, and harder times ahead!

2010-01-30T06:35:00.001-08:00

It seems I have filled my plate with lots of trouble to last for my entire leftover engineering life of one and half years. The onus(es) I am trying to handle presently are the TPR post(Training and Placement representative) of my ECE batch, being the Executive Editor of SRIJAN the institute's annual magazine and not to forget my eight hours of CAT preparation classes on weekends. With only a month to go for the printing of magazine the whole SRIJAN team is haywire. To meet the deadline of 20th april release we have to start working nights, and today is the first night! Hell is in front of Saurav and Rajeev the team's two designers.
But no regrets, i am enjoying the pressure!

The side-effects of workload has started to show itself. I have started having nightmares. Last night Abhra, the magazines student editor, and Karan, the Managing editor, were running behind me with the previous year's magazine and dagger in their respective hands.

I had my birthday on 26th January. There were a few surprises waiting for me. One was, the X of my previous posts messaged me happy birthday and the second was, my blogs first post to whom I had dedicated called me. Unfortunately, i couldn't pick up the phone and had to settle by replying to her message. I recieved a deo from two of my classmates, most probably they pitied my irregularity at bathing and hoped it would help, however, as I am allergic to perfumes and deos had to tuck it in the suitcase. Thanks anyways yet I prefer friends who come empty handed.

Yesterday was my parents 23rd marriage anniversary and I turned out to be the last one to wish them. Thanks dad and mom for getting married and bringing me to this earth. Moving on to today; today was Ghandhi's assassination day. For the first time in my life I forgot to stand in silence at 11:30. Sorry Mr. Ghandhi! I was late by three minutes today. Hope you rest in peace.

Moving to lighter notes, we have Valentine's day coming. I am eagerly looking forward to it. I am hoping to propose a lot many this year. My fingers are crossed, and I seriously pray St. valentine gets a bit emotional and pities me...

A help from your side- make sure you send a pink boxer to Mr. Pramod Muthalik, a Ram Sene leader. He is greatly active in beating up couples visiting discos and seen roaming on 14th feb.
(google pink chaddi campaign for more details!)

Another 365 days of your life!

2010-01-14T06:16:00.000-08:00

Look back at 2009 and you will surely find at least one moment that crystallizes out separately. Few of us lost someone whom we loved, some of us found someone who made 2009 remember-able, few of us tried a few new things out of which some failed and out of which some clicked. After all 365 days is not a small number! Lord Krishna’s words, “Good and bad, success and failure both make a life. Life without one of them is alike a world of sugar without salt.”

One such memory of 2009 is properly etched in the cerebrum portion of my approximately 500gm brain. I visited “Vaishnodevi” last march, and I saw something. The “something” was not something extraordinary; it was a pretty common scene to be seen in nearly every temple- a mother of a cute kid was asking her son to fold hands in front of the goddess. Nothing unusual! Nothing spectacular! My mother asked me to do the same thing when I was some five year old. However as far as I can recall she never gave me a reason that satisfied me on why I should fold my hands in front the idol.

Parents usually tell their children to do things and to abstain from rest. However, few are open up to discussions on the same. Marriage is one such thing. Love marriage in most parts of our country is still a taboo! Marriage decisions are made by our parents, amongst our parents for a life their children have to live. Haryana is a leader in murdering their children,who break these rules, in case the children fall in love with a person of the same village. “Khap Panchayats” are well known and well heard of taking decisions about life and death (as a matter of fact district and session courts even don’t have this right!). A few were killed and a few were banished the last year.

Similarly 2009 was memorable for mother India even. “Nations are born in the hearts of poets, they prosper and die in the hands of politicians”. Mr. Surendra Sharma, a comic hindi poet, well said once-“it was better when we were uneducated at least we voted for person like Sardar Vallabh bhai Patel and Lal Bahadur Shastri; and now when we claim we are educated we elect Lalu Prasad Yadav, Mulayam and Mayawati. ” Uttar Pradesh most probably added another tar to its already besmirched image. Mayawati squandered 2k crore rupees for propagation of her bloody party. Shibu Shoren is marching for power in Jharkhand. People of Jharkhand either go for cheap dirt like “kuda” who ate more money than his whole relations could digest and shit in the morning, or killer like Shoren!

Mr. Rathod is yet to be arrested. Hope so he gets arrested before he dies of old age!
May all of you have a memorable 2010!

Traveling Sick!

2009-12-15T07:03:00.000-08:00

In case I sum up the total distance I traveled last week, the longest train route shall be runners up in comparison! I started from Himachal on 10th, spend more than three hours on the following three days in DTC buses, and on 14th started from Delhi for Orissa; covering a major section on the axis of the seventh largest nation on the planet Earth. The first thing I did as soon as I entered my home was to apply a pain relief ointment on my already heavily swollen butts. They seem to be at rest while I am writing this post. At least they are not stiff any more!

A reprieve from my not so entertaining journey (well 30 hours continuous journey every six months takes a traveler out of even Edmund Hillary; and I am not Edmund Hillary!) were two beauties sitting 16 seats away and all I got as my neighbors were four military men who every five minutes had the habit of sparking an abuse from their mouth. My best moment was when one of the beauties came up to me and said, "excuse me".

Basically I was standing on the way to wash basin so she wanted me to give way.
I smiled and enthusiastically replied with a big smile on my face-“sure!”
Can you sit down with me and have a talk; and did some one ever tell you your nose is indeed very beautiful!

I wanted to stand and stare at her but thought of the scenario and the trouble I might end up in. Minutes later I saw her walking with a hefty body builder who would have rolled the lover/flirter out of me in a single smack! I took the clue and settled upon looking at person who was not injurious to my health. The four military men were at least not injurious till the night came in. They were drunk after that!

Thanks to chronicwriter I became a bathroom writer today(refer to his section on how to deal with competitons in love on post no 366). I wrote two phone numbers on the already wonderful beautiful walls of the Indian Railway bathrooms and added the name of X from my previous post in front of it. I seriously hope those two who at some stage gave me competition are enjoying attending calls from “avid readers”!

I reached home safe and sound. A special thanks to all the naxalites, terrorists, brothers and sisters of Headley, Kasab and alike for not knowing my train number.

First sign of maddness!

2009-11-25T08:16:00.000-08:00

I had my final practical last week, and I was forced to believe Chetan Bhagat and Durjoy Datta had a tint of truth when they wrote their novels.

One of my practical final was of Microprocessor. We were group of four who were simultaneously called for viva-voce. I was sitting beside a 9.7 pointer who intermittently went into hysteria of definitions and explanations before the sitting. I was asked the first question,”what is microprocessor?” the question in itself was not difficult but I was expecting something better. I replied,’ err…microprocessor…is a processing unit which accepts input and gives us output. It can perform various logical and mathematical operations like addition, subtraction, multiplication etc…”

The invigilator asked X, the 9.7 pointer, “Would you like to add something?”

“Sure, sir” She took a long breath and fired away an answer similar to a volcano emanating from the mouth of Hungarian Horntail in Harry Potter. She fired in a single breath, “A microprocessor is a multipurpose, programmable, clock driven, register based electronic device that reads binary instructions from a storage device called memory accepts binary data as input and processes data according to those instructions and provides result as output.”

I was just on the verge of taking out my cell and calling the ambulance fearing she was going to have an attack of hypoxia.

My practical are finally over and I have my semesters coming from 2nd December, and I am planning to start the herculean task of studying as soon as I complete this blog. However, believe me it is pretty difficult to study especially when 1)you are surrounded by snow clad mountains who shriek whenever you pick up a course book-“dumb ass it is a crime not to sleep in this weather!”, and 2)when you are in love.

Unfortunately I have both these conditions applicable to me and my latest love is legendary. “Legendary” at its height! [Even Barny Stenson would have gasped after hearing it!] For one her name is Ananya Swaminathan (though I still have problems pronouncing her name properly. I am looking forward to Tamil classes these holidays) and two she is an imaginary girl who surfaced in the fourth book of Chetan Bhagat “two states”.

P.S. 1:-- I don’t need a psychologist or a psychiatrist; and ha in case you know the real person on whom Ananya is based please let me know! At least I can do something about my love problem!(I still have my fingers crossed for my papers and am open for help from the fellows going to sit around me in the semester papers.)

P.S. 2:-X is a real person of my class. I had kept in lieu of X her real name for a few hours, however tending to her objections i had to change it to X.[if you can read between the lines, i am afraid of litigation she might file against me. so better keep bay!]

The Third Hill ffair, or hill affair!!!

2009-11-11T06:56:00.000-08:00

Boys are enslaves of two things (I am not talking of Rammuraari Dwivedi. He is an exception to this rule). Girls and the obvious things to be done with them! They earn to get a good girl, they show off to get a good girl, and they fool around to get a good girl. Good here never meant nature!

We had our Hill ‘ffair, our college’s cultural fest, the last week. As clearly the name suggests it is all about an-affair in the hill, or what the name wants to convey is “damn shit go and have an affair”. These three days belonged to two groups of people. The first group hunting someone to present a rose to someone, and the second group of which I was a part; I shall talk about the second elite group in the ending para.

Speaking from the point of experience which this hill ffair has taught me-befriend your friend who is planning to give a rose to a girl! In case he gets ditched he is going to get drunk and make your shoulders a wet handkerchief. One of my friend really did that! I had to abandon my sweater.

The three days of this ‘ffair are full of excitement, joy and being perky, for boys it goes pervy. We, here 'we' are the elite second group of gazers who find constellations and stars on the road rather than the sky. Given a chance with a telescope in an astronomical class, we shall be found focusing it on the girls’ hostel till the teacher bumps our head and makes us believe that spanking can lead to unequal butt! So ‘we’ find our stars on roads, and days and nights hardly make a difference. Gaurav, Davesh and I found a decent spot to star gaze on all the three Hill ‘ffair nights. Our fourth friend could be found sulking in one of the chairs. Thankfully, Davesh’s girl never saw him sitting with me. Bad for him; it was his once in a life time opportunity to be single again; and as far as Gaurav goes I hardly think he will ever manage to get a girl by himself. His godliness of saving water by not taking a bath makes him a special species which graces the earth rarely in centuries.

One a lighter note, our spoof sucked this time. I played the role of Hermoine in my last year Hill ffair, read the blog in which I am wearing a wig. People either were too dumb to catch the missing storyline, or we were too much imaginative while we made it. The only positive thing was we were spared from being hit with rotten tomatoes and eggs, though my friends, who gave me bumps for killing their time, made up for it! I made sure to pass them on to the directors of our spoof.

The fashion parade as usual sucked and it is no news. The dramatics came up with a few good events. They did not forget to joke the names of all the beauties that exist or ever existed in our college, and to come up with so many beauties really surprised me. How come I failed to observe them during my three years in this college! Believe me it is a scarce commodity. As economics puts it-”when supply is less demand is too high”. To put it without beating the bush dramatics just ended up a millimeter short of vulgarity!

One thing that surely catches the attention of all boys of our college is the otherwise not so good looking girls of their batch appear as angels on these three nights. It feels like falling in love with all these girls only for these three nights. As soon as I saw a girl the first thing that crossed my mind was to present her a rose and as I went towards the rose desk, to spend my dad's hard toiled 25 rupees on a single rose, I saw another one worth presenting a flower to making me forget who the first girl was. Oscillating between the dilemma of whom to present a flower to, I used the 25 rupees on a lavishing burger! Though ruing it when I saw the guest colleges coming.

Manish Bhatt made history this hill ffair. He gave thirty different roses to thirty different girls. The flowers got over when he went for the 31st one!

√2 is -"GET OUT FROM THE CLASS"

2009-10-31T07:58:00.000-07:00

Wednesday was a pretty happening day...happening in the sense a lot of things happened not as good as I would have wished it to be, yet certainly happenings worth mentioning.

I had a class to attend at morning 10:20. I woke up late and reached the class door at 10:40. The teacher politely ridiculed me by saying, "aren't you a bit too early for the next class?"

The teachers don't realize it is hard to be on time when you have movies to watch till morning wee hours. Moreover, the next class was of a teacher who is named as Vinod with a sobriquet 'Voltage' attached by the geniuses of my class; he is a genius in the field he teaches, and he teaches us moral education and how to build up self esteem in his allotted period of Linear Integrated Circuits. So there was no chance I would come up that eagerly to attend a moral education class, unless my attendance is short.

I passed the rest half an hour ogling at passer-by's, especially if they were girls. The readers please pity the engineering college boys, because IIT's and NIT's have males and non-males. We don't have females.

I entered the class room when the class finished. Took out the Manticore's Secret and continued reading it from the page I had left. Reading to find out what happens next in the book is better than listening to a moral education lecture from 'voltage'. My parents are better suited at this task!

The teacher entered and tuned his brain to the 'sanskar' TV frequency and started a 'mini muraari baapu' show. It was somewhere after a while he caught me not listening to him. By the time he pointed me out and made me stand I shoved the book to the next guy sitting to me. I had been waiting for the exact words to be uttered and he uttered after a few minutes. 'Get out from the class!'

I enthusiastically moved out of the class room. Attendance of the day had been taken, and I was marked present.

Next class was of Digital Image Processing. A hairless guy, hairless not brainless this time, takes our class. He was a 9.5 something pointer when he was in college, and is considered intelligent by a better part of the students community. He is a nerd from my point of view.

I like him as a teacher. At least he teaches what is there in the subject and spares us the agony of listening to moral education lectures. He continued from where he had left in the last lecture. He wrote 'f1(x)=∑√2*f0(x)'

Well, most of the class sits blank in his lecture. His most of the teaching are OTH(over the head). I stood up and asked him how the roots over 2 come into picture. He tried to explain it, however I wasn't able to understand. He said come to my room later on, I will make you understand.

He continued with his teaching and derived two more formulae from the previous formula, and this really irritated me. Nearly ninety percent of the class doesn't know what the equation is, and out of the rest ten percent hardly one boy knows why the root over 2 came, and he continued with deriving the next formula using the √2 equation!

I took out the subject book, and started reading the portion where √2 's explanation was given. He saw me reading it and said, "If you can really understand from the book, why are you attending my lecture? Please leave the room.”

So basically, I was turned out of class twice today. Once for reading a novel and once for reading the book I should have been reading.

In the line of duty!

2009-10-06T09:15:00.001-07:00

Truth is stranger than fiction and the least we human can do, not to be surprised and tormented by it, is accept it. The relationship between India and Pakistan which used to be worth a masala film prior to 70's, is presently a fitting story to be a Balaji production. However, situation had had never been so- lets say not friendly, to be modest. There were days when Ashfaqullah Khan followed Gandhi with greater spirit than he ever followed Jinnah.

I, along with my grandfather, am sitting at the Wagah border. Thanks to my brother, who is in BSF we managed to get to the VIP seats. He is going to be a part of the retreat ceremony today, so indeed I am excited.The atmosphere and delivery of slogans at Wagah border is something you can only know by experience. The heat of the situation is palpable to be said the least.

My grandfather is an old man. He was a freedom fighter who lost his left leg in one of the fights against the Britishers. In our childhood days, we often asked him to tell us the stories of his and Mohammad Nabi's adventures. Mohammad Nabi was his fellow comrade who lost his life in Quit India Movement. My grandfather always speaks highly of him. He was a brave man born to parents of a Lahore based family. His family resides in Lahore now. Once after the freedom, my grandfather went to Lahore to meet his old friends and from there he brought a photo of Nabi's family. He was survived by two sons, about whom he learned later on the elder died of some contagious disease. The elder is survived by his only son, who would be of nearly my age.

Both the sides are shouting patriotic slogans to the most their parched throats can afford. Whenever any side bursts into forceful shouts, the other side replies with an even forceful-er shout. The stands are full up to the the brim on Indian side, or rather overflowing. People are standing on iron fences and railings surrounding the stands. The Pakistani stands are pretty full, however a fine number can still be spaced in. Both sides are playing patriotic songs making their respective people dance on the roads. Though girls are common to be seen dancing on Indian side, and reverse is true for across the gate. People are still pouring in on both sides, a good number of foreigners can be seen pouring in from Indian side. The other side lacks it, thanks to their military, militancy and religious idiosyncrasies.

The ceremony has begun, a comrade of my brother is shouting in the mike, held by the anchor of the evening, with a vigor and enthusiasm that seems unending. He said the first word 'squad', with what seemed to be an infinite stretching. The later words were incomprehensible.

Two of the Indian BSF men marched up to the gates. The marching with legs rising higher than their heads got an applauded spectators, however with time passing they became a common feat. The same events were occurring on the other side. A Pakistani Ranger came marching forward with a tantamount vigor, with anger and flared noses as if he is going to over run the gates. Both the soldiers turned coming in front of each other at the gate, and started forming a line at the edges of the their own roads. Similar feat was repeated by other two soldiers.

My brother was of the last two to march. My bristles were standing, and I was getting virtual jolts as he passed in front me and my grandfather. There was a glaze in my grandfather's eyes which we rarely used to see, and the rare moments were when he used to describe his fight against the Britishers. I could see that shine in my brother's eyes now! The glaze which could even send tremors through the Gods of War. Two bearded Pakistani Rangers marched towards the gate.

My brother was the one from India's side who was supposed to bring back the National Flag, and a bearded Ranger from the Pakistan's side was supposed to do the same. Both competed with full gusto to see who shall be the fastest with proper respect.

Both sides folded their respective flags and rolled back to their own buildings. The Retreat Ceremony was over.

I met my brother later, he was sweating and his glaze was fading yet it showed its existence. He came and touched my grandfathers feet and asked him, 'did you see the Pakistani Ranger who was removing the flag?'

My grandfather calmly replied,'was'nt he Nabi's grandson!.'

I was left aghast. My brother knew it the very moment he saw him approaching, yet his ferocity did not dampen at all, and my grandfather to whom he was alike his own grandson did not flinch at all. My grandfather would have done the same if he had been in my brother's place, and if in a fight my grandfather would'nt have a hesitated a bit to slaughter him.

That is what duty is, and that is what truth is!

I want my children to live in a developed India. Do you?

2009-09-05T07:56:00.001-07:00

Just a few days back I received a mail subjected as- Kalam's Hyderabad speech. No Indian with a properly balanced head would directly delete it, anyone would at least give it a look(though in some cases, mostly his lectures tend to go OTH (over the head), no offence.Our mind statuses are at a bit different levels). If any one hasn't read contact me I will make it a point to mail it him. People like kalam, Bhagat Singh, Mahatma Gandhi, all had a vision, a common vision to take India to a level where we are no more looked to as the third world! They worked, and Kalam is indeed working till today, I might be surprised if he doesn't ask himself to be buried in DRDO or in ISRO campus.

And on another hand we have people like JE's of Delhi, I don't even consider him worthy enough to remember his name, who never in their life earned more than 40k per month staying in bungalows worth three to four crores. Recently, I was at my maternal uncles house, and he along with his family was invited to a party thrown by the JE of the area. The party was thrown on account that he had bought a new car, to add to his account of already two cars. My uncle is a contractor and I along with you can easily see through how they became acquaintances. Through out the event I was in a rebellious mood, in a mood to shout at all the people in the nation, go and sell your sisters as you have already sold your mother at the petty hands of nickel coins. Still, life teaches you many things, out of that one is to keep your mouth shut at such occasions.

Corruption is prevalent, there are no two views on that. Yet, what are we doing to curtail it? Whenever we go to the market to buy a kilo of potatoes costing us 8 rupees, and we give a ten rupee note to the vendor. Do any one of us leave two rupees and return back? Most probably, none of us. However, we do nothing to know why the road in front of our house is not repaired? Where has the money to be spent in its repairment gone? We simply bitch about the falling standards of the politicians, do we do any thing to put a chain in their necks? We do nothing of that sort. We simply wait for another Medha Patkar to reason our cause and fight for us.

The nation has given us a fundamental right- Right To Information. Please learn about it, and use it. It empowers you to ask the MP of your area how did you spend the money given to you for development. Indirectly you ask him, how did you spend the money I paid as tax. Does any one stop you from speaking in front of the media, or in the street during a street play? None, because Right To speech is known to every Tom, Dick and Harry. Take RTI to that stage. I pray to all the readers next time you don't get your driving license, pass port, No Objection Certificate, Domicile and you think you really deserve it, please don't bribe the bloody scoundrel sitting on the other side of the table. Go for RTI.

(special thanks to Raajev for the Kalam mail, and the MBA students of my college for the RTI workshop)

Happy Birthday !!!

2009-08-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

Another day of the calender passed. Another day spent of my life. Another day with a fine blend of emotions and happiness passed. It was a day with nothing exceptional; just as I had thought, yet I am not happy- neither am I sad-well that's how reality is. You accept it without reservations, you don't cry. You don't, time be the savior!

Today was someone special's birthday. I had planned not to call her; well that is how revenge is taken. She hadn't called me on my birthday, I should neither. Yet, as the clock struck a new day, the phone was in my hands and the number was dialed. For two consecutive years I had been the first person to wish her birthday, but this time it was the third-third are usually different! Her phone was busy.

Ego is a wonderful thing. Wonderful in a sense, gives you a momentary satisfaction that I am right. Well as the so afore-defined 'right' wanted I didn't try the second time. She called after five minutes and the 'right' state again ruled- I didn't pick up the phone.

Well as I said the day had been a mix of emotions and happiness. Now coming to the happiness part- my youngest maternal uncle's wife gave birth to a fine daughter. It's a child born in their house after a time period of 27 years.

By the way in case you are wondering what happened next in the earlier incident- I called her after a five minutes gap. No personal chat. No olden days recalled. No personal talks done. Only birthday wishes!

The Furthest I Can Recall!

2009-06-15T11:49:00.000-07:00

All kids are gifted; some just open their packages earlier than others and those who are helped to open do something which I did- they CRY! Seeing my sister running for a different school, faint pictures of my first day at school brought a true smile on my so otherwise face. With some help from my father, I am able to paint a proper picture along with the emotions that waved that day.

I was truly a kid, only four years old. If you look at me now you shall surely hang me for lying. Presently, four year oldies appear some sort of cherubs to me; at that age they were no less than devils that parade the hell. My mother woke me up, and after a proper brushing and bath she started dressing me. It was then that I started muttering-“nahi jaana.” Throughout the breakfast I kept on saying, sometimes in fainter inaudible voices and some times in pleading voices-“papa, please nahi jaana; mummy nahi jaana…”

It was a mixture of fear of staying away from home for the first time, and being surrounded by some one or rather so many that you did not know. Moreover, I was conned by rote not to do anything that troubled the teacher. In my dictionary of deeds everything I did troubled my mom, so everything I deed was bound to trouble the teacher. In other words, I had to do nothing. In short, you were being captivated without fetters, without cuffs, and you were being silenced without gags.

Taking in his arms (read as “making sure I don’t flee”), my father took me to the school. As soon as I saw the gates I started breaking the hell in my father’s arms. I was crying someone similar to a baby, who shall not stop unless given the exact thing needed; and I needed freedom from the approaching fear. My crying was so impressive that people in the streets halted to watch me. Brutus at his best- convincing Romans (here father). My crying became so furious that my father got agitated and carried me back home.

Seeing me being back at home, my mother and her neighbor friend asked what happened. On being answered, the neighbour had a good laugh. She calmly replied, “bhaiyaa…take him back. Everyone cry their first day. My son had to be forcefully seated in his class, with the teacher holding him back while my husband left.”

On seeing my father taking me back the same track, I again started having the same sinking feeling. I did not wish to go; my innards were being filled with the exposed fear of being surrounded by so many unknown people. The same scene returned. The school gate-my cries-the people halting. However this time my father took me inside. I cried till we reached the school grounds after that I stopped. Got down from my father’s arms. Carefully released myself from his grip and said, “papa…ab main khud chala jaaunga.”

My father gave me a sweet smile and pointed at the class where I had to go. I was in all probability reddening under the gazes of other children and parents staring at me, feeling a bit clumsy I started walking to my class. He remained standing there, till when I have no idea and I have not asked him till date and neither shall I ever do; marveling most probably at his son- “how soon they grow? Till yesterday, he used wasn’t able to walk two steps and today he is going to school for the first time.”

At noon, he was standing at the same spot. I ran and hugged him, as if I was seeing him after a lot many days. Even he hugged me, and we both started walking back home- hand in hand. However, I never asked him and most probably ever shall not- “did he stay there the whole morning? “

Another side of clouds...

2009-04-22T03:10:00.000-07:00

The dimming Sun;
the covering clouds;
The running nun;
the hiding prouds.
They come. They come.

The approaching shack;
the threatening glare.
The unblemished black;
the ripping snare.
They come. They come.

The godly fight;
the titian clash.
The situation tight.
Smaller vanquish flash.
They come. They come.

The thunderous sound;
the erected hair.
The frightful pound.
the pissing mare.
They come. They come.

The harsh gale,
the creaking oaks.
The people pale,
the palpable shocks.
They come. They come.

The crying child.
The frightened mother.
The fever mild,
the sleeping father.
They come. They come.

The raining fast;
The pelting harsh.
The seeds cast
turn into marsh.
They come. They come.

The waiting farmers;
the bathing boy.
The God's dreamers
in dancing joy.
They come. They come.

The umbrellas over,
the raincoats on.
Life stops never-
dusk or dawn.
They come. They come.

The parched farm;
the drought land-
Moved by charm.
Rains outside band.

The people wait
for another day,
when opens gate
clouds rain may.
They came, they came.
Never water came.

I have an explanation...

2009-04-03T15:22:00.000-07:00

#what if Rahul Gandhi becomes India's prime Minister?

Firstly, he will dissolve the passing systems of exams and make sure politicians children are given a lower pass percentage, and Gandhi's(not the real ones, the reel ones) don't need to appear in papers.Secondly, he wants to sue the examiners who corrected his higher secondary papers and failed him.

#why Mayawati wants to become India's prime minister?

firstly, it has been a long time since she did some scam; secondly, her locker is already filled with Gujrati diamonds, she wants to try a hand at South African ones.

#Why Mulayam Singh doesn't want to become India's Prime Minister?

He has been very well taught by his holiness Amar Singh, not to keep false hopes as they tend to cause heart attacks in case of failures.

#what if Mamta Banerjee becomes India's Prime minister?

A ban for Tata, in complete India.(You fu**ed my case in Singur, i will f**k ur case in India!)

# why is Dr. kalam still optimistic about 2020 vision?

well, he is India's missile man and whatever he speaks are at a height of 20,000 feet. Naturally, it takes time for truth to travel against gravity. It will surely reach him one day, i am still optimistic...

#Why was Aishwariya given a Padmashree?

In all probability, to shorten the journey of this award from entertainment to politics.

*the most beautiful reply of the century-"i got it because i deserved it"(Aishwarya Rai)*

Thank god Jenna Jameson never belonged to India!

#when is India going to win a football major tournament?

Only when a south-asian quota comes into existence, and lesser chance when the referee is bought.(Lesser chance with the second choice since football referee's are never Indian.)

#Why was Jagdish Tytler set free?

Simply, because he has a swiss bank account, and so does the cabinet ministers.

#Why none of the CPM's politicians are billionare?

Because, they have a huge family with not so small bank balances.

#Why did Prathibha Patil become India's president?

(please send me a reply..I seriously need one!!!)

The award known as- Oscar

2009-03-22T05:05:00.000-07:00

Finally ,as usual as any other year, another movie was sent for National Academy awards, however unusual of any other year this time it won!The point is not whether it deserved or not, indeed it was a movie well made, well directed and well acted; however it has been the same case with a dozen earlier movies sent for this so-much coveted award.Even they were made and acted with equal excellency and in some cases they were better.

The reason i attribute to why Slumdog Millionare won is, forgive me to be so blatant,it showed the world the poverty of India; it showed the world we have a slum named Dharavi famous for being the greatest slum region in Asia- a living place for a million. Mumbai the financial capital of the Great India with a population of over 10 million has slum pockets which cover a mere 6% of the land in Mumbai, hold 60% of the population. This means that those tiny slum enclaves hold a staggering 6 million people. India which half an century ago was a despicable land worth sneering and mocked at- thanks to the Britishers, has started giving frowns to a major of economies, and how can the same economies stop making a mock of our nation when they have a chance.

The underbelly of India, Daharavi and all slum pockets have once again come into fore being and the purpose of Oscar which should have been appreciating the hard work and master work of our technicians and artists has appreciated the casteism, corruption, and poverty of our nation; and have proved that- India you are just a third world country, with pretensions of becoming a super power.If you want to win an Oscar go on one of these lines which actually breathe in every of its nook and corner; while the producers and directors of other countries can adopt a book and win Oscars.

My First Date...

2009-03-01T01:30:00.000-08:00

Ironically, the date has taken the copy rite to write the blog;and she has asked for two years to pen it down...(a day, virtually, for each word); so i have to either coax her to write it faster, which in all probability is an impossibility, not that i cannot coax but herself getting coaxed is surely an; or have to wait for two years, which indeed requires a lot of patience and i am planning to harbor it, or when she fails to deliver her words i will have to write it down myself....

so, "my first date" to be written two years hence...

Fixing An Unwanted Outcome;

2009-02-05T09:46:00.000-08:00

English language is not yet so developed so as to express emotions explicitly. As a matter of fact, no language is. The language of truth is flat and insipid; it fails to express fine touches of sensuality and delicate fibres of likings and caring which wake you up at midnights. I speak to you the same truth, but also want you to know that those de3licate fibres matrix my thoughts and deeds. Liking is the first step towards loving someone. Sometimes some people take decisions that are irrational, and as a consequence shed more tears than joy enjoyed. I am rational enough to smile more than tears shed, and i expect you to be rationaler than me and pay heed to everything listened, but filter them using your own wisdom. After all, we are as Nature made us, and nature never does anything for the hack of doing it. It is ultimate reason and rationality. The best teacher to learn anything from!

As far as Nature’s plans and decisions for me are concerned, I never wanted to hear them; though a person accessed to it surprises me. However it troubles me better than surprising me. So I prefer a safer distance. If someone superior has already written our destiny, I at least want to be under the impression that I wrote mine myself.

In link to yesterday, i would like to say- I am sorry! I was unable to decipher what you wanted to know and you were unable to make out what i wanted to say.

Apologies, if offended;
dated-4/02/2009.

The Awesomeness of me!!!

2008-12-08T10:07:00.000-08:00

It’s after a long time I’m typing down something and a lot has happened since...a lot means literally a lot. First of all in this article I shall be straying from the main purpose for which I built this blog. A panacea for all the “galibs” of my age. I played the part of a girl in my college spoof and believe me it rocked. I shall be patient and do justice to it.

I had to play the part of the legendary Hermione of Harry Potter fame. I was supposed to wear a skirt and an awesome auburn wig on my head. I virtually fell in love with my own appearance! Serious issues apart, and now I take you to the final day. I entered the stage with my back facing the audience. As is expected, the mere feminine outline is enough in engineering colleges to make guys throats whistle and hoot, I received my share of shoutings. I waited patiently. Primarily because I was enjoying the scenario and more than that I was more excited for their reaction on the next part.
I turned and woo.... they were flabbergasted. They were beating each other and crying over their stomachs on what they had hooted. With all the girlish expressions overly exaggerated and performed with undue amount of finesse I completed my job. And so did the spectators on whistling at each of my feminine etiquette.
The crowd was laughing as hell and their fawning was getting more and more boisterous. Needless to say I enjoyed it a lot and so did the people. However I do pity the frustrated guys who till the end didn’t figure out that Hermione was a boy.

With love to one and all,
Yours lovingly,
Hermione Granger.

That 44 Rupees Look!

2008-08-16T03:31:00.001-07:00

I don't remember the precise date, but since when have been boys good at recalling dates, I hope I can be forgiven under that pretense. Who knew, that day would have culminated into today -- today, when I'm not myself; today I look into the mirror and find myself missing; today I see my own eyes and feel them lost somewhere in the depths of two black eyes which I looked into on that particular day.

Now read on and please don't hold me in the wrong light stating I was a scoundrel and a git. Please judge me with sympathy in your hearts, that's the most I beg of the readers. I was in sixth standard and she was a new comer to the school. She had not been able to get her hands on a geography text book and I had an extra one, by some glitch of mine I had bought two books today I thank to that fault of mine. She offered me the price of that book and woe my tongue I accepted it. Since that particular day I have been giving her a part of myself and today I have nothing left to gift her. Unknown to her I gave her my heart, unknown to her I made her a part of my emotions, my sorrows, my happiness, my dreams and finally my life.Worldly possessions seem too cheap in comparison to things I have given her.

So on that day it wasn't only the geography book that she bought from me; I along with the geography book gave her a lot of things which a true human gives only once. I gave her the things that she never asked for; I gave her the things, maybe, she doesn't even value; I gave her the things that she might crush at her slightest whim; I gave her the powers to create me, to destroy me, to build me or to ruin me. Maybe today she doesn't even wish to look at me, or maybe she thinks of me as nothing more than a straw on a stormy night, I don't know. I always thought of her as the air I breathe, as the water I drink, as the light I see and the presence I feel, and whenever I think of the geography book I remember the bargain she made.

The Greatest Mistake Of His Life

2008-08-08T21:45:00.000-07:00

Have you ever felt great at the top of the heaven, and at the bottom of a fathomless pit?

Well the pitiable, sorrowful condition is love! It vacuums the courage within you and fills you with an everlasting hope. The hope - the desire - which burns inside your vacuumed inners filling it with a dank soot which we realize as pain. In this snippet I shall discuss when the slightly burning pale flame completely destroys you, when your vacuumed innards are dabbed black with this clammy soot of pain - when your clinging straw drowns into irretrievable fathomless water, and you are left at your own darkness to be overlapped or to cower it - and cowering is impossible.

Tagore said that human beings clasp to false hopes in times of despair (and they really do) ,and when they come face to face with reality these hopes rip the very nerves in which they flow and crack the subject up to doom. We human beings are the foolest creature God happened to chance. He gave us brain, senses, made us mortal to fear him however he made the gravest mistake of his immortal life when he endowed them with emotions. He did right by creating whatever he wished BUT he shouldn't have endowed us with emotions. What does that power know what we have been through, what does he realize what we have suffered.

Many desire to be God however I ask him to be in our place and love, and know what it feels when you love and are not responded, and I would be more than happy if he sees the loop hole in his own matrix. At the end of the day he would say ,"Ah! I wish I had been mortal not to endure this." The religious books preaches - at last every soul will be united to the Almighty/ do deeds that take you closer to Him; and what I say is - useless is the aforesaid thing. What a mortal like me want is the union with the soul about which I care, which I love, whose closeness I desire, I wish, I hope, I dream. What shall I do with a religious union when I can't care about that soul, when I can't love it.

"I call the creator the wisest fool. He made a mathematical equation "man" and put a variable "love" which when approaches a constant value makes the equation called "life" unsolvable."