quick_tales

coolbabe2310

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:08:29 GMT

That night I was shivering, completely soaked even after taking shelter under the huge banyan tree. I guess my soul was about to depart when suddenly a warm hand touched my forehead. When I looked up, tears started flowing down my cheeks. My eyes were talking as my lips had turned blue from being soaked in the rain for so long. She stood there calmly with the most beautiful and angelic face I had ever seen. It seemed as if an angel had descended down to take me with her and relieve me of my anguish. When she opened her mouth to speak, I was brought back to reality. She asked" my child, what are doing here all wet? Where do you live? Where is your home? Where are your parents?" I became numb but by what I did the very next moment, I ended up surprising myself. She was standing so close to me that I could feel the warmth of her body. Seeing her as my only hope there, I caught hold of her feet and started crying loudly. "Please take me with you. I have no one and nowhere to go. My parents died when I was seven. Since then I have been living off the streets and I am very cold." Before I could finish, she hugged me so tight as if I was her own lost child whom she had found miraculously. She held my hand and said' my precious one, every child is special to god. You are not alone, from this day onwards I am your mother." And 20 years ago today I had found a home. She taught me that it is not necessary to be related by blood for receiving and giving love, sometimes beautiful relationships develop with pure strangers.

groovyrush4u

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:08:04 GMT

Life is pretty.. With all its ups n downs, it still looks beautiful ..Accept it, no matter how much you try to avoid, there WILL be good times with equal share of bad times.. There will be smiles with cries.. There will be a 'forever' and a 'never'.. You cant avoid any of these..

But are you sure you can smile through all of them? No matter how much you try to put up a fake brave smile, there will always be sum1 or the other who will catch you immediately.. Watch you laugh for no reason and then, when you turn around, will watch you wipe that tiny tear rolling out of your moist eye.. But still, you are questioned by a face with all the possibilities of breaking you down then and there..

It's very easy to run away, from the same problems you take home.. From the same people you are afraid to confront , from the same desires you are afraid to STAND UP for!!.. So afraid, that you are ready to let go of every special thing in your life just because of your inability to say the truth.. Hiding in the shadows of those who support your coward act is easy.. But what is difficult is when people ask you to face it.. Standing within the shade of cowardice, its easy to forget that yes, you can also be wrong.. And slowly, it creeps onto you.. It prompts people to laugh.. Soo, are the fake, convincing shadows of d coward world so appealing that you have forgotten that its all just an illusion and the truth is out there.. Under the sun.. Why are you so scared of the sun?? Are you so disturbed that you need a fake smile to prove that you are happy??.. Don't you know that even if you get sunburn, it's the reality.. Don't you want to be at peace with your inner self and accept that yes, this is what I deserve.. Life is much easier after facing the fears.. Who knows, maybe the people who are prompting you to come out are the same people who can help heal your burns.. Honesty hurts..But that is the real deal.. Hmm, no wonder its not accepted or followed.. TRUTH IS UGLY... people are materialistic and that is why lie is so attractive.. So much so that it's the source of our happiness.. If you ARE happy then, why are you still thinking about the past and going back into it.. Isn't it a personal decision to behave as if it never existed?! You start hating people who throw reality at you, hmm, maybe the thought that you will have to face the grueling sun scares you and that is why you hide!!!!

Life is pretty.. GOOD pretty.. For me... I am under the sun.. And its fun because its all real. Very difficult but so is life, so this fight is worth it! ...

shamitb

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:07:43 GMT

02 Jan, 2009 “ Mah Baby, Puchkin
Puchkin is seven months old today. She has started calling me 'UmmMuaa' “ mother. I feel great joy today!!! It's indescribable. And here's Puchkin's picture, does she recognize herself? Puchkin baby, do you?

11 Feb, 2009 “ They'll Get Us
I don't think it is possible for us to escape now “ Puchkin, I have sent back to my parent's place. Ram and me are struggling to stay awake and not panic. We cannot go out, they will track us down - there is surely no sign of a reprieve “ we are losing our energy levels rapidly. Hope someone can help us. It is getting dark and now soon we will lose connection “ the jammers will be activated. 2by2 - 666 - enter the dragon “ use 3 kicks.

STATUTORY NOTE: Credible evidence is the first step to persecution “ evidence of inciting or derogatory or inflammatory entries will be treated as punishable offense. This journal has now been shut down, categorization: 'anti-state activism' “ the bloggers have been in custody since Feb 11, 2010.

Swamy currently in France, studying at the PINSEAD had just received Maya's blog-update; he was subscribed. This last post on the feed jolted him, what had she written about? He had been more shocked by the fact that Maya was now married and even had a kid “ they were in touch even a few months back and she had never mentioned. On checking he found all her posts including the puzzle she'd written had been removed now. Was the puzzle some hint or was it to mislead the police? Was there this new form of a info-crime regime in India since he had left two years back “ he wondered.

A search on Yoga “ the new search-bot, revealed that actually the links had been preserved in the virtual cache to keep the network from collapsing inward, MadSense had to use it day in and day out - the network had to be maintained intact else the very survival of the POOPLE network, was at risk.

Loud music along with glittering lights and beats of the tabla greeted him as he logged into the virtual teleconference room. He found her and she answered: "Ah! So you have been very busy eh? Did I succeed in fooling you?" and then a loud giggle.
Maya had been really miffed at Swamy for not having called in lately and used this as a ploy to spook him out of his wits “ all her entries were misleading! Maya was working as Lead Geek in the rival social network of blogs called Da Journal and casually remarked that she had hacked into POOPLE.

He understood the code now - the number 2by2 was the server grid and 666 was the power to arrive at the data node of her blog in the network, dragon the pass-code and 3 kicks the trident like logo of the POOPLE social network - we treasure the whole world's information.

Puchki was Maya's sister's baby!

Rada

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:06:18 GMT

From a doctor's diary

Balu has been in love with trains ever since he was a little boy.

During summer vacations when his cousins retire to the cooler confines of the house and play board games, waiting for the hot afternoon to ease off, Balu purposefully strides out to the ground in front of his house. There, under the blazing sun, he draws up a huge rectangle on the hard earth with his big toe. Standing on one corner of the rectangle, with great pomp and ceremony, he proclaims himself to be a certain train, say the Mangalore-Madras Mail, and starts running.

Balu the train, eases out of the platform slowly, gradually picking up speed, accelerating gracefully and very soon is shrieking past minor stations and sundry level crossings, deep gorges, and dry riverbeds, dilapidated temple tanks and bustling market places, oblivious to the verdant countryside flashing past. He runs and runs, to the consternation of the elders in the house, and slows down only when the next ˜station' approaches.

But Balu is one of those lucky ones who can escape the scorching summers of Kerala every year, by going up the mountains. His paternal grandparents live near the famous south Indian hill resort of Ootacamund in the Nilgiri Hills in the Western Ghats, in the beautiful valley near Lovedale.

Lovedale has a tiny little station and Balu, ever the train enthusiast, spends most of the day there, watching the trains go by. Very soon, he becomes the close friend and confidante of the station master, following him around as the elderly gentleman goes about his daily chores.

One day, he finds his friend, the stationmaster, in a depressed mood. He has been transferred to a remote station, somewhere in the plains.

Young Balu is sympathetic: "To which station have you been transferred?" he asks.

"Some godforsaken place," says the stationmaster. "A place called Dasampatti. I don't even know where on the earth this wretched place is."

The ten-year old does not miss a beat. "Oh! Dasampatti!" he says with absolute certainty, "comes between Samalpatti and Doddampatti. In the Salem-Jolarpet sector."

"The stationmaster almost died of shock." Balu told me with a wicked smile when he first told me the story during one of our initial sessions.

We have given him a room overlooking the valley. It is a nice view but I wonder whether he notices. He eats little, sleeps little and speaks not at all which worries us.

It has been thirty years and the trains continue to run in his mind, shrieking past minor stations and sundry level crossings, deep gorges, and dry riverbeds, dilapidated temple tanks and bustling market places...

lipak

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:06:02 GMT

When the Universe Conspires!

June 2004
Ajay saw her for the first time in a train on his way to Khandala. He couldn't take his eyes off her. There she was like an angel, in the midst of all that chaos that typifies rail travel in India. He wanted to keep looking at her oblivious of the fact that there were other people around. But the aisle was crowded, and all he could manage were a few glimpses.

Soon came the Khandala station, and he so desperately wanted her to get down there with him. But she sat there lost in her thoughts. Sadly he got down and was beginning to move towards the station gate when it hit him. The train had started so he just dropped his luggage and ran towards the compartment door from where he had exited. People standing at the door thought he wanted to board the train and he saw hands reaching out towards him. He ran alongside the train for what seemed an eternity, at a speed which was much beyond what he deemed were his physical limits. But then he got to see what he wanted to and dropped the chase. The occupant of seat 34 according to that barely legible reservation chart beside the compartment door was F22 Priya J

March 2005
Many months had gone by and many work related trips along that route were taken, but he had never seen her again. The train journey to Pune was no longer a time to take a nap. Instead, his eyes remained wide open and searching, through countless reservation charts and train compartments. He was eligible for air travel - business class, but then in matters of the heart which he had hopelessly lost in that dingy train, there is no room for logic. There were times when Ajay really scolded himself for his behavior. It seemed silly, stupid, crazy whatever. But he didn't care. So be it. Should he have gone and talked to her at that time? But what would he have said!?

December 2005
Finally the day came when he was headed to Pune for his final client presentation. Henceforth, he would have no periodic excuse to go that route. But as fate would have it, excessive rains meant the trains that day got cancelled & the highways were also blocked. Since he had to make it on the same day, he decided to fly down. On his way to the airport, Ajay decided that he should take this as some kind of a ˜sign', and take her out of his mind.

He boarded the flight and switched on his laptop to fine tune the presentation. As he was working on what his recommendations would be, he heard the airhostess say ˜Apple or Lemon juice'. Ajay looked at her, and after about 2 seconds during which his face would have shown a multitude of emotions including disbelief and happiness, he said ˜Lemon juice please!Priya'.

griting

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:05:38 GMT

I was rushing through the corridors when I almost tripped over a book lying on the floor. It was a brown hardback notebook and there was no name. So I stuffed it into my bag and went to class.
Later, at home, I opened it onto the first page:

"January 26th, 2008

Being a woman must be interesting--what with their curvaceous figures, and strange minds...
But even as they flit past me everyday and everywhere, I only think of her...long, cascading hair, shining in the morning light--her lilting laugh...damn, I just got goose bumps...

Darling...
Why do you DO this to me?
You're BEAUTIFUL
As any eye can see
And here I am
On bended knee
And here I'll stay eternally
Waiting for you--
Forever--in my heart you'll be
For you alone
Who has the key..."

...And that's how it went: random views on life, poetry on girl/s...and NO NAME.

So I decided to use it to get chicks.

Okay, ACTUALLY, there was this one girl in particular. She was in my class, but REALLY smart and so beyond me for that reason, if nothing else.

Also, she was bloody GORGEOUS.

Anyway, as it happened, I found the book just before the holidays, so I made a plan:
I decided to place an anonymous, typed poem everyday in her mailbox at dawn. By the third day, at least, she'd come out in person out of curiosity, and I--from a safe distance, and with binoculars--would watch her reaction.

She began to come out by the second day itself. She would fish eagerly into the mailbox, and literally DEVOUR them. Her face would light up and she would smile so prettily, my heart used to start hammering.

...Once she was out so early she almost caught me, too.

After the holidays were over, I decided to toy with her a bit and just push one through her locker vents every few days.

About a month into the new term, I finally mustered up enough guts to pass a poem in class.

She looked so excited on receiving it I felt like shouting, "IT'S ME!" but kept my mouth shut.

She quickly scribbled a reply and passed it:
"PLEASE!!! Meet me at five at the mermaid fountain...and wear a flower!"

I smiled triumphantly and sighed. AT LAST...

By five I was sitting by the fountain with a daisy in my buttonhole.
Finally--I caught sight of her, ten yards away. Our eyes met simultaneously and she rushed towards me. I leaped to my feet.

"Hi," she said breathlessly, "James, right?"
I was so happy I could only stare.
"So YOU'RE the one who's been sending me poetry?"
I nodded.
"I'd like my journal back, James."

My mouth dropped open.

For two minutes, neither of us spoke.

"WHAT?!" I gurgled at last. "Are you...?"

"No, just enlightened," she replied, patting my shoulder good-naturedly as she walked away, clutching it to her chest.

sunita2008

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:03:28 GMT

To Strike a Chord

She led her frail husband to the chair, where he settled himself comfortably. Tucking a bib under his chin, she placed his lunch on a stool before him. His hand began a jittery voyage from the plate to his mouth. She started steadying him, but he shrank away from her, as if she were a stranger. Her vision blurred with tears. Suddenly, he smiled angelically at her. Her infinite anxieties seemed to vanish miraculously and she collected herself.

"Now, eat slowly. I'll tell you a story." Thus saying, she browsed through the enviable collection of books of their home library.
"Let's read ˜The Discovery of the Vatika Cave' by Shaumik Roy." There was no response. Her husband was engrossed in noisily slurping his soup.

She began reading. It was a journal recording the experiences of a thirty year old scientist Shaumik, who got separated from his friends in the thick jungles of Khoopla, where they had gone for a camp. Night fell and they failed to trace him. A week later, rescue operations were still going on.

In the meantime, Shaumik took shelter in a cave. It was a wild animal's deserted home. During the daytime, he went around in circles, searching for his friends, but in vain. By day four, he had exhausted his supply of food and water.

As she read aloud, her husband alternated between listening in rapt attention and clumsily eating his meal.

"One evening, a giant lizard entered my cave," she continued reading. "I was terrified and climbed up the uneven rocks which formed the inner portion. On reaching the top, I was surprised to find a small opening, through which I crawled. It led to another small cave with stone inscriptions on it's walls. It never struck me then, that I had just discovered an eleventh century cave of the Liqu tribes. I slept there and by the next morning, the lizard had disappeared."

She stole a look at her husband. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She read on. "It was raining heavily. I dug a big hole in the ground with a sharp rock and placed my raincoat in it. After two hours, I had collected enough drinking water. Thankfully, I had a huge supply of match boxes containing sticks, with which I could light fire for warmth and for roasting small animals for food."

Finally, on the tenth day, a search team found him. Later, archaeologists visited the site and Shaumik became a hero overnight with the discovery of the cave, which was named ˜Vatika'.

"Did you like the story?" She enquired, shutting the book.
"I think I know someone by that name-Shaumik. An old friend, maybe?" He screwed his forehead in concentration.

She looked expectantly at him. Were the medicines he was being administered for Alzheimer's, finally doing their job?

As she led him out for a walk, his name ˜Shaumik Roy' gleamed like gold on their door-plate.

shisir

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 11:03:09 GMT

Rock as a genre, or rather as a fountain of madness has its own existential justifications as its appeal. I have followed the head bangers like a shadow does to its object on a bright sunlight. Its not because I love it “ neither do I so intensely hate it. The variety of justifications that people find in this genre is phenomenal. People cry, when they need solace; people howl when sadness exceeds sadness and rock exactly does that without any inhibitions and that is something that pulls several percent of rock devotees to its folds.
However I am not here to discuss the origin or influence of rock here, nor its difference from other music genres.
I have known him for several decades now. When I had met him first- he was just one of us- crew cut “ bold framed spectacles “ and most importantly very polite. Within a few days it was evident, he had found a close friend, which developed into a mutual friendship that almost bordered with what urbanites call homosexuality.
Rock had its own plans to seep into their lives in such complex circuit diagrams, that its true motives and goals were hard to be deciphered. The other guy developed an interest in playing the guitar and slowly started picking up the chords. As the bottom strings slowly started replacing their conversations with unpolished twangs, my good friend looked at him with tolerance and encouragement.
It was just a matter time that the newfound evening's conversation was joined by another voice “ the noise of untrained drum beatings.
The duo started weaving sincere dreams of forming a band. Years passed by “ practice “ life “ practice “ life. And then a time came by, when the guitar and the guitarist left, never to come back and never an apology for a dream that was not just his.
Silence is one thing that can never be associated with rock. Yet I see this frenzied drummer, silent; as silent as the depth, of the oceans day in and day out, playing his beats and perfecting them with an envious zeal. Yet what curse he lives by! Silence- its an ally to mystery. Certainly both happen in silence, the sense of loss and the beatings of the drum.

van_89

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:48:58 GMT

Who's He?

Mia had barely returned home after her journey, when she desperately started hunting for something in the drawers of what was her desk till last year. On my asking what she was rummaging, she would hastily reply- "Nothing". Ultimately she gave up what seemed to be a Herculean task. Being her younger sister, I found it difficult to fathom that she was withholding something from me. I always believed that she shared everything with me- to the minutest detail.

But I was wrong. Her diary understood her the best! And I only discovered this when I unearthed it from under a heap of her old books the very next day, while she was out with friends. It was the most colorful and classy spiral-bound book I'd ever seen. The fact that its cover was so eye- catching aroused my curiosity. I opened it and read every word! When Mia reached home, she saw it lying on top of the desk. Pokerfaced, I pretended as though I had nothing to do with it.

But she very well knew that I did. That very night, opportunely for us, our parents went for a wedding, which both of us plainly declined to attend. That was when Mia had promised to answer all my questions related to her entries. What intrigued me most were her innumerable references to a ˜Him' in her writings. Chuckling when I asked her who ˜He' is, she replied; "I'll answer that last."

"Okay," I told her, "then how come I never knew that you wrote a diary?" To that she said, "I was always unsure whether you would ever understand or like what I wrote. I even wanted to tell Mom and Dad about this." Taken aback, I exclaimed- "What! You'll tell them about ˜Him' too?"

"Of course. In fact they already know who ˜He' is and love him- you do too. It's not like I have to introduce ˜Him' to you." I was getting more and more restless- "Alright, Mimi. I'll be honest. I'm only ten- almost eight years younger than you. I cannot understand most of what you write. What I could guess after reading your entries was that most of it is poetry- because it rhymes." By that time, Mia was in splits.

"Oh, how could I even expect you to know? Well, the ˜Him' in my poems is God. One always refers to Him with a capital H. You'll probably learn this at school in a year or two." After this, she told me why she was hassled when she couldn't find the diary. On returning to University after the break, one of her professor's publisher friends wanted to create a compilation of spiritual poems written by teenagers.

Today, ten years later, Mia is an established writer-poet. Needless to say, her work got noticed right after those poems got published. And I still struggle to understand her profound work!

vinithaerat

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:47:57 GMT

How Maria Let One Go

Hari waited - pretending, drifting through Nancy Friday's secret garden. Vikram put on his gym shoes and left without a word. After five minutes, Hari locked the door and pulled out his room mate's diary from under the mattress.

Vikram's entries for 1994 were neat and precise.

Jun 9 “ Hari introduced me to Maria. Pretty girl but cold. Meeting her tomorrow “ to work on Hari's College Senate election campaign.
Jun 10 “ Met Maria at the library. Ice maiden thawed. I think she likes me.
Jun 17 “ Met Maria under the banyan tree in front of her hostel. We talked. She laughs a lot.

Hari muttered aloud, "A***hole! No wonder I lost the elections."

Jun 21 “ Maria is very free with me. But maintains two feet distance.
Jun 28 - Told her that I am off to Bombay for a month's industrial training. She seemed disappointed? Or sad? I'll feel happy if she is sad.
Jul 1 “ Feeling miserable. No Maria to talk to.
Aug 10 “I am back. But now Maria's gone on a tour.
Sep 5 “ Heard that Maria's back.
Sep 6 “ Where's Maria? Is she avoiding me?
Sep 7 “ Is she actually avoiding me?
Sep 8 “ She is ACTUALLY avoiding me.
Sep 9 “ Got to forget her. Can't let down my self-esteem.
Sep 10 “ Self-esteem is intact.
Sep 11 “ MARIA IS BACK. The earlier info I got was wrong.
Sep 15 “ Finally met Maria. She's looking prettier. She says that she has picked up some great sleeveless cotton blouses.
Sep 16 “ The sleeveless tops look amazing on her. Bare arms in Kerala are uncommon, with or without the fuzz.
Sep 17 “ We have been meeting on three consecutive days.
Sep 18 “ Are we falling in love? I am!
Sep 19 “ It's past midnight. I can't sleep. I think I am madly in love.
Sep 23 “ We met. We chatted. We watched the sunset.
Sep 25 “ Maria loves watching the sun set.

No further entries, mercifully, on sunsets, Hari thought.

Nov 11 “ Today, under the cover of darkness, I reached out for her hand and confessed my feelings. She didn't say anything. She didn't pull her hand back either.
Nov 19 “ I think Hari is reading my diary. No more entries!

Hari patiently flipped through. He struck gold on Dec 22th.

Dec 22 “ Maria's going abroad to study. She says that she'll miss me terribly. She said something about passing clouds too. Didn't quite comprehend that.

Dec 25 “ Have to move on. Can't let down my self-esteem.

There was a knock on the door. Hari put the diary back and opened the door.

Vikram enquired, "Why is the door locked? Jerking off on Nancy Friday?"

"Of course not!" Hari protested, "Hey, let's get drunk tonight. The booze is on me."

Vikram's eyes briefly glazed over. Hari was a good friend, but he had to stop reading other people's diaries.

Charuavi

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:46:49 GMT

The â€˜Journal'

The Chief Editor of the â€˜Journal' took himself and the journal very seriously. He suffered from chronic peptic ulcers and his shoulders stooped. After all, he carried on his shoulders the responsibility to give weighty advice to the heads of states, censure religious Leaders, recommend new policies for sports and advocate Tax reforms to the Government.

He thought the â€˜Journal' was a great newspaper.

Others thought it was unreadable.

The paper was losing its readers to the rival newspaper, which gave the same news in a more flamboyant way.

The Chairman of the Board had made it clear to all the employees that the circulation had to increase for the â€˜Journal' to survive.

"Make the â€˜Journal' more colorful." He had thundered at the meeting with the Editors.

At this, the Chief Editor's ulcers got better of him and he collapsed. He was hospitalized for a month and they did not allow him to read any newspapers.

When he was released from the hospital and went back to work, he read the headlines in the Journal and almost had a heart-attack.

He sent for his assistant Editor, who had edited the paper in his absence.

The Assistant Editor, a cheerful young man, breezed into his cabin, whistling a tune.

"Hi, Bwana." He said.

The Chief Editor disliked everything about this. He resented â€˜Hi', the absence of â€˜Sir', and especially being called â€˜Bwana', as though he was some African tribal chief.

"What have you done to the â€˜Journal'?" The Chief Editor spluttered. "What are those headlines?"

The Assistant Editor read the headlines aloud.

"Why, Boss, this is simple English. "UFO sighted in Mumbai suburb", "Bollywood star found in a sleazy bar with call-girl", "Mahant dips in the Temple Fund and buys BMW", "Politicians buy inferior weapons for Armed Forces to line their pockets".

"You put this stuff on the front page? Have you no shame?"

"Shame? Why, I was not found in the sleazy bar. I didn't dip in the temple fund. I didn't buy inferior weaponry. Why I should be ashamed?" the Assistant Editor was frankly puzzled.

"My dear man", said the Chief Editor with heavy sarcasm, "you have turned this fine, respected paper into a rag, not fit to wipe your aâ€”e with. You have sent the great journalistic traditions of this paper flying through the window and resorted to yellow journalism."

"Well, we were told to make the paper colorful, right? So, what is your problem, Chief? The circulation is increased, the readers are happy, the Board is happy, the Chairman is happy."

The Chief Editor was livid with rage.

"Out, out! You are sacked" he shouted.

The Assistant Editor silently produced the letter, signed by the Chairman, offering to make him the Chief Editor of the â€˜Journal' for three years.

"I have not accepted it yet, because I want you to retire honorably, Sir."

The Chief Editor realized that the Assistant Editor had called him â€˜Sir' for the first time.

IengarChick

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:46:05 GMT

The Panwallah's Legacy

CIRCA 2008. Ashok Charan Tiwari jingled the last few coins in his pocket. He cursed and kicked a pebble as he waited for the bus. The bank had rejected his application for a loan and that meant his only means of survival was at stake again.

He opened shop at 8 am and there were his regulars, a pack of wills, banarasi 120, banarasi katha, special mava, sada mava. His body moved mechanically, a couple paid cash and the rest were written down in his little green book as IOU's.

His father, Ram Charan Tiwari had inherited the shop and the clientele in the 70's from his grandfather and later passed it on to him in the 90's. The city had changed colors over the years but his customers were loyal, ranging from businessmen to college kids. As a kid he had been fascinated by the entire process just watching his dad sing and cater to the customers all day. Life had been good to him too until last week when the society management had told him that the old building was to be demolished and rebuilt. This meant paying a huge amount to get his shop up and running again.

He closed shop at 11pm and took the bus back home. He stared blankly at the parcel in his hand, the hotelier next door had packed goodies for his family. Next day he was back to the grind, making pan and mixing mava's.

A month passed by and he had to pack the stuff from his shop and get ready for demolition. Some of the junk owned by his grandpa had been untouched for years and he fingered them fondly before he threw them in a box. He would sort these out when he was home, there sure were a lot of books similar to his green one.

Ajay eyed the address on the envelope and wondered what it could be. Strange he thought he never knew a plaintiff by the name of Ashok Charan Tiwari, but the court was demanding a payment of Rs. 32678.33 as the repayment of principal and interest owed. He called his travel agent and booked a flight from Bahrain to Mumbai.

Somewhere in London Pratibha sat sipping high tea and reading the litigation notice sent to her. Apparently the old man had chewed a pan too many and she would have to pay up for it.

Amritha's eyes moistened as she remembered her childhood days, she would often run errands for her uncles fetching them cigarettes and pan. The panwallah had been a kind soul, sometimes laying some sweet gulkand on her palms, on other afternoons he would give her a piece of mint asking her to recite twinkle twinkle for him. Damn! these gas prices had made traveling a pain, she decided to mail a check and an apology.

Indubee

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:45:44 GMT

The romantic shopper

He had the furtive look of a shopper not entirely comfortable
about where he was. Well, an exclusive women's lingerie store with an all-female staff can be a bit unnerving for most men.

I was at Victoria's Secret in 34E and 57 St in New York, blowing up the last of my holiday money at a great 25% off sale. That's where I spotted the nervous shopper.

Within seconds of the man hesitantly pushing open the big glass door, I guessed what must have driven him here. It was February 13th! One day before Valentine's Day! Definitely a high-stress day for thousands of males trying to do the right thing with their lady loves.

Was it a gentle hint from the woman in his life that had landed him here at a lingerie store? Or a bold burst of imagination to do something other than order the usual dozen red roses?

"Er!er", he began as the sales assistant stepped forward. "I'm looking for something good. With er, lots of lace!" he gulped nervously. He looked about 50, balding, a tummy held back with a firm belt. Hmmm! the spirit of romance was alive here! Or was it the extensive media hype for what must be the one great festival celebrated all over the world?

The shop assistant, quite used to blubbering male shoppers, asked very matter-of-factly: "Would you have an idea of the cup size?"

"Er size?? No it really doesn't m-m-matter. Just something with lots of l-l-lace," he stammered. The lady looked surprised to say the least. "We can't do exchanges on Sale items, Sir. Would you like to check, and come back later?" she suggested.

"Oh no!" he exclaimed. "Tell you whatâ€”just give me a couple of your widest sizes!in red perhaps? But lace please, lots of lace".

And then he was gone, his purchase tucked neatly away in his lap top bag.

And I may have forgotten all about this incident in my melee of holiday experiences!except that I saw the romantic shopper again.

He was right outside the glitzy shoe store next door. Looking very intensely at a pair of red high-heeled shoes this time! There was an expression on his face that almost said, how I long to have those shoes for myself. What a queer fellow, I thought, walking past him.

Oh my GOD!

And that's when the penny dropped!

anushreeln0203

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:45:19 GMT

A DYSPHORIC DOG'S JOURNAL

They brought me home 7 years back when I was only a few days old. I could barely see the world outside from where I lay and was suffocated inside something that I later figured was a Shopper's Stop plastic bag! Taking advantage of my small size my breeders had stuffed me into it and delivered me as a parcel to my new owners. That laid the foundation of my hatred towards everything that's made of plastic. Not to forget sofas, shoes,beanbags, mobile phones, socks-you name it and I hate it! And have chewed them as my innocent revenge!

Just when I was recovering from the plastic bag trauma, they baptised me BONZY. Now what's Bonzy? Not only does it sound like lazy, snoozy and woozy it's a whimper when compared to the roar of a Tiger, Rocky and Daniel! I would have contented with even a Bruno if I had any choice in the matter!
Then one afternoon, I heard my new owners talk about someone called a VET! Now I am a Pet but what animal is a VET? I wondered while pretending to take a snooze. I didn't have to wait too long and soon found myself on a table with a muzzle around my nose and a leash around my neck and a prickly thing being shoved into my rear.

The prick-prick-howl-howl sessions continued and even today we trek down occasionally to get my nails clipped or ear wax removed. But that was the day I began to abhor- Muzzle, Leash, Vet and that wretched pointy thing they call Injection!

Next in my long list of Things-I-Hate is a BATH. This fortnightly scrub-scrub-rub-rub leaves me wet and wailing. Here's my plea I am NOT a cleanliness freak and that I like my wax, ticks and an occasional roll in the mud. But IS ANYONE LISTENING?

And what's with those training sessions? Bonzy Stay. Bonzy Heel, Bonzy Watch, Bonzy Fetch, Bonzy Sit, Bonzy shake hands! And all this for a meagre biscuit or paltry toast crumbs? Give me a break! Wonder why doesn't anyone ever say Bonzy sleep or Bonzy Play??!

My life has only been a series of such misadventures but that's soon going to change! I have a plan. After that puggy-baby has made it big on television, by fetching socks, ties and fishnets and by following that kid everywhere I hear there are big opportunities for dogs in Bollywood and Hollywood and if dogs have their way then even Doggywood!.
So Cherry (my mate next door who is also bereaved of living a dog's life) and I have decided to elope! As for my screen name, it is going to be the- BIG B!! And mind you, B is Brruno with a double "R" (numerology- you guessed it right!). So everyone out there- BEWARE OF BRRUNO! Did someone say -Life as delicious as a Big FAT Bone!? Slurrrrpp..You bet!

abhaiyengar

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:44:55 GMT

Indiscriminate Shopping

"The picture looms before my eyes.
Its uncanny, the likeness to me.
Say its true, my darling,
This child belongs to me."

The piece of paper lies on my lap. Its yellow like his teeth were. Its part of a book he writes on. The sickness has made him crazy for he is writing poetry now.

The words swim before my eyes.

How did he get to see her? I had sent her so far away.

And he calls me his darling. This man, with his wild eyes and long yellow hair and yellow teeth and pink skin and fat belly, who took me on that train and then later made me his wife, calls me his darling. I wonder when his outlook changed towards me. That night I was just a slut, a brown slut, free for the picking. I had snivelled and sobbed in a corner and he had picked me up, put me in his car, brought me home and wed me. Given me a Christian name too, Mary.

And then he had gone overseas. I had my baby quietly, and sent her off with my uncle. Far away to our home in Midnapur. So far away from Delhi it was.

"She is so beautiful, my heir
I want her back, my daughter fair
Give her to me, I beg
I am on life's last leg."

Sick. He made me sick with his fawning. I had not made her mine. I had given her up. The milk had dried in my breast, forming a hard painful lump.

She would never be his.

His pale blue eyes were pleading as he lay on the bed. I was sitting on the ground as I always did. I had to pretend to be the dutiful wife. I would have to do the last rites as well. He had no one else with him.

His hand reaches out, he wants his journal back.

I prop him up. Hand him the book.

I have written something in there for him.

I turn to open the windows. There is a loud thud.

Maybe he has dropped the book. Maybe he is dead.

I will check after a while.

I open the windows and let the air in. My hair flies open, black and gray wings flap around my face.

The pages of the journal flap around too now, like little yellow birds.

My paper lies on the bed; the lines are an angry red.

"She was never yours,
this gardener's child.
A mixed breed, he,
the rules defied.
The likeness you see
Is pure deceit
Indiscriminate shopping
Requires no receipt."

A deathly pallor fills the room.

I had dealt with him. Now I would deal with my uncle.

***********************************

bohemianrover

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:44:31 GMT

QUESTIONS NOT WORTH ASKING

"Don't give in, keep fighting" is what his father would have said. That's what he always said.

As he walked towards the counselor's office, he felt proud of himself. Thinking about suicide was one thing, but actually going through with that? He would rather seek help. Wasn't that the right thing to do?

He thought back on his first scribble in his notebook, earlier this morning!

"All my life, I have believed that suicide is something that losers resort to. How weak one would have to be, to actually kill oneself!to shorten life that could ultimately become a happy one? Because, I also believe that it balances out eventually, the good and bad."

Ok, so he was depressed!but weren't there millions who were too? At least that's what his colleague Sheetal said every time she sensed he was low.

He admitted to himself rather reluctantly, that is was getting more serious by the day, the dark thoughts, the dilemmas!contemplating suicide himself, never mind his thoughts on the subject!he had almost attempted!twice!but then, here he was, walking for that appointment he'd fixed two days ago.

He hurriedly removed images of those attempts from his mind, and concentrated on what he's written in the little black notebook he'd bought yesterday. Reiterating his opinion in his diary was quite a moral booster.

The meeting with the counselor was decent enough. He wasn't feeling particularly bright but then, he didn't expect it to work like magic within an hour, did he? She asked him all about his family, well, family that once was and life and love.

With every answer, he searched her face anxiously for emotion!what would he find? Pity, indifference, mockery, sympathy!how was she taking it? What did she perceive of him? Truth be told, he was somewhat relieved when it was over.

As he was about to leave, she asked softly "A, do you have friends?"

"!Of course, everyone does" he said with a smile.

"No, not just people you hang out with. I mean real "friends".

"I don't understand", he said, somewhat irritated.

"Think about the number of friends in your life, wherein you can drop in to see them unannounced, at any time of night or day. No questions, no conditions. "That" kind of friendship! OK? And let me know when you come back next week." She explained gently.

That night, he walked alone, oblivious to the pouring rain. He quietly took out the notebook that had lifted his spirits only this morning. He stared at the blank pages of the diary he'd started hoping it symbolized new beginnings as well.

Just as the rain was beginning to soak his bones and he began to shiver, he finally scribbled in it again.

"How many people, really?"

That, was the night his words got washed in the rain.

That, was the night, he stopped fighting.

pesi_padshah279

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:44:14 GMT

Mosquito Beware

They call me bloodthirsty. I ask you, can I help it if I am? I am a mosquito; what do you expect? I can't stay alive on fruits and vegetables, like some creatures. I have to target juicy, live animals, for nourishment.
The other night, I came across a likely looking meal, snoring away. Unfortunately, there was a mosquito net between us. I peeped through one of the holes for a closer look and discovered either that the hole was larger than I thought, or I was an extremely small mosquito. I felt that, with a little bit of pushing and wriggling, I should be able to squeeze my way in and have a feast. I was right. Seconds later, the peaceful snoring gave way to a muttered curse against all mosquitoes, some brisk scratching where I had left my mark, and then silence. So, again I zoomed in, launched another attack, and was treated to a bellow of rage, much foul language which I shan't repeat here, and loud smacks as the gentleman inside the net slapped himself, hoping to squash me.
"Shut up stupid, I'm trying to sleep", said his wife from the bed alongside his.
"My name is not â€˜Stupid', roared the man who seemed as ready to slap his wife as he was me.
"Alright, shut up stupid mister Rama-kumara-mangalam, and let me sleep. Is that better?" enquired the wife of the man with the name that seemed to go on and on and on.
"Yes, I think so", he replied, sounding a little confused, and also rather sleepy. Soon he was snoring again, giving me the opportunity to get on with my dinner.
Again he woke up furious, and started smiting his body loudly, as a wrestler does, to impress the audience and intimidate his opponent.
"Not again . . ." exclaimed the exasperated wife. "Why don't you light your torch and finish him off? He can't escape from inside the net."
"That's what you think", I said to myself, as I attempted to get out the same way as I had got in. But I had had too much dinner and my tummy was so big, I couldn't fit through any of the holes in the mosquito net. Also, I was so heavy, I found it difficult to fly. Luckily, mister what's-his-name had to get out of bed to find his torch, so I piggy backed on him and got out that way.
After my escape, I recalled a note I'd made in my journal, about my mother warning me as a child, never to be greedy. Cheekily, I'd asked why.
"Because you could get into a bloody awful mess", was the tart reply.
Now I realise she wasn't using strong language. She was only being matter of fact about what happens to greedy mosquitoes when they end up getting squashed.

owssmelt

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:43:22 GMT

Patanbori is a town which is around 150 km from Nagpur and a long way away from Bombay. This not being a lesson in geography is in fact a story of pigs, two of them, living here. It was a moderately hot but extremely humid day. As I sat sweating profligately in a tea shop, my eyes wandered to a garbage dump right in the middle of the street and where the protagonists were.

The two pigs could easily be described in one word. Disgusting. I always have an irresistible desire to kick these pigs into the nearest gutter. I restrain on the account that the kicking would involve touching them. These two pigs, Fanny and Molly, were having a feast on the garbage dump. Reliable sources informed me that this garbage dump was the equivalent of a five star hotel in the pig community. The chances of tapeworm, remarkably low. The food was evidently excellent, as both made noises which attested to it. The fact that it killed my appetite and my desire to live is secondary.

Halfway through the meal, Molly decided that she had to go and in this garbage dump, the rule was that if you left your meal half finished you were banished forever. Now, Molly certainly didn't want that but the call of nature was too strident. Thankfully for her, the rules of hygiene and health amongst the pigs are very liberal. So she decided to answer her call and she took her time.

Meanwhile, Fanny the curious one discovered this pile that Molly was so charitably donating. Whether Fanny found this to be better tasting or more nutritious than the fare being served at the dump, is something that experts will debate about for years. In any case anything fresh out of the oven is always preferable to something served cold. Revenge being the only exception. Fanny went for it, hammer and tongs. It was gross but riveting. I just couldn't take my eyes off this beautiful pastoral scene.

Molly finished and Fanny found much to her disgust that all the good stuff was gone. She searched a little but all she found was garbage. Despite having the IQ of a pig, Fanny realized that Molly was in some way responsible for the disappearance of her Ambrosia. Fanny was furious. She vented her frustration by biting Molly in nearest available location, her rear end. Molly gave a shriek, a sound which filled me with immense joy and delight. Fanny bit her again, this time on Molly's thigh. Molly decided that screaming again might give her some short term relief from the pain, but running away would solve the problem in the longer term. She did both with great aplomb.

Though the finale amused me to no end, I felt a little sad. Not because Fanny had bit the hand which had fed her, but because Molly had left her meal unfinished, this meant that she could never enter the garbage dump again.

rajee_kushwaha

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:42:05 GMT

WHO BETRAYED?

The train was going at full steam. I had boarded it at 9 PM at Lucknow. Suddenly, at 11.10 PM, the man in the upper seat fell down. He was dead. He might have been dead for sometime. I saw a red diary in the dead man's hand. It had some entries made. I began to read it.

*********
It was on May 11, 2005 that I had received a call from Sameer.
He had asked me, "Are you ready to fulfill your promise?"
"I will." I had casually said.
"Sangeeta has completed her post graduation in management. Let us formalize her relationship with Sangram." Sameer threw a bombshell.
"What? What are you saying?" I was flabbergasted.
"Come on, don't back out on your promise" Sameer had rebuked me.
"Sameer, I do not remember any such promise I had made to you ever." I was clarifying.
"Take out your diary of 1977. Read the entry on 04 November 1977? Have you forgotten that one rupee note I had given you", Sameer had thundered.
"Sameer, I have not read what you had written. Wasn't that one Rupee a joke?" I calmly replied.
"You are a liar. My wife had rightly told me that you had already fixed up your son's marriage with some IAS officer's daughter, Anita." Sameer had accused me.
"I have not fixed Sangram's marriage as yet. But I know he has a friend called, Anita." I clarified.
"So, that is it." Sameer had banged the phone so saying.
I searched for my diary of vintage 1977. I located it after a great effort. Saw the entry on 04 November 1977. It was the day I had received the telegram from home informing me on the birth of Sangram.
It read, "I, Major Rajwinder Singh and my friend, Major Sameer Singh, hereby solemnly affirm on oath that on completion of their education, Sangram and Sangeeta would be tied into a nuptial knot. We would firmly stand by it."
To say the least, although I had signed, yet I had not read it. Sameer had covered it with his hand, when I had signed. Thereafter, I had forgotten about it.
Same day, on May 2005, I spoke to Sangram. He told me, "I know Sangeeta as a friend but I can not marry her."
I pleaded with him, "I had made a written promise to her father".
"Kindly, do not emotionally blackmail me? I love Anita", he gave a shut up call.
And three years later, today on August 31, 2008, I hear of this suicide by Sangeeta. She had refused to marry anyone after Sangram had been married to Anita. Finally, she had taken her life. She had left a note behind, "I have been betrayed by -----"
Who betrayed her? Had Sangram rejected her? How would I face Sameer when I meet him now--------------?
*********

The note in the diary had abruptly ended. I now waited for the police to come.

WORDS COUNT: 497

owssmelt

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:41:39 GMT

It was the 14th of February. It was one of the rare days when Death could wake up late. After all, she got only two days off in the whole year. Today and the 24th of August. She could thank two of her predecessors for the leeway. The first one was in 1572 when overwork drove the then Death, Odin, to go on a wild rampage in France resulting in the death of thousands of people. Odin was relieved of his duty, condemned to an asylum. They said that handling both the Norse gods and the portfolio of Death had pushed Odin over the edge. The Pantheon decided to make Death an exclusive and full time job. Ankou took over his role and continued successfully till 1928 when the Pantheon refused to let him go on a date on Valentine's Day. His lady love Valkyrie miffed by this took a vow of eternal celibacy. Ankou seemed to take this in his stride but the next year he lost it and ended up landing in Chicago killing six gangsters, which the Pantheon didn't mind, but also a mechanic, which the Gods certainly did. Ankou was asked to go but the Pantheon also decided to give 14th of February off.

This year Death was spending the day alone. She pulled back the curtains to see a heavy and grey sky. An ideal day for her to be working, but since she wasn't she tried reading a book. She couldn't keep her mind on it and shut it with a bang. She admitted feeling a little lonely. She wished her friends would land up but all had work to do. Feeling hungry, she decided to make some lunch. Her larder had nothing but mouldy bread. She decided to eat it anyway and went to the refrigerator to take out some Peanut Butter. Much to her joy she found a tub of chocolate icecream there. She felt a little cheery, dumped the bread in a trash can and took the icecream to bed.

She switched on the television to while away time. She kept flicking channels till she finally stumbled on the movie, Life is Beautiful. The movie was about an Italian Jew Guido who with his son Joshua is interred in concentration camp. In order to maintain his sanity and to keep his son's spirits up, Guido pretends that the entire camp is just a game to win a battle tank. The camp is finally liberated by American troops and Joshua is reunited with his mother. Guido, however, doesn't make it, as just before the camp is liberated he is taken away and shot by a guard. Even here he manages to make his son laugh one last time before he dies.

Death loved the poignancy of the tale. She wiped a silent tear when the movie ended.

Death had to admit, she was a sucker for happy endings.

alwaysideways

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:41:14 GMT

The Heisenberg-Wells dilemma

Dr Chawla's diarly entry for 21 April 2115:
Doctors Narlikar, Fukuoka and Gribbin are working on my dilemma. I came out of the transporter at 9.30 am and there was no one in Laboratory 2. I noticed the new picture on the wall. "What happened to the old one of the solar system?" I had wondered. I slid my fingers over my skin suit, checking for eyes, nose, hands and legs. Yes, everything was intact. But something was wrong. It had been a mistake to volunteer for the Transporter experiment. An hour later, through the sliding doors came three familiar scientists looking tense. I had not moved from my mark inside the Transporter, lest I lose a few vital molecules. "Congratulations, dear friend, you have succeeded." They spoke slowly as if speaking to a child. "Then why so glum," I asked. Dr Fukuoka, who liked to sport his mad-scientist garb of long grey hair and goatee, said: "Good, you can understand. Yes, you got transported from Laboratory A in block 1 to Laboratory B in block 2. It was brave of you to try and compensate for the time factor discrepancy." Dr Gribbin interrupted: "No Tomiko, they over compensated. Dr Chawla, you were brought forward by 24 hours." I jumped in: "The future? So, we not only have a Transporter, we also have a Time Machine." Dr Gribbin said: "Not quite." I said: "You don't mean to tell me there was a fly in there too with me." Our Indian colleague Dr Narlikar cut in: "You must be prepared for the paradox!" The scientist paused at the sound of a knock on door.

Dr Chawla's diary entry for 21 April 2115:
I walked into Laboratory B anxious. My colleagues were with my quantum clone who had emerged from the Transporter. Dr Narlikar was talking to him rather gently. "Hello," said I to the clone who looked at me in stunned silence. I said: "Dr Narlikar was trying to say that the Transporter made a slight error. It did indeed transport you to Laboratory B in the future, but there was an exaggeration of the information at the quantum level." My clone said: "So we now have a Transporter, a time machine, and a cloning device. You can send me back right?" Dr Gribbin said: "Till you appeared this morning, the Transporter experiment had been a failure. Dr Chawla, you have arrived in a dimension where the Transporter never worked. Yesterday, we had dissuaded our Dr Chawla from getting into the machine," he said pointing to me. The clone said: "So, what dimension is this, where am I?" I said: "Our calculations indicate that you came from the other side of the universe from a single star system."

Dr Chawla's diary entry for 21 April 2115, 22.35:
!. my eyes moved to the strange picture on the wall of Laboratory 2. It was a picture of a binary star sytem orbited by six planets.

owssmelt

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:40:48 GMT

He was standing outside a shop gazing at the comic books. He knew he could never afford to buy them.

Suddenly, he heard a car screech to a halt behind him. He turned around. He saw a Jaguar. He was impressed. Obviously the car had stopped, not for the comics but for the swanky restaurant next door. No one came in a Jag to buy comic books. He turned back. He heard a tinkling voice telling the driver that she would be back in a couple of hours. The reflection on the glass made him turn around.

She was not too tall. Short even. She wore a beautiful pink top, which, like Goldilocks' bed, was neither too long nor too short. Accompanying the top, was a pair of blue jeans. She was a stunner. He had expected her to walk to the restaurant but she came towards the comic book shop. His eyes followed her. Just as she was about to enter the store, she seemed to notice him. She passed her hand through the hair. There was a tattoo of a scythe on her upper arm, part hidden by her shirt. She smiled shyly and walked in.

He was left with his mouth open. He gulped. Felt an attack coming, looked around for his pump. He discovered he didn't have the pump on him. He became frantic, the attack intensified. He felt as if
someone was sitting on his chest. He looked around, the street was empty. His heart beat increased to keep the supply of oxygen to the brain. The oxygen ran out, his knees buckled and eyes darkened.

*****************************

Madness said, "Death. You are just too cruel."

Death looked up from her journal of the Dead, laughed and said in her tinkling voice. "I know. I took his breath away and he died."

krishnanrr

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:40:24 GMT

The Journal of India
I am peaceful , minding my business, toiling to make ends meet. Tolerant and dormant watching the world go by, I am India. This is my journal.
My children, dark and vibrant lived on the plains and worshiped my rivers and my hills. Songs they sang and like children were happy and playful.

The pages turn and the fire worshiping herdsmen came and drove my dark children from the fertile plain. The nomads settled and became me. Long eons passed and they wrote sublime songs alive today.
Slowly the page turns and the bearded ones from the desert came with sword and fire, they ranted and raved and then settled beside the nomads. Long they sat beside each other becoming more and more alike.

The pages turn more quickly and surel, the traders came, beefy and blue eyed, greedy and arrogant. Proud of their Son, Father and Holy ghost, they trampled on my beliefs as I watched tolerant of the child.
The pages flicker faster and faster, streams of thoughts, ages old, come in new guises. A frail man enters and the beefeaters live. They did not mingle or stay like the others. But they left me in a muddle in hands of thieves.
My children now fight, as I gasp for breath beneath their combined weight. My mountains melt and my rivers run amok.
The pages flicker and the journal is nearing its end.

nancy21

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:40:05 GMT

A JOURNEY

I screamed for the ice-candy and my mother dragged me inside the train just like any other luggage. But then suddenly my cries were silenced as they entered. They were all dressed in Sarees, gaudy make-up, bangles, and big bindis on their foreheads. I was hiding behind my mother still managing to have their glimpse. Seeing them I was having goose flesh. That was my first encounter with them â€“ an unforgettable one.

It was my fifth year in school- the teacher's day program. I was chosen to be Cinderella, dressed in a beautiful frock. I felt so beautiful. It was night and I did not take off that frock, my mother started shouting and then seeing my obstinacy laughed and said, "Do you wish to be a girl?" She laughed but that question kept haunting me everyday and every night, DO I WISH TO BE A GIRL? For her it was part of a child's play, for me it was my true self.

It was one night when my mom and dad were out to attend a function. I went to bed after my dinner but I was restless. Suddenly I got up and went straight to mom's room, opened her wardrobe and took out her beautiful red saree then wrapped it around just the way she does. And there I stood staring at myself in the mirror; my soul has been craving for this and then several thoughts rising in my mind like a tide when I was interrupted with the slamming of the door. There stood my mother as if seen her worst nightmare turn to reality. She caught me by my hair and dragged straight to the garden where she undressed me, tied me to a tree. She then went inside and came out with the jar of sugar and threw it all over and around me. I lied there naked whole night screaming, the sugar drew red ants from all corners of the garden they crawled slowly up my body!the pain was immense I gradually fell unconscious! Early morning the milkmaid saw me and washed my body. I ran away before my parents could actually kill me. I had no idea where to go but still I began my expedition to be my real self.

I asked myself why people like me are not accepted just because we have rejected manhood in this male-dominated society and just because we are willing to face all hardships but cannot be what we are not.

I was sleeping on a bench outside Mumbai Railway Station when they arrived and woke me up. They recognised me even when I was not dressed like them, I looked at their faces and I realised I was one amongst them.

Who I am? Just " a woman trapped in the body of a man."

dev_kumar

Mon, 02 Mar 2009 10:39:44 GMT

Writing A Book.

It was almost midnight and Manju was sitting at the study table totally engrossed in writing something. It was her diary. A daily journal she had resumed after many years. She went through some of the previous entries.

14 Jan: Today is the day kites are flown. The day known as Makar Sankranti. Ajay Uncle had been invited for dinner today. Ravish said he would be late from office so I had all of one hour with uncle before Ravish returned. I showed him the stories I had written. I had emailed them to Shivani in the USA. She had said that these stories showed immense promise and that I must flesh them out. Uncle was of the same opinion. There were tears in his eyes after he read one of them from beginning to end. "These stories are too good bitiya," he said, "you must promise me that you will go all out to finish an anthology. This is Booker Prize material." When Ravish came home Ajay Uncle mentioned it to him too. "Oh Uncle, I didn't know that there was a genius hidden in the house," said Ravish with a laugh, "I will also encourage her to write. And since we don't have any kids now I am sure she will be able to do justice to the project." I was so happy. Like the kites which flew high in the air I also flew high. I had felt so suffocated after marriage. If money and comforts were the criteria then Ravish was a good husband. Just the type my parents wanted. But not the type I wanted. But I was weak and I had said yes to the marriage.

20 Feb: Ravish showed the first printouts to Jayasree, the editor at the publishing firm. She said that there was a bestseller hidden in these stories. I am so happy. I have to write two more and there will be enough for a book. I have got down to the task with renewed energy.

28 Feb: Jayasree rang up. She said that she liked the stories a lot. And that she and Ravish had spent hours discussing the depth and beauty of these stories. And then she said that I must be proud of being the wife of such a talented husband. A dark fear enveloped me, "What do you mean?" I asked her. "Oh, I was just wondering how Ravish manages to handle such a punishing work schedule and then write these lovely stories. He told me that you help him out with the typing. You must really love him." I didn't cry that night. I was angry from within. But calm. And determined.

01 March: I called the police. I told them that Ravish had accidentally killed himself while cleaning his gun. They believed me. The post mortem also supported my claim. Don't ask me how I did it. Jayasree, the editor, is my best friend now. My book releases tomorrow. So happy.