Hi Friends,
Cheers to y'all.
I'm again here after a 3 Months Siesta but again I've come up with a kind of notion/fact that nudged my rationality late night at 10pm. I read an article, lying click dead om my friends PC, yesterday. Have a look at it and feel the deep and effective meaning it has inside it...
.........................................
Tomorrow you may get a working woman or are having a working wife, but you should know / marry her with these facts well.
Here is a girl, who is as much educated as you are;
Who is earning almost as much as you do;
One, who has dreams and aspirations just as
you have because she is as human as you are;
One, who has never entered the kitchen in her life just like you or your
Sister haven't, as she was busy in studies and competing in a system
that gives no special concession to girls for their culinary achievements
One, who has lived and loved her parents & brothers & sisters, almost as
much as you do for 20-25 years of her life;
One, who has bravely agreed to leave behind all that, her home, people who love her, to adopt your home, your family, your ways and even your family ,name
One, who is somehow expected to be a master-chef from day #1, while you sleep oblivious to her predicament in her new circumstances, environment and that kitchen
One, who is expected to make the tea, first thing in the morning and cook
food at the end of the day, even if she is as tired as you are, maybe more,
and yet never ever expected to complain; to be a servant, a cook, a mother,
a wife, even if she doesn't want to; and is learning just like you are as
to what you want from her; and is clumsy and sloppy at times and knows that you won't like it if she is too demanding, or if she learns faster than you;
One, who has her own set of friends, and that includes boys and even men at her workplace too, those, who she knows from school days and yet is willing to put all that on the back-burners to avoid your irrational jealousy, unnecessary competition and your inherent insecurities;
Yes, she can drink and dance just as well as you can, but won't, simply
Because you won't like it, even though you say otherwise
One, who can be late from work once in a while when deadlines, just like yours, are to be met;
One, who is doing her level best and wants to make this most important,
relationship in her entire life a grand success, if you just help her some
and trust her;
One, who just wants one thing from you, as you are the only one she knows in your entire house - your unstinted support, your sensitivities and most importantly - your understanding, or love, if you may call it.
But how many of us feel, understand it......
Please appreciate/respect "HER" not just because She is a Girl but truly because She is the Creator.
What y'all say?
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Friday, July 25, 2008
Monday, July 21, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Chapter 2
Guys thanks for ur costly comments and extraordinary support. Here's da 2nd chapter and I wish that dis time too U will make a difference....Post comments after reading and plz provide ur valuable suggestions after reading.....
@2
I came alive too early that morning from the routine time and then geared up to meet-up-with Somesh.
I started looking for Bus Number 763 at Anand Vihar, erroneously entitled. Might be the Namer blanked out to prefix the 2 No’s, No Anand No Vihar. Anand has lost in the hoo-hah inkwell of speedy horde and motors, and Vihar got buried to serve as Fossil years after and above that now stalls pine-tall Concrete-Hubs, looked as nonmoving behemoth man-eaters, clothed with giant magnetic posters, depicting mostly creamy-white female models.
A roadside bookseller with artfully placed salacious magazine covers on the top of every stack, three I counted at once, was catching the eyes of demon-ridden public including me (public who calls for clean-living), silently but effectively.
‘Far-Famed and hypnotic the figure, more this moneygrubber corporate world bids not on her but on the conciseness of her apparels to hang her as a mass attracting wallpaper on the sidewalls or on iron-bars or in magazines to grab maximum out of her showy-unwrinkled-body. For Million Bucks, both parties are correct and term it ‘Women’s Era or Girls Going’. Crap! We will never step-down our mentality to use her anyhow, if not physically, mentally, socially or politically then in present scenario with money-power and that too with her commercial consent,’ figured I before a garish voice caught my stance.
‘Wow, watch that model, what a peach! Looking too hot,’ junked a schoolchild almost 12 in years, weighing much less then his hefty-schoolbag, leaning on his friend’s tender shoulder and throwing his snoopy eyes over the enticing cover. He was bawdily loud and clear enough to pierce my deaf ears.
‘Yeah, as hot as mine bed-tea,’ dropped his friend, looking at the cover and sharing his off-color-stuff, hot enough to melt-down their budding mental flip-flops, and they moved away from me with their rational microprocessors off. This situation was too worst than my just as a tainted-ripened-fruit, full of afloat bacteria.
‘I improvise the saying; every thing is fair in love, war, and money. That’s not the fault of these developing kids but totally ours, serving lewd-recipes on the name of apparency or openness. Shit! And I’m too part and parcel of this darkening lust,’ buzzed I, inside my inactive brainpower.
‘But this is the sucking bitter-truth, smartly overlooked and I’m low-powered Guy incompetent to rise and walk against this breeze,’ I tried to settled myself as everyone is blowing with the wind.
Anyways after 15 minutes toil, arrived 763, tightly packed as my 80 Gb hard disk with songs, movies and softwares with not even a single mb space. But as I tried to make space in HDD, compressing songs and movies, the similar way Conductor was making an inch space for the passengers.
‘Move ahead from here, move, move,’ shouted Conductor from the heavily-guarded bus-door, spitting red tobacco. ‘Please Madam, Move ahead. Chotu move from here, pass that bag to the sitters. Sir, stand clear,’ shouted He, incessantly rapid as a running lawnmower.
‘Where to move, not even an inch to move hand,’ protested One in a heavy tone.
‘These passengers will sit on my head,’ screamed Conductor, signaling the scattered passengers to make an array. ‘Move ahead.’ These buses run on bickers, not on diesel and so passengers impulsively take part in these bickers to run the buses.
But no one heeded his tight words and so he stirred inside, adjusting his tummy finely, smelling as bad as rotten egg, and clutching orderly-maintained queue of currency notes, folded along length between his fore and middle finger. A sudden burst of push and pull occurred as Conductor acted to compress and adjust the almost compressed crowd as LPG, creating an uncontrollable chaos. The bus slowly started moving and I got hanged on the heavily-guarded bus-door, so closed to sudden death but who cares until a casualty.
‘Don’t hang on the door, bhaisahab else I have to bear a penalty of Rs400. Move up of the doors,’ said Conductor, adjusting and compressing the crowd and at the same time not missing a single crammed statue to lift his fare from same as franc-tireur(sharpshooter) hardly misses his target. ‘Clearly stand off the doors and take out the fare everyone behind.’
‘Stand off, Idiot. Packed the bus so much, not even an inch to move,’ said a hanger in building temper. ‘Fare, Can’t you see us hanging, bloody idiot?’ It’s quite gratifying to observe the physics laws with bare eyes as a science student but there it was painful to watch the foolproof of “To every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction.”
‘Madam, Move this side. Sir, you come here,’ insisted Conductor, bundling accordingly. ‘chotu, your fare?’
‘How many times I have to give?’ Chotu yelled. ‘Bloody cretin,’ said Chotu lastly, not loud enough to trigger Conductor’s dead-tongue.
‘What are you doing, bhaiya?’ complained a teen girl in a slow voice, gawking him in disdain. ‘Wild man, purposely jolting,’ she murmured, wincing roughly and firming up her scarf over her shoulders, exquisitely. Girls are facing this pathos as endurable but up to when?
‘Don’t jostle. Don’t you have manners! Bloody nutcase,’ griped another teen girl in boo, grimacing. If the girls be saber-toothed then surely both would stab them into his ill-throat and lynched him, lancing his every grimy vocal chord but alas, the girls were having genetic fine-tooth as pomegranate seeds in a tough brownish-red rind. Moreover they had the Mama’s saying with them, “Never argue with an idiot. The differentiating difference disappears in a flash.”
‘Madam, can’t you judge that bus is too jam-packed. I’m not getting any fun in jouncing around,’ answered Conductor in a thunk, insolently and swerved back. ‘Say ticket, yes you,’ addicted of using the trite “yours fare? Or say ticket?”
The schooled-girls brainstormed and concluded ‘it’s better to needle the lips rather than to give wanted chance to his scissoring-rotten-tongue,' as civilized-Indian girl usually does. And so we are hoofing on their heads, high-and-mighty.
‘How more will you compact us? It’s enough,’ a muscle-boy dissented in protest, trying to break his discomposure.
‘Do hastily, Man. Gear-up the bus, I’m getting late,’ urged an employed uncle in an unruffled way. Niggles and bickers are common in these buses as frog’s croak during rainy season, how hard one can try to control them but they won’t stop doing that.
‘Every one is in hurry, so don’t I lift the passengers? And if you have too hurry, why don’t you travel in a bike, car or in Metro?’ taunted the Conductor, frowningly and changed to a foul-mouthed monster, might be the best he could think of.
‘Be in your pocket, Conductor. If I file a report against you to overload the bus against rules, you will get stumped-out. You don’t know my hand’s-length.’ threatened that employed uncle with clenched-fist to punch the loose-tongued Conductor straight away in his bulgy lips. Fire can cremate the dark, giving warmth and light but if misplayed, can incinerate everything, from life to assets and so do the words.
‘Hand’s-length, you are threatening me, bloody moron. Do whatever you want to but remember you can’t uproot even a single hair of mine. I watch millions as you per day. And yes, hark this, rules and promises are made to be broken, understand,’ exploded churl Conductor, obnoxiously and his face got blushed in rage for an affray.
And a melee of invectives got started between them, ranging from moron to the sleazy heights of ear-piercing mother and sister. They didn’t think even of the senior citizens, young females, kids, students and the culture we are proud of.
‘God, where are we leading this India? This ineffable reality is shockingly tooth-teetered sour from what we call “India shining or India on the move”,’ thought I with thoughtless heart and loveless mind. Anyhow I got succeeded to throne myself in that battle-bus as ‘Struggle is only of Chair here. One who holds the Chair enjoys the divine powers.’
I was watching all this with eyes open and mouth shut as others. Suddenly, my orbiting eyes stuck on a disregarded line “Lady’s Seat” and I looked for “Gent’s seat”, vainly.
“What an irony it is, irrespective of homo sapiens tag we have to put these lines to show the true-to-life difference between girls and boys and still don’t follow the lines. In this land of outstanding girls, they are still standing out,” said I to myself before conductor’s voice caught my uninterested interest.
‘Early morning comes to churn my mind these blue-collar dorks,’ said Conductor in furor, turning up his left cuff while showing his unsatisfied wrath. Both feral-men continued till the tike Uncle strutted down at his destination and got died-off. Inhumanely both wildcats didn’t have even a single wrinkle of shame on their faces.
These pity bus-confined grudges can be commonly picked up in these life-taking, speedy, and rule-violating over crammed buses but no one dare to point out finger to the process until and unless the bus cause an accident or a female get molested in the bus. All suffering from sick-tired mentality, until things going on endurable till then let them go (until and unless they create a newspaper-headline mishap), neither we have lost a kin nor our own get molested so why we point out? ‘And what a pity that this worm too run-through my nerves, swimmingly,’ grieved I, overlooking own mental stiffness.
A sudden outburst awaked me up from the views-nap. Amazingly, three well-dressed rough and tough guys jumped hastily out of the moving bus and turned their tail in a zigzag way.
‘Cursed harebrained, love to chew traffic rules as their chewing-gum. Half-a-minute earlier bus had stopped on a red-light but then who would notice their superman-skill with long and drawn out eyes. What if anyone got injured?’ a senior citizen reacted spontaneously in predictable banality.
‘Rampages, riots, and jams for a day or what? Bus will be settled down to ashes and pebbles-shower will open the unopened braincases. Moreover news-channels and papers will get fleshy flashed headline and the fresh-hot-pudding for a week to dish up as arguable topic “Demise on Wheels”,’ sniped another senior citizen, grinning and mocking on the prevailing unresolved condition.
‘Peebles-rain later on, firstly check-out your pockets. They were the dodgy cutpurses who jumped out when bus started accelerating,’ shot Conductor, mockingly.
Everyone attacked their pockets in a split second and felt a well-deep relief-sigh on witnessing the Money-Goddess resting calm and quiet in their purses.
‘Oh God, they have slaughtered my pocket,’ shouted the same Uncle who called them superman, shockingly. For a moment he was dumb struck with mouth ajar, palms trembling while searching for wallet, desperately and anatomy about to shatter as a bridge by unbreakable foot-steps of a troop.
‘God will curse them; worms will lie on their respiring bodies and their every single body part will get cut into bits as my pocket,’ cursed he, pathetically with juiceless eyes which were about to burst into tears and he steered towards Conductor.
‘Can’t you tell us that earlier? Seems you are too mingled with them,’ grumbled Uncle, fitfully in nervous strain.
‘Hold your tongue, old devil. Sharpen your specs number and then noticed these lines “Beware of pickpockets and strangers”. Don’t know from where come these aged owls,’ said Conductor in insolence, spitting red-tobacco outside and sitting calm as dead.
‘Don’t you know how to talk with senior citizens, Son?’ asked Uncle, in slow trembled voice. His dewlap got tightens as a stretched rubber band, diminished eyeballs turned red as got submerged in lime, wrinkles appeared on the face as algae in a pond, vocal waves got distorted as a radio signal and forefront skin got flashed with dark parallel lines as mensal line had sprang from his palms to the forefront. He was starkly mortified by the conductor’s dead-tongue.
‘I know much better how to deal with olds as you?’ frowned Conductor, breaking all humanely bonds and respects.
Uncle kept quiet, almost threw himself in the towel, pointlessly gazing at him and at the relaxed dead public with senile eyes. Deaf-and-dumb public explodes only for their beloveds, and unfortunately, Uncle was not anyone’s near-and-dear one. This was the worst he was alive to watch. My momentarily agitated emotions for conductor too cooled-off instantly as I thought ‘Singly I can’t shake the rock,’ and recalled Mama’s pedagogy, ‘Don’t meddle in the affair of dragon because, to it, you are crunchy, and taste good with ketchup.’ Uncle remained stone-calm as might be he had care-money to come out of this problem but a view-war was going on somewhere in his mental nook, which could be vividly depicted on his face as deep darkening wrinkles of discomfiture asking ‘How long will you keep your lips stitched against moral impairment?’
@2
I came alive too early that morning from the routine time and then geared up to meet-up-with Somesh.
I started looking for Bus Number 763 at Anand Vihar, erroneously entitled. Might be the Namer blanked out to prefix the 2 No’s, No Anand No Vihar. Anand has lost in the hoo-hah inkwell of speedy horde and motors, and Vihar got buried to serve as Fossil years after and above that now stalls pine-tall Concrete-Hubs, looked as nonmoving behemoth man-eaters, clothed with giant magnetic posters, depicting mostly creamy-white female models.
A roadside bookseller with artfully placed salacious magazine covers on the top of every stack, three I counted at once, was catching the eyes of demon-ridden public including me (public who calls for clean-living), silently but effectively.
‘Far-Famed and hypnotic the figure, more this moneygrubber corporate world bids not on her but on the conciseness of her apparels to hang her as a mass attracting wallpaper on the sidewalls or on iron-bars or in magazines to grab maximum out of her showy-unwrinkled-body. For Million Bucks, both parties are correct and term it ‘Women’s Era or Girls Going’. Crap! We will never step-down our mentality to use her anyhow, if not physically, mentally, socially or politically then in present scenario with money-power and that too with her commercial consent,’ figured I before a garish voice caught my stance.
‘Wow, watch that model, what a peach! Looking too hot,’ junked a schoolchild almost 12 in years, weighing much less then his hefty-schoolbag, leaning on his friend’s tender shoulder and throwing his snoopy eyes over the enticing cover. He was bawdily loud and clear enough to pierce my deaf ears.
‘Yeah, as hot as mine bed-tea,’ dropped his friend, looking at the cover and sharing his off-color-stuff, hot enough to melt-down their budding mental flip-flops, and they moved away from me with their rational microprocessors off. This situation was too worst than my just as a tainted-ripened-fruit, full of afloat bacteria.
‘I improvise the saying; every thing is fair in love, war, and money. That’s not the fault of these developing kids but totally ours, serving lewd-recipes on the name of apparency or openness. Shit! And I’m too part and parcel of this darkening lust,’ buzzed I, inside my inactive brainpower.
‘But this is the sucking bitter-truth, smartly overlooked and I’m low-powered Guy incompetent to rise and walk against this breeze,’ I tried to settled myself as everyone is blowing with the wind.
Anyways after 15 minutes toil, arrived 763, tightly packed as my 80 Gb hard disk with songs, movies and softwares with not even a single mb space. But as I tried to make space in HDD, compressing songs and movies, the similar way Conductor was making an inch space for the passengers.
‘Move ahead from here, move, move,’ shouted Conductor from the heavily-guarded bus-door, spitting red tobacco. ‘Please Madam, Move ahead. Chotu move from here, pass that bag to the sitters. Sir, stand clear,’ shouted He, incessantly rapid as a running lawnmower.
‘Where to move, not even an inch to move hand,’ protested One in a heavy tone.
‘These passengers will sit on my head,’ screamed Conductor, signaling the scattered passengers to make an array. ‘Move ahead.’ These buses run on bickers, not on diesel and so passengers impulsively take part in these bickers to run the buses.
But no one heeded his tight words and so he stirred inside, adjusting his tummy finely, smelling as bad as rotten egg, and clutching orderly-maintained queue of currency notes, folded along length between his fore and middle finger. A sudden burst of push and pull occurred as Conductor acted to compress and adjust the almost compressed crowd as LPG, creating an uncontrollable chaos. The bus slowly started moving and I got hanged on the heavily-guarded bus-door, so closed to sudden death but who cares until a casualty.
‘Don’t hang on the door, bhaisahab else I have to bear a penalty of Rs400. Move up of the doors,’ said Conductor, adjusting and compressing the crowd and at the same time not missing a single crammed statue to lift his fare from same as franc-tireur(sharpshooter) hardly misses his target. ‘Clearly stand off the doors and take out the fare everyone behind.’
‘Stand off, Idiot. Packed the bus so much, not even an inch to move,’ said a hanger in building temper. ‘Fare, Can’t you see us hanging, bloody idiot?’ It’s quite gratifying to observe the physics laws with bare eyes as a science student but there it was painful to watch the foolproof of “To every action there’s an equal and opposite reaction.”
‘Madam, Move this side. Sir, you come here,’ insisted Conductor, bundling accordingly. ‘chotu, your fare?’
‘How many times I have to give?’ Chotu yelled. ‘Bloody cretin,’ said Chotu lastly, not loud enough to trigger Conductor’s dead-tongue.
‘What are you doing, bhaiya?’ complained a teen girl in a slow voice, gawking him in disdain. ‘Wild man, purposely jolting,’ she murmured, wincing roughly and firming up her scarf over her shoulders, exquisitely. Girls are facing this pathos as endurable but up to when?
‘Don’t jostle. Don’t you have manners! Bloody nutcase,’ griped another teen girl in boo, grimacing. If the girls be saber-toothed then surely both would stab them into his ill-throat and lynched him, lancing his every grimy vocal chord but alas, the girls were having genetic fine-tooth as pomegranate seeds in a tough brownish-red rind. Moreover they had the Mama’s saying with them, “Never argue with an idiot. The differentiating difference disappears in a flash.”
‘Madam, can’t you judge that bus is too jam-packed. I’m not getting any fun in jouncing around,’ answered Conductor in a thunk, insolently and swerved back. ‘Say ticket, yes you,’ addicted of using the trite “yours fare? Or say ticket?”
The schooled-girls brainstormed and concluded ‘it’s better to needle the lips rather than to give wanted chance to his scissoring-rotten-tongue,' as civilized-Indian girl usually does. And so we are hoofing on their heads, high-and-mighty.
‘How more will you compact us? It’s enough,’ a muscle-boy dissented in protest, trying to break his discomposure.
‘Do hastily, Man. Gear-up the bus, I’m getting late,’ urged an employed uncle in an unruffled way. Niggles and bickers are common in these buses as frog’s croak during rainy season, how hard one can try to control them but they won’t stop doing that.
‘Every one is in hurry, so don’t I lift the passengers? And if you have too hurry, why don’t you travel in a bike, car or in Metro?’ taunted the Conductor, frowningly and changed to a foul-mouthed monster, might be the best he could think of.
‘Be in your pocket, Conductor. If I file a report against you to overload the bus against rules, you will get stumped-out. You don’t know my hand’s-length.’ threatened that employed uncle with clenched-fist to punch the loose-tongued Conductor straight away in his bulgy lips. Fire can cremate the dark, giving warmth and light but if misplayed, can incinerate everything, from life to assets and so do the words.
‘Hand’s-length, you are threatening me, bloody moron. Do whatever you want to but remember you can’t uproot even a single hair of mine. I watch millions as you per day. And yes, hark this, rules and promises are made to be broken, understand,’ exploded churl Conductor, obnoxiously and his face got blushed in rage for an affray.
And a melee of invectives got started between them, ranging from moron to the sleazy heights of ear-piercing mother and sister. They didn’t think even of the senior citizens, young females, kids, students and the culture we are proud of.
‘God, where are we leading this India? This ineffable reality is shockingly tooth-teetered sour from what we call “India shining or India on the move”,’ thought I with thoughtless heart and loveless mind. Anyhow I got succeeded to throne myself in that battle-bus as ‘Struggle is only of Chair here. One who holds the Chair enjoys the divine powers.’
I was watching all this with eyes open and mouth shut as others. Suddenly, my orbiting eyes stuck on a disregarded line “Lady’s Seat” and I looked for “Gent’s seat”, vainly.
“What an irony it is, irrespective of homo sapiens tag we have to put these lines to show the true-to-life difference between girls and boys and still don’t follow the lines. In this land of outstanding girls, they are still standing out,” said I to myself before conductor’s voice caught my uninterested interest.
‘Early morning comes to churn my mind these blue-collar dorks,’ said Conductor in furor, turning up his left cuff while showing his unsatisfied wrath. Both feral-men continued till the tike Uncle strutted down at his destination and got died-off. Inhumanely both wildcats didn’t have even a single wrinkle of shame on their faces.
These pity bus-confined grudges can be commonly picked up in these life-taking, speedy, and rule-violating over crammed buses but no one dare to point out finger to the process until and unless the bus cause an accident or a female get molested in the bus. All suffering from sick-tired mentality, until things going on endurable till then let them go (until and unless they create a newspaper-headline mishap), neither we have lost a kin nor our own get molested so why we point out? ‘And what a pity that this worm too run-through my nerves, swimmingly,’ grieved I, overlooking own mental stiffness.
A sudden outburst awaked me up from the views-nap. Amazingly, three well-dressed rough and tough guys jumped hastily out of the moving bus and turned their tail in a zigzag way.
‘Cursed harebrained, love to chew traffic rules as their chewing-gum. Half-a-minute earlier bus had stopped on a red-light but then who would notice their superman-skill with long and drawn out eyes. What if anyone got injured?’ a senior citizen reacted spontaneously in predictable banality.
‘Rampages, riots, and jams for a day or what? Bus will be settled down to ashes and pebbles-shower will open the unopened braincases. Moreover news-channels and papers will get fleshy flashed headline and the fresh-hot-pudding for a week to dish up as arguable topic “Demise on Wheels”,’ sniped another senior citizen, grinning and mocking on the prevailing unresolved condition.
‘Peebles-rain later on, firstly check-out your pockets. They were the dodgy cutpurses who jumped out when bus started accelerating,’ shot Conductor, mockingly.
Everyone attacked their pockets in a split second and felt a well-deep relief-sigh on witnessing the Money-Goddess resting calm and quiet in their purses.
‘Oh God, they have slaughtered my pocket,’ shouted the same Uncle who called them superman, shockingly. For a moment he was dumb struck with mouth ajar, palms trembling while searching for wallet, desperately and anatomy about to shatter as a bridge by unbreakable foot-steps of a troop.
‘God will curse them; worms will lie on their respiring bodies and their every single body part will get cut into bits as my pocket,’ cursed he, pathetically with juiceless eyes which were about to burst into tears and he steered towards Conductor.
‘Can’t you tell us that earlier? Seems you are too mingled with them,’ grumbled Uncle, fitfully in nervous strain.
‘Hold your tongue, old devil. Sharpen your specs number and then noticed these lines “Beware of pickpockets and strangers”. Don’t know from where come these aged owls,’ said Conductor in insolence, spitting red-tobacco outside and sitting calm as dead.
‘Don’t you know how to talk with senior citizens, Son?’ asked Uncle, in slow trembled voice. His dewlap got tightens as a stretched rubber band, diminished eyeballs turned red as got submerged in lime, wrinkles appeared on the face as algae in a pond, vocal waves got distorted as a radio signal and forefront skin got flashed with dark parallel lines as mensal line had sprang from his palms to the forefront. He was starkly mortified by the conductor’s dead-tongue.
‘I know much better how to deal with olds as you?’ frowned Conductor, breaking all humanely bonds and respects.
Uncle kept quiet, almost threw himself in the towel, pointlessly gazing at him and at the relaxed dead public with senile eyes. Deaf-and-dumb public explodes only for their beloveds, and unfortunately, Uncle was not anyone’s near-and-dear one. This was the worst he was alive to watch. My momentarily agitated emotions for conductor too cooled-off instantly as I thought ‘Singly I can’t shake the rock,’ and recalled Mama’s pedagogy, ‘Don’t meddle in the affair of dragon because, to it, you are crunchy, and taste good with ketchup.’ Uncle remained stone-calm as might be he had care-money to come out of this problem but a view-war was going on somewhere in his mental nook, which could be vividly depicted on his face as deep darkening wrinkles of discomfiture asking ‘How long will you keep your lips stitched against moral impairment?’
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Novel Begins....Chapter 1
Guys Give your valuable comments after reading this post.......
The bell rang, tunefully, for 12 of night in a twelve-tone music and 12 of my blue face shifted to another new day. As every other midnight, half Delhi was slumbering with semi open eyes and rest half was hyper active to fetch handsome remuneration at the end of month and I was still trying to puzzle out “How to sleep with sleepless eyes or how to make earning nights?” Everyone was relishing the dark of night by their way and I was washing off the dark of night with sempiternal tears just to sense the reviving bright darkness, I was purblind to.
The daylong night and nightlong dark had enclosed my every flying ambition in its light-tight envelope. I was embedded between my software less mind and hardware less heart. From the past few months, mounting deafening silence was trying to beat my heart-beats; the darkening day was trying to make me stone-blind and the sobbing nights had emptied my tear-well, enough to reveal my plight. I had lost myself somewhere in me, the biggest loser of all times if compared. “Night and plight” I saw wherever and whenever I looked. What’s the pain of mindless heart and heartless mind I had come to know? Every expectation was vanishing in a puff of unexpected smoke. But struggle thy name is life and so I was struggling for life, helplessly.
Whenever I find myself in soot black, I recall Mama’s vital saying to revive lost myself in me…
“Whether the hundred rupee note is crisped or crumpled, it will always remain front-runner in the trade race. Despite valid change in the physical attributes of the currency note, its intrinsic value doesn’t get change. Similarly, whatever may be the situation in thy life, always retain your intrinsic merit to circulate in this mundane maze.”
But to my surprise, for the first time I got totally deadlocked in the maze, irrespective of HER key saying. God was the only programmer left who could now debug my mental software and so I was trying to draw HIS efficacious attention.
‘God, please take me out of this jet black,’ begged I, whispering with dry throat and wet eyes. ‘Lord, please open your eyes before its too late and winnow this bad time or call me up,’ supplicated I, sobbingly and wiped nose and eyes on the upper part of sleeve.
After this short and mournful supplication, I bottled up remaining stock-still tears and opened Diary to pour the Lava erupting inside mind cells and heart chambers…somehow trying to settle down the view war via writing…
“The time lettin me
Into a dark shade
I'm gettin myself
In a maze to fade
Seconds goin as
To let me freeze
I'm fallin Under Pressure
And about to cease
I'd never thought
This way before
Because Life is gettin Hard
And I’m feelin it too sour
Is it a Reality?
Or An Illusion
Is it a problem?
Or a solution
Oh You! Please
Temme what is it?
For me it’s a wide-cut Confusion?
The Things Goin On
Staidly, wrong.
And I’m all alone to bear
The sound of Tear
Hangin Upside Down
Lost the sound
Muteness step away
Will have no words to say
So I’m writin
That someday someway
You will get what I wanna say.
Is it a Reality...?”
I checked the grammar, fully raised to slang due to inordinate chatting and sms, be concise else pay twice. But one who writes has a deep pain inside and to write is the best remedy to regain melody, and so I was trying to regain. Suddenly the mobile crisply ranged ‘In the end’ from Linkin Park, the best to hold my current views, slicing up the deafening silence.
‘Hello,’ I uttered, artistically doffing the current ho-hum.
‘Hi son, how are you?’ a baby voice nudged my head.
‘Sorry, who’s this?’ asked I in apathy.
‘You bumble-bee, eroded me as dust?’ complained he. ‘Amnesic, I’m Somesh. What’s up?’ said he in gusto.
‘Oh, hi Chink! How you doing?’ replied I. ‘In India or in Germany?’ said I, fervently. His virtual presence stamped down the escalating agony.
Well Somesh, single always ready to mingle, is 154cms little magic but real big benefactor of mine, with equally proportioned hands and legs; face resembles an engraved egg with eyes trying to open up and tiny red nose trying to get flattened, all anatomy parts looked as assembled from Japan, Korea, Taipei like a pc and finally stamped made in China. In his right brain nothing is right except girls and in left part nothing is left except girls, crazy about girls as crazy-ball, bouncing back and forth behind them with gifts as sugar-daddy. He has open-circuited his cardiac valve for 24 girls till date but the girls short-circuited it as their arteries got calibrated with other 24 but taller than Somesh and decorously advised him that he will look dashy in spike heels and so, ultimately in anguish, he joined “One Side Love” community in Orkut.
‘I’m not a Chink, moron. Halt this query LMG,’ said Somesh, interrupting me. ‘Anyways I’m fit as my denims, thick and pink as Ketchup, what about you?’ replied Somesh, childishly.
‘About you…?’ every time sounded as a blade to lance nerves but this time as a sweet bitter symphony. Bitter, because I didn’t have the appropriate answer and sweet, because he knew my answer.
‘All’s cut-and-dried. I’m trying to calm down my nerves; you know my edginess’ said I, profoundly.
‘C’mon, give it the deep six,’ said Somesh, mawkishly.
‘…Deep six, Hun! Here I’m suspiring even for ones and twos,’ thought I.
‘Anyways I’m in India,’ said Somesh, surprising me.
‘Really, spit the truth buddy,’ exclaimed I in ardour.
‘Believe it or not,’ said Somesh, laughing. ‘Anyways what do you think about tomorrow?’
‘To massacre your heavy pocket,’ said I.
‘Arrangements should be top-notch from scrumptious lunch to vino soiree,’ dictated I, dropping the discomfiture. “Bottle”, perfect wonder drug in every situation, in good take to celebrate and in sorrow to cerebrate.
‘Pull off your gunfire, baby. First do come, man. No excuses and No fables, understand,’ laughed Somesh as he knew that I’m good in making believing fantasies.
‘Already All lash-ups for a vodka-bath,’ said Somesh, underscoring more on vodka-bath.
‘Vodka-bath… sounds funny but not fake,’ said I. A dipsomaniac can know the contentment in Vodka-bath, not those who prefer sauna.
‘Hmm... Anyways I will wait for you, ok. Bye and take care, brother,’ finished Somesh his electronic guest appearance but enough to pull my sapless lips. ‘Sweet Dreams.’
‘Ok, see you tomorrow, bye,’ I greeted. ‘Good night.’
The soothing confab finally came to end and I instantly plunged on the bed, forcing all unexhausted poignancies miles away as I had to meet the German well-wisher on Vodka-tub next day.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
A Night With God
A youth reflecting a youth’s attitude in various circumstances…a calm rebel trying to revive hopeless hearts and dejected minds… At the age of just 23, he is outstanding but still standing out of the row. His creativity, wizardry and so vivid mental representation of events on the papers through words is less enough to describe his style. “A Night With God” is his first unpublished Novel, looking for publishers. A Novel By a Youth, For the Youths, To the Youths. Lifelike description of central character’s failures, his frustrations, veridical delineation of failures around him, and then thinking beyond failures in a revolutionary way, translating failures to opportunities and then to success, is all he has perfectly tried to serve us. A young mind trying to nudge the sleeping minds of youths like him by his questionnaire slowly, silently but effectively…
1) Have you ever thought beyond questions, failures or self-complacency? What are failures, opportunities and success according to you?
2) Have you ever examined complex things, persons or situations around you?
3) Are you living a fateful life, accepting the course of events as a matter of fate/luck?
4) What does the numinous word “GIRL” means to you? And one reason to respect her?
5) Are you satisfied with yourself or Nation’s progress?
6) Finally, do you believe in "God"?
If you find these questions burning and close to your mind, do read the Novel and give your valuable ideas and comments to mark and make a new beginning as reflected in this young Writer’s words and provide him a platform from where he can raise and glow the name of what he is and we are deeply proud of “Uttaranchal” and ultimately of “India”….
We can’t change the history but together we can make a one, glorious.
A NIGHT WITH GOD
To Failures, for Success, by God.
We will blog it here in chapters…means first chapter and after getting your valuable comments and suggestions we will blog its more chapters here and try to publish it in book form as soon as we can.
1) Have you ever thought beyond questions, failures or self-complacency? What are failures, opportunities and success according to you?
2) Have you ever examined complex things, persons or situations around you?
3) Are you living a fateful life, accepting the course of events as a matter of fate/luck?
4) What does the numinous word “GIRL” means to you? And one reason to respect her?
5) Are you satisfied with yourself or Nation’s progress?
6) Finally, do you believe in "God"?
If you find these questions burning and close to your mind, do read the Novel and give your valuable ideas and comments to mark and make a new beginning as reflected in this young Writer’s words and provide him a platform from where he can raise and glow the name of what he is and we are deeply proud of “Uttaranchal” and ultimately of “India”….
We can’t change the history but together we can make a one, glorious.
A NIGHT WITH GOD
To Failures, for Success, by God.
We will blog it here in chapters…means first chapter and after getting your valuable comments and suggestions we will blog its more chapters here and try to publish it in book form as soon as we can.
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