Sunday, December 18, 2011


1) My dear regular readers (yes, I mean the two of you), I'm sure you all are either following or have at least landed sometime on a beautiful blog named 'Words', because the blog is just so popular across blogosphere. The blogger, Saru Singhal, is a lovely person, who has this unique ability to express a bagful of emotions and feelings in the smallest poems possible. She is one such writer who when I read, makes me wish if I could write like that.
She recently offered me an opportunity to write a guest post on her blog. And since hers is chiefly a poetry blog, I sent her a poem of mine.
Click here to read the poem. And make sure you read Saru’s works too. They are simply brilliant.

2) I’m currently on a lookout for a freelance writing job. I manage to get enough free time during a day to be able to take up a writing job. And even if somedays I don’t, writing is something I can always make time for. So any suggestions or any help in this matter would be welcome.

3) Blogger’s meet, anyone?

Sunday, December 11, 2011


Remember what they say in those Whisper ads? ‘All those five days of the month aren’t the same. Sometimes the flow is less, sometimes more’. Well, that is exactly what I’m going through as I type this post. The flow of my creative juices is at its worst at the moment, and I’m completely blank on what to write about. Hence, I started writing randomly, letting my brain and my fingers do the work, while my heart and I visit the Victoria’s Secret party.

Talking about periods, did Justin Bieber finally get them?

The reason why I so badly want to write something is that it’s a Sunday morning, and I’m sitting alone in my home in Baroda. (For the unawares, I was born, kicked in the crotch, and brought up in Bombay. I recently moved to Baroda. I stay with my Uncle and Aunt here, but we have our own second house in Baroda too, where I come every weekend. Life seems to be a big fan of ironies, because back in Bombay when I had girlfriends, I had no empty apartment. And now when I have a fully furnished house wholly to myself, all I have to enjoy it with is my left hand. My left hand to operate my laptop, you pervert. My right hand is the one that grabs and strokes. Grabs and strokes my right knee, I got hurt there.) And when I’m alone in the house, I HAVE to write. I would find the time spent alone to be utterly useless if I don’t write something. And it’s frustrating when during such times I don’t get ideas, because it is more or less during such times itself that I generally do.

I normally get my best ideas when I’m in the shower, but Sundays are generally my ‘no-bath’ days. This is because Sunday is God’s day, and God meant us to be like this. He gave us water to quench our thirst, not to bath with. He made it so that the living beings would drink it, and not pour it on their bodies. I’m sure God must have freaked out when he saw humans pouring water on their bodies for the first time.

“It is meant to be drunk, you fucking idiot!” he must have yelled from the sky.

But I guess I will take a bath today, because I love the Jaguar shower here. Every single drop feels like it’s wrapped in bubble paper. Maybe I should get a big sheet of bubble wrap paper. That will keep me busy the whole day.

So yeah, I have to write. And I’m not a talented writer to be able to narrate my life’s incidences in the form of boring philosophy. Nor am I Robert Frost, one of the smartest poets in history. Smartest, because he made a legendary poem out of a mugging incident. Here’s what actually happened with him –

Two Roads Diverged in the woods and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that is where I got robbed.

The bugger got mugged in the secluded street. But what he did of it? He made one of modern time’s best poetry.

After he learnt his lesson, he decided never to take halts in a journey, because he became super paranoid of getting mugged again. Which is why he wrote –

But I have promises to keep
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep.

See. Smart!

I’m a strong believer of one thing. Whatever happens happens for a reason. Every smallest occurrence has a reason behind it. From a pin falling from your hand, to a plane crash, to Rakhi Sawant growing boobs again, it all has a reason. The universe is constantly conspiring, for every living being, and all events are related, unknown to the naked eye. I know I sound like the illegitimate child of Paulo Coelho and the writers of How I Met Your Mother, but I do believe strongly in this.

And off late, the universe is giving me certain signals, or so I believe. As I had mentioned in one of my blog posts, I’m in the Ted Mosby phase of my life, looking out for my ‘the one’. And I have a certain checklist of qualities which I want in my girl. Everyone does. My checklist (I know you care an anorexic model’s ass about it) is as follows:

1) She should be fun. So far, my most favourite company is myself. She should be so much fun, that I should love being with her more than I love being with myself.

2) She should be crazy about F.R.I.E.N.D.S, just like I am. I really wish to have a Friends Marathon with my girl someday.

3) She should be interesting. And interested in stuff. General Knowledge and Current Affairs stuff. When I out of the blue start discussing the Mayan civilization, she should NOT think I’m a geek. I will slap her.

4) As far as possible, I wouldn’t prefer a corporate chick.

5) She should be my best friend. I should be able to openly check out girls while being with her, and she should be a sport about it. Rather, in spite of being my girl, she should point out hot chicks for me.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai released when I was very young. I guess I was in fourth or fifth standard. In the movie, when Archana Puran Singh asks her students ‘Pyaar Kya Hai? What is love?’ I said to myself ‘What chutiyapa is this?! Which teacher asks such questions?’.

And then when she asks Shahrukh to answer, my ears stood up a little, like a dog. It was a Karan Johar movie, with Shahrukh and Kajol, who were like the ‘the’ pair back then. So I got very hopeful about the definition of love that was about to come. But then the bozo said ‘Pyaar Dosti Hai!’.

‘My ass,’ I said.

I obviously expected something more meaningful and complicated.

But today, I finally realize that there couldn’t be a better definition of love than that. Love is friendship. If you two aren’t the best of friends, the relationship won’t last.

I know many girls would oppose me on this (guys care a fuck), but believe it or not, love fades. No matter how much ever you love someone, it does evaporate over time. What lasts, and makes the relationship last, is friendship.

Chandler and Monica are my most ideal couple ever; hence I would give their example here. They were the best of friends before they fell in love. If you notice, they are madly in love and all over each other only in season 5 and 6, and somewhat 7. What continues after that between them is their best friendship. Of course, love is there. I’m not saying it goes away completely. I’m just saying the percentage contribution of love in the relationship falls.
So yeah, she should be my best friend

6) She should never want to change her beliefs and thinking according to what the society thinks is right. She should be herself, always.

7) She should be a big time foodie. I don’t mind being with a fat girl. I want someone who loves food as much as I do.

8) She should be a reader. ‘Books? Ewww! I hate books. How can you read a whole book?’. ONE TIGHT SLAP!

9) Her movie tastes should be such that I could let her talk to other people in my absence. ‘Hey you saw Bodyguard? What awesome movie na?’. ONE TIGHT SLAP!

10) Her English should not make me want to shoot her and then hang myself. I am a grammar-cum-pronunciation freak. If she talks like ‘Arre I did it like that only’, her life will be shortened.

11) Mom dad should like her.

See. So simple. If anyone of you (girls) feels you fit in all the above mentioned criteria, please contact me on, with your nude pic. I shall revert soon. If I don’t, keep checking popular porn sites. Surprise! :P  (Isn’t the :P smiley a life saver? So many friendships would have broken had it not been for ‘:P’. Think of the reaction you will receive when you comment on someone’s FB pic as ‘Wow, you look hot! :P’ as opposed to ‘Wow, you look hot!’ )

Anyway. So the signal that I believe the universe is off late giving me is that I’m going to end up with someone who maybe won’t fit in all the points mentioned above, yet I would find her perfect.

Following are the signals that I received over the past two days:
1) An office colleague is getting married. She said ‘the guy has all the qualities that I never wanted in my guy; still I love him and I’m getting married to him!’

2) I was discussing How I Met Your Mother. I casually said that the show would conclude with Ted finding someone not at all perfect as per him, yet he would love her.

3) This post by Upasana.

Are these actual signals? Or am I being stupid? I don’t know.

So kids, this is how you write a crap post, that makes no sense and has no head or tail whatsoever!

P.S. After months and months of caring a fuck about it, I finally joined twitter. (!/LetThereBeFood) I must say, twitter badly needs some notification type thing like Facebook.

P.P.S.: Saw Puss in Boots. Few laughter moments. But a good watch nonetheless. I was really waiting for a Shrek or Donkey cameo, but there was none.

Tuesday, December 6, 2011


The 26/11 Mumbai attack anniversary that went by was, for a change, a rather joyous and relieving occasion this year. Joyous because of a bunch of people performing as a flash mob at the CST station, and relieving because the song on which they performed was not 'Kolaveri Di'

(Is it just me, or does this totally remind you of the 'Jai Ho' video from Slumdog?)

When I first heard Kolaveri, I found it overrated. I found it overrated when I heard it for the fifty first time also. The thing is, just because a song is catchy doesn't mean it will stay for a really long period. Melodious songs stay long. Catchy songs have a very little shelf life. And even the item song Jalebi Bai is catchy for that matter. Don't believe me? Just listen to that song in the morning once, and tell me at night what went on and on in your head the whole day. The Kolaveri song in fact has already become as irritating for me as that ‘There are unused icons on your desktop’ bubble that keeps popping up in the task bar.

I remember in school, during examinations, if you ever chanced upon hearing a song right before your paper, then getting it out of your head throughout the exam would be a bigger challenge than passing the exam. And I used to use this thing in a very impish, sadistic way.

Almost 90% of my scoring in each exam could be dedicated to the final hour preparation. In fact, when the teacher used to say 'Start studying now, don't wait for the eleventh hour; you won't be able to finish it,' the little kalpak, dressed in red, with a fork and thorns, sitting on my left shoulder used to say 'Challenge Accepted!' The white fellow on the right used to be too lazy to oppose him.

But then again, I would never study in the final five-ten minutes before the paper, because every damn question you read in those final moments, you always feel that you have forgotten the answer. And hence, to spend time in these final minutes, I used to go up to my frantically revising friends, and used to sing the crappiest songs in their face. The curses I used to receive after the paper were orgasmic. And why wouldn’t it be, after all I HAD fucked their case.

Now a flash mob has been defined as a group of people meeting at a predetermined place, performing a choreographed event, and quickly dispersing. Every day in my office has been defined similarly.

Watching that flash mob on CST made me wish I was present there when it happened. That way I would have had a chance to check out the chicks in the mob in a better way. But then, as Geeta says, whatever happens happens for the best. (Geeta was one of the chicks in that mob) Had I been there, the over-enthu me would have joined the performance when it was in the initial stages, dancing like those men in Zingaro beer ads, only to later realize that it's a preplanned choreographed event. Maybe I have to start thinking in retrospection on why I never get laid.

But such events are great fun. I would love to be a part of one of these someday, maybe the one sponsored by Zingaro. And such activities are better expenditures of time for today's youth than something stupid like Farmville, a game that I believe should be played less on Facebook and more on Anil Kapoor's chest.

Before this flash mob happened, I never knew what a flash mob is. So if someone would tell me that there was a flash mob on CST station, without showing me the video, I would imagine that a gang of girls were going around lifting up their t shirts. Well that surely would have been a better flash mob. But then that would have been less known as a flash mob, and more as ‘Girls Gone Wild – CST Party!’

On a separate note, a delegate of a Japanese firm had visited my company recently. After the factory visit, he wanted to see the Baroda Maharaja’s Palace (nothing metaphorical in this). And since I was comparatively less occupied with work that day, my colleagues suggested I go along with him. I wasn’t too up for it, but someone from the International Marketing team had to go. The thought of all the racist jokes I would crack on him in the car cheered me up, but sadly he didn’t have time for the Palace visit and had to leave for his flight.

When we found out a Japanese guy is coming to visit, we all Googled various Japanese greetings. One of their most common greeting upon meeting is ‘Konnichiwa’, which also translates to ‘Good Afternoon’. When your common greeting means the same as Good Afternoon, it shows till how late you people sleep.

Good evening for them is ‘Konbanwa’. I thought I would play a prank. When he would come, while others would bend down and say ‘Konnichiwa’, I would bend down and say ‘Kun Faya Kun’. But then, for the sake of my firm’s repute, I stuck to Konnichiwa.

I guess I better end my post here, before I get a call from Kapil Sibbal asking me to censor content on my blog.

*bowing down* Kun Faya Kun.

P.S.: R.I.P Dev Saab.

P.P.S.: Hats off to each person directly and indirectly involved in the Flash Mob. A truly commendable work.

Wednesday, November 30, 2011


It’s over. It’s all over. I will never get to see her again; never get to hold her completely. I held her for too long, and now she’s gone. If only I’d not kept her away for so long. If only I had pulled her back towards me. If only…

But now, it’s over. It’s all over. And all I am left with is half a Parle G biscuit in my hand. If only I had pulled her back out of the tea in time. She would still be complete, and with me.

But life is about moving on. I have already picked up another biscuit. And this time, I won’t dip it for long. This time, I won’t lose her to a cup of tea. This time, I won’t let the lower half get soggy and fall apart.

Don’t give me those looks. I am emotionally attached to my food okay.

Now before I begin with this post, I need to set a few records straight. Thanks to a handful of idiotic bloggers, I am getting known in the blogosphere as “Mr. Poopy” or “Poop Head”. And this is just because in a couple of my posts, I have cracked a couple of insignificant lines on toilet humor. Now if you notice only that line in the whole fucking post, it is you who is poop obsessed, not me.

Thanks to me being referred to as Poopy/Poop-Obsessed/Poop-Head everywhere, people, I’m sure, are imagining me in my toilet as this:

I enter the toilet. Sit and do my business. Once I am done, I sit on the bathroom floor beside the commode and sing odes to the magnificence of the floating yellow. And then I yell “Ye zaalim samaaj humein ek nahi hone dega! Lekin hum phir milenge. Kisi aur jagah. Kisi aur janam mein. Tab tak ke liye, alvida!” and flush. Then I wipe off a lone tear from the corner of my eye, and go to brush my teeth.

The above description is of someone who should be called poop-obsessed, not me.

So I had recently been to my first cousin’s wedding, and it was a great experience. The journey started with a long drive from Baroda to Bombay in my uncle’s Tata Indica, which is surprisingly comfortable for such long drives. Now I’m a restless sitter in a long drive, so throughout that drive I had taken all the positions described in the Kama Sutra, at regular intervals, one after the other, sitting in the back seat.

The first day was the Garba night. Now Communists can survive without a pair of red underwear (so can Govinda), but a Gujju cannot survive without his/her bi-annual doze of Garba. I played garba after like ages, and I love garba, so I thoroughly enjoyed it. After the Garba, various cousins and friends of the bride and the groom had organized performances for that night. Since I no more stay in Bombay, I didn’t have time to rehearse for a dance. But I made it up by hosting the whole event, and luckily it went well.

The next day was the main wedding. Now this was, as far as I remember, the first such wedding of my life where I was so actively involved. Since I was the brother of the bride, lots of responsibilities were supposed to be handled.

Everyone was so heavily decked up in the wedding that it looked like a regular day in the house of an Ekta Kapoor serial family.

You know that clichéd joke that in weddings all elders come and tell you ‘you’re next’ and you feel like doing the same to them in funerals? I literally went through that feeling in this wedding, because almost every other relative and non-relative was coming up to me and telling me ‘you’re next beta’. And the worst part is, going by cousin hierarchy, I bloody AM next.

My mom told me that many aunties came up to her in the wedding and asked her what I do and where I work and stuff. A few aunties came up directly to me, introducing themselves and later their daughters, who luckily weren’t present.

I was the eligible bachelor in that wedding. I’m not being pompous here, but this is not the kind of spotlight I like being in.

Many people later asked me if I liked any girl in the wedding. Well there were a few good lookers, but none that made my heart skip a beat. And no I’m not the guy who falls for good looks. It’s just that, at times you just know. I was actually hoping that my hunt for my ‘the one’ would end in this wedding, but it didn’t happen so.

Now after the girls were done getting ready and with their entire make up, my brother and I thought that even we should get a little touch up. So we went up outside the girls’ changing room and asked if we could get our touch up. Inside me was a voice calling me gay and mocking me. But I needed the touch up to cover the freaking pimple on the nose. We all have experienced this. Throughout the whole year your face will be spotless, but out of nowhere a boil will emerge on your face on the very day of a function.

When we asked them if we could get the touch up, the bridal make up team gave a stern ‘No’. Giving us even the smallest of a foundation cream application would have fallen outside the boundaries of their pay. Bitches they were.

Luckily one of my sister’s friends obliged to apply some foundation type powder with a brush, and we were happy. But we weren’t happy when she yelled, “Don’t worry. I’ll do these guys’ make up.”


But the part that followed was so embarrassing for me, it made the Sharad Pawar – Harvinder Singh incident look like garland ceremony.

That girl came out of the girls’ room, and in full public view, started applying that powder on our face with a brush. A few girls passing by giggled and commented ‘Oho! Now these guys need make up too?!’

God I am dying now-u!
She’s happy how-u?

That moment passed quickly, and she did her job well. Pimple ka naam-o-nishaan mit chuka tha.

This wedding was held in a marriage hall on the top floor of Raghuleela Mall, Kandivli. Now the hall was splendid and spacious, but I realized that hosting a wedding in a mall is not a good idea. It was hell awkward when I stood with my brother outside the mall entrance, all dressed up for a wedding, on a busy Sunday morning, waiting to welcome the groom’s side. It was even more awkward when my brother got a call and walked away, leaving me alone to handle the weird stares. But I’m sure these things were nothing in front of the fact that to attend his own wedding, the groom had to go through checking at the mall entrance.

Also, that very day there were three more marriages in the same mall, in different halls. So there were four direction boards kept on the top floor of the mall, fourth one being for Gold’s Gym. I was on a constant look out for suspicious non-gujju looking guests at the wedding, because I was sure at least one person would have entered the wrong wedding.

Now the bride and groom have to go through way too many rituals before the groom actually steps into the hall. The mother-in-law trying to catch his nose, the bride and groom attempting to put the garland on each other (my sister literally threw it on him out of competitiveness), and various other I don’t remember, as during that whole time my mind was occupied by a small patch of rice that was stuck under my sandals.

This wedding was a close family affair, so I had to make sure that everyone is eating, everyone is comfortable and stuff. But when I looked at the audience, I realized that this was the first time I was on the other side. I have always been among the audience, the people who can’t wait to eat and leave.

But in that wedding I really missed having my girl alongside me. A hypothetical girl if you may. Because I had no one around to bitch my heart out to. Comments like ‘Look at how much acne she has on her back,’ and ‘she’s wearing a cheap bra’ and ‘man that chick is hot’, all died inside me.

Now it may look great fun in movies, but the custom of stealing the groom’s shoes can literally turn into a rugby huddle, which I witnessed for the first time in my life.

After the wedding and the yummy food came the Bidaai part. My sister was already little teary eyed during the wedding itself. But when the see-off time came, all the women - my sister, my maasi, my mom, my sister’s friends, started crying. Even my brother, who was the bride’s real brother, couldn’t hold back. I was her cousin, but the situation started getting even me a bit choked, so I took out my cell phone and started checking Facebook to divert my mind.

The whole wedding luckily got over with ease, and no issues cropped up whatsoever. All the guests went back home happy and well fed.

The next day was the reception, which was in Nashik, since the groom is from Nashik.

The drive from Mumbai to Nashik is one of the sexiest drives I have ever had in my life. The landscape was picturesque, and the climate was serene. It was also one of the few drives of my life when I was awake the whole time.

On our way, we asked the driver to play music. He played ‘Choli ke peeche kya hai’. I gave the driver a look that, if I was an X-Man, would have made him get out of the car and jump down a nearby valley. Luckily one of us had our CD, and the trip was saved. The very first song in the CD was Bhaag Bose DK, which I felt God had specially dedicated on behalf of me to the driver.

The reception was good too, but nothing memorable happened there. Although I did realize that non-family wedding receptions are much more convenient. You come, stand in line for the stage, meet, click, eat like you’ve never eaten before in life, and leave.

Personally speaking, I hate giving cash in weddings. I prefer gifts. But sadly that is what most people do, and the most common denomination is Rs. 101. I am very serious that in my wedding invitation, I’m going to specifically mention ‘Only gifts, no cash’.

All in all, this was a fun wedding. And as opposed to what I’d said in my previous post, I did get time to go home. So I was happy.

P.S.: Facebook is PMSing again. I add ten people, nine accept, and one doesn’t, and FB thinks I’m a stalker. It has blocked my friend requests for 14 days. So if anyone wants to add me, the link is on this page itself.

Friday, November 25, 2011


A few days back, Peevee, a blog buddy, asked me to write a guest post for her, and I told her I will. Aur ek baar jo maine commitment kar di, uske baad to main khud ki bhi nahi sunta.

You can read the guest post here.


*10 seconds later*

DUMB READER: Heyyy, why is that ‘here’ in red?

*5 seconds later*

DUMB READER: OMFG! It’s a link!!!!!!)

Now I have certain strict norms that I follow when someone asks me to write a guest post for them.

BLOGGER WITH 100+ FOLLOWERS ASKING ME: Sure buddy. Anything for you. Will write one asap and mail you okay.

BLOGGER WITH 20-40 FOLLOWERS ASKING ME: What you think I have no other work in life but to keep writing guest posts for people? Am I a charity blogger? Bh****d. Bhag idhar se!

Just to inform my blog buddies, I am going to Bombay for my cousin’s wedding. I’ll be gone from Saturday to Wednesday, and the schedule is so tight I might not have the time to even go home.

So I will be out of action for a week or so. I’ll be back by the time people are already irritated by the Kolaveri song.

So take care people. Happy blogging. And wish you all a very Happy Slapsgiving.

P.S.: This post has got nothing to do with virginity. I just wanted my number of page views to reach 10k fast (which is around 9.5k currently). Haaa Ha-Ha…Haaa Ha-Ha Ha-Ha. (Mandark style laughter)

P.P.S.: Teja Main Hu, Mark Idhar Hai!

Sunday, November 20, 2011


Let me tell you all a little story. Once upon a time, long years ago, there used to be a village. The village was full of interesting people. And the specialty of that village was that each and every person in the village was a master at writing and carving. The villagers regularly used to carve beautiful write ups on the walls of their houses. And it was a tradition in the village, that as soon as someone has carved something, all other villagers should visit that person’s house and read it.
Now one day, a wandering pauper walked into that village. He was but surprised to see how utterly jobless these villagers were, most of whom were women. But he also realized that carving something really nice would make him famous. And he was a horny pauper, and he knew that fame was the shortcut to sex. He knew that women get attracted to famous men in the similar brazen, explicit way that non famous men get attracted to women.
And that was when he thought of making the mother of all carvings.
He put up a notice, in the middle of the village, declaring that he had invited one and all to send him a paragraph on whatever they would want to be written on a wall that he had erected. He was a pauper so he couldn’t afford a house. And in that notice, he wrote a list of women he really liked and admired, and announced that the people in this list HAVE TO send their paras, which he would then carve on his wall. He wrote in the notice that if the specially mentioned women failed to submit their paras, they would lose all chances of sleeping with him ever. He knew the girls wouldn’t want to lose this once in a lifetime opportunity, and hence he was confident all will oblige. He also mentioned in the notice that the names of the people in that list were in ‘NO PARTICULAR ORDER’
But there was one big secret about that village that very few people knew. It was a secret that the pauper wished he had known before making that announcement. It was a secret that the pauper, for the rest of his life, regretted not knowing. And that secret was ‘women are stupid’.
The pauper, as we all know, spent the rest of his life carving on that wall, because no woman understood what a ‘PARA’ meant, and they all sent long ass posts. He also understood that women never understand the words ‘IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER’, because as soon as the notice was put up, dimwits started thanking him for mentioning their name first, and dimmer-wits started asking him why their name was so below.
(For people who don’t know squat what is going on, please read my post, OF GUESTS AND POSTS)
And here, today, I have that ancient relic: The legendary guest para wall of the pauper who died carving, due to a handful of bitches.
(Before I begin, the posts here ARE VERY MUCH IN A PARTICULAR ORDER. They’re in the order of me receiving them, because I believe in true merit and dedication)
(A sincere apology to TheGirlAtFirstAvenue, Nirvana, and Confused Soul for missing you guys out in the list. You three are real darlings for sending the post)
(There’s only one guy who’s sent me a guest para, and that’s Nikhil, one of my best friends since school. Maybe he got scared of the ‘never sleeping with me’ warning)


Ok quick question. How many of you “Bloggers” out there have their own anonymous secret admirers?? *smuggest smile ever*
When I first got a comment from an anonymous girl who said she loved my blog, read it regularly and who signed off as my secret admirer, I got shit curious. I mean who wouldn’t. There was a girl in the village who secretly was following the pauper. And it felt great.
Obviously the first thought that came to me was that this is either some guy friend messing with me, or maybe some existing blog buddy messing with me, or maybe someone else, messing with me. That option hasn’t gone off my mind completely, but still I’m happy believing that somewhere I have a secret admirer, who gave Neil Gaiman a try just because I like him. I’m happier believing that that someone is a girl. And I’m happiest believing that she has posters of mine put up on the walls of her room, and her wall paper is my photo, and her home page is my blog, and all she can talk and think about is me. (She will most probably get totally turned off after reading all this and never visit my blog again)
On a more serious note, Dear Kara (that’s what she told me her name was, making the needle of my suspicion point towards my friends named Karan), this admiration is mutual. The story that you sent me as your contribution floored me. It’s nothing short of a poetry written in prose. I always knew we can write a story in first person and third person, but always wondered how someone can write in second person. And your story answered that. I have already read your story thrice, and I would love to read more of your written work.
Presenting the guest contribution, by Kara:
You dream of her blissful honey brown eyes smiling distantly at you. That is something that had always bugged you subconsciously, her detached, indifferent ways. But in diminutive, almost indistinguishable moments, you had seen her virtuous smile. And in her so many selfless gestures, you had seen a purity that soothed your diffident, meek uncertainties.
You saw Malhaar for the first time on the subway. Sitting on the window seat, she was engrossed in a book. You sat beside her, partly hoping she would take notice of you. You kept looking at her while pretending to look out of the window. Quick glances at first, but after observing that she hardly noticed you, you stared at her quiet daringly. She devotedly read the novel, going from word to word, line to line and at a point you noticed her honey brown eyes began to gleam. It took you a while to realize that she was holding back tears. Tears betrayed her otherwise composed face.
Salty colorless honey drops escaped her honey brown eyes.
“Everything fine mam?”
She looked at you a bit surprised, but answered politely “Just a really sad book. That’s all.”
You would remember these moments forever. When you were a stranger to her. You would miss your Malhaar like this for the rest of your life.

The girl with honey brown eyes who was crying because of “a really sad book.”
Your delicate Malhaar.

 After seeing her on the subway, even when she was a stranger to you, you saw her in your dreams. Not every night, but almost. You used to wake up then, surprised by the intrusion of a stranger in your dreams.
When you met her again after two months at the place you were singing at that time, it only felt right.
She told you she found your songs captivating. Your voice mesmerizing. There you talked for the first time to the stranger you had known for so long. There you got to know she was eight years older than you, and married.

She had that practical, indifferent air about her that people develop gradually with age. After accumulating an understanding in heartbreak and a familiarity in disappointments and regrets.
People always felt intimidated by her, mostly by her silences.

You remember the cold December evening when you took her to a secluded hill.
You sat there with her, in the snow, holding her hand in yours, watching the almost silver sunset. In that frosty silvery silence you kissed her for the first time. Your cold lips on hers. Your cold lips on her icy vanilla skin. You told her that you loved her. You told her that every pain that you had suffered in your life was justified because you had her. 
“ make me feel happy..” was all she said.
It was somehow enough back then, knowing that you made her happy.

Malhaar didn’t talk much about her husband.
“There was something always wrong between us. I can never live up to his expectations.”
 She told you things finally fell apart when they found out that she was barren.
“..Now there’s just too much left unsaid.” she said without showing the least glimpse of expression.

That’s your Malhaar. Practical, realistic Malhaar.
Hiding her sad little sorrows, pretending to be indifferent to them and almost succeeding.

Days went by.
She was in the cadence of the songs you sang. In the timbre of your voice.In the clarity of your psyche.
In all your beginnings, in all your ends.In every thought and decision.
All you ever knew was Malhaar. Malhaar.Malhaar.

You told her about your past, your pains, your dreams, your fears. She always listened keenly. She told you fragment and incidents of her memories and life. You listened in awe.

The day she turned twenty eight, you gifted her the violin she had wanted to buy for a long time. You had been saving for a months, working part time where ever you could as the money you earned from your performances was meager. But it was all worth it. You just wanted to make her happy.
Your beloved Malhaar, with happy honey brown eyes.

Days went by.
You met her almost every day. You made love to her with the longing of centuries. Holding your dear Malhaar for your life.Skin on skin.Bones on Bones.
She whispered sweet nothings in your ears.
You knew her body like it was a part of you. The many beauty spots on her lower back.Brown and black.The hollow of her collarbone.
The scar on her elbow from a childhood fall.The scars on her arms from where she had slit her skin.Undulated scars on her vanilla skin.

And days went by.
This time for her birthday, you had bought her a pearl necklace. And you had finally gathered the courage to give her the letters you had been writing to her since the day you met her in the bar. One letter each day. When you ran out of things to write in your letters you wrote three words again and again. I love you. An inestimable number of I love you.
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.
You had been too shy to give her the letters before. Thinking the letters to be ridiculous, silly. But maybe they would make her happy. Anything to make Malhaar happy you see

You met her for dinner on her birthday in her favourite restaurant. Malhaar was wearing a white dress with flowing white layers waist down ending just below her knees. She seemed preoccupied. You gave the pearl necklace to her wrapped in light blue and silver. With the eagerness of a child you couldn’t wait to see the smile on her face when she would see her gift. She kept the box aside, looked at you and said
 “I can’t take this. Listen sweetheart..” she paused abruptly now suddenly avoiding your gaze focusing her eyes at some object on the table.
“ I don’t want to keep you under illusions.”
“I just don’t feel the same way anymore. Don’t try to stop me, because I don’t want to. I don’t love you anymore. I had loved you… really I had.. But for all the wrong reasons…..”
She said without betraying any emotion, not looking at you once. Your beloved Malhaar, with dead honey brown eyes, continued without your consent.
“Me and Jake are going to give our marriage another try, we are planning to adopt..its for the best of all of us.. you’ll understand someday.”
Her parting words seemed too cold, too impersonal.

That’s your Malhaar. Practical Malhaar.The practically numb Malhaar.The practically frozen-inside Malhaar.

You left, without saying a word. In the forsaken, ghoulish, sad state of denial, it was hard to believe that the practical wretch, who had left you, was the same girl you had met on the subway.
The girl with honey brown eyes who was crying because of  “a really sad book”.
“Just a really sad book. That’s all.”
You walked all night in unknown streets. Unaware that it was raining. Crying your heart out, falling apart in the cold rain. Walking, running, to god knows where, screaming her name to god knows who. She wasn’t listening. She was too faraway now. Or had she always been too far?

Your two years of forever with Malhaar, ended desolately. Leaving you lonelier than ever before.

She called you sometimes. You never talked to her. She left you messages.
“…. I m really worried about you. Please talk to me. We can be surely be good friends….”
You listened to her messages again and again. Clinging to her voice.The voice so dear to you.Disregarding her words.Listening to her messages over and over again.Desperately.Pathetically.
“No Malhaar. We cannot be fucking friends.”
You were always high then. Your memory of those days is blurred and vague. Drenched in grief.
She called you sometimes more. Asking you why dint you ever reply. What could you say now? That you were practically dead? That life seemed pointless and vain. Like an endless walk to the inevitable gallows.

The pearl necklace she never looked at. The ridiculous, silly letters you never gave her. Those were only the littlest of pains, because worse brutal pains were always waiting for you to catch on. That she did not ever deceive you or betray you. That maybe you knew all along that your relationship with Malhaar was a dead end journey.
If you hadn’t met her, you wouldn’t have been this lonely. But even if you had known what your sadly ever after would be, you would have still gone through your two years of forever with Malhaar. And finally and sadly, that you didn’t make her happy anymore.

Cruel sad realities, leaving forlorn gashes in heavily scarred places.

In a morbid little place in a lonely corner of your heart you are guiltily aware of the fact that you love dreaming about her. Because in your dreams you forget the unimportant, insignificant fact that she has left you. In your dreams she is the girl you loved madly with every little part of your derelict heart and soul, and in your dreams she is the Malhaar of yore, who loves you back.

And you know you will never be with her.
And you know she will never love you again.

But you still dream of her.

There goes a cliché saying that everyone is gifted, you just have to realize what your gifts are. And this girl has realized hers, and how! I normally like reading dark stuff, and she gave me aplenty of it. Once while chatting online, I sent her a few pics of mine, and she read my face. And I must say she’s a master at face-reading. Everything she said was almost accurate. And moreover, my gujju mind was really excited over having face reading done for free.
Pradeeta Mishra is a gem of a person, a real darling. And she is very beautiful too, both in looks and as a person. Also, I really find the acronym to her blog name, MSM, real cool. Because whenever I say MSM, I think of Eminem.
Pradeeta here has sent a short incident of a conversation over some coffee with her father, Mr. Skeptical.
Presenting the guest contribution, by MSM:
Of Women and Witches
Err, you do what?’ He asked while I chewed my salad.
Face reading. And research on Paranormal, Unexplained stuff.’ I said coolly.
Hmmm…like body language interpretation?’ He gave me a look. Obviously, a guy who scoffs at things like gemstones and sun signs, would freak out, when he’d know the girl he is interested in, is a pseudo-witch. I definitely don’t look like it. I mean I don’t line my eyes with blue green eyeliner, nor do I have super freaky long nails and I don’t even wear multiple rings. I just follow my instincts. After all, as one of my friends’ said, “We all are gifted P. We just don’t accept it.” I continued eating while he moved his hand across his chin in a thoughtful gesture.
That explains the mysterious air around you…like…the way you look at things’, He said, in a suppressed mocking tone.
There doesn’t have to be a mysterious air, by the way. I am not a ghost or spirit. I am a normal person.’ I said calmly. I wouldn’t get angry. That would just make me look like a psycho. I wanted to prove a point here.

Yea…you are – a normal person.’ He smirked slightly and I looked squarely in his eyes. I unintentionally started to read him, but stopped myself. For once, I wanted to see, what fear or insecurity of penetrating someone’s walls can do. No face reading. Just.Normal.Observation.
So, what can you tell about me?’ Ah, when people ask me this question, there are only two reasons – either they are genuinely curious to know about themselves and want me to talk about them or they want to prove me wrong. They want to prove that I lie, that I am faking what I read.  But that’s not the point. I am human, so I can definitely get things wrong, right? Otherwise, I would be God. And that would be disastrous.
I can’t read you. I don’t feel like it. And I can’t do it when forced upon. It takes time. ’ I said, knowing that next up was accusation that I couldn’t do it in the first place anyway. 
Right, right...’ He turned his face to one side, barely suppressing his smile. I knew he would ask about spirits next. One down, one more to go. I could sense his thoughts churning in his head. He liked me, but not enough to include my interests.
So…erm, you can’t read me. What about the so-called research on Paranormal?’ The tone. Tch Tch. I never understand why people make it their responsibility to prove someone wrong. Sigh. I was also a Lawyer which meant I wouldn’t say things I wasn’t sure of. He didn’t seem to notice that.
I have found interesting things from books and internet... for a long time now’ I said, keeping my tone like I was barely interested in what I was saying.
Internet? Ha-ha! I thought you would have actually researched. And what books - Goosebumps? Bram Stoker’s Dracula? You must also believe in Vampires then? That ‘Twilight’ guy?’ Sigh, this man was tiring me. I looked at him and thought, eventually, I will make him believe. Very soon.
I have researched. I know, of spirits. I don’t believe in ghosts.’ I said, finishing my salad. I kept the change next to him. I get up as he tried to say something. I was wearing a red and black chudidaar-kurti. And I had a watch of Onyx studded dial on my left wrist.  He got up with me and walked me to the door. I looked at him. He wanted to say something. He couldn’t, I know. He knew I was getting closer to edge. As we moved beyond the glass doors of the restaurant, I was pleased by the night that had fallen. Now was the time. There weren’t many people around.

Umm, you know what? I sort of don’t find this conversation fascinating. I mean, what’s with women looking weird and acting like they know everything? I mean, have you noticed? Most of the witches are women?’ Ah, the fear of unknown and uncertainty.
No, I haven’t noticed. But what I have noticed is…humans do not appreciate extra-ordinary. Humans do not believe in intuition they have been gifted with and humans certainly do not respect the gifts they have, for understanding the Superpower. Sometimes, I feel like I could knock this in their heads – that people who are gifted, don’t want to be glorified, that is why they do not come out!’ I knew I couldn’t control myself.
Thank you for the dinner. Goodnight and blessed be!’ I said. Then I did what I never thought I would. I went closer to him and whispered in his ears, ‘Sometimes, you are not supposed to question everything.’ He shivered. I looked up into his eyes and saw…the fear. He felt it. Now.
I smiled and vanished.

When this girl commented on my blog for the first time, I really took liking to her name. I love the sound of Keirthana. And it sounds like a perfect blend of traditionalism and coolness.
I haven’t gotten the opportunity to know her beyond commenting till now, but I would surely love to. She comments beautifully on so many blogs, motivating so many readers, whereas she’s a brilliant writer herself.
Her post is an incident of a person getting saved from school bullies. It’s a nice little write up, but my perverseness couldn’t stop me from laughing at the line ‘His rod glinted in the fading sunlight’ (Sorry Keirthana)
Presenting the guest contribution by Keirthana:
I am gonna go for a walk along the lane. The favorite part of my daily routine. I loved it when no one was around to disturb me. Suddenly, I heard some noise and stopped. Oh no! It was those bullies from school. I was lucky enough to escape from their eyes today morning, but now, they had spotted me already. Why do they keep coming after smaller kids like me? What's the joy they derive from torturing us? I looked around for possible ways of escape.None! No way at all! No one was around to turn for help! I have to pray to my savior, who had saved me from such bullies in my previous schools. Changing schools often has led to being the victim to bullies from time to time.The bullies came near me and were circling me like the goons in films. One guy, with the spiky hair, asked me where I was headed to. I kept quiet, fingers crossed. Another guy replied, "He won't reply da! I have heard a lot about him. Tough guy!!!! Ha! Let us show him a taste of our medicine." and took out a shiny rod. It glinted in the fading sunlight.

It glinted in the fading sunlight.Ouch! Ouch! What had happened? How did he suddenly hit me so hard? Has he gone crazy? I cannot believe my eyes. Is it some superman kinda wierd stuff. Anyway it is better to run. I started running in the opposite direction, all the while yelling "Run, Run..."

They had ran away. The guy with the rod had a bleeding nose and had run off, yelling "Run, Run...". The others had backed off with a few bruises. It was a funny sight. From now, they won't touch me. The rod had been left behind. It glinted in the fading sunlight.

It glinted in the fading sunlight. What had happened? The usual! Why the bullies had run away? And how did they get those bruises? Who had fought them off? Yet again, I had no answer or idea as what happened. Just as the previous times in my previous schools. I looked down at my shirt. It had a blotch of red stain. Blood. I examined myself. I was unscathed. I looked at the rod. It glinted in the fading sunlight.

Oh I forgot to mention. The wall wasn’t enough for the pauper. He had to arrange two other walls to carve all the crap. (There are 2 more posts in the next page)

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