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)


Mrs Suruchi is the choti bahu of Arora khandaan by day, and Blog Queen by night. I must admit here that I visited her blog too late; much later than when she and I started chatting in my comments. And when I did, I badly regretted not been having following her yet. She’s an amazing writer, one who leaves you wanting for more. All her write ups are interesting to the core, and real fun reads.
Su is one of the few bloggers that I really wish I get to meet someday, because she seems like one helluva company.
You’re a real sweetheart, Su.
Her contribution post, irrespective of your gender or sexual orientation, is bound to turn you on.
Presenting the guest contribution by Suruchi:
The Bitchy Art of Seduction at Play!

Well, what began as a normal day at the gym, soon became the record breaking hottest day for the gym-vaasis. A smouldering new entrant in her itsy bitsy track suit made a majestic appearance and suddenly the treadmill scuttling at the speed of 10.5 was not fast enough to match with the near exploding pace of the heartbeats of the ‘man’kind present there. “Who issssssss that girl?” was the question that boggled most of the male and female kinds within 10 meters of her radius for even though most of us adorned our sexiest sport gears or so we thought for using that unisex time slot, we appeared shabby before that Greek goddess of sorts. A couple of the not-so- fair-in-the fairer sex were eyeing the damsel up and down so intently that I almost wondered about their sexual preferences. And another couple of them who were the hitherto reigning uncrowned gym queens were burning with envy or was that rage and their expressions indicated that if you’d touch them you might be electrocuted.

Okay, after such a build up, obviously you want to know about the girl-small of frame but big of assets and as we all concur-size does matter. Chalo, this should get our male readers to read on. She must be 5.5” and in early twenty something, dressed in leotards that fitted so snugly at the right contours, that they seemed like second skin for her. The art of dressing is also really an art, the real skill comprises in revealing what you are showing to be hiding er, did you get that? Well, I didn’t-I am adding it because it sounds quite profound!

So, while all of us pragmatic females tied up our hair in a make-do bunch at the top of our dumb heads to escape the heat, Madam, left her tresses wantonly open, the soft curls seductively covering the better part of her back till her well-endowed bottom. It reminded me of some fierce Maenad from Greek mythology who was so drunk in her devotion to her Lord Bacchus that she cared not how the locks of her hair alluring fell over her gleaming skin. Ah! But the lady in question was not so naive. She fully knew the effect she was having and “performed” more intently to ensure she got a “standing” ovation from those who personify the ‘I-am-only-human waala excuse’. Right from the gym members to the trainers and the cleaners-sab ki band bajee hue the ya nikal pade the, it was difficult to fathom. You know that gaping mouth expression where you can’t make up your mind if the person is happy, shocked or devastated?

Oh, did I use the word ‘covering’ somewhere above? Tch, tch, how silly of me! Well, she didn’t believe in that for every now and then she would casually put all her hair on one shoulder to make sure everyone caught a glimpse of her bare nape and the deep neck of her t-shirt from behind. What a lesson it was that day for us and I don’t mean here the lessons given in the aerobic moves!

I could feel everything moving in slow motion like in Hindi movies, when the guy and the girl are running towards each other with effortful rising of hands and legs, heads moving from side to side as the body goes slowly up and down with background score of ‘la la la la’ to match. Same was the case in this turf-those raising the dumbbells forgot that they had to bring the hands down also and the one on the cycle was paddling with such soft motions as though he was taking a nap between each rotation of the wheel. The cleaner boy kept cleaning the same spot of the mirror for what seemed like eternity and I thought the poor looking glass was going to fade away with the sweeps that day.

This was awesome for me. I suddenly lost count of the crunches I was doing as I joined the jing bang in eyeing her. And before you doubt MY tendencies-phuleeeeeezeee, I was doing it for you guys to be able to reproduce this here later to tickle your funny bones too. I have always been inclined towards constructive learning and this was an educative experience of how conniving and artificial a drop dead gorgeous stunner could be! Please stop sniffing around for jealousy A lesson learnt in addition-Men also go dumb when they are blinded by the sight of sex-in-a-jumpsuit.

While at 7 am like in the bloody good early morning, while most of the lesser mortals could barely wash their face or brush their teeth to smell tolerable before finding themselves being ground on the treadmill, our little Miss Minx had kaajal smeared eyes that could put Aishwarya Rai to shame and smelt of something no lesser than Channel No. 5 to rightly reinstate the effect.

I observed her game as I watched her moves. She took her place right at the centre of the hall from where she would be visible to all and sundry. She made sure she eyed herself sexily and completely in the mirrors all around. As she would bend down her knees, she would deliberately protrude her bums out, jutting out dangerously almost like the backlights of a truck-making some guys horny and some guys sweat, although they hadn’t even begun the work out yet. Then she slowly moved her hands up her sides suggestively and placed them on her teeny weenie waist. When she touched her toes, she made sure that she stayed in that position for a tad extra seconds, till her rear side had done sufficient damage to the environment.

And then came beads of sweat trickling down her own tiny frame and she picked up a hand towel. While we normally press the napkin in rough side to side motions to hasten the process, madam gently dabbed and pressed and rubbed it on her cheeks, taking it slowly down her nape, neck and upper chest. As her bosom heaved, the action had an equal and opposite reaction from the rippling chest muscles of the six-pack superior sex, watching it all “Live”.

Then madam got on to the tread mill and make no mistake, it was a catwalk that could give the top models their run for the money. And then lo, behold a frown on that sculpted face! What on earth could have caused it despite the obvious swoon all over? And she blurted out huskily to the boy instructor, “Raaayjuuuu....” Well for all of us normal humans, we’d call out this simple common place name ‘Raju’ and for the Punjabi mundas there, it is just ‘oye Raaaju’. But madam had to stretch and prolong and heavily accent the name, so much that Raaayjuuu, appeared in a jiffy before his highness, like a domesticated puppy minus the tongue lolling out or was it really?

Madam had a problem with the music-so changed it was! Had she had a problem with the arrangement of the equipments, I am sure the guys would have not hesitated to pick up one each and come to rescue the damsel in distress.

So ten minutes passed away like this and then she got down from the treadmill, bending her head down and brushing through her hair with skilful fingers, apparently to let some air in. Phew! I had had enough too. I needed to breathe in some air myself. The adaayein of the ultimate seductress were being dissected by the women folk as the tacky ways of the ultimate bitch. Whatever, she was much like the sizzler platter, hot and fresh out of the oven- you might not be able to have it but you can’t escape the steam it generated!

As for me, I couldn’t help wonder at how ridiculous that was and what motives could possibly provoke such deliberate nonsense. Also I shuddered to think that this ‘drill’ would be in encore mode from that day on and desperately hoped that the men and women there might gradually become immune to the disaster that had struck. Thank god for wishful thinking! ;)

This little muggle here is very special to me, because she was my first blogger friend ever. She hates being called a kiddo, and hence I love calling her that. Once while chatting, she told me ‘If you whisper the word ‘parachute’, it sounds like an abuse too’. Now this girl has a really cute voice on the phone, so I imagined her telling me this in her voice, and couldn’t stop laughing.
One thing we both share is the burning desire to be authors, and we both are helping each other push for the same. I don’t know about myself, but I sure hope someday there is a book, the cover of which would read ‘A crappy story – by Sneha Pillai’
She is one of the few village women who actually understood the word ‘para’ and has contributed accordingly. Her para is a praises-galore write up for me, and hence I strongly recommend you all to read it.
Presenting the guest contribution by Loony:
I am clueless as to what to write in a chindi sa para space that he has offered me in his blog. Hmph. But since he is my only good friend amongst bloggers, I decided to use this opportunity to take his case. *wicked grin* 

His blog title always reminds me of my Gujju neighbours who live upstairs and their sparkling silver vessels. And he is the only Gujju I know who is ever-ready to take his own case. :P I really hate his blog. I hate his blog, cos I know he’s one of the best writers in the blogosphere. When I read his blog for the first time, I thought he was a copywriter. When I found out he worked for Shankar’s package (if you edit this, I’ll KEEELL you!), I realised how stupid he was. And then I read his short story and poems, and I knew that he was way WAY stupider for not even trying to get them published! 

I am glad I found a friend in him. For more than a critic, I found a listener and a person who can instantly make me laugh. His romantic ideas maybe over the clouds, and his “pota-poti ko bolunga” dreams weirdly funny, but then those are a few other endearing qualities about him. 

*If I feel like re-writing the whole thing tomorrow or day after, allow me to do that. :D

Now who doesn’t know who Red Handed is? (That was not a rhetorical question praising you Red. It was an actual question. And the answer is, no one knows who Red Handed is)
Red Handed falls in the league of those extra ordinary bloggers who have followers enough to form a political party. If I write a post, and give a gap of around five days before the next, then somehow these days my post manages to get some 40-ish comments over those five days. When she writes a post, the next day she will have 40-ish comments (*&^#@!*@^&#(!)
But she deserves that. She is one of the funniest people in the blogosphere and has a huge fan following. Red and I usually chat in the most primitive manner. I send her an e-mail, and she replies by e-mail. I know her to a certain extent as a person, and she seems great that way too.
Presenting the guest contribution by Red Handed:
So Facebook is killing me and Twitter is messing up my mindframe too. Life was so awesome when you used to open Orkut or Facebook and you could see what is happening in your life and what your friends are upto. Stalking was fun and social networking sites were absolute bliss. But now look at the new changes! Now when I open facebook I see that my friend has liked the status of someone named AJEENOMOTO. Why am I bombarded with what my friend does with her friends? All I want is to know what my friend is upto and not about the statuses and pictures of someone who I have no interest on and has the name AJEENOMOTO!
About Twitter now! Whenever I get into twitter, I see random retweets which actually I wouldn’t have a problem with if they were funny or humourous quotes. But what I get to read are astrology tweets and sad love quotes which I seriously don’t give a shit about. Also twitter has turned into Yahoo chatroom now! Also people these days reply to tweets by their friends only by attaching the tweets of the guy they are replying to. Why do I care? Why am I forced to read it?
Okie I don’t want privacy because if I believed in it I wouldn’t have joined a social networking site. But I request these social networking sites to expose my intricate life details to only my friends and vice versa. I don’t want to know what AJEENOMOTO is upto nor do I want AJEENOMOTO to know what I am upto.

I have apologized Nirvana in the beginning of this post, and I do it again. Nirvana, I’m genuinely sorry for missing you out in the list.
Nirvana is an amazing writer, a fact that I unfortunately realized very late. I don’t know her beyond blogging, so I can’t talk much about her. I am just deeply thankful to her for sending her contribution in spite of the fact that I missed out her name.
Presenting the guest contribution by Nirvana:
"I thrive on appreciation" ......... the words mean less than the context - atleast in this case. A candidly made profound remark by a friend....Why did such a simple statement get engraved in my memory? Well, I AGREE - thats why!! And I believe I speak for 96.45 % of all human population.

Where did I get the figures from? Nowhere - I just liked the numbers, and wanted to sound important. But my guess is that I am pretty close to the actual number there!

How many of us have had that deflating moment, when someone did not give us that pat on the back, or that smile or that nod of the head, which says that it was worth it? I can count a million moments where I have pushed the limits of physical, mental and emotional exhaustion only to reach the other end of the tunnel and see a certain someone give me a smile of appreciation. And the walk back home at the end of the grueling day just got breezier!

Also stamped into the pages of my biography (just wait till I write THAT one out!) are the times when a certain someone just chose to ignore all the effort, and concentrate on the "professional" criticism that they thought was apt for the situation. Which of them helped me to grow?

Well, honestly, both of them! I grew every time a mentor nurtured my spirit. But I also grew when I realized how NOT to react to bubbly young minds - from the latter experiences. I am now sensitized to these "strokes" as we trainers like to call them..... and they have never let me down.

I have been very lucky to have worked with some of the most mature mentors in my trade, and the biggest lesson I have learnt is that success come with its price tag attached - the price tag you can choose to ignore and become arrogant, or choose to pay back to others just like you and remain rooted to the ground!! Thank you to all my teachers, mentors, friends who taught me everything, and thank you to all the students who taught me to look at that price tag!

Life is full of compromises. And formalities. When I was making the list of people whose guest paras are going to be compulsory, I thought to myself ‘Aditi ka naam dalu kya? Wo saali guarantee kuch bada-chauda likh ke bhejegi. Chod yaar, daal de naam. Warna royegi saali. Dimaag chaategi’
They say we normally tend to take people closest to us for granted. And that is what I do a lot with her. I could officially apologize to her here, now. But chuck it. I take her for granted yet again.
I have already written a whole post on her blog describing her, and the friendship we share, so I’m not wasting any space for her here.
And I’m sure had I not included her name, she would have still sent me the guest contribution, as she wouldn’t want to lose out on the opportunity of sleeping with me. (Sorry Mr. Maverick. If you’re planning on bashing me up, let me tell you you’re a basketball player, and back in school I was a district level shot-put champ. So my balls are way too harder)
Presenting the guest contribution by Aditi (Meoww), whatever!:
(People, she has written a full on ego boosting post for me, so please read it)
When kp told me recently his idea of requesting for a guest post..
And after he described how he is going to compile different guest posts from all his readers
And write a single post with everything under the same roof..
And after he said how grateful he was that he has so many followers and this is his way of expressing his gratitude towards each one of them..
And that he was indeed grateful that all his blogger friends love him so much and
All that jazz..
I just closed my eyes hearing all those words pouring out of his mouth and thought..
“Saala..What a show off. ”
So what kp..??huh huh huh??!!! I know you have more followers than me.
I know people leave hoardes of comments on your various posts saying you are sooofunyy and soooocoooll..andsoooooblablabla..(I do too by the way)
*pointing fingers ACP Pradyuman style * :D:D:D
You don’t need to gloat so much on that note..
And you don’t need to remind it to me everytime  in those stoooopid conversations you keep bringing up on Whatsapp.

Now that I have written to my heart’s content I shall begin your guest post..
So here’s the preface JJJ was actually scratching my head thinking what should I write for him.
I am not a great writer  to write some amazing short story.
I am not a prolific poet to dish up a few lines of poetry.
Hell ; I don’t have any exquisite writing skills as such.
Also he had explained our story beautifully in the guest post he had written for me.
So obviously I was sure I couldn’t come up with anything better.
Then after too much thinking and dilly dallying jumping to conclusions about my inability to think at all..
I had my eureka moment..!!!!!!!
I thought why not write something about him.
Well given the fact that I am his oldest friend out here..more like a school uniform buddy..hehe
And his best friend..
And off course the golden privilege of being his PhirssshhtttGurrrrrlllllPhraaandddd..loll
I thought I can take the liberty to write something about him.
A don’t worry Kp..i am not going to write any kachra..

 Decode Your Phunnyyymaaannnnn :D
Everybody out here knows that Kp has an amazing sense of humour. He definitely has. He can crack you up anytime in the conversation. You will end up clutching your tummy out of pain due to continuous laughter reading his posts and will have tears in your eyes thanks to laughing your ass off.
But what people don’t know about ; is the other side of Mr.KalpakBhinde..which I am going to reveal in a tell all biopgraphy…!!!! *wicked grin* muhahahahahahahaa
·         He is an extremely romantic person.
Yes I can say it confidently cos I was at the receiving end of his mushiness for 5 odd days of my life.. (the 6th day I broke up..!! its got nothing to do with his traits..thats another story altogether.!!)
·         He will do whatever it takes to make his girl happy. He has this nice cute side hidden behind him which when revealed to his girl ; she will feel complete  bliss .
·         He is someone you would love introduce to your momma..No he won’t open his blabbermouth in front of her. He will be like this ideal decent respectful guy making her wonder if all good qualities (from a mother’s point of view) were showered upon him by
God Uncle.:P:D
·         He is superb with compliments. He will make you feel on top of the world with all his kind words and trust me he means all of that.
·         He calls a spade a spade. Despite knowing my famous temper he still takes the risk of being an honest critique to everything I do. Well given the fact that he is my best friend he obviously has these rights. :)         
·         He will rarely get angry or upset with you for anything as such. His patience with things is commendable.(which is exactly opposite of mine :D )
·         He won’t show if he is feeling low or sad. It will take ages probably to dig it out of him and still he will be like..”haanthikhaina..i am all fine” ..which obviously is bull shit.
·         His friends mean his life to him. He takes real pride in all of his buddies. It makes him happy to see them happy.
·         He knows me inside out (keep your pervert minds away for now :P:P:P)
He can catch it in a second if I am upset or mind-fucked. He will give me left and right if he feels I have done something stoopid or wrong or plain pathetic. He totally has full rights whatsoever for that.
·         He is super easy to gel with, a very easy going guy, a friend you can rely upon and who will cheer up your day like no one else can.. ^_^
Hmmm..i think I can go on for a longer time..but then when I told him my Guest Para would be longer instead of expressing the deepest gratitude..he threatened me saying I would hog all the space in his post and I better cut It down..
*sigh* mere anmol shabdon ki kadar hi nai hai..
So on this note I Shall Stop :|

Now this one here is a real cute blogger. A few days back I used to have a ‘top commentors’ widget. I don’t anymore because its accuracy sucked. But one day, when I opened my blog, there was suddenly a new name in the top commentors. And that too on number one spot. And it was Confused Soul.
I used to think she’s a good writer, but I was mistaken. I read her Fibonacci Sonnet and concluded she is a great writer. She has recently copied my idea of making a guest post collage on her blog too. Don’t send her any contribution, okay?
I once again apologize, Shreya, for missing you out in the list. And thanks a million for the guest post.
Presenting the guest contribution by Confused Soul:
Aaah when Mr. Funny Guy Kalpak announced his idea of guest posts, I was more than thrilled to write one. But then the happiness was short-lived because he didn’t mention me in his list. :( .. Yeah being one of his top commenter’s, and having an amazing blog myself …*ahem ahem* ;) he STILL doesn’t think I should write a post for him.. Also I just realized I have absolutely no chance of sleeping with this guy.. Aaaah what a loss! :P .. Not mine, HIS!! :D ..
So since I wasn’t getting anything at all, I decided I’d just go ahead and write this.. Well I aint any good at humor but yes I love to write and you can find me on A WalkAcross The Bridge… Thoda publicity toh banta hai na? :P …. Anyway, I’ll cut the crap and be nice.. Thanks Kalpak for giving me a little space here and I hope you’ll return the favor SOON :D ..  *I absolutely LOVE your blog* :)

The feeling sets in that you're simply not happy.
You got everything you need to be happy, but you just are not.
SOMETHING is definitely missing.
You're unable to pin-point what this thing is....or maybe there are too many things to point out.

Either ways, you're not happy; what do you do about it?
You decide that maybe you're just feeling lonely.
You pick up the phone and think of someone to call.
Strangely enough, however full your telephone diary is, you can’t seem to find one person who you can call and tell that you're feeling lonely.
You just can’t find that one person.
Maybe that's what's missing.

You try to recall what you did to drive away this sinking feeling earlier.
You're sure that you haven't been feeling it all your life.
You recall the names and numbers of some of those people you felt comfortable calling even at midnight just to announce that you can't sleep...or that you're bored.
You think of calling them again, but you decide against it.
You wonder if you might be disturbing them.
After all, they unlike you might not be feeling lonely.
No, you should not disturb them.

You keep the phone back down.
You sink into your sofa, and you realize that it’s not just the sofa you're sinking into, you're sinking randomly.
Below everything, far below............................

10) Nikhil:

This fatso here is another one of my school time best friends. We have some really great memories together.
He is one of the most creative and artistic people I know in real life. In fact, he doesn’t know this yet, but the day I write my book and some publisher agrees to make losses for his firm, I am going to get my cover designed from Nikhil.
Of course if my book becomes popular I will stop recognizing him.
Nikhil is one of the few people who I have known the longest in my life. We were in the same division in school, so that means I practically know him since I was in KG. We became best friends when we were in Eighth standard though. We both call each other ‘Bhaise’, out of sheer hatred.
Presenting the guest contribution by Nikhil:
Vikram and Gaytal.
Given the task to bring back a certain vicious spirit back to a tantric, King Vikram walked into the graveyard on a stormy night. 
Little did he know about the viciousness of the spirit, vicious homosexuality that is. 
He could see a dead body hanging by the tree, illuminated by the occasional lightning.
“Haw haw haw” the creature laughed its gay sinister laugh. It was combing its hair when King Vikram approached it.
‘Vicky Darling, take me away from these dry branches, its damaging to my skin.’  
King Vikram, stood aghast as it jumped on vikram’s back, legs wrapped around him and its face dangerously close to his cheeks.
“Honey, you gotta answer my questions, and if you do know the answer and keep quiet, I will make love to you.” its vocal chords resonated like a maniac.
Creeped out vikram nodded and they proceeded towards the gate while the creature started bitching about rude attendants at the Versace outlet.

One more post to go my friend. Do not give up now. You can do it buddy. You have read it so far. Drink some water and get back. Darr ke aage jeet hai. Just one more post to go.

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