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:
IN YOUR DREAMS
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.
“..you 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)