Monday, November 14, 2011

The Bad Ending

Characters: He, She and he, the other guy.

What would you say to a 27 year old woman who was in love with a Man for the last seven and half years and decides to fall for another man? That she loved to get angry at every small thing, drink vodka and smoke cigarettes despite the fact that He didn’t like it. That He loved her dearly and she knew that He was going mad at the recent separation. That she decided that He was not the one who would get a chance to heal her tortured soul that night. That very night.
I’m that woman. I knew that I was going to cheat on Him. I was going to avenge for every time He had hurt me. I knew that He would be waiting for my call. I knew that He would never like what I was going to do. And still I did that. Without letting Him know, I asked 'him' to come and take me to his home.
We drank vodka. A moment later, I kissed him. On his lips. Soft, pink and wet lips. I acted drunk but I wasn’t. At all. It lasted for two minutes. I won’t call it passionate. It was comforting. As if someone came and sublimated all my pains in his cosy embrace. I hugged him tightly. Thought about Him did strike my mind until I felt powerful enough to suppress them, bury them deep within along with the the dead passions that had been once ignited in me. I felt liberated. I felt relaxed. I felt at ease. I felt that the tension, the bad times was finally going to be over. I was with him. I was fond of him. Unlike Him, he was gentle, less forceful and much more sensitive. 
But he didn’t love me. I didn’t care as long as he was my pain-killer. While he made love to me, I never really craved for Him; he was better, softer and tender. It was sheer bliss. 
I never felt sad or remorseful until I talked to Him that day. I felt as if He would take revenge from him, whom I had started loving after the previous night. I couldn’t tolerate His voice, I said an indistinct sorry, which I was not and began worrying about him, who He should not hurt at all. I made sure of that by making all the fake promises that I could. He promised me that he would not hurt him. I felt good about cheating on Him, of letting Him know that He didn’t deserve me at all. That he was better than Him. 
But now, I am astounded. What am I seeing? How come He is here? And where is he? What has happened to him? I’m alone. Stuck with Him. Unable to find him, I'm scared.

'What did you do to him?'
'Nothing. Nothing at all. I kept my promise.' He says.
'Where are we?' I ask.
'In hell, which is better than the hell that I were a moment ago.'

He killed me. And Himself.  And unfortunately or not, we’re together for the rest of our death, while he, my new love, alive, is waiting for me back on Earth. He indeed kept His promise.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

The Race - A Love Story

Eric first met Linda in the London underground. They were travelling on the same train at 11 PM and the entire compartment was empty. They were sitting far apart.

When Linda first looked at Eric, she presumed him to be a mechanical workaholic who was returning home after 14 hours of work. She hated such guys. The fact that her father always put his work before her had always been a cause of hurt and bitterness during her childhood.

Feeling her gaze on himself, Eric looked upans saw her staring. Linda quickly turned sideways when their eyes crossed for the first time. She didn't want him to think that she was interested. Eric found her phoney and opined that she was the kind of girl that he did not like. After a while, he  smiled to himself and returned to his thoughts.

When the train screeched to a halt at the Victoria station, they both deboarded through the same door and walked towards the same escalator. Linda rushed for two reasons : one, she inwardly wanted to let him notice her and second, she wanted to beat him in the race to the exit. It seemed like a race for superiority to her. She reached the exit, she was baffled. She couldn't find the metro card. She had misplaced it. 

London Tube is a very busy place. There are so many lines, so many stations and most of the times, so many people. Linda searched through her purse for overfive minutes but alas, she couldn't find it anywhere. It was lost. She was completely annoyed. Having to return to the starting point leaving the finishing line's glory for the rival to enjoy was totally not what she could digest. She didn't like losing to some random guy who worked 14 hours a day at a petty job. 

She had an idea. An idea that could make her win.

She turned back. She could see him advancing towards her. She spoke first. Her first words being, 'Hey, I lost my card. Could you please come along with me to the platform, I think I dropped it near the elevator.'

He didn't say a word, trudged ahead.Exited. Linda was stunned. How could someone be so rude to a girl?  More disappointing was the realization that she had lost her subconscious race to that machine. Fuming with anger, she kept looking at Eric until he disappeared from her sight. She started walking back towards the platform, dragging her sagging body, as if burdened by the recent loss.

'Hey,' a voice reached Linda's ears from behind. It was a deep baritone, similar to her Dad. She turned around. It was the same rude guy, now waving her metro card with a wide grin.

'Here it is.' He said.

She rushed back, in a huff. She collected the card with a wince. And didn't look at Eric at all.

'You didn't drop it here. You dropped it at the Piccadily Circus station. The moment you entered, trying to beat that teenaged chap in the race to the enter the station.' He said plainly. She was dumbfounded. She felt as if she was being stalked.

'By the way, this time, I won.' His serious face broke into a wide grin. She was beaten at her own game.

She had a choice to make. To smile, or to smirk. After a tough battle of thought, she chose the prior. And she came out through the exit grabbing her card from the gentleman. 

'Hi, I'm Linda.' 
'Eric.' They shook hands. Warmth at 11 PM. Pleasing.
'Cya, Linda.' Eric waved and took out his metro card to enter the station premises. She found it abrupt.

'I had to descend at the last station. I came up till here just to win this race.' He said and winked. His bleary eyes transformed the wink into a blink.

'I was a loser once. I won't allow it to happen twice.' She said and entered the station before him. 

They spent their night alongside Thames. Chatting. Dreaming. Laughing. And racing! And after that time, she never lost (to) him.

P.S. Love is about being different yet similar. :)

Tuesday, August 30, 2011


खुश तो हूँ, पर ख़ामोश हूँ
मन करता है कि कुछ लिखूं, कुछ कहूँ
बाईस साल हो गए इस ज़िन्दगी को
फिर भी कुछ कमी सी है
अधूरे एहसास अक्सर कुछ बोल पड़ते हैं
जैसे मुझे कुछ बताना चाहें

मैं सुनता नहीं
मैं लोगो को कहता कि मैं खुद की सुनता हूँ
पर खुद को ढूंढ पाया नहीं

ये ज़िन्दगी चलती जाएगी,
एक साल फिर बीत जाएगा
बाईस से तेईस ज्यादा दूर नहीं
और मैं इसी आस में लिखता जाऊंगा
कि कभी ज़िन्दगी से रूबरू हो कर
कुछ लिख पाउँगा |

Sunday, August 7, 2011

The Locket

I have this eerie feeling that someone has been living within my mind. Someone who has been watching me. I'm scared of it sometimes. Sometimes, it's the only support. I don't know who it is. It has been living inside me for a very long time.

It's like a silent invisible ghost whose shadows become visible in darkness, in stark silence, at times, when I want them to be farthest. It's difficult to trace it, it's difficult to define it. It's not like the children's story where the ghost turns out to be a friend. It seems to me - an eternal enemy; its dark evil laughter sometimes wakes me up from my sleep to look around, in search of my mother to save me from it. It has a smile, a very evil smile, the smile which shines from the darkness, cruel and barbaric, looking as though it will slice my soul with its razor sharp edge. But it doesn't do anything. The smile smiles at me from a distance, its mind playing with mine when I'm fast asleep. Sometimes, it seems to be a memory from the past life but sometimes it seems to be coming from the future. It's morbid. It's macabre. Though with time, it has become subtle and less effective, but I still tremble in fear, when I remember what I'd once faced. As I blink, the smile still flashes. Fainter though. But enough to make me fear going to the loo, even today.

When I was a child, the fear of encountering it in darkness used to prevent me from going to the loo and most of the times, it used to be my only companion on my wet bed that used to scare me to lull. I never made any noise while it enjoyed its dark play. Only once did I dare to fight it. I started sweating in my sleep. It was torturing me with its appalling laughter. In the sleep, I started calling my mother. She came running, thinking that I'd been attacked by a cat or something. I was profusely perspiring. She got worried, woke me up when I tightly held her waist. She recited Hanuman Chalisa to comfort me when I asked her to sleep beside me, to prevent it from assaulting me. She assured me that she would. I held my golden Hanuman locket, which I had around my neck since god knows when, tied with the sacred red thread that panditjis always used to carry. I thought it would stop it. It indeed did its magic. My nani told me that Hanuman had been the strongest of all Gods. No wonder I thought, as I stretched my imagination to merge with darkness. The darkness was haunted. He was still there, with his haunted smile, his small dot like eyes staring at me like a white dwarf far away in the sky. I was scared. In my sleep, I was conscious enough to wrap my right hand tightly around my mother, while my left hand clung to the golden locket. His smile soon faded in the unassailable darkness.

The morning came. Light came. The night was over. I found my power in my locket. I was happy, as though Lord Hanuman had taken away every bit of darkness haunting me. But still, the thought that even Hanuman's eyes couldn't see in the darkness scared me. I wished why couldn't he be an owl instead of a monkey. But no matter how powerful my wish had been, history never had a reason to hear an intimidated kid. I forgot about the previous night, I forgot that the sun sets every day. I played - played ghar-ghar with my neighbouring kid-friend, my childhood crush whose name I no more remember now, who used to call me Harshu and I used to love it. The evening faded, sun kissed the horizon. It was time. Time to go back home, watch my favorite TV-shows Centurion and Swat Cats on Cartoon Network, disinterestedly finish my homework, enthusiastically play with my globe and atlas and then count my collected money - to ensure that no theft had taken place - and go to sleep. I asked my mother to be near me, to call Hanumanji, if need be. He didn't come that night. I was relieved. My mother strongest!

It forgot to inhabit my darkness for over a month. Times change. My childhood crush stopped talking to me since she saw me accidentally looking at her through the window when she was changing. Okay, it was not accidental but I was a child then. Curiosity is what defines a child. No more ghar-ghar in my life, since I'd shifted to following the man with an MRF bat. Swat Cats still remained the second best pass time and now, since all her windows remained closed, when she was in her room, I had nothing else to fix my mind to. I resorted to studying. I didn't study course-books. I studied Children Knowledge Banks Vol 1-Vol 6, which my brother gifted to me on my birthday; I read Robinson Crusoe and another book known as Tees-Maar-Khan which was the Hindi translation of Oliver Twist and I started drawing birds, in a drawing book. I was happy and I, despite having a bizarre feeling, decided to sleep all alone once again.

The same pillow, the same bed, the same darkness, the same smile. The same torture. Only this time, I had a resolve. I won't be scared. It smiled. I smiled. It looked cruelly at me. I pressed my eyelids tighter to stop seeing it. No effect. It was still there, as visible as before. I had an idea. I spat on it. A moment later, the spit fell on my face. I thought he spat back. I was fighting with it, with all my vigour. He seemed effortless, the dark vicious smile didn't fade at all. I had another idea. It was afraid of light, I would kill it with light. I opened my eyes. It was gone. The darkness outside my eyes wasn't at all dark as compared to what I'd just seen inside my eyes. The pillow was wet, my breathing faster. I went in search of my locket. It was there, intact.

I was nervous. I started mumbling Hanuman Chalisa, broken but still the heard verses in place. Sankat se Hanuman Churave, Mahavir jab naam tu laave. I started trembling. Appalled by the dread of experiencing death, I touched my locket. It sent an electric current down my spine. I was absolutely clueless about where I was going to be the very next moment. Loud villainous laughters struck my ears and I thought the earth was going to end for me. In a moment, the sacred red thread tightened itself around my neck and in what I think lasted for a minute, I was almost asphyxiated to death, when holding the locket, thread by thread I managed to disentangle it and break it apart. Oxygen. It was bliss.

I could have died to take one more breath in. My voice wasn't in a condition to call out my mother. I somehow managed to stand up. Fear, no more. I went on to the loo, peed in darkness, watering all around the target and washed my legs, as I had been taught to be hygienic and came back. The locket was lying on the floor, it was upside down. It resided on the other side of Hanuman. It smiled at me. The cast of Hanuman resembled the dreadful darkness upside down. The same dark vicious smile. Entrapped with fear, I stepped back, trembling. Somebody caught hold of my shoulders. My blood ran cold, I couldn't dare to turn back. The hand moved away from my shoulder and patted on my head, and rebuked, 'Why don't you flush after using the toilet?'

Father. He went back to his room. While I, with the suddenly found inspiration, moved over to the locket and picked it up, despite the dark smile. Spat on it. This time it didn't hit me back. I abided by my father's order. The water was just enough to drown the golden darkness.

Next day, when my mother was not able to find the locket, she got frenzied. I decided not to be the victim of her frenzy and blamed it on the game where MRF bat defined who batted first as the reason why Lord Hanuman decided to get 'flushed' away. She wasn't convinced but she couldn't help it. She brought me another Hanuman after a few days which I boycotted, saying I'll rather have one of Lord Kartikeya - my favorite God, if she could find. Being just 9, I was smart enough to know that Lord Kartikeya was not a big-shot in the Indian God Industry and my mother would never find him. The trick worked; I inwardly thanked Ganeshji for taking all attention away from Kartikeyaji and went back to smash the cosco ball over the roof with my self-decorated bat with stickers of Sachin, Ganguly and Dravid stuck on the opposite side.

I never needed a Hanuman Chalisa after that. And Lord Hanuman got a kilogram of laddoo from me in return, for the disgraceful act that I had to commit. I always argued with him, that it was my father who provoked me to do it, not me. He seemed to be at peace with me now, since my crush, who used to call me Harshu, made a card for me in the coming month and gifted it to me.

When I opened it, to my utter disappointment, it said, 'Happy Rakhi, Harshu.' I forgot to make peace with the dark devil, I guess.

Sunday, July 24, 2011


'Coffee?' He asked.
'Yes', I replied.
'What after coffee?' He asked.
'Nothing in mind. You say.'
'Let's write.'
'I prefer writing alone. Company distracts me.' I said.
'Okay. I'm going out.' He said and went away. I went to write. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't write anything. Something was missing. He.

I ran after him, couldn't find him though. He went far away. I searched around. He was nowhere to be found. I felt as if I'd lost him.

I came back. I couldn't write a word. He wasn't back. I'd lost him. I waited. Waited desperately for him to return. He didn't return. Days ticked away like seconds.

After three days, I went in search of him, this time determined to catch hold of him and bring him back. I searched for him everywhere. No answer. Disappointed, I started walking back. My thoughts wandered. I was searching him for myself, not because of him. I dragged myself towards my home. He was right there, next to the shimmering light on my door, holding a cup of coffee.

'Where had you been? I've been searching for you all along.' I oppugned.
'I gave you space to write. Let me see what you've written.'

'Oh it's nothing. I couldn't write anything.' I uttered, trying to hide my miserable condition.
'Now stop being modest. I've read it all, what a marvelous piece you've written.' He said.

'Stop mocking me.' I said and snatched the manuscript from his hand. It was complete. Without even me writing it, it was complete. Shell-shocked, I exclaimed, 'How's that possible? Have you written it?'

'No, I am not capable of writing so well. It's you, my friend.'
'I haven't, I know I haven't.' I said.
'Then who wrote it?' He asked.
'Guess, it's our company.' I said.


'Coffee?' He asked.
'Yes', I replied.
'What after coffee?' He asked.
'Nothing in mind. You say.'
'Let's write.' He said.
'Why not?' I said.
And we wrote, this.


I call him imagination, he calls me experience. Together and happy, we make magic.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


There was a young man. He added many people in his friend-list. He suggested his blog link to everyone. When they joined, he deleted them. And he goes around with an air, thinking that he's so awesome!

He's not awesome, because he's a she.

P.S. Thanks Shruti Vajpayee for relating to me this story.

Saturday, May 28, 2011


The day my son expressed his desire to become an entrepreneur, I stopped giving him his pocket money. Eight months later, he now earns more than me.

Friday, May 20, 2011

The Moron

There was a writer. He was fond of himself. Once, he was accused of plagiarism. The case had been clearly proven. He negated all the charges, abused all those who blamed him and broke all his friendships with his readers and followers. He still loved himself.

People asked him to apologize, to accept his mistakes. He rebuked them saying they didn't have the right to intrude in his private life. He was too fond of himself to apologize, you know. His readers lost all the admiration for him. He couldn't care less. He still loved himself. He said that he wrote plagiarized for himself, he didn't need readers.

Unruffled, he tried writing once again. He wrote. He was glad that he could write. He read what he wrote. He wasn't satisfied. Not that it was lousy, but that it didn't get him any appreciation. He missed appreciation. He wrote plagiarized for applause. He wrote plagiarized for his readers. He liked when others too got fond of him, much like him. But no-one was there this time.

Now he had no readers. No friends, who would read, who would like what he had to say. He had insulted each one of them, who had questioned his disgraceful act. He never apologized, he couldn't convince himself of surrendering his mighty ego. All the while, he stopped writing. He lacked motivation.

A month later, when there were no apologies from his side, the writers and the readers realized that he didn't need to apologize. They concluded that he was not guilty. It was them who were wrong. They mistook him as a writer, while he wasn't one.

P.S. Inspired from an article that I just came across on Indiblogger.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Forgiven and forgotten

She. Kind and gentle. Forgiving.
I. Irascible and mean. Forgetful.

She desires friendship.
I desire love.

She tries to be just friend.
I get angry. Mean. Cruel.

She forgives.
I forget.

Awaits friendship.
Awaits love.

It doesn't work.
It doesn't work.

Forgiven, not forgotten.
Forgiven and forgotten.

P.S. This ain't a poem. This is a flash fiction story. The writing scheme has been utilised just to elucidate the two sides of the story simultaneously.

Sunday, May 1, 2011


A critic died the last night. He started writing a book.

Monday, April 11, 2011


Once upon a time, there lived an 18 year old young boy named George. He played amazing saxophone. And he was prodigious in football as well.

Once, owing to his gift in both of these fields, he got a rare opportunity to play in the National Football League and at the same time, he got a prestigious opportunity to tour with The Eagles, of Hotel California fame, across States.

Unfortunately, both the events had exactly the same schedule. Choosing between two things in which he was gifted, that he equally loved, turned out to be pretty tough for him. After a lot of introspection, he decided to skip football for the sake of saxophone. His football friends came down to his place, trying to convince him how good playing in NFL could be for him; it could shoot him to fame, get him the best girls out there and shower money in his pockets like never before. He argued that even sax could offer that, to some extent. They tried convincing him once again, throwing different reasons from the box, some even out-of-the-box. But he remained adamant. He kept sitting on the tall black stool, holding his golden saxophone in his hand, tapping a complicated rhythm on its lustrous surface.

Ethan, a football friend at last questioned him, 'Why saxophone over football?'

He closed his eyes, smiled and replied, 'I can play it with my eyes closed,' and begun the melody, that was to be later known as 'Careless Whisper'.

P.S. Work of fiction.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

The Last Book

26th May, 1987
The blood reports came today. The doctor was hesitant, he asked the nurse to undertake the tough task. She was kind; she didn't let me feel bad. She related to me about how she had enjoyed reading my first book which her husband had gifted her on their first anniversary. The moment she was gone, the sinking feeling haunted me from within.

Two months left to live. It's actually two months left to die. Out of billions of people out there, the epitome of benevolence chose me. How lucky do I feel? Ha!

God's an asshole. He likes to see me bleed. After getting me close to life, he chooses to take that away from me. But, I won't let that happen. I won't let this bloody leukemia crush my dreams. I'm going to finish the four plots that I've in my mind within the next two months - I'm going to have the most satisfying death ever.

10th June, 1987
Tonight will be a good night. It has turned out to be better than what I could imagine. I named it 'The Last Messiah'.

Last 14 days were spent in an entirely different world. I am baffled that I never felt tired, even without sleep and without rest, with continuously degrading health. I've never felt so passionate before. With the next dawn, I'll begin writing the next book, the title already encircling my mind, 'The Dawn of Death'. Good night, for now.

18th June, 1987
I am barfing blood. Fuck! It's blood. Gosh, I'm scared.

I couldn't write since the last three hours, I'm feeling terrible, nausea is making me feel sick. I should see my Doc, now.

26th June, 1987
'When death comes, life becomes.' This is how I ended my second book. I feel blessed. I think I have done justice to the plot. I will sleep for a day now. My sagging body can't carry my weight anymore. Death, you've one month of wait, after that I'm all yours!

28th June, 1987
I'm going to begin my third book now. I am frail but thrilled. It's about Zana, our two years of togetherness and how it transformed into three years of my loneliness.

30th June, 1987
Fuck you God! Fuck you. I can't sit anymore, I feel nauseous all the time. How would I complete my book! It's not even a third. I'm tired of this sickness. I can't tolerate it. My nurse came to meet me, she said that there is no hope left - as if, there was, one month back.

8th July, 1987
Slowly and steadily, I've tamed my body. I realized that if I smoke before writing, I don't feel nauseous.

I'm half-way through my novel and this is the first time it's happening that I'm crying while writing. Every memory that gets translated through my pen, arouses immense grief within me. I sometimes hate this desolation and try to find a companion in the protagonist of my book. But most of the time, I find myself struggling to get over my past. Zana, I can't believe that I still am mad about you, after what you've done to me.

14th July, 1987
Doctor visited here today. He came not to inquire about my health, but to convince me to agree to his proposal. He said that since it's a hopeless case, he wants to try some experimental therapy on me. I instantly complied. How satisfying does it feel to be of somebody's help? At least, the doctor would remain grateful to me for life, and my death.

15th July, 1987
I went to the hospital. It was a big machine; they had wrapped it around my skull. I felt light, as if my head was floating in the air. The doctor injected a serum-like liquid into me, which hurt but at the same time, made me feel glad that I was still alive. Life gives you pain, death liberates you. I've to wait for 3 days to hear from my doctor about the effect of the experimental treatment.

I could not write today, since the doctor advised absolute bed-rest for the entire day. I read Zaqeer Alam's new book, all the while, which was a metaphorical note about a bird which has no wings. I found it interesting. I wanted to call Zaqeer to congratulate him, for two reasons, but I couldn't speak at all. The treatment paralyzed my upper body.

18th July, 1987
Finished. I finished my third book. Zana, you're going to read this someday and cry in my memory! Ah, I am hoping for too much. She is happy, with Zaqeer. Last week, Shaila told me that Zana is pregnant. Pregnant, she is! What a life she must be having? I'm so ... so happy for her. Who am I kidding? I feel like killing her.

19th July, 1987
I've begun my last book, titled 'The Last Book'. It's about a book that a writer writes and how his life gets affected by it. It's going to be the best book that I've ever written. Here's the first line: 'Life, a question with many answers, becomes an answer the moment it ends.'

19th July, 1987
I had three blood tests today. The doctor said that after the last treatment, there has been a significant rise in my platelets count. He sounded dumbstruck. It seemed that the experimental methodology worked. I don't know why but I'm feeling really nervous. Now that I'm prepared to embrace death, I am again shown the light of life.

23rd July, 1987
Blood tests after blood tests after blood tests. I'm in the hospital. There is not a single moment when my arms don't have a syringe puncturing them, sucking blood. However, I'm feeling better. Doctor says that my chances are improving, from null to 20%. I've been asked to adhere to a very strict diet, which comprises of juices of all the inedible vegetables found on earth. I don't know how bad my situation is, but I could observe some hope in the faces of the doctor and nurses.

I've not been able to write much in the last few days, other than the first few pages of 'The Last Book'. There is so much activity in the hospital ward all the time, of doctors and nurses, trying to carry out the experiment. I am waiting to go back and complete my ultimate piece.

26th July, 1987
I was to die today. Seems like God forgot to fulfill his sadistic wish. I'm eager to see how long is this extension going to stay?

27th July, 1987
Life is so strange. Doctor said that now my chances of becoming completely fit is 50% and my life has been extended by at least 6 months. The experiment carried out on me became a breakthrough in the medical history. In just 10 days of treatment, my platelets have drastically increased and my pale face has gained back its original color. I'm feeling really bizarre. I can do so many things now and I've no idea what do I want to do. The last book isn't actually my last book.

7th August, 1987
I've resumed writing. Doctors advised me not to, but I couldn't resist. I couldn't do justice to my ambitions to complete it before any mishap happens. However, I'm facing a block. The flow isn't coming. I miss my passion.

12th August, 1987
I'm the luckiest man alive. From 0 days left, to 3 years left, in less than 2 weeks. I've become a case study for the medical science fraternity. I can't explain how grateful am I to the entire fleet of doctors and nurses who brought me back to life. I cried in the arms of my doctor today. Those were the tears of joy, of getting a new life or of avoiding death, I don't know what.

14th August, 1987
It's independence day. I hoisted the Crescent on my roof, before going to the Masjid for thanking the Almighty. I have taken a break from writing my last book. It's time to jest, in life.

25th August, 1987
I'm worried. I've not been able to write a word since the last 11 days. Thoughts come to a standstill when I sit to write, and I stare blankly at the screen. It's for the first time, that I'm facing such a block, especially after being in such a good touch.

3rd September, 1987
I'm annoyed with myself. I can't write. I've tried everything, from reading, to hand-writing, to sketching, to music but I can't write. I can't write at all.

5th September, 1987
My health is on the rise. Doctor says, if it continues similarly, I'll be back to normal within 2 months.

11th September, 1987
I saw Zana today, at the grocery store. She was with Zaqeer. I don't know why I turn speechless every time I see her with him. My eyes couldn't move away from her belly, where I had once imagined that my child would reside. Her eyes seemed to be crying out to me that she loved him madly, he was the guy she had always dreamt of being with, he was her guy, her husband, the father of her child, the protector of her soul and the lover of her dreams. I felt alienated. I ran back to my car, despite the fact that our eyes crossed and Zana came forward to greet me with Zaqeer. I could not face her. I can never face her.

19th September, 1987
I've not left my house since the last eight days. I've a fear. I don't know what is that fear, but I fear it. I don't want to meet anyone. Neither am I able to do anything. In the last eight days, I've written just one paragraph besides a thousand crushed pages. I bloody can't write!

Every time I sit to write, Zana doesn't leave my mind. She stays there, mocking at my helplessness, screaming out loud that Zaqeer deserves all the applause, all the happiness and all the love, for he is a better writer, a better lover and a better husband.

28th September, 1987
I'm hungry. Refrigerator stinks with the stale food. The floor, full of crumpled sheets, has no space to place my feet on. The bed smells of my tears and sweat mixed together, my eyes can't see anything other than a dark spot. 'The Last Book' is stuck at a point, moving ahead from where, was a child's play for me, once upon a time. Not anymore, it seems...Even this pen is nnn...ot... work..g! F........

30th September, 1987
I've never craved for death more. Why didn't I die earlier? Why did I allow them to experiment with my body? How contented I was with myself...with no expectations and just passion! Why? Why did I've to call it 'the last book'? Why did Zana have to come across me? Why couldn't she just have stayed at home with her ugly baby inside? Why did she marry that scoundrel? Wasn't my love good enough? If I get a chance to see her again, I'm going to kill her. I feel like taking this knife, and slitting her throat brutally like this ...........Zana........Za........

Pakistan Times
2nd October, 1987
Rizwan Ahmed, a noted Pakistani novelist and celebrated leukemia-survivor, was found dead in his house on 1st November morning. His throat had been slit and he died of severe bleeding. His dead body was found lying amongst the crumpled papers by his maid, Shaila, who immediately reported it to Ahmed's neighbours and thereby the police. From the post-mortem report, it has been established that Ahmed committed a suicide. It's ironical that a person who could defeat a deadly disease like leukemia and was an inspiration for many cancer-patients committed such a terrible act. In Ahmed's room, three completed manuscripts of books titled, 'The Last Messiah', 'The Dawn of Death' and 'Love, Served with Hatred' were found. Publishers have started bidding on them. Police official, Karim Qadir during an exclusive press conference disclosed that Ahmed seemed to have been plotting his suicide since a long time, since he even started writing a book called 'The Last Book', with the dedication, 'this book is dedicated to my dead body, so that it sleeps in peace.' However, Ahmed couldn't complete the book and committed suicide in between the process of writing. Police officials have refrained from giving any other information to the press.

P.S. It's a pure work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person 'dead' is purely co-incidental.
P.S. Thanks to Abhilasha Kumar for unknowingly inspiring me to experiment with diary form of story-telling.

Monday, February 7, 2011

The Pig Story

Once upon a time, there lived a pig called Slimy, of traditional upbringing. He was simple, naive and pure. Yes, pure, but inwardly. His thoughts were immaculately shaped by the pig community around, with frequent inputs from goat aunties and dog uncles, from nearby localities.

So, as we can hope, Slimy's idea of the world was more or less structured by what his society had told him, what his middle-class pig-parents perceived it to be and how his friends who opposed the norms were looked down upon by the people around. Being an adolescent, he developed some carnal cravings, but he was too shy to disclose it to anyone. It would have been an act of insolence for the wise society, he thought. He blamed it on his age, and tried to forget about it but all in vain.

As soon as Slimy turned 12, Daddy-pig thought of sending him to the 'The Pigland School of Dinginess' for higher education, which was in Swineton - the ultra-urban capital of the mighty state of Pigland. After clearing a series of rigorous examinations on various insipid subjects like 'Urban ways to eat waste', 'Rural Garbage Management' and 'The Shit Psychology', Slimy was found quite eligible for admission in the reputed B.Crap course in the institute and hence forth his journey for knowledge began.

It was an emotional moment when Slimy left the neighbourhood that comprised of his childhood friends viz. Lily - the goat, Champ - the chimp, Robin - the bitch, Jack - the Jackal and Hazel - the hen.

Slimy came after having a long hot water bath in the nearby bog, that was constituted of human sewage, and carried his heavy suitcase of left-over plastics, aromatic garbage and discarded polythene bags across his house. After a touching adieu to his friends around, Slimy wiped his tears, while sitting in his Daddy's vintage convertible, with seat-belts on and paid heed to what his wise Daddy had to say.

'You have made me proud. You know, you happen to be the first person in our family to make it to the prestigious Pigland School of Dinginess. You've glorified your forefathers' name. How happy your Grandpa Filthmaster would have been, if he had been alive to this day.' The Daddy-pig bragged gleefully.

Slimy just nodded in unison, trying to hide his smile beneath his long piggy snouts, which shone pink with pride.

'Just make sure that you live up to our expectations. Since you're going to a city, hear out my advices carefully. Just be aware about the pigs from city there, they are very canny and they woo simple and talented guys like you and introduce you to fresh water, aromatic scents and simple vegetarian food. Also, beware of the she-pigs of Silly University, who are infamous as male-trappers and they try their best to find young pigs like you from the School of Dinginess, who are assured of a high paying job after graduation. I could never stand you with a wife from a different community than ours, I hope I am making myself very clear. I've a big name in the society and I expect you to glorify it.' The Daddy-pig continued, with great articulation in his speech.

'Sure Dadda, I will stand up to your expectations. I promise.' Slimy said, with a surreal grit in his voice, that came from his fat and hairy throat.

The proud Daddy got his admission into the elite college and came back to his small town. He called all the prominent people of the city and basked in the praise of his son's God-gifted talents in being so intelligent, clean-hearted and dingy since birth. He also praised the reputed Professors with degrees from the famous Ivy Pig Universities, and the greatly beneficial courses at Pigland, which his son had already mastered under his able guidance, if we're allowed to trust him with his words. While Slimy, on the other hand, was having a real difficult time in the completely new atmosphere of the city.

Little did our Slimy know that there was a beautiful surprise waiting to mesmerize his stay at the premier institute and would make him traverse a path less travelled. It was not a she-pig, rather it was something more exciting. Yes, the surprise was beautiful - and they called it the lush green-n-clean campus. For Slimy, this surprise was not a pleasant one. There was no bog, no stinky ponds and surprisingly no open human sewage channels to clean his chubby body with. It brought great disdain to our dear Slimy who in his childhood dreamt of becoming the next Dingy Minister of Pigland, some day.

Slimy for almost a week was baffled as to how do pigs bathe in the city, with no swamps, no open drainages and no sewage channels. He promised his father on the Piggy-phone that he would not bathe in clean water, as it was unholy for his religion and therefore, he stopped bathing. He also reconfirmed the Daddy Pig that he was taking strict precautions to avoid any she-pig that comes in his way. He proudly related to his father how he once accidentally boarded an elevator full of she-pigs and how he didn't even respond to their kind and flirtatious 'hellos', despite the fact that one of the 'hellos' came from a frail old lady-pig, who even had trouble speaking. The Daddy Pig was happy, very glad that his son heeded to the advice he gave.

The next week, he was allotted a hostel room and simultaneously classes began. Slimy, as his habit was, always used to be the first one to get up in his hostel and went out for a jog. This habit of running in the morning was inherited from his father, who inherited it from his father i.e. Grandpa Filthmaster. If we were to believe Daddy Pig's words, once upon a time, whole community of Pigs were in danger because of a slaughterer who came in the locality, and he was supposed to kill each young swines within a day. And it was Grandpa Filthmaster, who carried thirty five of the small ones one by one, holding them in his mouth, at lightning speed thirty five times to a different town, and saved whole of the generation that was to come. And so 'running' ran in the family blood of Slimy.

Settled, Slimy realized that the new place was something that he had been missing throughout his life. It had everything he would ever want: 24 hours dirt-net, a safe and secure campus, the ultra-modern capital Swineton with swooshing metros, hi-tech buses and lots of restaurants, 'dingeons' and stink-bars. He even enrolled himself into the gym nearby and started working on his biceps, not to impress the fatter sex but rather to live in the glory of his mighty grandpa.

One day, while he was waiting for a bus, a fragrance captivated him. It was the same smell of filth, dirt and utter rotten vegetables that he was missing in his life at Swineton. He looked around, with his protruding snouts and went behind the smell trying to trace its origin. It was a she. He had never come across a she-pig face-to-face, eyes-to-eyes. Those eyes, surrounded by fleshy eyelids and black and silky eyelashes; those soft pink snouts looking as though they were created to kiss him; those ears, horny, petite and submerged, telling him that silence would speak louder than words; those legs, soft and tender, holding her 'bigness' on those small flat soles; and that tail, which swayed flirtatiously, which would swirl the masculinity of every single pig in the locality.

He stumbled at the sight. It was sheer love-at-first-sight. He wanted to speak. She waited to hear. He mustered up courage to finally mumble.

'Hello, I'm Slimy.'
'Hey, I'm Shabby.' She said, in a seductive tone. Her tail waived at him. He was uncomfortably seduced. Delighted, excited but short of words. She realized his inhibition and began the conversation herself.

'Where are you from, Slimy?'
'Oh, I'm from ... Kachra-town, that little place in Dungland. My father is the Mayor there.' Slimy stammered, shyly.

'Oh my Dog, I can't believe that. Are you really from Kachra-town? Oh my Dog! The prophesy has come true.' Shabby said in an exhilarated tone. She started jumping in joy, her tail danced like an eel. She stank, big-time. He loved the smell.

'What prophesy?' Slimy asked, perplexed.

'When I was a child, an enlightened baba from Pigalayas visited our house. He declared that one day, I would meet a pig with name starting with 'S' from Kachra-town and eventually I would marry him. You're the love of my life.'

Shabby jumped forward to hug Slimy. He stepped back. His Dadda's words, 'I could never stand you with a wife from a different community than ours,' resonated in his ears. He felt guilty.

'I think you're mistaken. I might not be the ONE.'

'You're the one. Didn't you get attracted to my smell?'

'Yes, I did. What about that?'

'See, that's the sign that we are made for each other. As asked by Swami Pigananda, I'd been bathing in the gutter since the last 7 years, waiting to someday attract you with my peculiar smell, and now that you're here, you're doubting the destiny.'

'I can't cheat on my Dadda. I can't shun our family's glory for you.'

'Your Dadda treats you as an object of flaunting. You're nothing more but a flashy asset for him, so that he flaunts it in amongst his peers.'

'Shut up. I can't tolerate your insolence. Get lost.'

'Go wherever you want, it's in our destiny to be together - we'll be. No-one can change the fate, not even your fear. You yourself will fight with your father when you realize how had he been using you. I'll be waiting for you.' Shabby turned back angrily. Her tail went up and down as she went ahead. Slimy was stunned, all too confused to think about what had happened and what would.

Desolate, he called his Daddy, 'Dadda, I met a she-pig today. She claimed that we were destined to be together. I fear what if she is true. I don't want to spoil our family's glory.'

Daddy pig got tense. He didn't condemn Slimy but said in a serious tone, 'Oh my dog! I knew it would happen. Does her name begin with an S?'

Slimy got worried, seeing his Daddy worried, 'What? How did you know that?'

'Nothing, son.' Daddy-Pig replied in a contemplative tone, 'Don't worry son, I won't let her take over you. You're our pride, I won't let anyone evil eye you.'

'Dad, do you know Swami Pigananda?'

'Huh, how do you know him?'

'I got the answer Dadda. It's indeed in our destiny. You know what, she had been bathing in the gutters since she was 9, just because she was to meet me. Whereas you just treated me as an object to flaunt amongst your peers. Can you ever match the intensity of her love?'

'What are you saying son? Please don't be so brutal, Son.'

'I'm going to marry her. I can't let you play with my fate anymore.'

'The prophesy has come true.'

'Yes, the prophesy has come true, no matter how hard you try to stop it.' He disconnected the call and vowed never to call again until his Daddy-pig accepted his bride. Slimy was of a marriageable age, so his want to carry out his research studies being happily married was not completely unjustified. Child marriage was in vogue in his Kachra-town, even his friends Champ and Robin had been married.

He ran to search for the enchantress, the lady with the intoxicating smell. After running for seven hours without a break nor a glimpse, he thought of giving his weary body some rest. Sweaty and thirsty, he decided to take a stall in the nearest gutter that he could find. Unfortunately, it took him another half an hour in this ultra modern city of Swineton to locate a gutter. It was the king of all - the city gutter. Imagine a swimming pool with fresh faeces, greasy liquids and rotten vegetables and plastics! What more could be more pleasing to a tired pig? He took a full throttle dive into the gutter and fell into the fragrant water 'dhapaak' se.

His dive took him to the bottom of the gutter, where he encountered ultra-modern waste adorned with urban-sewage. He relished the experience. He started imagining about Shabby, fantasizing about her sexy body - how they would make love in the same gutter when he finds her, how his conservative upbringing had made sex a taboo and how now he was free to explore the unknown; how he would convey to her his love in immaculately emotional poems, such as:

I see you, in love and delight
I feel you, despite all the fight

I miss you, in compost and pit
I smell you, in garbage and shit

I hear you, in all the farts
I love you, oh dear sweetheart

A sudden splash awakened him from his fantasy. It was the queen of his dreams. He couldn't believe his eyes. She was gasping deep breaths with her eyes closed. He hid inside the filthy water, his voyeuristic pigness couldn't resist to stealthily see her bathing.

'Baby, come. I'm waiting for you. This is the place where I had spent my seven years, just for you.'

Slimy was perplexed. How could she see me with her eyes closed, and especially now, that I'm inside the gutter-water?

'Baby, what are you waiting for?' Shabby said in a ravishing tone.

Slimy was driven to madness. He didn't know that he would have to satisfy his voyeuristic desires with his own action. He swam near her, slowly. She was waiting with her protruding snouts, filled with filth, to kiss him. This was the moment.


Slimy was suddenly at the bottom of the gutter. It seemed that a sumo wrestler just jumped on his head. His neck seemed to have suffered every kind of dislocation he could think of.

After gathering his own weight and the weight of pieces of his broken bones, he somehow managed to battle with the heavyweight over his head to come out on the other side of the gutter. The sight that he beheld would make even the voyeurs of the voyeurs shy. Shabby was making out with another ugly fat pig - upon careful observation he realized that it was his senior schoolmate from Kachra-town - Sweepdirt, who used to bully Slimy all throughout his schooldays thus, making him a wimp. Seeing the culprit behind his jeopardy, the man in him spoke, 'Shabby! How could you do this to me?'

Shabby was stunned. So was Sweepdirt. Shabby retorted, 'Oh my Dog! You're intruding upon my privacy! How could you do this to me?'

Slimy started crying and in tearful grunts, spoke, 'You cheated on me.'

Shabby said, 'Oh, I didn't. You know what, I met Sweepdirt today. You were so right that there could be another Pig from Kachra-town with the name beginning from 'S'.

'No, it was me. Swami Pigananda even visited my house and foretold about the prophesy.' Slimy replied.

Shabby said excitedly, 'No, it was not you. It's him. I forgot that Swami Pigananda said clearly that the man's name should end with dirt. And, he's the guy. Meet ...'

Slimy uttered in rage, 'Yes, the daily-bather, neat-n-clean, human-like - bloody cowhole! In short, Sweepdirt.'

Shabby replied, 'Great that you know him.'

Slimy taunted, 'As white as milk, fresh, shiny, bloody cowhole!'

'Stop using those swear words otherwise I'll say something very bad.' Sweepdirt retorted. Slimy controlled his tears and triggered his wrath at him.

'Say all you want. Let me see how much spunk have you got, bloody detergent washed dog-dick!'

'Son of a cow!' Sweepdirt said, grimacing his face.

Slimy burst into tears. He pulled his wobbly neck up the ladder and walked away on the boulevard of broken dreams. He felt guilty of fighting with his Dadda. At the same time, he felt bizarre about the prophesy that his Dadda was talking about. He dared to call him to apologize.

'Hi Dad, forgive me, I got swayed away. I'm back. I'm back - filthy and dirty - as before. Nothing could touch my impurity.'

'Son, I'm proud of you.'

'Dadda, what was the prophesy you were talking about?'

'That was the thing I wanted to tell you about. The prophesy that Swami Pigananda gave when you were a child was that you would fight with me for a girl upon getting admitted to the college.'

'Was it the prophesy? Didn't it have to deal with my marriage to a she-pig?'

'No, son. Swami said that God didn't make a she-pig for you.'

'Hmmm.' Slimy disconnected the call and went to his place. He never took bath in his life again.

P.S. Slimy Filthmaster devoted his entire life to studies and became a professor of Pigland School of Dinginess, later appointed as the Director of the same. His work on Universal Law of Crapination gave him worldwide fame. He was known for his isolation and bashful nature. He died a happily unmarried death on 31 March, 1727 and his epitaph contains his last words, 'All of us are pigs here. It's a sad fact that many are still running the rat-race.'

Monday, January 10, 2011

The Queen of Venice

This story has never been documented in words, recited in verses or shared in speech to any person living or dead whosoever, just because of the sheer sexual nature of the content in it. Readers discretion advised.

Around two years ago, I started writing a novel, just to let my imagination flow, and I used to publish it on my blog, chapter by chapter. Having been a widely unread blogger for over one year, it was my first-and-the-last attempt to tell to the world that it's not that I blog because I'm idle, but because I love writing and can make you engrossed in a story.

After finishing the novel, experiencing over 5000 hits and 250 comments within one month, I was at my life's most enchanting period - the period of utmost creative joy. It was during that time that this girl with the profile-name 'queenofvenice' visited my blog and read my entire work. But unlike others, she had a different take on it - completely different.

'Your work was like-able but I hated you totally. If there was the word slut for a man, you would be that. I wonder how could people give you so much attention.'

I was thoroughly entertained and a little bit confused. I liked being called a 'man-slut'. It was the rarest of compliments that one could have ever received in life. Not that I loved it for the very feel of it but it actually gave me a better opinion of myself, as far as women were concerned. That was so because my experience in this field was painfully limited.

Did she confuse me with any of the characters, or has my presence as a writer been so insipid? I showed it to my friends, one of them got outraged and started typing rubbish, when I stopped and asked him to let me reply.

I began, 'Thank you. It was a pleasure getting attention from you. I didn't know that I could ever be complimented for such a cause. Thanks again.'

Within an hour, she replied, 'I was not giving you attention! I was just letting you know what your status is.'

'I can't understand the reason behind the immense hatred in you. If it's my novel that's the reason, let me remind you that everything there is fictitious.' I immediately replied.

'And I would not like being called a slut in public, so shoot each of your anger-shots at me at the given id -' I turned flirtatious. Her audacity being the reason for my audacity.

A moment later, sent me an add request. As always, being a god-gifted wimp, I couldn't dare to start the chat. She took the initiative.

queenofvenice: It's 2 o' clock at night. I'm not too fond of talking to guys at night, and more so your kind - tch tch.

me: Neither am I. I never talk to guys, especially at this time.

'Thank God, for giving me a sense of humour.' I thought.

queenofvenice: You asshole! What do you think you're?

I felt insulted. I wanted to block her then and forever. But I was new to attention and I liked it. However, my self-respect asked my timid self to rebel. I could not tolerate the bull-shit.

me: Wait a minute. Who the fuck are you?

I was suspicious that this would be a gag that one of my hostel-friends would be playing with me, at the middle of the night.

queenofvenice: I'm a hardcore feminist. And I'm against every person who considers woman as a sex-object.

The doubt that the Queen of Venice might be residing in my hostel almost faded. My worldly hostel-friends would never have tried to act as feminists in their entire life, not even for a gag's sake, leave alone being a hardcore one. I tried to search her id on social networking websites, and ultimately I could find her on Orkut. Yes, those were the days of Orkut. Her name was Shambhavi and she seemed to be pretty. Another reason to talk. I read the conversation once again.

me: Wait a minute. Where have I talked about women as sex-objects in my novel?

queenofvenice: You've not but your feelings were visible all throughout your piece of shit.

me(sarcastically): Oh really, then what made you lick that piece of shit in its entirety?

queenofvenice: You wrote it well. Engrossing, but full of shit.

me: So, you like shit?

queenofvenice: I hate asses, like you!


me: Who're you? I mean where are you from, what do you do?

queenofvenice: I'm Shambhavi, from Stephen's. I kick asses of asses.

me: That's a good way to contribute to the society. BTW, nice name.

I was flirting outrageously for the second time in my life. The first time was when I was seven, when I received a tight slap on my cheek in reciprocation which eventually made me a wimp.

queenofvenice: Indeed. So, how many people have you slept with?

Shocker! Totally unexpected question! I got a little frenzied.

me: Is it a part of your hardcore feminist survey?

queenofvenice: No, it isn't. Answer me.

I thought of playing a gimmick.

me: total 24.

queenofvenice: Bloody slut! I knew you would be so. When did you lose it?

me(trying to act innocent): What are you talking about?

queenofvenice: Your stupid mind, you sucker.

Pretty brash, I must say. But pretty different. Plus, two pretty eyes were icing on the cake. How could I not take her abuses? A moment of flirtation, a quantum leap of satisfaction.

It took me a while to think of the most imperfect age to lose 'it'.

me: I lost that, when I was...17.

queenofvenice: To whom?

me: To JEE! :P

queenofvenice: Asshole. Would you like to meet me?

Now that was weird. Firstly, she hates me. Secondly, she abuses me. Thirdly, she wants to meet me. I was dead nervous. She seemed to be one of 'those' kinds, if you get 'bonded' to what I mean.

me: Not now. I'm sleepy.

queenofvenice: Tomorrow?

me: But why? I mean why do you want to meet me? You hate me. You are a hardcore feminist and as you've realized, I am a misogynist. And lastly, you think that I'm a slut.

queenofvenice: That's why.

me: You're acting like one.

queenofvenice: I'm not. I'm not acting.

I read the last line twice. My jaws fell down and my eyes were transfixed to the computer screen. I was shivering. I couldn't reply.

queenofvenice: Check out my pictures. [hyperlink]

I clicked on the hyperlink. Her pictures opened. They were equally brash as her talks had been. I was scandalized.

queenofvenice: How do you find them?

I could not type. I was too dumbstruck to read what she was saying.

queenofvenice: Do you like them?

Still, I couldn't type a word.

me(unconsciously): They were good.

When I saw what I wrote, I lost my mind. This was so not me. I couldn't believe I could get swayed away by all that non-sense.

me(back to senses): Who am I kidding? They were complete shit.

queenofvenice: Now don't use my method of seduction.

me: Fuck off!

queenofvenice: Wait a minute. Who the fuck are you to say that to me?

I had no answer. I thought for a moment. Who am I? I got the answer.

me: I'm a hardcore feminist. And I'm against every person who considers woman as a sex-object.

And thus, I used the block feature of google talk for the first and the last time.

P.S. Thanks for reading. Comments would be welcome.