Entrepreneur

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.

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.

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.

Critic

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

Choice

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.

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.

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.

Dhapaak!

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.'

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 - harsh@gmail.com.' I turned flirtatious. Her audacity being the reason for my audacity.

A moment later, queenofvenice@gmail.com 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!

Curious!

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: Ummm...one...two....three...four-five...umm....in 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.

They - II

They were two. When one got knocked up, they became three.

P.S. They were not starfish.

They

They were two. When one got knocked down, they became three.

P.S. They were starfish.

The Wait

There he was, standing with a jute bag in his right hand; bleary-eyed, as if they had seen a lifetime gone in front of them. His left hand held onto a round pebble, which he kept turning and tossing in his palm. His anxiousness was quite evident from his feet, which seemed to be hesitantly approaching me. I stood where I was. It was a long wait for me. My feet were caught in a fix, in a dilemma of whether I should move ahead or turn back. Why should I meet him? Because he was my father. Or because he killed my mother.

Memories of my childhood flashed before me. How dear was he to me? My parents seemed to be the best gift God could bestow upon me. But I don’t know when their love for each other turned into hate. Pretending to be asleep, I used to overhear their altercations, some of which ended in screams and groans, of both kinds. The next day, mother would be bruised, with bloody scars on her face, which when questioned, she would be quick with her reply, ‘Ask your Dad,’ to which he kept mum. When one winter morning, I found a blood-stained dead body of the most familiar woman in my life, my life’s course changed forever. My father was sitting just next to her clay, holding a bloody knife in his hand, with face as numb as his life and tears as dry as his face. I could not believe the sight. Screaming, I scrambled out on the road, bare-footed and my outcry called the neighbours around. Two days later, I was with my maternal grandmother and my father was nothing more than a stain in my memory. My curiosity could not subside though. I wanted to ask him, ‘Why did you kill my mother? What wrong had she done to you?’ but I had no other choice other than to wait.

The wait took its time. Twenty years later, when I saw him standing ten meters away from me at the Jail gate, with eyes seeking compassion, I felt numb. I was so full of hatred against him all these years that I never ever bothered to know how he was, whether he was alive or had he shared my mother’s grave. But that day, I don’t know what took me there. Perhaps, I was searching for the answer to my question. The answer whose wait seemed to be killing me from within.

The faint recollection of his face seemed to exactly match the features of the man who was standing in front of me. Only wrinkles distorted them a bit. As he neared me, his hair shone in the sun, most of them had turned grey. He looked withered and tortured. The beard seemed to be years old but the lips still had the same softness that they carried when lullabies came from them. He took another step, the sun lit up his tired face, a pool of tears stood on the edge of his eye-lid, as though they had waited for me all the while to trickle down.

One foot away from me, his feet came to a stand-still. It seemed like he wanted me to reciprocate. I stared at him blankly. He tried to smile, but could not succeed. Out of courtesy, I smiled back just to make him feel easy, but didn’t realize that his pool of tears induced some wetness on my face too. He held my hands into his, his rough fingers seemed to be telling me how tough all these years had been for him. Suddenly, a pulse of hatred overtook me. The image of blood-stained corpse of my mother in my mind gave me a collapse. Shivering, I got rid of his hands, while my ears went red in vehemence, and in a fit of anger, I shouted, ‘Why did you kill my mother? What wrong had she done to you?’

‘She killed your mother.’ He said, lifted his right hand and shot himself from inside the jute bag.

Two minutes later, my right hand held his rough fingers while my left-hand was clung to a round pebble tightly, with no movements at all. My face was as numb as his 'death' and tears, as dry as his face, twenty years ago. The wait was finally over.

P.S. Please comment, I would really value it.

Phew!

This short-story will remind you of the first few stories of Graffiti - with the trademark of being strangely unexpected. Hope you enjoy.

11 am
I was on a bus, when suddenly it screeched to a halt. The last three hours had been tiresome, since the seat took all the happiness from my bottom. All the while, my long legs tried to find some space below the seats in front, but my knees didn't get a chance to make a perfect 180 degrees. In the past hours, I found my shelter in my newly purchased SLR camera worth 400 pounds(32k rupees), which diverted my mind from cursing the Megabus - UK's Intercity Cheap Travel Coaches for being so uncomfortable. But finally, the driver did apply brakes! Phew!

The legs found a reason to celebrate. Taking my lovely gadget with me, I climbed down the mini-stairs of the Mega-bus. It was the Manchester bus station.

"The bus will stay here for just 15 minutes. Please get back as soon as possible." The driver announced.

The sky-scrapers around attracted my attention and my fingers came into action to get that perfect 'click'. My legs heaved a sigh of relaxation and my neck got quite a few chances to exercise.

'Click, click, click.' The sound buzzed my ears and flashes pierced the foggy morning. The sexy gadget taught a tyro like me into how to be good at snapping great photographs, after all, it was just a matter of sleek observation and the right technique.

The camera searched around with the help of my eyes to find the things of its desire. The beauty of nature mesmerized me. My eyes looked around when someone beautiful called me. Yes, it was nature's call. My bladder needed a trash bin to purge out its trapped emotions. I rushed to the nearest loo, whose way turned out to be more complicated than Mahabharata's labyrinth.

11:10 am
I kept the camera over the flush and did the not-quite-describable-thing, being lost in thinking about what extraordinary I can snap in the loo(no pun intended!). Lost, with eyes wandering here and there, I came out, washed my hands and tried to retrace my path back to the bus.

11:12 am
My lost eyes found themselves back - fully functioning - after seeing an old lady holding her small grand-daughter's index finger and walking with her. The scene of both of them walking at the same pace moved this amateur photographer and I looked for my cam.

"Cam! Oh shit, cam!" I exclaimed. My feet started moonwalk and then my body turned like a top to get to the long forgotten 'flush' as soon as possible.

11:13 am
Giving tough competition to Usain Bolt's speed record, slipping and skidding all throughout, I reached the loo, but alas everything that had been kept over that 'flush' was brushed off.

A wave of dread danced over my body, my eyes tried to come out of my skull and my heartbeat echoed in my hollow body. I searched around for a while but with no achievements on my side. I looked at my watch. It was 11:14 am.

11:14 am
I rushed towards the bus, hoping to stop it for sometime and then get along with the mission-search-my-cam. The knees which were fighting with boredom for the last three hours burnt more calories in those two minutes than the past three days. But, when things go wrong, it goes on and on. Oops! I forgot my way back.

11: 15 am
Gathering help from all around, from mothers to daughters, grandfathers to grandsons, I finally managed to reach the bus stop. I could see the bus just leaving the stand. I rushed towards it, when my eyes saw something which literally paralyzed my feet. I saw the person who was sitting by my side clicking my photo with my own camera.

Enervated, with no-one around to take hold of that decoy with my SLR, I lost control of my body, toppled and fell on the ground. My heart-thumping resonated with the ground and I could see my sweat bathing the asphalt road. My eyelids dropped down to let the grand view of my own struggle fade away and suddenly, my eyes opened.

7 am
What painted my retina was nothing short of a shock - a pleasant shock to be particular! I could hear my heart beating at the same pace, the pillow being completely sweat-laden and my eyes seeing a decade old fan running at a speed of slow-ballet dancer.

"Phew!" I exclaimed loudly and heaved a brassy outcry marking an abnormal yet the most comforting sigh of relief.
"What happened?" My roommate Sunny asked out of the blues.
"Phew! I had a nightmare! A real nightmare .... phew!" I exclaimed. I was happy as a clam.
"What was it?" He asked.
"Oh! You know, yesterday my Dad got me an SLR, and today I dreamt that someone has stolen it, gosh! It made my blood run cold. Huff!" I said spookily. I was still catching up with my breaths.

"Woah! An SLR cam, that's so cool dude!" Sunny said.
"Yes, it is! Anyway, tell me when did you reach here?"
"Oh! I got here just two minutes ago. Leave everything aside, come on, show me your cam first."
"Yes sure, it's awesome. I bet you'll love it."

I opened my cupboard and looked for my camera. Here and there. Hither and thither. Left to right. Top to bottom. This time my blood didn't run cold, rather it freezed!

P.S. Thanks for reading. This story is what is the essence of Graffiti - last line twists.

What's your dream?

We were friends, the kind of friends who can be called as best friends. We studied together, sat together in classes and even ate together on occasions. She made it clear to all our classmates that we were nothing more than 'best' friends - to prevent any kind of misunderstandings - but nevertheless we did share a special chemistry.

She was sincere, smart and beautiful; God bestowed her everything a girl could desire. While me, I was just a naive and immature kiddo', as she used to address me. Sitting by her side, I could not find anything more important than adoring her. She didn't notice it, and even if she noticed it, she didn't give it much attention. Perhaps, she had become used to such stares once in a while courtesy to her being only one of the few good-looking girls that my college(IIT Delhi) possessed.

She was a dreamer, with big ambitions for her small-yet-exceptionally-sharp brain. Small in comparison to the big-box-of-mud affixed over my neck by the Almighty and sharp which was quite evident by the streak of her academic achievements ranging from medals in International Olympiads to scholarships from foreign universities.

While, I was still struggling to find a place under my feet - to find my ambition for life. I often found myself busy finding my 'purpose of life' instead of studying before the examinations, thus letting mediocrity overshadow every aspect of my personality. God only knows how we managed to become best friends - it was due to our common interest in dramatics, I guess!

Once, we were sitting in the library and as always, she was helping me in fighting with books when Samarth, a batchmate of ours, came towards our table. He had been a good friend to her, and so to me.

"Hey Deeksha, can I borrow a minute from you? I want to talk about something in private." Samarth said.
"What's so private that you want to hide from Harsh? If you wish then say it in front of him or I am not interested to hear."
"Okay, please don't get angry. This may seem odd but if I don't commit it to you, I would become a maniac for sure. Deeksha, I like you, in fact, I love you. This feeling has captivated me ever since we first talked. I am crazy about you." He said shyly.

I didn't know why but I felt choked from inside, as though someone had cut my tongue and flushed my brain with chloroform. In a fit of blankness, I realized that I too was crazy about her - madly crazy - and I just could not afford to lose her.

"What's your dream?" Deeksha asked, in a serene tone, showing no particular reaction at all.
"Oh...yeah...obviously, my dream is to be with you always." He stammered nervously. I was dumbfounded seeing what she was upto.

"Samarth, I really respect your feelings for me. But you're not the kind of guy I would want in my life. I'm sorry." She said calmly. He didn't say a word and left the place.

"What? What was that?" I asked, puzzled.
"What?"
"How could you be so cool all throughout? And, how could you judge a guy with just one question? You're strange." I said.

"For me, a goal-less lover is the category I detest the most. I want somebody who is clear about his dream - his aim in life - because I believe that one can't understand what love means if one has not experienced it for himself - for his ambitions and his dreams. The kind of love which Samarth had for me would not last long, since it was mere infatuation. His only ambition was to get me and the day he succeeds in that, I would lose importance in his life because he will become dream-less and complacent with himself." She said.

I was lost in her words. Her every word did a silent work of crushing my dream of someday conveying my feelings to her. 'I was just a mediocre for her!' My inner voice yelled inside me.

Months went by, my fondness for her grew exponentially while my self-confidence plunged down, because in the meantime, she rejected four more proposals as they could not satisfy her ideology. The thought, 'I was not good enough for her!' pervaded my mind all the while.

Three months later
"Hey, I got selected for the International Photonics Conference to be held in Germany. I would be leaving on the next Sunday for two weeks. The best part is that the institute is funding me for the trip." She announced to a group of friends, me included in the group.

"Wow, cheers!" Everyone in the group reciprocated, but not me. I was definitely happy for her but inwardly I knew that I would miss her, miss her like hell. But, I was no-one to take more importance in her life than her dreams and her ambitions. 'Best friends' is a silly term to categorize the people who are important to you but not very special to you.

Time for her to go came soon. I went to the airport to see her off and bid her a goodbye hug with a tearful smile, which said more than what my words could. She seemed happy and smiled back in the usual way saying, "I'll miss you kiddo'."

"I'll miss you too." I managed to mumble.
"Promise me that you'll study hard." She said pulling my ears.

I promised her without reflecting on her words being completely lost in her eyes. How could she not notice that I like her? It had been more than five months of our friendship and it seemed like a lifetime of my fondness for her.

The two weeks passed like months and her thoughts clouded my mind all throughout. My feelings for her didn't know how to apply brakes. I was in love with her, though I knew that I had nothing in myself to complement even a trace of her talent, intelligence or beauty. I was a goal-less lover, after all!
She came back having rocked the international conference with her brilliant presentation on Quantum Optics. I was more than proud of her. The moment she reached the institute, she called me, "Hey kiddo', am back! I so much want to meet you."

"Hey, you know what I am so proud of you! I have so many stories to relate. I am in the library, trying to battle with the books but with no success on my side. Where are you? I'm waiting for you here. Come soon, otherwise I'll kill you!" I said in my seemingly excited voice.

Ten minutes later
"Hel..looooo!" She said and tapped my shoulders from behind.
"Hey! I missed you like hell." I exclaimed and hugged her heaving a great sigh of relief.
"I missed you too. You know what? I've realized something!" She said calmly.
"What?"
"That I love you." She whispered into my ears. I was flabbergasted. My feet started trembling. My heartbeat rose up. Sweat mixed with tears suddenly adorned my cheeks.

Taking a deep breath in, I gathered myself a little and could utter just one question, "What's your dream?"

"My dream," she whispered, "is to make you dream!"

P.S. This story is pure work of fiction, it bears no resemblance to anyone I know or you know. It has been written just to emphasize one thought that I had.

Love Story - II

This is the best story I've written till date. Because, I've written it with my heart, not with my head.

Late July 2008
New Delhi
"That was the most special thing you've ever said to me." I said.

"What was so special about it? I just said that I trust you blindly - how could that be counted as special? Are you so elated because you're being trusted for the first time?" She said, continuing the conversation.

"The sheer fact that 'you' are telling me this means so much to me. I can't express the pleasure I received on hearing that!"
"See, I am not that bad. I am rather good at flattery!"
"But you're much better at being mean."
"I know. It's my forte. Let me ask you something - do you trust me?" She asked genuinely.
"Hell yeah! I trust your flattery, one hundred percent. After all that is what makes me feel special."
"Oh poor baby! You know what, you're gifted at seeking sympathy. It's your forte. That's why I like you, that's why I trust you and that's why I love you." She said.

I was bewildered. The ease with which she said the last three words gave me a series of goosebumps. I just could not believe that. We had been more of phone friends - having met just thrice - once during my college fest and on other occasions in common birthday parties(she being my friend's friend). I already had got some feelings for her by then but it was unclear from her side (until then). And now, she was hinting me that the story was on from the other side too.

"What? What did you say just now? Did you mean it or was it just a part of flattery?"
"What? I meant whatever I said." She said.
"You mean ... you mean you love me?"
"Yeah! I love you ... as a very good friend of mine!"

Now what was that? Another flattery? Or another gimmick? I hated her for sure!

"I joked earlier that you are mean, but now I mean it. I mean it that you're mean ... the meanest person I know!" I said irritably.
"What is this, Silly? You'll get angry if things don't go according to your wishes. I told ya that I love you, isn't that sufficient in itself to make you happy? Why are you bombarding me with yet another bag full of tantrums - sympathy seeking tantrums! By the way, you sound adorable when you're irritated!"

"Stop kidding! Things are pretty much serious. Now things have gone down this track, let me tell something to you. You mean to me - mean to me in a very special way rather than just being my friend. I want to give you each and every happiness of this world. I want to be there with you always - in times when you need somebody by your side or in time when you're getting bored."

"You contradicted your own statement, Silly. I won't need you when I am getting bored because I am dead sure you'll be the one who would be making me bored."

"You take everything as a joke. Why can't you see my evident love for you? I want to be yours forever - I want to be your guy - Just tell me, will you let me enter your life as someone who's more than just a friend?"

"Yeah, as a friend and a sweeper! I need to save some money. A sweeper friend would save a hell lot of money!"
"Stop fooling around. Answer me or I'll cut the phone." I rebuked.
"I know you would not cut the phone, Silly. If you would, then how will you hear my answer?"

I was agitated. This girl is going to blow my brain off my skull!

"Don't irritate me more. Just tell me what do you want?" I asked, frustrated.
"I want to leave it upon God."

Oh God! From where the hell did He come up? If I had been given an AK 47, I would have searched and shot dead each and every God present on this Earth!

"Wow, what a sick choice! Leave it upon God, damn! The day you are old enough to die, he'll come to meet you and tell you that you should say a 'yes' to my proposal. And then come with all the band-baaja of your ghost-friends to marry this wrinkled guy!"

"Wrinkled but still handsome!" She joked, once again.
"Oh thanks, the Queen of Flattery-kingdom. What more could I do for you, your Majesty?"
"Wait for tomorrow. If it rains tomorrow, I'm going to say a yes."

What the hell was that?

"What the hell is that? It's late July and haven't you seen the searing sun? There is no probability that it rains. It's being unfair to me."
"If God has a positive answer for me, then it will rain."

I was not sure whether God had a positive answer for her or not but I was totally sure that whatever be the case, God would have a negative answer for me. It had always been like that. Nothing had ever come to me just by chance.

"You're impossible." I said and hung up the phone. She didn't call me back. Nor did I. We both waited silently for the next day. The next day tested too much of my patience by taking more than the usual time to come.

I slept late being lost in thoughts - thoughts about her and then the thoughts about 'us' - with my bed being just adjacent to the window. The thoughts overladen with skepticism about the next day had overburdened my mind and it wanted rest. Sleep took over - it was a deep sleep.

Drops of water slapped hard on my eyelids. The tired and glued eyelids experienced a magical curtain raising. My deep sleep had been evil-eyed, evil-eyed for bliss of a lifetime. The morning sun forgot to show the early-risers its majestic face. Clouds danced in the rain - yes rain! It was the best morning of my life.

I picked up my phone and straightaway called her. She was sleeping - unaware of the summer rain.

"Hey, your God answered and answered for me too! First tell me, where is my 'yes'?" I charged.
"Your 'yes' is still with me and I am too selfish to give it to you." She said, with her voice seeming drunk.
"But why?" I pleaded.
"God can't be so direct. It is just by chance that it rained, my belief has not yet been enforced. If it rains again tomorrow, I'll say a yes. Promise!"
"What? What the hell? What is this? You are being mean! You don't need to prove your forte again and again."
"Practice makes a woman more perfect." She must have winked after her statement. I could almost see it through the phone.

"You know what, your jokes don't seem funny at all. You are one hell of a confused girl and of course, you're 'the' meanest person I know. Let me tell you aloud that I hate you." I said and disconnected the call.

I was feeling a bit guilty for being so rude to her. A minute later, her SMS dissolved all my guilt. She wrote, "Smile. That's the second best thing you can do with your lips. And stop fantasizing about the first thing, Silly!"

I did smile and messaged her back a smiley simultaneously. We shared no words that day.

At night she did call. I hung up saying, "Let us talk tomorrow only, if anything happens then."

"Not anything Silly, 'something'!" She managed to squeeze her sentence before I cut the phone.

I slept at my regular time and this time thoughts played hide and seek with my blank mind, ultimately giving a path to dreams to play an emotional movie inside my head. This time I didn't wait eagerly for the next day to arrive, thus giving it ample time to arrive on its own. Surprisingly, it indeed arrived quite early.

The next morning, the Sun was back at its original duty with its full radiance mode on. The aura seemed to be telling me, "The clouds have been shunned off completely. Now your life is going to be darkened with light."

I just watched and watched and then looked at my watch. It was college time. Busy Saturday it was. I could not notice how the dusk merged with the effulgent morning and brought an end to the day of my glory. It was already dark with night's shadow encapsulating the whole of the surroundings in its funny darkness. I don't know why it seemed funny to me. We had not shared a word that day until then.

Free from work, a bit anxious to ask her to reconsider the last morning rain as God's answer, I looked at my phone intently. It showed nothing but blankness - much the same as the condition of my mind at that time. But suddenly, the blankness was replaced by a phrase called 'She calling!' flashing intermittently on the screen.

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! A million times. That's the God's answer." She yelled, her voice reached the epitome of excitement.

"Did it rain today?" I asked with my heart lost in thinking something that I could not trace. I was not anxious, that's all what I could feel that time.

"Yes, yes, yes; it has been raining here for the last two minutes. It's been raining elephants and hippos here." She said jubilantly. She was very happy.

Why wasn't I as elated as she was? Even her witty description of rain could not bring more than a stingy smile on my face. I looked up at the dark night sky. A huge rain-drop struck my spectacles with a great force and scattered all throughout. Soon followed more drops, some of which originated in my eyes, but the dark sky had enough resources to liquidate my tears. It rained. The clouds were just two minutes late, I was angry at them that they pleased the lady first, while I was waiting for them like never before.

"Some hippos have come here too." I said, still struggling to gather myself together.
"They have found their lost brother in you."
"Come on, my face is not like them. It's more like you rather." I said, trying to outshine her wit.
"Yeah, so I should say I've found my lost brother in you!"
"You always make me lose when I am winning."
"You never are." She said.

"Listen to me. I've to tell you something." I said. I was not feeling the same way I thought I would feel.
"What more? My stomach is full - with happiness and joy!"
"Give it a break. Now, it's not a yes from me." I said in a contemplative tone.
"Oh my God, yet another tantrum! Listen Silly, you don't act smart! Leave that bit to me."

"I am serious. If it rains tomorrow, then I'll say a yes. I need to convince myself whether it really works or not." I was damn serious. I don't know what made me say that but I stuck upon it, I meant it. One hundred percent.

"We'll talk tomorrow then. Tomorrow never 'lies'!" She said, a bit serious, though still I could guess that she would have winked for at least once. She loved being a one-eyed queen. Hell of a cute girl, she was. And I was in love with her. As was she with me.

The tomorrow came, not so suddenly and not too slowly even, at its perfect God-Made boring pace. I wanted to meet her. I called her.

"Hey, It's a Sunday."
"Thanks for making me realize that today you're going to stink." She said, poking me about my habit of not taking baths on weekends.
"I want to meet you and I've already taken a bath."
"Well, that's a surprise."
"What? Want to meet you or taken a bath?"
"First tell me whether this 'taking a bath' means bathing in perfumes or a proper bath." She said.
"Oh, so the 'I want to meet you' thing is not a surprise for you."
"Of course not. It's our day after all."
"How can you be so sure?" I asked, being struck by her optimism.
"In the same way you always remain unsure, Silly."

I already had a proper bath and I bathed in perfumes too. Having two baths a day does make you feel confident.

I went to meet her. The clouds flew out of my mind. I was thinking about her. Only her. This was the first time she was going to meet me all alone. I reached her place - a five-storeyed PG. She lived on the third floor, her window faced the road. I looked up at the window. The bright sunlight made it impossible for me to see anything discernible. I called her. She didn't pickup the phone. Her SMS came. It said, "Silly, you look sillier when you look up with your monkey-like face trying to fight the sunlight!"

I smiled. I looked up again, trying not to make my face look like a monkey, rather just like a simple moron - as it was. She was standing there at her window and suddenly, her hand extended out of the window and dropped a jug full of water over my 'moron'-ish face.

Another SMS came, "Silly, here is your rain. Are you now fully convinced that it really works?"

I replied with a smile, "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! A million times."

She smiled back upon reading my message. She asked for five minutes which I happily gave her and I went to the other side of the road, standing there to wait for her.

She came with her little-bit wet eyes which were saying much more than her heart and jumped on me giving me the tightest hug ever.
"I love you." I managed to whine.
"I love you two, three, four, five, six ...." She squeaked, quite merrily.
"I love you a zillion times!" I said since I didn't want any competition in my love for her.
"I win!" She said and winked in the same way as I always used to imagine her on the phone.

I was lost in her, until something kissed my cheek. It was a wet kiss. That of the rain. The rain indeed arrived!

Plans - 2

They say that an idea can change your life. I believe it. But for writing or music, you need to have many ideas at a time to change not the course of your life but to change the course of the river of your imagination.

Though I am feeling very lazy about writing stories these days, but thankfully ideas have not become a constituent of my laziness. Here are some ideas about stories to be crafted in due time -

• Dhoondh(A ghost story) - A very short recount of a horrid situation with an innovative twist in the end. I'll make you frightened.
• Hate Story - A couple fall in hate, after swimming in love for one and half year. The altercations take them to an end of their love-story and their begins a hate-story, which sees an abnormal beginninng for itself. A beginning or an end?
• The Da Vinci Code - Da Vinci's lost notebook is found and scientists find a horrid calculation of the Doom's day, which comes out to be just 15 days after. The whole scientific and defense community is shaken with so less time and absolutely no idea how to avoid it. Finally, the Doom's Day does come but with a grand surprise! What's that surprise?
• I dreamt of my death - An intriguing case of a person whose dreams in the morning hours always come true. One day, he dreams of a death. Will he be able to avoid it?
• The Gossip - It starts with a coffee table gossip where girls recite their weird ordeals with their boyfriends, when exaggeration expert Kirti blurts out an extra-spicy story about her ex-boyfriend. But she didn't realize that she would get fascinated with the whole idea of the story she makes ...
  
• When will we lose it? - A humourous ordeal of a sex-deprived couple trying to make out at every opportunity that their desperate lives offer to them. From lifts to libraries, from parks to departmental stores, they have tried it everywhere, but they have still not lost it. Will they lose it? But when?
• Uff! - What if your newly purchased beloved gadget goes missing due to your own negligence? And still you can manage to feel relieved! But how?
• What's your dream? - Story of two best friends - a 'simple' guy and a 'stud' girl - and his futile attraction for her, while she doesn't give him a shit in any way other than a friend! But still, time brings her to realize something. Something subtle!
• The Story - It's the story of a story-teller who discloses his next story's plot to his friend but he could not convince his friend of the ending he fabricated. But then, life automatically gives him the perfect ending! What ending is it?
• Sharmaji - Meet Sharmaji, the nosy conservative middle-aged office goers and his interactions with Raju Singh, a young Probationary Officer at SBI.

P.S. The list will be updated soon.