Category: Fiction

Two years of an affair

This day, in 2009, I set sight on her for the first time. Just about two years and it already feels like a lifetime.

To be honest, unlike most affairs, it was not the usual love at first sight. I dint even know I would fall in love! When I first set eyes on her, she was with her twins, friends and cousins. And like any man drooling over such sexy looking dames, I had a tough time deciding. At one instant I wanted her and at another, her sister. And there was a moment when I dint want anyone at all. Such are the frivolities of the male brain! Most women will vouch for it!

Anyways, so how we met is a funny incident. Neo and I were chilling out one fine evening when he asked to go with him to some mall. We were on our way and we saw these hot bodies and like all single men, we had to stop and gawk at them. Like most such incidents, we would have admired the object of affection and moved on but bugger Neo said, let’s go talk to them. I tend to ignore most of the things that Neo asks me to do but here I made an exception. I was like what the heck! And rest, as they say, rest is history.

So we went ahead and moment I saw her from up-close, I realized that I have always wanted her. Since eternity. From ever since I could remember things. Though, the decision took more than ten years of deliberation, gathering courage and wait. It took that nudge from Neo. And some chemical reactions in my brains that created that spark that made me blurt out a yes on the impulse. And boy, am I am glad that she accepted me with open arms (as if she had a choice)!

Like all relationships, we have seen our ups and downs. And when I look back, I realize that I am the one at fault. In fact, I don’t think I have given enough in the relationship. I am guilty. Of ignoring her. Of not paying enough attention. Of not being with her when she needs me.

She, on the other hand, has been a perfect companion. Better than anyone you could ask for. She has never let me down till date. Never. Whenever I have wanted to be with her, she has been around. She has seen me through all sorts of emotions. I have laughed, I have cried, I have been high, I have been sad, I have been ecstatic, I have had that heady feeling of being free, of flying in the open sky. I have planned my magnanimous schemes, I have conjured those dreams. I imagined things that I knew dint exist. I went far when I was with her. I was in control. Of myself and my destiny.

I really wish I could do more for her. I really want to age with her and stay with her for rest of my life!

Here’s the best part! Even though I don’t look at her for days but whenever I am with her, we make heads turn. People take note of us. They talk about us. I can see that feeling of envy in their eyes. I can see through people. I can see that they secretly wished they were in my place. With her.

Its been two years. Call the day her birthday or call it our anniversary. Call it whatever but she is one of my most cherished possessions. Yes, a possession. She means a lot.

Thanks Neo. For helping me make that decision. Thanks ma, pa for giving me the freedom. And last, and not the least, thank you. For being there!

18 Till I Die

This is one of those posts that are totally meaningless and totally irrelevant. You write these things purely for the love of seeing your fingers do the little dance on the keyboard. And the funny thing is that you dont even know where the words flow from.

So one whole month of the year has gone past. On the first of January, at AS’s place, I had told myself that I would make this year the defining year of my life. I decided that moment I was back in India, I would sit down and make a list of things that I would do and achieve this year. And before I realize, its Feb. And February 4 at that. Things have been ok to say the least. Some very sad on personal front. Some exciting. Somethings are looking up. And some are exciting. The whole spectrum. I really wish I could talk about those things here.

Come to think of it, why cant i? After all the combined readership of this blog is two as of last count. One is me. And other one is PD29Jun. At least I would want to believe that PD29Jun does read this. She never leaves any indication of having read this though. Anyways, coming back, I think I can make things personal here. Lemme take a call in the next few days.

And right now I am binging onto awesome guitars and violins on this cover of 18 till I die. Clichéd it may sound but I really want to be 18 till I die. I need to do a longish post on it and justify that I really really mean to be 18!

P.S.: The post was called “The little dance on the keyboard” before I wrote about 18 bit. Now its called what its called.

Sab Kuch To Hai

Sab kuch to hai!

Ek chota sukhi parivar hai, bade saare acchhe dost hai,
Kuch anjane chehre hain aur kuch ajnabi saaye bhi hai.

Sar par chhatt hai, sone ko bistar hai,
Jeb main paise hain aur khane ko khana hai,
Broadband internet connection hai aur mobile main balance bhi hai.

Thoda sa paisa hai, thodi si shauhrat hai,
Thoda sa namak aur thodi si mirch bhi hai.

Sapne hain, khawab hai,
Hausla hai aur kuch dhundali manzilain bhi hai.

Jo kuch chahiye, wo sab kuch to hai.
Sab kuch hai, aur kuch kami bhi hai.

Dear Anonymous Writer

Dear Anonymous Writer,

Thank you for your letter, which I must add, was very, moving, for want of the right word. My secretary, who has seen more world than Christopher A. Columbus, was in shivers when she delivered the letter to my desk. She held your letter the way first time mothers hold their newborns. With so much affection that you think the mere touch will hurt the baby. That you will leave permanent spots, ugly and dark ones, wherever you hold the baby from. Such was the shock on her face that I had to leave my putting practice for the charity golfing event next week and attend to her. And trust me, no man worth his salt wants to be interrupted while he is practicing putting. Who else would know if better than someone who uses the 9 iron!

Coming to the matter at hand, you obviously are talking about last week’s double homicide at Civil Lines. I must say that you have woven a very tight story around the evidence recorded at the crime scene. Even the 9 iron. Not even the real murderer would have known the things that you have shared with us. Like the 9 iron. The editor in my head wants to give credence to your letter and declare you the actual murderer. But then the skeptic in me is not allowing me to. And, over the years, I have learnt to go along with the skeptic whenever in doubt. On one hand, your letter could mean the story of the year and on the other, a shot for a Joe Nobody at his 15 seconds of fame.

Talking of Joe Nobodies, there are quite a few like you. You might be surprised to know that just my office has received about a dozen letters relating to the case, eerily similar to yours. May be because of exclusives we ran on the murders or may be because we were the only paper to have dug so much background information on the victim and his lonely life. In fact, the profession I am in, we are bombarded with communication from readers day in and day out. Most of it is the anonymous kinds. In the regular course of events, almost all of it finds its way to the trash can or the paper shredder almost immediately. If not for my secretary and her fear of golf clubs, especially the one that you claim that you put to use last week, your letter would either be resting in my dustbin, along with remains of the sandwich that I had for lunch or would be shredded into thin long paper strips and would have other pieces of unsolicited messages, office memos, even death threats for company.

However I must commend you on the beautiful prose that you have written. You obviously are a man with excellent literary talents. On a different day, I would have offered you an opportunity to intern and may be, just may be, one day, allow you to work here with me in my team and the newspaper that I spend my life building. As a fan of written word, I really want to share your letter with the world but since I respect the institution, the responsibility, the power of media, I will not. But then, I did send a copy to the police station. Trust me, howsoever burdened they might be with all the crime in the city, even they like reading fiction once in a while.

Finally, I would want to offer a piece of advice, before I go back to my practice. In my profession, anonymous letters are not really accorded as much respect. We ascribe anonymity to the writer’s inability to stand scrutiny and often doubt the intentions. Next time you exercise your right to freedom of speech and want to fulfill your unfinished childhood businesses or fantasies or whatever you call them, try using your real name. People tend to take you and your thought slightly more seriously.

I sincerely hope that you use your talents elsewhere and do something constructive! Please do let me know should you think I could be of some help. And please wish me luck for the tournament.

With Regards,
The Editor

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

If Karan Johar can make Kuch Kuch Hota Hai and Javed Akhtar can write Kyonki Fighter Hameha Jeet-ta Hai, main kyon nahin kuch likh sakta?

Hasratein hain. Khwahishein hain. Sapne hain.
Talash hai manzil ki.
Nikal pada hoon ghar sey. Bhataknay ko.
Sapnon kay pass. Apnon sey door.

Kuch hai to sirf ye door tak jaati lambi sadak.
Chal raha hoon.
Kabhi savariyon par. Kabhi apne kadamo par.
Kabhi kama kar. Kbhi udhaar par.

Raste main chand meel kay pathar mile.
Kuch acche lage. Kuch par main ruka.
Kuch pay log ruke they. kuch par logon nay roka.
Kuch nay kuch kisse sunaye. Maine kuch kahaniya.
Kuch der baatein hui. Kuch der chala silsil.

Kuch der baad fir kuch sapna aaya.
Fir chal diya.

Kuch der kuch log saath chale. Kuch der akela chala.
Kuch kahaniya yaad rahi. Kuch kisse bhool gaya.

Akela nikla tha. Kuch der kuch saathi mile.
Kuch kuch der saath chale. Kuch beech main kahin aur chal pade.

Bas rah gayi ye sadak.
Ye raaste.
Woh anjaai manzil.
Aur khoob saare sapne.

Kuch feedback?

Disclaimer

If ever, I finish that book that I have always wanted to write and have been working on and off for about two year now (last time I worked on it, it was July 2009 and I called it “Living Out of the Suitcase”), following text would appear in it for sure.

I am in a bad mood. This is going to be yet another long rant. I am likely to crib like I have never cribbed before. I am likely to be unreasonable and sarcastic. I am likely to make a few chauvinist statements that might make most of you hate me till I am dead. I am going to make sweeping statements. I might stereotype people and their behaviors. I might even make racist comments. You might want to distance yourself from me. I might allegations against certain friends and acquaintances that will make them run for cover. My parents might want to disown me if they read this. Thank god they are not on social networks yet. I might fling accusations at people who fall under one of more of these categories: power-hungry, self-proclaimed-celebs, wannabe-socialites, and attention-seeking-whores. And at the end of all this, I might even deny that I ever made any of the comments I made.

Funny bit is that I like what I write. I like the process of writing. I like staring at the screen, and the way characters appear on the screen while my fingers are doing their tribal dance on the keyboard. I like the vertical line (is there a name for it? cursor?) that blinks when I am thinking what to write next. Its mesmerizing. Its magical. At times, I dont even think. The words and the narrative just seems to flow.They just pop up and somehow my fingers know where to tap and make them appear on the screen.

Haan, to funny bit is that I like what I write. I am not sure how many people like what I write. I am not even sure if I make sense. I am just betting on the law of averages and hoping that the infinite monkey theorem is true. In fact, this looks like a good title. Infinite Monkeys at Play. And imagine a disclaimer that states that this piece of text is produced by infinite monkeys in my backyard. I take no moral responsibility of whatever they have churned out.

So, yet again, coming back to the point, my writing. What about it? I forgot…

WTF !!

You and I

Faster than my fingers flying on the keyboard to write that long email,
Yet slower than it takes you to read it,

Brighter than the most convincing reason I ever came up with for doing what I did,
Yet dafter than me who actually thought that you would buy that reason,

Taller than the claims of heroics I made after one of those weekend binges,
Yet smaller than my ego when you asked me to say sorry for the gaffe,

Harsher than the decree you passed upon me for being what I am,
Yet milder than the heartburn when I knew the inevitable was about to happen,

You and I are so close,
Yet so far.