Showing posts with label Blogaton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Blogaton. Show all posts

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Sorry apologies

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 48; the forty-eighth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.
"Say 'Sorry' to Vicky"

I had just about finished yelling at Vicky, and was mentally prepared to stop seeing him as an imp of Satan and start seeing as a normal boy like myself when my dad, who was passing by, had to poke his nose into our affairs. On the instant, the normal boy vanished from my vision and the imp of Satan returned. After all, there was no point in getting angry with your dad. You could hardly express it to him - well, I suppose you could but the repercussions were likely to be VERY unpleasant.

"Didn't you hear me? Say Sorry"

"Sorry", I spat at Vicky.

The word MAY mean an apology but I ensured that it sounded like one of those swear words that adults so love to use when angry. I glared at Vicky and, if looks could kill, he would have been toast.

THAT is the funny thing. Just as you are really feeling sorry, an adult pokes his nose in and, by making you say 'Sorry', makes you stop feeling sorry. It took about a week more to normalize relationships with Vicky, no thanks to the fact that he spent three of those days gloating about my saying 'Sorry' to him. But, eventually, I stopped seeing those horns on his head, that forked tongue and sharp canines, the tail with an arrow-head at the end and a pitchfork in his hands.

THAT was my first step in 'maturing'. For adults, form is more important than substance. In other words, it is more important to apologize than to really feel apologetic. In fact, going forth in life, I realized that it was absolutely unnecessary to actually feel apologetic about anything as long as you can apologize gracefully. Not that realizing it helped me. Since I can do nothing gracefully, I could not merrily do whatever I wanted and just apologize my way through life.

(Incidentally, the other thing about adulthood, I realized is that, if a person once appears like an imp of Satan, he NEVER reverts to becoming a normal person in their vision - whereas an angel can, quite readily, exchange his wings and harp for the horns etc and a pitchfork. Even if that person saves your life, it would only be to prove that he was superior to you, of course, and not because of any good intent. If anything, anyone belonging to his community, race or whatever also acquire nebulous horns, canines and tail, thanks to him. And they are more likely to change from 'nebulous' to 'concrete' than the other way around.)

That got me thinking about whether we say 'Sorry' when we mean to tender an apology. (No! No! Not when I was a boy. Now!) As far  as I remember, I have said 'Sorry' easily when I did not really mean it and got tongue-tied when I did. You know what I mean - you brush the shoulder of a stranger by accident on the road and 'Sorry' comes tripping off your tongue by conditioned reflex. It is not that shame at the transgression burns your soul. If anything, anger may burn if the other guy also does not say, 'Sorry' or, at least, 'It's alright' or some such thing.

Take the time when I gestured magnificently (I ALWAYS gesture magnificently!) and knocked an expensive bottle of French wine on the costly carpet in a friend's house. Do you think I was really sorry about the spreading wine stains on that carpet. You bet I was. Do you think I said 'Sorry'?

I wanted to, alright, but there was this strangling sensation in the throat and someone had lit a fire inside the skin of my face, with specific attention to the area around my ears. I cleared my throat, giggled inanely and said, "Oh! I am always like this. Totally butter-fingered", by way of apology. So, my friend and his wife gathered that I was blaming them for not knowing enough to keep the carpet out of harm's way, and for not settling for cheap plonk when they invited me home. THAT, apparently, did not seem like much of an apology to them.

I know! To say 'Sorry' when you feel sorry is necessary, considering that people are, unfortunately, deficient in telepathy and are unable to see HOW sorry you feel. To feel sorry, when there is reason to be, should be a part of your character, else you belong somewhere below the animals. THEY have no motives, other than feeding and procreating, so they tend to do nothing that needs feeling apologetic. To think that saying 'Sorry' is a sufficient substitute for feeling sorry - even where you are not merely saying it as a matter of good manners - is the peculiar attribute of 'civilized' humanity.

They say knowing what needs to be done is half the battle won. THAT does not really console me, since I despair of winning the other half. I would probably end up in the position of the guy, who jumps across a deep well and succeeds in making a jump that takes him halfway!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 14

Sunday, September 1, 2013

Sweet and Sour

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 41; the forty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "SWEET AND SOUR"
Nita was smiling as she exited her boss' room along with her colleague Vinay.

"I don't understand you, Nita. Up to now he has been praising your work and you came out poker-faced. Today he rubbishes your work and you seem happy"

"Now I know that his praise all this while was real"

Vinay looked at her incredulously. Nita said nothing more. How could she explain that it was only the squeeze of lemon that made it possible to relish sugared water?

You get both sweet and sour in any relationship. It is the sour that makes it possible to enjoy the sweet.
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 13

Sunday, August 4, 2013

Make a wish

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 40; the fortieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "MAKE A WISH"
Why is it that I get so easily deceived? Anyone with a sob-story can lay claim on the contents of my wallet - so much so that I sometimes feel like an ATM machine where the con-men come to swipe their sob-stories and make away with my cash. Whenever I seek something from someone they find it so easy to lead me astray conversationally that I end up forgetting what I came to ask and leave wondering what I had come to them for in the first place. If only I could make a wish and rid myself of this problem..

A bottle with a milky-white gas inside materialized in front of me.

"Open it, let the genie out and ask it for your wish", whispered a voice in my ear. So engrossed was I in my own problem that a disembodied voice speaking in my ear seemed quite natural.

How clichéd!  The moment you start talking of wishes, you end up getting a genie in a bottle. They could have, at least, switched over to cans whoever they were.

Shit! The bottle was corked. The last time I tried to open a corked bottle - wine it was - without a cork-screw, which I anyway did not have, it was no fun at all. The screwdriver I tried on it chipped this end for a while and, when I tried to poke it through, it ended up pushing the cork into the bottle. Now, I do not know what the current fashion for genies in head-gear was but I had a suspicion that a chipped cork on the head would not be the latest attraction in any genie fashion show.

I picked the bottle up gingerly and laid a hand on the cork to test how tight it was. The cork slid out smooth as silk and the room started suddenly filling up with smoke.

"Hey! Enough with the special effects. Can you do something less corny?" I bleated.

"You dare complain of corny? For how long are you guys still going to be bottling us up - like some soft drink or beer? Can't you think of anything more inventive if you have to do it?"

"We did try lamps and rings."

"I was talking of something more spacious. Such cramped accommodation where we have no choice but to turn to smoke in order to feel a wee bit comfortable and you have the gall to complain? What did you expect - frothing champagne?"

By now the smoke had coalesced into a shape that filled most of the room. It was I, now, who was feeling distinctly cramped for space. The leering gargoyle of a face and the massive mass of the rest of the body made me want to recede as far as possible - but the wall got in the way.

"Listen!" I said weakly "I did not put you in the bottle. Anyway, I thought you were supposed to grant me a wish"

"And that is another thing. First you bottle us up and, then, in return for the generous favor of being released we have to grant you a wish in order to go free? Is that fair?"

"But..." I interjected weakly but the genie was not listening.

"Anybody would think that we were some sort of wish-vending machine. Species stereotyping is what I call it. And, unlawful incarceration. It is time that we djinns got together and started an agitation against this discriminatory behavior"

"Listen genie..." I tried to get some control of the situation. There was a dull throb north-northwest of my eyes.

"Huh? Genie, Genie! It is Djinn you idiot. You cannot even get our species name right. And what do you mean calling me genie? You even call your dogs by names and you do not have the common courtesy to seek the name of a sentient being?"

The dull throb in the head was sending out shooting pains.

"Ooh! Just go away. Get lost"

"Is that your Wish?"

"I am not just shooting off my mouth to hear my voice. Of course, it is my wish" I yelled.

"Your Wish is granted"

The genie vanished with a boom.

Uhoh! Cheated by a genie, too!
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 12

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Break


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 39; the thirty-ninth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "Break"
I do not know if there are very many words in the English language that have evoked so many different emotions in me in comparison to this word 'Break'. From childhood to now, it has been the source of a great many emotions - not all of them pleasant to recollect.

The earliest emotion that this word has evoked in me is fear. "Did you break this?" was a question that has often caused me to break out (there you go again, the word is simply too ubiquitous) into a cold sweat - not least because the answer, if true, had to be 'yes'. My earliest attempts at fiction were made then - "No Mom! It was the wind!" or "No Mom! It was my sister!" It was either the fact that I was too young to realize that fiction had to be believable or that it was an age when fantasy had not gained a strong enough foothold in the world. My Mom simply refused to contemplate the idea of a black wind from Mordor having swept that china jar of pickles off the larder or that my toddler sister had looked at it cross-eyed and caused it to fall by telekinesis. This lamentable lack of belief in fantasy is responsible for many a beating that I could have avoided in the days after Tolkien and Rowling. (And, by the way, I did not even look pregnant then but I loved pickles - don't ask me why)

When school started, that same word was a cause of immense joy. Imagine sitting around in class in a fugue with someone droning about some distant country and suddenly asking you to name its damned capital (I have a sneaking suspicion that countries have capitals merely to make life hell for school children. Very mean of them). Failure to answer could mean having to stand on a bench or kneel in front of the class - neither posture being conducive to getting that lovely nap which is so necessary for a good complexion. So, it is no wonder that the word 'lunch break' or any other such break evoked a sense of freedom and joy almost akin to ecstasy. (I am taking a bit of a liberty here. In my days, they used the word 'Interval' not break)

The entry to the workaday world was also preceded by this same word. "Please give me a break", was a plea to get a job. Now, the problem was that the answer used to be, "Are you a car or something?" thanks to the fact that 'break' and 'brake' sounded almost the same not to mention the fact that this Americanism had not yet caught on. That is the problem with being among the first few to be afflicted by the disease. People are unable to recognize the fact that you are infected by "Dengue Hemorrhagic Fever" or, in this case, "Virulent Americanization". Now, of course, you can hardly think of an alternative phrase to use under similar circumstances.

Where this usage of 'giving a break' was one of pathos for me, it was one of simmering anger for my friend. Blessed with a surname of "Kallingal" and a typist with a reverence for Word's powers to auto-correct, he invariably ended up signing letters as "Killingly", which was Word's auto-correct option for "Kallingal". People have accustomed themselves to 'faithfully', 'sincerely' and all that at the close of a letter but they seemed to draw a line at Killingly. This unnatural antipathy of the recipients of his letters caused him to get wild enough to take his typist to task and, when he had just about started to whistle before really letting off steam, someone intervened and said, "Give the poor guy a break". In his words, he was like a pressure cooker full of steam and about to let go when someone sat heavily on his head and refused the outlet.

I could probably go on and on and on about Break. I mean you break out in song, break out into dance, break out of melancholy and on and on. Why, people even wish you to break a leg when you get on stage. Now that you have had a lecture on 'Break', go take a break before someone else breaks the silence.
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 11

Sunday, March 3, 2013

Truth is stranger than Fiction


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 37; the thirty-seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "Truth is stranger than fiction"
- See more at: http://www.blogaton.in/#sthash.2MjO7VSc.dpuf 


All right! Let us get this dissertation on ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction’ off the ground. Do we, in true dissertation style start the discussion by defining Truth and Fiction? I do not think that it will get us anywhere beyond a discussion of the definitions for the next 1000 pages or so – we may end up digressing into ‘absolute truth’ and ‘perceived truth’; may wander over to Mayavada and get lost in illusions and may even end up pinching ourselves to ensure that we are real. So, let us assume those words to mean whatever they mean in the context in which they are used and get on with the dissertation.
When it comes to Fiction, however, one does face a problem. Do we take Fiction to include fantasy? If so, we may have insuperable problems in proving that ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction’. I mean, we may think of our CEO as Sauron and the top management as the Nazgul but do we really think the CEO has ‘One ring to rule them all and in the darkness bind them’? Do we really think that the CFO can be killed only by a woman employee and the Chotu who gets us our tea? Fantasy, I am afraid, we shall have to leave out of this learned discourse.
There used to be a time when one started citing personal experience or individual incidents to prove a point the academics frowned on it and said scathing learned things like, “You are missing the wood for the trees” and the like. That was merely because the term ‘anecdotal evidence’ had not been invented then. Now, thanks to this wonder term, one can prove anything to be true by citing an individual instance that supports it. In the spirit of the times, I shall present some anecdotal evidence to prove that ‘Truth is stranger than Fiction’.
In childhood, one perceived textbooks as repositories of truth. You may doubt it and, in particular, choose to rail at history at least as being more fiction than fact. It is nevertheless true that fiction of the fairytale variety must necessarily have been less true than the texts. In childhood, thanks to the quaint ideas of my parents, I was expected to be spending a good portion of my time reading text-books. I must have amazed them with the dutifulness of my adherence to this irrational injunction, thanks to the fact that I had discovered that the Grimm’s fairy tales fitted in very nicely within the boundaries of an open textbook. So, Truth – as in the textbooks - was more a stranger to me than Fiction in my childhood days.
There are more anecdotes from childhood. Schools have this unnatural habit of holding monthly tests and, in my time, ranking kids on their performance. Thus, every month, I was in for something like six beatings - one each for my performance in each test and one when the monthly progress report came in. I may not have been the brightest star in the firmament but a native shrewdness was – shall we say – beaten into me. It is thus that I bravely lied about not receiving the corrected test notes till such time the progress report arrived. After all, what is the point in getting whacked up six times when some creative adjustments of the truth could cut it down to one? So, in yet another way the Truth was more a stranger to me than Fiction.
What did you say? Truth being a stranger to me is not the same as Truth being stranger than Fiction. You nit-picking people are the reason why no research ever gets off the ground. Oh! All right! All right! If that is what you insist upon.
Let me then tell you of the Suresh-Ramesh anecdote in my life. Well, actually, had it been Ramesh it would have been even better but, though I did have a Ramesh or two at school in Neyveli, it happened to be a Ravi. It was six years since we last met in school and I was at IIM-Bangalore in those days. One day I was happily walking down MG Road when who should pop out of an ice-cream shop but Ravi from my school? We went through the obligatory Suresh-Ramesh, sorry, Suresh-Ravi routine and caught up on what had transpired in our lives.
That was that. No e-mail, no FB, no Linked-in in those days and we lost touch with each other almost from the moment we parted that day. Three years later I was working in Delhi and rooming with an NTPC employee (Now this was a Ramesh but that does not count, does it?). One day the two of us were walking out for dinner and he pointed at a house and said that was the residence of a mutual acquaintance. I turned to see Ravi standing near the boundary wall. Yes, the same Ravi of my school and the Bangalore Suresh-Ravi episode. Our mutual acquaintance was his sister’s husband.
Now tell me if I had written a novel called “Two States” hinging on two such accidental meetings – suitably changing Ravi to Ravina, of course, since one cannot do without the Romantic angle – do you think that the reading populace would have taken me to their bosoms like another Chetan Bhagat or would they have uttered snide comments like “What? Is this some believe-in-10-impossible-things-before-breakfast business?” Truth is stranger than fiction, Q.E.D.
WHAT? You oppose my conclusions? You say that if three brothers separated and in widely different locations can congregate in one hotel and unite by singing ‘Yaadon ki baarat nikli hai yaar…”, Fiction has proven stranger than truth? If a rupee note signed by the hero and heroine and transacted in Chennai can traverse the country and end up in the heroine’s hands in Kolkatta, Fiction has proven stranger than truth? That you have even seen a movie where the lead pair separates and then find themselves meeting each other in a country not even on the map and, so, how can Truth be considered stranger than fiction?
Oh! All right! I will amend the conclusion. Truth is stranger than non-Indian Fiction. There, now, are you satisfied?
If you liked this you may like to check out the index of other posts of this genre or read a selection of similar posts.


The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 10
- See more at: http://www.blogaton.in/#sthash.2MjO7VSc.dpuf

Sunday, February 3, 2013

And then there were none


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 36; the thirty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "and then there were none"
“That looks wonderful”, said Ajay eying the frosted beer bottles greedily and licking his lips. I mean he actually licked his lips.
I know we are all accustomed to using such phrases metaphorically but Ajay seemed to believe that the actions described in books had to be enacted. Accounts for the fact that he is yet to find a girl-friend though he was in the final year of his engineering, I suppose. Girls do like to be considered attractive but what girl would like a man literally drooling all over her?
“Good! You have enough! We can make a night of it”, said the artist of our group. Sanjeev had none of the dithery absent-mindedness of the artist stereotype which showed in the decisiveness with which he opened a bottle and poured the contents into his glass.
“Where is Rajiv? Stuck in some meeting as usual?” asked Sridhar as he hastened to fill his glass. Now this one was a nerdy caricature of the IT man to look at but a veritable vacuum cleaner when it came to drinking.
Rajiv came stamping in. “Pour me one guys! I need one to get rid of the stink of your streets, Vinod. The garbage collection in your area is the pits!”
“What can we do, Rajiv? We have been to the municipality often enough but nothing much seems to happen”, I said.
“That’s the problem with the middle class. Always the someone-should-do-something-about-it syndrome” said Rajiv.
“Yeah! True! No matter how much you gag as you walk the streets, you will not do a thing about cleaning it up”. By the realistic gagging accompanying the statement, a blind man could have recognized Ajay.
“Actually, this street looks great for a modern art painting. If only you did not need to slip and slither on all sorts of waste”
“Guys! I am going for my second one” Sridhar said, in line with his single-minded pursuit of mopping up the beer.
“Say, guys! If you are all serious, we could ourselves do something about this mess. Ajay! Can you get a couple of friends over from college to help?”
“I…I…Say, is it 9 PM already? My parents must be getting worried. I gotta go. See you guys”
Shell-shocked was not the word for it. Hitherto whatever had floated on top of the beer with Ajay, it certainly had not been filial piety.
“Sanjeev! You have that newspaper friend, do you not?”
“Who? Hey…I forgot. My son has a maths exam. Got to coach him. Bye” That from the man who has to put in torturous mental effort while adding two and two and still manages to get four only one time out of ten! There was one kid who would radically reinvent mathematics for the future generations, if he was getting coached by Sanjeev.
“Rajeev…”
“Shit! You know Vandana does not much like these sessions of ours.”
I had always known it but I had not known that he knew it too – at least, it had not shown in his behavior till date.
“Got to keep peace in the family”, he said and left – and then there were none.
P.S: I must bookmark this experience. It will come in handy the next time I seem on the verge of running out of booze!

If you liked this you may like to check out the index of other posts of this genre or read a selection of similar posts.
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 09

Sunday, January 6, 2013

The Silent World


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 35; the thirty-fifth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is "...and the world was silent again"
 “How wonderful it would be if we could actually talk mind-to-mind. There would be none of this miscommunication”, I mused on my way back from office.
I had just discussed my annual performance review with my boss and I was unable to figure out whether his “Better than expected” translated to a higher incentive for me or no. Did he mean “I expected a lot from you and you have still out-done my expectations” or did he mean “Well! I expected you to make a perfect ass of yourself but you have not achieved perfection even in that”?
“You think the world will be better if you could hear what people thought of each other?” whispered a voice in my ear. “From now on you will be able to hear what the people close to you think of you”.
Uh! Last I checked I was all alone in my teeny car and hearing voices has not proved salubrious for people. Look at Joan of Arc. She too heard voices and now she is toast. Thankfully, the voice had stopped and the world was silent again.
By the time I reached home I had forgotten all about the voice. My wife had not yet come back from work. I made a couple of cups of coffee and, just as I was about to sit back and start on my cup, she arrived.
“Coffee is ready, honey”, I said.
“Thanks, Love”
Like he has done a huge favor to me. And, some day, I must figure out how he uses the same coffee powder and manages to create something that tastes as though it is filled from a sewer”
What was that? My wife’s thoughts? She smiled angelically at me and went to the kitchen to pick her cup of coffee.
Have to drink it, I suppose! The moment I tell him how awful his coffee is he’ll probably use that as an excuse to beg off all household work”
“Great Coffee, Varun”
I must be hallucinating. Shilpa could never be thinking this of me.
“Let me chop the vegetables for you, honey”
For me!! Like he is not going to have dinner. And how he manages to get all sizes from a micron to half a foot while chopping one piece of eggplant is another mystery I will never be able to solve”
This was getting decidedly messy. If this was what my wife thought of me, I really did not want to hear any more.
Thankfully, my son came in. Children were messengers of love after all. His thoughts would be a soothing balm to my soul.
“Shit! Dad is home! Just as I want to go out and play a game of cricket. I’ll have to talk to him. And, why does he have to put on that stupid school-kid voice while talking to me? Whoever talked of quality time with kids ought to be shot”
Ouch! This hearing thoughts business was decidedly a curse.
“Go out and play, son”
At last! Some signs of intelligence. Would have thought that an adult would take a hint. It has taken him years to understand that my idea of a good evening is not having a cosy chat with him  about what my maths teacher said at school!”
Ye Gods! I am done with hearing thoughts. Someone please take this curse off me. I really do not want to know what my boss and colleagues think of me as well.
“Done”, said the voice in my ear. And the world was silent again. Blessedly!

If you liked this you may like to check out the index of other posts of this genre or read a selection of similar posts.
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 08

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Celebrations

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 33; the thirty-third edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Celebrations'
Celebrations! Now what does one celebrate? Either an achievement or a festival – which is, by and large, a celebration of the achievements of a mythological character.
I have always been keen on celebrating my achievements. The problem is that you cannot celebrate all by yourself. The moment I call upon someone else to join the celebrations he keeps raising nitpicking objections. I mean, come on, can you not just join the festivities without asking stupid questions about whether I had achieved anything worth celebrating? Hang it all, if I think it is worth celebrating the fact that I woke up a full five minutes before my normal time, what is your problem?
With such unjust people around me this entire idea of celebrating my achievements had to be put in cold storage. I never seemed able to satisfy them with my achievements – they pooh-pooh eating 24 idlis at one sitting; sneer at sleeping the clock round and wax sarcastic about going a month without brushing my teeth. Such a bunch of hard-to-please people I had never expected. What they seemed to consider achievements were so far beyond my capabilities that I could not even dream of them credibly. I mean think of me topping the JEE or coming first in the CBSE – even in my school? Does not your mind boggle? Mine boggled so much that I felt dizzy for days.
Festive celebrations, on the other hand, were wonderful. Diwali, in particular, holds a special place in my heart. After all, other than my school uniform, the only fresh pair of clothing I ever got was for Diwali. It normally came in very handy because the previous pair was just about to disintegrate into its component threads. My mother normally used to ask me whether my skin was made of razor blades (Come to think of it, do you think I missed out on a convincing achievement to celebrate?) It was probably the fact that fresh clothing swam into my ken so rarely that they seemed far more magnificent than they really were. I really cannot get that rush of pleasure when I walk out to buy yet another T-shirt!
The other wonderful thing about Diwali was that my mom usually had the clear intent of making four types of sweets and the customary mixture. The month before Diwali was filled with arguments about what those four would be. After the menu was frozen, my mom would swing into the act making all of them. I really do not know if kids of today can work up the same enthusiasm about arguing for what sweets to buy from the local sweet shop. Most probably they settle for ‘Celebrations’ from the chocolate platter and let it go at that!
Now that I am a bachelor and live alone, festivals get celebrated by me only when someone who is celebrating it calls me in as a guest – and, to be fair to my cousins, they call me in invariably. The one time I decided to make the savories and celebrate a festival – Pongal, as it turned out – I do not remember enjoying it much. It needs a special type of character to rejoice in mopping up the kitchen all day and scraping what looked like a charcoal mine off the bottom of the pressure cooker and I, as I have often said, am not that special a character.
Now if I choose to celebrate by myself I go for ‘Celebrations’ too! Thank God, the need to do so has not arisen often!
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 07

Sunday, October 7, 2012

An untold story


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 32; the thirty-second edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'An Untold Story'

“There is an untold story that I want to share with you”, I said eagerly.
My friend’s eyes glazed over.
“If it has remained untold for this long, it can remain untold for a shade longer. What is the hurry?” he said and hurried away.
If you had a story that wants to burst out of you and you find that there is no one to tell it to, you can understand how I felt. I don’t know why it is this way but the very times I have the urgent need to tell something are the times when all my friends are too busy to listen. Has that happened with you, too?
“Listen! There is this untold story…”
“Ever heard of the man who said ‘I always lie’?” said my friend. That, also, happens to me. When I want to say something, my friends feel the pressing need to say something else. “That is logic that bites its own tail. If he always lied, he lied this time too. That means he always tells the truth. Which means that he was telling the truth when he said he always lied! Which means that he always lies! Which means…”
My patience was at an end. He seemed prepared to go on like this till the cows came home. “So? What do you want to say?”
“Once you start telling me the untold story, it ceases to be an untold story. So it can be an untold story only when you keep it untold”, he said and disappeared.
After he left, it struck me that his logic was fallacious. After all, if “I always lie” is false, the truth need not necessarily be “I always tell the truth”. It could well be “I sometimes lie”. That is another thing that keeps happening to me. I find the killer argument only after the time for arguing is long gone. Ever had that happen to you?
Having lost out with my friends, I had only my family to help me unburden myself.
“Hey Sis! I have this untold story that I want to tell you”
“It is always what you want with you. When have you ever bothered to understand what I want or what anyone else wants?”
Well! I assure you that this untold story that I have not told you is the greatest untold story that has not been told! Take my word for it!

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 6

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Strangers in the Night

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 31; the thirty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for the month is 'Strangers in the Night'

“Sneha! This is Vijaya, our estate manager’s wife”
Sneha barely glanced up to acknowledge the greeting. The warm smile of recognition died on Vijaya’s lips. Was this the same girl who shared a room with her at college? The poor girl whose fees she had paid, whose books she had bought and whose wardrobe she had purchased? The one who was so willing to do any job for her? This woman bedecked in golden finery was scarcely recognizable as the poor yet lovely girl at college.
“Rama! I do not agree that it is luck that makes us what we are. It takes intelligence to keep what luck has given us.”
“How do you say that?”
“Well…there was this girl at college with me – Lakshmi! Born of rich parents and could have lived a life of luxury. She was fool enough to love a middle class botany student and marry him against her parent’s wishes. They disowned her and she is now probably eking out a miserable life somewhere”
She had not changed all that much from college – bar a few wrinkles on her face. The night was dark but the place was festooned with party lights and, so, it must not be too difficult to see her face. How could Sneha not recognize her – Vijayalakshmi – while she talked so disparagingly about her?
“Don’t you know what your friend is doing now?”
“No! After I married Rajiv and we went for our honeymoon to Switzerland, we lost touch. Anyway, she would only be embarrassed to meet me now”, said Sneha smugly patting her silk sari and adjusting the diamond necklace around her neck.
Vijaya was embarrassed. How could she have invested so much emotion in this woman who could not even think of the possibility of happiness without a Ferrari in the garage? How blind she had been when she held affection for someone who seemed to dole out her love and attention in proportion to the recipient’s bank balance?
Vijaya took leave of the duo. It was better to pass each other as strangers in the night.
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Introduced By: The Fool, Participation Count: 5

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Yesterdays and Tomorrows


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 30; the thirtieth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Was it only a year back that life had looked so rosy? He had everything then – a loving wife, a son to rejoice in and work that he was passionate about. After a decade of working for others he had embarked on his own venture full of optimism and hopes for tomorrow.
It took such a short time for dreams to come crashing down and to lose everything that you had slaved for to get. Rohit looked across at his wife, who was busy managing his fidgety son. She had warned him to close shop and look for a job. Why had he not listened to her then?
One year was an eon in his profession. God knows he had tried everything at his disposal to find a job after his venture crashed a month ago. If his wife had not been working, they would have found it difficult to make both ends meet. As it was, they would have to take a drastic cut in their lifestyle. The future he had dreamt of for his son had vanished like a mirage.
“Mom! I want to play in the water”
“Shh!”
Rohit looked around. There was the elderly man, who had carried out all his responsibilities and was serenely watching the sunset. The well-to-do slender man in designer shorts with his son was enjoying the beach.
He had come over to the beach to escape the stifling feeling of claustrophobia at home. Now, the deepening sunset only highlighted the gloom that had descended on his life.
* * * * * *
Geeta! The word was a moan of anguish in the depths of his heart. His wife of forty years and the beat of his heart! In the symphony of his life, she had been the basic harmony. Now that she was no more, there was no music in his life or in his heart.
Three months! Three long months since she had gone to sleep and never risen again! Three months since he had forgotten to live and merely existed like an automaton. His son and daughter-in-law had resumed their normal lives. They took care of all his bodily needs but it never struck them that he also needed someone who would find the time to talk to him – merely because he was loved and not because it was their duty.
When Geeta was around, he had never felt the lack of company. It had not always been so. Their marriage had been an arranged one and their initial days very acrimonious. She had always been feisty and would not knuckle down to social conventions. But, how compassionate, how caring! It was the basic generosity of her heart that broke through his conventional expectations and he found himself, almost unwillingly, head over heels in love with her. Loneliness had merely been a word to him since then and not the bone-chilling, soul-sapping reality that it was now.
Now, she was gone. Forever! That word rang with hollow hopelessness and opened up a vista of endless gloom in front of his unseeing eyes. A gloom as deep as the one presaged by the sun setting across the sea!
He looked at the family of three sitting together in silent companionship and at the slender man bonding with his son. The gust of bitter envy that shook his being shamed him but the shame could not shake the chill despair rooted in his heart.
* * * * * *
“I am going to die, am I not, Dad!”
Tears prickled at the corners of Atul’s eyes. The boy’s high-pitched voice had attracted the attention of the people around him but Atul was oblivious.
He looked down at the solemn face of his son. He was so young. His was the age to be running around with exuberance; an age where he should have been with his mom fighting for the TV remote or for time on the PC; an age where sorrow was a loss in a video game or a poor test performance and everything else was ecstasy; not the age to be talking solemnly about death.
“Cancer is curable, Vinay!” the words came out strangled by the lump in his throat that threatened to suffocate him.
The thought of losing his son almost unmoored his reason. This was the child, whose smile had filled his heart with unbearable joy as a babe-in-arms; the child whose first steps had made him prouder than when he had made his first million; the boy who could break a priceless vase and blow away his anger with a woebegone look and a whispered ‘Sorry’; the boy whose unexpected embraces and happy smiles made all his other achievements pale to insignificance.
Was it just a shade more than two years ago that Vinay had been a mischievous boy, who could hardly stay still for a second? Every day when he had returned exhausted from work it had taken him barely fifteen minutes with Vinay to feel like he was brimming with energy. The lovingly drawn pictures that Vinay presented to him for his birthdays; the infectious laughter; the merry romping on the bed and the silent loving hugs – all would be gone, drowned in a raging torrent of cancerous cells coursing through Vinay’s blood.
“I am glad we came to the beach today, Dad!”
Tears sprang unbidden again. So young, so young! Was this the time for a boy to be whimpering with pain as chemicals dug with sharp knives inside his body? He could not bear to remember the sobs from Vinay’s room, muffled because Vinay had not wanted to distress his parents. He thought of his wife, devastated with grief, when the doctors had given scant hope of a cure.
They should not be here on the beach today. Vinay was susceptible to infection and he had refused the boy when he first made the request. The disappointment on Vinay’s face tore at his heart and, when Vinay closed up over the next few days, he had given in. God! With all his wealth, he could not even readily give his son the simple pleasure of playing on the beach! Atul found his tears flowing out unbidden.
“Dad!” The hint of exasperation came out incongruously from the boyish lips. “I know I may not live for long. Must I spend all that time moping? I know you and Mom are sad. But can’t we have some fun every now and then?”
Atul was ashamed. Why was he ruining his son’s days with his distress? Yes, he may have only a few days left but they did have those few days! When his son wanted to take as much joy as he could out of his life, why could he not enjoy those days with his son?
“I do not know how many tomorrows I have, Dad. But, today, the dusk is beautiful!”
* * * * * *
The old man was jolted. What was he doing, moping around for his lost yesterdays? He had had a wonderful life with a wonderful woman and, instead of celebrating it, he was tainting her memory with bitterness.
His son and daughter-in-law still cared for him but they had their own lives to lead. Why could he not enjoy the time that they could give him instead of bemoaning the fact that they could not give time when he needed it?
Yesterday was gone and what he had rejoiced in yesterday was no more. But, today and tomorrow would bring their own joys - if he was open to them - instead of enshrouding himself in bitter grief.
The boy was right. Today the dusk was indeed beautiful!
* * * * * *
Rohit looked across to his wife. Her eyes were brimming with tears as, indeed, were his own. Life recently had been acrimonious between them but for this moment they were in accord in their sympathy for the boy.
What were they fighting for, anyway? As far as he could recollect, even in the bitterest of their fights, she had never once blamed him for stubbornly sticking on with his venture. Nor had she verbally belittled him for being dependent on her currently.
Was his fear of his tomorrows – the thought of never finding a job and being a hanger-on – embittering him? Was he taking his wife’s every little act and converting it into an unstated insult? He had a caring wife and was he jeopardizing both his and her happiness today out of the inchoate fear of tomorrow?
“Sorry, love!” he said, impulsively. “I have been a grouch this past month. Never again!”
Tears fell unhindered from her eyes as she snuggled close to him. They looked out at the beach.
The boy was right. Today the dusk was indeed beautiful!
* * * * * *
Two boys ran towards the water shouting in glee. Vinay looked at his dad enquiringly.
“Go ahead, Vinay!” said Atul.
Vinay jumped to his feet. He turned to his Dad.
“Coming?” he said with a trace of his old mischief in his eyes.
It seemed as though he had invited everyone. The old man found himself on his feet. Rohit’s son had taken off towards the water in his own direction. Rohit and his wife rushed after him.
Atul got to his feet. His heart seemed lighter than before.
“Come, then! I will race you to the water”
A dying child had taught them all how to live! Yes, today, the dusk was indeed very beautiful!

* * * * * *  
The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. I’m thankful to The Fool, who introduced Blog-a-Ton to me, and I debuted in 27 edition.
Credits Image - Shades of Orange by Harsha Chittar Courtesy - Curious Dino Photography via www.blogaton.in

Sunday, July 1, 2012

Two minutes


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 29; the 29th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'TWO MINUTES'.

Tell me, is there anyone who makes those Maggi noodles in two minutes? It takes me all of five minutes to merely hunt the scissors to cut open the packet. What with hunting for the pan after that, boiling the water and all, it is half-an-hour before I am done. I find that women (at least in the ads) not only manage all this in two minutes but have also dumped a truckload of cut vegetables into the dish. Super-human is what I call that feat.
My friends and relatives, however, have another explanation. They consider me sub-human. I had always vehemently opposed this insinuation but my Maggi exploits made me consider the possibility that they were probably right. Thank God for that court case where Maggi admitted that ‘two minutes’ were only meant euphemistically and did not mean that the cooking could actually be done in two minutes. I may still be considered sub-human – after all, who else can manage to burn a dish of noodles six times out of ten? – but not because of my inability to cook noodles in two minutes.
The other place where two minutes loom large in anyone’s lives is in interviews. People, who cannot understand their spouses after a lifetime, think that they can judge a potential employee in two minutes. I know because I have been an interviewer in my time. I would say it is, maybe, a shade easier when you are testing knowledge rather than potential. After all, if you ask a candidate, “Who rules India, currently?” and he answers, “Manmohan Singh”, you can reject him out of hand for his lack of knowledge since everyone knows that it is Sonia Gandhi who rules India.
Comes to testing potential, as in the case of selecting students for a prestigious university, two minutes is not really a whole lot of time. I still recollect one of my interviews where I was asked, “Quickly tell me three things common between caroms and management.” I said, “Objectives, planning and coordination.” You could probably cite the same three as common attributes for going down to the local tea-shop with a friend. Objective: Drink a cup of tea. Planning: Strategizing an argument to convince the tea-shop owner into letting you have the tea despite the humungous bill you have run up with him and cannot pay. Coordination: If the tea-shop owner gets after you with blood in his eye, you need to run away without tripping over each other. (Psst! You run left! I run right!)
If two minutes is all you will take to judge the potential of a person, the only attribute you can test, as is readily evident, is glibness. In fact, that is about all that an interviewer ends up testing in an interview. Accounts for the fact that you get people with the ability to talk their way out of any situation but are incapable of shifting a piece of dirt even one inch north-northwest of where it used to be without calling for a tender!
My worst experience with two minutes was with a plumber. He came to my house, looked knowingly at my water-closet which was busily regurgitating everything it had swallowed, and said, “I’ll be back in two minutes!” It is a month gone now and I am still waiting!
I think this happens because we are a fiercely independent nation. We resent the idea that anyone should dictate to us about how many seconds we should attribute to the minute. Just because someone has the quaint notion that each minute should contain sixty seconds does not mean that he has the right to impose those ideas on everyone else. Do we live in a democracy or is it a dictatorship?
We may promise to deliver something in two minutes (or any number of minutes as the mood takes us) but we reserve the right to allocate as many seconds as we please to each minute – on a case-by-case basis! To think that each minute should only consist of sixty seconds is the limitation of a plodding mind and we are infinitely creative people who can think out-of-the-box!
This piece, too, was written in two minutes – of the inelastic variety!

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Sunday, June 3, 2012

Blank Pages

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 28; the 28th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'BLANK PAGES'.

Blank Pages! He stared down at them with the unaccustomed weight of a pen in his hands wondering desolately whether he had the words to get his life back. Geeta’s face appeared, obscuring the pages, with the icy far-away look that had made him feel an outcast far more than any words could have done. Remembering the way her face, posture and tone of voice had made him feel the last time he saw her, he despaired of any chance of reconciliation with her.
At that time all he had felt was anger at the betrayal of his beliefs and had felt that her departure from his life would make little impact on him. He had not been prepared for the feeling of vacuum in his heart or for the fact that he could find no savor in all the things that he had, till then, enjoyed. His pride would still have stood in the way of approaching her for reconciliation but last week’s incident had upset all his notions.
So, here he was staring down at these blank pages trying to find the words that would bring Geeta back to him. His calls had gone unattended; his SMSes ignored and emails probably deleted unseen. His only chance now was that a letter from him would get her attention.
 * * * * * *
He could still recollect his early days after his marriage to Geeta. She was not a raving beauty but her eyes were lovely and, when she smiled, her whole face lit up with irresistible charm. She smiled often those days and was so accommodating then that he still had difficulty in reconciling to the fact that she could have become so aloof to him in the five odd years of marriage.
On their honeymoon, he had presented her with a red salwar-kameez. Her eyes had looked at him with so much affection that his heart had turned over. Then she said softly, “This is a lovely present, Ajay! My favorite color is blue, however. Would it be possible to exchange this?”
“I love red, Geeta! Blue is such an insipid color. Please get used to wearing red”, he had said. Her eyes showed hurt for a moment. Then, she had smiled brilliantly and said, “Ok!”
Even though theirs had been an arranged marriage, Geeta seemed to have so much affection for him even in the initial days that she would do anything to please him. It was not as though she was financially dependent on him considering that she was a banker as he was and they worked at almost coeval positions.
In fact, looking back, he could hardly remember her wearing blue dresses in the five years of their married life. It was still surprising to him that such an accommodating person had turned so adamantine in a short span of five years.
* * * * * *
The initial days after marriage and the process of settling into a new routine are normally turbulent especially when it comes to a working couple. He had not found it very difficult, however. They had, somehow, settled in remarkably well very soon. Now, in retrospect, it seemed to him that it was Geeta’s soft-spoken and generous nature that ensured the achievement of the equilibrium with little acrimony. He did help her around the house but, now that he saw those days with more clarity, whenever there was something disputatious it had been Geeta who had given way with grace.
Food had, however, been a problem. Neither of them was too fond of eating out and, thus, Geeta had taken over the cooking but her idea of food was too chilli-laden for his bland tastes.
“God! You are expected to add chillies to the vegetables not vegetables to the chillies”
“I’m sorry, Ajay! At my home, we eat food as hot as this.”
“You are no longer at your parents’ place, Geeta! Please make something edible for me”
It took about three months before the food became palatable to him. Till then the dining table had been a battlefield from where Geeta had invariably retreated in tears. He had soothed away her hurt in the night but it was only after she had learned to cook blandly enough that the house had turned peaceful.
* * * * * *
Life had gone on with relatively little friction for the next five years. True, there had been disputes when Geeta put her office responsibilities above their commitments to his family. Initially she, at least, used to apologize and try to give her flimsy reasons for not being able to come to his cousin’s wedding or his nephew’s first birthday. Lately she had taken to listening to his righteous anger in meek silence but did not change her ways. That was the only fly in the ointment as far as his marital life was concerned.
The bombshell when it fell was totally unexpected. Geeta had got a coveted posting in UK from her bank and came home excited about it.
“You refused the posting, didn’t you?” said he, confidently.
“Why would I?”
“How can you shift to London when I am working in Mumbai?”
“You can find a job in London, can’t you?”
“I am doing very well in this bank now and can expect to reach the top. How can I jeopardize all that? You go over tomorrow and tell your office that you cannot take up this posting.”
Geeta was silent. He was sure that she would refuse the posting the next day. It had been a long tiring day for him and he went to sleep almost immediately after.
The next day he came back from his bank and found Geeta all packed up.
“Ajay! I am moving to my parent’s place right now. I have taken up my posting and will be leaving for London within a month.”
“What?? Geeta! What do you mean?”
“Listen, Ajay! I have not been happy in this marital life of ours for quite some time now. I am not sacrificing my career merely in order to live the sort of frustrating life that I have been leading till now.”
“What do you mean not happy? I have been helping you around the house, putting up with your entire obsession with your office and giving you a decent lifestyle. What do you think anyone else would do better than me?”
Geeta flared up. “Helping me around the house? Putting up with my obsession? Nothing that the two of us did around the house was our job with you, was it? It was mine and when you did something you were magnanimously helping me out. You never stopped to think about what makes me happy, either. You never bothered to ask me how I felt about the life we were leading or what sort of lifestyle I would have wanted to lead. Don’t talk to me about how good a husband you have been to me!”
“Ha! So if you think you can find someone better than me go right ahead.” he yelled.
Never had he seen Geeta look as she did then. She gave the impression of an aloof ice sculpture and her eyes looked at him with total disdain. In a voice cold as the wind from the Arctic she said, “I have left my contacts on the table. You may require them for legal purposes. Goodbye, Ajay!” Her voice and demeanor made the parting seem final and irrevocable.
 * * * * * *
He had still not got over Geeta’s betrayal. Three months had gone by and she had been in London for the last two of them. He has thought that she would come over to him for reconciliation but she had not bothered to even inform him of her departure. Sometimes it seemed to him that she had merely been putting on an act of affection when they were still a couple. At other times, he blamed her career ambitions for getting in the way of their marital life.
What he could never understand was why she was so angry about the life that they had lead. He had never forced anything on her and she could always have done what she wanted. He had never refused to do anything that she had asked him to do though, of course, he did grumble about it as who did not? It seemed to him like she had unreasonably accused him and justified her act of putting her career above their relationship by blaming him without reason. He missed her badly, nevertheless, and was sometimes sorely tempted to call her up but his pride would not let him do so.
* * * * * *
It was a busy day at office and his boss called him in just when he was planning to call it a day.
“Listen, Ajay! You will have to stay back tonight. Remember that project loan we are processing? Apparently the client is in a hurry and our management wants it processed expeditiously. You have to make a presentation for me by tomorrow so that I can have it cleared for taking up with the credit committee.”
He was irritated. It was close to 8 PM and his boss was practically ordering him to stay without sleep that night without even the courtesy of making it a request. He swallowed his resentment, collected the details and went back to his cabin.
It was 4 AM by the time he was done with the job. He saw little reason to go back home since he would have to be back by 9 AM to hand over the fruits of his work to his boss.
While explaining the details of the presentation to his boss, he could not help yawning repeatedly.
“Sleepy so early in the morning, Ajay?” said his boss, censoriously.
“Had to stay at office all night to finish this presentation”
“That is your job, Ajay!” said his boss dismissively and returned to the work at hand.
Ajay was furious. First he had been asked to do something out of the way, sacrificing his sleep, without even the courtesy of an apology. Now that he had done it his boss was taking it totally for granted. No wonder this man was the least-liked boss in the entire bank.
For no reason his mind went back to Geeta, then. Suddenly, the reason why Geeta left him hit him like a douche of icy cold water.
* * * * * *
How could he have been so self-centered? So insensitive? So domineering? He had never thought of himself as a bad person but, suddenly, it seemed to him that he had been positively evil in his treatment of Geeta. He had always thought that he loved Geeta but, now, it seemed to him that he had not even known the meaning of love.
Geeta had loved him or, at least, tried to ensure that they lead a life of love. She had tried to make him happy at the cost of sacrificing her own likes. He, on the other hand, had not never ever bothered to even learn what she liked nor had he given any importance to the likes and dislikes that she had voluntarily expressed. Worse still, he had taken her sacrifices for granted without even a cursory acknowledgement. In effect, what he disliked in his boss was exactly what he had done to Geeta. Now, it seemed to him a wonder that she had stayed with him for as long as five years.
It was neither what he sought her to do nor what he did not do that was the problem for Geeta. He realized that now. It was his attitude. When first he had presented her the red salwar and she had expressed a preference for blue he could have said, “I love seeing you in red, Geeta! Will you please wear it for my sake” and she would have happily done so. Instead he had laid down the rule. She had been hurt but still generous enough to fall in with his wishes for all their time together and it had not even struck him as necessary to tell her how much he appreciated that.
He cringed when he thought of their initial battles about food. Why had it never struck him that if he felt difficulty eating hot food, Geeta would have equal difficulty in eating bland food? After all, your tastes are determined by what you have been brought up on and changing them would be as difficult for her as for him. Instead, he had imposed his tastes on her, derided her when she was changing over her style of cooking and had grudgingly acknowledged the change-over. Never once had he even thought about how much affection she must have had for him to put up with all that and, still, change her tastes to suit.
It seemed to him that Geeta had asked little of him but an acknowledgement of the fact that she was doing things to please him because she wanted him to be happy and not because she felt bound to do so. By refusing to even give her that acknowledgement he had made her feel like a servant instead of his wife. Now he could realize that Geeta must have felt that there was no use in discussing her career with him since he had never once bothered to consider her point of view.
She had been an essentially non-aggressive person and, subconsciously, he had equated that with weakness. Had she been truly weak she would have continued to compromise with him and lead a loveless life till the end of their days together. When she showed how strong she was by deciding to leave him, he had lashed out in surprised anger and, probably, lost her for ever.
* * * * * *
Geeta had been like a flower ready to give freely of her fragrance and he had chosen to try to crush the flower to get the fragrance. He smiled wryly. The time for poetic fancies was when Geeta had still not lost hope of a loving relationship with him. They seemed out of place now that she had frozen her emotions against him. So frozen had she become that for one week now all his attempts at communicating with her had fallen on deaf ears.
A wave of guilt rushed through him. If he had caused Geeta to become less willing to love, less willing to be generous with the people around her and frozen in her emotions; if he had indeed crushed all the fragrance out of her then that was a sin far worse than the five years of, what he now acknowledged as, misery that he had caused her to live through. It seemed more important to him, now, to apologize for his unpardonable behavior than to even try to get her back in his life.
He bent towards the blank pages – as blank as his desolate life – and started to write.
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Sunday, May 6, 2012

ONCE AGAIN


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 27; the 27th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'Once Again'.
 * * * * * *
 Once again I have lost my girl-friend. I lament about this to my friend and he comes out with an Oscar Wilde quote, “Losing one may be termed a misfortune. Losing two can only be sheer carelessness” and laughs immoderately. Such is the sympathy of friends!
But, really! I cannot see why this happens to me. Thanks to an industrious dad, I go around in up-market cars, wear designer apparel and am a generous party animal. I look good enough to eat, as my current ex-girlfriend remarked very frequently when she was still my girlfriend. My expressive eyes have been the talk of all the girls. Though they seem to have expressed very little to men, the way they pop out when they see a beautiful girl must have been very eloquent to the women.
Above all, I have a great sense of humor. In fact, both my former girlfriends were drawn to me by my sense of humor …… or so they said.
* * * * *
“I really love your sense of humor”, said Nita looking meltingly at me. I melt very easily when it comes to beautiful women. Nita may not be the sort that draws wolf-whistles from street Romeos but if you get up close to her and look into her eyes, you would find it difficult to think of anything else.
From then on, Nita and I were practically inseparable. Friends used to joke that someone had stuck us together with Fevi-kwick and, when I say I actually regretted that such a thing had not happened, you can realize how far gone I was.
One day, Nita came over in a sari apparently gifted by an aunt, who seemed to have quaint ideas not only about the sort of apparel but also about the colors preferred by young women. The poor girl also had to parade in it in order to satisfy her aunt about how much she liked the gift.
“This sari makes me look real ugly”, lamented Nita. With a sort of dirty gray sprayed irregularly over a psychedelic green, that sari would have made Helen of Troy look like a gargoyle.
I could not resist it. I looked her up and down and said, “You look no different”.
All the friends erupted in laughter but, somehow, it seemed that Nita did not find the joke funny. Yeah! Well! Sometimes people are slow on the uptake and find it embarrassing to laugh when they do get it half an hour later.
Two days down the line, Nita came to me and said, ‘You don’t love me any more, do you?”
I was shocked. “Of course I love you.”
“No! Is it Sheetal? Or, maybe Mala?”
“No darling! There is nobody but you”
I proceeded to express my love for her with my lips – not by speaking of course! She seemed to shed her doubts and things reverted to the way it was before - except that, every now and then, she used to cast speculative glances at me particularly when Sheetal was around.
Nita was upset that day. Our entire group was congregated in the college canteen when she burst out, “This photographer is really an idiot. How can I give such awful photos to prospective employers?”
“Ah! Nita! The camera can only capture what is there” I said in my usual jovial tones. Once again, Nita did not seem to get the joke. For a person who loved me for my sense of humor she was pretty slow on the uptake.
For the next five days I did not see Nita. On the sixth day Anil and she were walking towards me and I called her. She came over to me and said, “Harish! You know you don’t love me. I don’t want to hang around your neck when you want to be rid of me. So let us just be good friends.” From the tone of her voice it seemed like she thought that the only good friend was a dead friend!
“But..but…” I stammered.
“It is OK, Harish! No need to make excuses for breaking off from me. I understand”, she said and walked away to join Anil in what looked like the start of another Fevi-kwick relationship.
Can someone tell me whether I dumped her or she dumped me? It seemed as though I had broken up with her but, for the life of me, I cannot remember having done so.
That was my first girlfriend.
* * * * *
“Your sense of humor is fabulous”
There must be something to feminine intuition. Sheetal meant nothing to me when Nita expressed her suspicions but, apparently, I meant something to her. If Nita’s was the sort of beauty that grew on you, Sheetal’s beauty thrust itself into your notice, if you know what I mean. This, then, was the girl who was saying that my sense of humor was of the stuff of fables!
Sheetal as a girlfriend was far different from Nita. With Nita we were stuck to each other but she preferred time apart from the crowd. Sheetal, however, could not do without a crowd of satellites and, thus, we were always at the center of a boisterous mob.
One day, Sheetal came over with her curly hair straightened out.
“How do I look?” she asked us in general.
“Of course your looks have improved. Any change could only have been an improvement”, I joked. Guffaws of laughter erupted from our crowd. Sheetal, strangely, had a frown on her face. I don’t know what it is with girls. They cannot understand the simplest jokes!
That very evening, Sheetal came over and said, “Harish! It is all off between us. You have no empathy, no consideration for my feelings. I don’t think I want to spend time with someone whose love is so shallow” and stormed away leaving me with the eternal question of the male species - “But what did I do?” - still hovering on my lips.
So, once again I had lost my girlfriend!
* * * * *
Can someone please tell me what is going wrong?
Because, you see….
Once again, a girl is absolutely in love with my sense of humor. I don’t want to lose her too!
* * * * *

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