Strings Attached!

On my way back from Lucknow yesterday I met a person, actually I just ‘saw’ him. He was sitting on the berth opposite to mine in the general compartment (the only place where you find the most unnatural terra inhabitants). He was sitting along with four others on the berth which could hardly bear the weight of the bulky demons resting their unnaturally bulky bums on it. What a bum deal it was for the berth! I was seated with five skinny men and was with the window.

The man of the focus was quite accomplished in health terms; he was dark and must have been around fifty. He talked like a prodigy, as if he knew everything that people in general avoid, everything that is weird for igniting a conversation. I don’t remember anyone from earth or heaven that begins a conversation by asking the prices of real estates in Lucknow or Jaipur. He asked such questions and later I got to know that the question was rhetorical and was intended to down-show the other intellects sitting there which comprised mainly of the Google expert millennial including me. His smirk of the victory was heavenly as if he conquered the Marxist ideologies. I did not participate the blind debate other jumped in, it reminds me of the news channel debates which are dominated if and only if you have a highest volume in the panel, these debates never reach to a conclusion. I plugged in my earphones, without music though, intending to hear the expert panel and snub the messers at the same time.

The holy man of the hour was strange man. He was a clerk in some government institution. He was all tied and tangled up in strings. He had around eight strings ruling his pathetically thick neck (I guess the neck stored fat ‘under the table’). Those strings were attached to different pouches made in army camouflaged cloth piece. They were different in sizes, quite like his eyes which had unbalanced size. He kept his phone in one, pens in other, dedicated a pouch for his broken spectacles and wallet in one of them. And his shirt’s pocket had ‘chana’ in it. He had, maybe, a compulsive fear of pickpockets, but did he know that we had chain snatchers also, for this purpose. But I guess chain snatchers look only into women’s cleavage for pendants and necklaces and the fatso looked manly enough to bypass their skepticism. He was different in a funny sort of way. He had a holster like leather pouch where he secured his ‘paan masala’. Besides all of these securities he had a leather bag too which had a lock on the zipper and the strap was fastened to his waist.

I deduce mathematically that if one pouch corresponds to one kangaroo he represented a complete kin and kinship of the specie. It was rakshabandhan and thus he had one more string on his wrist representing that he was in stringed relationship with his sister as he was with his props.

Kafan mein jeb nahi hoti,’ someone, I remember, recently said, to which, someone else replied (I remember the voice of Lalu Prasad Yadav), ‘Inke kafan me jeb nahi jhola hai jhola.’ Who knows this very man maybe lusty enough for his props to get a designer ‘kafan’ with pockets and strings reserved for himself .


I believe in Miracles!

Oh yes! I believe in miracles,

I’ve seen infinite of them.

I have seen a little bridge hold strong

under the weight of

infinite people with infinite locks in their infinite hands,

and infinite faith in their infinite hearts,

infinite names on the infinite locks,

infinite keys and their infinite dissolution in the infinite water.

An infinite wish for their infinite love,

To hold strong till infinite ends.


Chew! Chew! Chew! Arrrgh!… and then I thought about the fourth, but how did I reach four? Did I skip the first three or my Adam’s apple is leaking numbers! Oh no! I didn’t leak, I mean my apple didn’t. I first thought of the first then the second and so on.

The three prominent apples of the global history. First one came from a tree, I mean all of them did but the first one is always pictured with the tree. Newton sat below it and the fall, the holy, royal fall, the esoteric fall (my schoolmates called it a cursed fall) changed the overall physics. Second one went to Alan Turing who was so embarrassed and disgusted by the allegations over him that he could not take a second bite before his demise. A similar stingy apple went to snow white (Warning! I am not reckoning apples of fantasy) and the bite could not cross her Adam’s apple (wait, do girls have Adam’s apple?). The apple stuck in her throat like she stuck in our childhood fantasies before we found ourselves growing up with Emma Watson through the Harry Potter’s heptology. The next apple fell into the blessed lap of Steve Jobs, who too dug his teeth into it just once and the rival companies minced in pain. The bite had a long lasting impact, maybe it had a wee bit touch of snow white’s and Alan Turing’s fatal apples as he was once diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Thankfully Steve was stronger!

As Lalu Prasad Yadav cursed Nitish Yadav in his crass dialect about the so called backstabbing, I happened to spot my fourth apple. His Adam’s apple! Does he really have one? Oh yes, but it is kept safe under a heaped fat of Benamis and allegations. He cannot let it open for Nitish to fodder upon, correction ‘feast upon’. His strong kin-o-philic nature holds him from doing so. And maybe it is safe that it is concealed, anyone who has feasted on it is under CBI probe (his kids for example). Close escape Nitish! It might have resulted similar to Turing’s fate or constructively it (the worth concealed in his Adam’s apple) could have produced many jobs or better, Steve Jobs! Happy and safe apple eating!

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The idea of penning this incident down came when I noticed two girls, in my university campus, posing for a selfie, from underneath the scarf that draped their face like a mummified corpse.  Weird enough to be laughed at and provoking enough to be avoided! I’m sure they must have produced a pout under the scarf, but the poor camera wasn’t powerful enough and could not scan, their lips dwindling, under the scarf. Thankfully it did not have the power, the x-ray vision; it would have blushed seeing the absurdity underneath the drape. Similar phenomenon has been observed for burqahs in every corner of the earth (corner! But I have heard that earth is round!). Women have often been spotted posing for camera from the drapery of burqahs. How exciting it would be to let the camera explore only the eyes (sometimes they too are behind laces and mesh) and a body covered in loose burqahs (it is almost impossible to guess the figure)! For some esoteric reason their elation is similar to the level of a regular girl clicking her selfie. It’s their picture, and I’m sure they remember the expression and thus, can see it, a pout, a bubble, a tease, or some other incomprehensible expression people often produce for the camera.

There are added advantages to the drapery trend besides protection from lusty eyes and equally lecherous pollution. You can always use it for identity theft and no one dares probe into your burqahs or general little drape, scarf. Women are quite privileged nowadays. Once upon a time there was a messiah named Feminism and he proposed the two sexes to be treated equal. I remember an incident from Kanpur railway station, my friend stood in a queue for ticket, it was a high time, diwali, and the head-legs-flood was on. A fat woman came pushing people and my friend objected. “Aunty line se aaiye please.” To this her reply was “Ladke, dikhta nahi ladies hoon!” No judgements on singularity-plurality of ‘ladies’. She was right, for the record she looked two in one.  “Toh please ladies wali line mein jaaiye na.” The women’s line was quite heavy too. “Ladies ki koi izzat hi nahi hai.” She pushed him and marched ahead to the counter. This happens quite often, there are women who demand respect and privileged (mark my words, privileged not equal), try out a public transport. I am quite confused where the limit of feminism ends and abuse starts. I am a feminist at heart but I surely loath the ‘demanded privilege’. Identity theft. You can put on a huge windshield, correction, huge sunglasses (still not much difference though), for better results. It is trendy plus traditional way to conceal identity. You might possibly forget using a concealer in makeup but scarf or burqahs compensates it completely, but I’m sure you do not want to forget mascara and kajal and eyeliner and god knows what all is smeared on eyes. It is unbiased, like many young men; to the exotic beauty or holy ugliness of your face it hides everything. Nevertheless as it conceals, it beautifies you too, exposing your killer eyes. Eyes in burqahs and scarf generally look beautiful, you might have so well reconstructed the face that sometimes the revelation might kill you.

Once a man on a bus I was travelling was continually flirting with a burqah lady who had, apparently, beautiful eyes. The lady too, supposedly, was playing along. Thirty kilometers of journey before the man saw her shriveled and aged hand. It was embarrassing for him and hilarious for me. You cannot ask a girl to lift the veil; you do not want to get a slap or worse a fatwa against you (worst if someone executes the demands of fatwa). In the times of scarcity, feel free to use the scarf as a bed sheet of towel (government has started issuing sanitary pads in hospitals I suppose, thankfully, else… who knows). The trend redefines the liberty and reusability; you conceal your assets before papa using the scarf as dupatta and are free to reveal it before boyfriend.

Another incident happened at a paani-puri makeshift shop near my home. A teen couple (apprarently) sat waiting for their orders and the girl happened to see her father pass by. She safely pulled on her scarf. Identity saved! ‘Get on your boyfriend’s bike before papa; it is now possible with our version 2.0 rainbow scarf’. You can also walk past your boyfriend with a new boyfriend, unnoticed! We have enough justified arguments and evidences in its favor. It protects you form dust, smoke and tan. But do we get tanned at nights too or inside a restaurant or even in rain? It is like a person wearing sunglasses at night or in bathroom.

Let us take an oath to get our pictures clicked in pompously colored drapes on funerals and let our boyfriends guess us from our eyes, if they don’t, lets dump them on the name of this holy drapery trend. Relationship status: Draped in a complicated relationship.

Thanks for reading.


Is it the “White Powder”?

He fell down with a crash. He is my fried and if he falls, with a plate full of eatables, smearing
himself all over, what am I supposed to do? What do they expect a friend, like me, to do? Well I’m
expected to laugh, laugh till my stomach starts to pain like heel. Laugh in such an uncivilized way that
the party looks at me in disgust, treating me a man from Paleolithic age.
Why am I silent then? Why am I so indifferent? Why am I so grave and intense in my expressions?
Why am I not affected by the party’s music, why is the food not appealing me? What in me is bringing
this cataclysm of anguish? Why are my lips numb? Why aren’t they yelling like my heart is?
What is the deafening noise inside me all about? Is it the flinch, the sleeplessness, the drink? Is
sleep taking over me? Why can’t I sleep then? Why can’t I feel rest even when I didn’t sleep for two
days? Oh why am I feeling like death? Is my doom approaching?
Everything around me is so scary and awful. Will I feel pain if I stab my heart thousand times? Will
I bleed if I slit my veins? Will I die craving of powder?
Why am I drowning in the swamp of reverberations? Why are the echoes shrill enough to rip open
my bosom? Why am I feeling so much pain? I need the powder


Blessed is the…

A compartmented repost from my post ” The Divinity of Love” posted on 17th of august in 2016…

“Today I went thru two such moments. No matter I see something like that everyday but noticing was what I did today. A cute little girl with her father! It soothes me a lot. Try it someday and see your lips curling to smile, effortlessly. I saw a girl, maybe five or seven in years, with her father sitting on their parked scooter along a roadside bhutta stall. They were sharing it turn by turn. It wasn’t like the father was the richest or was the bike was posh nor the girl was a hot teenager (which, I admit, is the only thing “expected” to hold people of my age at a place). They were turn by turn nibbling the unit bhutta ,happy and content in their world of two, disconnected from the surrounding. Sometime views like these arouse in me a feeling to be a father, of a girl child (don’t judge me as a sexist but I absolutely have no idea why a girl). To be laughing and fooling with my cute little daughter whole day round. To be tending her when she’s sick, to take her on long rides and enjoying roadside bhutta and chain rain, to be madly celebrating reasonlessly, to go with her on hikes and to play tricks on her mom with her, to go for ice creams mid nights, watching movies and never letting her lose her innocence. I feel it though I am too young a man to feel the rush of these elderly desires, but I do feel it. Given a chance I would love to forget for the rationality, the calculative me and be her loved father and crazy friend forever. Though I’m not expected to but I can feel the happiness of being called “Papa aaj office mat jao na…” by my cute daughter. Oh yes it is heavenly good feeling and I find myself doing injustice trying to comprehend it in words.”