The art of balancing oneself is perhaps the most difficult thing in a human’s life. I don’t remember the days when I took the first giant step independently, but I still remember the days I balanced myself in a bicycle.
All bruised, bloodied, I still remember the joys of paddling my cycle and wondering how the whole world is passing besides me, saluting me…hey this boy has grown up, take notice of him…he is not a kid anymore…salute, salute.
The dogs I used to feed biscuits (stolen from the kitchen) everyday, sprang up from their lazy naps. They were undecided on whether to bark or not in this unusual scene. I zoomed past my cycle from the busy hens pecking dusty grains, they started a cacophonous complaint as a new trouble has strike them from the heaven.
I felt proud to be the master of this universe. I was a HE-MAN, wearing half-pant and vest, my sweats drying fast in the cold morning air.
I got a foothold, a mould, and descended respectfully. I turned my bicycle and saw, the whole world was looking at me with amazement and aw. All my neighbors, people who had come to the pond for a morning dip, they were looking at me smilingly. Some had that sleepy laziness still instilled on their eye. Brushing his teeth, Brojoda clapped at me. Mohiruda was standing beside him. I looked at him, he smiled. That means I have passed. First flight without a crash landing. Ten out of ten. That smile of my guru told me I have got the driving license to go beyond Shukli’s ground and cruise upto Pandit’s math. I was only seven, but I could sense Mohiruda’s smile was something more than the approval. I payed him his hardwork of teaching me the sense of balance.
Probably my mother or my father was the one who taught me how to balance on my feet, Mohiruda taught me how to balance on wheels. A much much tougher job done. I remember how he used to run after me, hours and hours, hoding my seat, boxing my ears, slapping me, teasing me on my crashes and then suddenly hugging me when I was at the point of breaking down. Encouraging me to try another bold attempt. With his encouraging words, I used to forget the pain of my freshly bruised legs, elbows, arms, and once again attempt to conquer the metal monster. I made my guru happy.
Whenever I attempted to try a new something on wheels, I have always remembered my guru of first flight. I attempted to drive a scooter, I called him, motorcycle…I prayed to him, four wheeler…again I tried to remember the face of him. Mohiruda. His untimely death left a vacuum in my life, never to be filed by anyone.
(Since it’s a blog, I took the liberty of paying homage to him, now let’s get back to the original agenda)
At a distance I saw my sister, dancing at my feat. Father holding her. Smile on his face. I saw my mother hoding on the grill of our verandah. I couldn’t make out whether she was smiling or not.
And since she was the most beautiful lady known to me so far, and I was always on the lookout to impress her, I jumped on to my bike and paddled hard to impress her with my skills…this time I crash landed…on a dry drain…forgot what happened that day.
I woke up and found myself with people who were encouraging me minutes (or is it hours?) before. I discovered I have fractured my skull, my left leg and has broken two fingers.
Luckily I survived…but didn’t ride my bicycle until I was twelve and could touch the ground, seating on the seat. Cycle was a necessary means to go to my school and not a fun anymore.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Eligible bachelor needs a girl
That day I proposed a girl. She refused me saying I am like her brother.
Than again I proposed another girl, she said I look like a cobbler…I didn’t go further.
Than again I proposed a girl, she said she is suffering from aids. Ups…fishing in troubled water.
Than again I proposed a girl, she smiled and said she is single. I said great. Got the green signal. Got the go ahead. Fixed the date, venue, menu and figured out secretly items of panu (for beginners).
She came with a baby. Said, that bastard is her bundle of joy. Flight of fantasy. Chucked the idea, ran for life.
Than again proposed a girl. This time half-minded. The idea was to have fun. I was fed up exercising alone. Needed a change.
She consented to go with me. Venue mine, menu mine, idea mine, all panu party.
Went behind a bamboo bush. Had some frooty and Britannia biscuit. Played with her hands, hairs, lips…reached for the blouse. Touched something paperish. What’s this? I exclaimed?
“rate card” she said. Your bill still now is…Rs.50. she calculated. Showed the rate card.
Had only rs.35 in pocket. After some negotiation, matter settled in Rs 33. kept Rs 2 for a goldflake to cool my nerve. Was not a respectful exit though. She uttered all sorts of slangs. ‘khankee’ to start with and ‘asshole’ to conclude with.
After that stopped searching for girls.
My esteemed friends, if you don’t want me to become a misogynist. Get me a girl. Without a rate card. Caste no bar.
Promise, will invite you in our marriage.
Than again I proposed another girl, she said I look like a cobbler…I didn’t go further.
Than again I proposed a girl, she said she is suffering from aids. Ups…fishing in troubled water.
Than again I proposed a girl, she smiled and said she is single. I said great. Got the green signal. Got the go ahead. Fixed the date, venue, menu and figured out secretly items of panu (for beginners).
She came with a baby. Said, that bastard is her bundle of joy. Flight of fantasy. Chucked the idea, ran for life.
Than again proposed a girl. This time half-minded. The idea was to have fun. I was fed up exercising alone. Needed a change.
She consented to go with me. Venue mine, menu mine, idea mine, all panu party.
Went behind a bamboo bush. Had some frooty and Britannia biscuit. Played with her hands, hairs, lips…reached for the blouse. Touched something paperish. What’s this? I exclaimed?
“rate card” she said. Your bill still now is…Rs.50. she calculated. Showed the rate card.
Had only rs.35 in pocket. After some negotiation, matter settled in Rs 33. kept Rs 2 for a goldflake to cool my nerve. Was not a respectful exit though. She uttered all sorts of slangs. ‘khankee’ to start with and ‘asshole’ to conclude with.
After that stopped searching for girls.
My esteemed friends, if you don’t want me to become a misogynist. Get me a girl. Without a rate card. Caste no bar.
Promise, will invite you in our marriage.
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Beyond words
Read this to know how bastards we are.
Shooting survivor tells of torture ordeal
Thanks to Feroze for this link.
Shooting survivor tells of torture ordeal
Thanks to Feroze for this link.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
My sister asked for my blog link yesterday. i gave her. Immediately it got distributed to her friends.
From now onwards my brother will also read it. Hmmm...so from now onwards, no panu...no nothing.
Only vegetarian dishes with no spice in it. Will have to delete all the explosive stuffs. i am a good boy. Rebirth of Ghetufool.
From now onwards my brother will also read it. Hmmm...so from now onwards, no panu...no nothing.
Only vegetarian dishes with no spice in it. Will have to delete all the explosive stuffs. i am a good boy. Rebirth of Ghetufool.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Humanity
Morning I saw mass slaughtering. Goats were sacrificed in the occasion of Bakri Eid.
I have no objection in butchering. After all biryani is next to heaven. But what moved me was the helpless cries of the goats.
They were watching their mates dragged or carried away and their throats slit. Worst still it was all happening in front of their eyes. The animal was skinned just in front of them. oh, will never forget how their eyes were fixed on their freshly butchered friend’s body, hanging from a clip. They were not looking anywhere else. Their eyes moist with tears, I could realize they were crying in their broken voice. The youngest of them was literally shivering. They were desperately crying for somebody to rescue them. All these sacrificial animals are darn intelligent.
Some boys were trying to drag their horns. They were obliged to follow them, but their eyes…their eyes were fixed on the hanging bodies. They were crying…oh…they were crying like a baby.
I understand sacrifice is necessary. Butchering is necessary for maintaining balance. Besides we are carnivorous animals. We need meat.
But couldn’t be the whole affair done more humanely. If sacrifice was the ultimate moto that why sacrifice and skin in front of them. They could have been kept in a confinement and carried or dragged to their fate one by one, without giving any hint what is going to hit them. But the scene was simply inhumane.
My hometown is Konnagar. My place is famous or infamous for Shakuntala Kali puja. I must confess, I pray to kali maa, whenever I am in trouble or feel lonely. But whenever the puja happens, sotime in April, I curse her like anything. I curse her, cause she is supposed to take care of our well being, than, if she exists (I believe in super natural divineness), why cant she stop these blood thirsty people.
At least one thousand goats get butchered that particular night between 7 pm to 4 am. All the mandir premises gets flooded with the blood of innocent goats. And 1000, is a must, otherwise, people say SHE gets angry. Bloody hell.
There also the animals see what is happening to their mates. In front of their moist eyes, others are chopped. It’s ultimate cruelty.
Aren’t we human beings?
Tomorrow I have to eat the biryani that my house owner would give me. I know I would relish it. I know I would forget last morning’s crime.
After all, I am also a carnivorous human.
I have no objection in butchering. After all biryani is next to heaven. But what moved me was the helpless cries of the goats.
They were watching their mates dragged or carried away and their throats slit. Worst still it was all happening in front of their eyes. The animal was skinned just in front of them. oh, will never forget how their eyes were fixed on their freshly butchered friend’s body, hanging from a clip. They were not looking anywhere else. Their eyes moist with tears, I could realize they were crying in their broken voice. The youngest of them was literally shivering. They were desperately crying for somebody to rescue them. All these sacrificial animals are darn intelligent.
Some boys were trying to drag their horns. They were obliged to follow them, but their eyes…their eyes were fixed on the hanging bodies. They were crying…oh…they were crying like a baby.
I understand sacrifice is necessary. Butchering is necessary for maintaining balance. Besides we are carnivorous animals. We need meat.
But couldn’t be the whole affair done more humanely. If sacrifice was the ultimate moto that why sacrifice and skin in front of them. They could have been kept in a confinement and carried or dragged to their fate one by one, without giving any hint what is going to hit them. But the scene was simply inhumane.
My hometown is Konnagar. My place is famous or infamous for Shakuntala Kali puja. I must confess, I pray to kali maa, whenever I am in trouble or feel lonely. But whenever the puja happens, sotime in April, I curse her like anything. I curse her, cause she is supposed to take care of our well being, than, if she exists (I believe in super natural divineness), why cant she stop these blood thirsty people.
At least one thousand goats get butchered that particular night between 7 pm to 4 am. All the mandir premises gets flooded with the blood of innocent goats. And 1000, is a must, otherwise, people say SHE gets angry. Bloody hell.
There also the animals see what is happening to their mates. In front of their moist eyes, others are chopped. It’s ultimate cruelty.
Aren’t we human beings?
Tomorrow I have to eat the biryani that my house owner would give me. I know I would relish it. I know I would forget last morning’s crime.
After all, I am also a carnivorous human.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
Birthday special
Third January was my birthday. Nothing special to the mankind. Special to me…nah, I don’t think so.
My sister called me up, my mother called me up, my brother called me up, some of my relatives called me up and wished me. My father called me up and scolded me for squandering my money like a fool.
My insurance agent called me up and wished me and added how vital this time is for me to start a new policy.
Planet M wished me via email and extended an offer to buy anything from the store and get a 10 percent discount…specially to celebrate my birthday, Titan industries wished me via email and stated how a particular range of watches would suite me in this vital year of mine. Citizen was ecstatic on their birthday wish mail to me and said, they expect a long-term relationship with me and how timely they are to wish me first…their new range of chronographs are exactly like me…elegant and timeless.
The father-in-law of my cousin, who has dedicated his entire retired life for match-making, called me up and asked whether I am planning to get married this year (I should marry by now, or else it would be too late, he said)? I said ‘no’, he said, “very good, than I am sending some photos to your office address, select and tell me…”
I said, “I said NO”. He said, “I know you said no. That means you have not selected for your own…don’t worry help is in hand…tell me what’s your choice.”
Needless to say I stopped worrying. The photos are due anytime. I would browse through it and figure out with whom I have to sleep lifelong, for whom I have to buy things that I don’t want. For whom I have to unnecessary run to the doctor even if I am healthy, for whom I have to tell lies to my parents and siblings… “no, I don’t have any money left…”
I slept till 2 in the afternoon, woke up and saw my face in the broken mirror. My hairs were next to bushland. I brushed and went to the barber’s shop. Entered, and came back…cause suddenly I remembered my mother had once told me not to have a haircut on my birthday. The barber, who had started cleaning the seat, cursed me on my birthday.
My cousin, who lives with me and is a student, asked for 500 bucks. I gave. He came back with a card and a wallet of Woodland. Gleefully he handed it over to me and said ‘happy birthday’. I was overwhelmed. I tried hard to stop my tears. I became emotional. I wanted to kick him hard on my birthday. I knew, I am not going to get those 500 bucks in the foreseeable future.
And I was amazed to find out how many people I share my birthday with. Believe me or not, while coming to the office, my car got stuck into a jam near a house. It was evening time. The house, beside which I was standing, suddenly burst out in gleeful chorus of 3-70 years old. “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to dear…,” I didn’t hear I increased the volume of the FM to its peak. The driver got a shock.
The jam was over soon. We were on our way; I lowered the volume, said “Thanks to you all.”
P.S. I should not forget Gypsy who was the first friend to wish me…though a little late…at 00.30 on January fourth. There was a serious lamentation on her voice that she missed my birthday. My dear Gypsy, I forgive you and all my friends for this negligence and indifference and once gain would like to say… “thanks to you all.”
My sister called me up, my mother called me up, my brother called me up, some of my relatives called me up and wished me. My father called me up and scolded me for squandering my money like a fool.
My insurance agent called me up and wished me and added how vital this time is for me to start a new policy.
Planet M wished me via email and extended an offer to buy anything from the store and get a 10 percent discount…specially to celebrate my birthday, Titan industries wished me via email and stated how a particular range of watches would suite me in this vital year of mine. Citizen was ecstatic on their birthday wish mail to me and said, they expect a long-term relationship with me and how timely they are to wish me first…their new range of chronographs are exactly like me…elegant and timeless.
The father-in-law of my cousin, who has dedicated his entire retired life for match-making, called me up and asked whether I am planning to get married this year (I should marry by now, or else it would be too late, he said)? I said ‘no’, he said, “very good, than I am sending some photos to your office address, select and tell me…”
I said, “I said NO”. He said, “I know you said no. That means you have not selected for your own…don’t worry help is in hand…tell me what’s your choice.”
Needless to say I stopped worrying. The photos are due anytime. I would browse through it and figure out with whom I have to sleep lifelong, for whom I have to buy things that I don’t want. For whom I have to unnecessary run to the doctor even if I am healthy, for whom I have to tell lies to my parents and siblings… “no, I don’t have any money left…”
I slept till 2 in the afternoon, woke up and saw my face in the broken mirror. My hairs were next to bushland. I brushed and went to the barber’s shop. Entered, and came back…cause suddenly I remembered my mother had once told me not to have a haircut on my birthday. The barber, who had started cleaning the seat, cursed me on my birthday.
My cousin, who lives with me and is a student, asked for 500 bucks. I gave. He came back with a card and a wallet of Woodland. Gleefully he handed it over to me and said ‘happy birthday’. I was overwhelmed. I tried hard to stop my tears. I became emotional. I wanted to kick him hard on my birthday. I knew, I am not going to get those 500 bucks in the foreseeable future.
And I was amazed to find out how many people I share my birthday with. Believe me or not, while coming to the office, my car got stuck into a jam near a house. It was evening time. The house, beside which I was standing, suddenly burst out in gleeful chorus of 3-70 years old. “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to dear…,” I didn’t hear I increased the volume of the FM to its peak. The driver got a shock.
The jam was over soon. We were on our way; I lowered the volume, said “Thanks to you all.”
P.S. I should not forget Gypsy who was the first friend to wish me…though a little late…at 00.30 on January fourth. There was a serious lamentation on her voice that she missed my birthday. My dear Gypsy, I forgive you and all my friends for this negligence and indifference and once gain would like to say… “thanks to you all.”
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Personal column
I was fed up with my work environment. It was impossible.
What you would feel if you would have been in my place? A twenty-five year-old hunk helplessly watching his well-into-fifties news editor wooing all the girls in the office. Damn…
Frankly, I didn’t give a damn, let him be. But I was in my wit’s end when I saw that monkey of a character wooing my prospective would be wife, the would be mother of my prospective bundles of joys. Damn…
Its then that I decided to cut short this retiring don-juan’s antics.
After I joined this newspaper, I had pinpointed kamalika as my wife. It didn’t matter that she once told me (jokingly…she was not serious) that I looked like a toad and that kiwi-shoe polish has a colour dedicated to me…the most used one.
But I didn’t lose my courage. My mind is one-track. If I have decided that I am going to be the father of kamalika’s children, than that would be done.
That monkey of a news editor had that habit of hugging girls without any notice… “oh mandakini you had done a great job…(gives a bear-hug) great…carry on…I will hike your salary (another hug…with a peck in the cheek, close to the lips) you know I see you as my own daughter (with glistening eyes.)”
He had at least twenty daughters like that running all across the office, trying to avoid that fatherly love.
And since he was also the incharge of recruitment, the office was getting loaded with daughters. I, along with one or two boys (he used to refer us as ‘bloody scoundrels’) was the only people flying the male flag.
I didn’t mind his fatherly lovemaking. The geography of those girls were not that good. Nearly all were sub-saharan desert.
…But then, kamalika joined as the new translator and the birdie long asleep in my heart started singing rabindrasangeet from ‘premporjay’.
For the first time in my life I realized I have this incurable feeling, a burning sensation which is entirely different from the usual attack of acidity. I couldn’t sleep at night. I needed a side pillow along with the usual one at my head. Whenever I was closing my eyes I was seeing kamalika smiling at me. Winking…caressing my greasy hair with ultimate satisfaction, resting herself on my shoulder, appearing in different makeups, in different dresses, starting from a saree to gown to skirt to miniskirt to…to…. It was a torture. A pleasant torture. I was just closing my eyes and could see and feel and …and …and…what not. And readers don’t make fun of it; I am not an expert in censoring my dreams.
I realized I am in love.
And that spelt the doom of that bastard news-editor.
But I must confess (I hope kamalika doesn’t know my blog…thus she is not reading it) kamalika is the most dull and stupid girl I have ever seen or met with. She is a complete bimbo, I must confess (I wished our children get the geography of kama and brain of mine). Whenever that bastard use to ‘congratulate’ her, she used to ‘congratulate’ him back. And my blood used to boil like iron in a boiler.
I could not keep quite. I had to do something. But what to do. He is my news editor afterall. And though I have not got any hike for the last three years (cause I don’t qualify for the fatherly affection), and was watching helplessly the girls were getting a hike with each ten close-contacts, I didn’t have the courage to challenge the universal father.
But brilliance stroke me when I was reading ‘Telegraph’. Whoao… why didn’t I think about it earlier? Since I was in a small paper, we used to follow Telegraph as our model. We used to copy their writing style, their layout and silently suffer from inferiority complex. I remember some of my colleagues rutting Telegraph intro just to make their writing as good as the leader.
That was the fateful night. It was cloudy, rains were pouring heavily, mother earth was panting heavily under the onslaught of (…I am not good in narrating…isn’t it…so I come directly to the point). Kamalika entered with dark face with all the high voltage lightening. She was holding a Telegraph in her hand.
Our old romio, sprang up from his chair, “kamalika, …my daughter…come…come…” he went forward with an open invitation. His enthusiasm was cut short by a large smack on his face. His face turned red. Ears blue. As if a lightening has struck him.
Kamalika was panting heavily. Her heavy chest was rising and falling like wave. I was amazed to see that. I realized once again, I am in love.
“How can you do this to me?” she yelled.
--what what dear? What did I do? You are like my...
--shut up bastard, once more you say that I will kick your point of gravitation…you bastard…you filthy animal. If I would have been in your place, I would commit suicide after getting that slap.
--what have I done de…I mean kamalika? You cannot behave like this to your news editor.
--news editor? My foot. You are a slimy character whose wife has just aged.
--what do you mean?
--still you are not aware, what do I mean? Read this.
Kamalika threw that telegraph onto his face. From frown, his eyebrows started rising. His ears turned red from blue…his face blue from red. As if somebody has taken all the electric from his body.
“I…I…kamalika …I …belive…don’t…I….didnt…”
THAAP…another slap, followed by kamalika’s angry hiss, “now die…really”.
Our news editor didn’t get the chance to protest as kamalika had raised the negative-film-roll to hit him.
The father of twenty-one girl resigned the following day and nobody cried.
Since kamalika was distraught and started disbelieving the males worldwide, I came to the mankind’s rescue and stopped her from being a staunch feminist. All the male gender should thank me for that.
And it was not long that I started hugging her and also kiss her and also (well, it’s not my dream…I have the liberty to censor it, isn’t it?)
And what was in that edition of Telegraph? Well, nothing special. Only that that scoundrel father (or somebody on his behalf) wrote in the personal problem solving column a letter stating his dilemma. Though it was anonymous, but anybody could have guessed it.
The letter ran like this…
Dear…
I am a senior journalist, actually I am in a senior editorial position in the only English newspaper in dibrugarh.
I am dissatisfied in my personal life because my wife refuses to be intimate with me. Thus I have recruited only girls in my newspaper. I, in the context of congratulating them hug them tight, thus try to get the partial satisfaction that I deserve so rightly. But I am an honest guy. I have made it sure that hugs and hikes goes hand in hand.
However, of late a new recruit has made my life miserable.
She has just joined our newspaper and wears really short and sexy dresses. Her figure is just like mallika sherawat and whenever I see her, I cannot control myself and feel like I am emraan hashmi. I fancy really getting intimate with her. I want to take her to a hotel someday and have fun. Kindly suggest what to do, as I just want to have fun with her besides not giving any hint to my wife. You know I am fifty year old and heavily dependent on my wife.
Thanks
Name withheld
And for the answer? Do you really want to know it? Why, then read a newspaper with personal column in it and you will get it. These types of problems have all the similar kind of clichéd answer…give and take some words or phrases.
What you would feel if you would have been in my place? A twenty-five year-old hunk helplessly watching his well-into-fifties news editor wooing all the girls in the office. Damn…
Frankly, I didn’t give a damn, let him be. But I was in my wit’s end when I saw that monkey of a character wooing my prospective would be wife, the would be mother of my prospective bundles of joys. Damn…
Its then that I decided to cut short this retiring don-juan’s antics.
After I joined this newspaper, I had pinpointed kamalika as my wife. It didn’t matter that she once told me (jokingly…she was not serious) that I looked like a toad and that kiwi-shoe polish has a colour dedicated to me…the most used one.
But I didn’t lose my courage. My mind is one-track. If I have decided that I am going to be the father of kamalika’s children, than that would be done.
That monkey of a news editor had that habit of hugging girls without any notice… “oh mandakini you had done a great job…(gives a bear-hug) great…carry on…I will hike your salary (another hug…with a peck in the cheek, close to the lips) you know I see you as my own daughter (with glistening eyes.)”
He had at least twenty daughters like that running all across the office, trying to avoid that fatherly love.
And since he was also the incharge of recruitment, the office was getting loaded with daughters. I, along with one or two boys (he used to refer us as ‘bloody scoundrels’) was the only people flying the male flag.
I didn’t mind his fatherly lovemaking. The geography of those girls were not that good. Nearly all were sub-saharan desert.
…But then, kamalika joined as the new translator and the birdie long asleep in my heart started singing rabindrasangeet from ‘premporjay’.
For the first time in my life I realized I have this incurable feeling, a burning sensation which is entirely different from the usual attack of acidity. I couldn’t sleep at night. I needed a side pillow along with the usual one at my head. Whenever I was closing my eyes I was seeing kamalika smiling at me. Winking…caressing my greasy hair with ultimate satisfaction, resting herself on my shoulder, appearing in different makeups, in different dresses, starting from a saree to gown to skirt to miniskirt to…to…. It was a torture. A pleasant torture. I was just closing my eyes and could see and feel and …and …and…what not. And readers don’t make fun of it; I am not an expert in censoring my dreams.
I realized I am in love.
And that spelt the doom of that bastard news-editor.
But I must confess (I hope kamalika doesn’t know my blog…thus she is not reading it) kamalika is the most dull and stupid girl I have ever seen or met with. She is a complete bimbo, I must confess (I wished our children get the geography of kama and brain of mine). Whenever that bastard use to ‘congratulate’ her, she used to ‘congratulate’ him back. And my blood used to boil like iron in a boiler.
I could not keep quite. I had to do something. But what to do. He is my news editor afterall. And though I have not got any hike for the last three years (cause I don’t qualify for the fatherly affection), and was watching helplessly the girls were getting a hike with each ten close-contacts, I didn’t have the courage to challenge the universal father.
But brilliance stroke me when I was reading ‘Telegraph’. Whoao… why didn’t I think about it earlier? Since I was in a small paper, we used to follow Telegraph as our model. We used to copy their writing style, their layout and silently suffer from inferiority complex. I remember some of my colleagues rutting Telegraph intro just to make their writing as good as the leader.
That was the fateful night. It was cloudy, rains were pouring heavily, mother earth was panting heavily under the onslaught of (…I am not good in narrating…isn’t it…so I come directly to the point). Kamalika entered with dark face with all the high voltage lightening. She was holding a Telegraph in her hand.
Our old romio, sprang up from his chair, “kamalika, …my daughter…come…come…” he went forward with an open invitation. His enthusiasm was cut short by a large smack on his face. His face turned red. Ears blue. As if a lightening has struck him.
Kamalika was panting heavily. Her heavy chest was rising and falling like wave. I was amazed to see that. I realized once again, I am in love.
“How can you do this to me?” she yelled.
--what what dear? What did I do? You are like my...
--shut up bastard, once more you say that I will kick your point of gravitation…you bastard…you filthy animal. If I would have been in your place, I would commit suicide after getting that slap.
--what have I done de…I mean kamalika? You cannot behave like this to your news editor.
--news editor? My foot. You are a slimy character whose wife has just aged.
--what do you mean?
--still you are not aware, what do I mean? Read this.
Kamalika threw that telegraph onto his face. From frown, his eyebrows started rising. His ears turned red from blue…his face blue from red. As if somebody has taken all the electric from his body.
“I…I…kamalika …I …belive…don’t…I….didnt…”
THAAP…another slap, followed by kamalika’s angry hiss, “now die…really”.
Our news editor didn’t get the chance to protest as kamalika had raised the negative-film-roll to hit him.
The father of twenty-one girl resigned the following day and nobody cried.
Since kamalika was distraught and started disbelieving the males worldwide, I came to the mankind’s rescue and stopped her from being a staunch feminist. All the male gender should thank me for that.
And it was not long that I started hugging her and also kiss her and also (well, it’s not my dream…I have the liberty to censor it, isn’t it?)
And what was in that edition of Telegraph? Well, nothing special. Only that that scoundrel father (or somebody on his behalf) wrote in the personal problem solving column a letter stating his dilemma. Though it was anonymous, but anybody could have guessed it.
The letter ran like this…
Dear…
I am a senior journalist, actually I am in a senior editorial position in the only English newspaper in dibrugarh.
I am dissatisfied in my personal life because my wife refuses to be intimate with me. Thus I have recruited only girls in my newspaper. I, in the context of congratulating them hug them tight, thus try to get the partial satisfaction that I deserve so rightly. But I am an honest guy. I have made it sure that hugs and hikes goes hand in hand.
However, of late a new recruit has made my life miserable.
She has just joined our newspaper and wears really short and sexy dresses. Her figure is just like mallika sherawat and whenever I see her, I cannot control myself and feel like I am emraan hashmi. I fancy really getting intimate with her. I want to take her to a hotel someday and have fun. Kindly suggest what to do, as I just want to have fun with her besides not giving any hint to my wife. You know I am fifty year old and heavily dependent on my wife.
Thanks
Name withheld
And for the answer? Do you really want to know it? Why, then read a newspaper with personal column in it and you will get it. These types of problems have all the similar kind of clichéd answer…give and take some words or phrases.
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