Dud Sea Scrawls The Writing, clearly, is not on the wall!

To: the.mrs@gmail.com
From: the.mr@gmail.com

Darling,
I got the note you left on the fridge this morning. Thanks, but I’m confused. I thought we had discussed your trip in detail, and you had decided not to go. What made you change your mind overnight?

Is this anything to do with Saloni? You were really not very nice to her last night, considering that she is your best friend, and that she took the trouble to come down all the way from Delhi to give you a surprise visit.

“Sir, for five dollars per hour only, I’ll sleep for you. I don’t need to know what you do with your extra waking hours sir, and I will keep my sleep secret,” says a yawning Ram to a caller from Unites States.

Ram opened his sleep BPO in the sleepy nineties. People who laughed at him back them, were caught napping when the Y2K boom came. Ram had hired a team of five hundred sleepers by then. The company has grown like Kumbhkaran by now, and is voted as the best company to work for by the entire employee world.

Act III

Considering how I’d waxed eloquent about the previous episode, I felt it would be appropriate to put my money where my mouth is and take up Pradzie’s challenge. I’ve always felt that a good writer (or a good photographer) has an eye for detail. And what an eye our Pradzie has !!! So while the previous episode had great depth of feel and great composition, the episode you are about to read is like an out of focus polaroid, a caricature to his portrait, a Woody Allen to his Bergman. In case flattery doesnt work - my favourite tune happens to be “Someday my prints will come”

Trying to break the block and the pattern. Here is my latest
short-story

Overture :
The sutler sat in front of a colorful quilt spread on the footpath, peddling postiche artifacts, a la Honest Abdul. Most of the passersby, in their weltschmerz, did not even notice him or his wares. Once in a while, he would open his truttaceous mouth to spew out a stream of pan masala juice. Having nothing better to do on a Sunday afternoon and my recusant behavior having alienated my latest girl, I felt I should confabulate with him. This eapilotade is a result of that shmooze.

Introductory chorus :

Have my love
It fits you like a glove
Join my dream, tell me yes

Only for the diabetic:
http://asuph.wordpress.com/2007/09/19/shades-of-pale-green/

Verse, and more verses:
http://asuph.wordpress.com/2007/09/12/guardian-angel/

A few posts added. Do visit and leave your footprints here

The question is: can I
rhyme?

http://asuph.wordpress.com/2007/08/31/the-hiatus/

http://terminal-moraine.blogspot.com/2007/08/interlude.html

Another poetic attempt: The Last Painting

ein dino: ek ghazal

More verses: The Twilight Zone

Every hiatus is like being treated with a nebuliszer. It’s time to relearn.

Here is my latest poem: Walk with me.

When it just doesn’t come, you force it out. Let’s call it literary c-section. But what the hell, you gotta do what you gotta do:

And here is the latest baby: Gossamer Tales

What do you believe is true even though you cannot prove it?

(The Edge Annual Question—2005)
From the Edge World Question Center.
http://www.edge.org/

Morning walks are refreshing and to find a suitable “walkable” area in Chennai is quite a tough task
Click here to read more

Once upon a time, when there were just tales and no fairy tales and none of them ended with “they lived happily forever”, there was a kingdom so poor and wasted that no one wanted it. As a model of early communism, the lord and the peasant looked and lived identically. With the passage of time, we would come to learn of the same kingdom as very powerful with a just and wise king.

We started building it because our ancestors dreamt.
They dreamt that one day the tower would reach the heavens, that mere mortals would be able to ascend it and become fearsome Gods. The Supervisor’s words held a palpable amount of awe and reverence, as he recounted his tale.

may7 2007
India

dear brothers and sisters of bharat (and also rest of world),

If I am knowing one thing that my great parents taught me it is this that humans are not animals to roam around on road with all of their private parts showing to all.
I am not even talking of the girls wearing small small things on mtv or salman khan showing his muskles. i am talking of COMMON MAN!!! and COMMON WOMAN!!!

“I have a sad life story. It will make you cry.”

“Ok.”

“Not that I am telling it to make anyone cry, understand?”

“Ok. I don’t feel like crying.”

“It just feels good to talk to someone who can listen.”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Life has been unfair to me. So, so unfair.”

“To me too. And to some of my friends, too.”

. .

“Feels nice?” He whispered.

Confused, yet excited, she nodded - a mere girl, tasting her first caress from an experienced man.

Yet, something felt odd, something was not right.

“But my father said…”

“Shhhh…forget him! Nobody needs to know! Ah…how does it feel here?”

She moaned in intoxicated ecstasy - lustily begging for more, parting her silken thighs.
Sadly, he tired fast - his beard trembled with exertion.

“Enough! Restraint!” He declared.

Disappointed, she stopped.
But she had tasted kama - this was what a man could give!

Bhenchod! Dikhta nahi kya?

The insult hits - rage explodes.
He maneuvers the car, and forces the rider.
In a blink, the rider is sprawling on the road, the gun shoved brutally into his mouth - his wallet and license wrested away.

The rider is in utter shock.

Tereko behen hai?

The gun forces a panicstricken nod.

Bhenchod bola? Teri behen ko terey saamney laakar c******a. Behen nahi to biwi ko uthaunga.

With that, he steps over the man, and drives away with his license.

At home, his little son jumps eagerly.
Papa! Did you get my gun?