Like all useless souls, I am extremely lazy. And have no ambition to change that. I usually don't read back my posts and if I do, the horrible grammatical errors and murderous typos, plus the extremely poor language, prompt me to close the blog immediately. I hope you would do the same. But if you are headstrong and plan to continue, you do that on your own risk. Opinions and suggestions are welcome, but will not be worked upon.
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If she had got wings she would definitely fly away, but she is still struggling to escape her misery. She is still awaiting someone, someone who would free her from her perennial distress, someone, who is far far away in a distant land who would never answer her call.
She awaits and I know, she told me, she will wait until her death.
She told me to write this for you to know. I know now you know.
--Namaste, satsriakaal, aadab, mein amitabh bacchan aapke samne, leke hajir hua hu, phir ek bar, kaun banega karorpati dwitiya. (audiences in dark start clapping along with a music as if crusader king Richard of England just captured the castle of a jehadi king) Aaj, mere samne beithe hai Jarshad kakiara…kakku…cuckoo… (a club-shaped man intervenes, with a child-like smile, “Kakkrakandy”) Ji haa, kakkara (“kandy”, the man again intervenes with a shy smile) -Yes, Jarshad kakk…, whatever, aiye aap aur hum khele yeh adbhut game, jiska naam hei …(looks at the club-shaped man) Jarshad Kakkrakandy, answers “kauun banayega karrorrpatti”
Amitabh shows Jarshad the seat, adjusts the seat for him. Jarshad sits, the chair shrieks.
--aur abhi mere samne baithe hain Jarshad n. k., from Chennai, who is a journalist with reuters, loves reading dilbert, unka favourite movie hai “chandramukhi”. And he is the self-proclaimed ‘king of PJ’.
--Haan to Jarshad saab, aapne likhe hein ke apke naam hei Jarshad n.k. now …
I became a father on
18 November, 2014. At that moment when fatherhood embraced me, perhaps I should have been elated, jumping up
and down and doing all sort of activities that new fathers do, at least,
that's what most sane people do. But nothing of that sort happened to
me. When I heard my baby's voice, first like an angry cat and then a mild wail wafting across the operation
theatre to the waiting area where we all were pacing up and down, the
first thought that hit me was how was my wife? It was a C-section and
she was partially unconscious. I should not have read Internet too
much, for I was reading all sorts of horror stories, of mothers not
waking up or recovering etc. I was petrified as I was not hearing my
wife's voice. The doctors and sisters inside the operation theater
must have been very busy with their other procedures. In fact, after
bringing out the baby from the womb, they were busy closing the cut,
I later got to know.
The realisation of
becoming a fathe…
(Note to readers ... mainly Ian, who is the only one who reads this blog >> i just finished writing this in office. didn't even re-read it after writing, forget editing. Expect a leaner/fatter and better written version, if my mood permits.)
Keep your hands busy, said my father every time I used to
lean against the tree to catch my breath. Keep your hands busy you idiot, keep
your hands busy, don’t let your head decide for you. Keep your hands busy, he
would coax me to get working.
And so I would again start chiselling the chunk of rock, along
the lines my father, a master sculptor, had already outlined. But I would still
dream with eyes wide open. When the hammer used to fall so gently yet firm on
the chisel, I used to dream of the cities and the grand mansions.
I was not good in sculpting, yet I wanted to be the greatest
sculptor in this world. I wanted to be honoured by my king. I wanted to be the
subject for which kings wage wars against each other. I was a dreamer, I …