Skip to main content

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…

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.
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 clich├ęd answer…give and take some words or phrases.


Pip Squeak said…
where do you work in the real world??

and your 'boss' should go and have a cup of coffee with samit basu every evening. if you don't know what i mean, go and read his latest book. not too different from a pornographic novel.... wonder why it's classified under the fantasy tag?

probably because his publishers are unaware of his amorous ambitions- he apparently said in an interview, that he wanted to write a book of porn for women when he was 50.....

now why did i say all this?? Because i recently learnt about it, after reading his book and was shocked.......
Anonymous said…
"Her heavy chest was rising and falling like wave."..... what kind of writing is it exactly.........trying to write soft porn or what? any's an witty and well-written piece I must say....though I believe that the event is "purely fictious" and any resemblance to any real life incident is "purely coincidental"....right Ghetu
Nana said…
you have this villanous streak in you. Shave of your hair, wear a lot of silver bangles, chains, and get a scorpio or a sumo and a few chamchas.
For you body guard you can ask your chief mentor
Ghetufool said…
samit basu is too high funda for my stupid boss pip.
and i would not comment about samit, as i haven't read any of his books.
Ghetufool said…
"trying to write soft porn or what? "

did you use 'soft'?
nah, i dont believe in softness, i write hardcore. i believe that's the reason you come here.

thanks for your appreciation.

[[I believe that the event is "purely fictious" and any resemblance to any real life incident is "purely coincidental"....]]

think whatever. it's upto you.
Ghetufool said…
have tried to don this outfit, but failed miserably.
as for my bodyguard, he asked me so many questions that i was desperately searching for an escape route.
The answer (as it appeared in Telegraph):
Bastard, you are doomed. This Mallika Sherawat in Dibrugarh will read your query and hit you smack in your face. And an unassuming sub-editor will then start hugging her. As for the solution to ur problem, buy some porno CDs and beat your meat till they dry up.
Ghetufool said…
yes you are right. that sub editor also read it.

Popular posts from this blog

Let it rain hard

About a dozen years back, I started writing blog posts out of sheer boredom in office. The work was repetitive and the bosses were menacing. Not the fault of bosses as much as the systems put in place. It was a real-time world and you perish in seconds or become a hero. No, I was not a stock market trader, but close. I was perhaps in deep agony. I had left my family members, my root, my friends and my culture. Those years were the most important in my life, the early twenties. I was free for the first time. Free to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lot of pent-up sexual energy really looking for an avenue to be released. I found my moksha in creativity, especially as my office colleagues started appreciating my writing, albeit with no hint of grammar in it. Slowly strangers came to my blog and I visited theirs and we became friends. And then I started connecting with people far away from my place, across oceans. With one I became friends for life – Ian Vincent Mulder. But that’s ano…

On Mithi

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…

The Sculptor's Tale

(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 …