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.
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.