Skip to main content

A small corner of my own

FUCK! I am sick of my present state. No fun, no hiking, no bike for biking, no girlfriend to kiss, no fresh beauties to relax my eyes. Only work work work and work…then again, work.

I keep asking myself…is this life? Come on, I am ageing…I crossed my 26th. No more 25ish romanticism for me. My mind is also ageing fast. I have changed my well known slogan to girls I meet. It used to be “I love you”. It’s now “would you like to marry me?”

Hence grudgingly, I have to change the ending note also. It was first, “ok…but you will not get a guy like me”, it’s now “ok fine…don’t mind…that was a joke. Actually, I will marry only of my mother’s choice. It was a good prank wasn’t it?”

Don’t take this note lightly. It’s quite possible that I would die soon out of sheer boredom, frustration and lack of adventure. Before that I would get converted into Christianity. Only to have an epitaph of my own. Top of the epitaph, there would be a board with a message like:

The epitaph would itself read like this:

Behold lady
Here lies the man
You dreamt of

Look his Viagra smiles
Just seeing you

He came and saw and kissed
Only to get pissed
By the bullying fathers and bull brothers

Look intently
How he cries
Seeing you…

Listen…can you hear
What he’s saying

Why you didn’t come to him
When all was nice and cosy
At the year 2006

With a broken heart...
He turned his face from the crooked world
And gave a little fart.


Anonymous said…
Great man! I had thought it would take ages before I would get to read anything new on your blog. These days even meeting you has become a luxury. Nice to read the little piece. Hummn! It means you are alive and kicking. And have managed to keep your sense intact in the Nazi concentration camp.
Ha ha ha!!!
Anon2 said…
Arey Ghetu, seek le... marne se pehle... jeena seek le...

And Anonymous... Nazi concentration camp? I would say more like Abu Gharib, except no one's keeping us here. We are prisoners of our own making.
kaushik said…
He Ghetu, Dogs cant read english..
Chaila Bihari said…
Aha bacha. Kande na. Ayega. Tumhara number bhi ayega
Shuv said…
good one..

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 …