The Auction

She had called him that morning with a purposeful tone in her voice which always meant he was in trouble. Now what was that he had done this time....? It was something he had forgotten, oh yes, her birthday. He stood outside her door wondering whether that little foolishness on his part was enough to incite her to break up with him. He stood with flowers and a newspaper wrapped gift in his hand which he would never give her for she was getting married to Karan next week and had gone out with him that evening. It still did not sink in.

He had won her, but had lost her love. He had spent a third of his whole month’s earnings on the gifts. The flowers he gave them to the old lady who sat next to the tea stall selling toffees. The gift he would keep as a burning memory of a hatred which soon would be quenched by mere indifference. He was a painter. His strokes as aggressive and as exquisite as the veins that ran on his forearms fuelling his passion for art. She was his inspiration, his admirer, his critic and his only love. And now he had lost her, forever. She married Karan, an affluent businessman who kept her happier and more occupied than a bankrupt painter ever could.

He sat in one of the back rows, watching his painting being auctioned, camouflaged by the crowd. It was her birthday. He watched her bid and battle for his masterpiece, the one he had painted for her, and wrapped in a newspaper, for her birthday, years ago. He was the only one to notice the single tear flow down her eye when she could bid no more.

And then, across the room her eyes met his. He stared into the eyes of a middle aged unhappy wife whose successful, ambitious husband steered her away unmindful of her sadness which he did not understand and did not care for. She kept looking at him as she walked away. And her eyes confessed the burden she had been carrying for so long. The way her circumstances had auctioned her off to the highest bidder who had demanded her life’s biggest sacrifice. Her eyes were full of the invisible tears for she had lost her only memory of her love, a memory of what could have been possible. A gavel banging the table brought him back to reality. Sold. He now had money that would last him three lifetimes. The love he had thought as lost forever and had abandoned, had always been in her and its only memory which he needed now was now gone forever. He saw her disappear in to the crowd, their eyes unwilling to break apart till the end.
He had won her love but had lost her forever.

(All right... I see the rotten tomatoes... and eggs ...)

(To be continued next week is a graphic account of adultery and passion.... keep reading)

Worth and worthiness.

To say if anything is worth doing,it is worth doing well is true and praiseworthy.But it is equally important to remember that one must make every thing worth doing. No task, however big or small is not worthy enough to be done.This is aptly illustrated by an anecdote which i had read in my childhood and has remained in my mind eversince.
Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the great educationist was once invited as a guest of honour to a public gathering.He accepted the invite and reached the venue punctually,However, while all the invitees, participants and spectators had arrived,the programme did not start on time. He questioned one of the organisers the reason for the delay. The organiser replied that they were waiting for the sweeper to come. Seeing Ishwarji's look of surprise, the organiser further elaborated.." Sir, the stage is very diry.We are waiting for the sweeper to come and clean it for you.How can we expect a man as great as you sit on such a dirty stage?".
On hearing this, Ishwarji immediately lifted up the broom and started cleaning the stage himself. As the organiser began protesting, he explained that no job is dirty or menial. One should never think that a task is not worth doing. Instead one should wonder whether the task,however big or small it may be, is worthy of being done by us because ultimately all of us are just mere servants of the worthiest taskmaster..the GOD.

U can learn from anybody, even ur enemies...

Since i develop an acute exacerbation of an attack of writer's block whenever i am face to face with this blog and yet i hate to disappoint our worthy editor-cum-founder who is always demanding for new blogs at a rate which is commiserate with her speed of cracking fatta one-liners i've decided to draw my inspiration from "Quote of the day".
The quote is..."quite obviously the title of this blog" So this is what i've learnt...

• Never disclose names of ur enemies.i.e.people whom u don't like.
• Bitching is an art unto itself..if u r not skilled or gifted, then keep ur trap shut or get trapped urself.
• Service with a smile should be thy motto...The phonier the smiles that u give, the sooner will they develop severe complications of EDTAs(Extreme Diabetic Talk Attacks).
• Bitching behind backs is passe...the capability not to bitch is an ability...
• Never talk sense or write non-nonsense stuff...So as the readers will see i've learnt and imbibed a lot of gyaan from my enemies and have put them into practice...

P.S. These opinions r not the writer's own but only a reflection of her enemies' ...so in no way should she be held accountable...

P.P.S. The writer sincerely apologises for all the drivelling crap written above but this only proves how desperate times give rise to despo measures.

P.P.P.S. There r many slips-of-the-tongue in this article because this article is meant to be purely tongue-in-cheek...

P.P.P.P.S. So no offence meant... :)

P.P.P.P.P.S i posted a blog................

I hate val's day

Indians are a really a big-hearted and open-minded class of people.Imported ideas immediately capture their imagination.This is why, Indians start going into a parasympathetic overdrive(except politicians who get reflex sympathetic activity and literally see red) at the very thought of approach of Valentine's day...girls gossip as well as bitch about prospective guys and gifts,dresses and dates while guys think of infinite ways to blow up money and make fools of themselves. Indians invariably lust once every year on 14th feb, year after year but how many really bother to simply love on the other 364 days ?To top it all, would the response been equally eager and enthusiastic if the day had been named after Kama, the Hindu god of Love?

The Little Warriors

They may be so beautiful
When they speak out aloud
Little children smiling at you
Little bundles of joy
But they do for the whole day
And well into the night
Selling goods on the railways
Selling the joys of young life...

They polish your new shoes
They are cleaning your house
They bring your newspaper
They play with your child
They sweat all their blood
So much and so easily
Never ever giving you a clue
That they are yet tired....

You make laws to protect them
You write poems on their plight
Then one day you realize
Their hunger and their cries
They are the deprived
They are the slaves of their fate
They have started their battle
They have no time to waste....

When your day has been tiring
When you are sighing with a yawn
When you are ending the poem
And you look out on the lawn
A faint voice is whistling
Under the moonlight’s calm
A little warrior is still pushing
His wheelbarrow on.......

Check Mate

I was standing on the edge of the train leaning out into the wind. I was only conscious of the wind in my hair and the feel of cold metal which my fists gripped to hold me back from losing myself into the black void outside. A strange aroma arose from the land beyond and I felt one of my eyebrows rise bringing me out of my delusion.

And then I saw them.

They were majestic. Seven of them. With their chests wide, their bodies erect, pride on their faces, poised at the threshold of victory. Their capes fluttered in the wind and as I passed them the whole world seemed to slow down for me, just to watch them. They were soldiers on a chessboard. Only the king, the minister, a knight, 2 horses and a foot soldier of the white army were erect. The king stood, a serene smile on his face, an expression of intense relief signalling the end of an era. The king of the black army seemed to be squatting his hands entangled in his hair, the lonely emperor of a lost battle. Then as a I came closer to them I saw them standing in the strangest posture- their heads were bent and one hand was placed between their legs. Then I saw the stream of urine spout from their anatomy.

ONE TIGHT SLAP!

This is all I wanted to give them. But I was helplessly hanging almost outside the train and could only avert my eyes from them. Why do men in the city of Mumbai suffer from incontinence? On the tracks, into the drains, by the side of the roads thousands of bladders empty by day and through the night. What do women do then? They LOOK for loos or control themselves. But for men the whole world is their loo, isnt it? This incident makes me deter from touching any guy's hands. Forget contraceptives the government should start supplying free Foleys catheter to the Mumbai men. At least it won't stink as much. So much for my chessmen.

Ahem

Today I discussed with one of the hot babes in our college how women spread gossip...

There are basically two phenomena

1. Spatial which is subdivided into

--Progressive

--Regressive

--Paradoxical

2.Temporal

Progressive gossip is generally very wide in scope with a horizontal exponential mode of spread. It is generally done in large groups with lot of giggling and involves people unrelated to the gossipers too personally. It is faster than light. Believe me.

Regressive is a dead end in the chain of gossip. It generally happens when the news is too unhot to be concerned about or when it concerns the person too much.

Paradoxical is one of the most effective methods the conscience of a woman (read: bitch) has developed to evade guilt. It is a vertical spread of information where a one to one spread of information occurs. Each woman (read: bitch) extracts a contract of silence from the recipient. The recipient assumes the role of the communicator and in turn extracts a similar contract of silence from the next recipient in the chain. It is a very effective method which though being slower than progressive gossip is as watertight as the most watertight thing whatever it is. A 100 women might know the secret but it never is discussed.

Temporal is the fact that a piece of information loses its importance as time passes and slowly is transmitted as its virulence decreases. The time of course varies with the individual and the spiciness of the news.

Last words... Men BEWARE... Women CAN'T keep secrets

(Oh and I am blaming it on Yudhishthira, he who cursed that womankind can't keep secrets because Kunti had not revealed that Karna was his elder brother until the end of the war.)

Some imp points...

As a concerned board member i would like to know the criteria for calculating the average...i mean whose all marks did the Hon'rable president take into consideration while doing the calculation..i mean.,i am seriously worried by how did we miss our target i.e. 412/550 or 75% by just 1 mark..Is it time to revamp our studying methods???

Meal 2 remember

This is a random entry of a lunch to remember. I dont remember the exact date but think it was around last week.A new exercising of my writing skills.The three women were seated around the last table on one of the four rows of tables laid out in the canteen. They were in their late teens and seemed to be waiting for another girl to join them. they waited, waited and they waited. So they finally gave orders including for the absent member because they expected her to be present by the time their food arrived. As it so happens she didnt arrive but her food did, along with theirs. They finished eating their meal but were tempted by her untouched papad and shrikhand in her untouched thali and left no traces of their remains. And then they ordered ginger-lemon juice as two of them were in the throes of a bad cold. As it happens the ginger had no lemon and was too gingery for human consumption. And there ensued a battle to consume the nectar with one of them diluting the juice in the bottle occasionally, not realising that the volume of consumption was actually increasing. The climax of the scene involves by the so far absent friend arriving and causing a havoc by showing belligerence towards the waiter who had not brought her papad and shrikhand. Followed by more belligerence towards her tablemates as the picture became clearer. This was of course borne by the other three, two of them whom she found curiously red eyed with watering noses and with tongues exposed in opened mouths making frequent licking and panting gingerly motions.

This shows how a good lunch can be made to sound boring using the right language.

Skin

Its so late in the night (10 30 actually thats late enough for me)

And I must warn the readers who are ananya and hopefully ashwin that this site is created for the MOST frivolous topics possible because that is what I am good at...

We were sitting at the doctors debate when Baberanjan and I noticed this fantastic babe in a few rows ahead who was bending herself better than beckham could ever aspire to bend. You know such things come to your notice very easily..( I know its a lame excuse but keratin does catch ones eye)...And we admired (oh yeah welcome to the land of Lesbos) a sheer glistening 6 inches wide patch of skin.. (Unfortunately) we did not get an oppurtunity for further examination..And so it happens that everywhere in trains, buses, roads etc women bend to pick up things, lean forward to hear better, keep baggage in the top rack on the train..

And the aunties watch.. and whisper...disapprovingly... my own family disapproves (quite vocally though)

And all aunties seem to mind it a LOT..

And I say-- hypocrites..

The aunties are so unaware that sartorially speaking the saree has a much more panoramic view compared to what we struggle to achieve with our tshirts. And what a view too...! And they dont seem to mind it all even though its 360 degrees of pure hypocrisy showing through!!

(i ve run out of things to say at this point)

Ok i ll bet ashwin has more experience in these kinda things...