Avenge with deeds what words can't

He moved his finger across each letter and read it twice in the dim light. The pulse near his neck throbbed with excitement. The mind was at play and it devised a plan meant for things that were not supposed to be natural. He had known about it all this time but this moment confirmed his existed doubts. The footsteps outside the door grew louder and in a sudden reflex, he threw the bottle into the draw and skirted the things on the floor to move towards the door. This time there would be no mistakes.

_____________________________________________________________________

He squirmed when Mrilani pulled his cheeks.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

He was tired of lying. It hurt the interiors of the head and filled his body with annoyance. But he knew better when to hide the emotions as he faced his fiancé.

He grinned at her.

‘Pathetic woman’, he thought to himself and grinned more.

“Of course…”, he began

Mrilani looked away and waved at someone across the road. He visibly showed relief when he saw Ruchi.

He noted that she looked as fragile as ever but always had a good dressing sense. She wore dark blue jean and red t shirt. The stiletto gave a lift to her miniature figure.

Ruchi and Mrilani’s were childhood friends. They had done their education together starting from the pre KG. Mrilani considered her as a family member and that understanding was mutual.

“Hi Mrilu! Hi Rohit!”, she squealed at them.

He kept looking at her and began to some show some respect. He had to, for she was the key to all his problems.

“Hi”, he finally said.

______________________________________________________________________

“You didn’t wish me at sharp 12! How could you get forget it? “, she screamed with teary eye.

The drama began to unfold and he was helpless.

“Ruchi was the first one to call. She has been doing that for past 15 years! Why can’t you be more responsible and show some care? “, she wailed.

He bolted his anger and just went to hug her. She pushed him away.

He clenched his teeth.

This wouldn’t have happened in the first place if both their families’ business had to come together for a greater cause. He knew that he shouldn’t have agreed to the proposal. But it wasn’t his fault. Mrilani’s parents pulled him away from his blissful life; from his love. They had promised him more and better life. The future was decorated with money that collected over generations and he was the only heir.

He thought of his lost lover’s face and stood for moment in the place like all the world’s odd was against him.

Mrilani and her parents made him swear to the falsified riches and fame and now, ‘they’ will repay.

___________________________________________________________________

She was meddling with her bag’s handle. He looked into her eyes to emphasize what he was saying. She didn’t look up but stared into the emptiness.

‘Things were smooth as planned’, he thought to himself.

She trembled and searched for it frantically in her bag.

He didn’t stop talking choosing his words carefully. He reiterated things that were very necessary to cause the results.

“It can be!” she said in a shaky voice. “Mrilani is my best friend.” She continued searching.

“I am her fiancé, Ruchi”, he replied in a smooth clear voice that convinced, “why would I lie to you?”

That broke her down. The bottle that she was searching was not to be found. She shivered, snatched her bag and trotted.

The same stiletto that lifted her figure was now giving her away to the crowd in the restaurant with its clanking sound.
____________________________________________________________________
Ruchi searched for the bottle. It was not in its place.
She didnt believe Rohit. The truth was she didnt want to believe him.
The bed appeared and disappeared in front of her eyes. She felt dazed again.
'I have this disease. I was born with it. I will die with it. I will never know what is truth and lie.'
What if Rohit was truthful and Mrilani was right?
Did she deserve to be her friend? Were all the years together a fairy tale that she only has imagined?
She imagined a lot. A lot that she couldn't recognize between reality and lie.
Maybe Mrilani deserved better friend and better life. She couldn't interfere with Mrilani's life. There was nothing much that she could do except one, move away from her for life. And it had to be forever and permanent.
'Yes, I am tired of truth and lie. I shall end it once for all'
'Rohit was telling the truth. Mrilani didn't deserve such a sickening friend.She should go away as far as possible.
She pulled out a notepad and began to write.
It stared with "Dear Mrilani, For greater good......"

_____________________________________________________________________

“Please, you have to believe me, aunty”, Mrilani justified.

Ruchi’s mother wiped her tears and passed on the paper that was folded into four.

Mrilani was perplexed.

The silence in the house was even more haunting. One suicide was enough to haunt the place but the mystery of the death added to the eeriness of the situation.

He took the paper before Mrilani could. He was aware of the contents but reading it would give him the vengeance he had yearned for. The satisfaction grew bounds.

Mrilani snatched the paper. She began to cry half way into the suicide letter of Ruchi.

________________________________________________________________

“The girl had schizophrenia and only Mrilani knew it”, his father claimed.

“But we can’t claim anything based on the contents of the letter. We have known Mrilani’s parents all our lives. The family can be trusted”, his mother argued.

“The whole town calls her psycho because she made her best friend commit suicide by creating some inferior complex. You want our son to marry her?” his father fumed

.“It is too early to judge anything now. Let us give some time”, his mother continued.

“I am not getting my son married to any mentally ill woman. She could be charged of murder of another woman. I don’t want to be associated to the family of murderers”, his father closed the case.

His mother didn’t reply.

He looked at them. The agony and frustration began to yield. Every minute of the scene that had occurred two years ago flashed before his eyes.

He remembered vividly the words from his girlfriend’s letter. Mrilani’s father spoke such words that made her commit suicide. He called her names that no woman could have tolerated.

Had he known it before the fateful night, things could have been averted.

Now, Mrilana would be called names by everyone. It would pierce throughout her life. She deserved it for what her father did to his life.

He ran upstairs and started to cry. But they were tears of joy.

_________________________________________________________________

Smoke fades

Dear human form,

And every one who reads and relates to oneself.

We have habits. Certain habits those are iterative and form our daily menu. They are despicably what makes us and what we own. They are our skin and to tear them away is painful. One such is smoking.

I think a million times before I really try to describe a smoker. I am careful not to call them ‘yield to pressure’ or ‘actually not so cool’. I cannot have opinions because, in this case, the habit does not make the person.

The commodity on the lips leaves a dark mark. Arguments begin right here. There are better qualities of cigarettes that don’t leave a mark. So, nullifying what cannot be seen is right? Then, why did my oldest cousin suffer from lung cancer?

I cannot advise and don’t want to either. I am not going to copy paste a diagram of lung affected from smoking. It doesn’t make sense because the number of smokers is only on rise.

Everyone teenager loves independence. They are rebellious in their decisions. They want to stand alone and fight the world. But I wonder what happens to these people when they are with their friends? Why do they ‘pick’ a habit if they consider themselves old enough to decide things on their own?

Cigarette is a pleasurable gratification and mental satisfaction. You never feel alone when you hold on to the sixth finger. You are never left alone. The smell lingers on you for a long time whatever you do. It becomes your everyday deodorant. At night, your head is heavy and lungs seem to be stuffed with cotton that you can’t breathe properly. But it is ok; you endure all for that momentary pleasure.

We are all conscious of what we wear but never on what we hold. Smoking never sends a message of blending into the society. It really doesn’t mean you are sociable. Worst of it, it makes you vulnerable. At the end of the day, you are the slave of addiction. You are flexible for the master; you smoke when it urges you 

and you beg when it commands.

Why do you run so much when smoking helps you break down calories? Why do you keep a check on what you eat? How does it matter, anyway?

Why do you drag everyone into the affair with it? Why am I inhaling it when you are smoking? Why am I sharing the burden? It didn’t teach children the good things or send messages of healthy habit. It didn’t help to teach the future that it was one of the habits that have to be picked up. It tarnishes your teeth, mouth and health but then, you have a remedy and half a dozen surgeries to overcome all that.

The money spent on the mistress is only meagre for the pleasure she gives you. So, shower the savings on her and welcome all the side effects.

Nobody said quitting was for someone else. It is for you. It is for your health, image, loved ones; all for making the best things for you.

Does it hurt to say no to something that never was going to help you anyway?

I am forcing you to do something. I am not forcing you to decide. You, with the education and knowledge, know better.

Yours truly,

Do you care? 

#3 Article at shaadicafe.com (click here to read)

#3 Article at shaadicafe.com (click here to read)

 

(20) The five minute sleep because the clock was running ahead

(19) A message from your childhood crush after ages

(18) When a baby smiles toothless at you

(17) The daily zodiac prediction says you will find your love

(16) The dish you ordered tastes exactly like you imagined

(15) You find cash in your pant pocket when going to wash it

(14) When the calendar displays the message you wanted

(13) Soaked in bathtub

(12) The bed sheet is very soft

(11) Being appreciated for something you are wearing

(10) All time favourite song on radio

(09) Finding your old college t shirt that brings back memories

(08) Your favourite movie on TV on a lazy Sunday

(07) You find your friend’s room even messier than yours

(06) When you meet one of your teachers and they recognise you

(05) You receive a letter with your name on it

(04) The bus arrives as soon as you reach the bus stop

(03) Someone you love looks at you

(02) When your article is published

(01) When you know that there are ‘12500’+ people who believe in marriages and come to ShaadiCafe.com

 

Review: Urban shots (Bright Lights)

In a melodramatic life, what strikes like a ‘bright light’; some define it as hope while others will tell you its festive but selected few who could narrate a story went into the book of ‘Urban Shots : Bright Lights’. Collection of 29 stories by 21 authors and edited by Paritosh Uttam, it takes you on a ride from the streets of Agra to the plush houses of Jaipur.

Each narration is so unique and creative and it is this assortment that makes this book different from others. One also gets the pleasure of reading and relating different lifestyles and experiences. I personally could relate myself to the central character of Jo Dikhta Hai, Woh Bikta Hai ,Vikram Gupta who is a sales man at a FMCG.

The book captures different emotions and perspectives from varied angles. You will find innocence in Amul, heart warming mother’s love in Across the Seas, funny encounter and confused couples in Double Mixed, surprising plot at a saloon in Peacock Cut, straight forward retirement narration in P.K. Koshy’s daily routine, heavy rant of mid-life crisis in The Wall and much more.

The collection of short stories allows you to wear different types of shoes. You are the protagonist in Maami Menace, an antagonist in Hot Masala, confused and witty father in Father of my Son and an award winning author in Mr. Perierra.

Some narrations are casual everyday affair while others take you to places that you have never been.

All in all, this book is a ‘khichdi’ of stories with happy, sour, dreamy and sad narratives that makes the dish quite delightful.

#2 Article at shaadicafe.com (click here to read)

 

It would be too cliched to say that life goes through stages. Shakespeare did, poets elaborated the obvious and exaggerated the meaning. This, we were taught by rote from secondary school. A lot of things happen in this routine and every human being goes through it, lives and dies.

A vicious cycle.

When it comes to complications of romance, it has its own defined everlasting flow diagram. Like a symbiotic creature, romance moves as a part of life. Life exists because of it and it exists because of life.


We, animals with the sixth sense, are abundant in expectations. There are no boundaries to that aspect of emotion and nobody has been able to lay out the basic rules of expectation. What is too much of it or what is too less of it? We will never get the answers.
Is growing old good or bad? Expectation also ages with us and we are never too sure if it is good or bad.



When 13 years old: We can’t look at this age as a mere number. It sends alert signals to the parents and prestigious shots to the person who has reached the number. The expectations begin from the external appearance. There is an adrenaline rush when the prettiest or the cutest looks at you. Like the chemical bonds of oxygen and hydrogen to make the perfect structure of water, we want to be tagged only with the good looking person. We attempt to look the best, dress the best or simply be called ‘the best’. Call it infatuation or crush, we labelled them as love.



When 16 years old: Career and crush converge at the common road (to think of it, I wrote a perfect alliteration here). We are forced to focus on one by every elder we encounter while thoughts deviate to another. Life promises too much at this juncture and optimism is raised. We are trying to win the best of both worlds. We think we are funny and tend to assume that popularity is by doing many things at a time. We learn to multitask and somehow manage to do excel in one or two things. With chaos in oneself, this age is definitely not too sweet.



When 19 years old: We are actually bidding good bye to the adolescence. With that, we are also bidding farewell to most crushes. At this age, we make choices. The surprising fact is that, choices seem less than what we began with. This age is critical when it comes to cupidism. We seem to make intelligent decisions. Romance seem to make more sense than what we thought. We seek for long term romance and understand that strength lies in the mutual trust. Relationships are made and broken and ‘expectation bars’ are raised and lowered. This age is a period of realisation that ‘love’ at 13 was dumb.

When 22 years old: Man has been able to solve all mysteries of deep waters but never the expectations that arise out of a human being. At this age, we want to look the best, have the best of career, take the best decisions, look for a long term relationship and expect more and more. Most of the problems start here. The best part of this particular age is that we believe in love whole heartedly. We are not too stupid or too intelligent to be in love. However, this age is the mother of all expectations.

We cannot stop our ever growing and always changing expectations as it is a part and parcel of human nature. But maturity does teach us to strike realistic views with the unrealistic expectations. Learn, adjust, understand and reason out. After all, compromising is not always a bad thing!

#1 Article at shaadicafe.com (click here to read)

 

Our Kannmani walks in yellow-red half saree

Ghinaku ghika!

Sound of her anklets as she walks catches our hero

He turns

She gives a sly look and giggles

Scratch scratch

The chin with an eye brow lifted

War is on. It is between the world’s conglomerates manufacturing the razors and the preferences of the XY chromosomes. The clash of titans as one of them approve a clean shaven look will get you women while other are hitting like buttons on Facebook photo of unshaven George Clooney.

English is a funny language. It might just make ‘Rajini Kant’ a part of vocabulary. Who in the right mind would link an almost cut wheat or paddy field to the small facial hairs that men sport? But the name stuck while everyone famous around the street glamourized the stubble. The boys when they reach the adolescence age and see the first sign of a single hair on their chin move around with razors. Conclusion can be drawn here that hair is a sign of masculinity.

In an examination of linking maturity to the androgens, we have just three choices.
(a) Clean shaven
(b) Stubble
(c) Beard

Survey shows that clean shaven defines immaturity. Beard was considered to be too much of masculinity. Stubble, like the Goldilock’s taste of porridge, was just right. It indicated not too much of a mature person with little aggressive nature that women of today seek. It seems like they are in the borders between the two countries of India and Pakistan. One side was dangerous while other was too comfortable.

When I asked Kannmani as why she liked her guy with stubble, she simply mentioned that pricks were cute to touch and feel. Though I didn’t react much when she said this, I couldn’t help looking at an angle for fondling purposes.

Stubble is also a mechanism for chameleonic characteristics. It hides the immature baby face of many boys and gives them an older look. Thanks to it that many women don’t seem too old when compared to their men of the same age. Dhanush will sport one when he sings his ‘Why this Kolaveri di?’ and all girls in the hostel will shriek ‘how cute!’ That’s life, boys!

It makes men look serious even if they are least bothered. This includes the “long term” relationship that women want. When the woman counterpart asks him why didn’t he pick the sock which has been lying for 2 days on the sofa, all he has to do is rub his chin, frown a bit and say, ‘honey, I was caught up with office work’.

Not only this, stubble seems to be more effective than sunscreen. It magically makes the jaw line look stronger and masculine.

Trying to connect responsibility with the look; men spend more time to get that perfect small hairs on face than the clean shave. So, all you women! Next time you rub his cheek, you can be sure that it took him more time that your fragrance soap lather bath.

The mystery of these small pricks will linger as long as it is the preference of the opposite gender. Celebrities will sport it, Singers will show off, sportsmen will flaunt and our very own next door Subramani won’t be alone!

So, machan! Sport one da! The pretty Kannmani might be on shaadicafe!

Why can’t I be a writer?

No offence but pun intended.

First of all, my history is as blatant as it can be. I am not from a prestigious college, so, half my chances of narrating my experiences are gone. I didn’t have a professor who was against me for all four years or a friend who could bring the US down. Even a description of me at the end of the book could be very blank.

“Subhashree Srinivasan studied at Madha Engineering college, just like her 3 lakh counter parts of Tamil Nadu. She managed an MBA. Hell! Who cares from where? It’s not the IIMs”

So, the publications will not even lift an eyebrow if I said the book was narrating my academic experiences. I am lost into the labyrinth of mediocrity and randomness. Jargons do play a role, you know!

Born into a country of high emotional quotient, I have lost the race there too. I didn’t have a boyfriend who left me to pursue his career. If he did, it would have been a book. Coming from a girl, it would have actually been a personal diary of sympathy. The only other who would have read it are the ones who broke up from their boyfriends. I would dedicate it to all those who were/are/will be in love. I think that pretty much covers everyone.

“I miss the hands. Those warm fingers fondling my hair.I missed the sense that spread emotions of all layers into my body. Love,protection and care. That is what he was. I missed him.I missed him like hell.”

I am less creative. I can’t make wizards out of normal people, vampires to fall in love with the werewolves or even make God a human being! It is my inability to think out of box that restricts me to write anything at all. I am the one who is satisfied with non-fiction boring narrations of mamis and their filter coffees.

“Its eyes glistened in the dark. It paved its way to the prey. Prey in an ”out of world” form. Its breathing heavily tinted with blood. The sky turned orange helping it to move faster down the path. The dusk was nearing, so, was the death of the enemy”

My gender hinders. I mean, think about it. If a guy wanted to make a joke, it is usually crude language. I can’t use it. Either I would be considered a desperate person or too conservative to make a point. There are no grey shades if I wrote something.

“He was hot. Err..tall and simple. He wore an aura that spelt genius. He was like Greek god. He was..like..hmmm..like..hot. ya, hot.”

It is an unfair world that doesn’t let anyone write in peace.

You write about your caste, million will frown. You write about Bhagavad Gita, Russians will ban it. You translate the works of a Tamil author, the essence is lost. You write about sex, enough is enough. If you write about war, movies will be copied from it. You write about the UFOs, controversies would be created. Apparently, I am lost in the blank pages that will make no sense to anyone.

“Unfair propagation towards the religion that might cause wars”-The Guardian

“The names are already taken by me in my book. I need right-full credit”- Kootan Boogat

“I don’t like it because it can’t be made into a movie” – TajKumar Biriyani

I am not done yet. I have one more big worry which all other authors do it with ease. To whom will I dedicate the book to?

To my father, who believed that benzene structure made more sense than my English?

To my mother, who felt all my books smelt like her sambhar

To my sister, who intends to write better books.

To my friends, who asked to throw away my MBA degree and asked me to write.

To my cousins, who were the greatest and the most proactive critics.

To my hostel mirror, to which I shouted, “what the hell am I doing now?”

Now, you tell me, with so much prejudice and faulty imaginations, where and how can I write? I only can crib in many pages that my writing will not be accepted.

So, all the world’s a stage. But I am thoroughly misplaced!

Sniff. Sob. Mental trauma. 

#ConditionSeriousHai