I'm moving...

For reasons known to me(and a few others) I'm moving from Blogger to Wordpress. Everything will be the same but its just a shift of dwelling (and perspective!) See you there! :)

http://amarllyis.wordpress.com/

101 Gifts 2009 Gave Me!

1. Went back to being myself.
2. Laughed till my sides hurt.
3. Cried till my mouth went dry.
4. Made a Yearbook with classmates.
5. Got gripped by a fear of losing loved ones.
6. Saw solid relationships fall apart.
7. Saw a masterpiece of a movie (Read: The Curious Case of Benjamin Button.)
8. Loved studying Internet Communication Engineering.
9. Finally wore a skirt.
10. Saw a blunder of a movie (Read: London Dreams)
11. Spent quality time with mom.
12. Had a heart to heart chat with my sister.
13. Went out for a chips date.
14. Worried sick about my final semester results.
15. Learnt to live in the present.
16. Read a masterpiece of a book (Read: The Fountainhead)
17. Wrote an unstructured poem (That is what I thought it was!)
18. Got inspired by the optimism of a friend.
19. Broke someone’s heart.
20. Broke my own heart.
21. Won movie tickets on the radio.
22. Been at an all time low due to joblessness.
23. Fasted the entire month of Ramzan.
24. Went out on a movie date.
25. Made a photo frame and photo album for friends.
26. Did a small stint with the TOI.
27. Enjoyed being all by myself for an entire month.
28. Got obsessed with buying bangles.
29. Went out for a coffee date.
30. Got disconnected with everyone during my trip to Murud.
31. Got hooked to Facebook.
32. Had people walking out of my life.
33. Stopped eating chips completely for a long period (BIG Achievement for me!)
34. Had a heart shattering fight with a very close friend.
35. Lost all hope.
36. Got picked up by family and friends.
37. Made up with that very close friend.
38. Learnt how to be politically correct.
39. And decided that I don’t wish to be politically correct.
40. Read another masterpiece of a book (Read: The Lost Symbol)
41. Went out for 2 Chicken Frankie dates.
42. Worked with an Ad agency
43. Quit the Ad Agency
44. Won jewellery on the radio.
45. Received an unexpected compliment from a complete stranger.
46. Witnessed death in the family.
47. Yearned for support when I felt all alone.
48. Went out on a bhutta date and fell flat on my face (Actually fell due to wet mud!)
49. Damaged my phone but still love it.
50. Got wet in the rain.
51. Wrote a poem full of pain.
52. Disappointed a friend (Well, more than one actually!)
53. Tried to make it up to them.
54. Took a walk all by myself.
55. Went shopping with my girl-friends.
56. Got ‘advice’ from ‘adults’
57. Was really let down and grossly neglected.
58. Made a pencil pouch (the purple one) and embroidered it too.
59. Learnt that everything in life is temporary.
60. Learnt to value the people and things in my life.
61. Prayed fervently. For family, friends and myself.
62. Got treated like sh*t.
63. Got treated like a princess.
64. Went to my old school on Sport’s Day.
65. Caught up with old teachers.
66. Re-connected with a long lost friend.
67. Tore away all my diaries.
68. Had huge discussions on national integration.
69. Endured a rough month due to almost no water in Nerul.
70. Thought Slumdog was way too over-rated.
71. Intentionally didn’t reach out for Chetan Bhagat’s book.
72. Joined twitter.
73. Learnt the hard way that history repeats itself.
74. Learnt how to leave things behind.
75. Ate a lot of ‘Crispy Chicken’ with my buddies.
76. Drank more juice in SEM8 than all the other SEMs put together.
77. Saw friends who had left walk back into my life.
78. Followed an MTv Show. (My Gosh! What a waste of time! MTv??!!)
79. Attended a friend’s wedding (I know, pretty early!)
80. Contemplated on teaching in an engineering college (Then I told myself I had lost it!)
81. Went out on a Paani Puri Date.
82. Wrote an autobiography. The first time in my life!
83. Got the shock of my life (Kinda private to disclose!)
84. Cursed the Andheri traffic. (Thank God I got out of it alive!)
85. Saw another blunder of a movie (Read: Kurbaan)
86. Fell in love with the piano instrumental version of ‘Ye Dooriyan’
87. Realised that hitting on a guy with girl-friends can be real fun.
88. Finally went back to heels.
89. Had long nails and painted them too (Another BIG Achievement for me!)
90. Couldn’t help a friend out of a spot and felt sick about it.
91. Added a new colour to my wardrobe: Black.
92. Got ditched umpteen times.
93. Stopped expecting things from people.
94. Never received ‘No’ for an answer from a friend X whenever I asked for something (In Short: Got pampered.)
95. Received tremendous support from family.
96. Never shared a recurring issue with anyone.
97. Felt really happy on the success of a friend.
98. Witnessed injustice towards women and the lower section of society and felt terrible.
99. Read a text book of Literature!
100. Had the most amazing 6 writers I know, to write for my Blog.
101. Wrote 6 pieces for the anniversary post but came up with this 7^th one at the eleventh hour!

P.S. 1) Happy Birthday to my blog!!! :-)

2) Once again, a BIG 'Thank You' to all my Guest Writers.

3) A HUGE Thank You to everyone who has been reading and everyone who has supported me all year long.

Lots of Love

Sameen

Guest Post 6

TEACHER'S PET

Students are milestones in a teacher's life. Teachers are sands in time to a student's progress. Some teachers are remembered by many students, many teachers are remembered by some students and few teachers are often best not remembered by all students. Whatever the category, teachers are still like a guiding light. Each teacher is identified by some characteristic trait, just like a season by its flowers or fruits, temperature or climatic conditions. This cannot be said of students.

Students are only identified for a year or more by a roll number, pet name, house identity or a student's achievements, or often, students are forgotten by name. They however leave an identification mark in a teacher's memory. May be a smile, eyes, voice or even mannerisms. I have had many experiences with many students across a wide compass of student fraternity-- status and creed. I remember some, cherish a few and admire the uniqueness in a couple.

Amongst the two I remember; one that had a long stint with me in St. Paul's Mission School, Calcutta, till 1996-- Shankar Chakravarty. Another is one that lent spice to the life of a teacher's mundane life,a short span of existence in St. Peter's School Mazgaon, laying an indelible mark on me as a teacher.I was not her class teacher but I did teach her English.Many may be wondering ;as you read this piece of rambling, who could this unique student be.
Some are remembered
Art for Art's sake
Many are forgotten
Even before they lay a stake
E'er they are smotten.
Never will I forget
Sameen who I briefly met.

Sameen, a girl of class 6, impressed me with one of her performances in a play that she acted in. It was a part of Bohemian Rapsody which she had to portray. Sameen was the central character and she had played a boy's role. I had to choreograph the dance sequence and I had to teach her the style essential for this dance. Being a girl it did not come naturally to her. I lost my temper. Not with Sameen but with the others who were dancing with her. Sameen always managed to bring a smile to my otherwise apoplectic mood. I then became the student. My teacher a young, then dimunitive figure, unassuming and never much heard in a crowd. She was conspicuous in her absence and inconspicuous when she was present. She was the apple in every teacher's eye.
I must confess that I did not realize Sameen's worth till she had left St. Peter's School, prematurely because of her parental physical relocation which made it impossible for her to continue. Though she left at such a tender age, she kept coming back to her old Alma Mater and would meet her teachers regularly.Sameen could not be erased from the memories of the staff. She made her presence felt by her constant visits and she is fondly remembered by all the staff for her politeness and courtesy.

Sameen being a lover of good literature is evident in her writing. Her style is distinctive and her emotions well painted in words. She has a deep knowledge of life's everyday sequences which is evident in her prose and poems. Even though the sun sets, she is capable of bringing out the vibrant colours of night and pleasure the reader with the sound of silence. Sameen makes the reader feel the pain that exudes in her writing. I must elaborate that she has always been a good learner and she takes positive criticism constructively and this will take her a long way in that Art wich she has lost her Heart to. Art for Art's sake or should I say that she has a Heart for Art's sake. Whatever it may be, she takes pleasure, pain and enthusiasm in doing what she does best--writing.
Sameen is not just a roll number, pet name or a girl identified by an achievement or a House colour. She is a voice unmistakeably polite, a smile that launches many memories, eyes that open many windows to her writing and mannerisms that make her stand out as an individual in the crowd.

I wish Sameen all the best in her life and if there is ever a tear in your eye I pray that God will dry those saline drops replacing it with a smile. If God is out of coverage area, 'then I'll be there' as the Beatles had once sung.

-Trevor D'souza

Guest Post 5

I MISS...

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in, what I consider to be the most spectacular season of the city, the Rainy season. There I sat at my window sill reading for the n-th time 'To Kill A Mockingbird' while the computer played 'Lemon Tree'. The freshness of the leaves, the amazingly brightness unto horizon, renewed energy percolating every iota of air/element present in this beautiful world, all bring a new fervour within me. Ahhhh.....a perfect Sunday afternoon for me...

All of a sudden my friend walks in & asks me, "What is this song you are listening to? Is the band even really a band or just some small time people playing a random song?". (It was the original version of the song by none other then the legendary band, The Beatles.)

Left stunned by the new entrant's disturbance in my peaceful reading posture, the comments left me flabbergasted with a thorn pricking somewhere within my heart. Not only was he ignorant of John Lennon, Sir Paul McCartney, George Harrison & Ringo Starr, he was also oblivious of the wonderful book that I held in my hand. The back handed slap on my choice of music was followed with a dig at the author of the book in my hand (who, according to Abraham Lincoln, could surely be held responsible for the American Civil War).

Most people I know these days swear by Dan Brown's collection of novels or the innumerable books written by Jeffrey Archer, Sydney Sheldon, John Grisham, David Baldacci etc. etc. the so called modern authors... Ask them which is there favourite line or scene from there novels and the only reply one gets is the sound of silence. Call it a pregnant pause if u wish, but you shall hear no sound coming out of the well read person.

Isn't it alarming? If one claims to have read the book then surely there has to be a favourite scene or a dialogue so commendable that you can recite it word to word or a character that you wish to emulate at the least! One learnt about the intricacies of Christianity in Dan Brown's works through the protagonist, the ever youthful Robert Langdon. But if I ask any one to characterize this fictional being, one is at a loss of words.

One of the most popular books among the kid-circle or for that matter even the parent-circle is the Harry Potter series. They surely have instilled a passion for reading in the children of today, but only for these books. They fail to enchant the reader to step into the world of English literature.

Who is to be blamed for this? The reader?
The poor reader digests only that is provided within the bounds of the book.

So that means it’s not the reader. Right!!!...it is the books in general these days. (Read: the authors)

Personally, I love the new generation authors too. But this love for their work is the outcome of the hard work of all the plethora of authors of days gone by. It is through reading the works of the legends that one develops an interest, a flare for reading. It’s the foundation laid down by the innumerable authors of the past, vis-à-vis Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, R.L.Stevenson, to even authors like Eric Segal, Ayn Rand, Margaret Mitchell.

Gone are the days when people would have waited & fought tooth & nail to get a ticket to watch the latest drama or script written by Shakespeare being enacted in the Elizabethan age.

There is no book that can still be able to get people to recall its dialogues.

Where is the dialogue like "What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?
That she was beautiful. And brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.” or "There he stood naked by the edge of the Cliff."? Or the most famous dialogue from Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist, "Please sir, can I have some more?"

Somehow there is this feeling of praise for all the modern authors forgetting the extremely solid & profound groundwork lay down by the innumerable writes of auld-laud-syne. For murder mysteries we swear by David Baldacci, Frederick Forsyth but ignore the father of detectives, Sherlock Homes created by Sir Author Conan Doyle or the numerous thrilling novels by Agatha Christie. In the children's section we have Harry Potter forgetting the most popular of them all, Enid Blyton. We are willing to read a 1000+ paged book by Vikram Seth on the search for 'A Suitable Boy' but not pick up the legendary Russian author, Leo Tolstoy's works 'War and Peace' or 'Anna Karenina'. Patrons of John Grisham's court-room drama sometimes fail to acknowledge the contribution of erstwhile Erle Stanley Gardner in that genre of books through his series on the lawyer-detective, Perry Mason.

We remember films such as 'To Kill A Mockingbird', 'Gone With The Wind', 'Pride & Prejudice'series on BBC, 'The Exorcist' but somehow tend to not acknowledge the basic element of interest in them, the actual script being the book! Basing a movie on a strong book is bound to aid the success of the movie.

The modern authors fill up their novels with words, storyline & a beautiful description of the surrounding or some vile activities occurring during the course of the morbid storyline. They fail to add in a humane touch or element in their novels. Lost are the Jeeves, Oliver Twists, Huckleberry Finns, Scarlett O'Haras, Howard Roarks or for that matter even the foolishly romantic Oliver Barretts from the current world of literature...

-Nikhil Rao

Guest Post 4

THE MAN AND HIS MANY WOMEN

Her face was hidden behind: Why Men are from Mars, and Women from Venus. His, behind The Times of India. They sat silent while the tea grew cold. Not a word, not a murmur but conclusions drew fast- about men and the world respectively. She said, “Do you know men can’t multi- task ever?” He replied with a chortle, “That’s we have women to do it!” Mukesh’s smart retorts weren’t restricted to multi tasking alone but possibly everything under the sun. Their courtship was filled with funny lines and smart replies. His humour and his charm proved to be an ice breaker when he had come to ask her hand in marriage from her father. He provided the wit and ‘stomach- paining- from laughing moments’ she never had while she grew up in a somber house full of troubles. Her existence on earth was divided into Smita Ahuja and Smita Talreja and she knew what was coming next. Hell, she’d been married to the same man for 25 years and known him for 5 years before that. A demand for another round of black tea and quick breakfast. His life was so predictable or maybe she’d been watching for donkey’s years and never realized when his schedule was drilled into her head subconsciously.

Her mind shifted to growing concerns – her daughters, sleeping without a crease on their brow. She sighed heavily during memories of last night. The argument that ensured yesterday was blown out of proportion, heated and loud. It had to be loud with four adults – screaming with the grave peril of their voice box never functioning ever again. She loved her daughters as she loved their father, but couldn’t fathom how volatile and turbulent adolescence could be as a parent. She possessed the ever strong intuitive mind but had no inkling about what could flare up when it came to pheromone riddled bodies, in plural – her daughters, Ananya and Anisha.

Ananya and Anisha Talreja were born on 15^th July, with the former being about 2.33 minutes older than the latter. The 2.33 minute “age gap” – was something that Ananya would constantly remind anyone who would care to listen, while Anisha would simply say “The donkey was born first and then the human”. It often would light up a boring dinner or was an attempt to make conversation with unwilling and shy guests.

‘Ananya’ (which meant ‘unique’) lived up to her name and abused every opportunity to do so, from shaving her eyebrows, to chopping off her unsuspecting sister’s hair when they were 8. She was Daddy’s little girl, apple of his eye for she had a certain charm and had inherited his humor and his parrot nose. It would be unfair to favour one child over the other, but Mukesh saw no sin, or rather didn’t think twice before doing so. She woke up from her slumber and like every other morning wished him, “Good Morning, Pop!” Blissfully ignoring last night’s argument he reciprocated with a cheery “Good Morning!” Smita, over the noise emanating in the kitchen, yelled, “Ananya, get ready fatta- fat, I want you to reach college on time, I am not interested in meeting your principal again.” Ananya, made a face, but looked at her ‘Pop’ whose face simply read – ‘She’s still pissed with you about last night. But do it for me.’ She complied and went on with her business to brush, have a bath, make a trip to the loo and miscellaneous activities such as application of kohl on the eyes and gloss on the lips. Her policy – Anything for Daddy Dearest!

Her twin, her 2.33 minute younger twin, Anisha, was a sleepy head and the stereotypical Cancerian - moody, calm, possessive and an introvert. Anisha, could credit her identity to her father, as he had named her so, but somehow though she was his blood, his attachment to her wasn’t on par with his attachment to Ananya. She was the “ideal daughter” – the one who would excel at what she put her mind to. And did so effortlessly (unlike many), even with the presence of a boyfriend, namely Girish. When it came to attention, she could hardly complain, for she was in every alpha red blooded Indian male’s eyes, something to behold or in put in their way – “eye candy to tag along”. Anisha woke up, walked up to the mirror, and washed her face: which was a “xerox chhap” of her mother’s. Anisha made a mental to- do list and while lost in thought woefully ignored her father’s stern gaze, which basically meant he hadn’t forgotten last night’s ordeal that he was put through. The minutes of the argument were that A. She had a boyfriend, B. He wasn’t good enough and that C. Such behaviour (having a boyfriend) was unacceptable. She pretended that she couldn’t care less, but somewhere behind the prejudice, she knew he would always be her father and the one to fund the diamond set for her wedding.

“Between men and women there is no friendship possible. There is passion, enmity, worship, love, but no friendship.” - Oscar Wilde.

-Maulika Hegde

Guest Post 3

The White Guy and the Red Guy

(Alarm ringing)
Me : ..... Wtf...?
Him: ....Mmmpph.....
(Alarm ringing)
Me: ....(reaching out and shutting the damn thing)....
Him: ....Hrrmmmmph....
.
.

.
(About Three hours later)
Me: ...I should get up...
Him: .......No.....
Me: It's 11 .. come on..
Him: .... No, my head hurts...
.
.

.
(Two more hours pass)
Me: Omg..! I am getting up now..
Him: .. fine wateva...
Me: ... (Sitting up)...
Him: Where the fuck is the water ?
Me: ...(Getting up to look for it.. feeling wobbly and sitting down)...
Him: where is it ?
Me: Wait! .... Here.
Him: ( glugging it down)
Me: ...I wanna puke..
Him: Not again, you're such a douche..!
Me: ...( Going over to the sink but not ending up puking) .. Man this sucks...
Him: You suck.
Me: ( Looking into the mirror )... You look terrible.
Him: Fuck you.
Me: It's all your fault.
Him: My fault ?????
Me: Yes... all your fault.
Him: You fucking hypocrite.
Me: (silence)
Him: What are you complaining about ? You fucking enjoyed yourself last night.
Me :(silence)
Him: Yeah, no more words now eh ? All your bravado vanished in an instance.
Me: It happens everytime I trust you. Look what you ended up making me do last night. I feel disgusted........ Wait, I know, this is just a bad dream.
Him: Yo..! This aint no dream. You fucked her last night.
Me: (Silence)
Him: Fucked her again and again. Remember ? On top, from the side, every fucking angle..
Me: ...(weeping)...I want to die.
Him: I can't fucking believe you. You had an amazing night with that blonde and you're cryin over it.
Me: What will I tell Puja ?
Him: Lol..!
Me: You're laughing ???
Him: What do you want me to do? It's so funny...!
Me: You are such a sick bastard..!
Him: Cursing me isn't gonna change the fact that you cheated. You cheated the girl who loves you unconditionally. You're a cheat. A lousy common CHEAT..!
Me: Enough. Please don't. (weeping)
Him: What if you got AIDS ?
Me : (Hands going cold)
Him: Hahahahahahaa...! This is even funnier than I thought..! Not only are you a cheat, but you're a god damn killer too. You're gonna kill Puja..!
Me: (Feeling faint, darkness falling over my vision)
Him: Woah Woah..! Peace bro. Relax. Sit down. drink some water.
Me: I wore rubber. Nothing could have happened. Plus the girl looked decent.
Him: Oh trust me, she's been around...!
Me: I need to get checked up.
Him: (smirks)
Me: What did I do ? what did I do ?
Him: Waatchyu beatin yourself up for ? Life is short. Enjoy it. You had a great time yesterday and that's that. Don't you wanna bang that blonde again? Fuck, I don't even know her name, but who cares..!
Me: NO NO NO NO NO ..! I can't face anyone anymore.
Him: What's that supposed to mean ? You're talkin to me..!
Me: I can't even face myself.
Him: Cmon, you haven't done shit. There were other people in the world who have done more depraved deeds. You're a toddler compared to them.
Me: Why don't you get it ?? I don't want to be like them. I detest such a life and I absolutely detest you. You disgust me.
Him: Hahahahaha..! Fuck, you're so petty. Living the only life that you know. The life that you have been taught to live. Like a fucking mind control experiment. Open your eyes Douchemaister...! there's a fuck load of things to do.
Me: Listen, I have had enough of you and your unholy advice. I am going to cleanse myself of you.
Him: How the fuck are you gonna do that ?
Me: Through prayer, meditation and strength of will.
Him: Hahahahahaha...!You're a funny guy. Did someone tell you that you're a funny guy. Oh fuck, I remember someone who did. It was the blonde you fucked last night...! BANG... ! Hahahaha...!
Me: You're such an insensitive prick. You're going to rot in hell.
Him: Oh yeah..! I'm going to hell alright and guess who I have for company...? Cmon .. guess.. cmon... YOU..!
Me: I will atone for my sins. I will never touch alcohol again. I will never even look at another woman. I will immerse myself in prayer and seek forgiveness from the almighty.
Him: Bla bla bla...
Me: Yes, I am going to have an ice cold shower. I will eat only plain food. I will wear simple clothes. I am..(gets cut off)
Him: Stop stop enough already. My head hurts. Both of us know for a fact that whatever you promise you're gonna break in a day or two. So what's the point ? Your're not a fucking saint. Just be who you are. Why the fuck do you want to be like one of those factory made zombies doing what they're told. You're your own master, you do as you please. You fuck whoever you want..!
Me: You don't know me at all. You are not me. There is an essential inviolable white purity in me that you violate. And because my purity does not predispose me to mistrusting you, I end up falling in your trap, with your elaborate tales and your mockery. But not any more. I know who I am. I am pure as white and I will not allow your red stains on me. If I have been stained, I will pray and pray and pray until I am washed white again.
Him: Hmmm.. interesting. So basically you are saying that you will not trust me when I bring forward my next proposal.
Me: Yes, that is correct.
Him: But, isn't that in violation with your milky white childlike purity. If you really are pure then you would trust me regardless. Because, you are infinitely optimistic.
Me: (Silence)
Him: (Smirks)

-Subhodeep Moitra

Guest Post 2

The wait that didn't last long enough...

Rehan was sitting at the airport waiting for Ayesha to show up. She’d been out in Bangalore for a week to visit her mother and as long as Rehan could remember this might’ve been the most difficult week of his life. At least since the time he got married to her. Hell, he even had problems looking for a dry towel. He was just appreciating Ayesha’s ability for putting up with him when it was announced that the flight was late by an hour.

No matter how irritated this got him but was also a little bit gladdening because it gave him some time to himself. He always loved it when he actually had the time to basically do nothing. What made it even better was the fact that he would never take time from his schedule to just sit back and enjoy the air… to look around… to sit back and do absolutely nothing. And it’s always so much better when something like this is unplanned, accidental, haphazard, impromptu etc etc etc.

He saw a small kid with a tiny bib attached being walked by his father towards the security check and it drove him to make forced comparisons and think about having his very first air travel only at the age of 19. He little window opened up in his grey area and he could clearly see another boy, not much older than this one, being walked two storey’s up in a smallish, brightly green coloured building.

It seemed like the first day of school and like all around him the 5 year old Rehan held on to his father’s hand just as hard as he was bawling. The brand new uniform, the blackened shoes, the snow white socks, the neatly pressed uniform, the smell of new paper and the touch of new pencil’s and maddeningly coloured erasers held no more comfort for little Rehan as he realized that he was being left alone with other people where he would ordinarily be beaten.

“You’re going to get beating from teacher” said a slightly round kid sitting at the immediately left of the door as soon as he entered. Rehan was not surprised to see the look of fear mingled with extreme shyness to openly react at those words in the eyes of the kid who held onto his fathers hand like it was his buoy to sanity and salvation towards the end of this painful nightmare.

He didn’t even stop and wonder why??? Rehan allowed himself to be lead to sit on a single seater behind a guy with a burn mark on his hand who promptly turned around to say a “Hi” and

“My name is Karan. What’s yours?”

“Rehan”

“Don’t listen to him Rehan. Parvez is only trying to scare you. Teacher is very nice. The teacher in B shouts sometimes.”

The teacher in B was incidentally his “tuition “teacher since day 1. He needed extra class for three whole months because he had joined school late. Later in the day he walked into class B and sat next to a girl. He sat next to her and was writing “BAT”, “CAT”, “MAT” and what not.

Rehan wondered now how the girl couldn’t feel the heat being generated by him. Because till this day he remembered he hadn’t felt so awkward before. C’mon it was his first time!!!

It brought a slight smile to his face and he would’ve carried on the episodes of his preparatory class until he saw the kid again. It was only now that he realized that the little boy was wearing glasses. It made him sad to think that so young a kid had to go through the entire routine of being called a “4 eyed”… just the way he had to endure day after day.

Rehan walked behind the little boy who was almost being dragged by a curly haired stout lady with a kind face. He saw that she wasn’t even shouting at him. On the contrary she was appeasing him so much so that it made the punk cry harder.

They went into the next class and the curly haired kind teacher called out to the other lady.

“Just read the chart there, beta”

The chart, light brown in colour, was at the other end of the wall and clearly visible on it, large curvy handwriting, were words etched in black which said things like “Pat likes to sing”, “Hen lays eggs”, the works.

Rehan could read it but he knew that once he removed his glasses it’ll be as blur as it was on that day. Then he gingerly removed his glasses to read what it said and he felt a wave of embarrassment wash him down. Rehan still wondered how she found out that he had had problems with his eyesight.

The scene changed and with it brought another wave of embarrassment. It reminded Rehan how jumpy he was as a little kid. He remembered how things used to go wrong in his effort to do it “properly”. In his whirlwind, although sometimes, clumsy effort he made it difficult for the other person to comprehend his actions. His “help” often went wrong. It bought a sly smile to him now but even the smile was laced with wonderment, with confusion and with disappointment.

Rehan could see his teacher wearing a pink suit and a skirt reaching for the desk of a mousy haired and scared kid. He saw single sheets of paper lying on everyone’s desk. He saw a tall gangly dark kid touch a hard bound book with a tattered old blue cover while crossing himself. He saw some sharpening their pencils to a fine point and poking them to their cheek to validate it as “pointed”.

Suddenly the teacher exclaimed loudly, stepped backwards (stumbled was more apt actually) and tapped the scared kid on the head with her hand while taking the other to her lips. The kid tried to help the teacher by pulling out his pockets to show that he wasn’t hiding any “chits” inside. But he decided to help her at precisely the same time when she reached him and hit her full on her face. The professor’s face was a scary sight. The kid could’ve cried out if he wasn’t too scared to show his tears too. Her lips were bleeding and her eyes were streaked with madness. While his were earth drawn. A single rebellious tear finally rolled down to lightly splash on his exam paper.

It pained Rehan even now when he thought of this little scene. Somehow such things always remained with him. There were many happy memories but all he could remember were the sad, depressing ones.

Rehan, lost in thoughts, almost missed out the flights announcement. He had to almost wait another 10 minutes before he could hear it again. Not finding much change in the pattern he eased off in his chair and tried taking a nap.

He could remember episodes of his entire school life like a movie. He could pick out the characters he didn’t like and replace them with different people. Sometimes he could even remember even the dialogues which took place years ago like the one involving Parvez. But, he was confused, that he couldn’t remember the name of the person sitting on the far right of the northern window in his grade 2 class.

He wondered how these things worked. He knew that all those memories were deeply wedged somewhere in his head. He just needs the right tool to remove it. He was deep in thoughts when a little kid of 5 or 6 ran past him. He wore a spider-man tee.

Seeing him a very distinct memory jumped out from the canvas of his collage like a fresh melon seed. He was too old to be kneeling in front of a class of 60 students but that’s what he was doing. Gone was the extremely shy and quiet boy of the old. In his place was a big, heavy boy (fat, rather) with a kind face (etched with a perpetual smile). He was behaving like he was “Ol’ Spidey” and was pretending to be climbing the red and white walls while kneeling all the time.

The whole scene was being intently watched by the Hindi professor standing right behind him with a long, thin and “swishy” cane. Suddenly Rehan realized that the class was unnaturally silent and with this realization came the swishing sound of the cane cutting through the air and making contact with his bottoms. The only thing he could manage to say to his professor, all the while shielding his behind was… “Ma’am… Arre ma’am what did I do?? I was just entertaining myself”. The class rang out a chorus of wild laughter while she chased him the length of the class.

The Hindi professor never made Rehan kneel again. His punishment from next time onwards was to just stand outside. There were more interesting anecdotes about those treasure troves too but Rehan couldn’t think beyond his “tingling rear”.

He was reading a passage from his literature book. It looked like a senior class. He was in the middle row and was seated on the 4^th bench from the front. It was a paragraph from the 1^st chapter of his text. It was an extract from “Whitewashing the Fence” by Mark Twain, or Samuel Langhorne Clemens.

Rehan never remembered reading so clearly in a class full of people. This was the first time he was actually standing up on his own and making people hear him. Even though he knew that the so called “people” had no other choice but to hear him it was odd feeling to be heard, he thought.

““…He was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:

“Stop her, sir! Ting-a-ling-ling!” The headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.

“Ship up to back! Ting-a-ling-ling!” His arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.

“Set her back on the stabboard! Ting-a-ling-ling!””

“Son, you read pretty well. Have you thought of doing something in Public Speaking?”

“No, Sir. I haven’t thought of anything as such. Not yet, though.”

“You’ve got a good diction and that’s very important. Think about it”

“Surely, sir. Thank you.”

That was it. The first compliment he ever got. And that too in front of the whole class. Rehan walked with his head held high for the rest of the day.

The scene changed. He was still walking with his head held high but without the same freedom and alacrity he had felt a second before. The sun was burning his nape. The sweat poured in torrents from his hairline to his collar. He was marching with a group of four more boys from his own class. The sunny field was dotted with many such small groups marching in various directions with a leader leading them on.

It was a highly uncommon if not an impossible sight to see a group of youngsters do this as it was not meant for 6^th graders to be a part of the Road Side Patrol or RSP for short. Of course it had another name more common and more appropriate. Road Side Pigs.

Their leader, who they called Big Dick, was a seriously wonky sort who had had problems adhering to the normal course of routine that more normal people followed with ease. He loved bullying guys into doing this stupid marching thing every Wednesday for a whole year. Non of the “toli”, as the group was called, had any guts to call him the nasty names (which changed every week) up front but it was a healthy, and not to forget, a totally acceptable time killer in the common room, a.k.a the boys loo, after every session of “The Moronic March”

Rehan remembered exactly how it had happened. Why did things go off routine for these 6 graders and they had to endure the marching for a whole extra year. Rehan and his two swimming buddies decided not to go swimming anymore. They collectively blamed and advocated throwing their teacher in the “deep” at the YMCA pool. But then… he was teaching them swimming so it made no sense.

All 3 of them started skipping their swimming classes and opted to play cricket or football on the field. But they were almost caught by the swimming in-charge once so they prepared a different POA. They hid in the toilet for the 1^st 10 minutes of the period and then joined the games group. They chose the games group because they knew that the in-charge was a laid back type who didn’t care much about taking attendance every day. They played UNO or just sat a made jokes on everyone… until one day the swimming in-charge sent a senior to their class to actually find out if they were truly absent.

Well, that was the end of their “freedom from doom” days. They were taken to the vice-principal. Not a single word said. Not a single whipping on their backsides. Just a signature on the memo and BANG, they were to spend their Wednesdays for the next three years driven to suicide under the “Big Dick” doing RSP.

“What the hell you smiling about, eh? I wasn’t even here.” Rehan was shaken out of his happy stupor by his angelic wife with the extra baggage she carried with her perpetually since a long time. Rehan’s smile grew wider he jumped up hugged his wife longer than was expected by Ayesha.

Rehan knew he wouldn’t be able to explain how far he had travelled in the course of an hour. Maybe later.

“Nothing. I was just thinking about you.”

-
Fayesal Siddiqui

Guest Post 1

ONCE UPON A LITTLE TIME...

Part 1: Screw rhyming schemes
Once upon a little time, there lived a little boy.
With a simple enough mind and a simple enough life,
Spread laughter did he, like a kindergarten toy.

But one thing not too simple, there was about Johnny
Owner was he, of a hole in his heart,
Gifted to him, by his highschool sweetheart.

(Hello, I’m the Art Director. Yes, within parentheses and in italics… that’s me. Poetry isn’t really my style. So I’ll stick to normal writing. If you’re reading this part with a sing song tune, please stop. I’ll be your eyes and ears to this story. I’ll tell you exactly what it is you must hear and describe the scene to you as best as I can. Right now, the sky is a dark grey. There is an apple tree near the timbers. An eerie silence prevails. One that would send shivers down your spine. )

Part 2: Enter Sanity
Johnny sits there quietly, pondering under the tree.
A friendly voice said to him, “Hello my name is Sanity”
For a girl given such a name, she was the craziest he’d ever seen.
Which is what got him talking to her, as she sat down, oh so keen.

(The sky now is a light hue of blue. The grey is completely gone. I can hear a distant flute that really makes me happy.)

They talked of charades, and Pictionary, and delved into classic rock too.
Of the things he liked, that she did not, there were only a countable few.
He looked inside, and then observed, that the hole in his heart didn’t heal.
Which meant she was his new true friend, and more than that, he did not feel.

(This next bit requires some imagination. The set up is the same with the apple tree near the woods. The sun moves from the left of the stage to the right. Imagine now, that the sun is sped up, showing the passing of days, something like a “fast-forward”. In this “fast-forward” Sanity appears near and disappears from Johnny’s side several times. Johnny never moves from his place under the tree. The only animation in him is a smile when Sanity comes to talk to him. Suddenly the sun comes to a halt and Sanity breaks into a song)

Part 3: Sanity’s good turn
Sanity : What makes you sad Johnny, What makes you SAD??
Johnny: It’s just this hole Sanity, It sometimes hurts bad. (He tries to sing. All I’ll say is Kudos for trying!!)

Sanity: Turn your eyes up north Johnny, Do you see that lass?

Johnny: Only in glimpses Sanity, Shall we let this pass?
Sanity: She’s my best friend Johnny, someone you must really know.
Johnny: Is that really so Sanity, Oh gee I’m wondering why I shouldn’t say no.
Sanity: You need someone to talk to Johnny, and surely so does she.
Johnny: I still can’t see her clearly; I’ll call out to her when I’m free.

(Sanity walks away satisfied, as the white sky turns a light shade of scarlet. Johnny could hear songs from the north, of the very lass Sanity talked about. Johnny began to discover that he really liked the songs a lot.)

Part 4: Enter Lass from the North
To tell her how much he liked her songs, Johnny called out to her.
To his surprise, he heard her voice, in a reply that lacked no vigour.
They talked this way calling out to each other, of everything under the sun.
Each described their worlds to the other, till the worlds were almost one.

(The red in the sky is brighter now. You can hear the sound of a lyre. Johnny cannot see this lass. He can only hear her voice as she is far far away.)

They talked of friends and family, and even of catching fireflies.
Lots of things there were that he liked, which she did SO despise.
Complete solace did she find, in sharing her tragic tales with him.
But he couldn’t help wondering how, the heart’s hole began to slim.

Inconsiderate was he of her woes, and selfish to the core.
When he told her mere friendship wasn’t enough, when he told her he wanted more.
Shocked she was to hear these words, she frankly explained to Johnny
“You haven’t even seen me you know. I have to leave you. I’m Sorry.”

Johnny: Answer me!!
Lass from the North : ….
Johnny: NOOOOO!! (Do you really need help imagining a yell of despair?)

Part 5: The Trip

(While he is screaming his guts out, Johnny grows a full length beard and his eyes become completely bloodshot due to lack of sleep. The scene surrounding him shifts to his home. His bedroom to be more specific. He is now standing in front of the medicine cabinet which he used long back in high school.)

Johnny: Dear God, this hole in my heart, has begun to hurt a lot,
Even deeper is the wound now, as its state begins to rot.
By my good luck, I am now stuck, with these BLOODY pills,
That I’d once used, back in high school, to cure my wretched ills.

(He opens the cabinets and looks at the bottles)

So that’s just one pill of “I deserve better than her”,
And one or two more of “I hate that bitch”.
With three to four shots of the “Anger” tonic
And five sets of… I DON’T KNOW which.

Tell you what, this isn’t working out.
I might as well, have ALL of them.
To give me a dose, an overdose,
Of the hatred, that would hence stem.

(The scene shifts. Johnny’s head feels very light. Smoke slowly fills the room as the surroundings turn to a hazy cloud. Johnny is in complete bliss and enjoying every moment of this hatred induced trip. He flies like a cherubic angel, not bothered by events passed, unfazed by current happenings and unconcerned of the near as well as the distant future. They say all good things must come to an end. The same holds true here. Things start to turn ugly when a lightning flash rips through the cloud. It brings him down to earth, back to his room. He begins to clutch his chest. When the pain becomes unbearable, he drops to the floor. The room starts to shrink around him and he begins to yell. He suddenly sees a void on the floor which exerts a force of attraction. He is sucked into the void, and is almost fully in. The only thing that prevents him from being pulled in completely is his grip on the cot. He gives in to the force and lets go. Suddenly a hand reaches out to him and he hears a familiar voice say...)

“Johnny you fool, what have you done to yourself?”

Part 6: The healing

(The scene shifts to a hospital. Sanity is the doctor… Don’t look too surprised. This is fiction.

Anything can happen. Where was I…? Yes, Sanity is the doctor. There are several other people dressed in white. They must to be the nurses. Johnny is lying down on the bed, the usual hospital equipment hooked to different parts of his body.)

Sanity : Administer a syringe of “She wasn’t ready for this”,
Along with a bottle of “Common sense” drips,
Run a thorough scan from tip to toe,
To see if he suffers from an inflated ego.

Oh Good, Johnny you’re finally coming through,
Johnny my boy, I’ve been worried sick about you,
What were you thinking, taking that damn trip,
Talked to me you could’ve, ‘fore you did flip.

How did she wrong , for you to hate,
For she was a wreck, and you did frustrate,
Lose not to hatred, Lose not to Shame,
Learn you must Johnny, to be considerate again.

Johnny: Sanity my dear, I don’t know what to say,
For friends like you, one can only pray,
Never mind me, I’ll put up a fight,
In due course of time, I will be alright.

(Sanity only smiles as she sees that Johnny is trying to put on a brave face. The scene shifts from the hospital back to the apple tree in the woods where Johnny sits alone under the tree. The sky is heavily overcast. Johnny sits there as he comes to accept what happened. As the clouds in his mind clear up, so do ones up above. It takes him a while, but the day finally comes when he is at peace with himself. The sky is now clear, but with not so pleasant a hue of blue.)

Part 7: Re-enter Lass from the North
So back was Johnny to sitting under the tree, pondering on one thing or the other,
When to his surprise, he heard her voice, which did now lack some vigour,
They talked on some topics interesting, but unlike before, not everything,
She spoke of few things regarding herself, and on him she did no enquiring.

(The scene changes. The background is pitch black emptiness and Johnny is in the centre of it. There is an elevator next to him, which is surrounded by cloudy trails. Almost as though it passed through a cloud and dragged a piece of the cloud along with it. )

Regardless of the lack of enthusiasm, Johnny said “Woo hoo”,
He entered the lift and told the operator, “Level Nine will do”,
Somewhere between cloud three and cloud four, the lift came to a grinding halt,
The operator turned and said to Johnny, “I’m Reason, let’s find out where you’re at fault”

Part 8: Reasoning with Reason
Reason: Tell me now Johnny, where are you off to?
Johnny: To cloud number nine, just like I told you.
Reason: What makes you happy, if I may so ask?
Johnny: She’s talking to me again, in glory I’ll bask.
Reason: Let me ask you Johnny, are things the very same?
Johnny: Ummm.. duller they are now. Wonder what to blame?
Reason: Johnny my boy, grow up and be a man,
She’s being nice to you, try to understand.
Don’t make the same mistake, that you made before,
By jumping to conclusions, and turning your heart sore.

(The lift now starts moving downwards, back to earth.)

Johnny: Sense I do see, in what you’re telling me,
So with a heavy heart, I have to agree,
Wary I must be, not to follow the same trend
My faults I’ll rectify, and be a good friend.

(The lift touches down reaching the lowest level. The doors open and Johnny finally gets his feet on the ground.)

So Johnny reconciles himself with reality,
And reflects upon the Lass and Sanity,
As two people who make him smile in strife,
Hopes he does, to know them for life.
The End??

Nishad: Did that make you happy, or was that depressing,
Well ladies and gentlemen, that wasn’t an ending.
Johnny’s story continues, as of this very moment,
So someday I’ll come back, back to this stage,
To tell Johnny’s story, to the very last page.

-Nishad Musthafa

Murder in Mime

Flames burst alive in the grate
wildly prancing in a rhyme.
And the wood burns away
engulfing evidence of the crime.
A broken pen, a smashed ink-pot,
papers strewn all over the place.
The clock strikes one, it strikes two
A broken knife left in haste.
Whining of the wolves is heard
heard by the nothingness in the inn.
Leaves rustle and fall on the path
lined by an old bench and upturned bin.
Rats play hide and seek in the attic,
creaking stairs lead into the hall.
A calendar dates to ten years ago,
On the couch lies a forgotten doll.
No blood was spilled, no screams heard
Neither bullets fired nor flesh ripped apart,
A simple piece of parchment sent
That killed all that lay in her heart...

-Sameen

Figments of our Imagination.

It is really remarkable how we live with some myths that need no un-masking. It extremely funny how we sometimes do not see thing for what they are and for what we are told they appear to be. Self-thinking is something we were never taught and I am assuming the coming generations will never be told that such a concept can be allowed to exist if they choose to harbour it. We are caught in a gamut of notions that would irk hell if they be questioned and therefore we live on and on without question or change for we believe general assumptions to be true without ever pondering! I have learnt a few things that may or may not be true from your point of view but after much deliberation I ‘assume’ them to be right.

There is no such thing as a bad memory. If you hear, “Oh! I forgot.” Then you should actually hear, “Oh! I don’t care.” According to general claim there is something called as a ‘bad’ memory and a ‘good’ memory but in my opinion it is all humbug. And I may add that I am not talking about learning by rote in schools. I’m talking about day-today functioning of adults. Good memory translates into ‘enough care’ and bad memory translates into ‘no care’. Simply put those people who care enough about society, their work, friends and family tend to remember most things well enough to respond to them as and when required. I say ‘most things’ because we are after all humans, fatigue and worry can cause us to slip a detail. Now this kind of segregation is very relative. Person X may have a ‘good memory’ as seen by Person Y but may have a ‘bad memory’ as seen by Person Z. I guess you are smart enough o decipher whom Person X cares for more than the other!

There is no such thing as ‘No Anger’. At the outset I admit too much of anger signifies as a terrible thing to have but complete absence of it is, in my opinion, termed as indifferent. Anger is a valid human emotion last time I checked, but then, again as human we misuse everything provided to us! Anyway, Picture this: Your society is in shambles. There is no progress and goodwill. You are not angry at this situation then you are indifferent. If your best friend is doing something he/she should not (Take smoking, for example) and you are not angry at them then you are indifferent (and also a lousy friend!). I’ve read somewhere that anger is pain and hurt disguised. So the next time someone tells you that you could do as you please and they won’t get angry bear it in mind that these maybe signs of indifference as it is beginning to set.

There is no such thing as “I don’t have the time!” For the last time, when someone tells you they don’t have the time you should hear it as “I don’t want to do it!” I sincerely feel that if you want to do something, you will find the time to do it even if Dooms Day is knocking at the door. This is one of the lamest excuses in my opinion. Why don’t we just say we don’t have the time? So that the other person does not feel bad? This statement has resulted in a cycle that will never break. But I know one thing for sure the next time someone dos not have time to take me out for ice cream I’ll know what that means!!

-Sameen