Uff so phoneyyy!

You know what the latest trend these days is? It’s not attending Page 3 parties or winning elections. On the contrary right now that's taboo and vain. The really reallyyyy- like- totally totallyyy in thing this season is fighting for rights. That’s right. It’s what everyone is doing. Human rights, Consumer rights, Children drinking alcohol rights, Tiger rights, I could go on!
*no that’s a lie. I’m out of other names. Maybe Tendua as in leopard rights. But yikes! What sort of a word is 'Tendua'!*

Now I have a question. What do tigers know about their rights anyway? And is it really wise? So like listening to all the gyaan by this Aircel initiative if I blog about it and a tiger killer thinks- Oh hey! Let’s check out Sadiya Merchant’s blog. Now brimming with all the mind numbing enlightenment assuming he decides to quit his k-k-k-killer ways, then what happens? Killer guy meets tiger and says, ‘Hey big guy, nah can’t kill you buddy. Aircel and stuff. Only 1400 of you folks left.’ Tiger dude goes, ‘Oh yeah man. Lucky you. Get to take a direct flight to swarg!’
*5 seconds silence*
Ahem. A tiger’s got to do what a tiger’s got to do.

Yes, I believe I have vastly digressed.
The point of this post is actually to come up with fighting for a certain class of rights that have been repressed, suppressed, oppressed and you get the drift right? Even if you don’t, you will at least by the time you’ve finished reading this.
I think!
Haa so guess what!!! I came up with one such hairat angez, chowka dene waala, chamku chamkeela and mind bhadkeela cause to fight for!! Tadaaa!

I intend to start a whole new revolution!!! Move over zaffrani clothes wale Baba’s and Nehru topi oldies cos the chakachak vibrant tracks and kurti generation fighters are on the block. *sunglasses*

I am going to fight for PHONE RIGHTS!

That’s right!

The other day when my brother bought a phone and I was taking a look at it, to ensure its proper functionality off course, cos I care so much and what’s his is totally mine *though what’s mine is not necessarily his, cos I’m a girl and girls must have their privacy*, and I tried to peel off the sticker cos that’s my first instinct when I see one *even soft drink bottles actually* and next thing he just jumped up and snatched it from my hand *Is that rude or what!*.

Now it's not just my brother but mosttt other people who completelyyyy destroy the look of their phone by these half clingy stickers with a few hundred bubbles. I don’t get it. So the phone might get a little scratched. Big deal!!!
When you reason with them, it’s all about getting lesser resale value.
I mean you shell out a wow 10 grand for a phone for YOU and spoil its entire look for as long as you use it, just so some random stranger pays you 200 bucks more? And even if you have a perfectly neat scratch card, still what about all the invisible dirt that seeps through its edges anddd contaminates your hands anddd messes with your health?? Hawwwww didn’t think about that, now did you! :-)
Plus, how would you feel if somebody puts a tape on your mouth so you never got unclean? That’s just dumb, isn’t it!

Another thing is those dressy covers. Ok so I can get used to cut- to- figure clothes on item number starlet Jalebi Bai’s but why do you need to smother your phone in such inhospitable conditions???
Putting and removing itself is such a big ordeal that by the time the phone is out of its cover, the call has already been dropped.

Also, what’s with subjecting phones to ear banging, head hitting classics? Picture this. You’re in a meeting soberly taking about stock market analysis and suddenly someone’s pocket decides to go all Dhinka chika Dhinka chika. God!! Why why why???
If you can’t keep it on silent then why not just keep an instrumental tone or at least something pleasant?
Can you imagine how embarassed your phone must feel to be owned by you???

Lasttt but most most important, why are phones being used as objects of discrimination!!!!
Case in point-
We are the Blackberry boys- Like oh so classy. I mean hello. Attitude to whom you dikhaaying huh? Availing its messenger services itself costs a cool 400 bucks as opposed to other handsets that offer 2GB internet at 98 bucks so you can just log into your system and send an email or use normal simple hamaar Yahoo Messengerwa!
Duh! :P
Another one,
If you don’t have an iPhone, well, you don’t have an iPhone- Oh wow! That’s genius! At least I have a Bluetooth you dodo!

As you may understand from all the above arguments, I am totally out and out in dharnaa for this phone rights thingy and I will not shut up untilllllllll all poor phones are given their due share of justice or I get a new phone at leasttt. And don’t take me lightly, o ye reader! If my demands are not met na, all my 116 followers will go on an indefinite hunger strike.
Ji haa!

I'd say, morbid!

This post is written for Blogeshwar and Anubhooti.

Like a tiny shard of glass on the floor in a dark room.

It decides to spare your feet nine on ten times. And then in one moment it changes its mind. A small little pluck and it severs your skin. You scowl and crib, at best ignore. It gets provoked at your neglect and probes deeper into your flesh. Gnawing and tearing apart layer after layer. No, it’s not a parasite. Hell, it’s not even human. But it has a goal. For the want of hurting you. For the want of watching you bleed.

Do what now.
Finally you care, eh?

He loved her. Dearly.
She inspired him. Every time she cried for help, every time she struggled to endure his gaunt thrust, every time he hit her. Every tear she shed. Each suppressed sigh. It made him feel powerful. Like an additional life was surged into him as prize for what he owned; what he felt made him a distinguished man. Neev, a gentle Delhi artist with a charming personality, some said.

He looked for reasons to inflict his love on her. Every time she dosed off in his presence, every time she outstretched her hand baring her fair skin to so much as a beggar, every time she set foot out of the house. And sometimes when he found no reason well he just trashed her anyway.

The docile wife she was, Shaira loved him too. Loved him for fear. Loved him, for she was supposed to feed his ego. Loved him for she didn’t know what else to do.
Hers was a bruised coconut, but well there was no door to resonance, you could tell. To think, the bruises surely didn’t hurt so much and fairly soon even disappeared. Ok a little harsh maybe. But a marriage is what you make of it, isn’t it?

And then one day when he came home, the woman behind the perpetual ghoonghat sat outside the ground floor apartment with her hair, the colour of a flame, blazing open and a song on her lips. Shocked, he flew into a rage and pulled Shaira by her hair. She laughed and pushed him away so he toppled over the pots outside. The neighbours stared at this new circus. For the first time were they seeing the Painter Baabu’s wife and she sure had more intensity than imagined from her thus far submissive image.

Fuming he went inside. Well the woman was going to pay for this. Half an hour later she walked in as the same meek wife he had known for the last five years. You can be sure he beat her blue for her audacity.

This continued for days together and each day as Neev returned home, Shaira’s new loud avatar greeted him. She ignored his taunts and any action from his end would ensure his head between the pots. Sometimes people spoke of her yelling at vegetable sellers with her hair open, sometimes roaming about the streets like a mad woman laughing all the way and all of a sudden things would change. She wouldn’t know what had happened to her or how she landed in a certain place, almost like woken from a deep slumber.

‘The woman is possessed’ was the verdict given by Hakeem Saab with elaborate pleas of taking her to Mira Datar, in Gujarat, the place that healed possessed souls from evil spirits.

Neev ignored it. However when no medication worked for a month and his next project slated for an art exhibition was in Gujarat, he decided to pay the place a visit. Truth be told, he was quite fed up or more aptly said, scared of the woman his wife was turning into and wanted to get rid of her.

As they reached Mira Datar, Shaira shrunk even more from terror of what was likely to happen. The sight of people doing abnormal things alarmed her enough to want to run away. Firmly, Neev took her to the Baba and after a 5 minute long conversation it was decided, she be left there for a couple of months. No resistance helped. She wailed and pleaded with him to not leave her amidst the shady looking strangers. And when that didn't help, she begged. A roll of unheard shrieks, tears, stammering and vulnerability she was, when he left her all alone.

Perhaps he would miss her abused agonising cries.
No, certainly not. He didn't need a retarded woman for a wife.
He smiled at the prospect of how well his paintings would do at the exhibition. The fruit of his labour couldn’t be anything but saccharine.

He opened his case of paintings as the train left the station to find a whole lot of ash within it, with a crumbled note that read-
'The aroma of freedom.
It wasn’t in your nature to bend.
It isn’t in my nature to break.
Oh the ash. It’s what you made of my life and I made of your dreams.
That’s just karma, baby.
Love,
Shai!'

Little hearts in Samarkand

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 21; the twenty-first edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Hideous! - That was the word.
Didn’t look anything like a cat. Its ears stood out awkwardly, blue eyes spelt evil and a voice that was enough to make one think of wailing babies and all the wretchedness of this world stemming from one little throat; if you called the skinny thing a throat at all!

Did you know, in Samarkand little hearts are never, never, broken?

Sarah had been terrified of it from the day the creature had arrived. Created quite a flurry, the little one had. Something so ugly didn’t deserve to be looked at for more than a few seconds. The neighbours had named it Genghis. Its evil face evoked the same emotions as the forbidden ruler. Sarah had wanted an adorable little pet that could be looked after and cared for. This poor excuse for a cat didn’t quite make the cut. A rabbit may have been better perhaps.
But you know, in Samarkand little hearts are never, never, broken.

In the course of the next few days Genghis persistently followed Sarah everywhere until it was impossible for her to avoid it anymore. Once she let her guard down, their tryst was a bond of affection for life. Genghis became an attention seeking star who demanded every trice of her time and simultaneously climbed to being the centre of her universe. The neighbours continued to despise it but she and Abu, her father, grew to love the cat as family.
Those were good times.

Then came the other day.....that changed everything.

Sarah’s father was a craftsman who had fallen to hard times and couldn’t quite afford a livelihood very well. He sold all the furniture to sustain their daily needs and when that too didn’t suffice he had to look for other ways. That was when someone suggested he sell the cat in the Samarkand bazaar. In light of the desperate situation, this was a blow that had to be endured. Sarah was distraught.

Her most precious little cat was going to be taken away. The one with whom she had shared a hundred secrets, fed a thousand meals, heard a million yelps and sometimes just understood in stark silence. Her best friend.
But you do know what they say, right?
In Samarkand little hearts are never, never, broken.

Sarah walked on for miles into the arid city with her father to the bazaar outside the Registan Madrasah. In the sun, there flocked sellers from all over Uzbekistan with every article imaginable. From fruits to carpets to even slaves; if you wanted something there was an auction for it. To imagine her Genghis would belong to someone who believed in such a hideous display of wealth made her sick. As Abu stood to announce the sale of his cat, a few spectators gathered. They looked on with disgust at the dark ugly creature. Several hours passed with no one even enquiring for the price let alone an auction or a bargain. Secretly Sarah was happy. Maybe she wouldn’t have to part with Genghis.
After all, in Samarkand little hearts are never, never, broken.

Once the afternoon prayer concluded, the traders got their articles in order and a middle aged trader from Tashkent stopped to look at the cat. One look into its shiny blue eyes and he was enraptured. A crisp conversation with Abu, and the deal was struck. He paid the money and extended his hand to take the cat from Sarah.

As she held on to its rusty fur tightly, her heart melted quicker than ice on a desert rock to the soreness of parting. Her vision blurred and tears stung her hot cheeks. One swift grasp and he had taken her friend. Gone forever. She turned away to look at the haunting Registan square. So much blue dwelled in it. Every shade, from the pale hues of the sky to the deepest overtones of indigo reverberated. A marvel some may have said, but to her it was revolting. It would always remain the dreary place that had snatched her dearest companion. She searched for the shade that matched Genghis’s eyes but the sun played spoiler until her eyes hurt to stay open.

Abu clenched her hand, lifted her on his shoulders and wiped her tears. They would have another beautiful cat very soon. But she knew there never would be anything as wonderful as Genghis. Her Genghis.

And for the first time in Samarkand ever, ever, a little heart was broken.

Dawned yet another day.
As she lay glumly on her bed, Sarah felt a slight tickle on her feet and she got up to face a little cat jumping up to her cot to touch her feet with its paw.

The Tashkent trader had returned Genshis to Abu.
'Hideous!', his family had said it was.
Well you never should have doubted when I told you;
In Samarkand little hearts are never, never, broken.
 

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

(Mis)Adventures of Jhopu

Quick Recap- Nerdy Jhopu is smitten by Princess Laali and thinks of a sure shot way to impress her *click for detailed verion*. Here's what happens next.


As soon as Jhopu reached home, he shut himself in his room and opened the last page of his notebook in order to make crisp notes of the new idea execution. With intense determination, he wrote-

Mission Laali
Objective- Impress Laali Dearest Laali.
Requirement- A gift that is thoughtful, isn’t too overdone, doesn't look like a gift, isn’t given as a gift and yet melts Laali’s heart altogether and leaves her in awe.
Case strength- Pencil episode and exclusive smile received.
Case weakness- Lack of experience, poor communication skills with girls, no pocket money, poor dressing sense, zero charm.
Compromise acceptable- If not love, at least position self adequately, in order to attain decent level of friendship with potential for future build up.
Remarks- Lots of planning and hard work required.

Now that his analysis had been made, Jhopu felt a lot more confident. Excitement and nervousness didn’t let him sleep all night and eventually when he dozed off in the wee hours of the morning all he could dream about was Laali’s fair innocent face and gleaming silver braces. Her braids swish swashed his face as he smiled in his sleep. For the first time he overslept until 6am and didn’t study or listen to his most adored Navi Kankar CD!
Ah! Love changes things.

Jhopu rushed to the BEST-EST bus stop much before time. He contemplated running all the way to school but good sense prevailed. After all he didn’t want Laali to see him panting for breath or worse, breaking into a sweat. Such frivolities couldn’t be afforded especially in a situation as delicate as this.

As he entered class, his Belle had already arrived. On seeing him, she flashed yet another exclusive smile. The sweet pain in his heart only intensified as butterflies erupted in his stomach and Cha-cha-cha- 'noed for joy.
He clumsily wiped his TAG Heuer-icane spectacles and seated himself next to her.

Class started and the teacher droned on about Algebra-no. Jhopu looked sideways into Laali’s notebook. The passing seconds hammered in his head as he feared possibilities of her not making an error at all. How had he been careless enough to make such a preposterous assumption? A million permutations worked in his head only to be broken by a slight movement in the next seat as Laali wrote down the digit incorrectly and began to search for her eraser.

Show time baby!
Jhopu dived into his pockets and held out to Laali a long white eraser which she carelessly took without so much as looking back at him. He patiently waited.

As class ended and Laali returned the eraser to him, Jhopu eloquently started to explain, ‘This isn’t an ordinary Ca-ra-mel eraser you know. I made it in a way that it never will shrink. In fact, you can keep it from now on. I’ll make a new one for myself’, he said modestly and made sure not to look too concerned and simultaneously not too indifferent.

Laali stared at him with her eyes wide open and not a word was said.
Not even a ‘Thank You’!
He was utterly dismayed.

And all of a sudden she gushed, ‘But I already have one. I too made it myself. By breaking bonds of Neoprene, dipping them in sodium, the rubber cells multiply with friction and the eraser never shrinks! And I even put fluoride in it so it keeps the paper extra white.’

Jhopu stared at her in disbelief.
Dumbfounded. Confused. Perplexed. Astounded. *and all other words that mean the exact same thing*
Not only had she not accepted his token of affection in guise, but also turned out to be more astute than him.
Broken were all his hopes of ever doing Chemistr-ophy experiments together, sharing each others tiffin or pulling her milky white cheeks. More importantly, broken were all his dreams of love or friendship.

As Jhopu brooded, Laali, unaware of this change continued her banter, ‘But Jhopu you are so much smarter than all the other boys. I hope we can be friends!’

Love in Lala- Land

In the land of Bigshow, the king, there lived a boy named Jhopu. Now Jhopu was the typical geeky chap you would meet at boring science exhibitions. He religiously got up at 4 in the morning, had a shower, oiled his hair with Para-glide coconut oil, rehearsed Carnatic-i music from Shri Shri Navi Kankar CD's for an hour and studied for the rest of the morning until it was time to leave for school.

At school he was the brightest star in his class. From the value of pi up to 15 decimals, to the toughest trigonometric formulas, he knew them all by heart. This was his life and he loved it. At least such was the case until something big happened.

As he walked into class one morning, rumours of a princess joining their batch floated like wild fire. He scowled at his classmates for wasting their time over silly girls who knew nothing but to giggle or cry in the most dreary voices imaginable. What they actually ought to be doing, was divert the same attention to Nano-Noetic science and device a machine that combined all happiness molecules distributing them with varied proportion to eventually attain world peace!!!
*sigh*
Somehow girls could always be tracked down as the root of all global problems.

The bell rang for class to begin and entered what appeared to Jhopu an angel divine. Never before had he seen anyone with prettier braids or cheeks as white as Amul-ya milk. Her specs were even more round than the roundest roti’s his mom had ever made. To compare this stranger with his mom sure was a huge leap. The irony of it all, Laali was a princess and he was but an ordinary commoner. From the reaction of his classmates who gasped and gaped at Laali, he immediately understood that there was plenty of competition in the arena. However he mustn’t lose hope. Thus started a series of attempts at flooring the lovely princess.

Yes, I believe some of you have met her before.

Now luck had so ordained that the teacher too signalled the princess sit next to him. So thrilled was Jhopu, that he almost forgot to breathe for a couple of seconds. Laali fumbled in her bag for a few minutes to find her pencil with no outcome. Being the hero, with Superman-o like deftness he held his Apsara-ya pencil for her. What a fitting name for a pencil to be given to its sobriquet holder. She flashed a toothy smile that had a neat line of braces and instantly his heart leapt like a Ferrara. Throughout the class he couldn’t concentrate on anything but the squiggly handwriting of Laali learning every twist and turn like it was carved on his heart.

Giving a pencil however wasn’t enough. He needed to do more than that, to gain her attention and more importantly affection. He thought and thought until his hair oil dried out and yet no trace of any hard hitting idea. He recollected all the ways his classmates had used to charm the so called less pretty girls. He looked for inspiration from the clean blackboard, to the bunny on his tiffin box, to his neat black Bataata shoes but nothing seemed to ignite a strategy. And that’s when he had the stroke of a sudden brilliant idea. The idea that can change your life- or at least in the words of the very famous Abhicake Makkhan!

What the idea wasssssss, I’m going to tell you very soon of course.
Until then, leave your imagination to freefalling mode ki boss, Sangam hoga ki nahi!


To know what happened next, click here

To know more about my heroine Laali's story until just yet, click here.