Blank Pages

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 28; the 28th 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. The topic for this month is 'BLANK PAGES'.

The journey had reached its lowest point where every caravan of the lost Tajiki jumla had exhausted their reserves of food and water; the camels had only to travel a few more paces before their legs gave way and tumbled to the scorching sand in a heave of lifeless mass. Each parched throat had just one prayer to Allah; not to make a blitzing trade or even to preserve kith and kin but simply that if this moment they were to breathe their last, it be with a view of flowing shimmering water.

Sometimes it so happens that your dreams pray themselves to life and as their teary vision met with the scorching horizon, what greeted them was a sweeping view of lush green trees. How such vegetation in the middle of a desert could thrive was far from anyone’s concern. Renewing their lost vigour and making every attempt to survive simply until the last few miles, limping and very nearly giving way they touched the periphery of the Land of Kisva.

As the tradesmen sauntered into the land through a magnificent arched entrance, facing them across was a fort like carevanserai where toddlers in white caftan’s whistled and climbed each other’s shoulders to resound the gong overhead in order that the inmates be informed of their new visitor’s arrival. They then offered the forlorn travellers a lemon coolant from quaint crescent shaped pitchers and their every action followed a pre- instructed pattern. Still more children in the same attire followed; while some helped the jumla unload their belongings, others help set the dashtari in the main courtyard for their evening meal of oats, bread and meat.

It was like a non functioning unit had suddenly sprung to life.

Once they began to settle a bit, the tradesmen inquired from the children about their surroundings, who the fort belonged to or how far away from Misr they had drifted. Although there was a member of the tribe who understood almost all languages spoken over the breadth of the trade route, nobody seemed to understand the dialect the children spoke in and confusion prevailed.

Since there wasn’t an immediate solution and in the hope of meeting a knowledgeable adult or caretaker of the fort the next day, the tradesmen worn out from travelling for days, let down their worries and rested for the night.

As they arose next morning, the situation didn't seem to change . The children tended to all their needs, provided timely food and looked after the livestock but there seemed no sign of other people in the fort. The chief of the tribe appointed from among them a group of people to search the fort and its surrounding areas for any other folks besides the children. Futile the search ended almost immediately as they could not even manage to identify the exit of the fort.

The chief then held a meeting that evening calling upon everyone to replenish their resources over the next day and leave since they did not wish to disturb the unknown host any further. Also it was settled that each tradesman would give to a child one prized item from his fare as a mark of gratitude for their hospitality.

In the meantime, one of the little boys stared intently at a golden falcon that belonged to a tradesman, Zaid. It was only fitting he offer the child the falcon. However misunderstanding it for a bargain, the child handed Zaid a small striped pearl and ran away with the bird perched on his shoulders.

In an attempt to return the pearl, Zaid followed the child but could barely keep up to match his quick, lithe footsteps. The child ran in and out of open and shut doors, advancing into a steep downward staircase that panned out to a barren shore overlooking a vast expanse of moonlit water. Here was something to marvel at, except this wasn’t all. The child ran still further along the shore and suddenly disappeared into a cave like shaft. Zaid lost sight of him but continued into the cave now fully spellbound by what was to unfold. Lit with torches of fire, the cave resounded of a faint song and with each advancing footstep through zigzag corridors, the melody grew louder.

At what appeared a dead end, there opened a window. Whether it overlooked land or water he couldn’t tell, because that moment, staring into his face were a pair of deep sad eyes of a mermaid, and in place of tears there was a string of little pearls on her cheeks.

It was the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Or her eyes set a plunging seer in his heart.

I wish I could tell you something as animated, except such a thing never happened. He was at a loss to understand a face that was like a blank page. Not that he couldn’t withhold or remember it.

But simply for he couldn’t tell his perception at what he saw. It was almost like seeing a reflection of oneself. The contours he knew, but put at par on a level field, he couldn’t judge.

A second later the song was silent, the lights dimmed out and he was lost. Fumbling, he found his way back to the fort.

Zaid lay thinking about her face all night. He feared he would forget it. Every face he knew suddenly seemed to resemble hers. He had to see her, listen to her story and there seemed no second way to be happy again. He tried to retrace his route from the previous night and reached the shore but couldn’t find the cave. He looked and looked some more but it wasn’t to be.

It was time to leave, and as his companions loaded their caravans a deep melancholy set within him. It was a moment of fear and loss but there could be no thinking. Plain as chalk he couldn't go.

One of those days he was going to marvel at how naive he was. He was going to find out her face wasn’t a blank page after all. It had citrus splurged all over it. Invisible to all on dry parchment, but when held to a candle it unravelled a mystic print of its own. Every day he would turn a fresh page and attempt to read of the magic it withheld. It would narrate of soulmates and a way of life so enchanting, you would be awed. I wish you knew.

On another note, it must be told there never was another boy in the Land of Kisva who asked from another tradesman anything in exchange of a striped pearl again.

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.

Switty tera pyaar!

Now I don’t know how long ago it was, so I’m guessing it would be safe to say, Once upon a time, in a land rather close to where I live, there was a beautiful princess named Laali *definitely more beautiful than the Fair and Lovely wali Didi, far more than Sonakshi Sinha and a little less than Katrina Kaif. You get the idea right?*. So yes, there lived a beautiful princess in a small castle *space constraints in Mumbai yaar....samjha karo!* with her evil ‘Baa’ and two vamp like ‘Jeeji-saa’s’.

As you may imagine, she was made to do all the household chores straight from cleaning her room, folding her hundred gowns to replacing her stilettos in the shoe rack. And if that was not bad enough, she even had to help herself by putting food on her own plate! Baa examined her every move making poor Laali miserable with the ever taunting monologues of ‘Hey Bhagwaan! Sasuraal main jaakar kya karogi?’

So great was the torture Laali was made to endure, that she wasn’t even given a landline in her own room with which to connect to the internet and meet her Prince charming online.

Oh yes, I didn’t tell you about Prince Billowy. He was her blue-eyed hero, from the neighbouring country-that-must-not-be-mentioned *lest the Government thinks the narrator of this story is a terrorist or something* Well the Prince studied at a hi-fi college abroad and could barely afford to keep up with his family expenses despite his part time job at McDonalds. However if you must know, he loved Laali dearly. Now if only they could find a way to communicate, their long distance louvve story would be perfect.

The least bit of freedom Laali got was when Baa allowed her to use the wireless Relencia Net Connect. It is hardly a matter of surprise that she was allowed such a blasphemy because the company was owned by her rich and powerful uncle who spelt evil with his impossible to understand schemes, together with his sugar coated philanthropic wife. Laali was terrified of the duo, but this wasn’t quite the time to take sides.

As Laali held the Relencia Net Connect, tears of joy ran down her cheekoo face from the apprehension that surfaced on how she would greet her most adored Billowy.

Alas! This happiness was short lived. No sooner had they exchanged a few coy hello’s on Yooha! Messenger, her connection died out and no amount of reconnecting got her back online. She tried and tried and so great was her sadness that it accidentally made her hit the antenna which broke. Well that was the end. Neither sobbing, nor pleading at the customer care office would get them to fix the damn thing!

Laali was quickly running out of her pocket money. She examined the new schemes from Toto Photony Plus but they too would leave a big hole in her peach gown. Something had to be done, and fast, to save her love life from wreckage.

And right then, like a messiah in trodden times, like a Malabar Gold ad in a Tamil movie, like Chris Gayle in the IPL, like Shah Rukh Khan in Suraj hua maddham, like a fairy Godfather, there arose from the bleak dusty streets an announcement that held the solution to all her miseries.

Vodafone Mobile Internet @ Rs.98.

She stared in disbelief as her mind did a mental whoopiee cum Bhangra cum Macarena.

She keyed in the magic code of *121*98# and quick as lightning her internet pack was activated. Right then all her blues were brushed away like Kaala HIT on lurking mosquitoes *you kno na, ek macchar bhi dangerous hai*.

Her life was filled with sunny days of long chats over mobile Yooha! Messenger to conversations over Spyke. One click on her phone and they wrote on each other’s Wall’s, poked each other, played Scrabble, shared pictures and even live-tweeted their routines on the move. Staying connected was the key to their relationship.

When Billowy’s birthday arrived, Laali fretted over a funky-shunky gift to give to her sweetheart. Yet again, Vodafone Godfather came to her rescue by announcing it’s free for a month 3G internet service. So in the nick of time she made a video with red hearts, teddy bears and balloons that read soppy messages  *the kind of silly stuff that lovers find cute* and uploaded it over mobile Youtube. She was panic-stricken over how long it would take to upload but courtesy its 3G lightning speed, the video was uploaded even before the clock struck midnight. Oh so happy was Billowy that he immediately updated his Facebook status to ‘In a relationship with Laali’. I hear due to heavy traffic of comments on his page that day, his account was blocked.

And that’s not all. When Billowy came down with his Daddy dearest on the pretext of a vacation, Laali’s tinku jiya began to flutter again over how she would manage to have glowing twacha. Well well! No sooner had Voda Godfather heard this, he reduced his mobile internet tariff to just Rs.30 a month! With an hour of splurging the saved moolah on her Aloe Vera Ph-free, Sh-free Facial, she looked no less than an angel from heaven above.

The way things are going, with Voda Godfather’s aashirvaad, I presume this is going to be yet another happily-ever-after tale!
Tathaastu!
J

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Saat samandar paar

Ok not saat, just one maybe. I guess that’s how many samandar’s there are between India and Saudi Arabia. And yepppp, I’s the going’s the home sweet home’s for the nice longgg chuttiiiii next month!

To begin with, I’m one of the world’s worst travellers. I don’t mean that I start screaming just before the take off or anything, I mean the overly hyper kinda behaviour where your intestines start sprouting like ActII Popcorn on the inside for the most part and you anticipate all the world’s worst case scenarios.....Omigod I lost my passport! Omigod I forgot the ticket at home! Omigod what’s that sound- noooooo puhleeez I don’t want to dieee!!! Yes for real. No kidding there.

Now with all that paranoia you might think I am very careful with the udaan formalities and believe me, I am! Somehow though, for some unexplained reason, I have become poster girl for travel related muddles. But I’m learning.
I could take this as cue to tell you about the frantic dame who met an awesome prince except emm well, I didn't! And the one time I did, he couldn't spell out till the hopeless end, how meant to be the two of us were.
Bleh! I digress.
Anyway, so here’s a couple of things I have already learnt from the side-artists I've met on my travels coursing a span of less than 2 years. I figured, that still is second best.

Story *starring miss kind lady* where i learnt the importance of big golden Godrej locks with big silver keys.
It’s like this. I once had an automatic lock on my suitcase. You know the one where you have a code to remember? Right so far so good. Now the woman at the baggage screening sez she wants to check out all the treasures inside. Ok no problem. So I jingled with the code and set forth to open it. And Haila! What happens? The lock wouldn't budge. Panic gong starts yelling, reaching higher decibel levels in my head with every second and in that frantic moment what am I to do? Redo. Redo. Redo. No luck. Bahhhh! Ok Deeeeep breath. Calm downnn. Try from 000 all the way to 999 and thennnn by some stroke of dumb luck THE woman *God bless her, she is sooooo going to heaven!* said never mind and allowed me to go. *Phew!* And what am I supposed to say next? Thank you??? Nah! Instead with all the tension in my head this is what I say instead,
‘Are you sure?’
*dies*

Another Story *starring the awful meanoo Sunsilk wala's* where I learnt to never ever ever everrrrrr carry shampoos.
Now you may think why in the world I needed to carry a shampoo in the first place. Allow me to explain. I was going to my naani’s place and pretty much our entire khaandaan was going to show up as well. So I gave some sound advice to self. I said, ‘Hey Sadiya! Where are you going to find the time to shop for a shampoo? Take one from home.’ Thik kiya na ji maine?
But nahiii. The bottle BROKE!!!! Into two pieces!!!!! In the suitcase! To make things worse, thanx to the suitcase tagging along with me, I smelt like a shampoo ki DUKAAN, all the conents of the bag were ruined and the worsttttttesttttt part being, I had to wash the bag when I got home and the ‘jhaag’ filled up the entire bath tub. Also, the high its perfume gave me, went straight into my brain. Neverrrr use the yellow wala Sunsilk mannn! Can't even manufacture strong bottles so what kind of strength is it going to give to my hair????
*smug*

Voila! One more story! *starring this time our uniformed men in green* about how holding an aircraft hostage can be pretty cool.
No, my aircraft wasn't hijacked. It’s like I forgot my handbag at the security check and given my kamzor yaaddash, I remembered it only 5 seconds before they closed the aircraft door so I went all, 'Roko rokooo.... chain kheechooo!!!' kind, after which, what followed was a pretty fun experience. They took me in this van like vehicle with armed macho police guys and back at the airport where some responsible folks had already opened my bag, opened my wallet and had my name yelling in the speaker! Whooopieee! I have never felt so like a Miss Popular! And as they escorted me back, I realised the flight had been delayed a good 5 minutes just for meeeeeee. Yayyy! How cool is that! Let me tell you mere liye to generally Auto bhi nahi rukta! :(
The only dampener was the other passengers glaring at me. But hey! Who cares! Ye india hai boss. Chill. As long as no one's dead, Sab chalta hai!
Keeheee :P

Ok, ok last story *starring the invisible Genieee!* giving gyaan on why you mustttt buy only dhinchak bags.
Really! And I mean traffic signal types. Now its not that I am color blind or anything, and believe me- When I put my luggage at the check-in counter, my bag was black. I repeat BLACKKKK- underline underline!!! But then suddenly at the baggage carousel it became blue, so obviously I didn’t identify it and waited for almostttt half an hour although it was rightttt mere nazro ke saamne!!! Honestly. Some things, you just can’t explain!

Those have been a recollection of my experiences thus far. Wonder how it's going to be this time. Maybe I'll miss my onward flight and then be put up at a fancy hotel so naturally that's where I'll meet my SOULMATE! *sapno se bhare naina* :o
Let me know if you have any of your own travel bloopers to share.


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Expedia- Now in India! Tadaaaaa!*my general knowledge is getting wowwie-er at the exponential uber cool rate of 60 seconds per minute. Uhh ok I saw the ad on TV!* These are the hi-fi people giving away some seriously awe-jinga-lala-hooo-some stuff so check it out ASAP! And while you're at it, today is the last day so get clickingggggg.

Black and White

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth 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. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE.

People have such crazy notions these days. Like murder is taboo. Like a murderer has no right to be heard by an everyday audience. Like if you ignored to acknowledge my existence I just might cease to exist. You secretly hope that, don’t you?

I could change that for you. Give me a chance, yeah?

Now that you choose to hear me, you must know my story is rather tragic. I’m not raging with vengeance or evil though. That’s what I hate about you. You judge me. And you pretend like you’re fair. Justice and all that baloney.  

Some sing, some write. I kill. It’s much the same. It’s art.

And the thing with art is, you can’t decide it to be ugly or beautiful. It all boils down to a perspective. Odd isn’t it, that an uneducated bunch of your folks gang up against me for a bad show of art and suddenly I’m crime material?

And then there is the rigmarole of a pattern. A serial killer must positively have one, they say. Crazy notions I told you! My ‘episodes’ don’t have a pattern. Unless you thought the lack of one to be the pattern. Which could make sense, but then that leaves only a shadow of mutually exclusive outcomes never to recur, as opposed to a universe of unexplored outcomes that you have no idea about.

Worse, if I unwittingly chose to imitate myself from the past that would leave you all confused and messed up. A bit like you are right now, eh?

To tell you the truth, I never choose my victim. If I could, there may have been some satisfaction. But that’s bad for my soul. It’s selfish and if you don’t know by now, I’m a giver. My subject is nothing more than a variable. I often see the attractive faces on board, their dainty laughs, lean fingers and wonder what would change if they encountered me up close. Would their eyes still flutter? Would their lips quiver in shy anticipation? Or is it all a facade that will rip apart?

I don’t know if the sting hurts. But as my pierce scathes one soft layer of flesh through to the next, deeper and deeper, there is a faint trail of crimson that oozes without restraint. The stuff you’re really made of. All those ideals of truth, morals and identity can go kiss the drain for there is just one raw emotion.

Fear.

Such a beautiful thing. It makes people so real. Come back to their innocence. The arrogance, the class, the tantrums, all those additives washed away leaving plain simple pleading. Uncomplicated. Man, I dig it!

I take away the life breath but I give to you in those last seconds of your pathetic existence what really is priceless. What always was. Every act you were ever passionate about, every soul that ever touched you comes alive. I taught you to value it! Now that is satisfaction.

I don't care for your disapproving gaze and I'm not afraid to confess it to the world. It's what I am. A German knife.

One that talks into murdering innocent strawberries every single day of my life. Big ones, little ones, unripe ones, ones that look good on the outside but taste really bitter on the inside.....all of them.
Go figure! :P

When you have a day that looks a glum black and white, tip the blues away with a splash of red.

It’s a sick world with a sick sense of humor!

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.

Blurs and Blends



Being an ice cream junkie, watching dweeby Christmas reruns of Notting Hill and Runaway Bride *they don’t even feature Christmas in it! #justsaying*; and reading a girl-in-twenties’ fair share of MnB’s, I can tell for sure her idea of romance was pretty skewed. Enough at least to blur the line relationships drew between faking serious, pretty serious and seriously serious. The ‘really’ kind. Assuming you’re catching on to my lingo. If at all!

Yes, so that being her, or ‘her type’ rather, it’s no wonder at all she found herself never too haggled for mood swings or confusion.

Falling out of love needed to be done right. You cry, you sulk, you sleep. You wake up with a bright smile and before you know it, he’s flushed down and out. The End.

Banking on its success rate and works-for-all-sizes nature, that was Plan-A. No, there was no Plan-B.

The phone buzzed on vibrate and she made an easy swerve to catch enlightening midnight girly gossip that never failed to disappoint.

Instead there was a short crisp message that flashed, ‘At your doorstep.’

It wasn’t entirely odd that she hadn’t forgotten the sender’s number or the about average face behind it. Alarming though was why an old flame sent her fluttering in a near frenzy to rush to the door, almost tumbling down the staircase and dangerously tearing to keep her composure and breathing balanced.

If a perfect date meant black halter dress girl meets black tuxedo guy who greets her with orchids, this was night-suit clad girl in bunny slippers and hair at the top of her head meets tee n tracks guy greetings et al with milkshake. Not elegant, not sober but taken O.k.!

He was not the kind of visitor she had been expecting this late in the night. Yet somewhere in the corner of her brain, probably the part where little most personal thoughts stay nestled to be grazed in moments of loneliness, this moment had been played on loop already.

Keeping him at the door fumbling for words hardly seemed like the right thing to do. With her house teeming with family that was lost to snores and sweet dreams, the only place left to go without calling any attention was the terrace, and go they did.

It was a dangerous place to be. No, not the terrace, the company I mean. The sad part was, almost in a time set to long ago it had been settled that there was nothing left to say between them; nothing of consequence at least. Things just weren’t going to work and holes that couldn’t be darned were best left un-tattered.

And so they simply talked into the night.

Pretended the milkshake made them tipsy. Talked of mundane things.

Of straws and bubbles. And threw guesses at names of aircrafts that flew over their heads, fought even. Of queer waiters from times gone by. Of dialogues from unheard gory movies. Of keys left in refrigerators. Of childish fears. Of teachers who beat them blue. Of dream tree houses. Of how sleepy ruffled hair looked better. Of why the night breeze made awkward people beautiful.

Of how all things good blend into each other and never have an end.

Never have an end.

Somewhere in between, the pretence became real and blurred everything over. Strained smiles inverted and laughter flowed. Uncertain eyes sparkled and danced. Remember I said the ‘really’ kind and you weren’t so sure you got me? Yes, that.

Maybe they didn’t need to have an end after all. Maybe every time they neared the end, they could make a new beginning. Like the two shredded halves of a crescent moon that eventually come together.......Cos that’s where they belong. Never too surprising, is it?

The long and short of it you think. Well there always must be a story to tell on another day.J