Friday, December 23, 2011

Hamaar Desi Beetle-wa

Haa haa Namaste Namaste. Yaar zyada formal hone ki zaroorat nahi hai.
Attacking the main course, THIS is what the post is about-

You see that up there? *if you don't then emm click refresh?*
Now I want you to think real hard. What does it look like?
You’re probably thinking *and scratching your head in case you don’t use Clinic All Clear* num num nummmm ‘Ok it’s a Tata Nano where they forgot to put the doors on the side and the Break Dance ride wala headlights.’
Hai na hai na???
This is what our new auto rickshaws are going to look like.

*sad eyes*
I object your honor!
Corruption, Mayavati, Chikni Chameli- all that I can handle;
But taking away my sweetu black and yellow bhopu wala buggy for this oh-look-at-me-I’m-so-chic-and-shiny dumb blonde equivalent is blasphemyyy!

Now as free social service let me explain to you why this is going to be the biggest monumental flop after Delhi-6.
And Raavan. And Idea commercials. And Players. *ok so that’s not released yet but it will still be a flop, you dekh lena!*

Firstly, it doesn't have a carrier! Now please don’t tell me you don’t know the importance of thatttt! We as Indians can travel as cramped as possible; even three people sitting one on top of the other, on top of the other’s lap. *no pun intended please. Shame on you!*
BUT we want due respect and space for our saamaan, OH YES!!!!
And boss what are those two handle like things on the hood? I mean what am I supposed to do with it? If I really wanted isstyle then would I travel in an auto rickshaw you TVS wala dodo???

Secondly, tip tip ke bajaaye dhumad dhumad barsa pani then???? The heaviest rainfall in the WORLDDDD is in my country *Cherrapunji hello?* and this sophisticated pseudo beauty does not even have a curtain! That means I will now be exposed to contaminated water ANDDD possible company with saawan ka maindak’s. Still think it’s attractive, huh!
Wait till I blow you away with my next analytical sooper dooper fundoo point.

Look closely and you’ll see it does not have our old mini Vuvuzuela 'Vuvuzela' shorriee. *the name sounds a lot like Venezuela no? Talk about irony with the country having cheapest fuel prices. That’s why they probably call it vuvu. To rub it in our face each time L(((((* Haa so like I was saying, this one here just has a normal basic flat peep-peep wala horn.
Now think for a minute.*ok that's too long. One second maybe* Does anybody EVER take car horns in India seriously??? That just makes you blend into the crowd and the one reason for autos to swell their noisy jing-jang engine and entourage with pride has been taken away too. It’s like stripping them off their identity! Know what I mean??

I understand this leaves you a little depressed about our golden future. Hence!!!! I present to you the magic vehicle. The REAL saviour. The true warrior that spells DESI all over it.

The next time this elegant lady honks and the bhayya up ahead screams obscenities with, ‘Ud ke jaayega kya????’
We can do just that! Wohoaaa!!!
Time management.
Aerial view.
Extra storage in the tail ‘compartment’.
Aesthetic colourful exteriors.
You name it dude! J

Thursday, October 27, 2011

I refuse to die!

She had been my best friend forever. I’m not sure she thought the same way about me. Sometimes I even wonder if she took anything I said seriously. The first time we met was at our school assembly as little kids standing in crooked lines, fighting the cold and staging a forced attention in what didn't concern us. Kids don’t care. I wish grownups knew that.

The sun gave a lukewarm smile and the wind made our brittle scraped knees rickety, biting lightly every few moments in sudden gusts. It got harder to concentrate and that’s when a roving eye brought me to face her. That was the day I found my ‘smile friend’. It’s all we did for the next few days- smiled at each other. Besides spreading the warmth there was also the part about us having a lot in common. Never popular, never sought after, what you may call- just average.

There’s a time when you don’t know anything about yourself. If there is a ‘you’ and how it’s not the same as others, doesn't matter. What you like, what you don’t. What you want to become. That’s not to think.
To think is, if you could get to plait your hair by rolling it round and round about your fingers. To think is, why it opens up and doesn't stay. Now that’s what you call a real heartbreak.

I don’t know anything about parents. I don’t know if I had any. Nobody tells me now and back from when I was born, I don’t remember a thing. I hung out a lot at her place though. Her parents really doted over her. It’s funny actually. Even when her pony wasn’t really straight they’d still call her beautiful. I’d tell her that, but she never listened to me.

I was always telling things. I still am. Sometimes she listens. But that’s only when no one’s around. There are always too many people I’m competing with to get her attention. I’m not sure how over the last few years she suddenly got popular and I stayed behind. Sometimes that makes me sad. Mad even. And then when she asks me stuff, I lighten up. I feel important. I don’t mean to brag but my ideas are always better than her other friends’.

Yesterday she seemed upset. I thought I must make her happy and told her my new theory. The smile. Again. She wouldn’t believe me. Again.

It’s rather simple really. Well, I believe in it entirely. Here, let me help you with it.
Most people never really do what they want to, until they turn seventy. Cos then they can afford to have diabetes or get fat. The pretty people aren’t going to look at them then, anyway.
Better still, slog up and then hope to have a happy retirement. They always dream about reading newspapers in rocking chairs. I think I’m pretty intelligent for my age. I read a lot.
But I also think I’m immortal. She thinks that’s dumb. She says all humans must die. Uh oh, I beg to differ, sir!

It’s all about dying. It’s all about the end. That’s the all important thing. If you’ve devised a way to fulfilment then, you’d just as well start running now.
Always worried about not making it to some awkward old age.
Lucky for me, I’m never going to have an end.
Unlike her, I don’t worry about being swept over by a Tsunami. My heart doesn't start racing when I hear thunder reverberate. I don’t flinch when a car stops short. I am not afraid.
Because I refuse to die.
And she doesn't listen. Again.

I tell her. I tell her. I whisper to her. I wish she would hear. She thinks I’m crazy.
But one day when everyone’s gone and abandoned her forever, I will be there.
She had been my best friend forever.
Although her shadow is all I am, yet again, like old times I will tell her,
I refuse to let you go.
I refuse to die!

Friday, October 14, 2011

Sifar- Part 3

Canthara looked out the castle window at the majestic twilight sky. The whole world soaked in hues of brown and orange exuding a caution of warmth tingled with the decoy of sublime cool breeze. A perfect evening what promised to be, was disturbed by a little figure trudging the drawbridge with a spring in his step.

Dismissive hope, she rued.
Looked on and mere advancing footsteps aggravated the hostility in her mind for every assuming person who imagined an act of barter could win her over. Judged by strangers who understood nothing but their own selfish desire to what they may have liked at attaining and hopefully her aspirations would coincide with.
The nearer Zaid got to the castle, the stauncher his imprints seared to ooze deep-seated hurt.

In a matter of perceived thoughtful flashes, the Emir sent an attendant with a parcel that marked another suitor.
As little shuddering hands and cold eyes unwrapped to witness this new advance at mockery, they softened, if only for a moment.
From emotion or newness one couldn’t tell.
But they stared alright. The crimson shrieked and her hands complied to pacify it with hesitation.
She commanded for her eyes to move away but they had grown a heart of their own. A daze of unrest followed with ears ablaze and a face that spoke of acquired celestial glow. As every sense fought a battle with the other, she ordered the hideous scarf be taken away.

In a fleeting moment, she reeled to get one last look at the gleaming magic fabric and before any of the confusion could make sense, the object was out of sight.
An impact of sheer brilliance naively dismissed as freefalling imagination.
What could have been felt was merely touched, and that made all the difference.

A sad piece of cloth now, examined by the wrong hands; hands that were raised to evoke submission, but never to kindle dying flames; consequential hands; hands that clutched the giver to unveil his lustrous secret.
Refused to believe the magic couldn't be recreated. Refused to gauge it's impossibility.
Adamant at bringing rolling a fortune from hunting like savages for a mere moth.
Never mind, it never was intended that way!
And when the pious word was parted, sworn in secrecy was a man who merely wondered of setting a heart to flip and twirl, locked and thrashed in a dungeon forever to be.

No, not the end, as every time in shadows of nothingness when two lone souls would spare each other a grazing thought of what could have been, it would all end at the point where a lanky figure walked under the twilight sky and a face unknown housed a pining heart misunderstood.
The point where two roads that briefly met, diverged forever on a course of indifference.
The point that defined a listless journey from start to finish.
Sifar. Zilch.

*****THE END*****

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Sifar- Part 2

Breathless as though life had ordained its concluding traces, the monk’s fading poise leaped up at the eventual twig of hope in gulps of fresh water endowed by a young lad whose eyes read concern. Life breath restored, a saviour must get his due and so he did.

A hollow cane box and a secret preserved over centuries revealed.
Not a mere matter of chance that floated along as serendipity.
It needed time.
It needed sweat.
It needed caressing affection.
It needed murder.

Zaid’s single minded instinct tore at the adventure and its perfectly asymmetric outcome. Seasons rolled by as he forgot all else in the ploy of one discreet task. Looked after its every need, stroked its every whim with undying passion, submitted unto ecstasy in order it evolve to a form that befitted a fated goal. And then, when the time was right, killed the squiggle.
Gurgled till no pulse escaped and smothered in silence; with wrath or agony, never to fully comprehend.
One of a kind, a tribute must be.

And then he assimilated. Long and short; spools, spindles and yarns; loops and strands; tighter, terser, stifled together; a gleaming expanse that placed itself stark and serene.
Unseen, unheard of creamy lustre. 
Too soft.

Except, it wasn’t yet over.
It still needed splashes of life. 
Of a colour that could speak in silence lest he waned.
Deep, impressionable and holy.
Dipped and dyed to give it the blushing tint of blood.

A crimson silk scarf.

To be continued..... (the concluding part)

Value Addition
Silk, in ancient era was credited only to the Chinese for centuries, until a few monks acquired access to the ‘secret’ knowledge of sericulture and smuggled silkworm eggs in hollow cane baskets on their way to Turkey.
It is during this journey that unknown circumstances led to filtering of the ’secret’ in Syria and what later became another reason for the city of oasis to excel in trade for which it is now known as ‘Bride of the Desert’ .

Click for Part 3

Tuesday, October 11, 2011


Disclaimer- Set in AD 550 Syria, the following story is a work of fiction. All landmark events are real, and places mentioned therein have been restored as present day UNESCO World Heritage Sites.

In the lustrous oasis of Palmyra that greeted every tired traveller to dispel forlorn thoughts of home and renewed their motives with a zest to adventure, to live, to conquer; there once thrived a race of people wiped from the face of history perhaps for the lack of what too many, too good could not say too much of in too little.
They behaved like the Romans. They behaved like nomads. No restraint. A city with no boundaries, to be picked as a frothy feather and carried at a moment’s notice. No fear, no lies, no longing.

A haze of dust clung on never to see a canvas of the sky studded with little neon twinkles. Yet some nights it was luminous. At the far end, so far you couldn’t trust how real, on the highest point of a peak stood shining as a North Star the Qala ibn Maan castle of the Emir Roudafshan. To say it was an ordinary structure as the far many others would do adequate justice, but for the connect it had to the city. A steep drawbridge from its iron gates knitted into the veins of the roads that led to the oasis and pent up a sense of regalia. A foreboding presence of an equal in figurative but hierarch in perception is what prevailed.
‘The Emir’, revered the people.
‘The Emir’s daughter’, thought Zaid.

Canthara. All that was ever known about her was a mere name. If a slight remark had ever been made about her being, the sheen may have come to pass. It was the lure of the unseen that enthralled a dwelling thought. The rhythmic familiarity her name brought in the minds of its people was acquaintance of a person known and yet a stranger whose face couldn’t be acknowledged.
How may one decide the worth of that?

It was an unusual calling. In a time where trade ruled supreme, alliances brought fortunes and a princess couldn’t settle for much shorter, what could reconcile for a fitting barter that royalty may be appeased by? The Emir adjudged to oversee who from his kingdom and afar, rose above the rest to please the princess with a tribute that marked her entire worth in a single sweeping gesture.

Days passed into months as people from far and wide poured in gold ashrafi’s and jewels, treaties for chunks of land and every which way the rich could sell himself to be a mere pauper. It was a prize veiled thus far in the decoy of losing to a less esteemed clincher. None succeeded as the lady at her throne observed, absorbed and rejected one, the other and then yet another.

Farthest from the castle in a little shack filled with moonlight at the hem of the city’s limit lived an unassuming commoner. Zaid.
Not for love.
Not for lust.
But a desire to know what eluded a winner from a keeper.
What would a pair of eyes hidden away from the menial grind raptly peer at?
What would a heart indifferent to monotonous ridicule soar at?
What could be the worth of an unfurled soul in tireless wait?

He didn’t know the answer.
He didn’t know how close he was to it.
He didn’t know it came knocking at his doorstep as a monk entering the city straits feebly tapped his humble abode for a glass of water, the price of which altered a few pages of history.

To be continued.......
(Click for Part 2 of 3)

Friday, October 7, 2011

Chashmish kisko bola, huh???

You know that amazing never to forget moment when you accidentally hear an exceptionally nice compliment about you, like some motu aunt exclaim ‘Allah! Kitni pyari bacchii hai na?’
*and then your mind refuses to believe you actually had the audacity to address a sweet moderately healthy woman as motu*
You feel like you’re reclining on a lot of Fairy dish-washing liquid waale bubbles and ethereally floating in the cool cloudy sky.
Yeahhhhh, that uber awesome feeling.
It’s never happened with me.

What really happened is this.
I attended this crash course sometime ago *at the time when exams play tablaa tak-dhina-dhin on your head and you go into a state of Omigod-I’m-gonna-flunk-and-mum’s-gonna kill-me, sort of panic*
So somewhere in the middle of that a *not so good looking to be honest* guy asked his friend if they must clear a subject doubt with the girl in orange *read- me*.
To which the other dude friend said this, ‘Kaun wo chashmish?? Don’t even think! *nods head* She’ll just slap you and keep walking.’

*!!???!! What the what???*
Never mind the above statement makes me look like a total geek or worse still a hapless behenji of sorts. Never mind also, my failure to comprehend why I would slap a poor guy for asking a harmless subject related question.
*I mean do I look like the sort of person who goes around slapping random people??? And what does ‘keep walking’ mean anyway??*
The most irritable thing though, was the use of this word ‘chashmish’. I mean talk about discrimination. Whoever said I wanted free access to that league by complete strangers??

For a start I don't even wear them all the time. A year ago my eye doc gave me this wowwieee news that I need to be wearing specs when reading, at the computer or watching T.V. *which frankly I still don’t understand cos reading is short distance and T.V. is long. Uhh correct na?*
Anyway, this was like my dream come true. Ever since I was in Class 3 I had prayed to God to please please pleaaaase let me have those plastic really really round colourful specs like my friends, so I could keep touching it and act like a total snob.
*Don’t ask. In school, I was just weird*

So after much over-enthu deliberation, bugging the sales lady for about an hour and value addition on how buying something round would make my cheekoo face blow up to look like a ‘balloon’, this is what I bought.

Smart, eh? If you think that way for one teeny beeny weeny moment then you got to see me wearing them and you'd imagine I jumped out of The Flinstones in a black and white TV set. In my defence I was soooo confused.
Also, might I tell you, my family cooperated really well with this new change in appearance.
My bro said- 'Dideee what’s that ‘thing’ on your face!'
Dad said nothing. His expression was a blank stare *read- yuck yuck yuckkkk!*
Mom said- 'Beta aur kuch available nahi tha?'
Don’t even ask me how much I paid for it. Except, well I didn’t. Somebody else did, and I got it for free so it’s cool.

Now after this unwelcome response I seriously pondered over how specs is really a long term investment and I need to focus on delivering my absolute best in term of aesthetics and I came up with this-
Oh right.

*Image Unavailable*

Why, you ask? Because emm
I lost it.
Ok ok. I KNOW I kept it on my bedside table but then under some shady inexplicable circumstances the next day it just disappeared. Now don’t be a baalti and suspect my ability to search stuff. I did. On the table, in the draw, on my head *just in case you know*
Critical analysis- I think somebody stole it. Which btw I take as a great compliment. I mean surely they have more faith in my choice than I do myself. How awesome! \m/

Hence, I bought yetttt another pair and here’s how they look.

Did you just imagine them to be slightly broken?
*bheegi billi expression*
Yessssss, they broke. *buhoo*
But you know this is what ‘experience’ is all about.
Now I know and can even give YOU some serious gyaan on why you must never dump ze pince-nez in ze duffle bag without the fatso Dabba.

Anddd this brings us to my absolute final venture. All the manhoos Dhanno's are out and Raampyari is in!

Honey, I promise to love, honor and cherish thee, 'till death do us part.
O yea!
Purple is the color of this season and that’s what I was gifted last week.
What you thinks??? Tell tell! *tukur tukur expression*

Soooo that’s my specs story. I’m a really low maintenance person that way.
Share your specs story too. If you have one, that is. J

Saturday, October 1, 2011

The (In)eligible Bachelors- Book Review

Yo mehrebaan’s and kadardaan’s, listen up!
A couple of days *or months? I'm not so sure yaar* ago, this girl named ‘Raam Pyaari’ commented on my blog *I hope not by mistake or anything*, which is why I visited her page and *gasp* what do I see?
She is an author! I almost instantly decided she would be my New best- blog- friend and to give the saboot of my never to die pinky dosti, I promised to read her book reallyyyy soon. You may think *yes, you! The one crinkling your nose to read this* that I lied *Ok ok I did, but that’s not important now*

You see Ek baar jo maine commitment kar di, usko do chaar maheeno main poora kar hi deti hoo. *sooper dooper smug*
Given my first class air conditioned coupe like kismat the book came knocking at my doorstep *sunglasses please* and here I present to you a cut to cut review of the same. Yenna rascala! Yenjayy!!

‘The (In)eligible Bachelors’ by Ruchita Misra comes as an ‘inspired’ version of ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ with Kasturi, the protagonist, playing not-so-hep-not-so-demure-ish working kudi from Delhi trying to keep up with her perennially harrowed mother who is worried stiff. Why? Because she’s 24. And Single! *hawwww! How horrible!- aise thinks her mummy. not me*

What follows is a series of Mother *India?dwaara arranged muh-dikhaai dates with random wannabe grooms in the form of Vishal, Pita Ji *that’s right*, Komal and Purva. Kasturi however remains disinterested in them given her ‘pehli baar dekha aur louuve ho gaya’ feelings for Rajeev Sir *thy boss mademoiselle*- Greek God incarnate and his growing interest in her only adds fuel to fire.

The chick lit trudges at a steady pace, doesn't dwell too much on mush and has a subtle sense of humor. Rickety at the beginning, it gets a lot better midway as the romantic tale of Kasturi finding true love takes shape and keeps the reader engaged in spurts of funky side artists. The vocabulary is very strictly conversational and doesn't even make a lukewarm attempt at a staged literary contribution *Ok too much to expect. I know. Still. Just saying.*

High points over its breadth would scale from-
The character sketch drawn out for Pita Ji chap. He comes as a delight in the shape of a goofy and irritable geek who by the end warms your heart in a quirky sort of way. If the book was about him alone, I’d give it a five pointer.
Purva too comes across in an endearing neat package for most part of the story. Ananya and Varun, Kasturi's colleagues are sweet and say all the right things at the right times.
Cameo roles in particular are brilliantly creative with 'parents meet parents' setup coming in as a long awaited delight in hilarity.

The low points would stretch a little further I guess.
For a start, the tale is thoroughly stale so a fresh voice may have helped, but that’s hoping for a lost cause.
Kasturi’s personality is hugely one dimensional and never really evolves, mainly because she has no opinion about anything. At best, you get to know she likes Pepsi, is a big fan of F.R.I.E.N.D.S, and loves Maggi *which is weird because she doesn't know how to spell it!*
Bluntly put, the woman is fickle, lacks spunk and is uhh *nail biting expression* Boring! *Yes, I said it*

The alleged Omigod-drop-dead-wowwiee Rajeev Sir isn’t half as drool worthy as say, Luke Brandon and rather platonic in most parts.

Lowestttt point *I mean haunt me for the rest of my life kind of low* being, the book is a product of God-awful editing. Multiple spelling mistakes, poor grammar and typing errors. Yep! you have it all!
Beyond a point you want to shake up the author to say. Hello hellooooooo, it’s-
God* not god
lose*, not loose
Case in point- ‘loose the look’, ‘loose their depth’, ‘loose my way’
Anyway*, not Anyways
Case in point- ‘Anyways, the induction is now over’, ‘Anyways, coming back to LSD’, ‘Anyways, coming back to the doorbell’
MAGGI*, not Maggie for crying out loud!!!!!!!!!!

Anyway, *underline, underline* the book on the whole is good for a light time pass read. If you were to watch Force or Mere Brother ki Dulhan then I highly recommend the book priced at 195 bucks.

At its crux, The (In)eligible Bachelors has a good heart.
Now if only it had a soul.

Star rating - 1 and half *somebody please teach me how to type out a star. No, not the teeny asterisk wala*

This review is a part of the Book Reviews Program at Participate now to get free books!

P.S- @ Raam pyari ji- In case you read this, please FIRE your editor with immediate effect.
And hire me off course. I promise I will work for much, much cheaper. J

Monday, September 26, 2011

Urzu Durkut

Rahul continued to stare outside his window as his hand moved in auto pilot mode to dial her number.
The Vodafone number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable. Please try again later, said the firang voice for about the one hundredth time.

‘Damn you, Vodafone!’, he thought. The irritation made him want to wring every single ZooZoo’s throat except that- well, they don’t have a nose so it kind of means they must breathe from their pot shaped bellies or something.
Any thought however nonsensical, didn’t help him get rid of the question that lurked at the back of his mind for what seemed like an eternity now,
Would she come?
If the possibility of rose petals pulled out could give a conclusive answer, he would have done that too but as you may know plastic tulips are the closest to nature that you can get in a reckless bachelor’s apartment.

It was in the hope of seeing her that he had come to pass the opportunity of an extravagant lunch buffet treat by one of his colleagues. Some choices plainly hurt to pick. Floating images of barbecued seafood, delectable desserts and dribbling friends entered his mind. Whether it was misery from hunger or their exaggerated expressions that soured more was difficult to tell.

The intestines in his stomach crunched, churned and cringed as he kept alternating his gaze from the cuckoo clock back to the window. 2 o clock had been agreed upon and here it was five minutes late already.
As his anxiety progressed, he made a mental resolve. Despite the baited wait, if she chose to overlook his request to grace her presence today, their relationship needed some serious reworking.
With each passing second the acrid flavour grew at her insolence.
What did she want?
What was it that lacked?
Why didn’t they share the same bond that he had seen so many others do?
Too many questions.

His subconscious stayed lost in thoughts, while his eye still fixed at the window caught a glimpse of her accentuated kohl lined eyes.  A sense of relief washed over him. All negative vibes disappeared as he waited for her to get to the door of his apartment.
He didn’t want to complain or crib. She was here and that was enough. For the both of them.

As she neared the door, a hint of fragrance from her gajraa lovingly adorned on a fierce bun floated all the way to him. On turning to face her, she waved her Max Mobile handset in his face and briskly trashed the doormat.
The light of his life had finally arrived.
Let’s hope you’ve guessed it right! :P

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Shoestrung. Moonstruck.

It was on a bright sunny morning into the final semester of their course that Zoya had first seen him. Intense shining eyes and small pearly white teeth. That would be the only two enticing features to set him apart. Not much, if you think about it.
But then sometimes what you withhold in a random clasp is so remarkable that nothing else ever matches up to that level of brilliance. It’s a wonder how every roving eye does not feel the exact same way about it.

As days passed by, a tiny crush progressed to take more earnestness. She found herself waiting in corridors for a couple of seconds longer or step up the conversation by a few decibels the instant she caught sight of him.
Alas! He never spared her a moment of eye contact. And even if he did, the glance was a detached one to scan the faces in a crowd that blissfully dissolved in the recognition of an elite few. The few, that she wasn’t a part of.

Course one can count on their friends to mess things up for them. The dreamy girl she had become, attracted solace and advice from kith and kin. Ranging from raunchy remarks of ‘Bindaas bol daal, yaar!’ to an inquisitive, ‘Ab kya karogi?’, questions posed seemed more diabolical than the problem itself.

It is situations like these where a state of static inertia doesn't exist. Either you are moving closer or falling apart. So yes, she tried.
The remnants of an eloquent speech from the dilemma stage to its execution, was a lot of stammering and utter disarray. Most part of the conversation with the man himself, bordered on ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and multiple ‘I don’t know’ 's.
What did ordinary people like her know about the barracks in Kashmir anyway?
Even a slender acquaintance on the subject couldn’t be feigned.
Classic, you think?

Ecstatic for a minute and depressed the next. That’s how diverse the spectrum of her mood swings became.
One such day as she sat in class chewing the end of her pencil and daydreaming of prince and romances, something hit her head to bring her out of this reverie.
A piece of chalk.
She looked up to see a stern Ms. Victor, eyes piercing into hers and yelling to explain the concept in reading.

But obviously, she didn’t know.
Truth be told, she didn’t even know the name of the subject, much less its content.
On another day, Ms. Victor may have let it slip. Not today. Not for the foul mood she was in.
Insult was her vengeance and Zoya was the object.
Looming personality, booming voice and a lot many taunts later, a very sorry, downbeat and sobbing girl stood outside the class rueing in the hot summer breeze.

‘Ms. Victor is awful’, she thought.
It could well be the worst day ever.

It wasn’t.
It couldn’t be.
A light tap on the shoulder, a small pat on the head, a cheerful pearly white smile, shiny compassionate eyes, ‘It’s alright!’ and a big bear hug.
That’s how much it took to switch crash landings with bobbling parachutes.

In its spur of the moment embrace, she shut her eyes to a fuzzy flip- flop fluttering.
It felt as if the Big Guy up there had the entire universe on hold for a day, to work on her case alone.

Ms. Victor is awful’, he thought.
In a light cuddle, he could vaguely smell the light fruity fragrance in her hair.
Four years.
That’s how long he had wondered what this moment would feel like.
That’s how long it took him to get to her.
He looked up to the summer sky that yielded a faint drizzle.
It felt as if the Big Guy up there had the entire universe on hold for a day, to work on his case alone.

*****THE END*****

Ms. Victor
*You don't want to take any kind of pangaa with her* :-)

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Yaba daba doooo

If you have known me for a while then you may have started to wonder why there has been no halka phulka *Pilsbury aata type* post ki baarish in the recent past. Or maybe you didn’t wonder at all and I’m just giving myself fokat ka bhaav.
*sad eyes*

Anyway, so today I’m going to talk about this problem I’m facing. Yeah can you believe it? The girl solving problems actually has one of her own??? As pathetic as it may sound, I’m sure you will be able to help me with it. Ahaaa! Finally finallyyy your big chance to prove yourself has arrived. I hope you have already begun biting your nails *yikes :P*

Ok cut to the chase.....My super-sangeen, dil dehla dene wala problem.

No wait.
To appreciate it fully well, we first need to rewind by a few years to when I was a chotu sa, sweet sa, chinky-eyed two braid wali girl and there were all these hi-fi events happening in our school where they’d ask the then perceived intellectual questions like, ‘What do you want to be 10 years hence’ or ‘Who do you love the most’. Anything that boils down to World Peace is a clear winner. This is really why they taught us all about malleability and ductility in the first place- so we know how to mould our answers to attain desired outcome. Obviously we were not shaana enough to get it then.

Now when all this was happening and I was busy dissolving myself in the world of Lakhmir Singh and Manjit Kaur’s references, and Ned touching Nancy Drew’s hand was the most hawww thing, I got picked for a ‘Table topics’ contest ekdam achaanak se and this is what they asked me.
Sadiya, tell us about your role model.

Course, Sadiya would willingly tell about her role model except that...
She didn’t have any! *hides face*
But I did give some loony hunkajunk like my mom is my role model and I want to be JUST like her *which by the way is utter nonsense cos she’s a teacher and if a kid starts yelling, my first instinct is to want to slap them*, but then kya karey- Majboori ka naam Gandhiji!

Since then I have made it my mission in life to find a role model for myself. And I was doing great.
*Yes, Omigod! We haven’t yet gotten to the problem.*
So about five years ago, I made up my mind on who I wanted to be like.
*drum rolls*
I wanted to be like Benazir Bhutto!!!!!!!
Although this may lead to a lot of controversy, I honestly did think she was a great speaker and her interviews just blew me away like Fardeen Khan’s performance in Prem Agan. *sarcasm tha ji. C’mon what was a person like me to know about country policies? I still don’t know about most of them anyway.*

Everything was ok. I was doing great. Anyone would try playing a dhoom dhadakka shot with the 'role model' flip of the bat and I’d give a breezy 'Ms. Bhutto' for an answer to manage a diving catch. Muhahaha!
She had to go and get herself killed.
You have NO idea how upset I was.
After screening all those famous people ka applications, this is what I get. Hello hello- Is there justice or what!

Anyway, being the karate pink belt girl that I am, I decided to start the whole taam jhaam from scratch and zero in on yet another booming personality. Cos we Merchant's don’t give up. No sir!
Andddd after much deliberation I made my BIG decision.

I wanted to be like Steve Jobs!
No really!
And I even read an entire biography about him.
Given that my knowledge database about Computers is- Monitor, Keyboard, CPU, Internet and Facebook, this wasn’t the easiest task but I just kept thinking about all the times I could show off my techie gyaan in front of my not so enlightened friends. *sunglasses*
Of all people in this whole wide universe, HE had to resign.
I mean he’s just 55. That's like- not even as old as a senior citizen!!! Ok fine I know the poor guy had cancer and stuff, but then how was I supposed to know that?? Couldn’t he at least inform me in advance???

Now Sadiya does not have a role model again. Buhooo!
Could you please help her find one?
I thought Omar Abdullah, but then almost immediately he started losing his hair too.
Tell no. Pray please?
*puppy eyes*

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Hop, skip and JUMP!

Risk it. Break it. Set it free.
Nay, not your spirit.
Your bones.

There once was a burglar.
You may think circumstances made him that way.
Isn’t that how you know it? A reason to justify everything as oh- alrightyy and then sympathise with a poor soul. You’re too good not to know compassion dearie.
Nay, I won’t give you that.

There wasn’t any helplessness about him. Only charm from what crystal eyes to hazy vision couldn’t miss. The mundane wasn’t his choice. The mediocre wasn’t his taste. It wasn’t in the extreme he found his calling. So you jump off a plane and make it to fine cut grass cos hey a bruise is bad for you.
Nay, a lull wouldn’t suffice.

Real macho, yeah? Exactly what it isn’t.
The rush is when you don’t know the end, or whether you will stick around when it arrives.
You make it or you don’t. No assurances. No ‘Don’t worry’s’. That’s for momma’s boys.
He had too much finesse for that.
The juggling of keys, the lurking shadows, the dim lit concentration, the nerve racking after each failed attempt like destiny wants to push you off into a hurricane, the comeback with resilience to yet another strike and finally the click of a lock conquered.
The click.
Nay, the click.

There were many good days and then there were few better days.
The good ones cut him slack as he got away with the heist. The better ones pulled him out of oblivion to the grind of a prison wall, that switched stakes from a game of skill to a game of intellect.
Nay, playing with people’s psyche made a wholesome feast.

Came one such better day and they threw him in a dingy cell. His neighbours there couldn’t be more pleased. The rainmaker was here and it would be a matter of time before he conjured a bird from his dilapidated hat and flew away with it. Quite the apple of everyone’s eye he was.
Nay, with vital connections.

The prison wardens on the other hand found it agonising more than gratifying to get hold of him, as rest assured his escape was imminent. What wasn’t, was the fate of their job once his gimmicks had seen the blush of daylight. Tightened to a stifling knot was the security around his cell with not an instant when he was left unattended save his trip to the restroom and even then one hand remained handcuffed to the door.
Rohit carried on for the next two days with a breezy smile like he was on vacation.
Nay, the taunts of prison mates at his first failure to elope, didn’t perturb him.

The next day just after dawn, the prison warden ran to the Superintendent to inform him of Rohit’s unresponsiveness.
So this was how he planned to play his cards, eh?
The doctor on being summoned reported a critically high temperature and implored immediate professional attention at a proper hospital.
Suspecting the doctor’s views the Superintendent himself touched the prisoner’s forehead and withdrew it quickly.
Nay, the rogue had a raging temperature alright.

An ambulance was hailed, and together with a driver and constable in the front seat with a police nurse to aid him, the vehicle sped off as an anxious Superintendent looked on.
No sooner had it cruised a little over five kilometres, the prisoner sat back to relax himself against the cool railing of the vehicle. He looked at the constable from the rear-view mirror and winked at him as he smiled at the driver.
His throat felt good with all the paste he had gobbled.
'Toothpaste eaten in large amounts raises the body temperature.' So he had heard.
Nay, now he knew for sure.

Oh the nurse.
Was she his accomplice too?
Course she was.
Or maybe she wasn’t.
Well he was charming enough to make her one.
Or maybe not.
Was she? Wasn’t she?
Yes, I want to tell you.
Nay, I can’t cos......
Story. Just. Ended.

********THE END*******

If you can't work on it, work around it.
Beat fuel hikes. Make well- connected friends ;)

Indiblogger and Fiat Lenia

Monday, August 15, 2011

Bell the rebel!

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 23; the twenty-third 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 FREE.

Ice cream. That’s what I felt like.
Open the freezer and what do I see?
Vanilla. Bleh! I wish my brother didn’t have such bland taste.
Course I was going to eat it anyway. Just saying.

Today was one of those days when I felt happy without a reason. No, not happy. Over the moon.
Everything was beautiful.
And I wanted to dance with my eyes closed.
Ever had that feeling of being swept away before you catch your senses?
Or like when your favourite music plays and your feet want to move away in a frantic rhythm.
Or when you’re on a swing, up in the air above the rest of the world where no one can hold you down.
Or when the train moves backwards and a strong wind gushes in your face, you can’t keep your eyes open and can only just breathe gulps of pure freshness.
Or you want to laugh your heart out and never stop.

I can tell if you’ve ever felt that way a lot of people would qualify you as psyched.
That’s about us.
Always the soul of every huddle and yet spaced out into a dream galaxy.

Maybe it was the rain or the lazy Sunday that made me feel so fuzzy and needlessly romantic.
I decided to indulge in my bowl of ice cream sitting at the window.
It's like a smile was pasted on my face and I couldn’t get rid of it.

It was in this mood that I caught him walking across the apartment compound, shielding a girl standing next to him from getting wet.
I stared. The smile vanished. I could feel a lump in my throat.
The mercury rising, the tenseness that stiffened every muscle in me and I found the immediate need to do something extreme.
I didn’t want to give it a second thought.
I didn’t want to think about the rationality or lack of it.
And I ran.

I ran down the stairs, out the lawn and into the compound.
He looked my way a little alarmed.
So he never thought I’d get to it. Well never mind.
This had to be my moment.

I looked once more at him.
His smooth chiselled features, lazy stubble and intense expression.
I didn’t care if he thought I was creating a scene.
I could almost feel my hands shake as I said in a tone that spelt hurt,
‘So this is your important office meeting?’
My voice cracked midway and all the vulnerability erupted.

Dazed and uncomfortable, he looked at the girl who now had a confused expression. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting this either. For those innocent puppy eyes of his, nobody would. He came nearer as he tried to calm me down. I didn’t want to break down. No, not in front of him.
Stifling the sob, I ran back the stairs all the way to my apartment.
He called after me but I didn’t look back.
I wouldn’t, I vowed to myself.

At the apartment, my ice cream sat next to the window almost entirely melted.
Oh well, I like melted ice cream too.
It tastes all soft and creamy.
I know, I know. All you really care about is who the guy was.
I have no idea!
Just like to fool around in my free time.

Now tell me what you think. Black nail paint or red?
Jeez! The unending dilemmas in a young girl’s life!

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. Happy Independence Day!

Monday, August 1, 2011

Sar jo tera chakraaye!

Isn’t that a beauty???
Yaaa I made it myself. Mast hai na? And I didn’t even know I had it in me until I created this genuine, original masterpiece. *Mwwahh!*
Sometimes na I think I’m just too talented.
The artist in me wants to go sob sob and fill a few buckets of salt water but then this post is not to deal with Paani, but instead Thaili ki samasya.

Arey mere pyaare greenoo popat. Nahi samjhe?
You know what. This is all because you don’t read the newspapers.
Haa so even I don’t, but (un)fortunately I have cousins who feed me with all this faaltu information and guess what. I thought I’d dump pass it onto you.
Sweet no?

Ok ok no more bakwaas. Getting straight to the subject.
As you already know my blog is totally totally janhit main jaari and my only motto is to serve my readers.
Don’t tell me you didn’t know that! *rolling eyes*
So now there is this new mega super duper duniya hila dene wala problem that has come up.
It’s ok baba!
Do not fear, when the Sadiya is hierr! *was that another original? Phew! Main bhi na. Too much hi hoo!*

Problem in question is our very own beloved Central Government that has put a barricade on giving us free plastic bags!!!!
Andddd to make this bad news absolutely the worst, Mumbai and Bangalore *to my knowledge* have even started to implement it.

Yes you have the right to feel morose cos until now there were just two things in India that were FREE FREEE FREEEEE!
Kadi patta and Plastic bags.
And now the latter is gone! Like poof!
*Poof? Sound when genie disappears? Hello hello?*

To ab kya karey?
That’s what you’re thinking. Hai na, hai na?
I mean pehle there was the immense dukh of not buying anything at a mall and still paying 25 bucks as parking fee and now there is the threat of buying something and then too paying 7 bucks per bag! So the aunty log who at one point were fighting for more bags are now going to be doing dishum dishum for lesser ones instead.

The good thing is they allow you to get them thaili’s from home. But the last time I checked, you were supposed to leave all your packs and parcels at the entrance. So how is this going to work?
I mean just when you reach the counter, you say ‘Ruko rukooooo mere paas my own thaili hai!!’ And then race back to the token guy, get your bag, unzip you packages, carefully unfold your angels and offer them as, ‘Lo. Isme daalo!’ Won’t that lead to really long queues? :o

Chalo leave that. Some may argue girls could consider putting extra thaili’s in their handbags. But do you really think it’s as simple as nikaalo, daalo, gholo type? Let me tell you accommodating any alien substance in a girl’s handbag is a maaaaaaajor task cos there’s just so much traffic!!
Wallet, phone, nail filer *oh excuse me but everyone knows, accidents bataakar nahi hote!*, hand sanitizer, gloss, comb, tissues, pens, diary, watch, rubber bands....I mean baangdoo’s and bundhoo’s, you only tell- where’s the space!!!
And what about guys? I was just thinking about it the other day and I felt so baaaddd!

Hence, I have worked out a raapchik solution for all.
Here’s what can be done.
As we all know, it’s rainy season in Mumbai and Bangalore. Ok na?
So everyone’s wearing raincoats.
Now my theory is you could just wear your raincoat to the store, dump all the stuff you buy into the topi and tadaaaaa! Sorted!
Also, if you don’t want to carry it, you just put it on your head, not to mention all the extra security your head gets. Mann! How cool is that!

What do you think?
Got any better ideas? Bring it on! It’s a step towards helping the jantaa of our country!

Disclaimer- Exclusively for any Govt. people or blog blocking folks reading this.
Mazaak tha ji!
I totally support environment friendly activities.
Although mere bacche nahi hai, I’m very keen that 50 generations down, my family dude’s get Voltas AC type shudh air to breathe so basically we are on the same team.
No really!

Saturday, July 23, 2011


This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 22; the twenty-second 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.

Thoda sa baadal
Thoda sa paani
Aur ek kahaani!

Some say watching the rain is eternally romantic. Living in Mahabaleshwar where it poured every five minutes, he found that hard to believe. A thousand tourists came in every year to watch the cold and rain only to settle in the warm confines of his neat little cafe.

Farhan was always a bit of a cleanliness freak and on one such rainy day as he tidied the showcases for little specks, entered an Iranian girl, rain drenched, dressed in shorts and chewing gum. That she wasn't geared for the rain didn't bother him as much as the mess her mud filled slippers had created on the freshly washed floor.

Placing her phone on an empty table she walked over to the counter and tapped it for his attention. As he handed her the menu card, she skipped to the dessert section and with an indifferent glance dismissed it with a vague 'Item no. 4 please!'
'Caramel! Would you like a chocolate topping to go with it instead?'
He looked back at her for an answer but she stared blankly at him, blew a small bubble of the gum in her mouth and turned away to be seated at her table.

Must have meant a ‘No’.
He hated pricey customers. He hated gum. He hated the gooey caramel on the order she had placed.

See that's the thing with caramel. It sticks and stays. Tingles.
But not chocolate. No, not that. Smooth. It flows. Subtle and yet lingers.

He placed the dessert on her table and tried to avoid watching her eat as she cupped her face in one hand and neatly savored bite after bite. Every little movement was in perfect grace.
'Beautiful!', he thought.

As she finished her little indulgence and signaled for the cheque, it occurred to him that once out of his cafe, he may never be able to see her again. For some unexplained reason that made him sad. Immensely upset. Like something sudden had to be done to rescue the fleeting moment.

He handed her the cheque folder with a comments card and in the most casual tone he could manage, lightly asked, 'Enjoyed your dessert I hope miss?' She looked up at him and nodded her head,
'You really want to know??' After a brief pause she continued, 'Look, I wanted real authentic caramel, not some artificial essence flavoring ok!'
The stern tone of her voice was something he would never forget.

Stared. Stammered. Apologized. Angry.
He should have known nothing better would come his way. He hated snobs.

As he cleared the table and opened the cheque folder, the comments card lay on top with neat handwriting on the suggestions space that read-

'Staring at people when they eat is rude Mr.!
Nice little place you got here. Will drop by tomorrow so I can teach you how real caramel is made. Hope you're not a quick learner or anything.'

He smiled.
He loved the rain.
He loved the dim yellow lights.
Most of all he loved Item No. 4 on the dessert list.
Sweet Revenge- Caramel lover's delight.

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.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

When you kiss a frog....

This post is written for Blogeshwar and Campusghanta

Are we going to talk about frogs? Yes, absolutely!
Just one in particular actually- Dodi, the hero of our story.
Now ever since he had been a little toadie to the time he grew into a handsome green slimy frog, he had only one girl in his life- Tinky.
Unlike humans, frogs don’t have different complicated sets of girls in their lives, like ‘just friends’, ‘more than just friends’, ‘good friends who can be potential girlfriends’ ‘girlfriends’, ‘fiancĂ©e’s’, ‘wives’ etc. No. It’s just one and that’s it. Besides, why take all the trouble- they all look the same anyway.

Haa ok so let’s focus here. Tinky was the only girl frog Dodi had ever known and loved and now you may think I’d say somthing like she didn’t love him back or the father was unwilling. But nah! Frogs are just eggs and grow up on their own, remember? None of this family waala pangaa.
HE loves; SHE loves; NO villain. Simple plot.

Everything was smooth enough for red heart shaped bubbles to float in the water of the moat that they called home but if that's all there was to it, then there wouldn’t be a story to tell right?
So one day as Dodi was having a sunbath for his shiny, slimy green coat to get a rugged tan and floor Tinky all over again, the unthinkable happened.
An ugly creature scooped him up and kissed him. His already huge round eyes almost popped out of its sockets like spiral springs in utter shock.

Whoaaa! Wohoaaaaa!!!! Who the hell does this mad woman think she is? I’m committed for God’s sake!’, Dodi wanted to croaky yell but all he could manage was a cough.
He had often heard at his froggie school about this age old folktale of a frog from their fraternity that turned into a prince and some such baloney, but hey, wasn’t that just a story?

Apparently not. No sooner had the ugly creature kissed him, his beautiful handsome gooey green coat was shed to become a pale white dry mass covered in silk robes with stick like hands and legs jutting out of from odd places. His long tongue was cut to an economical size too and as he stared at his reflection in the moat water, what looked back at him was an odd, ugly, squinty eyed creature.

Maybe this was what aliens were all about. And now they had taken him on their team. As he almost lost balance on his newly acquired feet the girl who called herself Neemi held him up and kept hugging and screaming alternately until a huge crowd gathered. That’s when she decided to announce to them that he was her prince. Naturally, anybody would be more than happy to dump a nagging loud mouthed girl like her on him.

They gathered around Dodi, introducing themselves and shaking hands all asking the same question, “Yo, Your Highness! Wassup!”.
Whatever that meant! Quite the show stopper he had become. He nodded and said something incoherent to which they rolled their eyes and walked away. Till date he had only met a few fruggly fishes and fatso whales but they too now seemed gorgeous when pitched opposite these uhh ‘specimens’.

Next he was shown to his ‘room’ by Neemi, which FYI was nothing but dry land with fancy wooden pieces  and a ‘box’ that flashed colors in which was yet another ugly woman reading some gibberish. Hello! Whatever happened to water. That he found was what came out of a funny looking thing in another small ‘room’. This surely had to be the smallest waterfall he had ever seen.
His heart hurt to think of his poor Tinky who would be waiting for him to come home.
Would he ever be able to see her again?

If only he could get Neemi woman to convert him back to being a frog! He could barely sleep in the brimming bath tub that night due to his longg stick legs. As he eventually dosed off with fatigue, Dodi dreamt of a Fairy Frog-mother who gave him the answer to his haunting question.
If the girl creature slapped him within 24 hours, he would become a frog again!The next day he set himself to the task of getting slapped. He thought of all the things that annoyed Tinky the most.
Well for one thing, she hated him croak loudly. Bingo!

As he met Neemi, he tried to croak loudly and out came a cough.
Hurried, she patted his back and showered him with confetti of concern.
He tried again, and out came a louder cough which sent her on yet another concern spree after which she fed him with food that didn't have a single worm!!!! Veggies, more veggies, root veggies, leafy veggies, light green veggies, dark green veggies, olive green veggies, even flower shaped veggies.
He had never felt more miserable before.

As all the food and medicine closed in his throat he felt a nauseous sensation that brought it all rolling out on her dress. Tishcaooo landed a tight slap on his face with frenzied agitated cries of anger.
Well who cared! His slimy coat had returned.
Dodi leapt out of the house and dived into the moat to meet his lovely Tinky.

As he met her, she folded her hands and asked the daunting question ‘Where have you been?
Helpless he turned around and said, ‘Oh nothing. Just went hunting to reserve our hibernating location. Girl, don’t you know anything about inflation and recession and stuff?

Cultural shock had certainly left him with an acute hangover.

**********THE END***********

P.S.- Thanx! ;-)

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Gentlemen don't come by too often

Chinnatambi had only just typed his name on the Google homepage to scale the geometric upward graph in his virtual popularity when the maid announced the arrival of a guest. ‘That’s so very odd’, he thought for someone to call upon him in this part of the night. Maybe he should send the person away. But then he thought about how they may have counted on his expert advice and in dire need of his kind, most gracious help. He sulked inwardly for the demanding nature of his work. Oh well!
Instructing the maid to send the guest in, he kept aside his spectacles to divert his attention to the incoming visitor.

The door opened and entered an out of breath vibrant girl in her mid twenties who looked rather harrowed for her personality.
‘Hello Sir. I’m Ruchi' she said and extended her hand.

The famous detective he was, troubled people often came in to seek his help, though they weren't usually half as attractive. His forte lay in spying or gathering evidence on cheating spouses. Course other more out in the open sources, like ‘Emotional Atyachar’ had tried to play a dent in his popularity but hadn’t succeeded much thus far. He certainly maintained tag for being best in the business.

Before he could ask the girl reason for her dropping by, she delved into all explanations herself. She suspected her husband was cheating on her.
‘Office Secretary?’, he volunteered.
Ruchi vehemently nodded her head to indicate a yes and her eyes showed deep gratitude for now being convinced of coming to the right place.
‘But you will help me no, sir?’, she asked with pleading in her eyes.

Chinnatambi examined her countenance. The girl sure blinked a lot and as she talked a deep dimple showed in her cheeks to every time she pronounced the letter ‘e’. Now you may want to know that he wasn’t the type of person to be swayed by any easy on the eyes woman who barged in at odd hours but she was different. Less for the features and more for the sadness that now reflected in her eyes that you could surely tell were used to dancing with happiness.
An extreme sympathy, that’s what he felt for her. Had it been another person, he would have asked her to come again the following day, but this time or this person rather, he did not want to disappoint. He was going to have to use all his super awesome detective skills to get to the bottom of this matter.

Was it really a good idea to see this fellow? To me he didn’t look half as smart as I had anticipated and the way he scrutinised my appearance sure freaked me out a bit. Now if it wasn’t for the dicey situation at hand I never would have come here in the first place.

So instead, he agreed to take up her case and was about to begin questioning her when the girl’s cell phone beeped and as she read the contents of the text message, her face turned pale. It was Ruchi’s husband who had found out about her absence from home to meet some detective. Scared and shaking like a leaf, she rose to leave his residence but he stopped her midway.

Where would this frightfully attractive woman go in the middle of the night to a husband who sounded scary and unforgiving at the very least? He worried for her safety and being the chivalrous gentleman he was, offered for her to stay as he went to meet this nasty husband of hers. Ruchi’s eyes filled with gratitude and the thus far elusive dimple cut into her cheeks at which Chinnatambi found it hard to contain his appreciation for the most gorgeous smile he had ever seen. In the meantime, she gave her address and thanked him profusely for being the considerate man he was.

Two hours later as he entered his house, the door was left ajar, the maid disappeared, safe broken and the entire house relieved of its valuables.
But obviously Miss Ruchi was nowhere to be seen.

Oh c’mon what did you think. Batting eyelashes was the only role I had in the story?
Calls himself a detective!!!!!
That was pretty much the easiest target in my five years of business!

Chinnatambi surveyed the mess, nodded his head and called the police Superintendent to free the arrested maid and her sister who had tried to get away with a fare of almost two lakh rupees.
‘And may I speak with the girl in red please!’
He waited as the superintendent held out the phone to the girl.
Yes!’, spoke a gruff irritated girl’s voice at the other end.
Oh hello miss! I trust you've had an eventful evening. Might I suggest, the next time you intend on robbing a house please ensure your address isn't the same as the one put down by the housemaid in her bio-data. It was a pleasure meeting you. Pretty girls ought not to stay in unpleasant places.’, he said and hung up.

Seriously! Over smart girls are just so tiresome.
No sugar cookie ain’t beating the best just yet!, he thought and smiled to himself.

********THE END*********

The real Ruchi *my sweeto sis*, I understand won't be too happy to read this. So here's a publicity pitch.
Visit her blog at Kamikaze Speaks. You're gonna louuuuve it :-)