Ufff! That Smart Lady!

lady
A philosopher friend always preaches: ‘It doesn’t matter who you are but how you see yourself.’ If you ask me, I would rather chirp only after consulting the wife.

Nonetheless, I see myself as a brave, bold man. Yes, I do. When I look into a mirror, my biceps and triceps grow out to octaceps, and my protruding belly doesn’t resemble a piglet’s, as my friends often remark, rather it is a multi-packed assortment – way ahead of a gym instructor’s six-packs.

However, last month I had a very peculiar experience. No, not that I had to part with a hefty sum of my hard-earned money, but a sweet, intelligent lady outwitted my smartness, and cracked my pride. The only fact that still haunts me is that I had never known her before I received that phone call. But what an angel she was! I tell you!

If you trust my sense of judgement, she was 5’6’’; had long, black hair; pointed nose, and wore an extra large Bindi. And she had that slurry, deep voice that could make a man yearn for a mug of whiskey.

And she had that slurry, deep voice that could make a man yearn for a mug of whiskey.

I picked up the unknown number.
‘How are you, Sirrr?’
O, that rise and fall of the syllables! I thought it was someone I’ve intimately known in the past, but I couldn’t remember.

‘Who is this?’
‘Sirrrr, this is Sheila.’ [The identity of the caller has been intentionally revealed because there is nought a chance that Sheila would sue me.]
‘From the I See.You See.We all See bank.’ She added.

‘Ha…Hi….Hi, miss Sheila. What a fine day!’ I responded excitedly. For that lady, I tell you, had greatly stirred me by then.
‘Sirr, I just checked in the system and your credit card has been blocked. All right sir?’
‘Funk!!! When did that happen?
‘Let me check the system, sir. Can I put you on hold for a minute?’
‘Sure, sure, miss Sheila!’

And then a soothing symphony was played while the butcher sharpened her axe.
The line came alive after quick two minutes.

‘Ya, sir. Was it last Wednesday you bought something worth 5000 at Toys & more?’
‘Right, right!’
‘And then you paid 1535 at the Ghazal Bar?’
‘Right, right. So what do I do now?’
‘Ok, Sir. I’ll help you out.’ she added. ‘Tell me the number on the front of your card.’
‘Hold on!’ I immediately ran and fetched the credit card, for lovely miss Sheila. ‘Yes note it…’
‘Thank you, sir.’ She remarked. ‘You are kind!’
‘Mmmm… ya, ya!’

‘Now the three digit on the back of your card, sir’
‘But I’m not supposed to give it to anyone…?’
‘But you surely can give it to the bank na, sir?’
‘O, ya, ya. Note it….’

And a flurry of messages flooded my cell phone.

‘Wait! Sheila! Why’s money getting deducted from my card?’
‘It’s normal sir. I told you, there is some error in your card. Don’t worry, the amount will be reverted within next 72 hours.’

Then, two three transactions later, lovely Miss Sheila started laughing heartily. And then the line went dead.
I have been calling that unknown number since, but it is still switched off.
I’m confident it is cell operator’s fault.

The Devil won’t let me Sleep!

DevilI had been snoring pleasantly till that little devil – a house fly – came out of nowhere and started buzzing around my ear. The room was black, except for a filtered glow through the curtain by the window. And soon the devil landed on my nose and started singing: Hmmmm, Mmmmm, Nmnmnmmmm….

I jerked and turned and didn’t want to quit my warm quilt and my lazy slumber. I treated the fly as a harmless creature; the fly had a somewhat similar impression of me, too.

This ordeal continued for minutes, or maybe an hour–I don’t remember–but soon it was beyond my forbearance and my subconscious kicked my conscious: enough! I forced myself to wake up, determined to have blood on my hands, if only I had a gun under my pillow.

The moment I rose, the fly took off and landed on the curtain.

She rubbed both her front legs and winked and screamed at me, ‘Come on, catch me if you’ve guts!’

I shook the curtain and the devil landed on the nearest wall and started bouncing there.

Pondering over my helplessness, I sat there thinking of ways I could rid of the devil. But soon pulled the quilt and slept with my entire body covered up to the head.

The fly charged again, only with a louder chirp this time: Zzzzzzzzmmmm, Mmmmm, Nmnmnmmmm…. And I woke up in a raze, determined to not spare her this time. But my rumble had caused discomfort to other creatures lazying in the room, and the wife turned and begged to let her sleep, which spared the fly her precious life.

I was helpless: the fly won’t let me sleep, and my wife won’t let me kill the fly. So I left the room with a heart full of vengeance – for the fly, for the fly, of course – determined that the little devil won’t have a tomorrow. But then I forgot….

Sorry, I Sneaked into my Daughter’s Diary

Sneaking

Yesterday I was relaxing and daydreaming about my life many years ahead, and I could conjure up startling things. And I thought why not utilize this short-lived blessing and future-sneak into my daughter’s diary. Here is what I got to read:

‘Funny Daddy’
Date: 06.Sept.2022

I have a funny dad. No, not that he cracks jokes all the time, or has a funny face, but he is funny due to peculiarity in everything he does. But, be warned, he is a serious kind of man who would wail warm tears if he knew I had flunked in social studies, or have a boyfriend; though, I have none.

Now I’m going through this family album and, look, here, in this photograph dad is standing on a hillock with a stick in his hands and looking pensively towards south-east whereas the photographer had been pointing at him from south-west.
You got my point? No?

Let me show you another photograph. No, not this one, because here he is posing in a fearful grimace squatting next to a black dog, and I don’t like it.

Here it is!
A photograph of mom and dad together. Both seated on a sandy beach. Mom smiling full-faced at the photographer, whereas daddy pensively looking down at the ice-cream melting onto his hand, giving an expression that he could have bought other flavour instead.

In fact, if you go through our entire family album, my dad never seems to have fun. He never seems to enjoy life.

In fact, if you go through our entire family album, my dad never seems to have fun. He never seems to enjoy life.

Nowhere in the entire album he could be seen jumping high into the sky with all his limbs outstretched as far as possible, or skydiving with a raised thumb, or making those rockstar-fingers at the camera. Everywhere he is like a hard boiled egg dropped out of oblivion.

But the truth is: he is humble, yes he is. Like when we have a guest at home he would yell at my mom, ‘Get one tea!’ and continue the conversation with a confidence that my mom would meekly obey and bring a nicely brewed tea. However, when we don’t have guests around, he would ask mom, ‘My dearest, could you please make a tea for me?’
So you see, he is humble.

And he is honest. Like yesterday morning he woke up and went straight to the mirror and started feeling his teeth with the tip of his finger. When I asked him what he was up to, he replied, ‘Nothing, just had a fist fight in a dream last night.’ So he is honest, too.

Then he is fun loving. Surprised? But he is. I swear! Like only yesterday he came slouching into the drawing room and told mama something in the ear and she started laughing like a drain, and daddy sat there glancing foolishly at her. And when she didn’t stop laughing, he got up and said, ‘It wasn’t a joke!’ and fled the scene. So you see, he is funny. Isn’t he?

But I don’t care how he is. He is my daddy, and that is enough reason for me to love him.
He is calling me, so I’ve got to go.
See ya!

***

This future-sneak into my daughter’s diary made me proud of her. But right now she is about to turn one and half, and has been working extremely hard at her writing.
Here is what she wrote yesterday:

kitz

You liked that? I knew, you would.

True Confessions of a Failed Blogger

Frustrated

Neighbouring kids have recently started addressing me as ‘uncle’, and here I am: lone, frustrated, bored, and having achieved absolutely nothing in these past thirty years of my life. Each morning I wake up with sleep deprived eyes, pick up my pen and journal, and forcibly try to turn on the faucet of my dwarfish brain. But nothing useful comes out of it.

Then I turn to the internet and hunt for bloggers who continue to write post after post after post (I wish I could write so many ‘post after post after post’ here that together they could make my blog with so many posts – just for the content of my heart, you know!) throughout the year. Which ultimately leaves me more frustrated than solaced. Because here they are – the successful bloggers – writing meaningful content which people actually read, and here I’m, a pitiable soul who reads more stuff about how to write meaningful blog posts than actually write any.

Each morning I wake up and beg the muse hovering over my house to land on my front porch – if not front, maybe back – but she is inconsiderate of me and rather prefers a bloggeress hundred blocks away, whose (the bloggerress’) even an underexposed photograph of her conniving kitten fetches greater number of comments and likes than the best of my posts.

WritingI once shared this frustration with a blogger friend of mine whose name I can not disclose because his elder brother is a dentist. And this friend philosophically advised that blogging, rather social media in general, was a big mad world where the only rule was: you lick my ass, and I lick yours. Sorry, he said something like, you like my snaps, and I like yours. I just fondled with the nouns & verbs; I shouldn’t have done this! But nonetheless, I did not take his advise seriously because he had once maintained five blogs about biking, hiking, kayaking, sleeping, and men’s makeup. And had to delete them as he was diagnosed with ‘blogger’s block’ before he could publish his seventh post, which he were to title, ‘No men, no cry!’

But deep in my heart I still envy him, as all his posts did get likes and comments while there are posts on this blogs which have managed none. Moreover, I also envy him because here I have nothing meaningful to say on this only blog of mine whereas he, mind you, singlehandedly maintained five! But then this is how cruel life sometimes can get- few men end up confused between their girlfriends whereas some, like me, struggle to fetch even one (This line may be read in the past tense as I am a married man now, and when my wife doesn’t talk to me, she reads random posts out of this blog.)

I know, if I consistently manage to produce content for this blog, eventually few good-hearted people will come and comment and like and share this blog. But the only problem remains is ‘kitten’. Though I’ve a cellphone with a megapixel camera, I don’t have a kitten. And I’ve been hunting for a ‘For Sale Cute Kitten, Hurry!’ ad but couldn’t find one. If you have any idea please advise.

English is such a Phunny Language

english

English is such a phunny language, that is.
I have absorbed that you speak english for two hours, your head start oskilating, and your carrier become danger. Last time when I speak english with my boss, I absorbed my phlow was prafect, but this time my tongue have twisted.

‘Don’t waste my time,’ my boss speak to me. ‘Say what you want, or leave!’
You no what I say to him? I say, ‘You know what, boss? I don’t give it a dam!’
And in my mind I say, ‘Are you even a man? Bloody sixer you are!’

Then he say, ‘Suck my walls you bastard!’
‘You suck my mats!’ I say. ‘Bloody don’t talk to me like this ever, no!’
Than I give two tight hands on his right and than his left cheek. And I rezine the job, that is.

Then my mood go heavy.
I no talk anyone but only my friend, Ramesh. He is prafact subdude, that is.
He drink me child bear with non-vegetable food.
And he such a jockey man. He tell me a joke. What a joke it was. I laugh very heavy, and my head start getting circles. Then he tell me that I no worry, thousand jobs already behind me. And he tell me that my ex-boss such a dump man. So my mood go light.

I obsoletely agree with him, that is. My boss such a dump man. Bloody english medium, convent school man. I no better english than him. I no go to job with him now, never. Looser boss!

And I study advance grammar, that is. Now english unimpossible for me.
I just use double negative. ‘Unimpossible’ that is. I so cleaver, you see.
Two negative no make one right, and you still go jail. So you see, english now favourite for me, that is.

I find new job now. To build my carrier, that is. You know one? Prafect! Than tell me?

***

PS: English, like any other language, is perfect in itself. By this post I mean no disgrace to anyone. These are just overheard conversations in a fancy-for-english society. And a bit of my own imagination.

The Secret Life of Snails

snail

Snails have a secret life. Like the men with extramarital affair have. That is why we don’t get to see snails except in the monsoons. It bewilders me where they thrive in between the monsoons. Perhaps they stay underground, relaxing and meditating.

Now, if I told you that humans with hectic lifestyle reincarnate as snails, you won’t believe me. But what if this were true? What if extremely busy people actually did become snails in their next life?
Idle, slow, and relaxed life. Would you accept it?

Snails are lazy creature. All day they can leisure around the most ripe cherry in your garden, or stay curled up on the back walls of your house.
But their life, though small, is like one long meditation. They are never in a hurry to be somewhere, they are never worried, and they don’t have goals. They always seem to enjoy where they are and what they have.

I wish we humans could be like them, too. Slow, cogitative, and relaxed. Never in a hurry to accomplish something, never worried, and always cheerful.

So, what would you prefer? Be a snail in the next life, or a slow human in this?

Why the Jackals Cry

Jackal
If you have spent a winter’s night in the mountains, you probably have heard the jackals cry. It is not like a bark of a dog, or a meow of a cat, but a shrill scream that cuts through the dark and unsettles you. More so because our cinema has always portrayed the jackals as bad guys. Even our tales of horror constantly feature jackals. They add that extra fright into a horror. And why not, a night is a jackal’s favourite time.

***

‘Listen! The jackals are crying in the afternoon. Not a good sign,’ I told my mother.
‘They are pleading to God for forgiveness,’ she replied glancing over the rim of her glasses.
‘Forgiveness; for what?’ I asked her again.
‘They say jackals cry when they feel cold,’ she said, ‘and they plead to God to do away with the winter for the night. Next day, they promise, they’ll have a warm shelter built of their own.’
‘And then?’ I asked.
‘They survive the night,’ she replied ‘and in the morning the sun warms everything and they forget to build the abode they had promised the night before.’
‘Hmm,’ I mused sitting by the room heater.
‘And the next night, they start howling again. A Jackal’s Mentality it is called,’ she added.

***

By jackal’s mentality if she meant procrastination, I guess her son is a jackal too, for I’m a compulsive procrastinator. 🙂 But you for one don’t have a jackal’s mentality as you reached this far reading the post. So why not leave a nice comment?

© Image Copyright

Just Wait Till You’ve Children of Your Own!

baby
I am so excited to share with you that last month I got blessed with a cute little baby girl. Yes, I am a father now! And through this post I would also like to convey to the kids in my neighbourhood that they are now free to address me as ‘Uncle’, I won’t mind it anymore…

*****

“Remember, you used to frown at me whenever we discussed who would clean the baby’s poop when we become parents,” she said with a smile.

“Ya, I know. I used to hate the thought of having to clean the poop,” I replied. “But now that our baby is here, I don’t feel any displeasure.”

“You are a nice dad.”

“Maybe, but I thought my baby would never poop, not in the pajamas at least.”

Hehehe! She laughed. “That was your usual boring Joke.”

Whatever!

As we talked through this, Ustad Bismillah Khan’s Raag ‘Raat Darbari’ started out loud in the background – the baby was up and crying. Our baby cries a little louder: just like the Ahuja loudspeaker in a marriage band. I don’t know what woke her this time, my joke or her mother’s laughing.

Our newborn will cry for three reasons: either she is hungry, or wet, or she has some problem. So being an optimist dad, the first thing I checked was: is the baby wet?
No, everything dry.

“Sweetie, I think she is hungry,” I told my wife.

“She is not hungry!” she replied. “She just had milk at 8:00 pm.”

“Come on! It is 9:30. See, how hard she is trying to suck her fist.”

I won the argument; wife took the baby, and everything was settled now.

The baby gulped milk like a hungry rabbit for half an hour and then she was asleep with the breast still in her mouth. Both of us took a sigh of relief. I prepared the bed for the baby. Everything was kept at an arm’s distance: five pair of pajamas, three diapers, wipes, squeeze toys, and the feed formula.

Wife put the baby to sleep, and I moved on to switch off the light. The room went dark and silent. As I stretched out on my bed, I realized my arms, neck, and the back were hurting. My eyes soon became heavy with sleep and before I could start snoring, there was a thundering noise. I jumped to put on the light. The baby was crying like never before. Her face was red, her arms and legs were up in the air as if she was trying to get up on her own, and her eyes were filled with tiny tears. She was crying with all she had – a sight no father could bear.

I checked her diaper, and this time it was wet and heavy. The baby got a new diaper, and now she was happy and cheerful – as if she just woke up after a sound sleep. I checked the time, it was 10:30. I took her into my lap to put her to sleep, but now the baby was fascinated by the tube light. I moved her to the left, then to the right, but each time she would turn her head to the tube light.

“Give her to me!” wife said.

“No, no! You go to sleep. I’ll take care of her…”

“Is she hungry?” she asked again.

“No….. I think she is bored of sleeping,” I replied. “You sleep, I’ll manage her.”

Now father and daughter were together. Father looking at the daughter if she had closed her eyes or not, and the daughter still fascinated with the tube light.
I kept rocking her, but the baby had no trace of sleep. It felt like eternity. Finally after few hours of rocking, she closed her eyes, passed a smile, and went to sleep like a cub…… I put her down, checked the time – it was 2:00 am – and dropped dead on the bed.

Startled by someone’s voice, I woke up in a hurry.

“Can you hold her for some time? She has been up since two hours. My arms are hurting,” my wife said.

I checked the watch, it was almost five in the morning. The last hours of the night are generally the toughest to manage.

“Ok girlie, come to daddy!” I took the baby on my lap.

“I’ve fed her twice, changed her diaper, and I’m completely exhausted….. Can I sleep?” wife asked.

“Sure! You sleep now….. I’ll look after her.”

Wife was snoring soon, and the baby was smiling at the tube light. Whereas her daddy’s head was wobbly and his back was hurting more……

*****

While the above ordeal has become a routine now, no feeling can replace the feeling of being a father of a daughter. Because a daughter sleeps best in her father’s lap, and for the father she is the cutest thing to look at.