The Devil won’t let me Sleep!

I 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

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:

You liked that? I knew, you would.

True Confessions of a Failed Blogger

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.

I 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 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.