The Escaping

Oh misty wind of the midnight's dream,

What is this grief that you sing in my ear?

Is it the stories of lives carved in the darkness,

Or is it of the desperation in your loneliness?




Oh mighty storm that's building inside,

Spare the mast of hope from collapse.

When I'm casted away a fathom far,

Raise me up with the monsoon's delight.




Oh fiery monsters of distrust and rage,

What's blinding you in this endless trance?

Where will you shelter from the inevitable pain,

A far away land you will love again?




Oh beloved, where did I fall?

To the beauty of the desert,

Or the illusion of its mirage?

A death trap for the lost man.




Haunt me like a long forgotten song

Buried deep in an abandoned heart,

Like the monsoon storm that forgot to rain

On a despair earth desolate behind.




Lift me up in your cold arms,

And take me to a far away land,

Sing me to sleep, on a mother's lap,

A love story where we will meet in the end.

5 reasons.

Going with the trend in social media these days of ‘5 reasons you should marry a Bengali’ or ‘6 reasons you should buy an iPhone 6’, I have decided to come up with my own version of “5 reasons you should choose me over him.” Disclaimer, these are intended at certain people. Don’t try and generalise, and disappoint yourself.

Looks. I won’t even try to sound humble here, I’m definitely sexier than him. He wears big ass sunglasses, so what? I got a balding head and curly beard. Trust me, it’s going to be the new trend. He comes from the rusty old streets of Kochi, I come from Oman, with legacy of Sultans. He shaves, I don’t. It’s up to your taste if you prefer lion or lioness.  Well, a lion with short curly mane, to be precise.

Locational advantage. You know how much your dad would hate to sent you to some far away land in a scary over populated city. Someday, your dad might wake up missing you and wishes to visit you. Think about all the trouble he will have to face, travelling 5 long hours in the ever crowding trains, while he could have you 3 hours close in a serene beach side village. It’s a huge marginal win for me here.

Profession. Imagine, at the end of another tiring day at office, you return home to find some peace and your husband starts whining about semantics and run time errors, how his boolean string doesn’t render the desired output and how his processor runs on an outdated architecture that can’t handle the program load. Meanwhile, you would certainly appreciate if someone understood your worries about ever congesting cities, the vertical and horizontal sprawls and gentrification. And my retire plan includes setting up a ‘dhaba’ kind of multi-cuisine restaurant, and there is a huge scope for ‘butter chicken’ specialists.

Culture. You know how Malabaris are warmer and kinder than the rest of Kerala. Malabar extends from Malappuram to Kasargod, to remind you. He is a product of city. Cold blooded and busy people caught up in a constant run with their life. You will be locked up inside four walls of your flat apartment, with neighbours who will hardly acknowledge your existence. Come to the village. Peaceful, calm and lot of spare time that you can put your nose on neighbour’s matters if you don’t know how to spend your time anymore. At an expert level, you can bitch about the whole village’s affair, and you will still have plenty of time left. And for a company, you will have my sisters at home who wouldn’t miss a chance at gossiping.

Last but not the least, statistics. If census of India 2011 is to be believed, there are 1078 females for every 1000 male in Kerala. Statistically speaking, there is 0.078 probability that a girl will not find a husband, that is 0.078 probability men will have excess choice. Let me spice up a phrase from Coldplay, “Maybe you are a big fish in a small pond.” But baby, I come from the ocean.  

Goodbye Song

I'm definitely losing my optimism. But mind rolls in a vicious cycle, don't lose hope on me yet. :P
Thanks to HOD for another unbearably boring lecture, that inspires me to escape in to my notebook. Special thanks to Meghna, my mentor, when not my daughter, for the support and corrections. :P

I'm afraid of the crowd,
I'm another face you will forget to remember,
I'm another echo you will never listen to,
Another song you will ignore in your run.

So I'm gonna take a U turn,
And find myself in the past,
At the cross road where I lost me.
So, goodbye dear friend!

You could have been my rhyme
In a perfect world where it doesn't hurt.
I would have waited a life time
If only you know where you are going.

So I'm gonna take a time machine
And spin back in to the past,
To the crossroad where I found you.
Tell you, Goodbye dear friend!

Wait

Wait for me
If I tell you I need you.
For my steps are weak,
And you are the strength I seek.

Wait for me,
For you are the northern star,
On the darkest night in the deep black sea,
For the storm to pass away, and lead me ashore.

Wait for me,
For one day I'll come back for you,
Solve all the puzzles and riddles,
And ask your hand to take you home.

Hopes and Fears

She’s a pendulum,

Swaying between my hopes and fears.

She’s my dreams and nightmares,

An illusion I have fallen for.

She’s a parasite,

Surviving on my deepest pain.

She’s a distant mirage, a vicious joke,

A desert storm withering me inside.

She is a black hole,

Swallowing my heart and soul.

She is my illness, she is my cure,

A cancer that’s growing deep down.

For she’s a woman.

She’s entitled to hurt.

She is my drug, my desperation,

A light that’ll lead me home.

Ode to thee

You say you’re sorry that you hurt me,

But you don’t know, I choose myself this pain.

And you wonder if I would ever forgive you.

You don’t see, you never did me the wrong.

You take me for a walk through your fears and worries,

And you stumble upon the tangles of your own past.

You ask of me to hold a torch for you

To show you the way through this strange land.

You seek for love in a seabound ship,

And you build your home in the shore.

To escape the uncertainty, you give yourself away

To the depths of the ocean, in the deathbed of hopes.

I will wait for the seasons, for the snow to melt

Until you see me behind the mist.

I’ll lead you through your uncertainties, you lead me through mine.

If only you will let me walk along...

(Special thanks to HOD Razzak sir for his unforgivably boring lecture that inspired me to escape in to the world of my book and pen.)

How to train your Dragon

“Do you mind if I write about our conversation?” After she had revealed me the plot twist that she was training a hopeless dragon, I was in a helpless position between badly wanting to share the burden of my misery with my friends, and keeping up my promise to her. She had forbidden me from sharing her story with anyone. Since I was promoted to a ‘friend enough’ for her to wish me ‘Happy Ramadan’ and all, I took my liberty to text her.

“I know I promised you to keep it a secret, but I can’t hold it anymore. I will explode!” I sent a sick smiley to make me sound convincing.

“No…” She rejected my plea. “Secrets should remain secrets.”

“I’ll die in the pressure.” I attempted a piteous tone.

“Fine then.” That escalated quickly. “But send me the write up before publishing, I will be the editor this time.”

Somewhere far in my head, an emergency siren went on.

“No way…” I sounded way too pathetic in the article. It would be giving away the reputation I had built all these time. Two years, I had pretended to ignore her existence in her presence, and secretly admired her behind her. “And I won’t publish it yet, just with my circle of friends.” I excused.

“No, I will be the editor.” She was adamant.

“I will have to rewrite it then.” It will need some heavy censoring to make it fit for her tastes.

“No no. Don’t change anything, it’s fine. But do send me a copy. I would like to read it. After all it’s your write up.” Ah, the excitement was mutual.

“Yay!” I thanked her.

That was a relief. I had already written the post for the blog. But since I didn’t want to betray on her promise, I needed her consent to post it. I had tipped my friends about an incoming tragedy, and they were anxious too.

“I think you already wrote it.” She guessed from my excitement.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Send it then.” She demanded. “I like reading your articles, it’s sso much fun.” Her ‘sso’ was so intense, it made my day.

“It needs some censoring.” I warned her. “And you will probably show it to your Papa too.” She had the reputation of keeping no secrets from her dad. I wouldn’t want to sound miserable in front of my ‘in-laws’.

“Hehe… No, not this time.” She promised. “Send the original.”

“Fine, I hope you understand the risk you are taking.” I cautioned her for the final time before I sent her the link to the blog.

Silence.

“All characters and events in this story, even those based on real people and events, are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely intentional.” I sent her the disclaimer to lighten up the mood.

More silence. A very creepy type of silence where you can feel the blood rushing inside your face. The siren in my head got louder. The heavy kind of siren that Hans Zimmer would use in Batman. Images flashed before my eyes, I was digging my own grave.

“Am I in trouble?”

“Umm... But why did you put up his name?” When she finally replied, her only concern was that I put up his name, and not that I blatantly confessed my feelings to her. “Please put some imaginary name.”

“I won’t publish it.” Not more than five souls knew I had a blog.

“But not his name, please.” I melted at her ‘please’. She was indeed scared of the dragon.

“Okay, but it won’t feel genuine anymore.” I whined.

“I didn’t like you abusing him.” She raised her second concern. Summing up, she was concerned I had put up his name, and I had mocked him, and not that I had confessed my feelings.

“It was simply my natural emotion.” I tried to reason. “I could refine it, but that wouldn’t be honest enough.” She just ‘hmm…’ed. She wasn’t convinced for sure. “I wasn’t planning to show it to you, I didn’t even try to sound gentle.”

“Yes…” More full stops. “But, you shouldn’t have made him sound so bad.” Her feelings too were genuine.

“Come on! Why would I take his side?” Wait, I shouldn’t be justifying. “It is obvious I am all jealous on him, and it’s not that I am picturing him bad.”

“I just felt bad reading about him.” For the third time.

“You took it in wrong sense…” RIP Humour. “It’s my frustration, not an insult.”

“Fine.” Her fine didn’t look any fine.

“Sorry.” I accompanied a poker face.

“It’s okay.” She consoled me. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, its’ just…” Full stops. “Hmm…” Full stops. “I just felt bad seeing things you wrote about him.” The dragon didn’t deserve all the affection he was receiving.

“And the article was really good.” I had sent her my heart and ‘the article was good’ was all she had to say. She send a blushing smiley to not dishearten me.

Next day, I woke up feeling only worse. I had let her know my feelings and she was only concerned that I was mean to her dragon. She had genuine feelings for him, and I was only forcing my crush on her. I weighed my chance again. She hadn’t blocked me or turned me down or anything. I was in, and I was out. The only progress I had made was I had officially acknowledged her my crush on her. I took my time to text her an apology.

“Hey. Don’t feel bad about what I wrote there. I didn’t mean to show it to you in the first place. And I did, only because you insisted. It’s just that I am more of a coward, I express myself through my writings. I don’t want to force my feelings on you.”

Just then I noticed that she had updated her Whatsapp status to ‘Hope Survives’. Meanwhile, How to Train your Dragon 2 was released in the cinemas.

“No… It’s okay. I can understand you.” She repeated for the fifth time the part where reading mean stuffs about him made her feel bad. “It’s natural.” She reasoned. “Even though he ignores me, and whatever are my feelings for him, it’s not that easy to get over it.” She justified.

I was more worried about her status by then.

“What’s with ‘Hope Survives’?” I questioned her like a possessive boyfriend.

“Personal reasons.” She teased me with a drooling smiley.

Maybe that’s a good sign, she considered me close enough to tease.

“And why do you die every time?” I had updated my status to ‘Dies again’ after I found out about her dragon. “It’s the time to live.” She send a blushing smiley.

What? I was flying high over the ninth clouds. I changed my Whatsapp status into victory sign. “I will consider that.”

“So be happy!” She tried being this inspiring friend stuff. “You know? God may not always give you what you want, because he knows what’s best for you.”

Okay. I came back to Earth.

And I died again.

Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus

There always have to be some Imthiyas (read villain) in every crush stories to break some poor guy’s heart.  And Hanie is the villain in my story. But there is a good news, he hasn’t confessed his love or anything to her. And a bad news, she did! And a good news again, he just ‘lol’ed at her confession. And a bad news too, his Whatsapp status says “Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus” (You shouldn’t tickle a sleeping dragon). 

After the birthday night conversation with her, and the next three nights of mysterious disappearance of her last seen status in Whatsapp, I was too disturbed to be despair enough to ask her why she turned it off every night.

“Personal reasons.” she had said. She indirectly meant ‘Mind your own business.’ So I did.

But wait, her dad had commented on me! That’s my business. Next day I texted her again.

“How come your Papa knows me?” I sent along her own messages that she had sent to Fidal about me for her reference.

She was caught off the guard for a while.

“He just judged you from your meeting that day.” Meanwhile Fidal started spamming abuses in my inbox.

“But why was he talking about me.” I wasn’t done.

“Personal reasons.” Damn! That was the third time she had ‘personal reasoned’ me off. Can’t she see I’m much interested about her personal life?

“Sorry.” She said.

“For what?” I wasn’t expecting that.

“Simply.”

Fidal kept bugging me to call him. What was the big deal?

“What’s your problem? Let me do some talking.” I was annoyed at Fidal.

“If I tell you, you shouldn’t feel bad about it.” He gave me a preface to prepare me for the trauma that was to follow. I was already starting to feel bad.

“She likes someone. A Hanie, from Kochi. He is working at Bangalore now, in Oracle. He was studying in NIT Calicut, and he came to know about her through Facebook, and they used to chat. She has a crush on him but he kind of ignores her.” I was in a trance. I barely registered him as he went on about their story. Hanie had once called her out for a coffee, and she rejected the offer, but she told her parents about it. That was some 2 years ago when he was at Calicut, and then he moved to Bangalore, and disappeared for a while. He appeared back again a year later, and since then, they used to have casual texting. And now that I was signalling her my intentions, she wanted to play it safe, and decided to finally let me know about her ‘personal reason’. That explained her ‘sorry’.

“This holy love and stuffs doesn’t work out in this generation.” He blamed me for procrastinating any move at her, as he hung up the call.

God, not fair! It felt like I was caught in a storm of desperation, as if some huge weight had fallen on my head. I was mad at God, and women, and undeserving men, all at the same time! I was convinced for the first time I truly had feelings for her.

But I didn’t want to sound all ‘Devdas’.

“Fidal just called me. My turn to apologize, I am sorry.” I texted her.

“What did he tell you?”

“About the ‘personal matter’.”

“Please keep it a secret.”

“You shouldn’t trust a writer.”

“If things were all good, I wouldn’t mind, but he just considers me as a friend. So please keep it a secret.” She tried to reason. Oh please! There is a guy here who would treat you lot more than a mere friend, what are you going to do about him?

“I was kidding.” No, I wasn’t. I am actually breaking her promise writing this.

“He doesn’t know about it. He is this conservative and serious type, and he respects his privacy much.”

“Fine.”

“Let his name not come up again, please.” She wasn’t convinced.

“Okay!!!”

“You don’t know him right, do you? I mean, through any mutual friends?” She asked while I was about to stalk him on Facebook.

“Calm down, I didn’t check yet.”

“Oh… Please, don’t check, I just asked.” But she was too late.

Hanie Salim. There was this skinny guy with his wavy hair posing with his weird sunglasses in front of some monument. What a douche! And the other pic had him showing off with his bike, probably he had bought himself. Oracle must be paying him enough. He occasionally posted politically tainted jokes. And this app had certified him his IQ level was 150. It said ‘Your emotional intelligence level is: Exceptionally gifted. People are drawn to you and your charisma is highly enchanting.’ Bullshit! I tested the app myself. ‘Your emotional intelligence score is between 100 and 110. You have an impressive balance of an analytical and emotional mind.’ That’s a buggy nonsense app! He had all the random likes from Bollywood to unknown music bands, from Religion to bike stunts, and his comments were all polite enough, can’t deduct marks there. He had 34 followers, and she had liked his photos.

“I just did.” I replied. “And no, I don’t know him.”

She was relieved.

“It’s just that I am afraid of him.” Come on! No one forced you to like that scary scallywag.

“Why afraid of him? He doesn’t look like a serious conservative type.”

“I don’t know. What do you think about him?” Good question. Well, I think he is a total looser, a waste of flesh, and a burden on earth. Wait.

“I may sound too biased.” I controlled my temptation.

“I just know that he values his privacy more than anything. And go on, you can say anything.”

“No, I shouldn’t judge.” I pretended to be a good boy.

“Come on, its fine.”

“A player.” ‘Speak no evil monkey’ made his appearance.

“A player? I didn’t understand.” She was confused. Well, a player is one who plays with people’s feelings.

“That’s all you need to know then.” I tried to dismiss her.

“No! Please tell, not like we are in any relationship, he is just my crush. I won’t tell anyone.” She insisted. As if I was scared of him. He should be the one scared of me!

“Is he ignoring you?” Fidal had tipped me on that.

“I felt so, he says he is always busy. You didn’t tell me what you meant by ‘player’.” She wouldn’t let it pass.

“Player is like flirt, no hard feelings.” I had to explain.

“Hehe.” To my relief, she laughed. “Even I think so.”

“Now, tell me why your Papa was talking about me?” 

“I don’t keep secrets from Papa. When I showed him the article you wrote, he was quite angry at first, but when later, he met you, he said ‘he seems a good guy’.” Well, thanks papa!

“And how’s your Umma, is she strict?”

“More childish than me! She gets tensed easily. She is so worried about me. But Papa is very free, though strict.” How can he be both together at the same time? “But he supports me all the time. I am Papa’s girl.” She blushed.

I sent her the blog post I had written, the ‘Aftermath’ of ‘Thattathin Marayathu’ where I had judged precisely the incidents that had happened at her home after she showed them my article. I had to censor certain parts of it since it was certain she was going to show it to her dad. “See, I was close.” I bragged.

She was surprised.

“The marriage thing, even today I asked my dad to get me married soon.” I had mentioned a similar conversation to have happened at her home when they read my article.

“Why?”

“Because I like this person, and I don’t trust him. I lost my hope. Even after confessing it to him, he took it as a joke. Neither did he say no. He is playing with my feelings. Like you said, a good player.”

“So you want to force your marriage on him?” I was starting to realize I will never understand her.

“Not him! Whomever my dad finds for me.” Light bulb! I know my way around with dads.

“But why? To revenge him?”

“Nah, I am just worried. I don’t want to fall for relationships, but marriage.” And as quite anticipated, she said the obvious, “It’s all haraam!”

Next day, it took me three Islamic reference sites to argue back that love is a natural feeling, that it could happen outside human consciousness, that it is not a sin. Finally she agreed up on the point that, it’s how we act that counts, not what we feel. I was putting up all these efforts to pave me my way to her, but it was also possible that I was simply digging my own grave, encouraging her to ‘sin’ more.

“Love is a cobweb.” She had a lecture from her parents. “And my Umma agrees with your comment about Hanie ka.” I liked the Umma agreeing part and unliked the ‘ka’ after Hanie. “My dad wouldn’t want to send me far away from him, I don’t think he will let me marry a Cochin guy.”

I did a quick math, it takes three and half hours from Kasargod to Calicut, and eight and half hours to Ernakulam, that is, five long hours from Calicut. I had the geographical advantage.

“The mistake he did was to call me out for a coffee.” She went on about him. “But, there is hope. Our common friend, Emil ka is my mom’s best friend’s son. He may help.” Villain number 2: Emil.

“Are you still obsessed with him?” I was getting annoyed.

“I like him! How can I forgot him all of a sudden?” In a way, I was just another Farhana obsessed with a Hanie who wouldn’t see through me. “It’s just a crush.” She kept convincing herself.

“What happened after the coffee incident?”

“I didn’t go, but I told my parents, and they named him ‘coffee mon’.” That's a cool family. “They just cautioned me that my decisions may get me into troubles.” She continued. “So I gave Papa two options, to get me married soon, or that I will wait, but I’ll decide my groom. And he went for the latter option.” She was hopelessly excited about the idea of marriage.

“Papa says I am saying all these out of my childishness.” Glad her Papa realises that. “Am I boring you, I talk a lot.” Oh, I have long waited for you to start talking!

“Continue the story!” 

“After the coffee incident, I had a very bad impression about him. Dad was cool about it, so he left the case. But we used to have casual chats, and then he left Calicut. He got too busy after that.”

This is where Emil makes his villain appearance. “That’s when Emilka told me about Hanieka, that he is a very good person, and about his character, his family, his studies, and stuff.” It was Emil who corrupted her innocent mind. “After that, I got that feeling… Maybe it was the way he talked.”

“Wait! How did he talk?” What evil had he done?

“He was very nice, respectful, and serious. He used to ask me about my college and all, he was so caring. He advised me on dealing with new friends.” What an imp! I bet he and Emil were working as a team. If I was to play Farcry right then, I knew exactly what I will name my opponents.

“Did you tell him you like him?” That must have been the only thing I wanted to know then.

“Yeah, I accidently forwarded a message I was typing to Fidalka.” Wow, that has to be recent, Fidal had only started texting her few weeks ago. See what you have done Fidal!

“What did he reply?” 

“He said ‘Lol! Feelings should be expressed’.” What? Was he for real? “We didn’t talk anything about it after that. He talked about grilled chicken he had made. That’s all.” Grilled chicken definitely was a cool thing to talk about after a love confession! Maybe I was being too mean to him.

Phew!

“But do you know what he might have meant?” She asked me.

“I am no expert in this, but maybe he is still on to you.” I replied honestly. She had tickled the sleeping dragon. And the dragon was enjoying the tickling.

Next day, her status message turned into a rose flower. And mine into “Dead.”

Whatsapped!

June 16

12.00 AM

It was her birthday and I was in a dilemma if I should go wish her right then and make me look quite desperate, or wait and pretend I couldn’t care less.  But I haven’t seen her online in Facebook since a while. I was convincing myself there was no use rushing up. That’s when my Whatsapp buzzed.

“Did you wish her?” It was Fidal. Someone was really interested in my crush tales.

“Is she online?” For some reasons I couldn’t see her profile picture or last seen status on Whatsapp. What if she had blocked me, foreseeing the trouble I could produce? But hey! I didn’t even bothered her with a “hi” till now! To add to the pain, Fidal send me a screenshot to prove that he could see her profile picture. I rechecked her number. Not fair!

“Dude, I wished her.” Fidal teased.

“Is she online?”

“Yeah, wish her through SMS.” He encouraged me, but that would still be desperate.

“What’s she doing late night, ask her to go and sleep.” I was furious convinced that she had blocked me.

“Remember that post, somewhere someone is flirting with my future wife?” He reminded me of the meme where this troll face was laughing over this painful thought.

“:’(“

The crying smiley in Whatsapp is a bit exaggerated, but I was wounded nonetheless.

“Dude, it’s her birthday! Maybe that’s why she is online.” He consoled me.

I checked my blocked contacts list. It was empty except for this guy who kept on adding me to his annoying group every time I leave. I have been nice to people. God, I didn’t deserve this! That’s when I saw the privacy settings in Whatsapp. One could opt to show the profile only to the people in the contact list, or choose to completely turn it off. That must be it! I was relieved.

“Man, I think it’s just that she doesn’t have my contact. She would never block me!” I conceited.

“May your faith protect you!” He mocked. “Man, give it a shot.”

“Patience! Maybe tomorrow.” I still didn’t want to look desperate in front of her.

“Dude, you are hopeless.” He sighed (in my imagination). “This is the moment! Wish her before she sleeps.” He insisted.

“Okay!” I took a deep breathe.

“Good luck” He wished me with the smiley with stuck out tongue and a popped up eye.

12.50 AM

“Happy B’day! :D” I texted her. Time slowed, pressure raised.

“Dude she hasn’t replied yet.” I needed moral support from Fidal.

“She will. Probably a ‘Thanks bro’ ”. He reminded me of the worst case scenario.

I locked the screen, closed my eyes, and waited impatiently for the notification buzz. After a horrendously long wait, the screen lit up.

12.51 AM

“Thnk u…” She had replied with a blushing face smiley. “Paradon.. whu r u?” Again the blushing smiley. Her spellings were horrible. I was too excited to concentrate that I read her message ‘whr r u?’ Maybe she was too worried that I hadn’t decided on any firm for internship till the semester end. But I had to show my achievement to Fidal.

“Dude! It’s a goal!” I spammed him along with a screenshot.

He just sent back three ‘speak no evil’ monkey smileys.

“What are you waiting for? Go sleep man!” Now that I was through, I needed him no longer.

“Trivandrum. Regional Palnning Office.” I texted her. Excitement affected my texting too.

“Sorry, I didn’t get you.”

“Oh oops! Planning.” I corrected. “Wait! What?” What did she not understand?  I read the conversation again. Oh shit!

“Is this Muqthar ka?” I liked the sound of ‘ka’ at the end. I secretly wished that she would call me “ikka”. Meanwhile Fidal texted me that she had asked him whose number this was.

“Perfect.” I sent her a poker face. As I was typing that this was my Kerala number, she made another guess.

“Or Sruthi chechi?”

“This is my home number.”

“Still confused…” She was already sweating from what smileys conveyed.

“I thought you asked me ‘where are you’… It’s Muqthar here.” It was my turn at sweating smiley.

“Got it, sorry.” grinning smiley and laughing smiley followed.

“Fidal told me.” I accidently slipped out the information that Fidal was working as my agent.

“Sorry that I had to ask him, I was confused.” She apologized. (And later Fidal texted me that she had chided him for selling her away.)

“So, how’s your internship going” she changed the subject.

“Not bad, I will be helping in a master plan preparation.” I didn’t tell her I will be playing with ward wise population census figures in MS Excel and conjuring enigmatic bar graphs and pie charts.

“What about yours?” I had to pretend I was concerned. She had asked my advice on deciding firms to do her internship, though she considered none of my suggestions. “I don’t want to be away from home”, she had said, to the point that she discarded the one I had suggested for it was 20 minutes away from her home, and she instead went for the one 10 minutes close to her home.

“Mine is boring!” Well, what was she thinking when she choose Planning for her career?

“What kind of work?” I asked.

“Taking photostat…”

Buhaha! I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. What a perfect way to spend your holidays! This is what happens when you don’t listen to your elders’ advices.

“Who’s that baby in your DP? Cute baby!” She deviated the topic again. One advantage of uploading your baby niece’s photo for your profile picture is that you get much attention from your opposite sex.

“My niece.”

“Oh, I didn't know your sister was married” We were already discussing family. That was quick, but hey! I had already wasted two years on nothing.

“The eldest one is.”

“I thought you only had one sister.”

“How come you know ‘one’ of my sisters?”

“I have seen her commenting on your Facebook photos.” See. I wasn’t the only one stalking around.

The conversation went on about my family members and what they were doing, until she exclaimed “Omg! Big family.” Yeah, we needed a Whatsapp group to stay in touch. Since I had already met her family, it saved me some formality. Meanwhile I updated Fidal with the progress I had made. He warned me to play it slow, while taking the credit for it. I neglected his advice. He should be sleeping, it was 1.30 AM already! Wait! Why wasn’t ‘she’ asleep?  

“When do you sleep?” I asked her suspiciously.

“I usually sleep by 10. I woke up due to calls today.” She reasoned. Good girl, I told myself. (Later I checked the facts stalking her profile every night. She was last seen at 10.47 PM next day, but the following three days, she had turned off her last seen status at night and turned it on back by morning. Now, that is fishy. Very fishy!)

We bitched about faculties. She gave me tips on how to flatter them, how to smile at them like retard and act innocent, to get on their good side, as if I didn’t know. But recently, things haven’t been so smooth for me, for obvious reasons. But she was one of the class topper, what could she possibly hold against faculties? No matter how good you score, you still have to complain about them.

That is when my stomach betrayed me. My tummy and my mouth weren’t on good terms since few days. By the time I had settled them down and returned, she had went offline, leaving a ‘Gud nyt’ behind. I would like to reason that she got disheartened by my long silence.

It was 2.13 AM.

“Muqthareeee!” Fidal had some news for me.

“Dude, she slept!” I sighed.

“What did you expect?" Hmm... That she would keep me awake till Brazil's match begun. "Between, we were talking about you!”

It seemed he was teasing her with my name and he asked her why she wasn’t friendly with much guys including me. ‘Some guys are vicious by thoughts. But not Muqtharka. I know he is good, even my Papa told me. It’s you guys who are spoiling him.’ She had replied. He showed me the screenshots of their conversation. So, they have been talking about me at her home.

If I wasn’t staying at this paying guest sharing my room with a stranger, I would have danced around like a mad man and brought down the house. Now that I had a ‘good guy’ certificate from her dad, I was half way through.

But the biggest hurdle was still on. I had to win ‘he isn’t that good after all’ certificate from her. Man! Why didn’t her birthday happen earlier?

Retrospection

Psychologists say an average crush won’t sustain for more than 4 months. And it’s been two years I’m hopelessly on a ‘crush’ over her. Another study say that it take men 8.2 seconds to fall in love, while women need 14 days for the same. I kept true to my manly trait, but she already took 700 days off the calendars and she is still counting. It’s ironic when crush could also mean ‘to press or squeeze something so hard that it breaks or loses its shape’. This Facebook app thinks I’m good at logical thinking. And here, I can figure no logic, no reasons to be helplessly intimidated by her.

Looking back, I was this excited kid after the fresher year, eager to meet the new fresher batch, and I see this girl, I did the feasibility studies, she ticked all columns for me. She was pretty and nice, from my state, and of my culture. So I simply decided she will be the one for me. I must have been carried away by all those romantic movies. My excitement was too loud that my jobless friends found entertainment in me, and they messed things up beautifully for me, forcing her to write me love letter, and to blow up balloons for my birthday and to call me to wish me a speedy recovery when I was sick and bedridden at home. That’s when I realised I had exhausted all my courage and damaged the stability of my mind, that I couldn’t face her anymore. Instead I vainly stalked her Facebook profile hopelessly to find something interesting than the flowers and skies in her cover pic album. I envied the guys who could talk to her and not go all numb. I got high when my friends reported she mentioned my name among her favourite seniors, and went depressed when I was soon dropped out of the list. She must have smelled trouble, she had her friend to hint me that she wasn’t interested in whatever I was up to.

Maturity hits me in sine waves. I would be a total retard someday, and next day I would be embarrassed looking back at my dumbness. In one of those waves, I had a retrospection and I told myself my crush was ridiculous. She is smart and I am this socially dumb guy. She is a topper and I barely survive semesters. She is a godly woman and I am a skeptic. But you see, opposite energies attract, pure physics. I reminded myself that it’s too much trouble convincing families, that there is too much responsibilities on me that I needed to focus on. And then I see her in the corridor, grinning wide, her thin lips giving away to reveal her gums, and I get a heart ache. Two walls apart, she grows prettier every day and I ask myself why would I want to miss this beauty in my life. And then she haunted me in my dream. And next morning, I was back to the retard I was. She disturbed my dreams half a dozen more times since then.

I foolishly get excited for the times I had caught her stealing stares at me, while passing her, or for the smirk on her friends’ face when I am around. I was floating over clouds when I came to know about this senior guy who had proposed her, and she didn't just turn him down, but stopped talking to him at all. She was no player, but mine! She forces this smile on her face every time I confront her, and I wish I could read her mind. She dresses more beautiful every day and I feel like I am a bee being drawn to a flower’s beauty. (Talking about the flower and bee, Binil and I had a discussion that when a flower attracts a bee with its beauty, isn’t the flower actually cheating on the male plant? Nature itself is crooked by its ways!) I childishly wish that she is showing me signs, but I am too scared to make a move. (Background Music: Dil to bachcha hai ji) Just her presence around makes me content, and when she leaves, there is this frustration inside, at my helplessness.

But Paulo Coelho says “When a person really desires something, all the universe conspires to help that person to realize his dream.” And here I am mad at universe for not visibly conspiring to help me from the hopeless position I am in.  

Storm is coming!

I am usually not among the kind who backbite their teachers. But recently, my faculties have been too vexing, I was losing my cool. After all the efforts I had put on to my studio sheets for the internal jury of sixth semester, first, they didn't let me explain the sheets, instead picked random students for the job, and then, when they failed to answer their questions, they simply wrote me down as inefficient.  

I was working on the studio report too, and they had given me a tight deadline. And when I finally managed to gather up works of all students and pull it up in a proper shape in to the report, I had already closed my deadline by a day. When I approached the available faculty with the report, he asked me to mail it to him. 

"Muqthar Ahmed <caamcorp@gmail.com>

May 17 (1 day ago)

to maqbool, aparna, raktimray

Kindly see the attachments.

2 Attachments

 Image

Cover.jpg

PDF

Studio Report 3rd Year planning.pdf"

"Raktim Ray

May 17 (1 day ago)

to me, aparna, maqbool

Dear Muqthar,

Its extreme pleasure for me that you made a serious effort to send the report to me through mail. Its better I suggest to give your (the entire class) jury through mail or some virtual media. So I believe there is no point to call jury members from various parts of India by spending government money. I am requesting the exam section as well as Sudhakar to cancel all the bookings for the jury members. Good luck to your overenthusiastic and benevolent effort. Have some fun in the weekend and coming days bearing the scorching heat of Vijayawada."

What a satire! I was no less good at it.

"Muqthar Ahmed <caamcorp@gmail.com>

1:32 PM (7 hours ago)

to Raktim, aparna, maqbool

Respected Sir,

I am honoured.

What would I have not done to submit to you the report physically! After giving us an insensible deadline of Friday, that's when the class had finally done its sheets, we needed time to sit and compile the whole thing into report, and after a sleepless night, when the report was ready, it was already Saturday and you were nowhere available.  So when I went to Maqbool sir with the report for his feedback, he asked me to make few corrections and 'MAIL' him the report. And when I asked him if he needed a hard copy, he said "NOT NECESSARY".

"Over-enthusiasm" made me forward the report to all my Studio coordinators, expecting their comments to improve upon, before the report will be finalised. But I was wrong to hope that there must have been professional communication between my studio coordinators.

Thanking you for the wishes."

Rohit warned me I had went over board. 

"Raktim Ray

1:49 PM (7 hours ago)

to me, aparna, maqbool

Oh really insensible deadline. Wat if u don't attend the jury physically. I guess u'll really appreciate that. Yes professionalism is a thing to learn from someone who has missed all the deadlines and has 40% attendance in a theory subject. It was very clear from the beginning that I'll not be available during weekends. And this is not our holy and pious duty to make us available all the time as per your convenience."

Oh please, where's your humour now?

"maqbool@spav.ac.in

2:12 PM (7 hours ago)

to me, Raktim, aparna

Muqthar,

The date of submission of report was conveyed long back and it was as a class your are at fault, you may need another semester time to complete the report work. As a coordinator, i reviewed your report at eleventh hour and suggested my comments.

My intention of submission of hard copy "NOT NECESSARY" was however you are going to submit your final report to jury on Monday and I thought it doesn't require right know to spend money for taking prints again at a draft stage thats it.

Secondly you are not professional and competent enough to decide and talk about us which is very bad to hear this thing from you even after considering attendance and overall performance in your studio.I think it was our mistake to show more concern towards you.

Never expected this atleast from you.

Regards,

Maqbool"

Or maybe... I crossed my limits.

"aparna

2:21 PM (6 hours ago)

to me, Raktim, maqbool

Dear Muqtaar,

As your studio coordinator and your teacher, who has been giving her energy and time, just to ensure that you know nothing less than what a student should know at your stage, I advice you to learn the art of remaining polite, in all odds.

The deadline was not impossible at all. Nobody would ever know it better than your studio coordinators.

Professionalism clearly talks about following deadlines. Your batch, which very much includes you, has never been able to keep to the deadlines. Does that sound professional, to bunk classes and studio hours for sports events, INYAN and other co-curricular activities? Still your coordinators have patiently managed all the internal reviews, just to help your batch not depend on a the internal final jury, for complete 100 marks.

But definitely this teaches me , Raktim and Maqbul that we should not think about students' ease but rather be professional with teaching hours, jury marks, studio deadlines and most of all attendance.

The message shall reach all.

Probably the equation of respecting each other has been distorted by you. I do not consider you as one student. For me you are a part of your batch. Thus the message should go to all your classmates.

Aparna."

Dang! What trouble had I got myself in to.

I sent them an apology right then, explaining how I meant them to take it with the same humour, and that I meant no disgrace, and how it was my fault, and not my batch's. But the damage was done.  When I showed my friends the conversation, some where frank enough to blame me on my face. Some took the opportunity to conspire against me from my behind, while the rest were enjoying the show, they encouraged me.

Next day, at the college, I went to them personally to apologize.

"It's okay, I am busy, You may leave." The satirist gave up on me.

"Don't ruin my mood yaar, just leave!" Ma'am had already declared a war on our batch.

I was restless whole day, so I went back to them the next day.

"Sir, I didn't mean to disrespect anyone, I just replied him at the same humour." I explained to Maqbool sir.

"I already left the matter, man. It's okay". He was the coolest among the three.

One down, two to go.

"Ma'am, I am sorry!" The faculties were all busy on their computers at the lab. Only Aparna ma'am was cool enough to acknowledge my presence.

"Don't feel bad about it 'beta', we all make our mistakes, it's just that it took us some time to realize our mistake. Enjoy your holidays." That was very deep. They had  concluded being friendly with us, the students, was their mistake. I heard Raktim sir coughing at her behind me when I left.

I can almost foresee a tough semester ahead for me.

Sa-adiya Product

“Why don’t you talk to us?”

It’s a question I have faced one too many times from counterpart gender of my own species.

Because I am a Sa-adiya product… I want to tell them. But then, it would be a long story.

When I joined Sa-adiya, a conservative Islamic institution, for my 2^nd standard back in 2001, after doing kindergarten and 1^st standard at MIC, I had a reputation to keep up. I was a class topper and easily, every teacher’s pet. I was enjoying much attention from fellow classmates, and for kids aged 5 to 6, the class topper meant national hero to them.

To build up the reputation here in Sa-adiya from scratch seemed a tough call. Suddenly I was facing pathetic nerds, who would make drama out of every mark they lose. When the first exam results came out, to my surprise, I was among the toppers in the class, second by a huge margin to a nerdy girl, and for a moment I thought my reign was over, but soon I found myself as the saviour of male population in the class. They have been long waiting for a hero to end the female domination in the class. But with great powers came great responsibilities. Class leader posts, spoken English leader and stuffs followed me.

I would like to picture myself to have been popular with girls back then. Other day, Kollambadi Usthad (Moral Education teacher) assigned me the responsibility to check if girls wore scarf properly, or I was supposed to report them. And on the second day, I reported against this class topper. Her brother came looking for me later, and kind of threatened me, and I reported that too, to get on their bad side. My stalking skills were evolving back then. When the third topper challenged me to find her phone number (land line, obviously), I was blocking her in school veranda, next day, with my gang of friends, and taunting her with her phone number, like in an Allu Arjun movie.

Kids were growing too fast. When we were in 4^th standard, the class was in “Eww… girls!” - “Eww… boys!” relationship. Thanks to the Moral education department, they had managed to convince us that the opposite sex were the filthiest creatures to ever happen on the planet. And in 5^th standard, there was this dreamer guy who was caught for writing love letter to this topper girl, and all of a sudden, he was a shame for whole mankind. People looked at him with utmost contempt. Love was the evil most sin you could imagine in Sa-adiya.

6^th standard was a major landmark. Girls were shifted to a different section in a different building block on the other side of the compound.  We were like India and Pakistan now. Now that they were gone, I regained my topper position. In 7th standard, class teacher fell for my charms and I was assigned as the Spoken English leader. I had to collect Rs.2 from students failing to speak English. Naturally, my pocket got bigger day by day, and I found myself getting addicted to sip ups, and cool drinks. That was my first take at handling public money. I will never recommend my name for any treasurer post.

Then came the pubescence, the kids were as nasty as they could get, biology was suddenly the most interesting subject, and biology miss, the most suffered teacher. They were being starved off the female company and the barrier only made the things worse. The kids with hyper hormone glands could not take it longer, and they comforted themselves with the little opportunities they could manage, ogling at the bus stops, flaunting their hair styles, and exhibiting their bike skills and stuffs. Mobile phones were getting popular. Insomniacs were raising out in the darkness with telephone networks promoting unlimited night calls.

Meanwhile a new class of species was evolving. The one with pathetically low count of teenage hormones, the victims of Moral Education, who found womankind too sophisticated that they instead preferred computers. They were contained with the little world they knew of games and movies. Fun to them meant Die Hard movies and their plots to take over the world with their computer knowledge. All they did, though, was to set and lock monochromatic wallpapers with evil quotes, in the school computer lab. And they would be crying with joy when they would find out next week that the lab attendant had to format the computer to change the wallpaper. They hired classic dialogues from movies, and made it their preamble. They had adventure smuggling game CD’s and escaping surprise raids. And I, unfortunately, was one among them.

By the time I got out of Sa-adiya, I could no more face a girl without my blood pressure going all high. I couldn’t talk to a girl without my mouth going all dry. My eyes would focus over anything and everything but the girl I am talking to. 

I was another perfect product of Sa-adiya. 

Aftermath

Prologue

Aromal wanted me to write a story for SPAV-Corridor.com and I knew exactly what I was gonna put up. So I wrote this story and titled it "Thattathin Marayathu". The post was a hit, but the excitement was short lived.

                                                                                   ***

Bob Marley was right!

I always worried that at some point in my life, I would look back, and regret at the things I could have done, but I never did. That’s why I finally gathered all my guts to let her know. I wrote my story, of how I met her, and named it ‘Thattathin Marayathu’ for the college’s online magazine. The editor was worried that I went overboard with privacy invasion. I had mentioned her name, her place, her dad’s occupation, even shape of her face, her dress colours and what not. He asked me to get her consent before publishing it. Now that was some hurdle.

Later when she was online in Facebook, I texted her

“I wrote an article for SPAV corridor which mentions your name couple of times along with few others, no harm meant, hope you don’t mind :P”

In my years of experience, I haven’t come up with a more powerful smiley than the tongue smiley. It had the ability to deal with the most tensed conversations light heartedly. A moment later, she replied.

“Which article?”

Silence. I applied Less is More concept.

“Ya…” She continued. I figured it later, she has a thing for full stops.

“It’s ok. :)"

There was a smiley! That was some achievement.

“It’s about fresh meat syndrome.” Later that night, I hinted her the matter in its most complicated term. I took my time to reply her, to show her I was least excited.

I couldn’t wait to tell the editor that I had my consent. Later that night, the post was published under the pen name ‘The Optimist’. And soon, likes and comments started flowing in. All of as a sudden, everyone was curious to see how much optimism the world had left. Next day, I came online to check on the developments. The post was nowhere to be seen. It was gone! And instead, the page said-

This article was accused of breaching the privacy of certain someone. So currently it has been put on hold. If any breakthrough happens, it will become available again.

Come on! Didn’t we have a discussion on this before? I had a message from the certain someone in my inbox.

“What’s with this article now?”

“Why not? I told you!”

“Ya… But you only said that you mentions my name couple of times… I don’t like anyone posting about me like that…” Full stops! Full stops everywhere.

“You didn’t mind showing it to your dad! And then wants the post to be taken down?”

Oops! That sounded desperate. My agent had reported me that she showed the article to her dad, and, fortunately, he was cool about it, and that she went all padre preaching and warning him about the consequences of keeping a grown up girl unmarried. Report even said that she threatened him to find her a groom before more headaches emerged. Was she for real?  

It took her a while to reply. Maybe she was outraged at the realization that there was some tipster inside spying on her.

“Personal reasons. I don’t want it up there… And ya, it’s your article, you can do whatever you want with it... but don’t include my name in it.”

That last full stop felt like a stab on me. She was talking like an untrained politician, with her contradicting statements! I can do whatever I want with my article, and I should not write about her?

I am done with womankind! I pictured Bob Marley with that ‘meme’ish troll face consoling me with ‘I know that feel bro!’ hug.

No Women No Cry!

Broken Kite

Broken Kite

Flightless, in an endless sky,

Broken ties

Left away far behind,

With broken hopes

It dances in the ruthless storm,

Dives in deep falls

Flutters hard back to life.

Broken Kite

Raises, in a hopeless try,

Tears apart

Drowns in a helpless cry,

It slowly dies

Under the starless sky,

Winter arrives

And it fades to white.

Supplication

Give me a reason to fly,

Give me a reason to try,

Tell me where I need to go,

Show me the way back to home.

Give me a sign to carry on,

Give me a hand when I've fallen down,

Give me the answers when I’m lost,

Hold me a light when I’m in doubt.

Sing me to sleep in the scariest nights,

Soothe me in the deepest wounds.

Remind me that I've come so far,

Don’t let me shatter apart.

Be the music of my song,

And let’s dance to the joys and sorrows.

Hold me down to the ground,

Or I’m just a broken kite.

The Rise of Ramayana

Prologue
When Aromal, Editor for college magazine 'Corridor' came asking for a story for the annual edition, I knew what I should write. The Director has been getting on our nerves for a quite a while, and it was time we should deal with him democratically! And I titled it Ramayana Returns.
                                                                 
                                                                             ***

“Do you want me to sit here?” The chief commander wasn't satisfied with the preys he had before him.

It was the big day for the presentation of the literature review, as part of preparation for the studio exercise. The batch was divided into four groups and were asked to review on certain policies and master plans and sanitation plans.

“…Yes…sir” The class replied diffidently.

The first group stepped forward, switched on the projector and displayed up the presentation. The cover page proudly said ‘National Urban Sanitation Policy’ just as it was copied from the ppt on the Slideshare about the same.

“Do you really want me to sit here?” The chief warned. “You see, I was one of the member of the drafting team of this policy. I have went through the document at least 6 times. If you don’t have anything original in your presentation, I may leave.”

Silence.

“Okay, tell me, why sanitation, why not water policy?”

This humble narrator was fortunately the one assigned to give the introduction.

Excellent question! I wanted to say, but I had no clue.

The syllabus said we were doing Master Plan this semester, but the time table said we were doing Urban development Plan, we were convinced we were doing Infrastructure Development Plan, but then faculties called it Sectoral plan. Sanitation might fit in somewhere.

I helplessly looked at my fellow mates hoping someone had an answer.

“Sir, because blah blah percent of Nation’s urban population doesn’t have access to toilets. Sanitation is a major concern for the development.” Someone took up all the blame on herself.

“Show me that in your slides! I am not interested in your cover page!” The chief was impatient.

“It’s coming up in next slides, sir.” I scrolled to the next slide.

The second slide was an exact photocopy of the background statistics provided in the policy document.

“Is this way to present a ppt?” The chief loaded his gun. ”This is just a copy paste. I want your review of the policy!”

Whom were we fooling? We were presenting to him his own policy. One of the junior commanding officer pointed at the slide which said, ‘the projected population of nation’s urban population by 2007 will be X’. I checked the date in my phone. Oh it was 2014 already…

“FIRE!” The chief commanded.

I heard gun fires all around, people were falling martyr’s to the questions after questions. As we were succumbing to our ultimate fate, I heard the chief speaking.

“Do you know what Ram told Ravan after defeating him?”

Silence.

“Do you know, madam?” He taunted the other junior commander.

“I know a little, sir, but I don’t remember the exact words.” She excused. She had a reputation to keep up in front of the sluggish miserable dumb dodos.

“No no.” He interrupted, “Ram said to Ravan: I am not killing you now. Come prepared tomorrow with your weapons, we will fight again.” The chief grinned devilishly at the class.

That was it, everything was finally obvious. He was the Ram, descended from above to wipe off the Ravans. And we were the Ravans. And he was going to spare us alive today, so that he can kill us comfily later. We were in no hurry either, but one thing was certain.

We are to be killed, at the end.

                                                                           ***
Epilogue                                                                         
Ayush came to me a day before the publishing of magazine. "Ayon sir was looking for you." He said. "He is worried if you might get in trouble for whatever article you wrote for magazine!"
Well!