A Day Called 'Sunday'

September 09, 2012 – Sunday, Time: 05:10 P.M.

My home got no clock yet, I am punctual to core. I got no driving license yet, there is a car parked down that belongs to me. I can’t measure distance yet, have walked miles; and I am bored yet I trying to be funny.

What a Sunday?

Silence Please, Men at Work!

Oh, this ain’t a roadside signage that drawn my lecherous self, to sweaty and hard-bodied men under-constructing a road or building, to whom I could serve myself as the turkey that they will feast upon. Rather, it’s the unsaid rule of 36 people who work together but, never talk – AT MY WORKPLACE.

Historically, I know a ‘shy guy’. It was me - a silent geek with grandpa’s spectacles although my childhood; the only among the 50 students whose transformation to a melodramatic, over-the-top, cacophonic (but outspoken) bitch was the talk of the town today. In fact, I was so silent that nobody knows that ‘I was gay’ till, I start speaking so voluminous that nobody could ‘make me straight’ now.

Dude, let’s concentrate on those 36 people rather writing a character certificate for your own self. (Err…) Okay!

So, here’s this 36 people who comes to work every day (in singles and doubles) but never punctual, find a seat for themselves before the computer and remain seated for 8…no 9…err! 10 hours. What’s un-natural about it? All goes to work and seat in their chair and do their work, on/ off computers…! Oh yea, these are different.

In a 1500 sq. ft, where the air-conditioner don’t work when it is summer but, keeps you freezing when it’s raining or cold outside – the 36 people seat in their chairs, next to each, in different cubicles and start working. An hour, another hour, (add) few more hours; they still working...

No looking to LEFT, not to the RIGHT; nothing to scratch, nobody sighs…no phiss-phiss, no khus-phuss! Maintain distance, maintain silence…men are at work. Sometimes, the silence sound so horrible that even a metal pin might feel embarrassed of ‘being dropped’. (“Oops! I made some noise, SORRY!”) The icy-cold conditioned air swept through the room, embalmed each to a corpse laid to rest in their grave-desk. The best of the dedicated peoples, among all the countrymen, that my company has hired. And, the only non-dedicated me who jump around, crackdown the most lewd jokes and breathes so moanfully that could give my neighbor a ‘boner’. (Ouch!)

Look at the bright side, for Heaven sake! They work dedicatedly and concentrate to core. Oh yea! Getting their freelance work done at office expenses; fixing the same errors for n-number for the same program in every similar project and continues for more than 6-months, fixing their dates and lovenotes on Spark (intra-chat message application) and staring to their computer screen without a blink – if that’s what you call working then, indeed I take a bow. Has anybody heard this, “All work and no play make 36 dull men…”

Surprisingly, these 36 people unfix their posterior from the seat and walk out the glass door, turn bright, fun-filled, cantankerous individuals. Ain’t that sounds strange? Sometimes, I feel they are too hideous and too ‘silent’ in their real self. I feel betrayed now coz’ my HR promised me “a energetic and amazing workplace…”

Can you Measure the Distance?

Dear Az,

Since, you love reading me through my write-ups than to chat-in-person, let me now do some talking.

Three-months and you are gone. I am somewhat recycling to ‘what you have met’ (with few exceptions); keeping myself busy at work. In past two months, I have started contributing and collecting accolades again – for my work, for my ideas, for my creative talents; and yes, the political brick-batting. [Suddenly, worms of politics have dirtied my workplace and, I get soaked into it. I hate this but always the best player to the game.]

Anyways, this is not to speak about what going at work. It’s all about YOU and ME – the two most dearest peoples I have loved, and misses.

I haven’t said you many a things, till now. I haven’t spoken about me to you, so hurtfully. Agreed, we did spend years with each other; many a evenings, fought-and-kissed, made to the bed and satisfied; yet…I always remain standing in the dark behind you, watching and waiting.

In the last few months, a strange feeling was overcoming me and I was basking to glory; or about to reach your love till you bought a ticket to highlands. I regaled and left to my mooring with a broken tambourine. I haven’t said you, that last time when you hugged me – the night before you left; I had a gulp hidden inside my throat about to explode, yet I smiled back; only to break down once you are gone. That night, I cursed myself, and complained to Almighty (if there is any) for making me ‘what I am’.

Honestly, I don’t recall the numbers of raindrops that have drenched me one evening, while we were returning on a bike from Gol Gumbaz. I don’t make an effort to visit the places where we have memories of ours. I lived those moments to every nanosecond, I knew your touch, I can feel your breath. But now, they all gone frail and fail to measure the distances…

I ain’t complaining, but I impatiently wait for that little chat window to open with a scribbled word from you. Do you know sometimes, it feels like waiting for the postman, from the yesteryears and then he cycled through without any packet from me? I know, it sounds too dramatic, rather melodramatic to core but, that’s how it feels. And, finally one-day you says something which is nothing much a few monosyllables… (Ah, dear me!) I die a thousand deaths reading those monosyllables.

I ain’t complaining, I do understand – we have lives different from each other. I ain’t trying to bring the poles together; I didn’t wish for ‘something crazy’. I know, I am standing at the dead-end and there’s nothing for me, to continue. In fact, I expect nothing except ‘you’ – the forbidden fruit, which the GOD has denied to me. I ain’t a Eve, I am Adam dahlin’.

But, could you spare few minutes after your friends are gone, the prayers are said, the food is eaten, and the lights are out. Could you spare few minutes for me, and say ‘that you’re fine, you do think about me’. Life might start cycling and, I am hopeful, there will be ‘a day’ when we both meet each other again – till that time, please spare me few minutes of your for MYSELF. 

Happy Birthday, Mom!

To Dear Mom,
First, she made me a baby, then the 'man of the house' and now; doubled as her 'father'. Thanks for everything that you did, and mostly, you was born. Happy b'day! Big Gal.

Searching for the Gothic One...

After an extended and exhaustive orgylicious weekend, when the mind needs no more; I stand bare-backing my camera, and walks miles of Hyderabad for more orgasms. (Ain’t, I confided to being a self-proclaimed maniac. If not, then it’s best of the examples.) Clad in my unwashed, crumpled blue denims that can smeel far away, I strayed around the streets hawkish-ly for the gothic drama to unfold. But fatelorn...

In this part of Andhra Pradesh, Goddess Yellamma – one of the many myriad forms of Kali being celebrated with aplomb. As traditionally, the gold and silvery brass pots craftily painted with rich turmeric and extravagant layers of vermillion shaping the surface, filled with rice mixed with jaggery and fried julienne onion strip are carried to the temple by women, to please the god for gifting rich harvest.

For an atheist like me, this piece of information is not interesting; but, what could set me a** run through the streets are the gothic face-masks that most do. Yellamma, as imagined, is vociferous, dominative kind known for her temper is worshipped by a bundle of screaming cheetahs dressed in their gothic attire but artistically best. But, I am fatelorn and found none as the entire day passed.  

Yet to my surprise, when revisited the camera book, are the glimpses of vibrant colours of festivity filled with holy orb and sunshine. Holyness devoured but I ain’t satiated yet. (Thumbnail images of Bonalu festival are lined below.)

Yearning, Longing (Alone in City)

I ain't a brood yet, there's nothing significant left to live after AZ depart. In fact, what he has left behind are the 'cherished memories' and a life; and continued. We still talk over the phone, although, it costs me damn. But, nothing worth than listening to him. (He is gradually settling down. Good.)

As for me, here's a few lines that wraps it all.

- I -

Hath the blossomed spring, be withered away, from my orchard

For, my dear love, left me to my own.

The butter bed, now longing for a body, to crumble its folds

But, dear sleep - hath kept me awake, all alone.

- II -

Yunhi kuch baatyon ko, bayan karne ki, izzazzat nahi hoti...

Ab, hum tanha kyun hai? yeh, kaise kahe?

Sojourn love.

A Leftover to Survive!

Scrawling the unkempt corners – a shirt, a memento, an empty bottle and the mobile number (that won’t be dialed now) is what's left. My fingers run through each of these, rested on few, and hold – to clean. Then, placed them back to where they were; in dust, of unkempt corners of my household.

Morning is dripping out…but I ain’t moving by a single bite; except of a few cups of tea – sweet and bitter. A silence speaks, a dog bark, and sheathes of breeze fly by my dusty household. I’m still the motionless like the shirt, the memento, the empty bottle and the number (that won’t ring again).

No, I’m not dead. I got leftovers to survive.

A New Beginning, A New Journey, Let’s re-start.

AZ left to face his new destiny; and I am left. In a land that never belongs to me (and would never be) I’m set to re-start, refresh. Four years and maybe a few months to add; I have lived. But destiny thought otherwise and here I am again, trying to re-start.

The journey of from zero to about forty, if I have to rewind, I must confess to have lived the last four years and maybe a few months to myself. The rest has gone – in high and low sails. And, the following might pass in high and low tides again.

Let's walk again.

Welcoming Gloom. A Life Interrupted.

AZ is leaving for a better future. I am happy about it but a faint; yet pricking, pain numbs me. I wish him a good life forever but I wish myself more fervently, to get healed. I know I’ll go alone and love will be lost – but, ain’t I am fated to.

Cooking Myself a Chinese

Let me start as a usualer. And, start shooting the Blame Gun to somebody for all the mishaps. But, first I need to find a suitable one. (Tough job, huh!) Moron! What are you ranting now? Last evening, I put my culinary skills to test and I successfully plated the noodles from China that was not chewy or half-cooked; but, crunchy like fried potato chips. Urrgh! 


Happily, I got no guests and thus, all of it goes to the trash along with the eggs and favourite prawns. Sighs! Excuse me, I ain’t a bad cook but it is the repetitive news flash on a goofy railway budget that dared to go a facelift from its usual economical look; got a ‘didi’ huffing and panting.  The blamehammer is going to fall pretty hard solely on the Tweedledum and Tweedledee. 


NO. I wasn’t bothered about the hike causing a hole in the wallet; rather it’s a deserving move that a government could’ve opted earlier. But, that menopause stricken ‘didi’ howling foul and lunatical that got me distracted. By that time, the oil was mercurial hot and I add the noodles to the pan – all in hurry. The Lunatic Barbie starts rolling before the camera. (Yeah! Yeah!) I know I could’ve saved the noodles but, the baldy-headed, parrot-nosy; about-to-exit Railway Minister basking in the glory of his 60-seconds of famedom started his speech. I clutch to my hot seat and stick to it like glue. So, does the noodles. (Humph!) 


He is the current ‘Joan of Arc’ trying his best to be the national hero; who fall prey to the Moody Cow from Bengal and agrees to take the last walk before he gets beheaded without a trial. Pitiable! Ain’t so? The entire nation will witness his ‘sacrifice’ with anticipation and my hungry heart try to sniff the blood or the noodles that left on the pan undisturbed lest they meet a fate that the minister is about to. 


By now, the noodle starts losing its softness and got a dirty look. Yet, it wasn’t as dirty as the recent telly tube where a 40-plus rich hero attempts to consummate his marriage of convenience with a 30-plus middle-class wife. An ‘invisible lip-lock’ stirred the nation that has written a 1000-page pictorial book on ‘art of love’; centuries ahead. What a farce? 


My ever-maniac soul now brimming with libido restrained my body movement, except of the baiting eyelids...like any other Indian householders and give-in to the gesticulating temptation in secrecy. We are, otherwise, asexual. I could now smell the steam and the about-to-get-burnt noodles on the pan. Wink! There wasn’t anything flashing yet...we flushed through. Huff! 


Oh! By the time, it all finished, I’m left with a plate of Chinese noodle that tastes like fried potato chips; and an open lid trash bin. Grrr!