Shapes

It is believed that the first commercial use of the basic shapes (Triangle, Square, Rectangle, Circle, and Diamond) was made in a village by an old man in his nineties. He invented a lottery game for children in which they had to pay by the pebble (currency was yet to be discovered) and pick upside-down one of the wooden blocks under which these shapes were carved with the help of a sharp knife.

Prizes were sour mulberries that left you with a surprisingly sweet aftertaste. They were freshly plucked from the orchard where children were not allowed.

But discontentment was rampant among the shapes: Rectangle was most unhappy because there was no prize on him. No child ever wanted a Rectangle! What made it worse was the fact that her close cousin Square earned children five mulberries just because he was uniformly-limbed on all four sides. But Square wasn’t overjoyed either. Diamond, who was just a tilted version of him, was worth ten mulberries. Triangle - modestly prized between Square and Diamond - didn’t make much fuss about it. Circle was the luckiest. He was worth twelve ripe mulberries! Everyone wanted a Circle; He had no one to be jealous of.

One day, the old man died, obviously, and the game became extinct. Shapes lost touch.

Centuries later, when internet was common, they were employed across diverse lines of work: Circle was in government service - put majestically in the middle of the white-band of a tricolor flag.

Triangle was famous too: she was well settled in Egypt, and had made a few close friends who stood by her. Square was a hot-spot in London and was enjoying his lifestyle too much. Diamond was doing well, as always, and was expected to go on like that, forever.

Rectangle, though, was still miserable. He never quite found out what he was doing in this world. All he knew was that he was always being exchanged between different places, far from each other, like a parcel.

One day, when he was sitting in the middle of a greasy table inside a small military room, he overheard a telephonic conversation and realized that he was actually a nuclear bomb. Agonized by this sudden realization, he decided it was time. The explosion that erupted that day smashed everything on earth, leaving behind a shapeless cloud of smoke.


P.S. It happens to be my hundredth post. Inspiration for this story comes straight from John Matthew's blog.

Vague

As a child, I always used to wonder about the difference between the time-speeds perceived by the humans and ants (or other non-human creatures.)

Was there any difference at all? Did a grasshopper live a lifetime of happiness love misery success betrayal competition hope enlightenment by the time a human-being finished eating half a cheeseburger? Quite expectedly, I didn’t arrive at a solution in my later years, in spite of performing significantly well at both school and college level. I don’t know exactly when I stopped asking such questions, but they did a fairly good job of keeping my childhood amusing and thoroughly busy.

But lately, I find myself asking the similar set of questions once again: How would it feel like to be in a bus different from the one you are traveling in? How would it feel to live some other life? How is it possible - my disappearance from the world of which I feel to be so integral a part that sometimes a delusion of being the center of the universe possesses me to such an extent that I doubt I can conspire happenings around? And, what if one fine day everybody mutually decided not to wear anything at all? Exactly how many weeks would the embarrassment last?

I would not find these answers, simply because they don’t exist.

God, in spite of his popular image of being perfect and all, did leave some ends lose here and there, either out of haughty ignorance, or for the sake of making the world a little lesser contrived place, to allow scope for vague contemplations by miserable human beings.

But I think I do know something else: I am traveling back in time. I am moving leisurely but with a momentum made unstoppably magnanimous by so many years of compulsory and unwanted learning, that I am hopeful again. May be, just may be I would stumble upon a pivot-point where a small shift would change things forever. But I am not sure I would like that: risking living another life given the scope of my acquaintances with mankind. Time-travel is a risky affair, you know.

Just

Just logged in to post something. The time is: 12:34:56 and the date - 7:8:9. That's all.

Quicky

Hey all ya bloggers, check this out.

This is one great blog that will hook you instantly if you are into short fiction. Lovely short stories.

My favorites: Intelligent & Eva Brown

Signed out!

The tale of a good girl

Chapter 1

Through the shy yellow and pink bars of the see-through scarf that she held in front of her chest, her plump breasts were nothing short of naked; anticipating to be grasped in cuplike hands: two open secrets to be dealt with. But she kept holding the thin chiffon anyway, knowing that even if it was hiding practically nothing, it was doing something much more important than that: It was packaging her fresh bout of audacity in a wrap of coyness.

She was a good girl, after all.

And now she was married, finally. Her husband Edward was employed at a high rank in a famous wine brewery of Sivlersdale. He was un-auditably handsome.

Florence had never expected to get a man like him. She had heard, and for a long time even believed that easy girls don't find good husbands. But wisdom had fallen flat in this case. Luck had sided with her. The whole week before the wedding she kept congratulating herself while talking to Edward’s framed photograph.

She looked forward to a delicious married life.

Chapter 2

What excited Florence most was the prospect of doing anything in the privacy of their bedroom, as well as outside of it, without having to worry about the mildest of objection. And this honeymoon suite was nothing else but a sweet start to that life. She would scale new heights of boldness and confidence with this man - only, if she is a little careful.

Although the touching and the kissing had happened before, but the act was never performed without the fear of a sudden knock on the door. Police was always breaking doors of young couples trying to make love. But this evening, it was going to be different. The 'Do not disturb' sign hanging outside on the golden knob of the door was much more than that: It was their license to have sex and be assertive about it.

That, in a way, was all that she had desired for. Dirty, brazen sex! The sheer prospect of walking down the road, even if in proper clothes, drove her crazy, because the watching eye must know that the woman in focus has slept with a man and been entered.

She had a past. She also considered discussing it with Edward many a times, but a suitable time never arrived. They talked about religion, politics, and when Edward was in a pretty jolly and naughty mood, movies. He never mentioned sex and she never took the lead.

Chapter 3

Florence had always been a conscious girl. Even at the age of six, she found it hard to change her dolls’ clothes in the presence of others. So whenever it was about time, she would rush to a secret place - usually spreading out on a small cement slab behind the water tank on the roof - and undress the babies - not without motherly care - and wonder about the uncharacteristic area between their thighs. It was flat! Nothing like reality.

She actually had to check herself out when she first found the disparity, and she was shocked, even angered at the ignorance of toy-makers. On later occasions, she did that, the checking, but just for the hell of it.

Every new doll that came to the house was an opportunity, and eventually a disappointment. She never talked about it to anybody because she suspected this to be, too, one of those things that you are supposed to learn automatically when one day you are suddenly a grown up. And it would be a hugely absurd thing to ask to such parents who behaved mind-numbingly embarrassed when a love-scene unexpectedly arrived in an otherwise ‘good’ movie without a warning, or even a subtle sign like two flowers being rubbed against each other and didn’t know what the hell to do. The channels were not changed because changing them would have made the un-obvious obvious.

In her fantasies, she saw herself changing cloths and diapers of the real babies, feeding them from her grown-up nipples, buying groceries from a store with a huge glass door opening automatically, cooking at home on rainy days, knitting warm outfits for babies, tidying-up sofas and beds, putting the remote on the glass table for the million'th time, telling kids to be good while she is away, reading stories to them, shouting at an ignorant but handsome man to keep things from where he took them, loving her family like no one ever did, holidaying at sea-facing resorts, getting exhausted, being ready once again after a long long nap.

She wanted to do everything her mother did. Nothing more, nothing less. The sexual aspect of adult life had never crossed her mind; neither as a part of her imagination nor curiosity. Her parents had never kissed each other in front of her.

Chapter 4

All that was to change when one quiet afternoon of late May she accidentally gathered her courage talk to a boy who was returning a Chemistry book at the library counter. He was not very cute, but she liked his name too much.

He was shouting his name loudly for the old librarian woman who had forgotten to bring her hearing aids on that day.

“Joe Mather!” he shouted.

She found him struggling and to help him, she shouted even louder.
"Joe Mather!!!"

She smiled awkwardly. He looked at her, and smiled not so awkwardly. Then they shouted his name in unison and the librarian finally got it right.

Florence was fourteen, then without a boyfriend. Kristine, her tennis partner was thirteen and had already been through two major breakups. Biddy, whom no one in school would call a really sharp girl used to hang out with a guy in the Caufield Bakery after school. They would sit across each other in the bakery and talk. And that was all Florence wanted to do then: sitting across a guy in a bakery and talk.

She had no idea that such a thing like a brief conversation with Joe Mather – that too about the working of Lithium batteries - could change course of her life. She didn’t know then, that a hesitant handshake was going to leave her with something massive and undoable.

Soon, they were good friends. They shared lunches and went for long walks by the river. They held hands all along. But before they advanced further, exams came and went and Florence was forced to stay home. She could step out only if a friend was throwing a big birthday party, or she needed to shop urgently.

Chapter 5

They sat in the back row of Holly Grand. It was showing The Indefinite Break - four shows everyday. They had choosen the second show because it was supposed to be the least crowded timing. Only fifty people had shown up, mostly young couples and scarce old men. When there was still time for the movie to start, Florence explained to him how she had to cajole her mother to let her out. Joe was so amused that he gave her a peck on the cheek. She didn't seem to mind and he adjusted into his seat, slipping his arm behind Florence’s back, letting his fingers touch the skin under the hem of her shirt’s arm.

It was too much Florence thought, but then, the movie started all of a sudden and it was dark everywhere.

The fingers moved again and they slowly slid under her arm. She didn't mean to let a sigh out, but it didn't matter because already, her breasts was coming alive to a nudge from Joe's hand.

Contd...

On hating things and all

Have you ever met some people who can make everything sound like what they want it to sound like? For instance there's this guy in office who can make everything sound like it's full of reason or something. He thinks that behind everything there's science. Or at least history. He kills me. For example one day he comes to me when I am quietly having a little tea while doing something on my computer and tells me that it's a bad habit to drink too much tea. And I swear to God, I am having my first cup of tea since morning. I don't drink too much of tea anyway. But you don't like people giving you such crap especially when you are having your first cup of tea and doing something on a computer. He has to make everything sound like that. He gets a bang out of it.

And then there's this chubby looking girl I know of. I am not calling her fat because I know it kills her every time I call her that. It kills all the fat people if you call them fat anyway. She has this peculiar habit of sounding excited and all at all times. She can sound excited all the time. One moment she will be sad and the next, she will be so excited it will kill you if you know what I mean. For instance if she happens to run into someone who she hasn't seen in years and not even bothered to think about (or even if she has bitched about them all the time) she hugs them tight and all and talks to them like they are the only people who matter and she has been dying to meet them. And when they have finally left, she actually starts bitching about them all over again.

I am not a lover of people I must admit. It's not their fault. Not that I hate people, but just that I kind of find everyone boring. That's why I don't talk too much to too many people. But I can talk to people I like for hours and bore them to hell. But there are very few of them. Some people just kill you simply at the mention of their name. I am too touchy about that stuff. But I don't care a lot.

The only guy that I haven't hated once was my roommate. He never asked me anything. If I came to the room late and he had to wake up and open the door. Or whenever I told him to get ready in five minutes because I wanted to go to a movie and didn't have any company. He will agree to anything. I loved the guy. I liked him more because he kind of made me feel cool or something. That was a terrible thing sometimes but it was good, in a way, mostly. Once I remember my cellphone got stolen and you won't believe it he told me to keep his phone! I know you won't believe me but he did. I kind of pitied him then but I kept his phone anyway. I miss him. He was one in a million. He is in another city now working with a fancy design company. But he was a bore too. Once I beat the shit out of him for being boring and he left the room we shared. He really did. I hated him for that. I also gave him his phone back while he was packing his stuff.

I'll sign off now because have to go to a recording studio for this radio spot I have written. Otherwise I could have written for hours. I don't hate to go to the recordings because sometimes you get to meet some hotshot from Bollywood and they are very approachable. I think there's something about the studios that makes them approachable. I don't care too much. Boy, I hate the dip tea they serve in recording studios. I really do. And after that I have to read some from the book I am reading. It's called The Catcher in the Rye. It's one great book. It really is. I always get a bang out of reading it. But there's a girl in my office who said she wasn't too crazy about it and that she left reading it midway. That almost killed me.

Orbit Swimming Pool

Right now, I am in my hometown and feeling like the Most Bored Person on Earth. If there was an award with that title, I would win it, take it, and go. No speeches.

Wonder where all the energy has disappeared? Of all the professions, I am a freaking copywriter and this kind of behavior is not acceptable in advertising. Thus I am sure someone at a senior position in my office is reading this, he is parallely dialing my extension to say, "You are fired!" And I won't even gather myself up to say a quick - "Whattt?!"

Thank God I am not in office.

Although I have not been Mr. Flamboyant or The Energy Man in my recent past, but I have never been my grandfather either. Now I am him. Surprisingly, and not so surprisingly, nothing seems to be interesting enough. Not my job that I have always dreamed of. Not my blog. Not shopping. Not even movies. And McDonald's? Am I loving it?

No.

So yesterday I decide to add some fun to my dry life. I go to the Orbit Swimming Pool - the only swimming pool in my lacking hometown. (There's only one factory outlet of Reebok which has less stuff than a retail store in a 2-tier city.) At the pool, I am hoping to feel some guilty pleasure by letting clean-water splashes take over my soul, add unfair zing to my life.

Now, the pool is open from 8 to 8. Good enough duration. They play JazzyB all the fucking time. Not too bad either. Water is so unbelievably clear, it's blue. How can something be so perfect in this place?! Gods must be sleeping.

Next to the bigger pool. there's a smaller pool meant for the kids. As soon I am about to get inside the adults pool, I see an exceptionally charming surdy kid walk from the kids pool toward the bigger pool. It panics me. The kid is at a considerable distance from me and I am not either Tom or Jerry to have springs for bones. Thankfully, the kid stops at the edge of the pool - assuring me that he has no further plans.

But then? He looks at the adults in the pool, lowers his knickers and starts peeing right inside the pool. Fun-lovers inside the pool are too busy to notice that thin golden arc falling into the very water they are probably swallowing now and then. See, not all the people are as alert and watchful as me. The kid shakes away the last few divine drops and happily turns back to his clean pool resuming his ball game with the others.

I, quite obviously, too turn back and sit leaning on one of the easy chairs provided for the watchers and watch people from a distance - cleansing themselves pure head to toe.

Tough luck. It's difficult to find things that are fun and also clean. Sleeping is good. It's dry (well, mostly) Anyway, a serious suggestion for public pool visitors: Don't be too watchful. Just do it. And that too :)