waking up every morning n seeing “1 new message” hoping its from the girl i love..
randomly noticing tht my wireless internet detector has automatically connected to a random neighbors wireless router giving me free access wen i need it the most =)
One Hour
There is no sun that shines here. The only light that comes through is from the tube light that hangs above me, the other one is broken. There are flies everywhere, on the tables, on the walls, inside dishes, on haggard faces and sun burnt hands. Scribbling love letters and smitten with disease.
*Title shamelessly copied from Indra Sinha’s book “Death Of Mr. Love”*
What are you doing?
I’m killing Mr. Love
Who are you?
Im no one in particular. I’m just… no one.
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She smoothens her hair and curses. Some days, her hair just doesn’t get fixed. She sprayed his favorite perfume and dabs some behind her ears, just in case he decides to get a little naughty. She grabs her car keys and some CDs, just in case they decide to drive to the hills again. She then decides to make a move, stopping for just a second to check herself in the full length mirror. She smiles at the thought of seeing him again after almost a month.
Damn, these hair just don’t get smooth! More
I understood a lot of Mahabharata only after I was through reading The Great Indian Novel, it is really a marvelous book by an equally, if not more, sexy writer. But still meeting Shashi Tharoor after having kissed your boyfriend for the first time is not such good thing. It makes you feel as if you have just committed a ‘blunder’ which is only somewhat lesser in intensity than the Iraqi Invasion, but mind you only somewhat. You are merrily shopping after your first kiss feeling all elated and what not. Then you happen to chance upon ‘The Shashi Tharoor’ on the Delivery Counter in some Cottage Emporium and you think, he looks like Shashi Tharoor and before you know it, he comes out to be the man himself. Before the bells ring and the violins strike a chord and you get a chance to brace yourself up. You blurt out, ‘Excuse me, you look like Shashi Tharoor?’ And he is like, ‘Eh, yes!?’ Not a very good beginning, not kosher at all. But who cares. I don’t.
I do. I do love him a lot. But what about his past. I still am More
A spontaneous write in a person’s scrapbook on the site orkut…it all started with the usual yada yadas on what I do with my life, bored with the patented script of answers that documented it, I thought we toddle with the Grimm Brothers’ literature attempts, i.e., if the writer of Rapunzel were the Grimm Brothers…?
I was rapunzel living in a tall locked up tower and waiting for a prince to rescue me by ways of my long tresses. I had a wicked witch as a benefactress, considering my parents were thieves and stole tomatoes from her garden while my mum was expecting me, to nourish me hoping i’d turn out rosy (cheezy). After I was born, the wicked witch (well not so wicked since she did manage to grow me up into a damsel without a single blemish or scar and supplying me amply with skin tonics and creams -it was actually a dream of my other witch mother’s to have a pretty daughter since she fought terribly in her youth with ugliness)…anyway, coming back to the tale, I kinda wonder why she had me all locked up, I suppose she didn’t trust my hormones as soon as I turned 16 and that I’d probably elope with some dim witted pauper. My original tomato stealing parents never put up a lost and found for me or my timid father (I say timid ’cause he caved into my mum’s demands of stealing…rather he have belted her) come fighting through thorny weeds and dragons for his only forlorn daughter. I actually like my wicked mum because she had better plans set for me even before my birth (my original mum had full plans of birthing me incarcerated had my wicked mum have not been such an evil witch). So, I ended up with Prince, though my wicked mum couldn’t endure the loss of me and she tried to kill the handsome, chivalrous prince…only, I was kinda sick of seeing such an ugly old hag each day of my life and she was so overwhelmingly overbearing! I needed a life of fancy shoes and frilly frocks. So, without a second thought and much ado, I pushed my wicked mum out of the tall tower window. I haven’t heard from her since then, but I do know she isn’t dead. She’s a witch remember! And I do believe she had hidden wings.
The end.
-Sheikha
PS: I thought it darn cute 
* This one is For Sumit… The most wonderful boy I hve known… I hope he turns into a most wonderful Man*
Thanks for always being there.
The Stale Smell of Used Socks
The Bedsheet with Countless Holes from Cigarettes
A Shoe Without A Sole
A Playstation
A Heap of Clothes From the Laundry
And in The Midst of All…
The Best Bachelor I’ve EVER Known
What’s it going to be then, eh?
The three of us were sitting in the pub that evening. He came along with his girl friend. She was very pretty and had everything, nice figure and all. He had landed up a cushion job in some place, all very nice with some cool pay-packet and all.
The two of them were very happy. They were sipping on their beers and smoking their cigarettes. I asked, if any one of them knew how to make smoke-rings. They said, no. I always tried making it but then I don’t even know how to take a proper drag. I never told any one that I don’t know how to smoke them ciggies properly. It makes me sound all foolish. I rarely smoke and even less of a drinker I am.
I wasn’t feeling all that okay that night. I loosened up my tie, I was not in the office anymore, I could do that. This corporate dress code is real killer, stuffs me like anything. All those suits and ties-pins and shoes and
(12:93) Go with this shirt of mine and lay it on my father’s face, he will become a seer
My bed is shaking. I open my eyes, my bed sheet is soaked with sweat and nothing is moving. It is said that when you experience trauma, when something bad happens, when a train hits you, it takes time for its after affects to show their face.
It’s been a week since I came back from volunteer work and Farhan has had the same experience.
Late at night, when everything is silent and the streets smell of the dead, our bodies start shaking and it seems that another earthquake is coming and death is sliding through the floors.
CHAPTER1: PING PONG
Mehboob 18 years old under nourished and over shaved comes out of the bathroom. His organ seems dead after the vigorous masturbation it has received. Mehboob undermining his own constant struggle with sleeping pills and mineral water feels nothing and plows ahead getting ready for a day in the rat infested hell hole known only as the university. “Its time to boogie”, Mehboob thinks as he sits in his car and masturbates yet again spurting his white liquid on the dashboard and thinking of women lost and dreams shattered in the black hole of despair.
As Mehboob is 5 minutes away from the place only known as the university some things happened. Now why they happened nobody really knows but they did, changing how Mehboob looked at life and the way he wore his shoes.
I and a friend of mine, Rashid are sitting together in the atrium of LUMS. It is late. We are sitting near the music room.
Someone is raping a guitar and some other idiot is trying to keep some sort of backbeat, which for some unknown reason starts and stops at illogical intervals.
If you listen very closely, people have the most interesting stories. Listen
A girl told one of my friends in college how her ex-boyfriend was a sloppy kisser. She told him he had interesting lips.
Another friend told me how one her friend got strange face allergies whenever she made out with her boyfriend.
You open your eyes and break them.
You make it thirty seconds late and the first drop of liquid skids down your pants.
You don’t move
You want the repugnant smell of perfume to scratch itself off the bed sheet
You think that water makes no sense. It only cleans skin
Your insides stink of nightmares. Your face stinks of stupid ness
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I told him once. We were sitting at on an old green bench. Rain was coming and I told him that he smelt like rain. When rain crashes on the surface and the mud stings your nostrils. He smelt of it. He held my hand and smiled.
I have burnt all our pictures.
It’s his birthday.
In four minutes I am going to kill myself.
He has seen her cycle before his house everyday; she does not know of his existence. Lost in her own, solitary world, with an overflowing reality, there is no place for other people.
He has watched her day after day, month after month, for two years, harbouring no desire, no curiousity, nothing but a detached satisfaction in observing her, tracking her movements, deciphering every expression of her face.
And yet, despite the proximity that constant observation brings, she has not noticed him. Nor is he desperate that she should. For him, now, watching her, silently following her from a distance, these are the things that have turned from idle pastime to obsession.
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