The case of the missing Humshakals

This is a case that has robbed Delhi Police of its sleep. It all started with a phone call from Rajya Sabha MP Mahendra Prasad’s Number 4, Tughlaq Road bungalow to report the missing twins. They had been last spotted in his garden, nestled comfortably next to each other. But the next morning they were nowhere to be seen. It was as if they had disappeared into thin air.
 
They were a family of nine and now there were seven. Their happiness now in past tense. “It now raises serious questions about the security of the remaining seven,” said one of the officers on duty. “But we are Delhi Police, we will always be with you, for you, after our tea break.”

The Police has deployed its sharpest investigators to scour the crime scene. Fingerprints were lifted from the garden and the backyard to establish the path that kidnappers might have taken. The footprints, leading up the scene of crime were approximately six inches and seem to be of a person with childlike feet.

The fingerprints and footprints that were lifted from the spot have been sent to the forensics department for examination. CCTV footage from outside the MP’s bungalow and his backyard will also be examined, police said.

The investigating officers have been asked to be on their toes till the forensic report comes out. They have approached Baba Ramdev to achieve this ‘impossible feet’. An officer on condition of anonymity has confessed that they have reached a dead-end since the remaining family members who also happen to be eyewitnesses to the crime are refusing to talk with the investigating team. We now have reasons to suspect their involvement and might subject them to a polygraph test.

It has been learnt from credible sources that the Police conducted a midnight raid in the nearby sabzi mandi based on an anonymous tip-off only to return empty handed. MP Mahendra Prasad is in mourning and was last seen resting under the tree, wiping his tears.

Is it time to RIP blogs?

I’m what they call a veteran blogger. It’s a kinder term for Aunty. I was sacrificed at the altar of Auntydom barely a few months after I’d swirled my toes before jumping headlong into the pool called blogosphere. Four years into blogging and I now realize why the sobriquet of a veteran was thrust on me. Most blogs do not survive beyond a year or two. They flap around, create a lot of splash before they sink to the bottom with exhaustion.

It’s not easy to maintain a blog. Besides having the ability to articulate your thoughts with tolerable vocabulary combined with net savviness, you have to be your own editor, PR and publicity manager. You cannot sit on your high throne and expect readers to land at your doorstep, drawn to your “brilliance”. You have to venture out and seduce them and continue to tantalize them with quality stuff to make sure they do not leave in search for meaner and greener pastures. It’s not like a marriage where once you’ve said I do, you live happily ever after with your can of beer, iPhone and cricket. You have to constantly work out those grey cells, continue reinventing yourself, occasionally shock and challenge the living daylights out of your readers with your unorthodox views and lull them into believing you’re the best thing that ever happened to them.

To cut it short, blogging is a lot of hard work. Add to that the allure of sexy young nymphets like Facebook, Twitter, Reddit, Pinterest, Tumblr and their sundry cousins that promise you instant orgasmic fame without demanding too much of your time, commitment and grammar, it gets even tougher to stay faithful to Srimati Blogeshwari. Little wonder the restless and the impatient are happy to file for divorce, preferring the comfort of friends with benefits.

Like any other medium, blogosphere’s natural selection ensures that only the fittest survive. Like any other relationship, your blog demands your attention and love. You either chicken out or give it your all. It takes a talented, motivated individual to maintain a successful blog.

For most of us, blogging is not just our personal space where we share our thoughts with like-minded people, rant about issues that bother us, or make others laugh with anecdotes from our life. It’s our passion, something that gives meaning to our lives and makes us believe that, in some insignificant way, we are making a difference is someone else’s life. You start from scratch, with no ‘useful’ contacts, relying solely on your talent and dedication, reach out to thousands and hope what you have to say resonates for a while.

Roaring Tiger, Crouching wife.

Love not only comes with terms and conditions, it also has this annoying habit of subjecting us to surprise tests from time to time to check the sincerity of our emotions. Like the time when your man gets to see you the morning after a night of revelry and doesn't flinch when he discovers the woman of his dreams looking like a nightmare and demanding coffee hoarsely for her splitting headache. He convinces himself beauty is skin-deep as she bloats, shrinks, bloats again and creates a stink when she can't fit in her old pair of jeans anymore. On the contrary, to give her company, he sportingly grows a beer belly and insists on wearing his pants low and his belt lower.

Time is a revelation and so is she. Her mood swings make him quake with terror, decoding her brooding silences becomes his life’s biggest challenge. As they unravel each other layer by layer, they experience a myriad of emotions. She remembers everything that he prefers to forget. What's important to him is unimportant to her. Together they learn words like adjustment, compromise and giving each other space.

But that’s what love is all about, isn’t it? Embracing each other’s best and tolerating the rest!

She nags because his tomorrow never comes. Like the time he'd promised to fix the airy gaps in the bathroom windows and took six months to get into a mood that felt right. Her right mood is always complaining of a headache and he complains that everything but him is her priority.

Little wonder, marriage is not meant for the faint-hearted.

It starts off as a gentle purr and before she can adjust the volume levels, he begins to roar. It takes her by surprise. As she tosses on the bed, she tries to decode its hidden subtexts. Is it me or is it him? At first, she tries to dismiss it as a phase that too shall pass. It does but comes back louder and so strong that she crouches in a corner with her pillow for comfort.

Oh my god, my husband is a tiger in bed!

The Vigil- Stories of love, prejudice, greed and life

This review by Trisha Ray is a part of Readers Cosmos Book Review Programme. You can follow them on Twitter for interesting book updates and free books.

A book of short stories is often a difficult feat to pull off. The reader usually comes away with lasting impressions (if any) of only a few of the numerous tales in a compilation. However, Gita V Reddy has written some really brilliant and memorable stories. We get glimpses into the lives of vibrant, fleshed-out characters, animated by desires and motives that we all can understand.

The author explores the many facets of life- choices and consequences, heartbreak, longing, chaos, doubt, friendships and family. Some stories will leave you smiling; others may even elicit an “Amen”.

Many of her stories have a strong feminist theme, but for the most part each one is distinct.

Four friends from Art school - Amit, Smriti, Yashwant and Shree, having achieved varying levels of success, meet one weekend to determine whose skill is the most “superior”. They all come away from the experience, irreversibly changed. The story unexpectedly turns into a philosophical musing on the purpose of life and what drives creative endeavours. The premise is brilliant, but fails to leave a lasting impression, being limited by the format of a short story.

The wife of a famous actor finds herself in a precarious position as she struggles with her husband’s deteriorating mental state. Devika dives into an intricate game of chess with her husband, as she tries desperately to keep his sanity intact. The twist ending is a slightly clichéd but still heart-warming testament to selfless love.

Sita calls out desperately to her mother, as she loses her children to the man she had once loved. We get a new perspective on the epic Ramayana, detailing the series of events that took place after the triumphant return from Lanka that culminated in Sita’s death. Sita bemoans the loss of her Ram, a man capable of great love and generosity to Rama Chandra, the dutiful king, who prioritises his subjects over all else. She finds that nothing can ever be the same as it was in the happy early days of the exile. This theme is without doubt very fashionable now, but discussions of strong female characters destroyed by “honour” and bigotry are needed in modern discourse.

An Open letter from Rahul Gandhi to a nation that refuses to acknowledges his genius

Image courtesy - Google Gandhi

Dear countrymen,

It’s been over a week since Mossad succeeded in their plans in annihilating the best thing that ever happened to your country – the Gandhis. Rahul Gandhi and his team has known for long that Israel was not happy with my Mum’s government. But boss, since when did our party start believing in anybody’s happiness other than ours! Our loss as usual is zero, Congress FTW.

Our employees on the other hand are convinced that it was Dentsu, the Japanese communication agency hired to sell me to the cattle classes that caused our downfall. Honestly, I don’t blame them. Rahul Gandhi has always known that India was not ready for his genius. Yet, he chose to make the supreme sacrifice for the sake of his subjects. Just like Grandma and Papa. It’s in our jeans.

He chose to dress in crumpled white kurtas when he could have worn Armani, campaigned in the dustbowls of the country when he could have gone go-karting. Ate dinner with Dalits, rendered India speechless with his speeches and forced the nation to look beyond his dimples. It requires the mind of a genius to calculate Jupiter’s escape velocity just for the sake of my Dalit bros. Who do you think I did it for! My Mom?

What’s more, I was always specific in a broader sense.

Rahul, India’s youth icon, its biggest hope, had a dream for India. He wanted to open up the system, empower its youngsters, and give them a voice. I empowered my Mom and gave her the reins of my career. Mom empowered herself and silenced Mannie Singh forever. I empowered my sis, and let her steal my thunder. She empowered her husband and made him a farmer. I promised empowerment to our people and transferred Mom’s poisonous power to that old man from Gujarat - the one who shall not be named.

Empowerment runs through our blood like a raging bull.

Rahul Gandhi disembowelled himself for his people and never let the smile leave his face. Just like any Supreme leader would have done for his people.

Why Boobs are Important

Courtesy - Pinterest.com

We all have mammary memories, both wonderful and embarrassing. The times when we lusted for them, the many times we cursed their existence. These bulbous mounds of fat, the appearance of which changed us and others around us. They made us feel powerful and weak at the same time. The constant tussle between hate and love for our twins as we navigated through crowds with our handbags clutched close to our chests.

But what if women didn’t have boobs? What if all of us were uniformly flat chested! I can imagine catastrophic consequences for humanity. Besides being denied the opportunity of staring at cleavage and passing it off as deep thinking, men will be forced to make eye contact while they engage in a conversation with us. We understand how relaxing it is, just staring and interspersing it with an occasional hmm and haww, just to clear any doubts she might have of the existence of your vocal chords. It’s as comforting as watching TV, as you recline on your couch, munching that huge pack of crisps – mesmerised like an insect trapped in a cobweb. You know something is not right, yet you don’t feel like doing anything about it because it feels so good. And why not! In a world full of harsh realities, these soft mounds of flesh are a welcome change. They do not challenge you and your intelligence.

Boobs are reminders of your babyhood, when mothers protected you from all evils. Plus, when you stare at bosoms, you can prove those nags wrong who keep making fun of your inability to focus on two things at a time.

Add to that the thrill of doing something that’s considered uncouth and lacking in manners and it becomes infinitely more exciting! Women being the heartless creatures make it more challenging by covering them under layers of clothing. As Jerry Seinfeld has so adroitly pointed out, if women kept their heads covered instead of their breasts, we'd all be heading down to the corner store to pick up the latest copy of Heads Illustrated. We always want that which we cannot have, and in that regard, breasts are the ultimate forbidden fruit.

And why deprive men of the opportunity to flaunt their maturity by cracking boob jokes! I mean for how long can you crack potty, fart jokes and makes others laugh. Boob jokes are like a breath of fresh air. They are proof that you’re now grown-up enough to make fun of a woman’s anatomy.

It is a natural progression of the male psyche- poop jokes, boob jokes and marriage jokes.

And the Cookie Crumbled

Inspired by Ritu’s peanut butter cookie recipe and the urgency to get to rid of the jar of cashew-almond butter that I’m supposed to finish since I bought it
I finally did IT. 
I mean I lost my baking virginity
Like a true Twitter addict, I announced to the world my intentions before doing IT.
It started off well, the mixture of almond-cashew butter with Maple syrup smelled divine
The egg married to vanilla was beaten so badly that I fluffed-up with pride
Just like a true Haryanvi
Now was the time to delicately fold in the wheat and the baking powder
I was already adjusting yet another feather in my cap as I plunged my electric beater in the jar. And lo behold, there was instant Chemistry 
Sparks flew. Only this time it was the wheat and the sticky butter
Oh, what a loose character! 
To teach me a lesson that I’d never forget, it proceeded to splatter itself all over the walls, door, floor and even the electric kettle
I was finally looking fair and lovely, only this time I was on my knees with wheat all over me
Making the dough was far from easy-peasy. It continued to harden the more I pestered it
But I am Aam Aurat who doesn’t give in so easily
I churned the mix till my eyes were bulging out and I was panting with exhaustion
Finally it softened, caving in to my grim-determination.
In went the cookie mix inside the oven but alas, it refused to rise to the occasion

I may have gotten rid of the almond-cashew butter, but I am now stuck with a batch of cookies that I’m supposed to finish because I made it.
 
Damn, this is is divine injustice.