Rakhi’s haart goes dhak-dhak

Courtesy - news.in.msn.com

Mere Pyaare Mohan,

Last night you came in a helicopter in mai dream.  Your kale ghane baal flying in the wind, your patli kamaar playing lukka chhupi with me - by God ki kasam I feel like putting big black tikka on your face. Najjar naa lag jaye mere baanke bihari ko! 

When I see you, my haart went dhuk dhuk loudly like Madhuri Dixit.  I think the loud sound wake up my good for nothing boyfraand.  But not to worry that bloodyphool sleeps like a saandh. Woh to bole jo bullshit walla bull.

Haan... I was saying in my dreams you were looking handsomer than Salman Khan.  Toh aur khyaa – I grabbed you and looked deep into your fadaktee hui eyes.  I could feel your stomach shaking violently like mixie – I ask pet kharaab hai jee?  You move your head violently, blush and say behenjee what to do – it is my habit.  I was so filled with gussa, I had tears in my eyes like Meena Kumari.  Dil ke armaan asoowon mein bah gaye - I sing loudly.  I immediately fall at your feet and scream... Who behenjee?  I am your charan dasi and you are mai swami.

Unraveling ‘Those Almond eyes’

She is an enchantress who weaves magic with her verse. Her words resonate with unsung melodies.  Soft, ethereal, passionate, melancholic - she is the one and only Maitreyee Bhattacharjee,  a writer extraordinaire and the author of Iche holo tai.

She liked weeding the garden, dissecting art and playing music, especially the raag Behag, which floated around her at night along with the waft of jasmine that she had so lovingly nurtured. Perhaps not necessarily in that order, but nothing was orderly about her..And yes somewhere star gazing, talking to oneself also fitted in. She had the most beautiful almond shaped eyes ever..it was not her opinion but that of the many people whom she met..except that He didn’t see it ever..she had a beautiful soul too..which He probably felt but never spoke about..there was nothing to speak..it was there..so He presumed it would be..just be.. much like the old oak box that had been lying in the bed room as a part of a family heirloom that had been passed on, ornate, gleaming from the polish that was applied every other day..It stood proud in its gleam its beauty in its agelessness and yet no one opened it, no one was curious about it.. When children came home they played around it..over it sat on top of it..in spite of knowing it might break but no on tried to open it, seek its soul, or ask it questions of yore..

Let’s strip for a cause

republicanredefined.com

They call themselves Putin’s Army.  Teenage girls, teetering on high heels, their pink t-shirts emblazoned with the image of their hero – Vladimir Putin.  They are passionately appealing to young, smart and beautiful Russian girls to tear their shirts off to show their support for their beloved leader.  I’ve lost my mind for a person who has changed the life of our country.... I happen to agree with the lost my mind part.  The girl who does the best job of ripping off her top, gets to walk off with a free iPad.  So if not for Putin then there’s always the iPad for sweet consolation!  And if a boy in China can sell off his kidney for an iPad 2, what’s a measly shirt?   

Since there is no shortage of gorgeous women in Russia with most of them blond, another group called “I really like Putin” held a carwash only for Russian made vehicles. Hugh Hefner should take some tips from Russian chicks! 



After reading about the passion with which Russian women are expressing their love for their leader, extolling fellow citizens to support their PM as President, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed of myself.  Even as I write this post my head is hung in shame.  Look at me, constantly taking pot-shots at our great leaders.  Statesmen who toil night and day to make life liveable for us?  They fight corruption, tackle terrorism, tell us when to start drinking, how to dance decently and spout a lot of nonsense thus making us laugh. Our honourable Minister of Health even went to the extent of giving us helpful tips to prevent procreation.  Watch late night TV and say goodbye to babies.  And what do we do – call them buffoons, lame ducks and compose jokes in their honour.  Shame on us!

Buzz off will you....

Courtesy :Gulfnews.com

If you come to my house, I’ll greet you with a smile and then look sternly at your feet.  No, I am not checking whether your shoes are polished and won’t demand to see your nails either.  I got over that habit long time back.  It’s just that my house is a shoe free zone and I expect you to take them off (just the shoes, if you please).  

Every time I invite someone new to my place, it is always accompanied with a statutory warning.  I am at my frothiest best or so I think and make sure each word is echoing with joy.  I wouldn’t want to scare you off, would I?  And I am a gracious hostess; I have chappals in all sizes & colours to suit your mood and taste.

But I’m not sure whether the gas delivery chap or the plumber shares the same sentiment.  Ask them and with terror filled eyes they will recount the crazy bong lady.  The madam jee who screams joote utaaro like an army general every time she opens the door.  It is a perilous situation for me as well.  Most of these gents have stinky feet – one whiff and you are ready to drop dead. 

Lately I have started treating this species, especially their feet, with awe.  Before you start making hasty assumptions about my sanity or rather the lack of it – let me clarify.   Researchers in Tanzania have made a startling breakthrough.  They have discovered that the stinky odour of human feet has a major fan following among the mosquito population.  And now the smell of old socks is being effectively used to fight Malaria.  All one has to do is set up a trap outdoors “scented” with the odour of human feet and voila the mosquitoes come swarming in.  Once trapped, they are then poisoned en masse.  Talk about fatal attraction! 

Itching To Bitch.....

My name is Phulo

A certain veteran actor has been insisting of late that it’s my Dad who’s old and not him.  To further prove his point he has taken to sporting colours so vivid that it will put even a rainbow to shame.  I strongly suspect that they are hand me downs that his baby wore in a movie where he was pretending to be gay.  The father-son duo with their floral collection can easily be mistaken for the valley of flowers.  Is senility making Big B revisit his childhood, but this time as a flower child? 

Since I do not know the gent personally I can only speculate.  But one thing I know for sure is that his cup brimmeth over.  His superstarni Bahu, who is so plastic that she is considered an environment hazard, has managed a medical feat.  I mean it is a miracle that despite being wedded to a procession of trees and cows, she has managed to conceive the inconceivable.

Strangely the grand daddy seems to be sporting a baby bump too.  Wondering if the two are exchanging notes on morning sickness....

Anatomy of Grief

What was your first reaction when you heard about the Mumbai terror attacks?  Let me answer that for you – you texted your near and dear ones in Mumbai to find if they were ok.  With a sense of relief you continued surfing through news channels for updates.  Of course there were none, instead your senses were assaulted by morbid images of death and despair.  You flinched at the sight of the young boy’s face contorted with grief, bodies strewn around in a mangled heap.  You shuddered at thought that just 10 minutes back these bodies were someone’s father, brother or son.  The cacophony of the shrieking voice of the anchor and the angry eye witness accounts only added to your bewilderment.   You were seized with helpless rage. 

Fact is we are never prepared for violence, hatred and death.  It always takes us unawares.  That Wednesday was no different.   Serial bomb blasts left behind a pile of bodies.  The response was delayed and chaotic.   Tears and blood melted into chaos and mayhem.  It took an hour for the police to put up barricades. Forensic teams arrived in droves only to contaminate the scene of crime, the ambulances were nowhere in sight.  It was the residents who had to take up the task of rushing the injured and the dying to the hospitals in tempos, taxis and even handcarts.  Teeming crowds... TV channels swooping in like hungry vultures in their bid for glory...the clueless police doing nothing to assuage the panic...  the elected expressing their well rehearsed lines of condolences and the sickening finger pointing at ‘others’ to explain administrative failures...

And we were left wondering weren’t things supposed to change for the better post 26/11?  What about the lofty promises made for implementing pre-emptive measures and managing consequences better should such incidents occur?  Just empty words to placate an angry nation?

Not tonight Darling...

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She was stooped over the newspaper sipping her morning tea, when she let a loud whoop of delight.  The about to poop pigeon look startled and made a crashing exit from the balcony, leaving behind a dozen feathers as keepsake. The floating feathers found their way to Suvo’s tea.   Oops you got free garnishing and gave him her toothiest smile.  Riya had read somewhere that a smile is a curve that sets everything straight.  It didn’t work this time. 

As she walked around the house, Riya had to make sure her feet were touching the ground.  She felt as if she was levitating.  How could she not, the usually depressing papers had finally managed to publish something that had uncomplicated her life.  Her heart was singing so loud that she had to put it on mute.  Goodbye Saridon, goodbye yawns....

When Suvo came out of the shower, she looked deep into his eyes and cooed I know what you have been missing, baby and gave him a tight hug.  Don’t worry Mr Cuddlemore, you will never feel sad again!  Suvo looked puzzled but decided to keep his mouth shut.  It must be one of those days he thought.