Mrs Nobody Writes A Letter To Mr Nobody

Dear Mr Nobody,

It feels good to know that you are having the time of your life. How I know, you might wonder. Well, the last letter you wrote to your son landed in my hand. Perhaps you have forgotten that we live together in the same house.  He is not home, goodness knows where he’s gone; like father like son. And, ah, you write to your son in such a manner as if he is not a son but an old friend of yours. Shameless, utterly shameless you are.

It is a fact well-known that you do nothing apart from complaining all the time. I do remember how you used to complain about each and everything when we were studying together in the college. Everyone was fed up with you. Your very existence seemed an agony. But presently what a great change has come upon you. How well you speak of others (I mean of that lady of quality you mentioned). Sarcasm is your cup of tea, not mine. I will, therefore, speak to you in as plain a way as possible.

Tell me, did you kiss her? Did she kiss you? I mean, really if she wants to kiss you or something, let her do it. And let her do it in your neck. I can only wish, when she kisses your neck, she takes the form of a crocodile.

You say you will be staying in London as long as you please. I hope and pray to God that you will never be displeased come what may.  Well, I have nothing more to say.

Mrs Nobody

Copyright © 2014 RAMU DAS

So, What’s The News?

So, tell me, what is the news?
Like yesterday, today, is there any gory tale?
Tell me the news, oh don’t ye refuse.
Give me some news of failure, who and what did fail?

Oh great, this man killed that man
A girl dumped her boyfriend; the boyfriend died.
Oh my, how gruesome: that celebrity ate a live hen.
Some foreigners arrived, they need a tour guide.

Some more girls are raped and brutally injured
A corrupted politician is no more corrupted
The economy, you say, is fully disrupted.
By her ravishing body the saint was lured.

Is that all or do you have more?
Which poor got poorer?
Which rich, richer?
If no more news you have, tell me some lore.

Ah, you got more news: tell me, then, I’m all ears
But tell me something good,
Something that mayn’t so much as bring to my eye tears
Oh fool, be mute, be mute!
That you just told me wasn’t at all good
Now go away, you brute!
And let me play my flute
No more news shall I hear, I’ve changed my mood.

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS

Bothering, bothering, and bothering!

The thing is… no, it is not just one thing; truly, not just a thing. Well, there are certain things; you know what I’m talking about. No, you don’t. Gosh! How you surprise me. Okay, should I spell it out? Yes. Then allow me, oh please do, to say a few words – words that may not so much as displease you – after all, you don’t know what the things are, do you? You Don’t. Of course you don’t, why else will you stare at my words with so blank an expression.

The most important thing, above all other things, is that she (Miss Somebody) is pretty. And, oh, someone once told me that all pretty girls are bound to have someone in their lives. I’m not sure how desperate girls are to have a man, but surely most men, but not all men, want nothing but pretty girls as their girlfriends and wives. I’m fine with anyone – pretty or not – who has a good heart. Once, there was one such girl, who happened to be pretty as well as a good-hearted women, but it occurred to me that she preferred someone unlike me, and so did I find out later… heck, let it be. That was past and past is past.

I’m concerned about the present. Miss Somebody works in the same organization as I do for the past two months, but I with all my eccentricity and reclusive nature didn’t so much as socialize with her or know what her name was. But, I used to look at her from the corner of my eyes, and whenever I did that I found her looking at me.

A friend of friend is a friend of hers. Now, after the exchange of a few words with that friend of friend, that friend of friend is my friend as well.  The friend of my friend, as we became friends, told me what her name was. I started doing a little research about her. I tried to find as much information about her from as many sources as were available; never did I do any such thing throughout my college life when the point was about my studies, had I done so I might have as well been a topper in the College if not in the University or something like that, you know.

Her relationship status on FB said she was single, but that didn’t tell me if she was ready to mingle. So, I clicked on her photos and read all her status updates and the comments that followed. I ignored the comments that girls made, however, I meticulously read the all the comments made by men to get a hint that she was close to someone… that, I thought, some or the other man maybe bold enough to write something private in public. But, no, I could not find any such comments.  I was pleased. Other social media didn’t reveal so much about her.

What if she is married, I wondered. I saw she wore a necklace on her neck, but luckily that wasn’t a Mangal Sūtra. When I looked at her more closely than before, I saw her eyes were golden, she had a mole on the left side of her forehead, she had a tattoo on her wrist, and she wore a ring on the fourth finger of her left hand. “Is she engaged?”My heart started beating faster at this very thought. “No, no, no!” I assured myself, “That can’t be, that can’t be.”

If I wanted I could have asked the girl if she had a boyfriend or something, but I brushed aside that idea because if I did that she would have got the impression that I was interested in her. What an awkward situation it would be if she’d told me that she had a boyfriend, and asked me the reason for asking the question. I know she would be flattered if I asked her that; she might also think that she is too beautiful and think highly of her own appearance. I didn’t want her to be puffed up with vanity of any kind.

Once again I asked the friend of friend, who is now my friend, if the girl in question was engaged or has a boyfriend or something. “And, may I ask,” Said he, “why do you raise such a question?”

“Curiosity,” said I, and he grinned, the grin that makes you think you are a liar, “the devil called curiosity got the better of me.”

“Oh, I see.” said the friend of friend, still grinning, “She must be lucky to be the only object of your curiosity in so big a company as ours.”

Such teasing! I thought. I liked the damned fellow less and less. “A simple question I asked and, my friend, a simple answer I would prefer, that will suffice,” I remarked.

“What a coincidence it is,” said the friend of friend, whom I started liking less and less, “that she bothers me about you, and now you’re asking me questions about her.”

“She bothers you about me?” that was news for me; I was surprised to hear that.

“Yes, yes, bothering, bothering and bothering! I have no intention of playing the mediator between you two.” What an emotional outburst, will he start crying now, I thought, “I’m making it clear, absolutely clear, that you should take care of your own stuff before anything begins from the beginning.”

What a fatherly advice he can give, I thought. “I understand,” I said and tried to console the fellow for I started liking him once again.

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS

Let Me Drink

Let me drink, let me drink.

Let no pain, nor pleasure, nor grief, nor do joys bother me.

Help me my thoughts link,

For when I’m drunk, no sense in the world, whatsoever, do I see.

 

Let me drink, let me drink.

Be with me, listen to me, sing me a song and laugh with me;

Make a toast, let the glasses clink.

C’mon now, blurt out what you must, and set yourself free.

 

You always complain that I keep to myself,

You say that for you I hardly care.

Today, however, I’d provide you all my help

And with you everything I will share.

 

Tomorrow when I come to my senses

No word that blames, or that kindles strife, can I hear!

But now, my heart flutters and dances.

Come, let me pour you the wines; let us drink and have no fear.

 

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS

He Will Be Back Sooner Rather Than Later.

Hello lads and ladies!

This man who has been writing all the silly posts on this blog for some time now has something to say to you all. Lend him your ears for another moment, if you will, as you have done so in the past. Or else you stand a chance to call him a broken-hearted man. I’m sure you wouldn’t like that. All he asks of you is to pay him a little attention. That’s it, nothing more. Of course, you people are kind-hearted; I must be busted for assuming anything otherwise.

The fella says he will be away for a month or two. He deems it is necessary to let you know where he is going, for he cares for you, for he wants to keep his readership on this blog active, and when he comes back and writes some more silly posts he wishes to see the amazing people, as he has seen so far, come and embellish the blog as much as they can.

So, where is the fella going anyway? He has been craving to see and hug his parents. He wants to spend some time – some memorable time that he can cherish forever – with them. It has been a long time that he is keeping away from them. It is the nature of his work that forces him to stay away from them; it is not something that he wishes for, but he knows life calls for many kinds of compromises.

He makes you a promise and he means it: it won’t be long before he comes back and once again write some more silly posts. His intention is, and always has been, to entertain you, if not to enlighten you. He plans to explore some famous parts of Northeast India, Nagaland and Assam most preferably, which he calls home. He intends to visit the Kaziranga National Park and click some photos of everything wild and beautiful.  Not just that, he would, in fact, click photos of anything and everything that interests him. He hopes his Eastman Kodak Camera would justify the clarity of the photos. He completely trusts his camera in that matter!

So, dear readers, fellow-bloggers, and anonymous visitors do stay tuned. Your friend will be back sooner rather than later.

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS 

Mr Nobody Writes Once Again

Dear Lady CR,

Ah! Don’t worry; I’m not writing to complain again (like I did in the past). You know, I’ve much better things to do apart from complaining all the time. Believe you me, ah ha, I’m writing this letter because I want to express my appreciation for all the things you have done for me. Only for me, he-he-he!  There is not much time left for us together in the college, and I don’t want to delay writing this further. It is now or never.

How kind you are Milady. No matter what people call you to your face or behind your face. What do they call you, anyway? ‘Fat?’  And do they describe you with some other words like: enormous, massive, large, mammoth, etc?  Well, they might be right but I don’t agree with them fully. The thing is they overlook the huge heart you have beneath your exterior. And that is, indeed, a matter of grave concern. But wait, does the word ‘fat’ really apply to you. I mean, you know, fat is bad. We don’t say ‘fat as a tiger’, we say ‘fat as a pig’. Now, pig is an ugly creature. Milady, you are not ugly. I would say you are powerful, well yes, powerful like the elephant.

When someone says you are weighty, I would not say they are wrong. Apparently, yes, you are. However, the word ‘fat’ is really not for you. I have observed – Did I say I’m a good observer? – how deftly you move your fingers. And you do carry your mass gracefully just like Lady Gaga (She has a funny name though. GAGA), and what with the mental quickness, and the agility of your body; you can sing and dance better than most other girls your age, jog some mile every morning.

When you have so many unfat qualities, it is wrong to say you are fat. They are all goddamned fools who call you fat. Believe you me, keh keh keh!

Anyway, I’m so thankful to you! My happiness knows no bound even as I type this letter, and that’s only because of you. I think my first letter – which I wrote a few months back – had a profound effect on you. I’m extremely pleased with your kind words, and the personal service you have provided me. You have also informed me about all the happenings in the college, about the companies coming to the college for placement.

But, my bad luck. I was not keeping well at that time. And when I was a little better I did come to the college to sit for the placement. But there, to my dismay, the Fernandez girl spoiled it all. Neither was she selected nor was I. Kiddies always do such nonsense things. Anyway, I can forgive her, she is a kid after all, and she is a good girl, her papa’s child. Though to the world she might be full of attitude and all that, but she is just fine with me.

Who really disheartened me is the Krishnan girl, that old queen, you know. Oh, what I thought of her! Oh how I liked her! But, dear Lady CR, that old queen is good at beguiling all men’s heart with her smooth talk. But, actually, she is a cold-hearted woman. She cursed me, and lo, I had a boil on my bum, and I suffered from numerous illnesses: cold chest, runny nose, high temperature, jaundice, and whatnot.

You see, dear Lady CR, I have become so skinny; lost more than eight kilos of my flesh, and that’s all because of that old queen. Yet, she is so full of attitude, didn’t even ask me how I was. Peace be upon her.  I wouldn’t wish her a boil on her bum, that’s very painful; I can’t see her in pain. But I do wish her boyfriend a big boil on his bum. I don’t know if she has an imaginary boyfriend or a real one. Ha… ha…ha!

Now, you must be wondering why I have not mentioned anything about your counterpart. I have this philosophy: things of lesser importance should be done at the end.

What was the word I used to describe him the last time I wrote an open letter to you, dear Lady CR? You see, I have a really poor memory when it comes to lesser important things. I think it was a slang word or something like that. Anyway, that’s not important; however, the word seemed to have offended your counterpart very much. A few months back he saw me in the college. I smiled he did not smile back. Instead, he gritted his teeth, shuddered his shoulder unnecessarily (just to imply how strong he was, I guessed), curled his fingers in his palm, made them into a fist as if to punch me hard in the face and quench his anger. But no, I was wrong. I learnt later that he does such acts when he has to go to the loo. When I asked why he does that, no one could explain the reason, not even his closest friends. Strange activity!

Another day, I saw him in the corridor. I thought I should approach and talk to him and bury all kind of grudges, if any, he had against me. His strange activity once again baffled me: he started dancing, rocking and rolling just like Prabhu Deva. Perhaps he had seen the movie “Any body can dance” and could not contain himself, I thought. Oh no, that was not the reason. He saw some pretty girls passing by, and, thus, was showing off his dancing skills. The girls seemed really impressed. Now, after knowing how talented he is, I’m his friend, or perhaps he would consider me his big fan.

“Hi,” I greeted him with a smiling face. I admit that was just a pretentious smile.  Ni-ha-ha-ha!

“Don’t talk to me,” he grumbled. The past incident was bothering him. I had to make things light.

“It’s ok man. Take it easy. I’m your big fan.” He seemed very pleased with the last remark. He started smiling. However, the past incident once again bothered him and his smile faded away. I decided to flatter him a little more if that was the only solution. “Oh man, you are really talented. You score such good marks in the exams, and, I believe, even Terence Lewis cannot compete with you in dancing.” By this time his smile came back to his face, and I added one more sentence: “How do you do these wonderful things?”

“I don’t share my secrets, do you understand?” He replied, boastfully.

“I see. Dance man dance. You are made for it.” I thought he needed some encouragement.

He looked at me as though I were an alien, and asked, very grimly, “Did you say ‘dance monkey dance?’”

“Oh no, I can never say such a thing to a great person like you.” I answered promptly, lest the great person should be angry.

“But you did write a letter where you used a malicious word for me.” I knew he would come to this.

“Oh my! That was just for fun,” I assured.

“No funny business with me, do you understand?” He bellowed.

“Yes, sir, I get you.” I was being as humble as I could be.

“No. That won’t do,” he said somewhat abruptly and added, “I want a lollipop.”

There we go! He was acting just like that Menon girl and that Fernandez girl whom I consider newborn babies. “Alright, here you are,” I said and threw a lollipop at him. He caught it just like Yuvraj Singh, the great fielder of Indian cricket team.

“Now I want a lozenge!” He demanded.

“There you go,” I gave him a lozenge. His catch was better than the first.

“Now a Pizza,” he said. Pizzas don’t come cheap, so I hesitated a little. His demand started becoming aggressive, “I will tell my father,” he said, “and my father will inform his friend who is in the police, and you would be screwed for writing that letter publicly.”

I had no other choice but to empty my purse and order a pizza for the great person.

Dear Lady CR, I think you must have grown tired by reading this letter of mine. So let me stop here, and this, I promise, is my last letter to you, unless situation demands. Tee! hee! hee!

I remain, ever yours,

Mr Nobody

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS

Winter Agony

Oh this weather! Oh the suffering! I’ve received a chilly greeting from the very beginning of this chilly season. Oh winter, why haven’t you been nice to me this time? Some may like this season, some may not. But no matter you like it or not, it will keep recurring year after year, as so has always been the nature (quality) of nature from time immemorial.

Chest cold, and I’m coughing like some hardcore smoker coughs. I’ve a high body temperature, headache, runny nose (I’ve to sniff every time). My throat pains. My tonsil is hurting. This noisy explosion of air from my lungs is unbearable, to me as well as to the bystanders. At a distance do my friends move, as if they might get hurt, as if a bullet chases them. Perhaps they’ve started considering me a boor by now. “Go away, then, you might be shredded into pieces by the bullet coming out of me.” I want to say but I don’t say. It will make things worse, I know.

And I think bum is the wrong place for a boil, for the area is very sensitive and the pain is excruciating. Had it been in other areas of the body such as the hands or the legs or maybe the shoulder I wouldn’t have complained a wee bit. However, I would have equally complained, had the boil made its place beneath my nose (this area too is extremely sensitive), or on my face, I fear it would damage the handsomeness of my precious face ( ha! – that’s a joke).

I’m not sure if any of these diseases and infections got anything to do with winter, but, since, all these have been making my life miserable in this season of the year, I have no choice but to curse this season, at least this time. Even a little pain in this season seems unbearable. But, I’m pretty sure, married couple or newly wedded couple would prefer winter than summer. I still have enough time for it, I guess.

Today is our Republic Day (that is the 26^th January, here in India). The secondary school near my house has organized a function. I can hear the loud music coming out of the speakers. I can also feel the vibration that is produced by the dancers stamping on the wooden stage (wooden? Yes, that’s what my brother told me, and I gladly believe him, as he had been to the function a little earlier). But I cannot go out and be a part of the celebration; I’m homebound, as for now. I have become so weak that I can’t even walk to and fro.  I can just sit in the chair, that too, turning more towards the left side. Why? Because of the damn boil! Oh, this small swollen thing has made my life pathetic. Anyway, I hope everything will be fine soon.

Day 26.365 – Republic Day (India) (Photo credit: Akshay Shah)

Happy Republic Day to all fellow citizens of India!

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS

 

And Finally the Results!

Wow, what a week it had been! First we had our annual fest and then there was the eggjam’s result.

The twin-brothers (called so and so) who are my close friends in the college had scared me by creating a fake site which showed our eggjam’s results when the results were not yet declared by Mumbai University. The brother who was elder to the other by seven minutes put his eggjam’s seat number on that site in his phone (of course, the phone had internet connection), and it showed he had passed the eggjam, he started grinning. Then, he put another number, this time his brother’s, it, too, showed he too had passed.

Then he asked me what my seat number was, I told him, and much to my disbelieve and dismay, the result showed that I had failed. I felt a pounding in my head.  But it took me sometime to realize that it was a fake site, that is, when the twins could not bear with my pitiful lamentation they admitted that the real results were not yet out. “Screw you, both!” I blurted out in anger, and they laughed, and I laughed as well.

The next day, however, as we were gratefully enjoying the concert – the famous Indian Rock Band called “Agnee” was rocking the stage with their fantastic music, they were invited to perform for our college as a part of the annual fest  –  at night, the twin brothers had once again informed me, glancing at their cell phone that the results were out. “No more pranks,” I declared.

“No, it’s the real result, I swear,” said one of the twins, very earnestly.

“Oh, the real result, eh? I said mockingly, and then added, “Don’t want to know what it is.” I was really not ready to play yesterday’s prank, moreover, I was fully engrossed with one of Agnee’s famous number (“Sadho Re”), and which was also one of my favorite song.

Agnee, oh what a band it is! They played with such melody that I felt I should not be bothered by anyone while listening to their tracks. It was live. Opportunities may hardly come twice. But the stubborn twins were determined to know what my number was: “C’mon! Tell us your seat number, dude?”

I was still cynical, “Oh, if you so care, why don’t you check yours first?”

“Beg your pardon, but we have already done it, and we both have passed.”

“Oh la la, passed! Just like yesterday, eh?” The cynical me was saying that. “I gave the number yesterday; don’t you guys remember what it was?”

“No, we don’t. It’s your result, what do we care! Don’t say what your number is, and no one would tell ye right away if ye have passed or not.” That was one of the twins, giving me a kind of emotional demand. Suddenly, I became curios, and made my willingness known to them, “Yes, I want to know the result,” I said. “Without minding if it was fake or real,” that I did not say as both the brothers were getting sentimental. “You want my number, so be it!” I said and gave them the number.

“Dude, you have passed!” exclaimed both the brothers with enthusiasm.

“Oh, have I?” My sarcasm was hidden somewhere within myself. Ah, at least they didn’t say that I had failed like they did yesterday.

“Yes, yes, you have, and we have. Now, we must party!” suggested both the twins.

“And who is throwing the party?” I enquired.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Who? Me? ha-ha! You see, I have a hole in my purse, and everything I had in it, has fallen down. Everything is lost, you see.” That was my way of telling them that I wasn’t paying a penny for anything.

“No problem, we will, we will. After all, we are the sons of a big gun.” That came from one of the twins, a sarcastic remark indeed.

“Well, well, there you said it. Canteen or some other place?”

“Canteen, of course,” said one of the more sensible, miser brother, because eatables in canteen were much cheaper than any other hotels nearby.

“Saving money, eh?” I cajoled them to go somewhere else, but to no avail.

I was still not sure if the brothers were lying about the results or speaking the truth, so right after coming back home, I opened Mumbai University’s site, and I inserted my seat number into a box, and there it was, my result. It said: “You have passed. Congratulations!”

Now, I have one more semester, and one more eggjam coming up in the month of April, and then I can call myself a graduate. After all, I can say, Mumbai University is not that bad.

Copyright © 2013 RAMU DAS

Viva’s over!

At first, the management of my college wanted the students to finish and submit the project, which every final year students had to compulsorily write, by the 24^th of December 2012. But then they postponed it to 26^th of December. And on the 8^th of January, 2013, we faced the Viva.

For those who do not know what a Viva is, let me say: Viva or Viva Voce is a spoken examination held at the end of a University Course.  A good friend of mine had in one of his comments on one of my post asked me if I could write about the Viva once it is conducted, and I said I would be glad to do that. I am writing this here not just because that friend had asked me to, but because I know I need to write something. It’s not going to be everything but just the synopsis.

I wrote a project titled “Making Corporate Governance Meaningful”. The copy consists of seventy-nine pages (leaving aside pages numbered in Roman).

Corporate Governance, in simple words, means the systems, principles and processes by which a company is directed and controlled.  

Globalization is the most current and demanding arenas where corporations have to define and legitimate the ‘right or wrong’ of their behavior. A lot of issues emerge in the process relating to cultural, legal and accountability. However, serious efforts have been directed at overhauling the system. Every day we read in the papers about corporate scandals, government failure, etc. A corporate scandal is a scandal involving allegations of unethical behavior by people acting within or on behalf of a corporation. Corporate scandals sometimes involve accounting fraud of some sort. If we happen to look at the list of corporate scandals around the world and particularly in India, the list can go and on, and it is startling!

Therefore, ethics can play a crucial role in making corporate governance meaningful. There should be a moral responsibility, which need not be necessarily taught, but it is something that comes from within oneself. Many everyday business activities require the maintenance of basic ethical standards, such as honesty, trustworthiness and cooperation. One must know the difference between vice and virtue. One must not think that the shareholders’ interest means the interest of all, nor can one compromise the rights of other stakeholders. Failure in Corporate Governance is a real threat to the future of every corporation; therefore, the auditing standard has to be improved. Auditing should comply with international standards.

Well, yes I had to refer some books while writing this, and I had to simply copy some of the things, because somebody has already written about the subject, and I had to simply reproduce that. How can I change something that really is!  All my classmates did the same, but they, very shamefully, directly copied everything from other peoples’ project report.

If you simply type a certain topic on Google you get it. There are already a lot of project reports in PDF format over the internet which my friends easily access, and they very easily change the original author’s name, and copy-and-past, and produce the whole thing saying it is their own work! That, too, without changing or modifying the contents! Most of my classmates didn’t even understand or tried to understand the contents.

Writing the project, to speak the truth, wasn’t my cup of tea, though I learnt a lot. I have a good imagination power, and I like writing stories, mostly fiction, but partly based on reality. I am a realist, you see.

Shreyanshi Awasthi was the external examiner’s name. She spoke with me for more than 20 minutes, while with others she spoke not more than 10 minutes. We spoke about many things, apart from the project, ranging from the issues in our country; we spoke about nationality, language, literature, etcetera and etcetera. At one instance she asked me what my interests were. Among other things, I said writing is one. Then she asked me in which language I write. When I said English she appeared a little disappointed, and enquired why I don’t write in Bengali (which is my mother tongue) or in Hindi, which is spoken by most of us in India. And finally she asked me a few questions related to the project. How lucky I was! Though I read the whole project thoroughly but I knew what she would ask me  (I assumed it). I was fully prepared for it in advance. And she did what I thought!

She was so much impressed by my answers that she asked me what grade I wanted. I answered, “Ma’am, whatever you think fit.”

“ Hmm m… alright!” she sighed.

“Could you mail me the softcopy of your project; I really like it, and would like to read more?” She asked with a smile on her face.

“Sure.”

While parting from the classroom where we were having the conversation, she said, “Glad to meet you, Ramu Das.” She put her right hand forward to shake mine.

“Glad to meet you, too, ma’am,” I replied promptly. And firmly with my right hand gave her hand a manly shake.

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS

I’m Unthinkably Weak When It Comes To Women

During my last vacation, I worked for three months with an NGO called Greenpeace. I’m sure many have heard about Greenpeace. It is an International NGO with presence over forty countries. Greenpeace fights peacefully for the protection of environment, and suggests various measures for a sustainable economy. When need is felt, Greenpeace holds protests and grabs and breaks the neck (peacefully) of the culprit who poses a threat to the environment, and thereby a threat to ‘life’. By ‘life’, I don’t mean only human life, but every living thing. I’ve learnt a great deal from the organization, met with a lot of people, and loved interacting with them.

Why did I do all of these? Well, to make a project, which is a part of our curriculum, as prescribed by Mumbai University, and then face the viva-voce. And also to fill my purse with some wad of rupees that otherwise remains empty most of the time.

When I went to my college and submitted my topic, ‘Green Marketing’, for the project, my topic was rejected, saying that it clashed with another student from the other division of our class. When I told the lecturer that I worked for three months just for this project, the lecturer told me that the other person submitted the topic before I did. However, I was asked to meet with the other person and see if anything could be done.

The other person turned out to be a beautiful girl. She informed me that her project was already prepared, but not by her; it was prepared by her elder sister when she (the elder sister) was a student doing the same course. So, it was clear that the other girl merely wanted to copy her sister’s work and show it as her own work and save her time and energy.

I was not ready to accept that, but she persistently pleaded that I should change my topic. “Oh, you write so well, and that, too, by your own. I’m sure you can write on any other topic.” I knew she was trying to lull me, I looked at her face, her face radiated a childlike glow, and I felt pity for her. But who was going to feel pity for me? I just said, “I’ll think about it, and let you know.” She seemed very happy when I said that, perhaps she thought or knew that I would change the topic eventually; girls are always confident in getting what they want. Unlike men, they know all the tricks.

After some days she met me again in the college and was as sweet as honey, but I knew even what honeybees produce is sweet but when honeybee stings it is excruciating like the sting of death. Men are unthinkably weak when it comes to women, and being a man, so am I. I succumbed to her pleas and decided to change the topic.

I changed to another topic of which I had good knowledge, but a hopeless lecturer lied to me, and said that it was also taken up by someone else. With much difficulty at last I spoke with the other person –this time a guy– and the guy told me that he had chosen no such topic. I was relieved to hear that.

I’m working on my new topic, and for the same I’m collecting a lot of materials, in short I can say, I’m super busy now.

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS

Six Days Of Eggjam And Here I am

‘Modern college’ had been the name of the center where I had to go along with other friends – or classmates – to write the eggjam. The college changed the idea of modern which I had for quite a long time. I thought a college with such a name should have clean classrooms, air-conditioned or something like that, fashionable and stylish, ahead of times.

As I started moving in the corridor of college (modern college), all I could get was the stinking wee-wee smell, the battered  classrooms were not even close to my notion of modern ; there were no ventilation in the classrooms; the windows were all at their worst condition ; everything looked as though it wasn’t renovated for a decade or so.

The invigilator sat on the chair, her legs crisscrossed. The students kept staring at the answer papers (booklets) which were distributed to them. A very strange kind of a paper it was. In the answer sheet there were too many instructions to be followed, which I, for one, could not understand, nor could the other students, they all looked bemused. We’re all hoping that the invigilator might say something about the instructions, but she didn’t.

Time was running out of hand, suddenly some students spoke unanimously, “Ma’am, won’t you tell us anything about the instructions?”

“Oh, do I need to?” asked the invigilator, total surprised. The invigilator, then, started speaking a foreign language until the moment someone interrupted pleadingly, “Ma’am, English please!”

Soon she obliged to speak in English, but then, she was murdering English, and someone had to tell her once again, “Ma’am, please switch on to a different language, if possible, Hindi.”

She herself wasn’t aware of how to fill the instructions on the booklet, “Just give me a moment,” she said and went out to the other class room, I assume to ask the other invigilator about the instructions. She came back, told us what to do and what not to do.

While filling the instructions it took us more than twenty minutes. That meant we had to write the answers at a bullet pace ( faster than Toronto express ), out of two hours, twenty minutes were gone!

I was amazed at the skills some of my fellow examinees possessed, the skills of cheating I mean. Some wrote the answers beforehand on their fingers, on their nails, legs, toes, palms, almost everywhere. And though it was strictly prohibited to carry any kind of papers, I saw some students seemingly gleefully inserted their hands into their pockets and brought out small pieces of paper in which the font size of the letters were perhaps lesser than four. One more thing is that the students were asked not to write anything on the question papers, but who cared? They wrote it anyway, and played pass-pass with the question papers, as long as the invigilator did not see.

I heard a continuous beeping sound and looked around to find where it was coming from. A guy who sat next to me was punching the keys of his cell phone. I kept staring at him for few seconds unbelievably, “What are you looking at?” he bellowed and clutched his headgear.

“You are brave,” I commented. He smiled and clutched his headgear once again, and said boldly, “I’m a Sardar!”

Now, the invigilator heard the beeping sound and found where it was coming from, she shouted: “Yanna Rascalla!” and, with that, I knew the invigilator must be a Tamilian or a huge fan of Rajnikant, moreover she smelt of coconut and coffee as she walked past me. She got the hold of the brave Sardar’s phone, and gave a warning, which, I believe, was the first as well as the last warning.

I was writing with full concentration when all of a sudden a hulk of a man came inside the classroom, spitted paan(betel leaf combined with areca nut) stained saliva from the window of the classroom to the ground, and said boastfully and mercilessly: “ Stop writing. Time’s up!”

That took me by total surprise. At that time I didn’t even write for forty-five marks, the paper consisted of sixty marks. I think I’m amongst one of the slowest writers in the world, but then, what I write makes sense. The invigilator after collecting the other students’ paper came to me and asked to submit the paper; I was reluctant to do that. The invigilator, then, started snatching the paper from me. “Wait,” I protested, “Let me write, or else I’ll fail.”

“Give!”

“Wait!”

“Give, I said!”

“Wait, I said,” I retorted then added, “Please.”

This went on for two minutes or so. I knew all answers, but the invigilator was adamant and persisted that I should submit the paper; I had no other option left, so I gave up.

Depressed. What does my future hold?

I was depressed (still am) and all other papers (except for one) after the first paper did not go as per my expectations, I’m just hoping to get the passing mark, that’s it and nothing more.

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS

A Letter To My Ex-Girlfriend

NB: This letter is supposedly written in a drunken state of mind

“““““““““““““““““““““““““““““`

O personality of sinful actions!

I’m sorry that I need to write this letter to you, but I really need to do it. As I write to you I’m drinking to my heart’s content in a bar; with my left hand I’m holding a bottle of wine, –my only company at the moment– and with my right hand I’m scribbling and doodling on a piece of paper all the high thoughts which are clouded with sadness over my mind. Believe me; believe everything I write, people here complain that I’m excessively drunk, and that, time has come for me to leave the bar… you see, it’s just 3 o’clock in the morning, and they want me to leave, morons! They are not people, as I see them, they are potatoes… no! They are lizards, no, no they are dragons. Ha ha ha! I’m drunk!  I’m drunk!  Drunk, drunk… drunnnkkk! achoo!  Am I drunk?

I ordered the waitress to pour me the 100^th glass of wine a while ago, now she comes, she looks dashing in her attire, three quarter’s full is her face, she is not a potato, she is an angel, and her ruby-red lips tempts me to have a word or two with her. She gives me a wink and is pouring down the wine hesitantly. But why is she hesitating to serve her customer? Perhaps she doesn’t want me to get over drunk; [doesn’t she know I’m over drunk already?] Why is she being caring, does she like me?  I know, she’d like me now but at last she’d turn as knavish as you were. So let me better concentrate on the letter –the words are flying though, or so I see– and not get trapped this time, for I’m already too weak in the heart. Let me pour my blue blue heart out by writing when the lovely waitress pours down the red red wine on my glass. Truth comes out from the heart when a person is drunk, also speaks of love and hate, but truth and only truth a person speaks when chemically imbalanced he is made.

Hold on, let me take a sip, and my mind’s chain let me unzip.

Done.

Ah, yuck! It’s as bitter as you were! Your bitter love and thoughts are running through my heart and spine and brain and… aha… ah… achoo!

What I intend now to say is… is… is… I loved you truly; I liked your smile, your laugh, and your beautiful black glistening eyes, I liked the curl of your hair, I liked the touch of your soft skin, I liked your sexy voice, and I liked your smell, too… I liked everything about you … But you broke my heart, You… You… You… broke my heart! You broke the heart of the greatest literary figure of 21^st century, you shall never be forgiven for that, mind you!

Now, a potato comes to me and puts in his hands on the pocket of my Levis jeans, takes out my purse and a wad of thousand rupee notes from it, I say nothing, instead, I give him the rest of the money –coins– I’ve on the other pockets of my pant and shirt.

Am I drunk?

I feel like vomiting and the world seems upside down, I try to move but every time I try, I fall down, and I’m falling down now. A gorgeous young woman is helping me to stand straight by slipping her arms around my hips; I keep staring at her and finally say: ‘chick, I like your boobs, they bounce well.’ As I said that, instead of getting a ‘thank you’ from her, I hear an echoing sound as though someone has slapped someone hard on the face, but who has slapped whom? Now a lizard approaches me, a speaking lizard it is, and utters something like: ‘Don’t beat this man, he is drunk.’ As he speaks he points his finger at me, ah, he’s referring to me, and the wicked woman just slapped me! She is a bitch! But I couldn’t feel any pain; perhaps the wine has made me stronger. Now, I want to see if any damage has occurred to my precious face by the slap of that disgusting woman. Looking at mirror I see: one me, two me, three me, four me, five me, oh! What the fuss is all about? What is happening? I am drunk, drunk, drunk, I am… brmmmmmmppp!

Tell you what. [What?]  Since the time you left me, I’ve realized that I’m a good-looking man with whom many girls want to spend time. You see, love is really blind for it blinded me and I could see no one but you and only you. But, now my eyes are wide open, and I’ve awakened from the deep slumber of your bitter love. And what is this I see? I see everything as I wished they were. Believe me, even Angelina Jolie is saying she’s tired of Brad Pitt, and she’s more than willing to let her children call me their dad. She says she’d help sign me a deal with Warner Bros! That means I’ll be the next Superman of Hollywood.

But, to hell with that life! I don’t want to be with Angelina Jolie or any other girls. I’m a man of integrity, you know. I cannot act like the bollywood’s hitman Emraan Hashmi who asks for sugar from every less seductive girl, and tries to dip his beak in every other girl.

How are you? How is your new love? Caught a big fish this time, eh? Hope you’ve told him that you would love him till the end of your life just like you told me once. This perhaps you’ve said to gazillion of other guys foolish enough to have fallen for you. Tell me; tell me, what magic spell did you whisper this time? Hope your new love is from a wealthy family, unlike me. I’m sure he can take you to expensive theatre and buy popcorn for you every now and then; he can give you treats at McDonalds on a daily basis, buy ice-cream for you as and when you demand. Wish I was in a position to take care of all your whims and fancies. I apologize.

Did you give him all those nicknames by which you used to call me: My baby, my bacha, my janu, my shonu, my darling, my golu, etcetera, and etcetera?

Do warn your new love not to glance at any other girls passing by; let him behave as saintly as possible.  He should receive the same treatment as I did. Now, I have known being possessive is your birthright and known that ‘possessiveness’ is a word solely reserved for you; don’t worry, I’ll never interfere in your matters as you’re not mine anymore, but for sure you can interfere with my life as much as you want, for I’m still slightly yours. I’ve learnt to let anger live and die within me without letting it outburst (thanks to the anger management book I’ve read recently), I can now swallow my anger for I’ve known the outcome of a decision one makes while one is angry is always devastating. However, don’t think that I want you back. No, no, I don’t.

A person can get used to anything. As they say, time heals everything. Only in the beginning it seems painful, but when a person starts drinking (just like me) it is not going to be painful for the rest of a person’s life. Wine keeps me rocking all of the time nowadays. I know, your memory won’t be erased entirely in such a short period of time, but the more I drink the more it helps.  With more massive hangovers I’ll be able to abandon your thoughts from my mind

Hey Honey, how are you? How is your new love? Do you think I’m drunaaaaak?

So how are you ……? Who am I…?

BRETHREN, FRIENDS, COUNTRYMEN, AND FELLOW SUBJECTS NEVER EVER LOVE A BITCH!

Signing off,

Yours but not yours,

The King of the world

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS

Yes, I love you!

 

“I – um – er – I mean – well I – I think – huhh – I mean to say – ahh – that is – I – la – la – la – love you!!”

Mustering up all my courage finally I told her that I love her, although my stammering and hesitation made it sound quite awkward, for sure. But there was immeasurable love in my awkwardness which made her (the girl, I like the most, and of course, love the most on earth) smile and laugh out loud.

“Huh, come again?” she asked turning to my side, her black eye caught my brown eye, and my heart started beating faster and faster. She acted as if she didn’t understand what I was saying, or maybe she just wanted to hear the words one more time. Magical were the words!

My heart’s wish was to be by her side all the time, I can breathe better when she is around. I adhered to and obeyed what my heart wanted, and once again I blurted out the three golden words. Boldly! This time, loud and clear. I didn’t care at all if she was going to mock at my condition or whatsoever; it was my desire to say the words, and it was imperative to let her know what I felt about her so that no other guy could get hold of her.

As I said the three most precious words in English I saw few costly drops of tears rolling down her check, I handed her the scarf that I was holding in my hand, and she wiped her tears away. I don’t know what made her cry, I thought my saying of the words had hurt her, and made her cry. Therefore, I asked her: “My dear, tell me. Tell me why you cry lest I should never forgive myself.”

She stopped crying and smiled a little – I don’t know if that was a real smile or a fake one – but that was just enough to relieve me of the pain I was going through and she said, “Oh dear, you know not how much I love you. I’ve been waiting for this day, and today after two years of knowing each other you have finally said it. You can’t fathom how happy I am!”

“Dear, I wanted to propose to you earlier, but I never had the guts to do so. But hey, look here, I do it today,” I immediately responded.

I always loved her, but the only word I used was ‘like’, never ‘love’ and she always used the word ‘we‘ – (like  ‘we are there for you, don’t feel lonely ‘we’ stand by you‘). Still now I don’t understand who that ‘we‘ refereed to. I wanted to hear her say the word ‘I’ – (something like ‘I’m here for you’). I never considered myself worthy enough to get her love: first of all I’m a poor guy from a poor family, my status among my friends was very low. But I knew she liked me just as I did, for she sometimes said too many caring words when I was a little low, she tried to understand my situation, and when I was angry or frustrated, she consoled me many a times and cracked jokes that made me laugh, and I liked that more than anything else. She made me go crazy, like a little child I fell for her charm.

Today I find what a big fool I was! What a fool I was to have never proposed and say my heart’s words to this pretty, lovely, young, dazzlingly beautiful girl. Oh, she loves me. Yes she does!

“Now, since you love me and I love you, may we kiss?” I asked impatiently. She said not a word, I assumed she had no problem if I did that, as I got my lips closer to her lips, she indicated no displeasure and then I kissed and kissed and kissed a little more. So delicate were her ruby-red lips, I touched her soft little hands, her silky, shiny, long strand of hair bumped on my face. Right then, it started raining. Oh, what a romance it was and we thanked God for arranging everything so perfectly and creating such a romantic atmosphere just like in the movies –romance was in the air and we could feel it and smell it.

We couldn’t resist our temptation and started kissing  each other once again when all of a sudden someone pinched me on my shoulder – it was a hard pinch, not a pinch of love but of anger. It pained, “Ouch!” I said and looked for the thorn in between two roses and found: my elder brother staring at me as if he was going to finish me at a single gulp.

“What the hell! Why are you here? And where is she?!” I was surprise to see him.

“Oye, it’s 9 o’ clock in the morning, won’t you go to college?” my brother shouted.

I noticed my premium pillow was partially wet as if rain poured on it, but there was no way water could seek into the room; there was not even a single hole on the ceiling of my room. I tried to reason that out for five minutes and later realized: it was the consequence of my passionate kisses!

“Yes, I will,” I said, and got up from my bed.

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS

 

Love can happen twice but . . .

Bloody mosquitoes

 

 

Shit, I can’t be here any longer. Oh, the foul-smelling things!

They moved forward by leaps and bounds and straight from the gutter entered my modest abode, which is near the pond; it was in fact a paradise for them. Just like the CIA, they collected and coördinated intelligence and counterintelligence activities. When I was sitting on my chair, staring at the computer screen wearing my boxer shorts and a banian, I noticed a member of the mosquito clan trying her best to rest her gruesome body on my athletically built body, she made much a fuss and moved and danced around my head producing strange sounds which I never heard before, something like: frmmmmmm…. Frmmmmm.

I tried to move away to a different direction of my room without harming her, but wherever I went, she accompanied me just like a parasite and sung many a jungly songs again and again. With the keenest interest, she inspected my body, actually, the tastiest part of my body, and when she found out which that part was, with a lot of eagerness she revealed her evil intention of sucking my red thick blood, and slowly she started thrusting her wicked sharp-edged knife on my body and after awhile, the nasty thing was inside me, it felt like the doctor’s injection. Ah, what a pain it caused!

When one had accomplished the evil task, the others took their course of action, it was a never-ending phenomenon, and one by one they satisfied their appetite, and there I was rubbing the portion where they attacked me to lessen the pain, just in vain though.

Meanwhile a murderous rage got the better of me and I wanted to see them dying, I wanted to rip apart their fluttering wings and if their dead body could have been of any use to the ants, I wanted to offer the mosquitoes’ body to the ants absolutely free of cost, if it was of no use even to the ants, then I wanted to burn the mozzies on the fire and fulfill my desire of taking the revenge, but I was fed up of tiring my hands by clapping them together, and never finding anything in between when I unfolded my hands.

All my attempts proved a big flop; I changed my strategy and implemented some easy way to kill them, I bought a mosquito coil by paying Rs 20 from the market, I Lighted it during the night and dozed off hoping to see their end by morning, but alas! The smoldering coil had no effect on the bloody mosquitoes, and with their vicious demeanor, they woke me up while I was asleep in the middle of the night, they started torturing me once again with their knife, I found some of the mosquitoes completely relaxed and sitting on the coil instead of moving away from it. Right then, I vowed never to buy a Chinese product in my life!

I was going wild and I was furious at my condition, their bulging belly made them unable to fly and every time they tried to fly, they fell down as their wings didn’t have the capacity to pull their overweight body which otherwise is very thin and lean. I could have killed them one by one, but no, I felt quite helpless, I was feeling very weak to do anything apart from sleeping once again.

 

That’s how I came to this hospital, the smell of all the medicines is unbearable; my father admitted me here as I was suffering from fever and headache, and learnt from the doctors that I’m suffering from malaria, while some of the patients beside are suffering from AIDS, Tuberculosis, pneumonia, cancer, and the names can go on.

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS

 

My Torturing Hair

Oh, my goddamned hair!
Are they really my hair?
Or are they some telephone wire?
With me, why can’t they be a little fair?
Like Maggie my hair whirl
And like cyclone they twirl

Strong as nylon
And no effect of thunder-storm
Thicker than an inch, so inhumanely!
Manufactured on my head so gruesomely!

Wash your utensils economically
Use my hair abundantly
Cut with axe or use your sophisticated weaponry
For my hair are harder than trigonometry

Chopping my hair
I end up my misery
Resembling a military
Finally, I live a life full of dignity!

Copyright © 2012 RAMU DAS