An Act Of Defiance

 I passed over to him my passport at the counter; he took a look at it and then looked at me. He didn’t stamp my passport, instead he said “take that exit corridor the officer there will guide you further” I didn’t like the tone of his voice, but I had no other go I had to take his word as I walked over to exit door  where a queue had now formed, I looked over to the other passengers making their way to the luggage counters, their eyes momentarily resting towards the direction of the exit corridor. A handful of heavily guarded army officers were stationed along with an immigration officer specially assigned to the “exit corridor” I joined the queue. The man in front of me, turned to me and said “they are going to kill us all like how they killed the Jews and the rest of the nation is just going to watch us all get killed”. A sudden gloom took over me, maybe he was right but I hoped otherwise. This was not the right time to come back to this god forsaken nation but I haven’t heard from my family in months, the last I heard they were taken to an unknown concentration camp somewhere in India.

The exit corridor immigration officer examined my passport. He stamped my passport and said”move along” mustering all my courage and as politely I could I asked”Sir could you please tell me, where this corridor leads to?” I didn’t get any reply from him but instead I heard over my shoulder
“move along you muslim fuck” the army office who took the pain to answer me then hit my shoulder with the edge of his Ak-47 rifle, I didn’t fight back, I didn’t say a word back, I looked at him like a hurt mute animal, he then pushed me through the exit to a corridor that had no windows, a straight path that led to another room, guarded by another set of armed officers. They didn’t speak a word to anyone who came through the door; they grouped us all together men in one group, women and children in another. All muslims who came in from the flights from all over the world were now being detained in holding cells. There was tension building among the people, loads of questions and uncertainties, we were made to wait there for a while, more people joined the holding cells, all of them confused, more questions and more uncertainties, they had now reached a tripping point, some were losing their temper but we got no answers.

They started emptying the holding cells, they made us walk in a long file to the open grounds of the airport, it was evening now and we were given neither water nor food. I felt a pang of hunger mixed with dread, the combination wreaking my already tired legs, each step ahead felt heavy; I prayed for strength, I got none.

We were told to board a truck, they started separating the women and men again, more army officers poured in, they were rude, there was a lack of respect even towards women, there were children crying, women wailing, men arguing, I stood by the sidelines watching the mayhem unfold, there were slaps and heavy blows dealt to those who resisted, shots were fired into the air. All those who protested fell back in line quietly and quickly, I stood watching all of this, thinking; show your might and men would naturally crumble and bow down before arms, accept defeat without putting up a hard fight, but I am a coward too, I didn’t protest either. As I boarded an already overcrowded truck I couldn’t stop thinking of what must have become of my family, the thought kept coming back to me that last phone call my father had made telling me that the whole nation has gone insane, that all our assets were frozen, that every muslim men women and child in the neighborhoods were being told to report to certain locations within the city and that those who failed to show up would be forced. My father being a peaceful man who avoided any form unpleasant confrontations decided to take the family and go to the said location, I never heard from them again.

My initial rage at being mishandled, the initial disbelief that this was happening to me now vanished and was replaced by this sense of harsh reality, reality was waking up within me. Coming back was a mistake but staying away and not making an effort to find my family a sin, I began to worry deeply what must have become of them; I began to wonder what would become of me. The women, men, and the older children were separated had all finally boarded, echoes of crying and wailing, I made myself as numb I could. Our hand luggage's were taken away, my passport now held a seal that read”Passport Invalid” all this because I was born a Muslim in the wrong era, in the wrong country. The trucks started moving followed by a squad of army men in a jeep. 

I felt like an outcast, I am an outcast. After 15 years of right wing Hindu radical democratically elected political party rule, it had finally come down to this, the rounding up of the muslim population of India, in the last few months. They call us outsiders. They say we don’t belong to this soil, because Muslims came to India with the Mughal invaders. Their political logic that the descendants of those Muslim invaders who stayed behind are still invaders that they don’t belong to India, that we don’t belong to India, that I don’t belong to India. They say we are a burden to the nation, they say we do nothing other than steal the livelihoods of the indigenous Indian people, so they say should be rounded up and be forced to pay the nation back what they say was rightfully theirs, they say we should be sent to concentration camps where we can be then used for the benefit of the nation. I have read somewhere, history repeats itself often, here was the proof and this was happening right before my own eyes. The man next to me said “wiki leaks say the excess work force is being executed, can you believe this?” I didn’t want to listen any further; I didn’t want to believe in those rumors, a part of me just didn’t want to believe.

It was still evening, the truck carrying us all cramped up together moved along a steady pace. The children on the streets threw stones at our truck and many bystanders were egging them on, calling us names. I looked into the eyes of my countrymen, for help, for an ounce of hope, but they looked the other way. There was fear in the eyes of my countrymen, I saw defeat there, I saw shame there, maybe when they looked into my eyes, they saw the same too, my fear my defeat and my shame.

It was night now, the truck had been traveling for a while, it started raining a very slow drizzle, we all drank the rain water thanking the heavens for this ounce of mercy, and we were all wet now. I used to love this rain but tonight I took no joy in it, foreboding of an impending doom, nobody spoke a word, maybe they were all regretting their decision to come back to this wretched nation, pondering about the hours and days to come. They took us to the far end of the city, the other trucks that started along with us were nowhere to be seen our one truck followed by a lone army vehicle, where did the other trucks go? I tried not to think too deep into that matter. They told us to get down, it was pitch dark except for the lights of the army vehicle and that of the truck, and it was still drizzling. After we got down they made us walk in a line to the front of the truck, in that yellow light they took a head count, they took our passports and ordered us to stand in a straight line, one next to the other. One man tried to make a daring escape, he was shot, a single shot to his back. The sound of gunfire numbs my ears.

 Panic, then calm and an eerie resolve. The officers now screamed at us, ordering us to turn and look away from the truck, we all did as we were told, I looked at the man next to me, the last face I would ever see, I said “Asalamu Alikum” he smiled and replied “Wa Alaikum Aslaam” the last smile I would ever see. He then did something unexpected, he turned to face the army officers and stood his ground, I don’t know why but I turned along with him and I too stood my ground, my last act of defiance. They opened fire at us all; I felt the bullets zip through me, as I fell, knee first. I thought to myself I should have asked him, his name.

Mithun.M.K

Tobacco Lepers

“Get out of here before you infect us all you filthy pig!” the man took a hurried step away from the hostile crowd. “We don’t want your kind near us! Don’t touch him Billy, he could be contagious.” His walk turned into a sprint and he disappeared into an ally, a rag of a blanket his only possession that offered protection from the cold. The locals usually left him alone – barring a few schoolchildren who hurled pebbles at him on their way home every evening, he was allowed to stay unmolested in a neglected corner of the public park. But a woman had succumbed to lung cancer in the town hospital last night and public anger was now high. “SECOND-HAND SMOKE MURDERS ANOTHER! HOW MUCH LONGER CAN WE TOLERATE SMOKERS?” was the local headline. The man found himself harassed wherever he went today, mindful that were he to run into a group of real bullies, they would probably kick him to death.

Rumors of the government establishing a Smoker Colony, a desolate settlement on the borders of each city where smokers would be forced to live away from the rest of the world, had reached his ears about a month ago, though he had dismissed it back then as a myth. “We aren’t lepers,” he reasoned, “to be loaded up into buses and sent away to live out our existence in isolation. Even the non-smokers wouldn’t do that to us.” But he had been wrong. Smokers, including those who lived near temples and train stations without troubling a soul, were now being herded into police vans, after which they were never heard from again. Surprisingly, some handed themselves over to the authorities without a fuss, for they would at least be able to light up a Marlboro in this designated slum colony for smokers without having to look over their shoulders for a lynch mob. Besides, these measures were far better than the recommendations made to the government by People for the Extermination of Tobacco Addicts, an organization that championed human rights by procaliming humanity needed to be “cleansed” of smokers.

The man shuddered as his shivering hands struggled to hold on to the blanket, careful not to attract too much attention to himself. He had been kicked out of his house and fired from his job several years ago, when caught in the closet puffing away on a cigarette. Smoking, renamed ‘Tobacco Addiction’ after the Great PR War between pressure groups and tobacco companies (won by the former), is curable only if successfully spotted and diagnosed in its early stages. The man was already in his seventh year as a smoker when exposed; even advanced techniques like bombarding him with images that say “SMOKING KILLS” in a variety of colors had no effect on him.

Something has to be done about this discrimination, he told himself. Cars kill far more people per year than smoking does in an entire decade, but people with cars aren’t hounded and abused like we are. I shouldn’t be turned into a pariah for what I choose to do to MY body. Discrimination is evil! People cannot be looked down upon for the lifestyle choices they make as consenting adults! We won’t….his inner freedom-fighter rant froze as he walked past a fast food restaurant, where an overweight woman was busy assaulting a cheeseburger. The man felt a surge of anger as he watched her devour the cheese and mayonnaise with total disregard for the toll they would take on her physical appearance. 

“These fucking fatties are everywhere!” he muttered to himself, walking on. “They should just be sent away to camps and shot!”

-Nilan

Wedding Vows

I stared at my mom in dismay.
“You can’t do this to me,” I said.
“I’m sorry, dear, it’s just one of the things you have to put up with in life. Besides, all your aunts will be there and they want to see you.”
“If they want to see me they can always come home,” I grumbled. My mom pretended not to notice. I stomped back to my room, muttering curses under my breath, and slammed the door behind.
I had to attend my ‘distant’ cousin’s wedding. Worse, I had to wear a sari! Give me jeans and a sweatshirt any day, but a sari? I’d be tripping and falling over it a dozen times before we even reached there. I sulked and pouted for a week before the wedding, behaving typically like a teenager, and not the twenty-three-year old I was. My mom’s reaction to it was just two words. “Grow up.”
I don’t know why it irritated me more that she was right. Maybe being right all the time comes as a side-effect of gestation? If so I can’t wait to have children, so I could advice someone who’d at least listen to me. But if they are going to be anything like me, I doubt that.
Anyway, the whole marriage thing just freaks me out. At my age, marriage was akin to claustrophobia. I hate being told what to do or being dependent on anyone. Like most smart girls, I saw marriage as a lifetime imprisonment, a millstone around the neck, a violation of my freedom, etc. One-fourth of those who got married got divorced anyway, so what was the point? And arranged marriages are so archaic. The whole concept of marrying because of matching horoscopes seemed silly to me. I mean, what if the person you married was a chain smoker and you married him without knowing it? Or what if he snored in bed or frowned upon the books you loved or movies you liked watching? Or if you two have absolutely nothing in common to even talk about and are bound to each other for the rest of your lives? It would be like putting a scientist and a punk artist together. But I kept my thoughts to myself, so as not to give a heart-attack to my grandmother and aunts, who couldn’t wait to marry me off, like a particularly nasty cold they wanted to be rid of. Fat chance of that ever happening, I promised myself.
I was rudely woken up by my mom from a wonderful dream, involving me dancing in the rain with Shah Rukh Khan, at four o’ clock in the morning on Sunday. Which idiot ever decided to fix the wedding on a Sunday? My mom turned a deaf ear to all my whining and complaining, punctuated by yawning every few minutes, as she helped me put on the sari. I reflected on how it would take me two minutes to pull on a salwar as opposed to the twenty minutes it took to fold and twist and wrap the green sari around my body. If I ever got married, I had to wear a sari for every bloody occasion. Another excuse to my list of why-not-to-marry excuses.
I wore a pretty silver chain and small studs on my four-times-pierced ear lobes, which my grandmother always found as an excuse to criticize. I refused point-blank to wear the heavy gold necklace and the matching dangling earrings she took out from the locker. She gave a what-has-happened-to-the-girls-of-today sigh and kept it back safely in, advising me to wear it at least for my marriage, which I promised her I would. If I ever gotten married.
I slept through the drive in the car, and woke up with a jolt when it came to a halt in front of the marriage hall. I looked out the window. It was only 5 o clock in the morning. The sun hadn’t even come up yet! The last time I’d been awake this early was during my last semester exams.
“Take that frown off your face, and put on a bright smile, dear,” my mom said as she got out of the car. “Anyone would think we dragged you here in chains.” She looked lovely, despite her age, I admitted. Her chocolate brown colour sari swept around her like a ball gown, and made her look years younger.
I plastered a wide smile on my face and said, “Is this bright enough for you?”
She was not impressed one bit. “You are only making a fool of yourself,” she said in that maddening, mom’s-always-right tone again. My dad, dressed in a silk dhoti and a light brown shirt, gave a non-committal shrug, stifling a yawn, and took my mother’s hand as he led her in. He too would have preferred to spend the day lounging in the sofa, watching a cricket match. I knew he at least sympathized with me.
The smile on my face turned to a grimace as I was greeted by ear-splitting music that blared from the five-feet-tall speakers on either side as I entered. I stuffed my fingers in my ears till we passed the speakers, and then heaved a sigh of relief. Boy, if this was their way of welcoming people, there was going to be less of a crowd than at a Bangladesh vs. Netherlands cricket match on Indian turf. Unfortunately, the hall was full of people, a parade of silks in all colours, and laughter and chatter flowing around despite the hour and the din of the music. I had to shade my eyes against the glare of the gold and diamonds flashing at the neck, chest and earlobes of each and every one. People greeted each other with enthusiasm, slapping each other’s backs, kissing and hugging as if they were meeting them after years, which was probably true. Marriages are the only occasions everyone turns up for. No one wants to pass up the offer of free food.
I smiled at everyone in general, and tried not to trip over my sari and high heels. My mom was swept off into the growing crowd, but not without a warning glance at me. Sheesh, I knew how to behave; I’m not a silly teenager. After greeting and chatting briefly with all my aunts and uncles, I found myself a secluded corner, and a cup of hot coffee, and decided to watch the going-on’s from my vantage point. I told myself this was a lesson on human relations.
The whole hall was the scene of intense activity. The bride’s harassed-looking father hurried about, clutching his silk dhoti with one hand, welcoming everyone. The groom’s relatives swaggered about as if they owned the place. People bustled about, drinking coffee, exchanging pleasantries and idle chitchat, and at the dais, in the front, the groom sat with the pujari, repeating chants after the former, looking very sombre. Probably, mourning for the last few moments of his bachelorhood. The bride was still dressing up, I guessed.
The women looked happy, probably because they didn’t have to cook at least today, and the men looked happier, probably because they didn’t have to eat their wives’ meals today. The sheer number of relatives was overwhelming. One lady, who looked like she was a contestant for the “biggest loser challenge”, ambushed me and claimed to be my third aunt’s sister’s husband’s cousin. She pinched my cheeks not-too-gently and commented that I reminded her of one of her uncle’s sister’s daughters. I very much wanted to tell her who or rather, what, she reminded me of, but I decided not to flap my gums. I was left rubbing my sore cheek as she waddled away, but my relief at her departure was short-lived as another one, who made the previous one look thin, wandered up to me and ploughed on like a steam engine. I put on a fake smile and listened to her, nodding my head, like I used to do in college while pretending to listen to the lecturer. I interrupted her droning with a “that sounds fascinating, but I really should go. I want to help my mom with, err, the flowers.” She smiled and said, “of course, what a responsible girl you are.” I walked away, rolling my eyes.
I watched the ‘’ Kasi Yatra”, the swing ceremony, and the rest of the fanfare from a safe distance. I had nothing against the customs, of course, but I just wasn’t inclined to follow them myself.
Another thing that irritated me was that they all knew I was, according to them, of marriageable age. I was bombarded with some subtle, and some not-so-subtle hints about how I should start shopping for my wedding trousseau, learning how to cook, and how to show respect to elders, blah blah. The shopping I wouldn’t have minded, but as for the cooking, my culinary skills extended to making bread toast and frying eggs. I side-tracked all their questions as politely as I could manage, and slipped off to find a refuge before they started showing me photographs of ‘prospective grooms’, all of whom, they assured me, were either good looking, successful business executives, or big-muscled sports persons. Nowhere were the words ‘smart’, ‘understanding’ or ‘practical’ used. One of the women even claimed her son was shy and didn’t speak much to girls. I didn’t point out that I had seen the very man flirting with one of the serving girls in a corner of the kitchen.
I was just starting to get really bored when the crowd parted, and I saw a tall, handsome man in a black Sherwani, walking in from the door. He looked rather dashing, like one of those old-time heroes. I imagined him in a dark suit, at a club, saying “A vodka martini on the rocks, shaken, not stirred”, Bond style. The girl in me gave a long, appreciative whistle, and I tried not to drool. Finally, I told myself, this wedding is starting to look interesting. I took a step forward but someone brushed past me and I caught sight of a long mane of sleek black hair and a rich, peacock blue designer sari, before the woman launched herself on the guy, my guy, and hugged him hard enough to make me grit my teeth. He responded with equal fervour, laughing and hugging her. Strike out, I thought gloomily.
I decided I had had enough of this wedding, and was just about to find my mother and tell her I was leaving, when everyone began to get excited. The time had come for the grand finale-the tying of the ‘thaali’ around the bride’s neck. The image of a noose came to my mind, but I edged forward with the others, hoping to glimpse the momentous occasion. I caught sight of the bride’s face as she sat patiently on her father’s lap, while her husband-to-be continued the chanting, according to the pujari’s instructions, holding the yellow thread in his hand. A kaleidoscope of emotions raced on her face, as she stared up at her man, and he, down at her. In that moment just before the pujari gave the signal to the drummers, they stared at each other, two individuals giving up all bonds to become one, to live together for the rest of their lives, to share joy, sorrow, and most importantly, their love. And that was what, it suddenly struck me, marriage was all about. Love. The love and the happiness they gave each other and to others. He smiled at her, a radiant smile, and she gave him one in return, while tears ran down her cheeks, as he tied the knot around her neck three times, to the loud beating of drums, signifying the union. Everyone cried, hugged and congratulated each other, and suddenly they all seemed closer to each other, the bond running through all of them clearly visible and strong. I saw my mother wipe a tear from her eye, and lay her head on dad’s shoulder, as if imagining my wedding. I couldn’t help the small lump in my throat.
Lunch was a noisy affair, but the food was great and finger-licking tasty. I laughed with my father as he made comments about how some people made kesari that tasted like mud, giving a surreptitious glance at my mom. My mother frowned at him, but I saw her lips twitch when he turned away. I was amused, but kept my mouth shut. I was really enjoying myself. I actually felt a twinge of regret the day had to come to an end.
My mom was surprised to see me smiling, genuinely, as we started to leave.
“So how did you find it?” she asked.
“Well, it was boring at first, but I think the idea of marriage is catching up to me after all. At least I managed to trip and fall only twice.”
My mom laughed. “Your grandmother will be so proud.”
I gave another smile as we settled down in the car. It had turned out to be quite an interesting day. And, best of all, I had finally managed to work up a conversation with the good looking guy I’d seen. He gave me his cell phone number and invited me to a cup of coffee. I sat back in the car, contented with the world.
Oh, and that girl I saw with him? She was his sister.


Ranjini Ragunath is a humourist, her works look at the simplicity of life through comically dramatic eyes. Wedding vows first appeared in the starting issues of the “New Woman Magazine” she can be found at  http://myworksnstuff.blogspot.in/

The Conspirators

"lets kill Him"-whispers in the night

"this nation needs him not
lets kill him before the dawn breaks
i want all to see him dead
we should hang him by the banyan tree
and make a parade of it
the future will spit at his grave
let them bury or burn him as they wish
but first, lets kill Him"

"that old man is a fool
non violence is a dreamers game
lets behead that outdated
philosopher of our times"

"lets burn him
I want to hear him scream"

"No! No! We shoot him I want his blood spilled"

"Why not stab?
Him be Caesar and we be his Brutus"

"We shoot him. It’s quick and wise.
But beware comrades
when the echo of our guns die
and the warmth of his blood fades
they will hunt for us"

"they will burn our children
and sell our wives."

"They will call us Muslim and traitors
our patriotism will be in vain"

"so much for non violence"

"traitors of today, martyrs of tomorrow
history a teacher, none can ignore.
we need to save our nation
lets not waste time
lets kill Him"

Traitors in the dark
they waited hiding for Him
The old man his walking stick
And single piece of cloth
Such a disgusting sight
Even the pope wouldn’t see him.
They came out of hiding
They all took aim
the first shot was fired
and he said hey ram
the second shot was fired
A 100 years later
The nation burnt his effigy
the third shot was fired
He died
The fourth man stabbed him
Just to be sure.

-Mithun.M.K

Vichu's Night

Once upon a time, in a peaceful village far, far away, there lived a poor farmer all the villagers called Vichu. Despite his monetary inadequacy, he was a kind and gentle soul. He was considered by his peers to be an honest, harmless man - one with a spotless history of goodwill and decency. He was a classic example of the "poor man with a heart of gold" cliche in morality tales preaching virtue over vice. If he was a character in a work of fiction for children, it was all but certain that he would live happily ever after. In brief, he was a good guy.

Predictably, an Angel visited him one fateful day while he chopped wood in the forest. After an initial near-tragic misunderstanding (for his frightened reaction was to swing his axe at the apparition), the Angel explained, much to Vichu’s delight, the purpose of this semi-divine visit. It had been decided in Heaven that, as a reward for his staunch dedication to honesty and compassion, he be made wealthy enough to become the richest man in the village. Vichu would only have to pass a simple test to collect the money, one that could pose no problem to a man of his integrity.

"All you have to do," said the Angel, "is resist the temptation of the Demons, our rivals. A demon will visit your house at midnight in the form of a lovely maiden. Treat her as you would any traveler who sought refuge under your roof, but do not fornicate with her or laugh at her anecdotes on sodomy. She will disappear by dawn. I will meet you in the morning with sufficient pots of gold to ensure you spend the rest of your life in luxury." Vichu rigorously nodded, thrilled at his luck. "But beware!" warned the Angel, "If you succumb to those temptations, not only will we deprive you of the wealth, you will spend the rest of your life a homeless leper, your former friends and neighbors laughing at what a fool you are!" and vanished. Vichu went home a happy man, his life seemed to have taken the inevitable turn for the better.

As with most cruel tales however, things refused to unravel the way they ought to. The demon visited him as foretold, in the form of a ravishing young woman whose curves made even Vichu’s pious eyes dance with every movement she made. The demon was without equal in the art of seduction and Vichu was a mere mortal; innocent and inexperienced on all matters carnal. He stood no chance. The night transformed into an unexpectedly torrid one, not only could the walls hear ample laughter on subjects like sodomy, they witnessed the unfettered practice of it, followed by several similar acts of deviance involving a variety of vegetables, Vichu’s talent for mimicry and a string of rope that was hastily carved into a jute whip.

The Angel was furious in the morning, fuming at the farmer’s betrayal of all that was pure to all that was vile. The semi-divine wrath was devastating; his house was reduced to a small pile of ash, every cell of his body was infected with leprosy and he was forced to roam the village to beg for survival. When his neighbors and friends heard the story, some shook their heads in disapproval and some laughed at how foolishly he had behaved. Most were just baffled that a man as noble as Vichu could sacrifice a lifetime of luxury from Heaven for a night with a demonic seductress.

Several years later, his limbs in an advanced state of decay, his once admirable reputation lost, his pride destroyed at having had to beg his former friends for food, Vichu squatted at the edge of the village when he was visited by the Angel again. "Well!" thundered his punisher, "you have nothing in your life now but agony and humiliation! The very people who once praised you now warn their children to behave themselves if they wish not to become you! Your treachery has deformed your body and when you die your soul shall never attain salvation. What do you have to say for yourself?" Vichu flashed his rotting teeth in a smile that sent shivers down the Angel’s wings and said:

"What a night!"

- Nilan

Dumped

“He just dumped me.”
I choked on the piece of bread I was eating and looked up at my friend. 
“What?” I asked. She burst into tears and starting wailing loudly. People in the restaurant turned to stare at us. I automatically shifted into the sympathy mode, patting her shoulder and silently passing her a tissue, while wishing the old man at the next table would stop peering at us through his thick glasses and mind his own business. I signaled the waiter for a large scoop of chocolate ice cream. She blew her nose and looked at me through puffy eyes.“But why? I thought you guys had stopped fighting?” I inquired, infusing enough concern and anger in my voice as was expected of me. 


“He says he wants someone who is more practical and less emotional. What the hell does he mean by that? Am I the kind of person who makes a scene?” she screamed. I declined to point out that the whole restaurant was now staring at us avidly, more interested in her drama than the menu. Choosing the better of two evils, I hid my embarrassment and nodded my head in agreement, assuring her that she wasn’t emotional and that he was a jerk and that he didn’t deserve her. Fifteen minutes of who-needs-men and men-are-bastards and five hundred calories later, she calmed down enough to bring her voice down a notch. I mentally added another to her list of failed relationships, which was now at a staggering seven. 

I’ve known her since my school days and despite our many differences, we’ve always remained good friends. We tended to balance each other-she was dumb, I was smart (which is another way of saying I was a nerd); she was the ‘hot chick’ while I was the kind who is usually invisible to guys till exam time. Still we managed to remain friends through our school and college lives.

“Remember when I had my first break-up?” she asked. We were only fourteen then, at a time when we were just discovering new body parts, and the idea of having a boyfriend was nothing more than owning a shiny new doll, and something inspired by chick flicks we watched on weekends. The word ‘dumping’ meant nothing more than a few tears and was soon forgotten over a large tub of Arun ice cream. As we grew older, the size of the tub grew proportionally smaller and were accompanied by increasingly expensive shopping sprees. 

“Why do these things happen to me?” she said, looking up at the ceiling, as if all the Gods had specifically chosen to trouble her alone. I could have told her that she’d brought it onto herself but then she’d never listened to me. She could never stay single longer than a few months. I could not understand what she saw in the men she went out with, when it was plain to everyone else that they didn’t care for her more than they cared for their cars, and that they wanted only one thing from her.

“That’s not true. It’s not just about sex. I care about them and they care about me too,” she said, when I told her quite bluntly. I rolled my eyes. 
“This is men we are talking about. Words like ‘care’, ‘PMS’ and ‘commitment’ don’t figure in their dictionary,” I said. She looked at me and burst into tears again. I threw up my hands and fell back in my chair in frustration. 


Ok, I admit I was a weenie. I didn’t have the guts to tell her to her face that she was being silly and immature and that she needed to get a grip. That was just me. If I had a house of my own, the name plate would probably read D-O-O-R-M-A-T. 

It took me another half an hour of male-bashing and another large scoop of ice cream to make her stop crying. By the time the bill arrived, she was calm enough to stop blowing her nose and even offered to pay the bill, which I gladly let her do, taking it as my fee for being her sounding board and counselor. For the seventh time. In my own foolish way, I felt nice for having helped her by being such a good friend and being so sympathetic. 

We had just walked out of the restaurant when I remembered I’d left my car keys inside. I went back to get them. When I came out, she was standing there, talking to a guy. There was no trace of tears in her eyes and she was giving a sort of I’m-available pose- with one hand on her hip, her head slightly tilted and a sly smile on her face. He murmured something to her to which she gave a well-practiced husky laugh, and said, “Don’t be silly. I’m not that pretty!”

She turned to look at me and beamed as if the past one hour hadn’t happened at all. “He’s so cute, isn’t he?” she came up and whispered to me. Ignoring my stare, she said, “he’s just asked me if I could join him for a drive along the beach and I’ve said yes. What do you think?”

I looked from him to her and slapped myself three times. I walked to my car, shut the door and drove away, without looking back.


By, Ranjini Raguhunath 




Ranjini Raguhunath, is a humorist.It is easy to make someone cry with words or even write depressing short stories but it takes much much more to laugh at oneself and come out with flying colours.You can find other humorous works of Ranjini Raguhunath at http://myworksnstuff.blogspot.com/

Evasion

Planetoid, swimming across velvet celestial heights through ridges of solace and unbounded ecstasy,

Beyond the sway of grassy fields below, manipulated by the winds and their tempers,

Above control and subjection and through orgasmic artistry.

Come take this vanquished soul away into myriad sprays of stars and the astral everglades,

Away from archaic existence, benevolent monsters selling truth on the sidewalks,

Enraged and distorted eyes of the once hopeful, who now scream in songful rebellion
against humanity.

I watch mechanical minions walk into hidden burrows disguised by moralistic beasts,

Gussied up with glowing tales and shimmering lights,

And walk out as narcissistic drones, extinct of soul and jazz...memories erased, of

wonderful peculiarity and hysterical pleasures that burnt in endemic fury across the sands of

life and beneath the morose feet of father time.

Take me away, hovering spangels of the unknown, into a realm where dimensions walk through each other.

Where i could fly with you to the ends of the ocean of emptiness.

Steal me away in the depths of my dreams so when I wake up I will never remember what

reality was and the madness it chose not to appreciate, so I may remember every

bewildered dream, every phantasmal paralysis that haunts my slumber.

Throw me into the heart of a super nova and let me watch myself explode from out of reach,

Or plant in my heart a dark nebula that ravenously gnaws at my very being.

I'm done here.

No pride left to prove, No worthy lesson left to learn,

No dying or living ambition or soul revival,

Neither any friendships worth reminiscing about

Nor any chemically induced romanticism to muse on,

No confessions, no damnations.

Blind me Luna! and spill me into space so I may glide endlessly.

Split, tear and dismantle until I am one with the cosmos...

Loveless and forsaken skies, carry me away into the explosive moonlight, to heal,

 

Lying on the silvery crescent, and to my mind and body never return.

By Tracy Chatelier

Tracy Chatelier is a surrealist - her works are powerfully imaginative and have multiple layers of meaning stashed away (understood only by a few Tuna minds), but her words can be visualized by lesser mortals too - Like you! Find more of Tracy Chatelier at http://rhapsodiesofdisposition.tumblr.com/