Lectures meet Literary talent? Not!

Now this MUST be the effect of too much Arab-Israeli conflict.

Havent updated much lately, and this is the one 'poem' that I have with me and that I havent posted already so...

Although it must be said that the following is too poetic to be a newspaper article and too bland to be poetry. Note to self: The language I use for essay is starting to affect the way I write in general. Must Stop This. Needs editing though, dont have time or patiene to edit.

Eulogy for a suicide bomber.
Farah Tasneem Tracy



She wore her weapon of choice around her torso
A doomed corset of destruction hugging her fragile bones.
She looked across the street at the cafe- her nemesis, her assignment, her destiny.
A pack of office-returning shiny faces wearing shiny clothes enter into the café-
Laughing, talking as though this were a perfectly happy place;
And not the scarred, incomplete, unidentifiable piece of land
that spawned violence and bloodshed around the seasons.
She saw a little boy walk into the café with his father.
The boy’s face became the face of her little brother- her favorite companion.
Who was still smiling when they came- the nameless, faceless soldiers.
They shot her brother first and then her father.

She tasted fear in her dry mouth.
But this is revenge, she thought boldly.
She imagined the big explosion
Gray smoke, the smell of burnt skin
Pieces of hot human flesh- men, women, children- mingled in a death mess.
She thought of the smaller explosion.
The one inside her head.
Rage, despair, and hopelessness, causing havoc with her sense of reason and logic.
She imagined her own body blown to bits and pieces
Her pride- her beautiful, dark hair neatly tucked inside her scarf- charred and brittle.

She will die the death of a martyr, she thought valiantly.
A death many have died before her
And many will die after her.
Her soul will resurrect and inhabit the mind and body
Of another young avenging fellow countryman.
Countryman- inhabitants of a country that exists in their minds and hearts only.
They country that is their dream.
A small voice inside her regrets- but you have only lived so few springs.
But can you experience spring in Hell?, she asked back.
NO, you cannot.
I will leave one hell for another for in life heaven didn’t find me
And in death I won’t find heaven.
But the souls of the martyrs will celebrate the day our beloved motherland turns into heaven.

She crossed the street with proud, confident steps.
Her still eyes resolute- each second getting closer and closer to death.
Closer to end of cruelty and a ray of hope.

The faint sounds of the Magrib Azaan fades away into oblivion.
So does a few other insignificant lives.

WordCloud...I love em...

So I thought I would wait until I have posted enough entries before generating my next wordCloud..but I just couldnt resist...I love it ...

It Hurts...

It hurts..
It hurts at the very core of my being.
Body parts I didnt know existed hurt from the pain.
The pain in overarching, all-emcompassing.
It numbs all other feelings.
The pain engulfs the peripheries of my mind;
insulating me from all the joys around.
I cry a little everyday.
I dont know when I will have cried enough.
The sound of a love-struck heart breaking is muted;
but the loss is immense.
When the memories come crashing down
it is hard to stop the tears.
Too much to forget.
The mind doesnt know how to compartmentalize,
when feelings take possession over all other thoughts.
There is void, that threatens to stay.
There is a silence that cannot be overcome by noise.
Why does it have to hurt so much?
Maybe the pain will subside...maybe not.
Maybe the feelings will go away...maybe not.

Love Song

how i wish...

You Are A Romantic

You life your life like a fairy tale... or at least you try to. Living for magical moments, you believe there's only one true love for you. Love is the most important thing in your life, and you don't take it for granted. Your perfect match loves to be in love as much as you do!

Are You Romantic or Realistic?

my taste in music...?

Your Taste in Music:

Adult Alternative: High Influence 90's Alternative: Medium Influence 80's Alternative: Low Influence 80's Pop: Low Influence 80's R&B: Low Influence

How's Your Taste in Music?

I wish ..i WISH the following was true...

Your Dream Engagement Ring Has a Heart Diamond!

You wear your heart on your sleeve, so of course you should also wear it on your ring. A heart diamond is the perfect choice for highlighting your passionate disposition. Only a true romantic can get away with wearing this ring. Luckily, that's you. And only a true romantic can give you this ring, so make sure you find him...!

What's Your Dream Engagement Ring?

The return of blogthings...i just LOVE em

Capricorn - Your Love Profile

Your positive traits: You are serious about relationships and ready for a commitment. You tend to help your partner attain the success they dream of. You are a rock. Relationship problems don't seem to phase you. Your negative traits: Sometimes it's very hard for you to accept your partner's past. You are emotionally reserved, and difficult to connect with. You expect your partner to take care of you - and make cheat if they do not Your ideal partner: Is incredibly powerful and well respected. Is often older than you - and could be a superior at work. Has a good amount of money... or the ability to be rich someday. Your dating style: Practical. A "get to know each other" coffee date is just fine by you. Your seduction style: Bossy - you like to be the one in charge in the bedroom. Slow and patient. You know that good sex takes time. Calculating. You'll use sex to get ahead, if necessary. Tips for the future: Open up. A little emotional expression is a good thing in relationships. Leap before you look. You don't have to run a cost benefit sheet on everyone you date. Enjoy the now. No need to worry about marriage on the first few dates. Best color to attract mate: Dark green Best day for a date: Saturday

What's Your Love Profile?

My dream house test...I wish...i lived in a ...

color=#505A84>What`s your ideal DREAM house?

A Castle.

Your ideal house would be a castle, perched high on a hill far from the stress and worries of everyday life in the cities. You love the isolation from society and would prefer to spend time strolling through the forests and admiring (or shooting) the native wildlife that you encounter than deal with the hustle and bustle of the cities and modern day life.

Click Here to Take This Quiz Brought to you by YouThink.com quizzes and personality tests.

First day @ work!

How was first day at work? Well, it was everything and nothing I thought it would be. And it’s not even a full-time job!!!
The morning started with waking up late (NO I mean it, what is with this guy Murphy?).
Praying and wishing my way during the long commute resulted in me scraping through the department door at 9:00 sharp. Phew!
In the beginning it was all chaos. Having missed the TA orientation, I was at a loss about what I should do and shouldn’t do in order not to appear a complete fool. But then things fell into place. I met up with my colleagues, wonderful, helpful, accommodating people. I was very determined to get my work done on time, and hence lurked around near the computers to snatch a chance as soon as someone was done with their work. I prepared the student lists that I was required to do, looked around for my faculty, and filled up some workload sheet. In the midst of it I realized I hadn’t actually signed in the logbook. OOPS!
Well, you learn things and there are more things to learn. Today I learned to photocopy. Ok! So it’s not Rocket Science but it is a chore that TAs have to perform, so it would come in very handy in future.
I then spend some time helping out a colleague of mine with computer usage, yeah me the debutante TA! Howzzat!
And then it was way past my office hours! I ,being the epitome of efficiency, (okay, you’ll hear it only from me) had overworked for 35 minutes on my very first day at work!
Well, I don’t know if it sounds exciting and fun in writing, but it sure was all that on my first day at work!!!

OPEN UP!!!

Here’s yet another token from my book of treasures, it’s so old that the blue ink is almost fading and paper is crispy. But I happened to think the thoughts are kind of nice and revealing so I’ll just post them as a blog. Needless to say at the time they were written blogs were probably still in the womb.
This is a direct tribute and spin off from one of my favourite commercials of all time : The Nescafe Commercial.
I love the tune, I love the music. And I think I just went ahead and wrote my own extended version. Once again it’s not really poetry, but thought, it’s not really a song but it has a melody.

Open up!!
Open up your heart and soul
Open up your body and mind
Open up open up!
Open up your eyes open up
Open up a whole new world
Open up to new horizons
Open up to the colours of the world
Open up open up
Open up your mind and listen to your heart
Open up to the world and you could make your mark
Be open to miracles and see yourself transform
Self-determination, self-realization
Hold on to your faith and doors will open up
There’s a mother in every father, there’s a child in every man
There’s a talent in every being, and there’s a dream in every heart
So open up your heart and walk upon the path of your dream
And your dreams shall take you to your destiny
Open up open up
There’s a key to every door
There are bars to ignore
Believe in yourself and you shall find all the keys
Just believe. Just believe.
Open up and just believe.

Return of Edo

He fell sick one fine day right in front of my eyes. I tried to bring him back to consciousness but it just wouldnt happen. I nudged, scolded him , caressed him, to come back to his senses but he had taken a dip too severe.
Then I took him to the healer. The Diagnosis came a day later.
It was not good.
It was far from being good.
He was damaged, his memory, his brain, his capability to function like before has diminished to nil.
It was a blow.
The memories came flooding to me.
My memories. Not his. Since he doesn't have any.
All those wonderful moments we spent together, hours and hours of total dedication to one another, working through problems, documenting reality, solving dilemmas, recording life.
All gone in an instant.
Like a bolt of Lightening.
My Edo.
My hours spent with him. My works. My creations. My half of whatever is good.
All gone with him.
It would take him days to heal.
And even after that he would not be the old Edo. My old Edo.
I waited for him at home.
I pined for his company.
I moved around in a daze not knowing what to do without Edo.
I found myself with so much free time and I couldnt spend it with Edo.
I longed for him to come back home.
I just wasnt used to not having him around.
At times the desperation grew enormously, my need for Edo grew to the point that it physically hurt.
My time away from Edo. My world was a world of nothing-to-do.
Finally, the call came. I could bring him back.
I brought him back home. Placed him where he belonged, made sure he was comfortable in his surroudings, and gave him everything he needs to operate.
But poor Edo still did not regain consciousness.
I cooed, and caressed, and slapped him to back to his senses. He would'nt budge.
My frustration grew.
I prayed for him to be OK again.
And then he returned to his senses, my faithful, my ever-present computer Edo.
How missed him, it's just not the same without him.
But now he's back and running and I am glad about it.

Rains of my childhood.

The rains of my childhood were very romantic. But then , so were most of the things of my childhood. I was a naïve romantic soaked in puritan ideas and ever optimistic in my childhood. I say was because now I am not too sure if I am still romantic or not…but I digress.

I loved rain. Without hesitation. Without worrying how it would turn the simple daily routine of getting to work into a mission hard-to-accomplish. The rainy season was my favourite. The wait from the end of winter (my most favourite season) to the monsoons (my second favourite season) was made bearable only because of all the delicious mangoes of the excruciating, merciless summer days. The rain was a welcome from all things materialistic, and to my young, eager mind it brought along with it numerous possibilities of romantic escapades and carefree, limitless imagination. Romantic notions hit my brain like the kalboishakhi hit the world outside my balcony, suddenly, quickly in an all-encompassing manner. Every day the rain came, and everyday I snuck out of family gatherings, study sessions, or whatever I was doing, and came to watch the rain.
The gale force, the strong winds blowing my hair, the dust that got into my eyes, the torrential bursts and the strong muddy earth scent in the aftermath of the rains left me captivated. I loved to see the first drops of rain kiss the canopies of the trees nearby, and caress the dirt and grime away from the facades of the edifices nearby. I especially loved the clean, crisp air that lingered all around after the rain and the fresh, tingling feeling that it brought along. I sat on the windowsill, staring at the rain, caught up in fleeting thoughts, sometimes reading a book. I watched the rain and thought of all the analogies I could come up with. The torrents were like falling in love head first: unguarded, not goal-oriented, and swept away like a leaf in the crazy storm. The torrents were like words and thought that keep coming to me at a moment of creative spark, without direction, without restrain.

Before that, the rains of my younger days inevitably saw the rain-dance or the rain-shower as we used to call it. We didn’t know of the therapeutic powers of the rain, or of any exotic tribal rituals regarding the raindance; we just did it for fun. The cousins gathered around in a bunch and ran around and skipped about the terrace laughing and screaming. Ok, so it wasn’t exactly ‘The Sound of Music’ or some equally symbolic of juvenile happiness movie. But it was fun as we were carefree and had a lot of fun. Who really cared about growing up?
The monsoon was wet, unpredictable, cloudy, moody, muddy. But I love the monsoons. They were also great sources of inspiration for ahem poetry, etc. They were also a perfect excuse to lose yourself in your thoughts, do nothing, and be at peace with your inner self. I think one particular monsoon day I made an audacious and ambitious attempt at some poetry about rain.
It is far from being something, but I don’t have the nerve to edit. Somehow the unedited version seemed to express more of state-of-being at that particular moment, on that particular day a long time ago.


Monsoon Rain

I.
Frogs croaking;
Air fills with moist.
Dark, heavy clouds race across the distant sky
To hover over the landscape.
Within minutes the blue, blazing sky is
Overcast with condensed tears of heaven
Threatening to burst.
Wind blows noisily, swaying the trees.
Thunder strikes.

II.
Drops of water racing to touch the ground
Drenching everything in its way.
Blurring the horizon .
The rhythm ups its tempo.
The splatter creates a symphony magical.
Damp walls, and darkened colours.
Wet leaves, and running children.
Muddy roads beneath the canopies.
The heady smell of earth lurks in the air.

III.
The sky turns a fresh, pale violet.
The world beneath is a cleaner, cooler place.
And the air is crisp and smooth.

Contradictions...

Yup! Your life is full of ‘em. And mine.Life is an unending chain of contradictions. You hover hesitantly between choices that could make or break your destiny. Sometimes you have to choose between bad choice and a worse, and sometimes you have to choose between good choice and the best. Sound simple right? NO, sir. It ain’t so.
The options set of each decision in life comprises of choices that could hurt a near and dear one, make somebody else worse off, or lead to misunderstanding. But you have to make decisions, perhaps not as independently as you would like to, but nevertheless.
A choice made is a choice made. Stick to it until the end.
Below I post something that is in between thought and poetry.

Maybe it’s thought in the vain attempt to be poetry.
Or maybe it is poetry in the vain attempt to be thought.
Maybe it’s none.
Maybe it’s just an attempt to capture nothingness, and motionlessness of the mind, in words.
Maybe it’s all capricious, just like a falling star.
Maybe it is an attempt to express hidden emotions.
Maybe it is trying to be eloquent with its words.
Maybe it is just celebrating silence.
Maybe….
Maybe.



There’s no turning back
Only moving forward
Or standing still
While the rest of the world
Passes you by.
You can take a moment to
Reminisce of things gone by
Or you can walk through the
Numerous lesser considered possibilities.
But you cannot turn back to
The womb.
So walk, until you reach maturity
Or walk until you reclaim your life.
Walk to your destiny,
And life will come full circle.

This is the second poem of mine that was published in English Matters. I realise I should have posted both the poems of English Matters in one post and the one from the reading in another, but the universe works in mysterious ways. Translation : I am Lazy. So here it is:

Hope Journey
Farah Tasneem Tracy

Rising from the ashes of despair
Gathering its strength from memory
The journey of Hope begins.
Taking the shape of a shadow
Dwelling in the torments of the past
But, steadying itself with a vision of future
The journey of hope begins.
Cradled in the missed bliss of Yesterday and
Today
Heading for a Tomorrow
The journey of hope begins.
Amidst a pot-pourri of loss and solitude,
Embracing the invisible traces of joy, the journey of hope begins.
It floats up to sky, mingling in the clouds,
And radiates a heady feeling.
When it matures, it pours down in the form of good fortune.
One hope journey is completed. A new one begins.

The English Club

The English Club is a charming little club tucked away in the hearts of its many enchanting and friendly members. The Club is just the right size- not so big such that members are just names without faces, not so small that it cannot make a significant contribution. The club is and always has been willing to take in new members, existing members are warm and welcoming whilst new members that are attracted to the club are full of creative energy. It is the club that allows its members to be creative and also to be appreciated for their creative ventures. The club publishes a journal religiously where both members and non-members can contribute. It’s called English Matters. The club also organized a delightful café reading every now and then whereby fellow students are urged to read out anything they have written or read that maybe of interest. I must say both the journal and the café readings have been very good to me. First English Matters have given me a regular platform to publish my work, and second café reading has made me take the very bold step of reading out my poems to an audience- an audacity I would not have dared taken if not prompted by the kind fellow members. Only recently the latest version of English Matters contained two of my poems and a short story. Below is one of the poems from the magazine.

Teardrop
Farah Tasneem Tracy

A glistening drop of tear on her cheek
too precious to go unnoticed
Capturing miracles and bearing the
burden of misery in its fluid body.
Holding time, holding space
Offering freedom, offering solace
In its solitary existence carrying the
secrets of infinite possibilities
Turning melancholy into a pearl
So delicate- the precious teardrop
It sparkles like the Northern Star
It promises of eternity
It is a tear cried by many
And loved by so many others
Someone lost it in the oceans
Someone found it in the mountains
A cold wind froze the teardrop
Now it rests peacefully on her cheek
A very precious teardrop.

And up next is the poem that I read out at the café reading only yesterday. I sincerely hope the applauses I remember afterwards were not the creation of my imagination.

The bluest blues.
Farah Tasneem Tracy.

Give me pen and paper,
And I will give you a story.
Give me love and pain,
And I will give you poetry.
Give me a word that is your own,
And I will give you the rest of your soul.
Give me a piece of your mind,
And I will make you a garden.
Give me your smile
And I will create music.
Give me a tear and I will make a miracle happen.
Give me your hand and I will give you my world.
Give me your hatred
And…
And I will give you my love!

Blogthings..

Right So I am hooked to this blogthings...it's fun

This one is bitter-sweet...more bitter than sweet actually

Your Birthdate: December 30

You have the type of personality that people either love or hate. You're opinionated, dramatic, intense, and very outspoken. And some people can't get enough of you - they're totally addicted. Others, well, they wish you were a little more reserved. Your strength: Your flair Your weakness: If you think it, you say it Your power color: Scarlet red Your power symbol: Inverted triangle Your power month: March

What Does Your Birth Date Mean?

I absolutely love this one! Wish this could be!

Who Should Paint You: Pablo Picasso

Your an expressive soul who shows many emotions, with many subtleties Only a master painter could represent your glorious contradictions

What Artist Should Paint Your Portrait?

Now this is GOOD stuff!!!

The Keys to Your Heart

You are attracted to those who have a split personality - cold as ice on the outside but hot as fire in the heart. In love, you feel the most alive when your lover is creative and never lets you feel bored. You'd like to your lover to think you are optimistic and happy. You would be forced to break up with someone who was emotional, moody, and difficult to please. Your ideal relationship is lasting. You want a relationship that looks to the future... one you can grow with. Your risk of cheating is zero. You care about society and morality. You would never break a commitment. You think of marriage as something precious. You'll treasure marriage and treat it as sacred. In this moment, you think of love as commitment. Love only works when both people are totally devoted.

What Are The Keys To Your Heart?

In an uncanny way my charts says I am a CAPRICORN!!!

You Should Be A Cancer

What's good about you: you're incredibly kind, caring, and generous What's bad about you: you can be too moody and impossible to understand In love: you enjoy wining and dining the object of your affection In friendship, you're: likely to depend on other friends for emotional support Your ideal job: historian, marine biologist, or religious figure Your sense of fashion: you dress to match your mood You like to pig out on: classic home cooked meals, like mac and cheese

What Sign Should You Be?

Your Five Factor Personality Profile

Extroversion: You have low extroversion. You are quiet and reserved in most social situations. A low key, laid back lifestyle is important to you. You tend to bond slowly, over time, with one or two people. Conscientiousness: You have low conscientiousness. Impulsive and off the wall, you don't take life too seriously. Unfortunately, you sometimes end up regretting your snap decisions. Overall, you tend to lack focus, and it's difficult for you to get important things done. Agreeableness: You have high agreeableness. You are easy to get along with, and you value harmony highly. Helpful and generous, you are willing to compromise with almost anyone. You give people the benefit of the doubt and don't mind giving someone a second chance. Neuroticism: You have low neuroticism. You are very emotionally stable and mentally together. Only the greatest setbacks upset you, and you bounce back quickly. Overall, you are typically calm and relaxed - making others feel secure. Openness to experience: Your openness to new experiences is medium. You are generally broad minded when it come to new things. But if something crosses a moral line, there's no way you'll approve of it. You are suspicious of anything too wacky, though you do still consider creativity a virtue.

The Five Factor Personality Test

The Movie Of Your Life Is A Cult Classic

Quirky, offbeat, and even a little campy - your life appeals to a select few. But if someone's obsessed with you, look out! Your fans are downright freaky. Your best movie matches: Office Space, Showgirls, The Big Lebowski

If Your Life Was a Movie, What Genre Would It Be?

Singing away...

I was an awkward teenager once not too long ago. I had been through the I-am-not-the-outgoing-type so I would sit at home and work on my songwriting. Only I was always far more imaginative than most kids my age, so I not only wrote songs, I tuned them, hummed them, sang them as though I were the all-in-one star. I had almost forgotten about this phase of my life when all of a sudden my songbook landed itself on my lap. And I was instantly reminded of the meticulous devotion with which I used to practice my art.
I was the star singer who would shoot to fame with her debut album entitled “Love in Moonlight”, genre semi- pop and semi soft-rock sometimes flakily countryish. I listed the song titles in the exact order they would appear in the album. And then wrote the songs. I picked songs that I would do a cover on…my favourites included “When you love someone” and “Jolene”. I remember I did an insane amount of singing back then , humming my tunes, my songs, as though I was in the studio of EMI. I loved that star in me. I did fake interviews going in details about the style of my music, the inspiration behind my songwriting (Pain, hurt and longing). Then I took pity on myself as I went through a songwriters’ block and did not write anything for two years (not actually, in my make-belief) for lack of inspiration, even though my first album was a runaway Billboard chart topper. Then two years later I, the singer, resurrected with my second album aptly titled ‘A Bolt From The Blue’- the songs in this album had been written by within a span of three weeks of inspirational and creative outburst. This album was more on the softer side, with more soul and country elements in it. “It was like reinventing myself, the process was highly spiritual”, I explained to others to had beginning to forget my name. More mature, more soul-searching the critics told off me. My fans were hugely excited and this one went straight to the top. And once again I was touring the world with my super talented band.
I have to admit I was inspired by Celine Dion at that point of time. But as I went though the songs I was surprised to discover my conviction about them. I actually wrote those songs from the scratch. And even after so many years, just seeing the words brought back the exact tunes I had assigned them previously. Sure I will admit they weren’t all that exceptional, not all of them. But I think, from an emotionally –driven singer’s point of view a few of them can still be called songs. An example is presented below.


You are a star now- Farah Tasneem Tracy.

You are a star now, shining brightly in the velvet sky.
Inaccessible, you are so far away now.
But just as close to my heart.
I know you cannot hear me ‘cause you are beyond the material world
But I just want to say
I can never anyone else the way I loved you
I gave my heart to your and nothing can tear the rope of our love.

How can I ever forget all the crazy things we did?
My memories are still painfully fresh.
I remember you playing with my hair
I remember us walking in the gentle breeze
Running lazily on the beach, dancing in the moonlight
Dining in the candle light, feeing the music in the air.
All of these memories are fresh in my mind.

Now my phone doesn’t ring up late at night
And I haven’t anybody to hold me when I am scared.
Where can I find the comfort that you gave me?
There’s no one to sing a song in my ear
There’s no one to give me that soft n’ tender kiss

I wish that I become a star like you,
Just to have the pleasure to be with you…again.
I see you in my dreams
That’s how I know you still remember me.
No I cannot start all over again that’s gonna cost too much pain.
I look up in the sky and I feel better knowing
You’re up there, watching me , smiling down on me…

Diggin' for old treasures...

So I have doing a lot and lot of reading lately. Light reading. Funny, witty, roll-with-laughter, and stark real-life funny stories. And I have also just stumbled upon (not accidentally thought, it was deliberate) my treasure chest. Yes the Writings from The Past. During my last school-year I was on writing aphrodisiac. I wrote like a possessed one. I wrote a variety of things- essays, stories, essays that read like stories, songs, poems, letters and whatnot. I scanned through and think although they could do with a little bit updating here and there, they are not totally worthless. I mean like they are still readable. So here goes . today I will post one my ‘humorous ’ pieces. I didn’t think I could crack a funny bone even if my life depended upon it. But I sure did try. So here goes…



Finding A JOB.

During the last summer vacation I decided to take up a part-time job so that by the end of the holidays I would have saved enough money for a beat-up car. I was looking for something easy, that did not require any particular skill such as being a sales rep, or a telemarketer. I sent out my applications beginning of summer and waited patiently for the much awaited letter from the HR department.
When two weeks later all I got in my mailbox were dry and cruel (I thought) rejection letters, I decided to take matters more seriously. This time around I applied to firms and stores left and right, and I made rounds at all the places that had a ‘Vacancy’ signboard, without bothering about what kind of job was being offered. Well you know beggars cannot be choosers and I wanted a car that bad. Finally , I received a few replies. An envelope from ‘Harrow and Rhodes’ caught my attention as it was a publishing-cum-retailing venture just a few blocks away from where I lived. I like to think I have it in me something literary, so I was instantly interested (not just enough because they asked for interview, my interested rose to hysterical heights because they were in the literary world.). I made an appointment to meet the owners the very next day. It’s a small venture I told you, so owners were the HR people.
The office was in the fifth-floor of a rusty corner building that had been around since the beginning of My Time. Needless to say I was excited and nervous as it was my first job interview. I ran up ten flights of stairs, panting, knocked on the heavy oak main door, and breezed inside after I heard a muffled but somber-voiced ‘Come in’. they two men sitting on the other side of the dark mahogany desk were interchangeable in terms of clothes and they expression they wore on their faces. Dressed in shabby, oversized Sunday suits of their grandfather’s era the two men took turns to ask me four very routine questions. They took down my name and address and asked me if I could join from the next day. I was glad (and a little relieved) they hadn’t pressed on knowing about my skills and qualifications and I obliged happily.
The nest morning, the two men who might as well have been twins with two different surnames, lead me to an inner room inside the office, where I was to perform my operations. It appears I may have misjudged their enterprise; for as small as they were they could afford a fully-functional air-conditioned office with expensive (albeit century-old) furniture and room fittings, a fax machine, a scanner, printer, IBM computer. I was then told about my responsibilities: to keep records of daily sales and publishing information. I was to enter them into the computerized system after I received all the necessary paper receipts from the different departments. Before leaving me with my work, the two men said, in chorus, they were very strict about record-keeping and did not approve of miscalculations or slack offs.
My knowledge of computers up until then had been limited to playing games that came along with it, like card games etc. but I was confident I could at least type down the names of the writers, books, and the ISBN, and the date of sales, etc. I finished the first day of work by just looking at the previous records, and getting to know the environment and came back home already feeling good about a fat pay cheque at the end of the month.
My actual work began the next day. After lunch I got the receipts of the day’s-sales-so-far. I opened the particular file and punched in the serial number SL61…..er…what were the other digits? Oh No! my receipt fell on the ground. In an attempt to pick it up quickly, I knocked down my coffee mug and spilled the contents onto the shiny keyboard. I got tripped in one of the many wires coming out of the CPU, and by the time I understood what was happening there were alarming sounds coming from all directions. I jumped back , startled at all the sparks. Harrow and Rhodes came running the corridor and called for reinforcements to take up safety precautions. They kept giving my fiery glances and I was ashamed. I fired myself before actually being fired by the Twins. I walked out of that wretched old building, and that was the end of my summer career. My dreams of the beat-up car started to become more n more vague. Ah well…some time in future…

@ The Hair Salon

The Hair salon is a noisy place. It is spacious, intelligently decorated with art-deco accessories, bears the stamped signature of international celebrity hair stylist, but it is still a really noisy place. Not to mention hairy!
I walk in as always, marginally existing amidst the hubbub of beautiful women who go there to become even more beautiful, and wait my turn in queue. Several stronger personalities cut through me in the queue. I smile politely still not saying a word. I wait until the receptionist is free, then timidly ask her what service I wanted. She looked at my hair and coldly calculated I badly needed to do something with my hair! Of course, this I knew only because I can read minds. Because aloud all she said was “500”. My heart hurt as I wriggled out a fresh 500 bill. You better make me look like Holly Marie Combs. Sorry, I meant to say make my hair like hers that is.
This indigenous (I am trying to be politically correct nowadays and use indigenous instead of tribal), girl with really long nails dig into my mess of hair and try to give me a protein massage. There should be a rule about girls with long nail NOT performing hair massages. Or any kind of massages for that matter! Because my previously itchy scalp turned into a scratchy one by the time she finished massaging my hair! Huph!


No. of exams -1.
No. of assignments due- 1.
No. of hair washes- 1.
No. of badly needed lipstick bought-0.
No. of Will & Grace episodes watched-22 (season 1)
No. of historic Cricket matches watched - 1 (Hurray!)
No. of printed stories lost (L)-1.
No. of almost-forgotten poems retrieved- 1. (yay)