FICTION-IS IT NOT MY WIFE?

I was walking along the sea shore. The sun was about to set; the orange sky looked like a perfect painting. I decided to sit down and watch the sinking sun.
Life itself is like it. When we near the end, we wish we were young again; to begin a new chapter, without worries, without rancor, without the dirty pools of water, which spoil our mood.
I did not notice the young girl, quietly sitting by my side and immersed in her own thoughts. A sigh from her awakened me.
She reminded me of my wife.
Unlike my Shyamala, she wore a simple dress, without any ornaments, not even a thin chain. I wanted to talk to her, but was reluctant to break the silence.
At last, my curiosity won the moment.
Excuse me, may I know who you are?
My name is Grazy. I am studying in St. Mary college, Bandra.
Your mother?
She looks after me, is divorced.
I was sure she is my daughter; but somehow hesitated before I resumed:
Didn’t she marry again?
Yes. He is a drunkard. I think Ma regrets her remarriage.
Did she ever talk to you about your father?
Rarely; I know he was a professor. I wonder where he is! Can he be alive now, at the age of about eighty?
It is very dark. May I drop you at your house?
Without waiting for her answer, I stood up. Grazy held my hand and we proceeded towards my car. I was sure she is my daughter. I did not like to confirm, lest I may have miscalculated. I stopped the car in front of her bungalow.
She invited me for a cup of tea. I excused. She hugged me, I kissed her lightly and came home.
The whole night I was restless. I wrote a long letter to Grazy and posted it in the address which I noticed before I left her.
The next evening I visited the sea shore again, vainly hoping to see her. My disappointment was unbearable. I regretted my failure to learn her mobile number.
Having lost my patience, I drove to her bungalow and pressed the buzzer. An old lady came out.
Whom do you want to see?
Grazy.
She is not here.
Her mother?
No.
Her father?
She hesitated, before she ushered me in.
The drunkard was almost asleep, with a bottle and snacks on the tea table. An ugly figure, frail and much older than myself. I felt disgusted and left immediately, leaving a not for the girl.
I had been invited to deliver a lecture in the university. While sitting on the dais, my eyes frantically searched for the girl, like a young lover. I could not locate her, even if she was present.
When I was leaving the auditorium, Gracy ran towards me and eagerly kissed me. She was beaming with joy. We proceeded towards my car.
Uncle, I missed you all these days. I had been to Goa, to meet my relative. I didn’t have your number. We exchanged our numbers.
The next day she called on me. She was surprised to see me alone.
Where is aunty?
I didn’t marry, after the failure of our first marriage.
No maid to help you, uncle?
I usually eat out; occasionally I cook rice ad dhal. A maid comes in the morning to clean the house.
I shall make tea.
She went into the kitchen and I accompanied her, as I used to do, immediately after my marriage.
Regular contact resulted in a unique love between us. Now I was certain she is my daughter. I helped her in her studies. She accompanied me during my lectures which brought me enough money for a simple living. In my leisure time, I used to write stories, published in ficticious names.
Once I asked her:
Why did your mother marry that drunkard?
For money. He has a big Bungalow in the village and plenty of land. You must come there, Sir.
Was she a Hindu?
Yes. We used to go to Hindu temples, when her husband was away.
What was her former husband’s name?
I TRIED TO FIND OUT. But she keeps her former life in wraps.
Once she brought me one old album and photos of Shyamala’s marriage with Henry. I cried out: it is my wife!!!
XXXXXXXXXX
Now it was my daughter’s turn to question me:
Why did she divorce you?
It was her company that created suspicion. Sometimes she stayed with them, even the night. I was too much involved I my work.
Shall I try for a repproachment?
Of what use is it now? Henry may not relish it.
One day my daughter brought Shyamala to my flat. She had dyed her hair. She was very sober and did not show any emotions, when we met.
Aferwards, I wrote a long letter, aplogising for my thoughtless action and injustice caused to her.

Advertisements

FICTION-JEWELRY =’text/javascript’ src=

I was the seventh daughter of my father who retired as a teacher from a Government school. Because of my horoscope, I was chosen by wealthy parents, for their only son. He loved me but could not satisfy my yearning for a child, even after ten long years.
In the meantime, my husband Dinesh got a job in a remote Project and I too managed to be employed as a teacher, because of my academic background.
One day a close friend of his, came to my flat and I invited him to come inside. I told him Dinesh had gone on official tour, and went inside, to make tea.
When I returned to the drawing room, he had bolted the door from inside which I failed to notice.
He came close to me and sat beside me in the sofa. After finishing tea during small talk, he slowly held me in his arm and gave me a kiss. I did not like it. Neither did I resist.
He then pulled up my petty coat and commented: “You have shapely legs!”
His hands reached upwards, stroking my thighs and then I yielded. Thus our first son was born.
My husband was very happy. I have a sneaking suspicion that it was all preplanned by them. Having once tasted the joy of sin, I had many friends from the opposite sex, resulting in the birth of two daughters.
All went well, till my impotent husband was killed in an accident at the Project site. I had a job and I did not enjoy sex with my husband; so this did not affect me, though I felt sorry.
The children grew up and two of them went abroad, my son got employed in the Project.
I had to go to Bombay, to attend a marriage and I took out all my jewelry, costing some ten lac rupees. After my return, I failed to put the jewelry in the bank locker.
I became ill and was admitted in the Project Hospital.
My friend came to the hospital daily and accompanied me to my flat. We were shocked to see the door opened and ransacked. Jewelry and kitchen articles were taken away. My friend’s house was also attacked by thieves. We filed complaint with the police.
In the meantime, my friend saw children of a tribal, nomadic woman, playing with his gold necklace. He was very influential and police caught the woman, along with the stolen jewelry. But it was kept in judicial custody, pending hearing of the case, which lingered on, for years, though I had recognized my bangles etc.

SHORT STORY – SWAMIJI’S ASHRAM <a href='http://www.blogsurfer.us/

I worked in the newspaper industry for fifty years.
In the beginning, at the age of fifteen, I worked as a boy distributing paper. I had failed in the seventh standard and left school. A friend in the industry told me to go on reading whatever came in my hand. He gave me some books. I got books from the village library.
As my friend had contacts with a printer, he gave me a job as type setter. A number of letters of the alphabet is arranged systematically in compartments of a board. The required letters are arranged in reverse order and fixed to the printing board. TIGER is arranged as REGIT. Then printing ink is smeared and pressed on the paper, which will be printed with the word TIGER.
It is a tedious and messy work, but better wages with less manual work is the attraction.
Soon I rose in my establishment as MY KNOWLEDGE ACQUIRED FROM BOOKS HELPED ME, TO UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM DOING.
My friend got involved in revolutionary activities and they wanted to print books explaining their ideology. Here my experience became handy. I was asked to do things in secrecy.
Then I started writing. I came in contact with leaders of the movement and became a functionary in the party. When the ban on our party was lifted, we all came out and moved openly among the people, arranging meetings, selling books in festivals, staging drama for propagating our thinking. Soon I came into contact with ladies too, but marriage was discouraged by the Party. I remained a bachelor.
When I was sixty, my friend died suddenly and I became an orphan, intellectually speaking. The failure of our movement also was a disappointment. I decided to seek sanyas (become a saint) and wandered in the Himalayas.
I had not seen the South and wished to tour the land on foot.
One day I reached an unknown village by the side of the river Shipra. It was a charming place with few dwellings, all very poor and hardly any government building, even the post office being far away. I took bath and ate something from my bag, which contained few cloths and no money. I slept under a neem tree.
When I woke up in the morning, a mall girl of some nine years or so, was standing by my side.
She smiled and said Namaste.
May God bless you, my child.
Ma told me to come home and have your break fast.
As I was hungry, I followed her. Presently we reached her home.
They gave me tooth powder made of some herbs and water in a bucket to take bath. After that I was given pooris and potato curry to eat.
Maji did not come out until I had finished eating. She now came and bowed at my feet: Swamiji, bless me for a boy. I am expecting delivery in a month.
She was fair and had thick flock of hair, brown in colour. I placed my hands on her bowed head and chanted a Samskrutham verse from the veda . When that was over, she placed hundred rupees at my feet and got up. She said:
I know that sanyasis do not stay at one place; but it is my humble request that you stay, at least till my delivery.
I did not have the heart to refuse.
The next Sunday, her husband, who worked in a government office, came. He was very jolly and talkative. He too repeated his wife’s plea and insisted that I stay, as their honoured guest.
Next day, I went around, accompanied by the bright lively girl, who told me all she knew about the place and the people who lived there. She was curious to know about the outside world of which she knew nothing. One day I took her to a temple, some three miles away. There I chanted sahasranama (thousand names of Lord Vishnu), sitting in front of the deity. People placed coins and some notes in my lap and sought my blessings. During the Himalayan tour, which lasted a dozen years, I read a lot of books in the ancient language of our land. And learned many passages by heart.
When we reached home, I handed over the money to Maji.
They made saffron cloths for me, to make me a Swamiji. A number of people, especially women, began coming to visit me. I patiently heard them and they, in turn, gave me money or fruits. My reputation reached far and wide, after a boy was born to Maji. They even started work for constructing an ashram for me. I insisted that it should be a humble hermitage, built with bamboo and thatched with grass roof. The mud floor was to be plastered with cow dung. Food was still brought from Maji’s home, until a very young girl joined the ashram as my disciple. She served me and cooked food for the inmates of the ashram.
I surveyed the area and found a depression in the river bed, where dirty, stagnant water collected even in summer. I suggested making an earthen dam at this point. The river bed here was widened and deepened to store a large quantity of water in the rainy season
At that time a man gifted one crore rupees to the ashram. He believed that his business increased hundred times after I blessed him. With this money the construction of roads also was done along with the dam.
Achary Vinoba Bhave, who stayed in my Ashram for one month, gave me all the land which he got from bhoodan movement during his stay.
I decided to have a goshala (cow shed) and a farm. All workers got food in addition to wages. The gas from the cow dung was used for making biogas. Electrification of the village was done by solar power.
The number of inmates also increased as the ashram expanded.
Maji’s daughter was married off to a wealthy businessman. Her son became an engineer. He took keen interest in the affairs of the ashram.
I missed the company of Maji. The quiet old days of my stay at her house was something of a dream now. But I realized that a lot of good things can be done in my new role.
Already, there are demands from the South, for a branch of the ashram to be set up near Chidambaram. One day, I set out to the South, for surveying a suitable place, accompanied by Maji, her son and daughter, who was very eager to accompany us.

WE WANT SEX, THEY YEARN FOR LOVE =’text/javascript’ src=

It is a fundamental difference between the sexes. For us, it is a biological necessity like urination. We can’t avoid it without mental repurcussions. And, is there any reason to suppress it?

But women too like to enjoy the variety which makes sex a joy. They are taught to remain chaste from girlhood and most of them remain loyal to their husband after marriage. But suppressing instinct for love and caressing make them morose; they sublimate their sex by indulging in other interests. Devotion to God is one way. They become irritable and moody. A chaste lady is a poor companion and reluctant host.

On the other hand, a woma of easy virtue is always in a happy mood and welcomes strangers, whether during a journey or at home!

As a wit put it, I want that my wife should be chaste but not other wives!

Among tribals in general, the concept of chastity is unknown. Many milkmen’s communities are very liberal in matters of sex. Krishna legend merely states what was the practice at the time. The flute tingles the nerves of women who want his attention and escape from homes and enjoy the night life!

That is why the Krishna story is so popular among ladies

In short, we like to have the same atmoshere as in Paradise, where Urvashi, Rambha etc. cater to the jaded tstes of men. But they come down to the earth, when they want the strong, stiff thing inside them, to flood with hot lava.

Urvashi cursed Arjun, when he refused, and he became an eunach
Menaka seduced the sage Vishwamitra.

BLACK MONEY – THE ONLY WAY OUT, IS TO LEGALISE IT

Tharoor episode has exposed the tip of the iceberg called black money.. Now the Income Tax Officers are trying to measure its volume.

They are like the monkey that sees no evil. Can you imagine that they were unaware of the crores of rupees changing hands through the IPL?

All know that black money sustains building activity, industrial production  and smuggling. Only the Finance Ministry, pretends that all is well, like the husband of a well known prostitute.

Proclaim that they will not enquire into the sources of any money deposited in the banks. Tax just ten percent of all deposits above one crore. In other words, legalise black money.

There will be a big leap forward in economic growth.

A HUSBAND IS A PITIABLE CREATURE

Many men are afraid of marriage. As Bernard Shaw said, if you marry, you will repent immediately.

But they will not allow you to enjoy your freedom indefinitely. Mother needs an assistant when she gets old. A number of fathers will try to get you entangled for their daughters. In India, an unmarried girl is a curse on her parents. If nothing else, your friends come forward to help you. I think such things are unknown in the West.

Once married, there is no going back. You are tied for seven lives, one after another.

Every day you have to bring vegetables, milk and such things in addition to taking her for shopping, cinema and visiting friends. As soon as you come back from your work place, tired and angry, on account of the bickerings and fights with your colleagues and the irrational Boss, she will be waiting, fully dressed, to go out. Not her fault, as she is kept inside the house, bored to death. Well get fresh, change your dress and go out.

When children are born, at least two, there is no end to your worries. Worries are multiplied, with the children fighting each other, then school, tuition, home work and all that.

Wife falling ill, in-laws coming and all sorts of complications.

If she is beautiful (who will marry an ugly girl?), you are suspicious of that idle fellow, who is always so sweet and glib tongued.

And, when you want to do it, she is not in the mood.

Before you realised it, your daughter has grown too big. Now it is your turn, to hunt for a husband for her.

W-I-F-E means, Worry Invited For Ever !.

TRUE FRIENDSHIP IS A BLESSING

In the capitalist system, true frienship is a casualty.

One reason is taht people have to move, necessarily in search of better prospects. Neighbours do not know each other.

In the good old feudal system, all things are settled in advance. You know your future. Just follow the trade of your father. The only change is for girls when they get married. This is done early and you can develop new friends in the husband’s house.

Friendship is free and undemanding. There are no inhibitions; you can talk about even your secrets which you dare not speak out to your spouse or even parents.

If you can develop friendship with your spouse, it is something blissful.

Proper understanding and sympathy are the corner stones of true friendship. As Mark Twane said, if you do a good thing all will support you; he who supports you, even when you are wrong, is a true friend.