• meeting chance

    bush tree

    Ok, chance meeting is what I call it. Or should it have been meeting chance? Not really certain. And I am not talking about the tree you see right there.

    I refer to a friend who challenged me to write. She—yes, you guessed right, she—is a confirmed law PhD and a professor somewhere on earth. The other—yes, there is a second—influenced me through poetry and ended—yes, again—snatched by the legal profession.

    But I havent seen the PhD for nearly six years, and whose email would I chance upon the other day but hers!

    Talk about rising from the dead. She wanted to know what I have been up to.

    Of course, I told her about Sin and the immense support it has enjoyed from readers like you. Some novels are done, awaiting publication. Others are still in the pipeline, along with several rather exciting works coming soon.

    For details of what we discussed, keep a date with this blog.

    You might even get the names of these two mystery muses of mine.


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    If you have ever thought what the words SHIT OF A DAY really mean, then ask me. I know the feeling.

    Oh, sure it begins like any other day, but it fails to end that way.

    First thing was the Internet connection getting out of whack even before I walked into the office. Of course, I needed to look up stuff before news production could commence. There was just no way.

    All the while, the IT was getting whacks at the internet connection thingies, hoping it would work. It did not.

    Someone had gone to a cybercafe and only returned forty minutes before the bulletin was to go out. I had forty minutes to produce an entire fifteen-minute bulletin from scratch. It was not going to be easy.

    Ten minutes to air time, a consultant begins to seek my attention, and then the IT guy calls me over. What else to say but to give me a few moments to finish and then be right there with them?

    Not so? Instead I got the short shrift. Military routine--WHEN I SAY JUMP, YOU SAY "HOW HIGH?"--would have been a kinder description. No, sirree. I was described as RUDE, INSUBORDINATE.

    Of course, there was the last-moment admission that I knew my job, but not before perspicacious questions like DO YOU THINK YOU KNOW YOUR JOB? I said yes, I did.


    Rude to people? Geez! I don't even want to talk to people let alone be rude to them. If everyone just sat in their seats and went up to Valhalla, it wouldn't matter a row of beans to me.

    Just in the thick of a deep-shit production, I get told, THIS BULLETIN HAS FAILED.

    I look at the time display on my cellphone and say, NO IT HASN'T, only to be told looking at my phone was rude.

    Evidently, placing a palm on the table was rude too, as was bracing one foot in front of the other.

    No one told me I was getting employed in a military regiment when I moved to take the job.

    And then I get asked, HOW OLD ARE YOU?

    It is the most unlikely question? Now if that is not inviting rudeness. I want to ask, WHAT HAS THAT GOT TO DO WITH ANYTHING? That would have been ruder than rude, so I keep silent.

    But I am again bluntly reminded it is rude to keep silent when asked a question. I keeping silent because it would have been super-rude to say what was on the tip of my tongue.

    Anyway, newsrooms are that way, pressure cookers of all kinds. These things happen all the time, and then they blow over once production is done and the news is going out on air or has just gone out on air. In newspapers, all the madness becomes a happy hour once the paper goes to bed.

    These things happen. Kuchh kuchh hota hai. That's Hindi for SHIT HAPPENS.

  • एक सुन्दर बछी


    What is she doing? Not crying--try yawning. But why? Tired, hungry or just for the heck of it?

    My maternal folks would call this onu gbajie boys

    यह बछ्ही तो प्यारी है ना?
    उसका नाम है बम्बिनो।
    जो नाम मैंने दिया उनको।
    इस के लिये मेरे पास एक गाना है।
    यही तो
    जा कुडिये जो कर ले पूरा बदन तेरा रां दिया
    ओए मुन्देया वदा रहा सुली पे जो न तुझे तां दिया
    मऐं सुली पे चड जाऊं तो बोल अब ही मर जाऊं
    याद रखना मेरा कहना यह दिल एक दिल मिल जाने हैं


    Her name is Bambino, and that is all i call her. But that is not the name her mother christened her.


    Anyway, she has become a regular part of office life at work. And at the lodge. If you do not get the hang of what I am going on and on about, do not bother. It takes more time than nine months to do that.

    Anyway, Bambino is the only name I could come up with for the little chic. She is growing right into it, even though her mum prefers other funny-sounding stuff that sounds like drinking sugar and syrup.

    She is a very cooperative little thing, and I can imagine what a ruddy, crumpled, ballfisted wonder she must have been bawling her way into the world.

    If there ever were an award for babies who cooperate in the office--and by cooperation, I mean no crying, no demanding for attention and milk and water and stuff just when you need five minutes to do something crucial--she would pick the prize.

    It is only a matter of time before people start missing her when she is not in the office. No matter how much the guys pretend to macho and the girl pretend to be arty, every once in a while they get to pick her when she is crying--gosh, did I say crying? I think I meant simpering--and try to pacify the tot.

    There is something earth shattering about holding a baby in your hand, especially when they are not so troublesome you feel like throwing them down. She really respects herself.

    One of these days, I am going to teach her some Hindi words. Not that she would understand too much of it, but it would be just for the heck of driving her mum crazy. She would call it a contagion and an infection rolled into one.

    Watch out, Indiana has got designs and stuff lined up for Bambino.

    Just wait until Bambino goes on air.


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