prose

Eligible Man Suitable Interview

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Connubial



Champion at rounds, she was difficult to be glued to chair. Workplace before lunch that November, the telephone operator searched high and low locating her to convey the urgent phone call from her residence.



Immediately wanted at home, they were coming for final selections. Who were they? The very, to be life match, Party - shortcut, groom, and accomplice, consisting of his aunt, sister and …



Naturally, she rushed home, ‘at least she had to change into something social’ she thought taking off her white coat. No, she was not a doctor by profession but a corporate someone assisting administration in a hospital for the privileged.



Taking off from assignment that day, she hurried home to meet her destiny.



Group arrived timely, were obviously well treated by the girl’s family. They savoured the fancy epicure served to delight. It ended with accolade to tastes along exchanges of news, views, weather, and attitudes…



Time danced sun drenched outdoors. Bright dazzle into the room, thanks to those massive classic wooden windows, a blessing of all times, rid any type of claustrophobia.



Chitchat members, decided the suitable be given a chance in privacy to know each other, after impressions through their repeated preliminaries.



Fact, she needed no further familiarity, that her mind spread clear and the opposite party agreeing. All confirmed. What about caste differences; firing vintages, progressive families’ knew how to exercise capably.



Broad-minded aunts and groom’s sassy sister found it pertinent the two read with each other ... Done, both left by them, the rest huddled into the adjoining room. Much transpired there. Between, to be wed couple, as well.



Sun, bit too much into her eyes, she saw of his face, a shadow corpulent. He seated on the sofa and she on the Santiniketan-Mora the eligible man began his direct interview.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ether

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The Tale of Partlet

There once was a knight named Huon who was vain and proud and decidedly cruel. He rode about on his horse with his glittering vestments and his plumed hat, all given to him by the king , and cared little for the laws of the land. On one particularly cold evening, Huon happened upon a dainty farfadet  bathing in the river. He took the poor thing by force, then journeyed off as if nothing had happened.



And the little farfadet sang:



O, woe, o woe, o woe is me!

Forgotten farfadet!



From this union there was born a child, a little girl called Partlet . At first she seemed quite human, but if one looked closer they could see that her skin was scaled from hip to toe, her eyes were pale and piercing, her tongue was forked, and she smelt like the sea. The farfadet abandoned Partlet to wallow in her own melancholy, and the child was found by simple farmers, who named and fed and clothed the half-breed  as if she were their own.



And so it came to pass that Partlet grew beautiful, if not in spite of her faults, then because of them, and she seemed everything her father was not. But sweet little Partlet was restless; she longed for more than the life of a farmer’s daughter and spent her days singing:



If only I were born again

and made a rich man’s wife!

How happily, then, could I live,

in such a lovely life!



No matter how her parents spoiled her with rare fruits, picture books, and languid days with friends, Partlet was never satisfied.



It just so happened that Huon passed by again, bedecked in his velvet finery and riding his great white horse. Though he hardly noticed the villagers, little Partlet was quite smitten with him. She hurried off to the river to find a magical farfadet and beg him to make her fully human.



“But there is nothing wrong with you,” said the puzzled farfadet.

“Ah, I am ugly!” cried our young Partlet.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is merely a reinterpretation of old fairytales I heard as a child.

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Nasty N Yorker

Folder: 
Semiotics

The mean and loser particular Nasty New Yorker trample the trampled as if eunuchs are devoid of feelings having no right to discuss life, or belong to the mainstream.

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Ocean of Thoughts

Folder: 
Games We Play

Dear Mr Sanyal Thank you a great deal – for the appreciation indeed -



"Bollywood is the new spirit, but not decidedly Indian in nature. It steals ideas from others, shoots on foreign locations, and is a mongrel enterprise that is happy to innovate. But it remains an Indian product. It is the best way to market India to the world," the author held.



Reference to your above compliment it is rather better said it retrieves its stolen ideas and shooting on foreign locations confirms the fact – Naturally that the stolen products are kept under refrigeration in those snow-clad cold storages.



Some dramatic prompts from backstage is not bad at another way to apply muscles … under camouflage pat



Guess few words are enough to convey the ocean of thoughts…



Regards

Jayati Gupta

  

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ref Rise ... The sun rises from the east! Declines to the west!
Thousand years of AD tortures? Honestly, one need not Spring Prose with an appreciative slate - knowingly...
Heartily - Hehehe – Hahaha -

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Journal 09/14/08: "The Most Unappreciated Thing On Earth"

11:20 a.m.= Late morning,  very late. I have two of my apartment windows open, to catch some of the changing breezes that accompany the seasonal move into autumn.  When I stood up, I heard the sound of something being knocked over.  Nothing big, just  a light silver-colored long tube that harbored my incense sticks.  Quite a nice ornament for my bigger window collection.  Since I detest gaudy ornaments and prefer subtle yet smaller pieces, I had set that tall slim cannister of quietly-spoken beauty upon the bigger windowsill months ago.  I don't know, it just seemed to fit there.  But the wind gust was too strong for that light weight cannister, so it laid upon its side until I walked over there and set it back upright.

Hmph, the wind:  How refreshing it can be.  And how deadly.  I've been on both ends. The rejuvenation I'm granted when a light to medium breeze gently kisses my skin on a humid day is both priceless and timeless, provided I am open enough to appreciate it. And, my body's been impolitely moved from one spot to the other  by the howling gusts coming from the tail-end of a tornado.

Ah yes, memories, breathing in particular:  I was living in Florida, if You want to call it "living." I was in a hospital operating room, already prepared for a minor procedure.  Sodium pentathol was going to be used.  The anesthesiologist had shot some liquid into the I.V. line, to clear it of any air.  Then I was moved aside for a few moments.  I began to feel very strange.  My eyelids started fluttering, and I felt like they were being filled with water for some reason.  Then my eyelids started to close as I sank down into my hospital bed, and I could not control my own body.  This was both a new feeling and a frightening one, for I could not stop myself.  At first, I thought that perhaps the anesthesiologist had given me some sort of tranquilizer.  But the next terrifying moment told me that it wasn't valium or some other anti-anxiety drug.  The air was actually leaving my body, quickly seeping out of my lungs.  Though I felt myself running out of air, there was no way I could hold it in; it's as if  some unseen giant vacuum were sucking it out of me.  Then, there was no air at all.I began to panic, of course; this was a sensation totally foreign to me, since I've never experienced my lungs unable to function.  I might have died, had I not taken one of my feet and fervently pounded on the bedpost, which seemed the best way to call for help.  Both my physician and the anesthesiologist came over to investigate the pounding.  They saw me clutching at my throat, mouthing the words "I can't breathe!"   These two dumb fucks just stood there, as if I were making this all up.  Could they not understand that I literally could not breathe?  What kind of medical education or training did they possess that made them this stupid?  Suddenly, this invisible giant vacuum put air back into my lungs, the eyelids stopped fluttering, and within 30 seconds my body was back to normal.  After I had told them what happened, I was furious with these two arrogant apes for suggesting that what I was going through was only anxiety.  I think I was practically screaming at them.  At that point, I insisted that the procedure end here, that I be taken back to my hospital room.  Later on, I attempted to complain; I stated that the anesthesiologist was seriously screwed up, that this won't happen again.  I can't remember if they assigned another anesthesiologist to me or not--the procedure was re-scheduled--, but the next one didn't inject that liquid into my line again, as per my vehement insistence.

Truly:  That experience eleven years ago was a time when the next breath meant more to me than silver or gold.

Most people are brought up to treat air as something to be taken for granted. Air is just there, why should I be grateful?  This is what most of us think; no one rarely stops to inhale its precious life force deeply, then thank the air for blessing them as it leaves their body and moves along to the next person, hoping that they, too, will appreciate it, and let it come inside.

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Journal 09/06/08="Universal Medicine"

=Even amongst a relentless migraine, and the paralyzing symptoms which accompany it--severe nausea, sensitivity to light and sound--, an ironic cure both stirred my burdened soul and promoted healing:  Music.  Not my usual meditative musical choices (Bach, soft Celtic, with a smidgen of new age thrown in), but  alternative rock/metal.  I opened up my favorite browser and played an Internet radio station;  I chose the "Evanescence fan radio station."  I was hoping the station would play two of my Amy Lee favorites; instead, other alternative rock/metal bands were being played. Most of the songs were jarring blasts of screeches played by inauthentic, single digit, low frequency bands..  With tons of ice on my back and head, I kept pushing the skip button every two seconds.  I was hoping that I'd find something relaxing.  Deep breathing was mandatory under the physical torture that a migraine produces. I peeked out from beneath the ice pack on my forehead every couple of seconds to flip through an endless barrage of third-rate alternative noise.  Then my ears perked up when a song by Three Doors Down started playing.  Though I really like this band, this type of music generally doesn't produce serenity in me when a migraine occurs.  The title track playing was "Away From The Sun."  I couldn't remember but a few words:  "So far down...away from the sun again...."  From beginning to end, the song was entrancing; I took deep breaths, allowing the lyrics to flow through me.  As I was releasing past and future stress--even for a few moments--, the migraine began to finally dissipate, along with its god-awful symptoms.



It's a funny thing, how my body tells me things I need to know.  And sometimes, a simple melody can be the cure.

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Journal 08/31/08: "The Chicken Cure"

I hate periods.  I hate the change of life.  I never know what mood to expect; never know what somebody's going to say to ruin my perfect day.  I never know how I"m going to respond to people in my peri-menopausal state. Sometimes, I deliver a temper tantrum blow to the skulls of those well-meaning human beings whom I perceive as enemies. Or, I can launch myself into psychotic serial killer mode--verbally, that is. Invariably, though, I respond by extending my rapier-like claws and ripping innocent people to shreds.  



A whole young chicken might be just the thing to take away the aftertaste of last night's strange mood.  I mean, come on:  I'm getting choked up from a few mildly emotional scenes in Walt Disney's "Underdog"?  Two year olds wouldn't even cry over that stuff. But getting my hands involved with food: From thawing and rinsing the chicken in a sink basin full of cool water to putting the seasoned bird into the oven, all the way to the mouth watering, dizzying aroma filling the entire apartment, creating sudden happiness for me and my tummy:  This grounding experience might be just what I need to break my psycho-obsessive train of thought, and restore peace to my rattled soul.



I know: I'll take a few more deep breaths, then savor the hazelnut aroma coming from the rising steam in my coffee cup.  Then I'll undo the holistic healing effects of deep breathing as I enjoy the carcinogenic menthol cigarette smoke billowing from lungs that are threatening to leave me if I don't stop.  About two hours later, the chicken will be done.  I'll feast on the oven-roasted bird and mellow out, realizing that all is well after all, that nobody is attacking me, and that life is good. This serenity will last until my next psychosis-inducing moment.  Which is probably schedluled immediately.



  

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If I could I would

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Loafer

South Africa in Span Sweet Sixteen – Photo Blog

Those innocent days as a little girl, heard father relate people’s sufferings in Africa to which felt helplessly sad unable to alleviate misery. If only I could, I would… childishly thought



Time grew, struggles threw, ban lifted, a chance encounter around 1983 with Ms Tewari a South African lady of Indian origin on a pilgrimage to India planted the seeds of hope for a counter visit to the country... realised in 2008 July… 19th July to 3rdAug consisting of exactly sixteen days.



18th July was the 90th birthday of Mr Nelson Mandela the ordained day we flew to South Africa Johannesburg reaching the next morning. Murmuring Happy Birthday to the all time soft-spoken leader from my airplane seat wished my message reached him. (Call me eccentric)







First step as an Indian to visit the country was, apply for visa. Incidentally, The Embassy of South Africa and The Indian Embassy in Berlin till date are neighbours. (Am I foreseeing a shift in the future? Please no divisive rage that people unite in amity around the globe.)



(Valid reason, the soft shaded Indians find sandwiched between strong white and black shades, each complain about Indians taking sides with the other...)



A woman of Boer origin commented with tint of envy on Indians making hay while an indigenous became suspicious of the Indian taking sides of the advantaged.



Looking down on the other is another disease that needs guard in this transitory phase of erasing discrimination… by world. Other than Poverty, HIV/AIDS South Africa offers are more than eyes can meet... Hope my personal impressions find some takes!





Set on a pilgrimage to the deified land on the soils of which Mahatma Gandhi determined his non-violent reconciliation with his solicitous carved out plans creating a fascinating history in human relationship.  






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Trip

Folder: 
Wonderful World

Johannesburg Photo Marathon



Invite you to glimpse the big beating heart of South Africa, Johannesburg one of the most historical city in the world. On note from a fellow Sulekha friend about snap size chose the smaller web versions for photos.





We begin at city centre; Nigerian workers fill these houses deserted by earlier fortunately privileged people.

The driver was echoing a discordant tune about present folks. As majority South African pursue faith about teachings of ‘love thy neighbour’ and surely, Nigeria was a very rich neighbour with heavy oil reserves… Heard some prejudiced theories of people bringing in drugs and destroying the country, while another theory with end of apartheid the local have-nots becoming greedy and thus shooting crime …

Understood teething problems crop any sort of social or political changes but the worst weapon of mass destructions are rumours, maligned gossips, and insensitiveness that pose hindrances to goodwill, friendship, consideration, of our fellow beings.

Ultimately, don’t we live in a civilised progressive scientific world? Do not we come from the same Almighty? Don’t we pursue similar goals of family friendship leisure and love?

We all know our set goals thus why waste our valuable time that life is but a short sojourn in damaging one another wielding swords. Oil, or no oil, metal or elemental, doors close from one side there is always an alternative that opens for all of us. It serves with our search and research to strive for a better comfort for no one but our fellow beings. Can the solitary man exist in this entire earth with no one to respond to his great invention, resources, wealth, and treasures?

Let us have more bridges, communications, and global events to highlight our life on mother earth that we may not kick our conscience to violent aggression for petty gains.

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