A fake love story

The other ones weren't real either.

                          It is a love story and it starts with our hero. The hero, as you may find, resembles a lot to the author or what the author imagines himself to be, but it is all coincidental since the author lacks the ingenuity to come up with characters. The hero is a shy, lanky guy, who has a difficult time in matching his clothes; so he ends up buying only shades of blue so they match whichever combination he picks up. He has these not so fancy black eyes that seem too small to decipher his emotions. The leading lady on the other hand shall be described in all her beauty when she first comes into picture, in the next paragraph.

                                 It was hot as hell, as it always is in the hero's city except when it's raining, even at 5:30 in the evening, as the hero reached the parking area of his office. The parking area was small even when full fledged and now it was further reduced due to the refurbishment going on by parts. That, although turned out to be a blessing in disguise. The hero, tired after a long day of work, had finally reached his bike in the parking lot and was about to press the self start button when his eyes wandered off and he saw a damsel in distress. The girl was stuck as her scooter was blocked by another bike. She had her helmet on so he could only see her nose and the sun's reflection on her visor which obscured her soon to be discovered beautiful eyes but her curly yet wavy hair was bustling sideways because of the warm sea breeze that the evening brought along with it. The hero in his mind had already helped the girl, fallen in love and married her, but reality stung him soon as the old guy, whose bike was blocking her scooter, came along and took his bike away silently apologizing to the girl. The hero was still staring and suddenly the girl turned around and noticed, but our hero was used to such situations and knew how to pretend to be just turning around his head as if taking an overview of the construction work going on the in the parking lot. He started his bike as fast as he could, feeling guilty as hell, and ran away from the scene of crime. It would be 48 excruciatingly long hours before he would run into her again.

                                  I lied, he din't see her again for a month, until that fateful day when it was raining, but the story did carry on without them having to meet. It was 48 hours later since his first confrontation, he always hoped to run into her at the parking lot, but luck had it otherwise. He came to his bike, not so tired that day as he had spent the whole day bugging others since he had no work, when he saw his bike and the helmet lying over it, he observed something yellow flapping with the wind but still somehow attached to the helmet. He went closer, his shoes were tiring him, he always hated wearing shoes, it was a sticky note, with a small smiley at the bottom he read the text later, it said in a very neat equally spaced handwriting "I'm sorry I scratched your bike.". He read it and looked towards his bike, it hadn't been cleaned since the last time it was serviced which was six months ago, to observe a scratch on it would have been very difficult for him, and he didn't care enough for the bike anyway. He was just too happy to worry about anything but what to reply or should he reply at all. The anxiety was overwhelming, plus there was the fear of ruining it by writing something stupid or seemingly desperate. His gut feeling was to not writing anything, but his gut had betrayed him earlier too, so he decided against it and planned on writing a reply. He opened his bag and realised that he had no sticky notes, he slammed his head with his right hand, an expression he had learned from his mother, which he often used when he realised he was stupid, his mother's expression were also always directed towards his stupidity, as they say-once a moron always a moron. But then he had an epiphany, he realised he could write on the same paper and stick it on her scooter, he wasn't so stupid after all. 

        He had never faced such lack of words before in his life, he scratched his head a lot trying to figure out what to write, he wanted to sound smart and funny in the shortest possible sentence. The best he could finally come up with was "Kamini, paisa tera baap bharega?"

The end

Marine Drive Blues

I dont know why blue is related to gloomy. I feel blue when I am happy. I feel blue today. Why? The first reason would be that it's a working day and I didn't go to office. The second is because I am in marine drive. Not the real one, the fake one in Cochin. The real marine drive has hosted many good memories for me, it's a place where you can get lost into the crowd just walking around or just sit and stare at the constant gushing waves smashing against funny shaped concrete blocks or just do anything you want, no one will give a tiny rat's ass, you can be whatever you want. The fake marine drive although lacking such qualities and also the scenic beauty is a good enough substitute if you haven't been to the real one for a year. Scenic beauty has never stirred my senses anyways. The marine drive in Cochin is a bit odd, as in it is not continuous, you have to enter through a shopping complex and exit after about 500 meters through a shopping complex again and enter through a labyrinth of tea-snacks shops for the remaining part of it. I had a lot of time to kill so I just walked through the entire length twice. I didn't have anyone to strike a conversation with, so I started observing. Observing the people all around, trying to note the similarities and the differences. Based on this elaborate and time consuming endeavor, I could divide the people into six basic types:

The first type, who were trying to hide the most, but were still the most conspicuous, were the young couples. The couples themselves can be further subdivided into three types. The primary and the most prevalent identities in such locations. These are very shy looking, holding hands, even if they are not facing each other. Even when they do face each other, they whisper so that anyone nearby can not eavesdrop. These are young couples, mostly teenagers, but they all look beautiful, because people in love look beautiful or beautiful people fall in love, either one of them has to be true. 

Then there are the couples with a child. They look similar too. They typically include either the male or female looking after their child and the other one busy on his or her cellphone. There is nothing much to decipher about them, they are just going through this phase of life.

Now you may wonder, as I did, where do the children come from? Holding hands surely doesn't do the trick. The answer probably is that they come from the smart couples. Smart enough to know that love is more than just holding hands. But not smart enough to realise what their actions could lead to!

The third type are the old couples, who have had enough time to realise that all these phases are pointless and are just happy that they are still healthy enough to stroll around or sit without any support.

I also encountered numerous gangs of pretty loud teenagers. It may sound like I am exaggerating, but 

I really saw at least four similar groups. These groups had five dudes, all with the same hairstyle and skinny jeans, and two girls. One of the girls was only interested in one guy and the other one just went blabbering about. Of course there is one cool guy who doesn't give a fuck and is looking in a direction no one else knew existed. The hairstyle part seriously bothers me, although I am not old enough, but I think the generation gap has become apparent  already. They all have the same freaking hairstyle, the hyperbolated virat kohli look.

Next is the group of girls. Now by group I imply two. It is very difficult to find a group of girls with more than two girls in it. Again something I can't comprehend. These girls, although I am not objectifying, has one pretty girl and the other one not so pretty and they are always showing something to each other on their cellphones or taking selfies with a pout.

The last type are the group single guys, mostly five to six in quantity. They too have the virat kohli look and the skinny jeans that look so uncomfortable you wonder how they manage to sit without squishing things. They just stare at the group of girls and the girls in other groups.

The list is not exhaustive, you will also encounter group of adult men in lungis judging everyone else and the occasional husbands who according to their wife are at work but sit looking at the waters instead.

Who am I? I probably belong to the group of those single guys, but since I am alone, I stand free and I judge the others. I don't share their hairstyle though.

Ciao (the last time I spelled it wrong).

Sir Picksalot

Chapter 1

Scene 1

Not so far away in a place called nowhere. Sir Picksalot owned a very peculiar bar.

              Sir Picksalot as his name would suggest had a very odd habit of picking his nose, even though such picking due its frequency did not always yield promising results, there was no other place where Sir would rather enjoy his finger. Although you might assume so, but the knighthood wasn't granted to him due to his excellence in the above mentioned field it was just something his family named him, you see his grandfather was accorded with the knighthood for his extraordinary contributions to the war, his parents just passed it onto him to continue his grandfather's legacy. 'Middle' (hereafter referred to as The bar) was placed right at the center of a very busy city. But due to the Mayor’s successful sobriety propaganda  and the failing economy the bar had only four customers. Four regular customers and not another living soul except them ever entered the premises.

Strange as it may sound to a regular bar monger, the place only opened from 8 pm to 11 pm. Which implies no happy hours. Before you stop breathing and loose all your faith in society, we shall continue with the story part of this exorbitantly explained scenario. The new word being a an antithesis/euphemism of course to the writer's inability to create or even imagine a grander or reasonable setting for the story to unfold. Without further ado let's move on to the four regular customers, of which one shall die (no this is not the suspense).

The names, for the sheer lack of imagination or effort and also to avoid the stereotypes that we form in our head relating to names from the people we meet, were Rat, Pat, Mat and Chester Yes you guessed it right, Chester dies.

Just when Picksalot, dribbling through the bushy field of his nose, had located something worthy enough to stick in his nails and expose to the outside world. He heard a gentle thud on the bar door. This was odd as none of his four customers had ever knocked and Chester, who was the only person missing from that bar that night, would be the last person to do so. Picksalot irritably leaving the dried mucus, which had been located after an hour of dedicated searching, carefully in the same place where it was found got up from his seat and limped up to the door. Outside waiting restlessly was a tall figure strongly built with a jawline that would make George Clooney look like a kid. The physical persona was not reflected in his flail bodily movements. It was the renowned  local police officer  detective Chad. As soon as he saw Picksalot his shoulders drooped further and he started scratching his head in order to come up with an opening line. Finally after 10 long seconds of silence he spoke, " We found Chester's body in front of your bar's back door”. Picksalot, seldom a guy with expressions worth noticing, shrieked utilising all the air his lungs could manage. The surprising nature of the news being the major cause behind the wailing. He turned towards the other three inmates of the bar, who had already eavesdropped on the news and were too in a state of shock.

To be contd..

Running out of rhymes

It seldom happens to me all the time
I cant make the lines of my poem rhyme
I do it often but not all the time
I try to come up with some nonsense rhyme

Working in RPP
I pee after every tea
Unlike the control center
I have no view of the sea

I dreamed i dreamed
To leave a mark i always aspired
Getting posted to RPP I feel it retired
Now those dreams seem certainly tainted

Will have to continue for 5 more years
As will most of my peers
Till then I'l stop whining
And calculate propellants sheer

I know its a monotonous theme
But i cant offer any other scheme

Somethings in life make no sense
So I write these lines
In life's pretense

THE PERFECT MURDER

“I will kill that bastard” said the husky voice

He had been uncertain

Up until the bastard slept with his wife.


Although their love

Had not much ado

The bastard still

Had no right to go in the meadow.


Now to kill the bastard husky needed a plan

He knew him pretty well

The bastard wasn’t a great man.


The bastard was rich and lived on the border

He had one weird trait

That to keep things in order.


He thought and thought and then he realized

He didn’t have to kill the bastard

Not once not even twice.


Owned a Da Vinci, the bastard was rich

There saw an opening, husky, the son of a bitch.


Sneaked into the house

The painting he tilted.


Glued it to the wall

And his anger he vented.


The bastard when saw this

Went absurd and fainted.


To repair the irreparable

He’d have to tear down what Da Vinci painted.


Husky got the Bastard

He had killed him with dilemma

Only then he relaxed and went to the cinema.

My Third attempt in poetry

Wrote this one on a long and boring flight to trivandrum


Tvm reloaded

On my way again
To the crap land
It eases my pain
But I still hold my hand

The worst week of my life
Is about to come
Wish I had a wife
Just to rhyme this one

Two long hours
Sitting in this confined space
My bum soars
But if I turn sidewards I see a pretty face

She slept halfway with her mouth open
Then she woke up and went to pee
And when she came back she seemed happy
And now as I get bored to death
She's working on her lappy

I'm still sitting on my seat
And trying to read
What the pretty girl is doing on her lappy

Now I've got to go
Cant really hold the pee
But I wonder If she's reading this
And secretly Falling in love with me....

2

this is my first attempt at "poetry" so please try to read as much as u can :D

Run bhola run

Bhola woke up at 6:15

Bhola is only 15 

He fought he trembled 

But soon he surrendered 

Godmother woke her in a very scary voice 

She said "Bhola waking up so late is not very nice"

He stood up and towards

The bathroom he flew 

He had to make number 2

He knew that he didn't have much time 

But he loved brushing his teeth at same time 

He came out all wet and saw the clock tower

He gave his devilish smile cause no one knew he didn't shower. 

Now began his true run, he had breakfast 

And ran towards the school bus as usual last

He wasn't sad as opposed to common sense 

As he was hoping to see Lola and was pretty tense

He reached school but he was disappointed 

Cause he couldn't find Lola wherever he pointed 

For sometime, time went real slow

But seeing Lola , bhola's face began to glow 

To tell her how he feels 

our sad hero doesn't have the guts,

Cause he is scared that he will,

Get kicked in the nuts.

And then the lectures got over soon 

As bhola's time flew looking at Lola upto noon

Bhola's interaction with Lola till now was nil

But today bhola went for the kill

He went closer and got a better look 

But with what he saw all his nerves shook

Lola had a beard 

Bhola found it weird

And he knew it wasn't fun

All his senses suggested him

Run bhola run

Ran bhola like the winds 

and this is how the "poem" endssss....

2nd one

On the roof 

On the roof I sit and wonder 

Will the lightning hit me or the thunder 

Sitting alone I think sometimes 

Why do all the lines of my poem rhyme

I like the loneliness only trees surround me 

I am at last free from all the people around me

I m not a loner but I like some free time

Why do all the lines of my poem rhyme. 

I try to be funny all day 

But it makes me wonder 

Is it who I am or it's something I create 

The mess food Is bad but still I ate. 

The poem gets worse as I try harder to go on

And after many tries I come to the conclusion

nothing rhymes with on. 

Life's getting complicated

College coming to an end 

The mere thought of working

Makes me comprehend

Is it truly what I want 

Or maybe it's all a part of being funny and "successful" plan.