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Silence had spoken.

14th August 2000

 

 

“The stars shine soundlessly upon the moonlit sky.Each shimmering as a child’s exaggerated teardrop a pearl against the sunlight as they cry. There is vivid,carefree laughter and an unbelievable cloud of memories that still hover in moist air,as two little girls skip throught the puddles. “Pttchh – Patch- Haha” on a rainy day without a care. The rain falss gently upon the ground as flowers bloom and the child cries,the very first sound comes to his ear. The sky darkens as the children rest their heads,silence takes over aas they lie in their beds.Their beds , safe and secure.The raindrops are now music to him,every raindrop contains a single beat ,each of it making up for the children;s melodyfor their sleep.Each drop,each drop transports them gradually to a faraway land,where possibly fiery,friendly dragons exist and princes on a beautiful unicorn always fantasized of ask for their hands.His little girls dance throught the fields of dreams of light ,sing the most melodious and enchanting songs deeper and deeper , do they fall with their smiles so pure and bright – virgin. The whispers of the dreamland call them girls .Unaccountedly closer and closer they drift and on reaching their destination,gradually reality shifts for them. He sees his two little girls lie in their beds and smiles,smiles on what all glorious sights they will see, what the real world awaits them , awaits them with something else. “

 

He put his pen down.

 

This had been enough amount of writing for a rainy Friday evening.He took a deep breath, looked at the wall clock hung inanimately yet animatedly moving into the warp of time.The clock read , six twenty two pm. He moved his head , took a gulp of air and realized it had been only thirty eight minutes of a trip to his parallel universe of thoughts,stories,quills,pens and back.When he pushes his chair back , it lets out a little squeak amidst the moist silence of the evening and proceeds towards the magnificent French Window that perimeters a side of his room on the first floor of his modest bungalow.He stood there , stood there past the window , watch the rain go past and the melodious thud thud of the water falling on the false extensions of the French Window.

 

For all he lived in this lifetime were the two little girls he was spared with after his wife’s death .He saw the world in those sparkly eyes and hope meandering in those grins , so carefree and innocent when life took a backseat and something like living life alone as an experience came into existence. He saw the neighbour’s tender little girls hopping in the little dirty water puddles and knew in his head that it was time for his little girls to come home.It was almost a daily household activity on a whole to let his beautiful petals out to play, know the world and to admire it.

 

Twelve and eight – of age were his two little dolls . she was eight and bright . She loved barbies and had eleven of them . It was his utmost joy to see her hop around the house in glee with the best pink frock she had ,the room echoing with the sounds of her laughter. The twelve year old was a subdued self proclaimed geek , she loved her books and rarely set out to play like other bright kids. He thought she was the closest he could get one of this daughters to become a writer. He looked at that wall clock again , it had gone past seven . He still didn’t hear the carefree chirps of his little bird home . It had already gone dark. He was a father , that feeling hurt him , he reassured himself that his kid was safe . He went down to his living room , opened the front door only to welcome the rain in and out and wetting his pretty jute foot mat. He closed the door and sat on his cosy tapestered couch , grabbed tight of the mushion that lay on the couch in anxiety and waited . This time again , he sensed someone at the door. He looked through the keyhole in the excitement of seeing his little girl smile. The elder daughter he saw in a raincoat with her hair sticking to her face and trembling in cold of the rain. He opened the door in joy to greet his child and waited two seconds after she entered at the very doorstep if she had brought her sister along as well .”Rena ,Where is your sister ?” , he asked in worriment. She removed her raincoat and replied , “ No Papa. I got late from the class.” Wiped her head with the towel he had left by the side table , picked up her books and set upstairs to her room for her daily routine of Physics, chemistry and Maths.

 

The rain had mellowed down by then , the door still lay open in wait of the little sister , too tense he was to even let out a sigh. That pensive walk of wait was tracing the corridor to the hallway. The hallway to the door . The door to the hallway . The clock had now gone past eight and a quarter . He somewhere knew at the back of his mind , after all that reassuring done he would see his little girl set into the house tonight itself. He closed the door , wiped his head and took a deep breath and buried himself in the phone , reconsidering options as to whom to call and enquire about his little girl.This is when he heard a little knock on the door. A little knock yes. An effortless little knock. He sprung up from the couch in immediate reflex and went for the door to see his little girl standing there in the rain , drenched and expressionless. Where had that laughter from her face palely disappeared. He had a thousand questions swirling in his mind , but he controlled himself let her in and shut the door by .

 

She stood lifeless of the two steps she took in the hall . He went close to her , kneeled down on his knees and gave her that tight fatherly hug to share with her how happy he was to see her . He hugged her , but all he felt in return was her skin ice cold and the warm tears flowing down her cheeks down to his shoulders. He knew there was something she had to tell.He wouldn’t ask, he was not a very questioning person at heart. He trusted his girls a little too much and knew she would tell him what happened.She grabbed the towel he handed her in reflex ,tears still flowing down her cheeks , face pale as anything and ran upstairs in her wet bellies , frilly socks and that blue frock hugging her body due to the rain.He did not question. He did not. He knew she would talk. He was not too much a father to his kids than he was a friend. He was a friend , a confidante. She would trust in him ,He gave her time , time enough to calm down and speak leaving her in aloof in her room. She shut the door in disappointment and went for the door lock, spun it round to lock herself in solitude. Opening the cold water tap in the bathroom , she put her head underneath , with flowing cold water touching the scalp of her head and her thick long hair.

 

A day passed , a two passed , days, weeks ,years , things came back to normal. He still never questioned her . He still never asked. When you bank on things called hope in life , this is the limit. There was no possible void left in their family , he still read them girls out fancy stories and they cooked lovely meals together. They were a family , bonded and had enough love for each other enviable for the others. He wrote books and books as a writer and then won accolades and accolades as the same. He had lived his dream as a writer over the years , accomplished it and things felt just complete. He was a good friend, a successful man , a good father but there was this little itch somewhere at the back of his mind as to what had happened years ago.

 

His two little girls were exposed to literature , and writing ever since the very childhood . They had now undertaken his dream of them becoming accomplished writers . They were ambitious aspirants and enthusiasts of the progression . The Young Writer’s Summit every year held in Mumbai was an event more prestigious than any for all novices or aspiring ambitious writers. His little daughter was taking part in this for a first time. Eleven years down , the line , she had grown into a charming lady of nineteen , long velvet hair flowing down her tusser silk kurta and a neat black rimmed plastic nerd glass framing her clean and rounded face . She had grown to be the youngest entry this year at the Young Writer’s Summit. He was a proud father , a proud proud father and a mentor for his daughter . He had waited for this fortunate day for years to see one of his girls on the podium doing a recital.

 

He put up his neatest black suit, neatly folded a scarf across his throat covering the collar of his shirt , shiny black shoes and he tiptoed across the colossal Mayo Hall like a king crusading a red carpet . The waiters in a neat tuxedo pulled out a chair for him in respect.Rena followed and sat beside him. He let out a little smile that he couldn’t control , looked at Rena , she reciprocated the smile and they took a sip of the sparkling white wine together burying their nose in the wine glass . He licked his lips in content and put the glass down in satisfaction. They say there is no better feeling in this world than living to see your dream come alive.The lights , the black , the bonhomie – he was on a stage other than all. All he saw was the podium and the wait of seeing his daughter on the stage haunted him.

 

Time and again he came to realise his unending love for his daughters , they had never left a void unopen , never let him down . Never. He saw aspiring writers come and go on the stage narrating their best story forward at the Summit.Them writers came , some stumbled , some had moist tears in their eyes, some spoke with all their zest and some just spoke and left.An echo of applause faded out in the room after every recital . He was sitting at the edge of his chair after every performance waiting for the recital of his lifetime, it was a lot more than a matter if pride for him. His bright dilly dally candy loving ever energetic gudiya had now become a writer. The emcee got onto the stage and announced what was the last recital of the day. The lights fell on a young bright girl standing at the podium , who animatedly patted into the mike testing the modulation. There was something about her , she was firm and had something to say, she knew what she wanted. Firm and animate , she grabbed instant attention . It was her. His , His very daughter.

 

A tear dropped down his cheeks , warm and fulfilling . He turned his body towards the stage and sat to listen in rapt attention . She started off with a cold verse and then went on to explain a cold chilly rainy night , a rainy night like every other night when the protagonist set out to play. She hopped and jumped through dirty water puddles in her favorite frilled socks and a blue puffed frock.Not realizing in the impulse of the moment , she went a little too far down the street – yet dedicated to her immense row with the rain , she punched the rain , the rain punched her back, she threatened the rain , the rain let out a rigorous thunder in terror of her cute threatens to defeat the rain. She was carefree , she was pure and virgin . There were eyes prying her , there were eyes looking at her. She stood at the podium and in the same firm animated manner went on to narrate the tale of how the protagonist was molested by a group of vandals . Her tears did not fall , her tears had dried over the years . She was a woman of substance – quite literally. She fearlessly told a tale of a woman in this country , a little girl being molested out of her sheer innocence and chastity. She had spoken. A huge applause faded out in the Mayo Hall after her recital .

 

The day at the summit had ended with stories that spoke millions . This man in a grey safari and a stout appearance approached his table where he and Rena had been seated through the evening .”Rajan , your daughter won. She weaved words so beautiful that it pierced our hearts .” He let out a tight small smile and waited for the man in the grey safari to leave. Rajan now knew what had happened years ago , he looked at Rena , his face firm and animated , yes the very same expression as his daughter – and walked out of the hallway of the majestic Mayo hall .- only to find his daughter standing still by the car . He stepped forward and hugged her tight. Tears dropped down her cheeks to his shoulder like that very night . Silence had spoken.

 

 

Silence had spoken.

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Now what do you want ?

I realised the other day that I haven’t written in a while. Then I got to thinking what I want to write about. I thought and I thought about it days together inconclusively. There was this stupid question what do I want to write about. Didn’t I have anything? The girl who’s called motor mouth suddenly has nothing to say?

” I want”

It reached a point when I asked “do I want?”

If yes. Then WHAT?

Inconclusive. Frustrating. This is what everyone does. And then it struck me I don’t WANT anything! I don’t NEED anything. My requirements of life are sufficiently met. I am content. And so not full of content for this page and place. I thought why’s that. Then I remembered from more than one place I knew the more want hungry you get the more you get stuck. Get content and life becomes peaceful. But then I guess this is good for any advertising and graphics person too. Minimal content you see.

For all wrong and all right reasons the pains that my phone has been giving are sweet.You cancel my registration I buy a bew one.You send me free updates as consolations,yes not so free. FREE. Now,the moral,ethical benefits of having a Network Service Provider called Vodafone are there –

1. They charge you a meagre Rs. 3 for a mandatory not asked for sex update.How educative on earth does it get? More?

2.Vodafone is a strategically correct name. CORRECT .Tell you what – how real fucked your connection even is you swear on your Maa’s and behen’sPoor things getting taken for a solo ride for no reason.Taeke your provider on a ride . Call him Chodafone.Take a deep breathe.Weeh ! 😀

3.Also, the benefits of having a fucked up connection will more so not remind you of the useless fuck you are in , A bangity bang . BANG !

4.Also, feel better by consoling your inner self that you’re still at respectable providers as your provider does not resort to 3G over vasectomy for population control.

5. Our jingle is better than yours . All indirect meanings . I said it.

6. All the perv inside me gets wings wth suggestive  taglines as “wherever you go,we follow.” and suggestive car coasters as “How are you doing?”. Thankyou . Now your back seat in the car sex is all so prominent.

Mr. Once-an-Engineer-Always-An-Engineer No ,seriously I HATE engineers. I hate them .They make this such common yet rare species..rare samples of typical eyes, eyes that look at you –swarm at you – XRAY you . Baah , Engineeer Hainaaaw ! With a guy becoming an engineer or training to become one ..not only comes knowledge..comes inherent engineer every horny attitude. Years of toil and useless mathematic equations that made their life left just about some time for pleasure . Explains the ever tharki ..*I-am-twenty-and-desperate-to-get-laid* attitude. It disgusts me to utter sadness at times .No actually..what disgust ? this is anyday a better deal ..a better better deal ..easy monthly..fortnightly..weekly ..or howsoever you want it to be. So it is one these engineers ..weak at heart ..weak at health …and weak at decisions ..Another important trait of these kinds is fickle minded attitude…So wonderfully,you train to be an engineer..realize ‘Ohh my I am not good at my math ..not in my life..I cant roooooooot “ .Zindagi ki musibat . That is when paradigm shift happens. Lets do easy rooting stuff- passion of life . Yaaaaay . Land up in an ivy league .make friends.hit at them .Make more friends . Hit on them too . That’s how it goes . So when one of these days another sensible fellow who lands next to him would come up to him and say something worth an ear ..Wow . This kind will show their “I-can-just-talk-abuse-since-you-told-me-the-truth-and-you-managed-to –hurt-my-ever-growing-ego. Brilliant. Wow. I wish somebody could provide this kind a sensibility.I personally feel this kind isn’t that bad otherwise ..Thodi bahot zyaada tharki..bahot egoistic..thodi larkibaaz,thodi aisi bahot waisi ..thoda yeh bahoooooot who ..BAS..Well poor kind ..cant stop being an engineer.Rightly said.

This is totally somebody I’ve dated in the past. And I’m not too proud of it though I was madly in love. I’m not too proud to have dated this kind.

iGPA-ed =|

Thoughts,ideas, random bursts and eccentric tantrums, late night whims would pretty much be the road to a so called design , an Idea. A product, my product.NI-Fuck-Teeh Bangalore being one of those sought after colleges where thought process was more important , where talent mattered more than approach.They say When you work hard,you work harder than all and try and leave no stone unturned. Brave on the face you say – uhh well Ohh not at all I’m good,I’m satisfied. No man is satisfied. Be it your career, be it getting laid. No man is.So there is some part there at the behind of the little pink brain that says – “Dude you’re good. I..am sure..I know you would push through this and It would be so much better if you push through this” Confidence of an era. Heartbreak of era. Tch tch.
Dude get up get going . NI-FUCKI-TEEH was kind. Like any other man, had no expectations. It felt awesome when the so called low expectations no expectation frameset was broken. Happy and overwhelmed. Life at nine pointer would give anybody a high to work the very same way and maintain it. I have no expectations I say to myself. No, not even a bit. I say that again. Naah. No no no …no . Saying No four times instead of one wouldnt help either because it is somewhere i know.. I have an expectation. I dont entirely blame my conscience, Ni-Fuck-ITEEH is equally at fault. Even more.NI-fuck-iteeh fucked my GPA to a menial small and not powerful 7.59 . It could have felt great considering the ratio of the mass massacre that actually NI-fuckiteeh had raged and my more than 7.5 pointer. It didnt – What happened to the nice feeling.? I did. My expectations did. I worked hard. Yes.Know I counted each star from the cold lobby sitting there all night talking on my fone. Know I spent loads ,squashed fingers,chipped hands,nail ,skin to get things right.Ni-fuckity did the fucking. I caused the pain. True Story.

Blame game shall go on – I blame you.You blame me.I fall down. and that is when I realize it was that little something of a little self in the mirror that caused it. Me. My expectations.Feels better .

WHICH HOWEVER DOES NOT MEAN NI-FUCKITY IS NOT TO BLAME .

The Guy Phenomena

What happened to all the nice guys?

The answer is simple: you did.

See, if you think back, really hard, you might vaguely remember a Platonic guy pal who always seemed to want to spend time with you. He’d tag along with you when you went shopping, stop by your place for a movie when you were lonely but didn’t feel like going out, or even sit there and hold you while you sobbed and told him about how horribly the (other) guy that you were fucking treated you.

At the time, you probably joked with your girlfriends about how he was a little puppy dog, always following you around, trying to do things to get you to pay attention to him. They probably teased you because they thought he had a crush on you. Given that his behavior was, admittedly, a little pathetic, you vehemently denied having any romantic feelings for him, and buttressed your position by claiming that you were “just friends.” Besides, he totally wasn’t your type. I mean, he was a little too short, or too bald, or too fat, or too poor, or didn’t know how to dress himself, or basically be or do any of the things that your tall, good-looking, fit, rich, stylish boyfriend at the time pulled off with such ease.

Eventually, your Platonic buddy drifted away, as your relationship with the boyfriend got more serious and spending time with this other guy was, admittedly, a little weird, if you werent dating him. More time passed, and the boyfriend eventually cheated on you, or became boring, or you realized that the things that attracted you to him weren’t the kinds of things that make for a good, long-term relationship. So, now, you’re single again, and after having tried the bar scene for several months having only encountered players and douche bags, you wonder, “What happened to all the nice guys?”

Well, once again, you did.

You ignored the nice guy. You used him for emotional intimacy without reciprocating, in kind, with physical intimacy. You laughed at his consideration and resented his devotion. You valued the aloof boyfriend more than the attentive “just-a-” friend. Eventually, he took the hint and moved on with his life. He probably came to realize, one day, that women aren’t really attracted to guys who hold doors open; or make dinners just because; or buy you a Christmas gift that you mentioned, in passing, that you really wanted five months ago; or listen when you’re upset; or hold you when you cry. He came to realize that, if he wanted a woman like you, he’d have to act more like the boyfriend that you had. He probably cleaned up his look, started making some money, and generally acted like more of an asshole than he ever wanted to be.

Fact is, now, he’s probably getting laid, and in a way, your ultimate rejection of him is to thank for that. And I’m sorry that it took the complete absence of “nice guys” in your life for you to realize that you missed them and wanted them. Most women will only have a handful of nice guys stumble into their lives, if that is the case.

If six was nine .

Pointing their plastic finger at me.
They’re hoping soon my kind will drop and die,
But I’m gonna wave my freak flag high, high.
Wave on, wave on.

As a child – letsay three . My mom,my kindergarten teacher taught me what was supposed to be the first letter of literacy.the first that gave me though. the first that probably was me – it defined me as to what i am today . So on one of those June mornings when mom left me to my first day at school, she left me to care-she left me to the world and she leftt me with the hope to embrace a new person that i would call teacher. She taught me to write an I first .Yes I . Its always easier for a toddler to get with those standing and sleeping lines.Now this I was the milestone of literacy for me at three. I thought that was it. Then as days passed I learned more alphabets . So one of those days , she taught me an A and told me that was supposed to be the first letter of the alphabet series. I, amused – could not accept that an A came before an I . It seemed uncertain and a petty thing to think upon at that time. So I grew up.

At eight – mom taught me. My teachers taught me. The dog in my streetway,that woman on the television all taught me – what is wrong and what is right. I learned,i observed, I came up with theories and what was more important then was I accepted things happening around me.

At thirteen – I had a mind of my mine. I was my teacher.I was my friend.I listened,learned,observed and rebelled.They say a teenager is not half as sane as a five year old. Accepted.

At eighteen-I am made of my own. I have a life.I have a dream . A step taken towards eternity in terms of my oh moment.A step taken back . I do my thing .I burst into random songs and thoughts.even random expressions.Observe characters and some -isms that rule my life. sit in a corner and ponder or just laugh away the concern in some healthy sunshine. People come.people see.people comment.So the biggest achievement that anybody ever made walking past the road and stopping by is making a useless comment on somebody’s achievement because they were not to make it any time in the proximity. I still sympathise with this kind – Another, is that you-know-your-daughter-is-a-so-and-so-and-gone-off-your-hands- ism. Yes.We are more bothered about others sons and daughters and how interesting does her/his life look in a next ten years.So this isnt chugalkhori in better words – its curiosity . How frank is the part when you know your kid isnt an eighth good of the kid living across the lane and that is when the fingers come in picture? Your kid failed in maths. Oh no. Mine scored an A. Your kid is dyslexic mine is not. Yeah seriously .

So, at this point of time its like walking with two deaf ears and a hypothetically blind pair of eyes on the road . the road where people would seldom come and show you ways – the ones that arent right. the ones that are rightly wrong. You walk.stumble.stumble. walk. And years later when you’ve just had it the way you wanted things to be.You think. and you feel lucky like a four leaf clover in a casino bar. Yes, six was six and nine was nine. I had a mind of my own and consequently I have a name of own. Which is just about enough. And Then I wouldnt stop being thankful because if six was nine – it would be the same chances of my aunt being my uncle. Haha !

The Golden Leaf

I was recovering.Basking in the sunset , the tender yellow orange panorama of tints and shades,emotions and life around me . This was a distant ,well taken care of disease by me ,all the symptoms – All the prerequisites . ALL .…

I was never going to go through this pain again. I was never going to trust , I was never going to smile and never going to love like that. A bitch called destiny it is . A life called fate . ..And when fate recurs back ,it hits back  soft  with the helluva of emotions and the mental tartar inside your system .  Seemed more like a dj night inside my head , with thoughts,decibeling over all and about . making me rethink of things.making me rethink of people . Making me rethink of situations. Was this my mode of  reconciliation?  So much at the cost of  a little thought . My cerebral muscles could paralyse or swell some unfateful day considering the serious hullabuloo shadowing my mind.

Was I going insane or was I seriously recovering ? The one thing that did  strike me by the warp was ..Notice. Notice was getting over  me . Was I just a soul lost in the massive untrustworthy human racket in and around the place or was it me that was different ? Was it me ? How could it be that  I was the one who was being noticed ? I had lost myself in the ocean of  expression,deep , thought , dark  but unnervingly trying to be pleasant to me ? Was this my share of basking in glory?  I was , going to get over it . I was going to trust..I was about to learn..life ..tender..life ..promisingly was just about ..err.. love.Life  could get just about beautiful . Sometimes , probably sometimes life puts me to thought . Sometimes , sometimes life is kind. Sometimes ..probably some of the coming times ..it would  do me a lesson..somehow it would…The one that  could turn a new leaf on me .

I am me. Distinct.Unique. The soul that I could be, The heart I am . The  She in me . Realization and a little more of tingling  wonderful romance of thoughts ..serene …inspiring.The golden leaf had turned over to me .

Period.

Pour my life into a paper cup
The ashtrays full and I’m spillin’ my guts
She wants to know am I still a slut
I’ve got to take it on the otherside ..

So a couple of people here and there and in and around often come up with this question – Why ? It is unknowingly weird ..and unacceptable for the crowd around . Totally. Why ? Do you just know about it  or are you just acquainted and newly fascinated by it?  And often do I get the feeling – Yes,asshole I am a girl. And I listen to better music than you do. I have achieved better in life than you have and I have been a better human being than you have been . So I listen to Paparoach – because he makes music . not that he is hot and all. And you listen to Rihanna and Lady Gaga because their obnoxiously sexually and skimpily dressed. Yes. Spot the difference.

Another thing that i conveniently hate about the so called Music fanatics is prototyping – The prototyping , categorizing is often something like -Miley Cyrus – dumb and big . Sanjay Leela Bhansali – slow and boring intelligent women . The  Ghulam Ali kinds – healthy zindagi se haari hui aunties . Bullet for my valentine kinds – Wannabe cool young women . These women are supposed to be the cool young turn ons. Fake – in precision.Fake – left,right,centre.its funny how it becomes egoistically unacceptable for the modern male to identify with the I listen to all music woman. She watches skimpily clad shakira rolling about in the possible wild way in a cage , she can even enjoy Enrique making out with a supposed ten woman gang in one of his videos. More so. She does enjoy sensible sensible music – Coke Studios and more crossovers and performing art shit. She grows up on rock. Red Hot Chilli Peppers and Beatles is her breakfast. Escape the fate for brunch. Enigma and Systems for lunch and more.

The sole motive . the motive her remains to just give an answer to all the men who do think that your she’s probably got this dumb sense of music . Yes sense of music does matter. Does does matter and it is not something petty to pen downsome five hundred words on. Just a thought on some of the funny theories that men come up with . I never understood them . I never will – for the good. And then sometimes you’ve just got to face the music . Life – you call it , bigger and better than Broadway.

Its amazingly funny how life these days is connected in its own unusual ways to social networking . Social networking , social drinking , social smiling, social this and social that – social -i-have-to-save-my-ass-ism.Amazingly unsuitably revolves around a bunch of over explored and over exploited websites amidst a lot of sensible .sensible.sensible fools. Paradox,ahh yes .

So one of these days i logged onto one of the numerous accounts i have on these random websites . Calling them websites – websites yes . Derogatory no ? Call them social phenomenas . call them connections – call them social networks. They make another unwanted of a platform to pass on virtual hi’s and i love you-s and let me give you a puchi .Going back to the point we were on – one of those random fun periods of my life as a pesky little kid – thirteen err.. well maybe fourteen . So it was the time of orkut and hi-5 then where all insensible Orkutiya-s – a common slang I often used for Orkutt-ing thickheads. Yes – which was obviously after I grew up. Funnier it would get when a nonsensical fourteen year old would log on to Orkut or Hi-5 and then ..baah !  Type your age – *Momma says I am fourteen *  . Looks for the year of  birth . Now how young is a fourteen year old kid supposed to be ! so the kid looks up the  scroll list – 1992 is the last year it offers . Fuck . Ok , kid – *Hypothetically, I am Nineteen *

So Orkut makes your child grow up. Orkut teaches your child stalking. It teaches the great art of virtual virtual flirting. All you yummay mommas there . yes your kid has grown up , you better go to office and not care. Your kid’s done all you havent imagined .

Come facebook . So with facebook started this unusual trend of getting pictures clicked and putting it up facebook. *Ahh i pee-d ,Ahh – my son said FUCK OFF . Ooh i got a new dress. She ganged up and hooked up with two guys . Bang bang chitty .* All this and more shit .. in-the-loo-in-the-hall-in-the-theatre-in-the-school action – put it up your status . Amazingly striking  is the fact that facebook steals all the less possible privacy that even a normal common man has these days . Even weird is the fact of people getting pictures clicked only . only for the fuck’s sake of putting them up on facebook . Pose.dramatize around and kiss your web cam. Ohh ya exactly . I like the idea of personally connecting people in this small small world through an even smaller network where person’s you’d have known are just a hyper hyper hyperlink away.Hate. Hate hate-ity hate the idea of random unkil-s and fake profile-d auntys hovering all around the profile sending fifteen fifty pokes and even nice innovative messages. messages that say * Hey,nice dp . Can I fraaand you ? ..Plzz . Plzzz. *  😐 Like Why Why . Why type PLzzz. ? Two more zz -s wont make you cooler . nor will the faked virtual english . So another of the typical things I think facebook should change is the useless sansani-ed tags and questions up the profile that would obviously be something like “Is so and so a flirt” ? . Ya seriously matlab itna zyada time hai duniya me . Itnaa ?

Or there would be a dozen more. like a dozen dozen more things I’d hate or want to change. But this is all about it now. Anjali calls it a block . And they say too much writing . too much critical thinking and satire isnt good either.

Smiles. 🙂