Thursday, March 16, 2006

Feeding The Cat

Friday, March 17, 2006
12:21:44 AM

Poor Egyptian cat…who the hell named it Ananya? Ah yes, the baby boy, he named the cat Ananya…Rambo accomplished the experiment of feeding the cat a rotten, hardened chapatti…poor cat…didn’t know what to do, where to go…until it got fed-up with the idea and walked past the omnipresent stick that held the chapatti right in front of it’s mouth…the skinny cat strolled away ignoring all the taunting endeavors…I met the cat later in the day. I am sure it doesn’t need to be reminded of an omniscient, omni-whatever being of its omnipresence symbolized with the stick and the chapatti…

Following The Rabbit

Thursday, March 16, 2006
9:23:22 PM

I have been counting the number of times I received a certain ‘omen’ for quite sometime…it was so refreshing…the number put a smile on my face and I was able to sleep peacefully…I mean, it was easy to ignore the omen, since there had been other omens contradicting this wonderful omen…how do anti-omens work, I wonder…readers might be baffled at what I am saying right now…you might be thinking I am talking about one of those Astrology, Numerology or Tarot Reading books…but no! It’s none of those…It’s something entirely different…and I want it to be as different as it can get…something that is a never-ending challenge in itself…self-persisting…yet changing…well, I am just this gal, ya know…

The number crossed 13 instances…so I am beginning to believe in it…well, no book says that any omen has to cross 13 instances…I only felt that…well, I am just this gal, ya know…

It’s an odd vision, an uncalled for connection, a calling which is not so audible to the five senses…in front of which, I stand a shade less brighter…and I feel no compulsion to compete with that…it’s the revolutionary existence of a small word…I see it in flashes, and I saw them in those omens…thirteen and running, although interrupted by an array of anti-omens…have you? Well, I’m just this gal, ya know…

Sunday, March 05, 2006

The Twosome...

Friday, March 03, 2006
8:50:15 PM

There are two aliens: one short and thin, while the other short and fat, who regularly read my posts…I always wanted to express my gratitude to them, but alas, I don’t have a Babel Fish Humor Translator, and it’s difficult to strike up a conversation with them, especially with the fat one, without that miniature device…What would be the shipping costs of the Translator, I wonder…I wish I could…oh damn I just forgot what I wish…Oh right, the Translator, it’s an essentially useful device, it can convert sarcasm to serenity, and most importantly it can convert words of War to words of Peace…Tolstoy would have been so pleased…

But do these aliens exist? Who can tell…who can tell…would they sing songs to my cat? Oh damn, do I have a cat? I think I don’t. Well, how do I know that I don’t have a cat? I just say what it occurs to me…


Sunday, February 19, 2006
1:14:54 AM


He stared and stared…he stared so much that he forgot his eyelashes…what’s happening? He couldn’t feel anything but his eyes.

“Oh no, what’s with the anesthetic?”, she motioned at the nurse.

“It’s alright ma’am”.

“What alright? Can’t you see he’s staring???”

“But you asked for a local…”

“Well, then I asked for the wrong thing! I can’t operate like this”, she said.

The nurse went to look outside, puzzled and feeling generally queer.

He felt a rush of compulsion to close his eyes as he saw the doctor-like being injecting some potion in…oh no, what the hell, in his butt! He let out a last, frantic plea just before drowning down into a pool of unconsciousness: “Where am I?”
“Poor thing…”, sighed the doctor.


Tradam is sick of the white room…everything is white in there. The bed-sheets, the curtains, the door and even the wrought iron is painted white…He was half expecting that an albino doctor would arrive with an equally albino syringe with needles painted in white, when the nurse entered with a transparent syringe with a silver needle, her hair calling jet black even if it was dyed heavily…what a white room!

“What’s your name ma’am?”, he asked. He hasn’t talked to any person, let alone a woman for ages since he last fell off the cliff.

She went about her usual business injecting some transparent liquid, this time not in his butt but in the saline bag.
“Wait, let me guess, does your name have the word Nightingale anywhere?”, he asked again. She gave him a forlorn, zombie look, trying to fix the flow of saline in his blood.

“Perhaps I am mistaken…It’s Teresa, isn’t it?”

She knew about a knowing smile, which she smiled generously and left the damned, white room.
A moment or two went by with the usual whiteness. Even the thoughts must be reflecting and not only light, in such unheard of whiteness…

(……………………….to be continued)