D

She caught me looking at her note-book.

"What do you want?" she demanded, annoyed, her eyebrows questioning.

"Nothing." I remarked."Your 'd's look nice."

She gasped, and before she could raise the alarm we got our next word. The teacher hollered from the front of the class:

"Emancipation! EMM-an-SEEEE-pay-SHUN!"

I finished scribbling and looked at her notebook again. She was still crossing her 't' and dotting her 'i's. I shot a look at my notebook, and shrugged my shoulders.

***

Do I believe in perfection? Do we believe in perfection? Do perfection and morality go hand-in-hand? If so, where and when and how did all these notions ever get into my, your, our head(s)?

It was Monday night and I was mulling the above questions over an unappealing dosa. And as I took apart the dosa piece by soggy piece, I remembered where, and when, and how.

D, of course!

And I felt like Archimedes out of a bath tub. No, no, before you ask I didn't, unlike the great man I have no illusions about my...err...anatomy. Not that many people would be interested in the first place anyway.

D was a classmate in school. We kinda grew up together. As in both of us were the tallest members in our class of our respective genders, and since we had this rule of a boy sitting next to a girl sitting next to a boy sitting next to a girl, we ended up sitting next to each other for the whole of primary school and for a couple of years after that as well.

Anyway, coming back to the point about perfection, it was an alien concept to me. Of course you can't expect 8 year olds to be bothered about perfection, can you? But then all that changed when D joined school.

You couldn't miss her in the crowd. She towered above the rest of the girls. And she stood out in other ways too. Everything about her was perfect. Right from her laminated text-books (which never tore even at the end of the year when I would be lucky if I retained the cover page on mine) to her spotless and shining shoes (maybe her Dad polished them at night; maybe she had a maid who took care of everything; maybe...) to that irritating oh-I-finished-my-homework-didn't-you-? smile of hers. And it hurt. Oh yes, it did. In a very juvenile, male-chauvinistic, how-can-a-girl-be-so-damn-smart-? way. Yeah, yeah, the male ego is fragile, I know.

And you know what hurt the most? Her handwriting. You could take a ruler and all her letters would line up, as in the legs and the loops would all be of the same height, down to the last freaking millimetre. I actually did that once when she wasn't looking, just to make sure, and I nearly died of shock. And mine? Forget it, you don't want to know...all that I can say in my defence is I was practising to be a doctor. No, really, I was.

But yes, being benchmates took its effect. And it was not long before I chucked my ego into the class dustbin and started taking writing lessons from her. She couldn't believe it initially, becasue we had this anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better clash going on. But once she got over the shock of schooling the enemy, she turned out to be a wonderful tutor (sheesh can't believe I just called her "wonderful"; note to self: tighten up! tighten up!).

We had copy-writing class, and my letters which would go climbing all over the page started dropping into a disciplined order. She would prod with her pencil and mutter under her breath when my 't's started getting lazy and began looking like my 'f's. She would taunt and tease me for my 'p's and 'q's. I guess that's the only way I would have learnt. But slowly, the writing improved and it was not long before my marks improved as well.

The reserve between us melted as well. We started exchanging books (I read most of Nancy Drew thanks to her), hell, we even did a play together in school which had just the both of us! And it was not long before she forced me into changing again.

I used to be a shameless cheat when I was little. Exams and games mainly, and there were other things which didn't matter at all.

It was on the day we got our Maths test marks -- a test in which I placed my notebook on my lap and copied my way into the cheaters' hall of fame. She looked at me in disdain and asked me, "How can you lay claim to something you've not earned? What are you proving? And more importantly, who are you fooling?" This was in class 5; we must have been 10-11 years old. Gee, the girls start early, don't they? I took a one-way guilt trip to hell that day.

And again it hurt. Not in a moral sense or anything, I was too shameless for that. In the same juvenile, male-chauvinistic, how-can-a-girl-be-so-damn-right-? way. And I decided to give up cheating. I tried. I struggled (old habits die hard). But I never cheated for the rest of my school life (or rather, for the tests that mattered; I still continued to do so on inconsequential tests which carried fines), and the thrill kinda died after that, and the guilt was overwhelming (All that changed in college though when the usual disilusioned-with-the-system phase hit home and cheating didn't matter anymore; at least morally).

Anyway, it was not long before we were slugging it out in the tests on honest terms, competing for the top honours in class, sometimes losing to the other by the slenderest of margins (you will forget what I just wrote. You are feeling sleepy. I will count upto three and you will forget everything. 1...2...). But she was a sport, probably the most sportive female I've run into, and she would be the first to congratulate and acknowledge her coming second. And I learnt to do the same.

Anyway, coming back to the questions I was mulling over, D was undeniably the first person to teach me that 'If something is worth doing, it's worth doing it well', that 'You cannot claim that which is not yours' and that perfection and morality are one and the same. D left school after class 7, which was quite sad actually, and I've not seen her anywhere since, but I guess I owe her a lot.

In this age of cover-your-back environments at work and cut throat competition around you, it's often quite easy to take the easy way out and compromise. Sometimes I stand tall. On other occasions, I've gone to sleep with a heavy heart. All the same, I guess D would be happy knowing how I've fared.

***

"Come on, let's go! It's late. We can tune the carby* tomorrow."

"We were supposed to finish this today. And what if the boss asks us?"

"We'll tell him we finished it. Besides how much more can we tune it? This is as much as it can go."

"Naa, let's tune it one last time. I'm sure we can squeeze some more torque here..."

"F*** man. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because if something's worth doing, it's worth doing it well, and besides you don't claim something which you've not earned..."

"Spare me the philosophy. Where is that frikkin spanner when you need it? Might as well get started on this."

"Over to your right..."

***

* carby - Informal term for a carburettor

The Story of the Mexican Fisherman

An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, "only a little while."

The American then asked why didn't he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family's immediate needs.

The American then asked, "but what do you do with the rest of your time?"

The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life."

The American scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise."

The Mexican fisherman asked, "But, how long will this all take?"

To which the American replied, "15 - 20 years."

"But what then?" asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said, "That's the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions!"

"Millions - then what?"

The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

-- From the internet. Author unknown.

Note: Do let me know if anybody knows who came up with this so that I can credit accordingly.

Pretty woman

Main shaayar to nahin

Main shaayar to nahin,
magar ae haseen
Jab se dekha maine tujhko
Mujhko shaayari aa gayi...

Main aashiq to nahin,
magar ae haseen
Jab se dekha maine tujhko
Mujhko aashiqui aa gayi

Main shaayar to nahin...

Pyaar ka naam
maine suna tha magar
Pyaar kya hai,
yeh mujhko nahin thi khabar...

Main to uljha raha
uljhanon ki tarha
Doston mein raha
dushmanon ki tarha

Main dushman to nahin

Main dushman to nahin,
magar ae haseen
Jab se dekha maine tujhko
Mujhko dosti aa gayi

Main shaayar to nahin...

Sochta hoon agar
main dua maangta
Haath apne uthaakar
main kya maangta...

Jab se tujhse mohabbat
main karne laga
Tab se jaise ibaadat
main karne laga

Main kaafir to nahin

Main kaafir to nahin,
magar ae haseen
Jab se dekha maine tujhko
Mujhko bandagi aa gayi

Main shaayar to nahin,
magar ae haseen
Jab se dekha maine tujhko
Mujhko shaayari aa gayi

Main shaayar to nahin...







Note:

1) Text in blue - Lyrics from the Hindi song 'Main Shair To Nahin', from the movie 'Bobby'.
2) Pictures of Smriti Rao - Downloaded from Discuss TV, originally uploaded by user 'dhekun'.

Weekend

Stairways shake,
Little feet
Run unleashed.

Work & worry
Locked away,
Farewells bidden,
Ways part.

Fallen mangoes
Lie unpicked.
Hope reconciles
Drained souls.

Grumpy faces
Display cheer;
Festoons flutter,
Shoppers surface,
Evening smiles...

Dusk fades,
Last bus
Empties out,
Dogs laze
Under lamp-lit corners.
Bag lighter,
Heart easier,
I stroll home.

Desperado

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

You been out ridin' fences for so long now

Oh, you're a hard one

I know that you got your reasons

These things that are pleasin' you

Can hurt you somehow

*

He stands waiting, outside, chewing gum. On time, as always. Impeccably dressed, as always, in a throw-away shirt and jeans and matching shoes, car waiting nearby. He looks the same, that five o' clock shadow, that twinkle in his eyes women fell in love with, that sly smile playing on his lips. A quick hug later, we drive away.

*

Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy

She'll beat you if she's able

You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet

*

(A few years ago)

She plays too much of the helpless female with me you know, he told me. We were walking. It was that period between winter and spring when trees look gawky in their half-bloom. The ice was still melting.

But aren't we all helpless? I'd asked in return. The sun peeped shyly from above the clouds. A car drove by, kids in the back seat making a ruckus.

He shrugged, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, and gave me that silly smile he reserved for moments when he wanted me to know that he wasn't changing his mind.

I don't think she's my type you know, he remarked. If only he'd known. We walked on.

*

Now it seems to me, some fine things

Have been laid upon your table

But you only want the ones that you can't get

*

Dear Ajay,

Sorry for not writing in earlier. Life is just too hectic here, what with one thing or the other demanding my attention....you know how it is.

Just wanted to wish you all the best in life buddy! Sorry for not making it to the wedding. Give the missus my best regards.

Sorry again.

Yours,

V

PS: Oh, she said yes, by the way ;)

I've never sworn so much as I did after reading that email.

*

Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger

Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home

And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'

Your prison is walking through this world all alone

*

Dear Ajay,

The fridge is all yours. Help yourself! Something came up at work.

-V

I stare at the yellow post-it all bleary-eyed while I brush. He'd pasted it on the spotless bathroom mirror where he knew I wouldn't miss it. Always practical. Always methodical. So unlike a romantic, which he most definitely is.

Practical and methodical. Even with his women. They never could see what he truly is. Thing is he never wanted to show them, if you ask me. He wanted to be very sure before revealing, he once told me. Self-defense, in my opinion.

And he regretted it. Always. After the break-up. Not before.

I knew something was amiss the minute he'd said 'hello' when I'd called up to tell him I'd be flying over for the weekend. Gentle pressing and much cajoling later, he'd confessed.

We broke up, he'd whispered over the phone.

I shave quickly in the dim light of the bulb above the mirror. The razor slides smoothly over my cheeks.

She was not my type, you know, he'd added.

The after-shave stings as I dab it over where I nicked myself. It doesn't matter even if you see it coming. It still hurts.

I felt caged all the time. No space man. Zero freedom, you know. It would never have worked, he'd said with a sigh.

I look at the note again, and make my way to the fridge.

*

Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?

The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine

It's hard to tell the night time from the day

You're losin' all your highs and lows

Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?

*

(A year ago)

Dear Ajay,

It's all over.

We broke up. I told her yesterday that I couldn't go on with this farce. She cried. A lot. But I hope she gets over me. I know she will. She's strong that way.

So why did we break up? It's got to with a lot of things. It's always about the little things, you know. The bigger issues you can always resolve, but not the little ones. Like the way she folds my books when she reads them and leaves smudges all over the pages. Like the way she has little patience for words and their meanings. Like the way...oh, never mind! Who am I trying to fool here? It was always about one thing. Just one thing. You've known me through all these years and through all these women. You know why I've never found what I'm looking for?

I'm too self-sufficient, A. Emotionally and intellectually. That's my problem. I guess some people classify me as a loner. So why search for love? Why look out for that elusive companion? I don't know how else to put this but there's this void inside me that's been unfilled all these years. I guess you might have known all of this all along.

A void which engulfs my soul when I stand by the sea at dawn with the moan of the waves in my ears, the wet sand crumbling under my feet, the water lapping around my ankles, the breeze flirting with my collar, the salt-spray stinging my eyes, when I see the sea shimmer with a golden gleam and the sky come alive as the sun squeezes itself from under the horizon and leaps out onto the sky above. I would like some company when I see that. Someone I can turn to and smile, someone I can hold hands with right then, someone who will smile back with the understanding of the emotions that run through me at that instant, someone who would travel with me through Life and yet weave her own path. Is that too much to ask? Maybe it is. Or maybe it's too less.

And all these women, who seemed to promise so much, are content with the tangible and the material. I don't blame them for that. Nobody wants to seek that which can't be sought, that which seeks you out only when you're ready for it, that which I find in the calmness of night looking at the stars lying with my back on the grass. Don't know if that makes sense. Does it?

Sorry to bore you, A. So tell me, how have you been? And how...

*

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

Come down from your fences, open the gate

It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you

You better let somebody love you, before it's too late

*

"So any chance of you coming back soon?" he asks me.

We're on our way back to the airport. It's raining outside. Soft music plays on the car radio.

I reply in the negative. And turn to look at him.

I can see a thin veneer of disappointment glazing his eyes, as he steers into the parking lot. I can sense the loneliness shrouding his being. And there's not a thing I can do about it.

I remember something he once wrote in an email.

You know how you feel when your finger reaches out and tries to touch a raindrop sliding down the other side of a window? That's distance for you. Something which can never be bridged without breaking whatever's in between.

***

Note: Text in blue - Lyrics from the song 'Desperado' by the Eagles. Title and post inspired by the same.

And yes, this post is fiction. If anyone asks me otherwise, they're going to get it.

On writing

Why do I blog?

I like writing. Simple. It is one of the few things I like doing, when left to myself. And it seems a very natural thing to do. I believe people who don't write -- not even 'serious' writing, just putting down thoughts to paper -- are potentially missing out on a great source of bliss in life. I'd rank writing right after reading as the most influential personality-shaping habit.

Why do I write?

To me, writing primarily is catharsis. Life is not easy, to put it mildly. And at the end of the day, writing is a maze in which I gladly lose myself in. It is rather therapeutic to see your thoughts, your emotions, your pain, your laughter, your days, your dreams, your nights, your nightmares, your stories, your secrets unfold as tangible words on paper while you lift that veil from around yourself, drop your guard, and set out on that rewarding journey of self-discovery which writing most definitely is.

Of course, self-discovery could so easily lead to self-deception, but then I'm trying to keep things simple here. And writing is escape of another kind, a retreat into the metaphysical, a trip into the morbid labyrinths of one's mind. And when I write, I'm at once master and slave, thought and action, light and sound, creator and destroyer, voyager and voyeur ... Writing is the ultimate release.

And secondly, writing is a delightfully creative process. To anybody who waxes eloquently about the pleasures of alcohol/tobacco/women, the standard counter I offer is "What about writing?" You have to feel the rush that comes from crafting a particularly difficult poem, with no compromises made toward structure or substance, paying equal attention to rhyme, meter and meaning, that intoxication which accompanies penning down that perfect story having a plot with enough twists to rival a DNA strand, and an equally unguessable ending, that fleeting feeling of nirvana when you successfully explain a complicated philosophical maxim with a description of its premises and arguments that is as lucid as water from a spring, to know that writing is ecstasy, writing is poison, writing is addiction, that writing is intellectual activity non-pareil.

More importantly, writing is always a journey of the soul as much as it is an engaging exercise of the mind. Music soothes a savage beast. Writing tends to the wounds of the soul. Writing opens the eyes of the soul, so to speak. You start seeing, and feeling, things you never saw, or felt, before. You become sensitive, in the truest sense of the word.

You realize that the beauty of a sunset lies in the way dusk dissolves the stains that the sun bleeds onto the skies after his daily demise.

You hear the sea roar and the shore sigh when you listen to a conch being blown.

You know how it is to hold a raw mango in both your hands and inhale deeply as if your lungs were bottomless, and feel your senses tingle as the smell invades every inch of your body and embeds itself into the fissures of your memory.

You realize love is not just about presents, parties and package-holidays, but also about pain, patience, perspective and partnership; that happiness is sometimes as simple as the smooth, uninterrupted roar of a bike when the engine kicks to life; that music is sometimes about silence in all the right places; that words will never mean what we want them to mean but we will still continue to write; that loneliness is the world's greatest disease and that some tears will never dry.

You see the joy, and the pain, in everything.

You realize that beauty is as much a part of anything as is savagery.

Writing, undeniably, is for the soul.

And lastly, writing is nothing if it doesn't lead you to question constantly, and evolve, your beliefs and the person that you represent. The self-discovery process. Writing is as much submitting wife as it is obsequious mistress, in that it merely beseeches you to be true to yourself, and your words, but you, of course, always have the choice of self-deception, in which case writing is a very useful ego-massage. Either ways, in the shadows of your words, in the turns of your phrases, in the imperfection of your sonnets, in the truth underlying your fiction, you discover your true self, and what it is about yourself that you're running away from.

Write. To discover the joy of wrestling with words. Write. To mark the passage of your time with the ticking of your thoughts. Write. To know how it is to be human and flawed.

Write.

***

This post is a late celebration of a year of blogging, and is dedicated to a couple of very good friends -- K and T -- who made me take my writing seriously.

Untitled - 1

Where will this end? And pray, at what price?
Of what use incessant progress and inhuman might,
When we can't realize a life can't be taken twice?

Smoke from our fires spirals towards the skies
While we burn and rape everything in sight.
When will this end? And pray, at what price?

A tattered woman weeps alone; untended, a child cries.
Their dreams carpet-bombed; their nation, in blight.
Why don't we realize a life can't be taken twice?

We wallow in greed; our lives, complicated lies.
Our pens dripping blood, a crimson history we write.
How will this end? And pray, at what price?

Souls muted, we spectate as humanity dies.
We war over the petty; for the meagre, we fight.
Do we even realize a life can't be taken twice?

Beauty lies dead, her corpse swarming with flies.
The pall bearers come to carry her away into the night.
Where will this end? And pray, at what price?
When will we realize a life can't be taken twice?

***

My first attempt at a Villanelle.

Elections

I log off my computer, gather my stuff and leave for dinner. The watchman asks me if I'll be back and I nod back, saying yes.

Dinner these days is at a small, dingy hotel, a 15 minute walk away on the main road, or a quick munch at a mess nearby. But I decide against either tonight. There's another place I've not been to for a while, but it's a fair bit away, so I'll have to take the bus.

As I walk towards the bus-stop, I hear the muted staccato of crackers being burst at the party headquarters. The streets are littered with the paper stuffing from fireworks burst earlier in the day when the results came out. Flags lie strewn along the sidewalks. They'd won this time, like on many other occasions in the past. And in true tradition of conquerors, they were celebrating riotously.

There's a liquor shop at the junction where the lane from my office turns into the main road. It usually stays open way into the wee hours of the morning. But it's closed tonight, and the rambunctious bacchanalia is conspicuously absent. These shops are government run, and the party in power just lost, so the connection is easy to make. There's a towering luxury apartment complex right opposite this shop, and I look upwards at the windows to see that most of them are asleep. And it's not yet ten. The noisy celebrations on the streets don't reach their ears, ensconced as they are in the cozy confines of their vanilla-painted bedrooms.

I get to the bus-stop, and strangely enough there's nobody there tonight. Most of the shops around are closed as well. The tiny newspaper kiosks, tucked away in the small space between the big shops, are still open though, their fliers aflutter in the breeze, proclaiming the victors and ridiculing the vanquished. I wander into one of them, looking for a comic, but I see none, just gaudy publications with women flaunting their wares on the cover.

A man on crutches walks up and asks me when the next bus is due. I don't know, I tell him. Anytime now I guess, I add. He wants to go to a place where not many buses go, and I tell him he might have to change buses at the nearby depot. Which is quite a detour by the way. He looks back at me, his eyes distant, and stares away, looking to see if a bus is coming.

15 minutes. No bus. The guy shifts his crutches from under one shoulder to another. I whistle a tune, and look at the moon through the neem trees that stand scattered around the bus-stop. The moon is waning, and only two days ago, it was full. It's a pretty sight alright. The newpaper kiosks are doing brisk business what with people coming in to buy the evening editions to know the latest reports. Who won. Who lost. The margins. The inside stories and news about the coalitions. Two people dead in election related violence, I espy a headline. But before I can read more, I hear a bus turning the corner.

Looking up, I see it's crowded. Men hanging out of the windows, and clutching at the doors for dear life. I swear, and look at the time. 10.20. I shift my purse from my back pocket to the front pocket, drawing the necessary change enroute. The bus screeches slowly as it draws to a painful stop. I look at the man with the crutches and he looks back at me. I turn away and board the bus just as it is about to leave, leaving a woman who came late stranded on the pavement.

I extend my hand with the change between two men in front of me, grab a ticket, and bull-doze my way through a few others to a corner at the back of the bus where there's some space to stand. And breathe. It's bloody humid inside and I feel like a wet sponge being squeezed. I look around at the people. Some returning from work, some who went shopping, and some who couldn't get any other bus I gather. A couple of girls sit giggling, smsing on their cell phones. An old woman dozes with her empty fish basket, oblivious to the obnoxious glances the others near her seem to be casting at her. A kid cries from somewhere up front -- from the heat, no doubt.

Two stops left. And the bus lurches and heaves as we cross a speed-breaker at full speed. We then hit a pot-hole at the same speed. The people at the back are thrown out of their seats momentarily. It's a funny scene, to see a row of grown-up people, all serious and glum-faced, jump straight out of their seats and fall back down, and behave as if nothing strange happened. A few of them do curse the driver, but even that is half-hearted. I feel a pressure at my legs and see a small girl, not more than 10 years old surely, being pushed around by other passengers making their way in. I give way and she weaves into the small space now created and clutches at the railing, her shirt sleeve drenched from constantly wiping her face with it.

My stop is here and I hop off but not before more bull-dozing and wrestling. I make my way to the hotel, and plonk myself on a vacant seat. And there are not many tonight, what with most of the restaurants deciding to call it a day early. The waiter comes up. He recognizes me and grins. We won, he says. I smile back at him, and ask him to bring me the usual -- a plate of four idlis. And a coffee to keep me awake through the night.

I gulp the coffee and polish off the idlis, like a wolf which has had no luck. I pay, and check my weight at the meter they have near the counter. The display says, 69. I note it down in my pocket-book and walk off to the bus-stand.

I find myself waiting for a bus again. Meanwhile, two urchins accost me. They're selling ear-buds. Just 10 rupees sir, one of them quips, for a pack of 50. I look at my watch. The irony of being sold ear-buds at 11 at night by a couple of kids who have no business selling them doesn't escape me. I shoo them away. It was only last month I bought a pack. And I still haven't broken the seal on the pack.

I watch them walk away, soliciting other prospective customers. A couple of party vans pass by, loud music blaring from an outdated music system, their occupants delirious with victory -- and whisky, no doubt. They throw pamphlets out the windows and shout at the the few of us waiting under the awning. A man curses near me. His party had lost. Poor chap.

A bus comes by eventually. Again overflowing with people. I go through my routine with the purse and board the bus. More wrestling. More bull-dozing. More sweat. More people.

***

I knock at the gate. The watchman walks up, his gait indicative of his inebriated stupor. He flashes a torch at me, and opens the gate, breathing heavily into my face, the stench overpowering. I glare at him. We won sir, he explains between hiccups.

I walk into my cubicle, log on and get back to work. There's a program I need to finish.

I set some songs up on my playlist and plug my headphones on.

It's business as usual tonight.

Nothing really changes around here.

Cheese? Eh?

Big brother on the right, the angel on the left and of course, yours truly (how can you miss me?)...

Reactions at the office:

"Why are you so angry?"

"...gravity defying..."

"Sai Baba..."

"But where is the fan??"

Enjoy the picture. Caught up with work. Will be posting soon. Take care.