Scent of Love: My Entry for the Get Published Contest

Every individual, who is passing through the universal experience called Love, feels it differently. Most of the persons, who possess an average level of social intelligence, handle their love or romantic experiences in a very light manner; by taking it as something like an emotion-made plaything. Some take it as a necessity, as a means of rescue from loneliness or rejection. There are persons who love for personal benefits, financial advantages, etc., whereas certain matured ones seek none other than their future life partner in their first love.

But, a last group of lovers interpret their love experiences in a creative way. Love may be a source of artistic inspiration for many of them. They make up fancies around their loved ones. Their five senses contribute largely to their intelligence in weaving imaginations concerning their lovers. And in their imaginations, the backdrop will always be set in cloud nine.

The Theme

Coming to this story, the elements that form parts of it are regarding just one of the senses - the Nose - by which the protagonist experiences and identifies love with different smells. The story travels through the life of the protagonist from the time of his school days to his college days. He had love affairs, and in every affair, his imagination around the person of love interest was centered on certain smells.  His olfactory glands were in full function when he was in love. Certain smells could create memories and virtual presence of persons in whom he had found that divine attraction. Don’t think only smells could make him romantically activated! Even music also was capable enough to transform him into that dreamy youthful romantic guy. But the influence of what he felt through his nose was higher than what he felt through his ears, as far as his experiences with his crushes and lovers were concerned.

This story is about the psychological role of senses in human relationships. Sight is always the dominating sense. But, this story deals with effect of smells in the protagonist’s love life. 

What Makes This Story Real?

This story is largely based on the emotional experiences of the Blogger himself during his fragile and frail periods of adolescence. It is not an imaginary or improbable one. Though the characters do not resemble anyone in the surroundings of the Blogger, certain persons have directly influenced the Blogger in order to act as the primary model for the formation of the characters. Creative persons used to experience nostalgia, so anyone who reads this story will hopefully be unanimous about the nostalgic aspects of the story elements.

How Enrique Inspired Me to Shave Everyday?

(Note: This post is fiction)

I never had a thought about asking my girlfriend regarding the possibility of a guest post in my blog, even though she was good writer, who had won several writing contests from her school days onwards. However, when I invited her attention to this, the girl was a bit hesitant.  

“Isn’t that a too open subject to write upon? Don’t you think so? “, was her first question, when she was shown the topic on which she had to write upon. The theme ’Shave or Crave’ and the description written along with that were capable enough to earn her disinterest to write. But, I will have to tell you that my talkative nature and argumentative abilities finally had won in changing her timid mindset into writing something for my blog.

But, she was not ready to take the pain of thinking in line with the theme and writing accordingly. Instead of that, she pulled out from her bag a thick book. I had seen her carrying that book with a blue cover and a red book-mark many often, but never had asked her about it. She introduced me this as her personal diary, and said, “honey, don’t open this now! Go home, open it and see what I had written on July 7th last year.“ 

The date she mentioned had some surprising effect in me. It was on this date, that we left our three days life together at a resort in Kodaikkanal. I tried to recollect what we had talked on those days. My strong memory power, which I am really boastful of, didn’t come to my rescue in making me remember our stubble and shave related talks. I went home and opened the diary and looked for her entry written on 7th July 2011. I can reproduce below what she had written:

7th July

Kodaikanal

“I am really happy that he understands me and my concerns pretty well. I feel very comfortable since he takes care of me in a very elderly responsible manner. Though I was a bit apprehensive about a pre-marital relationship like our wonderful three days, now I am really really happy that I have made a good choice regarding the person with whom I will have to live the whole life.

He claims his whiskers and mustache are too growth-less and thin to consider for regular shave. So, I had seen him wearing the goat-beard like whiskers for weeks without shaving. He thinks no one is cared about it. But, why did not he understand the irritation felt by a girl who is forced to be in contact with it every moment, especially since he is a person who is crazy about PDA?

My trick to make him shave once in every day has seen some results. I said him he looks like Enrique Iglesias a lot, especially after a total shave. I know he is a great fan of Enrique and his music, just like me.  After that, I noticed that he was keen on shaving everyday and that saved me from the irritation of his evening stubble during our life in Kodaikanal".

A Sleepy Investigation, Passion-filled

When someone who writes about his own (well, I’m using ‘he’ in the coming sentences, hope my female readers won’t mind) personal experiences suddenly happens to stop writing one day, readers ask, why? Because, either he feels his experiences as no more enjoyable, or he might have finished telling every story or experience that he knows. If so, he can start a literary journey through the narratives of his friends and familiar persons. What if that portion also is empty? One option is to imagine things, and start writing about made up characters and experiences that you want to happen in your own life, and that is what you call fiction. But my opinion is different. If you are not mature enough to write fiction, deep look into your own dreams, and start writing about the mesmerizing world that you see in them. By the term ‘dream’, I don’t mean the more generic idea pertaining to your hopes or ambitions about your future. But, I mean what you see in your sleep; yes, the wonderful world of dreams.

So, today I also have a dream to narrate, which I had seen some years back, during the end of my school days or on the beginning of my college days. In my dream, you won’t believe, I was investigating a crime. Yes, I was a detective, a matured, muscular and charming sleuth, just like James Bond. Why James Bond? Well, I won’t compare that character with Sherlock Holmes, because I was more like a romantic guy in my dream.

A series of murders took place in a village, and I was on a secret mission to identify the murderer. Nobody in the village knew about my mission. But, somehow they accepted me and trusted me as one among them. Many of the occupants of the place were my acquaintances from the real life. That too might have helped me to find them in my dream with full of acceptance for me.

I met a girl there and we became friends very soon. During the progress of our friendship, I revealed her the real intention of my visit. Knowing my mission and secrets, she assured me that she would help me, and associated with me during various phases of my investigation, supplying valuable information and clues.

Gradually, we found ourselves falling in love mutually. We began to mingle freely, when we were alone, without any inhibition. I had touched her, and had experienced her soothing touch, her womanly feel, and that sense and scent of womanhood, physically and mentally. I still remember that exciting ecstatic experience which I felt when she put her beautifully curved bosom close to my chest.  Well, let us stop it here; I don’t want to sound like an adult writer.

My allotted time for the mission was closing to its end. I was slowly uncovering the secrets behind the serial murders. But, when I dug deeper and deeper, some shocking truths surfaced. I identified the real murderer. When I collected and grouped all the clues together, all of the evidences pointed to one person, yes, it was her, my companion girl. That was a really shocking finding. The love, and the passion which I had in my mind for her began to put on a very different attire, it was slightly transforming into hatred, disgust, fear, or some other emotion which I couldn’t explain. I recollected the private moments which I had shared with her. The moments when our hearts touched each other, when my chest felt the beats of her curvaceous bosom! Memories about those moments were terror filled, and horrific. But still touched by her love, and by the sweet memories with her, I had fallen in a deep pit of hesitation regarding what stand should I take about the findings.

The dream ends here. But, later, when I happened to see a regional movie titled ‘Avano Atho Avalo?’, (My translation, ‘He or She?’) on the TV, I was surprised. It had the same plot of my dream. Don’t think the film makers were inspired from my dream. Because, that film was made quite earlier even before I was born. And the actor who portrayed the lead role, named Jayan, the first action hero of Malayalam, who fascinated the audience with his charming spirit and excellence in action scenes, had died while shooting a stunt scene for a film, in an air crash; that too happened prior to my birth. And you can’t also blame me for stealing the themes for my dreams from films. Because, I hadn’t seen the movie, during the time when this dream took place.

In Pictures:

Picture 1: Pierce Brosnan as James Bond - A promotional still from Golden Eye (1995)

Picture 2: Yesteryears' Malayalam Action Hero, Jayan.

Something Special

“What was that aesthetic factor which had drawn your attention to her in the initial state of your blooming love?” I asked.

Finding my question as a complicated one in terms of its construction, and linguistic style, I rephrased it, to make the question a simpler one and thrown it once again at the brooding brain of my friend who was scratching his head thinking deeply about it.

“Err...I mean, what quality or characteristic of that girl attracted you in the beginning?”

“Oh…! Yeah…,” he nodded as if he understood something, and continued, “Well, it was the way she arranged her hair”.

“The hairdo?”, I exclaimed. “And in what special way she arranged her hair in order to make it an appealing one to a complicated guy like you?” I asked him, who had earlier identified me as an average guy just like him after reading my story which detailed how I found the Fragrance of Love. 

“Yeah, I agree, her style is neither Monroeistic nor Taylorian, but the way in which she clipped her hair at back by taking a portion of the hair from each side was what I found as attractive”, he said deeply reflecting.

"Oh, that is romantic, I presume," I said.

"And there is one more thing," he continued, "that her eye brows are very thin really, and she used to wear an Indian bindi, in the exact middle of both her eyebrows."

Here is someone who falls for a girl's eyebrows and hairdo, I thought. Everybody will have a special interest like my friend has. Perhaps, you might like the way she walks, or the way she talks, or the way she puts her specs. I had a special liking for her smile; I am talking about the girl who appeared in My First Love and in the Fragrance of Love. I am not sure if we can call it fetish. Well, fetish will be a hard word to describe these kinds of special affinity that one feels seeing a girl for the first time. Fetish, as described by online dictionaries, is a form of sexual desire in which gratification depends to an abnormal degree on some object or item of clothing or part of the body. Mine was not fetish, neither was my friend’s, I am very much sure.

You might be remembering my recollections about my Cross Eyed Classmate. Well, that girl was cross eyed. But what acted as the root cause for my attraction towards her was not her disability. She always had her own dignified way to deal with everything. Her charming nature with full of confidence, though subdued with silence, was what attracted me, that you know (My new readers are requested to read those posts also). 

I am seriously trying to think about the number of friends who revealed their intimate feelings with me. Someone was attracted to his love interest thinking her as the most innocent kind of the whole lot of girls, (initially I also had a similar kind of feeling towards the girl whom I liked, making me once again the average guy as described by my friend). On another occasion, I liked a girl thinking her as a sophisticated kind; well she was sophisticated, but was too sophisticated to make a match for me.

I actually do not know what specialty of a girl makes a man of my kind feel attracted to her. If you like a girl because of her smile, the next day you might like another girl because of her choice of dress, and after a few years your reason for attraction for a third girl might be her degree of maturity.

In Pictures:

Picture 1: An early photograph of Marilyn Monroe

Picture 2: A young Elizabeth Taylor

The Cross-eyed Classmate

With my overpowering laziness exerting a ban on my blog updates, I tried to write something which has the human emotion fear as its main theme. While chewing the idea over and over again, I do not exactly remember, what it was, that brought her thoughts to my mind.

Well, if I have a strong impulse to write about a girl like her, you people may ask, whether she is the most beautiful girl that I ever met. And the answer is a big No! But, making matters more complicated, if someone asks me to define beauty, the first of many examples that I am going to bring forward will be doubtlessly of this girl. 

Now, what makes this girl an example for the discussions about beauty? The answer is simple. Because she is not beautiful! Though she has good features with everything in good proportion, tarnishing her facial grace, there is a villain; her eyes. She is cross-eyed.

During my Journalism studentship days, she was undergoing a similar course parallelly in the same institute. Among many girls of the institute, the only one who could catch my attention was this lady with squint. Don’t think that without her strabismus, she could be treated as the prettiest of all. Even if her eyes were normal, and as pretty as they used to be in a normal girl, she could be treated as only an average looking girl with normal charms.

Contrary to any other girl that I met in the institute, what I noticed about this girl as striking was her confidence. Though remained most of the time silent – perhaps that could be one of her innate characteristics – she was very modest and at the same time dignified in her walk, postures, and all. Her dressing style and the apparels that she carried were the trendiest of the time.

I had fallen in love with this girl, though she never came to know about my silent admiration. We used to smile each other whenever we passed across, she in her usual modest silent manner, and I with my innate hesitation. I never approached this girl for at least a casual conversation, or in order to make some flirtatious remarks moving a step further. What prevented me from doing all these things was my inherent shyness. I was really afraid of the extreme conservative Kerala society that used to watch keenly every public interaction between a girl and boy, even if they were of the lightest and gentlest nature.

Many of my class mates of the institute have blogs now, and many of them are good readers also. I am really worried if anyone would sneak into Vanity Moments and come to know about my secret admiration towards their cross-eyed class mate. But going by the proverb, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, I am sure that there must be some persons who would agree that at least in some ways, she is beautiful. 

A Sherlock Fan’s Christmas

Before directly entering into the Christmas tale that I have in store for you, let me first inform you a story that my sincere bike also will be delighted to see it shared with all my friends . Following 20,000 kilometers, and 30,000 kilometers, my bike surpassed the boundary of 40,000 kilometers. Very proud moment, huh? Here is the photograph of the unique moment.

Now to the story. Please don’t expect anything thrilling in its content motivated by the title. This post is all about letter writing. This Christmas I received plenty of letters. Not emails, or SMS texts, but neatly handwritten ones; and they were love letters. 

Commemorating Christmas, at office, we had a funny event called, secret friend. You also can pick a friend from many lots, just the way you are picked up from the same lots. Then you can start writing letters to your friend keeping your identity concealed. Similarly, you also will be getting letters from the person who is supposed to be the one picked the lot on which your name was written.

I did not get any letter from my friend, since that person was away from the office, as I came to know later. But, lately someone assuming the name Jerry, began to write letters to me. Tom & Jerry together make a good familiar combo, don’t they? I wrote replies, and I was getting replies from Jerry promptly. While that cat and mouse game was on the go, another letter appeared in the letter box addressing me. This time it was from a person with a fake name Annamma.

Annamma is a traditional Syrian Christian name. It is originated from the common Christian name Anna. You will not find an Annamma anywhere in the world except in Kerala. Nowadays, this name is so rare in Kerala that you can find only elderly grandmas bearing the same name; because modern people name their children with more modernized versions like Anne or Annie. 

Annamma’s was a pure love letter. The letter expressed the writer’s wish to touch and caress my curly hair. I first suspected a boy who sits close to my seat behind the letter. However, I replied inviting her to come and caress my hair, and I had assured her in my letter that my hair was properly washed with shampoo, so that her finger would move through the curls with ease. I expressed my hairs’ intense wish to get caressed by her fingers. It seemed to me that Annamma was got scared reading my letter. Anyway, she didn’t write anything after that.

The letter from Annamma was made popular in my workplace by my colleagues. It seemed to me that the anonymous Jerry was got demotivated seeing the popularity of the letter from Annamma. But, suddenly one day, I got a letter written in Hindi, from a never-heard never-known girl called Meena Kumari. 

Meena Kumari was very flirty. She addressed me with such nice terms, like sugar candy, honey, and the names of some unknown eatables that taste sweet. Though not fluent in Hindi, I replied her with the help of my colleagues in the same punch and manner. When she asked me for a Taj Mahal, I offered her a full moon itself. When I asked her about her religion, since marriages between people of same religion are more likely to happen in the conservative Kerala society, she expressed her willingness to convert to Christianity. When she looked a little worried about my well known alliance with Annamma, I consoled her saying that Annamma was just my friend, but Meena Kumari was my everything.

Through the gap created by Meena Kumari, Jerry also popped up its head. Though was inactive for sometime, he (or she?) again continued writing letters. 

In the end, everything came into light. Meena Kumari, Jerry, and Annamma confessed to the crimes that they committed on the gift exchange day. Surprisingly, all were girls! Before the revelation day, Jerry was caught through my deduction method, which was partially influenced by the Sherlockian techniques. I identified her through her handwriting and the way she writes. Anyway I was very much thankful to them for the love letters they wrote, because I hadn't received anything of such nature previously.

Everything finished. No love letters now. But still you see a forsaken lover wandering through the corridor where letter boxes were placed earlier, hopefully searching for any new letter that came late, from any of those girls. 

Note: The title is inspired from Agatha Christie’s, ‘Hercule Poirot’s Christmas’

In Picture 2: Second portion of a love letter written by composer Ludwig van Beethoven on July 6, 1806. The letter was addressed to an unknown woman.

A Beautiful Quote

During my frail teenage days, in the second year of my college times, when there were some occasional political slogans thrown up on the empty air, when meaningless chit chats, gossips, and some heated discussions about securing the future echoed in the corridors of that multi-storied college building, an anonymous hand wrote the following quote in my Physics text book during the interval:

 - Real beauty is the beauty of soul - 

The quote was wrongly credited to Mahatma Gandhi. But seeing the hand writing, I at once guessed the culprit who wrote this in my text book. It could only be the elder one of the twins, I thought. At lunch time, showing my book wide open, I asked him, “Why did you write this in my book? What do you mean? Does it have any hidden meaning?”

But to my total surprise and embarrassment, he denied his role in writing anything in my textbook. Without believing him, when I compared his handwriting by snatching his notebook with the written thing in my text book, I realized that it could be written by some other one.

The next suspect was another boy in the class, who, to the best of my knowledge, had a crush on the same girl, to whom I had a crush (I’m embarrassed a little to write the word ‘crush’, especially when it has some personal undertones). Finding my interest in that girl, he might be trying to discourage me from chasing her. But when I chanced to check his notebook stealthily, I found that both the handwritings were not matching.

Now who next? The same way a girl can also think. If someone finds me an interesting guy, she can go disheartened knowing my affinity towards another girl. So, she might have written that quote in my book in order to pull me back from going after that girl. If that’s the case, who could be the girl, who has a silent infatuation for me? 

I glanced at the girl who sat in the girls’ row in the same level of my seat. Seeing her artificial innocent look, I was sure about her involvement in writing that quote in my book. How can I ask her if it was done by her? How can I check her notebook, especially when she used to keep her books in the bag? So, I found a small trick.

During the interval, when she was standing very close to a place where we guys were sitting, I said loudly the same quotation, so that she could hear. I was sure that, once she hears the quote, she would shockingly raise her head and would look at me, if it was written by her. In my first attempt, nothing happened. So, I repeated the quote once again. This time I was sure that my voice was audible to her. But, she did not give the slightest response to my voice.

I never found who wrote that quote in my book. But still my hunt for real beauty goes on.

And I believe the search for real beauty is one such of a never ending nature.

The Love Messenger

While associating with Ronnie Raj’s documentary, which he did about a renowned prolific Malayalam poet, I happened to listen to the poet’s recorded sound as explaining that every writer will face a creative block in his career. I was thinking about a Blogger’s block in my blogging life which has been preventing me from writing anything for the blog. Surprisingly, today I got a subject to write upon, which is actually the favourite subject of humans, the love. But, to rescue myself from the kind of embarrassment happened to me due to the publishing of posts like ‘Fragrance of Love’ and ‘My First Love’, let me first say that this post is not about my love, but about my friend’s.

While working in the Gulf countries, this friend acquired a few months’ leave from his company and came to his native place to try his luck in higher studies. Since tuition centre was in the city he came to our place where a gang of ‘full-bloomed youngsters’ were staying and where I met him. 

We had a very interesting time together as a gang, of which majority are in the initial stages of their professional career. Sometimes we played caroms till 2 O’ clock in the night making a sleep-loving young software engineer curse us all for not switching off the lights. Sometimes, we brought liquors secretly to the second floor without letting the uncle and aunt (the landowner and wife) know, but with the knowledge of their son, to celebrate someone’s birthday or a new job joy. (Somehow, I had acquired the image as a gentle drinker and thus eliminated from the risk of heavy drinking). Sometimes after one or two pegs, we turned on the music system in the highest volume and put vibrant steps on the floor waking up the uncle and aunt from their heavy sleep in agony and letting the neighbours go on with their sleep listening to the soulful music coming from our throats (especially mine ;)). The very next day we were threatened by our landlady that ‘this will not last long’ (she had identified my voice).

I happened to notice the happiness on the face of my friend every day after coming from his class. We had some casual talks and one day he approached me with a request to compose a sugary sms to be sent as a reply to a message that he received on his mobile. When he flattered me saying that since I was a writer I could write better than him, I helped by composing what he asked me to do. When I thought that the job was over, he again approached me to compose another beautiful sms as a reply to what he received as a reply to the former sms. So, the job continued with seemingly no end and only when he told me, I came to know that I was working as a love messenger between him and a girl he met at the tuition centre. 

So, their love flourished, as he had said. He daily described what happened between them at the tuition centre while the teacher was away for a few minutes. I began to habitually see a pink coloured scooty pep resting at our house’s parking space, which he used to take from his girlfriend during the lunch time to come to the house. When the classes were over, he prepared to go back to the Gulf. Let me say for your information that a marriage between them was almost impossible as they both belonged to different religions. And I think, none of them might have taken it as a serious relationship.

A few months after leaving for Gulf, he contacted me on phone. We had some formal greetings but nothing mentioned about the girl. He contacted me again and again and on one occasion I asked him about the girl and he said that he tried to contact her but she had changed her number. 

Yesterday, he called me again and after some formal talks, he directly entered into the matter of his old tuition centre affair. ‘Is he still thinking about that girl,’ I wondered though I had never seen her.

He requested me, ‘Buddy, the sweet memories of the days that we all spent as a gang there still stick on to my mind. Buddy, if you don’t mind, please do me a favour!’

‘What favour,’ I asked mercilessly.

“I tried to call her several times, but she has changed her phone number. Buddy, please go to my tuition centre. It is on the small by road that leads to the city’s popular TV channel. Before reaching that channel, you would see a two storied building on the right side and you will see a board something like ‘Lokmanya Tuition centre’. Please collect the phone number imprinted below that. I will call you tomorrow evening to ask you the phone number and I will try to contact her through my tutor. He must know her phone number”.

Today, after noon time, I started my ‘sincere bike’, and went through all the cut roads in the vicinities searching for a tuition centre, where two young lovers shared their romancing moments some months ago. At last I reached there and spotted a small board with letters ‘Lokmanya’ hanging on the second floor.

'So, it was the place which I envisioned as a closed lovely place while my friend was narrating about his puppy love,’ curiously I thought while writing down the phone number.

While kick-starting my bike, I also chanced to see two eyes watching me from the window of the Lokmanya tuition centre. The teacher of the institute. She might be wondering that why was this guy not visiting the tuition centre and inquiring about the coaching classes, if he really needed coaching.

('May be' continued) 
PS: Read the combined second part of A Decent proposal and this post Here

The Girl on Crutches

Ronnie Raj called me again on yesterday! Don’t ask me which Ronnie Raj. He is well familiar to the noble readers as a too conservative fellow and as an Online Detective. That time, I portrayed him as an upcoming music director. This time he has to don his role as an upcoming short movie maker. He is actually a substitute, one who could be presented in my blog in any form belonging to the creator’s genre.

When I picked up his phone, with no usual introduction or formal inquiries or even without a customary ‘hello’, he straight away asked for a theme for his new short film.

“I heard that you have nice concepts, nice stories and you write many ‘out-of-the-box’ things on the internet. Why can’t you suggest me a good theme for my new short film?”

“New short film? You are going to make a new short film?” I asked him in a tone of disbelief.

“Yes, I want a story, at least a thread. I prefer something that would be digestible to the new generation,” he said.

I said nothing. I was thinking about a girl, whom I often see on the way back from my office every day in the evening. A bubbly pretty girl, she used to be standing in front of her house chatting with her friends. What makes her a subject of my attention is that she walks on crutches. Possibly, an accident took place in the near past might have caused fracture on her leg. As I presumed from the visible happiness on her face, she will be cured soon.

“You there? Or gone? You have nothing to give me as an idea?” Ronnie’s sound woke me up from my thoughts.

“I have a story. But it is a love story....,”I began to explain.

Ronnie jumped in between, “That’s a great idea. Young generation will definitely like a romance,” he said.

“But, it is not purely a love story. It has some tragic elements...,” I said.

“Oh you stop the introduction. Come straight to the story,” Ronnie said impatiently.

“My hero is a young man, of our age, working in the city in....well...in a software company,” I began my story.

“That’s great. Youngsters will like their hero as a software engineer...come on...,”Ronnie encouraged me.

I continued, “He regularly meets a girl while he is back from his office. This girl is beautiful with kiss curls and her dressing sense makes her even prettier. The crucial characteristic of this girl is that she walks on crutches. Due to some accidents, one of her legs has been put into plaster. She is waiting for the recovery. But seeing every day, our hero and this girl gradually fell in love each other...” I paused.

Thoughtfully my friend said, “A girl walks with the help of crutches. Sad”. He added, “Please continue,”

“Well...through glances, smiles and chats, they became closer and finally lovers. Our hero takes her for many programmes, which happens in the city in weekends. So their love flourished. You may add one song sequence here featuring our hero plucking flowers for her and such nice scenes...”I said.

“Don’t teach me how to conceive a shot. I will manage that part. You continue with your story,” my friend became irritated feeling somebody’s encroachment in his business.

Though embarrassed, I continued, “This boy went for an official tour for two weeks. In Hyderabad and Delhi, he spent a fortnight impatiently without seeing his sweetheart. When back, he saw a miracle,”

“What miracle?” asked Ronnie raj curiously.

“The girl was completely alright. She was cured from her illness. The plaster has been removed and as a result of some medical exercises, she was walking in the normal way without the help of crutches. Seeing her lover back, she ran towards him expecting a tight hug and a kiss,” I said.

“He will be delighted seeing her like that,” Ronnie tried to complete the story.

“That’s the curious part. Instead of becoming happy, he was shocked. He was shocked and became pale as if he has seen a ghost,” I said.

“Why so?” Ronnie asked.

I said, “There I have two versions. This boy may have some serious defects. He thinks that if she knows it she might turn him down. He might have thought that if she too has some disabilities, both of them could adjust each other.”

“What’s the second version?” Ronnie asked.

“The case of humanity! The boy loved a girl with a disability. He was ready to accept her as the way she was,” I said.

“So, how would you conclude the story?” he asked.

“Buddy, this is just a thread. We have to create the end part,” I replied.

“Presently I am planning to do a film with a socially relevant theme,” he said.

“That’s OK. But tell me how is this story?” I asked.

“The film that I plan to do is based on the political struggles and strikes.”

“Is that so? But how do you feel about my story?”

“My film will have fights, battles, slogans and blood everywhere. It will have revolutionary songs”

“Okey. You do that. But I am asking your opinion about my story,” I shouted.

Ronnie said calmly, “Sincerely speaking buddy, it is better if you stop storytelling and do some other jobs that you know well”

In Last Picture: Spice Girl Emma Bunton after a fall

Fragrance of Love

"It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all!"

-Alfred Lord Tennyson

Have you ever thought of the properties of love? I mean, by what measures, one can identify a love? Is it a touchable thing? Does it smell? If it smells, does it stink or smells good? Does love have a shape? If so, is it in the same heart shape, depicted in Valentine’s Day greetings cards? Don’t worry! I am not trying to start my post with a regular and often practiced cliché! What I am trying to convey is that I know at least one property of love. Yes! I know the smell of love. Or at least to me, love has a fragrance, and more accurately, love has the smell of Epiphyllum Oxypetalum.

 

Now, what is this complicated thing? Well...Epiphyllum Oxypetalum is the Botanical name of a flower, popularly known as Nishagandhi (Nisha gandhi – The one that emits fragrance in night). But, let me tell you one thing first! After finding a Nishagandhi flower, smelling it would not give you the fragrance of love. Because, when I discovered the smell of love, I did not know a Nishagandhi flower. I actually mistook another flower with strong fragrance for Nishagandhi flower. So, the smell of love is the smell of a flower which was mistaken by me for Nishagandhi flower! Now clear?

The story behind the discovery of the smell of love is of a few years old. It is connected fully with the girl in My First Love (What? You haven't read it yet? First go and read it and come back!). She used to sing during some occasions in college. All the time I used to sit in the first row in the college auditorium with my friend (the naughty friend in Pretty Littima’s Profession, we reunited in college after that adventurous seventh standard) listening to her voice and watching her movements. Her occasional glances darted at me had made me happy.

Somebody brought to the class a bunch of sweet and strong smelling flowers. Actually it was not of the shape of a flower. It almost looked like a small leaf with a light green shade. I liked its fragrance at once as my teenage days were fully perfumed with love. (No, of course I was not a lover! But love was there in my heart.) I asked the flower’s name to the boy who brought it to the class. He expressed his ignorance about the name of the flower, but someone invented a name, ‘Nishagandhi’. I liked that name, and at once I fixed its name in my mind as Nishagandhi. Only later, I came to know that there was another flower by that name.

Well, on that day, when the girl was singing in the auditorium and I was watching her sitting in the front row, my shirt’s pocket was full of the sweet smelling flowers. The aroma of this flower was so strong that the singing girl’s appearance and the flowers’ fragrance blended together resulting in the formation of a specific image in my mind. Her songs lasted for some minutes and she repeatedly sang the songs in equal intervals. All the time, the flowers were also emitting its strong scent creating in me some passionate and nostalgic effect.

Days had passed and when I was in a sorrowful condition regarding my love interest (those who read My First Love can understand the reason of my sorrow), the flowers with its strong fragrance made me sickened with love and grief. In one such occasion, I went to the isolated auditorium with a pocketful of the ‘Nishagandhi’ flowers. Standing at the front row, I imagined the old days in which she sang standing at the podium and I listened to her song experiencing the smell of the flowers. Standing straight and closing my eyes, I took out some flowers from my pocket to smell them and to check whether the so called ‘time travelling’ was possible. Well, you please don’t doubt me! I had actually tried it.

After so many years, when I matured, when I understood love as an emotion and a basic need, when I forgot the girl almost, when I became more practical, when I learned to laugh at my old silliness, when I stopped assessing others with my virtually perfect intelligence and when I lost all my teenage love mannerisms, what still gives me the fragrance of love is the Nishagandhi flowers.

It is a very long time now since I saw a Nishagandhi flower. Now I can’t recollect the smell of it. But, I hope that the next time when I smell it I could sense the emotion of the same love with its genuine innocence and happiness which are common to the teenage days. Perhaps, this feeling might be the single thing that forces me to believe that love is divine – the fragrance of love!

My First Love

When talking about the first love, I know, how much excited are all in describing their teenage love affairs or in claiming that the experiences they had were the most unique and interesting ones. Though I have an impression among my friend circle as one who looks at every human affair in a quiet objective and unbiased way, I too have the same opinion regarding my first love. Those who disagree may go through the following scribbles on my first love experience and decide yourself if my claim is true or not.

My first love was love at first sight happened on the first day of my college. Among several faces of girls in my batch, the only face that imposed a lasting image in my mind was hers and I think it was because she had a slight resemblance with my favorite actress of that time.

What I found as the most attractive in her appearance were her face that reminded me of some Bible characters and her smile that embellished her glittering teeth and rosy lips.

Since I was a shy guy, I found that there was no chance for me to have even a casual encounter with her, but I felt each accidental meeting we had as signs that God had a plan to joint both of us together. During those stages of my infatuation, I experienced powerful thunderbolts in my heart those are usual when a young man’s eyes meet those of a young woman.

Though I was afraid of meeting her, I never missed a single chance to face her. I attended my tuition classes regularly on the morning since it was the time she crossed my way to attend her tuition classes. We passed everyday without a single nod or smile, but with some shy and affectionate glances. She usually was accompanied by her hostel mates, while I used to be alone.

During one of such wayside meets, one day she courageously stepped ahead and presented me with a beautiful smile. A heart-failed me just went mum and inadvertently stared at her gleaming eyes like the one who forgot how to smile back. I suspect that a shy grin had escaped from my mouth.

Days had passed with no improvement in my innocent love towards her, but only with my growing innate passion. The nights were rich with plenty of dreams with her smiling pretty face as the major element.

One day accidentally I happened to know from one of our common friends that she was one year elder to me. If a girl was at least one month elder to you, you must give her respect; that was the findings of my conservative mindset. I wonder now, how delicate was my heart during those days, I wept at my home in the nights just like a forsaken lover who was left by his girlfriend. The universal example of Sachin Tendulkar’s marriage with a six year older Anjali didn’t comfort me. Nowadays it seems to me that the sorrow that I experienced at that time was similar to that of a lost lover’s.

The number of her friends and admirers were progressing, quiet reverse to mine. I had to struggle to conceal my love towards a ‘becoming popular’ girl from my friends. I turned my face away from my friends whenever this girl became a subject of their talks so that they wouldn’t catch the slight coloration on my face. And a few of my friends who knew my secret love were keen on taking special care in not hurting me.

This girl failed to find out my feelings, and whenever we met, she stared at me thinking what kind of a boy I was.

On our last day of that college, nothing happened, through a window hidden in the shadows, I just watched her walking away to an uncertain end with another girl. I was alone, and I felt the strength of the thickening loneliness once again inside. I immensely wanted to cry out my heart, but not a single sob didn't escape from me. That was the end.

After a few years, shedding the last piece of my love towards her, I wonder how I can say that I had a love affair at that age. But I still say, yeah I was in love during those days.

5 Proven Tips to Quit Smoking Cigarettes

A few posts ago I narrated a funny incident happened in my smoking life. I hope that you already are familiar with that moments of embarrassment and those who started reading my blog late can read it simply by scrawling down the page till your eyes get stuck on the bold letters with ‘Ma…Please Don’t Tell this to Papa’ is written or clicking on this hyper linked phrase here itself. Well…all over my pretty long smoking days I had used to dream about a single day without cigarettes and smoke. What gave me relief during those moments of desperation was only an old song taught by my aunt in my childhood days denoting hope and expectation starting with ‘we shall overcome someday’.

In this post I am going to give you a few tips on how to stop the habit of smoking. I believe whatever tips one may get; only one’s own determination rescues him/her. First of all everyone should take a deep-felt pledge in mind about stopping the dreaded habit. Then you may follow some of the tips those are given below.

Avoid the company of group of smokers
Well, I won’t say that you have to avoid all of your smoker friends. Avoiding your smoker friends doesn’t do you good; instead, it may become harmful to you. The friends whom you have to avoid are those who join together for the only purpose of smoking and are boastful about their smoking and drinking adventures. I had a friend, who still is my good old friend. After seeing me smoking, he too started to smoke and so soon had fell into the habit. I heard him cursing me several times blaming my bad influence upon him. Only after we became separated due to his job shift, he could escape from smoking. I won’t forget, it was him who gave me lessons on using alcoholic drinks in a courtly manner amidst the people of repute, though his drinking habit could impose little influence upon me.

Try to be close friends with non-smokers
I think, I don’t need to explain this tip as I have already given details in the first tip that are useful for this part also. Usually, it will be your heart mates directing you to smoking experiences. Likewise, the vice versa is also true.

Among a set of new friends create the image as a non-smoker
This will definitely help you in your fight against smoking. I tried this tip once when shifted to a new place where I was quite a stranger among the dwellers. I am sure if any of my roommates there read this blog would definitely cry at me asking, “really…do you smokeeee?"

Don’t dream to quit smoking completely from the next morning. Quit it gradually
I heard many boasting that even though they do smoke they are not addicted. I met a few who could quit the long-time-petted habit forever from a single day, though their claims are not verified by me. Well...if you are such a person with fantastic abilities, just ignore my tips. The best way to quit smoking is, I think, stopping it gradually. In my case, I decided to smoke this week one cigarette lesser than the number of cigarettes I smoked the last week. And in the next change (not necessarily in the next week), I cut down one more cigarette from my total number. Continuing in this way, I made it as only one in a day. And I did not impose any rules in my mind such as I wouldn’t smoke more than one, because I knew all those kinds of promises would not work. I was all the time free to smoke whatever I wanted and how many I liked (now too). Later I made it once in a week and quiet soon became an occasional smoker. The final journey from an occasional smoker to a non-smoker was an easy one.

Make a habit of attending some fitness centers regularly
It will definitely shift your focus from smoking towards something else, like getting a good body shape, getting more capacity to run, earning a beautiful six-pack, and things like that. I will attribute my successful prevention of smoking to daily gymnasium visits, though the goal of a six-pack remains still a mystery.

There are lot more guidelines that would help one in getting rid of such miserable habits. But these are my tips and I think majority of them are suggested for the first time by me. Anyway, my heartfelt thanks go to my friend who helped me to escape from smoking. Whenever we were together, she used to permit me to smoke once. When I lit up my cigarette and just about to take the first puff, she would scream, “look…there comes your sir.” Hurried, when I try to turn back and try to conceal my cigarette, the girl would snatch it from my hand and would make it a piece of paper covered in mud under her stamping foot. I used to stand speechless by her sudden actions and she would be facing me daringly with twinkling eyes and with a hidden smile on her lips indicating a ‘how is it?’ expression.

Photo Courtesy: Corbis

Mid-day Romance

“I miss this city now very much as it was where most of my dreams were cherished”, said my friend with a sigh. I said, “No, but you left this city for your studies that you are pursuing now?” “Yeah, it was for my better future, but still my heart is here”, he is nostalgic. “What is so much peculiar about this city?” I darted a question. He again sighed, and I got it as a signal that my friend has been making himself ready for an eloquent speech about his strong emotional ties with this city. He was here for some time when I just landed for my studies in this historic place and we met in accordance with some divine plan. But he moved to another place for studies and occasionally visits here as if drawn by some magnetic forces. “I miss everything, the people, the friends, the movies, the places, the beachsides, the royal paths, the poet’s meetings, and above all, I terribly miss this beautiful park where we spent many of our magnificent evenings”. He paused for a breath. He has been talking facing me looking over my shoulder towards infinity. He again started, “besides, one more thing, which is the most appealing for me is…”, he put his sentence to an abrupt end. I watched something in his eyes that has been fixed on some objects located at a distance at my back. Suddenly his eyeballs formed a much bigger round shape, which were flashing like flames of passion and out of excitement he cried gripping tightly on my shoulder, “Look…! Look there!!” His cry startled me. Because of bigger excitement and hoping for a surprise I turned back and saw what made my friend so much agitated. It was a beautiful woman! Or more specifically, “not a girl, not yet a woman”. Here the courtesy goes to Britney Spears, ‘the Princess of Pop’, as I don’t like to be charged by her. We both, holding the fences of the park watched her walking through the parallel parkway without a single blink. Clad in an oily cyan colored salwar-kameez, this girl’s walk has brought to my mind the contrasting appearance of the Dilliwali girl on the train of “Time Kya Ho Raha Hein?”. This girl is modest and at the same time proud. Haughty and timid. Well mannered and educated as the vanity bag on her shoulder reflected. The small kumkum on her forehead revealed her traditional approach. But, in contrast her high-heel footwear displayed how modern is she in her mindset. That was she. The girl of the day. When she approached close to us, we both have been looking her. While moving forward in a rhythm she just glanced us and a sudden flash of shy smile disappeared at her parted red lips. We both hallucinated, the effect of which was more on my friend. She just stopped there and we presumed, that she has been looking to the queue for the zoo. Both of our eyes were clung at her fair spotless glaring face. She was tall and her structure was well shaped. While she stood there turning back to us, we attempted an ungentle analysis of her posture and shape. I became impatient when no further responses were coming from the girl. Out of my desperation I climbed upon the stout tree with full of branches to exhibit my smartness. Hanging upside down on the branch with my legs locked and clutching on a branch with my hands, I called my friend for help. With his help I found a comfortable position on the tree. I glanced at her and saw her talking to somebody on the phone. But nobody seems giving attention to me, not even the kids of the park. When I tried to jump from one branch to another, my friend called me ‘monkey’. So, there ends my unsuccessful attempts to get attention from her. We saw a sudden smile at the face of this girl, who has been looking at the crowd in front of the zoo. I climbed down from the tree. A handsome man wearing a black tee and jeans from the crowd waved at her. With a new light on her face, this girl hastened towards him. It was their rendezvous, a date. A sharp thudding sound came from my heart followed by a clinking sound. It was my heart broken. My friend suddenly looked at me. Without much late, I heard another sound of thudding. It was his heart. This time it was a very much bigger sound than mine. Photo: Britney Spears Courtesy: www.gobritney.com

‘Time Kya Ho Raha Hein?’

(I thought first about giving title to this post as ‘When my shyness was at its climax’, but for better conveyance I am posting it under this title)

I stepped on my compartment of Kalka–New Delhi train after a short-term official visit at the enchanting hill station, Shimla, accompanied by my fellow traveler.

As we approached our seats I saw the next seats to ours as already occupied. They were chatting, a family consisting of a middle-aged mother, her two daughters in teenage and their chota bhai (little brother) with a couple sat on the side seats. They stopped the conversation as we entered, a little bit embarrassed by the sight of the new occupants of the compartment. I noticed the younger girl, a nice looking one, whom we can refer with the term ‘cute’ perfectly, and with her style in turning the head suddenly so as to scatter the silky sort of golden hair all over the face, she was looking much haughtier. I removed my jacket, which I had been wearing while walking through the platform due to the coldness, for, being a place close to the hill station Shimla, Kalka too has its characteristics. Before the train set off from the station, I went to the cafeteria for dining and returned.
As the train left the station, the mother and daughters talked something, and without much delay, the elder girl, a short figured, yet pretty, about sixteen, who was in a black woolen cloth and jeans, climbed upon the uppermost birth at my opposite side using the side ladder. Her climbing process brought to my mind the picture of a chimp that climbs the tree branches with its inherited skills. While I looked at her, she glanced at me with a childish naughtiness and so soon she had fallen asleep under the blanket cover.
To break the snow frozen between us, I asked the man who had been sitting at the side seat using my negligible knowledge in Hindi, ‘Kitna time lagega, Delhi tak? (How much time it would take, to reach Delhi?)
He said something short in Hindi vaguely; that I did not get completely, anyway I could get that he was going to Agra along with his wife.
The mother and the younger girl were talking something each other in a confidential tone. Meanwhile the younger brother just sat with a staring look and opened mouth by showing no particular interest or disinterest in anything.
It was a long trip with nothing to do anything special. Being a person with the habit of no-too-much-talks, my fellow traveler too found as not helpful to overcome the boredom. Meanwhile, the mother, and younger daughter opened their tiffin carrier that they brought with them, and with a silent nod or look at ours conveying a sign of ‘excuse-me’, the mother opened it and began to share it with the two children. After the lunch, they too began to sleep inside the sleeping bags. Already the compartment was a dumb one and as they began to sleep, it brought to my mind the atmosphere of a silent hospital ward.
I did not know how much time had elapsed. But I had known that it would take a little more than four hours to reach Delhi after you set off from Kalka. A little bit nervous, I had been checking each and every station that the train had been passing.
The elder girl soon woke up, like the same chimp she climbed down from the berth; she made her mother and sister awake and began to talk something loudly in her typical shrill feminine voice. Like a parakeet she undid her woolen jacket and went to the washbasin and came back. It is now she also ate something and talked something to her brother in a mocking way, who kept the same unobtrusive staring look as the reply. She had been trying to make the atmosphere alive and her genuine tomboy-like presence kept the momentum of the compartment lively. She went to the washbasin several times necessarily or unnecessarily, or in certain occasions she might have pretended as if she needed to go to the washbasin, for to go washbasin she must had to pass us, since she was sitting at the window sides, and we were at the edges of the seats. One time, when she came back from the washbasin, she just stopped close to me looking at the floor, I wondered, as I was all the time watching her. She asked, pointing to the floor,
‘yeh kiska hein?’ (Whose is this?),

I looked at the floor, and it was nothing other than my own blue-denim ‘Sherlock Holmes’ cap, which accidentally had fell down, and I picked it up with a silent nod showing thankfulness. But I did not say anything.
Sometimes later, a poor woman entered the compartment at a station with a picture of a god. She had been seeking money from the passengers as charity. Nobody was giving money. When she came close to me, she said something to show appreciation such as ‘kithna achcha beta’ (What a good boy!) or something like that in a blessing manner. Though I was not flattered, I gave my fellow passenger a nod, which encouraged him to give her some money, as we considered this as the proper way of behavior while traveling in strange parts of the country. Some times later, a railway boy came and supplied us some tea. I gave him something like 50 rupees, but he demanded change in a shouting manner, which made me to give him the exact change.
Train journey again became boring; all except the elder daughter fell asleep under the woolen blankets. She was sitting at the window looking outside, and frequently she had been glancing at me turning her head. I thought about asking something her, but my innate feeling of shyness did not allow me.

To tell the truth, I had been preparing a ‘script’ in mind, as it was the method of one of my friends in Kerala before approaching a girl. But in my case, such scripts were not found as working. I attempted several ‘script works’ in my mind like ‘starting with a ‘hi’, though I dropped this idea as it being ‘too common’. I also thought about formal beginnings like ‘kahan ja rahi hein? (Where are you traveling to?)’, or ‘kya hein aapka naam (What is your name?)’. But nothing found as effective as per the resolutions of my inhibited mindset. I really hoped that, if she would start by asking something, we could start a conversation, and at that exact moment she turned at me and asked in a musical tone,
‘Time kya ho raha hein?’ (What is the time now?)
Actually, as I wished, herself had started the conversation, but my timid mindset was in a defending mode. Though, I had replied by telling the time, my inarticulate reply obviously had prevented her from making more questions.
The time was evening, and the tint of dusk had transmitted into the compartment too. Everybody became bored, and her mother and sister too woke up from the sleep. To escape from the boredom, both the sisters began to tease their younger brother by tapping his long nose, and with each tapping he smiled shyly. As Delhi had been approaching many passengers came to our compartment since it was the closest to the door. They all were enjoying and smiling heartily at the sight of the two sisters pampering their little brother. But I was indifferent slightly; when I looked at her she glanced at me after a tap at the boy’s nose. I showed some arrogance and never smiled like the other travelers. One elderly man said to me ‘bhaisaab, aapka topi’ (Sir, your cap), pointing towards the floor. I just picked my cap up from the floor, that had fallen down accidentally for the second time, haughtily without even saying thanks or at least without a courtly nod, I don’t know why!
Now the Delhi station had been approaching, and I picked up my weighty bag and placed it at the side seat. Pretending unwitting, the girl sat at the same seat embracing my bag for sometime in silence. Again, I thought about asking something like ‘Could I help you by carrying your luggage to outside?’ but no! again my famous shyness captured me on my neck, and I just sat with my idiotic arrogant face. I heard she was complaining her mother, that ‘ma this journey was very much boring’, and obviously I too had been feeling the same.
As the station reached, every body began to go out of the compartment. I too picked up my bag and became a part of the hustling crowd. Her mother was in front of me, and she looked at my face with a hilarious smiling tone raising her face as if she had been looking at the sky, since the mother too in the similar fashion of her daughters was short.
The girl grabbed the mobile phone from her mother and talked to her relative over the phone in between the struggling crowd, whom they had been expecting at the station. Her talking style was in the most responsible way. I was looking at her, while I was going out, and now she was not noticing me at all and along with her sister and mother she had been dragging their luggage out.

After I reached outside, I waited sometime for my fellow traveler, and when joined with him, both of us started to walk in the dim light of the railway station. While he was in his usual style of silence, I was in a defeated feeling of loss. My heart was aching a little bit, and I thought of crying my heart out, I looked back, and in between the moving crowd and the ugly shades of night, I could not spot her.

Tomz