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The Proposal

Saturday, January 24, 2015

I and Priya have been best friends for the past 15 months or so and this Valentine’s Day, I have planned to finally propose her. Confessing your love is something that makes even the bravest go poltroons. So rather than speaking up my love, I have plotted something witty, something extremely special for her. So unique that all through the time when we’ll be together, she will keep thinking “He is going to propose. He is going to propose.” But I won’t until the very end when she starts yenning to hear the three magical words. And it would be great if you could just chock it up in your divulging belly.

First I’ll send her a voice note on Whatsapp saying, “The world is at risk. Grab your essentials and be ready to meet your associate, a stunningly charming guy who’d be waiting outside your home at 6:30 in black tuxedo. The future of this world is in your hands.”

She’ll come in her favorite red Midi, I’m pretty sure. And while she would be thinking of asking about the urgency, I’d cut in between and put my hand in front of her.
“Choose one of these (smooth stones).”
I’d shake off the stones and ask her to get into the car. 
“What was that?”
“That was a memento. A special one.”
“But you threw them.”
She might even think I’m weird. But all I’m is a lover and if that necessitates weirdness, then yes, I’m the weirdest.

We’d fight over the music, as always. She prefers Diana Ross. And then we’ll finally set to ‘Tender Heart by Lionel Richie. “Wow! She looks so beautiful.” I’d think in my mind.
“You have left a patch of your makeup powder on your cheek” I’d say teasingly. All that a girl fears is her makeup getting revealed.
She’d then try cleaning it herself and finally say “Is it done?”
“Not yet. Try the sun visor.”
She will pull down the sun visor to use the mirror and my angel be showered in rose petals, the ones I would have placed behind the sun visor.
She’d be expecting a proposal. But I won’t. And finally she’d break her silence and ask, “This too might be a memento, right?”
“What are you talking about? I didn’t do that. I wonder who placed them there.”

We’d next drive to the City Fort. After roaming in the fort for some time, I’d take her to the tableland where Diana’s ‘Love is all that matters’ will be played as soon as we reach. (The officials are really wonderful people I tell you.)
“Why are we here?”
“I wanted to dance with you.”
“Here? Now? Are you crazy?”
I’d grab her hand with one hand and waist with the other. And we’ll dance. And dance. And dance. Expecting her to rest her head on my shoulder. Or chest. Did you notice I didn’t propose her yet?
And when the things seem to get in place, I’d bring out the tiny gift I would have purchased for her.
“A stone?”
“A special memento!”
“What’s so special about it?” she’d say disinterested.
“Turn it over.”
"I Love Priya" it read.
She would go speechless. And we’ll keep standing, staring at each other.
“But how… how did you know I’d choose this very stone?”
“I got it engraved on all those stones by a jeweler. So whichever stone you’d choose, something similar is what you would have got. But I just wanted you to be a part of this plot I set on you.” 

This post is a part of contest for

The Litterbug

Thursday, January 22, 2015

I have always believed in proper utilization of the space available. From the Lower KG toy room where we used to make bridges and castles from multi-shaped blocks and then smash them away like the giant monster we are, to the hostel days, where chairs are the new hangers, under-beds: the new dustbins and almirah: the new basement. And when you don’t find anything, just check it under your blanket! Our college campus is our property, for we have paid our fees fully, or so we say.
Also, the answer sheets of an engineering student are nothing less than a litter. Collecting data from all the fields, everything under the sun and preparing a single not-up-to-the-point answer for the same (that comprises Bollywood, Cricket, Taliban, Roadies, Chayanprash, and Pokémon) and still managing to pass in the exams. All thanks to the litterbug teachers.
I specifically love the scene of Indian ladies dumping all the organic garbage direct outside the window, from the 1st floor. Damn! They are so talented. I wonder who tells them that the path is clear and there’s no one passing by. Not forgetting the government assigned sweepers. They accumulate all the litter at one place not caring about its disposal and thus, accumulating the next day too. They are so honest. They don’t want to be paid for ‘not working’.
We have sewage water overflowing (by litterbug govn. Officials), additional dumping over it (by common litterbugs) and rains adding to the beauty of litters. Is there any other planet that will serve such a scenetic view to your eyes?
Littering is the biggest survival skills of mankind. For that’s how we keep ourselves fit, clean and happy. Isn’t it? It’s a fact that being a litterbug keeps us happy. (If only we belong to Neptune or Pluto). I’d even love littering the human remains if I were a monster or something. That’s a separate issue, though.
Non-Litterbugs (cleanliness-obsessed people/ aliens) are too far to be considered humans. Maybe they should be sent to some separate country, or other planet, for best. They care so much about others. Silly people. They should have been anything but humans.
Sometimes I feel God too is a litterbug. Just littering all and everything wherever he wants. Mismatch, broken hearts, love and other drugs, nations, solar system, and galaxies all in one single universe. How could spring, summer, monsoon, autumn and winters fall in the same year otherwise. Wish he was a little more empathetic. But then again, maybe we too are, and deserve the same. Because that’s what we do to others; our neighbors, friends and even strangers; at our workplace, school, streets and even homes.
This post is written as a part of Indiblogger’s contest for

A Whisper of Roses

Friday, January 16, 2015

So uncertain this life is
Born as varied floras
And here we rest
Side by side, detached, uprooted
People say we look beautiful
But how could someone look
Graceful after they die
Or is it just like what they do
After a human snuffs it
“Ya. He was a good man.”

Sometimes I wonder if
Humans too fall in love
Just like we roses do
And if their love would be
As pure as ours
Standing beside each other
All through our lives
Without a sense of touch
Until one day we dry up
Just like that
And a tickle means our
Plant is on grounds.

It’s so difficult differentiating
Between rocks and humans
They look so alike just like
Long lost brothers
Unlike the uniqueness of every rose
And I pray they turn out as
A rose next life
And realize how beautiful it is
To be a rose even while
You’re alive.

This post has been written for Prompt of the Month; a feature of Writer's Ezine.