The Desi Masala Story

Every story has a certain truth in it.

Every truth has myriad opinions following its course of existence.

Each opinion is important, as it is an accumulation of one’s upbringing, morals, cultural, religious and social standpoint, and more. It depicts one’s socially stimulated individuality.

The following events will instill piety in some of the readers, in others it will bring out a sick envy, in few it will originate an ethic debate and the rest will be sticking to either of the three or form some minor point of view. But what really matters is – the conclusion.

The place is the heart of India- Varanasi. It has a heavy stardust of ancient culture, beautiful detail of related structures and a million experiences all residing in that one place. The trio of Varuna, Ganga and Assi converging into a whirlpool of sanctity, and nesting possibly the biggest pilgrimage hub in whole of India.

It is a house a few kilometres away from the river bank. The house is quite lavish, with a few fruit trees in the backyard, a wall garden with Bougainvillea and Tulsi and some parking space up front. The fence is of a human’s height and whole construction is located a house away from the road. For a monkey to summit the house it must jump from the ground floor to the balcony of the first then make it to the roof or simply climb up either on the mango or the guava trees and leap. There is a room on the roof that one of the residents had built to comfortably give his board exams in a joint family environment.

It was the wake of 21st Century, but the time has no value in the following.

The family living in the house is a huge one. The building belonged to the great grandfather of the Kid. He was a very old, strict and just man living a next to yogi life. He lived on the ground floor. The house was divided into two portions – one for each of his lovely daughters. One of his daughters lived right above him with her family. The other half of the building was leased by the second one, residing in the same city. Kid’s grandparents are people of academia and at those times happened to be approaching the dusk of their careers. They are Brahmins by social status and are very particular about helping the fellow needy people they know. They always try to employ them, educate them, give them relatively better opportunities and perform numerous related acts of philanthropy. The dynamic duo parented a son and two daughters into the successes that they are now. Their son went abroad for studies, one thing led to another and soon he landed a job and married his college sweetheart. That’s how the Kid came into the picture.

It was the third time their son visited homeland after the Kid came to this world. This time it was different, the former wanted his parents to get closer with his newly founded family. The stay was planned to be 5 months long. Arrangements like schooling were made for the Kid. He was 5 back then. His father had to get back to his job and hurried back abroad. His mother and he were left to mingle even more with grandparents, educate themselves of Hindi and finish LKG & UKG in the given time. Funnily, the Kid was a foreigner to both of his homelands.

The food was delicious and the spices were heavenly. Both grandparents are great cooks. Both tutored their daughter- in- law the art of Indian cuisines. There was a domestic Help- a curious and friendly teenage girl who was given an opportunity to progress from family’s home village to the city. Grandparents helped her out, gave her ample different opportunities throughout her tenure and supported her even further. She’s somewhere in Mumbai now, married and happy. But back then, the kitchens were mostly ruled by the Grandmother, but whenever she wasn’t home- by the Help. There was also a Maid who came in the evenings or whenever there was a soiree and the volumes of the spicy art were not manageable by the limited number of chefs in the house. These were visits by relatives, but they were even relatively infrequent. The communication gap was a challenge, but was quickly overcome by the fertile young mind and motherly efforts. But even after that it was not allowed for the Kid to roam around and play in the streets with the rest of the children, because such an ordeal could’ve proved to be dangerous. The lessees didn’t have any children of Kid’s age, so he was pretty much left all to his own.

These were times when Cartoon Network showed great cartoons and looked like a checker board. A lot of hours were well invested into watching the television. There were a lot of self- strategized and self- directed epic toy soldier battles and numerous vehicle chases before one day the Help offered to play with him. It is practically fascinating how young children and basically everyone who’s not yet an adult find a common language fast and easily make new friends.

During a common day, the Help finished all her responsibilities and by the time she did it, Kid did his homework and was generally about to click open the cartoons.  The TV had its own course of life and magically was not allowed to stay awake whole day. They had it to themselves for an hour or so, then there was an optional nap time. The option was controlled by the Mother. The Kid slept with his mother in his room while unknown to him things happened around the house. Little did he know that the house turned into a peaceful sanctum with a kingdom of dreams ruling over it, as everyone napped. Slowly waking up, house always picked up its pace towards the evening. Whenever the Help was free, the Kid used to play with her. They were the Ludo masters, the King & Queen and what not. Whenever she was busy, the Kid always nagged her to allow him to help. As he was not allowed near the stove or any sharp objects, all he got to do was cleaning peas, pitching water and an occasional crushing of Maggi.

One day, she was cutting some vegetables in the kitchen on the first floor and the Kid barged in. His hyperactivity stepping a notorious melody, filled the atmosphere with playful energy. She looked at him and asked what was everyone doing. She got to know that everyone else was either asleep, busy or didn’t yet reach home from an extra detailed chirrup she heard in retaliation. A few minutes passed when she looked at the Kid and enquired, if he had any homework left to do. His patience wore out as he blurted out “No!” and started hopping out of the kitchen. She called him back. She asked if he wanted to play something new with her. She left the vegetables and the knife, turned towards him and added- “But you must promise me not to play this game with anyone else, they won’t play it nor will they understand it…” “What are the rules?”, he enquired. “Silence.”, she replied, “and your hands…” “Should I build something?”, was his first reaction. “No, you must feel something…”, she said, “give me your hands!”

He gave her his hands, palms up, the way he gave them to the teacher before he got hit with a ruler. He got worried, if that’s what was going to happen right now with some kitchen utensil. She held his hands in hers and as if studying the fair skin crevices turned them upside down. He looked up at her and asked- “So?”. She pulled his hands under her kameez and stuffed them up to her chest. The Kid was stunned, but turned playfully curious. She told him to feel her breasts and tell her the experience. With awkwardly straight open palms he traversed from the tips to the ribs and back both ways. He told her that it felt soft and big. Each scaled at least three of his palms in breadth and almost two in length. She instructed him to fondle them. He pressed them like balloons. In unease, she exclaimed to be gentle. He didn’t understand how so she took his hands in her own again and guided him. It was a strange, undefined, rather exciting feeling for the Kid- a brand new experience and he liked it. She seemed dissatisfied, so she told him to hug her from behind locate them again and massage the tips. She folded his palms and explained the light twisting movement that she wanted him to perform. He was more than happy to conform to her instructions. They stood like this for a while and once he got steady she started chopping vegetables again. In a few minutes, he got a bit bored and pulled himself away from her. She asked if he liked it. He said that he did. He asked the name of the game, she told him that it was “love making”, but if he wanted to play he should ask her whether “they could clean some peas together”.

The Kid was bedazzled with the new occurrence and developed an inexplicable curiosity to play it again. The memory of the feeling drove him to ask her every day, but only once in a few days did they get a chance to play this game again. They literally got a chance to clean some peas in the kitchen. As always, when everyone was either away or asleep, they sat in the kitchen. She laid the newspapers on the ground, spilled the pea pods into a pile on the wicker grain cleaner and put a kneading plate nearby to collect the cleaned peas. She told him to throw away the plastic bags into the dustbin under the washbasin while she latched the kitchen door. She sat on one of the newspaper edges and started to clean the peas. He sat nearby and moaned at her. She asked him if he wanted to play. He agreed. She told him to sit on her lap and face her. He climbed into her lap and sat facing the peas. She told him to turn around and hug her with his legs and hands like a monkey. He got excited with the reference and did as she asked. She asked him if he remembered what to do since the last time. The Kid complied to her request. He spent a great fraction of time figuring out a way to find his way under her shirt. He was unpleasantly surprised when he discovered that their texture changed and reminded him of some fabric. He complained, she smiled and single- handedly took each bosom out of the brassiere and let them hang freely under the shirt. He didn’t get the structure of the vest she wore under her kameez, but satisfied with recollection of the previous experience started to play. He kept on fondling her while sitting in her lap. She pulled him closer to herself and started cleaning peas behind his back whenever she got a chance. Howsoever bedazzling was the nature of the game and whatsoever effects it had on his body, he felt ecstatic under effect of what appeared to be something close to adrenaline. He kept on caressing her summits the way she wanted. It was only when grandmother came home and called for her that she asked him to stand up and rushed to unlatch the door. Grandmother saw the door opening and asked why was it closed. The Help confidently told her that they were cleaning peas and the air blew the door shut. It was convincing enough.

Whole house became their castle when the siege of mid-day solitude used to hit. They even played on the roof whenever it wasn’t that hot. Whenever it was as sunny as it gets in Varanasi, they simply played in the room on the roof or so it used to be before. They got into the room to the left of the staircase and sat on the mat. The Kid used to have these figurines of soldiers and a Batman Beyond which he brought to the roof along with an aeroplane and some Hot Wheels. She said- “I am tired today, let’s just lay down on this hot day.” The Kid made a grimace, turned around and played on his own for a while. He was running one of the figurines across the wall when she sat up and pulled him towards her. She immediately lied on her back and told him to climb on top of her. She promised that he won’t be able to get out of the comfortable bed she was going to make for him. He climbed on her from her side. He thought he knew what followed this so he reached out to fondle her. She stopped his hands and pulled his head on her breasts. She asked if he liked the cushions. He didn’t deny that they were surprisingly calming and homely. He turned his head to the side with his head planted right in the trough and looked at the wall across the bulging fabric of her kameez. He was content in his innocence.

The above is not the sole event that happened to the Kid here and neither it might be to either of you, readers. The events followed, less aggravated or even more despicable, then, now and might still affect most of us in the future. The essence of these events stays true even if details vanish in time. The following conclusion contains more points, but those cannot be mentioned due to possible “radicality” of some readers.

There must be no blames associated with the described act, neither it must be fine to accuse an individual for an unguided portrayal of their curiosity. It is only a common effort that might prevent such things from happening. Sex must not be a taboo anymore in a nation as dynamically affected by development as India. People must accept sex as a basic orientation of human curiosity. Instead of imposing bans on the mentioning of anything related to the theme, yet openly joking about such things in the dark corners of their abodes and developing high sex valuing mindsets and psyches, we must rather seek guidance, discuss the simplicity of this act with no attached value to it and educate themselves and people around them. India, the home of Kamasutra, must now embrace, guide and nurture sex, instead of exiling it altogether and leading to formation of secretive crooked minds.

For, as long as peacocks shed tears, the nation will stay in the darkest corners of dynamic, yet confused culture.


Panting Wolves and Dancing Squirrels

A distant drum beat, darkness, skies…
To creep one out a forest always tries…

So there’s a clearing, moonless blues…

With a bonfire this, on can confuse!

Vibrating- dancing shadows turned to spokes,

Prancing silhouettes and no one talks!

And round and round is all they go…

In circles, on sand thus dark ones flow…

There’s self- commotion once you see

And in a jiffy feel the glee…

That you’ve seen and with no perils,

Painting wolves and dancing squirrels!

Love Nature

An elegant curve of the path

With shades all around…

A pair of Arabesque hills

As they turn into the plotted math

Of scattered ponds on the ground…

And a few of memorable stills

Turning it’s whole beige core into wrath

Of multilateral picture- green all abound…

And ending at a pair of strings of matrix nils

Exploding into a flowy, shrill- shivery brown path

And stars exploding all around…

With all trees behind rising up like hills.

Contemplating about the hidden treasure

The Boom Impending

Something different is in this air…
This air is ethereal…

This air is eternal…

This air is yours Oh Earth…

Tell me whether it is real…

Tell me even if it’s carnal…

Tell me even if in dearth…

Drop at me like autumn rain…

Drop at me that heavy news…

Drop at me how Environment is climbing for the noose…

Sweep away my worldly pain…

Sweep away my subtle cruise…

Sweep away all worldly men, who dareth you to loose…

The Wizard

Some people ask:- “What’s it’ you say?”
Parry them I:- “With words I play…

Bedazzled, stand they, gazing broad

I point at them, while they applaud”
“What ’bout ‘s all the fuss?”, a voice.

“Oh crowd, I’m left with no choice…

How dare forget my name, you dude

This act of yours is utter rude!
For you’ve not asked from me the same

Involved the crowd to my shame!

It’s time to show you wizardry

You turn ‘nto toad by my decree!”
With that he gestured ‘nto air thin

A toad turned man sat aback then lean

With watery eyes, glanced at the crowd,

While wizard stood all great and proud.
The crowd spoke:- “With words you play…”

A scared pause added:- “…was what did you say”

“Afraid?”, exclaimed the spellweaving man

“It was just humour, that’s all a plan!”
Our wordmeister swung his hands.

In a whiff he changed the magic trends.

The toad leaped up and in no time,

Hugged him, shameless, covered in slime.
Wordplaying man was set aback,

Slime flying about with each whack

He did renounce all the claims:-

“I’m not the one who binds in chains!”
“What, what?”- crowd got all confused

To speak any further he refused.

Toadman spoke:- “All of you we do address,

Don’t worry, we did not digress to your distress
He’s an actor- I’m the man, his magic’s fine

And this darn script ‘s of my design!

I guess you all were played damn well,

You read till here and that is swell!”

Like fish in the sea

The awestruck fish was stuck in a tree
Thumbing it was, trembling, to get free…

Life twirled and turned it like a darn hurricane

Only to leave in hardship and vain…
Fishy fidgeted a few tiny leaps ahead

Then it realised that it just fell from bed…

But how felt the dream, you can’t fathom, just see…

The man turned- fish felt like one fish in the sea…

The One on Strength & Perseverance

When people ask me:- “Are you strong?”

I point, that their question’s wrong,

I say:- “It’s not just really all the strength,

That helps survive you to this length.

But how, this length, you do perceive

Through all the friction you recieve.”
When people tell me:- “Wrong, you might be!”

I flail them, “That depends on how you see.”

They preach how strength and even power

Is grown with friendly people’s shower

Of their goodwill and blessings; “That’s thin”

I say and add, “This first comes from within…”
They scream and shout, “How dare you!?”

Of egoism, in this debate, they me do sue.

“A little scared they’re, ‘s what I think

To face their sins and cross that brink,

Confess of evil thoughts lurking their mind

And speak of how they fight ’em for mankind”
Each day, each night, each dusk, each dawn,

Pitch black heed grows our mind upon.

We strive, we fence, we burn, we fight,

With morals, ethics, brought up might

And frown when fellow strikes amiss

And finds oneself in dungeon bliss
He is not strong, not strong at all,

For him his friendly people took the fall

And now all they all do is just repent

On how ugly scary was his dissent,

And how they had in this no hand

And this was only his failure grand!
The lonely bastard’s hit hard by wall

How people standing by him tall

Now vanish, never to be seen,

While once lost mind, is never clean,

And there he sits in stone cold cell,

With all well-wishers, lest wish well.
He sees now, that this sin his- grave,

If only once he were that brave,

To shut them out, stay solo- soul,

And let his wicked thoughts to crawl

And face them straight with no advice

From friendly people- witless’ demise.
Then maybe, maybe he’d have seen

That strength he seeks is there within

 And darkness shunt away, aside,

That right came with no one beside.

For no one’s wicked born with head,

But it grows unto them instead.
But what is done, is done and stains,

And now he’s left to endure the pains

Of heavy chains and morbid thoughts,

With none, but hope of grimly sorts

That perseverance’s all what’s left

Now, lonesome burden for him to heft.
He might not live to tell his tale,

But this- a thing one must not fail,

To seek and find within that good

Which makes one strong or so it should

At least to judge oneself permit

Where people rise, where fall in pit.

Pedal of Century

It was half past eleven, then a quarter to twelve,
Then creeped the clock stealthily for a gong beat.

We sit, somewhere lay we, in deep thoughts we delve,

Mind like some clocks did serenade and tweet.

Our stupor, if not turned to a slate’s screen

Is rather enthralled by the darkened bright skies

Or maybe traversed to some grasslands lush green

Calmed, but not really, we shut down our eyes.

Anxious lay some, restless are others, few left baby-like,

Heartless some, broken are others, few lay cold and alone.

What they all really need is to take that darn, lovely bike

And pedal way deep into abysmal abyss with no phone!


Remember the first time you were scared, but not really…

Sometime around that time, your infancy left.

Remember the last time it all felt so easy, but not really…

Someone made sure your castle of childhood was built.

Remember the first time you lost, but not really…

Somewhere in that decision, you befriended your teens.

Remember the last time you risked it all, but not really…

Someday, thus somehow, we all matured.

The Search

Something highly relatable for each of us at one point or the other in our life…

Maybe it is the search for the ultimate purpose or maybe it’s just all about a pizza…

One might never know…
What if whatever you just fail to find…

Is hiding right there in plain sight…

But you’re one clumsy kind of blind…

You just can’t find it in this light???
What if you search for that in place…

That’s just not right, for it to hide…

And it’s damn staring at your face…

Lost, have you sight- eyes open wide???
What if that thing has no disguise…

But you’re searching masquerade…

Still here- seeking, post it’s demise,

Shortsighted, dwelling in crusade???
What if all this effort blown to skies,

Mirage made into​ the fair of Vanity

Is moulding real all those lies

And dripping on our sanity?
What if you’re searching​ for the meaning

Yet can’t find a pivot point- full life- like..

And think of these as words demeaning…

Bedazzled, but still void in thy psych?

A possible preface

I realised myself to be the righteous apostle of the record book keeping when I was sitting by the fire and listening to the two bards ranting to the crowd about how right their independent versions were and realised that the version my own father told, was rather entirely different. I trusted my father, because the old time scar was ogling at me from his collarbone​ each time I was addressing him. I was a relative pacifist and let the former both, keep their argument burning up. Very soon I found myself peeking up the porch of the monastery from day to day and eventually the prefect archivist pulled me up and invited me to learn reading and writing. And I’m glad that I wasn’t born a lady or believe me in our kingdom, at our times- it’s rare they’re getting any chance to get out of their “lady” activities like games of croquet, ball dancing, designer gardening and other art, sewing- basically enjoying their lives and do as their wild wishes tell.

Since then into my youth I spent days and nigths reading and rereading the archives and records of this and even number of other churches. When I couldn’t find more, my father didn’t approve of me going away for too far, because I was just 14 back then and didn’t perfect my bow and arrows skills enough to embark on such a journey alone. He didn’t have enough faith driving him to accompany me on my undertaking, I walked into a library. It seemed as if a heaven touched my rusty robes, made me unaware of any sort of unease including them and embraced me with it’s open arms absorbing me into an abysmal depths of historical and fictional texts and smells. That is when I realised that writing and preferably the truth were the two most important things in the world of my perception.

By the time I turned 16 and by the same time- the already Grand Archivist, came down to bless me personally from the Great Church of Uptown, while I was initiating something unbelievably surreal and important with my volunteering to serve in the defence tower operating the turrets of the guards of our kingdom- Pacifia. It was a relatively sought after position within the hierarchy of the armed forces of our then king Le Mustachie III and it was all thanks to Grand Archivist who recommended me over a crust of bread. It was less hectic a service than that of the foot soldiers and less glorified than the cavalry, but meant a lot of travel and sitting which were just perfect for my soulful orientation.

Days started flying by and my duty shuffled me among the towers, towns, crossroads all across the lands… By 22 I read every book in the cities that my towers guarded and started writing down the records of my own and tallying them with those of the old man Grand Archivist to see, whether I kept everything up to date. Archibald Hansen, was his name and he loved to talk of the beastly lady fish like demons at sea. He appreciated my work but over the years of my absence I knew that he grew closer to his other apprentice Le Brix who was a son of an utterly wealthy nobleman who had a speck of devotion on the silver laden suit of his pompousness. He and the mistress managed to pass him that devotion before they met a terrible end by the hands of an unknown woods’ gang who robbed them off everything and their lives. He unfortunately witnessed all that and ran away with the Circus only to be recovered by our Grand Archie almost a decade later. Pretty easily convinced he learnt fast and by the time I ran out of books to read in our kingdom and started my own private archive keeping, he was already doing the same, but devotedly and had no problems with arranging the parchment​ or papyrus to waste. I on the other hand had to struggle through harbors and traders to scavenge the few I could afford.

It was all fine for a while, but pretty soon my fellow guards started utterly despising my erudition and consequently exiled me mentally from their acquaintance. I, very soon, noticed how fat I got reading all those piles of books and munching down our garrison food stocks and pretty much accepted others’ sedition towards this fact. In almost no time I started to get neglected and even sooner I was reassigned my position.

It seemed that they somehow got an approximate idea about my efforts and acknowledged the reference Grand Archie gave for me to the Marshal himself recommending my talents while conditioning Le Brix to follow in his holy steps of Church Archiving. I didn’t mind, rather got self- content from the fact that I might proudly keep records of the king’s army and experience the live action of every step they took. These were another few years before my career within the army abruptly got finished as Dissipati Peribunt, being the Marshal, lost his head to a better gentleman Bon Tu Pati somewhere around the tent I was scribbling in. The same day Le Mustachie the III and his nobility with the help of Prince Meinland the I’s cavalry, managed to crank their heads a wee bit way off their shoulders. The whole family, or what was left of it was brought out in their own bedsheets and sent to a respectful cremation by the edge pf the river. The times were noble and so were our neighbours.
Once again my writing​ prevailed and after reading the glorified records of the truth behind the unfortunate governing turmoil which uprooted the basics of the kingdom the new king himself declared to decide my fate. Archie and Brix didn’t get any sort of such judgement and my papa was parried away from all this unease by the holy angels of death. I’ve never told you about my mother, because from all I heard she wasn’t much of a story to tell about.

By the stories of papa she was an untimely smart lady from a humble family of a laundryman. She was courted briefly, but vigorously by him when he served with his life for her then employee- Count Un Fukwitablu and his nobility. It was around that time that my father experienced first hand the story those bards were lamenting about. In short the house fell poisoned and all of the commoners were dismissed of their posts. Following a series of useless months, old man got himself a ring and got her under the blessings of the cross. They miscarried my elder brother, but papa got a hire and was able to afford a healer and a roof over their head on outskirts of the capital. In a couple of years of relatively dull, but as per his words- turbulently romantic married existence they tried again. This time with even more care and support from local healers and two midwives my father unknowingly enjoyed her company for healthy nine months. He held her trembling hand when I saw them both for the first time together and cried knowing this will be the last, because an angel told me before they pulled me out. “The labor was tough…” was what they said while trying to explain the obvious.

I was tossed to our pious neighbour aunt Martha whom I’ve never met thereafter, but I’ve heard that she was in conveniently lactating at that time and didn’t mind another suckling offspring at her spare voluptuous tit. The last part was emphasised by papa every time he gratefully mentioned her and honestly, I thought the word explained something about volume till I came of age. Ever since, I always wondered, if there was something going on back then during my infant days. Papa subdued to grief a couple of years later and almost sold me to a Chinese trader once while he was dead drunk. Coming to senses he took an oath to upbring me right and did so in the house of the God. That’s pretty much how my future got secured.

Talking of future security- his noble highness Meinland decided to make my fate a court decision and scheduled a sitting a month into the new kingdom. They all sat down enjoying our land’s pears and some Chinaman’s dumblinks or whatever they called their whitened meatballs which I always reminded me of a bunch of scrota of some foreign beast and by the end of their meal decided to exile me to the last tower of their land. Now for those following this record- Pacifia became a taxable state of the kingdom of Nobilis and thus lost it’s boundaries and identity to the new king. I ended up at a God forgotten tower amidst the barren land with a waterfront at three sides and a strange, even more God forsaken road coming from the kingdom and headed towards the neighbouring kingdom of Rexnovis. Relations with this kingdom were so pacific that border security was taken for granted and neither of the states cared to check upon the welfare of the other even for periods as long as half a dozen years.

With a personal request from his Highness, I got carts of archives and writings coming and going over the next few years and I really enjoyed that as I rewrote all of them unto brand new leaflets. My life couldn’t be any better, but as always each garrison assigned to my tower always came back with a word of despise to king Meinland. All I did was just reading​ the texts without any harm to others, but it seemed that matured footsoldiers were mpre comfortable with utter displays of extraversion which wasn’t the case with me. This annoyed them terribly to an extent they started fearing me on pretext of sorcery.

I wasn’t a huge fan of liquor, but one of those days, glum about my situation with tower watchmen I walked into the nearest town, which happened to be on the ground of Rexnovis, but as I said- nobody even did as much as bat an eye on a foreigner. Seeing my morbid expression they even took our gleans as a payment. I got so drunk that the tavern returned whole 3 gleans and wished me to come to senses real fast and get some help or something like that before I tasted the ground of their stables, which unlike my expectations didn’t taste of horse excrement. That, most likely, wasn’t because they were being sincerely cleaned out, but because this town, just like my tower was- deserted. I don’t remember much of that day, just some guy running by my side- maybe even some scout, while I was making it to the tower and trying to explain that there was something wrong with his kingdom or mine, I don’t clearly remember, but I dismissed that as a dream and gulped down on it in the morning. The hangover hung over me for hours giving me a melodious torture of some eerie song they were singing at the tavern table across the border. The crew looked at me and I understood that they “just had enough of it all”.

After this nuisance on my part, garisson unease outgrew to an extent that Meinland rode his horse himself to cope with the situation. He arrived one early morning and I got to know about that as soon as the garisson got into a random melodious commotion and scattered trumpeteering building a unison along the way of it’s own harmony. In no time I was summoned from my room and he publicly proclaimed me to be further exiled to Rexnovis. While I stood halfpresent and bedazzled he dismissed his guards and held my shoulder saying- “You’re a great archivist Fatuus, but your conduct, howsoever rational it is to you and me, is creating a lame public’s unease… I want you to disappear for some time and thence I’m personally giving you a task to fulfill…”

The Chances

At playing card factory, piles of cards- all prints, get sorted…
Still hot, they travel miles, to get to box they courted…

We tag defective our lives- a solitary Joker of a deck conforming…

A random draw- high fives, thus turns our lives heartwarming…
Getting that tightly packed, they smudge each others’ ink…

Those tinsy smears stacked, amend more than you think…

Some turn Hearts sweet, hurt spiky- Spades few prick…

Some Diamonds built with heat, some Club until they sick…
How lucky is thy draw, depends on how you perceive…

The monster that you saw, turns to lifeline you recieve…

You’re boxed in, solitary Joker, and yours are chances rare…

This draw game is like poker, each draw- a million dollar affair…