ARC

By the side of a fallen branch I found my little heart,
covered by a coat of newly fallen leaves. So surprised
was I that for a second I forgot to breathe. But when he
started to labor in his patient beating I knew I was wrong
in holding my breath. So I let the summer air into my
lungs and offered him some succor.

I asked him, “My dear heart, what are you doing under
these leaves in these woods? Why are you not behind my
heaving ribs?”

He glowed as red as a virgin’s cheek. Was it the shame of
suffering or the anger of abandonment?

But he replied in the voice of a strutting Jagger, “I’ve divested
myself from you. You heartbreaker! Always, you punished me
for your inadequacies. Every time you stared at a woman, it
was I who suffered. It was I who burnt words onto your stubbornly
silent tongue. It was I who was filled with feelings most profound.
But you, with your asymmetrical ass and crooked jaw, you never
noticed the difference between rhythm and beat. You never ever
grasped the yawning gap between lust and love.”

I hung my head with shame upon hearing words so true and precise
but could not help asking, “But dear heart, how will I live without
you? Nay, how will I ever love without you?”

Upon hearing my words filled with a sadness most real my heart stopped for
a moment, formed a council with the leaves and pondered for a minute. They
twittered. They murmured. They even burped. And finally my heart squealed
with joy and offered this unique compromise, “ Fall in love within a month with
a woman who wears red and has CC cups; I’ll return to your chest
forever.”

So here I’m, dear ladies, in search of my very own woman in red with CC cup
size. If you know someone with such dimensions will you ask her to get in
touch with my hopeless heart and save me from a lifetime of heartless love?

(On June 1st this blog turned two years old and adding the two years time I wrote on an older blog elsewhere that makes it a total four years of blogging. So instead of the usual anniversary post I decided to ask four of my favorite bloggers to contribute a guest post here. Happily, they all accepted immediately. So here is the second guest post. The rest will follow roughly in the chronological order in which I came to know them. Each guest blogger will directly respond to your comments to their respective posts.

Australopithecus has been blogging for about three years now and spreading cheer and laughter throughout that time. What I love about his writing is his sharp wit and the keen insights he offers behind what can often seem to be harmless humor. Sarcasm and irony mixed with humor are not easy bedfellows to manage but he makes it all look so easy.)

I get an email from Anil. He wanted me to have a guest post on his blog. More like a pest post I thought. Anyway since it was his blog and therefore his funeral, I asked “What flowers should I send? “

All right. Blogging and all is fine when it’s your own space to abuse. The moment someone else lends you his space to (ab)use…(are you regretting this already Anil?) that’s when you’ve got to think. What does one write about? Anyway since you idiots err… I meant you fine readers are stuck with me…I might as well dish out my usual drivel.

The presidential elections seem to have captured everyone’s imagination. Well at least the alleged imagination of all the chaps down at the mere 141542 X 10234 ****odd news channels that seem to occupy the airways. Before the major parties announced their nominees all these chaps were obsessing over it…like those kids that write the JEE. It’s not half as important. It seems an easy job. All one seems to have to do is to stay awake during the most boring occasions, apply a deft rubber stamp here and there as and when ‘Madamji’ instructs you to…Oh! Wait! Am I getting confused with the office of the Prime Minister? Anyway. One gives out awards to those whom you are told to give out awards…is it just me or does this job sound more like an office peon. The only difference is instead of awards peon hands out salary cheques instead of awards. In fact the peon doesn’t even have to be awake during important functions.

Oh and when there is competition and elections can mudslinging be far behind? Let us take a quick look at the hopefuls. (For the hopeless, please look up Wikipedia for condition of the Indian people)

One of the candidates that seem to have emerged is Ms Pratibha Qatil.

Life as a doctoral student sucks. It doesn’t suck in the ordinary nobody loves me suckiness (does that word even exist?) level. No, it takes sucking (pardon my vulgar language) to a different level, a level where you are the lowest form of life in the world. I mean even bacteria have more fun. They are practically immortal. They have sex almost every 20 minutes. They can live on almost anything. And they have the coolest of names. Chlamydia. Nocardia. Vibrio. Contrast that with an average doctoral student. He is a mouse (although even a mouse would be offended to be compared to such a lowly being) like creature, most often with spectacles and irritating habits like trailing off in the middle of a sentence into vague silences. Their only sex appeal lies in their detailed knowledge about how two proteins fold exactly around each other. You get the picture.

What do such specimens of the human species do when a beautiful woman goes up to them and talks? To digress a little, such events do not happen in the real world. The probability of such an event happening, according to knowledgeable sources in the Mathematics department across the road, is 0.00. In fact, apparently, this is the only known event in the world that has such a perfect probability of not happening! So let me add the rider, in a hypothetical world, to the above scenario.

Continuing with the hypothetical situation, the said graduate student will first start perspiring. His pulse will be racing because hormones are being dumped into his blood, leading to rapid changes in his metabolic profile. He starts blushing. When he opens his mouth, either no sound comes out or else mumbled and garbled words pour out, which of course do not make any sense. If that beautiful woman still has any sense she would leave. However, if she is one of those rare beings, who for some insane reason either enjoy tormenting such innocent geeks, feel pity for such lowly life forms or genuinely like disheveled and bespectacled nerds, she will stay and talk further.