Jodha Akbar

From his harem of 500 wives, he happened to prefer one over the others. A short, bowlegged man with a mole on his face, he married her to seal a political alliance and thus get more control over more lands. For peace also perhaps.

But still.

We make out a movie out of this? A love story we call it?

Come Together, Right Now. Over Me.

They have their reasons to dim the lights. It brings people closer together in the darkness. It unifies us in a strange way. That and the alcohol, of course.

Clinking glasses, loud music, voices shouting and screaming to be heard above their own din. Exclamations of joy and suddenly discovered secrets of eternal happiness. The thumping of tables, the sliding into couches, people hugging others barely recognizable. Introductions, appreciations, shots, pints and the breaking into choruses. Long-preserved and uncomfortably guarded ice breaking everywhere. The volleying from one table to another, from one group of friends to another. Rushed and inordinately polite apologies to the people you crash into now and then. Opening the door for a lady, making way for people before you, pouring your own drink last, living a chivalrous knight again. Getting up and walking straight is not so easy now. Tracing zigzags in a narrow path to your seat, to the door, to the next table. Confessing that suddenly frivolous secret, into the ears of suddenly close friends in the middle of suddenly appropriate conversation. Let it be. Everybody sings, alcohol irrespective. Thats the comfort level now. Brothers-in-arms till the door, collapsing in a heap once outside. Lying around on college steps, saluting the security. Looking up at a giant moon and stars across the universe. Smiling at each other, grinning to spoil the moment. Nobody can get up to go now. Its too perfect, everything is. And we're all that bit too tired.

Can somebody take us back to the hostel, please?

I get by with a little help from my friends.

He Who Forgets Things In Room, Gets Late For Class

As yellow shafts of sunlight shone down on his eyes, for the second continuous hour since dawn, he woke. He woke gently, for he was a gentle and peaceful person. He woke with a great deal of muscle-pulling and stretching and lots of loud yawning, for his was a theatrical soul. He jumped up off his bed suddenly and sprinted the 8 feet to the bathroom, for his was a sharp mind that had just surmised, from a mere glance at the clock, that class would begin in 20 minutes.

Rushing through the processes of brushing his teeth and washing his face simultaneously (it would be wise to not ask how he managed this, if we are of the puritan school of thought that believes in the companionship of sanity and sanitation), he dived into a t-shirt hanging off the chair and 'dropkicked' into the jeans of yesterday. Grabbing his bag and keys, he rushed out of the room.

Nearly. Before he could leave, he checked himself up in the mirror. Hmm...Nose, ears, eyes, hair, chin and cheeks. Check, check, check, check, check and check. All the essentials appearing to be in order, he proceeded with the mad rush to class. Damn! Its Machine Drawing! That meant the drafter and the blank drawing sheet. He rushed back in to retrieve them, returning as a whirlwing barely 5 seconds after he'd left as a whirlwind. His bemused room-mate went about plodding through his own activities. His world was a parallel universe. He chose when to drop by and attend, not once letting his mind ponder over regulations such as minimum attendance requirement.

He bolted out again. And bolted back in another 4 seconds later. He'd forgotten to use the deodorant. Ooh and now that he was here, he saw he hadn't even taken his pencils. Phew!

He ran out and sprinted down the stairs, taking them two at a time on the descend and jumping off the last three to land with a grand flourish and a bow for his imaginary raucously cheering spectators. The hostel caretaker looked at him with eyebrows raised, as he speed-walked past him, past his gate of his jurisdiction and into the beautiful sunshine outside, where clouds meandered as fluffs of cotton against a little blue canvas of sky, and the birds twittered and man was free.

He came back in half a minute later. The textbook, the textbook! He sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time and finally landing with a flourish but no bow. There's so little time! He knocked three times on the door, responding to his room-mate's raised eyebrow with a grin and shrug, both regular but slightly hurried. Where is the book? There! Got it.

Again, he ran out. Took the stairs two at a time, and landed with a flourish and bow. He was finally ready to leave na. The caretaker didnt look up this time. Engineering students! Everyone seemed to have screws loose.

Class had begun. Everyone already bent over drawing sheets, reproducing and assembling pieces of this and that to form something they didnt know, which did something they did not care about knowing. He fit right in.

Conversations With A Myself (Part II)

Mirror: But, you know, I mean. You know you're slightly gay aren't you? Like, effeminate?

Me: Oh, but my dear friend, do you not see the beauty of that? The mystery and the indecipherible justification behind such a complex and exact state? The gay are out of the picture. The completely masculine ones? They must adopt a different form of set approach, one I find utterly distasteful and crass. I have slightly more demanding sensibilities. Its if you're in my unique position in life and supposed sexual orientation, that the beautiful yellow line of balance appears, so that the worthy one may walk. A tilt either way, and fall, I find, I must. A precise stepping is required. You get it? A motion to one side, demanding an immediate dash to the other. Slightly over-compensated torque to be rapidly changed, before her conscious self is able to notice an abrupt shift. The subconscious subconsciously approves the to and fro, and watches in the grips of complete fascination. What is the game after all? That hint of a feminine antenna for understanding those veiled emotions in time. Reacting accordingly. That shy compliment, that understated matter-of-fact tone. Then the sudden, unpredictable rushes of spartan manliness, the stance changed to the unfazed, unaffected self. To completely confuse her and make her pause and have her wonder and get her thinking and keep her checking backwards, about where she and where I stand in all of this. The helpful words most other guys wouldn't be able to pronounce together so easily, they push and they prod and then they sneak in past the barrier she thinks she keeps raised so strongly. Once in, those words they cast off the sheep's clothing. And they strike. Meanwhile you are judged closely. Monitored and surveyed. Like conquerors in ages past in different spheres of life, a decision must be made: to pillage, or to retain? I choose. With full, complete autocracy over metaphorically, and sometimes actually *sic*, kneeling subject. Does it work? Every time baby. Touche?

Mirror: Surely it is touche, m'lord.

The purpose of writing is to inflate weak ideas, obscure pure reasoning, and inhibit clarity. With a little practice, writing can be an intimidating and impenetrable fog! - Calvin.