The lost hair

I am hair number 68, 75834. They call me frontal, because I stay in front of my master’s head. We live only hundred days on our master’s head, hundred days are like hundred years to humans. Just like humans, our average age has been ebbing away.

When I was young, my master was a teenager in a big city. He used to apply all sorts of creams, shampoo’s and oils. Me being frontal was his favorite hair, he allowed me to grow longer and longer while all my brothers were never allowed to grow more than half of me. He oiled me discretely and curled in between his eyebrows. I had grown very long, as long to touch my master’s nose tip.

It was then I met Miss. Eyelash 2, 67385. We, the hairs never meet any eyelash. Though we often see eyelash of other humans, we were not supposed to talk with eyelashes. Very few of my older brothers, especially the ones near the ears making my master’s sideburns have met eyelash. We all hear great stories from Sideburns, although they are under constant cutting and chopping men always prefer trimmed sideburns that give them a tidy look.

While my master is working, he keeps me aside over the ears to avoid distraction. I would never stay on his nose, constantly moving toward my master’s eyes to see my Eyelash. Every night when my master is asleep, I crawl up his forehead and go near his closed eyes. Just to see her, never aware of the time spent with her rather time spent looking at her.

As I grew up old, many of my older brothers had died or Mr. Comb had plucked them with him. Mr. Comb is very harsh .Despite the fact that he makes us orderly and good looking; he kills many of us everyday. But my master took special care of me, I’m his longest and favorite hair and he never allowed the combs to touch me.

For the first time after my birth, my master went to his mother in a distant village. I never believed the myths about his mother, but now after listening to the oldest sideburn. I’m frightened. Sideburns have the longest life time among us.

As soon as we reached my master’s house, his mother started complaining abou his;appearance, shoes and hairdo. She took me with her hand, closing her fist tried to pull it to my full length. That was the end of my happiness.

Now I’m short, on par with my brothers. Now I could never meet my Eyelash, but I was content seeing her in the mirror every morning. Thank god I was a frontal, I could still stay in front of my master’s head. All in my life, I’ve never approached her, for it is not possible for me to stay with her all my life.

Presently I’m seventy days old. very weak and old. Death may call me anytime, it came in the form of a harsh comb.

Soon after leaving my master, I stayed on the comb for some days and then in his food. I was in his payasam ,on his birthday payasam.. Pulling me out of his payasam, he yelled at his mother unaware of whose hair it was. My master without even realizing my presence threw me out to the kitchen sink near a window. A cool breeze came up to me and asked me why I looked dull and weak.

I told all my tales to him.

The Breeze started laughing and said, “My dear friend, there is an end to everything, every relationship and everyone in this beautiful planet will be dead one day.”

“I’m worried about being discarded by my own master and where will I go now?”
“Do u know the way to heaven?” I asked him.

The Breeze replied, “When you move beyond your fear, you are in heaven.”

He continued, “Nobody can take you to heaven. It is only one’s own conscience that is holding us from reaching our own heaven. Our own heaven; where you are the king and your slave.”

The Breeze then took me with him, I flew through the window, over meadows, rice fields, rivers, oceans and even touched a rainbow. I saw different people and learned to be happy with what I have and seek what I want.

So many years passed by, I reached a big city where I met my old master at his new big house. I carefully looked at his eyes; my eyelash had left my master’s eyes. None of my brothers were there on his head, leaving behind a glossy appearance. No one were there at the place where I stood, not even a single hair in his frontal region. He was bald!

PS:
The character Breeze is based on the philosophies of Dr. Spencer Johnson’s “who moved my cheese.”

The Old man and his Book.

Location : The Central Railway Station, Chennai

The next train from platform one would leave this station in two minutes. The boarding side of the first platform had a fierce wall one side and the stinking train on the other side. I was sitting on a platform bench, sipping a tasteless coffee, and waiting for the train to start. I swallowed the coffee, though I knew that it would taste like a coal beforehand.

An old man, wearing a loose shirt prowled towards me with a small bag on his shoulder and an open book in his hand. He looked fraught, and scanned around anxiously with darting eyes as if he was chased by the legal guardians for carrying something that he was not supposed to carry.

He had a well oiled hair, sticking to his mantle like a drenched fur. His pants started well above his hips, and he wore no belt. The pants stopped well before his ankle, may be he grew after he was forty or was it his teenage trousers?

He read that glossy book with utmost care, oblivious of the departure time or the crowd bustling around him. As envisaged, he banged on a porter .The old man stared at the porter, like a vulture looking for a corpse .His raised eyebrows expressed a thousand words, it is true that action speaks more than
words .There were a flurry of words that had deep meanings from the other side, the local language proving too tough for the old man. Those words can cause your ear drums to run away from you, this is what is called as the freedom of speech.

What was he reading? I wondered. What was that made an old man into a vulture?

The train was about to start, and the old man ran towards the unreserved compartment. The old man had made me anxious, so much so that I felt like a headless chicken loitering in a butcher shop. I made a desperate attempt to catch him; I had to run a meter or two with all my might to get into the unreserved compartment. I found that distraught man standing near the latrine, still holding the book tightly with both the hands, and reading it like a starved beggar.

The glossy cover smiled at me, like a little child yearning for a candy.
There was a yellow smiley, with its mouth curved up.

It read,

“HOW TO CURE MENTAL TENSION.”

Headlamps under the sun

Standing at the junction of the T road, Christ The Redeemer of Ahmed colony pointed his left hand to Lord Ganesha, caged inside a temple at the end of the western road with the little Mooshik to his company.

Beside the temple, Ravi, a young engineer, kicked his bike with all his might; the morning sun had oozed everything out of him. After a minor accident the night before, his bike was attended by an exiguous mechanic, less than half his age and as ignorant as him. Presently his bike wouldn’t start with a thumb, it cried for a whole leg.

It must’ve been Lord Ganesha’s grace, or was it Jesus’ forefinger which did the trick, nevertheless his bike began to smoke. Ravi accelerated and turned to his left, to the northern road, He couldn’t afford to stop acceleration before reaching the mechanic, for it would sweat his legs all over again. His bike was in a mess, nothing worked as it should be.

A bright dot seemed to move towards him, it was a lady on a Scooty wearing an ill fitting costume with a mismatched pair of shoes. She must‘ve deserted the tag “middle aged” when Ravi was a little kid. As she came closer to him, she held her right hand in the air and pumped an invisible horn, like the green horn one would find in a yellow three wheeler.

Ravi smiled at her, the least he could do. The lady shook her head, with a hint of superiority, though her teeth’s weren’t as bright as her head lamps. Her headlamps were ablaze.She sped past him with a feeling of having helped someone so early in the morning.

The exiguous mechanic must’ve been a thief; there was no way by which Ravi could stop another altruist from pumping yet another invisible pump in front of him, for the headlamp switch was missing.

The Hor(r)o(r)scope

CANCER
“The day will be financially rewarding, you could have your favorite food today.” read “Your day Today” column in the daily.

Some people believed in horoscopes, and they worked hard to make their forecasts true. They would change their perspective to make sure all the forecasts stood right. Mr.Sampath is one such man, unemployed and lazy.
He was a drunkard, but he disagreed. He called it fondness for drinking.

Certainly his day was financially rewarding, he won two hundred rupees
from a card game at the bar. He spent the whole money on a chicken biriyani and an Old monk, and made his forecast for the day.

“Tringggg………,” cried the calling bell.

“You are stinking, you could have slept at the bar,” shouted his wife.

They were married for more than a year; she had tried everything to change
him. She was getting frustrated at his sarcasm and at times from physical torture.

“I did whatever my horoscope read. I’m happy being like this,” laughed Sampath.

“Dinner is on the table,” murmured his wife.

She took up the daily, turned to the horoscope column, and focused her vision on her zodiac sign.

PISCES
“Don’t be surprised if you meet somebody who makes your pulse race.”

Quite right. She told herself.

Lazy Sampath woke up very early, read “Your day Today” column and went
on to think of ways to implement his daily forecasts. It was his routine,
he made it a point to implement his forecasts.

Today it read
CANCER
“A sense of satisfaction in your success. Anything relating to your spouse may play a bigger part in your life. A divorce, court harassment is highly possible.”

He could not think of ways to implement a divorce, did he want one?
Not at all, where would he get the money to get himself drunk?

Sampath looked at the clock. It was eleven thirty, he felt hungry, no clues
of the chicken biriyani in his belly.

He looked around the hall, no one was there. The kitchen door was locked, and no signs of breakfast on the stove. The refrigerator was empty, as empty as it used to be.

“Where did she go?” he wondered.

He switched on the TV, and took the daily on the other hand. He browsed through the sports pages and out of habit, stopped at the horoscope column.

“It’s going to be my first failure,” he laughed at himself, after reading his
horoscope.

He looked at it again. His mouth sagged, eyes dropped and he felt numbness at his throat.

The column read:
PISCES
“You could be seeking out some form of independence. Today you are likely to be the one taking the first step”

He didn’t fail, as his horoscope read, there was a sense of satisfaction in his success.

Ticket Please

THE TICKET

There is a train for every ten minutes along the Beach-Tambaram route, Electric train. Being an electrical engineer, I know nothing about an electric
train ,but that is not the subject of this story.

A friend of mine, a very clever chap, used to recite all the fifteen stations in the route, as if it were a nursery rhyme. For a once in a blue moon commuter, it’s a tough ask to recite all the fifteen look-alike stations.

In the late evenings, when people working in the polluted part (they call it heart) of the city travel back to their spacious homes in the suburbs, the windows would be closed, not by shutters but by men and women sticking to the walls of the train.

It is exactly at this time Mrs. Susheela Raman fights her way back to her house at Nungambakkam and sometimes to her mother’s house at Mamabalam.(One would definitely feel bored with the same opponent everyday, it’s human nature to seek new challenges now and then. Once in a while Mrs.Susheela prefers her sister-in-law to her mother-in- law)

She’s a poor observer and a competent fighter. It’s unnecessary to describe her, step into the next train, you are bound to find a lady of such disposition with an ease of lifting a feather dumb-bell.

Every time she buys a ticket at the counter, her ticket would be up to the last station, Tambaram. (Don’t ask me why she did not take a pass! How can I carry on a story if you ask such troubling questions?, May be she liked the guy at the ticket counter.)

Depending upon her frame of mind, she would decide on her adversary; her mother-in-law or sister-in-law. I’m not going into their fights for glory; any soap on any channel can fulfill such a wish, keep some dry towel ready…

On a gloomy day, a respectable young man sat beside her, and the next day too. He was curious to know about her ticket, “If it’s five rupees a day, then twenty five rupees a week, a hundred rupees per month and twelve hundred a year.” he reflected. “She’s wasting quite a lot of money”, he told himself.

Everyday he would sit beside her, looking for a chance to ask his doubt in a courteous way. She would never look up, not that she was very tall or headstrong. Nobody knew the reason.That is how some people are. They wouldn’t learn unless they bump into a peaceful wall and grow a lump on their forehead,like the hump of a camel. That would occasionally remind them to look up.

Finally the young man gathered enough courage and asked her,

“Why do you reserve the ticket up to the last station? I’ve never seen you at
Tambaram!”

She smiled at him; she didn’t have to look up to the sky, for the young man wasn’t taller than her,and said:

“You know, I’ve very poor memory.”

“What does poor memory got with spending a hundred rupees every month?” he thought to himself and shook his head.

She continued “I’m very careful these days, these stations look so similar that I often forget to get down at where I‘d actually to. The other day a ticket collector charged me a hundred for getting down at Mambalam.”

“Why?” he uttered unconsciously.

“I’d my ticket only up to Nungabakkam, It’s a just a distance of five kilometers distance to Mambalam.”

“Do you mean a fine?” he asked with a feeling of why did I ever meet this creature.

“Exactly!” she said cheerfully.

She walked down the corridor of the train, perhaps to get down at the station. It was a crowded day, as it has always been, and he stood on his toes to verify the station. She’d already crossed Mambalam and this was Guindy.

Meet the Maniac

Varun Menon worked in a software firm in Chennai, and he couldn’t take his eyes of a stranger at their first dinner party at the main office. He couldn’t place the face of the stranger anywhere in his memory bank. Where had he met him?

“Excuse me,” murmured a giggly voice behind him, for Varun was standing in front of the entrance door; occupied with the thought of the stranger.

“When did you come?” continued the giggly voice.

It was Praveena, Varun’s classmate and colleague. Habitually, they travel together to the office but it was one of the days when she missed the company bus, she was quite used to this missing-the-bus business.

“You missed the bus again, Why don’t you get up early?” shot back Varun.

“Hey sorry, I’m really sorry, you shouldn’t wait for me…You know, my alarm didn’t work today…” replied Praveena.

“I guessed it right then…” he smiled at her and continued “Do you know that guy in blue shirt, the one wearing a dotted tie?”

“That’s surprising; he’s my first cousin, a very interesting character…”

“Is he?” Varun replied absent mindedly, still pondering over the place of their last meeting.

“You know him? When did you meet him?” asked Praveena, unable to hide her surprise.

“Didn’t he come to our training centre at Pune?” queried Varun, rather mechanically. He was still gaping at the stranger.

“Varun, you have an amazing memory. He did come to see me on our second day of training, you know, He lost his expensive silver mobile when he came to our class. A cute little mobile…”

Varun was petrified when he saw the stranger moving towards him. He didn’t notice Praveena calling her cousin, she was eager to introduce the stranger to her close friend.
Varun had this habit of stealing things that pleased him. Four months ago, when there was an opportunity to please him, he had pleased himself.
The dotted tied fellow was the same man, who had left his silver mobile on the table, just for a second, and that was more than enough for the well trained twitchy hands of a practiced snatcher.

The first time he saw that silver mobile, his hands had began to twitch, and he couldn’t control himself from stealing it. He hardly looked at the owner of the mobile; he didn’t have to, he wasn’t planning to take it by force. He liked it the non-violence way, he waited for the prey to take rest and at its weakest moment he would pinch of the object of desire. He wasn’t sure of using the mobile, nor was he willing to sell it for a price. It was for personal satisfaction, he derived a certain unexplained thrill in stealing silly objects of strangers. He had that mobile safely locked in a cupboard, which was filled with stolen objects: pens, sharpeners, video game cartridges, CD’s and innumerable number of insignificant items.

“Are you in this world!” shouted Praveena, “This is Mr. Rajeev, our senior coordinator and my cousin.”

“Hello sir,” spoke Varun, raising his right hand toward a hand that was about to come out of a dark blue trouser.

They shook hands, “Hello,” replied Rajeev, with a deep throaty voice.

“This is Varun. Haven’t I told you about him? The painter near my house, do you remember?”

“Oh, yes, the painter… How do you do young man? Do you still paint people around you?” spoke Rajeev as if he knew everything about Varun.

“Occasionally, it’s hard to get time these days,” dragged Varun pessimistically.

Varun was contemplating on the probability of getting caught; of the chances of Rajeev recognizing him. He felt an urge to return the mobile to its rightful owner, for he had never deceived people close to him. He badly wanted to return the mobile; a hundred possibilities ran a hundred meter dash in his twitchy limping mind. What was he going to do?

“Hey Varun, It’s time for dinner,” beamed Praveena and turned to Rajeev and continued, “Don’t forget to come home this Sunday, I’ll ask Varun to come too,”

“Sure, I’d be delighted to meet you people again. See you young man?”

Early in the morning, on the Sunday morning, Varun called up Praveena to invite her cousin to his house for a coffee. Varun was unwell, sick with a sense of guilt. He had planned a few things for the evening at his room on the terrace. How was he going to return the silver mobile?

At about six in the evening, Rajeev and Praveena arrived at Varun’s house. He quickly took Rajeev to his room at the terrace, under the pretext of displaying his paintings. Praveena wasn’t invited there; as he had mentioned about a tete-e-tete with Rajeev in advance.

It was a large room, with scattered books, and many a framed paintings on the wall glittering under a fluorescent lamp that hung over a study table. Rajeev was expecting a kind of painting exhibition at Varun’s room; he used to paint a bit when he was young and obviously was interested in art and looked forward to Varun’s exhibition. Varun showed him a brown cupboard under the reading table, opened it and took out a shining silver object. It was twinkling under the fluorescent lamp, and he swiftly handed it to Rajeev. Rajeev couldn’t believe his eyes, he had never imagined to see his imported silver mobile again. At first, he had assumed it to be a mobile of the same make, and when he realized that it was his lost mobile; he could hardly hide his happiness.

Varun recounted about the disease he was suffering from, a kind of deadly habit; the habit of impulsive stealing. He had had consulted a doctor when he was fifteen, only to end a good relationship with the doctor when a mass disappearance of thermometers surfaced at the poor doctor’s clinic. Varun showed him the entire collection of looted objects; some were so ridiculous that it made Rajeev laugh like a child. Who wouldn’t laugh if someone proclaimed that he’d pinched a button battery of a watch?

Rajeev calmly listened to Varun’s Kleptomaniac stories, and promised never to bring out their secret interaction to anyone, especially Praveena. Rajeev looked pleased with Varun’s honesty, and they parted from the terrace as good friends. The confession had brought them very close, as close as flesh and nail.

Monday morning, Praveena was late as usual to the bus stand. They were waiting for their company bus when Varun obscurely mentioned Rajeev’s name; the bus could be spotted at the traffic signal, it would arrive in a few seconds.

“He’s an interesting man, liked him a lot.” said Varun cheerily.

“Of course, he is, you know, he’s a kleptomaniac…He’s an interesting character.” replied Praveena, hurriedly moving to the honking bus, pleading them to get in.

A Movie bluff

A new movie with an unusual hero, who looked like a boy-next door, made into every discussion among us. There was a look alike in my class, my bench mate Bala. A movie buff, he would watch the same movie over and over and yet never get tired of watching the same movie again. I had a strong aversion towards movies, especially on the big screen. I considered it as a waste of money. A penny saved is a penny earned, and by far I had saved more than anyone .

Son of a not so quiet strict father, he brought a Chetak to School on every given oppurtunity. The Bajaj Chetak, a grey one , had to be positioned in an acute angle before beginning a day. A technique he follows even while writing an exam;positioning the pen like his Chetak to increase the ink flow. He might even do the same to his body if he is convinced that the postion will improve blood flow to his head.

On a Thursday, a week after the release of the new film, Bala gathered three of his old chums to meet up at Albert theatre, at about a mile away from our school. A drill period in the evening meant that they could always be in school at the end of the day, for we had a last hour attendance. Bala followed a systematic route to the theatre, and a reliable one too.

At the back of our school, near the compound wall, lay a slightly raised platform which served as an open stage for school assembly. Behind the compound wall ran a thick narrow stream, flooded with stagnant garbage and equally stagnant buffaloes. They call it The Thames of Chennai- The cooum. It is easier than a Chemistry exam to escape from the school, just climb the compound wall and jump over the small tributary of cooum, and there you are, inside the Police quarters.

Bala always preferred a morning show, it would match the school timings. Lost in the noise of the theatre, he waited for the heroine to show up. He had watched the movie thrice; each time for a different reason. What was the reason for his fourth visit ? He had no reason for watching it again; watching it thrice was a reason enough for him to watch it for the fourth time.It was not a usual movie, it dealt with complexities of adolescent life. The protagonist was not a major, but the movie would not be screened in front of a minor. Influential people, Bala had no qualms with these certifications; he was a regular to the theatre and knew the ways to go about it.

He made abusive comments, never cared about using foul language and did whatever a movie buff was expected to do. It was not uncommon; he always behaved in this way. He called it theatre mannerisms. Just like table mannerisms.

During the half way interval, Bala moved to the canteen along with his clan of friends. Sipping a cold Coke , he adjusted his hair in front of the glass window. An object looked very usual to him, Was that his father’s grey Chetak ? He would rather go to a graveyard than to see his father with his grey Chetak. He struck his neck out and verified the number plate. He felt dizzy; his worst dreams are screened in front of him.Like a movie on a silver screen. He wouldn’t like to watch it a second time. Sweat dripped down his forhead inspite of the air conditioned hall, the Coke seemed tasteless. Wiping his salty forehead, he moved behind his friends, managing an escapade from the theatre.

His father knocked the door, as he would do at nine o clock every evening. It was his mother who opened the door. Nobody spoke a word. They sat around the dining table, a quiet dinner as usual. Bala could hear each tick of the clock, now at perfect ten ten.He wished to leave the day behind, a weiry day. He hurriedly emptied his dinner plate, hoping to get to bed before his father shot any questions about his day.

As a rule Bala’s father never spoke anything at the dinner table, he always liked to have quite family dinner every evening. Bala, by the way had made enough gestures as though he was feeling sick and wanted to hit bed earlier than usual. He rose from his chair, and walked quickly to the wash basin.

“Did you go to school today ?” asked his father , slurping water from a steel tumbler.

“Yes daddy, ” answered Bala, uncovincingly.

“How come you were at Albert theatre? ”

“Daddy, I bunked my classes, it was the first time…”

“First time…You are not convincing my boy,” he got up from his chair, with a faint smile on his face. Was he reminded of himself when he was my age, wondered Bala.

“First time daddy, it was my friend who asked me, I told him not to go..sorry daddy, I won’t do that again,” stuttered Bala, enough to gather sympathy from his already sullen looking mother.

“Leave that boy, he won’t do that again, ” came a gentle suggestion from his mother, anxious to know how her husband would react to supporting her son.

”Why didn’t you watch it till the end ? You are wasting my money,”

“ I didn’t waste your money daddy! I had already watched it thrice” Bala shot back.

Bala’s father walked to his bed ,with smile on his face. Bala promised himself not to go for a movie bunking classes. But did he succeed in his promise ?

My Thesis

MY THESIS

I’m a murderer. I plan massacres everyday, a very successful assassin.
I have a number of gadgets to assist me, more than what James Bond would carry for a Russian expedition. My gadgets are generally termed as repellents, ranging from electronic racquet to spiral coils.
Yes, my victims are the most irksome creatures in our planet.

mosquito /m@”ski:-/ noun [C] plural mosquitoes
a small fly, some kinds of which transmit diseases through the bite of the female.

ORIGIN: Spanish and Portuguese, ‘little fly’

There are not many people who would peep into a dictionary to learn what a mosquito meant. If I had some authority to update a dictionary, I would add a few a words to the explanation.

“A small fly (sometimes big), some kinds of which transmit diseases through the bite of the female. One of the most infuriating, irksome four legged creatures sharing our planet”

What does the male mosquito do for a living? What do they eat? If they can survive without human blood, so can the female mosquitoes.

There was girl who asked me about living with pets, how happy she felt feeding her pet and how nice would it if everyone felt the same and pledged to save animals. She explained in minute details, how she felt after the death of her first pet.

I had a ready made answer to her long question, answering every part of her question.

“I have lots of pets at home, they multiply so rapidly that I’ve to resort to the ultimate step, terminate them.
How did you feed your pets, with leftovers? I fed them my blood.
And If I had to condole, I must live with a black mourning robe from the age I learned to clap.”

I wonder what Menaka Gandhi would say about mosquitoes. Mosquitoes are lovely, helpful blah blah blah….

On many occasions, I close my books as hard as I can, hoping to kill at least one. Then I would blow them out of my book, just like how our heroes blow the pipe of their smoking guns. Once I broke a good pen, in my anxiety to kill a silly mosquito.

Let us dive into the most interesting session .The different ways to hunt mosquitoes. The first step is to enjoy what you do, as it is always with any work. Believe that we are hunting, like Royal men and not killing. The final step is to select a suitable weapon for our assassination project.

The most popular weapons include

(a)The electronic racquet.

This gadget is similar to a tennis bat, with a metal mesh. It’s fun and easy to use, people get addicted to this game of killing mosquitoes with an electronic racquet. The sparkling sound gives us a satisfaction, job satisfaction.
An old man near my house is a big fan of Sania Mirza, a keen follower.
He remarked “She must’ve had a lot of mosquitoes at home, no surprise; she’s playing well this year”
And later clarified that it was Sania who invented the mosquito racquet.

(b)The coil

The age old mosquito coil, apart from the regular brown coloured, there are green coloured, and in shapes that would bemuse Pythagoras. Mosquitoes are fast learners; they would not mind a mosquito coil.

(c) The mosquito mat

It was first marketed by a firm called “Good Knight”, many of us mistook it for “Good Night” wishing for a good night without mosquitoes.

(d)The liquidator

There are various firms competing to catch people’s attention. A remarkable one was the marketing campaign by “all out”. They modeled their liquidator to behave like a frog, jumping around to catch mosquitoes. Growing tadpoles is an easy solution, but there is a Catch-22. When frogs eat more mosquitoes, they become fat and multiply even more rapidly. Should we rear snakes to eat frogs?
I prefer living with mosquitoes, for I can kill them at my will.

(e)The lotions

The lotions are widely used by guards who would have to ‘sleep’ in the open. Mosquitoes are hard nuts to crack; the firms seem to change their composition to keep up with the evolution of mosquitoes. Had Indian batsmen learned to adapt, like mosquitoes, Perth would’ve turned square.

That’s a long list. There are many more products. Failed as well as successful and many more to come in future.

May be there will be a software to destroy mosquitoes. The trial version wouldn’t kill more than ten mosquitoes and no ‘crack’ files. Software, even hackers wouldn’t hack, especially if they are Indians, and most of them are.

If we were to introduce a game named “mosquilll”, meaning “mosquito kill”.
India would win hand’s down. It can’t be hand’s down, how can we kill them hands down! Its hand’s together.

I might end up submitting a Thesis on “How to kill mosquitoes”. A book on “How to kill mosquitoes” or with a more refined title “how to kill mosquitoes in three steps” would be a best seller. Any Publisher there? We’ll straight away sign out a deal…