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.

Bluff

A little boy with a small torn bag emerged from the crowded train from the first platform.
On a broken chair was an old man, waiting for the little boy. A young man was holding the little boy; he made the little boy to sit next to the old man and whispered something in his ears. The young man’s job was done, he left the place soon after.

The old man ran his fingers through the boy’s hair and said:

“What’s your name? That glass suits you well.”

“My name is Ashwin, Ashwin Kumar, Thanks.”

“You aren’t a talkative sort? Are you?” asked the old man.

“Me, you don’t me talking? They said I shouldn’t talk much.”

“You must talk a lot, why don’t you ask my name?” said the old man.

“I know your name, ask me how?” said the little boy cheerily.

“Tell me my name, How come you know my name?” asked the old man with a smile on his face.

“I caught you there, that’s a bluff,” laughed the little boy as if he had won a Miss World competition.

“Ha, ha, you are a funny boy,” complimented the old man.

“Are you a funny man?” asked the little boy curiously.

“I’m Madhavan,” smiled the old man.

“You are funny too,” the little boy smiled back and asked him, “Where are we going now?”

“We’ll take a bus to my house; a lot of people are waiting to see you there,” replied the old man.

“Would you mind holding my hand? They’ll scold you if I get lost in the crowd,” said the little boy with an innocent look on his face.

“Why not? I’ll hold it firmly,” countered the old man.

“Thanks, what’s the name of this place?”

“This is Chennai Central; we are inside the Chennai Central railway station,” responded the old man.
“What’s the color of this station?” questioned the little boy in a very serious tone.

“It’s red, red as the apple that I’m going to buy you,” joked the old man with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Crispy crispy apple,
The one you’re gonna buy me,
Juicy juicy apple,
The one you’re gonna buy me,” sang the little boy enthusiastically.

“That’s wonderful, who taught you this song?” asked the old man.

“No one, that’s my song, do you want me to sing more?”

“Really, you are a singer too. I thought you were just a funny boy,” said the old man
with a tinge of sarcasm.

“You don’t sound like you believe me, you are teasing me…”

“Not at all, you are going to sing all your little songs when we get home, what do you say?”

“Okay, but where are we going to buy this apple?”

“hmmm…At the market, are you hungry now?” asked the

“No, I want to go to the beach.”

“Beach, why do you want to go to go there at this time?”

“To walk in the sands, and to bathe in the water,” replied the little boy.

“But the water is dirty and deep, do you know that?” asked the old man.

“It’s not dirty, it’s blue, blue as my bag,” retorted the young genius.

“Yes, yes, blue as your bag and blue as the sky,” said the old man nodding his head.

“Sky isn’t dark as the sea, you don’t even know that?” chuckled the little boy.

“I can’t argue with you, you are such a smart funny boy,” laughed the old man, enjoying the little boy’s lively charm.

“You missed something, I’m a singer too,” he chuckled again.

“Okay smart boy, I fooled you this time, my name isn’t Madhavan,” said the old man smugly.

“Big men never bluff,” complained the little boy.

“Old men always bluff, I caught you this time smart boy,” laughed the old man.

“Doesn’t matter, I fooled you all day,” chuckled the little boy nonchalantly.

“Did you?” said the old man, amused at the little boy’s confidence.

“I’ve never seen an apple; I can never see an apple,
I can never make out between blue of my bag, and blue of the sky.”

The little boy removed his sunglasses and raised his head earnestly; he could see only darkness before him.

Surrender – The last lie

A young man did not stop at the toll gate on the East Coast Road, speeding on a dusty MAX 100, without a helmet, without a driving licence and so many with outs…

There may be umpteen occasions when you drive on a highway with a licence, and the police would never bother to catch you. But it may be the first time you are driving without a licence, and the police would invariably hold you somewhere or the other.

That is what happened to this young man, Michael, one among the thousands of job seekers in Chennai. There was a Police car at the end of the toll road.

“Hold on man!” roared a police man.

Michael stopped immediately, for he knew that he had little petrol to chance a chase of the police.

“Where’s your helmet?”

“Sir, er…, I don’t have one…no, I forgot to take it today… It’s just that I’m in a little hurry.” he replied with an apprehensive look, a frightened look.

“Where’s your licence young man, I suppose you have that!”

” er…sorry…I don’t have my purse with me,”

“What? You don’t have a licence,”

“I’m really in a hurry…er to reach pondy…please sir!!” begged Michael.

“Everyone’s in a hurry, even I’m in a hurry, I can’t let you off without paying a fine.”

“Sir…I don’t have my purse with me, I lost it, my licence and money is in that purse,” lied Michael, though he did not have a purse with him at that moment.

“We’ll take him to the station, we can’t let a rogue to roam about in our city.” shouted another Policeman from a white car, a cozy Hyundai Accent. “Is this your bike, I doubt that.” followed the man inside the Hyundai Accent

“It’s mine, of course mine…” replied Michael, visibly stammering.

“Check his papers, he might not have them, we’ll have another case on that liar,” laughed out the policeman inside the car.

“Where’s your R.C book, Insurance, take it out?”

“er..just a minute,”

“Quickly, I can’t spend all my time with you, you are not my girlfriend,” he seemed to enjoy his own joke, If one can call it a joke.

Michael became frantic, searching for the papers in the pouch of the old bike.

“What’s your name?” barked the policeman, pulling out a set of paper from the pouch.

“Michael sir,” replied Michael.

“Man, who is this Ramadev Naidu? “

“He’s my friend…” blurted Michael.

“I see, and what’s his age?” asked the Policeman with a broad smile on his face.

“Must be thirty, I guess…”

“Not as young as you? Or blind to recognize a retired man from a man of thirty,” smirked the policeman.

“Sir, that’s my friend’s father,”

“Really…You Worm, you think you can roam around on a stolen bike right under my nose,” laughed the policeman.

Now the other Policeman got up from his cozy seat and rushed to his colleague,” There must be something big,” he told himself.

“Mariappan, this is a stolen bike. I bet on that,” said the first policeman.

“Fantastic… Man, you are a genius!” said the other policeman, stretching his back. He must have become very tired sitting inside the cozy car.

Michael stood there, shaking, shivering, and sweating. He did not know what to do. He had been caught with a stolen bike; yes he stole it from a bike park.

“Here, Rajendran, I’ll make call and come back, be very careful with him, we can’t afford to let him go.”

Mariappan was about to inform his higher officials, but before he could do that, Michael said something:

“I killed a man in Pondicherry.”

Michael was calm and composed for a surrendering murderer. Not shaking or shivering, though he was sweating a lot, anyone would on a hot May afternoon.

The two Policemen looked flabbergasted. They could not believe their luck, they had caught a murderer red handed. Their photos would be all over the place tomorrow, news channels would come around begging for interviews, they would soon be popular, might even get a promotion too.

Mariappan was the first one to come out of his dream world, and asked Michael in a threatening tone:

“What!! Why did you kill him? Whom did you kill?” and turning to Rajendran
he said: “We’ll take him to the Police station now,”

Michael did not open his mouth, stood his ground as if he was never involved in the events unfolding in front of him.

“No, why should we? That dirty S.P’ll take all the credit. We’ll better confirm it, and take this rogue to Pondy,” suggested Rajendran.

“You’ve a lot of brains,” smiled Mariappan.

“Whom did you kill? Give us his phone number,” shouted Rajendran.

“I don’t have his number,” replied Michael.

“You worm, staring at a Policeman…” Rajendran gave him a punch on Michael’s nose and pushed him into the car.

They chained Michael. Mariappan sat beside him in the back seat, interrogating him. Michael replied in a muddled way, he seemed to have eaten nothing from the morning and soon dozed off. Mariappan learned that Michael had killed someone in Pondicherry the previous night and was on his way on a stolen bike to Pondicherry to prove his alibi.

Rajendran drove them, and after 150 kilometers and three hours, they reached Pondicherry. Along the peaceful seaside, a narrow upright road led them to a slum. A little over fifty homes with thatched roofs, some with dirty asbestos sheet were spread in an area of just about a cricket ground. There was a multicolor tent in front of one of the house, and Rajendran could see a Freezer box at the far end, Michael’s victim.

There was a deluge of people in front of the small house, women sobbing and howling, little children running around, and silent men, all mourning death of a young man.

Mariappan had kept his left hand on Michael’s chained hands; Mariappan felt wetness at his elbows, a few drops of water. Michael was crying. He made desperate attempts to open the door, wriggled his hands, and banged his head on the glass pane. Mariappan was not yet ready to let him out; he was waiting for Rajendran to return.

Rajendran had gone about into the motley troop of men and women to enquire about the death. He went up to a thin sorry looking man and asked him:
“What happened?”

“Joseph hanged himself, he was a nice guy, jobless though, and we are waiting for this friend, Michael,”

“Who?” gasped Rajendran.

“Michael, they were best friends, it’s been months since he left this slum to seek job in Chennai,” Rajendran did not wait to hear the complete story, he signaled Mariappan to bring Michael to the tent.

Michael rushed along, weeping, his eyes were red, and he looked sober and sorry for cheating the Police.

“This was the only way I could see, to see my friend for the last time,” Michael spoke to the Policemen in a state of babbling incoherency.

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…