On The Ning Nang Nong

Ephemeroptera
(Part - II: The Night) ​

"Have I kept you waiting for long?" She inquired in her unapologetic voice.

Glancing at her pleated skirt and gathered blouse, he vaguely smiled. "Must be some labor to iron those pleats and still arrive only half an hour late. What's with that school uniform you are wearing. Montessori uniforms and nurse scrubs are no longer seductive, in case, if you, I mean, get inventive —"

She hissed. "What's with dinner. Are you ordering for both or have you already ordered?"

"A women like you would have umpteen allergies and crying reservations around food. Why don't you choose what suits you." He lunges to grab the menu and inhales the fruity scent on her that noticeably tantalizes him.

"When you are not foiling the ephemeral mating habits of mayflies, what else are your interest?"

"When I am not chasing the ephemeral and the ephemeroptera, then, art, theater, literature, vintage exhibitions, horticulture shows —"

"Seriously?"

"Let me finish. Art, theater, literature, vintage exhibitions, horticulture shows are pretentious! Everything but them."

"Thought so."

"And you?"

"Well, I love art."

"What is your favorite art work?"

"I like Leonardo da Vinci's Annunciation. You might have heard about his other works like Mona Lisa. It's the same painter."

"I know the browless Mona and also that three-legged Mary from Annunciation. Both."

"Pleasantly surprised at your sharp analysis. That is not three-legged but —"

"You art eggheads may glorify Mr Vinci but the man is ingenious to conceal his artsy shenanigans."

"You are not supposed to say Mr Vinci over Mr Leonardo because Vinci is —"

"There, there the art egghead in her bristles away." He mutters.

She nips her glass of wine. "What is a man like you doing here in the swamp?"

"Your brother sent me here to surreptitiously woo you."

She playfully tilts her drink in contemplation. "My brother?"

"He told me of an aging harridan for a sister who scared away many decent men and is certainly wild and demonic and artsy tribal. He wheedled me to sneak up to you. I liked that rugged description and came looking for you here. He fixed me up with you. Does that bother you?"

"Are you not supposed to conceal the devastating truth to the end of the night when you have certainly charmed me over and then ruin it."

"Honey, it doesn't that way. Then the outraged woman would burst out, cry aloud, smack me with the choicest swear words, threaten me with a fork and stalk away leaving me with a bewildered waiter. Prefer all that drama to occur in the beginning when she is still mindful and in control so that she would grin deviously and elegantly backtrack in heels with that contrived grin. Your brother and I were together in The Academy."

"Strange! He never mentioned a Toothy Siddhant in any of his talks."

"Oh! I certainly would have featured in all his reckless activities when we cut classes and chased girls and got sloshed like a whale."

"I recall a certain bad influence on him. Still perplexed that orangutan of a brother topped second in The Academy."

"Ahem, did you ever ask him who outranked him as first. If you did, you would have heard of me."

"Listen, your brother had good intentions in setting us up. Don't go home and stab him with a fork now." He winks.

"Many years since you have left the Academy. Why didn't you settle down in life with a woman?"

"My girlfriends never allowed me to settle down with one girl. Now that they have all settled down, I am looking for that one unhinged creature with whom I can hinge myself and settle down too." He shoves the plate aside and cups her pale fingers with his. "You are not sweet but citrus! You are not gentle but gritty! I think you and I will get along well. I am not doofus as you think I am. As you must have visited other art works, allow me to take you to that Vatican Museums, Rome where your Mr Leonardo's unfinished St Jerome in the Wilderness is kept. We don't have to bid each other after this Ephemeropteratopa ephe ..whatcha night. Be with this mayfly for May, June, July, Sept, Dec, till you kick me out of your life."

She hung her face down. "Give me your phone. Unlock and give me."

He gingerly handed the phone to her. She swiped the phone. He leaped from the chair in trepidation to walk across and lean over her shoulder.

She texted:

Pat gayi. Ladki pat gayi.
Ek dum maal hai.
She too likes me.
We are travelling to Rome to visit the works of that painter, that bearded Lenny. ​

He laughed. "Even for a man to be written of his sister like that may raise the unshaved hackles."

"Don't guys talk such slang". She grunted.

She texted again:

By maal I meant kamaal.
Okay.

He embraced her petite shoulders from behind and kissed the lobe of her soft ear. She chuckled.

​

 

The Magic Pudding
(Part I - The Call) ​

She fiddles with the phone. Curses. Swipes and checks the time. The phone rings.

"Hey, you are late."

"Er, am I talking to Mira?"

"No, you are talking to a very angry Mira whom you stood up for a call."

"Erm, I didn't stood up. I called."

"Whatever". She bristles. "Listen, are you that Silicon Valley and California and that US and IT type."

"No, I am that Manhattan, New York, US and Management type. Any problem? Didn't you read my profile. I clearly mentioned NY and —"

"Haan. Radha Aunty told something. I didn't listen properly. Tell me, you didn't find a girl in USA that you want to marry someone from India, that too, bleh, arranged set-up? You must be outdated, completely ghatara outdated."

"I don't know what that ghata..ghatara means but I had a committed American girlfriend for ten years. We decided to get married. Then she developed cold feet and jilted me."

"Why?", she prods.

"You know that brown and white skin. She was frightened that our kids would turn beige color."

"Lame excuse. She fobbed off a lame reason to you. Must be something else. Must be something else. Must be something between the bedroom and sheets, ahem, else. Doesn't she know her Mendel's genetics that red and green peas don't produce yellow peas. Because according to Mendel —"

"Excuse me, are we talking about the color of my unborn kids with my ex-girlfriend as predicted by Mendel."

"You are a fast brain. So Mendel said —"

"Mira, Mira, listen, can we talk about you and why you have agreed for this arranged set up."

"Sure, it's summer here. Boring. So agreed."

"Right, summer, boring so agreed. Nice."

"And I just broke up with my boyfriend."

"Oh and you broke up with your boyfriend also. Is that because of summer ..boring ...and again —"

She hesitates. "Actually, haan, he was very boring."

"Mira, do you read?"

"I do. Archie, Batman, Wonder Woman, Goosebumps, Tintin, Doraeman, Astro Boy —"

"Mira, Mira, hold on, do you read anything substantial."

"Substantial? I read volumes, thick volumes of comics. I can finish off an entire volume in less than an hour and also —"

"Mira, listen, why do you hate Paulo Coelho?"

"I hate him. Really?"

"Well, you mentioned that in your profile that your Radha Aunty emailed me that you hate him."

"Remind me who that champ is."

"He is the one who wrote The Alchemist and Veronika Decides to Die."

"Yes, that mystical guy. I hate him. He writes rubbish. Sophistry. I read his some book and was aghast. He remained very foul in my mood that day so scratched his name in that profile also and had forgotten all about it later. But why is Paulo Coelho important to our conversation?"

"You asked me why I am willing to marry someone from India. To be frank, I had no intention to marry anyone from beyond my city but it would be interesting to catch up with someone whose "hates" match mine rather than the "likes" match mine. Hate is stronger and bonding than like. I too hate Paulo Coelho."

"Seriously dude, your upper compartment is bhenjara".

"I don't know that ben ..ben..Never mind. Tell me your favorite nursery book, you know, any book you read as a child."

"Dude, do you already have a kid with that firengi girlfriend and looking for a desi nanny? What is this inscrutable probe about? It is nowhere to any conventional marriage viewing. What are you seeking?"

"Mira, just humour me this once. Tell me your favourite story book."

"OK, if it panders to your Freudian skull, my favorite children's book is The Magic Pudding. In that Magic Pudding —"

"Mira, Mira, I know that book. Listen, I need to step out now. Can we resume the call later?"

She conceal her fret. "Sure. Later." She disconnects the call and decides to tell her Radha Aunty that a marriage with his Manhattan creep is off the cards. I hate him more than that Paul Cooler.

 

The Magic Pudding
(Part II- The Girl) ​

She is fast asleep in her room with her bedside soft toys and comics, one of which bears a cover with a handwritten scrawl 'this comic is substantial'. The phone rings. She gropes for the phone and picks it.

"You, the Manhattan, why again?"

"What do you mean by why again. Didn't I tell you that I will call you back later. I am sorry, it's bit late but am home now and could talk free."

"Nine times! You know nine times!"

"Erm, what is nine times, a cat died nine times?"

"No, you called me 'Mira' nine times and each time I felt you were patronizing me. Listen, you Manhattan, statue of liberty thorny head, I may not be up to your sophisticated benchmark but I love my comics and pudding and my dad is filthy and dripping wealthy which means I could sit and eat through all his wealth and farmlands and bungalows even if I were to remain single whereas guys like you could go elsewhere and patronize someone else with nursery rhymes and mystical writerly coolers."

"Were you offended?"

"No. I am hoping that you called back to ask me to sing Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

"Mira, you got it utterly wrong. I like you. I liked since you started off on your Mendel conjecture on my speculative babies with an American girlfriend. I just wanted to know a bit more about you, your tastes and temperament likewise, and also I loved your 'magic pudding' selection for a read. I wanted to talk more about it but held off until I reached home. You think cute. Your voice is cute. I like you. But now I am worried about your dad's filthy and dripping wealth. Does he also employ goons?"

She eases a bit. "Why do you like Magic Pudding?"

"The funny character names, Bunyip Bluegum, and Bill Barnacle and Sam Sawnoff. I loved the book when I read as a kid. A shape-shifting and grumpy pudding. The whole tale is smartly magical."

"There you go. Smartly magical! Do you seek smarts in everything?"

"I mean, it is funny, in a smart manner. Don't you think?"

"I think it is clownish funny. Laughy funny. Hearty funny. Funny funny. That's it". She snorts.

"Mira, do you like me or can you like me if we allow this conversation to continue?"

She bits her lip. "Am I the girl for you?"

"What is the girl for me?"

"I don't know. Whoever you are looking for, your Manhattan and cocktail and cosmopolitan type. Do you think I could that girl be she for you be her?"

"I like the you. I like this she be you. I also like this muddled girl I am talking to for be she you is she. I like the groggy her. I want to argue with her about Bunyip Bluegum. I also want to know her very opinionated views on Sam Sawnoff. And tell me do you make any pudding? But then I am also very frightened of her filthy and dripping wealthy dad who is the Watkin Wombat of our pudding story. Hmm, I may have to fight him off with a butter knife to carry my pudding princess to Manhattan swinging across that Statue of Liberty. Are you ready for the adventure?"

She softly giggles. "Come and meet me."

"I will. I am checking the flights as I am talking to you. Don't run off with someone as you are bored and it's summer but wait for me." This time, she knows that she is the girl for him.

​

 

I purpose Ning as my online scratch-pad to compose frivolous narratives. I am not a serious writer also my writing isn't too 'substantial' to solicit the at large readership. Therefore, I don't post my stories for an audience, also, I tend to avoid attention. Prefer this hodgepodge corner to scratch away fleeting enactments of a couple, just yakking.

I am amused by the gravitas in relationships that I happen to read by profound authors or even the chicklit authors picked up hurriedly at Indian airports before boarding the flight. I scratch my head to comprehend such romance. They portray love as soulful or sublime. I am frightened of both these celebrated forms of love. The damsels are morally recovered or tenderly blossomed at the end of the story. Why reform? These women and characters ..Poorni, Freya and Mira have a misplaced sense of identity yet they cherish that quirky identity in them. Or the heroines are pride of the family or chashme baddoor of their femininity. Oh! and those tiger-striped feminists. Who are these contrived and extreme and buffoonish women? Where are they found?

I like to portray women in their earthy and unscreened demeanor. Their voices and unabashed acts are representative of spontaneous and urban romance. Never really swayed by coy and virtuous heroines. They are bores! My willful women are coquettish and playful. It is also about the kind of men who love such unflinching women. Men are cleverly flirty or vulgarly intrusive. That fine line dictates whether a woman would reciprocate or not. I tend to write up my silly narratives like a tomcat perched on that thin fence and ensuring that the man does not trip and the woman does not retract in this balancing act. Fluffy conversations with no remarkable start or end but only entangled chase. Hence, they deserve just a Ning space.

 

Shatabdi Express
(Part I - The Queue) ​

Clutching her bag and hyperventilating from running, Vasanti darted through the freshly plastered 'Sajan' and 'Dil hai ki manta nahi' movie posters on her way to the first floor and burst forth anxious at the reservation counter to find a long and puzzling queue which defied any order or assurance that she might secure a ticket today. She scanned the queue and frowned. I cannot get the reservation done today unless ...

Then suddenly she walked towards a man lazily flipping the newspaper waiting for his turn in the sluggish queue.

"Excuse me, are you someone who would tick me off by narrating George Washington and Mahatma Gandhi childhood stories on how they suffered from lying and instruct me on morality and virtue."

"Sorry, what survey is this. I am confused." Even in his six foot sturdy built, Shekhar is easily intimated by a female that too a maniac female who popped up inquiring his moral stamina, for he had always been educated in All Boys schools and any unplanned encounter with the opposite gender unnerved him.

"Inquiring, are you are a moral fanatic who would instruct me on the honesty of mankind if I plead you to allow me to stand beside you and pretend our familiarity till I get closer to the ticket counter. Need a Shatabdi Express ticket to Ranchi for the Saturday. Did you read the paper yesterday? The Karnataka Express derailed near the Ghats yesterday. You would expect public to be gripped by the fear of travel, but, no, look at the queue, people don't care for their lives and are willingly marching to their deaths. Can you imagine? Lord Yamraj need not forcibly collect souls. Savitri cannot contest anymore. Fools are eager to embrace death despite the persistent dangers of railway. What can a woman who just woke up slightly late and started with a lag from home supposed to do. You tell me. Buses never commute on time. Do they? No. But still. Look at the queue, how did these needy and greedy travellers with no regard to their impending death swoop here. Did they read the horrid news in the paper? Do they have invisible wings? These freaks might as well fly and travel if they had. Why do they even undertake perilous journeys on trains aging in queues, but, no, they always —"

"You want a ticket, right. You can stand beside me."

"Sweet." She mops her sweaty brow with her handkerchief and grins. "By the way, what are you?"

"What am I?" He rolls his eyes.

"I mean, who, what, where you from, what do you do, surely you don't come early and queue here everyday."

"Shekhar studying Commerce in Raman's College."

"Studying Commerce?" She eyes him top to down. "Are you humoring me? Why are you studying Commerce? Who let you study Commerce in your family? Mister, in 1991. Hmm. No one is studying Commerce anymore. Even if colleges are selling paid seats for free, no one desires commerce. It is all Science and Engineering. And I am the first in my faltering family to clear the entrance exam and get into the Engineering College. There are plenty of Engineering jobs coming up in the market. You must be out of your sleepwalk mind to pursue commerce. Another reason why people should rest full eight hours of undisturbed sleep and not wake up untimely early, even for queuing at railway stations. The brain is muddled up. I agree that Raman's college is prestigious but you should not squander —"

"My family is into business. Commerce suits us."

"But then —"

"What is your name?"

"Vasanti."

"Nice name."

"Are you out of your sleep-deprived mind again? Vasanti is a clumsy name. No parent in their right mind should name their child Vasanti. Parents should not even name their children. In their fifth birth year, kids should select names to their liking. Vasanti? It does not even sound right. And if you are closer to states and union territories who bend your names, then Vasanti becomes —"

"Vasanti, are you always like this?"

"Like what? Late for a queue. I told you that I woke up slightly late and then —"

"No, I mean like this always chatty, erm, full eight hours sleep-inflicted chatty."

She looks away and pretends to not have heard that remark. Then, in a twitch, she grabs his arm and whispers, "Do you mind if I move an inch closer as that grumpy-looking lady behind us definitely suspects that we are unrelated and I cut the queue. She might have had a loud drum-sized alarm that woke up her whole street thus arrived on time. May be a bell tower. Yes, people who have bell towers on their terraces can only wake up early and arrive to queue on time. Never mind, please can I move closer?"

He stares bewildered at her. "Sure". She whisks her bag to the other arm and closes on him.

 

Shatabdi Express
(Part II - The Ticket) ​

As the foremost customers in the queue fuss away towards the relevant counters, the droopy queue shrinks steadily allowing Shekhar and Vasanti to trudge ahead in anticipation of their turn.

"Shekhar, you should swap Commerce for Engineering. You were not guided properly in life. Youth wasted on commerce. Childhood squandered in All Boys schools. Tsk tsk, you might as well have converted into a Buddhist Monk. You have not lived your life and —"

He flicks his stare from the newspaper in hand to the bright-eyed Vasanti smirking at him.

"And Yamraj is looming over me in a train accident to snap my life short, right," he folds the newspaper and tucks under his arm, "what do you intend to do after Engineering?"

"After Engineering? Dude, psst, it is the Engineering that matters. Did I give you any impression of a geeky two-plaited hand-waving me me toss the question at me teacher studious freak?"

"No, you didn't. In that clipped ponytail and George Washington inquiry, not even vaguely I thought of you as a geeky and hand-waving teacher's pet."

"Duffs, girls don't study Engineering away from home to do something beyond that course. I will slog and top the class and then what? My naive parents in Ranchi would coax me and get me married to another engineer in their plaintive voice. Girls like us join Engineering, psst, to find hardworking and good-looking men who would in turn slog and top the class. Haan! I tell myself everyday. Don't get too carried away by the graduate cap and certificate. I must make good use of the campus sightings and find my match. It is okay to wake up once a while early and cram up for an entrance exam but you don't want to repeat that for straight four years. After all —"

"Full eight hours sleep is necessary, right. Got it."

"Absolutely, righto. You should switch to Engineering and quit Commerce. May be there's someone in your family I can talk to, someone I can convince of your counting skills and implore them to rethink about your future —"

"And why would you do that for me?"

"Erm, you helped me with the queue, er, I would return the favor."

"By deciding my career? You would return the favor with an unsolicited intervention in my life. May be you should put that sleep-bulged brain of yours in finding your precocious match and not meddle with my life for real, in thought, or even in your sleep."

Vasanti puckered her lips. "May be you are better off in Commerce. Jeez! Engineering is no place for an ingrate like you."

"Vasanti, I already told you that my family is into business, moreover, it is not even about my family. I like commerce I willingly took the course. Do you understand or would you want me to repeat that for you?"

"I still think you should join —"

"O Vasanti , stop it. I don't understand your silly persistence. Makes no sense. I am glad that you are in Engineering. Good for you. Good for your family. Good for your alarm clock that needs no wind up daily as you don't even wake up at eight o'clock, is it is nine, or mid-day, may be Engineering suits you, and you wanted to find someone ..campus ..sighting ...good for you...really good for you ..but why are you annoyingly insisting that I thoughtlessly switch to —"

He gazes puzzled into her lowered eyes.

"So I think you must be in Engineering". She softly moaned.

A gruff voice interrupted, "Which ticket, and when?" Shekhar awakens to the intervening voice and finds himself as the next customer in the counter ahead of him. He strides quickly as Vasanti wistfully plods behind him. "Two tickets to Ranchi for the Saturday, please."

Noticing the operator at the counter occupied with the ticketing, Vasanti tugs his shirt and murmurs, "Two tickets? Don't get excessively dramatic. You don't have to travel ...er.. listen you are scaring me now ...listen ... I think Commerce suits you ...that was in jest ....just carry on with your plans...wherever you intended to go ...wherever your commerce and business takes you ... your family needs your commerce talent ... just go go ...only kidding ...you don't have to turn all stalker in defiance and —"

The ticketing operator hands Shekhar two tickets.

Teasingly waving the railway ticket, Shekhar turned around to the disoriented Vasanti, "Similar to the overzealous Shatabdi Express that skips minor stops, you, too, in your nonstop chatter skipped to inquire my destination. I am travelling to my family in Ranchi on Saturday. Instead of that what am I, if only you had inquired where am I this week, then, may be, potentially, hmm, you see, likely, now that, mm, we could continue how grumpy-looking women erect drum-sized alarms and bell towers in their homes. Also, two Engineering minds of the same mileage and interchangeable lethargy are no good to catch a train ON TIME. Would it not benefit a Commerce brain to wake you up in the noon mornings after your full eight hours of restful sleep."

She jabs his shoulder and pulls the ticket from his grip, "Be before the departure time on Saturday. I, as usual, will look for a paper reading boy to swing the delayed me onto the train from the platform."

​

 

The Telltale Natives
(Part I - The Conflict) ​

Hour One:

The auditorium buzzed with excited chatter until the Dean of the Academy overpowered the clamor with the start of his commencement speech on the microphone.

"Hey everyone, welcome. Welcome to the Academy. You have all been painstakingly chosen through screening and needless to say are the recognized brains in the country. You are talent atop. You are the future pride. You lot have potential to change the direction of science and technology and research of the nation. As you all know that the Academy is no frivolous institute but is the most prestigious —'

Slumped in her own whimsical thoughts unmindful of the rhetoric, Dhanya is transported back into the reverberating hall by loud hoots and claps as the Dean poised to induct the entrants. Dhanya, inferred by her clueless and naive comrades as the five-foot-something skinny charm and almond-swept complexion and grace personified in acts and thoughts [arey bukbuk bhool bhulayya , kyun, akhir kyun, you whiskered woof woof, why are you puncturing the potted heads with your pitiless pitch. Cannot you just freeze your tongue for once. Kasoor iska nahi iski kundali ka kasoor hai ki isko koi bulldog sa patni mili jo isko bolne nahi dhethi. Yeh dhoti-ed dams explode the vocal floodgates here. Unless someone convulses and rings for an ambulance, he may not part with the microphone. Isko koi sada tamatar, nahi bada wala gobi kyun nahi fekha. Woofer, chup ho ja.]

"This year we have promising and diverse talent amongst us. Not to mention two of our freshers are accredited by the English Olympiad. May I take this opportunity to introduce Dhanya Chakravarthi ..."

Dhanya blushingly stands up.

" ...and Varun Meruvaram."

[Varun Meruvaram?] She flicked her stern gaze at a raffish lad three rows behind her. [Meruvaram...vaa-vaa-rooon ...kaisa nautanki naam, isko English Olympiad bhi chahiye. The freckled face is from a family of foul fisheries!]

Sliding his rapping fingers into his trouser pockets, Varun playfully shrugged the shoulders of his muscular and towering built now laid to attention from the loud cheer. [Dhanya Chakravarthi, isko English Chakkar bhi hai. Naam toh sahi hai ..par woh nazar...bapre kitna tez nazar. The curdled countenance from the cantankerous cattle ranchers!] Shaken from his thoughts by the whooping crowd, he fumbled his way back on his seat.

"Students, here at the Academy we don't believe in tomorrow or even today as we rise and shine now. It's now. So, we have grouped students for a workshop after this session and —"

Hour Two:

"We must have a softer black and not too luminous". Dhanya pulls the slide aside.

Detaining the slide by imposing his arm against hers, "Hold on ...there is nothing wrong with that hue. It is just slightly tenebrous," Varun locks his gaze with hers. [raat ko kalbhairav dar janewala kalika ..saawft rang chahiye Dhanno Chakkar.]

"I know. But aren't we looking for something of lighter composition like something cinereous" [surat dekho! want a tentacled tripped tenebrous even in his tenuous tashan.]

"Let's split the slide and have both the colors." [itna cinematic sa cinereous chahiye Dhanno? yeh log St Annes jaise scented colleges mein ragad ragad ke English padthe hai. Phir yahan par scene-nay-ray. Aur woh dhikawa! sinned cinereous of a singed syringe!]

Hour Three:

Dhanya frowned on reading the sparse menu of the college canteen. [pata nahi kab amla achar khane ko milega. Bua said, Dhanno ek achar ki bottle lekhar jaana par achar aur jadi booti aur tokaree ke saath Academy mein. Moreover these aunts are nikamme! What would have happened if they had slipped a bottle of pickle in my bag despite my refusal.]

"Dhanya? You okay?"

[Yeh chipmunk chipkoo is back!]

"I am okay. What's that box."

"It is just covert pizza I ordered as the canteen food is dull. Pizza with mozzarella and capers and anchovy. You know how the Academy is strict against food from outside."

"That's nice" [chow chow anchovy. Itna English ke peechhe surely the fretting face is from a family of foul fisheries.]

"Have you dined?"

"Not yet, er, the canteen menu isn't that appealing."

"Well, in that case, this pizza was just a snack. Would you want to hang out, outside the premises, for lunch?"

"Yeh, sure, why not. Anything in mind?"

"There's the Olive Boulevard from where I ordered the pizza. A walk from here. Then, there's Cinnamon Cafe. Also, there's that ..what it is called .... Brindavanam ... some downhome food."

"Brindavanam?" [mera amla achar! shayad waha hoga!] "Sounds interesting. Do you want to check out."

"Sure" [chee-ee-k out, itna Marmalade English ki zaroorat hai kya. Par woh aawa-aa-az bahut surili aur dobara sunne ko jee chahtha hai. Bapre, is Dhanno Chakkar mein mat padna Varun. She might have the voice but the neck is the crooked crane of a craven crone! Par —] "Sure, let's go".

(to be continued)

 

Dog days of summer

Last weekend, while scratching away the fitsy-bitsy modern romance tales, I was gasping for cool air in the heat and fanning myself around. Sweaty and prickly heat!

The summers abroad too drive me crazy similar to the childhood tropical blaze in the true style of the mad dog that has singularly contributed to the naming of such blazing days as "dog days" apart from that bright dog star which may also have played a dismissive role. The burning star played only a second fiddle to the bulgy-eyed rabid dog. But it's the mangy dog!

The dog days or dog days of summer are the hot, sultry days of summer. They were historically the period following the heliacal rising of the star Sirius, which Greek and Roman astrology connected with heat, drought, sudden thunderstorms, lethargy, fever, mad dogs, and bad luck. They are now taken to be the hottest, most uncomfortable part of summer in the Northern Hemisphere.​

Next time, I should migrate farther North to Iceland. Suits me! Before that week, in an errant prescience, the electronic devices around me all buzzed in unison of the announcement of the Meghalayan age in Earth's history, what megha ... what cloud ... such hot spell should be reclassified as "Suryan age". Wrath of hell!

Each year the ground flakes up in dry atmosphere. The fiery heat wave would have singed even those fabled men thrown into the furnace by Nebuchadnezzar. Did Nebuchadnezzar know about the dog days of the Northern Hemisphere? He would have economized his torture contraption from a coal furnace to a sunburn stake.

Around this time, the only prattle between friends is the degree of hotness. Today is more hotter than yesterday. Another heat wave is predicted tomorrow. Wetting a washcloth to dry over my face is the only solace.

In one such sun-fried stupor with my eyes half-closed from the washcloth, I happened to notice a girl walking on a pond from my window. Heat induces hallucinations so I must be hallucinating yes hallucinating...green frock ..ponytail ..walking on water ...hallucinating ...NO! I blinked. For real! She was walking on the water in the pond. I rushed closer to the window. She was walking in the pond, not on the pond as the water dried up. Egh, water dried up, my red blood has turned into milky plasma, my hair stinks, behold the dog days when even the dog stoops to disregard. Come back soon, winter! I miss the icy you.