The Boy Who Want to Dance with Whores!

“Yes, he really wants to dance with whores.”

“No, idiot. . . I don’t want to dance with whores! I want to dance with a single one! Whore. It’s a singular form!”

“Ooh, not whores, just a single one?”

“Yes, only one, now continue your writing!”

“Okay, sorry.”

That’s it, you yourself heard him, and he wants to dance with a whore! Singular form, just one!

One day, he says, he saw a whore accidentally, and was in love with her.

They are four friends, who make articles for a local magazine. That month they wanted to make an article on Hijras (A strange choice for a group of college students!). It was idea of Mani Ratnam, the one who chooses the prompt of the article every time. And with him all the other three team members were sailing.

“Where can we find them?” Vicky asked one guy who was walking across the street. It was not so easy to find their community in the town; they do not live with different people here.

Looking strangely at them, “I don’t know.” He replied and walked off.

“Are we asking him to take us with him? What is there to show us the route?” Mani scowled.

“Wait yaar (love or friend) I’ll call the auto-uncle.” Vicky said, slipping his phone out of his pocket and started dialling that auto-uncle’s number (the one who named the area of Hijras).

Before he could dial, “Wait, look there.” Jaggu stopped and pointed towards someone walking across the road.

She was a Hijra, wearing green saree, having tattoos all over her body.

Mounting off the bike, Mani and Vicky walked towards her, while Jaggu and Mouli did not dare.

Hesitatingly, “Sister” Mani called out.

Vicky too felt a bit fear inside. Not fear of getting beaten or something, but fear of facing the un-experienced! We all have that, and it takes a bit to get along.

“Yes,” she turned back towards them.

“Sister, we are making an article on Hijras.” He said politely. “I want to talk with your head or leader or, or someone like that.” He ended stammering.

Vicky’s legs were stretched, his body slightly turning back, arms parallel to ground and he was getting ready to run!

“Jaya ji!” she said, “Go straight and take that turn.” She said, her face delight.

“Thank you.” They were much delighted.

They went all the way, and the road split into two, and they didn’t know which is that that turn. On Jaggu’s advice, they took right turn. The area was completely different. It’s the true slum of India.

In some distance, they saw huts, and one Hijra standing on mid-road. Vicky sipped in fear courage, but Mani’s face was glowing like a thousand watt bulb. “God, save us!”

They went near her, and slowed their bikes down.

“I. . .” Before Mani can say something, she approached them in an instance.

“Two are free, she is three hundred and. . .” She pointed towards a girl.

“No, no, we are not here for that.” Mani said, panicked. “We are here to meet Jaya ji.”

As the discussion went on between the Hijra and Mani, Vicky saw towards the girl towards whom the Hijra pointed.

She sat on a half broken, plastic stool which is placed on one side of the road. She had a beedi in her mouth, smoking out. Widening her legs, leaning her body on to her knees, her eyes were cold as ice. “They were no feelings in them, except hatred towards the entire world. May be she wants to burn us all?” Vicky says till date.

She was not at least nineteen in Vicky’s expectation. She wore worn out dresses, her hair uncombed, and her face was rusty. She was smoking all the time. She saw towards Vicky into his eyes, angry. . . . Always!

They turned their bikes back, and they were on the way towards that Jaya ji.

Vicky didn’t spoke all the way.

“300 is a pretty good deal!” Mani said laughing, but Vicky remained silent. Then, Mani saw Vicky through his rear mirror, Vicky’s eyes were red and he remained serious.

Breaking the bike’s speed, “What happened?” Mani asked in horror.

“That girl. . .” He said, his voice stumbling.

“What?”

They all hovered around him. “What had happened Vicky?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” He screamed. “Must she be like that till her death?”

Silence remained.

“I want to live with her. I want to hold her tight.”

“Vicky, you are a bit moved, that’s it. Everything will be alright.”

Lowering his head, he remained silent for a while. “No,” he said. “No Mani, one day, I will return to her, I will hold her, I will be with her, I will be that one guy who makes her world beautiful, who turns her world around, who makes her feel, this world is not as hard as her hell. I will be with her till her end.” He said, confidence emitting in his voice.

“Why?” they frowned. “She is a, she is. . .” they slowed down, “A Whore,” they whispered.

“Yes, maybe that is why. . . I love her. . . I want to dance with her in the moon light.”

“What?”

“Yes, I want to dance with a Whore, do you care, or do you dare stopping me?”

I don’t know properly who this ‘V’ guy is, but I want to know him completely, why he was moved by her and loved her so deep!

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In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Fireside Chat.”

“Write something about HUMANITY in your Free-Style” she said.

Berk

Humanity Lives.

Does it??

Just as Sir James Jean said in his ‘The Dying Sun’, “Life does not seem to have any part in the plan of the Universe.”

He says that, we are all the creation of a mere accident occurred in the universe expansion. Then, what are we? Are we not the part of this vast universe? Are we strangers in our own home? Doesn’t our own family care about us?

No, no young lad, nobody cares you in this universe, except another earthly human!

Humanity Lives, I wrote on a piece of paper, and started thinking in air, what to write next. I really don’t know what it does. Sustenance of humanity is as evident as its Death!

Before I started writing, I myself am not certain on which path I was standing on.

“What must I argue about? Must I say that humanity lives or it is dead already?” I asked my little sister who was sitting before me chatting with her FB friends.

“Hmm,” she thought for a while. Looking at me, “Lives may be.” She said.

“Why must I not say that it is dead?” I frowned. “It is as apparent as ‘Lives’ is!”

“How are you going to keep that irony on a paper?”

Shrugging, “Of course, I can.” I said. Not so confident, but yes, I can. I can talk the ‘dead way’ better than saying it is alive.

“But that won’t be true.” She said, leaving on some purpose. “Humanity always lives, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” I wanted to say, but before that, I got her leaving.

I couldn’t answer her properly, what can I answer her? I can’t, but I thought it would be a very good begging for something which I’m going to write now.

We are alone in this vast universe, lost and not able to find out whom we really are. We are the ‘uninvited guests’ here. But one thing we managed was, to conquer the planet which gave birth to us and destroying the land, water and air on which we are living, drinking and breathing.

Living in darkness, filling our hearts with the same, we grope for power, we grope for superiority, and we grope for sex. Finally, we strive to scream, “We are the superior ones in this whole universe.”

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We hold placards high in sky, protesting to save the water and food. We walk miles and miles revolting against ‘hopeless government’ whenever a panic attack or unfavourable thing happens. We light candles and stand all the night in silence, snow and cold praying for the soul of the girl who is raped and dead! We keep on talking about the historical persons who taught us about humanity. We listen and move our head in rhythm to the songs which encourage us to look deep into our soul. We keep on thinking about philosophies of our own about human enlighten! And finally, we honour movies and men with different kinds of awards which/who tried reflecting the lives of suffering people, and asking us to help in their enhancement.

What do we do after that?

Carefully, we fold the placard and place it in the dustbin!

We go home, and take rest for the walk and slowly the fire comes down!

Wax melts, resembling our pain for the dead girl, and we all assemble after the next gang rape!

We slowly drift the topic from the historical person towards the new-released movie!

After the completion of the song, we go to the next one, and again shake our head for the mass-beat!

We think so much, and finally, standing our collar up, we ourselves won’t follow our human-philosophies, but we probe others to do so!

We cry at the movie climax, we say that we had learnt so much from that film, and slowly our mind gets drifted and then we switch to a porn site, continuing or human-pleasure!

We clap for the person, honour him with the award, we talk great about him, we make speeches, just speeches, but we never look into his soul. Though we do, we don’t bother!

Pity on you human!

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There is a person called Scott Harrison, who is once king in his own life. He used to live selfishly and arrogantly in his own way. Living in a huge room, spending his night’s promoting night clubs; he drank vodka of $365 every night.

Accidentally, by the fate’s wish, he sailed to Africa, as a photojournalist for some charitable medical camp. Then is when, he saw the diseased, crippled and deformed humans who could never being earning a total of $365 in a whole year.

“Enormous, suffocating tumours – cleft lips, faces eaten by bacteria from water-borne diseases.” He says remembering their suffering.

He thought about them, he kept on thinking about them all the day and all the night. Their shadows never went away from him. Their courage inspired him. He learned life from them and then, he decided to do something for the people who taught life to him.

Charity: Water is one of the most successful water crisis organisations in the world. Now they’ve funded 13,644 water projects in 22 nations!

This is what the power of true humanity is!

We are superior to the God! Commit to a pure destiny deep inside your soul, the whole universe becomes the path paving towards your Goal!

Do you talk about the cuffs binding your hands?

Once, I read a story of a 12 year old kid, who did not celebrate her birth day that year to fund for some charity organisation.

She collected a little sum to donate, a very little in those little hands. She, with her parents started from their house to donate the amount through her hands.

Accident occurred. . . The kid died!

But her soul did not!

The world which knew her story, raised funds of some millions and till today, that charity organisation receives money on her name on her every birth day!

Not her, but her impeccable humanity did not die. It is still breathing!

I don’t ask you to do all those.

Kids Smiling

I don’t ask you to do something which is beyond your reach. No need to solve the crisis. No need to hold the wars, or no need to do something which is ‘Mission Impossible’. But just see your neighbour from your soul. Help the needy. Give the other human hope on humanity. Then, humanity lives!

If possible, give a bottle of water to the thirsty. Give a bread piece to the hungry. Give a hope to the desperate. Give some smile to the sobbing.

Walk with a smile, and sleep with trueness.

Make the world a better place.

Then,

Humanity Lives!

She is gone, and he too knows it. His eyes said, “I need you”

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“I’m leaving,” he said standing at the window of the bus, “forever.”

Turning her face off, “Yes, I know that,” She said. Her voice clearly heavy and we all know that it was the lump in her throat.

“Lalitha,” he called her. His eyes were red as blood shot, and were nearly at the edge, ready to drop off their burden.

“Satish,” she said, sipping her pain in. “Good bye.” She said, throwing him into the endless pit of pain.

He is leaving today, to U.S.A for his further studies, and he (we) knew Lalitha would be married at the time he returned. We endeavoured every single possibility to fetch her for him. But we couldn’t. She is from a backward class family and her fate was already written. Though I don’t believe in these, “Nobody can never ever change the written script on our forehead.” Still he tried. But she didn’t. She gave up. But he is still trying to balance the huge slab just on his two hands, but how long can he do that without the remaining two pillars?

No, not so long.

“Look mere yaar (my friend), now there will be a romantic tragedy track between them.” I said to Pessy, another friend of ours on whose shoulder I was leaning.

He smiled, just for my concern. “Stop it Vicky.” He said, shrinking his lips. “That is not funny.”

“Ooh, is it not?” I laughed out. “Why won’t you see straight into my eyes? Why won’t you reveal the pain you are hiding in your tears? Why won’t you say out my name with your love? Why won’t you leave the world, wrapping me up in your hug?” I sang out. (Yes, that really is one good stanza, thank you!)

“Vicky!” he said, gesturing to be silent.

“I can’t be without you.” He said. I feared if he would cry. I know if he starts crying now, no one can ever control him.

“I know,” she said, her voice getting heavy every second.

“I Love you Lalitha.”

“Ooh, here the Rambo goes Romeo, so romantic.” Do not think twice, it was me.

“Vicky, stop!”

“Okay, I will. But what is Mani doing? Is the kitty crying with cutie?” I laughed out again.

“Who knows? Be silent now, don’t mock them.”

“Ooh, fu. . .” I was about to complete, but Pessy slaps me every time when I use them. So, I must be careful. “No freedom at all.”

“What?”

“Nothing” I mumbled.

“Lalitha, please, say me that you really want to be with me.”

“Satish,” she turned for the first time. “Please,” she placed her palm on his hand, “please.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“What can you do?”

I thought he will read the list of the things which are impossible but enough-to-impress a girl. But he didn’t, he lowered his head. Then, there was a long span of silence. A tear rolled down his eye, and reached the ground. Soil wetted and the tear sunk inside. Don’t know why, my heart was heavy then.

“I can do nothing.” He said. Biting his shoulder controlling the weep, he turned towards me, unknowingly. Our eyes met for a few seconds. I swear, I saw his mourning heart through his eyes.

“Pessy,” I whispered.

“What?” he asked, simply.

“He is crying yaar.”

“Ooh, are you caring?” he asked, stunning me.

I didn’t know what to say. “No, I’m not.” My voice stammered, due to the hesitation inside me. “But. . .”

Before I could say something, he gestured to be silent.

“Then, why do you fight?” she said, her face was pink and her cheeks were shivering, due to the cold inside. “This is a worthless fight. . .” before she could complete, the bus engine revved.

Satish’s eyes started bursting out, slowly.

“Pessy, the bus is leaving yaar.” I said, pain was increasing in my heart and I was not able to say “Ooh, fuck this love!”

“It goes anyway.”

“Stop it!” I shouted, not even knowing to me. “How can you say that so simply? He is our friend and he, he is crying just wanting to be with her, and she, she, and she is going to cry yaar. She is just controlling before him, just not to make him much weaker.”

Pessy did not speak out, but looked deep in my eyes. As the bus revved again, we got distracted towards them.

“Lalitha.” He said, his voice trembling terribly. “Be with me Lalitha.” He begged. “Please Lalitha, be with me. I can keep you happy in my smile, I can keep you safe in my heart, I can keep you. . .”

Before he can complete his heart’s words out, she closed the window. I know, she was sobbing inside.

He did not move, “please,” he mumbled.

“Pessy,” I said, looking towards Mani, who was a bit far from us, looking at them. His eyes were wet, his nerves were pounding, but he too knew, we can’t do anything.

“Let him be at least when you are not.” He said.

“Am I not?”

The bust jerked. Satish lifted his head, with tearing eyes. Bus started moving slowly. For the first two seconds, he did not do anything; he was moving his head in confusion and fear of missing her. Then, he started knocking the window. “Lalitha, please”

She did not open the door.

“Lalitha, please Lalitha, please, Lalitha.” The bus started moving much faster.

Then, we heard the breaking cry from the other side of the window. It’s Lalitha, I’m sure.

“Lalitha, open at least, give me a chance of seeing into your eyes for the last time. Please.” He ran along the bus as long as possible, knocking the window, but she did not open. My eyes were crying. . .

She did not open.

My eyes were tearing; I wiped them immediately, without anyone’s notice, and stood recklessly as I did never bother.

With weak walk, he reached us. Mani’s eyes were wet as were Pessy’s eyes.

Satish walked straight to me, and stood before me with crying eyes.

I didn’t know what to do. “I’ll leave then.” The most stupid thing I’ve done in my entire life. (No, I’ve done much worse.)

He just looked straight into my eyes, and his eyes spoke to mine. “I need you.”

Dream Reader: Pirate, Detective, Spy, Soldier, Immortal, and My Audience.

This really is Mission Impossible to ask about ‘Dream Reader.’

Dream reader? I don’t know actually. May be I need a pirate who comments me ‘Aye,’ but do not bother what ever is written in the post. I want a detective who just spectated my post to draw conclusions about my mind, but not to grasp the feel I’ve compacted in the post. I need a spy who spies my work, but remains silent just with a ‘Like.’ I need a soldier who can really feel my inner heart though I laugh outside. And I may also need an Immortal, who goes on reading my stories right after my death to keep them alive forever.

No! I don’t want any of them.

When I stand on the polished wooden stage, the shining steel mike right in front of my lips, ready to take in the voice which I leave out. I want to see the drunken audience who waves their body with respect to the rhythm I play. I want to see them forgetting their pain, and I love to contribute my voice helping them.

In the same way, I want my reader just to smile a bit when he completes reading my post!

Mission Accomplished!!

Kill Them All! Kill the already-dead Grandpa!

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“Hey come on, I’m sorry,” I said again, but she did not listen, as always. “Yamini, I’m sorry.”

The girl kept on walking fast, away from me. I couldn’t see her going away from me. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She kept on chanting the same piece.

“Hey, come on stop.” I held her hand, and she stopped. “Yamini,” I cajoled.

“Leave me,” she said, not even turning towards me, still sobbing. “I’m sorry, not you.”

“Yamini, look,” I pulled her hand, but she stuck and did not move. “I Love You. . .” I said softly. “I Love You Yamini, won’t you look at my eyes? Won’t you look into your sky?”

“No, I won’t,” she said, shocking me.

“What? Turn idiot.” I dragged her towards me, and by god’s grace, the next second, she was in my hug, getting crushed in my arms.

We were on her terrace, a pleasant evening (it would be much pleasant if she didn’t cry) with silky breeze speaking in a mellow tone. Who wouldn’t love that moment to spend in our loving ones hug? I too wanted the same, but I’m the Maestro of making disasters! That’s what happens every time.

I took her completely into my arms, tight; as if never wanting to leave her (I actually must leave in the next ten minutes!). Wrapping my arms around her slim, curvy waist, I looked straight into her eyes. Her glittering, glossy eyes into mine, “Won’t you look at your sky?” I asked again.

Her hair was falling onto her face getting disturbed by the gentle wind. Locking it behind, “I can’t spend a single day without doing so. . .”

She had wide opened, fish like blue eyes (Black of course, it’s an effect!) resembling a lotus petal, with  brown, shiny iris and black pupil. Her heavy, wavy eye lids were flopping before me, taking me completely in. They were gleaming due to the moist still present inside them. They really were mesmerizing.

Then, a tear gently rolled down her beautiful left eye.

I couldn’t control mine, as my eyes became moist that second, “Yamini,” I whispered, taking her cheeks into palms. With my thumb, I wiped off the rolling tear. “I Love You.” I said, trying to control my overflow.

“I Love you too. . .” she whispered back.

“I love you more than what you do.” I again started teasing her.

“Please,” she said, again the same lump in her throat, the same heaviness in her voice.

“Sorry. . .”

“Can I kiss you?” she asked, softly.

“What? Will you really?” I wanted to scream, but I didn’t want to scream and spoil my ‘First Kiss.’

“I think you can.” I said, not so confident.

Her lips were carved into a sharp smile, may be cause of my not-so-confident answer. Looking still at my eyes, she rose on her toes, closed her eyes, I was still looking at her lips, eager to know ‘How to kiss.’ Some how she knew me and she raised her left hand and herself closed my eyes with her palm.

Her lips were near mine, I can feel. I can sense her trembling breath on my chin. I can smell it (Colgate!). She was a second-far from my lips.

It’s going to happen, my first kiss.

First Kiss, yes.

After a second,

Lips didn’t touch but, I felt her both palms on my chest. All at a sudden, she pushed me away. In fear, I opened my eyes.

“What happened?” I screamed out in true terror.

She did not speak, but pointed somewhere, silently. When I followed her tip, the one I found was a white pigeon.

“It is a pigeon, so what?” I yelled out in real confusion.

“It is not just a pigeon, it is my grandfather.” She broke my rage.

“What?” I screamed as the huge tide of uncertainty gushed over me. She is white in colour, that’s okay. But, “Why don’t you have wings and beak then?” I asked, still perplexed.

“Stop it Vicky,” I saw some emotion in her eyes, “When my grandpa died, to control my sob, my grand ma said that my grand pa’s soul went into a pigeon. From then,” she paused.

“Come on say me.”

Giving an unsure-glare, “Nothing, come down.” She held my hand, “Let’s get down.”

I was terrified, horrified, I was ‘every synonym’ to these words. “What about my kiss?”

“What kiss? Come down, may be my grand pa did not like it.” She strode down the stairs.

“Your grand pa. . .” I clenched my fists and nerves pour out. “I will slit his throat out. . .” I mumbled. (She would kill me they were audible!)

“Are you coming?” she screamed after getting down.

“Yes,” I out cried double louder, trying to reflect my anger. “Before that. . .” I searched for some stone which I saw just before, and in few moments I found it. “Let me see your grand pa chock.”

“Kill them all!!” Picking the stone, I howled and threw it towards ‘him’ very furiously. “Kill the already dead grand pa!”

Do not bother, the girl and her grand pa had mastered the art of escaping!

My name is something which you can never make out of a Search Engine!

My name! I won’t say it is getting difficult, but it really is getting complicated.

Just as I said in my ‘Hello Ladies & Gentlemen’ post, my common name is Vicky. My parents call me Nani, my cricket friends calls me Wicky: A Wicket Keeper (from where my Vicky originated). My stage name is Ray, named by a girl who is beyond just-a-friend. I’m using it everywhere, when I play Guitar. Finally, my original name is Sharma. (Named by parents, named after a grand pa.)

And me, me friends, I love to be called as Janus; the Roman God of two heads, and the God of beginnings and transitions.

Janus!

And I’m here because, ‘can you please check out my Assignment 1?’ I not any kind of lazy, but, you know, it happens.

Mission Accomplished.

Hello Ladies & Gentlemen, here I’m introducing. . . ‘Me’

Actually, I’ve never tried of introducing myself anywhere, and I try to avoid my introduction quickly as possible when it came to the need. I always make it simple; maybe I don’t know how to introduce myself.

But it a compulsion now! I don’t want to fail in my first assignment itself. Go on boy; let’s do the adventure, my heart said. So, here it is.

I’m Vicky, an ordinary 19 years old Indian, whom you can always find on streets playing guitar and singing out loud. At nights, I write a lot. I write everything which is running in my mind, and sometimes I end up with overly scribbled papers. I don’t know why, I quit my studies; (I didn’t find that ‘fire’ in it!) and I’m not so sure if I would start up again or not. I love strangers, they have lots of unknowing things, and I love knowing them.

I love opening the door which is present between the known and the unknown.

Actually, we friends are thinking to start a local Magazine with the name ‘Don’t Get wasted’ that is why we started this blog, and the other idiots threw this to me. So, I’m (Vicky) the one who is trying to manage this. (Taking on a mad horse is much easier than managing these internet-things which we don’t know.)

My blog not any kind of single themed; it flows on with my mind’s deepest feelings.

Be free, comment anything you want to say, I’m open to advice too. . .

I don’t think there is any kind of ‘more’ to say about me. Thank ya!!!!!

1st assignment competed.

Mission Accomplished.

The Dark World: (A true inspiring tale) Then he knew why he couldn’t actually see, even it is clearly visible.

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Vicky is one of the most famous guitarists and amazing poets in the town. His voice is mesmerizing as are his words. He is a philosopher too sometimes, who could touch the floors of our hearts, with his impeccable theories. His songs were built on the same philosophical theories, which can’t be seen through a simple pair of eyes. He can feel the beauty of the world around him. In every aspect, he enjoys his life.

One can find him at the beach anytime. Clinching his eyes tight, with pounding nerves at his neck, just as if praying the sky itself, he raises his head singing out loud. He won’t bother the people around him, he don’t care. Why would he when he had a separate world? The only thing he knows is to offer his prayer to the great sea surging onto the beach before him.

He sits silently on the beach, zips off his guitar cover and places it beside him, and takes the jumbo guitar into his lap. As if taking all the sea breeze in, he inhales, and lets out a heart full smile. Locking his long hair behind his studded ear, he strums his favourite guitar chord ‘C’.

He lets out his fears, tears, his coldness, and his loneliness before the sea. He weeps sometimes. In the same time, he laughs out and spends all his day before it, singing or talking to his ‘friends’.

He says that the sea is his only best ‘friends.’

Everyone knows him in the town, and he too has a few human friends in the town, with whom he prefers to spend a bit less time.

“Why do you sit before the sea all the day?” one his friends, Lalitha asked him, for which he just smiled. “Come on, why do you sit before it?” she probed.

He didn’t say the reason, but said something unacceptable. “Sea is not ‘it’, Sea is ‘them’.” He said, zipping his guitar bag and taking his walking stick to leave home.

“Them?” Lalitha frowned in confusion, gazing at the sea.

“Yes, of course.” He said, wearing his guitar on his back, leaving. “Sea is ‘them’.”

“But, but how?”

With a chocking smile, he turned back towards the sea. “Can’t you feel?” he asked, placing his palm on Lalitha’s thin shoulder. “Sea is not just a sea. It is the combination of waves and still water.” He started explaining to her. “The still water is the bold husband, who stands fearless, courageous and royal, and the wave is the wife which is always possessive.”

Getting interested in the topic, Lalitha asked, “Possessive?”

“Yes, very. That is why she never allows anyone or anything alien to get mingled with her husband. Throw a stone in, it returns it to you, may be somewhere else. Not even a stone she permits to get inside her husband’s heart.”

“Beautiful,” Lalitha said, looking towards the sea with Vicky’s sense. “Then, what does this king do?”

“He,” Vicky moved a bit towards the sea, “He loves his wife much than what his wife do.” He paused, “Not for a second he can leave his wife. He keeps on dragging her towards him, the every single time she goes away to throw off the intruder.”

“Great love,” Lalitha muttered.

Vicky, inhaling for one last time that day, was walking back.

“Vicky,” she called, keeping up with him. “How can you see so much even though you are blind?”

Laughing out loud, “If a lifeless thing can have the never-ending love story, why couldn’t a blind man see it?” he asked.

Lalitha did not answer.

“I don’t see that with eyes Lalitha,” he said. “I see that with my heart. I hear their bickers with my ears. They are so much romantic sometimes. And finally, the couple plays a much better and beautiful music than me. I lose every time when I compete with them.”

The First Post. . .

Loving to work. . . Actually, loving to work what I do love to work. . .

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Taking the New Year 2015 as the mark, we team had started our work on set, a dream project. . . Don’t Get Wasted.

Wake up boy’s and girl’s. . . C’mon ladies and gentlemen. . . Let us help you to get your dream true. Let us be that gentle wind which glides you towards the path, which leads you to your passion.  Let us give you the helping hand to ‘compose’ your own destiny.

If you ask me ‘why?’ I’d say. . . Be the maker, not the created one. Die as a free soul, rather than living as a caged bird. Be the God, just not the Lord.

If you hesitate, ‘Hmm’. . . Bear your fate, lead it towards the shore, or drown it till the floor. Witness your life, try not to regret it. Don’t follow the path, build it.

I can only say you one thing. . . Look at the aspiration. Breath the inspiration. Just like the lava flowing through your veins, run and run and run, not just until getting tired, but till you die chocking. Then your life is not wasted, though it is!

Stop believing in yourself. . . But rely. . .

But remember this lad. . .

Just. . .

Don’t Get Wasted!

Life is an never-completed project on dreamzzz. . . . Jump on, start conquering, take over, and ride it.