MIXER & The Cold-Coffee

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons," ...Do I dare. Disturb the universe?  ― T.S. Eliot

It's been this old mixer, that's often used mostly for making cold coffee, almost on every alternate day.

& luckily it even works & does not seem to consume much power, as & when there is no electricity - hooked to the sockets, kept at places that are on inverter. It even shifts from one place to another - it seems to be going places.it has even made its way to the bedroom at the odd hours, but mostly it stays quiet on the kitchen shelve.

At times when it's to be used at weird hours, its shifted to my bed room, so the next door neighbors don't get disturbed and question me the very next morning,since they were habitual to such taunting & questioning, and I by now have adapted myself to there nose poking now & then', They would say "We heard the mixer running late in the wee hours at 3:00 A.M, What on earth, would you be doing with it"  & my reply would be, I was using it to grind & dismantle my emotions soaked in my tears LOL, jokes apart, They would themselves know the answer, and would ask, "Were you making cold coffee at night"?, & I would look at their face, & reply "No, I was grinding the coconut for my Idli's/Idly (The savory cakes cooked - made by steaming a batter consisting of fermented black lentils (dehusked) and rice.)  - for I was hungry & was craving for an early morning breakfast." 

Most of the times that I would use it to crush the sugar down into tiny particles so that it becomes more soluble enough for these cold crushers or either way it was for something that I might happen to use it for, but of everything else my fondness for coffee had me doing the needful most of the times. If I would talk about my 'Survival to the fittest' metaphoric phrase, that struggles for existence, ironically I just seem to have happened to have coffee by my side to linger on to, in order to live & abide by my evolutionary mechanism, that had me doing things, that I would.

"The whole mechanics that underwent into the churning & grinding - headed to a wholesomeness of kinds" 

For me it was all about survival, and coffee would come to my recuse & give me this peace & high at the same time making me more relaxed..Whether it already made & kept in the refrigerator or its about time, I needed to make one for myself for night & day - all long. It was like my dose for the day to night survival.The mixer & the jugs & the glasses needed a good wash every time & they would be kept for a while on the shelve, where-in they would themselves get soaked up & dry to be used again.

However there happened to be an interestingly funny thing a day back, I forgot to add milk, and blindly kept churning the mixer with only sugar & coffee and after a minute later, that I realized after hearing the hollow & not so friendly usual sound of the churning that I would every time in the process. So the milk was added & the effort was victorious. The other day the cold coffee in the mixer, popped-out, by force, and half of it spread all across at the places it wasn't meant to be & I would go about in my time-consuming useless effort to clean the unnecessary & later continue making cold coffee and feel sorry about the coffee, sugar & the milk being wasted. nevertheless at times, if possible, I would make it a point  that the spoil milk that spilled be used & put to better use, so if at all I was able to collect most of it I would do that & serve & feed the street dogs & cats. I am aware that they aren't that fond of coffee though.

I had been a little finicky bout sharing my cold coffee with anyone, but now at thirty-five I have come over it. I used to feel jealous when someone would ask me for cold coffee & I would rather go about saying - "Its mine", There just ain't absolutely anything that could substitute coffee & no matter hot or cold - it has to be there & I just need to have it everyday. So next time anyone is inviting me at home, please make sure you have ample amount of milk kept at your home and without asking me bring me my large glasses of one or more cold coffee. I better pray that my mixer stays all right and in a steady working condition or I shall be in trouble. Winter's or Summers I need it to be an absolutely amazing performer.

Looking forward to use the mixer more often to grind & chop these tomatoes, capsicum & onions & everything else for my delightful culinary-cooking skills. I hope you enjoyed my chit-chatting about my love-affair with the cold coffee & the mixer. - Anonymous, 35, Delhi, India

Guested Leaves-PLANT LIFE

There was this sudden joy instilled within me, as if the plant's were telling me' we need a bath, we've been out all day long & are dusty &
muddy. - Watering the plants is like giving more life to the already lively.
They look so sad at times to me, as if they waited in anguish for the showers more often. The sun all day long - straight ahead, up right & over the head with scorching heat had almost killed the enthusiasm & with very little or no rains or drizzles at all thy felt so

The little child in me was always thrilled to play with water, as much as the plants would have been. I so wished - I could get wet in rain more often too, other then taking a pipe & standing underneath & getting wet - "(smiley face)".

I've chopped & trimmed few & uprooted some.

"I so wish - I was a plant, staying in there unconditionally without any expectation", now that makes me wonder, if the plants ever wished 'if they could be humans'?

They would stare at me, as I stood there, staring back at them, whenever I would pass by them or would look at them from a window not very far. I often wondered, if they were actually frowning or smiling. 

"Poor they" - When I see them, I say it to my self! I guess, they might be saying the same looking at me - in a sign language, or muted whispers, because, I know they can hear me, they arent deaf & i talk to them often, its just like they don't reciprocate like we humans do. I have seen them reacting at times, they got there own mood swings too.

These tree-leaves & branches silently para-glide finding there way down to the outer skirts and to the interiors of my house like trespassers & settle down there like an uninvited guest. Most of them all dried up & few afresh - they seem to have found solace & company of the likewise. 

Some of them not even fall to the ground, they are stuck on the branches & everything else & they lie there, waiting. The old ones get nestled up in a despair hope to find shelter to thee refuge in rescue & rest in peace for as long as they could, & the young ones keep playing games, running down from one place to another in groups. In shades of green, off-white & yellow. While the scotching sun would make deserted, the wind would blow(shoo) them away to all the possible corners, where they all would pile-up in hills & mountains a scattered few enjoying there bit.   

There are even other set of visitors at the run-way area, the balcony & the garden, and they even find there way in the slightest of the gaps or openings available. They as such have no fixed place you see - all they do is 'leave no place empty'. 

"They keep falling, & they shall forever"

Strangely, I almost once in fifteen days would broom them up, and pile them up at one corner & decide to leave them there, & later, I would fill them up in a bag-pack &
leave them at other places. How could I abandon thee, just like that & throw them away. I know, for, I shall be guilty of dispersing them from there diaspora but I would not the felony of being called apathetic, hurting the lying-wanderings.

Hey Mr. Tree "that's what I say to thee' why don't you make your leaves fall on the outer skirts of my house, and not inside, for I find it difficult to broom thee almost everyday, for they fall everyday.

I would broom them on to the corner of the sided wall, after a few steps, I would see them running down to the next corner with a "catch me if you can" expression/gesture, taking those baby steps, without even letting me know. Mostly they stay grounded but as soon as, I would go inside & later come back to see them, the most of them would have already dispersed. I get a feeling, they were just trying to be friendly & playful.

They would be lying all composed-decomposed, fragmented-defragmented & everyone would often notice them.

How miraculously wondrous it is to see a new seedling coming-out(born) of the dried decayed (dead) foliage/leafage pile & grow on its own. How fascinating it is to see that there is life in something as petite as a leaf that even the almost dead ones, 'still lives-on'.

Only at all, if there were trees that would not shed, life would have been a little more easier! but then, I would not have got a story to share in here, would I? - Anonymous ,35, India Delhi

Hornier, The Merrier-ME

In a weird & vague desperation that I was in, in the middle of everything else, at the oddest of hours 'in vein' crying in desperation - but to no avail. the frustration building in loops inside me even more anxious & these cravings even grew more & more. The hornier side of me could just go about doing it with anyone or everyone, anywhere & it was freaking me up to the core - as it seemed like. Just a sudden hard-on, in the middle of everything else that was put on halt until I sufficed.

Its been ages since I actually had real sex. It was crazy to have these momentum frustrated cravings & it made me more anxious, and my willingness to explore more on the sexual front(may be some dates. hook-ups encounters) were already ignited. 

I have been habitual by now about such sensual urges, though my  cravings not only needed sexual gratification but sought more of an emotional sensibility which was hard to find, with one person at a time and for real long or forever. 

There seemed no one around, coming to my rescue whether near or far & I would in my desperate attempt would have gone a step ahead & willingly satisfied myself by all means. The virtual world was not so far from my reach, but then that would not pacify in practice the lustful approach or thy emotional comfort. 

Wanking seemed the only option for the time being, & I could imagine anything & anyone in real. With eyes closed my wildest of desires ran down imagining about the thoracic, abdominal segment of the trunk and the perineum & everything else in the minutest of detailing.

The sensuous side of me, wanting to experiment with everything that could be made available right now. I've heard people tell me stories about role plays, there fetishes & about there encounters with the delivery-boys, cab-driver & about how someone would even get excited if someone watched them nude, and how easy it had been for someone to get lucky in a metro station being pounded & grabbed. Well I wasn't that lucky to have had explored & experience any of such thing apart from the very basic salient features of sex as for now. 

I've been polluted with thoughts even getting more gross, yet pleasing. The very feel of a human being, a touch, the taste, the smell... surrendering to this wild erotic slaughter by a savage beast who could make me confide in thee & I could surrender myself to & explore every inch of the monstrously notorious passion easing out my desperate attempts for sexual gratification, taking me of this insane vulnerably, yet so desirous clinging on to thee hormonal cravings trying hard to keep them safe, locked & not let thy fall apart until - "one fine day".

You must think, I am crazy, I know, well but we all go through this phase, either we do it or we think about doing it. 

"The naked flesh seems like a piece of treat". 

I ain't no saint, I am so human & I so wish to commit this sin as many time I get a chance to & explore thy potent potion in all the positions possibly feasible.

There are lot of people we admire, & to have sex with the ones we admire has its own meritorious gain. its not always that one could find content & pleasure doing it with a admirable one, but then the infatuated piece of shit knows everything & yet it wants to get into the trouble of strangely exploring the pros & cons of thy sexiest yearnings. - Anonymous, India

AT THE CAFE-''Story In Short'

The intimate insets of a lunchtime cafe, brewing with steaming rays filtering from the French pane alongside the sparse procession of bean coloured tables. Ron, Sheena, Sanjay, the waiters, stacked up behind... the counter, chatting lifelessly, their unwelcoming eyes fixed at the door.

The cafe is occupied fairly, most of them couples, along with the usual bunch of exasperated B-Grade film makers who are narrating their future epics-to-be to one another, in a faint hope to intimidate somebody who will pay their cappuccino bill.
And, on the rear end, behind the pillar fixed with the vertical plasma, that is playing the latest Beyonce video, the only hot thing in the cafe, sit Kamal and Samara. Love pouring out of the kettle of their eyes, as they look in opposite directions grinning at each others’ fate. Samara is wearing a black knee length cocktail dress scattered with white polka dots, her hair provokingly set pointing her cleavage. While, the tiara in her left middle finger dazzles, as if taunting Kamal who is in his office blues and black, with a maroon coloured tie folded in his shirt pocket.

The picture shakes as Sanjay, one of the three waiters, slams their order on the table. A black forest cake with two glasses of Oreo shakes. For the first time, they look at each other, smiling loudly to hide the grin. The love is still there, but.

Kamal runs his finger over the cake, carving a heart around the cherry icing. He then brings that chocolaty finger near Samara’s lips. Waits! Samara grabs the finger and puts it down on her plate. She then takes out a fresh wipe from her matching mini purse and wipes the cake off his finger. Without looking at him, she takes her glass of Oreo shake and takes a sip.

“Oh I forgot... Cheers. To me!” she says as she touches her glass to Kamals’ and takes another sip.

Agitated, Kamal takes the plastic knife and butchers one half of the cake on his plate noisily, almost spilling his shake as he slides it away from him. Samara lets out a mild laughter.

“Well, Cakes, Shakes, Tissot... someone is getting rich by the day it seems”, she says.

Kamal looks up, forgetting how Samara snubbed him, appeals, “I am earning well now. As good as Mukesh... have booked a new flat in Lakshyachandi’s also. I will be moving in next month.” He waits again, beaming.

“Don’t do this please”, she says. Both look in opposite directions once again.

They stay silent for the next few minutes, their eyes fixed at each other, occupied in a relentless conversation. Then Samara says, looking away from Kamal, “I just love cafes. Sitting here, watching other people, their lives... I just find it so interesting. How every table has a story to tell! Thousands each day...” “All hues and genres”, she adds.

He remains silent.

Pissed, she taunts, “Clearly you don’t have the taste to appreciate.”

“Tell me about it...” he retorts immediately.

Another mild laughter from Samara! Kamal grins back this time.
Encouraged, Samara begins, “Look. There beneath the screen. That couple, they just had a fight. Let me guess, from the actions they were doing, it is so evident she caught him red handed. Look. Look. She hit him on his dick. Ooo... That must have hurt. But, good, set right the unfaithful bastard!”

“And that bearded man with that girl...” she says in disgust, “must be her boss. Trying to get all hanky panky... Oh! And look at that baby... with his papa... ooo cho chweet must be just two days old. I really want one. I think kids are the best thing to happen in a married life”

“One thing I will agree”, says Kamal flaunting his conviction.
“Look behind, now, this should make you happy. Those two girls near the counter, in green and yellow! They are a couple”, Samara hisses animating her brows.

“... and how do you know that?” says Kamal, almost shouting in excitement, and making a full round turn to get a clear view.
Amused, Samara says, “Let’s just say, the ladies room... it has its own revelations!” winking. Her thick upper lashes bouncing off the lower ones.

“Oh just look around...” with flooded eyes she says, “I can write volumes of stories from in here...” she gasps finishing her last bite of cake from the plate.

Kamal takes his first Oreo shake sip. He looks at Samara who is still concocting stories about other tables in her head, says... “And what about our story?”

Samara freezes, her eyes fixed at the table she was making another story about.

Both remain silent for a long while, until Samara’s phone rings. She takes the call, not saying anything, just listening.
She puts the phone back in her purse. Once again they look at each other. “Our story begins when I enter this cafe...” she waits to see if Kamal interrupts. He doesn’t. And then says, “... and ends as I step out.”

“I have got to go now... the car is outside”, she says getting up, her eyes fixed at the lesbian table, enviously.

Kamal holds her hand as she takes her first step. And says, “By the way, Happy Anniversary once again. Wish Mahesh too... I will see you tomorrow.” And he lets go of her hand.

“I am waiting to wish you the same”, Samara says as a tear drips from her left lashes, cascading elegantly down her distorted face.
She stands there, as Kamal pays the bill and leaves the cafe.
Then she leaves too... leaving the table alone, for another story.

- Ankit,Mumbai,India

The UnTalked-SILENCE

“You’re not doing well and finally I don’t have to pretend to be so interested in your on going tragedy." - Lucas Regazzi 

No one seems really interested in listening to your stories, they have there own & they are always looking out for the ones who could listen to there part of the story, & they in desperate attempt to avoid the unnecessary, despite there capability of understanding emotions - limited at times & there reluctant being which could read between the lines ain't going to fill in the blank spaces for you. They are not bothered about your shit, they have there own self adamant shitty-shit & they only live prone to there habitual self-centered moronic-state & are only willing to cling on to the beautiful stories.

You just cant be blabbering all the fucking time - You need to know 'how to shut-up'! 

My mind had been weaving a sweater in cold winter months. And not exactly like just another open book, that was kept aside & needed a good read, I was like the headlines of this newspaper story which was being publicized just every other day & being constantly much talked about & yet there was no one listening to it, & if at all anyone heard, or read, they weren't interested. So I decided to keep the talking to my very own self & stay silent. 

"The coffee cup that was kept on book had its impression on, for years & would not go, despite how hard I tried scrubbing the stain".

The past, present of the journey has been a mix kind & cruel at the same time! It's like there is something and everything, but still that something and everything seems like nothingness sorts. Me having this fight against all the odds - worried to the core, reasoning to myself about how far shall this go? 

For I am only concerned about me - 'the selfish me', like everyone else, wanting things to settle down & get sorted on there own.

This morning I got up, with a dream that woke me up. i don't seem to be interested in anything at all, I've seem to have lost that spark in me that I used to have & I stood like a worthless & aimless one, reasoning my existence. I have been realizing lately that my life starts on the social networking and pretty much ends in there. I guess, I need to buy a cloned version of myself or upgrade myself to a pretty much lively, happier & a functional state, just like everyone else. I've always been a brainy one though my educational qualifications & resume does not show all that and even my experienced soul. I am busy doing nothing, becoming lazy day by day, I am turning into a wondering soul, with no anguish or urge absolutely. 

"Life is a Nosy-Noisy bitch - it doesn't let me speak & as the day passes by, I wonder 'Who Let the Dogs Out?' huh...Bow-Wow."

Why am I bring deprived of things, that I could enjoy, I could no more comfort myself because these complexities of harsh realities & anxiety of there outcomes had me all shuffling. I was being scandalized to the core & I could no longer sustain my focus, which seem to have been heading nowhere & fading away. Nothing seemed to be of any value now. 

"Talking is often a torment for me, & I need many days of silence to recover from the futility of words".

Should I end up feeling sorry for myself & surrender or should I do something about it - what if there is nothing of undoing the doing? Neither I seem to be on any  lookout, nor I seem to be getting any. I am just being a laid-back kinds - avoiding & ignoring the nuances & saying myself to 'Shut The Fuck Up'!. - 35,Anonymous,India

Language Of Words-MIND'IT

"All words are pegs to hang ideas on".

How many of us love that advertisement where the dad tells the kid that the "Great Wall of China was built to keep the rabbits out?"

I grew up when we were taught copperplate writing in school. The strokes were not just 'varying widths' - the upstrokes were fine and light, and the downstrokes were heavier and therefore wider. This was not easy to achieve, but we had exercise books (called 'copy books') with special lines on them to give us the height and depth of the upstrokes and downstrokes, and we spent many hours doing 'writing practice' that.

Who will consider that no dictionary of a living tongue ever can be perfect, since, while it is hastening to publication, some words are budding, and some falling away; that a whole life cannot be spent upon syntax and etymology, and that even a whole life would not be sufficient; that he, whose design includes whatever language can express, must often speak of what he does not understand.

An insult, real or perceived, once resulted in a duel. To defend one's honor meant to kill someone or to get killed. Thankfully, those times are behind us. Duels are now part of history, but bar-fights and other altercations show that we haven't outgrown our revenge mentality.

Imagine a world where a slight called for a verbal duel. The two parties get together and hurl the choicest adjectives at each other. Spectators cheer them on. And in the end the two shake hands and,having vented, go home.

To prepare for this fight the parties involved don't drive to a gun shop. Instead they head to the biggest, baddest dictionary they could lay their hands on and pick out words. The more obscure, the more colorful, the better. If your opponent can't even understand the word you hurl at him, what hope has he?

"Different languages highlight the varieties of human experience, revealing as mutable aspects of life that we tend to think of as settled and universal, such as our experience of time, number, or color. In Tuva, for example, the past is always spoken of as ahead of one, and the future is behind one's back. 'We could never say, I'm looking forward to doing something,' a Tuvan told me. Indeed, he might say, 'I'm looking forward to the day before yesterday.' It makes total sense if you think of it in a Tuvan sort of way: If the future were ahead of you, wouldn't it be in plain view?"

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire. -Roland Barthes

One of my first beaus once sent me an arrangement of all pink flowers. The card that accompanied it said something like, "I hope these flowers mirror your countenance." (I gather the florist thought the note was wanting,and advocated for something different, but my would-be beau would not be dissuaded). It took me a bit to figure out what the note said because it tore as I opened the wrapping, obscuring a good portion of the word countenance,and it is true, that it is not often found on notes accompanying flowers(at least in recent decades) so I was rather stumped. Compounding the problem, I think, was this whole idea of hoping the flowers mirrored my face. I reasoned that the flowers were to be pink, which the boy knew,so there was no need to hope that they mirrored my countenance. I thought I must be missing something, but now realize that wooing the grammarian is tricky business indeed! In the end, I found I could not countenance the boy, and we went our separate ways.

The words a father speaks to his children in the privacy of the home are not overheard at the time, but, as in whispering galleries, they will be clearly heard at the end and by posterity.

'In English the verb goes in the middle of a sentence (I love you), while some languages relegate it to the end (I you love). This may sound preposterous to those not familiar with such a language (German, Hindi, Japanese, among others), but it's quite common.' For German, however, this is only partly true, i.e. in subordinate clauses. In a main clause as 'I love you', the order of the words is the same as in English ("ich liebe dich").

- Anonymous, Male, India