OLDER, BUT NEVER WISER

A winner of Blogadda's "What Men Want !" Contest

The contest was judged on December 3, 2010 by Jamshed Rajan and he wrote,
 

"Hanif Murad tells a story of one of his many loves".

Since the time of Adam, all men want the same thing. They think about it every seven seconds and 5000 times a year.

In the pursuit of this goal, men have expended plenty of time, money and energy; resorted to camouflage, deceit, and lies and, some have even gone to war for it. However, only a small percentage of men have succeeded in getting what they desire and the rest have just fallen by the wayside and surrendered. However, hope burns eternal in their hearts that perhaps someday, sometime they may strike gold. Gene Raskin captures the plight of these losers in the song, “Those Were The Days,”

Oh my friend we're older but no wiser
For in our hearts the dreams are still the same

I must confess that I am in the majority and live with the same hope.

However, there were days when I was young and fanciful. One of my fantasies was that I was irresistible to women – like God’s great gift to womankind. My daydreams, in those days, were made of these flights of fancies.

Those were the days my friend

We thought they'd never end

We'd sing and dance forever and a day

We'd live the life we choose

We'd fight and never lose

For we were young and sure to have our way.

Of course, those were also the days when I dreamed of all the great things I would do. I mused that someday in the future I would be a leader of the nation. In the pursuit of this goal, I wrote an article entitled “The Need for an Alternate Party to the Congress.” It was a blueprint for starting a new political party and how it could be corruption free. It also talked about a strategy to defeat the Congress at the polls.

Thus, it came about that I was invited, by a well-known organization for leadership development, to speak on the subject at a seminar. I was all of 25. This organization was funded by a large corporate house and the 3-day seminar was to be held in their management institute at Pune. Five star accommodations were provided on the campus. On that fateful day, a cold wintry December morning, there I was in a smartly tailored steel grey suit backed by coordinated accessories. Power dressing, if you please. I considered myself “Observed of all observers.”

There was a good omen and a bad omen when I arrived at the hall just a few minutes before the start of the seminar. The good omen was that the hall was nearly full and the bad omen was that the crowd was almost all male with just a sprinkling of middle-aged women suffering from “seminaritis.”  A situation I was not particularly happy with. Then it happened.

With only a couple of minutes to go, she arrived. Even as she stood at the distant doorway, hesitating just for a moment to check if she was at the right venue, she exuded a presence. I was already seated at the table and I unabashedly stared at her as she walked in with great poise and sat in the front row just opposite to me.

She was fair, tall and slim. She was in a crisp cotton sari and had a bright red s-shaped fine vertical tikka on her forehead. Her hair was dark with natural blonde streaks. As she sat down and very daintily crossed her legs, I noticed she was wearing gold zari braided kolhapuri slippers on perfectly designed feet and toes. However, what dazzled me were her lovely light gray eyes behind her rimless glasses. She was Archana, a Chitpavan Brahmin, who, as I later found out, happened to be just three days younger than I was. I felt a certain kind of glow within me in her presence. She smiled at the administrator of the seminar sitting next to me. He proudly told me that she was his daughter.           

The seminar was then inaugurated. I was introduced to the audience and, thereafter, stood up to give the speech. I had done a course in public speaking that taught us that whilst delivering a speech, to make an eye contact with the audience. Hence, when my eyes came to dwell on her, I saw her staring intensely at me and was all attention to what I saying. However, she also had a small smile playing on her lips. The speech was well accepted by the audience, although, ultimately, nothing came of it – exactly as Archana predicted at that time. After all, she had done her MA in political science.

As we were about to break for lunch, Archana came over to our table to speak to her father. She spoke to him in Marathi and there was such wistfulness in her tone whilst speaking to him that I fell in love with her at that moment. I have never ever heard anyone speak Marathi as beautifully as she does.

That evening at dinner, Archana, in a beautiful salwar and full sleeved kameez, looked absolutely radiant. She and I got talking. Surprisingly, we came to  share a  chemistry very quickly and our tête-à-tête that evening proceeded from the dinning hall to the footsteps of the administrator’s bungalow. We sat on the either end of one of the steps – a distance of about 4 feet separating us. We talked of politics, plays, music and our dreams. The great thing I discovered was that I could make Archana laugh fairly easily with my take on the topics we were discussing. However, if I tried to make any pass at her, she would laugh it off and use a favourite Marathi phrase of hers, “Gup bas,” to put me off. It was a Laxman rekha that I was not supposed to cross.

Time winged away that bitterly cold night and at 2 am in the morning, I decided that I wanted to marry her. I gave my proposal a political color. I told her half-jokingly that if both of us get married, I, with a beautiful Hindu Maharashtrian wife, would be a surefire winner at the polls and, some day, she could, perhaps, become the first lady of the country. 

She laughed, got up, on tiptoes climbed up the steps, and prancingly weaved her way to the house. I vended my way back to my guest apartment and lay awake, with the glow burning more fiercely than ever, till 5 am.

The next morning she told me that her parents wanted to meet me over tea in the evening. I raised my eyebrows and told her with a smile, “So soon? Oh, they must be thinking that I am a suitable boy for you. But, I hope your parents will not force me into marrying you.”

She laughingly retorted, “Ha, ha, Yeh munh aur masoor ki daal. Keep on dreaming.”

I left the next evening for Mumbai but Archana and I kept in touch on phone. One evening her mother called me and said that Archana was getting married to a Maharashtrian doctor in America and it would not be appropriate for me to speak for such long hours to Archana anymore. She, however, invited me to the wedding in Pune. 

Archana looked gorgeous in her bridal wear on that day. When our eyes met, she gave a shy smile and looked down.

               "Then the busy years went rushing by us
                We lost our starry notions on the way"

After many years, Archana, now a mother of two, called me but I felt as if it was only yesterday that we had talked to each other. The intermediate years melted away, we were young once again and, now that she was married, my jokes were a little naughtier and the ad libbing contained many double entendres. She enjoyed them and, indeed, confessed that she had not laughed that hard in a long, long time. I immediately paid a compliment to her husband for not wasting his time in trying to amuse his wife. Out came her favourite Marathi phrase, “Gup bas.” She added that her husband was a very good person but admitted that he was bit of a bore. I then told her that I was always there to bring some spark to her married life. She laughed and said, “Keep dreaming.”  

And dream, I did. I dreamt that,

‘I was invited by the king of good times to an inaugural flight of his new airlines to Switzerland. There were to be only four of us, besides the crew, on that flight. He, his girl friend, Archana and I. The programme was that all four of us would spend the previous night at the Hotel Centaur near the Mumbai International airport before taking the inaugural flight early morning the next day. He had booked the best two suites at the hotel. After a sumptuous and a laughter-filled dinner, we were ready to go to our rooms.

As Archana and I reached the suite, I grandly swiped the card, opened the door, bowed and invited her to go in first. She gave me her million-dollar smile and her lovely gray eyes twinkled as she walked in. I followed her with rising expectations. However, Archana seemed more interested in the décor, the carpet and the paintings in the suite. After inspecting the entire suite and drooling over the luxurious beds, she pointed to a long sofa in the anteroom and told me that I was to sleep there whilst she would sleep on the bed.        

I protested, saying, “Archana, after so many years of yearning, finally we are together and you want to waste this golden opportunity by sleeping separately.”

She replied with her favorite Marathi phrase, “Gup bas.” Then smilingly added, “Jo garajtey hai, woh barastey nahi.” The coup-de-grace came in her soothing Marathi, “Atha gup chup zopun ja, sakaali laukar uthun jayacha aahey. Good night.”’

I got up with a fright and was immediately thankful that it was only a dream. Later, I called Archana in USA and narrated my dream to her. She burst out laughing when I came to, “Jo garajtey hai, woh barastey nahi.” and just could not stop. She said she had not heard anything funnier than that.  

 However, not all was lost. After a few days she called me and said that the previous night she had gone to a party with her husband and he had worn such a baggy suit that she remembered how smartly dressed I was in the black suit on the morning I gave that speech in Pune. “I wished you were there instead of him.”

Uh, hunh, did I not say that I was irresistible to women …………………even if they are on the verge of grandmothers to be?  I still dream that I may someday conquer a woman – as Adam and billions after him have dreamt in vain.

 

THE PATHWAY TO A WOMAN'S HEART

Women, of all ages, are romantic at heart. It is one of the world’s most well kept secrets.

Women are, thus, a soft touch for starry-eyed stories. This is the golden pathway to a woman’s heart. This is what women really want – a good warm story. Only Yash Chopra and I are on to it.

Accidentally, I just happen to be an incorrigible storyteller. In my stories, I love mingling facts, fiction and fantasies. I have become such a veteran of this art, that after having woven the story, even I cannot separate the ingredients. Neither can Yash Chopra.

The biggest victim of these endless flights of my imagination was my wife in the early days of our marriage. Like any insecure person, I would tell her stories, more likely, fables, wherein I would make myself the hero. I could put Walter Mitty to shame any day.

Just after marriage, this story had my wife spellbound. I feel it is best to hear that narrative as I had told to my wife then. It made her believe that she was extremely lucky to be married to a very enviable lady-killer like me. Of course, she is wiser now. But unfortunately for her, it is a little too late! The stick-on has set.

I commenced the story to her thus:

“In my class at the college, there used to be an extremely beautiful girl by the name of Simran Bedi. She was really a pocket edition Venus. However, overpowering her total beauty, were her eyes. She had such lovely translucent eyes – light gray- green in colour.

Naturally, all the boys wanted to be friends with her but, somehow, it seemed that she was allured only by me. In spite of this, she and I would only exchange shy glances, for both of us were too timorous and hesitant to approach each other. Sadly, that was also the state of the entire new entrants to the college – all were finding it difficult to interact across the small groups that they had formed.

Therefore, the college organized an evening social for the first year students as an ice-breaking event. The social was to be from 5.30 pm to 7.30 pm as girls in those days were not allowed to be out of home after 8 pm. No hi-jinks or dancing was even contemplated for this get-together; only tame party games were to be played so that students would get to know one another. That was about all. The compere for the evening was a senior, Murli Mirchandani – popularly nicknamed Mirchi. He could well have been nicknamed, motor mouth.

The social was in a big hall in the basement. Mirchi, the master of ceremonies, went ho-hum in his opening remarks that evoked few nervous titters. The audience was too tense to enjoy his witticisms. After a few opening games, the ever popular ‘passing the parcel’ was announced.

The music started for the game and the parcel started going around at a fast pace. The music would then stop suddenly and the person holding the parcel, at that point of time, had to peel off the top paper layer of the packet and pay the penalty as written thereon. After many enjoyable punishments, the atmosphere seemed to be warming up.

As the game was nearing the end and the packet was being handed over frantically from one to another like a hot potato, the music stopped and the parcel was in Simran’s hand. She took off the top layer and the forfeit read, ‘You have to be kissed by a person of the opposite sex.’ There was an audible murmur of shock and disbelief in the audience.”

I paused here for an edge-of-the seat effect on the wife. She was wide-eyed and very excitedly asked, “Then what happened?”

I grandly asked for a glass of water. I drank the water at a leisurely pace to deliberately give her some extra anxious long moments. Thereafter, I continued,

“Simran was feeling extremely embarrassed and wanted another simpler fine but Mirchi would not hear of it. Finally, she agreed and looked around for a suitable boy. Frankly, Mirchi was hoping, she would select him. However, Simran, after looking around for a while, chose me.

As I started walking towards her at the centre of the hall, I could see that she was feeling extremely nervous at the prospect. I do not know what got into me at that moment for I boldly took the opportunity, bent down and ………………..gave her a very light peck - barely touching her cheek. She was relieved. Quietly, she said, ‘Thank you,’ but her eyes said much more.

The ice between the most beautiful girl in the college and me had been broken as I graciously said, ‘My pleasure.’ And, with a twinkle in my eye added, ‘You are welcome again, anytime.’”

As I ended my story, there were stars in my wife’s eyes. Spontaneously she said, “What a chivalrous person you were.” With that, she rushed towards me saying, “I love you soooooooo much.”

Quickly, I said under my breath, “Thank you, Walter Mitty.”


This post is an entry for the contest What Women Want @blogadda.com and pringoo.com

Shahrukh Ke Pass Kya Hai - Post 006

An on site account of Kat’s Birthday Bash.

Enter Shahrukh.

“Hi, Kat. Happy birthday. Won’t you kiss me?”

“Of course Sharukh, I will. But in private.”

Laughter all around. Kat then goes off to meet other guests.

Sallu now enters the scene.

“Hi, Shahrukh.”

“Hi, Sals.”

“Dude, I believe you are getting too close to Kat. Just lay off her.”

“But, what can I do? She is the one who dreams about me all the while.”

“Oh, she told you about it.”

“Yeah, she did. But really not her fault. Actually, my charm is such; millions of women go to bed dreaming about me.”

“And I believe, some men too. Whatever be it, just forget about her. Remember dude, you are trespassing on my property.”

“Uh uh. That’s not right. Kings do not trespass. All properties belong to the king and he can go wherever he wants.”

“King or not, just lay off Kat.”

“Sals, threatening a king is high treason.”

“I don’t know about that but if you do not lay off her, I will make the king literally bite the dust in the next few moments.”

“Cool it, buddy, I was just kidding. Okay, if you say so, I will only stick to K… K… K… Kiran.”

“Hey, who is talking of my wife? No one is sticking to my Kiran. She is mine and only mine.”

“Heard that dude? Same way, Kat is mine and only mine.”

“And Kareena is only mine, for the time being at least” said a new voice.

Then all the 3 voices said in unison, “And, Your Majesty, who do you have of your own?”

The king having no one, thought for a moment and then said, “Mere pass K….K…. K….. Karan hai.”

And with that the king walked out from the party in a huff.


blogadda

Dr. Manmohan meets President Bush - Post 002

The Indian Prime Minister, Dr. Manmohan Singh and the American President George W. Bush had some time back scheduled a very important meeting in Japan. The meeting was to discuss the progress of the Indo-US nuclear deal that both the governments were planning to sign in the near future.

Well, as everyone knows, the meeting was a pre-breakfast one at 6.30 in the morning. Our PM was sharp on time as he rang the bell of the Presidential suite. However, he was taken aback when the President of the USA himself opened the door – with an electronic toothbrush in his mouth. He gestured to the PM to walk in as he rushed back to the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth.

As he came out again he said, “Mr. Prime Minister, I am so sorry but I over slept. Make yourself comfortable. I will just bring out my treadmill and do my exercise for 15 minutes. Of course, I will not be able to talk to you as the music will be on at the same time. Anyway, I have something for you to pass your time. Laura dear could you please give the PM the wedding album of our daughter? He would be happy to see the pictures.”

“But Mr. President, I have come to report the progress we have made on the important agreement that you and I signed in July 2005.”

“Aw Mr. Prime Minister, I sign so many agreements. Early morning, I cannot recollect the agreement you are referring to. Just let me finish my treadmilling and, then, perhaps I may remember. In the meanwhile have a look at the pictures.”

Fifteen minutes later, our poor PM has gone through the album thrice and knows by then all the guests by sight who attended the wedding of the President’s daughter.

The President finishes what he called his treadmilling and says, “Mr. PM, you will have to excuse me again for another 15 minutes as I have to shower.”

“But Mr. President, the agreement ..”

“Oh, yea. I vaguely remember it now. Was it about global warming? Or, was it about Iran? Anyways, let me go for my shower and I may remember some more details of our agreement. Laura darling could you give the esteemed Prime Minister of India our wedding album to while away his time whilst I get dressed.”

After another 15 minutes the President comes out looking fresh and glowing and our poor PM is wilting. He has just endured going through the President’s wedding pictures. “Mr. Prime Minister, thank you for being so patient. Mr. Prime Minister, you are aware how much I respect you and your great country but I am sorry that at this moment I have to have an important confidential talk with Condi. We have to give a fresh threat to Iran as the oil prices have started coming down. Please excuse me for a little while. Laura sweet heart can you get my father’s wedding album for the honored Prime Minister of India? And Laura, whilst you are about it, also my childhood pictures album. I do not know how long I will take with Condi.”

Forty-five minutes have passed since the PM came to meet the President. The PM is decidedly looking pale. He has just seen the photographs of the three generations of Bushes. Finally, the Prez emerges and says, “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister, Condi just told me it is the nuclear deal we have to discuss. I had thought that the deal had already gone through because I found you so supportive of our policies on Iran in the last 3 years - just as it was envisaged in the Hyde Act. By the way, in a few hours from now, we are going to let out that Israel may bomb the nuclear facilities of Iran. Then, Mr. Prime Minister, see the oil prices rise. I love yo-yo-ing the oil prices”

“Yes Mr. President. Mr. President for the nuclear deal, the commies of our country are giving us a lot of trouble. But not to worry, I have just sent the safeguard agreement to IAEA without their knowledge. Boy, they are going to get mad when they find out.”

“Mr. Prime Minister, thank you very much for coming. Let us meet the media that is waiting out.”

The PM could only utter, “I was with the President for 50 minutes and I already feel like a family.”