He entered the room with the expert walk of a tiger out on a prowl. With the air of a veteran he cast a roving eye over the crowd. He knew just where and how he would spend the rest of the evening. He had already selected those who would have the honour of his company. And he had selected his corner. A vantage point overlooking the room and an arm’s length from the much needed bar. The bar was his anchor. In this mind-numbingly boring party he knew the only way he was going home at the end of the evening was copious amounts of alcohol. He hated these events. All these socialites attempting to be so cool. Delhi was fun. Delhiites were the devil reincarnate. All those Punjabis ladies with derrieres needing two chairs. Dripping with gold. Dressed in flashy saris. And their wonderful, faithful husbands. Who looked at women as if they were a piece of meat. He couldn’t take it. He admired women. He loved women. All sorts. Well, the nice sorts anyway. And he showed his appreciation all right....
I'm in that mood where I can't decide what to type due to the sheer frustration I feel. I don't get it. How can one person be so absolutely contrary to what you are and still stick around to annoy you. I typed-backspaced-typed like a zillion times until deciding not to say anything because status updates are a sham. You type in some heartfelt message good or otherwise and later on when unsuspecting viewers ask you to explain yourself, you realize you can't. No one would understand and more often than not, it's a really stupid reason and it's embarrassing to reveal it. Which is why I like my blog. No one really reads it. Not even my family or my best friends. Not even me. But I write this crap; I can't be expected to read it too. Let me just turn schizophrenic and start conducting conversations with myself. Out loud. I do speak to myself in my head; they're very intelligent conversations too. It's very hard to find someone who likes Marqu...
Once upon a time though I can’t tell you when; in a place faraway though I can’t tell you where- there lived a young girl. That sweet child was as fresh as the morning dew; as pure as snow at dawn; as happy as a flower in the breeze. She could be called the ideal one. The one we all strived to be. And she was that. Her name, as beautiful as she was; was Cherie. Cherie. French. Does that give you a clue? Don’t be too sure. Cherie was the sweetest thing that had ever lived in that little provincial town. Everyone went to her with their problems; her being all of 14 yrs old. She had a way that only a child could have; to simplify things and with one smile from her; she could make people forget all that was wrong with their lives. But Cherie had problems of her own. As much as she could, she hid behind that brilliant smile of hers. Where everyone knew everyone’s business; no one knew hers. Cherie was an orphan; living with an uncle who had been an absentee guardian for most of her...
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pearls of wisdom