The pasta lesson

It’s been a while since I began questioning the morality of my job as a copywriter. As I picked up my latest job brief, my cynicism grew deeper and darker. I was to write nice things about a popular pasta brand, and eventually cajole the masses into buying it. I tried it, and just like a couple of earlier experiences, hated it with utmost passion. There lies the answer to my question - colorful and steamy in a nice white ceramic bowl.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

Afterglow

Woman: "I am going to make you drink a whole lot of rum and make you do things which you would otherwise refuse to."

Man: "There are many consequences to excessive alcohol consumption - hallucination and oral disembowelment to name a few. But FYKI, hypnosis is definitely not one of them."

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

The American Job

I have a friend who lives in the United States of America. She is getting married in December. A couple of days back, she asked me if I could do a little bit of cropping and make her wedding invitation cyber-friendly, and fit for circulation via email. I agreed. By agreeing, I deprived yet another American of a few American dollars. I guess this will not go down too well with Mr. Obama; considering how he has reservations about outsourcing.

(courtesy: bonsaiz)

Bonsaiz

There are times when some very amusing thoughts strike me. Blame it on a lack of imagination or my sheer inability to articulate, I end up losing them in the ruthless quagmire. And hence I decided to start a new blog as a dedication to those thousands of dead and stunted flashes. I decided to call it bonsaiz – in reference to you know what. The bonsaiz blog resides at http://bonsaiz.blogspot.com.

After a few posts, reconsideration and suggestions from friends, I decided to kill bonsaiz and continue with this blog. But there still remained a part of me in love with the whole concept . As a result, every time I write one for bonsaiz, it will be posted on bonsaiz, as well as this blog. So while this blog shall benefit of and poach from bonsaiz, bonsaiz will remain an unscathed, often updated and a fully-functional mini-clone.

The journal

Prison walls have memories written all over them. There are those of joy, of agony, of bereavement and of fulfillment. However, the ones most deeply etched are often of remorse. They are written in bright red. So bright, that every time you read them, your eyes hurt. The one that read ‘the fateful afternoon’ was scorching. It almost burnt his heart.

He was there when the police arrived. On his knees, by her body, crying like a little boy. It was the maid who informed the men in khakhi. All the evidence pointed at him. Circumstantial, they had called it. The prints on the gun, the duplicate key to her apartment, and of course, the motive.

He did not utter a word in his defence throughout the trial. He was not bothered. His relatives had arranged for the best lawyer in town. The prosecution argued vehemently about the psychopath he had turned into after his break up. How he wanted revenge. How he sneaked into her house and shot her mercilessly. He did not even nod his head. Even at the verdict. For him, it was all over on that fateful afternoon.

He woke up from his trot down the memory lane at the creaking of the latch. He walked like a zombie towards his execution room. The last meal left untouched had turned cold. There was no room left for anything. The executioner looked to be eager to finish his job and head back home. He empathized. So did he.

He looked at the priest with cold eyes as he read out the prayers for his soul. He closed his eyes in prayer for a moment and then opened suddenly as if in some realization. The executioner looked at the clock and gestured towards the jail superintendent. It was almost time.

The veil fell over his head. He felt the darkness spread from within. Now it was uniform. His world seemed to be in synchrony with his mind. He smiled. A smile nobody else in the room saw; and even if they did, would never have understood.

One nod of the head met another. The noose tightened. The rope loosened. A wooden platform slid. His neck cracked. Muscles stretched. The last struggles of the soul before it left its mortal home. The doctor pronounced him dead at 03:14am. Justice was done. Good prevailed.

Miles away, inside a room that witnessed that same fateful afternoon, a few pages fluttered in the early morning breeze. A pen rolled lazily across. The words on them had not been completely buried by time and dust. Specially the last ones. The ones that read, “and therefore I go.”