What a Tale!
Hi there, I’m Birbal the Blogomaniac. You may faintly remember me. In my last avatar I was in the royal court of the Shahanshah-e-Sare Jahan se Achchha Hindostan Hamara, the great Jalaluddin Akbar Badshah. That was a wonderful time indeed when I enjoyed the best of both worlds. You know, in those days I used to have my cake and eat it too. Nowadays neither is possible, for there is no cake at all, all are bread and that’s also half baked and fungus-infected.
Let’s forget it and come over to more important topics such as getting lost in the beauty of you know what.
But before I lose myself, let me tell you a very interesting thing about my reappearance, this time in the pages of BlogomaniacBirbal. What happened, you know -- I, thin in the thinner air, was roaming about with the sole aim of rediscovering the wonders of the past in relation, particularly to you know what. Then all on a sudden I was spotted by someone or maybe I spotted someone looking like familiar to me. Wao! She was none other than the great lady who was the behind-the-wings editor of Blogakbarnama, the famous one time blog by my erstwhile boss. This lady with her all personal and impersonal charm and gargantuan gratifying grandiose was never in the limelight because she preferred a strict kind of anonymity and number two she was totally eclipsed by the huge headgear of my boss. That was the reason why she was never seen or heard. But mind you, she edited the blog quite right.
“Ma’am, What’re you doing here?”, I asked her.
“Why should I tell you?”, she replied in the same imperial vein she used to have in those days of the history and after a pause and perhaps having a second thought in accordance with the changed times added, “well. if you insist…I’m editing a newsblog.”
“Wah, Wah…that’s like a true editor”, I exclaimed and then claimed, “habits die hard.”
“What do you mean?”, she frowned back turning her Henry Moore-chiseled face and looking at me full view with her Ramkinkar Beij-sculpted eyes. “Hmmm…” I said to myself, “…everything which Akbar couldn’t fathom are intact.”
“What do you murmur?”, she asked again.
“Last query first answer”, I replied in a dispassionate voice, “I didn’t murmur. I only said, you’re still the same charmer. Now the answer to the first query…what I meant was, you’re a habitual editor. Aren’t you?”
“May be, maybe not. But then what are y-o-u doing here?”
“Attempting to get lost in the beauty of you know what,” I replied, this time very passionately. After all, a passionate losing is much better than a dispassionate regaining. Of course, this is my personal opinion which everyone has a right to differ with. Please exercise your right as and when you please.
“I see, you’re still in the getting-lost syndrome,” she said, “Do you remember, you used to get lost frequently, being unmindful of the frequency of what you were getting lost into?”, she prodded.
“Look, Madam, frequency has nothing to do with getting lost or found. You used to get lost into Akbar more frequently than any number of frequency and Akbar found Jodhabai. Can you deny that?”, I posted the comment with a vengeance.
Looking pale and sad, she said, “How do you know?”
“How do I know what? Jodha or you? Well, Jodha is well known. I don’t have to know her afresh. And you? God alone knows”, I sounded quite stern in my knowledgeable declaration
“Why do you say like that?”. Is her voice choked? Eyes moist? Strange. I’ve never seen a choked-throated, moist-eyed editor before, that too this lady. I was twenty five per cent puzzled and was not very sure where to fix the rest seventy five per cent free space. She fixed it in a wholesome, full hundred per cent puzzle. Coming closer
and then closest, she rested her head on my chest, cleared her throat and volleyed, “Stupid, it wasn’t Akbar, it were y-o-u, my ultimate object of desire that I was lost in”. Pausing and leaving me gasping, she continued, “You think you’re very intelligent and scholarly and wise and what not only because you have been Akbar’s closest chamcha.”
Since she was telling the truth, I had no comments to make. But then I thought it wasn’t befitting for me to stand like a statue and I shouldn’t carry her head-load on my chest any longer, I made an attempt to offload.
“Hey, Don’t move. Let me finish”, she snubbed and clinging tighter, said, “Try to remember, it was Holi. Akbar and you were smeared in colors. Both of you were sitting in royal couches under a makhmal canopy and watching a troupe of Russian ballerinas performing a Bollywood number. I along with Abul Fazi who took a break from his boring job of actually penning the Ain-e-Akbari were sitting just behind you. I was inflamed by the summer heat and further inflamed by the presence of the object of my desire in a royal couch just before me.
The obvious next for me was activate my object-achieving mechanism and go for achieving ASAP.
But then, I had to wait with patience untill the festival dance ended and everybody left the venue. But to my disgust, the boss tried to wake you up from your sleep you were enjoying in a chin-touching-chest posture. When you refused to get up, boss laughed and asked me to take care of you and left followed by Fazi. My heart leapt with joy to the extent that I forgot the mandatory ‘Hukm, Jahanpanah’ answer to the royal order.
Imagine, the whole atmosphere was quiet without a soul around. The warm and delicious silence was being barbequed by the warmer and more delicious cooing of a cuckoo and I was getting further and further horny. What else would you expect as would-be-objective- achiever as me to do at such an inviting moment?”
“Er…well…”, I attempted an answer under duress.
“Shut up”, she snubbed again, “I didn’t ask you a question. The one I said right now was no question but an annexure to my objective achievement or maybe non achievement script. Stupid.”
While justifying her observation, I, as a full time stupid was perspiring to maintain a critical balance, on one hand, between falling flat on my back owing to the pressure of her unrelenting heady submission on my bosom and on the other, standing on my feet as strongly and firmly as a war horse, she continued publishing her script.
“As a struggling achiever I came close to my object and bending down, tried to disconnect my object’s chin from the chest. I succeeded but failed to open my object’s eyes. But I didn’t care and asked my brain to direct my gaping lips to act. As a natural reflex of my deep desire for my ultimate object of desire, my eyes performed an automatic shut down and the action delivered. But at the very next moment I had to owl-open the eyes as my lips sensed something horrific they never sensed before. My terrified eyes found, instead of landing on their desired destination pair, my lips landed half on my object’s forehead and the other half on a portion of my object’s headgear-covered half of the forehead. That the chin of my object actually slipped off my trembling hand synchronizing with the nervous action of my lips and
got reconnected with the chest, went unseen by my closed eyes. Now”, she paused, severed the head-chest connection, closed her eyes, held me in tighter embrace, lifted her face to mine and cooed.
While for a moment I was considering the pros and cons of both obliging and being obliged, she impatiently showed the indomitable might of her lips, this time no fifty-fifty on forehead-headgear border but a full hundred on the top of not my headgear but my bare bald. Her closed eyes and my closed eyes didn’t notice, as she lifted up her chin and extended her lips, I reciprocated erroneously by not extending my lips but by lowering my head.
“Stupid”. By uttering this together in a single C-sharp note, whether we complimented each other or lamented our respective self simultaneously, I ‘m not sure.
That was however the first and thus-far-and-no-further occasion I encountered a stupid editor in relation to a stupid Birbal!
No comments:
Post a Comment