Umbrella Maintenance

Umbrellas are of various colors. For example, Brown, Black, Red, Pink, and Green. An Umbrella may be an open umbrella or a closed umbrella. It has nothing to do with their states of mind. Despite the myths, an Umbrella is not particularly happy when its raining, but definitely and most particularly hates frequent rains, unexpected drains, and miscreant opening and closing. Also, it hates any kind of water touching its insides.

You may notice sometimes that an umbrella may act difficult. Maybe it doesn't open when you just left the shade and entered the rain. Now that is just plain teenage embarrassment. Look about you, is there a flush pink umbrella acting royally indifferent nearby? That is it, the cause of the embarrassment and the failure. There is a time-tested, rather sick, but working solution for this. Just take your umbrella back in, find a dark corner, stroke it appropriately and you will see it rising with flying colors. Now that you have it high and mighty, go ahead, walk into the rain, zoom and flash, and declare that you've arrived. Though not too fast, mind you.

You may also sometimes notice that an umbrella, though its usually considered a good thing under normal circumstances, may act tough and stubborn sometimes. It resists a hurried closing. An umbrella at its flair, showing off in style, is hard to tame and cut back and close, especially if there is audience around, the pink one, that is. The best way to deal with such stubborness and hard-headedness is to give your umbrella a good share of opening everyday, preferably in the rain. And to keep under wraps and covers otherwise, which basically hinders its opportunistic vision and keeps it cool and calm.

After a good long stint in the rain, a wet umbrella may want to drool for a long time, even though it has long since been closed. It is advised to please let it. And then to wipe it dry and cover in the wraps. Read and follow the instructions for a long durable life. Store in a cool and dark place. Keep safe from children.

Lastly, in conclusion, please let your umbrella have a good time, while simultaneously keeping it in check. There are laws in some countries against any deviant behaviour from the standard and accepted umbrella-rain relationships, despite the very natural tendency of an umbrella to playfully strike or rub against another. There may also be restrictions on the usage routine, depending on the laws of the land. Please check the instruction manual, and the constitution of your country, for a longer life. Thank you.

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Just know that I will go

Tilt your stupid head, go ahead
Lie with all your teeth beneath
with upper ones in a smile, puerile
and i won't say a word, my bird

We will, but not for long, get along
One day the shine will exhaust, and lost
One bag will pack, from the empty rack
and i'll then never be seen, my queen

I hope you understand, this rant
Its just that when i'm not near, i fear
that you will look and will be shook
that you, of this future cold, I never told

Mera Pyaara Pink Patel

Manliness is overrated. So is the color pink. And so is the effect of one on the other.

A hall is known by its second years and what it makes of them, rather than the color of its walls. Appearances, as has been proven recurringly since the inception of the Hall, or Time, are deceptive. You may enter a bright white sparkling corridor and think it's a corridor to Heaven, or the insides of the White House, or Anup Bishnoi's Heart, or maybe a wormhole through space. But it could be any of those. You see, a pink Patel is, similarly, a deceptive visual.

A roar in the common room undoubtedly sounds as ferocious still as it did without the sheep thinking of the pink walls outside. It's, you see, just an arbitrary meaningless fact. That the tradition of a most traditional Hall of Residence, though, has been interfered with, is a most inexplicable event. I mean, who really thought of it? And who agreed? And who in heavens did let this mindless blasphemy, totally unimportant and irrelevant though it may be, really happen? Or maybe nobody really had a choice so to speak, this was just destiny waiting to happen, since a long long time.

A Pink Patel is still a Proud Patel. Notice the brilliant, totally inspirational use of apt and awesome alliteration right there. That's the stuff of legendary jingles that motivate a thousand generations. Of patelians. Yo Patel.

You're Free

noir na diva, na meera tila tilas
aamera tila tilasa, viranya tej palas
nadira lavo na nodira, la meera dina-dina
na nadir-manya nohita-sama, na roona tila tilas

The above lines mean you're free. In so many words, they make you believe in your free will. And the context for the said freedom is whatever you want it to be. It doesn't matter where, or when; just know, you're free.

Till the dawn and then till the dusk. Till the farthest world and then till farther still. Till the end of time, and then from start to the end again. This holds. You're free.

For the smallest moment between two others, for the silence in the background that existed forever, for the time that you thought she was yours, for the duration of the fall of earth into the sun. You're free.

When you decided to kill yourself, when you let yourself be led, when you walked as if in sleep, when you were able but not willing. You were, as much as you are now, and as much as you will ever be, free.

Love it or hate it. You did it.

Wait, what? Ah, right right. Umm, what?

I was about to throw the tie down on the bed when the microwave beeped. I got a bit confused due to the suddenness of it all and didn't exactly know what to do, went half way to the kitchen and thought why was I still carrying the tie with me? And in the sudden realisation, to counter the shameful stupidity I had shown, threw the tie down right away. It fell to the floor. I think I felt stupid again but I couldn't stop because of the microwave beeping really loud. It suddenly dawned that despite the repeated sharp sudden sounds of the beep, it really wasn't a matter of any urgency. That the beeps just meant that I was free to come and eat the hot food any time now. That revelation was irritating, now that I had come all the way to the kitchen and with an innocent tie still on the ground somewhere on the way. I felt sorry, and went back to it and picked it up. But now I didn't know what to do with it, because the bed and the beeping microwave were on opposite directions now. I would have to choose where to go first now, and I hate making such decisions, specially those with only two options. I stood there for sometime, thinking about the decision to be made but mostly just stuck nervously in the suddenness of the moment, why did everything have to happen all at once. And suddenly the beeps stopped. That was like god's interference or something, seriously, and suddenly everything made sense. I didn't have to go to the microwave anymore because it wasn't calling for me anymore, and I had the tie right there in my hand and the bed right in my view waiting for me. Everything was crystal clear and I lunged for the bed. I reached it, threw the tie on it with grandeur, thanked the god, and sat down smiling with satisfaction. I don't know what I was intensely contemplating but suddenly a slew of sharp sounds filled in my mind and broke the delicate chain of thought. The microwave was beeping again, o' god what do I do now!

ladai ladai maaf karo, dash dash dash dash dash

("dash" is used as the proverbial beep here, this being a kid channel and all)

Vinayak Pathak, as we all know by now, is totally famous on the internet, totally. Why, he is such a meme! Nevermind the feminine sound of that word.

Now this very honorable subject of our little discourse here has recently been tainted by this man here. This... man, for the lack of a better word, is known to be a ghastly dastly manipulative schemer. A schemer of no better conscience than, say, an evil paper boat. Censuring any elaboration of that inappropriately explicit analogy in public interest, we tell you, in the next few scrolls, the complete truth about the dash son dash dash bitch that is, dash dash dash dash Dash.

He:

1. has an extra ball in the bag [citation needed]

2. is really proud of his humility [1]

3. loves a mouthful of Truth [one day you shall know, one day]

4. has been known to approach men from behind, if you know what I mean, and push them off the cliff, with the final words, "Boo." [true story]

5. has evolved an extra helping hand [just trust me ok]

References:

[1] - Dash: "I'm really proud of my humility."

As were to be the unfortunate events to unfold, our simultaneously cute and sexy protagonist, V, approached, platonically ofcourse, the Greatly Sleazy One, dash Dash, and asked for some utterly innocent, absolutely natural, lifestyle advice regarding the future prospects of, well, so to say, getting a girl. And what followed then is a total and naked display of shameless evil stripping away the last of the camaraderie, the sacred brotherly bond of the user and the used between a senior and a junior, respectively, from the face and chest of the earth. A scheming plot to bring down the chances, the prospects, and the sex appeal, of the Cutest One, that one with the nose proud and long, and the One with the Question Mark burnt on his forehead.

Hence it is that we, in all the sacred spirit of justice, try to bring out the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, about this victimized angel of manhood.

He, the symbol of male endeavor,:

1. is gentle.

2. is a symmetric kind of a person.

3. can just turn away and run, when optimal.

4. will make a good computer one day. Or a good barber.

5. does have that extra hand on the shoulder. It automatically waves Hi to people on the road. Pretty nifty.

So guys... just keep away ok. And girls, listen up. You have been missing out, really. And you should totally go out with this guy. Trust me.

Marry me, I'm the Batman

A gun walked alone, pointing randomly at shiny glasses and scared cats. A thug nearby, whistling away in a hurry, looked at it with suspicion. How could a gun make the whoosh sound that it was making? Must be the wind.

The gun, ofcourse, took no notice of the bright clothes or the thug in them. It went past whooshing its metal around, and scaring cats. They loved to look that way anyway, that stretched, totally messed up electrocuted look that cats loved to look like. Its like their joke on the things that think they've scared them and feel smug for it.

The thug, now comfortable with the whoosh of the gun, approached it in small steps. So it doesn't scare the trigger into a pull. That would be bad for the cat. The one on the crosshair then. It was the thug's cat.

As this little game of the gun and the cat and the thug went on, there sat on the top of the building, a flowing shiny figure of a worked-up, but calm, body covered in the blackest night. It saw the little game with great interest. It wanted the thug, before the gun got it.

In the nanosecond that passed between when the thug caught hold of the gun, too smug and content at keeping the cat scared, which was doing it so its master could get the gun, and when the cat suddenly made that gotcha face that annoyed the gun greatly enough to flick the trigger in anger, what happened was extremely quick and blurred, as seen by the shiny figure watching from above. What happened was that the gun let out a bullet, but the thug forceful grab moved it away from the cat, and the gunshot hit the shiny figure.

The cat brought its teeth out in an excited smile, and the shiny figure fell with a thud.