Dogged

For more than a month, my new apartment didn’t have curtains. Why? I could have bought one but my uncle told me that he would get me one, for free! I waited. For more than a month. Every day, I woke up grimacing at the Middle East sun that toasted my bed at 6 in the morning. And then came winter, followed suit by my free curtain. What a joke!

The community where I live has some very interesting people. (Some of my Facebook friends would immediately remember my neighbors upstairs. No, I am not talking about them) So, I pull the cords and open the window curtain, the lush green meadow rises up to meet your eyes. Nice.

There would always be some people on the grass. Early morning, noon time, evening, at the dead of the night. Some people are plain jobless or sleepless or both. But there are some who stand out. They are as follows...

First, the pathan who I have never seen standing on his feet. He always squats on the floor as if he is afraid that he would be snatched away by flying raptors or something. You can find him there in the morning and at noon. I swear; every now and then he would shield his eyes against the sky and look around for the unseen danger. And he would pick his teeth, incessantly. There must be a lot stuck in there.

Then you have the boxer woman. She is short, pudgy and is present during early morning with her trainer, a skinny dude who holds the mitts for her. Her boxing skills aren’t much to talk about. But you can’t stop watching her. She swings her thick hands and whacks the trainer guy sometimes in his ribs. Every time he gets hit, he raises one leg out of pure pain and reflex. I once counted 6 leg lifts within 60 seconds. After 9 pm, she would be back in the lawn alone with a mobile phone and a bag of chips.

Now, the couple. They run in circles every morning and evening.  The man would be always talking and laughing. He would slow down to watch their younger fellow runners, as they pass by. Especially the girls in hot pants and shorts. That is when the wife does that trick with her elbow. The man would yelp, laugh and continue to run with her. I have never seen that woman smiling. Can’t blame her.

Finally, the women’s club. Around four to five women always assemble on the lawn with approximately double the number of children, aged between 1 and 12 years. The meeting starts at around 5 in the evening. Language of communication is a mix of English and at least four other Indian languages. Every time a slender woman passes by, they would immediately stop and offer a mass-blank-stare. The banter would continue once the subject has been studied and conclusions are drawn. The kids would get busy playing or beating each other up.  

But all it took was one person, one evening to change the scenario. She came to the lawn dragging a big dog after her. The dog was cute. Well, it looked kinda cute from where I was sitting; my vantage point 8 floors above. Some kids and one or two members of the women’s club gathered around the hound. The dog acknowledged the pats from the kids. He then set his eyes on one of the ladies who lifted a plump leg, pointed her toe at the mongrel and said something. I couldn’t hear clearly from where I was sitting. But it got a reaction from the dog. It quickly hastened itself to the leg offered and proceeded to do what usually a mongrel would do to legs. 

The commotion that followed can’t be adequately expressed in words. While the woman with “the leg” and some kids screamed, others laughed. Some where frozen, not knowing what to do. Including myself. For the first time, I saw the pathan standing tall on his two legs and watching the scene, mesmerized. The boxer hit the trainer in his nuts I think. He doubled up.Perhaps he was laughing.

It has been a week. The women do not venture beyond the immediate vicinity of our flat. The dog and the owner made another appearance yesterday.The women's club gave a mass-blank-stare from the safe end of the street. The dog looked at them, squatted right in the middle of the lawn and executed an atomic dump. 

Shit happens.

Friday

(pic courtesy: www.layoutsparks.com)

It rained in Dubai. Big deal. 

Facebook had an overdose of poorly shot photos of the city in rain. The casual facebooker was content that he served the purpose in his life by letting others know that it rained; just in case the others thought the water was just an illusion. 

The asphalt and concrete burdened with petrol/oil/dirt and every other substance over the last two years (time elapsed since the last rain) gave it all away to the water and co-produced the dark slime that send moving cars drifting on to pavements. 

Buildings never meant to stand in rain leaked in a thousand places. It was almost funny watching the Sharaf DG staff at Ibn batuta mall trying to look nonchalant as the shoppers dodged falling drops of water without much success.

The kids who came out to play in the rain went indoors with their feet smelling funny and clothes stained with soot-oil-rain mix. Their mothers cursed loudly as fathers huddled in front of televisions sipping hot chai. 

Friday morning was dull, wet and messy. How much ever the early-morning-poet in you tried to administer the romantic eye on the proceedings, it was far from being beautiful.

But it was as lazy as it could get. It slowed down the city. Then it made big dirty muddy puddles everywhere. And as customers sunk into couches and ordered more hot coffee, the waiter carried on at a faster frenetic pace.

It would take a lot more than a rain to slow him down.

Scenes from a mall: part three

Giving fashion advice is not what I planned to do today but certain endeavors are often the consummation of your reaction to circumstances. Yesterday evening at the mall I saw what is the fad, what is chic and what some people wear under their trousers. After the experience I concluded that fashion was created by the voyeur, for the voyeur, worn by the deficient.

However if you are a fashion-aficionado, I may have something for you. Ladies first!

Ladies, it is not your shoes that we notice first and you know that by now, right? You figured that out when you were 13. However when you are standing on something that looks like Snoopy's pen, we have to lower our eyes and grimace. Then you know that you have our attention.What you do not know is that, that "shoe" was not made by your friend. In fact it was made by someone who had no clue about human anatomy. A girl who is perched on top of that may feel 'sexy' because she may have seen the hot chick in the Gladrags centre-spread, had her legs up in the air wearing one of those. Yes, her feet are "up". She doesn't walk around a mall wearing one of those, because she would trip, fall down and break her freakin' nose. So girl, if God didn't give you height, find a matching guy. Do not stand on stilts. Leave it to the clowns at the circus. They get paid. You don't.

The tighter the fit, the better it is? I had a half-nod on my face when I thought of Kim Kardashian. But I am not Ray J to speak with conviction. And speaking of proper fit, I found a rather bovine girl wearing something she perhaps purchased when she was at prep school. The apparel was the big-red on the right. It took me a double espresso and multiple deep breaths to pacify my palpitating heart. Even the coffee tasted red for the first few sips. It looked like Jerry Springer had come to town and was in the mall.

I maneuvered the corner to the book shop and almost screamed out when I saw this apparition. Her face had more colors than a Picasso. She would have spent a few, highly unproductive hours painting her countenance to create that effect. She can't be married. If she is, then Salvador Hali is still alive and in her bed. Girl, if your face is the window to your soul, you have a rather colorful soul. As colorful as an Indian Holi; and as mad as it. Be warned, it is illegal in some countries to walk around like that after sunset.

Enter, Men. In all sizes and shapes. Some skinny like me, some big, some small. The teenage boys who walked past me seemed to have some serious issues. Their denims were fastened at the tip of their genitals, assuming that is where they had their organs like everyone else. To make sure that the denims stayed there, they walked like cow boys with hernia. Why would you do that, kid? May be they were in the loo and some urgent matter got them leaving the job half way through and they had to rush outside. And suddenly, they forgot what was it for! The last time I did something similar was when I was 3 years old. My evil mind wished for a bomb scare and people stampeding over two guys withe their trousers around their ankles.

The man in the picture had the roving eye and strange hair. He kept looking at the girls who passed by and kept checking his head gently as if to ensure that it was still intact. This stud had hair that beat all odds and physics to remain erect and waved gently in the air conditioned breeze that wafted around us, bearing mixed perfumes. Two kids at the ice-cream shop, stopped crying and gazed at him through wide eyes. Their mother seemed transfixed by this sight. She looked confused. So was I. I wondered how would it look like if it caught fire.I wondered what would happen if it got stuck on a coir carpet. I wondered if he was from Chernobyl. Hey guy, you won't get any girls with that. You will trap a few flies, sure.

The tale of trousers didn't end. The obvious reason for impotency presented itself in front of us all. The young man wore something that took a tailor some strategic snipping and stitching. What got me thinking was how he got into one of those. Oh wait!...how the hell is he going to get out of it? That was just the beginning of a series of concerns that crossed my mind. Is he color blind? Does it pain? What is the maximum speed that can be attained while wearing this and walking? Can he sit without seriously damaging his family jewels? He didn't seem concerned. I looked around. There were more sights around than a pair of eyes could take in.

More on that...later. I need another espresso.

Four is a crowd.

Luther and I were rappelling down Bob’s sweaty, hairy , broad back after a hearty meal of cholesterol enriched blood. Oh…before you start to wonder what that means, allow me to clarify: we are two adult male bed bugs living on and off our host/friend/house Bob. I don’t think his real name is Bob. Well..we bugs don’t  really need a name for the body that feeds us. But it is convenient when you have to differentiate between two hosts. Luther was of the opinion that H1 and H2 were quite confusing. I still don’t get it. We never had a permanent H2. I mean a second host/friend/house. Until now.

Living on the stinky mattress in Bob’s house had its perils but that is an occupational hazard we got used to. Bugs all over the world may have similar stories to tell, if they lived long enough to do so. A bug is always one bite away from sudden death. I have seen all the other members of our tiny community meeting bloody instant endings. Some times treated to hot molten wax. Sometimes picked up by nimble fingers and squashed against the floor or wall. Helen, that lovely girl with whom I had planned a family still lives on our wall in the form of a comet shaped dark stain. I remember good ol’ Jonathan who went through 5 agonizing minutes after he was sprayed with some horrible stuff, something Bob’s friend gave him. It curdled my blood watching him die slowly.(Well..technically, not my blood. It was Bob’s) The autopsy report said something else. It said he died inhaling a column of stale air that was trapped for the last 30 years somewhere on Bob’s body. Jonathan was an adventurous bug. May be it was true.

Finally, it came to just two of us. We knew that our family tree would end with us. Two adult male bugs. We both overcame our traumatic insemination instincts long back and have survived until now. But matters  worsened. Since last Sunday, to be precise.

Bob was an ideal host. He was slow, single and sweet. We knew where to bite and where to avoid. We knew him like the palm of our mandibles. And then, without warning, he started to change. First he started to change his bed sheets. Then he started washing his clothes. Bathing times were longer and he smelled weird to us with all that scented soap and deos he bought from some cheap grocery store. He even painted over my Helen’s memory on the wall. The biggest shock came when he brought in the first female version of a human to our abode. Insanity!

May be it was pure jealousy. Luther and I had just us to ourselves. Bob was in some way a part of our life. Another lone male in this strange triangle of love, blood and brotherhood. Three lonely men in the same bed with the warmth of their bodies comforting each other is not your typical scene of love but we lived it every day and night. We were inseparable in spite of Bob’s frantic scratching and turning. And there walks in a girl. Bob’s girl. Tragedy!

It has been a week since she came into his life. It has been seven long days since we had a good meal. We could never venture out fearlessly like before. That girl had big eyes and a matching eye sight. She would spot us from far.But tonight we just couldn't suffer the pangs. The hunger burned through. We went up to Bob's bed.

 And there we looked death in its face. It was supposed to be a quick drink but we bit the wrong thigh. I remember Luther mumbling something about “where has all the hair gone!”. Too late! Bob’s girl’s scream pierced the night and she shot up from the bed scratching her naked thigh. Bob was not where he was supposed to be. He appeared to look down from some where above that girl. He got up as we rappelled down his sweaty back as fast as we could and down into our hide out. We knew that within a few seconds, Bob would become a monster. He would pick up that spray and we would join Jonathan in his heavenly abode. Scared to death, Luther and I hid under the bed and listened to the deadly hiss of poison from that steel can, above us. We heard Bob’s girl screaming; “Bugs!”  Luther’s eyes met mine. As if he read my thoughts, Luther countered in a whisper; “Women!”

Facebook knight

0700 hrs.

I crawled over to the study table. Checking mail isn’t something I do because it must be done. It is more of an incognizant act done purely out of habit. Like scratching your cojones. So did that. I mean the mail checking routine. Simultaneously I logged in to facebook. My mouse finger had a tingling feeling.

I would have been disappointed if there had been no new friend requests. There was one from “Eden Cherry”. One of my friends is a common friend. That will do. My friend circle is 2719 and counting.

My status update every 25 minutes has managed to harness and hold the attention of a huge fan club. I do not know half the jerks in the circle but that is irrelevant. At least a dozen click “like” when I post something even I don’t understand. Last Saturday’s “my boner is empty” got a whopping 32 likes. There was a typo that slipped in as I performed a fast update with a single blackened finger on my blackberry when I found that the Xerox machine was out of ink. Who cares! Even if I belch on facebook my darling Teena would click “like”. She is dumb and pretty. God bless her.

After a quick glance at the video uploads by my friends, I realized that I am not doing my part, enough. I promised myself that I will be more diligent and proceeded to share a few with the rest of the world. But realized a little late that the “Hot nun at Canterbury” was an inappropriate one for my good ol’ convent school teacher who recently got in touch with me. But it was all her fault. Would she ever realize that facebook font is too small for her age and eyesight? She shouldn’t be here at all.

There seems to be a lot of buzz about a dam these days. I googled it and came up with this much: “a masonry gravity dam”. I didn't understand shite. Who cares! I copied it on to my status line and got an instant “like” from Teena babe, four “shares” in 3 seconds and a “wow” from Willy, the bartender at the local joint. They must be thinkin I went to the “Harold” or something! Or is it the “Harvard?”

Holy splooge! The last time I updated a profile pic was yesterday! In a flash my handsome face was replaced by a better one. Teena once again came in like a flash and said “cute”. I love this girl. My high school friends who used to call me a “Kermit” should see this. But the “Celeb look alike” app on facebook keeps telling me I look like Iggy Pop. I hate that app.

Suresh is screaming in CAPS that some guy called Mark Wahlberg will shut down facebook for ever. Doucheberg! How could he? I shared this vital info with everyone and now that butt-wipe Suresh who said it in the first place seems to have deleted his post. Am I feeling like an idiot or is it something I ate?

Enough if this nonsense. I’ve got that email to be forwarded to a 100 people. For every 100 persons, Bangbros (weird name!) will donate a penis to some guys in Saudi Aarabia who looked at female goats and sang a song. Save our world, you people. It is all ending one pretzel at a time.

Well….I know you will google THAT for sure.

Mirror, mirror......

If your bathroom mirror always looks clean, it means that there are no women staying with you. Those who doubt the credibility of this fact are recommended to check before you say nay. However I must also consider a few nit-picky house keepers who would not let the mirrors stay like that. For such households, an inspection of a hair brush (especially the cylindrical ones) would reveal it all. A few such revelations were on the bed, belly up and staring back at me that day, as I looked down in disbelief.

I was losing hair, I had dandruff and my comb was being used by the two ladies at home; a daughter who had straight hair and her mother who had wavy hair. In spite of the assortment of hair brushes and combs that were strewn all around the house, these two ladies had some sort of devilish plan wherein they would always use MY comb. Afterwards the comb was discarded with all that long/wavy/straight hair entangled around it like a grizzly puzzle.

That day, I spent more than 15minutes trying to get that comb looking like what it was supposed to. It was at the end of that distasteful job that I discovered the aforementioned facts. Soon, I was convinced that the hair loss was due to the dandruff which of course came from the women who used my comb. Trying to convince them not to use my comb was not even a thought. I knew by then that you can’t keep a comb away from a woman for too long. That was against the laws of nature. I had to find another way.

The coward in me who hated confrontations with hair-brush-wielding women found a peaceful way to tackle the dandruff problem. The salvation was always an obvious choice right across the street. The saloon was open till midnight. I walked in. One of the barbers looked at me and smiled like a vampire who spotted a teen-some virgin.

After finding out how much it would cost to get rid of my problem, I was seated on one of those familiar steel chairs. The coiffeur nudged the chair with his knee and it swung towards the mirror and I found myself looking at myself. I noticed that the mirror didn’t look very clean. But that didn’t really matter. It wasn’t my mirror.

The coiffeur inspected my scalp and reacted like a guy who stepped on poop. He made a face and I felt insulted. I agreed to undergo a 30 minute special treatment. The first part included a shampoo wash. Afterwards he proceeded to massage in huge amounts of smelly oil. Then came approximately 2 pounds of hair cream. After the first cream, came a second coat of cream. It made my head look small and my over-sized ears look bigger in the mirror. I thought I heard the guy on the next chair smirk. I looked at me again. I looked like a big ice cream cone with eyes. And then, it started to itch. I grabbed the arms of the chair and clawed the steel.

The coiffeur disappeared and soon came back pushing something that looked like a plastic helmet on a stick. Then he propped it up with the helmet sitting a few inches above my head. The next 10 minutes were spent steaming my scalp which had the world’s largest itch ravaging through it. I grit my teeth and clawed more steel.

What he brought out next filled my heart with happiness. It looked like a giant hair-brush fixed on a machine. Those rubbery spikes were meant to massage my scalp and clean it off all the dead tissue. The mere thought of that send goose bumps through me! I got ready for the ultimate head massage! He plugged it in, flipped the switch and the whole building fell into darkness.

There was complete silence for a few seconds. Then the hailstorm of abuses started. All of them were from Kerala and no one can beat us when it comes to belting it out.

I heard someone asking my coiffeur whether he had ever gone to a school. The reason was revealed to me slowly. The machine was faulty and there was a note left on it warning the users. My beloved barber had either not seen it or chose to ignore it. The circuit breaker had tripped, I still had 2 pounds of cream on my head and the itch had returned with its cousins. Plus, I could feel the condensed steam slowly flowing down under my collar, onto my back and proceeding further down.

After 5 minutes of darkness, dampness and desperation, the lights came back. But the machine was not going to be used. There was no spare machine as well.

My beloved barber found a small round plastic comb and started to massage my scalp. He looked irritated. His hands were sapped of all energy. The massage was far away from what I had hoped it to be. Once he was done with it, a lot earlier than I thought, I felt the water that had flowed under my collar had hit a flat surface and had started moving horizontally. The itch had relocated.

When I walked back home, I covered the big damp patch on my posterior with an old newspaper.

My bathroom mirror is dirty as usual. The comb is still full of long/straight/wavy hair. The dandruff is back. It can stay. 

Love & thy neighbor

A wall separates my bedroom from my neighbor’s bed room. A thin wall. Thin enough to carry conversation through it. This fact was revealed to me one day; at 2 in the morning.

Like some of you, the early hours of the morning has me sleeping like a log. I would be laying on my back, straight, unlike the rest of my family who would be a tangled mass of legs, arms and hair. Sometimes I get up startled because getting elbowed in your ribs even during the deepest sleep, puts your body into a defense mode. I suddenly sit up, stare into the darkness, collect my whereabouts and feel the pain in my ribs. Slowly, my eyes will get accustomed to the form lying on the bed next to me and the left elbow that gave me the rude wake up call. Muzzling the anger that wells up, I try to get back to sleep. I won’t get that deep sleep again, I know. However….

That is when, I think it happened. The mild “thud” right behind me, on the wall. And another one. And many more. In a sequence and rhythmically. It took only a few seconds for me to associate the thuds with the faint human sounds that accompanied it in the back ground. I was listening to my neighbors, right in the middle of their early morning carnal congress. At 2 am in the morning? Yes. I did look at the clock, shortly afterwards. 

I was amused because I had never listened to somebody else’s session, live. I was quite because I thought they would hear me breathing. I was jealous because of obvious reasons. The passion was raw and genuine. The night seemed to be watching both parties at both sides of the wall. Then the thuds progressed to a crescendo....

The perverted angel sitting on my left shoulder looked at me and winked. I tried to look away. But it was not going to give up so easily. It glanced meaningfully at the empty water glass on the bed side table. With trembling hands I took the water glass and placed it against the wall. Then I pressed my right ear against its mouth. (Yeah..Pervert)

I listened to them until my ears pained from being pressed against the glass’s edge. I sat back, impressed. It still went for another 30 minutes or so. Is it possible? I wondered, considering various possibilities. May be they are playing the recorded tape again; just to fool the fool on the other side of the wall! Or maybe my neighbor is the legendary stud who goes the distance; sundown to sun rise. Or may be a ludicrous lady was listening to her ipod and tapping the wall. 

That was one day among many other days. I was the silent audience on the other side of the wall many a time at 2 in the morning. Until the day when my partner got up in the middle of the night and saw me with a water glass stuck in my ear.

It has been months. The water glass has been permanently replaced by a pet bottle. I got new neighbors. An old couple. Deep inside I know; some where in this city, some body has a glass stuck to his ears at 2 in the morning.

Below the belt

If you are fat, you would not be amused by what is written below. You would be offended. If you are skinny, well....not any different. And that‘s not the purpose behind this piece. Just sayin.....

Scene: A mall in Abu Dhabi. A gent’s apparel show room. Evening.

A fat guy in a tee and big bermuda shorts was looking at the jeans displayed on hangers. His fingers travelled up slowly along a pair of denims like a villain stroking a vamps’ thigh in a Bollywood movie. Then they travelled down, even slower. The guy then pulled the fabric closer and smelled it. I got curious. I crept closer.

He must have been 16 something. A plump face with not much facial hair. Two eyes peering hard from a pudding-like face. Those eyes never left the jean; one of those latest designs that would expose your butt-crack, no matter how you sit down. I had students who wore them to college. Some of the guys would also expose a wisp of arse-hair during the process. The skinny ones took it to a whole new level. They would fix it around their waist as low as possible that it defeated logic and physics. I think the trick was in walking with your legs slightly apart so that it kept the jean in the periphery of your waist.

In Abu Dhabi I had seen some trousers with waists stretching up to a phenomenal 44 inches. Sometimes I have taken one of those heavy creations, opened, looked inside and felt I was looking into outer space. I found it difficult to believe that a human’s derrière could burgeon up to fill so much of emptiness. Oh, let me get back to the one in front of me, folks...

So, here he was. May be wondering if he could somehow get into one of those pairs. The fat boy leaned forward to take the largest pair he thought was in front of him. He ended up pushing the cloth stand with his gargantuan belly and it scuttled away on its casters. He looked back and caught me looking at him. I looked away. The boy went back to work. But the cloth hanger seemed to have a mind of its own. I wanted to see him chasing that metal stand on wheels but looked away thinking he would notice me. As I was turning away, I heard a crash and a “plop”.

The boy was on the floor entangled among a few more cloth stands. One seemed to be sticking out from under him at a very odd angle. I cringed. I could not see his face. It was under more cloths.

I wanted to help him but I knew that I was not built for the job. A brief visual of me trying to rescue a beached whale, all alone, flashed inside and I froze. An employee of the shop appeared, took in the scene, looked at me and smiled. He was also of my same build. I could see what he was thinking. The new guy seemed amused and confused. Our fat guy was still on the floor and the poor fellow was panting. His sharp exhales sent the clothes around his face fluttering every alternate second; like a whale breaching. It all looked surreal.

Another employee came looking. A girl. She looked at the heap on the floor, at the male employee and then at me. She then looked at me, a second time. May be she thought I was related to my big cousin who was still clawing the floor. I shook my head before her thoughts found matching words. I turned away checking out the printed skirts on another hanger.

There was another crash behind me. I turned and saw more hangers and more people on the floor.  This time the arrangement was different. The girl and the guy seemed to be trapped under the 16-something giant. There were more clothes on the giant’s face and very less around his waist. The Bermuda had slipped down exposing the biggest male butt I had ever seen in my life. (Oh no..I haven’t seen a lot of them. NO)

 He has this pink undies with yellow “tweety” prints all over it.  I could not take my eyes away. It was definitely the most grotesque sight I could remember since Jurassic park but I seemed to be transfixed by it. Like a horrible accident that leaves you frozen with your eyes wide open.

Soon one more lady appeared on the scene. From her size and her concern I guessed that she was related to the boy on the floor. She spoke aloud in a language I did not understand. She shouted at me and at the shop staff. She was huge. Her black abaya floated around her and reminded me of the Caribbean and the black pearl. She stretched a beefy hand and effortlessly yanked the boy to his feet. He stood up and the bermuda shorts fell. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned away for the third time and started walking.

I had taken a few steps. There was more shouting from behind. I looked back again.  The lady had grabbed the shop guy’s puny hand and continued to scream. That guy looked at me with pleading eyes. “Not today, brother”, I said quietly, turned and started on a small trot towards the cash counters.

Momma

Wind played with the dust and dried leaves and took them for a short spiraling journey. It was afternoon and I was back at home on the verandah, on an easy chair. This summer vacation was mostly spent indoors as the unpredictable rain played outside. At times, the sun would beat down mercilessly and dry up whatever was left behind of the rain. Today, it was dry and sunny outside. I felt lazy.

I was not always the only lazy one on the verandah. A cat who had befriended my mother recently was often there. She would be under the same recliner I was on. She had three hyper active kittens that never left the vicinity of their momma. The only other place they would go was to our  back yard where they would share what my mother used to give them, at least twice a day. While I was watching the wind and dust, the kittens jumped in, chasing the dry leaves. There were only two of them. One was missing.

Cats, they say, are not really fond of their human friends but love the pampering. I have often noticed that it took some effort to dislodge the momma cat that was so comfortably splayed on the easy chair. A cat is a lazy creature. And it was missing from the scene. I looked around. There were only two kittens.

I had a vague recollection of my mother telling me about the rogue cat who used to visit the back yard, mostly at night. He was the rejected lover of momma cat and displayed no affection to her kittens. The jealous lover was also guilty of stealing food from the kitchen and attacking momma cat's kittens. I suspected this villain's involvement in the disappearance of the kitten and their mom.

The wind had died down and the kittens had returned to their afternoon siesta. I moved indoors and it seemed like the rain was making a return any moment. There were noisy crows announcing the change in the weather and were flying home. I thought I heard the momma cat's cry in the distance.

Morning came, wet and gloomy. Sun was still behind grey clouds. The whole world seemed to yawn as the faintly lit sky sat brooding above. The kittens were back on the chair and so was their momma. It had wounds on its face and a deep cut on its hind leg. It took turns licking its wounds and its kittens. One small fellow was still missing. I assumed that momma got in to a fight with the villain. Did her kitten pay the price for being there when it happened?

Few details emerged as the days went past.  The villain was seen one day limping around with scars on his face but seemed to have disappeared from the scene. Momma cat was back on the chair with her two kittens. Her wounds were slowly healing. 

And that is when I noticed the new visitor near the verandah. He was younger and bigger than the villain who  had disappeared. His face was already battle-scarred and beady little eyes watched momma cat and her kittens intently. Momma didn't seem to be perturbed. She got off the chair and placed herself between the kittens and the visitor. She looked back at him and growled with that steely resolve only a mother can manage.

LOL

Cave man (CM): (Edgy, shy) Who are you, you good looking stranger?

Facebook diva(FD): (Face palm) Oh…finally I get to meet someone who doesn’t know me! Btw, I’m Teena.

CM: What do you mean by “btw”? I am Steve.

FD: (eyes wide open) It means “by the way”. Is this your first day on chat?  LOL

CM: (eyes downcast) No, I have been around for a while but I never spend much time in here. And I didn’t know that I was looking at some one very famous!

FD: You are not really looking at ME now. That is my profile pic, my avatar. But everyone on facebook knows me! LOL

CM: (disappointed) so you don’t look like this beautiful woman in the picture?

FD: well, I am not that ………….tall.

CM: All I can see is a face. Who is talking about being tall!

FD: Err..what I meant is I am shorter, I look a lil different and my hair color is not that. Oh wait; Why am I even telling you all this! LOL

CM: (smiles)

FD: But people say I have the same eyes! LOL

CM: I am sure you do! They must be blue as well! My window opens to the beach and it’s blue everywhere. The sea lies outside like an open blue book. I believe if you look real deep into any one’s eyes, you can read them like an open book.

FD: Is it so? What have you read recently? (looks coy)

CM: I am reading “Cocktail hour under the tree of forgetfulness”, by Alexandra Fuller. Being where I am right now, I don’t get to read many eyes. (chuckles)

FD: Ohh…. Was it about a few guys who get drunk and forget where they are? I think I saw the movie…was late night. Can’t remember the name! LOL

CM: (smiles) No madam, this is about Fuller’s mother living in Africa. Not a movie. What was the last book you read?

FD: (embarrassed smile) well..I don’t really get any time to read books. I have this big book shelf all full of books. But I find it more convenient to read e-books. I am a netizen, you see! LOL

CM: What else do you do netizen?

FD: I do everything, buddy! Ha ha! I am a busy body on the net and off the net. Please don’t ask me to explain..! LOL

CM: To be busy all the time is a blessing.

FD: (embarrassed smile) Okaayyyy…so on which planet are you on to be away from eyes and people?

CM: I am on Easter island.

FD: Sorry, never heard of it! But it must be beautiful there! But how come you sound so lonely? What do you do for a living? Are you a diving instructor or something? LOL

CM: We get very few visitors. I am a fisherman.

FD: Oh ho…

CM: (smiles)

FD: Anyway…was nice talking to you Steve! I wish you all the best.

CM: Why are you leaving so soon, madam?

FD: Like I said, I am quite busy even when I am on the net. I am talking to another dozen people right now. Didn’t you notice the number of communities I manage on facebook?

CM: Then how come you are alone having a frappuccino?

FD: What??? How the hell do you know that?

CM: I am not on Easter island. I am here in the same café looking at you.You are nothing like your profile pic. You have no book shelf. You are not Teena. You are Teresa.Your girl friend is Danielle. She is nice and I am dating her. I and Danielle are going fishing. I am not Steve. I am the good looking stranger across your table. It was fun talking to you, Teresa. I wish you all the best. Btw, I paid for your coffee.

FD:  (face palm)