Completed sleep; yeah, a good start.

Brushing the teeth, lemme see the match,

Sachin hits a few, then gives up a catch.

Why take a bath, what’s for lunch honey?

This Sunday editorial, the guy’s quite funny.

Yes child, lets play for a while,

My wilting soul needs, the drench of your smile.

And music – my mind sure deserves its treats,

vacationing let it swim, in the rivulets of the beats.

The movies are dull, lets go to the mall,

The dull thud of life, has my wife on the wall.

Finally, type a few words, but not so sweet,

Not the story of my life, but only a tweet.

In the love of a friend’s manner gruff,

In the pleasing curve of a young breast,

In the mind gamboling in dialectic unrest,

In the amnesic welcome of the wine,

In the sublime expressiveness of a line,

In the exhilaration of a Sachin ton,

In the round of office politics won,

In the wife’s persistent nagging care,

In the child’s innocent pesky dare,

In  life’s little pleasures I while my time,

Waiting for a universe where you shall be mine

“So what are you going to do about your body?”

“Why ask? Is there an exchange offer available?” I queried.

I careful avoided her glare by lowering my eyes deeper into Alessandra Ambrosio’s assets.

“Be serious, can’t you?”  This was one of her favorite advices to me. She was always wanting me to be serious about something or the other, except marital sex of course.

So I put on my most serious expression, the one that had served me ever since school days when the Principal used to give me particularly long lectures on the importance of a purposeful life and such things.

“You do realize that you’re woefully out of shape don’t you?” She began. I said that my shape was quite alright, it was just abstract art. Again the basilisk like glare. She continued:

“If your car ever gets a flat tyre, you just need to replace it with the one around your waist.” A low dig this one, I thought. Oblivious to my hurt feelings she went on:

“And you do realize that if you get into shape it will protect you from heart disease, diabetes and stroke?” This failed to terrify me – such things are only meant for laymen, doctors are above such infirmities. “And perhaps improve your sex life as well?” She added as a gentle afterthought.

Now that sent my brain into frenzied overdrive. It always shocks a man when a woman hints that his sexual performance or prowess has room for improvement. Every man likes to think that in matters of sexual knowledge, Casanova was just a much publicized over hyped ignoramus compared to himself. The possibility that I could be more desirable to my wife than I already thought I was, was something I had never imagined before.

So the next day I went to a gym. The owner was also the chief trainer. He looked like a man who could lift Atlas holding the Universe on his shoulder without breaking a sweat. If he ever came in the way of a rampaging bull, the bull would probably screech to a halt and walk away with a profoundly apologetic tail tucked between his rumps.

“So what’s your goal? ” He asked. “Weight loss or muscle gain?”

I looked around the gym. The walls were covered with posters of grim looking men who all looked like bloated up versions of Hercules. I pointed to one of them – ” That one seems familiar? One of your students? ” I asked.

“That’s Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

Another poster was of a  black chap with a genial smile on his face whose body seemed like a kindergarten kid’s abnormally broad V.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s Ronnie Coleman. Seven times  Mr Olympia.”

“Well there’s my goal.” I said. “Make me like that. How long will it take for me to be like him?”

“Thirty years. ” He said. “Old age would have wasted Ronnie by then.”

I thought I hate bodybuilders with a sarcastic sense of humor.

He started me on dumbbell curls. The first weight he gave me was so heavy that I couldn’t even lift it a millimeter.

“That’s too heavy. Give me a lighter one.” I protested.

“We don’t have anything lighter than 2 kg.” He said. What a singularly ill-stocked  gym, I thought.

For bench press he didn’t give me any weights at all. He said the rod would be sufficient for me for a few days at least. I noticed a couple of teenagers sniggering. Damned overbuilt chunks of meat!

The next day I told my nurse to write out the prescriptions to the patients while I dictated them to her. I wasn’t even able to lift a pen.

This torture continued for a several days. My muscles had developed a permanent soreness, as if a particularly heavy and active elephant trampled me the entire night. My sex life had improved to zero. I descended into the deepest of slumbers as soon as my head hit the pillow. Of course, I may be getting sex daily while I was asleep, but only my wife could have told you about that.

To add to my woes, a clutch of girls also used to do their calisthenics under the trainer’s guidance during my time in the gym. Not only did their twists, stretches and bends distract me from my routine, but with this kind of stimulation I often felt the necessity for performing some more exercises in the privacy of my bathroom, which were of such kind that they made my hands and arms even sorer.

About a month later the gym trainer said to me-

“Your power doesn’t seem to be increasing. You need to take supplements.”

He gave me a huge container with the photograph of a ferociously muscular man engraved on it. It cost me about the yearly interest I earned on my fixed deposits.

“So how long will this last me?” I asked. “A year?”

“If you use it correctly, it should last you fifteen days.” This guy obviously thought I was Bill Gates.

“Do you think one of those lotions that are advertised in the newspapers for women would work for me? I mean the sort of magical poultices that when applied to a Tibet like flat chest produce Mount Everest and Kanchenjunga in the matter of a month or so? Should work for my pectorals as well, and would be more conducive to my general temperament.”

He did not reply. Gym trainers are like your wife this way. They never reply to the really important questions.

I took the thing home, and I had to drink it surreptitiously, because my daughter thought that it was a new flavor of  Horlicks which I was deceitfully depriving her of and started bawling pretty disconcertingly. I finished five of those yucky tasting boxes. My wife dutifully measured my biceps with an inch tape every day, but stopped on my hinting that the exact sameness of the measurement on each occasion could only be attributed to incompetence in applying the proper measuring technique on her part.

Five months later, I stood before my gym trainer – a miracle in the history of bodybuilding. All the principles of weight training and nutrition applied with perfect scientific exactitude and backed by rigorous military discipline, had failed to produce an iota of difference in my physique. I stood then, the exact replica of how I had stood before him five months ago. The permanent grim appearance on his face had disappeared, replaced by a philosophical, Buddhist calm.

“This apparently, is not working.” He said.

For the first time in our association, our thoughts were entirely similar. I nodded in agreement.

” I think, the best thing for you is to take a break from bodybuilding. A long break. Perhaps, a permanent one.”

My heart leaped with joy. I wanted to hug him, but refrained because of the persisting popularity of Ghulam Nabi Azad’s ideas in the general public’s mind. Instead I just beamed at him and said that I thought it was a very good idea. As I was walking away, feeling like a bird let out of cage to fly into the blue sky, when he called out.

“Oh, and just one thing. I would really appreciate it if you never told anybody that you have taken training at my gym. It wouldn’t be the best thing for business if this fact got out, and you must realize that I have two kids to feed.”

Yes sir, this was exactly what he said to me.

Etched in the colors of my ragged brush,
With the pearls of my words you shine’
Proud, exalted by my forlorn hope,
My muse, my soul, my all, but mine!

The answers are set out at the bottom of the post.

1)     Why are we so serious about death? Because it’s a ——-   ———

2)     Why does Brett Lee love his mother so much? Because she’s ————

3)     Why is hundred percent spirit called pure? Because its ———- ————-

4)     Why did the bear kill himself?

5)     What pleasure do people get out of sex?

6)     What do you need to do to get a great butt? You need to ——— ——- —–

7)     Why was the Maoist chick named Chile? Because she was —– —–

8)     Why was the breast specialist loved by her patients? Because she was their ——— ———–

9)     How did the king feel after his abdication? ———- ———

10) How did the derby winner spit?

11) What happened to the man who was beaten at chess by his best friend? He became ——– ———-

12) How does Kim Kardashian compare to Jennifer Lopez? She’s —— ———

13) Why did the customs officer reject her passport in her maiden name? He felt it was a —————

14) What happens to actresses after their hair goes white? They just ———-

15) What is the secret of Hema Malini’s beauty? Her ———-

16) What did they call the historical Golf tournament in Boston?

17) What do you call the people from Lilliput? The ————–

18) What happened to the writer who jumped off a cliff? He became a ——– ———-

19) Why is the bible never sold? Because it is not ———

20) What will happen if Salmaan and Ranbeer fight over Katrina? There’ll be a ———–

21) What did Adam think of his woman after being thrown out of Eden? He thought of her as his ———-

22) What did the whore caught on ship tell the authorities? I’m just a ———

23) What was that batsman’s innings which almost took the match away from India? A ———————-

24) What about the girl whose mother always hid her in her skirt? She felt ——— —-

And now for the answers.

1)     grave matter

2)     mother-Lee

3)     wholly spirit

4)     Because he couldn’t bear it anymore

5)     Sheer pleasure

6)     rear it up

7)     red hot

8)     bust friend

9)     Crest fallen

10) Straight from the horse’s mouth

11) bested friend

12) ass good

13) miss-use

14) dye

15) botox

16) The Boston tee party

17) peaple

18) ghost writer

19) buyable

20) Katfight

21) woeman

22) ship-mate

23) threatinnings

24) hemmed in

On another memorable occasion he called me into his chamber and I found him hunched over his desk with a most pitifully woeful expression on his face. Then he related to me the enormity of the tragedy that had struck the ship of his life like a tempest.

“Oh Doctor-at-large, I’ve somehow swallowed my golden tooth.”

My chief you see has a golden tooth, which gleams on those rare occasions when he bestows a fatuous smile on an amazed world. Somebody had once told him that in these days of volatile share and mutual fund markets, gold is a good solid investment and insurance against a rainy day, and so when his dentist decided to extract a decayed tooth from his chops, the chief decided to get a golden replacement. And now somehow the tooth had unloosened itself during his masticatory exertions on the breakfast toast and had dived for its freedom down the old man’s gut.

I could see that the enormity of the tragedy had befuddled his brain and I was expected to provide some sort of succour to the floundering man. With my characteristic brilliance I hit upon the solution at once.

“I think you should get an X-ray done. That will locate the exact position of the lost treasure in your gut. Then we can ask our gastroenterologist to scoop it out with his scope (endoscope I mean, I was just trying to cheer up the old man with a dash of pun).”

He brightened up immediately and we proceeded to get the X-ray done. The gastroenterologist looked at it and shook his head.

“Its gone too far down for me to reach it with an endoscope put in through the mouth and not far enough for me to reach it if I go up from the other end. You see its in a sort of no man’s gut. I suggest that you give it a couple of days and it will come out by itself, that being the usual fate of anything indigestible put into the mouth and swallowed.”

To be doubly sure, the chief got a daily X-ray done to know exactly how far his gut the tooth had traveled so that he could pounce on it the moment it came out. On the day the X-ray suggested that the expulsion was imminent, there was a palpable excitement in his manner and the whole hospital was eagerly awaiting the capture of the escapee crown. However, the truant jewel proved to be too clever, and despite the most diligent ferreting efforts by the chief (the details of which I shall spare the gentle reader) it escaped. By now perhaps it has managed to reach the sea and be swallowed by some fish, which perhaps having been caught and disemboweled by a fisherman would provide him and his cronies a month’s quota of barley water.

Now one might think that possessing such a supreme talent would be blessing enough for one man; but fortune is not known to bestow its largesse to all Homo sapiens in equal measure. Some it leaves a pauper, and some like my chief are wallowing in its riches. So my chief, the master cheapster of this century is also the greatest donkey kisser that I’ve ever known. His skill in this province is legendary, and since this art of donkey kissing is now universally acknowledged to be a most requisite skill for advancement in life, I’ve distilled out the most pertinent points from long observation of a true master of the art. So here is a list of the most essential points to be remembered by the practitioner of the art of donkey kissing, straight from the horse’s mouth.

1)     The world is full of donkeys, but it is imperative to choose the right donkey to kiss. The right donkey can take you far through the perilous paths of life but kissing the wrong donkey is not only futile but may gain you an uncomfortable kick in the balls.

2)     The ability to choose the correct donkey to kiss is given to certain gifted people as their birthright. They are prodigies, but most other men too can master this art with diligent study and sustained effort.

3)     Remember that the most beautiful and well-proportioned donkey is not always the best donkey to kiss. Choose the donkey that can carry your burden the furthest, even if it is the ugliest and most smelly donkey around.

4)     Another clue is that the right donkey will often have a large number of hopefuls queuing up behind it. Sometimes however such donkeys after enjoying the lavish attentions of their fawning followers have been known to lead them down a treacherous precipice. So always keep your options open and kiss more than one suitable donkey.

5)     Some donkeys make threatening gestures on the approach of any kisser, pretending to despise such attentions; don’t be fooled however, for often these are the best donkeys to kiss and are only acting coy to jack up their market value.

6)     It is imperative while engaged in the act of donkey kissing to enjoy the act or atleast make a great pretense of enjoying it. Keep making slurping sounds punctuated by ‘ooh-ing’ and ‘aahing’ and keep praising to the sky the divine attributes of the donkey in question.

7)     Once you spot a better and greater donkey than the one you have been kissing, immediately shift your alliance. You are also free to bestow a parting kick or two on the donkey you are leaving, such being the universal practice amongst the most respected practitioners of this art.

8)     Cast aside all false shame and unmanly scruples. People who make fun of you for donkey-kissing are often the miserable failures of society who have not been able to find a suitable donkey to kiss their way to success.

9)     Always keep your eyes open. Truly great donkeys are often wont to hide their great powers under a façade of humility. But if you can worm your way through the mass of their followers and become their chief kisser, then life will be all smooth-sailing for you.

10) And finally, after a career of incessant donkey kissing, you might one day find a queue of ardent followers making slurping sounds behind you, and then you can smile with righteous self-satisfaction for a life well-lived. For now, your own donkey is worth being kissed.

Beaten by night, the sun in disgrace slunk,

Its blood spilt on the ocean where it sunk,

The breeze conducted the leaves in a dirge,

When our fates parted, never to converge.

The sun found fleeting refuge in your eyes,

Like embers glowing in a fire that dies;

But gloating gloaming herald to the night,

Now claims these domains as its master’s right.

Shall I blame you being steadfast in duty

Though life’s horizon always cheerless be?

No, when it was this same nobility

Of mind that made you beloved to me.

Rather will I those walls e’en stronger make,

That the churning sea of passions would break;

Nor will endeavor to scale the fortress

Of your calm, in vain attempts to distress.

You were my light, your darkness I won’t be,

No reproaches shall tarnish your memory;

And though with this tryst my life is ended,

No word of our story will have I mended

Recently I got sick – nothing really alarming, just a touch of flu, and that too of the mere human variety (some of my friends will see poetic justice in this – swine getting human flu). But it again made me realize that I’m sitting on the wrong side of the table in my clinic.

After taking everything into consideration, the benefits of being sick far outweigh the disadvantages. Feel like scoffing? Then let me take you through my sick day.

I woke up and felt dead-weights pinning me down onto the bed. The twittering of the birds outside seemed nearly as irritating as Shashi Tharoor’s tweets. I looked outside my window and felt like punching the smile off the sun’s face. Then I realized that overnight my nose had become the inexhaustible font of brine water. Being the greatest doctor on earth (in my own humble opinion), I immediately diagnosed myself as suffering from a viral flu.

With a thrill of pure pleasure, I realized that I need not go to work today. I dialed my Chief’s phone, and was actually relishing the prospect of talking to him today.

“Good morning doctoratlarge!” I could hear his wife doing Baba Ramdev’s prescription lung exercises in the background. She must be setting off a positive gust on his side of the globe.

“Not at all, sir.” I replied, in hollow tones.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” He said, “the sensex has gone down again today.” The miserable philistine could think of nothing but money.

“And I’m down too.” By now my tone had become cadaverous.

“Novices often get prostrated on the first downturn. Been a little rash, eh?”

“No, I don’t have a rash yet, but everything else I do have.”

“What the hell are you gibbering about?” The blithering idiot, he never does understand straight talk. I decided to stoop to his intellectual level.

“I mean, I have fever, bodyache and running nose. They are the signs of flu, F for fool, L for lycopodium, U for uxorious.”

“Oh, I know how to spell flu,” maybe there was hope for him after all, “but I know a conscientious and industrious person like you will not make that an excuse for work-absenteeism.”

“Certainly not sir. Of course it would be better for me to sleep the whole day in the air-conditioned doctor’s duty room of the hospital rather than wasting electricity at home.”

He collected his wooly thoughts a while, and said:

“I certainly appreciate your zeal and enthusiasm, but there is a concept called too much of a good thing, you know. So, I think it would be better if you took the day off.”

One can drive a bit of sense into my Chief’s head sometimes, but only if one uses a sledgehammer.

The Chief being disposed of, I proceeded to inform my wife of my pitiable state of health.

“Really?” She remarked. She has this annoying habit of doubting the veracity of my most matter-of-fact statements.

“No, I’m lying,” I replied with haughty dignity.

“Sorry baba, I was only saying that you appeared quite alright yesterday night.”

“Well next time I’ll tell the virus to give one week’s advance notice so that my wife may believe me when I tell her I’m sick.”

“Come on, I apologized na. Now stop being peevish and tell me if I should get bed-tea for you.”

“Okay,” I relented. “And I will try and swallow some maggi noodles. It will be impossible for me to swallow any of the healthy muck.”

And I groaned and moaned like an early Christian martyr between mouthfuls of masala maggi noodles.

My wife went to work, and I dragged my suffering body to the computer and tried to distract myself with facebook and blogging, interspersed with some more serious study of the female anatomy in various perspectives, which certain scientific minded websites are only too glad to supply gratuitously – such a study being my passion right from my teens. That way I had the satisfaction of being firm in the path of knowledge, even while my body was suffering the terrible pangs of a horrible scourge.

My wife came back early from work and saw through the brave mask of fortitude with which I tried to cover my agonies.

“Oh darling, you are still feeling pretty bad, aren’t you? Poor thing, what do you want for dinner? Shall I make you some porridge?”

With a stupendous effort of will power I forced my vocal cords to form words to the effect that I felt nauseated at the very thought of food, but if she were to order my favorite pizza, I might attempt to swallow a couple of pieces of that. And somehow with her tender solicitations I was able to achieve the miraculous feat of finishing the pizza that she had ordered for both of us.

It was only my daughter who struck a discordant note in the entire sickness symphony and seemed to think of my illness as a craven excuse to prevent her from her usual entertainment of jumping on my tummy. She registered her protest in no uncertain terms and had to be mollified with an ice-cream.

Two days I spent in the heavenly abode of sickness and disease and on the third day returned to the hell of my job. As usual the master of hell was standing at the doorway and conspicuously lifted his wrist to his face to mark the time of my arrival.

“I was just happening to glance through the register and noticed that you have availed of too many sick-leaves this year,” said Beelzebub. “Perhaps we should go to my chamber and discuss the matter.”

“Certainly Chief,” I replied, “and as long as we are at it, we might as well discuss my expected salary raise.”

And I will let the reader guess as to the fate of the proposed meeting.

F for Fish

F for fish, a funny fat fish,
I live in the sea or Pool,
And though I cannot read or write,
I’m always found in a school.

I breathe while I swim, through my gills,
My fins flap and tail goes swish,
And if little girl you swim so well,
They’ll say you swim like a fish.

You might catch me with hook or net,
For I make a tasty dish,
But better buy an aquarium,
And make me your own pet fish.

Then you can watch me play all day,
Making li’l bubbles of air,
And be sure that I’ll tell you,
If something’s fishy somewhere.

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