Pigs with wings

He smells of tobacco, wet leather and sweat, Caswell Massey’s number 6 and the Macalan 12 years scotch. Wax polished black car makes an emergence in his Persol sunglasses and goes away. He is wearing a mauve polo shirt and chequered pant with a russet pair of brogues. He is stocky and striking, balding at quite a young age of thirty six, a tiny triangle of black hair is left on his skull. He reads time in a 1945 Rolex oyster perpetual once belonged to his father on his wrist and wavers on going back to home.
He settles on going back. He can get his umbrella repaired some other time; perhaps in the late afternoon.
Umber Pandey is an antiquarian for living and a sleuth in leisure. Although in both of these pursuits, he never earned even an obsolete coin. Money comes to him through gambling and he inherited a vast property from his father.
Mhow{Military headquarter of war} is a modest town and he shortly reached to his home.
Philosophers’ apartment is two hundred years old building. Well-built and picturesque it is. Hanging balconies and long windows with obscure wrought iron work; full of floral and geometrical patterns confers a few and far between common exterior to it. Doors have guarding angels’ statues and peacocks, tiara shaped hangings-which is quite curious in this day and age.
It is a three storey building with six apartments; two on a storey.
He lives with his wife, a cook and his cousin on the left side of dwelling at second floor. They have three bedrooms, a dining room, a drawing room, a guest room, cooking room and an adjoined store and two servant quarters downstairs on the ground floor with a space to park car.
He knocks on cerulean coloured doors and hums a country tune. His wife Nina comes eating a mango. She looks to him like a pink piglet eating something sweet for the first time. She is wearing a white skirt with frills and a sallow blouse with cherry laces around neck and sleeves.
“How come you so early?” she asks laughing unnecessarily.
“Why are you laughing my darling piglet?”
“Oh this mango is very delicious. Do you want one?”
“What’s there to laugh if mango is delicious? I want a cappuccino with extra cream.”
“You need not to say this every time after three years of our marriage. I know you like extra cream.”
She says after eating whole mango except the seed. She looks content as piglet in swamp and gobbledygook after eating a day’s meal. Nina is plump, pink woman of thirty two years. She has extra ordinarily outsized pupils and huge eyes. A long nose and lips like a peeled slice of a ripe orange. Her locks are coal black. Her breasts are profound, round and bubbly.
He follows her to their cooking room. It’s a huge room with many tables. One is placed near the left wall of the room and a cooking stove is placed there. Other one is in the centre of the room and full of jars of jams, marmalade, pickles, pumpkins, spinach, corns and other vegetables and fruits. Numerous loaves of bread and empty wine bottles are lying near window on a sill. Railway creeper is growing on the right door of the window beside which is an old and almost hopeless refrigerator full of sour curries, puddings and pastries.
“Where is Dora?” he enquires with a mock poise.
Nina switches on electric kettle to boil milk for cappuccino.
“She hasn’t come yet for the meal.” She adds more cream in the cup and gives him. Cappuccino is pale brown; thick but fluffed cream with three spoons of sugar brings a smooth flavour to it. He creates space for his cup on the centre table. He moves a huge bunch of green grapes and few apples.
Nina adds a little more of cream to her cup and settles near gas cooking stove. She stirs sugar with a silver spoon.
“Is she late for her lunch today?” He asks again with the same simulated bearing.
He rolls on his cigarette with Turkish tobacco and perique; quite uncommon here.
“Its only twelve thirty, we lunch at half past one.”
She licks spoon and drinks coffee. He smokes his cigarette and sniffs stringy flavour of tobacco. He rebuilds Dora’s heavy, perfectly bulbous breasts-supple and hard at the same time. He imagines her dimpled bottoms-grave and globular and curls on her cunt.
“Where are you lost?”
She asks, washing crockery.
“Nothing. I was reflecting on life in general”
“Whenever you smoke, you start philosophizing.”
“Life is so hard Nina.” He answers; smoking a thick rolley.
“Life is not hard but gambling is hard. How much have you lost yesterday at club?” she says arranging crockery which they use daily.
“On the contrary I won six thousand bucks. Gambling is the easiest way to make money and it’s amusing too. I’m playing for seven years and hardly ever ran into losses on monthly basis.”
“But it is a very uncertain thing. Suppose we start losing, how are we going to pay school and hostel fees of our boys? What will we eat?”
“I’m a very good gambler like James bond.” He boasts and corners of his lips touch his ears.
“But you get drunk and play.” She says.
“Oh, do you think what I drink is alcohol!” He rolls another cigarette with only Turkish tobacco this time.
“Of course they are alcohol.”
He does not answer because he gets asleep with a newly rolled cigarette in his hand waiting to be burned.
At quarter past one Dora comes in the cooking room. She is a tall girl in her early twenties.
She has flat nose and thick lips which men find extraordinarily pleasurable during fellatio. Her mouth is always slightly open as she is mouth-breather. She has a narrow waist with large bottoms which gives her a very curvy figure. She uses cherry shade nail polishes and strawberries shade lipsticks. She does not wear perfume and smells of sweat and other body juices. She dresses in simple, basic but very expensive clothing in startling combinations. Sometimes she wears glass beads bracelets worth an ounce of gold.
Nina also accompanies her. They arrange food on the table and bring china. They hardly take their lunch in the dining room although they have their supper in the dining room regularly.
Their lunch menu includes kidney beans, mutton curry, pasta cooked with rosemary and parsley and breads.
Umber wakes up and delights in seeing Dora. Her movements are poetic and cautiously accentuate her curves. She walks first to the shelf to bring glasses and then walks to refrigerator to fetch water. In doing so her bottoms shifts as pumpkins in a plastic mesh basket.
Dora eats a bowl of pasta and mutton curry. Nina nibbles bread with kidney beans. Umber ate four eggs in the breakfast with cappuccino and orange juice thus now drinks wine and bites cheese.
“Food is delicious.” Dora says. Her fork has mouthful of pasta.
Umber wants to suckle her delicious tongue. He always wants to have different woman.He has moderate sexual appetite. He observes her large nipples through her white t-shirt and assumes that she does not wear bra but according to him not wearing bra is quite sluttish. He is quite old-fashioned in such matters but on her left breast he does not spot any outline of nipple. He thinks he is seeing things. Perhaps he is quite drunk. He goes to take his nap.
He wakes up at four. Nina is embroidering sitting on a chair beside bed. Their bedroom is a large room with attached bathroom. It has a huge sofa near window and two chairs. On the eastern side of the room are four mahogany shelves. Windows open in west and north and covered with iron gratings. Basil and other flora are planted in earthenware in these large iron gratings. Three blue pottery flower vase are placed on the table in the centre with scarlet and pale roses in them.
He wears his blue trousers and Egyptian cotton shirt in ashen hue with snake leather belt and black patent shoes. Another application of Caswell Massey’s number 6 and hair wax to his falling hair complete the looks for evening. He wears Tag Heuer Monaco Automatic Chronograph which he generally wears in evenings.
He does not leave home without having a drink. He takes a belvedere bottle from one of his self and sips it neat.
Nina, I’m going to club and don’t wait for me on dinner table for I’ll be late.”
“We’ll wait darling and try to come early. Dora feels lonely.” She says.
“Dora!”
“Why don’t you ladies gossip a little bit?”
“She likes men’s company more.”
He comes outside and sits on the green painted desk in the balcony and pretends to read newspaper. He reads newspaper word by word in morning and there is hardly anything left for him to read. He is waiting for Dora. She seems to get late every day. It’s already five thirty and she has not reached home. It seems she has some boyfriend. She come with flowers every day, perhaps she gets them from her lover but why white or pale or scarlet roses? Why not red roses? At least he should gift her pink roses. Nowadays young lovers seem to have lesser style. They don’t know women need romance.
Young lovers try to make lack of romance with the sex but this is animalistic. Now he can’t have sexual intercourse three times a day, he needs it once in couple of days but he can become far better lover than these young men because of his sense of humour which is a rare quality, expertise in cunnilingus, prudence and romantic style.
Then he sees her opening their hundred years old wrought iron gate with her perfectly manicured hands and cherry colour nails. He yearns to kiss her every finger hundred times a day. Her breasts joggle at a snail's pace to his eyes filled with fancy.
Suddenly he drops the idea of his regular visit to club and decides to stay back at the home. He counts his six thousand rupees in his bedroom and stuffs it in a drawer, sips more vodka and comes in their drawing room.
Dora, of course, is tired. It is a tough job being a dietician, to see patients’ faces from morning nine to five, to prepare their diet chart, to weigh obese people and many, many things. She keeps her yellow umbrella in the corner of room on an antique umbrella, hat and raincoat holder. Her ankles are pink and showing under her skirt. They are soft and shapely and it can be a heavenly pleasure to kiss, nibble them for minute or two. Umber thinks. She sees herself in a mirror kept on southern wall of the room in an obscure wooden frame and adjusts her coal black hair and kohl in her eyes with her fingers.
“Good evening.” He says.
“Good evening, it was a long day.” She answers.
Nina enters in the room with tea and muffins. Table fills with the smell of freshly baked muffins and Darjling tea.
“All I was wanting is a cup of tea.” Dora says, “Such a good lady you’re Nina, it is such a joy living with you people that sometimes I don’t ever want to leave you.”
“Why you need to leave? Live with us forever.” Umber undergoes uneasiness on the thought of her leaving their home rather him.
“You are still here Umber? I thought you’ve left long ago.” Nina is surprised to see him at home. He does not answer.
Dora is the loveliest pussy, he has ever seen. He eats muffins and sips tea. Tea has a damaging result on the effect of his drink but he feels a sudden need to have sensual fulfilment of some kind, any kind. He eats six muffins and drinks a cup of tea.
“You should suggest him some diet Dora, he has developed a bit of round belly.” Nina says without thinking of her joyous but little fat figure.
“I have read somewhere ‘abundance comes with a little girth’. He has not grown a round belly but accumulated wealth.” Dora grins.
He is flattered.
Supper is always a small affair in their home unless there is some special occasion. They have eaten tomato soup, baked potatoes, breads and Umber’s favourite cherry custard.
They kissed each other good bye and retired to their bedrooms.
All the day, Umber’s desires were there in between his naval and upper thighs like a cake being baked in the oven. He kissed Nina on her collar bone and take off her night gown to lick her huge breasts. Her milk chocolate colour nipples were erect. He squeezed, bit and suckled them. He sniffed her solar plexus and cunt, played with her clitoris with his tongue. He made a tooth mark near her labia.
She grabbed his testicles and blissfully curved erect penis of six and a half inches.
“I want to fuck you from behind.” He says. She lies on her knee and he entered her from behind. She was wet.
“Slowly.” She requests.
They changed their position and she comes on the top. He kissed her breast, scratched bottoms and rubbed her anus. His testicles became invisible for two or more seconds and he came. She trembled and had orgasm.
She came down. She tickled him on his round belly. He chuckled.
“Have you come?” he always asked this question to her.
“No, I’ve not.” She laughed.
She slept but he was still dreaming of Dora, his cousin and love at this moment of time. He loves Nina, she is his wife but a man has right to have adventures here and there from time to time so as to stay man. They are biologically made this way. He took tobacco and paper from the drawer and rolled himself a thick cigarette and smoked.
He went outside and tried to see Dora’s bedroom’s window which were parallel to the balcony he was standing. Lights were switched off. Perhaps Dora is masturbating. Poor Dora and fortunate Nina. Nina was sleeping noiselessly.
He went inside and started snoring.

Home brewing

Like spoiled grapes in a copper jar-
we had forty winks together.
Our thoughts ran woolgathering.
We grew as
Grapes perish- jade and unsullied, give up the ghost and
Turn pale brown tumultuously.

Like rum in chocolate cake-we were cheery
For so many times,
For so many times-she counted newly growing hair on my
Chest-I wove her locks in braids.

When grapes rotted-we gathered its steam and drank it
With sugar.

We never knew-home brewing is crime in
The country. We dreamed to make vodka with
A basket of potatoes and rum with a bunch of
Sugarcane in dark stockroom of our home.

We fought with
Our pillows for long in drunkenness. We muddled up
With each other like coffee, whisky and sugar in a cup
Of Irish coffee.

We woke up and kissed.

Her father scolded us, my mother slapped me
Her mother cried and my father mumbled-
She is your cousin.

But we never knew that home brewing Is crime in the country.

Ode to cigarettes

In books they lit their murky pipes and everything becomes
So illuminated. Okay it does not happen in our life.
But smoking helps.
.
They think about poetry and smoke.
They smoke after sex and before sleeping.
Don’t mind my words; whenever I smoke I blubber insanely
In incorrect grammar about anything in the world. And you’ve to
Suffer it.

The grey clouds of tobacco smoke-flying in wind like souls
Of people died of tuberculosis. Clouds taking shapes of lungs,
Kidney or heart. Where we have lost our souls?
We have exhaled them like smoke.

I smoke cigarettes like metaphors.

I saw a woman smoking and got erection. Her strawberry coloured
Lips and smoke coming out of her nostrils, her perfume mixed with
Tobacco gave me a kick. I searched for her fingerprints on smoke
But I got a print of her breathing pipe on it.

In the middle of a prose poetry, I lit my cigarette and met
With difficult rhyme. I can’t leave smoking for you darling!
The testosterone, poetry, restlessness and world within me
Needs it.

Some days, on some days, I had just few cigarettes in my pocket.
They saved me from kissing ashes.
They saved me to meet you. Try to see my face
Through smoke. I’m more naked there.

Sometimes I felt as if you pupils are two jars full of
Nicotine. white area of your eye is cup full of
Caffeine. Someday I’ll write ‘ode to coffee’.

Like a cigarette I’ll burn one day, till then
I love you sweetheart like I love my cigarette.
I can’t live without you and cigarette.

I know you will scold me for writing such foolish poetry
To justify my smoking. I know everyone will criticise.

I know
I know
I know

I know smoking kills.

But look at this cloud of smoke-How insane, how temporary it is.

Moon

A cup stolen from an old lady’s crockery
Collection; hanging since theft, full of dust
and futility. Clouds fill it with water and
it overflows whole night. What are you moon? A
page torn from an antiquarian’s darling book
or a croissant for a hungry and poor
at unreachable length. One day I saw you
at matinee show, the actor was in between
a soliloquy. You were on the front seat
like a spurned lover squandering time in
crowd and stories of others. Its romantic
to say that you are a lost pillow for
a syphilitic poet. Mother for an orphan,
a coin for an aged whore, of silver.

Scary House, Old Curiosity Shop and a Footpath

It was a good work. Little or nothing of physical work. He used to go at ten thirty in morning and work there till nine in night. He had to wear a skull mask and a hefty black gown with few red patches on it. He had just to frighten scary house visitors who were few and come at long intervals. He had to sleep on a broken bed and has to jump from it. In between he was free to chatter with his fellow blokes. He was paid four thousand of rupees for his work. Four thousand rupees were sufficient for his living in town and for a man who was a non skilled labour and pathetically educated.

He lives in room behind a laundry. It is dank and dark place. Walls are always wet and sometimes roof dribbles even in sun drenched days. Mildew is breeding in corners. Rain worsens its situation and sometimes he catches cold and sneezes all day. For sneezing and coughing his owner at work cuts his payment half per day as sneezing lessen the dread in scary house for visitors. Allergy to petroleum products used for dry cleaning and clammy atmosphere are responsible for it but he was helpless. Doctor gave him Cetirizine but it brought so much stupor with itself that he hadn’t felt like going to anywhere. He stopped using it.

It all happens in a very common way-
It was Thursday and raining. Winds were frozen. Bleak sky and grey lights were depressing but that day work was quite less and he spent it in yakking and terrifying schoolgirls. They were adolescent and celestial with growing little breast under their school uniform white shirts and voluptuous thighs beneath navy-blue skirts. He heard their raucous mirth and loud heartbeats. Inside scary house they looked like ghouls for lights reflects grotesquely on faces but he had learned to devour splendour beyond lights and shadows. He ate ice cream that day.

December passed and New Year arrived. Scary house was occupied almost all day and air conditioned air in it made it arctic as hellhole. He shivered and longed for sun, sunflowers and Sunday{Sunday was his off-day}. He sneezed a lot. He saw a ghost on that day. He is not sure but that man seemed to be a ghost. His cranberry eyes and blue lips were not sane. He came with his girlfriend, perhaps; who was fat and of hideous cerise complexion. They kissed in front of his colleague whose job was to operate on intestines of a corpse full of artificial human excreta.

He felt disgust and fear.

Then days followed were quite everyday, nothing odd. February came and with it came bit warmth which can only be experienced in February or in threadbare, old schooldays sweater. Ghostly man had not arrived after that neither he saw his girlfriend. They raised his salary by hundred and fifty rupees. He brought a tweed coat from old curiosity shop. It had strange orange cheques and crimson elbow patches and pocket on left side of chest. At scary house everyone laughed on him for buying such a droll coat. The old curiosity shop manager told him coat’s history. It was a coat from 1930s of the drummer of Ramdas marriage band who had this false notion that he will die on the day when he will not wear this coat and he died exactly on a day when he gave his coat to his son because he was poor and they both have only one coat. It was ruthless winter.

Nobody believed his story. Nobody never believed old curiosity shop’s manager’s stories. He was a teller of false tales. Highly erratic and known for his miscellaneous truths mixed with mendacities. He believed him and brought that coat with roughly half of his month’s pay. He felt in good spirits wearing that coat. Although co-workers called his coat a comic costume. He also brought spinach and corn sandwiches from Culinary delights café ; costliest thing he ever ate.

Scary house visitors declined in last days of February dramatically as they were the days of university and schools’ examinations. Owner asked them to stitch new costume and make new atrocious puppets, some dying hanging and some being stabbed at belly with intestines open and nether region exposed. He was a bad owner, who paid less and took too much of work. They all thought about original and novel ways to petrify visitors.

He suggested himself copulating with a morbid rubber doll. Everyone laughed.

He wore that coat everyday religiously. In march when cold was fading and sun felt warm and winds were temperate and restless; he had not stopped wearing that coat. Others asked him about his health and he laughed. He wrote a long letter to his mother.
He wrote,

‘Dear mom

I’m happy here and wish the same for you.
How’re you and dad and everyone in home. I’ll come in summer. Everything is fine except my job. I don’t like my job nowadays. I feel fear. Every visitor who comes to scary house seems to a ghoul. I know that a boy came on sixteenths of February was a zombie. I know. His eyes and lips were insane. I’m not afraid of surroundings but people. They horrify me. I’m planning to leave the job. I’ll find some other job. I can live poor and hungry but now I can’t work at this place. Instead of getting afraid people here laugh. That is such an abnormal thing.
How is Mohini my little sister? Give my love to her and respect to father. Pray to Bajrang Bali for me.
Yours
Arvind’

His mother sent him lucky charms and an evil-eye bracelet and asked him to continue work at scary house because they were poor people and money was the thing which was the most wanted.

But he left his job. He loafed on road and slept hungry for days wearing his droll coat.
One day I met him. He pretended as if he hadn’t seen me but I asked,’ what are you doing nowadays?’
He looked pale, thin and depilated. He was smoking a cigarette butt which he must be picked from footpath.
‘Nothing. I’m searching for a job.’
‘Come to my office at Amarchand Press, there is a vacancy for a proof-reader. Lets see.’
‘I can’t be a proof-reader. I’m bad with spellings.’
A grin came on his shrunken pallid lilies like lips.
‘What is your experience?’
I’m good at petrifying people.’
It seemed useless to talk to him. I came back.

After couple of weeks, I saw him again in his tattered coat and with an old hat on his head. He was happy. Hungry too. And bare foot under his threadbare pantaloons.

‘I bought a new hat from Old Curiosity Shop. Its manager says it brought luck to so many people. Especially fearful people.’
‘Why don’t you stop buying things from that foolish shop.’
But I need a cap. I left that house because of money scarcity. And now on footpath ‘I need a cap to protect my ears and head from sunlight and cold during nights.’

He had not found any job. He was bad with spellings, poor in grammar like me but unlike me he was good at horrifying people and he himself was a very frightened man.

Old Curiosity Shop closed down after its manager’s death. He committed suicide.
Scary House is still making profits. I went there yesterday with my children. They laughed and laughed until cough caught hold of them.

Tale of a writer

It was not late in a day; Mr. Kusumakar Sapre, deputy collector, made a last-ditch effort and wrote a tale for story-telling competition at Residency club. He completed it with his twenty three years old fountain pen which was on its last legs. It was witching hour and only a quaint and pale reading lamp was making a sphere of greenish sallow light. High and lumber ceiling of bungalow was casting shadows and he felt cold in his lined half-pants and vest.

Kusumakar was thirty three years old, fat and bald man, who wore thick glasses in black, wide frames and a scarf, usually silk, on his neck and tweed trousers and hefty boxers with coat and half-sleeves sweater in winter and cotton shirt with half sleeves V-neck vest in summer and spring and at all times maroon socks. He had little belly, rotund and content and gave him character and fullness.

He slept under his mosquito-net and patchwork quilt.
In morning, he shaved, used hair cream with lemon odour and left for his office after eating breakfast consisting two omelettes with onion and coriander dressing and pomegranate juice with honey.

His office was the Raj construction and in calamitous condition like other governmental structures in India. Roof made with terracotta blocks used to trickle and walls were feeble. Furniture was going to pieces bit by bit and had been reinstating with the same. Only floorboards made with black and white marbles were in good condition. Outside there was a grass court pallid because of water scarcity and gardener’s indolence. Backside was full of feral flora, ammonia stink of human urine and claret blots of saliva of pawn-eaters.

Mr. Sapre was rather pompous in his official mechanism. His administration was quite conservative and sternly hierarchical. He was honest unlike other governmental officers of gazetted rank but easily bullied by political pressures. Businessmen, civil construction contractors and quacks were petrified of his post because being a deputy collectors he was in charge of mentioned people’s motions and immune to subornments.

At five thirty in evening, he stood up and left office for residency club.
Officers’ ladies club meeting was going on. officers were in billiards hall and reading lounge. Mrs. Sadhana Sharma, wife of district magistrate, an old-aged woman with agreeable features and plump, was sitting on a wooden chair painted in green and upholstered in red frayed velvet reading submissions for story-telling competition. She was one of the judges in the panel of three judges consisting of a respectable writer of town, poetess wife of district judge and herself.

Mr. Sapre submitted his story to her after it being properly sealed at reception counter. He was tickling pink and sat beside her. Mrs. Sharma was an intellectual, and a muse to Mr. Sapre. He always wanted to write a poem on her. On her salt and pepper locks tied in a slapdash fashion either in bun or braid with almost always in turquoise ribbon and her bohemian beads, she used to wear around her collars.

‘Weather is quite pleasant today.’ He said.
‘Namahste, Mr. Sapre, I’m sorry I’ve not noticed you. Weather is quite good today but you’re a young man Sapre, you need not to worry about weather. Old people like us should be bothered with weather.’
Mrs. Sharma was not a much enthusiast of cliché conversation.
‘But Mrs. Sharma there are some advantage too of old age.’ He said in philosophical shrug; his quite typical and dull gesture.
‘Ha not much but I’ve always been bad in finding advantages in anything. I was a communist in my young days.’
‘We all are communist in young age. It’s like being young.’
‘Amour, communism, poetry are sign of being young. Even now I feel all three.’ She laughed affectionately.
He also cackled.
‘Oh so you’re communist; that means squabbles with sir at home over administration issues.’ He said and again laughed but feebly.
‘But I feel amour too.’
She said and stood up to greet one of her lady friend.

Mr. Sapre went to the billiards room and sat there reading Times for half an hour over rum and chocolates muffins. He was reflecting on his narrative which was more of a fable but a splendid bit of his writing. He envisaged himself on stage accepting prize for the best story.

Mrs. Sharma, Respectable writer of the town and poetess wife of district judge were sitting and conversing over tales submitted. Respectable writer was stout man with voracious lips and covetous and twitchy eyes predominantly fluttering over ladies’ cleavages and shoulders. Poetess was a lady in her thirties, only bones and skin, unsightly and an idiot like all those people who don’t know any language entirely. Her curls were dyed in charcoal black and eyebrows were auburn in tint which gave an impression of their absence. She spoke in shrill voice about the aesthetic beauty of a story written by son of her yoga partner.

‘It lacks any kind of beauty Mrs. Agrawal.’
Respectable writer of town said and stared at her midriff imprecisely. She is fairly slender at her naval. He thought. He was not concerned with tales told by neophytes and judgement of two greenhorn ladies. He was a male chauvinist pig. Poetess was too quite misogynist for she hated every other woman and Mrs. Sharma was a feminist. Respectable writer of town tried to browbeat ladies into acknowledging a very weak tale named Spin the yarns’ as paramount written by her mistress. Mrs. Sharma plainly demurred it. Respectable writer of town sat for some times with these ladies and then retired to bar for his daily dose of gin.

Mrs. Sharma asked waiter in white jodhpurs for respectable writer of town. Waiter returned and told her that respectable writer is not sober enough to come and converse with ladies and he thinks that this task should not be given much impulsion as it is not Noble Prize they are deciding and he does not care whether his mistress be given prize or not and said that he thinks he is far better a judge of human beings than stories.

Mrs. Sharma stiffened her nose in a fashion royalty sometimes does and poetess also tried to imitate her gesture and succeeded to an extent. She twisted her nose too in a way clerks do.
‘Mrs. Aggrawal, now we have to take decision about the best story. Have to read all of them.’
‘oh, I have read all the stories and none of the work is enough poetic for my taste except the story written by Mr. Saluja named Poetic judgement ‘
‘oh, I also liked that story very much but isn’t it written very badly. I mean its structure is loose and style is too pompous.
‘lets not think much Mrs. Sharma.’
‘Mr. Sapre has also submitted a beautiful fable.’
‘I have not read it.’
‘I suggest you to read it as soon as possible as I’m thinking to award best story prize to it.’
Poetess was in doldrums and said, ‘ oh yeah, it’s quite a fine story. We should declare our decision.’
‘Don’t you want to read it Mrs Agrawal?’
‘oh, Mr. Sapre told me about his tale and I found it quite amusing.’

At last Mr. Sapre was given a trophy for best tale written. He read it on stage in tweed pantaloons and military print jacket in olive green hue.

In reality he plagiarised Ivan Andreyevich krylov’s tale and triumphed accolades from judges and members of club. They served ceremonial feast on that night.
Butter chicken and Biryanee were in menu. Everybody enjoyed sumptuous supper with sweet corn soup and three desert with cappuccino at last. Weather was nippy. Everyone was on either on gin, rum or whisky. Mr. Sapre found himself physically very striking that day as he found ladies were staring at him.

At one in night, he felt an urge to read his story again. He read a paragraph and search for original tale written by Ivan Andreyevich krylov as he preferred original more.

Kerfuffle in sanatorium

She wears kitsch prints and looks
Like a gouache made with knife and glue.
Clueless I look as a poet’s note placed near a grammarian’s
Notebook in blue ink and Hebrew. we talk all night
Like dying patient of meningitis in ICU
Singing in delirium.
‘Flu is far away.’
‘I’m her pneumonia and she is my tuberculosis.’
We are dying. We just want to exchange grey sheets on
Bed with chequered neckerchief. A drug addict wants three
Wings; when she asks me for a kiss. We play postman’s knock
And she knocks and knocks and knocks until cough makes her
Weak.
Everyday we dream of an arson attack but our nurse miss Kurian
Brings us an apple cake. They curse they curse all time.
We laugh and curse in turn ‘kiss our arse.’ She has a matchbox
In her purse and I have a plan.