The Discriminant of The Iota

Well no excuses for being absent for quite sometime, seems like everyone around is in story writing mode( adding their bits of twist to a fairly "straight" world) and between this interplay( my poor soul) tries to foray into a domain not mine( hail Rahuldash!!) and even as the title suggests nothing.... i am (damn!!!) nervous as i pen this down.....

The streets are dusty, and in this part of india at this time two things happen rather assidously.... the sun beating down relentlessly as the dust storm kicks those last flops of life lying hapelessly, and a fracas of kids who sneaked out of homes and hitting hard to become some dhonis and pathans...... and just a couple yards, next to the edifice of some exploits, long forgotten, sits the mother looking at the kids watching the kids fight over the missed run-out, dropped catch, breaking into a smile watching them squabble, flinching muscles as the little boy with school shirt hanging loose, trying to hit hard. so even as life drifts in this little hamlet away from the mad mad world few hikes away, not everything is dead, why the sarpanch just got 2 hours of electricity in the village and with TV sets to boast of and mobile antennas to hang on, the kitsch of city life seemed to be knocking a few doors, atleast the home of sarpanch, so the mother sits waiting for the son to turn up, in absence of a husband who is some local lord, extending his fief to till her boudoir, is hardly a life to be happy of... and she has her own share of being the "it" girl few years back.. the mother sits back recalling all this..... alternating between those sepia moments and uninspiring present. The cover girl of the village now tied to this "bull" with no regards whatsoever, just because he was the highest bidder, so much for a "body", but what's the point of thinking all this. duelling with herself. or rather consoling over the present.. she breaks to finish the daily choirs... cleaning the levee in front of house( sarpanch's pride) and clearing the mess after the never ending tea-sessions( bhabhi... just one more cup of tea... there is something different in the tea you make) the bellicose brother in law, for whom world was a idyllic spot, quipped.... though she had her fall in the form of him when she came was new, but quick to realize that his failures were beyond bed as well, so even as she brushed past him, she couldn't stop herself to look what he was ogling at, ah! another hollywood strip, those pencil thin bitches she sighed, recalling her over-zealous efforts to do the same, how close she was.... but quick to revert to the reality... "what thrill do you derive watching these good for nothing plastic bodies" quipped the "mother", so with his eyes dancing the brother in law suddenly saw all reasons to enlighten her, and broke into his rhetoric of how beauty when wrapped in clothing with inches fighting to hold the kilograms inside, was when art really came out, as if the jury of the "rampur idol" boasting bolly ties.... and finished to goad her " and what do you know about glamour, this is just not your cup of tea".... how could she have had known... how it was too surreal to be true.... and all she could do was..but smile... our Pinki gave the same smile... which was watched form delhi to dallas, how she flew to a world she would yearn to back for just one more time, how those flashes of camera couldn't capture all that went to make that smile, how those funny nifty-grifty manual of how to say "thank you", hold a knife and fork well doled out to her... only if she could have had made sense of all this and not been like a child watching the juggler.. too awed to make out anything... she could have had been something.... may be a bhojpuri movie or two... but there sat Pinki smiling... smiling and wondering if the idiot was worth knowing all this.....

To finish do watch "smile pinki"...........