http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBfnQXWvatw A Must Watch Video.........Sunday, May 31, 2009
Have a Look AT Dis Cool wEbsiTe.......
Here U Can create ur own magzine cover................. Like i Did it.......
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Value Of Rs.500...........
Have a look @ dis video in which sm common people share their thoughts about their plans of spending 500 rupees........... A MUST WATCH VIDEO...........
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0XTPSYdP08
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M0XTPSYdP08
Akshay and John r gonna strip.........
You read it right, ladies!David Dhawan’s spawn is making his first movie, and obviously, it will be a bad comedy with mostly jokes that are in extremely poor taste, just like his father has taught him. At least the premise seems like it hasn’t been lifted from a Hollywood movie… well, no one has surfaced with a claim yet. The story goes thus – two men get laid off during the recession, and decide that the only way they can survive is by working at a male strip club. The two men are – you got it – Akshay Kumar and John Abraham. Now, John Abraham stripping is a delicious, delicious idea. But Akshay Kumar? Ew. EWWWWW. Two words – Wrinkled. Testicles.
A very short story by me..........
I met a gal on chat.We became gud frndz.We evn dated and slept tgthr.We wer in luv.2day I stand b4 her grave and shed tears.She died a yr b4 v chatted...........
my fav. story......
THE LAST LEAF
by: O. Henry (1862-1910)
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a "colony."
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hote of an Eighth street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in—let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"
"She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.
"Paint?—bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice—a man, for instance?"
"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth—but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."
"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 percent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting—counting backward.
"Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven;" and then "ten," and "nine;" and then "eight" and "seven," almost together.
Sue looked solicitously out the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.
"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five what, dear. Tell your Sudie."
"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were—let's see exactly what he said—he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."
"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Besides I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I went to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'till I come back."
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman, with his red eyes, plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy."
"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old—old flibbertigibbet."
"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.
"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.
But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the ground.
"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."
"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and—no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."
An hour later she said.
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win. And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is—some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."
The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You've won. Nutrition and care now—that's all."
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.
"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and—look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."
by: O. Henry (1862-1910)
In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!
So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a "colony."
At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hote of an Eighth street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."
Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.
One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, gray eyebrow.
"She has one chance in—let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. "And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"
"She—she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day," said Sue.
"Paint?—bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice—a man, for instance?"
"A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth—but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."
"Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 percent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."
After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.
Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.
She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.
As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.
Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting—counting backward.
"Twelve," she said, and a little later "eleven;" and then "ten," and "nine;" and then "eight" and "seven," almost together.
Sue looked solicitously out the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.
"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.
"Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."
"Five what, dear. Tell your Sudie."
"Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"
"Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were—let's see exactly what he said—he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."
"You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."
"Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."
"Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.
"I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Besides I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."
"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I went to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."
"Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'till I come back."
Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.
Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.
Old Behrman, with his red eyes, plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.
"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy."
"She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old—old flibbertigibbet."
"You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."
Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.
When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.
"Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.
Wearily Sue obeyed.
But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet above the ground.
"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."
"Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"
But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.
The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.
When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.
The ivy leaf was still there.
Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.
"I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and—no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."
An hour later she said.
"Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."
The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.
"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win. And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is—some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."
The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You've won. Nutrition and care now—that's all."
And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.
"I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it, and—look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece—he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."
Lyrics Of A Song............ BAH
in ma lyf i've seen d sunshine ..... in ma lyf i've felt d rain.... through d livid through d fire.......i've been through all of life sweet gain.......bt how do i get to heaven , know dat i m only human , how do i reach perfection ...... life is strange ..... i need a change.......'' A NEW LIFE A NEW BEGINNING , TELL ME WHAT LIFE's WAITING 4 ME..... A NEW LIFE A NEW BEGINNING , I M READY 4 MY WORLD MY DESTINY。。。''
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
My 1st Crush..............Written by me
Hope U Like It.... If U R Unable 2 Read It Then Just Click On D Images................They Will Enlarge
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Upcoming Bollywood Movie By Hrithik Roshan... watch video at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1p8rhcteSIU
Stutee's work
GOTHICA ........ PART 2.
The very next day…."Come here, Neha." I called her near the backdoor of the dorm."What?", she replied, sounding as disinterested as ever. She had not still forgiven me for the prank I last played on her." Come on now ! Don’t be that pissed at me. Come here I have something to show you", I tried persuading her to peep out of the keyhole of the backdoor."What is it? And look don’t try and scare me. Trust me you'll pay through nose", she made her point crystal clear."Fine you do not want to see it, then don’t. I just wanted to show you how beautiful is the forest lane looking under the moonlit sky."She seemed to have fallen prey for the well planned trap. Excitedly she bent towards the keyhole, half expecting to see something not less beautiful than Rome. After half a minute, she was fuming red." Listen, just because I do not happen to be one of the bullies out here, doesn’t mean you can take me for a ride every time. Enough with you and your sick pranks. Never talk to me again." I swear, I had never seen her that angry before. My trick for a little fun as usual, seemed to have failed.Right outside the giant door, lay a dead snake being bitten to pieces by an owl.Neha made it a point, not to talk to me at any given cost. So did the other dorm mates.A week passed, nobody budged a micrometer from what they had decided. It was a Sunday evening, feeling quite left out, I decided to go on a walk on the forest lane. A lush green, quiet and snaky road.I decided not to return before supper that day.The mist had settled low as I walked into a quiet hollow out of sight. The fog made it look like heaven here. It was drizzling. I watched the raindrops caress my face. As the raindrops started falling a little harder, I could feel my body disappearing bit by bit into the mist. What a place to be? Far from the prosaic fights with friends, never ending lectures from the teachers and ever increasing course to study.A breeze rustled past me, carrying with it a beautiful scent from the woods and clearing the very foggy sight. Twenty steps ahead were two benches where I had always come and sat every time I was sad. Today, I was a little not looking forward to sit there as I thought that the wet benches might spoil my clothes. Another rustle of breeze blew past me and the view became even more clearer.Sitting in spotless white, on one of those benches, was a woman pretty tall." I am afraid you will stain your clothes", I shouted, from a distance."doesn’t matter, I have a stained soul", she replied, without moving even a tad."Excuse me?"" Wish God could excuse me, for the sinful life I once led."Having said this, she got up and started walking away. I was curious to see who this one was? I mean, for lord sake, she sounded like somebody walking straight out of a purgatory. She was literally pacing now. (also, given how weird this sounded, I was having a feeling that this was nobody else but my friends trying to prank me)"Hey, excuse me miss. If you could just..", I also started walking faster."If I could just, what?", her voice sounded distant."Stop for a moment", I was having a lot of difficulty keeping up with her.By now, I was more than sure, that I was being treated with a dose of my own medicine. And off course, I did not want to be fooled at their hands. Her reactions seemed far from scary, overtly so. This made me all the more headstrong over finding out who she was. I wanted to catch hold of her , even if it led to a face off." I have never seen you around. Who are you? This road is the school's property. What are you doing here?", I was shouting by this time."Its time to go", she was hell bent not to look my way"Listen, either you turn and show me your face or I ask guard ji to leave the dogs on you", I was very stern by now. Also, I knew that Sonali, who I was sure was the girl behind this spotless white hood, was very afraid of the dogs."Stop, I said", I was not to let her go that easily."Stop and do what?", came the reply."Stop and show me your face, for lord sake, I know its you Sonali. Your pranks wont work on me, alright", I commanded. I was glad at my tone of voice.Fifteen steps away from me, she stopped. Even I took a halt. I was breathing heavily by now also because of the mist I couldn’t see her properly. She turned. She was looking down."Look up, I know who you are, don’t you try and fool me", I repeated , the same tone of voice.There was a sudden change in her voice, which was till now very shaky."Here have a look. May be you really know me."Fog was swirling around her now. Seemed like wisps would carry her away. As she looked up, I saw a pale white face. Spotless, fearless and featureless. Yes , she had a face minus features.Dumbstruck, I stood like a pillar, unable to move, right in front of her. She kept gazing at me. Unable to think and decide what is going to happen next, I knew I was witnessing something, I wont forget a life time, i.e, if I would be alive after this. She moved a little towards me and then stopped. I had nothing to offer. I was loosing my mind. I dreaded the sight. I felt as if I was nearing the end. I was sweating and shivering. I knew I was about to faint.Suddenly, I saw her body disappearing bit by bit into the mist.From somewhere in the mist, a voice whispered to me ," run for life. I'd regret, if u meet the same fate."Stuck to the earth, I found myself unable to take those heavy steps towards life. After fifteen minutes of standing alone and aghast , I mustered the courage to turn and run. Run for life. Never to look back.Not to stop before I reached my room.I never shared this with any of my friends. Not because, I thought that they'll get scared, but because I guess I was indeed taught a lesson for mocking these unseen, unknown dwellings around us.Later, on enquiry, I found out that this woman had been seen by many on forest lane. Believed to be a spirit of an english woman who committed suicide after killing her two children.
GOTHICA !!!
" So, girlies who all are virgins here? ", asked my senior Divya . ( we were being ragged ). Presuming that 'virgin' must be some kind of an abuse and playing smarter than Nancy and Ruby ,who happened to raise their hands, we replied, " no ma'am, we are not virgins. Only these two are. We are not."I still remember seniors literally rolling on the floor after that one answer.I am talking about the time when we'd hold a pen in between our fingers and pretend to smoke. A bunch of unruly girls had just left the primary school behind to step into the senior school. Life seemed all the more exciting.We were shifted to the new senior school and to a new dorm too. Which was the oldest building, right next to the chapel in our school, which happened to be like 200 years old. Gradually when we befriended seniors they told us stories about this dorm. They said it was haunted. Specially because it was the nearest to the graveyard.In boarding schools things like '13th the Friday', 'spirits', 'headless chawkidars', are nothing new to be discussed. We'd sit for hours together to discuss this never ending thrilling topic. Everybody had a story to share. Each and every girl would tell how her friend's mother, a maternal aunt or for that matter some bua ji's brave husband saw a spirit or a ghost.But since I never met somebody who said that he or she had personally seen some 'BHOOT '. I just listened to them to amuse myself and to get my work done by all of my dorm mates who happened to be damn scared of the 'bhooooooooots'. I'd just have to tell them one little story and they 'd do me all favors so that I keep my gob shut. How sadist of me.So night time, I used to be the lord of the dorm. Which to my dorm mates was nothing but sheer 'gundaraj'. I had a strong feeling that all my friends were just looking for that one chance, to teach me a lesson. I could read their minds. That something's being cooked. But I was hell bent not to fall prey to their 'evil designs'. I'd always be on an alert. And to their dismay they could never outsmart me. I was the 'lord' after all.I still remember it was '13th the Friday', the most gothic day of the year. Supper time we were told by the seniors that tonight you'll see headless chawkidaars, so dare not peep out of the window. All my dorm mates were like scared to death and they decided to sleep early that night. But how could I not take kicks out of their petrified faces that night. How could I let go ? As soon as everybody settled in the bed and the sister switched of the main light at 11. I got out of the bed and walked towards the window.to be continued....
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