Lasts long, really long, ting tong

She should be catching up by now.

Till then here's for you reader. The 'background' for the story....

Once upon a time (with a Blue drop-cap O for once) there were two mugs. One white with a blue interior and black lining. And the other a stout black one. With a fat bottom. And they used to pay their daily visits to the man who poured warm liquid in them. It was only after this that they met the lips.

What's taking her so long?

So, the story books were stuck up most of the time. They hated to be buried under and loved to be the one on top. At the anticipation of being touched, their insides would turn with excitement. But their luck was such that their good days lasted only a few weeks. Flashing their gaudily coloured jackets they would be returned to the roadside vendor from whom they had been bought. The books, as stuck up as they were, found sticking with one another disgusting. And what's more disgusting was that they found themselves cheapened. Being sold at half-price.

This girl!

Now the rhinoviruses and the picornaviruses are such good friends that they cannot imagine being apart. So they plan a journey together: the whole lot of them. They love to travel. From little noses, to white linens, to table-tops, to books even and then finally to another, differently shaped nose. They even have the freedom to fly. They never complain if it's too cold, or too damp, or the night meal unpalatable. They just enjoy the each other's company and sit around the bon fire at night and get drunk.

I am fed up of her being so social. That is what always keeps her!

Before the trees were tangerine and the skies were marmalade, there was the fast car which you had to drive into hotel California. As it approached midnight and you would think of taking a private call on the now deserted corridor, even before you can say hello, the careless whispers would come wafting to you. And then you wished you had a partner to share the solitude. In the end you realise the importance of  breaking the habit when you can be nothing but numb.

Now, now. Am I going to wait forever?

Oh there you are.

Fine keeping me waiting for so long.

And where's the kite? That Blue one that we cut and fell together?

And you say what?

For me, a thousand times over?

Much ado ....

A younger brother. A small boy. He found it difficult to smile when asked to. In any family photograph, he can be seen among smiling faces, baring his teeth in a horrible way, with expressionless eyes. He loved to listen to stories and never drank enough water. He loved keeping mum and ate his rice imagining them as horses entering the cave of his mouth. Like in the Alibaba and 40 thieves story. He loved to flip through comics, losing himself in the colorful pages.

No one in his family smoked cigarettes. Probably for this reason he developed a fascination for the golden and silver packets that were often found around in my house. On one occasion there was an especially large, white case that was found in the terrace of one of our relatives. White, with a red border running around it. Making it look grand and special. We fought over it and I, in my selfishness, tore it in pieces. If not me then no one else. The younger brother did not cry. Probably he doesn't know how to cry as well, I thought.

Years later, this younger brother will grow up to be a silent but sharp young fellow. He will know his numbers and his fractions. He will sing songs that are very less celebrated and tell stories about how the singer committed suicide after going into a depression when his album did not sell. He will complain at being poked awake from sleep and will have forgotten the trauma of trying to smile for a family portrait when he didn't feel like smiling. He will develop a love for abominably long walks and perpetually put the family in worry over his lanky figure. But most of all, he will blush when the striking similarity of his features with that of Bruce Lee is pointed out.

He will blush and smile.