Mail& Reply from Period - Contributed by Cynthia

Letter To My Period... I Hate You

Dearest Period,

Thanks a whole lot for coming to visit me today. No. I really mean that. I'm not being sarcastic at all. ~Snort~ My family just adores walking on eggshells and having to duck flying objects at a moment's notice when something is not particularly to my liking. I am all too happy to lay on my bed and wiggle into my jeans, sputtering a string of colorful expletives while trying to fasten the button over the bloat that wasn't there yesterday. And what woman doesn't love desperately hunting through drawers at 3 in the morning for Tampons while you wring out her uterus like a Brawny paper towel? Cramps are where happy goes to die. And the mood swings... are to die for. I mean that literally. Nothing brings out the homicidal maniac in me quite the way you do. Let me put it this way... you know something is amiss when someone asks you how your day was and you turn around and singe the hairs on their face with what comes out of your mouth. If you really must come around, I would appreciate it if you would do so without hijacking my hormones, depositing three gallons of water in my midriff, and twisting my girly bits until they cry Mummy. That is all.

My period was so incensed by this letter that it decided to write me back. It said...

Dear Cynthia,

I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I have no control over what I do when I show up for my visit. It's actually your own damn uterus you should be mad at- it's as slow molasses in January and seems to have a hard time getting a jump on the task at hand. Kind of like you. And it's not like I ever show up unannounced... you always know when I'm coming, and it's not my fault you are so scatterbrained that you forgot to go to the store and stock up on tampons and Midol. As for your moods.. puhhhleeez... you are incorrigible the other 27 days out of the month that I'm not visiting you. Perhaps you wouldn't sear the eyeballs of your loved ones if you'd lay off the fatty foods that make your uterus so sluggish... which is why you wake up at 3 a.m. with cramps that rival labor pains. And lay off the soda pop... or those jeans are never gonna fit anyway. Face it... you are female and because of this, you must roll with the punches. I don't like visiting you anymore than you like seeing me, but it's time you make peace with the fact that we are stuck together for another 10-20 years, until it's hot flashes turn to take my place. If you thought I was bad, just wait. Now stop being a whiny bitch and go eat some chocolate. See ya next month. ~Fin~

Well then. That didn't work out quite the way I'd planned....

** She is one of my good blog member and an awesome expresser

Love packed in black polythene bag

When I left Calcutta, I packed your memoirs in a black polythene bag,
I intended to trash.
'Just do it – It gets Recycled' the bag said, and I agreed.

That was three years ago.
Your son wasn't born yet, though his father
had arrived a year back to dazzle you with

his Brahmin Bengali accent
and ability to pinch your bottom in public
way unknown to mankind.

My afterthoughts have determined that my case was lost
even before I filed my petition,
but by blaming him, my passions can slurp
my bitterness with relish.

And the good time flew by

Reminders loomed every month,
as dates associated with your birthday,
your marriage, his birthday, your son's birthday…
anniversary of our first rendezvous…few middle ones…

our last meeting that had passed without an event,
and of details, that every holiday, every festival
had admitted in your name,
as dates, with their fangs and forks,
raked the dying embers of my lost cause.

I have a confession to make.
I am opening the bag today,
not because I wish to relive my memories.
My pursuit is unholy one,
for in those relics, I wish to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

So many words and feelings,
that sound clichéd or my own,
have surfaced from her lips.
So many words, once my own,
seem to have so little effect.

A human heart stands like a mountain unfazed

- Some drunken jerk said that

And he continues…

unfazed by whispering winds and wailing rain.
Woman will be mountains during the start,

Which the man will become one day…
The day he opens his black polythene bag
to find his ability to love,
to love again.

To the Gyan Gurus

I'm beginning to believe that I am surrounded by people who live to irritate and annoy me. I can deal with most personalities but I lose it when I have to deal with arrogant know-it-all.

Ashraf “Drugs are injurious to health” there they blood just revealed the mystery of the century to me.

You can't tell them anything...they are the almighty authority on every subject under the sun and they do not take it kindly if you dare to disagree with them.

“I know”
“NO U DON’T”

As much as I hate confrontation, it's just not in my nature to agree with something that I know for a fact is wrong and so I just had to open my mouth and set the record straight. Okay, so I guess I'm not going to win no popularity contest there.

You know I really do want to be a good person but the harder I try to become a better human being (And Yes I do Do That On Occasion) the more often the Arrogant and Annoying people show up to throw me off track. I can understand people who know me; giving me enlightment but stranegers of this country…No Way.
People are strange when you a stranger

I seriously think the universe is conspiring against me or testing me to see if I've learned anything yet - you know, like patience and tolerance? And if that's the case you can be sure I have failed dismally and I've got this funny feeling that I'm gonna be tossed back and recycled into another lifetime of more stupid, annoying and irritating people with out Dee nearby.

Corporate story -Anonymous

Once upon a time, in a nice little forest, there lived an orphaned bunny and an orphaned snake. By a surprising coincidence, both were blind from birth. One day, the bunny was hopping through the forest, and the snake was slithering through the forest, when the bunny tripped over the snake and fell down. This, of course, knocked the snake about quite a bit.

"Oh, my," said the bunny, "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you. I've been blind since birth, so, I can't see where I'm going. In fact, since I'm also an orphan, I don't even know what I am."

“It's quite ok," replied the snake. "Actually, my story is as yours. I too have been blind since birth, and also never knew my mother. Tell you what, maybe I could slither all over you, and work out what you are so at least you'll have that going for you."

"Oh, that would be wonderful" replied the bunny. So the snake slithered all over the bunny, and said, "Well, you're covered with soft fur, you have really long ears, your nose twitches, and you have a soft cottony tail. I'd say that you must be a bunny rabbit." "Oh, thank you, thank you," cried the bunny, in obvious excitement.

The bunny suggested to the snake, "Maybe I could feel you all over with my paw, and help you the same way that you've helped me."

So the bunny felt the snake all over, and remarked, "Well, you're smooth and slippery, and you have a forked tongue, no backbone and no balls. I'd say you must be either a team leader or possibly someone in senior management."

Confessions of a Drugged murderer

(Don’t Read it)

Maybe I wasn't destined to be a murderer, but I became one. We are told that sin sits like a boulder on your heart. We are made to believe that blood clots stain your hands, and your eyeballs turn into the dark, insomniac districts of big cities. We are told that grief and compunction lurk like a phobia in the silent hours of your existence. We are told that killing another is hard, that it’s a brutal act. They have announced that promiscuity is a burden, a disease, difficult to live with, to live for. It is nothing but a thick pile of lies. Each one of us has a murderer within us, and if we train ourselves well, killing is a pastime like none other. I am talking about killing humans. Killing as a hobby, as an art, as a science! I will now tell you why I am both an artist and a scientist and a computer engineer…

This is my true story. I write this to denounce the myths associated with murder. I am not here to praise myself or my acts. My virtual existence points to the fact that I don't care for your applause or comments. I want you to listen to me. Suspend your prejudices and listen to me. I may come after you and kill you too, but there is no hurry.

Killing for pleasure is my hobby. Like a prostitute who enjoys the variety and the range in her customer base, who works not just for material pleasure, whose loins are like ravenous hearths thirsting for more wood, I am always fantasizing about spurting blood, slashed veins and strips of flesh peeled out like onion skins. But murder is the end of ecstasy; the real pleasure is in the foreplay.

First kill is like losing virginity. It introduces you to a new realm of pleasures. I was only fifteen when I discovered the essence of this simile. Ashraf, my mortal twin, consider himself as the stronger and the smarter one. Our mother, the bitch, never figured who our biological father was. Ashraf had arrived a few seconds before I did. I arrived in anger, and unlike usual babies, I arrived with just a single tear on my cheek. One tear for losing the race to Ashraf, one tear to be christened as Ashq!

I tolerated him for 20 years. I let his 5’10 feet, stout frame tower a few inches above mine slim, bone and flesh, dilapidated body. I let his scores at primary school overrun mine; I let myself bear sores after every battle we fought. I resented him with a bitterness that I openly flaunted. I tolerated him till the day I saw him extract a smile and blush from Christy. Chris (in short) sealed his fate.

I think I was a little inexperienced then. I did not know human anatomy enough. I choked him with a pillow, and he struggled like a horse trying to swim across a swamp. He fought hard, but in the end, his despair, his astonishment swamped him. I was much weaker physically, but my intent was as taut as my grip. We lived next to Arabian Sea, in a zombie’s world. It took me only a few minutes to wrap him in a bed sheet and leave him for the fish to feast on. My sweaty self was strained to the limit, and yet I felt an exhilaration one feels after scaling a mountain. What followed in Chris's room was like jumping off a cliff for para gliding!

I did not know enough human anatomy then. I did not know how erotic pain is for woman, how injury urges them on, how darkness turns them into a force that contain pleasures that bleed as they proceed, that soar as they swing, that flatter as they fetter you. I approached her, who was only twenty one then. She bit me, punched me, hit me, and writhed in my grip like a snake, trying to escape from a mongoose's grip. I hurled her down on the floor, and held her breasts so tightly with my fingers digging deep into them, that I feared my fingers would start to crackle. Before my fingers could crackle, her fierceness began to exude a fire that I had never thought possible. We both burned like turpentine oil, screeching and spurting as we exhausted every drop of our intention. When we stopped an hour later with teeth marks and bites all over each other, I rose with a freshness one feels after an extended bath. Ashq, the man, was born.

Unfortunately, Chris had to die next. The only murder that brings a sigh to my lips was hers. The murder itself was a fascinating affair; I have no complaints about the act itself. In fact, it was my first masterpiece. The sigh is for the body that was first to anoint me as potent. The sigh is for the teeth that first roused the animals in my languid flesh. I killed her one evening, of course, after pounding her with my exploding ego. I killed her, just at the moment, when she closed her eyes, moaning as she climaxed. Blood sprinkled out of her veins, as it does when suddenly someone steps on a garden hose and it just bursts out. The red liquid rose like a fountain, and drops fell like rose petals on her face. As I walked out, unnoticed at the early dawn, I left a raging fire to gorge her, to finish her with the last rites a Hindu deserves. Then I took a plunge in the sea to clean off the stains of my first romance.

Ashraf and Chris must have united in hell, for all I care.

Here I stand before you, without face, anonymously. My lips are being licked by new desires, my hands are as eager for fondling you as they are for dismantling your intestines. I am as natural with the knife as I am with assuming the character of a weakling, a man of no importance, trying to fight big and small torments of life to survive the system. I am a Van Gogh, unknown to the mankind, a Picasso you haven't yet learnt to appreciate. I am a Casanova, who incarnates as Jack, The Ripper, and walks the nights as Dracula, without the flourish of the Count. No Gods bother me, I bother with none. We ignore each other. I don't subscribe to any cannibalistic tribe. I am a purely on liquid diet (can you beat that?). I am no devil worshipper. I am just a simple man, with simple needs and a great panache for killing. I kill so elegantly that you will never suspect me as the killer.

Although; I guess after I die I will prefer to be remembered only for my first duo-murder of Chris & Ashraf.

Glory

Not on advising mood…seriously. Just want to share a weird thought. I guess we often vie to get the attention and glory of people surrounding us. At least it’s very true for me you can say… if you don’t know. In fact the concept of most of my Blogs is based on this. When I look at them, I can feel myself trying to corner the attention of my virtual readers in some mean hook and crook method by… BRAGGING. It appears childish, but it was really fun…and we are not talking about myself.

Sometimes we Blog things that we may not accept in personal life; we Blog extremist views; we blog expressions and ideas that we never relish in person; all in the hope of getting some attention.

But the fact is that Attention, Adulation, Glory and such things are not seeked my good readers… They happen... Why they happen, there are lot of reasons…

Turtle when put in warm water for cooking it, will like the warmth and swim excitedly. As it continues, the heat will cook its body and will die a painful death…Glory is also like that. It is very pleasureful initially. Ultimately it will kill the mental peace (in the heat to retain it all the time).

To strike a balanced life in the long run is a challenge my friends.

Dada- Pota

Eid celebration!!!

DaadiJaan - A good human and a better wife

Memories of my childhood once in a while float through my brain, I come from a large family, who due to unknown reasons have always stressed on the importance of family values. My Daadi god bless her soul, was the founder of this theory. She took time to make me sit near her during annual gatherings or flip through family photo albums and teach me who was who... teaching me why it was important to know your blood relation… to give them respect irrespective of their social or financial standings. To talk in the language they know… to ask for things which are available. She also used to tell me stories of when she was young...stories of her daddy, stories of her brother and sisters.

She belonged to a very rich family and married my grandfather from a poor family because of his education. She always told me she was educated till 3^rd standard in Urdu madarsaa but always stressed on the importance education if one wants to gain respect in society. I felt education for her was Lawyers, doctors and engineers; if you are not one of the three you are bloody well illiterate. Education was the only way for her to uplift your society.

Although not well to do by today’s standards, she was the only source of livelihood for 2 women who ended up begging on road after her demise. None of her well educated kids could help that. Good she died before that.

When I think of her, I think of love. I think of pride… a determined woman with a strong voice of a speaker and a leader. And yes a lovable grandmother who had a long active sex life which was a matter of pride for her.

She was a hard worker who raised 11 children, five boys and six girls. I think although not much educated she was a great home maker and an exotic cook which none of her daughter in-laws could equal. After she died at the ripe age of eighty-eight, I was going through her things, and found an Alim certificate (Muslim Scholar) from one of her treasured trunk.

An Alim who decided to work as a housekeeper, and called herself illiterate instead...how could I never know? And why didn't she tell me? I guess, sometimes there are some things left out, for whatever reason, we just keep some things to ourselves...

I still keep to things the way she told me about her… an illiterate loving grandmother who was an awesome wife. It doesn't matter, because the memories make up for the things I didn't know during her lifetime.

My take on Child Birth - Addon to my Sisters

Giving birth is like taking a BIG and LONG hard dump in the toilet. It's where you think you can't take another minute of it as the sweat beads up and runs amok. Mostly, you think you're going to die first before passing those uncut huge watermelons.

And then, the baby is in your arms. A puss-like and bloody substance still clings to parts of the baby's body. The face is scrunched and pinched up like a shriveled head in a curio shop. There's a screeching cry of anger and confusion that won't stop. And you think you've never seen any baby as beautiful as this one ever in your life. I never heard about any woman who have not cried with joy after seeing her just born.

Labor Pain - As narrated by my sister

It was hard for me to come up with presenting this idea but I guess I didn’t play any part in pre-delivery stage of my sister. Not that I am capable of playing any worth while part or I was expected to play during or post her pregnancy but then again she is my sister and she is capable of finding faults in me even if I am in best of my standing. What gave me this idea was mere fact she likes talking and if she doesn’t have anything worthwhile then she likes hitting it out on me.

This was narrated by her and dedicated to her 2 little devils who think I am a hit me toy.

Twins I hoped in my wildest dreams, twins it was going to be. The fateful day of childbirth arrived in August. Sure I was two weeks early but I knew the instant the first contraction hit that the time had arrived. I was in COMPLETE control. I had everything buttoned up at work, I had the whole birth planned out, I even had a pen and paper next to the bed. .The pen and paper quickly went to use recording every single contraction, its strength, length and time of day. I was on a mission. I even recorded bowel movements so I could proudly show my doctor how organized I was. It all started at midnight and I lovingly let my husband sleep through the night so that he wouldn't have an exhausting day. I can’t wake up my mother sleeping in next room without waking the entire neighborhood nor can I call my insolent & incompetent brother who is never there when needed. I didn't need anyone; I had my pen, paper, and images of a perfect birth that couldn't be sidelined by even the greatest obstacles. It was all planned. I was going drug free and in a tub. After all, I have the pain threshold of a hardened Indian girl and all the research said that there was nothing more natural for a newborn than to come into this world in a bath of warm water. Made sense to me. I like water, and if I had been breathing some form of water like substance for a number of months, I might just like to hang onto that for a few minutes longer.

So by noon things had heated up a little bit. Yes, I said noon. That's TWELVE hours later if you can understand. Twelve hours of pacing, wincing, writing, and pooping. I was starting to get a little annoyed actually and decided to hit the hospital to see if we could move things along a little bit. Well they were no help at all. Turns out I wasn't even dilating, and despite the fact that the pain was getting worse, my cervix was remaining tightly shut. I was starting to wish it had been so accommodating nine months earlier.
To add insult to injury, and due to incredibly poor judgment on my part, I had the constant support of not only my husband in the birth room, but my mother as well. I mean, who wants their mother to see them completely naked and in incredible pain for hours on end. I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking when I invited her in three months earlier, but back then I was glowing, happy and excited, eager to embrace, and share, the gift of childbirth as I swiftly and painlessly popped the cork that would later be called my son. Sure, things weren't going exactly as planned, but one thing you will learn quickly about me and Ashraf’s in general: We are a stubborn bunch. You never second guess your decisions, and never show signs of weakness. It’s an inherent trait, all in our family have it, its just a little more intense for some. So three hours after checking in, I’m in the tub and the pain is getting intense. The doctor states boldly, let me know if you want any painkillers its still not too late. "Too late" should have been a red flag in my head, and any normal person at this point would have begged for some kind of morphine drip or a bat to the head, but not me. I can handle this, I am a strong woman, pain is for sissies.
Around dinner time, after I decided that screaming was indeed an acceptable way to deal with the situation, we determined a couple of things. The tub idea was a joke and my threshold for pain wasn't nearly as high as I thought originally. Problem? I passed the drug window. Once I finally broke down and pleaded with the doctors to give me drugs, they refused. Apparently there's some sort of danger involved to the baby if administered after a certain time. Hence the "too late" statement. Now, clearly I don't want anything bad happening to my babies, but at that particular point in time, I couldn't have cared less.

Picture a 27 year old woman, standing in the middle of a hospital room screaming at her mother, husband and several hospital employees, where the only shred of dignity left is in the form of a hospital scarf that is secured around her neck. That's it. It’s hanging on me like a bib, bottom exposed, breasts hanging out, but somehow I think having this thing tied around my neck is making me look almost respectable. Not likely. But I didn't care at the time. All I wanted was that baby out of me. Period. The last thing I was worried about frankly were my kids being born with a buzz.

But eventually Ajuj(Gog) was born, drug free, a mere 24 hours and 18 minutes after the first contraction and Majuj(Magog) followed after 5 minute gap. One full day of excruciating pain and bad decisions that ended with me holding a double six pound alien in both my arms, complete with the cone head you read about in the medical journals.

But in conclusion, if you only take two things away from this, make it these:

1. When a physician offers you drugs when you're in pain, take them. And if you can, stockpile some extra for friends.

2. if someone ever says to you that you'll forget the pain of childbirth as soon as its over, remember these wise words from an honest mom. They are FULL OF SHIT.

When I met her after her fabulous maternity ward stunt and enquired about her pain she asked me to try shitting 2 Watermelons to understand it.