If you have OCD- Don’t miss this short message from me

I am an author who writes fiction and creates blogs.  I do lots of other things too that are super interesting like social influencing and travel vlogging.
My writings are almost always to do with human emotions and creating intense plots comes naturally to me.
But that’s not why I am here .
I am here because I endure what is called  ‘semi obsessive compulsive disorder’  – commonly known as OCD – a so called imbalance (defined in medicine) which causes unwanted thoughts , obsessions  and an urge to do something over and over again .
I say semi because I dislike social labels; rather make my own.
And what better time than to share with the world,  the effects of Covid on an OCD carrier which is as much of a virus for the mind as covid is to the body .
‘ Covid 19’
The word itself seemed to be made only for those like me who have this mental situation.
Pick the three letters and shuffle them and it is OCD.
So who am I ? And what’s with the OCD shout out ?
I am someone who on a normal day before Covid,  has been scouting around the house for open windows, unlocked doors, leaking taps or open freezers at night and avoiding handshakes, restaurant toilets  and unnecessary hugging in the day.
And then this thing called Corona virus  distracted me .
It took me away from my comfortable  ticks and brought in new ones .
Like uninvited guests they intruded my mind.
My space . My life .
Before WHO and doctors told us, what one should do or not do in a virus situation – I intuitively already knew the do’s and dont’s.
I started using masks, Gloves, hairdryers, cleaned shoes and stalked up on my soaps, food etc . even before the  virus had barely touched India.
So when it  actually did come to India officially , the mental havoc started .
The cleaning, the sanitising, the over checking, the paranoia of the virus being in my bed, chasing me in the kitchen, lying waiting for me in my broom or winking at me through my soap – are only some of the examples.
Yes it sounds funny but try sitting still with a thorn under your backside; well that’s the best way to explain, to those who are lucky not to have it.
I am sure there are several out there, who like me are living in this nightmare of a virus attack even if they not stepped  out of their home.
Or maybe like me if they do – They wear a head gear,  two masks and extra gloves in the pocket and refuse to make eye contact.
There are many kinds of OCD manifestations; if you don’t have one, then the other.
I wanted to share a different view of the virus which would be helpful to those who are having severe anxieties even without having OCD issues.
After all mental health is as precious as physical health .
Getting a health  professional to speak of it is probably the right way to go about it but hearing it from the horses mouth maybe a slight relief.
So if there are OCD s out there , do drop me a line at kainazj@yahoo.com and we can try surviving it together.
Acceptance is the key.
And I say this, with conviction, ‘We are normal! But the rest of the world? Perhaps not.’ 

Locked up in love forever (Story 6- Love from Alpha to Omega)

                                                                                        

 

                                  

            PRAGMA – Enduring Love

                        (by Kainaz J)

Pragma is also known as enduring love, which is one of the Eight     different kinds of Greek love from the new book of love stories, ‘Love:   From Alpha to Omega’

( This is story 6 from the book, complimentary for chaiwithkai followers, social media fans and readers. )

To read more such explosive love stories download it on the kindle app and enjoy!

Full Book available on kindle Love: From Alpha to Omega

                             

                    Story 6

From a warrior, to a nobleman, to a priest, to a sailor, to a slave, to a saviour, to a life-partner; soulmates come in various forms, across each lifetime – again and again – until they become One.

 

 

Age of Antiquity, 2nd Century BC

 

“I am the grand-daughter of Alexander,” she told him; pride over her small fair face; her eyes blazing in challenge; knowing that this proclamation would certainly get her slaughtered like the four-legged animals they grilled over community dinners.Or perhaps exempt her, for maybe he would fear the progeny of an emperor, even if he were now no longer alive. She didn’t care of either; she looked forward to the distant future, a life beyond this life.The man wore a hood like cover across his face; like his Persian brothers. He was well aware of who she was talking about, but highly doubted she was the daughter of the great emperor who was now no more; of the race he was instructed to swipe off on sight. Her scarf was covering most of her face; her blue eyes looking at him with an inane courage he had not witnessed in his lot.Women in his side of the world were beautiful in their own way, but this one seemed to be different.Instinctively he swept the weapon close to her face and then stopped; was he striking her for challenging a man or because she had spoken of the emperor who had ruled half the world?

‘Sure! If you are his grand-daughter than I have fallen from the sky,’ he smirked in reply; he spoke a little of her language; he wasn’t like the other 22-year-olds who did as they were told; he kept his ears open and his mouth shut most of the times. Hence he was much smarter. But this was an order; every boy over 16 had to get to battle.

This time it was with the Grecian Empire; which was losing its reign over its conquered territories after the death of Alexander……..

He moved the sharp object over her face; enough to cause fear but careful of not drawing blood.

“Beg,” he said; lifting her scarf slowly, revealing a large unblemished, royal forehead.

“Over my dead body,” she laughed; removing a tiny tool from the white inner garment under her long robe. She pointed it at him. “I am the grand-daughter of the one who was emperor of half the world. I do not beg, in front of anyone, for anything.”

He laughed back; “You are going to fight me with this worthless piece of …..”

She dug it across his shoulder; causing a smear of blood; he stepped back.

Alarmed and shocked at the feisty nature of this exceptional woman; again uncommon to him.

Her scarf had dropped off now, revealing the most magnificent creature he had ever seen.“One more step closer and you will be dead meat,” she said, and he felt she meant it.

He dropped his weapon; mouth open; not even a tree could have struck him as callously as the beauty in front of him.

He surrendered; turning around 360 degrees; showing her he was now unarmed.

He could hear the sound of footsteps in the background. His men were getting near.

“Get inside your house,” he shouted in urgency. “Run….”

She looked at him, very confused.

“Go in girl. I will tell them I killed you all and tied your limbs to each other.”

She hesitated, frowned, she could hardly believe her ears or good fortune.

He removed his own gear then; in hope that his handsome face would be enough for her to obey.

She drew a small breath from her slightly broad nostrils.

His eyes went on the small spot under her chin; it was affecting him, though he couldn’t understand why. Actually, everything about her had bothered him.

But the last straw had come when he gave her unconditional freedom.

Arvind had even shocked himself that day; he had come to slay this family along with many others as he moved from region to region, across the valleys of Central Asia; supposedly adding up dead bodies.

The footsteps became more conspicuous.

She leaned closer and kissed him on his perfect bowed red full lips, showing immeasurable gratitude.

He felt a stirring that had never happened before; in a place he usually used only to dispose of the extra water he had drunk.

She stayed there until he drew her away; he could be like this forever if they had met in different circumstances.

“Marry me,” he asked or rather commanded in urgency; “that way you will be saved. I will say you are one of us.”

Phyllida, the Greek girl, grand-daughter of Alexander, shook her head; she couldn’t believe she was exploring the idea. Her parents would die if they lived to see the next day; she could be nothing but a true-blooded Greek, until she died.

She knew if she stayed put in her house for a while; the Aryan warriors wouldn’t cross this way again and they would be saved.

His eyes told her that he could be trusted.

Her mother would see sunshine again and her father would go and get help for her sick brother.

He understood her dilemma as he saw a sad look in her eyes that had blazed earlier with bravado.

He took her hand to his lips; as he gestured her toward her house.

“This is not the end…fair one.”

She nodded her head, leaving her hand on his lips more than she knew was safe, for she could hear bold voices now.

With a heavy sigh he pushed her softly away; his eyes begging her to flee.

“I am sorry,” she whispered and with one last regretful look she turned around and scampered away; not knowing what had just happened; but realising that life was never going to be the same again.

The left side of his chest tugged into a strange pull; like a root of a tree being yanked from the soil was the only way he could describe it.

An intimidating man came charging from behind.

“They are dead; Uncle. I made sure….” he told him with an emptiness in his gut, and watched the older man’s green eyes light up like a hundred suns.

 

And they continued their trek, along with a force of innumerable men; all these Aryan warriors ready to snatch Central Asia back from the invading Greeks.

 

 

Dark ages, Rome, 476 AD

She worked as one of the chamber-maids at the castle where he held his noble title; he was fifth in line to the throne.

Full-bottomed and well-rounded; long hair cascading like the river he had once crossed on his black horse as a brave boy training for aristocratic initiation; Rosa had crossed three borders with her sister and uncle; to work for the family that spoke of pristine blue blood.

Valencio was struck by Rosa’s natural beauty, fiery eyes, defiant chin, and mainly the conspicuous uneven shaped mole under it that made her different from any creature he had laid eyes on.

She wore a long dress, but it tapered on her hips so well that he could literally see the mound that seduced him. He reached the room which she shared with another help; in the outhouse a hundred yards away from where he lived.

He knocked on her door softly; she opened at once. She was a child to him; brown eyes that looked at him like a lost animal.

He knew he must resist this flame but he had to have his way with her; he just had to; it was like a pressing need of the hour.

She put her eyes down as he stared at her with a mix of lust and passion; her loins were hardly in control anymore ; she didn’t know much of the world but she certainly knew she needed to be touched by this handsome long-haired, beastly-looking human in fine soft clothing, who happened to be one of her masters.

She had heard of noblemen taking all sorts of favours; from the help; not sparing a single fair lady; sometimes even their brother’s wife.

The married ones more so, who had an incorrigible reputation preceding them.

But this one had no wife. She had seen him in passing, though never really meeting his eye. He always seemed to be in a hurry, and she overheard the Queen say that her fourth son was an unstoppable rascal; who played with danger as easily as one does with a spinning top.

He was the handsomest of the brothers by far; a strapping fellow with a cheerful face; easily excited and easily placated; a combination that had made her both curious and adventurous.

Valencio paused for a minute and studied her face; he knew this was not like the Russian or the Spanish he had savoured last week. This one was trouble. Not to his manhood which was insatiable, but to his heart; he might even be devoted to her and never pin another down on his mattress.

This thought made him both fearful and aroused.

But, some desires are meant to be fulfilled…..

Some thirsts are meant to be quenched….

Some hungers are meant to be satiated…..

And standing in her small room he intended to take charge of his rising needs.  He grabbed her by her hair, and in the most brutal like way spread her apart and relished every part of her until the sheets stained and her eyes welled.

But she didn’t stop. She needed more. She wanted more. He was only too eager to do so. He wasn’t just using her; he was giving her his all.

He had many whores before, but this one would be his wife .

He had plucked her flower and he would grow it in his garden, with care until they both lived. He didn’t need to ask.

Rosa just knew. There could be no other. Her first and last. And just as he leaned down for another kiss on the sheets of the fabric, they had made their nest; whilst the other maid pretended she hadn’t heard a thing but enjoying the raptures of heavens anyways ; the cruel blow of fate struck him hard from behind.

Alas, that blow came from a raw hollow-rod and he lurched across the cold ground with an agonising groan as she cried and begged for help into the empty night; following the shadow that had taken away her life.

She almost caught up with him, piercing her nails into his back, drawing blood like a vengeful tigress when he turned around and clouted her over her head. All she could recall as he scuttled off, were his sinister green eyes. Rosa managed to tumble back to where Valencio lay in a pool of red.

Barely managing to touch his fingers with her own; she shut her eyes; drawing the final curtain on them. The other maid hid under the bed; she would stay there till someone found the lovers. Little did she or the departed know that this was just the beginning of the ‘Fall of Rome’ at the hand of the barbarians.

 

 

 Medieval Ages, France, 1206 AD

The only thing Joan looked forward to was visiting her church in Paris; which was on the other side of the town-square where she lived; a sole relief from a drunken father who womanised and brought cheap mistresses home; often squandering their tiny saving on his cheap thrills.

She had often wondered what got him these despicable women with cheap perfume attracted to him; she deducted that maybe it was his green eyes; which were different from the rest of the French. She couldn’t think of anything else other than that; it was definitely not his wobbly pot-belly and bald head.

She had no idea why he hated her so much; her mother had given birth to her and left for the angels; how was that her fault?

All that she had left in the world, were her father and her mangy pup with longish ears, Piers, who had chosen her in the market-square one day when she had gone out to shop for fruits from the measly money her father gave her.

She loved fresh fruits of all kinds, and the square had some pretty things too. Old jewellery, odd-looking tiny objects; colourful gems; and beautiful people who visited it. She looked at them awestruck, wondering if she would ever own a fancy gown of her own.

The ladies came with rich men in wealthy attire and flashy necklaces; they bought so many things that her jaw dropped often as she stared at them often, clutching her little box of  fruit as if it were her only possession left.

Her country had made considerable progress under the reign of King Philip II, who had brought about financial stability by not only building a great wall around Paris, but reorganising the French government into a strong administrative machine.

As a twenty-year-old; she would let herself dream of her moment too; not only dressed in fineries but with a young man to hold her protectively like the ones she saw; who would save her from the world she had no escape from.. Maybe a vassal or a knight; there was no harm in keeping herself alive with a speck of hope.

The only thing that seemed to embrace her surrounding was the stench of liquor and puppy Piers’ funny breath over the star-shaped mole under her chin.

As a child on her way to clean homes, she had seen many a young girl hanging on to their Pappas and Mammas; walking in tiny streets taking in the sights, or to the bread-shops to purchase a sweet loaf.

That wintry day in church was a special one; they were to reveal some paintings of those artists that were gaining rave reviews in circles; not that she was part of any circle.  She knew the affluent though; she worked as a child-carer for some of her wealthy neighbours; they had known her mother and now knew her; felt sorry for her but trusted her all the same.

She didn’t mind her small job; it gave her some money to buy the basics, and if lucky, a tastier meal for Piers than the ones she provided day in and out.

She sat as usual, at the far end of the huge church with its stained-glass windows and murals that mesmerised her; one of the main reasons she loved coming here.

She loved art; it was like her soul lit up each time she had a chance to come upon something strikingly new.

Everyone arose as the balding Bishop appeared on the huge dais in front of them; she knew him well; he was the Head of the Church. He had a soothing voice and spoke of Christ and his teachings so sincerely, that it made his listeners almost think that he had known the Lord personally.

A month before, it had been announced that there would be artistic revelations on this day at their enchanting church. No wonder the church was bottlenecked with people; she was glad she had got her regular seat; she had arrived early only for that.

 

The seat was at a fair distance, but she had discovered after some trial-and-error over many months that it gave her a non-obstructive view of the dais; even better than some of the front-bencher seats.

She wrapped her hands around herself, snuggling further into her old coat, shivering with excitement; hardly unable to contain herself.

There were some introductions; applause and movement on the dais, as paintings were divulged; artists were exposed; this was possibly the best moment of her life.

And then as if her worst nightmare came true, Joan heard her name being called by a young priest. Not once but twice. At first it didn’t register; not many addressed her by her name. It was usually, ‘that girl,’ or ‘that poor one.’

What had she done? Had something happened to her father or worse still Piers? If so, how did they know she was here?

She held her breath in, her stomach supressed in a knot; and walked slowly to where they summoned.

Embarrassed with her torn shoes and worn-out coat as all eyes came upon her; she held her own as she stepped on the podium, her body convulsing into a nervous shiver.It was only when she heard the clapping and the cheering did it register that she had won some sort of prize in a raffle.

She recalled giving her name at the Church entrance where a friendly couple took her money and wished her good luck; this had been a while ago. She had done it only because she didn’t know how to say no; it had cost her a cup of cocoa; a little treat she gave herself once in a way.

A young man with brown thick hair, heavy eyebrows, in a priestly attire walked toward her and handed her an envelope. She took it shaking, wondering what she was supposed to do with it.

He was the Priest who had picked out her name from the countless pieces of paper out of a carved wooden box. There were five big boxes like those. The odds were almost miniscule.

Priest Jean Claude had been happy he could change someone’s life as he noticed her appearance; not out of judgement but compassion. The amount he held in the hand was a part of a hefty donation to that Church, by a prosperous French gentleman with no heir; it would wrap her up nicely and three more generations to come, she was in for the biggest surprise of her life.

She looked up at him as he spoke kindly; he was a tall man so she had to aim her gaze higher. She wasn’t afraid of him; Priests were usually good people; they led celibate lives and blessed everyone.

The Church  formation in France had changed its course through the years; the corruption had dwindled, ethics had seeped in slowly  through its rigid walls.

This was a time of unity not war. As their eyes met; it felt as if every mural, fresco and stained-window had smashed into pieces, around them. A bolt of lightning seemed to have struck her; she could hardly stand.

Jean Claude felt a strange blow under his  left shoulder;  he put his hand over it as if to confirm if he could still feel the pulsating; the last time this had happened was when he had been enunciated into priesthood; a fulfilment of a long cherished dream.

But this electric current that spiralled all the way to his boots was far more potent than that. Her mole beneath her chin twitched as he watched her gasp; her dark eyes told him what he needed to know.

He shut his eyes. He was a man of God. He had no business to touch her dry cheeks and smoothen them with his lips. A few drops of encompassing compassion; now tarnished with rising passion, made him both guilty and interested.

The crowd awaited them; wondering why the young dreary-dressed lady wasn’t grabbing the prize money and running. She had won it fair and square, even though some were envious.

“Jean Claude,” his fellow priest coughed behind him; “We have to go on…”

Jean Claude reluctantly snapped out of the spell.

He knew this would be the first and only time they would meet, at least in this life.

Come tomorrow he would take the first transport, out of the city.

That would be the only way he could save his faith.

Ten years ago; before he had become a Priest, things might have been different but God had other plans.

She wanted to reach out, ask him to take her out for a walk near the river that held Paris together, but she couldn’t, she didn’t dare.

She would be exiled or beheaded for nurturing any such dreams; Piers, would be an orphan she justified, as she suppressed her love for this man who had changed her life.

As she went back to her seat; she realised this was the first time she had been applauded or noticed for anything. It should have made her feel good, but all it did was form a deeper cavity inside. Joan forgot about the Gothic architecture, the vaults and arches surrounding her, which she normally gave so much attention to.

She gazed over where Jean Claude stood; behind the Bishop; wondering if he had felt the madness too. His face was closed, his smile gone, his expressions unadorned.

She put it down to her own whim, until she noticed mist around his greenish-hazel eyes.

 

 

1347 AD, Black Death Plague, Secillia, Messina

There was fear in the air; as all the sailors one by one; fell like a pile of bricks; the 12 ships had entered the Sicilian port of Messina, but almost every man on the sea vessels had passed away.

There were a few remaining  but they were as sick as dogs; boils and puss oozing out for inexplicable reasons; though black rats had been under suspect; all caught by a harrowing plague that was a fear far greater than being drowned in the Black Sea.

40-year-old Giovanni had been the chief navigator of one such ship.

Giovanni was restless and unwell; the minute he reached port he was greeted by two stern looking men; their grim faces that made him believe they had already received the bad news. All the ships had been infected with some sort of bad omen that caused the sailors to break out in boils; and vomit and bleed from their fingers and toes.

He knew it was a matter of time for the symptoms had started for him too.

They didn’t waste time as they didn’t want to linger any longer.

They made it brief; “There is a nurse waiting for you at the port health station. She will do the needful.”

He wasn’t obligated to obey but what he knew from the last so many months was that it was heavily contagious, and even though he had locked himself in his own cabin; the evil hex had found its way under his door and onto his bed; for he had woken one morning covered in red blotches and nursing an aching stomach.

But his loyalty to the ship-owner made him use the last bit of strength; he had to bring back his vessel to shore before disembarking and claiming all his boys dead.

He spoke slowly to them; his head was getting numb; his tongue dry, the sun was about to set and he knew this would probably be the last one he saw.

He asked if he could get into town to visit his wife and kids; another reason he had made it so far alive.

More than the wife, it had been his children, a boy and a girl; seven and four, whom he had promised to return with gifts for. He squeezed his pocket; he had got them a medallion each from the previous port when things hadn’t crashed this badly.

The officers gave him a disdainful look; stepped back and turned around; gesturing him to follow them at a safe distance.

After making sure he reached the station where the nurse was waiting in a tiny shelter, they left. He stood outside for a moment wondering who would have agreed to be this close to him in such times; for the risk was too high and that too a woman!

Maybe an experienced nurse of 60 he concluded, who had grown fearless through the years. There was a tap on his shoulder as he spun around startled; someone clueless about his illness had just lost their life too.

It was a young woman in her 30’s; enchanting eyes; round face who spoke to him in great ease. “It’s time Captain.”

It was the nurse. Why had she been so stupid? She should have known better than touch him and she had worn no protection on her whatsoever.

She played with the mole under her chin; something about that brought him some solace; as if reading his thoughts she spoke cheerfully; “I have some strange disease; so I am probably going to follow you anyway.”

He felt like crying. She didn’t deserve to die; she was too striking, too attractive and too much of a mermaid, to be taken away so young.

He forgot about his illness, his stomach, his head, his wife, in fact even forgot about his kids. In that moment he felt he was as healthy as a 16-year-old lad. And the wild throbbing in his chest refused to surrender to logical reasoning.

Giovanni was a hot-blooded Italian who had never cheated on his spouse; all sailors had lusty objects of affection at every port, but was one he read, dreamt or wrote when they docked for weeks. Never once slipping. He was a man of his word.

She had a calm persona. Like the sunset behind, she had nothing to say except that their worlds were setting soon.

He had no clue that the heart of the woman in front of him, danced like a firefly in the dusky sky; waiting for this man. Not any man. This man.

She had worried that he would never come, but he had, and that too in such circumstances. A psychic whom she had visited on hearing about her own terminal illness, had told her that her lover from a past life was to arrive; he would have dark hair, small eyes and a rugged look.

That was a description that fitted almost 90 percent of the Italian men. But the psychic had said she would know. How?  Deep within the throes of her soul; she would just know. He held her hand tight as he stretched across the tiny bed; as she removed the thick needle; he wasn’t afraid. He was to die in the arms of an angel.

He quickly spoke, “I need a favour, I don’t expect you to, but…..will you give my children these?”

He handed over the medallions. She placed them on the small low seat next to the bed, her heart warmed by his adoration to his kin.

He came close, he hadn’t done anything like this before……

The psychic’s words came back to her; “If you kiss that man; it could be his elixir for life. But if he kisses you first, he will die.”

She pulled back at once.

“Sorry I didn’t mean to…I mean I better not, my mouth is not even in a condition to. But I just felt like…It would probably be the last kiss I would ever have.”

He couldn’t believe himself.  He had never begged. He had never strayed.

He realised that he hadn’t even asked her name; she was Spanish, or probably Greek, he guessed.

She then took over, keeping the injection she had been holding with the medallions; touching her lips gently to the blood from the pus that was lying dormant under the lips.

But it hardly mattered to her as her tongue found his; his hands discovering new valleys under her dress and mounts that he had never felt this earnest under his touch.

“I love you,” she spoke in his left ear softly.

He couldn’t understand how or why.

And just as he was about to lift her light blue dress to make her feel every bit of the woman she deserved; she breathed a soft kiss into his right ear and under his muscular arms she sighed for the last time.

Giovanni was heartbroken as he felt her pulse stop; he would have to inject himself now, or maybe jump into the sea. He decided the latter as he got up. It was a dark, dark era for the world.

And then as if his limbs grew wings, he sat up effortlessly, feeling the recent pains disappear; the bleeding freeze, the breath return, and a wave of energy enveloping him that made him delirious. He felt his face, clear as the waters.

Was he healed? Was it possible to come out of this murderous sickness that had taken every life around him? He looked at her, frowning; an uncanny discomfort in him; knowing she had something to do with this.

“Goodbye angel” he kissed her one last time hoping he could do the same for her; wishing she would wake up and they would set sail together across unknown destinations.

But that was not to be.

Giovanni and his children had dinner together that night. He would live till 60, but would never make love to his wife again.

 

 

South America, 1692

Brazil was at its slave-trade peak; the slaves wanted to murder their masters; they were not only physically attacked by them but their spirits had been broken for generations with all sorts of verbal racial assaults.

A soul slaughter can be much more severe than the lash of a whip; and more so when colour is the reason for segregation.

It was in one such rice plantation where Zion worked really hard. He was a big black man who along with his mother and sister been transported to South America in a way that one carried cattle; by a big boat from his home town in Africa to South America; where they had lived for the last 10 years.

Zion had been 15 then. He had tried fighting the white brutes back on home shore, but a brute with green eyes and a mean face had pierced him viciously with a switchblade and thrown him into the caged vessel, along with his mother, sister and two thousand others of his tribe.

He hated the Whites with a passion.

Zion didn’t think much of himself either; he loathed his skin colour, his knotted hair and the big mole beneath his chin. He couldn’t do much about the former two but the mole he tried cutting more than once, which had only led him to self-injury.

Zion was to marry his childhood sweetheart who had also arrived on the next boat much to his joy; many years ago. Now they were both ready.

And just a week before the ceremony where his entire slave tribe of their commune would attend; they were told that the hands of their owners had changed.

More tyrants they all dreaded, now. Probably burn them alive for everything else they had done.

Sergio was one of the two brothers who had bought the 1000 acre land; but unlike his brother he didn’t believe in hierarchy or brutality of any kind.

So when he discovered that one of his workers was getting married, he made it his business to gate crash into their party, just to break the ice. He was a fun-loving man who lived on his terms.

The throng of slaves, though initially scared; were ecstatic when they realised the effort he was making to fit in.

He danced and sang with them, shared the wine;  revelry returned to their gruesome and unfair life, tears of victory fell like rain from the eyes of the older ones.

Sergio couldn’t wait to see the groom to-be; he had planned on hugging him and breaking yet another code of conduct.

The ceremony was about to start and they made him sit in the front row to watch the tribal dance before the actual marriage.

Sergio enjoyed the performance thoroughly, even clapping like a school boy, making the rest swoon over him as if he were a Prince.

Zion and his bride to-be were brought inside the circle of love; which was actually poles and totems held by his own friends; magical hymns filled the air.

Zion wanted to avoid the man he had heard so much about in the last hour, word had got around that a White man would be attending his wedding. He had been very unhappy; he despised their very sight.

And that’s when he saw Sergio; a white man with a tiny beard, loose clothes and lean arms, pacing toward him. Zion got up slowly from where he sat; not wanting to be disrespectful and cause any sort of disastrous situation at his own wedding.

The two men walked steadily toward each other.

One’s heart piercing like a needle; the other skipping breaths, as they drew closer.

And as they stood a foot away from each other, not daring to come tighter, they felt something caving in under them.

Time stood still for Zion and Sergio; locked in a world perhaps only they both knew.

A few drops of rain considered as a good-luck omen fell upon their clothes; some rushed here and there for shelter; the bride to-be calling out his name.

Zion said his wedding-vows an hour later, as the elders roared with glee; things were looking up for them….

Sergio couldn’t watch, something in him had shifted forever.

He never came back to his land; his brother took over and the torture continued. It had been too good to be true for the slaves.

A few months later, Zion packed his bags and left in search of the White Man, whom he never found again….The two would have to wait a few life-times and change genders for yet some more centuries…..

 

England, 1830

 Anna was over the moon; today she was to make history. Well, actually she couldn’t take all the credit for herself; her father was one of the chief guards on the first train that was to run between Manchester and Liverpool.

Anna was in her early twenties and was engaged to Robert, an accountant with a steady job. She had a decent childhood; with the occasional tantrums, but on the whole, her parents pampered her a lot.

Anna possessed an offbeat charm but her hair was flame-orange, bordering red; a colour that was considered to be that of the Child of God. She felt blessed. Nothing could go wrong; her father had given her the best wedding gift already, getting special permission for her, letting her on one of England’s first train journeys.

Lady Dora and her husband Lord Randall, from the up-scale side of Manchester, arrived for their first train experience at sharp on time; as they had received instructions to do.

Randall barked some orders to his horseman, before putting his arm around his attractive blonde wife and making his way to the colourful railway carriage, where the elite had been given places according to their standings.

He nodded at a few faces he recognised, mostly ministers, politicians, Earls, Lords and those of high standing.

There was slimy Earl Albert who he had never got on with, and trampy Countess Bertilda whose bed he had warmed a few nights, several years ago when his wife had been pregnant.

Lord Randall was an arrogant, conceited; snobbish man with a glaringly debauched persona, who had little regard for anyone; except the Queen and her dear, for he knew which side he needed to butter his bread.

Lady Dora was a tall lady with a large bosom, a square face, and if had not been for her large bun and curvy figure; she had a slight manly look about her. Something that Lord Randall had liked, for he swung both ways; sometimes in the pants of his unwilling staff and other times under the skirts of the nannies of their children Charlotte and David.

Lady Dora sat next to her husband; stone-faced and expressionless; it made no difference to her that  her pompous husband plonked himself on the window seat with the better view.

She had stopped enjoying views a long time ago; in fact it was the day she married Lord Randall, when she found him in bed with his cousin on their wedding night.

After that she did as she was told; let him touch her the way he wanted and when he wanted; mostly because he had to, for that’s how his genes would manifest into the world.

Luckily her children were not the chip-of-the-old-block as they say, and were loving, affectionate and understood the family equation quickly for their age.

It was all for appearances and nothing else; almost like every other marriage in her social circle around her.

She stared blankly into space as the rest of the passengers embarked, nodding at a few she knew; recognising a number of ladies giving her husband a sly smile; Randy Randall was a legendary devil across several bed-posts.

If it wasn’t for the children or her family-name or her father who had suffered two strokes, she would have found the courage to walk away….

The whistle blew hard, the train gave a small rumble as it started, an odd jerk and propelled ahead; the sound of a sitting ovation filled the carriages, outside it stood wishful bystanders waving at the rest; craving to join; it was a moment in time they would never forget and would brag to their grandchildren about.

Anna knew that her father had haggled with his bosses to let his daughter ride; for the train had been booked only for an exclusive section of people.

He had finally conned them in, by convincing them that pretty Anna would be the ideal candidate to help the rest of the male staff with refreshments. After all having a woman on board to help with the service would add a unique touch.

Anna carried a tray filled with colourful cake and walked behind young Michael; the male attendant working in the same carriage she had been allotted for that journey.

She did it almost mechanically; half afraid she would goof up among the upper-crust class, not realising that she had been getting a lot of admiring glances from the men folk; especially one man who was adjusting his pants subtly; his wife ignoring him.

He reached out and touched her hand; making her heart almost skip a beat; why was this powerful looking man with a devilish smirk and green eyes, grasping her wrist, almost hurting her. She tried to struggle; shooting a stare at his wife who seemed to be looking away.

The rest of the carriage was filled with chatter and the clanging of tea-cups by the passengers on their small tables in front of them.

Anna was no babe in the woods; yes she may not have been with many men but she knew what seemed right and what didn’t.

She set the tray on his table, half-filled with the tea cakes, and was about to walk off when her eyes fell on the star shaped mole-like mark under the chin of the woman sitting next to him, which she had presumed was the wife.

Maybe it was the staring that got her to look, or the tray that had just been thrown clumsily with a thud, but Lady Dora finally broke out of her trance and noticed the red-haired female train attendant for the first time.

Anna lost her balance; so did the rest; the rain had stopped abruptly for some reason and she found herself across Lady Dora’s lap.

The two women stared at each other; both a bit gob-smacked; neither making an effort to make the first move; Dora sat still, one of her hands seemed to be under the slim girl’s butt; while the other trying to prevent her from falling over.

Anna felt her heart twist like the loose hair-plait she had braided.

Anna was the first to act; she got up hastily, collected her tray, excused herself saying she was sick and ran back to the small space like a pantry, where two cooks were preparing more snacks for the tea service.

She needed fresh air, she opened her blouse buttons; and stood near a door. One of the attendants asked if she was okay, she shooed him away, glad her father had not seen this or he would have been humiliated.

She knew the carriage would be filled with idle chatter and judgements; the high society was known to demean the lower class at any opportunity; though thanks to the recent Industrial Revolution, things were getting slightly better.

Anna could not fathom what had just happened; surely not a filthy man’s touch had got her this worked up; furious, yes but she wasn’t a timid mouse; she had balls. In fact her father joked often that she was like the son they never had.

It had been something else…..the soft hands of the golden-blonde Lady in the exquisite purple gown.

And then to her horror the last man she wanted  to ever see again, was standing in front of her; a weird smile on his face, rubbing his hands in some sadistic joy, “Join me in the toilet.”

She first thought he was humouring her.

“Now!”

He was commanding her like she were some stinky whore.

She looked at him defiantly; ‘Hope in hell!’ she thought to herself.

He may be a Count or Earl or even a King; she cared two tuppence for that.

He edged closer; she looked around; she had chosen a secluded spot by the door; the boys were too busy in service; the train guards had been stationed in every third carriage.

She realised she was pretty much on her own.

“I shall shout for help,” she warned him as she moved behind; she was almost at the edge now, close to the half-open door of the moving train.

She shut her eyes; she had never experienced such speed before; she wouldn’t survive if she lost her balance.

“Not if I slap you first and shut that smart mouth of yours! Do you know who I am?’

“You can be the Lord’s messenger himself, Sir; but to me you are a scumbag.”

His hand automatically moved to her cheek, whacking her with a sharp blow that made her face reel in pain.

“You peasant; that will teach you to not mess ….”

She held on to a support; almost being whacked out of the train.

Anna had tears in her eyes; she tried pushing him away with one hand, holding on with another for dear life, struggling to make a dash for it, screaming for assistance, but he was upon her hard and strong. He drew her in his arms and tried reaching for her lips, perversely enjoying her give up under his arms.

He was a large man whose physical strength she was no match for. And then as if Jesus had answered her frantic prayer of help, he slumped to the floor, next to her feet. She was about to scream when a hand came over her mouth.

“Shhh, not a word,” it was the same woman whose lap she had slipped on earlier. She had a gun in her hand, not one of the long ones, but a smaller one.

Her heart was running a 1000 miles. Anna was a perceptive girl; she nodded as if she understood what the older woman was a asking.

The hand on her mouth fell off, the gun was slipped back into the embroidered string bag; nonchalantly.

Anna didn’t need to ask what came next. Looking around her making sure there was nobody in sight; she helped the lady in the purple gown to heave the mass of flesh lying in front of them, out of the train.

Lady Dora spoke first, not batting an eyelid, non remorseful, “I could surrender; but I have my children.”

Anna was shaking like a leaf in a storm.

She threw herself on the older lady ; this was no time for class segregation; she had saved her life. Dora patted her; wondering why the semi-embrace had a familiar feeling of long ago to it. Again.

She embraced her wholly.

And as they heard voices and the sound of silver-ware behind them, they detached, surprised by their own intensity.

“Go, My Ladyship,” Anna urged her;  “Go….to your children.”

And as she said it she felt like a circle had been made almost complete.

Lady Dora smiled; maybe for the first time in months; removing a strand of hair from Anna’s frightened face. She reminded her of someone she knew. She couldn’t remember who. Maybe from many life-times ago.

Anna didn’t fight the touch, in fact she welcomed it with a strange sense of belonging.

They both knew instinctively that this is where their journey would end.

 

India, 2007- 2020

 2007

Phyllida and Arvind meet on a trek to Rishikesh.

Both are around 21; just graduated and seeking an adventure before they study further or work. She having come to India from Greece. India, a land which had seemed to have a strange fascination for her, ever since she heard about it in history class in primary school.

Arvind, a boy born into an elevated, class-conscious family in Northern India, a family which was proud of its continued noble lineage and royal blood. Having been sent to the U.S.A. for higher studies, a strange pull got him back to India during a brief vacation at the American University where he studied. Once back, a friend urged him to join him on a trek.

Of course on the trek, they fall in love for they discover that they share not only a love of mountains but also of good food and reading.

 

2008

They continue their courtship.

Surprisingly Arvind’s father is in agreement with this union, despite the obvious religious and racial differences. For a family that believed in carrying forward its noble lineage by marrying within a restricted gene-pool, this was surprising. But something, almost other-worldly, told Arvind’s father not to interfere in his son’s choice of life partner.

Phyllida’s parents too, being of Orthodox Christian lineage, having expected their only daughter to marry within the fold, surprisingly showed no resistance to the match.

 

2011

 They get married, they can’t be happier.

 

2013

They are parents to two adorable twins, Paula and Arjuna; the first two names that came to both of them unanimously, when their babies entered the world.

 

2020

Phyllida and Arvind are still going strong.

They always will.

Soul-mates that understand each other without saying a word.

They always had been.

Paula has inherited her mother’s odd star shaped mole.

And each time the little green-eyed Arjuna gets excited about something, his left side continues to jump in extraordinary emotion.

It had taken Phyllida and Arvind seven lifetimes to get here.

But they eventually had.

And this is the exceptional secret behind what is known as ‘Pragma -Enduring Love.’

 

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20 things you can do in next 20 days of 2020 to keep you going – ( Special Chai – A Two minute read with Kai)

 

 

Don’t just sit there and watch the news, netflix and gossip on your wats app groups

Here are 20 things that may help you to go through the next 20 days:

 

DAY 1 Learn a new skill with an online course or brush up on an old one.

DAY 2 Read the book you always wanted to(you can still buy online)

DAY 3 Clean the drawers which you haven’t opened since 1990!

DAY 4 Go through old photographs not from your phone but old albums

DAY 5 Write  a letter to yourself ..no topic,, let it flow

DAY 6 Have a phone detox and calorie detox

DAY 7 Send messages to friends you haven’t for long; not forwards, personal ones

DAY 8 Spring clean house

DAY 9 Learn to meditate or learn to meditate more

DAY 10 Call every person who had helped you in the past and say thank you

DAY 11 Play a childhood game- Scrabble/ Uno

DAY 12 Cook something you haven’t before (providing you have the ingredients)

DAY 13 Phone neighbours and friends, enquire about their well being

DAY 14 Click selfies and post …next few days on social media

DAY 15  Clear cupboards and keep charity clothes ready to donate

DAY 16 Make a family tree

DAY 17  Dress up and have a house party even if it is just you, another person or few who are living under the same roof

DAY 18.  Make a list of things you plan to do once the lock is over

DAY 19 Re -access your life; do you really want to be in the rat race?

DAY 20 Watch reruns of old episodes and shows long forgotten

 

 

Author with a human touch – Meet Megha Bajaj

Megha Bajaj is someone who I connected with as a fellow author .
And found her lively, curious and a go getter .
She is the award-winning author of several acclaimed books including Thank You, Cancer (Hay House), I Inspire (Jaico) and One Woman, Two Advanced Cancers, Conquered. She has written over a thousand articles for internationally acclaimed magazines and newspapers and the depth of her thinking and ability to evoke feelings has been appreciated by many.
Megha runs online writing workshops for aspiring authors. Email info@wonderofwords.org  to know more and she is currently writing film scripts for prominent production houses.
You can read more about her on www.MeghaBajajWoW.com
Sri Lanka Me (1)
1) Megha I think your work is truly inspirational and you have three books under your belt  …
:Hi Kainaz – the three books I have authored are:
Thank You Cancer published by Hay House in 2010 – which is the story of how this dreaded disease had turned out to be an exciting bend, and not an end in the life of many!
I Inspire was published by Jaico in 2015 and is an incredible treasure hunt for any seeker who has ever looked skywards and asked, “Hey God, is there like a roadmap to life?”
One Woman, Two Advanced Cancers, Conquered is a chronicle of the incredible journey that my mother has gone through and it is a must-have for any cancer conqueror or their family.
2) Are you a full time author ?
What brought you here – was it because of the experiences you have drawn with or is writing in your blood?
: Kainaz I am constantly high on words. To take a break from writing, I write. Writing makes me elated, excited and keeps me super enthusiastic.
I think I was a unique child – more interested in the world within than the one outside and words became the medium through which I could take all these thoughts to the world.
3)
Are there any exciting books in the pipeline?
:Indeed! I am currently working on several exciting biographies. I firmly believe that we do not need to look too far back in time to find inspiration.
There are stories all around us which teach us how to look at our own lives much better.
I love getting under the skin of the person I am writing of – and telling their story.
Their thought processes, their emotions, their trials and triumphs – so by the end of it all,
we feel more equipped to creating miracles in our own life that we never knew were possible.
4) Can you tell us a little more about the Wings on Words online writing workshop where you train teens to senior citizens, CEOs to home-makers into dwelling into a journey within themselves, and writing? I believe you also help people get published.
: I believe my WoWers will say it better than me:
You can find all this on you tube !! And my social media handles
Follow Megha On
Instagram #ItsaWoWlife

interview

What’s this about your new book with this unique title ( your title we put )

It is a romance thriller, book one in the series of ‘Messed Up’ trilogy. This is one space that lacks Indian writing and I hope with this novel and more I can provide that to our readers.

 

 

Any fun moments writing it ?
Plenty. There was a time, while writing the climax, I had writer’s block. It took me two vacations and six weeks to write those six seven pages. See, this is the kind of fun authors have. Another was, when I had lost my notepad that had a couple of chapters in it. Things like that. In terms of the publishers, it is Srishti publishers, who need no introduction. I am so excited to have bagged this trilogy deal with them. Genre like I told earlier, it is romance thriller – lot of love and suspense, mystery et al.
What has inspired you to write it ?
Is it personal ?
First of all, it is mostly a stretch of my imagination. Yes, there are certain funny instances in the novel that have been inspired from real life, however the plot and the overall story is pure fiction. A nice cup of black coffee, beautiful landscape and lovely people in my life- good enough a combination to inspire me to think and write.
You have a terrific fan following across social media , in fact around couple of lakhs on Facebook itself…
What do they have to say ? 
Fortunately, I have a pretty engaged set of fans / readers on my pages. I love interacting with them. They always inspire me to write. They love my quotes, pictures, live chats and my books. In fact, they have been waiting eagerly for Messed Up! Book.
Kabira was a chart topper , what do you think worked in that ?

I believe the storyline and the simplicity in writing worked in that. It was a spy thriller but had this beautiful love story woven in it. Readers loved that thrill and love in it. Further, we had launched that book in Kolkata that gave it the initial boost. Last but not the least, support and love of all my friends and fans who bought it helped it attain the top of charts.

Where do you think the future of writing lies in the Indian industry?

It is a great space to be in. Indian writing is now more prominent than ever before. We have new readers who are entering that bracket as we now see, reading and writing is being encouraged in the schools and colleges. So far as the writers go, if you write well, engage well with the readers, you will stay for long.

Where is your first launch … when do we expect the release?
We shall do in mumbai , Kolkata and delhi. The book will be out for pre order by around March end. It will hit the shelves in the month of May.
You tube channel link. Like / subscribe:

Stop those bullies now!

Recently I have been coming across too many instances of kids being bullied in school.

Today I am addressing the younger lot between three and ten who may have a hard time expressing their plights or their experiences and how as elders we can reach out to them.

I have also posted at the end of the feature, an interesting link of how older children can prevent being intimidated in school.

For me the definition of bullying is just not limited to a big kid pushing a smaller one or even two kids punching each other. For me it is about the bystanders, teachers, Principals and elders who don’t address it or take a strong stand on it.

I remember as a nine year old child I always stood up to a bully who bullied others. Luckily nobody bullied me, maybe because I was over confident as a child but that didn’t stop me from protecting the dark horse or the timid goose.

Recently one of my friends adopted son at eight came home crying one day, “my teacher said that I don’t belong to you.”

I was appalled. Not as much as the mother of course. When the mother addressed it with the School Principal, she was told that nothing of that sort ever happened. Blunt Denial!

The Chapter at school ended there, for my helpless friend couldn’t pull out the child in the middle of term but it was her prerogative to break this piece of information to her child gently and slowly and no one else’s business. It was too late.

The questions and the sleepless nights that followed were horrifying.

Another instant where a friends six year old came home from school one day howling that she didn’t want to live because the kids at school teased her about a skin condition. The mother had to change her school at once; she couldn’t risk making the child lose her morale and her innocence at such a tender age.

When I asked what the teachers said, she said nothing! In Fact they had also isolated her in class from games and workshops for the same.

This is my conclusion, that when one kid attacks another physically or verbally asserting his superiority, it is the role of the teacher or an authority figure to immediately intervene and nip it in the bud.

If the teacher is indirectly involved which means not pulling up the oppressor, keeping silent, nagging or taunting the child in class or being indifferent; she or he is an equal participant.

In this case waste no time in pulling them up and the parents of the violator. Playing the good guy or the timid one will not serve you or your child any good.

When parents take admission in a particular school it is not the school doing them a favour, rather the parents giving their prized possession in the hands of strangers in the hope that they would create something more beautiful than he or she already is.

 

Schools are here to bring the best out in your children; they are the bridges to their adult life.

I would not say that all schools are like this or that; or it is this simplistic ; for I am aware it is almost impossible for a given teacher to monitor each and every child in a class of thirty all the time but one can prevent it from taking a turn for the worse.

Here are some of the ten things I have collected from parents of children who have been bullied one time or the other:

  • Stop laughing at it or making light of the situation when it happens. Don’t ridicule him or her for being shy or inactive. Teach the child to take a stand. It may be to call upon other friends for help, alert the authority in charge and show courage.
  • Believe your child when they tell you. Always believe your child! Children lie but they are not liars!
  • Address it immediately with the said parent of the child or the teacher involved
  • If a teacher is nit picking on your child constantly, approach her and understand her point and then say yours. If after that it still continues, take it up with a higher authority.
  • Don’t be afraid to put it on paper and hand it over. That way there are no confusions in what you expect and what measures you plan to take if it happens again.
  • Talk to your child everyday for fifteen minutes at least. Seek to understand how it may be affecting them. Do not disregard the child’s role in it; chances are he may have set the ball rolling…
  • Bring forth your point in a kind and justified manner, rewarding him for good behaviour and reprimanding once in a way for disobeying. Make sure it is not in public. There is nothing worse than public humiliation. It is as bad if not worse than being bullied by his/her peers.
  • Make sure he or she can tell you anything and everything. Do not punish them for being honest even if it is for something you don’t agree at all. Later you can tell them right from wrong. Listen. Don’t judge. Confident children are less likely to be bullied.
  • Make sure he or she is in a positive conducive environment of praise and encouragement, tip off relatives and close friends to pat the child on the back once in a way even if it is for something small as drawing a flower or scoring a goal. Keep him surrounded by healthy play dates and same interest groups that enhance his/her self esteem.
  • Avoid bullying tactics with your spouse, your other kids, your siblings and at home. The child has to feel that the behaviour is unacceptable in any situation at any stage in life.

Check out: https://nobullying.com

https://nobullying.com/7-ways-to-avoid-bullying-when-in-a-new-school/

You tube channel link. Like / subscribe:

BIRTHDAY PARANOIA- Another Birthday?Help!!!!

IMG_5252
The title of this blog itself should say it all!

So another year has gone by and miraculously I am a year younger.

Unlike the rest of the pack I had the fountain of youth a decade and half ago and ever since then I’m getting younger by the minute .Don’t believe me??
Ask the ‘Mental health’ services .

Okay so now those who know me won’t certify me as half crazy for the above statement because that ‘ship a la crazy’ has sailed eons ago but those who don’t … brace yourself !!

It’s time to celebrate a birthday with me , Kainaz Jussawalla ishtyle……..
Sounds like ”A fun event” huh?
 Fun ??Really?
If ‘fun’ in Oxford dicky means anxiety,confusion, hopeless hope   … then yes it’s a fun proposition!
IMG_5246 (1)
If all this still doesn’t makes sense still; let’s familiarize you with my style.
You see, I’m one of those few people who go through- ” Birthday paradox .”
Mixed feelings of joy and hysteria.
Somewhat like what every pregnant woman goes through – Labour!
Like a build up for 9 months, the 9 days of pre Birthday build up is almost as crazy and breath sapping.
Except that mine is every year.
Now that you all have got the rough picture of the picture, let me tell you what the people around me have to go through, out of no choice.
But before that, I shall let you in- on a carelessly guarded secret. ”I am paranoid of getting OLDER!”
Call me ageist or oldist but it freaks me out – A year more in my world means a year lesser to achieve, to dream, to love, to become a Fashionista, to solve crime….
It also means less control on your bladder, your bones, your reflexes, your immunity.
Less sleep, more medicines, more playing catch up with ever changing technology.
I still have to find one good thing in GROWING OLDER!!!   (And wisdom is not on the table for discussion)
IMG_5251
I know most of you out there are being all  ‘Amazing- grace’ about letting the years slip by but I fight it. Like a tigress.
I snap like a shark if anyone tries calculating and tricking me with questions like:
‘When did you finish college?’
‘Yesterday you Curious George!’
I don’t think twice before getting my hands soiled in the wet mud of fibs and lies if it’s the need of the hour.
Some regular examples:
‘Oh she was my professor in college not my batch mate….’we just having tea together.’
‘Oh I started working only ten years ago….(not 25!)’
‘Oh this is my natural hair colour.’ (Hazel brown streaks?)
‘Of course this is still puppy fat!  This weight gain is just temporary post teenage hormones,’
spell
Now that we on the same page, let’s enlighten you on what the rest of the tribe around me go through on My Big Day in a nut shell:
1.Family  (Anxiety )
They walk on tight ropes all day and few days prior .
Should they or shouldn’t they surprise me with cake / flowers/ jewelry / car/ party ?
Experience has taught them – Neither, nor!!!!
But then again if it’s neither then the obvious answer would be – nothing !
Oh that’s criminal error!
”Nothing for me ? It’s my birthday dammit! The heavens had blessed this universe with a unique desirable creature. How can you all not be grateful and do something out of the box for me ?’
Damned if they do.
Damned if they don’t.
Their grey hair ….. probable involuntary consequence to my birthday dilemma ?
High possibility.
IMG_5259 (1)
2. Friends – ( the confusion )
Now now let me tell you , these mischief makers known as buddies – They actually want to ring me on my Big day to wish me?
They tease me with phone calls.
I mean who calls on birthdays to wish ??
Well I guess one does but my phone is on silent 364 days… (to avoid Polite conversations) so what makes the 365 th one any different ?
Yes agreed, it was that rare day in History the Sun and Moon touched the Earth but screaming ”Happy Birthday what plans today, maybe this year you will…… ”
You will what?
”Sky dive without a parachute? Find Prince charming disguised as George Clooney? Win a Pulitzer for writing my own version of 50 shades?”
Like a chalk on the blackboard effect; screeching and shivery, the phone calls coupled with question- answer routines drive me insane.
Now thanks to these B’day wishers I am not only reminded that I’m a year older but if I’m having a small do, I’m forcefully obliged to invite them last minute as they remembered my Day.
And as I am blowing my Forever 21 candles; I’m all hot and boiled inside with the ‘How old is she really’  giggles… Which is wick- smoke and which is the internal seething flame, tough call there.IMG_5256
3. Boyfriend – (the hopeless hope )
If you thought family and friends have it easy… talk to my exes .
They are on dulcolexes at least a week before with the ‘constipation of apprehension.’
‘It’s the devils ( angel’s?) birthday – that means
Performance!’
Vis a vis gift giving , bouquet choice, time allotted, fairy tale planning to the T and correct words to write/say/express.
If my ranting all year is bad – The birthday would be the ‘Game of Thrones of Relationship- drama.’
whop 1
Non performance shall lead to dire consequences (Making Chinese torture look amateur )
But this year I decided to do it differently -I announced my Birthday on every Social Media platform and my Wats app status.
Some may call it desperation. I just call it …..”Surrendering to my uniqueness!”
     After all shouldn’t they have attested a National holiday on my birthday, already? 
IMG_5257
Hands up those who Are with me on that !
(Hey I warned you about Schizophrenic Birthday activity didn’t ?)
You tube channel link. Like / subscribe:

Birthday Paranoia – Another year older? Call the helpline

IMG_5259 (1)
The title of this blog itself should say it all!

So another year has gone by and miraculously I am a year younger.

Unlike the rest of the pack I had the fountain of youth a decade and half ago and ever since then I’m getting younger by the minute .Don’t believe me??
Ask the ‘Mental health’ services .

  Okay so now those who know me won’t certify me as half crazy for the above statement   because that ‘ship a la crazy’ has sailed eons ago but those who don’t … brace yourself !!

It’s time to celebrate a birthday with me , Kainaz Jussawalla ishtyle……..
Sounds like ”A fun event” huh?
 Fun ??Really?
If ‘fun’ in Oxford dicky means anxiety,confusion, hopeless hope   … then yes it’s a fun proposition!
IMG_5252
If all this still doesn’t makes sense still; let’s familiarize you with my style.
You see, I’m one of those few people who go through- ” Birthday paradox .”
Mixed feelings of joy and hysteria.
Somewhat like what every pregnant woman goes through – Labour!
Like a build up for 9 months, the 9 days of pre Birthday build up is almost as crazy and breath sapping.
Except that mine is every year. Now that you all have got the rough picture of the picture, let me tell you what the people around me have to go through, out of no choice.
But before that, I shall let you in- on a carelessly guarded secret. ”I am paranoid of getting OLDER!”
Call me Ageist or Oldist but it freaks me out – A year more in my world means a year lesser to achieve, to dream, to love, to become a Fashionista, to solve crime….
It also means less control on your bladder, your bones, your reflexes, your immunity.
Less sleep, more medicines, more hair on face less on head and more playing catch up with ever changing technology.
I still have to find one good thing in GROWING OLDER!!!   (And wisdom is not on the table for discussion)
shade
I know most of you out there are being all  ‘Amazing- grace’ about letting the years slip by but I fight it. Like a tigress.
I snap like a shark if anyone tries calculating and tricking me with questions like:
‘When did you finish college?’
‘Yesterday you Curious George!’
I don’t think twice before getting my hands soiled in the wet mud of fibs and lies if it’s the need of the hour.
Some regular examples:
‘Oh she was my professor in college not my batch mate….’we just having tea together.’
‘Oh I started working only ten years ago….(not 25!)’
‘Oh this is my natural hair colour.’ (Hazel brown streaks?)
‘Of course this is still puppy fat!  This weight gain is just temporary post teenage hormones,’
Now that we on the same page, let’s enlighten you on what the rest of the tribe around me go through on My Big Day in a nut shell:
1. FAMILY  (Anxiety )
They walk on tight ropes all day and few days prior .
Should they or shouldn’t they surprise me with cake / flowers/ jewelry / car/ party ?
Experience has taught them – Neither, nor!!!!
But then again if it’s neither then the obvious answer would be – nothing !
Oh that’s criminal error!
”Nothing for me ? It’s my birthday dammit! The heavens had blessed this universe with a unique desirable creature. How can you all not be grateful and do something out of the box for me ?’
Damned if they do.
Damned if they don’t.
spell
Their grey hair ….. probable involuntary consequence to my birthday dilemma ?
High possibility.
2. FRIENDS  ( the confusion )
Now now let me tell you , these mischief makers known as buddies – They actually want to ring me on my Big day to wish me?
                                                                 They tease me with phone calls.
I mean who calls on birthdays to wish ??
Well I guess one does but my phone is on silent 364 days… (to avoid Polite conversations) so what makes the 365 th one any different ?
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Yes agreed, it was that rare day in History the Sun and Moon touched the Earth but screaming ”Happy Birthday what plans today, maybe this year you will…… ”
You will what?
”Sky dive without a parachute? Find Prince charming disguised as George Clooney? Win a Pulitzer for writing my own version of 50 shades?”
Like a chalk on the blackboard effect; screeching and shivery, the phone calls coupled with question- answer routines drive me insane.
Now thanks to these B’day wishers I am not only reminded that I’m a year older but if I’m having a small do, I’m forcefully obliged to invite them last minute as they remembered my Day.
And as I am blowing my Forever 21 candles; I’m all hot and boiled inside with the ‘How old is she really’  giggles… Which is wick- smoke and which is the internal seething flame, tough call there.
3. Boyfriend – (the hopeless hope )
If you thought family and friends have it easy… talk to my exes .
They are on dulcolexes at least a week before with the ‘constipation of apprehension.’
‘It’s the devils ( angel’s?) birthday – that means
Performance!’
Vis a vis gift giving , bouquet choice, time allotted, fairy tale planning to the T and correct words to write/say/express.
If my ranting all year is bad – The birthday would be the ‘Game of Thrones of Relationship- drama.’
whop 1
Non performance shall lead to dire consequences (Making Chinese torture look amateur )
But this year I decided to do it differently -I announced my Birthday on every Social Media platform and my Wats app status.
Some may call it desperation. I just call it …..”Surrendering to my uniqueness!”
     After all shouldn’t they have attested a National holiday on my birthday, already?
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Hands up those who Are with me on that !
(Hey I warned you about Schizophrenic Birthday)
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Do you DARE TO CARE?

Ten unique but smart ways of caring

Bet you don’t know Them all!

Image result for mother teresa quotes care
1. Give people space( enough to keep them under your radar )
2. Smile at strangers ( decent looking ones)
3. Spend on people ( frugal is out)
4. Offer your services ( Mother Theresa inspired )
5. Give your best to anyone you meet ( make sure they notice it)
6. Dare to care for yourself
7. Talk to the person next to you when you travel
8. Give small gifts regularly to your friends (enjoy the thank you’s)
9. Pick up old people from bus stops or train stops and drop them to their nearest destinations( Tried this . Extremely satisfying )
10. Detox from people who bring you down ( self care ! Self care !)
Which one did you agree with Most?
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When Beauty becomes a beast… (One minute read)

If you think all things beautiful shine and create impact …
Think again!
These are 10 examples where beauty can go wrong –beauty and beast के लिए इमेज परिणाम
1. When dealing with a woman boss . Look better than her and you could be in trouble
2. When you Miss world and Miss Universe is still considered number One!
(The world is not enough here !!!)
3. In a local train … you become a ‘Hooligan magnet’.
4. When you are actually very brainy but no one can see you past your physical appearance
5. If you are ‘Nature at it’s glory’ and getting polluted by all and sundry .
6. If you are a exotic flower and getting plucked is your destiny.
7. If you are a beautiful animal and it’s your last day before they throw you to the gallons.
8. If you are an actress and everyone thinks you have been under the knife even if you haven’t.

9.If you are a gorgeous looking man with a low bank balance…

10. If you are Sleeping beauty and there is no Prince to wake you.
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