New layout, new labels, but same old crap

Thanks to my friend, I got all experi-mental about my blog layout. Actually, he was experimenting and became my 'follower', a tag which he will regret soon and withdraw. But while it lasts, it has me feeling like a 'leader'. Heck, maybe I should order him to gatecrash a pub.

Anyways, not too many changes, just added a blogroll, or whatever they call it. Kinda makes it easy to know who has updated their blog. Can't believe I didn't know it was so easy to put that thing in. All this while, I was thinking I had to write some html code to do it. Which, in case you haven't guessed, is something I don't know.

Then, on a whim, decided to add labels to my posts. See the side bar. Don't ask me why, may be I had too much time. Or I decided to gloat a bit.

Actually, doing the labels reminded me that I haven't written bad verse in ages. Though the writing may have gone from bad to worse.

Plus, not much new ideas on what to write on. So, decided to do the 'one stone, two mango' idea, and made a post on the labels of other posts. Clever right?

So here goes... (engineers, label names highlighted in italics, just for you!)

It is only proper to start with ‘Actual Shit’
After all, the topic brings out my best wit
You ask “What’s the big deal about crap?”
Hey, you never had to go with a waterless tap!
Remember, what you eat, ends up in that pit…

Hollywood, Bollywood, Kollywood,
I tried to avoid them as much as I could
But my sadistic friends’ idea of fun
Is to force me to a theatre with a gun
And thus, I come and crib about ‘Follywood’…

Sometimes, I’m in the mood to do some rhyme
I know, bad poetry doesn’t pay even a dime
But then, someday, somewhere I stopped
B’coz the very idea of lamericks kinda flopped
Though, I do return to this crime (from time to time)

Violets are blue, roses are red,
You read this and u wish u drop dead!
Sick jokes, gross PJs, inane irritating puns
My imagination can go for some wild runs
You can do nothing but slap your forehead…

Then, there comes the spicy ‘Women in my life’
Actually fictional, till my mom finds me a wife
I’m definitely not saying I’m unlucky in romance
It’s just that I never really gave it a serious chance
Though some days, life's like a kitchen without a knife…

Sometime, I feel a long short story I can tell
Sometimes may be ‘Personal’, note, not Personnel
Oh, occasionally, I also attempt to be serious
Go there, only if you are very very curious
Btw, the senti stuff won’t cause your eyes to well.

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Of course, there are other labels like 'Personal Favs' and the convenient, lazy 'Misc', but then I ran out of my daily quota of bad rhyme.

Moral science and immoral PJs

Long, long ago, when I was in school, we had this really nice subject called Moral Science. It was nice not because they taught you 'good' things, though in that era of innocence, I might have believed that. No, it was good because one did not have to really study hard for it. It was usually kept as the last exam, so one could plan for post-exam cricket matches without too much stress.

Anyways, this post is not about me getting nostalgic about my school days. We'll reserve that for another day.

The point is, I remember we had this lesson on Sincerity. It started off with a picture of a statue, and a guy standing beside it, with his hand on the statue's nose, if my photographic memory serves me right.

The lesson went on to state that the word sincere is derived from Latin 'sine' meaning without, and 'cera' meaning wax. The story they fed us was that certain sculptors who bunked their moral science class in school tried to hide the imperfections of the marble statues they created by using wax to cover it up. And thus, any statue 'without wax' meant that the sculptor was honest.

Any of you from Tamil Nadu Matriculation Board, who remembers this story, give yourself a pat for sincerely attending your Moral Science classes.

Alas, wikipedia informs me that my Moral Science teacher wasn't all that moralistic, and this entire story might be nothing more than a folk tale.

However, that would not prevent me from making a PJ out of the whole situation...

So, here goes...

"When a woman says she is sincere, does it mean she has hairy legs?"

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PS1: Yes, you can call me an MCP. Though the pigs might object being compared to a punny me.

PS2: This post satisfies two important criteria for me. It is totally mindless. And it is GROSS!

PS3: On a totally different note, be thankful that Asin's parents didn't know Latin. Else they might have named her sine-sin. Though Asin, by another name, would look as sweet. Drool.

Park-nama

Newly appointed CM of the Great State is scratching his head. “Daddy never told me being CM was this tough!” Heck, maybe I should have followed that other CM's son and gone into acting. Mera dil mein bhi guitar bajti. Cash aisa hota. Main bhi apne doston ko bolta, dekho kya kool hai hum.”

“Sir, woh media-waale roz sawaal pooch rahe hain. Ki hum kya action le rahe hain”, his aide jolted him out of his dream dance sequence with Koena Mitra.

“Arre, main kya action loon yaar. Main kaunsa Obama bana tha, maine bola tha kya change laaunga? Saala, mere pitaji ek acche CM the, toh yeh log mereko CM bana daala.”

“Sir, toh yeh media waalon ko kya jawaab de? Sir, aapko prove karna padega ki aap is kursi ke laayak ho. You have to be seen taking decisions sir!”

“Sahi bola. Chal, jaldi ek file la.”

The aide rushes back, shouting "arre, koi file de do jaldi! CM saab aaj decision lene ke mood mein hain”

He returns with a file. It is about a park being constructed in Andheri (W). Two councillors are warring over who gets the rights to name the park.

CM barks at the aide, “Chalo, is matter pe jo bhi interested parties hain, unko bulao. Aaj ek decision liya hi jaayega.”

Notice is sent out. All interested parties turn up. After all, no one refuses a CM’s summons.

“Ok, ab ek ek karke batao, kya problem hai?” the CM intones, in his best judicial imitation.

The local councillor (hereinafter referred to as “LC”) starts off, “I want to name the park after a great late Shiv Sena leader, a person who ensured that the city’s moral conscience was kept clean.”

Upon which, local MLA (henceforth “LMLA”) interrupted, “We want to name the park after a great lady, whom no one has seen, but everybody respects because she gave birth to an emperor. She signifies women empowerment. If the LC’s own party could rename Victoria Jubilee Technical Institute after her, then we should also have the right to name something after her.”

“They are insulting the great lady by naming a small park after her!” jumped the LC.

“So, you mean to say that by naming the small park after your great moral leader, it is ok to insult him?” the CM asked.

LC blushes, his great living leader, the Tiger of Mumbai, hadn’t includes the answer to this in the script he taught. (Link not given, because the Tiger doesn't need any links. He even cut off links with his nephew)

“Sir, aap kahin door chale gaye?” the aide gushed, in his best Appu Raja constable imitation.

CM blushes too. After all the brickbats about inaction on police reforms and citizen safety, praise feels good. So what if it is only from your ass licking aide.

“The great leader named a small park for us, does that mean we were being insulted?” an old man and his old wife asked angrily. They refused to give their names, and asked to be reported as Nana-Nani.

The LC did not know what to say and where to look. His great leader, not the dead one but the living tiger, has now made him look like one of his famous cartoons. May be he should shift to another party, but then even Chagan Armstrong didn’t fare too well after jumping ship.

“The late great leader was also very concerned about our clothes not falling off, and saving us from embarrasment. He even demanded a probe into the matter. He should be honoured with something bigger. May be we can name the fashion week after him?” said a model, whose name sounded something like a Christmas song.

“That’s very Gracias of you”, said the other model who had lost her clothes at the fashion show too, but this reporter was too busy staring at her to note down her name. “A babe who can pun, whatte fun”, he was mentally rhyming.

“Yeah, he saved me too from considerable embarassment. This element-ary director made me kiss that old Shabana aunty, and I did it in the name of artistic compulsions. But he ensured that no one could watch the movie. Thanks to him, I wasn’t approached when they made Girlfriend. But he also opposed Rockford, till I convinced him that it was not a rock show”, crooned an actress, who starred in the aptly titled Azhagi.

“Ok, matter closed. Stay order on the naming of the park”, the CM announced.
He was too grossed out by the notion of anyone kissing old Shabana aunty to think further.

“I protest. You are insulting the intelligence of 227 councillors!” the LC suddenly remembered his lines.

“Indeed, I am. What are you gonna do about it? Burn yourself?”, the CM sniggered.

“You just wait and watch. I am going to precisely that!” the LC stormed out.

The CM beams. He is worthy of this chair after all.

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Inspired by this:

PS: People not very familiar with the politics of Great State may not be able to relate to the post. Our response, "amchi blog, amchi topic!!!"

Us and Them

Us and Them, we are worlds apart.

They meet, date, make love, have kids, and then, after all the fun is over, think “hey, we might as well get married.” Jumbling up the order appeals to them. Or maybe they read too much of Stephen Covey.
For us, the jumbled storyline of their life is mind-bogglingly confusing. We admire them, but we will never emulate them. We will always follow the straight well-defined path.

They like to keep their proceedings simple, probably because their life is chaotic. They concentrate on the essence of the event, and while a lot of planning may go on behind the scenes, the final package looks well-executed. A ceremony at a church, a dinner and dance party. And they are done.
We find that approach boring. We pack in every emotion in our marriages, probably because our life is devoid of excitement otherwise. The tearful bidaai and the insanely boring reception (which was probably inspired from them) is as much as part of our marriage as the joy and hope of the couple, the good wishes and the smiles. And in the midst of fitting in so many things, we might not always plan everything ahead. We go with the flow, and use leftover sabzi of the wedding lunch to stuff into heart shaped cutlets for the reception dinner. And we pat ourselves for such cute innovations.

Their ceremonies don’t last long. In fact, the event is so short that they don’t mind doing it again in a few years. They call it ‘revival of vows’.
We conduct our marriages over days. The mood soars high, then plunges low, soars again, and once the roller coaster is over, some people are ecstatic while some of us are left pulling our hairs out. But even those who enjoy it are relieved that it is over. The long event ensures that we seldom go for our ‘revival of woes’.

Their ceremonies do have music, but it stays in the background, never interfering with the actual proceedings, but somehow still contributing to the overall effect.
We carve out special space for music, be it the sangeet of the north or the nelangu of the south. Even during the highlight of the proceedings, the sound of the “getti melam ketti melam” demands more of our attention than the guy tying himself in knots for life.

Even their proceedings are sort of blunt and direct. The minister asks “do you agree to stay together in sickness and in health, blah blah blah” and you simply answer “I do”.
We have a lot of symbolism. We need to tie a thread, walk around fire, gaze at imaginary stars in broad daylight, have yellow rice thrown on our heads yada yada. We even pretend to go on a pilgrimage sacrificing everything, even though each of the thousand guests gathered there knows we won't so much as cross the pandal. So much for our sense of suspense.

There, the guy remembers his life before the fateful event very well. He might become forgetful after the event and miss his wife’s birthday, but then, he was probably hit on his head. We can only guess.
Here, our guy loses his memory completely. He doesn’t remember that he was a beef eating, beer guzzling, bird watching leer. He also doesn’t remember his wife’s birthday, and he was probably hit on his head. We need not guess, since sacrificing our love for symbolism, we are shown a big scar on the head.

Probably that’s why they have a Memento. And we have a Ghajini.

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PS1: I haven't attended many north indian weddings. So, most of the 'our marriage' references are from the Tam-Brahm ones. Don't accuse me of regional chauvinism.

PS2: Obviously, I have not attended a single 'their' marriage event. So, all my inferences are courtesy their movies and sitcoms. Don't accuse me of poor research.

PS3: I liked Memento. I don't know if I appreciated all the cinematic innovations and techniques, but I did like it. Don't accuse me of being a pattikadu when it comes to movies.

PS4: I loved Ghajini. For one and only one reasin. (and no, this is not an inadvertant typo. It is another of my infamous force-fitted puns). Don't accuse me of bad puns.

PS5: The fact that I saw Memento only recently, and the fact that every person who pings me online is either telling me that he/she is getting married, or is asking 'When are you getting married?' may have led to this stupid analogy of weddings and movies. Don't accuse me of silly analogies.

PS6: I had thought of a better title than this lame 'Us and Them'. But this post took me more than fifteen minutes to write, so... . Now, don't accuse me of using lame excuses.

PS7: The last post had only one unecessary PS. So, I am making up for it this time. You may accuse me of much pointless writing.

Finance rocks!

Yesterday was one of those days when my deep love for engineers went up a few notches. A very senior person had come to talk about the workings of a thermal power plant. As he went on and on about boilers, turbines, generators and what not, my mind reeled. AC, DC, induced draft, force draft, whoa, wait a minute! I thought you just put the coal in, burn it up, and say Ohm.

And as it always happens with me, my inner voices (the angel and the devil) popped up. And, I was a mute (ok, not so mute) spectator (or audience?) to the voices…

PG rating: Some of you may find this unsuitable for your kids. But, I'd advise that you let them read it. After all, they are gonna learn to say F**k anyways. Yes, even the chamatthu ones.

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(A for Angel, D for Devil, Me for well, me)

A: Now, don’t you regret going for commerce instead of taking up science? After all, as a Tambrahm, don’t you know that you can choose any career as long as it is BE-luck?

Me: Maybe. Just a teeny weeny little bit of regret. In a small corner of my heart.

D: Dude, what’s with the cribbing? Just because you don’t understand watt is volt! or you think transformers is just a movie.

A: Admit it. When you passed std X, you could have done anything. Engineering, medicine, law, even hotel management. And you ended up taking commerce!!!

Me: Well, to be honest, I didn’t have much of a clue.

D: Dude, wait a effing minute. You made the perfect choice. Now you get to engineer financial products, doctor the expense vouchers, and even cook the books if you feel like it. And while lawyers merely do trials, you do a Trial Balance! Which other career would let you be whatever you want to be?

Me: Wow, now how come I didn’t think of that?

A: But you know, it would have been wonderful to go on and do a PhD or something. Invent new things, even win the Nobel prize.

D: Huh, PhD? You mean those losers who spend years (and their father's money) waiting for their writings to be appear in some obscure journal. You get to put in a Journal entry when you feel like it.

Me: Yes. that is there. Though I leave the ledger for some other joker.

A: Very funny. (smirks)

Me: Even my angel doesn’t appreciate my PJs! (Sob)

A: Ok ok, say another one and I’ll laugh. I promise.

Me: Hmm, here goes… Who was the world’s first accountant?

A: Who?

Me: Adam! He was the first to turn a leaf and make an entry!

A: Gross! What next? Sick jokes on the double entry system?...

A: ... and not even original! Plagiarizing thief!

Me: Hello, I heard this somewhere, I don’t remember where. And I am willing to give full credit to whoever came up with this one.

A: That’s the problem with you accountants. Even your jokes are boring.

D: Cut it out man! Stop whining. Finance rocks!

A: How?

D: Where else can you really suck at your job and still expect a bonus?

Me: Er, I don’t know… the p0rn industry maybe…

D: You stay out of this smart-ass. You keep forgetting that I am arguing for you, not against.

Me: Oh sorry. Just that I heard they are also asking for a bailout. So, you know, I thought exotic derivatives and erotic integration are both Caligulus. After all, both industries pride themselves on their big swinging dicks.

A: Stop making stupid sick jokes now!

Me: you mean, there is another kind?

A: Aargh!

D: Ah, nice way to shut him up.

Me: Trust me, that’s a nice way to shut most people up.

D: yeah, you’d know. Anyways, coming back to the point, Finance rocks!

Me: yeah, it rocks so much I feel a bit nauseated already!

A: Aarrgh! Go to hell, both of you.

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PS: Why should every post have a PS? This one doesn't need it.

Made for each other - II

Read Part-I first. Unless you are one of those Memento-fan types who like non-linear narratives. You already know that I can't hold a candle to Christopher Nolan, so don't blame me.

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Tony had never experienced something like this. He prided himself on having roughed it out on the streets, and prided himself on his ability to remain calm even when slapped around by the meanest cop.

Tony was rudely shaken out of his reverie by a shrill voice that went, “sirf sau rupaye mein apna bhavishya ko jaano! Apna haath badhao, sab pareshaani bhool jaao!” The palmist was a quite a sight to look at – slightly matted hair, long wavy beard and bright eyes that shone with knowledge.

On any other day, Tony would have dismissed him as yet another quack. After all, hadn’t he tried this stunt himself a couple of years back before moving on the charity fundraising idea? But today was not a normal day. You don’t get two thousand five rupees on a normal day. “What the heck, it’s hundred rupees after all!”, he thought and thrust his palm forward.

“yeh koi sadhaaran vyakti ka haath nahi hai saab! Is haath mein mujhe anek ghun dikh rahe hain... aap aaj raste mein bhi hote toh bhi do saal mein aap amir malik banoge... itna paisa aayega saab ki aap yakeen nahi karoge, us din mera yaad karoge, yeh main nahin aapka haath bata raha hai!” the palmist reeled off. Tony was midly amused, but he thought, maybe the two thousand rupee bonus today was the start towards a journey of a million bucks.

“haan, par ek baat hai saab, aap Mahabharat ke Karna jaisa rahoge... jitna Lakshmiji aapke paas aati rahegi, uthna hi aap doosre oar gareebon ko baatoge!” continued the palmist. Tony could see that the generous lady opposite him, who had maintained (or pretended to maintain) a cool disinterest in the proceedings so far, had slightly lowered her novel.

“aur ek baat batata hoon saab, aap ko bahut jald hi aapki jeevan saathi milne waali hai... ek aisi ladki joh daan dene mein aapse bhi do kadam aage hogi... ek aisi ladki jisko dekhte hi aap pehchaan loge hi yahi hai, haan yahi hai meri Sita devi”, there was no stopping the palmist.

Tony looked up, and was surprised to see the lady staring into his eyes. Her lips seemed to curve into an amused smile, he wasn’t sure whether it was for real or he was just seeing things. Nevertheless, Tony handed over an additional two hundred rupees as tip. The palmist went his way, since no one else seemed to be interested in his glorious predictions.

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Somehow, the palmist’s words continued to ring in Tony’s ears. His entire life flashed before him. Orphaned at an early age, he had seen the dark side of the streets. He had had the shit beaten out of him every day by the older punks. Till one day, before he even realized it, he had become one of those punks hitting others.

“But, I will change. I will reform himself, find an honest job. Enough of this loafing around, cheating unsuspecting people of their money for two cheap drinks and a dirty movie at the end of the day. I will go back to Father Francis, who had counseled me patiently after every confession, and ask him for help. I will come up the right way, he will become rich, and yes give away tons of money”, a flurry of thoughts overwhelmed Tony.

“And the guy was right. I will recognize my life partner the moment I see her. I already have. She is sitting opposite me. I will strive to become worthy of her. I will mend my ways, and make her like me,” Tony’s mind was racing years ahead.

The train pulled into the next station. The lady got up, picked up her bag and alighted. Tony hurriedly followed, reminding himself to be discreet. He didn’t want her to know he was following her. “I will just see where she lives, and go back for her after I find an honest living,” he thought to himself.

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“Kya baashan diya maamu... banda ek dum pigal gaya... do sau rupaya tip bhi diya,” the ‘lady’ exclaimed to the ‘palmist’.

“haan, aaj toh din accha tha... bas roz ek bakra aisa mil jaaye, toh apun ka toh life ban jaayega sister,” the palmist replied.

“lekin saala, ungli diya toh tu haath pakad baitha... baat baat mein udhar mereko uski Sita devi bana daala? Theek hai, theek hai, ab jaldi mera hissa nikaal!,” the lady hissed.

“arre, adjust karo sister! Apun ka dhanda mein yehi sab karna padhta hai... agar tum woh kitaab neeche karke pyaar se hansti nahi toh ghanta apun ko woh tharki tip deta,” the palmist smiled.

Tony’s heart sank. He had followed her silently, and heard the entire exchange. Dejected, he turned away, disgusted with himself. “To hell with honest living, you either cheat or be cheated,” he thought to himself.

“ek baat poochoon sister? Aapne woh anaath bachche wala nautanki ko kyon paisa diya? Main door se dekh raha tha,” the palmist asked in a curious voice.

“Ae chikne, zyaada shaana mat ban, apna kaam se kaam rakh samjha. Mera paisa hai, main usko gandi naali mein bhi phekoon toh tereko kya matlab?,” the lady howled.

“arre, bura mat mano sister. Nahi bataneka hai toh mat batao!”

The lady paused for a moment, her eyes became moist, before she replied, “nahi re, woh kya hai na, main bhi ek anaath bachchi hoon... saala apun ka naseeb kharaab tha, apun aise line mein aa gayi... kam se kam yeh bachchi log toh acche se padhe, aur apun jaisa raaste pe hi zindagi nahi kaate...”

Tony smiled. He had met his ‘match’, in more ways than one.

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(to be discontinued)

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PS: Excuse the language. It is my pathetic attempt to capture the flavour of the setting.

Made for each other - I

Tony put his baggage under the seat, chained it and looked around appreciatively. A guy about his age, probably an IT employee, an elderly couple who looked like they were on a post-retirement vacation and a family with a kid, not too young. The father looked like he spent all his waking hours enriching some MNC. Everything looked fine except that the seat opposite him on the side berth was empty. Tony didn’t like empty seats.

He went outside to check the chart stuck on the train, and saw that the passenger on the opposite seat was due to board in the next station. “Ok, M 45, single guy”, he read, “not bad, not bad at all.”

As the train started, he went back to his seat, settled down, and opened a freshly bought magazine. He made for a perfect picture of the savvy tourist. But then, Tony had always been particular about his appearance.

The next station came and went, and there was no sign of the M 45 guy. Instead, a petite young lady walked in, dressed in expensive-looking clothes. Tony tried to look nonchalant, but it was difficult to stop staring at her. Tony checked himself, he didn’t want to be too conspicuous.

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Two stations later, a shabbily dressed man entered and began passing around a pamphlet. “CONTRIBUTE GENRUSLY FOR NOBLE CAUSE”, screamed the title. The paper went on to describe that the man was collecting funds for a charity which ran a school for street children.

The young single guy just tossed away the paper to his side. The elderly couple passed it among themselves, and Tony could sense that they were inwardly debating whether the pamphlet was genuine or not. The family was pretending to be busy tending to the kid, and did not take the pamphlet.

Deciding it was time to act, Tony coolly took out two crisp five hundred rupee notes and summoned that guy. Immediately, the old man spoke up, “One thousand rupees? Young man, do you even know whether this guy is genuine?” “yeah, for all you know, this guy may be a cheat. After all, we come across so many fraudsters in this country!”, the father of the kid butted in. “Even if he is genuine, don’t you think one thousand rupees is a bit too much?”, the young single guy couldn’t stay out of the drama unfolding.

Tony observed, much to his consternation that the lady sitting opposite him did not even seem to notice. She was immersed in a thick novel, and he sensed that all his effort might go kaput.

“Sir, when you go to a temple and put money in the hundi, do you stop and debate whether the money is used for God? No, you just pray and attempt to bribe your lord with money. You read reports that many temple trusts are corrupt, half of them are run by self serving babus, yet you thrust your money into the slot, consoling yourselves that your intentions are good and what happens to the money is God’s concern,” Tony spoke with a rare passion. From the corner of his eye, he could see that he had got the lady’s attention, and while she still hid her face behind the novel, he knew that she was straining to hear his every word.

Encouraged, he continued, “I don’t know whether this guy is genuine. I don’t care. This paper here talks about street children being denied an opportunity, and I can’t stop myself giving away some money. I do hope that it is used for their education, and this guy here doesn’t spend it drinking away at the local arrack shop. If you can’t spare your precious cash, or are too cynical about things, don’t give him money. But I am giving it with good intentions, please don’t stop me.”

The words had their intended effect. The elderly couple forked out two hundred rupees, with the old man remarking, “I do hope it reaches the poor children.” The father looked at his kid’s innocent face, and some unexplainable feeling overcame him. He also reached over and handed two hundred rupees. The single guy was now too embarrassed not to participate, and he unfolded a hundred from his pocket.

Then the unexpected happened. The young lady summoned the guy, and handed over two thousand rupees. Tony was stunned. The shabbily dressed fundraiser gleefully collected the money, thanked everybody profusely and moved on.

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The group started chatting with Tony, asking him the usual questions that Indian train travellers love to pose. “aapka naam kya hai?” “Where do you live?” “Where do you work?” etc etc.

Tony tried his best to be polite, but soon excused himself and went to the washroom.

“Kya speech maara bhidu? Wah wah, mandir mein bhagwan ko paise dete ho, anaath bachche ko nahin de sakte? Wah wah!” exclaimed the ‘charity fundraiser’ on seeing Tony.

“Abe itni zor se mat baat kar! Koi dekh liya toh pitenge! Waise bhi, kya speech deke kya faayda, saala kanjoos log milke 500 rupaye diye”, Tony said.

“Haan, par woh ladki toh tere baat pe fida ho gayi na! Poore do hazaar rupaye boss. Aaj raat ko apun log imported daaru pi sakte hain!”, the ‘fundraiser’ was already on a high.

“Haan yaar, mera bhi yakeen nahi hua! Dekh toh, nakli note toh nahi hai?”, Tony joked.

“Arre, sahi ladki, sahi note, bhai”, his partner drooled.

“Chal, paisa sambhal. Agle station pe uthar jaayenge,” Tony instructed and returned to his seat.

He stole a glance at the girl, and wished he could continue on the train. But his partner-in-crime couldn’t be trusted with all that money. Tony settled down and waited for the next station, willing the train to go as slow as possible.
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(to be continued)

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PS: Thanks to all the encouraging comments by my dear friends, relatives and well-wishers(indeed!), and the economic slowdown induced work-life balance (indeed again!), I'm graduating from one-liner PJs to long mega-serial episodes of crappy writing. Kindly adjust. As always, the PJs will be back, sooner than you can tolerate.