How to patao your boss (a twist in the story)

“So!” I burst into a forced smile, “Where have you been for all these years, you just disappeared, vanished like an old film.”

“Film, flame, all old story!” He said slanting his head to his left in style, “But what about you!” He grabbed my cheeks and pulled it to right and left, “Still a bachelor! han.”

“I am into turbines now.”

“Turbines haan, good, But it’s time for you to change” he muffled casually chewing the juiciest chunk of my poor lobster. “Beyond a certain point” he continued, “Its all dirty politics and you are stuck with the label ‘Senior Engineer’ for all your life…right boy.”

“Actually, I am quite happy!” I responded softly with confidence.

“NOoo you are not.” he gave me a stern glance. “To be happy means to be in control, to be your own demon, to have the power to make and break things. “Happiness!!!” he paused opening his eyes as wide as he could, “Is the growth and maturing of all that which empowers you and makes you feel strong and godlike.”

I kept sipping my vodka and smiling back at him unable to make any sense of his contentiousness.  [...]

The Ghost

What is a ghost, but a memory trying to escape the boundaries of its time, a memory that has by a mere accident become one with its surroundings. A delicate repeat of events in its minutest detail that arise, appear and in its rising gathers itself into the same and familiar.

Time on the other hand is certainly a mystery, and still, it is only memory that holds time and oblivion within the very same region, and it does so by letting each shine forth in its own light. [...]

Papa look a Green Eyed Monster

Back in his room, he had many things to say about him, like: “I don’t ever see him directly, he always follows me when I am alone, always hiding behind my back.” and he said all this with great drama; first he would modulate his voice as if he was about to tell you something eerie, then he would stare at you with swollen nostrils wide eyed and blurp: “He has green eyes papa, dark green and shining.” [...]

The Chudail of Banglapur

Clang, clang, fuch the knife tore through Mark Lee’s right bicep staining his white silk sleeves red.
Even from a distance I could see the 2 inch long cut gaping like parted lips vomiting blood.
We rushed him to the hospital where he was declared dead.
His last words were Chi, Chi.
People kept telling me that it was not the knife but Chi that killed him. No one ever dies of a cut on his arms. True. But then what killed him! I have wracked my brain over the matter but his death remains shrouded in mystery.
[...]