He knew only one kind of love

His black blazer was kept on the bed along with a light blue shirt and a multi coloured tie. They all were arranged neatly side by side. Jacob came out of the bath and aimlessly threw his wet towel on a chair.

This chair was the only piece of furniture in his bedroom. His idea of this chair was – a companion. He was never a lucky man when it came to companions. The last time he thought of a companion, it was Lucy – a receptionist at his hotel.

Lucy was the exact opposite of his mom. Smart, shrewd, organized, outspoken and witty. He used these words to describe her, when he spoke to Richard about her.

Richard, was one filthy rich guy, who also happened to be his friend. Richard also liked to be called Rick or Richy instead of Richard. He thought it suited his millionaire personality.

Millionaires are of two kinds, only two, thought Jacob. They are either born or made. No third kind existed between the two.

According to him a lot of things didn’t make any sense. He thought that the maid should go on a leave every Sunday instead of a Monday. He thought that he could only tip at a road side eating joint as the waitress needed the money more than the waiters at his hotel. He thought the valet of all the five star restaurants were thieves. He thought that his gym instructor had some connection with the CEO of Google.

Google had dominated a part of his life. It was Google that helped him with his chatting, face book, YouTube and searching for and later translating most of the profanity in all the languages possible.

Profanity was used habitually at his home. Somehow it didn’t touch him when he was a kid but now it turned out to be his favourite pass time.

Passing time was never an option for him when he was growing up. His father died when he was only eleven. Mom stitched buttons in the denim jackets while he saw each blue jacket with lustful eyes.

He decided to work to have money that could help him give whatever he wanted. Wanted was a simple term for him. It meant – more than he needed. Need was…money, food, a nice pair of shoes instead of torn ones, able to read and write. What he wanted was a job, two meals a day, leather boots, education and the list kept on increasing each year.

Education was his primary goal till he became fifteen. For education he worked day and night. He did all that he could and went everywhere that said “Job, Available.” He had learnt to read and write a little when his father was alive. He knew what ‘job’ meant; although, words like available, vacant didn’t make any sense to him. Sometimes he got the job and sometimes he didn’t.

Slowly and steadily he grew to be a man with some money in his account. As a boy he started as a shoe shiner then sold flowers at a local market after which he took a job at a bakery and then he started delivering newspapers. After that he started distributing magazines to the stalls near the big offices. He was fascinated to see the people young and old all dressed in formals – coats, ties, blazers, suitcase, silver watches. He learnt quickly and progressed much quicker than he had anticipated.

He reached to a place where his anticipation had turned into a reality – from rags to riches, he said. He had a few degrees and knew a lot of people. He said, “Work can make a person but not knowing the right people in the business could break a person”. He occasionally came up with such one liners.

He loved one liners. He knew when to give what to the people. He also knew in what quantity and that’s why people loved him.

But he knew only one kind of love – love for his work. He looked at his adverts with loving admiration. The eyes that were filled with true love and passion – for his work.

What started as work for him, blossomed as an art and now had strengthened as love.


Match made at the desk


Inspired to write when the writers didn’t have a friend named Google and helpful gadgets like iPhone, computers and laptops. All they had were thick dictionaries, books and newspapers to get help from (and of course people).

The year would be somewhere around early 1800’s. A time when the writers would have used the old method of writing; when the typewriters were soon to be invented and laptops were far beyond anyone’s imagination (and even if introduced to the “then” people would seem like a magic box).

The writer sat at his desk. There were many things on the desk a pen stand with a bunch of pens and pencils, a pair of glasses, a steaming coffee mug, lying next to it was an ink bottle and right at the centre was a pile of blank sheets.

The writer had been sitting there for an hour uninterrupted, until George served him a cup of coffee. All his observations and thoughts were being marinated in his mind bowl. Then suddenly he was drawn to the vapours of the coffee and smell the aroma of hot coffee made his brains tick a little faster than before. He thought it must have been his domestic help George, who would have kept that mug on the table for him. He also realized the hour in the clock as it must have been 6 o’clock in the evening (he has always had coffee at this time in the evening).

After sipping the coffee, his mind started racing like a horse. The ideas started visiting his mind from the gallery of his observations. Soon before he could forget he took the pen and started to paint the picture with words onto the sheets of blank papers.

Scratching the words, tearing the pages and throwing the sheets the untidiness had spread its hands from the desk to across the room. The writer was equally frustrated as he was missing something that he could only sense but not put to words.

In the meanwhile, there was something else that was happening amidst the chaos. The pen filled with ink was still standing like a gentleman to hold the hand of his bride to be in white sheet, but the luck was not playing strong for them. Too many times they were engaged and broken off (the papers lying on the floor suggesting their unsuccessful relationship).

The writer couldn’t take it any more. He went to the park. There he became a silent observer of people, trees, flowers, sky, dogs and other small and big thing at the park. He sat on a bench and inhaled some fresh air. Something just struck him and he ran back home like a mad dog. He went to the desk and took out his pen. This time he knew it, the feeling was wonderful, strong…. something heavenly.

The pen was ready to kiss the bride. The blue ink oozing out strongly, bled its heart out all across the white paper. They now saw their future shaping up as the writer was writing across the pages. The marriage was successful what started as few sheets had now become a successful booklet of stories.

The writer had managed to give his feelings and observations some words. He was finally able to make a “match made in heaven” or to say match made at his desk.