A Typist’s Tale and Other Strokes

(अधूरे फिक्शन के सिलसिले में एक दूसरी कहानी के ये तीन स्ट्रोक्स जो अंग्रेजी में हैं। कहानी हिन्दी में है बल्कि आंशिक रूप से द्विभाषी है। ये स्ट्रोक्स आशुतोष भारद्वाज के नाम)

A Typist’s Tale
 
As I am getting older, death seems to be far, far away. With every breath it goes further away and far. It’s boring not to feel death around. I wake up to a dutiful sun and go to bed with a merciless moon hanging by my eyelids.
 
In between, I smile and write, drink and write, and make love and write. I am a typist spiritually; it’s been three years since I retired myself with a golden handshake and since then I have, slowly but effortlessly, become a writer.
 
What else is a writer but a typist’s alter ego.
 
A Volunteer’s Words of Wisdom 
  
Only two things matter: fuck and luck. We reform dirty women. Funny modern thing! There are no better reformers than dirty women. Every single fuck reforms you.
 
People are jealous of me. They hate me. Not because I get what they secretly, violently wish but because I make their reforms look ridiculous. With me, these women are not what they need them to be. With me, they are cheerful, playful – happy in one word, they tease the fuck out of me. I fuck the sorriness out of them. I don’t pay them; they don’t ask for. My poor fellows, the secret is: my heart is my organ. My heart penetrates right there, deep between the two stretching legs. An intellectual once told me about that great painter Picasso who painted not with brush but with his penis. I am Picasso; I fuck with my heart.
 
I also need to say something about the other thing that matters: luck. But frankly speaking, that’s something you know about only when you have that. I no doubt am a lucky person.
 
Luck is my second organ.
 
Ramblings of a Babysitter
 
There is nothing more sinister than looking at a cute, smiling baby. Attending a cute, smiling baby is the worst nightmare. Those who want to see everybody as smiling and cute and innocent as a child are likely to convert the entire planet into a concentration camp. Imposing the ideal of childhood on every adult is a totalitarian fantasy; it is the very ideology of Infantocracy.
 
But God forbid, these terrible words are not mine. These are the words of a certain fiendish freak called Milan Kundera. Oh Jesus! Pardon him.

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