tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66385283002669556152024-09-21T03:10:32.987+03:00Plastic ink and liquid paper, Precious tools for today's writer, Strings of black on a field of white, Typing words till sunrise. Letter and words are bricks and mortar, Wheels to carry the story further. Till the last full stop has been entered, Wont stop, wont sleep in this venture.Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.comBlogger153125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-86016184930200676082013-09-08T09:02:00.001+03:002013-09-12T10:27:49.856+03:00

“He’s a wise little boy.”The words uttered by the wrinkled old man sailed across the entrance of the compartment, staving off the oncoming gush of wind that was blowing in as the train furiously glided through a narrow bend in the tracks.I was lost in thought, having surrendered to the stifling heat which nevertheless demanded beads of sweat as humiliating evidence of its influence. The old man

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-262318786969878972013-09-08T08:37:00.003+03:002013-09-12T10:27:49.850+03:00

It is possible that Satish Gupta did not think of ‘The Armchair Soldier’ that evening, as his Chevrolet Cruze purred up the driveway of the plush hotel. After all, it was a story his communist-hating grandfather had told him several decades earlier. Besides, the lady in the passenger seat had his full attention.    The Hyatt Hotel had over the years swung open its electronic glass

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-52727864879773862582013-08-14T09:17:00.007+03:002013-09-12T10:27:49.852+03:00

Without crumpling his neatly pressed black suit, Butler Meyers managed to place the last set of champagne glasses on the entrance table and entered the dining hall, where a contemplative Mr. Anthony D’Souza was peering at the mountain side from behind the thick, reinforced life size glass window.“All ready, sir. The guests are getting dressed now, and will be down for dinner shortly.”The owner

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-69978039403747321482013-08-11T18:54:00.002+03:002013-08-11T18:54:57.660+03:00

Lately I've been gaining weight like the Library of Congress gains books. Which has, sadly, made me transition from the right to left side of a Loreal Anti Aging Poster. In a bid to combat the increasingly worrying queries from relatives who are considering turning my future hunt for a bride into a nail biting, almost impossible sounding reality show, I've decided to seek refuge in the past.

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-85739067780244922462013-07-16T12:33:00.004+03:002013-07-16T12:33:35.719+03:00

After countless short stories and articles being posted, it's finally time for an announcement. I've been shortlisted as a finalist for the 1st Indireads Short Story Contest, held to select the best short stories in 4 genres from South Asia. Now that I've been shortlisted, the best short story will be decided by voting. This is where your help comes in. I've come to believe that over the years

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-85495861292574542472013-07-03T06:36:00.001+03:002013-09-12T10:27:49.854+03:00

“Woah!” I grabbed the phone from Varun’s hands before he could react. Holding it tightly, I stared at the picture, feeling envy growing within me. “How the hell – so it’s true, huh?” I said, trying to sound casual. Varun’s face turned a shade red as he tried not to blush. I looked at the photo again and let out a low whistle. She was beautiful. It was a picture of a girl in her early

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-64095548547419425062013-06-14T19:27:00.000+03:002013-06-14T20:13:27.697+03:00

The 18th Man is India's first online serialized novel. A chapter will be posted on the Facebook page www.facebook.com/the18thman every Friday and Tuesday at 6 P.M. IST. The following is the first chapter of the novel, which is technically a science fiction thriller. New York City, 11 : 13 P.M. Arthur Wallace took a deep breath and opened the door. He sighed in relief. The alarm didn’t go

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-45475550149773518062013-05-28T16:25:00.001+03:002013-05-28T16:25:45.438+03:00

I can't remember how it all began. It's like trying to trace the beginning of a dream. The first real recollection I have of the reading part of it all, is rummaging through a drawer in my sister's room till I stumbled upon a copy of one of Enid Blyton's books. I don't remember the name of the book, though the funny British phrases in it are still familiar. After that, it

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-84334462380332346922013-05-21T14:46:00.001+03:002013-09-08T08:54:59.893+03:00

Ram Sampath folded the day’s copy of the Times of India, sighing deeply as he did so. The stream of sun light flooding into the living room through the open window illuminated his creased face, revealing the pensiveness he felt. He sighed once again. Nirbhaya had just died. It made him feel angry, reading the reports over and over again. The media had done all they could to milk the story,

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-9690703734735502262013-05-09T10:00:00.001+03:002013-05-27T11:00:10.788+03:00

Retired General Joginder Singh opened his eyes on March 12th, 2013. He’d closed them almost six years ago. As expected, it set of a chain of events, starting with the nurse in his room dashing to alert the on duty doctor, and culminated in a primly dressed lawyer sitting in front of him, brimming with excitement. “Good morning General,” Ranvir Kapoor said reverently. It’d been far too long

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-37355137004427199812012-11-12T15:27:00.001+03:002013-05-27T11:00:23.220+03:00

Something happens to Chennai at around 6 in the evening. As though someone rang a giant school bell over the city, students, workers, teachers, parents and kids dash out onto the street, and simultaneously rush home. And like most people, I ended up in the passenger seat of a car, peering out at the endless pair of glowing red backlights in front of us.Just as I was about to rant about the

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-87969184863665187022012-11-02T16:48:00.004+03:002013-05-27T11:00:48.565+03:00

It was a clear Friday morning, with the clouds chivalrously concealing the sun, helping bring down the boiling temperature for as long as possible. With an extra spring in my steps, I settled down in front of my laptop. For those of you who are unacquainted with this ritual, let me explain. Since starting Laptop Diary as a blog, my laptop and I have had several interactions. Who says machines

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-59044508321384992342012-10-29T03:05:00.001+03:002012-10-29T10:31:41.298+03:00

By now everyone in the household was familiar with my vacation routine. Establishing base at the computer table, systematically emptying soft drink cans, conducting marathon viewing sessions of Big Bang Theory. It was standard protocol. On a perfectly relaxed, lazy Saturday morning, while the kitchen was bustling with breakfast preparations, I was perched next to the computer, staring at

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-69377071916464005352012-09-13T16:48:00.002+03:002012-10-29T09:02:35.063+03:00

The fan blades creaked around, lazily following the routine, as bartenders and drunkards swooned, soaking their blood in whisky and rum. None moved, for none thought, about dreams, hopes and desires. With souls chained to beer bottles. They drowned out their remaining hours. As the bar tender wiped his mantle photo, the bar doors swung wide open. In marched a gaint, hooded figure, With

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-78451908742517813662012-09-02T11:40:00.002+03:002012-10-29T10:31:41.300+03:00

The first time I saw Athirapally water falls, the sequence unfolded in surreal fashion. Walking down the wooden pathway that rises steady and then comes to steep downward slope, the trees surrounding the pathway suddenly parted, bringing into view the entire panoramic shot of the waterfall leaping off the cliffs. As though nature had invited me to walk through the tunnel and into its version of

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-61185516902591583722012-06-23T10:55:00.000+03:002012-10-29T09:02:03.078+03:00

The residents of Apoorva Colony flung open their windows, welcoming in the cool morning breeze as children rushed from bathrooms, dodging mothers yells while pulling on clothes and combing their hair quickly. Before the morning sun had firmly entrenched itself in the sky, nestled between thick white clouds, the streets were crawling with people, talking animatedly as they walked towards the

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-87052606231645677772012-06-02T00:38:00.002+03:002012-06-02T00:38:38.139+03:00

Dear 14 Year Old Me, I know this might sound weird, but this letter is being written by your 20 Year Old version. Now, don't mock me, I'm serious. I know of everything that's going to happen to you from now till....well, now (my now - the-6-year-in-the-future-now - try to keep up). Alright, alright, don't close your Hotmail yet! I have proof. First off, the Geography project

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-45232391795047969982011-11-23T01:00:00.000+03:002011-11-23T01:00:00.254+03:00

A few months ago, there was a Youtube video that went viral. Not just in the conventional sense. By viral, I mean, crazy viral. It gathered a grand total of about 167 million views. To put that in perspective, one of the leading rock bands in the world, Coldplay, released their latest single Paradise, to approximately 18 million views. A 14 year old girl from California, USA, had done the

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-26022461675246851822011-11-20T08:00:00.000+03:002011-11-20T08:00:03.949+03:00

About an year ago, I watched The Motorcyle Diaries. The movie was well made, showing the true story of Ernesto 'Che' Guevara and Alberto Granado's journey through Latin America on a spluttering motorcycle. I watched it, appreciated it, and forgot about it. Today, I visited the wiki page of The Motorcycle Diaries, and felt spellbound. Ernesto Guevara and his friend covered more than 8,000 miles

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-80128976342291475732011-11-16T00:00:00.001+03:002012-10-29T10:31:41.301+03:00

I lost belief a long time ago. Most around me have. None of us ever discuss about it. It's like the myth of the 'Unicorn'. Dazzling, beautiful...but it doesnt happen in real life. They've documented it in movies, books, music videos. There are entire T.V. shows that capture the feel of the myth. But at the end of the day, you'll never see a 'Unicorn' in your life. It doesnt exist. Whenever

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-15064040845943926992011-11-10T12:35:00.001+03:002012-10-29T10:36:54.328+03:00

I wonder if it reflects badly on me as a blogger, when I start my post by quoting the excruciatingly annoying rapper Lil Wayne. But as I watched two friends of mine discuss about whose friend had a bigger house, the words from the song 'Money on My Mind' played out in my head. Which made me think. When did I land up in a Lil Wayne video? Before landing up in Chennai, my family and

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-90262869979220039572011-09-06T20:28:00.000+03:002012-10-29T10:31:41.305+03:00

Wonder what Rahul Dravid feels about it. The countless newspaper columns, internet links, Facebook statuses, and perhaps most importantly, the flattering headlines. The Wall Stands Tall. I guess he'd be smiling. Chuckling to himself, and remembering, very clearly, how it was not so long ago. Odds are, he'll turn off the bedside lamp, say a small prayer, and forget about the praise.

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-2150448592349476972011-07-25T20:37:00.002+03:002012-10-29T10:31:41.297+03:00

Five Years Ago... "Vivek was telling me that Thursday might be a holiday for all of us," John said. "Whose Vivek?" I asked, as we sat at the end of class. "Arey, Vivek, dude. The short, spectacled guy, in Philip's class?" "Oh, that Vivek." Present Day... "Rohit says there's no college tomorrow. We'll watch a movie?" "Rohit? Who's that?" "Rohit, macha. The maru who sits behind us in class."

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-69050345419063162422011-07-09T21:08:00.002+03:002011-07-09T21:08:44.504+03:00

It's something that I've been wondering about for the past few days. When did I first hear the word being used? It's like trying to remember the first time you heard about the concept of death, or money, or air conditioners, I guess. It's just something that we grew up with. The word 'gay'. Before you raise your eye brows in suspicion, let me quell any fears. This is not a pro - gay rights

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6638528300266955615.post-29616193249583459782011-07-02T23:56:00.000+03:002012-10-29T09:05:01.273+03:00

Over the years, many of my readers have asked me about my first article as a journalist. Thinking back to that time, back in 2001, I could tell you the details as though it’d happened yesterday.  On my very first day as an intern at The Hindu, I was well on course to being late for work. As I ran down the steps of the overhead footbridge two at a time, the railway platform was drowned

Mohammed Musthafahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10211307048155699461noreply@blogger.com7