Wordless Wednesday… Almost!

Posted on June 29, 2010 by Guria
“It’s not a thing to be waited for , it’s a thing to be achieved”

LESSON: If opportunity doesn’t knock, build a door.

P.S. Thanks Soumya Smita, my sweet younger friend, for the pic. 🙂

P.P.S. Sorry for the error, the picture wasn’t visible before. Thanks Harini and BK Chowla-ji for letting me know. G.:)

Posted in Friends, Laughs | 13 Comments

Seven Secrets

Posted on June 27, 2010 by Guria
I am suddenly found doing tags, and enjoying them as they happen to be pretty interesting. This one comes from Tavish Chadha who is much more sensible than he lets on and I was really happy to be tagged specifically… Feels cool!

Seven things about me that no one really knows. In the random order in which they popped up in my head.


  • I expect too much from people as human beings, and I end up being disappointed more often than not. But this is one mistake I don’t seem to be learning from… I get right back to expecting again!
  • I am more of an introvert, not much of a conversationalist… till I am with a few select friends. Then I blab and blubber and flubber, and when I really start talking, it is really difficult to make me stop! And yeah, I hate having conversations over phones with most people.
  • I love to read. I love learning new things. And strangely, I love studying when the mood strikes and can’t seem to give up on it even when it is not necessary.
  • The only thing I hated about blogging was typing. It is because I have good handwriting (and I am vain about it), and love writing especially in Bengali. I try to maintain all my posts by writing them by hand, especially poetry.
  • I am crazy about bikes and cars. Driving is not a problem but I intend to ride bikes as soon as I can, and someone obliges me… No one seems to half as enthusiastic about it! Drat!
  • I enjoy being a woman a lot (didn’t do so always). And given my IQ (don’t ask), I am not dumb. But I seriously think sometimes that men are terrifically dumb. But well, we love them anyway.
  • I hate crying and people who cry at the drop of a hat. But I still cry.

I think that does Seven Things, and it was pretty difficult. But enjoyable. (I guess)

I tag…
Harini (you know why!)
Insignia (like the way you do them)
Karthik (you have to whether you like it or not!)
Manna (since you do enjoy them!)
Dhiman (no complaints from you)
Sree (this should be a double treat)

To all of the above, I am curious, guys! And the time limit is one-and-a-half weeks or 10 days and 12 hours from now!

But for sheer torture, under the same timeline, I tag…. You-know-who!


N.B. See, no split personality. That thing (when tried to be done consciously, of course) is more of a headache than fun! 😉
Posted in Tags | 23 Comments

Football and Calcutta!

Posted on June 19, 2010 by Guria

If you are in Bengal, you cannot help but be swept away by the Football Frenzy! Even the non-enthusiasts also are perfectly aware of what goes on, the finer details of the game, the latest news etc, so you can wonder how enthusiastic are the enthusiasts!

Calcutta boasts of Pele (if you don’t know him, there’s no hope) playing (or butchering) at the Eden Gardens (originally a football ground, football comes no where near cricket!) against Mohun Bagan in the September of 1977. Calcutta felicitated Diego Maradona (you can’t possibly not know of him) when he came to Salt Lake stadium, Calcutta in December, 2008. Even recently, Oliver Kahn (goalie of Germany) made it here. So you can understand how far-reaching our craziness is, if you say Calcutta, we don’t think rosogollahs (tired of that one), we think “Football”!

Now, Calcuttans are biased towards South American football, any day! Even personally, as much as I enjoy European Club Football, and Italy, they come nowhere near the South American style. There are many funny distinctions (not discrimination) between the Calcuttans, bangal-ghoti (according to whether you’re from East Bengal or West), then there is East Bengal-Mohun Bagan (the respective football clubs) and several other but none as profound, marked (or disarrayed even) as Argentina-Brazil!


Calcuttans are divided with a straight line into the Argentina supporters and the Brazil ones. You cannot support both. Ever. And you should take part in the Bangali addas in the same, you need to have pretty good ammunition and loyalty invested to make a mark and be heard! There are some arguments that can never be resolved; this is one of the leading ones- “Who are the best, Argentina or Brazil?“

My college (where I did my Masters) canteen has been divided into blue-white and yellow-green. We have huge flags hanging on the tenth floor. When the matches are on, no one works (PhD scholars mainly), we have a TV with cable in there and you are not allowed to watch without your team jersey on! Oh, and the jerseys were bought with donations from the respective supporters, it is the unofficial property of our department! Even the laboratories are not spared from decorating!

Wall-paintings are rampant in Calcutta by small locality clubs who paint the World Cup teams and players, even some clubs have erected statues of Messi, Maradona, Ronaldo and the likes! Posters are everywhere. Every road, street shows their colours. You’ll look right and see yellow and green hanging overhead, then you look left you’ll find the blue-white fluttering in the breeze. People on the street are seen wearing their respective jerseys, even to work on a weekend, to colleges after a win! Shops in New Market, Esplanade in Calcutta are flooded with the unofficial jerseys! Forget Nike, Adidas, the jerseys sell like hotcakes, mostly fakes but still enough to show the colours they support.


Few months before, the original World Cup had made its round in Calcutta, only place it visited in India (in its maiden visit to the country), even with the two days reduced to one, the turn-out was awesome; fought for that single glimpse!



Think about the Mexican wave, it is a complete Football thingy, and the Calcutta crowd  at the Eden Gardens loves it (knows it) and they do that even in the cricket matches… And now, the Mexican wave has become a rage during cricket matches in other cities too. It is funny!


Coming to my personal life, I am a hard-core Brazil fan, have been one for 15 years (or more) from when I understand football. And my dearest fiancé, as luck would have it is a die-hard Argentina fan. So we are fighting every night! Harrumphhing, too! I did try the “If you love me…” angle (anything for football) but discarded it, too… Nothing doing, won’t support Argentina for even him, and cannot ask him to that either for me! Of course, we have to make-up (with an effort) in the mornings but the nights (all matches are in the evening) are spent in verbal wrestling and name-calling! We are totally biased, all of us, pro-Brazil or pro-Argentina, and proud of it!



Funniest thing for us is the non-Bengalis, non-Calcuttans especially the ones who work in Calcutta away from home! They are literally baffled with the football craze, and are complete football-illiterate! A non-Calcuttan senior of mine said “Ahh, a red card! Damn, they have to play with 10 players in the next match!” We rolled around laughing!! As much as their reactions amuse us, we stare at them like they are some unknown species. Football is so big here, that the Fifa World Cup is a huge occasion. Everyone arranges their time-tables accordingly, it is usual to be late for office next day after a big late-night match (including the Boss)! Disrupted schedules, slow working pace, it is understood!


We never had good players, but players we had. And only out of blind love for the sport. The greatest regret that cricket gobbles up all the money but we have never ever played a Fifa World Cup. In 1950, by elimination, we had qualified but had refused to play as the players were not allowed to play bare-footed (Imagine!)! On the brighter side, the excitement and expectations attached with football, it’s a consolation that India doesn’t play, it would hurt, literally bleed, to see India lose. But still, one hopes that India will host Fifa World Cup one day, the only way that India can play then!


Football is not just a sport, it is a religion. And you cannot escape the fever in Calcutta. It is not just a love, it’s an obsession. If you don’t really enjoy football, you are missing a world out here!! 


Calcutta is a city to behold when football takes over! No wonder, Calcutta is the Football Capital of India!


N.B. Each to his own. Just sharing the madness. I, for one, cannot think of life without football! 
Posted in Calcutta and Bengali, India, Passions, Reviews | 14 Comments

Just sharing….

Posted on June 19, 2010 by Guria
Been itching to write something, anything in here… when I got these emails from a couple of younger friends who send me nice ones regularly and I thought why not? I am sure many of you have read these firsthand but still for them who haven’t, couldn’t help sharing, and documenting (for myself). And for those who know these already, they are worth reading again! Enjoy! 🙂



Here goes:

*What is Love???*
A group of 4 to 8 year-old Children were asked, “What does love mean?”
The answers they gave were broader and deeper than anyone could have imagined.


–”Love is when you tell a guy you like his shirt, then he wears it everyday” (Tina – age 7)

–”My mommy loves me more than anybody. You don’t see anyone else kissing me to sleep at night.” (Clare – Age 5)

–”When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You know that your name is safe in their mouth.” (Billy – age 4)

–”When my grandmother got arthritis, she couldn’t bend over and paint her toenails anymore. So my grandfather does it for her all the time, even when his hands got arthritis too. That’s love.” (Rebecca – age 8)

–”Love is when you go out to eat and give somebody most of your French fries without making them give you any of theirs..” ( Chris sy – age 6)

–”Love is what makes you smile when you’re tired.” (Terri – age 4)

–”Love is when my mommy makes coffee for my daddy and she takes a sip before giving it to him, to make sure the taste is OK.” (Danny – age 7)

–”Love is like a little old woman and a little old man who are still friends even after they know each other so well.” (Tommy – age 6)

–”During my piano recital, I was on a stage and scared. I looked at all the people watching me and saw my daddy waving and smiling. He was the only one doing that. I wasn’t scared anymore. That’s love” (Cindy -age 8)

–”Love is when mommy gives daddy the best piece of chicken.” (Elaine – age 5)

–”Love is when your puppy licks your face even after you left him alone all day.” (Mary Ann – age 4)



Another One:

Why should the wedding ring be worn on the fourth finger?
There is a beautiful and convincing explanation given by the Chinese Legend…



Thumb represents your Parents
Second (Index) finger represents your Siblings
Middle finger represents your-Self
Fourth (Ring) finger represents your Life Partner
& the Last (Little) finger represents your children
Firstly, open your palms (face to face), bend the middle fingers and hold them together – back to back
Secondly, open and hold the remaining three fingers and the thumb – tip to tip

(As shown in the figure below):



Now, try to separate your thumbs (representing the parents)…, they will open, because your parents are not destined to live with you lifelong, and have to leave you sooner or later.
Please join your thumbs as before and separate your Index fingers (representing siblings)…., they will also open, because your brothers and sisterswill have their own families and will have to lead their own separate lives.
Now join the Index fingers and separate your Little fingers (representing your children)…., they will open too, because the children also will get married and settle down on their own some day.
Finally, join your Little fingers, and try to separate your Ring fingers (representing your spouse).
You will be surprised to see that you just CANNOT….., because Husband & Wife have to remain together all their lives – through thick and thin!!
Do try this out…………. Isn’t it a lovely theory?


And still another:

*Indian Hell!!*
There were bound to be some advantages!








Hope you had fun! Loads and loads of it! Love, G.:)

Posted in Friends, Happy, Life, Love | 14 Comments

Would You?

Posted on June 18, 2010 by Guria

Would you gloat if you knew I am susceptible, vulnerable?
Would you hit knowing that I would never have the guts to hit back?
Would you shout and wail, manipulate and ask straight to give up and surrender all that I collected over my life, if you knew that I would hold nothing back?
Would you want every drop of my blood, every water particle to escape as sweat, every breath till it came no more, when I’d give them up, all for your taking?
Would you stop if I called out to you?
Would you let me run just because I needed to run away?
Would you just forget, if I died?
Would you bask in glee, be cruel and merciless, if you knew that I have fallen, fallen beyond realms of gather, that I have fallen in the trap of deceit laid by my tormentor?


I would.

Posted in Darkness, Life | 16 Comments

Anonymous Me

Posted on June 17, 2010 by Guria

I have been duly reprimanded.

Call it a lovers’ tiff, but I have been justly punished by my lady love, Neha. (Can’t say I wasn’t warned!) But like an unsuspecting poor soul in love facing the gallows (even though it was my indiscretion in a completely unrelated matter in the first place) I should at least be allowed to defend my case. So, this is just for not to be thrown in without a trial. (The lawyer’s brushing off on me!)
I have two Facebook accounts, one as G and another as S. My real name isn’t a secret, just not used as the writer-blogger’s who pens in here.

I like keeping in touch with people over on Twitter and Facebook. People includes bloggers and ones I know in real life. Bloggers have a lot of fun over on Facebook and Twitter, I don’t think it is too wrong to interact with them outside of the formal comments’ section of their and my blogs. So I use the nom de plume by which they know me here.

If one likes and enjoys my blog (which I am not sure many do) that I write very damn honestly as Guria, why do they have problems with using that as the name of the Facebook friend? I mean that is how you know me in the first place, virtual or not.

Again, some of my blogger friends are on my real FB account as they are friends, like Neha, Harini among others, who know me beyond the blogger-me (beyond Maverick Misfit). On Guria, I can add bloggers blindly, but never on the other account. Why would I add bloggers I don’t really know on my non-blogging profile when it is meant for people who actually know me? The other option is don’t at all be friends with bloggers, stay away from pages and people like Blog-a-Ton, GingerChai, Indiblogger, Blogadda etc.

Guria is my nick, a nick that not everyone calls me by but a nick all the same. I have social obligations like anyone else in the physical world where I cannot be ‘the misfit girl’. I value the freedom of expression that this tag and this blog gets me, away from the confines of the world and people I meet/know on daily basis or just socially. So, it’s feels strange when I see people thinking that I am hiding the real me just because I am not using my real (well, Guria seems pretty real to me tho’) name… When the truth is I do not use my proper name to be the real me!

It is not the bloggers whom I keep out but the people I know socially that I do. If it is my freedom that is challenged, Maverick Misfit comes first and I’d rather not be friends with anybody. I am almost jealous of the people who can be themselves everywhere, sadly I am not one of them.

There are more layers to a person than just the name. And I still don’t understand why the perception is that by two names, the personality changes! Managing two accounts is not easy or something I enjoy but it’s a small price to pay for having a part in the virtual world that also brings me solace. (Neha: I ping you from two accounts just to irritate you! ;))

But it hurts if one thinks that it is duplicity (or trickery) to have two accounts when all it is, is breaking free on my part.



N.B. I write and always will as Guria. I tried tricking no one including my school friend (I had debated for a long time whether to tell her or not, when I had realised that she was) but my anonymity was (is) important to me. I have often left comments with my real name, have been commented to (and still am) with it, and it is not a secret. S stands for Sreya (without the H) but I’d still love you to call me Guria. Neha, don’t feel guilty, it’s not your fault that I am stupid (I’d thoroughly enjoyed your post, had known what it was for after all!). You know, I love you. G. 🙂

Posted in Bloggers, Friends, Me, People and Relationships | 29 Comments

65 Things

Posted on June 16, 2010 by Guria
This is one To-Do-and-Have-Done List aka Tag that I have been seeing in many favourite blogs who have been tagging ‘anyone who reads it’ (thankfully!) and I found it soo interesting that I am actually doing a tag after eons!

All the scratched through are the ones that are YET TO BE DONE, as this is more of ‘I have achieved list rather than ‘I have missed things’ one. And there’s still hope, of having the list completely unscratched, which doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a good thing!

  1. Graduated high school.
  2. Kissed someone.
  3. Smoked a cigarette. [everyone experiments]
  4. Got so drunk you passed out. [I hate to drink; isn’t it awful… poor me!]
  5. Rode every ride at an amusement park.
  6. Collected something stupid.
  7. Gone to a rock concert. [Just gimme a coupla’ years!]
  8. Helped someone.
  9. Gone fishing.
  10. Watched four movies in one night.
  11. Lied to someone.
  12. Snorted cocaine.
  13. Smoked weed.
  14. Failed a subject.
  15. Been in a car accident.
  16. Been in a tornado. [I don’t think Aila counts, even tho’ it was scary]
  17. Watched someone die.
  18. Been to a funeral.
  19. Burned yourself.
  20. Run a marathon.
  21. Cried yourself to sleep.
  22. Spent over 10,000 bucks in one day.
  23. Flown on an aeroplane.
  24. Cheated on someone.
  25. Been cheated on.
  26. Written a 10 page letter.
  27. Gone skiing.
  28. Been sailing.
  29. Cut yourself.
  30. Had a best friend.
  31. Lost someone you loved.
  32. Got into trouble for something you didn’t do.
  33. Stolen a book from the library.
  34. Gone to a different country.
  35. Watched the Harry Potter movies. [Spare me!]
  36. Had an online diary. [For two weeks]
  37. Fired a gun.
  38. Gambled in a casino. [Sadly I wasn’t of age 😦]
  39. Been in a school play.
  40. Been fired from a job.
  41. Taken a lie detector test.
  42. Swam with dolphins.
  43. Voted for someone on a reality TV show.
  44. Written poetry.
  45. Read more than 20 books a year.
  46. Gone to Europe.
  47. Loved someone you shouldn’t have.
  48. Used a colouring book over age 12.
  49. Had a surgery.
  50. Had stitches.
  51. Taken a Taxi.
  52. Had more than 5 IM conversations going on at once.
  53. Been in a fist fight.
  54. Suffered any form of abuse.
  55. Had a pet. [No, thank you very much]
  56. Petted a wild animal.
  57. Had your own credit card & bought something with it.
  58. Dyed your hair. [one thing that will never be unscratched!]
  59. Got a tattoo. [alas!]
  60. Had something pierced.
  61. Got straight A’s.
  62. Known someone personally with HIV or AIDS.
  63. Taken pictures with a webcam.
  64. Lost something expensive.
  65. Gone to sleep with music on.
As far as tagging goes, if I have readers, the first ten to read are tagged and you’d better feel special! :))

N.B. For my age, I have had a pretty cool life till now, eh? 😉
Posted in Laughs, Tags | 15 Comments

Children of… Who’s God?

Posted on June 13, 2010 by Guria

Team This post has been published by me as a team member of Inscribe Tribes for the SUPER 5 round of Bloggers Premier League (BPL) – The first ever unique, elite team blogging event of blog world. To catch the BPL action and also be part of future editions and other contests, visit and register at Cafe GingerChai




– a story of a child of a prostitute –

It couldn’t really be called an alley. It was just the dry bank that turned left with the smelling, dirty city sewerage and continued into the darkness. The “houses” were run-down shacks, temporary structures existing for almost twenty years like the fragile, delicate hand-me-downs for the successors, stacked side-by- side like matchboxes. But it was home; if not to the “bread-earners”, but to the not-so-innocent family, and a hang-out for certain regulars.


It was not a place where God could be found.

I am Juanita, and this was my home.

It was winter when I was born. An impediment to good food, I was born only because it was too late to get rid of me. Winter had always been a slow season and it was worse for my pregnant mother. It took her four weeks after birthing me to get back on the streets. Breast-feeding was not even considered. It doesn’t do well to the breasts, an important asset for the “industry”. Luckily, responsibility wasn’t a problem either; the older, “retired” professionals had nothing better to do most nights. Oh, if you didn’t guess, my mother was a salesperson. She sold sex, and she was politely called a prostitute.

And that was what I was meant to be, the moment I was born.

My mother was the best, a top-of-the-line whore in the Red Light District, Zona Norte in Tijuana till she got pregnant with me, a twist of fate when an unnamed, faceless regular left her with more than just his cash, and was upped by Maria, two shacks down the bank. So the blame lay with me. I think so too.

Time was meaningless when days were measured with nights, and hours with weekdays and cash. Weekends were the slowest; the regular patrons spent their weekends with their families and not their paid-and-owned “passionate” fornicators. Age was measured in wrinkles on the older whores’ faces, and more cheap make-up. Dates were unimportant, and years, enemies.

The first memories to be imprinted in my mind were the sounds of my mother swearing and screaming in a way I never had heard her before, with a different, strange and somehow feral voice grunting along with her like in some badly orchestrated play. The sounds meant nothing to me at first, but even as I lay curled in an unobtrusive make-shift pallet behind our shack near the dark waters, I used to feel a ball of heat burn in the pit of my stomach, something that I learned to be of shame, and later guilty arousal. Hormones, I know, are not always an adolescent thing.

Men, the male counterparts of our species were strangers to the kids like me who were never allowed to go out of our “colonies” even in the daylight. To me, they were night-time demons that sometimes appeared out of the dark to do inexplicable, loud and strange things with my mother, Maria, and all the other ladies I knew.

And that’s how I knew God. God, to me, was a man. A man who fucked the best.

I heard all the women over and again, complain and share their exciting, interesting and dull escapades with each other every afternoon, refreshed after their daytime naps; my mother being one of them. And it wasn’t that she gossiped in front of me, it was like she didn’t even know that I was there.

“Oh tha’ piece of shiit comes all the way from San Diego. They don’ make it like tha’ in here! He fucks like Gawd! He actually makes ma’ see ma’ Dadda’s sweet face.”

”Wouldn’t cha believe the size of his thin’! I was callin’ out to the fuckin’ Almighty…”

“Oh, he can’t fuck worth a shit, but his dick is like Gawd’s! If he only didncha’ stink so much!“

“I couldna have waited for him to roll his fat, sweaty body of ma’, but I kept on screamin’ to Gowd. As if that sucker could make ma see the Lord.”

The complaints, grumblings would carry on, punctuated with the guffaws and joking.

And then there was my mother spending her nights screaming or whining in her guttural voice, “Ohh God! Gawwd!”

Of course, my mother was good at playacting too, but I wasn’t to know that. I just understood that God indeed was the one who did it best. He was held in high esteem.

Somehow the kids of the whores, though they sprouted like unwanted weeds, never became friends. It was as if even in childhood one knew that we would grow up to be each other’s competition. Strangely, the younger boys used to disappear. And the younger girls, not all but most, were left back to continue the tradition, learn the trade. Most others who disappeared were sold; I learnt that when I was too. But that came later. At that point in time, paedophiles and sex slaves were not easily grasped concepts, unlike whoring.

I was introduced to the male phallus, the thrusting, red and swollen thing between the legs of a man, beneath the sagging belly and the sole basis for the “food on our table”, when I was nine. My beautiful mother losing out to progressively younger competition had started bringing in her patrons before twilight, much to my ignorance. I hadn’t known to have confined myself to my cot, and was spotted by one such visiting patron. I could feel his unwavering stare prickle and burn into my back as I had hurried to my place at the back of the shack.

The man had had his hour with my mother. And then had made his way stealthily out into the open, where I was. It was the first time I saw a man naked. I could see his bloodshot eyes, but my eyes would flicker to the large, unknown thing between his legs. That was all the encouragement he had needed. Some part of me, an ancient instinct if you may, had wanted to scream as the man shifted me aside to lay next to me. But another untrained, ignorant part of me that was both curious and scared of my mother, refrained. But the screaming still came, indeed muffled against the sweaty palms, but they were there. That was my first lesson in fucking and of blood and endless pain.

That night God was a bastard. And I hated him.

My screams had got me my mother. It was the only time I had ever screamed for my mother. She barged in, with a few other women and knocked the man aside, enraged. I had never loved my mother more. 

“Do ya’ know whatcha did, mister? Tha’ gurl was a fuckin’ virgin; do ya know how much they cost around here? Out with it, mon! Am not gonna let ya burn through ma… Pay up! Pay up, ya bastard!“

Then she had bargained with him for, and won, the price of a virgin he had spoiled for sale. I hate my mother even today with same passion that I had at that moment.

That incident got me what I never had before- my mother’s notice. That speculative, calculating gleam in her eye officially culminated to the continuation of her whoring legacy by me.

I had lost the number of times I was asked to lie down for a man between the ages of ten and thirteen, the number of times that I was presented as a virgin. No one cared or even noticed that I wasn’t, fucking a young girl for a few pesos or even dollars was heaven. Sometimes they would take me away for the night to a cheap hotel among several in Zona Norte and return me in the mornings. Sometimes it was nothing but watching pornographic movies with them, helping them jerk off. Some were just happy with fondling me, but the worst were the ones who would hit me, fuck me over and over again, painfully and brutally. Then it was usual for me to get back to the shack, bloodied and bruised. Of course, they had to pay for that privilege.


I was a reluctant but good lay cursed with good facial bones and small, rounded breasts. I rebelled once in a while, but it was a side of me that was cowed down by my instincts for survival.

“You’ll do as I say, you cunt! I’m your fuckin’ mother!” she used to scream, with a strong backhand that knocked me to the floor.

Later, she turned to whippings. “Is this what I get for birthing you? You neva’ gave me nothin’ but agony, ya worthless slut!”

The initial beatings that had showed up on my face had lost me customers for more than a week. After that she was careful to never hurt my face.  But there were welts all over my back. After some time the scars stopped fading, but there was no inkling of them on my face and breasts.

I hated my face too. How I wished I was ugly and repugnant. How wished the men would be repelled by me and choose another. But in some cruel irony of God, I was beautiful, and the men always chose me.

God, again. He was that one person I would have murdered if I ever had the chance to meet him.

At thirteen, I was sold to the best (and only) bidder. Most people wanted a different lay, and what’s better than a young girl, seemingly untainted, unused? But very few wanted to buy girls. The more wanted commodities for sale were even younger boys. But I managed to get sold; much to the happiness of my mother. As much as I raked in money, I was her competition too, and a liability as she had to share the profits. On hindsight, she wasn’t the good businesswoman that I had thought her to be.

For a few hundred dollars, after a lot of haggling my mother sold me with nothing but the clothes on my back. That was the last I had saw of her. I knew what was expected of me, knew it would be the same no matter where I was and was glad that I was at least free of the woman I hated most in the world.

“You please this kind mon’, Juanita.” She had told me while the man stood near us. I realised she had gotten a price that was rich even by her standards.

She had looked towards the man and said, “She is good, Señor. I taught her the tricks ma’ self… ya’ won’ be disappointed I tell ya’”

“Now be off with him, Juanita… Be good.” She had winked, clearly in high spirits.

That was how my mother bid me farewell. We never looked back at each other. We only ever were bread-earning machines to the other.

The man who bought me was Jack. He was an enigma. He had come to our home on a spring morning, had looked me in an unfathomable manner, a look I wasn’t familiar with in all my years of expertise and had forced my mother to sell me. The finer details of the business transaction were unknown to me. I just knew instead of my mother it was he who owned me now.

I had gone out of Zona Norte for the first time in my life. As much as I was scared about this new turn of events, this new ownership, I couldn’t help but gape in awe and admiration at the passing scenery as we travelled in his car. It was my first brush with beauty, not limited to the blackened sewer waters and tall, ugly chimneys or dilapidated hotel rooms.

He took me to his home near San Diego. It was a beautiful two storied bungalow with flowers in the garden, kids playing and dogs running about. I’d never seen anything like it before. In spite of my trepidation, it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I still remember as he had held open the door of his car. Wordlessly he had motioned me through doors till we reached a room, where I saw a clean bed for the first time in my life.

And I remembered my role. I knew what I had to do. I started stripping off my clothes mechanically.

He had smiled and motioned around the room. “This is your room. You will find fresh clothes in the wardrobe. You must be hungry. Elise, my wife, will be along right away with some food for you. Our room is just down the hallway. Ask if you need something, alright?”

***

My name is Juanita Garza. I am twenty-six years old and a college graduate. I work in a bank and am a volunteer worker with the El Pozo Orphanage and the Children of Promise International, Alma. We rescue, provide shelter and education to the children of the prostitutes.


I don’t know how to pray, I have never belonged to a church. I don’t understand what the Bible says. But I believe in God; the God, the Saviour who had come to me, one ordinary day, as Jack and Elise Garcia, and had given me Life.

I was born of a prostitute and have never been a child, but I am one of the Children of that God who walks the Earth. And this is my story.

____________________________________________________________________


N.B. This is a work of fiction. El Pozo Orphanage and Children of Promise International, Alma are real foundations that also help in rescuing and providing shelter for prostitute’s children.
Posted in Contests, Creations, Novelette, People and Relationships | 33 Comments

Siempre Brasil…

Posted on June 12, 2010 by Guria

People do Wordless Wednesdays. I just have gone wordless….

Fifa World Cup 2010 is here! My time is now!
We are Alive!!

BRAZIL ~ World Cup 2010


Posted in Passions | 11 Comments

Locked

Posted on June 11, 2010 by Guria
© Maverick Misfit by Guria

You could feel the heart stutter

Stop, and beat into a flutter
The tentative brush anticipating, cautious
The heat spreading all over and across
Just the moment before
The instincts take over
The eyes close, lashes whisper against the skin
Feeling surges, undefined, uncontrolled
Sensation after another crashing through
An unknown, a stranger but a bliss
There’s a freedom the touches bring
Being Locked in a Kiss



N.B. I am an artist firstly, then a scientist, and then a blogger-writer. I am just trying to get my rusted but once-perfected strokes back into use, hence practicing. G. 🙂
Posted in Creations, Man and Woman, People and Relationships, Sketches, Verses | 25 Comments