Scent of October

You know those girls who have lost their dads? They are a strange lot.

They are reminded every single day, about the one fact that stares at them from a framed photo on the wall or the bookshelf, or a tiny passport-size click tucked away in the folds of the wallet. A wistful smile later, they will be out there, living two peoples’ dreams.

They seem untouchable, and throw too much attitude. It is not easy to get a girl this wild- if you do get her, she is hard to keep. High maintenance, they are. Maybe their dads set standards that would seem too high for normal men.

Still, it would be surprising to know how tender they are on the inside. They love being pampered; being treated like princesses- it used to be a habit, you know- a long while back. But never make them cry. Because the first thought that would flit across their minds, as their tear glands give way would be, ‘If daddy was around…’

They appear so sure about themselves, but at times, they feel like little abandoned children deep inside. Some of them become atheists, the rest become super religious. But there is one thing that they hate in common- that look of pity on other peoples’ faces when they talk about their dads.

They are just like you and me- only more iron willed than you can imagine. They know they need to put twice the effort, for anything, and they will, without any complaints. Still, never mess with a girl who has lost her dad. Because he is always watching out for her from above.

I lost mine, this month, 9 years ago. Please do me a favour today. Tell your dad you love him, for me.



I refused a drink, and stood in the shadows. Tonight, I only wanted to watch.

I saw the world, dancing away. Exultant eyes, weary eyes, reflections of love in some, and pure mischief in some others. And some that betrayed too much alcohol.

There she was, in a dress too long and too low cut for her. Her long hair hung loose and she danced, her fingertips grazing her face, her neck, her breasts..her hips swaying to the fast beat.

From where he came, I know not, but I believe he knew her. Or maybe he didn’t. Her lips gave a hint of a smile, as he pulled her arms around him. They moved, the dim lights providing ample cover, his fingers tracing the same paths that hers did just moments ago.

Now they were dancing, her back to him. And no more did his fingers graze. If friction could cause smoke, he would have set the whole place on fire.

With narrowed eyes I watched, yet another girl, who would wake up the next morning, feeling revolted, shamed or indifferent-I will never know.

And as Pitbull sang asking for everything tonight, I laughed at the irony of it all.