Acrostic

We had this recent writing exercise on the message board at Caferati, based on a recent occurrence in the literary world -where an author was tricked into using a fake letter in a biography he wrote - More interesting, the letter was an acrostic , not too complimentary to the author himself.

Peter Griffin at Caferati, kindly pointed us to this interesting link which explains what all the fuss was about.

As self-respecting writers, ofcourse, it was proposed that we all try our hands at it... So here is my contribution...

In every way that they could think of, people felt that that Raghav was the perfect man for Monika. Not all the time, ofcourse, but occasionally, Monika would think about this. Driving home everyday, on the Gurgaon-Mehrauli highway, with the FM blaring in the background, she had enough time to think, analyse, dissect, then add on a fresh layer of thought and churn it some more. Each human being is so different, she would think, each individual steeped in the juice of himself, a concoction wearing thin in places, yet unique. Could any one person then ever be perfect for another, and what did it mean anyways, to be ‘for’ someone else. I am not talking about things like tastes and habits here, she would explain to her friends, but deep down, isn’t my first concern in this world myself, my own happiness.

Shut up, yaar, they would say, stop thinking so much, you want to become a philosopher or what. Indeed, most of her life, Monika had been chided by her family for this too much thing she had, reading too much, thinking too much, just doing too much of nothing worthwhile. Only the fact that she had finally landed a job at a prestigious advertising firm and then fallen in love with Raghav, had finally redeemed her. No one knew better than her though, that there was still opportunity to fall, there was always a chance, to fall back on indecision.