TEST TUBE BABIES ON A MASS SCALE

Arvind Kejriwal

Arvind Kejriwal and his entire gang of male and female AAP ministers and MLAs are ALIENS.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

NIRAV MODI AND PRIME MINISTER MODI

Is the internationally notorious escaped convict Punjab National Bank (PNB) scamster Nirav Modi a close relative of India's Prime Minister Narendra Modi? IF SO, he has RUINED THE REPUTATION OF PRIME MINISTER Narendra Modi. ALIEN CHEAT Nirav Modi's chief financial adviser is an ALIEN CHEAT Modi - is he ALSO a close relative of Prime Minister Modi? God forbid!

Kishalay Sinha [G]

THE MAHARANI OF CHOOTIAPURAM

I looked forward to her visits because she had nothing nice to say about anyone. Since I was inclined the same way, in the hour or so she stayed and had her evening quota of Scotch we trashed the reputations of everyone known and unknown to us.

Our dialogue would begin in much the same manner. She would breeze in with a loud 'Hi Khushee!', plant a kiss on each cheek, and put her handbag on the chair beside mine. 'Help yourself,' I would say to her. 'Cheers!'

After a sip or two she would open her handbag, fish out a card and ask, 'Have you got this?'

I took a look at the invitation card. It was to a book launch at Hotel Le Meridien, hosted by the publisher of a debut novel by a young author whose parents I knew. I expected an invitation card too. 'Good drinks and canapes at the Meridien,' I remarked.

'I can do better in my own home,' she scoffed. 'Who wants to waste an evening listening to boring speeches and readings from a nondescript novel? I don't think I'll go.'

I got my invitation card the next day. I went on time and took a seat in the last row. By then the hall was only half full. I saw my lady friend come in. She surveyed the scene, walked past the front row of chairs so that everyone would notice her presence, then went to the table piled with the author's novel for anyone who wished to buy some at a reduced price. She picked up one, turned over a few pages and put it back on the pile. She found an empty seat in the front row.

I sat through the speeches and launch ceremony. As soon as they were over, I went to the long tables on which waiters were pouring out drinks. I helped myself to a double Scotch and gobbled up salted biscuits heaped with caviar. I saw my lady friend pick her company. She was choosy. She disdained the hoi polloi and talked only to men of noble birth or distinction, whom she referred to as renaissance men. 'Very few left,' she would lament. 'They had class and breeding and impeccable manners. That breed of men has died out.'

I had to admit my lady friend had class, right from her name to her demeanour. Her name was Rajkumari Rukmini Devi. She didn't tell me the name of the rajwada of which she was the rajkumari. But she did tell me about her upbringing in the strict purdah observed by Hindu aristocratic families, her English governesses and her schooling at home. It was only after Independence that she and other lady members of her family discarded their ghoonghats, and she was allowed to go abroad for studies. She regarded herself a very superior person. Needless to say, most people who met her did not take to her. They were jealous of her and called her a fraud. Some called her 'Maharani of Chootiapuram' — a nasty innuendo, the meaning of which I leave to the readers to work out. And for good measure, added, 'She makes a CHOOTIA of you.'

When she wanted to, as she did at wedding and embassy receptions, Rajkumari dressed up in all her state regalia of artificial jewellery: round her neck, a gold-plated brass choker which looked like genuine gold and a necklace of glass beads that shone like pearls; a lehnga of silk striped with silver, and a see through chiffon dupatta. Women flocked round her to admire her jewellery. 'Where did you get this gold choker? It must have cost a bomb!' She would reply demurely, 'Oh, I couldn't afford to buy such things; they are family heirlooms. This is from my grandmother, this was a part of my mother's dowry.' And so on.

Despite her protestations and saying, 'I don't think I'll go to this book launch', she was seen at every book launch in the city. I pointed this out to her. 'Somebody told me you were seen at the launch of that Punjabi fellow's novel about Chandigarh.' She replied, 'It was at the British Council. I make an exception for their launches.'

'But they have no place to park cars, and serve you miserable drops of Scotch which you have to gulp down standing up, they have no place to sit,' I said. I told her I also avoided embassy cultural receptions at Max Mueller Bhawan and the American Cultural Centre. 'The hosts go through the motions of hospitality like cold-blooded diplomats and impatiently wait for their guests to leave.'

'I don't go to book launches to drink free whisky,' she snorted. 'If people like us did not go to foreign embassy receptions, they would think we are not friendly towards them.'

So Rajkumari had good reasons for not wanting to go to book launches as well as for going to all of them. And she always made sure her presence was noted. People called her a name-dropper. That she was, but with a difference: while others dropped names of people they barely knew, she knew all the bigwigs whose names she dropped and only added: 'I know him very well.' If you said anything derogatory about them, she rose to their defence, saying, ' Never! He could never have said such a thing. I know him very well.'

There was a time when she entertained in the grand style of a lady holding a salon: premium brand Scotch, French wine, sumptuous dinner. She had to give that up because she was never able to keep her servants too long: some she fired for drinking her whisky or cheating on prices of vegetables; others for being uncouth or insolent.

She no longer entertained as she felt people would then feel obliged to return her hospitality. I was perhaps the only one of her friends who continued to see her. Most others did not bother to answer her telephone calls. She was pained by their lack of gratitude and grace. One evening she announced: 'I have decided to leave Delhi. Here life has become so artificial, I can't take it any more. I have sold my flat.'

I was taken aback. 'Where on earth will you go?' I asked. 'You will regret it for the rest of your life.'

'Too late!' she said with an air of finality. 'I have got the cheque. Besides, I live alone. There is a murder or two every other day of people living alone. There were three last week in my neighbourhood.'

I was dismayed. What would life in Delhi be for me without Rajkumari? Whom would I exchange gossip with? Whom would I find as well-informed about peoples' private lives and with whom would I now tear them apart?

I thought a lot over the matter. I asked her if she really meant it, or was it another of her ploys to get people talking about her? When I told other friends about her decision, they dismissed it. 'She is GUPPING,' some said. 'Good riddance!' said others. 'Why do you waste time on that sour puss?'

Then, as suddenly as she had told me of her decision to quit Delhi forever, she announced her decision to defer it for a while longer. 'What about selling your flat?' I asked.

'The fellow's cheque bounced,' she replied with complete nonchalance. 'See what Delhi people are like? You can't trust any of them.'

That was the end of Rajkumari's resolve to abandon Delhi. But she began to get away from the city more frequently than before - to Bombay, Bangalore and Hyderabad, Chandigarh and Calcutta. Wherever she went, she stayed at the Raj Bhawan as guest of the governor of the state. 'I don't understand from where the government picks up these LALLOO-PANJOOS (riff- raff) and makes them governors,' she said. 'At one time they used to be the elite of renaissance men, who knew the art of living. It was a pleasure talking to them and exchanging views. They are dead and gone. Now we have types I would not invite to dine with me.'

She often went abroad too: Paris, London, Madrid, New York, Washington. Rather than stay in hotels, she preferred staying with important people whom she described as her close friends. A few days after she returned, she would invite herself over. The first thing she would do was open her handbag and say, 'I never forget to bring something for you.' She would take out two or three little pieces of cheese of the sort served with meals on every flight: 'Not Indian imitations,' she would say. 'And this, single malt,' taking out two miniature bottles given free on many flights. 'Try them out.' So it became her party in my home.

There was something childlike about Rajkumari: she wanted to be the centre of attention wherever she was. If there were other guests in my home, she gave them the cold shoulder and insisted on talking to me as if there was no one else present. At times she was rude to them. And she loved contradicting me. I was in the habit of coming out with couplets of Urdu poetry or lines from some English poet. She would cut me short and give what she thought was the correct version. Our argument would get heated. She would put out her hand and challenge me. 'Bet? A bottle of Scotch?' I would accept the challenge, and get the exact lines from anthologies of poetry in my collection, to prove her wrong. She always forgot about the bet. Once, a writer whom I had praised in my columns came to see me. She had not read anything by him but engaged him in conversation without giving him a chance to speak to me. He was as upset as I was. As I saw them off, she came back to ask, 'Who is this Johnnie?' I let her have it full blast. 'He wanted to talk to me, but you did not give him a chance to do so. What's happened to your manners?' *** 'If that is how you feel,' she snapped, 'I won't waste my time coming to see you.' I yelled back, 'Don't. If this is how you are going to behave, don't come and ruin my evenings.'

It was the first time we quarrelled. I told everyone about what had transpired. No one sympathized with me. On the contrary, they rubbed salt in my wounded ego. 'Serves you right,' they said. 'She made a CHOOTIA of you.'

For three months we did not meet or bother to ring each other. She said nasty things about me, which in due course our friends conveyed to me. I said nasty things about her which they conveyed to her with much relish. But just when I thought our association was over, she rang me up. 'I am coming over to talk to you. There are misunderstandings between the best of friends, but they must be sorted out, the sooner the better. Friendship is sacred.'

She came over, gave me the same double-kiss greeting. She poured out the Scotch without commenting on its quality or of the glasses into which it was poured. 'So, it's all forgotten and forgiven,' she said raising her  glass. I touched my glass to hers and said 'Amen.' After a few moments of silence, she said, 'There was one word people said you ascribed to me which I did not understand, except that it sounded very vulgar. In our families we never used vulgar words.'

I thought about it and replied: 'Perhaps it was CHOOTIA — you made a CHOOTIA of me.'

'What does CHOOTIA mean?' she asked innocently.

'Cunt-born.'

'Oh I see!' she said calmly. 'But isn't that true of all of us?'

(From "THE MAHARANI OF CHOOTIAPURAM" in THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY Collected Stories, by Khushwant Singh, RAVI DAYAL/PENGUIN BOOKS. This fascinating story is written in the riveting style of the very famous Russian short story writer Chekhov. - G)

DISCLAIMER: My quoting the interesting excerpts from Khushwant Singh's entertaining short story should not be misinterpreted as My support of drinking. In fact, I am a 100% TEETOTALLER/TEETOTALER Myself - One Who never drinks. Indeed, I don't have bad habits that plague many weak individuals: I don't smoke, I don't drink, I don't take drugs, I don't gamble, I don't run after gals, I don't visit prostitutes. - G 

*** Reminds Me of how the fucking aliens PF and NL have desperately tried to prevent noble and powerful WF from communicating with Me but the funny thing is, WF and I exchanged brief silent smiling meaningful glances at each other at the UIUC university hospital years ago, I believe. We have outsmarted pathetic alien swine Satan/Kr. (late), NL, PF etc.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

Bobby

If, perhaps, you say "Bobby is a bad boy," you haven't told us a thing about Bobby. You have merely given us a tip on your personal code of ethics and morals. (Dr. Wilfred Funk: "25 MAGIC STEPS TO WORD POWER", Chapter 5, THE MIRACLE OF COMMUNICATION, page 36.) [When I was a little boy reading in KG or class I and staying in the hostel of St. Agnes' school at Haflong in Assam/India, I used to be called "Bobby" by Sisters and Mothers of that English-medium missionary school. - G]

Kishalay Sinha [G]

THE INTERVIEW

There was a knock on the door. Before I could say 'Come in', the receptionist tiptoed in, shutting the door behind her.

'A Mr Towers to see you,' she whispered.

'Has he an appointment?'

'No. He won't say what he wants either. He just said he wanted to see you. Shall I say you are busy?'

The door opened again — without a knock — and in walked a hulking man in shirt sleeves. He was followed by a blonde in her fading forties and a little girl.

'Hello there! I see you are going to have your morning coffee and I thought I'd join you. Towers is the name, Stan Towers. And this is my wife Margery and little Pam. Say hello, Pam.' [How is Pam related to Stan? Cf. Adam, Lilith/Pamela, Eve/Margaret tortured by Satan/Kr. (late) and his gang Michael, Peter etc. for billions of years. - G]

Pam said hello and collapsed into the leather chair sucking a lollipop. I shook hands with Margery, who produced a weary smile. She sat down on the arm of Pam's chair and stared at the wallpaper, looking utterly bored.

'Cream and sugar for me and the wife,' said Mr Towers, dismissing the receptionist. 'Pam'll stick to her lollipop, won't you, Pam?'

Pam sat up, pulled out a dribbling lollipop to say a slow motion 'Yeah', and collapsed into the chair again.

'I am a numismatist. Do you know numismatism? Of course you do. Silly of me to ask.'

I smiled nervously. Of course. Of course.

'If I may say so, I am one of the world's nine leading numismatists. My articles have appeared in the best numismatical journals, including your own annual number of the CALCUTTA NUMISMATICAL JOURNAL. Do you know the Calcutta Numismatical Society?'

'Oh yes. It's very well known.'

'I thought you would. Germany had many famous numismatists. One doesn't know what's happened to them now.'

'Maybe the Russians have taken them over, like they took over Krupp's works,' said I, throwing a feeler.

'Krupp's was only armaments, you know,' he added a little uneasily. 'They [the many famous numismatists of Germany] must be dead. That just leaves Professor Charbonneau of France and your own Dr Banerjee. Doesn't it, Marge?'

Marge smiled back to life and smiled out of it. Numismatics. Numismatics. The word went round and round eluding recognition. Not Krupp's. Not Ballistics. Numismatics. Banerjee. Banerjee.

'You know Banerjee? Silly of me to ask. You must have heard of him.'

There was no way out. 'No, I haven't had the opportunity of meeting him personally. But of course one hears about him all the time.'

'I thought you would know about him. You must meet him when you get back. Tell him I asked you to. We've been carrying on a very interesting controversy in the NUMISMATIST about the age of a treasure unearthed near Tutankhamen's tomb.'

'I haven't had the pleasure of reading that. But I have seen Dr. Banerjee's book on the excavations at Mohenjodaro. It was Dr. Banerjee, wasn't it?' I queried dubiously.

'I don't know about this one. Didn't know he was an archaeologist as well.'

The door opened. The girl brought in coffee and biscuits. I felt like a boxer saved by the bell on the count of nine.

'Oh, Miss Forbes, will you give this chit to Miss Merriman?' I scribbled a small note and slipped it in her hand.

Towers returned to the assault.

'I am very interested about this book of Banerjee's you talk about. Did you say it was about Mohenjodaro?'

'Maybe I am mixing him up with someone else.'

'No, no. I am sure you are not. There were things in Mohenjodaro which would be of enormous interest to a numismatist. Banerjee must have written about these.'

Numismatics. Numismatics.

'Oh yes, he must have. It was such a long time ago that I saw the book. I don't really remember what he was mainly interested in.'

Numismatics. Numismatics.

The door opened once more. Miss Merriinan came in holding an open book. Her glasses were balanced on the tip of her nose. She just smiled at the Towers and mumbled.

'Numismatics. Numismatics. Here we are — from the Latin word numisma; pertaining to or relating to ...'

'Miss Merriman, you haven't met Mr Towers. He is one of the world's greatest numismatists. Mr Towers, this is Miss Merriman, my secretary. She is very interested in numismatics.'

With triumphant relief I relieved Miss Merriman of the dictionary and the telltale chit.

'Oh, are you now?' beamed Mr Towers, gripping the hand of his new victim and shaking it vigorously. 'It is a pleasure to meet someone interested in numismatics. As I was saying, people do not realize the contribution that numismatics has made in reconstructing ancient history.'

'Don't they?' queried the baffled Miss Merriman.

'No, indeed they do not,' emphasized Mr Towers, warming to the subject. 'Numismatics is the one science which has helped to fix the chronology of all historical excavations. We would have known nothing about the Indo-Greek, Indo-Scythian, or even the Indo-Parthian periods but for numismaticians. Why, Dr Banerjee has even been able to trace the entire genealogy of the Kings of Kathiawar and the Western Kshatrapas.'

'Yes, indeed,' commented Miss Merriman dubiously.

'I was telling you about Mohenjodaro,' I burst in quickly, pretending to read out of the dictionary. 'Mohenjodaro has yielded valuable material to the numismatician.'

'Aha,' exclaimed Mr Towers, 'I said so, didn't I? Let's see — is that Banerjee's book?'

Before I could do anything, Mr Towers had the dictionary out of my hand.

(From "The Interview" in THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY Collected Stories, by Khushwant Singh, RAVI DAYAL/PENGUIN BOOKS.)

YOU HAVE TO GROW UP

Khushwant Singh wrote to Me many years ago:

Dear Kishalay

Thanks. You have to grow up. Your fantasies of women's fidelity are juvenile.

Yours

Khushwant Singh

RAPE THREAT

I can FEEL that poor sweet yearning good-looking sexy Priy. Chat. is dying to have ILLICIT SEX with Him. Poor sweet sexy darling. WHY is God SO BRUTAL, SO CRUEL, SO HEARTLESS? Why is God like An Unfeeling Robot a la Isaac Asimov?

Kishalay Sinha किशलय सिन्हा जी [G]

THE INSOLUBLE SOLVED

Mr. Offord had solved the insoluble ... ladies were dying to come to him ... he saved the lives of several ... I ask myself what had been the secret of such perfection ... And yet there were questions to be asked ... there was a method in his madness, a law in his success.... He hadn't hit it off by a mere fluke ... There was an art in it all, and how was the art so hidden? ... occult artist ... main characteristic was a deep and shy refinement ... "What he likes is the talk — mingling in the conversation." ... breathing the very atmosphere of criticism, the famous criticism of life. ... "Quite an education, sir, isn't it, sir?" he said to me one day ... It was indeed an education, but to what was this sensitive young man of thirty-five, of the servile class, being educated? ... the beginning of the end ... it was always interesting — it always gave me something to think about ... like the dying Voltaire ... sadly shrunken ... passed away like any inferior person ... was relegated to eternal stillness ... He was royally whimsical about his sufferings and not at all concerned ... "Ah if you could give me some one LIKE him! But there ain't two such in the world." ... At last I gave up hope ...

        - Henry James [aka NL]

(From "BROOKSMITH", in SELECTED SHORT STORIES OF HENRY JAMES, published by Little Scholarz, 12 - H, New Daryaganj Road, Opp. Traffic Kotwali, New Delhi - 110002. ISBN 978 - 93 - 81438 - 10 - 7; Rs. 145/$9.99)

Being closely related to Voltaire/Kr./Sat. (late), forming the evil Trinity with him and torturing the human race for billions of years, NL and PF were constantly kept informed of the secret identity and secret locations of Kr./Voltaire/Sat. (who lived incognito - "The Invisible Man") throughout the world and spied on Me and WF continuously, pathetically UNAWARE of My SECRET identity, which I kept A PROFOUND SECRET for many years until I declared ONLINE to the whole world My sensational identity when I felt that the time was ripe for revealing My secret identity. - G

Nirad C. Chaudhuri - a clone of Krishna/Voltaire/Sat.

REVIVING THE DEAD

SIMONY: From the name SIMON Magnus, a Samaritan sorcerer [magician] who was sharply rebuked by Peter when he tried to bring the Holy Ghost to [when he tried to revive] those [the dead] upon whom he laid his hands [whom he tried to revive]. "And when SIMON saw," says the Bible, "that through laying on of the apostles' hands [when the apostles administered secret medicine which revived the dead] the Holy Ghost was given [that is, the dead came back to life], he offered them money, saying, 'Give me also this power [give me your secret medicine that revives the dead], that on whomsoever I lay hands [any dead person I want to revive], he may receive the Holy Ghost [he will be brought back to life].' " For this reason, anyone who tries to make money out of sacred things, or who tries to buy ecclesiastical favors, is now accused of SIMONY.

- Dr. Wilfred Funk: "WORD ORIGINS: An Exploration and History of Words and Language", page 47.

Cf. Simon & Schuster, New York, American publisher of excellent books.

NOTE: Krishna (late), Jesus, Peter etc. knew/know the secret (herbal) medicine which can REVIVE the dead.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

জ্বালা

বেচারীদের মনের জ্বালা কি তিনি বোঝেন না? বুঝেও না বোঝার ভান করেন? তিনি কি ইচ্ছে করেই এদেরকে জ্বালাতন করছেন? এদের সঙ্গে উঠা নামা খেলছেন আর এদের মনের অবস্থা ঘন ঘন up down হচ্ছে? তিনি কেন এত নিষ্ঠুর? কোথা থেকে হঠাৎ এক চরিত্রহীনা "Priy. Chat." আবির্ভাব হয়ে সবার মনে tsunami লাগিয়ে দিল ! এই নির্লজ্জ বেশ্যাটা কে? (আমি জানি তোমরা সবাই সতী লক্ষ্মী, সীতাদেবীর মত পবিত্র নারী - বেচারী "Priy. Chat." চরিত্রহীনা বেশ্যা জানেনা যে ওর কপালে দুঃখ আছে ৷)

Kishalay Sinha কিশলয় সিনহা किशलय सिन्हा जी [G]

ANTIDOTE TO FAKE NEWS

It is foolish to expect ALIEN politicians and government officers and bankers to stop fake news broadcast 24×7 by alien TV news channels. Internet social media is the perfect antidote. Alien proprietors and male and female staff of all alien TV news channels should be LYNCHED by the cheated public for being ENEMIES of the people by CONSTANTLY BLOCKING NEWS UNFAVOURABLE TO ALIENS and by misleading the public with fake news and inciting citizens AGAINST one another TO DIVERT PUBLIC ATTENTION from massive CORRUPTION which is THE ONLY REASON for the SHOCKING poverty and MASS unemployment in every country of the world. All alien TV news channels are propaganda machines of nasty aliens/Nazis. However, the Internet has CRUSHED alien TV news channels.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

TRAVEL WRITER NORMAN LEWIS

'Some of us expect to live for ever.' - p. 282

I asked Daniel what Jonathan Cape liked about the book and he said, 'It's about abroad. He never goes anywhere except New York on business. The only books he really enjoys reading are about travel, and he said yours could have been one. He'd have probably liked it better if you'd have left out the plot.'

SAMARA was within a few months of publication when I made a second visit to Bedford Square, in early 1949, having been invited to lunch with Jonathan Cape himself. It had been mentioned by Daniel that that Irish stew inevitably featured on these occasions, and this was frequently burnt. Such authors as were favoured with an invitation to lunch, knew the place as 'Heartburn House'. Daniel George and the poet William Plomer, who helped out with the reading of manuscripts, were also to be there, and in a brief aside Daniel warned me that Jonathan had just returned from an Easter holiday at Eastbourne with his wife, of which we must be treated to a lengthy description. Both these men stood in awe of their employer who, having started work as an errand boy at Hatchard's bookshop, Piccadilly, had read as many as he could of the books he delivered and through them prepared himself for admission to the world of the famous and the great.

By reputation he was autocratic and blunt, but no-one could have been more courteous on this occasion. He made a brief but kindly reference to my book.

'And what are your plans for the future?' he asked me.

'I'm hoping to do something about Guatemala,' I told him.

He pretended not to have heard, and I repeated what I'd said.

Jonathan smiled austerely, and shook his head. 'Always write a book about Nelson,' he said. ' Never write a book about South America.'

Back in the office I tackled Daniel George.

'Do what he says,' Daniel said. 'Write a book about Nelson. He'll probably publish it. Jonathan has the market at his finger tips. If he says South America won't sell, it won't.'

'What about Peter Fleming's BRAZILIAN ADVENTURE?'

'The adventure sold, not Brazil. It could have happened anywhere. Most of the people who bought the book didn't know where Brazil was. In any case, from what you say your Guatemalan book is going to keep you busy for five or six years. What are you going to live on?'

I packed the Guatemalan material away for another time, and made a start on another novel, WITHIN THE LABYRINTH, describing the Machiavellian Italian scene at the end of the war.

A year later, having submitted the typescript of this book, another lunch at Heartburn House took place, incredibly enough just after Jonathan Cape had returned from holiday.

'So what's to come next?' he asked. 'Not Guatemala, I hope.'

'Not if you're against it.'

The outcome was an offer by Jonathan to back a book on Indo-China and finance travel in the country for a journey taking up to three months. Jonathan also gave me an introduction to Peter Fleming at THE TIMES, who provided a commissioning letter without which travel would have been impossible in a country ravaged by war.

When in London I liked to stay with the Corvajavas. It was to this address that I arranged for the proofs of WITHIN THE LABYRINTH to be sent so that I could correct them before leaving [London].

The proofs, however, failed to arrive, so I rang up the publisher and was told that by mistake they had been sent to 4 Gordon Square. This was about a hundred yards away so I walked across to collect them, only to discover that a second Norman Lewis lived at this address, and that he, too, was a Cape author who had recently completed a hugely successful updated version of Roget's thesaurus. Unfortunately, I was told, the second N.L. had left the country only two days before, and was presumed to have taken my proofs with him. Three days later I stepped down from the Air France plane at Beirut, where Oliver awaited me. 'We're  having a little party for you at the embassy,' he said, and minutes later I suffered a surprise from which I have never wholly recovered, for the first introduction was to the man with whom I shared names, who had stopped off at Beirut on his way to some Eastern destination. It was a circumstance that further encouraged Oliver's fascination with the paranormal, and inspired him to begin a work to be entitled THE MECHANISMS OF COINCIDENCE, although the book was never finished. - p. 49 - 53

Converted to Voltaire's viewpoint ... - p. 278

People had also been compelled or persuaded to part with their beloved ANITALS. [ANITAL =? a newly coined word created in sheer exasperation? ... the strange word "anitals" sounds insultingly like genitals; ANI seems to have an insulting connection with ANUS. Pathetic, utterly futile rage. - G] - p. 284 

Michael - p. 247   ...

Among those whose interest had been aroused by my article on tribal genocide in Brazil, was Tony Snowdon [reminds Md of Edward Snowden - G] who had worked for the SUNDAY TIMES as a photographer. Peter [?!!] Crookston [crook?!!] phoned to say that Snowdon [!!] would like to know if I was contemplating any more South American journeys, and if so could he come along to take the photographs. The approach came at a time when I was planning a visit to Peru. ...

Back in the hotel I asked the manager, 'Do you expect photographers tonight?'

'I think they will come,' he said.

'Is there any way they can be kept out?'

'It is impossible,' he said. 'If we place a man at the door they will come through the windows. They are very persistent and they know all the tricks. A photographer will come in saying he is a plain-clothes policeman, and carrying an imitation police card. Or someone will say he has been taken ill and ask for a doctor. But the doctor is really a photographer and is carrying a camera in his bag. Nothing will keep these people out.'

'Don't you have a private room where we could have dinner?'

'I will show you,' the manager said. ...

Later that afternoon Anthony Walter [first secretary] from the embassy looked in at the hotel. It was to offer his services, he said, in any way that could possibly be of assistance in our journeying in the country. He was very affable and engaging. Snowdon, who had confided to me that in his view all ambassadors were twits, but clearly had no objections when it came to first secretaries, took to him, and by the end of the afternoon we were all on first-name terms. [The loose young hippy Y with whom I shared a room at Ravi Hotel in Bombay many years ago - Peter? - told Me to call him "Steve".]

Walter, who almost certainly knew Peru as well as any Englishman, wondered if our visit might be made a little easier by accepting a minimum of assistance and advice from the Peruvian government. Walter then went on to suggest that the ambassador might be agreeable to giving him a week or two's local leave, in which case if we thought he could be useful to us he would be happy to come along.

Tony Snowdon seemed to jump at the idea, but I was more doubtful. What I had in mind and had suggested to the SUNDAY TIMES was something in the nature of an adventure. Our goal was to see virgin territories and remote peoples, and though it was possible that the Peruvian authorities could help us to do this, it also seemed possible that the Embassy would do all that was possible to make sure that Snowdon was not placed at risk. [NOTE THAT alert Mumbai police, CBI, and the Indian Army gave Me continuous protection although I did not need any protection. - G]

Next morning it was quite evident that the idea of slipping unnoticed in and out of Lima was the stuff of dreams, for Snowdon's presence in the capital had already hit the headlines... inspiring some inaccurate reporting. The newspaper described Walter as a bodyguard, while I started off as Martin Lewis, Editor of the SUNDAY TIMES, becoming thereafter an agent of the Secret Service. The newspapers found Snowdon either inaccessible and aloof, or aggressive. [It seems to Me that "Snowdon" is in fact a parody/caricature of Me drawn by "hippy" Z/Norman Lewis. - G] - p. 239 - 246

(From Norman Lewis: THE WORLD, THE WORLD.)

CNN reports that two convicts with interesting names have been released after 12 years in prison: Michael and Christopher. (Aliens change their skin color to fool humans.)

Voltaire = Kr. = Sat.

"We have not yet learned to bring back life to a dead body ..." - Norman Lewis: WORD POWER MADE EASY (first edition; this sentence is missing in later edition of WORD POWER MADE EASY).

Inside shared room at Ravi Hotel in Bombay/Mumbai many years ago:

G: I want to find out WHY people GROW OLD and WHY people DIE.

Z: You think you could solve this problem?

G: We could try.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

Cf. Richard Connell: THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME

Ivan the Terrible

Richard = PF

Robert ("Bobby") = NL

Napoleon the Great/Julius Caesar = NL

Alexander the Great/Peter the Great/William Shakespeare = PF

Samuel Richardson: PAMELA (Mr. B, William & Pamela)

Suzanne Collins: CATCHING FIRE/HUNGER GAMES 2 (Peeta)

Mukul Deva: POUND OF FLESH (SK & Pamela) [William Shakespeare: The Merchant of Venice: Shylock: pound of flesh]

John/WF: REVELATION (Bible) [John/WF = Son of God; NL and PF = sons of "God"/Kr./Sat.]

Kishalay Sinha [G]

Ahalya অহল্যা

একটা very interesting suspenseful short film দেখলাম on YouTube in which well-known Bengali actor Soumitra  plays the role of Gautam [original Kr./Sat. or one of his numerous clones] and the name of the actress in this short film who plays the role of Gautam' s wife Ahalya is Radhika who traps Indra.

[The story of Ahalya's rape by Indra has been distorted in this film. Indra is in fact an identical-looking clone of Vasishtha and together the two plan and carry out the insult of Ahalya: when Vasishtha is away, his identical-looking clone Indra comes to his house in his absence and has illicit sex with Ahalya who does not suspect that he is NOT her husband  Vasishtha who duly arrives and catches them in the act. Vasishtha "curses" Indra by inflicting on him a bad disease (leprosy) which is duly cured with the appropriate medicine - Vasishtha inflicts a very grave "curse" on Ahalya for her marital infidelity - he turns her into STONE - when she begs his forgiveness, he relents and says that when thousands of years have passed, Ram (= Vasishtha/Krishna/Sat.) will touch her stone form and she will be changed back into her original female form, which is technically quite feasible. Last night (July 4), I saw a stunning video on DY 365 reporting 5000 HUMAN STONE STATUES on the sea-bed near Mexico: male and female humans cursed like Ahalya and turned into STONE?... There are MANY female bats - thousands of female bats - inside a dark cave in Nagaon district in Assam/India, who are said to be human princesses turned to female bats (obviously for refusing to have sex with aliens). In a well-known Assamese story, the girl Tejimola is turned to a plant by her jealous step-mother but is changed back into the girl by her father when he finds out the truth. Beside a lake inside Africa, which contains a very special kind of water, can be seen horses turned to stone.]

Kishalay Sinha [G]

রাবণ Ravan

আমার মনে হয় রাম-ভক্ত রাবণ = রামের এক clone, a clone of Ram/Krishna/Sat.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

বেকাৰ সমস্যা কিয় ?

অসম তথা গোটেই ভাৰতৰ আন প্ৰত্যেক ৰাজ্যৰ young ছাত্ৰ ছাত্ৰী প্ৰত্যেকেই very talented আৰু Indian guardians-সকল প্ৰত্যেকেই তেওঁলোকৰ লৰা-ছোৱালীৰ ভৱিষ্যত ভাল হওক বুলি দিনেৰাতি ইমান কষ্ট কৰে - তথাপি কিয় চাকুৰী নাই? কিয় ইমান বেকাৰ সমস্যা?

বেকাৰ সমস্যাৰ এটাই কাৰণ: alien politicians do not want our students to get jobs but want them to remain poor and unemployed and force them to sell drugs and sell their v. and become prost. for survival.

Kishalay Sinha কিশলয় সিনহা [G, ভ, আ]

ALIENS

ALIENS give IAS posts etc. to ALIENS.

ALL banks are run by ALIENS.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

REVIVING THE DEAD

SIMONY: From the name SIMON Magnus, a Samaritan sorcerer [magician] who was sharply rebuked by Peter when he tried to bring the Holy Ghost to [when he tried to revive] those [the dead] upon whom he laid his hands [whom he tried to revive]. "And when SIMON saw," says the Bible, "that through laying on of the apostles' hands [when the apostles administered secret medicine which revived the dead] the Holy Ghost was given [that is, the dead came back to life], he offered them money, saying, 'Give me also this power [give me your secret medicine that revives the dead], that on whomsoever I lay hands [any dead person I want to revive], he may receive the Holy Ghost [he will be brought back to life].' " For this reason, anyone who tries to make money out of sacred things, or who tries to buy ecclesiastical favors, is now accused of SIMONY.

- Dr. Wilfred Funk: "WORD ORIGINS: An Exploration and History of Words and Language", page 47.

Cf. Simon & Schuster, New York, American publisher of excellent books.

NOTE: Krishna (late), Jesus, Peter etc. knew/know the secret (herbal) medicine which can REVIVE the dead.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

TEST TUBE BABIES ON A MASS SCALE

Aliens produce TEST TUBE BABIES ON A MASS SCALE  in underground laboratories. Read Aldous Huxley's "science fiction" novel BRAVE NEW WORLD or watch the film on YouTube. (About one hundred clones are made from one fertilized egg.) I am sure that Aldous Huxley himself or his ghost-writer had SEEN the underground alien labs where clones are mass produced.

Kishalay Sinha [G]

ঢুকিয়ে দিতে ইচ্ছা হয় (কয়েকজনের ক্ষেত্রে) - এরাও নিশ্চয় ঢুকাতে চায় বারবার - নাহলে এরকম feeling হতে পারে না ...

বাঙালিরা classical, গজল, খেয়াল etc. মোটেই গাইতে পারে না - কেন এরা বামন হয়ে চাঁদ ধরতে চেষ্টা করে - বৃথা চেষ্টা - আধুনিক বাংলা গান আর আধুনিক হিন্দী গানে stick করলে ভাল হয় (তিনার সঙ্গে কল্পনায় stick না করে) - রবীন্দ্র গানগুলি বড্ড মেয়েলি - বড্ড ন্যাকামি মনে হয় - pampered মেয়েরা গাইলে মানায় - ব্যাটারা গাইলে মোটেই মানায় না ...