Tuesday, September 13, 2011

CLOSED LETTER to a troubled woman

At the outset, I haven’t really blogged in some time because I felt that the venom was gone with youth. I equate youth with Poona, my despicable college, my utterly mad band of Hatters, Navy Cuts and my bike. Delhi has been home for about eight years now.

This is supposed to be a reply to a somewhat scathing set of remarks on Delhi (severely lining up all the testosterone {a bit of progesterone too, if I might add} in North India and basically nuking the living bejesus out of it, Punjab for some troubling reason being the epicenter of the mitotic mushrooming cloud). Let’s begin, shall we?

First of all, I agree that 95% of the junta here is scum. No, wait. Maybe more. Delhi doesn’t have a population of its own. Most are migrants from all over. This is a congregation of sorts. There is a massive flaw in the programming somewhere that remands some (most) to become lewd, lascivious insects sporting pointed shoes, ridiculously expensive and utterly worthless denims from diesel, shining (as in turn the flash off if you want a snap that isn’t pristine white) suits from Tom Ford, sunglasses which scream for applause not because they’re good but because a normal person just wouldn’t be brave enough to go out wearing something as brazen as them. But that is the character Delhi has. You love it or leave it. For me, it’s the lifeblood for a lifetime of humour. Not to draw disparaging regional equals, but a day in Bombay with every nukkad having a bloated stud on a bike with a horn that he received in dowry with golden sunglasses, golden bracelets, golden chains, does much the same for me. It makes me laugh when I go off to sleep every night. Lets not get started with Chennai and the local studs there, shall we?

But that was just the outward first shock. There is more to it. Delhi boy. The term has a really bad ricochet to it. Much like the collecting bile when you’re about to hurl after ten pitchers of beer (again very Delhi). Subjecting yourself to public opinion on this term, then comes with its own bias. You get the image of an insecure boyfriend, a lecherous biker, a drunk driver whose line of vision ends at cleavage. I wouldn’t speak for myself, but I do know a certain contingent of Delhi born breds who do not subscribe to such a mindset, and in alarming numbers. You’d be surprised. You may just stop to consider that you may have been hanging out in the wrong clubs with the wrong people at the wrong time. Its not an allegation, it’s a thought. There are three pubs that I frequent which are most often full to the hilt, with men and women where you can visibly see a confluence of happy, frustrated, letting off steam, discussing problems, getting punch drunk bunch of merry Indians. Not dilliwalas, not biharis, not panjabis, not mals, not tams. Indians. Not to put some flag toting patriotism to the fore, I’m not a patriot. Far from it. This is to address the point of collectives, in Delhi.

Now, where were we? Ah, education and classical music, eh? Upbringing, you say. I would agree that most in Delhi haven’t been brought up but dragged up. Much the same in any other teeming metropolis. Not much of a difference here too. I’m not one for the debating circuit, but as far as propagating a multicultural society is concerned, Delhi would be scarily ahead of the game. If you’re in Delhi, do try central and not south Delhi next time. I can send you a brochure of plays, debates on issues which may be political, environmental, literary, cinematic or pure off the cuff extempore. As kids, we had access to libraries, some of us still do. Most of the people I know here were reading The Bourne Identity or Silas Marner when they were in the fifth grade. Some earlier. People pride themselves on their new SUVs or their brain jarringly loud bikes as well as their bookshelves. I know. I’m one of them. There are a thick bunch of people on the other side as well who’d prefer slurring obscenities at cops at the gurgaon border, when they’re shutting down beer shops with half open shutters in the wee hours of the morning. I know. I’m one of them too.

And as far as collectively dissing mothers who don’t have a say in most matters, I’d say it’s a most unfortunate observation, because it demands a more stringent and subjective approach. There are families where they have a say, no say or THE say. Seen enough to comment, or I would have refrained. Moreover, rather than M.S. Subbalakshmi, I believe an NCERT history book would have been more rewarding in understanding the divide between North and South India. It could, and one hopes it still can, broaden the boundaries a bit on the social spectrum. North India has specifically been a patriarchal society and its always leaned on the matriarchal side in the South. Check out Romila Thapar’s treatises on ancient India. Might help. Again, I’m not a supporter of either. There are places in India (again, as a collective whole) where it is being looked into and corrected. Other pockets, not so much. And yes, ‘my mom-dad’ ( who, before you ask, are not conjoined at the hip, its just our way of referring to things. In a formal interview, we do remember to refer to them as parents) have had a pretty equal share in the decisions and bread winners segment, and I know multitudes in Delhi, which are on the same lines. The definitive differences lie in the difference in exposure and education. In India. The whole of it.

Moreover, I happen to know a few Sikhs. Some of them were displaced from Pakistan. It’s a traumatic experience, being displaced. Not to be made fun of. Period. We’ve had our Bhindranwalas, our Prabhakarans, and our mujahideen. Lets not make a wondrous mess of things, shall we?

Moreover, do realize, that delhi is not everyone’s cup of tea. Not everybody survives here and likes it. Its hot, flooded, death cold at times and traffucked most times. We’re a collective that does not get dissed that easily. Most of us are outsiders, trying to make a living, not pick a vein. It’s the country’s own capital playground. Everybody gets a ticket. There are elements of disgust and pride. Even the good ones that are tethered in their opinions are not tame.

Monday, April 4, 2011


You point your finger, but there’s no one around.

Where’s your crown, King Nothing?

- James Hetfield

An unfulfilled life.

Stuck in limbo.

With some treacle to slow things down further.

There was a time when fulfillment was supreme. Vices were to be postponed, not given up. Just a defeated shadow left, diminishing, slow but sure. A man who fought for no flag. A man who did more than just survive. A man who knew the effect of an approaching cannonball but stuck his tongue out at it anyway. The past.

But its been more than a year since that rogue program got derezzed. A few enigmatic shards remain, surfacing and getting shot on sight, one at a time. Tactically accurate. One shot. Victory isn’t elusive. It just isn’t there.

The memories remain, shooting up the spine, everytime there’s an insane corner on the road, everytime the tacho crosses the red line, everytime Bad Boys II airs on HBO. But that is it. Ambition got lost somewhere on the way to the Supreme Court, the drive to excel got lost at the proximity checkpoint, the drive to survive got strangled outside a courtroom door, the cocksure attitude flopped over and gagged outside the conference room. Reclamation seems nigh impossible.

No ecstasy. No motive. No destination.

The guitar’s still gathering dust. The boxing strips have been relegated to the boot cabinet. Excalibur’s still wedged tight in stone. May not have been able to pull it out earlier as well, but there was an elemental doubt. The doubt’s washing away. The clarity isn’t comforting though. Adrenaline’s dried up. Its just blood in them veins now, I guess.

The smirk has been wiped off. Probably at the hands of the mundane nature of black and white. There was no colour beforehand as well, but that was exquisite photography. This is a TV set from the sixties.

What remains, is just an interminable wait. Just bobbing unsurely on a diving board fixed at the last step of Mount doom. Waiting to lose traction, fall in, be enveloped, obliterated. Lose all consciousness and shut down. Pull the plug.

Ash to ash, dust to dust and finally fade to black.

Its time, Lou. Gimme a ticket

Monday, July 12, 2010


This could be considered a more raw version of bleed. On advice from Biks and Karan, have tried using dialogue here. The last line is a straight lift from Untitled.. (karan's masterpiece). KS, words of wisdom needed here. Should i quit dialogue..or stick to it?

Covers and clothes strewn all over the place. An unfinished bourbon stood on the bedtable. The sunlight crept in, and the viscosity of the drink lessened to the waking eye, like the shallowness of the whole situation coming through, as dark and murky as the drink was in the cold dawn light. Like paddling through an endless lake where the oar would get caught in seaweed everytime. Somewhat like the peace in the finality of being crushed by a python.

He turned around to see the steady breathing on his back. The stark to the point of being vulgar beauty assailed his senses. The tousled hair, sticking to her forehead with the activity last night just made the concept of sweat attractive. It was the thought of the unnatural being appealing. Something that shouldn’t have been done. The sun just bathed the white in shades of silver, the colour the sun appears obscured by clouds when you look out the airplane window on a sleepy flight. Interspersed with the shadow cast by him playing along like an intergalactic comet lighting up all in its path, giving legitimacy to the just darkness. He ran a finger on the alien terrain, with an almost electrostatic effect. She woke with a start.

‘Damn it, you were supposed to wake me up at dawn. He’s going to be home any minute now.’

‘Tell him you’d gone for a jog. You certainly look the part right now.’

‘Its not that fucking simple. He’s an average husband. Explaining why I’d gone jogging wearing heels might just be an issue. Tried explaining something like that to your girlfriend lately?’

‘The bane of long distance. Severed communication lines can be quite the bitch in an already dysfunctional relationship. If I really had the opportunity to have such a heart to heart, I wouldn’t exactly be gawking in wonder at your natural splendour now, would I ? Do spare me the sudden surge of honour. Pulling the covers up to your neck right now doesn’t exactly put you in the ranks of the holy mother here. I’m pretty sure she’d seek an explanation of why you smell of aftershave before she inducted you in her order. I mean seriously, a minute back, your breasts, wonderfully sculpted in the image of the maker, if I might unapologetically add were there to visually assuage the eyes of the world, the world here, being me.. and suddenly, skaboosh! Lo and behold… your marriage vows come running towards you in slow motion, with a tan on the beach, eh? ’

‘You bastard..’

‘Yes baby, me, the bastard. I turned into one last week after the thought of getting fucked in the morning instead of fixing your kid’s lunch crossed your mind at the little office do we had at your place.’

‘I told you there was no future in what we were doing.’

‘Did I say I was looking for one? I thought my being here just emphatically negates any need that I may have had for it. Don’t flatter yourself for a minute plumcake. I am here because this does not have a future. And because you expressly have more to lose on the line that I do. I’ve already done my share of the losing bit. Just waiting for the final nail in the coffin. This escapade, once narrated shall just serve to get the inevitable a little closer. Well, much closer than that, once you get down to it.’

The sun was up now. He propped himself up on the headboard and reached for the cigarette packet. He lighted one and tried turning towards her. He couldn’t. He watched the rice paper, the blue wisps of smoke, heard the tobacco and the paper simmering. Finished another level of brickbreaker on the blackberry. He still looked away. At the wall, saw the photographs of a family. The sun slanted through the window, seemingly burning through the frame, the glass clawing inevitably at the fragile old piece of paper inside. He pulled out a crumpled paper from his wallet, unfolded and straightened it out over and over like a bad kid bringing his homework to school and gazed at it, pulling the smoke deeper in with every drag, till it brought him close to choking and the tears just naturally welled up. The sunlight blazed through them, blurring everything out momentarily. Back to the week old newspaper clipping that was in his fingers.

She took it from his numb fingers and saw his girlfriend with her head splattered on a car dash that had rammed into a wall. She was in the car with another guy. Drunk driving. They were staying in the motel alongside. Flipside was, the guy had his pants at his knees.

He got up, buckled his trousers and drained the stale bourbon. She went over to his side.

‘ I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Bitch wasn’t worth it.’

A tear rolled down his cheek.

He left shortly.

Saturday, May 8, 2010


Severe junkie.
Adrenaline worshipping junkie.

Can’t help it.
Was born to have a good time.
There’s just nothing for it. Wasn’t born a career guy. Head’s very rectangularly or circularly (as opposed to squarely) placed on me shoulders. Just kicked a lucrative career goodbye. And surprisingly, the reaction ain’t pangs of despair but just a simple yippikayay motherfucker. Accompanied with a smirk, an indelible smirk that refuses to wash itself off. Its actually more like a tattoo of a smirk on the lines of Jack Nicholson’s portrayal of the joker in Tim Burton’s version but with the convincing connivance of Heath ledger giving the final touches.
Can’t help it.
And probably, at a certain level, don’t want to. Fuck, the goosebumps are what I live for. Just took a year or whereabouts to realize it. Pimped meself as the family guy who’d learn the fucking ropes and get a regular 9 to 5 but ne eh, not fucking happening.

I am the fallen angel.

Had just forgotten the cause and effect symbolism that got me here.

That the million bike accidents did not happen to deter me from biking, but to enforce the belief that I was probably meant to survive that and more.

That the good grades weren’t proof that I’d make it big as a lawyer, but proof that I was born to achieve more.

That surviving hunger for weeks did not mean the lack of money, but proof of the fact that I enjoyed adversity and would go the distance to prove that I would survive.

That I’d someday have conversations with the bitches called fate and destiny after a game of paintball where I’d pin them down in yellow. And as if that wasn’t enough, would snicker at them in the end to re emphasise that the rules really did not apply in my case.
Tough luck bitch, too bad. Healthy sparring but they could have done without the bruises.

That my sword would scream the reddest while they’d carry the golden thought of first blood (very expressly drawn from the torso, medieval, very medieval, but hey, the broad sword was biased) to their graves, the only solace in a war valiantly fought. Ill advised, but valiant nonetheless (plagiarized).

Can’t help it.

Was born to make a bike’s pistons have a period.

Was born to make a car figure skate.

Was born to see the speedo quiver at the red line.

Was born to revel in seeing approaching blackness after jumping off a cliff.

Was born to row in thin air because the fucking raft was on a bloody waterfall.

Was born to scrape off a scab to watch the welcome rush of blood.

Was born to disable serviceable speakers after a full blast November rain rendition from slash.

But there are a lot of blokes who need a mention here who catalysed the metamorphosis of the monster who chose to be.

1. Sinnerman , for the indelible faith in the force, for fuelling the lifeblood of rage against the machine for debilitating me to be the degenerate misfit who’d finally break the shackles and infect further. Coffee owed(and probably butter chicken too), for life.
2. Iceman, for the faith, the blind invigorating faith that it was worth much more than something mere mortals would understand, head held high…. Always, come what fucking may.
3. Maverick, for channeling the adrenaline to somewhere other than a collision course.
4. The faithless freak for making me believe in something that I used to think was a biggest sham on earth. Hats off, bearded loverboy.
5. The travailed pillion rider, for taking the plunge first (damn, envy) convincing me that it was possible.
6. The Black tongued Nazi, for taking the initiative for kicking the man’s much psychofancied posterior.
7. The lustbug, for absolute faith.
8. Spock, for generally extolling the abilities as superhuman when they were just a common man’s try out. It’s the faith that fuels me on. Bless you.

9. The Ice Queen. Your belief makes me the impervious monster I am today. You’re the piston that makes the engine belt out fury, perseverance and performance, babe. Love you.

Thank ye, comrades.
Thank ye from the pits of me non existent heart for making me believe in the reptile I am.
For making me believe that I kill for fun, not for food.

Humble regards,
The wannabe who dared.

Saturday, March 6, 2010




Lose yourself.


Let the fucking bass take over.

Feel the turntable churning in your stomach. Let the spinal cord splinter into shards, each nerve exploding into a range of myriad electrified but distinct senses of ecstasy. Like an orgasm, only making the moment a continual warped loop of speechless breathtaking euphoria seemingly obliviating perpetuity.





Jarred to the hilt. Like a hit of Mexican gold leaf pot. Meshed with shooters of the Beijing Cocktail laced with untreated raw Cocaine. Add a heady mix of Vermouth to last the evening. Sitting in the corner near the epicentre of the woofer playing Wagner at full bass. Watch the drink swirling in the ultraviolet opacity of the darkness within.




Let go.

Light streak. Unmistakable clink of addictive metallic pyromania. Burn with the rice paper. Get absorbed in the simmer. Burn. Let the blue smoke swirl within. Numb the capillaries. Kill the alien congestion and the host of mortal sorrows with one rusted spear. Light the fuse. Watch as the circle of the pagan fire completes.





Give in to temptation. One step closer to insanity. Beyond lust and lecherous desire. Step forward. Claim your unworthy prize. Block out the good. Forget all ties. Break away. Wrench out the cancer and put it on a silver plate, smoldering as it coughs, flops over and dies. More smoke. Still more. Till you can taste the bile begging for mercy. A button. A strap. Silk gliding over silk, revealing the sum of all desires. This is where it stops. This is where it begins. Goose bumps. Inaudible screams of decibel shaming proportions.







Let the debauchery begin.

Your move.

Saturday, September 26, 2009


Wrong time.
Wrong place.
Wrong dimension.

Wasn't supposed to be here.True,for the most part Hollywood has been the bane of my belief.

But what do I do if I see more sense in Captain Jack Sparrow's insanity than Alvin Toffler's reason?

What do I do if I see more sense in Memphis Raines' gunning Eleanor over the ramp on the Vincent Thomas Bridge than the average suffocating seatbelt?

What do I do if I see more sense in the return of the King than i can ever hope to find in a general election?

What do I do if I believe Neo can take down three agents faster than a politician can utter two syllables that make some sense in the most peurile of senses?

What do I do when I believe that knowing the evolution of Darth Bane on wikipedia is more important than reading Darwin?

What do I do if I believe I would prefer leasing a service apartment in Minas Tirith than three penthouses on Park Avenue?

What do I do if I'd like to win a duel with lightsabers or even broadswords rather than nuke out an entire army of millions?

What do I do if I'd rather take my chances with a Velociraptor in Jurassic Park rather than produce the documents of my bike to a fat cop at every signal?

what do I do if I'd rather be the Terminator/John Connor than some stupid millionaire wasting time to make his 34584759032nd million?

What do I do if I'd rather James Hetfield throw a used pic at me at Rock am Ring rather than Bill Gates throw the signed Power of Attorney at me concerning all his assets?

What do I do if a Lord of the Rings marathon is more prestigious to me than getting a distinction in academics?

When is Morpheus arriving with the red pill?
I'm dying to tumble down the rabbit hole.

When will the Narsil be reforged and handed over to me so that I can walk over and crash into a horde of ten thousand Orcs?


Mr. Wizard..I need an exit.
Wabash and Lake's already in the tracer program.

" I know you're out there.
I can feel you now.
I know that you're afraid.Afraid of us.
You're afraid of change.
I don't know of the future.
I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end.
I came here to tell you how its going to begin.
I'm going to hang up this phone and then I'm going to show these people what you don't want them to see.
I'm going to show them a world without you.
A world without rules and controls.
Without borders or boundaries.
A world where anything is possible.
Where we go from there,
is a choice I leave to you. "

- Mr. Thomas A. Anderson

Sunday, July 5, 2009

THE SMALL DICK SYNDROME : a 350 cc disease?

This one has been a really long time in coming. Legend has it that one of my uncles had a ducati 916 poster in his room when I was about 2 or 3 years old.ducati was probably the first word I could spell, speak, pronounce without mistakes. Till date, if I see one tearing down the road, I feel the hackles on my neck stand up in salutation and absolute wonder. I’m not much of a tech freak and a regular average Joe as far as mechanics are concerned. I currently own a bajaj pulsar DTS- I 180, 2006.

This one is an ode to all the dipshits who, roughly over the past six years have been trying their level best to explain to me what real biking is about. Its just about time I told them a little something from my side too. I have had a Royal Enfield Bullet STD, 1973 for some time too. I was in love with it, still am to an extent. But my mistake was that I’d bought it as a student from the money that was doled out by a measly summer job. Inexperience prevailed, I lost a lot of money, sanity prevailed later and I took the most practical and heartbreaking decision of selling her off. Providing for her maintenance and mine proved to be quite impossible in my meager allowance of three grand a month. Nuff said.

Sorry about the needless bit of detail. I’ve heard that the bullets and the T – birds have become quite a rage among the rich and/or the adventurous. You’re supposed to be a dunderhead if the only thing not on your mind is tripping off to some far off location on the machine. And that too, not alone but in hordes much like the armies of Anubis hunting down a single madji. And they shall take their cameras along too. I modestly call it the Memento / Ghajini effect. They’re so busy with the shutter speed and ISO and lighting and angle to catch that opportune moment that they miss the moment altogether. They say that the pulsar is a plastic bike. This plastic bike can do two rounds of the city before the decompress starts to work on the bullet to just pump it up. They prep their bikes for days to do a 500 km trip. The pulsar does it just fine in a tankful and ten hours of a straight ride. First hand experience. They talk about endurance, durability. I have four examples to put everything to rest. The Bajaj Chetak, the Kinetic Honda ZX, the Pulsar, the Karizma have all been to Leh and back. I’ve seen the impossible sight of an M80 taking the weight of two rotund women (100 kg each at least) and mind you, the sputtering whelp managed just fine. There was a friend who could manage a sustained wheelie, change gears and change or maintain altitude on a Caliber 115.yes, the Hoodibaba. Another enthusiast who took off on an 11 year old battered splendor and had all the flash that these new age kids can dare to dream of. The Royal Enfield is a brilliant machine. Its just sad that these freaks of nature are the last bastion of hope that it has. I’ve heard that the Bullet doesn’t leak oil, it marks its territory. Bullshit. With some whipped cream and a cherry on top. My pulsar then, farts daisies and craps blueberry muffins. But then, an ego based on a 350 cc piece of metal couldn’t be asked to come up with something better now, could it? They ask me to get a Bullet because my Pulsar is really inconspicuous in the parking lot. I take it all with a very Sean-Connery-shaking-his-head-saying-kids.

I had always thought that biking was about not proving the thump to the world but having the thump inside. Till date, when I rip the machine open late night on prithviraj road, she responds with a growl as throaty as ever. Maybe the Bullet is better. I really don’t care. That is good enough for me. I don’t ride like my tail is on fire. I find it to be quite stupid and puerile. I cannot ride in a herd. I hate classification. I hate plans, maps, cameras, and compasses that work. The horizon is the destination when you’re out for a ride. A ride is not a photo op. it’s not a race either. It’s a journey inward and outward. It is about the spiritual confluence of the rider and the ride, the moment of revelation where they both realize and revel in their unison. Solitude is a boon for that precise moment when you’re lost and the only thing that fills your head is the beast growling between your legs waiting to be unleashed and swallow the road for a well deserved meal. As long as its even a 50 cc Scooty coupled with the insanity to go off into the sunset, its all good.

I’m not Valentino Rossi.

I’m not Eddie Zero either.

I’m me.

And I love my bike.
Keep yer balls safe next time you think of trashin it.
I’m not the best rider.
But I’m better than a Lebanese chef with a cleaver.

Lets ride.

Thursday, April 2, 2009


" you can't kill me because i'm already inside you" 
                                                - Corey Taylor

the six year sabbatical draws to a close.the cocoon of  the feel good security is beginning to erode,falling apart one shard at a time.the slime of the sin of sloth is washing away alarmingly quick.soon,it shall be time to be purged and be baptized in the fires of what we disdainfully refer to as reality.expectations and responsibilities approach as inevitably as the executive working in his cubicle on the 80th floor would have pictured the approaching airbus before the leviathan's fuel proved its volatility in a split second ka boom on 9/11.get the picture?
trouble is,his woes were at end.
mine are just about to begin.

the wayward kid refuses to grow up.the erupting delinquency has given way to a dormant smoldering backdraft but that's about it. its almost like a restrained werewolf being refused the craving to turn and howl at the moon,spill some blood and revel in the debauchery of the devil with macabre unapologetic glee and instead having a dozen silver swords sticking in him,waiting to twist and compound his pain at the slightest hint of defiance, to make him an enslaved black fuck from the slave era to do the bidding of the man.the war continues within the walls of my psyche as the man in the black suit with the slick hair,the cushy job and the nice car has the kid in a deathlock.the kid refuses to give in,battling thru sweat and blood to uphold the last bastion of freedom.the kid realizes that its not just teenage angst but someting more that he's standing against.the flag of non conformity has been carried into battle,all in tatters but still flapping proudly through glory and fall.
as it flaps unhindered, the new warrior sees a cloud of dust approaching and its not the man with reinforcements but his comrades who took the vows of non conformity with him but gave in with a few shiny doubloons thrown their way fighting over them like rabid wolves.the warrior picks up his sword and braces himself.the evangelists descend from the converging walls to kill the apparent non conformist antichrist.so much for the fucked up evangelistic nazerine.
bring it on,bitch.

the finality of the situation makes itself sickeningly clear.
inescapably so.
flashes from the past and the present rise in the warrior's line of vision like the shockwaves from the thundering hooves of his apparent approaching doom.
the first kiss on his front porch.
the first drag of a liberating cigarette.
the first accident and the liberating freeflow of purging pain after that.

the oncoming scyhtes have the glint of the death blue twilight and draw closer.

the first argument  with the man and many that followed.
the first laugh at designer clothing. 
the first unapologetic snicker at posterior licking retards.
the fits of laughter at the norm of spending an eternity amassing a material fortune.
the realization that as much as they'd try,he'd  never give in.
the realization that his lust for freedom was always going to be bigger than their paltry greed for wealth.
the realization that he stood alone.
he stood proud.

the pounding hooves and screams filled his ears as the army draws even closer.

he remembers the rebukes,from parents,relatives,friends,authorities.
the infuences and catalysts of change that crashed in a manner as futile as a million waves on a rock on the pacific coast that refuses to wither.

the child shall not grow.
the dream shall remain.
the last stand shall be fought for tooth and nail.his knuckles go white as the grip on the hilt of his sword becomes tighter.the resolve only grows stronger.the last surge of power seeps in as a grin spreads on his face.

the kid becomes a warrior.
the warrior remains a kid.

he grits his teeth and stands tall in the fading light,sword and head held high.the cackling army cringes at the final moment as the warrior walks nonchalantly towards them armed with his sword bloodlusting for freedom or death.he crashes into the hordes and is enveloped in an eternal battle and the mist of blood thickens on the scorched plains.

so begins the war.
the end isn't in sight.
the armies of everything he is against are relentless.

and the kid isn't in the mood to quit either.

inter alia,ceteris paribus.... bring it on,bitch.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009


"this is what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object"

                                                                                               - The Joker

its all coming back.the fortress of solitude.cut off.drift off. the  pointlessness of being.used to be confusing in happier days.scarily so,isn't now.the finality is sinking in with a really calm candour. the sickening routine of groping for words.the attitudinal and behavioral pattern, the continuance of which can have only one resultant; the blur of chaos shards where incoherence and disdain reign supreme.the abject disconnect.nothing to state.nothing to declare.to the point of being almost at peace with the hopelessness of the situation.like a warped lap at thunderhead.at a point where the road ahead is almost like a simulated fucking obstruction versus slalom course. not quite sure about the resolve to cross it this time though.the world was given up on long back.the anomaly seems to be taking the same course now.its like watching a richter topping earthquake in slow motion and admiring the hopeless serenity in an aspect of its magnanimous entirety.the fatal flaw of hubris is working like a modded supra failing to find traction at 8000 rpm.like listening to beethoven's ninth with a scotch on the balcony while a satellite view of the planet shows criscrossing mitotic orange mushroom clouds enveloping everything around me,with a calm realization of a saturated grainy grayness to follow.complacency at its very best.or worst.a lot like what john connor might have felt at crystal peak.but there is no war.there is no solution to a stalemate.no enemy to vanquish or die fighting against. nothing. just an emptiness that is like an hourglass where the movement has been postponed indefinitely.like being part of a car crash in slow motion where the pile up continues like a deja vu overlapped to infinitesimally complicated and everchanging proportions that pursue a disturbing symmetry on the fractal curve.lorentz would have been proud.so would malcolm.escape is inevitable.hell,should've listened to smith when he said that its the sound of inevitability.will make him a janitor program if he comes back with a cheeky i told u so.used to question the quirk warps in my existence at a point in time.its over. don't feel the need to anymore.could be a good thing. or the worst thing i may have faced. but i think i sincerely don't care anymore.still don't believe in the concept of destiny or  fate but i think i'd attribute it to the extreme non application of foresight.could have saved the anomaly from the angular collision course.should have heeded the funny man in time.

too bad.


 "love cannot survive in the event of subzero quantum of solace"

                    - Ian Fleming


been at these crossroads before.the timing is just the worst ever.for once,groping for some support.clink.flash of light.burning paper.simmering tobacco.smoke.billowing blue and ultraviolet in the only surviving light of the computer screen.the smoke irritates the already weak eye muscles.a tear trickles out.but i'm still not crying.not smirking either.its this fucking suspended animation that i've come to despise to the core.its not anger.it ain't despair either.what the fuck is wrong?

would have fucking walked off as usual with a trademark goodbye had it been someone half as imperatively vital to sanity.exhale.cough.cough again.why? where did i fucking go wrong? talk it out.talk what out? weren't the cards laid out from the outset? did i put a full stop sumwhere that i'm not aware of till date?

darker days ahead.the tunnel continues.nightvision just makes it more eerie.the absence of the anomaly is worse than an aberrant presence.the presence is summin that can be painful at times like a safety net of barbwire but i'm used to it.i love it.don't feel like giving it up.have no idea whether its special or just the usual or at the nadir of human relationships.at a juncture where i can safely say that it is at a point of no return.i'll stay right here.don't know whether its ill advised,hopelessly romantic or fate.the anomaly can play a card of choice.i play blind.and up the stakes a notch.

prefer pain to death.death is the state of absentia of anomaly.the shimmering blue scythe might turn out to be slightly too sharp for me to handle.it is an appeal.please stay.

Monday, January 5, 2009




was it not by choice that i moved off?slinked off first and then wrenched out and flushed out into the trash.why desecrate it now? do i miss them? should i miss them?

it was like a fucken time lapse.people meeting each other.reacting.smiling.wisecracks.buttcracks.jackasses.assholes.good people.friends.foes.friends turned foes.foes turned friends.and on my part,an abject unwillingness to flinch.it made a difference.wasn't like i didn't want to react.have lost the will to.some said i had gained too much moss.some said i'd just grown older.i believe i'm just paranoid.one single interaction,the whole cause and effect of which can be unnerving is summin i'd rather avoid.break all bonds.forge none.the old pain may come creeping back up again.but i'm bloody as hell determined not to let a new one make room for itself.there's a threshold for every being...normal,abnormal,paranormal.i've reached mine.not anymore.maybe they are right.i might just be too old for this.disconnected.the people i cud die for at a point of time.just a completely confused state of existence.

and the bloody chip on the shoulder.trigger happy.always polishing the muzzle.cradling the blade.ready to pull the pin.pull the plug.and walk off with disdain.is it the inability to feel?couldn't be.then how is the pain justified.nothin is regrettable.the good times.the bad times.the times now.but that dull thump of a recurring migraine persists.why?like the blinding shock that sets in wen ya get up after a real bad mangled accident with a partially open skull,white knuckles and knees that slowly get flushed with red and asymmetrical blobs pouring the life outta you.wen the lips go dry slowly and ya choke on ur own blood as the post trauma cigarette [the feel of which can only be countered by a post coital cigarette..don't fuckin ask me how.go do it and then draw parallels before ya decide to trash me on this one].

still can't figure out what the fuck happens to go wrong here. the whole situation is like watching an autistic kid playing.u know there's summin about the kid that ain't right but u'll ignore it first,try removing it subsequently and finally try and wash yer hands off it.i guess that should be the endeavour here.move on.shift the gear.ignore the noise.the engine will have a proper run in someday.till then,just gear up for more potholes.good roads.crossroads.but enjoy the ride.don't kill the engine on the shoulder and hang yer boots...yet.

Saturday, November 1, 2008


this is an anthropomorphic answer to every measure of control that i have grown to despise.they call it teenage angst.immaturity.irrationality.complacency.i call it my terms.i refuse to grow up.call it crap.call it some kind of monster.adds to my pride.adds to the limited worthiness i claim in a fruitless and purposeless life.

sweat blocks his vision.blurs everything out.much like how his future loomed up.unclear.hazy.unfinished.unfulfilled.like a series of bad loops veering into infinite patterns.vagabond.tramp.some loose end of an ambiguous junkie's spaced out soliloquy.lack of sense.purpose.reason.

existence? was that it?.the sweat burns thru his eyes.the opacity of it all obliterates the pain.ignites the anguish.win.lose.don't give a fuck.become a vegetable or a space monkey.pull a lever.push a button.do nothing.what made a difference?did anything make a difference.would anything make a difference? was he even trying?did he even want to try?

he reaches out to grab a protruding rock and dares to look down.the objects seem at a distance.and it ain't a rearview mirror either.he'd give it a hundred feet tops.bad day?bad rock face? probably both.neither the time.nor the occasion. was it control?was that it?

wake up.snap out of it.another fifty feet to go.would it help?get a foothold.pull.move.pitted against the elements.against gravity.against prudence.against the norm.would it work?the unknown lay beyond.death if he didn't try.he wanted to try.some measure of control.seiving the random thoughts into a cohesive mass.shape.structure.plan.move.avoiding certainty.making a choice.explore the realms of the darkness up ahead and more importantly,within.the laughing medusa atop the unknown suddenly suppresses a hiccup.enter murphy.the force retaliates.the force conspires to keep him in the matrix.his hand slips.he goes grinding down on the steep gradient.slits an eyebrow.loses a fingernail.lacerates a shoulder.foothold.stop.

excellent.blood tinges his vision with red.the rock gets washed with red.his finger spurts red.resolve.move.too many decisive moves by the force.time to give some back.he climbs with a renewed vigour.deterred enough.rebuked enough.refurbished and recycled with vague ideas of a foreign control enough.no more.

slowly.surely.decisively.he climbs.not for hope.not for redemption.but for a purpose.for something more than survival.for reinstating belief.for establishing a reason for not falling.for not giving in.for not giving up.for a belief that the future could belong to him.not for shouting from the rooftops to the nincompoops below.not to the sharks circling him.not the ants who feared being trampled on by him.but to himself.to the mirror.to the shrew and the monster within.he climbs.just a little more time.he holds on. winces. cries.bleeds.survives.lives.hates.loves.emotes.feels.

retribution.for himself.for those around him.redemption.for a soul tarnished by unworthy pursuits.no more.all like a monster gestating to come forth.his hand shakes.reaches the top.blood trickles down the rock like a macabre waterfall from hell.hauled up by inertia like a newborn leaving a bloody womb.control.he stands to claim his glory as the dusk salutes him.medusa implodes spattering a complete fadeout on the horizon.he smiles.

a monster annihilates.long live the monster.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008


this one is on karan's plot and he's been kept waiting for upwards of a year for this.i just hope that it suffices,though.

frozen in time. he kicked the machine back to life.faulty new age bitch of a bike.ditched him on the fuckin highway.yup,they'd add an air intake shaft.but make it so that water seeped through to the ignition coupling every fortnight.living in a dreary rainy climate didn't exactly help either.so,a highway ride,as u can well imagine was proving to be abject bliss.the road loomed ahead.the weather was as chilly as his spirit.he had to keep wiping his runny nose every now and then on the back of his gloves.the collar lapels kept hitting his neck.the effect made him smirk,but it was nowhere close to comical.the kind of mental framework he had,u cud have said that he almost wanted it to be.but yes,he continued headstrong.no idea where he was going.with just about enough fuel to reach the outskirts of oblivion and return.
he dropped a gear,pulled hard on the accelarator,watching that needle on the tacho quiver and went back two days in his mind.back to when his marriage vows were being solemnised.felt like another life altogether.fragile dreams only as real as the wind whipping on his face,but now seemingly as intangible as the wind itself.dreams he had dared to fathom,but the kind he knew were as unsure as the road up ahead.he tried blotting out the memory of the woman who left.his wife who left.
there was no judgment to be pronounced here,no tags of being unfaithful,no string of abuses attached,hell,not even regret.he had always been too calm.panic never came easily to him.parents called it an overdose of complacency,college mates called it indifference with a slightly cooler quotient.the basketball team just called it a good thing,the inability to feel pressure.his colleagues at the firm called it blatant cold blooded behaviour.but hey,it worked so no one was complaining.but for once,he wanted it to wear off.there was a bloody rarety of occasions when he could feel,let alone good or bad.his euphoric moments were just about enough to be counted on his fingertips.as much as he tried to blot it out,it was when he'd dropped a girl back after a date about a year ago.regular night at a club.there's hardly anything one remembers after five manhattans.friend's friend,roommate whatever.hardly mattered now.general discussion.they were playing the techno dark knight radio edit of die another day.and by jove,the woman knew almost as much about james bond as he did.that was probably the first time he felt an itch to drop a woman back.worked fine for the next three coffee dates,and one consequently where there were quite a few manhattans and rusty nails and a lot else.

both of them were final year law students.placements coming up in a week or two.it was the only time he'd gone for his placement interview with his fly open and his hair messed up,and not felt bad about it.went well.so did the torrid relationship.the first day of his job and he went in with his neck looking like the plains of thermopylae after the spartan massacre.but again,he kept the cash registers ka chinging,so no one was exactly complaining.marriage was on the cards,not out of any corny delusion,but guided by the faith that this was the only relationship that would in all probability work out for him.true,there were the roses,the diamond ring in the bubbly,the works.but it was something to him that wasn't bondage but exhilaration,maybe at the easy attainability of the nigh impossible.but there it was,as real as the rain hitting his face right now.and till a day back everything had worked out picture perfect.a house,a BMW,an R1,the works.the fuck up was that she wasn't there anymore.

he reminisced the entire scene back to his final year in law school.how his friends warned him that it was a real fast one he was after, a lot like a hurricane on florida keys. by the time he would be aware of it she would already have drowned him through and through and left. or the extremely simple logic of his conservative parents that a woman with a tattoo could not have been a nice and faithful wife. all his collegues as well as the partner who simply believed he was too young and non wasted to get married yet.
he reminisced as to who was the culprit who had lured the parasitic bitch away. he wiped his runny nose, dodged a car, dropped a gear and propelled forward punishing the accelerator. was it the ex boyfriend in college. naah, could not be, he was even more of a loser than himself. could it be the torts professor who gave her good grades when there were better students around? nope. was it her boss? could be. well he was taller. funny thought. he'd been really blind to the slut's absentee nights. should have paid more attention. but yes, though he fully believed and supported her independance he'd never expected her to leave him so fuckin high and dry. when she'd left he'd called everyone he could, including her folks who had managed to apparently miss the last flight to attend the wedding. they were'nt exactly complimentary. no help there. he tried the cops. big mistake. they roped in all the rudest of possibilities, from his being gay to her millions of affairs. the over diligent retards didn't even spare the classic cliched possibilities of her having eloped with the office chauffer. he did all he could to stop from laughing in their faces. chauffer??? he knew better than that.

he stopped short of crossing the state border, parked on the shoulder. he took out a soggy cigarette and lit it with a wetter zippo. the first drag after the strenous riding for the past three hours was as good as mexican gold leaf marijuana. he took off his gloves and saw the calluses on his palm from the riding. his cell phone buzzed.he winced. another condolence call ,he believed, from a friend. what were they so sad about anyway? it was his wife who had run away. fuck it, a voice said. just shut it, its fucking over. he needed a break. against his better judgement he picked it up. neighbours. the cops were there. he asked them to stall it for a half a day. he would get back. they guy sounded pretty flabbergasted. something transpired on the phone and he listened. still calm he said he would be back asap. another minute of silence, he cut the call.

he sat down in the mud right beside the bike. the rain still fell on the bikes hot exhaust sizzling with the heat. he tried lighting another cigarette. could'nt. tried again. gave up, he felt the uncanny chill of loss and panic crawling up his spine again. his wife was a horrible cook. by far, one of the worst ever born. she'd said that she'd bake mushrooms the day after their wedding. it hit him like a migrane that she'd gone out to buy mushrooms in the morning. he finally managed to light the cigarette, coughed thrice and dropped down on his kness in the mud and broke down. his cigarette fell out of his hand and sizzled before it joined the mud around and got darker. tears ran freely accross his already rain and weather streaked face. he got up with some difficulty and screamed out in the impending dark night. he remembered and still tried to register what his friend had said over the phone. his wife had been hit by a truck the previous morning and the woman was carrying a packet full of mushrooms. so much for the lack of faith. his eyes glazed over. the calm was back. he got back on the bike and took the u turn and wrung the accelarator fully open. his bike was found in the valleys about ten kilometers down, a hundered metre straight drop. the body was not recovered.

Sunday, August 10, 2008


Do or do not,there is no try -Master Yoda

struggle,squirm,grit yer teeth.break away.at least try.give it a shot. believe.couldn't be that hard y'no.a miss is allowed.picture this.
bound in a dark abyss.the only ledge of land in a five mile radius.the abyss continues below you.take a 3d shot.the ends at the visual perimeter frame end of a canon D40 can't capture the other ends of yer chains.acupunctured head to toe in a paralytic state of suspended animation.but yer awake.witness it.all of it.the pain,the interminable wait,the hope of freedom.take two decades off in that shackled state.make one move,u're all splattered blood and ligaments because u have a thousand crossbows aimed at u,triggered by one move from u.
give it a week.yer senses go numb.more focus.appreciate what u had before that.learn the value of freedom.or appear to have learnt it.spend another week.u'll stop screaming.that is,if all those needles allow u to.heh heh.the only light u see is at the top of the abyss.a torch that sees that u stay bound and the only noise u hear is yer own chains grating against the ledge.feel the saliva collecting in yer mouth and going bitter.feel the stubble growing into an itchy beard and there's fuck that can be done about it.feel a fly lodged on yer forehead that keeps buzzing around u for hours and all u can do is endure.enough yet?pee and crap where u stand.would it be possible to survive the stench for a fortnight,let alone two decades.start counting seconds,minutes,hours,days,weeks,months,years,a couple of years.imagine last thanksgiving or the one before that.the last new year,the last watch u bought,the last material possession u felt passionate about.start hating yer state of being.loathe it.despise it.
stop wallowing in self pity.look at that torch.its not hope that yer staring into.its not the end either.believe.believe that it can be overcome.nothing is impossible.no feat unachievable.its just another level of a videogame.time to advance.throw all yer nuts in a basket and make a move.not sit back and hope for a miracle.no one's comin to save ya.no one cares.even if someone does,that someone ain't gettin u out of this one.look at that torch again.time to make those needles go numb for a change.u've spent five years like that.time to make a move.believe.there is no chain.cliched line now,but fuck it.look at that flame.power.energy.like a mustang gone crazy at a high rev on A.I.
rise.make everything else ineffective.feel it rush thru yer veins like an imploding wreath of pure energy.don't try and pull at the chains.one defining moment.flash of light.burn them thru.break it.watch it disintegrate in slow motion as it slowly loses each link,giving in to your resolve,the metallic clink almost making its agony of coming undone seem human.stop time.reign supreme.amidst all the filth.amidst the matter giving in to u,feel yer moment of total control.feel peace.then push play.the cross bow triggers itself.so does the next one and the endless ones after that.move.run.break the rules.reign supreme.above all else. neverbend.don't fulfil yer destiny.make it.
define freedom.
take the plunge.
break free.


"what makes mankind tragic is not that they are the victims of nature,it is that they are conscious of it.to be part of the animal kingdom under the conditions of this earth is very well- but soon as you know of your slavery,the pain,the anger,the strife,the tragedy begins."
-Joseph Conrad (1857-1924)
at the risk of sounding quite quite immodest,not every person around is searching for a higher plane here.most are satisfied with their space monkey profiles which involve pushing a button,pulling a lever..etcetera etcetera.and i believe now that its a good thing.ignorance is truly bliss.fuck.should have taken the blue pill and stayed in wonderland.kansas goin bye bye ain't exactly a pretty sight.and a higher plane here does not include excelling in one or more fields,its more about being at peace with oneself.very very marginalized maybe,but hey,who gives a fuck? i sincerely never used to [ the keyword here being used to..keep a track,i shall revert to it later]a vow was very much in place that i wouldn't give in to the matrix,that i'd take the first exit as soon as tank would get me one,that i'd never let the agents or the sentinels get hold of me,that i'd not die out as a fuckin fading,scratched duracell alkaline battery totally spent on the machines,that i'd have my niche sumwhere and whether it sucked or flourished i'd stick to it.pity,all of it just got up and left.
yup,jerry bruckheimer did leave and the finishing touches were provided by a certain Mr. kubrick (ref to context 'hoist the colors').there was a time,not so long ago wen dropping out of college was a brighter option than gettin a life sentence with a lawyer's gown.but nope,just one wrong move and everything that i used to live for,just died.there were no signs of a struggle,it just flopped over,gurgled,quivered for a fraction of a moment,and died.a certain elvis inside just left the building.and it didn't leave with a bang,hell it made less noise than an unsuspecting ant's fart.
there was a time in the not so distant past where the pleasure..or rather for the laxity of my limited vocabulary,where the exhilaration of living was present,where the unexpected ruled and was moreover,reveled in.where having no cash for food used to end up in eyeing the half eaten moth infested rotten apple on the road.where denims weren't made happening by designer cuts in them,but were made so by either blowtorching them or by having accidents where they'd strategically get ripped.the amazing symmetry within the obvious asymmetrical seeming decadence was too good to be true.where the high point of the day was not having done anything at all,where newspapers were given a perusal at five in the evening,the rhythm in the cacophony was laudable to say the least.the laugh for the day was when u got soap bars on birthdays and for everything that u said,the meek would just shake their heads in utter disbelief.where the high point of the evening used to be getting into a debate where u had no bearing and come out making the other person question his faith in his argument.where metallica was more of a faith and less of a rock band,where the boots used to be mud caked because puddles and walkin in the rain were as normal as rubbing your eyes in the mornin.where fighting a headache was increasing the volume on the stereo.where good coffee could be killed for,where smoking in the rain used to be a kick in the head,each drag takin me closer to my questionable nirvana,to a place where solitude used to be a sought after boon,not a curse as it seems to be today.where a vacation was a thought away,where the balls to go out without even a backpack or cash was what used to happen at the drop of a hat.where mornings were spent snoring and the nights were debate sessions,coffee sessions,travel sessions and more sessons.in effect,all of it has died out.where u used to look cool not to appeal to anybody else but to do justice to yer own frame of mind .


"The job's done.The bitch is dead" - Bond,James Bond.

was that a tear runnin down ethan hunt's cheek?christ.what's the fuckin world comin to? i was watchin mi 3,dunno for what joy,but yes.watchin it nonetheless.the opening scene.ethan hunt begging,crying,wallowing in self pity like a cringing local druggie at the rehab center.disturbing,to say the least.saw the whole movie.the tears were just a prelude.ethan matthew hunt got married in this movie.married.now ain't that a sinful exit for one of the most explosive spies ever?hell,couldn't they just take a leaf outta jason bourne's book.if normalcy is what is sought,why go join the imf and sob yer audiences to sleep in the middle of the theatre.and this disturbing trend has more or less caught on now.
saw casino royale?first time u'll catch bond weeping his balls off[whatever was left of them once le chiffre was thru,that is]why? because the woman he loved,died.so? why wud we be interested in knowing what he was and how he got there?why?as long as he is a cold blooded psycho calm napalm brained car scrapper,why wud we care for anythin else?we go there to see astons and BMWs being torn asunder with disdain,women rip off their clothing to get the bond stamp and the villains cringing in awe over his immunity.not to see him drownin in his own tears over a woman.not done.
the trend is setting in i guess.bachelorhood doesn't seem to be the name of the game anymore.everybody's too concerned about settling down.wish i could figure out why though.sodden creeps,what the hell do directors want today? and to think that its the same guy who made goldeneye.what's got martin campbell spooked?i don't even know why i'm writing this.hell,did mi2 need any of the improvising shit?wasn't it just about stylish enuff? the concept of blazing into the sunset with the guys has seriously taken a hike.i'm down to the point of almost lookin for some reassurance onscreen.i just can't deal with my childhood heroes goin soft i guess.these are the guys who've been idolized for long...too long by my standards,the guys who mock adversity,stick their tongues out to approaching canonballs and manage to get away with it.the vulnerability creeping in is turnin out to be quite a party killer these days.i mean playin with an impressionable kid's imagination ain't a good thing at all y'no.will i have to turn to captain jack sparrow to get my quantum of solace?


yup.slow and sure.as bleeding slow as the wait for a marksheet you know u're gonna see a red mark in.and as sure as the butterflies in yer stomach wen ya extend yer hand to take that same marksheet from that unassuming bitch of an office staff.
how did it come to this? did i know it would end this way? and i'm still being assured that this is still not the end.its still not the sound of inevitability yet.can i still see clearly or are the ray bans still rose fucking tinted? why?what shud i do if it ends? is it just insecurity? if it is, is it misplaced or well founded? how do i react if it is? retribution or slink away with whatever's left of me?
am i myself to blame for this? is the rest of the world blind or am i finally human enuff to feel posssessive,possessive enuff to wrench an arm out? is it just a barbaric glint or is there more that can be attributed to it? i've lost whatever i've had a million times over.it just feels thirty million times more real this time.probably because whatever's gone till now hasn't been as valuable.maybe.maybe not.why do i give a fuck? am i in the dark about summin? its retribution then.and if its blooming oblivious to any malice,then i guess i'll just walk away.so can the human here. what's it gonna be?am i just postponing inevitabiliity? or inviting it? or doin absolutely fuckin nothin and just watchin it come out of the tunnel and trample me underneath as i stand with my opaque glasses and enjoy a last smoke?figure it out goddamnit.its better than waking up in a pool of cold sweat in the middle of the night for sure.how many times do ya think u can take it?hell,even balboa has a breakpoint.so do u.u ain't exactly invincible u know.unfortunately or rather fortunately its gonna be quick once the end arrives.one click.instant detonation.a flash of light that obliteraes me and all else as i see it,remember it.impending chaos to follow.shit.bullshit.with cherry on top.shud've listened to malcolm wen he said it.its all gonna end in chaos. its never a ride blazing into the sunset on the horizon.fairy tales never do materialize.fools die.so do romantics.they shud.stupid fucks.if i knew how to play the guitar,i'd probably come up with summin that wud've made cobain cry.why? why did i have to give in to summin that i knew wud make me as vulnerable as a fuckin piece of litmus paper?wish i cud make head or tail out of this.for once....just for once,thoroughly confused.stay away .aaaarrrggghhh. will u ever start takin ur own advice,u balding twit.


drowned in self praise.gurgling,bubbling over in the froth of the wave after wave of the ocean of self oozing attitude.that's what defines today's generation,i guess.the inability to see beyond one upmanship.the abject disregard for feeling,any kind.superiority reigns supreme.jeez,they know the result of non harmony but they'll still keep at it.they know why the dinosaurs died out.why tigers are dying out.they'll still keep at it like jackrabbits are at each other's butts.everybody's got summin or the other to snap back with.nobody has the capacity to listen to anything from anyone anymore ,but themselves,they'll proactively dispense all the do good knowledge with an all pervading absolute authority.and y'no what the worst part is? the regular buzzards take it as well.don't listen to the happenin' lot.and egad..yer so fuckin unpopular the next instant.even that's cool.rise up in a mellow tone against it and these pricks'll come up with an instant quip to make u feel like u just shot gandhi in the balls.[could do that one though,if the bald twit had any,that is]but the core question is,what is with these fuckers? i have that same problem at times.or maybe wen i was six.or three.just quantify that with an infant's tantrum.but these,refuse to grow up.the lollipop has been replaced with the latest chick in class who has to be laid.some way or the other.hook or crook.the joint shall be rolled.degrees of being stoned shall be the topics of discussion on the public platform.alcohol is had in huge volumes to prove superiority again.the speech may slur.the dinner might come out with the last peg churning in the head as well as the stomach.but yup,the bottle shall be drained in one sitting.which is all good because the next morning,the other people at the sitting shall also not remember what it was all about except for the evidentiary proof of that same empty bottle of good alcohol lying on the floor or the table amidst the stinking glasses.sheesh.is this what college has come down to these days? god bless.

Friday, August 8, 2008


this was probably another stoned reaction to the callous and shapeshifting nature of honour,honesty and other virtues in the greying hues today..it was not supposed to be judgmental at all ... but hell,whatever happens the fucken way its supposed to these days..i would like it to be viewed more as a comparative analysis of different times,however warped it may seem..

" Me..i'm dishonest,and the dishonest ...u can always trust to be dishonest.its the honest ones u have to watch out for,honestly...because u never know when they might do something...extremely stupid"
--Captain Jack Sparrow

Honesty...Valour... Chivalry are concepts which are by far dead and gone,buried..drowning to the crushing depths of davy jones' locker...screaming,swallowing gallons of murky saltwater.the air bubbles are all that remain...till the time they're also seasick and wary of surfacing...well,hope floats,literally and metaphorically speaking.the bohemian principles of truth, love ,beauty and freedom are all but a fashionable and painfully red itchy tattoo on the arm of an ardent baz luhrmann fan.that is all that remains of the fundamentals that have given humanity its so called principles of social justice and harmony.while the necrophiliac species of humanity is busy at raping and ravaging these very essentially dead principles,let's just play the desecrator as well as the evangelist and take on all of them,one by one and look back in pride over our spoils of war..honesty - considered a major virtue since time immemorial.what was it,what did it mean sometime back and what does it mean now? i'm guessing that the concept emerged as a basic level of transparency between beings for harmonious co existence.who is an honest man today?a man who probably does not get bribed too easily or more probably too often.the same man may beat up his wife to pulp after downing a coupla bourbons every night...but hell he's fucken honest,right? what about the sacrament of his marriage..what about his vows in holy matrimony to shield his wife from all evil? is he being honest to those? what about a good student who excels in all papers,is a dutiful son to the core,the kind who'd never forget to send his mom or his girlfriend roses on her birthday even if it was the last forty bucks in his pocket and he would'nt have enough dough to see him through the next three days.he slips just once,where he cheats in a paper to pass,or still better,gives the college peon a quarter of scotch to get a marksheet that says pass in big italicised bold print? would he still be an honest person?Valour.. Honour are basically integrated concepts which are tread on by millions if not more every second of the day.the oxford dictionary defines honour as a sense and a clear comprehension of what is right and then following that thought through with action.is it alive today?or does it also face the shimmering guillotine of corruption at the core of every living tissue?honour,in today's feeble comprehension,probably just means covering your ass enough for others not to see the stains of crap..but not a clean buttcrack.a woman in college today is called honourable if she doesn't fuck around .. or in more liberal terms is loyal to just one prick.she may cause a rift between the best of buddies, because as is known far and wide..and in the words of Odysseus,the fictional king of Ethaka.. women have a way of complicating things.she may do it for spite or as a resultant attention deficit problem[men do it just the same,mind u...keeping my personal chauvenistic beliefs and designs aside,if i may be allowed to add] or in a state of utter joblessness.will this bitch an a half be deemed honourable?maybe,but i fuckin beg to differ...on the other hand we have what are called institutional whores, the only known exploits for whom would be how big a cock she can swallow or a title of being the chick with the widest and most liberated clit to go around.in plainspeak,she gets fucked for fun or for material gains which could be monetary or gadget based as the case may be.lets assume the whore of a woman knows two guys on a fuck friend basis.both the guys are buddies and treat her okay. one's a teetotaller,the other's a junkie,but he's wild fun to be with in bed..one drunk and stoned night he fucks her and her happiness.she meets the other guy two nights later who seriously cares for her as a friend.she does not tattle to him ,though i fuckin firmly believe that she has reason to do so,and just for the non involvement of the good guy in the incumbent mess that's inevitably approaching..she is nonetheless,a branded slut for hire. to me, she'd be one of the most honourable women i'd have ever met,had she existed...Chivalry- yet another in the line of the dead and decadent concepts, a bygone virtue of the knights and their order,basically dealing with an ideal,moral code of behaviour.in a post modern connotation, it has come to define a moral code of conduct towards the ideal treatment of women.does anyone practise it today?is it restricted to opening doors and letting the lady enter the snazzy restaurant first or footing the bill for the uber chic candlelit dinner by the murmuring brook ? probably,a few centuries past, it might have meant laying down a silk cloak by a knight on the road so that the lady save herself from stepping into a puddle of mud...but is that all there is to these wondrous concepts of yore?why are we doing this ... why the degeneration,the decadence... the transcendence from glory to shame..from roses to ashes..why?

STAR WARS /episode 2.5/ ACADEMIA: The Unreleased Version

this article is an ode to the biggest farce i've played with myself and the people around me..u may find the characterization to be a wee lil bit over the top,but hell, nothin better than to incorporate a bit of a fairy tale in a life otherwise fraught by desire and frustration,is there?to the ones who know,they can silently chuckle..to the ones who don't.. go figure!!

The amalgamation of good and evil began on a very academic note. clarification... the evil was just formulating,taking one last half hearted attempt not to give in to the dark side. Our prospective Lord Vader fell from the graces of the Jedi order and dared to fall for a female, in a single move alienating himself from the holy and the unholy,paying the price for an affinity he could not have afforded. The Skywalker Syndrome had begun mutating him to the core,pulling at every tendon,every ligament inside his body leaving him vulnerable to attack.The macabre alteration in his thought process had been initiated.It began with flowers given to Amidala when Anakin returned her notes.The floral return of the academic favour reverberated in the palatial halls of amidala's residence. Darth Sidious, Anakin's mentor and trusted comrade,suggested a furtherance of the erstwhile formal acquaintance over a cup of coffee. Amidala acquiesced to the requested rendezvous.At the suggested venue, Jarjarvenus ,Anakin's dumb pal,entered the scene and analysed the situation.Consequently, the floral aroma coupled with caffeine proved to be too invigorating for the poor being and his brain cells blew off on all cylinders, thus making him blurt out a further cosequent scenario of a courtship between Anakin and Amidala.Anakin almost took out the light saber to sever the poor being's head for such a thought but could not resist the electric pulse of ecstasy going down his spine which doubled at Amidala's silent approval. theroya court went into unrest leaving Skywalker at his private whim.Only darth Sidious understood the meaning of this rabid act and saw the first glint of evil/ desperation in skywalker's eyes. he could sense the genesis of his apprentice , who was oblivious of anything but the apparent truth in Amidala's eyes....

The madness had begun...



this,as probably would be quite evident to the gang was written in the honour of JK's return after a sabbatical..more so,it was meant to impress my trainer at the office so she'd finally agree to a coffee..pity,none of it happened.

ODE TO SIN - Feb. 06, 2006 at 03:54 PMits almost epiphany... seen harley davidson and the marlboro man?... relate to it and u'll get what i mean. sin is returnin to the heathen shores lined with the scum still livin off the pillage and pestilence of his last invasion.the dark lord had retreated with his minions to his terminal abyss, finally almost accepting defeat ... but hey... the key word is almost. he was regrouping and waiting to find himself, the sole survivor of the massacre of his kind. his council of lust,greed and gluttony had been all but eradicated.he stood alone, hunchbacked,facing the whiplashes of time, savouring the flow of bloodkeeping him away and safe from the scabs of decadence. his fortress of solitude rose again from its phoenician ashes.. stone by stone.. pillar by pillar.. until the tower steeple was tall enough to rip thru a passing by hawk's eye.the commonfolk , if they ever saw him would laugh at him, kick him, spit on him.. but to time, it was evident that hatred.. his lifeblood was rising to alarming levels inside him, waiting, refining itself to such a huge mass of constricted venom that'd make a black mamba scowl.the attack on the utterly stupid and senseless species of goodness and humanity was being strategised and planned with an alacrity possibly matched by lucifer himself.. if ever. time had given up on him, hell shook a thousand times over at the mere mention of his name and then, the commonfolk began to understand the consequences of their actions. only one dark knight of his army of millions remained.a prisoner of war, he waited, day and night for the return of his lord, for the fervour of his belief to be rejuvenated. a thousand mutilations on his war scarred body could not alter his loyalty. he denounced the rule of the so called good, his screams of pain and anguish making each stone of the dungeon reverberate with fear. he could sense the reawakening.. the stench and the filth around him could not deter his senses. the wounds gouged out on his body over and over again bore testimony to his fanatical faith in his lord, and more so. in his plundering return. the gates of sin's fortress finally open, grating on the rusty clockwork, crushing the moldy outgrowth on it, after a struggling eon of stunted growth.the drawbridge falls across the dried up moat. the weather sours all around as he canters out on his armoured steed.the steed, as blue as death, steps forward.. rises on its hinds and roars into the dusk... its breath reeking of cold death and seeting with vengeance. his dark knight feels the gallop a thousand leagues away and bellows out in the ecstasy of his impendfing freedom.the wounds open again and the searing pain numbs him to everything else. he pulls at the myriad chains that bind him to the ground and thru blood and flesh and the sweat mingled with it, breaks each one of them,blissfully unaware of the bones breaking in the process.. and reaches for his sword. with war weathered precision, he slit all the guards, loving the welcome spray of blood from someone's guts other than his own. he goes to the top of the towerand gazes at the sun, getting ready for a sabbatical behind the clouds. darkness falls and frost lines every heathen inch of the ground.sin arrives and with each approaching sound of a hoof on the dead grass... the world and the netherworlds tremble... he dismounts and his knight bows to him and howls into the long , ominous approaching night .... SIN LIVETH...


ah..one of the corniest articles ever[certainly the corniest crock of shit i've ever dealt in ].. but hell,a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do..especially after vodka..cheers..clink!clank!.. glug glug glug!!..hic hic hic..corn aside, it was just an admission to myself of how extremely daft i'd been..and how i still revel in it..if u have a penchant for sadism,read on..

Hell, what do I want... what do i seek?? what is it about her?why is she so fucken drilled into the back of my cerebrum(not to mention the cerebellum,the medulla oblongata,the spinal cord, the spleen, the gall bladder,the kidneys,the nephrons...) why can't i just crap her out..maybe its because i still haven't digested the fact of her existence,an existence where i do not figure in even the most miniscule of proportions possible...she's still stuck there,somewhere.. don't ask me where.. like an undigested wishbonestuck in the oesophagus...and the worst fucken part is,she's gonna stay there till i choke..till i beg to god or my saviour below that either the wishbone get a passage to my stomach or i vomit her out...but, what if i'm too used to the pain of the stuck wishbone..do i wanna let it go.. its gonna kill me .. very very slowly if i might be allowed to raise the corny stakes a lil bit..its gonna rip asunder every tissue that it can..(obviously the lungs after the windpipe is thru)..its gonna stop me from being able to breathe..makin the hourglass slower and slower right in front of my eyes..and the best part is that i still won't be able to do fuck about it...i'm just gonna watch it,revel in the pain,because .. after all ,it is her,inside me...slowly moving on to puncture the heart and finally delay the flow of blood to a trickle .. and yeah.. even in the last fucken whezzing and sputtering breath its gonna be her... still inside...yeah...sad but true..this is probably all there was to the fucken bitch an a half called destiny,if the slut exists.coming back to the wishbone..she's not an introduction to the essay,scribbled in unintelligibly bad handwriting...but she is the body and the conclusion to it..highly inadvisable though it might be..she will be the end of it all...and why?could this be classified as another morbid delusion or does it have some substance to it as well..why is she the wishbone?Is it the unattainability factor?naah, not possible..why her,then? it could be any of those billions of bimbettes in town,but yet... its her..what was it that made her the sicilan thunderbolt..was it the moves?could it be the eyes? the hair... lets just keep the graphics out of it...But one fucken culprit would be seriously easy to blame..the rain.. it was no one else but those acid shots in disguise..(so much for air pollution and acid rain,eh?)..i guess its the feel of the wet shirt in the cold tropical shower, the kind that gives u goosebumps.. and the slushy boots that numbed me to the extent of having the time to watch each raindrop fall on her making each action and reaction of hers as excuisite as a chagall or a monet hanging on the wall of an art freak's residence..The way it used to drip off her hair,matting the jet black mass of it,bringing it down,caressing her skin,goin down her neck..the way it taxied on her eyelashes causing her to blink those metallic black resplendant eyes..exuding an almost beyond human radiance..the way it landed on the bridge of her nose..trickled down to her lips and fell off her cheek to join a puddle somewhere on the road..yeah, as u can figure,or probably not... it most probably was the rain that made her the wishbone,now desperately stuck somewhere..I still love it, I know it can never be rekindled.there is no hope but just a wish... i don't even know what that is..Is it for her to come back?when was she ever mine that she'd come back...?But hey, what else is wishful thinking all about.. as some wiseguy quipped long back,"if wishes were horses, then paupers would ride"....the pauper still stands in his stead..not hoping at all,but wishing nonetheless..looking up in the punishing sky..wishing for the dark clouds to part and a pardoning drop to fall,but is the raindrop ready to fall...? So the pauper shall wait in his paradox of a metaphorical desert for his treasured raindrop... a tear from heaven/hell..and carries on the false belief of gratification someday....


as u'll get to know,this happens to be a set of new year resolutions..it was basically JK pestering me to write sumthin and it happened to be new yers day... i bet he wasn't expecting any of whatever's written down there..

Its 1st jan again.night or morn, that's hardly fuckin consequential.. but hey, new year blues ain't that easy to handle.i see the good fallin at every step with lucifer screamin those lines from metallica's first album..." exit light , enter night " it feels way too good. betrayed, broken, again at the same gate where the scales tip against my favour, enlarging the dimensions of my solitude. the opaque clarity is blinding enough to sear thru my veins and invigorate them to the point of ecstasy, burnin like vesuvius burstin at the seams.... every drop of blood comin alive to remind me that yeah baby, i do stand alone...call it weakness, call it virtue. the deal is .. i do not give a friggin penny's worth of a fuck. i take it as it is. it does not instil pride in me right now. it will.destiny get fucked , the past get fucked, survival has been the key till now... not anymore.roaches survive. so do reptiles. so do a billion other cabbage brain retards. my place will be above them. redemption shall be mine.i shall rise. vices shall be postponed, not sacrificed. there is way too much pestilence in the fields to be a productive grain of wheat. a weed would be more like it. don't eliminate competition, devour it, digest it... and then, crap it out. show the world what its worth.the smirk shall replace the smile and shall remain at the end of all things to come when i stand alone again to take the headcount and get a statistical no. that wud make the terminator wanna break down and cry. yeah, sure, the memory remains, ash to ash, dust to dust.... but the fade to black shall have to take a long hike for now. its just not worth it. the good times shall be buried in a moth infested stinky old album which shall stay cold, unopened ... as fucken lonely as the grave of paula schulz.yes, lust is more gratifying than love. its not the satisfaction which counts, its the fuel which fires me on to fuck some more.. spill some more blood. once the greed and gluttony dies, what the fuck is worth livin for anymore? love, in the words of agent smith, is, but a delusion, a temporary construct of a feeble human intellect, trying desperately to justify an existence that stands without meaning or pupose. no such problems at all with lust. simple policy... fuck hard, put ur pants on and walk... let the bitch know her twat's worth.yes, adrenaline is more gratifying than fear. in the words of hetfield..hug the curvelose the timetear the mapshoot the signfuck tomorrow, live today. ur terms only, fuck the world. the common folk shall talk, fuck them. when titanic sinks, take the surfboard, not the life vest. if u make it , go ahead, fuck some more.. if u don't... just accept the fact that u were born to be fish food.yes, reciprocation is more gratifying than followin protocol. payback is thwe need of the hour. go all out. one good turn shall fuckin well be returned, whatever the odds. mistakes shall be forgiven. transgressors shall be fucked beyond repair. let the knucles break one by one. make their mothers suck cocks in hell.yes, passion is more gratifying than responsibility. ask a rock climber, whose chalk dust wud be a priority over food , the same relation running for an underground racer in the case of a NOS chamber. family is a deterrent to passion. dedication comes as a by product, a harbinger to a life as stale as a week old fermented loaf of bread.ever drew comparisons to an orgasm? scale a ridge unplugged, cross a finish line at breakneck speed. prioritise on preference , not viability.yes, insanity is more gratifying than rationality. if u like rock, lets say any particular song,live it , sing it, scream it out, shout ur lungs out... don't disgrace it by using it on headfones just because ur pink nipple4d whore o0f a girlfriend wud prefer backstreet or some likewise shitload. take my advice, the bithch is not even worth a single seminal discharge of ur cock. narcissism is a quality which few possess . the retards generally refer to our clan as that of madmen. revel in it.its like explainin to a family man, and thus, a mileage freak, the kick of throttling a dodge viper in the sixth gearon a city street. as rightly put by bryan adams, one man's night mare .. is another man's dream.u take rationality , i take insanity.. to me it has more meanin... more purpose. a step towards fulfilment, salvation. isn't that what we alll live for?
yes, a scar is more gratifying than cosmetic surgery.
yes, a 40 minute guitar solo is more gratifying than a 100 broadway musicals.
yes, fuckin a princess as a cardinal priest is more gratifying than shagging on a mountain as an ascetic,
yes, freedom is more gratifying than accountability...
i'm done...
where do u belong?


this is probably a result of facing roommates who are too stuck up on the goodness and selflessness of gandhi,superman and probably mother teresa as well.. i just wanted to counter the bullets by talkin about the will power and the grit of people who died or failed serving a cause,which was otherwise deemed pretty unnecessary..it was to counter a sleepy audience that rather than commending a government to have found water on mars..it should be admonished for the lack of water in a municipal tap.

No, i'm not talkin about the terribly slow flick by terrence mallick..i'm talkin abt the sliver of a veneer that places a man in the path of glory or in the annals of evil..what is the defining moment that brings the verdict to justifiable labelling? it is said that every time a great evil takes root,a hero is beseeched for and plop comes a reply from the heavens, either a spandex clad,unsure webslinger a.k.a. spiderman or some other such goon..it has always been way too easy to categorise villainy. all it requires is not even a complete black but just a twinge of grey in the varied pallette of shades which constitute the given human character in question... and there we have it, our very own custom made villain.what is very cleanly, and may i say conveniently forgotten is how the transition happens. Because i like to believe that even the most heinous of criminals may go to their grave in the shame of evil but when the cradle rocked forth the first time, it was just a vulnerable baby cryin for milk, not a monster seeking mass annihilation..it is what is fed to the poor beings that makes them what they're destined to become.if we'd just pay a little more attention to the given fact,we would find reason in the words of the cinematic anarchist V when he explains his actions and his basic existence as of being that in view of which he is just a humble vaudevillian veteran cast vicariously by the vicissitudes of fate as both victim and villain.talking of cinematic examples lets take the annihilistic turpetude of the legendary villain, Agent Smith...which can be summed up when he asks the fallen hero Neo as to why does he get up when he knows he is vanquished.he asks neo the cause of his not giving in to Smith.does he believe he's fighting for something, for something more than his survival? could he tell him what it was ? did he know it himself ? what was the cause? was it truth...justice... love? he also added that these were delusions, temporary constructs of a feeble human intellect tryin desperately to justify an existence that stood without meaning or purpose.now how is it that a person who deals in reason be belittled as a villain and a broken semblance of goodness be allowed to suckle at the nipple of glory in his stead.let's take it from the very inception. Hobbes, in his august treatise on the social contract theory, the "Leviathan" has said that man, as a species is dark by nature..our species resembles the pattern of one other pathogen on this earth, a virus..we complement each other in every manner possible. we tend to rip off the natural resources of our surroundings.we suck on every available asset to the bone,exhaust it completely, and move on.we kill our kinsmen for territorial supremacy and then, we have the balls to talk about the Bohemian principles of truth..love..beauty...freedom..we happen to collectively be the very maraudering rabid wolves who rape these principles everyday..and leave them naked and helpless on the street for the lesser mortals to seek more uncanny and pitiless enjoyment..so much for villainy, eh?yes, Achilles is the villain who destroyed Troy,sacked the temple of poseidon,laid to waste an entire country for his personal glory..a celebrated desecrator of the gods..murderer of hector, the idealistic trojan prince.. that's all there is to it , isn't it?that is at least ,all we the human race would like to believe..we forget somewhere in the pages of the Iliad itself that all he was , was a warrior torn between Death and Immortality, believing in what he was taught to believe and what he deemed fit..a devoted son, a devoted teacher of the arts of war, a failed lover, a person who despised undue authority.peace was all he sought.yes, Anakin Skywalker was a failed jedi, to turn into the most powerful pawn of the evil galactic empire, as Darth Vader despised in star systems across the universe.... but hey, did anybody give a second thought as to why he turned to the dark side? i don't think so..because then we'd have seen that he was mistrusted and betrayed by his own, and thus gave in to something that he himself had sworn to destroy, to save the last flicker of redemption, to save the one he loved..and the one person in the galaxy who trusted and loved him as he deserved..was he wrong? i don't think so..coming back from once upon a time in a galaxy far far away, back to harsh real life..Adolf Hitler, a man symbolizing the hatred of millions. accused of mass genocide,and unnecessary war.we fail, yet again to see the reason behind the most loathed campaign in world history..the jews were wiped out by the millions not because of a personal vendetta but because they were an economic scourge..who'd taken the economy to redundant levels of stagnation and decadence..and the man himself,well, just a man who was willing to do what was imperative for national progress and economic equilibrium.. a man who was as devoted to his motherland as he was to the love of his life who he married hours before death knocked on the door of his bunker.And all of them are villains nonetheless.. kill them..crucify them..curse them..loathe them..hate them..but remember that in doing so , you kill the spirit of a life which was a hundred times more worthwile and satisfactory than the billion other cabbage brained retards who are born for the sake of retention of planetary gravity and die for causes even less worthy..The choice of sides is simple, as simple as being given the choice of being born as a mosquito to be squatted on somebody's arm or being born as a shark who can choose to rip that same fucken arm off...what would you choose?