Loaded on a pint of Carlsberg and some Bacardi and Coke (it being a homage to Daffyd - Shiv didn’t get it). That majorly constitutes the contents of my stomach for I had little to eat. My head majorly constitutes of a chaotic entropy that wants to leave an impression of itself through my writings, perhaps for posterity, and also as a reminder that trifling amounts of money cannot buy you happiness – you either need none of it, or loads of it. There are a plethora of businesses saturating the market, yet more in line, to have the hasty arrogant male realize the fact that they are better off without whatever trifling amount they make (unless they are into making loads of it) because it can only entitle them entry into a playfield of mediocrity where you play with/against half-crooks, half-dispassionate people. It’s a loss-loss situation. You deal once, then you would never wanna come back. Only that it’s been twice for me.
So my day really, really started when I entered my pit of filth that I coincidentally also acknowledge as my apartment, at 4 in the afternoon. A typical weekend landscape greets me – Rao on the same couch where you would expect him to be, nursing his injuries and watching television; Sood on the same chair as he usually occupies with the same wheat flakes about his coordinates, a milk carton close by, and a used bowl and spoon on the table that might never make it to the kitchen sink unless initiated by yours truly; Rohit absconding; and Azad giving a lousy stare standing in the gallery which is also strewn with rubbish newspapers meant to absorb the water that accidentally gets spilt everytime when these idiots wash their clothes in the machine. It’s not as bad as it sounds – nothing could be as bad as it sounds on white marble floors, and in my lingering presence.
Azad had a more dignified presence today. He greets me in a soft voice, and speaks with an equal tenderness, clear, decipherable sentences, like I’m into a Vodafone help center or something. That sneaky bastard was never this way. It wasn’t annoying, though, I found it agreeable. But the moment the intention of making my way across to the bedroom was evident on my face, and more so in my strides, Azad was alertly found blocking my way. Casual in my stride, I almost bumped into him and would’ve sent him to trauma, if not for the free space the gallery offered. Then it came to my knowledge that he was hosting a female companion, who was – in all her modesty, nothing degenerate – in that bedroom thumbing on his laptop at that moment. It was a sick moment; I almost puked. I don’t like the zenana-mardana split; no rooms reserved for the either gender. All of us are urban working youth, for chrissake!
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Somebody has been adamant that I'm a sadist. They just don't know me. My life is filled with such misfortunes that I have been found tracking my way back from the other extreme of this dichotomy. Everyday is a new situation, where I'm mostly on the receiving end of the pain component, not the pleasure. Scarred souls, we all are; this humanity is a tragedy.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Living as a mere consequence of breathing
Harshly put, this is the foundation to the life that I still secretly pursue. To improve on my version, add the factor of 'pre-liberation' that I've so obssessively patronised.What this implies, in a positive light, is the riddance of your past baggage, or forgetting nostalgia, so that we don't dig our old moments again. Living in the moment.
But living without a future, does it imply that as well? One can cite example of a tiger here, that does not question himself when it jumps on a prey. Future is unpredictable, frankly.
Future is left to personal interpretation and public dynamics..
Our entire life's purpose could be spent in an expression.
//ca. Jan, 2011
No worse buried or charred
As sheltered and isolated I’ve been in the past couple of weeks, one cannot escape their own mind, especially the intrusive thought pyramids that spread like an endemic disease while you’re at your routine reading, or over your cup of tea. The hegemony of the head ultimately devolves into hegemony of the flesh, which is when your isolation feels like a curse and you long for company to get yourself rid of yourself. Men of weak character might well end up first grade degenerates, if left to themselves – Hitler was one, so were the serial killers, or the legendary rapists. One chink in your thought armor might let the disease of the mind flow in. All over a cup of tea or the newspaper.
I, too, suffer from the affliction of breaking into the occasional reverie – my stream of life vanishes into another dimension, or perhaps starts retreating as if some celestial setback came into effect. It hurts when your mental expansion is hollow, much like when a lesser skilled medical practitioner allows air bubbles to enter your bloodstream; one might think about potency of the serum but there is just more air inside of you in that instant. Getting carried away has shaped my life, to frankly admit. In the maze of head all my wars have been won, maidens been wooed, my tents have been pitched and a many deeds done that would have Mr. Alfred Nobel rise from his grave and award me himself.
Forget the conscious world, even my unconscious is slapping disconnected frames from life together and guaranteeing me a secure and enjoyful sleep. Just this morning I remember waking to an embrace to a woman whom I just fornicated with. But unlike the persistent deviancies of my awareness (at present), my sleep also splashes my head with other color – yes, literally.
My conscious and subconscious self distracted by my untamed thoughts do not find the time for the world out there – take the sensational murder of some BJP leader in Bihar by his rape victim in broad daylight, or the rending tale of a BSP leader purchasing and repeatedly raping a girl in his custody for over an year, or Wikileaks, or the ongoing inflation in vegetable markets that might have people experimenting with their own ejaculates as a culinary alternative.
Sometimes the heart willingly beats, certain voices still do stir it up, or certain friends who still rekindle the passions (of geekdom), but it mostly beats almost as a redundant biological device which could do no worse buried or charred. HIGH FIVE!
//ca. Jan, 2011
I, too, suffer from the affliction of breaking into the occasional reverie – my stream of life vanishes into another dimension, or perhaps starts retreating as if some celestial setback came into effect. It hurts when your mental expansion is hollow, much like when a lesser skilled medical practitioner allows air bubbles to enter your bloodstream; one might think about potency of the serum but there is just more air inside of you in that instant. Getting carried away has shaped my life, to frankly admit. In the maze of head all my wars have been won, maidens been wooed, my tents have been pitched and a many deeds done that would have Mr. Alfred Nobel rise from his grave and award me himself.
Forget the conscious world, even my unconscious is slapping disconnected frames from life together and guaranteeing me a secure and enjoyful sleep. Just this morning I remember waking to an embrace to a woman whom I just fornicated with. But unlike the persistent deviancies of my awareness (at present), my sleep also splashes my head with other color – yes, literally.
My conscious and subconscious self distracted by my untamed thoughts do not find the time for the world out there – take the sensational murder of some BJP leader in Bihar by his rape victim in broad daylight, or the rending tale of a BSP leader purchasing and repeatedly raping a girl in his custody for over an year, or Wikileaks, or the ongoing inflation in vegetable markets that might have people experimenting with their own ejaculates as a culinary alternative.
Sometimes the heart willingly beats, certain voices still do stir it up, or certain friends who still rekindle the passions (of geekdom), but it mostly beats almost as a redundant biological device which could do no worse buried or charred. HIGH FIVE!
//ca. Jan, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wish Japan Were This Happy After Their Ordeal
At 8PM, and 20000ft in the air, I decided to put the brake on my eating so it shuts my digestive reactor. I, too, was heading for a calamity, much like Japan. What was incubating in my head was a stressful, tiring, risky journey, and having my bladder making demands during those moments would've been hell. So I politely passed the food plate when offered, even repeating the negation to a confirmation call the second time. Even decided to keep the water off the list.
This one was my second flight for the day - the first had flown off sans me. This was also my second destination of the day - earlier Lucknow, and now Delhi. I still had Lucknow as my ultimate destination, though; only that a devious conception was involved: get to Delhi, then catch the first train that leaves for Lucknow. I came upon this plan while heavy-hearted over my troubling findings when wandering through the spaces at the Airport, that since Holi is around, tickets are scarce, rare, and darn costly.
So I flew the first flight which could prove decisive, so I rode the last of the day's run of the new Delhi Metro that connects airport to station, so I found out that the Jat agitation had cancelled all trains to Lucknow's route, so I took a detour in another train, so I sat on the train floor for 8 hours with my wounds and luggage, so I took another train without ticket, so I escaped being arrested for traveling without ticket, so I took a rickshaw, so I took a bus, so I took an autorickshaw. Then home. It was tits!
The journey being Mumbai - Delhi - Kanpur - Unnao - Lucknow. Now I'm in the land of spring, unlike Mumbai where I'm still searching for the break of the season on nature's face. The legendary blue helicopter flowers are at their bloom and nobody more than me could enjoy their regalia and nostalgia. I could get some sleep as well. And great heaps of food. Jump at the rooftop.
This one was my second flight for the day - the first had flown off sans me. This was also my second destination of the day - earlier Lucknow, and now Delhi. I still had Lucknow as my ultimate destination, though; only that a devious conception was involved: get to Delhi, then catch the first train that leaves for Lucknow. I came upon this plan while heavy-hearted over my troubling findings when wandering through the spaces at the Airport, that since Holi is around, tickets are scarce, rare, and darn costly.
So I flew the first flight which could prove decisive, so I rode the last of the day's run of the new Delhi Metro that connects airport to station, so I found out that the Jat agitation had cancelled all trains to Lucknow's route, so I took a detour in another train, so I sat on the train floor for 8 hours with my wounds and luggage, so I took another train without ticket, so I escaped being arrested for traveling without ticket, so I took a rickshaw, so I took a bus, so I took an autorickshaw. Then home. It was tits!
The journey being Mumbai - Delhi - Kanpur - Unnao - Lucknow. Now I'm in the land of spring, unlike Mumbai where I'm still searching for the break of the season on nature's face. The legendary blue helicopter flowers are at their bloom and nobody more than me could enjoy their regalia and nostalgia. I could get some sleep as well. And great heaps of food. Jump at the rooftop.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Third time around
What a great morning to start with: pigeons gliding in and out of view outside, good sun that will soon find another row of window panes to illuminate, theres a linkin park concert on VH1, homebase is at a convenient occupancy for the Sunday that Rohit left for Pune, and Azad off to his interview. I’ve just started with my cup of morning coffee. Only that the coffee is an instant preparation – one that I’d reserved for the emergency situations of when out of milk and sugar, or when having the opposite gender over, or ‘the unforeseen’. Well, the unforeseen just sliced into my story. Here I am nursing my injuries, listening to Linkin Park, and drinking a mild Nescafe, with the sunlight causing intermittent itching, while the pigeons’ Panchayat makes a ruckus.
Wednesday, March 02, 2011
Returning heavy on salted potato chips, boondi laddoo, and delicious cuppas of chai, we await the dawn when we shall be revisiting the neighborhood temple. Azad wiles his time on Youtube, Abhishek loitering between rooms, while I luckily get to catch up on ManU vs Chelsea, my rightful dose of football after a long while. ManU leads 1-0 at halftime! Second half done, I'll get busy with the psychedelic animated imageries of either 'La Planète Sauvage' (1973), or 'The Illusionist' (2010). Then there's the deep thought over Loqly and AKS to deliberate on - interesting things do come rare, but this time, this week, I've got my bagful. And there's more outside of the bag and outdoors. Too bad if I see it wasted away in the jumps, or in hours of slumber, or the animal farm.
Still 5 hours to go. I wonder if our swaying state of partial-slumber consummates into a fully fledged sleep. We are eager to visit the temple in the morning, for sure. What for? Not religion, not some uberfraulein village girl, not to alleviate our homesickness, but for the taste of Bhaang, which is abundant in supply on the days of Maha Shivratri, and Holi. It was Monday that we made this committment. Not even Abhishek's holy days of abstinence go against the consumption of this drugged milk preparation that is available legally, mostly across North Indian communities - like the ones here. Consumption of Bhaang is a tradition. And we totally plan to abuse that fact! As confirmed by me at the milk dairy in the morning, and by Rao and Azad from the guards later in the day, happiness starts flowing at 7AM.
Chelsea just scored early in second half. I'll make some soup.
Still 5 hours to go. I wonder if our swaying state of partial-slumber consummates into a fully fledged sleep. We are eager to visit the temple in the morning, for sure. What for? Not religion, not some uberfraulein village girl, not to alleviate our homesickness, but for the taste of Bhaang, which is abundant in supply on the days of Maha Shivratri, and Holi. It was Monday that we made this committment. Not even Abhishek's holy days of abstinence go against the consumption of this drugged milk preparation that is available legally, mostly across North Indian communities - like the ones here. Consumption of Bhaang is a tradition. And we totally plan to abuse that fact! As confirmed by me at the milk dairy in the morning, and by Rao and Azad from the guards later in the day, happiness starts flowing at 7AM.
Chelsea just scored early in second half. I'll make some soup.