Monday, February 13, 2012

Return from a Zen world

There goes a parable about a man from the west visiting a Chinese Zen master for learning about his discipline - or in easier English, to become a disciple - and the ZM offering him a cup of tea, where he (ZM) goes on pouring tea into the cup beyond its brim and the tea starts pouring out of the cup, on seeing which the occidental man exclaims, "The cup is full; no more will go in!," to which the ZM replies, "Like this cup you are full of your opinions and speculations. How can i show you Zen until you first empty your cup?"

My Zen has been a more twisted affair - my cup has been emptied through and out too many times in the past few weeks. All the wrong moments, arguably. Even emptied when half-full, even emptied when empty. That is what immoderation brings. Multi-modal ruin, life and death in their myriad manifestations.
They call it my eagerness to die, I call it my eagerness to live. But come to see this aspect: that living is defined by an eagerness to die, and death is defined by an eagerness to live... without the acknowledgement of their contradictions, our absolutes are orphans, which often lead into ironies. This eagerness has left me with a short-term hook into several aspects of life, as could be reasonably expected of a single isolated 26-year-old boy. Adventures begin with smaller dimensions - I could satiate myself with that - and there will be a lot more in the road ahead. Probably some gang of corrupt women waving me a banner, topless at the sidelines.

Only on paper do I come to these analytic phases of my own life. Its much easier (and mirth-evoking) to analyse the lives of others. How absurd: to know oneself too well to summarise things at these junctions in life, and yet end up doing it. That is one sad thing a relationship with paper, on paper, brings. Admittedly, one is slow if (s)he gains wisdom from staring too long into papyrus, but in defense of "humanity", 'everybody grows up with it'.

Howmuchsoever I despise seeing myself on paper, it is better than not seeing oneself at all. My Rishikesh brethren contest that when we claim to see ourselves in the mirror its merely our reflection that we learn about. But they will agree to some level that even our reflection (in abstract sense) is important to us incomplete (pieces of a puzzle). Speaking both in figurative and literal terms, on trek that I returned from left me with a reflection of myself, one that I can see and analyse in my times of death. As intent as I have been in pursuit of the uniqueness of the experience, this one tops.
["Maximum fansgirls!," to quote Bruno]
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Thursday, January 26, 2012

I'm a masochist who doesn't like to see himself getting hurt.
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Friday, January 20, 2012

You & I have unfinished business

O-ren Ishii! Shoubu wa mada tsuicha inai yo!

A quarter down the entire length, and I already feel a trigger of ambiguous signals to my legs; it oscillates between keeping me going, and from pulling me to the ground - with a gentle grace and a painful expression on the face if I choose to stop, or with a thump if I remain stubbornly positive.
Fearlessly, I refuse an end to this experience, and drag ahead, breathing hard. Its close to what my 9k runs with C used to be like, when in our last 1km we would blow ourselves out doing all kinds of alternate motions for mobility. Only difference being that those lung-leaps used to be by the end of our run, while today its just past the start, and there's the whole of it ahead.

Soon I settle into the groove, and find things more manageable than what my labored start reflected. The body tunes itself (like the responsible responsive machine it is) so now that strange 'wrong' feeling is curbed by the measure of retracting the sensory inputs from the outer-world stimulus - the breathing and heart-rate stabilises but I can hear myself all the more, the liquid welling-up in the eyes now settles-in like a good spectator but the eyes start to learn more about myself (at abstruse angles) than the more usual squares and circles right that linger about. Thoughts mute out. Some cravings buzz about like flies, but are squatted down.

Today, I could've been anywhere, but chose this, in the zeal to live, to evolve, to claim, to inspire.
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Remember the time

Sunbeaten, yet soaked, you sit, resting your head on your backpack. Against sleep that slowly creeps up, you remind yourself of the long way ahead on this day, to merely ensure that you can spend a comfortable night. From the corner of your sight a shape rolls in, the same horizon where you just rolled in from. It is soon deciphered to be a motorbike. Another loner like you, only that you are two, which, though, makes the journey safer, but no more convenient.

The loner stops a stone's throw from you, ceasing the thumping engine with a croak. And pulls out a handycam. The tall mountains, the pristine lake, the deserted yellow paddle boat, the cloud of dirt across the tattered tarmac... everything in good focus for a sensational retelling of your memories. Then a tilt shot - from one of the surrounding peaks, down to the two cyclists who seem drained of all energy (and some of the zeal from earlier in the day) but without any signs of hesitation of finishing the day elsewhere ahead. To him, this is heroic. A 'Cool, guys!...' trails from his mouth involuntarily from some primal corner. Those two cyclists make the feature in this clip, one that connects with the ideal we've always drawn up for ourselves; all the rest becomes an establishing shot, kinda an entree, an introduction to the cooler of the cools, amid an amphitheatre of peaks.

When you look at yourself cramped or beaten-out, remember the time.
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Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Berth chronicles

B1... It's this one. One at the front. First passenger coach behind the mail wagon. A bad start for me - if we were to collide with another train head-on, I would likely be dead. In addition, comforts of AC3 look cheap in comparison to the fact it leaves you little chance of rescue in an emergency aka Ms. Aman Kaur. In case of Mr. Parth Pani i.e. fall from damaged bridge, however, I might be on the safer side here, for its the trailing cars that are mostly seen in the newspapers, down the bridge into the waters below, floating like dead crickets. But as my head is making me tired, I don't spend much sweat on this statistical scare. I just wish to stare the inanimates into submission, to rest my eyeballs inside the cavernous retinal sockets.

The same head also thinks it is being spied upon, an invisible historical record in the making, jarringly peaceful, craving for the big bone in a small life. It imagines a scene from the commons as his mum and dad lecture him on a future while driving him to the station. It imagines the anti life of this city and compares it to that of his immediate destination.
Breathes hard. Stares into his own lap, and seldom at an unpopular perspective study of humans seated on the lower berth at a near-90deg plane of rotation, chatting insignificance, resigned to being the refuse of the history.
Oh fucks fart. There has to be a hi-hat ban effective immediately. Our train now stands outside Charbagh like a punished school kid outside his classroom. Punishment reminds me to mention this guy and gal 17, 23 who seem slant, composed, n cool. Veni vedi vici.

Holy frig, I was to mention the two fictions I completed in the past week. Two cult prose pieces. One William Golding's "Lord of the Flies", and other Chuck Palahniuk's "Choke", set probably 30 yrs apart in time, but finding a connect in the dark and a brutish affairs they bring to life. I lapped up 200+290 pgs in this week, which could be a personal best, discounting the exam cram time when 500-pagers would be downed with the morning tea. Goodnight.
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Saturday, January 14, 2012

Lost a travelogue today

In a gloom as I start this post. This gloom was born from the realization that the galaxy tab memo app is unintuitive and offers no automatic save of scribbles or any ways to retrieve an unsaved one. My morning's worth of chronicling was a fail, thanks to that. Such tech will only seed a fright in me, and I will run back to my old school pencil and paper habits. Then I start subscribing to all kind of myths about computing.that is like a nightmare to this geek.

In a brief,I hang my boots in Lucknow tonight. It was a short, uneventful journey only made worth a mention cuz of the advance to station too early in the wintry morning, and my brief delve into the hyper crystal theory with my neighbor preceding that advance. Had I started a bit earlier, I might've even dared a 3.5k walk from ito to le ndls.

this city (Lucknow) feels the same lazy as usual. everyone seems caught in a state of introspective muteness; much like drones they flit about, dodging (and contributing to) the unruly traffic. Social, Food, football, sleep, food, that sums up my routine since arrival.

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Wednesday, January 11, 2012

One Simple Rule on Treks


Marge: "Where's your swimsuit?"
Bart: "I'm gonna swim nekkid."
[8F24]
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Tuesday, January 10, 2012

For Out of Sin Comes Joy

Search fearlessly for every sin, for out of sin comes joy

---
After a few minutes of confusion at the bus station where he had just got off, which in the meantime had him absorbing scenes of local life as he stood like a lost puppy - every banal act made into a Haiku with the yellow tint of the autumn - and her circling the wrong block thrice, she finally picked her up.

They seemed in a pleasant state from their short exchange of words in her car. Their eyes were still hesitant to settle comfortably in each other's presence, fleeting about like sparrows between anything of minor detail, but the other person. They finally got to her doorstep; a nice, polished teakwood welcome for him. He was nervous of all the new colors inside that he'd have to confront. What the home of an MD looked like, he had no idea. Any such outing was generally a savage affair for his senses - "your invitation enough is distressing to my intestines," as he used to tell his friends. But that nervous feeling was pushed aside by another churning his senses subjected him to.

As soon as they entered her home, he flung the bag to one corner, and as its motion came to cease under the showcase holding her medical degree, he gave her a deep loving stare; their eyes finally met to lock in on each other. He held her face in his palms. Something transcendental in anticipation. And their lips locked in a kiss. This was the sensory overload that offset his anxiety about the interiors - her warmth, her scent, the resonating - albeit with a goat-like tonality - of her voice in his ears. Their kiss lasted for 3, or maybe 4 hours, neither of them willing to let go, not because they could not be without each other, inseparable and all that, but because they'd been without each other all these years which had left them in a sudden void of a more innocent childhood they once knew. It was some kind of assurance that they were still the same.

Love for the other never brings people to these kind of things; its a selfish ulterior motive of selfishness, of reclaiming a snapshot of their life, of being lost in play, that brings them here.

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Friday, January 06, 2012

First thought in the New Year

I'm stirred open from my peaceful (and much needed) slumber by somebody knocking.
"हाँ..." I exclaim, a bit startled. And the same knock repeats.
"कौन है?" I grunt as I shuffle between the sheets in annoyance, my voice hitting a different pitch with every syllable.
The right hand comes to life - independent of the body - and executes the motor skill of locating one's cellphone in vicinity in pitch dark (I believe it derives from the need to locate a gun, or knife, or hammer by the bedside in the past). Boop. The screen lights up next to my face, and one eye strains to gain focus on the display.
02:15. AM.

Briefly out of wits, I regain my composure. ... . The knocks are really taps coming from the room's rear window, and follow a natural rhythm in their decay. Tap ta t ta. Just air, then, on the window-pane. Soon the taps are accompanied with hushed sounds on the tin roof outside, as if somebody was covertly trying to introduce chaos to this part of the hills.
Another tap on the window. Few more beats on the tin.

Soon this infrequent affair takes a more orchestrated form as the tin roof starts to pulse with the wind and the rear window starts to crackle with the falling raindrops. There is a curiosity to learn of this concert outside, and a wish to stumble into a chance snowfall this first day (and third hour) of the new year - I'm at 6100ft, after all, so it isn't all that far-fetched. Plus, it is liberating making friends with the darkness wherever I go - helps restructure certain psychological priorities; darkness could even feature in the ending titles to my life (under "coping-with-fear", or "confidence cultivators").

With the phone's aid, I locate my headlamp (that is also lying on the bed), and rip through the cocoon of a cover I'd fashioned from the twin blankets. The night is cold, but that is partly offset by my curiosity. As I fumble with the steel latch of the verandah's door, an alert Kalu downstairs responds with muffled growls, both trusting and questioning his senses at the same time.

The latch finally gives in - some rust, general disuse, and sad carpentry revealed in the process. Petrichor first hits me as I sniffle in the air outside - first precipitation of the season, indeed. I don't feel that much a chill in the wind. Some survey reveals that this is mere rain, not snowfall, which is a bit dismaying. Then I recall that through yesterday I had been watching this gradual pileup of clouds, which I was sure wasn't a normal feature on a winter day. Finding them pouring down now only meant that it was correct observation on my part. Win.

I linger on in the verandah - for a mere minute or so. Visual component is negligible at this hour in a rural landscape - 3 lightbulbs on the opposite hill are the only feature, barring which these hills and its cluster of villages form a dark space. Aurally, however, I'm as receptive indoors as outdoors, so with the added incentive of warmth and comfort that my bed would offer, I head back in and start scribbling under the blankets in the glow from my headlamp.

Kind-of symbolic, that my first prosaic outpour in this new year begins with the first downpour of the season in these hills. New crop would take roots, and spread their arms open towards the sun, which in this part of the hills still remains the only benchmark for a content life, the dividing line between success and failure.
What we cultivate in the coming season for a content life remains to be seen.
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Thursday, January 05, 2012

Everything Wrong

As we sit together, sipping the cafe latte, she tells me that everything about my life has been wrong, and that I must take my time to realize this. I take my time, then I leave, leaving her with a halfway consumed coffee mug and the receding sound of my footsteps. Not even Moroder's promise of eternity from a distant JBL can convince me to stay back now. Her final stare goes down into my conscience like a glass of fine scotch, but its uninviting nonetheless.

I get home and put on Moroder just to sort of replay through the dawn of that realization. Seeing the life that I'd lived, I'd assumed it would make me a good man, a public confirmation of that coming as I chance upon a field of flowers in a remote hill village nearing dusk, hand in hand with her, a pandemonium of parrots violating the skies and flying away into the horizon, their receding cacophony giving way to the soft sound of the water stream up ahead; then we kiss, and later push related status updates on Facebook. But now I only lock lips with one of my toothbrushes, then fall into a hard spot of trying to forget her (and remember sleep) which only brings in more memories, prepare some coffee as an indirect influence from the more recent memories, and decide to end my life.

The next morning I do not wake up.
Then I do. And with no visible dismemberment of my identity (or the hole in my heart), perform my vegetable functions as usual.
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Friday, December 23, 2011

Tragic Ambitions

The "storehouse of snow" beckons me on yet another weekend. Disguised as Rishikesh-yet-again, I will be up to (pun intended) more exciting stuff than your mothers can imagine. Now, don't start imagining yourself, since I doubt if you've ever exercised those faculties - metaphorically speaking, you're imagination fits a 30B. Admittedly, I won't be deflowering freshly fallen snow beneath my feet, or any snow for that matter, but there is a disciplinary shift involved here. Additionally, I shall be a witness to all those towering deities - that present a panoramic delight - whose names Ghoru throws into conversations as casually as the Indian (cricket) team lineup.
My return from this risque Himalayan circuit coincides with Boukreev's 14th death anniversary, which also coincides when I will start with reading his narration of the epic 1996 Everest (mis-)adventure.

On other fronts, things are holistically fucked-up.
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Thursday, December 22, 2011

Nothing in life recedes

To, Nothing in life recedes, but the stereotypes.

Isolation, Hr 4:
This guy is back from a long session of 'looking about'. Biting the cold. Straining his eyes to cut through the dense fog.
Subterranean roads - populated with hawkers returning home and cab drivers, - random streets, loops, the left-turn stratagem (in US it translates to the right instead of the left), the traveling salesman's problem. The prospects of learning fluid dynamics lie in ruin - however that doesn't hamper his ambitious postgraduate plans. The realisation of this recently-concluded pointless activity (one that also puts a guilt of ~10km of fuel consumption) sends him into a loony crackling laughter.

Some tea for comfort.

Now that the snakes have been silenced, the madman on the streets no longer troubles him, the girls don't demand his attention for their dirty politics, and no Kareena Kapoor prances around, he can compensate for a lot of inaction over the weekend. He shudders thinking of the forthcoming weekend, where he's clearly going mental one way or the other - he shudders thinking about himself the way he is thinking; but he also shudders thinking about others the way he sees them, as he shudders seeing himself in that similar image.
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Monday, December 19, 2011

thistle bee ace

what the fuck do i do
what the fuck do i do
my head
hurts
my anger doesnt subside
i am trapped in my body with these feelings
it affects my whole life
it affects how i approach love

makes me want to react
to feel
to yell
to get mad
am i crazy? should i be locked up?
what do i do? i am dying out here.

and now i am back
i have remnants left
and i dont care
- i mean i say i dont
but i probably will

i don't know what i will do.
i just feel so unloved right now
which is weird, right?
everytime i have opened up
i end up on the ground
worse. i end up messed up.
i end up alone.
i am spent
i have nothing to give to anyone
seriously
life seems like an effort
sometimes
i can't take it anymore. dont you get it?


Someone told me: "There is truth in everything, even in error."
That's true. France didn't see it in the seventeenth century. They thought one could avoid error; and what's more, that one could live directly in the truth; It isn't possible; Hence Kant, Hegel, German philosophy: to bring us back to life; and make us see that we must pass through error to arrive at the truth.

What do you think about love?
The body had to come into it. Leibnitz introduced the contingent. Contingent truths and necessary truths make up life. German philosophy showed us that; in life, one thinks with the servitudes and errors of life; One must manage with that, that's true.

Shouldn't love be the only truth?
- For that, love would always have to be true

Do you know anyone who knows at once what he loves?
No. When you're twenty you don't know. All you know are bits and pieces, you make arbitrary choices. Your "I love" is an impure affair. But to be completely at one with what you love, you need maturity. That means searching. This is the truth of life. That's why love is a solution, on condition that it is true.
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Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Overwhelmingly close to nothingness

I find myself into another prosaic venture, all coz I need to rid my mind of JS right now.

Sometimes i feel overwhelmingly close to nothingness, renunciation - look up the definition in Merriam Webster for a better aligning with my thoughts here; so much that I blast music into my ears to escape this foreseeable fantasy, just like i do to escape my flights of grandeur, of fighting the big battle, of sticking out in story of our civilization (but, alas, history is much like fiction). Ending up nowhere would be superbest, since that leaves me out of any factory-made mould (there, history "uncomplicates", so even our purposes are opposite). I seem a candidate for a dream, fleeting. From my construction of fantasies I become one myself - Howzzat!
I will awkwardly slip in and out; will end anstartywhere, will anywhere.
My circles fluctuate, more like recede, though I'd like them to be displaced. [My gut/core wants to use the word 'spin' and 'vortex' here, but I find it hard to make them 'fit in']

Oh, another aspect to muse ponder upon (I've been checking use of 'muse' since learning about its roots as a more potent reference to goddesses from Greek mythology ref. Scott Berkoun's (sic) "The Myths of Innovation" - it feels embarrassing to use the word 'muse' recklessly. 'ponder' is more apt, since it means merely to 'weigh' or 'appraise', which doesn't hint of a mental or creative leap) is the cyclical nature of things. Ignatius' Wheel of Fortuna. The Yin and the Yang. I don't understand nature that well, but our champions have often come a full circle (even Gandhi, as I learnt today, from a racist, fornicating, enema-delivering personality to what we know him as). Can either imagine it as a transition (as with the Shadow Warrior logo), or as being buoyed back into greatness from the depths of some samundar-roopi situation.
Human slingshot, I fancy one now.
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Monday, December 12, 2011

Funny Indian Company Names

Some interesting (officially registered) Indian company names

MICRO SOFT UNDER GARMENTS PRIVATE LIMITED
COCKS AND CO. LTD.
COCKRAM PROJECTS INDIA PRIVATE LIMITED
TIT SOFTWARE SOLUTIONS PRIVATE LIMITED
PRIAPUS INFRASTRUCTURE LIMITED
GOOGLE ENERGY PRIVATE LIMITED
ROFLIN PLASTICS LTD

That reminds me, must register ROFL SOFTWARE before anybody else does.
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Pics over the week

@paharganj: kids waiting for the school bus. i remember being lucky - our school delayed timings in winters.
NB this was on the dinosaur qwantz mission morning.


@noida: the jugaad


@NDLS. i didnt know berghaus were making jute bags for the common man... CPI-M would like that


@paharganj. evading the ticket inspector at the station, i stepped out into paharganj, to find some procession blocking the entire street. dhol-baaje, blaring loudspeakers, sheep-women chanting "Jai Shri Ram" and keeping an eye on the sweetmeats being distributed, and madamji-women who were instructing the sheep-women and restraining them when they forget their lord and start rioting for sweetmeats. women liberation right there.
the restaurant receptionist at one Hotel Hari Piorko described to me (assuming I was a foreigner, whoo!) "It is for a very important Indian God" (and more importantly in the name of that ashram guruji i guess).

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Dom

Madan still refers to the lower castes in his Garhwal village as 'Dom'.
In the Middle East, the gypsies, called 'Dom', are Muslims.
In the Shina valley of Pakistan-controlled Gilgit-Baltistan region, the musician and blacksmith population is called 'Bericho', or 'Dom'.
It was nice to find an overlapping history of these people, originally lower caste outcastes from India, who migrated like they had wings, and came to be more commonly known as the gypsies.
Where do gypsies come from?
Domba
Gypsies — the dalits of European continent
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Sunday, December 11, 2011

slow saturday

Switching between dimensions is HELL difficult. [what better occasion to use 'hell' than today, when I have just been back from those dungeons] Risking overlapping dimensions, however, is even more difficult - no wonder people are often undervalued or misunderstood. One is simple. Two is confusing, yet welcome . Three is a lot of questions to answer. Anywhere beyond, and you are inviting trouble and condescension, unless you can be Batman, Javier Bardem, Jeremy Irons, and Amar Singh, all at the same time.
This opinion from a teatime chitchat, featuring Monsieur Paranoid, against a setting of bar bells, cafe mocha, and an assortment of southie sweets. Monologues and dialogues. Metaphysics and porn. Confucius and Priya Rai. Stoicism and solipsism. Morality, perverse gods, hollow ideals. [I believe much of this has been the staple of all smalltalk since the past century - there needs be some research to confirm that. Though I wonder why, even after centuries of evolution, silence isn't yet in vogue; feels like the cowboys had something going right] Anything to pry open the metaphoric "shell".

Sleep has been the other detail in this day worth a mention. I slept. Yes, just that.

I was ditched in my proposed adventure by somebody, which started things on a dull note for the day, and kept it that way through it. Zipping through the 8AM cold. Ambiguous identification. Staring, scribbling, being nice. Overcooked noodles.
Life inside a video game.
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Saturday, December 10, 2011

Like I like

On an overdose of vitamin D. D for ... Dude
Yeah, the above line was plain sad.
But really, I am stuffed on 7667% of daily requirement of the vitamin today, thanks to the Shiitake (learn to pronounce it correct) served in my Teppan cuisine choices (of Prawns and Chicken) from the menu at Crazy Noodles over at TGIP. I'm high on Umami, too. The visit to the GIP itself was upon Shiv's insistence; he gives a classy touch to my regular decay. Well, my love for 'shrooms connects me to decay in a way. (But nothing connects me better to decay than plain mad love for decay itself)
During the course of our meal, the great mall was thrice submerged in second-long darkness - it was uneventful, except that the combined effect of the darkness, and lit decoration candles on each of the tables, left someone with a romantic yearning (that could not be fulfilled).

Speaking of sad, Mission Impossible Ghost Protocol poster looked a bit sad - this guy, all by himself, suctioning to a glass pane for his life. That's not so larger-than-life, as much as it is dude-seems-i-fucked-up.

For a while between the Prawns and the Chopsuey, the floor was filled with paced footsteps, anxious expressions, unidirectional human bulk. Parents waddling behind kids holding a packet of chips (and miscellenia). Matriarchy leading their "healthy" Sardarji patriarchy. It was sort of a time prediction device, for I could guess that the 2245 Matinee show was on at BIG Cinemas next door; some horrible new-release about the sexual exploits of one Ricky Behal, the lead played by another of those random faces in the industry that you stop seeing after exactly 2 years, or 5 movies. As per the 13 ratings on IMDB, it ranks 9.8, which must make it the greatest movie on this planet - for those 13 viewers... I guess 4chan could rape IMDB next by up-voting one of H. Reshamiya movies, so that the future generation of watchers will speak of Tera Suroor alongside The Shawshank Redemption.

I see the aforementioned romantic yearning being fulfilled now. Tits! Honour!
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Thursday, December 08, 2011

Sea Squirts!

I cycled really early in the morning. It wasn't too cold - I believe the likes of Ponds, Vaseline, and Boroplus will be annoyed at that fact, and presently forming some covert coalition to make the air dry. The traffic was an iota more in volume, and an iota less in discipline than I expected, but nonetheless manageable (as in i-can-listen-and-sway-to-velvet-underground-while-admiring-the-sunrise manageable).

I was on a self-appointed mission today.
Its conception goes back 4 days to the Sunday, when I, in the company of my really sexy girlfriends (yes, plurii), enroute to a friend's sis' wedding - one whose monologues once orbited only two words: 'vibhu' and 'love' - laid eyes upon this screaming cultural artifact amidst the bustle of Paharganj, and decided to return some day to fully absorb it. [Well, most of it is true, besides the girlfriend(s) part, and the hyphenated digression. But do you really need to pick on things when I'm on a mission here?! ... jeez... so...] My escape from the luxuriant trapping of the mink blanket had got me delayed (a 0635 departure, while the idealist inside me wanted 0615) which meant that my window of return shifted beyond the dreaded 8AM frame, but despite that, I was prepared to go all the way, and take the primitive Delhi traffic, consumed with the fear (and thereafter the guilt) of missing out on the spectacle that I just had to keep for a memory. I was lazy on Monday, unwilling on Tuesday, and lazy again on Wednesday; so today had to be it.

Got to Paharganj by 0730. Much to my relief, the aforementioned cultural artifact was still there, erect, menacingly surveying the sleepy junta of Old Delhi, threatening to stomp their tiny existence.


Seems like T-Rex was visiting India and decided to do a little modeling. Ryan North would be so, uh, proud?

This hoarding here is awesome, ironic, and hilarious.

Awesome for the obvious reasons. Planet Qwantz would love it.

Ironic because it speaks against the foreign investments in India that will, likely, unjustly crush the traders, and about going Anti-Walmart. Yet Mr. Designer here decided to use an artwork of a Canadian artist, lifted off the internet for free (who cares about copyright, right?). Way to be just. Or maybe he just loved the tee to obsession.

Hilarious, because those goony men showing teeth look more menacing on the hoarding than our favorite T-Rex here. I wish Utahraptor could join in.
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