Sunday, March 30, 2008


*tongue stick outey thingey*

"You're a m*****f*****!"

"Oh yeah? Yeah? Well you, ma'am, are a fathermucker!"

So there.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Silent Night

Alone and tired, I sat down on the cold terrace floor, and looked up at my night sky. It was brighter, and sharper, than it had ever been before. The stars shone as clear, distinct pinpoints of light; shapes and figures abounded on the black canvas.

It was a hunt I saw. A chase. The hunter was after his prey, his back arched to steady his aim, an arrow nocked in his mighty bow and poised to release. The prey? I couldnt see the prey. It must be too far off. And the other stories distracted me.

There were shapes, changing form with every second glance. A turtle, small in a corner. A gigantic eagle, frozen mid-flight, streaking across the sky. The signs of the zodiac; I dont know how I knew them. But I knew each one.

I saw the one I wanted to see. The Aquarius. It sparkled in its complex arrangement, standing up on end. At once it seemed, the stars had taken their positions. The ones irrelevant dimmed to the background. Probably they moved into shadows or were taken offstage. The ones who mattered, the dancers, the actors, the cast, took the spotlights. I saw nothing else now.

I sat there, closer to the sky than I'd ever been, seeing the one tale unfold, admiring the one portrait on the largest blank frame. It didnt matter if I looked away or if I rubbed my eyes. The sky had frozen. There was only the one story on it now.

I have to tell him.


I have to tell him now. The waves will wash everything away. He must see it too.

I tried to get up in time. The wind had grown stronger. I held on to a pole, to support myself. And the waves struck. Suddenly, I was in turbulent, raging waters, holding on for my life. It wouldnt kill me, I knew. But it would wash away the sky. That too, somehow, I knew.

The waves passed me, their work done. I was on the floor again, looking up at the sky. My clothes were drenched, my hair wet and slick against my scalp. The sky was black and blank. It gave away nothing. The stories had been wiped clean.

I continued to sit alone, on the terrace of an unknown skyscraper, in an unknown city, wearing unknown clothes, for unknown reasons.

A cold wind blew against my face.

Monday, March 24, 2008

A Few Questions I Had In Mind

Why do you insist on making the most horrible mess of your food when you eat? Why does it have to be a volcanic formation of rice to begin with (the role of bubbling, molten lava henceforth to be played by dal)? Why does it end up scattered all over the place by the end of it all, like some absolutely huge, catastrophic eruption? Why are your hands covered in dal and bits of rice all the way to your elbows? Why must you make even the most gorgeous food ugly and terminally harmful to the sensitive eye?

Is it a strange sort of habit? That everything that must be beautiful and pretty and attractive and, if possible, smoking hot be turned into anything fat, repelling, and hideously ugly? Is that then the deal with your actresses in your Sandalwood movie industry? (thats what they call it, honestly)

You do realize I only ask because I'm finally frustrated and utterly at an utter loss to understand any sort of reasoning behind this? Why, why, why are they so big?? Why must they all be so indiscriminately fugly? Don't you know what fugly means? Is it some law somewhere that a leading lady can only become one if she possesses the qualities, the ruthlessness, the naturally suiting facial expression and the stomach capacity to eat away her entire competition?

Why are the guys so weird, so strange, so odd, so unfitting, so...Why are they now so ugly too? Why must they too be hideous? What is all this rigmarole? Some horribly messed up scheme to attract masses by showing them a creature clearly more abominable, but totally getting some over-the-top-cheek-pecking-running-around-dumbfuck-trees-while-fat-hippopotamuses-dance-around-him action? Is it really necessary, that big hairy moustache? Is it mandatory that the hero look worse than most villains' sidekicks? Is it compulsory for the hero to always only barely fit into his pseudo-70s line of apparel? Do you really just want me to feel even I could become a hero now? That so degenerate is my world? Or is it a compassionate measure on your gracious part to make me feel better about myself and my ilk?

Why is this damned film industry, called (and I re-iterate) Sandalwood, exactly 20 years behind Bollywood? Why is everyone draped in the fashion explosion brought about by the likes of an ageing Jeetendra, and a spirited-and-dashing-if-he-wasnt-carrying-that-tummy-around Govinda? Why do the girls wear frocks to college? Why do the guys don multicoloured lycra fit trousers? Why do the guys have great giant beards sometimes? Why do the girls have (traces of) great giant beards sometimes?

When I watch your television at railway platforms, only to get away from the unearthly noise the lady over the microphone is making I assure you, why does everything seem the same? How is it that everything is being sold/marketed/advertised in the exact same way? Be it an advertisement for a washing machine, or an invitation to a bumper sale carnival at a mall, why must everything have a huge song and dance with orchestra and dance-troupe complete?

And finally, why oh why oh why does your language have to be so outrageously alien?

I think you're conning us all, you people of South India. Hmm. Trying to get back for how the Aryans first made you run down south in shock and awe, cheated in the end as you realized the road was getting narrower and narrower and oh damn it thats what they meant by 'peninsula'?

Pretty sneaky that.

Monday, March 17, 2008


The author of this blog feels ignored and alone. And fancy words like forlorn.
He doesnt know if he'll have to learn fishing for food with a rudimentary spearing tool already, or if it can wait awhile.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

Its Been A Hard Day's Week

Oh god, I'm so tired.

But it was worth it. And the party afterwards, more than worth it. And the birthday location, even better.

Now to surrender to some slumber.

Saturday, March 08, 2008

Wazzup Pudgy-Wudgy?

Gymnasium (n.): A journey back to a dark age where muscle ruled over the mind, and dark-skinned, long-haired people with 72 biceps on each arm are allowed to stare at you until you hate your own guts.


Cannons to his right and cannons to his left,

Into the valley of Death,

Ride *gulp* I.

Actual, final survival being the optimism of a probably unsound mind, updates on this treacherous journey might be sporadic. Understand, sympathise, and mock not. Send flowers.

If all evidence of life ceases and a smell rises as though off the unwashed armpits of Death Himself, call an ambulance.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

A Victim Of Abuse

A multitude of cameramen begin clicking photographs as the bereaving C&B, looking grim yet still so dapper I must say, appears through the doorway. He is dressed in a grave navy blue suit and black trousers. The tie is matching. As are the socks. He takes his seat on the podium, his lawyer beside.

The press conference seems about to begin now. Let us join our press crew and see what he has to say about the incident which has so shocked the world.

*shuffling of seats as famous reporters from across the world stumble into their places*

Reporter #1: Could Mr. &B confirm the news about the abuse charges? Is it true that on the morning of March the 5th, he was indeed involved in... Well?

Reporter #2: And what exactly have been the ramifications? Is there substantial physical abuse?

Reporter #3: And the rumors about your having collapsed soon afterwards! We want a statement!

Lawyer: Yes well, before your questions, if I may speak.

A lot of talk has been generated about what occurred on the said instance. I am here, as supporting counsel to Mr. &B, to dispel the exaggerated rumours making the rounds.

And in the process I shall endeavour to provide the real truth about the incident which took place. I would also request the members of the press to exercise restraint in the precocity of their questioning, keeping in mind the delicate emotional status of my client. Your questions will be answered suitably once we issue our statement.

C&B: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I will try to keep this as short and simple as possible.

On Wednesday morning, the 5th of March 2008, I proceeded to give my Maths first sessional exam. I had studied what I could. And I had no idea of what was to follow. That this was to follow.

*wipes away a lone tear*

I sat there, in my innocence, not knowing what lay ahead. Not even knowing what it was that was developing around me. The pseudopodia that were engulfing us all who sat there. We just didnt see it. Then as I faced sum after sum, blow after blow, I realized all too late my inescapable situation. The paper, it, was raping me. For an hour my ordeal lasted. For an excruciating period of one hour, I was brutally and savagely assaulted by a paper whose might and whose strength I had not imagined.

I was violated.

Who's your daddy?, it asked me in a mocking tone. Who's your daadddy?

I tried my best to deny it, to fight back. It merely laughed. My struggles remained in vain. Overpowered, and drained of all my resilience, I admitted between quiet sobs - Bessel's function is.

The evil laughter crashed around my world. It was all that remained of my senses. The sound of that derisive laugh, and the pain.

Who's your daddy??, it asked me again, more rapturously this time. I could offer no resistance. Baye's Theorem of Probability integrated with Set Theory is, I whimpered back.

I begged and I pleaded. It wouldnt listen. I tried to gain some ground fighting back as I could. I think I conquered half a sum on probability. I dont remember. I may have lost that too. The monster had subjugated me completely.

Lawyer #1: Do you want to drink some water? You dont have to go through with it immediately. Perhaps another time?

C&B: No. Its alright. I'm almost done. Except...

I must make clear my own intentions. My conscience would never forgive me if I didnt. I must be honest. I went in with intentions of physical domination on my mind too.

I wanted to fuck the Math paper. To rape it even. I had dreamed of it that way through many a night. I thought I had it planned. I would corner it. I would give it no chance to get away. It would be my bitch. With my lust, my vigour and the speed of my intrepid integration skills, I would consume it. I would come outside then, flushed and joyous and victorious, and tell everyone around how I had raped it. How I had fucked it!

I suppose...*sob* life doesnt*sob* *sob* how...wethinkitwill!

*bursts into tears and uncontrolled shoulder-shakey-shakey crying*

Reporter #2: Sir...sir...If you could please tell us -

Lawyer: I am sorry. But for the sake of my client's emotional well-being, I shall have to end this press conference. Thank you for attending, ladies and gentlemen.

Monday, March 03, 2008

Picchur Ka Climax

He dropped his shield. It would weigh him down. He took off his helmet. It blocked his view. It wasn't any fear he felt. Only a heightened sensitivity of things around him. He was a Spartan, so it was alright for him to feel this way.

But this isn't how its supposed to work in real life, you know. Which is why I'm nervous slightly.

I'm nervous slightly that I'm not at all nervous in any way. The sessionals are upon us. And here I sit, unscathed and unaffected, two hours prior, not even feeling the slightest inclination to do some last minute revision.

I dont know yet, but I'll tell you what this means in the grand scheme of things - whether I'm a hero too, or just uncomfortably numb.