GOINDIGO.IN
Ha! That's like an oxymoron.
An oxymoron? No, you idiot, you mean palindrome. And it is not.
Isn't it? Just reverse it and ...
Nooo! It is not! Okay, take the syllables for one thing. GO-IN-DI-IN-GO would be okay. But it is not that. So, my first "Ha" to you comes about now. Ha.
Okkaaay. And...?
The letters, you douche. DI is not reversible. GO and IN aren't reversible. So, I give to you my last and final "Ha" just about now. Ha! In totality, a "Ha" and a "Ha" which makes a - Ha ha!
I see. Fine. Happy? Ruin everything. What do we do now?
What do you mean? We go back to counting number plates. Stop drifting so much.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
This I Say To You
The reason they shout, even when speaking into a mic, the reason they flash big bold letters in red blocks every 3 seconds and the reason their eyes always look ready to pop out in consternation and in shock 'n' awe is that news channels have created a world of their own (like Westlife did once very long ago) - everything is going by at the speed of light and only the flashy ones survive.
So news flashes in every 2 minutes. It glitters and it glows. Then before it can fade out, something more glittery comes in and takes away the spotlight. Maybe a kid fell into a well. Maybe a couple got beaten up. Maybe someone's dog looks cute.
All this is old news, of course. We know how jaded it is.
But I want to know what happened to the one terrorist we caught at Mumbai. Where is he now? What do they do to him? Does he say anything else? Does he dream of virgins in heaven? Does he try and break out of his cage? Is he in a cage?
These things fall out of the news channel radar. Once they're done pointing out (in shock 'n' awe) how he looks like every other teenager in every other respect except his shooting people down with guns, and after they find out he's from Pakistan, it's all done. Let the big boys handle it now.
But where is he put when they ask him to step aside (so that the big boys may handle it now)?
I hope they're putting him on a plane. With good food, comfortable leg room and one of those advanced auto-pilot features which would take him straight back to his country. And when the plane lands in the tarmac and his people come to graciously receive him with garlands and things, I hope they time a bomb to blow up the plane.
The last thing you would deserve is a shot in the head or a sentence for hanging. Big people would have to sit together, and set up a date and time. They would tell you they were doing this to you. You would wake up that morning and know you were doing. You would have the privilege of making your peace with your life and your death before it came for you. They may ask you for your last words. And when you breathed your last breath, you would know it was your last breath.
You should die without a residue. Without a deep last breath. Hopefully in the middle of a kind thought or a pleasant daydream in your head. Your death should be abrupt like that. And brutal enough to not take more than a millisecond. No chances for a last thought or a last look up to the sky.
You are somewhere close to my age. You dress the way I do. I cannot begin to imagine just how extremely different you are from me though.
Wherever you are (I do not know because you aren't a news item anymore) and whatever you're doing (which I also won't hear of unless you come up with another confession), I hope you hear me somehow, saying this to you.
Die.
So news flashes in every 2 minutes. It glitters and it glows. Then before it can fade out, something more glittery comes in and takes away the spotlight. Maybe a kid fell into a well. Maybe a couple got beaten up. Maybe someone's dog looks cute.
All this is old news, of course. We know how jaded it is.
But I want to know what happened to the one terrorist we caught at Mumbai. Where is he now? What do they do to him? Does he say anything else? Does he dream of virgins in heaven? Does he try and break out of his cage? Is he in a cage?
These things fall out of the news channel radar. Once they're done pointing out (in shock 'n' awe) how he looks like every other teenager in every other respect except his shooting people down with guns, and after they find out he's from Pakistan, it's all done. Let the big boys handle it now.
But where is he put when they ask him to step aside (so that the big boys may handle it now)?
I hope they're putting him on a plane. With good food, comfortable leg room and one of those advanced auto-pilot features which would take him straight back to his country. And when the plane lands in the tarmac and his people come to graciously receive him with garlands and things, I hope they time a bomb to blow up the plane.
The last thing you would deserve is a shot in the head or a sentence for hanging. Big people would have to sit together, and set up a date and time. They would tell you they were doing this to you. You would wake up that morning and know you were doing. You would have the privilege of making your peace with your life and your death before it came for you. They may ask you for your last words. And when you breathed your last breath, you would know it was your last breath.
You should die without a residue. Without a deep last breath. Hopefully in the middle of a kind thought or a pleasant daydream in your head. Your death should be abrupt like that. And brutal enough to not take more than a millisecond. No chances for a last thought or a last look up to the sky.
You are somewhere close to my age. You dress the way I do. I cannot begin to imagine just how extremely different you are from me though.
Wherever you are (I do not know because you aren't a news item anymore) and whatever you're doing (which I also won't hear of unless you come up with another confession), I hope you hear me somehow, saying this to you.
Die.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
To Nobody In Particular
How?? How do you turn any non-consequential, innocent term into a perverted sentence? How do you find sexual innuendos in everything, even something that's just so sweet? Shameless! Shameless!
How? How do you manage to turn every topic, no matter where it starts, to yourself? How does everything have to do with your life and your thoughts and what you got to eat the day before? I should ask you that.
But I don't.
How? How do you manage to turn every topic, no matter where it starts, to yourself? How does everything have to do with your life and your thoughts and what you got to eat the day before? I should ask you that.
But I don't.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Ten Reasons Why I WILL NOT Comb/Cut My Hair
1. The last time I ran a comb through it, it got caught in the brambles and came out twisted and shaking, whispering of a fell power deep inside whose horrors may not be described. Mysterious scratch marks of the beast, or its minions, marked it's formerly smooth facade. And no matter how much I beseeched it to, it would not go in again.
Sometimes it clatters and falls off the stand on to the ground, late at night, and lies there shivering with great force. Surely it screams too. Perhaps at ultra-sonic frequencies.
2. I have a homeless family living inside. They come out at night.
3. I'm against plastic. Say No to combs.
4. I could comb. But the only thing that would look nice would be the 'just-out-of-bed' look. I decided to keep that look natural.
5. Ah, my children. Oh, yes. The little ones have grown up now, haven't they? And like all teenagers, they rebel and they fight and generally not do what I say. But that's alright. I understand my duties. As long as they stay true to their roots, I don't push. As long as they stay clean, I let them find their own direction in the wind. Individuality, my dear, must not be lost.
6. Forgot to. Yes, again.
7. The Indian team hasn't stopped winning since I stopped combing. You want to mess the balance? Play with the hearts of a billion people? No? I didn't think so!
8. I saw Sweeney Todd. And that reminded me of Edward Scissorhands.
9.
10.
Cut it. Trim it. Chop it off. Do something about it. Please! Do not enter my office again until you have taken a good bath. Can't you at least comb it?
Having heard enough of this hateful and prejudiced dialogue , I ask everyone who has a problem with horribly mess hair to please ... takidango. Take it. And go. The problem, not my hair.
More excuses for why I shouldn't cut/comb my hair are welcome.
Sometimes it clatters and falls off the stand on to the ground, late at night, and lies there shivering with great force. Surely it screams too. Perhaps at ultra-sonic frequencies.
2. I have a homeless family living inside. They come out at night.
3. I'm against plastic. Say No to combs.
4. I could comb. But the only thing that would look nice would be the 'just-out-of-bed' look. I decided to keep that look natural.
5. Ah, my children. Oh, yes. The little ones have grown up now, haven't they? And like all teenagers, they rebel and they fight and generally not do what I say. But that's alright. I understand my duties. As long as they stay true to their roots, I don't push. As long as they stay clean, I let them find their own direction in the wind. Individuality, my dear, must not be lost.
6. Forgot to. Yes, again.
7. The Indian team hasn't stopped winning since I stopped combing. You want to mess the balance? Play with the hearts of a billion people? No? I didn't think so!
8. I saw Sweeney Todd. And that reminded me of Edward Scissorhands.
9.
10.
Cut it. Trim it. Chop it off. Do something about it. Please! Do not enter my office again until you have taken a good bath. Can't you at least comb it?
Having heard enough of this hateful and prejudiced dialogue , I ask everyone who has a problem with horribly mess hair to please ... takidango. Take it. And go. The problem, not my hair.
More excuses for why I shouldn't cut/comb my hair are welcome.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
take a chance with us
i could say so much
do say.
do say.
i'll blog it
but no one will read
coz no one reads anymore
life's too much na
who has time to stop running
who has time to stop running
to take a breath
to sit without a watch
and watch
the thoughts run by a thousand minds
and watch
the thoughts run by a thousand minds
wondering together..
why nothing ever stops
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Where's My Seat?
Is it panic? Is it the start of that life of "quiet desperation"?
Is it a sudden crash back to ground level?
The change in your expression in a flash of a second, as you realize everyone else has a plan already.
Do you choke? Or do you blink and take a step back? Maybe turn away so they don't see, or laugh along so they don't see?
What do you do when you find out their plans have no space for you? No room in the attic, no place in the back, no king-sized throne. No extra ticket.
Maybe you shouldn't have taken it for granted that you were 'in'.
See, everyone has their own plan. Even if they say they don't. And in that one flash of a moment, the image strikes you of deceit and rat-like scheming, of men huddled and conniving in the middle of the night, sharp pointy teeth and hands rubbing in glee, while you slept peacefully and unsuspectingly. They could have called.
But no. That's useless talk.
The point is, where will you go?
Is it a sudden crash back to ground level?
The change in your expression in a flash of a second, as you realize everyone else has a plan already.
Do you choke? Or do you blink and take a step back? Maybe turn away so they don't see, or laugh along so they don't see?
What do you do when you find out their plans have no space for you? No room in the attic, no place in the back, no king-sized throne. No extra ticket.
Maybe you shouldn't have taken it for granted that you were 'in'.
See, everyone has their own plan. Even if they say they don't. And in that one flash of a moment, the image strikes you of deceit and rat-like scheming, of men huddled and conniving in the middle of the night, sharp pointy teeth and hands rubbing in glee, while you slept peacefully and unsuspectingly. They could have called.
But no. That's useless talk.
The point is, where will you go?
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Why Won't You?
There is no strength in optimism.
A desperate, frantic attempt to claw at what's letting go of you.
Stretching your arms and your fingers to hold, for some more time perhaps, something which can't be with you, close and comfortable, without end.
Begging and pleading, ignoring fact and embracing fantasy, to have what you cannot.
There is strength in being able to let go.
All things leave. Let it go and be the same. Accept and forget and abandon. Be like it never was.
I would want to see you do that, someday.
A desperate, frantic attempt to claw at what's letting go of you.
Stretching your arms and your fingers to hold, for some more time perhaps, something which can't be with you, close and comfortable, without end.
Begging and pleading, ignoring fact and embracing fantasy, to have what you cannot.
There is strength in being able to let go.
All things leave. Let it go and be the same. Accept and forget and abandon. Be like it never was.
I would want to see you do that, someday.
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