The Sanctum

Welcome, traveller. This be the realm of Jay Niner, where everything be possible, and nothing ever happens. If, perchance, thou wisheth to tarry, then find thou a page from the Grimoire and read. For we are here in eternity, and we are in medias res.


Errant Thoughts

Errant thoughts ne'er did none any good.
But I guess for some brainstorming it's food.

There was a time when I was happy, and free
And now I can't three feet ahead see.

I decided to screw my life and my boss, not in that order
Hey, one was hopeless, the other sexy, I'm on the border.

And everyday brought me closer to my goal.
If only I could remember, I'd regain my soul.

After any amount of useless soulsearching
And meaningless poem-making.

Love's fine when all's well,
But never is one in love saved by a bell.

Which is probably why I left my last girl before things could get anymore serious than they already were.
For sure.

Bah, I's rambling to no tangible end of any hope.
My New Year's gonna be one for a sot, so lemme to a wineshop lope.

And get yourself one!
Old monk to Black Label or Chianti to go, it's all good when all's said and done.


Fuck this.

After three attempts at writing a decent blog, my language slips into something more comfortable. Why the fucking fuck would I wanna write something with my helluva english screaming "Read me!"?
Nah, I'll just write something fucking stupid.
The need to write a blog- the fucking basic idea-
There's always someone to take shit.
For every bakra in the world, there's two butchers. For every critic in the world, there's two bloggers.
But I ain't no such bloody blogger.
I ain't no one's bitch.

But then hey, that's just me.



Freedom of expression means I don't have to write anything.


Welcome to the Future

As I wrung the bike’s accelerator to zoom across the nearly empty road at what was usually a busy time, it occurred to me that I’d never reach the green signal in time. As a consolation prize, I stumbled into a pothole the size of a dog that had evidently been placed as a contingency plan for those who avoided the one right next to it. The sudden jolt shook me to my teeth.
Much of the road was the same; where the potholes did not appear, there were garishly painted to-the-point signs, which read, rather ominously, “Men at work.” It did not say, of course, that the men at work had decided to take a smoke. Thank you for smoking, men at work, we all know how much the roads depend on your smoking and imbibing of so much tea in a day.
On the other hand the roads were bustling with huge, lumbering trucks, maneuverable scooters and buzzing bikes. Nowhere was there any semblance of order in the cacophony of horns that sounded, regardless of any hospitals around. And when the green light decided to make an appearance, order be damned, we’re in a hurry. As it was, so it has been, so it will be. I realized that the problem was not with the potholes, or with the men at work, or with the usual lack of order at the traffic stops; people had simply stopped caring about the scooter/bike/car/truck/bus before/beside/behind them, and simply wanted to move on, to the next traffic stop, equally uncaring their surroundings and those in it. Welcome to the Urban Jungle. Welcome to the future of Mankind.
A vision of Kurt Wimmer’s Equilibrium (2002) connects with something in my mind. In the not-so-distant future, mankind undergoes a third world war, and to make sure a fourth doesn’t rear its ugly head, humanity as a whole (the government, to be exact) decides to put to mass effect an emotion-suppressing drug, effectively wiping out emotions such as hate, rage, anger, greed and so on. The “Father”, the one who established the system, remarks, “the price we pay for unceasing peace is to lose all of our emotions, including joy, happiness, peace, contentment…” The drug is effective enough that the Clerics, the effective police, don’t even understand why rebels keep animals as pets.
In our present condition, the drug isn’t needed here. People are rapidly becoming unfeeling blocks of ice, and soon, the terrorists will be redundant, wiped out by their own stupidity: converting mankind into numb animals incapable of feeling emotions which even animals can.
On a side note, animals evolve each and everyday, and it seems that the last dolphin wasn’t trying to communicate with scientists- it was actually laughing at humanity.


The Scribblings of a fucked mind

I'd often told people that I like to write. And the predictable question that follows is: what do you write?
I write fantasy. Why? Because I'm fed up with the shitfucked world. It's a pity seeing just how bad it's gotten.
My characters, they don't start off small like so many dark fantasy novels from so many authors- Lukyanenko, Jordan, Heinlein, le Guin, Erikson, and so on... while I appreciate their works, they have all tried to depict how their characters save the world through acts of unspeakable goodness.
Maa chudaye. My main characters start in places of power, stay there throughout the course of the story. They are utter and complete motherfuckers, and as such first-class fellows.
They are as far from good as they can get, and as far from mortality and morality as any psycho. They include: The Lord of Evil, or the Shadow Incarnate.
My favourites, Goldern aka Sharn Black, a sandrazor (a shapeshifter with the power to control air) who manages to increase his powers tremendously,
Jurai Qaan, a Wyrdmage (One who's forsaken the use of traditional magical energy and psionics to use the power of ancient wyrds).
Three of them, my personal favourites.
All three of them boast incredible power and an incredible need for entertainment. So they look to drink, fuck, smoke and snort the hell out of life. Occasionally doing some quest for the heck of it.
All three of them have cast aside the rules and regulations of society, living for themselves, fighting for entertainment in a world that, much in the style of Equilibrium, focuses on mindless tasks.
They live they way I would have dreamed of. In a way it's a release.

These three along with a multitude of idiots to populate the worlds I created. Maybe one of these days I'll put a chapter up on my other blog, thatoldtome.blogspot.


Oh, the miner, sixty-niner...

So yeah I decided to tailgate a bus. I don’t tailgate every bus, mind you, but this one attracted my interest, you’ll understand why. Perhaps you’ve seen it before, and paid it no more heed than a passing bus. But not me; I pay attention to details, and find meaning in the least of things.

 It gave me some food for thought; is my mind truly so focused on just one thing, and will it remain for so for the rest of my life? Will I keep seeing omens everywhere, my brain seeking out double meanings to words and 36 talkings? Am I to spend the rest of my years, or whatever’s left of them, in the pursuit of one single thing?

A noble goal to be certain, be so focused and determined. And on the wrong thing entirely…. but that’s just me.

I thought I’d share it. I guess I had my fun, you can have yours.

Good Shit = Bad Juju

To all y'all got good shit;
Excuse me while I throw a fit.
What's good in shit, there ain't one bit.
I'll tell ya why, come have a sit.

Any shit is bad, bad as bloody hell.
It's bad juju, and that ya can't sell.
It's what from an ass crack, fell.
Lord, save me, ring the fuckin' bell.

Fuck me and dope me; but lordy, spare me
From those shit-hitters, they're all around.
Why can't they open their eyes and fucking see
That shit ain't good, it stinks on the ground.

Lord, lord, deliver thy sheep
Let them on their cells page and beep
Let them every obscenity heap
But don't let them any kinda shit keep.

Why good shit? What started this revolution?
It's worse than "fuck", that's bloody absolution.
But I fear, 'tween all youth's confusion
Elders followed, lost in shit's infusion.

"Good shit," goes the word, without breaking a leg.
Good Lord, torture me, fuck me, dope me, I beg
But keep me from good shit, and give me a keg
Of good whisky, which is better any day,
I'll keep my smokes, my drinks and many a lay;
But from good shit, keep me away.
That's all, lord, that's what I pray.



"I so perfect I don't believe in narcissism."

"You want to know who one the lottery? It's the government after it takes its tax bite."

"Capitalism means you can sell shit to any motherfucker off the street and keep the profits to yourself."

"Communism: sell the shit until the government sells it for you."

"Fascism: We'll kill you if you sell shit."

"The rich man wants to be richer, the poor man wants to be rich. The guy who can sing, when he ain't got a thing, he's the king.... of the whole wide world."

"If at first you don't succeed, then destroy all evidence that you tried."

"Existentialism means nobody can fuck for you."

"I owe a lot to my parents. Especially my mother and father."

"I said NO to drugs, but they didn't listen."

"Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the former."

"Many wise words are spoken in jest, but they don’t compare with the number of stupid words spoken in earnest."

"There is a pleasure in madness, which none but madmen know."

"Life is shit. And we have all the time in the world to clean it up."



A commodity called innocence is all too rare these days, and scoffed at like the dickens. It's a true pity. We've all forgotten what it was like, when all we had was an overwhelming curiousity toward the world. We gave it up when we decided to "grow up". We sampled pleasures and troubles, got into scrapes, and generally fucked the hell out of life, and we're not even 30. It's a pity.
I dug this up from its notepad version. After some reformatting, I saw the date on the damn thing; 2000. When I was in the fifth class. My mom had helped me to type it out. I found it hidden among old files on the HDD, and after reading it, I fell into the blackest depression I'd ever known. The greatest fall hardest; it's truth.
I thought I'd come across a lot of examples of life's depressions. But this was worse. I felt like my fifth-class self had dug himself out of whatever grave I'd buried him in, like Jason Vorhees, and come back, not to murder, but to laugh and scorn.
This was what I found.

Things I want to do
1 Drive a roadroller
2 Go to Kerala
3 Visit a circus
4 Drive a truck
5 Become a pilot
6 Catch fish
7 Have my own dog
8 Have a cat
9 Go to Wadali
10 Drive a tractor
11 Drive a bulldozer
12 See a tank
13 Get sick so I can stay home
14 Play longer
15 Write a book
16 Go to a library
17 Walk to school
18 Get a telescope
19 Get a binoculars
20 Get a gold ring
21 Get an ink pen
22 Read books all day
22 Have my own library
23 Go to Nagpur
24 Go to a circus
25 Meet a joker
26 Go to a church
27 Go to a mosque
28 Go to China
29 Go to a party with everyone in my family
30 Get a bigger bed
31 Get a sword
32 Ride a horse
33 Walk to Chikhaldara
34 Catch a train on my own
35 Go to New Zealand
36 Go to Italy and the Church
38 Go to Sicily
39 Go to Easter Island
40 Change my table
41 Get an architect set
42 Get a paintboard
43 Get a paintbrush
44 Paint
45 Paint a wall
46 Walk on my hands
47 Go to the moon

Like I said, innocence. Look back, people. Look back and remember. And when you remember, wonder; would your past self laugh their asses off?



Y does it happen?
I keep wondering that all the time.
May, 2005. I pick up a book, "More Wit", by Des Machale, and read. At the time I was going through the first of my tentative attempts at a relationship. One quote caught my eye:
"Peter Sellers had four wives and eight heart attacks."
Sometimes I wonder, why do we descend to that level, where we realize that we need more than our friends, and look for something deeper with the opposite sex? Y does it happen?
The X and Y chromosomes have brought with them a range of unanswered questions. Our other friends, the ones that roam around in jungles and water, the animals, are no doubt laughing their heads off, watching our daily lives. My own dog, grinning at me when I had to go through all sorts of problems. Somewhere, out there, someone's watching us. And laughing his butt off.
You've seen Watchmen, read the comics. The Comedian understood that inside everyone is an animal, and he chose to become a representation of the savagery inside.
Sometimes I wish I could travel back in time, and shoot the sonofabitch homo whateverculus that kick-started the evolution process. Without him, all this would have never existed. I wouldn't have been sitting here writing a blog, giving my exams. Think of all the problems that would have been solved worldwide.

Darwin-sama: I have read your Origin of Species. Was evolution really necessary?
Darwin-sama, I have a better question- Is de-evolution possible? Can we revert back? Please say it is so.

This is the Y generation. For every answer we have a dozen questions. Y?

Y not?



Everyday, I'd go down the stairs and see something that I valued to no small extent. It was my means of escape when things got rough. I took it for granted and fucked it like hell.

Yet it stayed with me until it gave out.

Well, it's back. And my salvation is once more ready and waiting.

My scooty. It was my one means of escape from the dreariness that surrounds Viman Nagar. With it, the world is literally at my hands, and the road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began. Yet every morning I remember one thing that I must not forget.

"Did I fill petrol?" The eternal question. My scooty is Murphy's Law personified.

I'm sure y'all are familiar with it: "Anything that can go wrong, will." And my scooty has tried its level best to uphold that law. A stalwart effort, I'd say, if it didn't piss me off at the primal level. After all, if a man can't move, why the hell does he have two legs?

To drag the scooty, of course. When there's no petrol in it. A just cause. Very reasonable.

Alright, here's one of my most famous examples. Shastri Road in Pune is beyond Deccan. It's where I had my NGO internship. A forty-five minute drive that I had to accomplish in twenty.

One fine morning I woke up with that feeling which says, nothing in this world can go wrong today.

Ergo, as a consequence, everything that could, at any level, go wrong, did. Traffic jams. Signal stops. Police bribes. Babewatching. And the eternal struggle: to bunk or not to bunk.

But stalwartly stupid as I am, I ploughed on resolutely. My scooty, unfortunately, had other ideas. It gave way around Deccan. And Deccan at ten-thirty is not the best place to be with a non-functional scooty. Deccan at ten-thirty in the middle of a traffic stop with two shitfucked members of our esteemed fuzz is worse. I cartwheeled it fast as a hare to a nearby parking lot.

Evening came while I fretted over what to do. My two traits of Stupidity and Stubborness collaborated evilly, misleading my mindfucked brain to think that pushing it all the way home was a good idea. After all, it was only seven-thirty. On a rainy evening in June. With loadshedding cutting off half the street lights. And the mindfucked members of Pune trying to return home. And then some.

So I pushed, like Beowulf pushing Grendel off a cliff, like Wile E. Coyote pushing the rock into the abyss, only to follow it sometime soon.

Two gruelling hours later, I left it at SIMC. Maa chudaye.

I walked home in a daze, and my sister, never one to avoid stating the obvious, from her perch on the diwan with the remnants of her tea and snacks, delivered the final and ultimate blow, these syllables that cut straight to the remnants of my tired heart: "You look like shit."

There you have it. An unremarkable ending to an unremarkable day. I suppose I should thank the almighty for the exercise and be done with it.

It was a fucking stupid waste of my time. But it taught me something. You want to know what?
I wish I could remember. I collapsed into bed with a bottle of DSP Black. A consolation prize.
"The scooty. Both my blessing and my bane.

I thought, when on my bed I had lain,

Kya yaar, aaj ka to pata nahi.

Chalo kal upay dhundenge sahi.

Aur kya bolu, except what the bloody fucking fuck?.

Ye chamanchutiye ka kharab hai bad luck.

But in any case, this was one of those times.

When my mind overflows with such bloody rhymes.

And I wonder,

When, outside, Viman Nagar sukhois tear the sound barrier asunder,

That such a question could come, when I was so tiredly coughing,

Why, in this candy-ass, shitfucked, cocksucking life, am I laughing?"


The other one

I decided to put up another blog.
For no reason. I had a lot of stories in my head, I guess, and no distractions to keep them in.
I like to write. But more importantly, I like to write comedy, or even wisdom, if I can, but these are my oldest fare, some of them written during my bad times.
Which means they're mostly about suicide, murder, endless life, endless torture, incest, rape, bondage....
But I'm working very hard to get back on track and I'm trying my utmost best not to take life too seriously.

The site is still under construction, but it's ready enough to be read.
Comments'd be appreciated. Because they're stories, not blogs, and any story deserves criticism.
After all, "God made from his best materials, an Artist, and from whatever rubbish was left, He made three critics."



Social Disconnection

A few days ago I went to see a film, 2012 at around 10.45 in the night. Not my usual timing, but I figured, why not? After all, the semester is at an end. Ergo, my brain mustn't go around the bend.
But I figure it would be useful to me to go utterly without facebook, orkut, twitter, myspace, shelfari, wayn, blogspot, cheathappens in particular and the internet in general.
But where is this going, you might ask. Therefore without further randaapa, I'll present the best part of this blog.
The best part of this blog is :



Judgement Day

And so, from the dark dungeon of nothingness, creativity reared its tentative head, trying to penetrate the thick darkness that shrouded its vision, veiling its sight. But yet it revelled, for now in nothingness something had been born after all.


When I first heard about it, I regarded it as an assignment. Professional mode, no pleasure.

When, today, on the day of judgement, Qayamat, we all assembled in the bleakness of the college, to fine-tune whatever efforts we'd made so far, my opinion of it has changed little. It amazes me that people can both descend and ascend to such levels that would, in the excessive doses of such behaviour which I have been spoon-fed so far, lead to disintegrative mindfucking.

The concept in itself revolves around a modern-day version of the Ramayan. Or is it the Mahabharat? My mythology is all fading away into that slimy stuff brains are made of. Grey cells in greyscale. What with so many versions of the same thing taking root in different cultures. The Illiad and its heroes vs. the Ramayan. Troy vs. Ceylon. Gah. Leave history to the historians and assignments to the students. What else is there in life?

Feeling like some sort of satyagrahi, a feeling arises in my chest, which I know to be dangerously disastrous; cruel neutrality. The world can fuck itself for all I care. This same bloody feeling has gotten me into trouble so many times, I can't keep count anymore. The mere fact that I'm so calmly writing a blog minutes before Qayamat comes into its full glory scares me. Something will happen today. Something big. This is not the same happy something, like India gets independance, hurrah.

No. This is a bad feeling. Like the Spanish Inquisition, here comes the Hindenburg. The Jallianwalla Bag incident. Bad, with a capital B.

But the show must go on, the violinist said when the phantom of the opera dashed around and scared the orchestra out of their wits. So he played, solitary as the eagle that soars in the wide open sky. So the show went on and he went to his grave with a slit neck. Qayamat, you were judged unworthy.

What more can I say. Let's see how this pans out. Whether we will ascend to the high heavens or drop down to the pits of hell. Or, knowing us, whether we'll even budge an inch from this earthy existance.

The play has my blessing, and that of all those who put their heart and soul in it. Today on Qayamat, heroes will rise. Legends shall be made. And marks shall be awarded.


"Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of hell."

- The Charge of the Light Brigade, Alfred Tennyson


So seldom self-deprecating, still slightly reciprocating.

I often wonder.
I do that a lot, and then ponder.
On the exact purpose of doing so.
It doesn't achieve anything, yet this I do.
It depresses me terribly.
It angers me horribly.
Until I have to, forcibly,
Write it in a blog.
I'm a dog.

Why a dog, you may ask, out of the hundreds of beings that inhabit this confusing world, in this time.
Why not, I reply, at a dime.
What's stopping me from writing absolute bullshit.
Maybe the realization that I'm a git.
An absolutely dysfucktional, true-blue asshole. Of the first class. There aren't many like me around.
Whose heads are so firmly rooted to the ground.

I wish I could fly.
Or at least die.
If I died, perhaps my soul would fly among the cloud-cover that deposits alluvial deposits of acid rain in one part of the world or another.
But I've got a fear of heights, so I'd not rather.
It's fucking nonsense, I fear.
Trembling ramblings of a thirty-something, give me my beer.
Or a simple vacation would suffice.
But even there, the greens do not play dice.

Life is a random sequence of events. It is complicated but livable.
But taking your own by committing the act of suicide is at best sueable.
But then it's at least doable.
Hahahahahah, this post's utterly shittable.
I knew it; I've wasted precious minutes I'll never get back.
But it matters little to me. An epicurean by behaviour, I hardly bother about old father time coming knocking at my crib in the wee hours of the evening. He can hit the sack.
I'm not getting up for every idiot that tries to rouse me, nope.
Because it's not cool and it's not dope.
Even if that old geezer's the pope.

So far, I'm sure you've understood that this blog's not going to get anywhere in a million years. How could it? It's on the web. Stuck.
Like my life is, which I'd sell to make a fast buck.
Maybe I'm not that desperate.
Or maybe I don't have even the slightest inclination to, for all the years of my life, give something back, reciprocate.
Fuck me. I'm high.
That's all right. I'm low once more, I thought I was going to die.
Then I remembered dear old college.
Which is supposed to be a provider of good purpose (which is to serve the nation to the best of our abilites; are we really that selfless?) and knowledge.
Good riddance to bad rubbish, and not often in that order.
Why, they tell us to alter colours, read strategies on how to sell people things, when the best way is actually to hold a gun to their head and get them to buy it. Kotler can kiss my ass, I prefer Don Corleone. They even teach us to add a fancy border.
And then some.
I'm glum.

Now I'm hungry. My stomach rumbles like a bear, all old and shaggy and flapping and happy.
Happy about what? My own brain is a little gappy.
Oh, that's right, you're going to be fed. Mister, live on beans and hard tack. Or smoke.
Because you're not getting to eat anything even if I have to choke.
One more meal missed while I write this blog.
Is it large enough, the size of a dog, or a log?
Sorry, someone pass me a light, I'm lost in a swampy bog.
I wish I were a hog.

What's to wish, my heart says. You're already one.
Go away, I reply. You've been no help at the end when all's said and done.
Three heart-aches you've given me. You aren't entitled to an opinion. You're a bad judge of character.
Or else a really good actor.
In either case, fuck off, I've got no time for bodily functions that don't help me.
You're part of the problem when you're not a solution, see?
Now my fingers are tired.
By giants was I sired.

Not real giants, mind you, those ones with tall figures and those huge clubs with which they'd go knock, smash, knock.
No, these are the educated giants. They go tick tock.
Like those clockwork toys we used to play with when we were kids.
When we used to put the salt in the pepper pot and just for the heck of it replace the lids.
Ah, it was fun.
 I wish I had a bun.

Go away. I'm sick of rhyming. I honestly don't know why the hell I decided to type.
And I absolutely hate to use modern day softwares where people keep bobbing up like jackrabbits whenever you go online. Like skype.
This needs an ending, what have I been thinking.
I've been in nonsense sinking.
You better not.
So for the interest of your sanity, leave this post.
Risen up and gone has your host.
Because this is an unending entry.
I could keep writing until I get dysentry.
Then I'd probably carry the pc into the bathroom and proceed to type from there.
And both of us, me and you, reader, would badly fare.
So goodbye, khudafis, and as the french say, ... what did they say? I seemed to have forgotten.
My french is as bad as my brain, whisky-sodden.


Absolute Nonsense Part 1: Smoke.

The Smoker's Prayer:
"Smoking does kill"
They say, and "deliver it will
To you an early death;
And the last smoke will be your last breath."

Well, fuck them, I believe in my smoke
I believe in it much more than my two-thousand rupee coke.
That, famously came in a shoe-polish box. And those who don't agree can choke
Or in a red, violent, chaotic bloodbath soak.

Because I'm not alone in this whole wide world with all its smokers who like to smoke on and on and on.
But the age of arguements is not yet gone.
So, "Thank you for smoking," I say.
To those who light another, not yet done is your day.
Until the anti-smokers are completely silenced will we continue
So that they'll finally shut up and then the cig companies sue.

But that day is long in the coming.
And in my pocket my cig-box keeps drumming.
Draw another, it says evilly, and rot to your core.
Ha ha ha, I laugh just as evilly, and draw one more.

Smokers reunite!
Smoking our birthright,
Find someone who doesn't, it's a sight!
And offer them one in the night.
Where no one else will see,
So that they will another smoker be.
And go on with a satisfied laugh, he he he.
For you have paved the way to progress.
And all your past sins are in the shadow by your latest transgress.
And when Satan comes laughing in his glory,
God will say, well, didn't I tell you the dead smoker's story,
We'll say screw you both, give us some space.
And fellow smokers, pick up your pace.

"This poem was written for entertainment purposes only. Enjoy if you're a smoker, and if you're not, screw you."



And so it one day came to pass
That our young hero did kick his elders' ass.

Therefore screwing himself good at the end of one long semester
He entered the black book by his behaviour, his name in that dreaded register.

Yet he never lived life, he kept on fucking it, so he said,
And he shouted it out loud, give it to me, baby, I'm ready in bed.

So the aforementioned elder took him out, singled him, crucified him, and dragged him to tell.
And so wonderfully damned him to hell.

One little phone call, that was his downfall.
He grabbed some ass, but the shark came to visit, and in so doing, the shark stood tall.

Shouted some choice comments, showed some choice sarcasm
While smilingly dragging him down into the chasm

Where hell joins hell, and fucked life up for him,
And sewed her back up, so his days grew immensely dim.

All the while his friends BC'd, and he did it with them
So passed his time in that one last sem.

He wrote some blogs and walked on, with his crazy smile.
He smiled knowingly, for he knew he walked the green mile.


The "Fuckfree" post

One of my readers, she dryly commented: "Hey, you're always writing fuck in  each post."
Alright, I'll sweep without even once fucking from coast to coast.
Let me assure you that you won't see "fuck" even once in this one
'Cause this is the Fuckfree post, when all's said and done.

People keep wandering in circles and swear "fucking shit".
But little do they know that such stuff won't be tolerated today, no sir, that's writ.
So read on this post that I'm having to knit.
'Cause this is the Fuckfree post, so come and read, have a sit.

In the end what does it mean this one single syllable
Does it mean that while you can do it, you're not supposed to say it out loud, and then by religion, it shouldn't be done even while it's doable?
While boys and girls doing it among themselves is sueable.
But I'm not touching that, this is the Fuckfree post, and I'm affable.

I'll admit, to not say such a word is not as tough as I thought
Saying "Fuck" is risky, and in front of faculty and elders, it's trouble cheaply bought.
Because then they say, why, weren't you anything taught?
No sir, I was, which is why I'm writing a Fuckfree post, so that I shan't be caught.

So, mon cherie, mademoiselle Fernandes, do not worry
This post is for you, and I'm following this regime to the absolute dot
And if the word "fuck" appears even one in its intended context, feel free to under common sense this young sot bury.
And forget not that even in a Fuckfree post, I can twist things, sometimes a little, sometimes a lot.

Anything else ya'd want me to omit? Comments will be taken under advisement.


Hell of a day

And it all ends as it began: "You're listening to SymbiFM powered by 94.3 (pause) Radio One (pause), Max. Music Fatafat!"
And that was so irritating, and I wished for anything, but
To say it one more time would have invited torture from hell
And I'd have even put up with daily class, and been saved by a bell
But if it hadn't ended, Jaydev Nair would have been a hermit
And he'd have got a fucking permit
To go lock himself in a frigging bloody hut
Probably even in bed with a noisy slut.

Maybe that went too far, I'm willing to moderate
But my temper has not yet decided to saturate
Right now it feels like a dragon's in my head
Oh, shit, that's my mom, she sees this and I'm dead.
I thought I wouldn't live life, I'd just fuck it
The industry I visited did say "suck it.
"Suck it for all it's worth, ya bloody moron.
Or we'll drown you and immerse your assets in boron."

I thought I wouldn't fuck life, I'd live it
And then the industry I visited sucked it away, bit by fucking bit.
What did I get, apart from almighty experience
Was that if I wanted to survive, to hell with humanity, I'd hafta march in cadence.

Ogden Nash, Ogden Nash,
Would you say I was brash?
Maybe I did just in a bunch of meaningless rhymes crash
Awww, hell, I'd rather at Wolf night bash.
Drink in one hand, dance in one leg
And then for a hangover I'd just beg.
Wouldn't I?


Nothing to do

"There is absolutely nothing to do," I proclaimed to the world at large.
It paid me about as much attention as did a makeshift barge.
"This world is a bore" said I without enthusiasm
Plunging sideways into boredom, such a chasm.

And I did swim, without hope nor zest,
But I did seep into idleness, without any rest.
So I waited and watch'd, feeling like Rorschach
And for a solution to my boredom I did my brains rack.

And what came out? Absolutely nothing.
Feeling tired once more, I lapsed into something
Resembling my former agony, my unfettered vice
Of getting bored, with neither cards nor dice.

And so I was back to square one
Tryina shoot that damn sonofagun
He never stood in one place long enough
He liked to keep things ruff and tuff.

Tryina resolve this bloody boring world
And find the fucker whose paws are curled
Around the instrument of my relief
To find pleasure and fun beyond belief.

Some advice would be incredibly handy
Nay, it'd be fine and dandy
But if not to speak you come
Then fuck off, or bring some rum.

Unusually untitled

So that's it, I guess. One lakh per year. One of the world's most expensive extended vacations, ya know? They call it SIMC. Although I'm not one for bad language, I'd call it "S**tf**ked Institute for the Mentally Challenged.
Yeah. That's how it is.
Ya come at 9 in the morning, and.... what? That's the order of the day. 9 in the morning and give your exams, then ya leave. Why? Cause it's a holiday, no classes.

Life's a bitch, but it's an extended vacation,
Yessir, you don't forget to pack your ration
Feel the air, and the water, feel the fire
There's smokes and whisky, take ya higher
But what am I saying, I, a chutiya, a liar
I'll just go heat myself in front of a dryer.

Take a break, take a kitkat
Pick up your ball and ya bat
A few rounds...
Then tell me, haven't you run agrounds?
Haven't ya thought, whassup?
Yo, B Dup, waddup
We ain't nothing but bitches, homie
Went out on a ball, so we
Stepped back for the next generation
Thinking they were the new sensation
We brought 'em back down
Taught 'em the basic verb n' noun
And we established the rule
"No mercy for the fool."

And after all that, we back to square one
Cause, homie, when all's said n' done
Life's one bitch, one extended vacation
For one more year, I need more ration.


Enemy of the State: part 1 of 3

The man was average. The word fitted him like a glove; there was nothing that stood out about him. He lived the Indian Dream- family, car and computer, two kids and a decent lifestyle.
So, one day, this man was returning from work for lunch. He stopped at a bank, intending to take some money out. And as he stood in the queue, six men entered the bank. They were big, and burly, but that never worried anyone. But when they took out several masks, and guns, and knives, that set off the panic.
And people got shot. The man didn't, to his credit. He raised his hands, asking himself, like everyone else around him, "Why me?" One of the goons asked him back: "Why not?" The biggest of the group, he was the one getting people on the floor, pushing them to the walls and molesting some of the women there.
Outside, the police had already surrounded the bank. In their haste, the goons had forgotten to take care of the guard outside. Wisely he had alerted the police.
A rapid exchange of hindi followed, which the man wasn't able to catch, but he got the gist of it.
He- they- were hostages. And these people would kill first and ask questions later.
Three hours into the situation
The situation, if anything, had gotten worse. One by one, the hostages were getting shot by the leader, after every disagreement with the police. By now, the police had become a willing slave to the goons' demands. And there were still fifteen hostages left. Outside, the babble was deafening- news crews were everywhere, covering everything. To make matters worse, a bus had crashed into a truck, which in turn had been hit by several bikes, and the police cruiser that was supposed to deliver the reinforcements had been forced to halt because of a traffic jam. In short, India was being itself.
Which didn't help the police- or the hostages- or the goons- a bit. So they all got furious, except the hostages. The goons took it out on them, and the police took it out on their own hostages- the audience the spectacle had gathered.
The man and the hostages had been placed under the care of the big guy, who was sadistic to a fault. He fit the goon image, the man thought. So the situation couldn't be worse.

(to be contd. next time I visit blogspot.)


News Flash

NEWS FLASH: Your life has reached absolutely nowhere.
The first words I heard when I woke up.
Which perhaps explains why I write such blogs, which get absolutely nowhere.
Take a hike. Because I know I am.

"Life's a bitch..."
Okay, that's it. I'm not in a mood to compose some sort of flowery poem right now, no matter how full of bad language it may be.
So... some advice.


A scenario set

A little exercise I constructed in my precious free time. Feel free to enjoy it.
The scenario: Driving along at a steady pace along a busy road, a cigarette in your hand that’s nearly finished. Chuck it away after a last breath. It happens to hit somebody. What’s your reaction?
Indifferent: Do I look like I care?
Rude: Ten points!
Apathetic: Idiot had to stand in the way.
Sympathetic: Hope it didn’t hurt.
Regretful: Oh no, he’s going to come after me!
Playful: Hmm, let’s play a mind game.
Flirtatious: (And this is only if it’s for the opposite sex) I apologize sincerely- and I’ll apologize more over a cup of coffee.
Aggressive: You stood there!
Argumentative: Was it my fault you were standing there? Was it?
Assertive: I’m terribly sorry, but I didn’t know you were there.
Terrified: Oh, Christos, I’m dead!
Confused: Hmm, did it hit anybody?
Interested: Who did it hit?
Inquisitive: Does he/she know me? Do I know them? Do they know so-and-so?
Scientific: What was the speed of the cigarette in relation to my own and theirs? The angle of curvature?
Cool: Relax, dude. Mistakes happen. Chill out.
Hopeful: What’ll he say?
Stressed: I’ll give him a piece of my mind.
Numb: Who? What? Where?
High: Dude, I hit somebody!
Low: Like I care.
Observant: What’re you wearing and where’d you get it?
Blank: What just happened?
Perverted: Where did it… touch?
Be my guest and add any other scenarios you feel like adding. After all, this could happen to anyone at anytime.


It's a dog's life.

Ah, monday morning blues. I love for the moment.
'What a wonderful world...' Louis Armstrong crooned in the corner. I threw the remains of last night's drink at the laptop.
I barely managed to catch it in time, and glared in succession.
At the laptop.
At Armstrong's screwed-up expression.
At myself in the mirror.
At nothing in particular.
I glared some more just 'cause I could.
FYI, if this is boring you, I don't give a fuck.

But I'm drifting off-topic. My life is sad. So is yours, or you wouldn't be here, reading this blog. It's the Blog Per Se, for fuck's sake. I blog for the blog's sake.
It's my life. And now, go back and see the dog on the couch.
What's his life?
Wake up. Eat. Play. Sleep. Then the vicious cycle starts again. It's a dog's life.
HA HA HA. It's THE life!
People take care of you all day long. They get you to wake up, entertain ya. Feed ya, and wipe your mouth if you're being messy. Plus you have an excuse for all the bad behaviour in the world. Plus don't even get me started on bestiality.
Fuck being rich, I'd rather be a dog.

"Ol' kids in their play,
But the dog has his day.

The youth in their cool
But the dog's no fool.

People work everyday their life
Dogs sleep through trouble n' strife.

The second childhood old age may be
But the dog's childhood is forever, see.

Fuck this world and this time
I'd be a dog, I wouldn't need ta rhyme."


The thing about life...

Life is a lot of things.

Life is a world.

Life is like a movie.

Life is like a game.

 Life is happening.

Life is to be observed.

Life is action.

Life is fast.

Life is hard, but....


And as for you....




Utter Idiocy/ Ah, back in the 502 again

It was a gloomy day in a gloomier month in a gloomier semester. Everything was in shades of monotonous sepia. Tchah. I swept the assumption aside and everything, with a jolt of reality, slid back into focus. The first sensation that followed was the burn mark on my fingers, where the cigarette had burnt itself to nothing.
Then I got up, shedding the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes. Then to the bathroom. Basin, wash, brush. Yawn.
Outside, a crow came and cawed until I threw the ashtray at it. The blasted bird flew off with an annoyed caw, then flapped away, presumably to annoy the other denizens of my apartments.
SHIFT-FOCUS to my personal ghost. That's my sister, barking orders in that endearing way of hers. I dressed quickly, to avoid more damage to my senses, which are always at their most tender in the morning. Retrieving my bag and its assorted contents from the niches and most unlikely crevices of my bachelor pad, I settled down to eat. Then I made the worst mistake in my life so far; I checked the time. Ten twenty-five. No breakfast for this starving stomach.
SHIFT-FOCUS to the annoyingly bright symbol of boredom in this world- "
SYMBIOSIS". Two minutes left. Typically, the lift was out when I reached it. That when the irresistable urge comes to murder something/someone with my ever-handy switchblade. Nah. Too many witnesses.
Then, with four seconds to spare, I checked the schedule. 502; photoshop. Ah, back in the 502 again, hounded by the five-one-oh of the college; the Thin Man. With a second to spare on my watch, I smiled hopefully as the photoshop expert cooly slammed the door in my face, then snarled and swore for all I was worth.
Well, now at least I had time... for breakfast and a blog.

"Father time's a flighty guy,
He's got places to see and sigh
He ain't got no time for me,
I'm just myself, see.

"502's just the place to be
If in attendance lies your glory;
Or if, like yours truly
You perchance arrived early
And missed entrance;
Have breakfast, that's the penance.
Bloody hell and murder on my mind
As I chewed and spat on juicy rind,
I wondered, but once more
How utterly idiotic this is to the core.
And are you any different, I ask.
Just wait, I'm taking you to task.

"Father Time's a flighty guy
He's got places to see and sigh
He ain't got no time for you.
So go and your thing do."


Unusually untitled

'Life, for the lackwit, is a tangled mess.
For the intelligensia, it's filled with cess.'
Thus thinking, I rose to the dawn,
Looking out on a dirty lawn.
I sighed, half-heartedly as before.
And for nobody's sake, sighed more.
Another day in another year,
Another smoke and another beer.

Outside, chaos reigns, relentless.
A day twisting into chaotic mess.
I keep walking, ignoring, smoking,
Watching disaster and calamity flirting.
It's odd that at the end of the day,
When everyone's done and had their say,
I have something at least to write.
An empty blog to set right.

Thanks for reading! Now get the heck out of here.



When you can fall down so far,
And to hang on there's nary a bar,
Or to rise so high,
To earthly barriers say good-bye.
And touch and recieve the light of heaven,
Even as you are condemned to the depths of hell.
I look but don't see;
I hear but don't listen.
I think but never realize,
Therefore I act but never actualize.
I am, for now and ever
Or perhaps, always and never
The one and only eager beaver
The forever unique Jay Nair.
Age no bar.
Not for you, saar.
In your fancy car.
Eating cookies out of jar.
What the heck, yaar.
Aur kitna rhyme karvayoge?
A few random poems for the heck of it. Enjoy, or don't.



It's when you're so seriously pissed off that you achieve an emotional high like nothing granted by the inebriation of quality liquor or cigars, or even any sort of psychotropic drug.
You feel the need, more than the freedom, to do something so crazy that you'll regret it for days following the incident. The thought of a crazy aftermath is what will deter you for a moment, but never for long. And then, you begin your planning.
So calm, so quiet. Lying down I remember my emotional high, drowning in the smoke of a dozen-odd cigarettes. All sorts of thoughts invade my mind as I sink into my self-imposed hell. And a repertoire of quality activities begin to make their appearance into the visible spectrum.
  1. Kidnap Barack Obama? Too expensive, plus I don't have a passport on moi right now.
  2. Kiss the president? Nah, her husband owns the college I did my +2 in.
  3. Bring along hell on earth? Too much effort.

Then what? I ask myself. Can't I come up with anything else, anything within the scope of my current state? Then finally a revelation comes in the form of a hammer that hits me like ten thousand flowerpots falling from a seventy-floor skyscraper at the speed of light.

Of course. So simple. The meaning of life. Elvis resurrected. Jesus on earth once more, the second coming is nothing to this.

Finally something within the scope of my power.

Why don't I just write a blog.



When chaos reigns and trauma rules
When trouble over your boots drools
It's time to bring change along
Wish for it with a smile and a song.
And why not. It's been some time since fallen angel had enough of the annoying little cynic he called his host. Now that he's quiet, it's time for that much-deserved change.
A beautiful day. Seems almost a shame to ruin it with my worldly worries.... yet such is my fate. Photoshop beckons me to a computer, almost as if by magic. Unwilling I go, and manage to scrounge up something resembling, in my extreme unluck, a five-point something. On my better days I'd have cheerfully whisked it into the trashcan, claiming at least eight for my trouble, yet today, a foully evil blackness that tends to deposit itself on that morass I call my brain. Don't take me wrong, I'm fond of my nicotene-inebriated, whisky-sodden morass. Even if it is a morass, it's all I have to bring my literary marvels to fruitition. Obviously you wouldn't be reading this otherwise.
To keep it short and sweet: this is the first of my changed blog. Let's see just how much I can mess with your mind, my devoted reader. If you stumbled over what I came up with, this is just the beginning... ha ha ha.


Lust for life

‘Love is for the losers.’

Oh, yes. I remember that dull afternoon, when I sat in one of those bloody coffee shops in which one is subjected to sit indefinitely and waste around two or three hundred bucks of his sister’s salary and, of course, a lot of sunlight.I could have done the same thing at much less cost at home, the clear difference being I wouldn’t be arguing what appeared to be a perfectly useless subject: Human behaviour in general and love in particular, with this girl who looked like a model and acted like a devil.

She snapped her fingers, her green eyes seething with anger, but her face flushed with what I hoped was challenge. Or, if I was particularly lucky, the wish to get going as far away from this annoying worm as possible. The feeling was mutual.‘Love is for the losers?’ she nearly spat. ‘Oh, right. Maybe it’s because you’re way too shy to go find some of your own.’ Laughing mirthlessly, I pointed at the pair of lovers who were a step away from entangling themselves in their partner’s arm. Perhaps two steps away from stripping down and making love right here. Except this was India, and Indians are rather conservative.I adjusted my perpetually falling spectacles as she subsided slightly, taking her point as proven.

‘Look at those two. They’re so much in each other’s arms. Love.’ I took out my switchblade, and very stylishly- or so I thought- let the blade swing out.‘Now, suppose I went and tied up the boy and let him watch as I cut up the girl, one stab at a time.’ She paled slightly. ‘What do you think would happen? Assuming I did that.’

‘He’d kill you.’

‘To accomplish what? She wouldn’t come back.’

‘We’re straying off the subject. What are you trying to prove here?’

‘Equilibrium, starring Christian Bale, has a rather interesting concept: the future of humans is to cast away their emotions. As a result, the main character, Cleric Preston, feels nothing when he sees his wife sentenced and executed. Instead, he forgets it, and moves on. The future is better because of that. There is no war, because there is no hate, no rage, and no reason for either. That proves the redundancy of love.’

‘So tell me, how would this world be then? A bleak, dark world. There is no trust, no feeling. There is nothing, except to live for the sake of living.’

‘Let me see,’ I said, rolling my eyes dramatically. ‘How do the wolves, tigers, bears, fishes conduct themselves? The males and females do their job for the propagation of the population, and then never see each other again. Or at least, never feel anything.’

‘Mankind evolved from those concepts.’

‘And now it’ll go back if the future is like that. A good solution.’

‘A stupid and totally unnecessary step. Emotions are what drive us. There would be no art-’

‘And no cause for any thefts inspired by the same,’ I interrupted.

‘No books, and thus no reason for fools like you, bibliophiles, to exist.’

‘If only that were so,’ I said, even more dramatically. ‘Then we’d have never met, and I’d never have to pay for your obscenely expensive coffee.’ She slammed the money on the table.

‘Alright, boy. Let me show you how deep anyone’s love for life is. Your life for your life. Your love for anyone’s life in this shop, and outside it.’

‘Why would I love anyone else-’ I began, but she stood up and gestured to the chaos of the traffic outside.‘I am going to jump in-’

‘Don’t forget the bill.’

‘And you will follow me. You will grab my hand and pull me back. And then, maybe, I’ll slap you. Or kiss you.’ That did tempt me. She was something, all in all, and when she left, the air around us rang with a sense of finality. I rose, without understanding why, and followed her trail. She was waiting at the pavement, and a few yards off, I saw her boyfriend standing. He smiled when he saw her, and walked toward us with that arrogant walk I had always hated. That got me. Jealousy? She smirked at me and closed her eyes. My breath tightened. God, she was serious.

‘Don’t do it,’ I told her, my fingers tingling of their own, and a feeling in the pit of my stomach arose, my heart pounding. Hormones raging. The boy saw what she was going to do, or at least he sensed it, when his walk lost its arrogance and gained speed. Everything froze around us...Then she took the first step. My hand reached out, and she opened her eyes. Only a pull from my direction would save her from the honking truck that sped at eighty so close to the pavement....

That pull never came.I only vaguely remember the shock in her vivid green eyes, to the accompaniment of her boyfriend’s leather boots which beat a staccato on the pavement. She tried to grab at me, to pull herself back, but I stepped back purposefully. That little step was enough to doom her, and in who knows how much of a second, she was propelled forward by the truck’s grille, into the afterlife.The mangled body was found a good thirty feet away, tossed around for nearly fifteen seconds before the traffic jam took effect. I looked at the second truck that stood before me, its predecessor now on its side a few metres away. The driver, a huge, bearded fellow, tapped the cigarette on the window frame and bent down to look at me.

‘Kya hua, boss?’ he asked in accented Hindi.I shrugged, recalling my rather expensive bill lying on the table.

‘Pata nahi. Shayad se ek billi tyre ke nechi...’ I left the sentence unsaid. The man winced, then looked at the truck on its side. He shrugged and got out.

‘Nashta milega?’ He pointed at the coffee shop.

‘Arre, bolo mat. Is se achha hai vo highway ka dhaba, aur sasta bhi.’ He grinned at that, and nodded. I nodded in farewell, and went inside to settle the account. Everyone inside was staring at the window, at the traffic jam. I went to the counter, settled my bill. Halfway out of the shop, I remembered the book I was reading, still on my table, dog-eared where I had marked it. I ran a hand over the page, straightening the bent corner. It was Irving Stone’s ‘Lust for life’.

It's been a month since I met Piya, or close to it. Her boyfriend is still probably around.


Ficelle- the illusions of a fevered mind

It still irks me that in the fever I'd caught, I could actually write out something like this- this is only the smallest part of what I regard as one of the most gruesome ideas for a novel I've ever had. And even as it develops, I keep wondering what prompted me to write it in the first place.


‘And here we are, ladies and gents, the Madhouse. As you can see, we have a good collection of patients undergoing extensive psychotherapy.’ The urge to throttle the fat little doctor was bloody uncontrollable. 
Drink had dulled my vision to black and white. Everything was surreal, dreamlike, the rare colours so fragmented, yet in stark contrast to the black and white around- isolated and contained.. The pretty redhead secretary beside me glanced at me, a promising look in her black eyes. It was the promise of a pink slip, of trouble to come later. Of the madness that would visit me. Ahead of me, the fat little Dr. Plump adjusted his tiny little glasses with his pudgy fingers, tapping his foot on the floor. He disapproved of my drinking. I sighed and pressed my face to the little slit in the iron door. A man sat inside, staring at nothing. He had ripped off his straitjacket, inspite of his lean frame. He simply sat there, eyes glassy, flies buzzing around his face. I never asked how they got there, in what was supposed to be a fucking asylum. In this madhouse, in this world, whatever wasn’t twisted, was long dead. The world spun around me.
Everything around me had a noir cast- if it had been surreal before, it was ten times so now. All around me the doors opened, as one. Plump adjusted his glasses, and I could see the perspiration on his face, drops of it slipping down to streak his milk-white labcoat with damp stains. I heard him calling security, but my gaze was riveted as one by one, the madhouse inhabitants exited their cells. Many of them were not yet past the fine line to insanity, but they were putting their toes across, testing the green mile. The pretty redhead was snatched away, and in the throng of patients she disappeared. All I heard were unhealthy ripping noises. The fat little doctor seemed to swell with rage at the sight of his secretary’s disappearance, and rushed into the fray. In the middle of it all, a small boy came to me.
He was as pale as everything else in my dementia. I looked into his black eyes, and the emptiness I saw there tugged at my heart. It was the emptiness of insanity. This boy was far gone. I smoothed his hair, and levelled the gun to his neck, pausing to look at the reminded me of the film I had seen with my love, when we were still alive, a time and place so distant, past remembering... and a line from that film: ‘a pistol with a single shot’. A single shot, upward into the brain. The boy collapsed, the smile of sweet release on his lips. 
One by one, the patients turned to me, their hands outstretched, begging, pleading, the noir world around me coming to its climax. The fancy pistol in my hand fell, trailing gunpowder from the barrel. In seconds it disintegrated. I reached into my coat and drew out a huge barrel. I lit the wick at the end with my lighter, checked the tubes connected to my backpack, and depressed the trigger. The flamethrower hissed to life, and the patients fell, their skin burned to ashes, smiles on their faces. From dust to dust we rise and fall/ so do empires that stand tall/ but if a man ain’t got a ball/ then he ain’t nothing but a doll. It pounded in my ears, again and again.
I never stopped as the tears fell. The pretty redhead lay in the middle, her eyes as glassy as the others, black ichor flowing freely from a dozen gouges. The doctor lay beside her, his hand clasping hers. Even in death, he desired her, it seemed. Their blood mixed into a blacker liquid than anything else I had seen in this noir world of mine; it swirled into a whirlpool beneath me, tugging me in, gently but inexorably. I surrendered to the flow, the release I sought, and closed my eyes, the strings that held me minutes ago breaking apart, so gently, so beautifully, the sound of birds chirping of wind in the trees, of leaves gently rustling. The sound of paradise.

The cell door grated open, and three assistants, their six-foot frames rippling with muscle under their tunics, entered in a triangle, protecting the doctor in the centre. He deposited the bowl of steaming hot soup before the man, and sighed. Every time it was the same. He turned to his secretary, who ran a hand through the cascade of red hair that framed her elfin face. ‘No more fucking straitjackets for this one. He’s already destroyed ten.’ She cast a worried glance to the man, who sat in the corner of the cell, curled into a tight ball. His face was detached, unemotional, and his eyes were glassier than they had ever been.
‘Save your breath, doctor,’ she said, walking toward the man. ‘He’s dead.’ She closed his eyes.


I believe I can fly....

I believe I can fly... I believe I can lie... with my brains splattered on the road.
I don't know why, but since i was 5, i've been told that suicide is an offense.
Why on earth do humans, of all the animals on earth, take this road when everything else fails? The final step on the road to perdition. An attractive proposition to the most twisted of minds, and to the sanest alive.
I'm sorry, perhaps that didn't make any sense. In this world, people have simply stopped caring. I know I have. Things happen, and more importantly, shit happens. And when the shit hits the fan, somebody's got to clean it. And the only time I'll be cleaning is when it hits my fan.
And following that, the rest of the world doesn't exist on my plane. People die, people live, the moon explodes, apocalypse is now.
It doesn't matter one bit;
I'll not move from where I sit.
The world is one goddam mess,
A shit-hole, a pool of cess.
In that world we eke out a life
A world of constant violence & strife.
For all those dreamers out there, don't wake up. You'll like this world better than your dream when it comes true. For humans cannot live without suffering, they cannot endure without complaining. It's a world of endless night.
But hey, this is just my perception. Y'all out there are free to think differently. This world does allow us the freedom of speech, don't it?


Time and again...

The year: 2009. Is is a new year? Check. Is it any different from the last year? Too early to tell.
Maybe I should try to write something that resembles a blog instead of my usual poem. What the hell, though, let's give it a shot.
The days are long in more ways than one; I have more work to do. Something I didn't even think was possible right now, not on top of my already loaded schedule.
Time is an interesting thing. It's said to be like a river; you can never put your hand in the same water twice. Once it's gone, it's gone. Or maybe Time is not the river, we are. We're moving and time is standing still. And because we're moving, we can't catch the same time twice. All of us look back and think; hell, instead of doing that, I could have done this, and saved myself some time here. Of course, the problem with Carpe Diem, "sieze the day", is that although everyone wants to live in the present, nobody can.
We're slaves to our own system; a system which forces us to go out of nature's natural instincts and do things other than what nature made us to do; we work. Not just for roti, kapda and makaan, but for a good education. For a good car (i.e. a murcielago or so), a good house (the buckingham palace would do), a good time (nightclubs, cocaine, director's special) and so on. The fact that they impinge on the natural system of our bodies and minds means nothing to us; it only justifies the truth of "carpe diem". I look back and think; why on earth did we evolve? If we humans had stayed apes then none of this would have happened. And another question:
what prompted this evolution? What was it that nature did to differentiate us from the monkeys that are our cousins? And why monkeys? It could have been dogs, cats, fishes, or insects. Perhaps there was something in the species itself that prompted evolution. A chilling thought comes to my mind. It's said that nature abhores a vaccuum. It's also seen that when one species vanishes from a habitat, another is evolved to take its place and right the balance. Could it be that before humans evolved from monkeys, there was another race that walked the earth?
Interesting, but chilling. Now I know what comes of reading too many fantasy novels.
"The Call of Cthulhu" is a fantasy novel by the famous H.P. Lovecraft, who prompted the arrival of a series of "Lovecraftian" novels, most of which are centered around the antagonist of the above mentioned novel, Cthulhu, the high priest of the Great Old Ones. Although barely 16 pages in size (or maybe my ebook is abridged) it gives a vivid idea of something that could have happened before our time, before humans existed. Again, this comes of reading too much fantasy. The story, which starts from "The horror in clay" and ends in "the madness at sea" where Cthulhu actually rises from the water from his mystical R'lyeh, is incredibly gripping, and perhaps, in my opinion, one of the most brilliant novels written. There is much of it that goes unanswered, and what with Lovecraft's style of writing, it simply conveys the idea: 'you tell me what could have happened', in response to every question I can think of.
This blog keeps swerving from one topic to another. Typical, I guess. If you don't know where you want to go when you start, you get to some place completely different. There will be a continuation to this blog, but this tomfoolery will have to end right here.


Pets- just who did the training?

This is one of those blogs where I feel my pen (read keyboard) can flow without restraint. But this time I'll be putting in a story.
The night was dark as all nights are
I drove on the empty roads in my car.
Suddenly there was a flash of light
I hit the brake with superhuman might.
There, its nose pressed to the wheel lay
A puppy, who'd seen not too many a day.
I picked it up and put it aside
Then gave it a few comments snide.
You're too young for this, I told it.
It came forward, and my thumb, bit.
I took it home with me.
Now it contented be-
Living off my money and food
Its condition is now very good.
I rush home to feed the dog
And find myself in a bog
Of troubles, small and big;
THrough which I must always dig
And find my sanity buried deep below.
While the dog does leave after giving his bow.
I began to wonder, and I thought long
Was I completely and irrevocably wrong?
Or does the phrase take on a new meaning?
Was it I between us who did the gleaning
Come, sit, stay, and go
Was it I who went low?
Or has the country well and truly gone to the dogs?
Pets of any kind are being treated like kings these days. They're treated like members of the family, which is fine as long as anyone remembers that they're pets, not siblings or children. Calling them that is an insult to the animal.
And so it becomes that we, the humans, learn to heed their each and every call, we learn to "come" back from office, "sit" in the kitchen, "stay" at home to entertain them, and so on.



Inspiration is something we all need almost all the time. And of course, we need to use it, too.

What is inspiration?
Is it born of desperation?
The dissolver of a writer’s block.
That helps people ’round the clock?
How does it work, I often wonder;
Does it help, or make us ponder?
Does it give hope or joy or satisfaction?
Or is it just for beautification?

To me, the idea that hits my head,
Like a brick wrapped in a flower dead,
It comes with its price that needs payment.
And in the repayment I haven’t made a dent.
Still a way to go before I rest,
Many months, or perhaps years at best.
When I can spin stories from the air,
Like a spider weaves webs in its lair,
When I will have a well-known name
Like that of Burns, more or less the same

And then inspiration will no longer visit me;
Hopefully it’ll finally let me be;
For then I’ll be in my grave for my final breath.
It won’t touch me there, not in death.
But now death itself is an inspiration,
And I’d better give it some satisfaction
I’ll get to work, and start right away.
Well begun is half-done, as they say.
But here my hand will certainly stop.
My pen is closed securely with its top.
I have re-paid the price of inspiration.
This poem, written to its satisfaction.
No longer am I afraid of its price.
Or of the Reaper coming to slice.
But here we go again, for more inspiration.
M’pen is uncorked to improve my station.
Another poem will I write,
To release me from this new tax’s bite.
That another time can be.
Right now, I must save me.
So, all y'all writers, singers, artists galore, and just everybody else who gets inspired out there, don't forget to pay inspiration's price. Signing off.