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.



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.