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.


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

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