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.


The Greengrocer's Disease and other Hinglish Traits

What is it?
The Greengrocer's disease, bless his soul, is awfully contagious and so demeaning and restricting that it can easily become a full-scale epidemic.
Simply put, it's when a greengrocer's put's up offer's for sale's regarding product's with discount's that will blow your mind's away. You can find tomatoe's, potatoe's, onion's, cauliflower's, and at excellent price's.

Now that's an excellent example of how contagious it is. In second's we start imitating that same kind of literary murder that is all so prevalent these days.

I remember a time of Ganesh Chaturthi, where we (still kids) were asked by our elders to write out a list of words with the hindi suffix "-tar" such as in "Tamatar".
So how did it go? One list I still remember today and shudder at the thought of it. It went, and I quote-
1. Minis-tar
2. Prime Minis-tar
And so on. You get the idea. Hinglish at its grassroots.
Then of course someone else got wind of it and then came stuff that boiled down to "Gajar". 
The bottom line? Listen to Vani Ma'am and stay away from this sort of shit.

Then again, for all of you not privileged to meet the formidable grammatician (to coin the word) would wonder where I was getting off. I'd say I was getting off a kilometer before that particular greengrocer's, and thus take my entry from the backside only.


Down and dirty

The fact of the matter is not the internship that causeth my lapse in judgement.. I mean in blogging, but a pure laziness of the heart that I can only attribute to having nothing to do, being vella as so many put it. Fine. Let me remedy that.
I do keep a blog not only to ease my artistic conscience but also to be criticized. Hey, everyone's gotta be hated once in a while or life's nuts. Perfection is nuts.
What drives me to that conclusion is a movie I went off to see yesterday night. I should think this is a testament to the determination we movie buffs have- at nine we were already at the theatre, DK and me, waiting with our mitts on and sweaters zipped up. The inevitable coffee followed, which was in turn followed by a lot of BC. And so the hours passed and we stumbled into the theatre, gazing once more at the poster- "Ek Mayajaal."
Lots of people I know don't like to see english movies in hindi. They've never gone to a small-town theatre, I'm sure. I prefer english to hindi myself, but sometimes we see some movies in hindi just for the fun of it- The A-team, or even Dwayne J.'s Faster (Main Intekaam Lunga. Charming.) Clash of the Titans I remember particularly- the last scene when Liam Neeson grants Io to Perseus as a lifelong companion, the dialogue goes-
"Tum Zeus ke bete ho. Tum akele nahi rahoge!" And the BC adds to that- "Ladki lo!" Fun. Watching the same thing back in english wasn't half as much of a laugh- in fact it was deadly serious.

But back to "Mayajaal". It was, in fact, Tron Legacy. After Inception, it is the best movie I've seen this year. If Avatar redifined 3-D, Tron redifined animation, and as such, MCD kardi. Tron is by far one of the best Disney movies I've seen, period. There's enough of everything in it- adrenaline, biking, chases, animation, an excellent plot, Jeff Bridges, Tron himself.
And now we come back to perfection. Tron's supposedly dead and Kevin Flynn (Jeff Bridges) faces his clone-gone-psychopathic-dictator Clu in the newest rendition of the Quest World (Who can forget Johnny Quest?) The whole meshugaas is because of Clu's perception of a perfect society- which is not Flynn's. He asks, what is Perfection? No one knows- and especially not you, you SOB, when I made you I was looking for a mirror, not a pain in the ass.
Point taken, Clu says, and proceeds to thrash Flynn but good.

Yeas, I can understand that sentiment. God is perfect. Why? The Church decides to crucify if not the scientist himself but his arguments at this point. What is perfect, exactly?

Sometime back when I was still interested in greek myth, someone very close to me told me I was like Janus. Janus is the two-faced god of choices- he never gives a straight answer, always providing a choice with a dripping, greasy smile that makes you want to whup his ass bad. I'm going to give you a question, not a choice.
The hell is perfection? A state of being or being itself?
In both arguements, God wins out.
If God didn't exist, then it would be necessary to invent him. Humanity has been leaning on that crutch of faith for so long, that we've forgotten what we can do with our bare hands. Such as drive fifteen kilometres back home in the biting cold and tug an empty petrol tank for the next three. Fun times.
My point is, perfection lies in doing things yourself. until you get things done to your liking, you're not going to agree if someone else does it for you, assignments apart. But what is that perfection, precisely?
One of my wishes is to be born in the 15th century and become a smith. Out of all of the occupations available, this is one of the few that people can attain near-perfection in. Not to mention a good way to get a six-pack.. but that's a different matter.
Doing stuff yourself is good. Doing it until you're mindfucked and then at the heights of your frustration, things click together like a set of cogs, you realize- you've done it better than you'd thought.
So? Get down and dirty. You will get results.


Another untitled.

Been a while,
Since I blogged.
Right now I'm waterlogged.
And in a marsh, bogged.
And by my editor, dogged.



The interesting thing about mornings, any and all of them, is the fact that it is a new beginning. Of and for anything whatsoever; but recently things have been very interesting. Of late, especially.
For example is the cancelled study tour. Even my own sources did not reveal much; if this is a conspiracy, it's worthy of Jason Bourne, for the following reasons:
1. No one knows where the study tour is going
2. No one knows who is going.
3. No one knows when we're going.
4. No one knows how we're going.
5. And the clincher: no one knows if we're going.

And finally, one day this week, I'll find out, after all the cancellations and all the postponing, I'll wake and find out that one message from my beloved not-yet alma mater has made its way through the haze of connectivity: "You have a study tour going to XXX-XXX, please pack your bags and assemble outside the designated buses by 7.30." And true to form the message will be received at exactly 6.30, not a moment before.
But we'll get up, grumble, and half-heartedly make our way to the buses. And wait, and wait and wait.
Of course, this is under the Improbability principle: shit may or may not happen, but it will mindfuck you in either case.
On that note, I find it necessary to maintain an altogether positive outlook, and while this is not a herculean task, it is still somewhere in the realm of possibility, perhaps just under "go to chernobyl" on my "to-do" list for the next forty years.
Still, all we have to do is cross our fingers and hope. Hope is all we have. All that Pandora didn't let out of the box, and we can hope that she's learnt better. A writer I admire for both his research and versatility has one of his characters remarking, "hope survives best at the heart. To win you must surrender as well." Thank you very much, Master Yoda.
Yes, well, we left, or at least I did, leave my hearth behind for foreign shores that promised glory and riches and power, the three things that matter to any self-respecting conquistador who searches the unknown. I thought of getting some peace at last, absolute power be damned.
Oh, yes, there's one piece of interesting news; I recently installed one of the Mount&Blade series, titled Warband. Prior to installation I was labouring under the conception that this was Neverwinter Nights with better horses; how wrong I was. It is literally Mount&Blade; you have a mount and you have a blade. Go fuck yourself.
No, it's not that bad; it's actually quite good. The sheer range of options you have is amazing; and on a fully-open world map that stretches from deserts to sea and mountains of ice, with seven or eight different cultures (all human, which was slightly disappointing, given its fantasy nature), this boasts a world without any plot whatsoever.
The only alternative to this sort of freedom I can think of is Sid Meier's Pirates!, circa 2004? I'm not sure. Except that, as the name implies, you have a ship and a bunch of pirates, and sadly, a rather annoying plot line. Like GTA San Andreas, that sort of freedom, except that even San Andreas had a very lengthy but abrupt plot. Mount&Blade has no set plotline; ah, freedom is bliss. Conquer castles, rescue princesses (or princes, depending on your character's sex) become emperors or generals, plunder and raze or nurture and grow, be a politician or a brute.
And that brings me back to the beginning; when games like these give out such freedoms, who wants real life? An interesting topic I'm going to expand on later.



18.10.10, 2300 hours
The room was rife with utter chaos. Clothes lay on the table, the laptop sprawled over the pillow, the hard drive lost in the confines of the blanket, the beer precariously balanced on the windowsill, the floor full of paper I'd spread out of a desire to read up on world events, and the room smelt rather badly; of cigarettes and a few other things I'd rather not mention. Suffice to say the cigarettes smelt better.
Out of the folds of my safe, which contained all my documents, I found my diary. I had this habit of maintaining one; one of those delegated missions so that my flame would have some reading matter of a deeply personal nature. On that note I had, along with her, dumped the diary a year back. It was still there, though; waiting for me to pick it up and read. So I gave in to my baser natures and opened the damned book.
Yes, there was no surprise that I had not attended the first sem. A mild sort of elation as my book described my efforts to keep a streak of attendance on the second. Then some more disappointment that stemmed from that feeling of boredom. I hadn't achieved much in that year during which I maintained a diary. It resembled a ledger from hell, describing a downward spiral into something deeper than stupidity; what that is I did not figure out.
19.10.10, 0900 hours
And still the after-effects rolled in, the memories of exploits small and large and the feeling of smallness that pervaded my psyche. I had a feeling of comparing myself to the world, my life to the universe, and as everyone knows, that never amounted to much.
Strangely, I did feel good this morning, though... perhaps the cigar I lit from the bonfire of my diary has its after-effects too.
The moral of this story? Emotional baggage has an expiry date.


There are some days when you wake up one morning only to find that you have no assignments to submit, that your attendance won't falter if you take a day off, that your purse has plenty of money and your vehicle petrol, your laptop has conked off and your family's taken over the home, where nature contrives to get you not only out of the house, but also to bunk college and enjoy yourself.
This is not one of those days. There are times when people go shoot themselves.
This is not one of those times. And more often than not the most common situation is that you go to college and still have a good day to show for it. Nothing goes wrong.
That's not the case either.

Today is as such a perfectly, stupidly useless days. One of those when you can actually sense that limbo was never around the corner, peeking out- you know with that sinking feeling of listlessness, that it's already here. Ah, college. The bane of our times, the destroyer of our DNA as independant thinking beings.
Maybe I'm going too far here. Or maybe not far enough.


Aiyyashi/Nirvana: The Ultimate Conflict

Right, so we have here A series of unfortunate events. Why is it that only when you have a fever the holidays occur, when you're fine classes are in full bloom, when you get crippled in the leg you feel like travelling, or when your attendance is at an all-time low you feel like bunking?
Life's little mysteries. There was a comic strip about Goofy being unable to sleep properly, so what he does is he calls up an employment agency and asks them for work.
The agency always needs workers. So it gives him a huge list of work to be done. Happy that his life isn't empty, he goes to sleep.

And that's what everyone feels like. Everyone includes even the workaholics. Without exception, there is a niggling feeling of playing hooky that everyone's fond of. Let me give you some advice here. Don't follow that feeling. I did, and look where I am:
-Without any attendance whatsoever.

Nice place, all things considered. But not exactly future-centric, which is another place to be entirely.
So understand what you've got to do. Give up your pleasures now for your pleasures in the future.
Give up aiyyashi so that you can achieve nirvana. Easy, isn't it?
Easy in theory like everything. In fact, it's so goddamn hard that I think I'll stick with aiyyashi, and enjoy my life now. No matter what the case, I know one day that I'll regret this act; but until then, hallelujah.


Here I stand

Finally, some real work. Although it doesn't compare to all the crazy internships I've done,
There's still an opportunity to have some fun.

While competing with chaos in the cyber cafe, I reviewed, edited, re-edited, relaxed
In the atmosphere governed by the AC, pleasure intensified and maxed,

As I sat forth in my own little domain, wondering why
In my own pleasure I lie.

Did I not have work to do?
Or was I content to simply remain blue.

Nah. The GPA beckons;
It must be high, by any measure, I reckons;

We are all in thrall to that monstrous tentacled japanohentai rapist
To send in our assignments at the latest.

Onward I march, to my doom
That said, why do I swerve, to the road, to freedom, to my room?

Fuck, I bunked once more.


The Choice

It's a poor thing that we have to face such debauchery in the midst of such.. no, I'll just say it out loud: it's a real shame that we're getting mindfucked for no real reason. A travesty of justice, truly, considering the fact that we paid for it.
Well, ladies and gents, we did dig our grave, and so, as they say, shut up and lie in it.
But hell, no- we're media and communishit students- shutting up is not in our resume. There's a method to our madness. And as assorted as the denizens are, they show signs of never developing any limit to their capacity to inflict said damage upon their fellow man.
And so, the final result is:

Yessir. And in the end, all that we can do is grin and bear it.
Or do we? Do we have the power to relieve ourselves of this mundane charade? Do we, like Neo, have two options?
Mr. Anderson... tumhari maa ki chut.


A day for dumb questions.

When I writes I writes.
On that enigmatic note I can begin a tirade of nonsense, but I get the impulse to break out of tradition and actually write some sense for a while. The problem here is what to write about.
I keep thinking about Jerome K. Jerome and how he wrote about his having nothing to do. Boredom. That subject I seem to have touched enough. Then what do I write about?
How about technology? Perhaps how much we depend on it every minute of every day. It's a fascinating concept: how about if all of these techno advancements had never occurred. Suppose we had remained in the Steampunk era, not yet out of the Industrial Revolution. I have the inkling feeling that if the Internal Combustion Engine hadn't replaced the need for coal in that time, we'd still be running on fumes.
Marvel and DC had this brilliant concept of putting a "What if..." series in their mainstream. Such as, "What if Batman killed Joker" stuff. Alternate histories that may have been the foundation for their Infinite Crisis series. A good enough thought... and so, reader, "What if the Industrial Revolution had never happened?"
Quite simple. We'd still have been swinging swords and fancy lances and arrows would have been the peak of projectile warfare. Life would have been a hell of a lot simpler... no exams, no muss, no fuss over jobs.. everyone would have simply soldiered on.
Then again, seeing all the infighting all over the world, it may have been a good thing that the Industrial Revolution happened.
Let's go further back in time. The Industrial Revolution was second only to the discovery of Fire in importance. What if man had never discovered how to ignite branches with flint? What then? Fire was the one thing that had ignited man's curiosity. If fire had never been discovered, we'd still be sitting around warming ourselves in nice thick animal cloaks.
Right there is a talking point for PETA extremists. If we hadn't evolved, we'd still have a lot of natural resources around us. So killing yourselves is justified in the name of the environment. Suicide, apart from being the proverbial "Shut Down" button on life, has a lot of consequences. We don't really think that way.
But suppose I die today. Fine, people cry, they get over it, life goes on. But what else can happen? In much the same way that Kings were killed off in old times to destroy an entire royal bloodline, my bloodline disappears from history, poof. And god knows how many of my children, they disappear too, and so do their children's children, and so on and so forth. Probably, in the year 3000, I will have killed off maybe a thousand lives... more or less. Interesting thought, because one man/woman can be a terrorist in their own right. The good thing is, after the deed is done, since "dead men tell no tales," the case is closed. It's probably the reason why suicide was said to be a conduit to hell.
But where were we? "What if" mode. So, if Prometheus had lived the good life and not cared a hoot for humanity, we'd still be rubbing hands against each other for warmth and be eating raw food, roots, leaves, etc, etc.
And then, there is still room to explore here. Fire was a by-product of something much larger- human evolution.
What if those darned monkeys had kept to the trees? What if the floor was covered in enough pinecones to make walking unnecessarily difficult?
And then what? We'd never have evolved our thumbs. Yes, those things we like to jam into any amount of deliciously tight spaces. Yahoo, but I've just negated the entire foundation of evolution, because sticking to branches never needed thumbs in particular, just two sets of hands. A question still bugs me at this point. Would we still have evolved our spectacular brains, those things we use to screw anyone sick with arguments? Quite a question. Without our thumbs, we'd never have stepped off the trees. We'd never be making all those stone implements we'd done, which led to bronze and iron and steel, alloys in general, we'd never be carting all that stone to make houses.. which means no agriculture, no business.
Monkeying around life, to conclude.
And there is a theory that says that nature is not yet past the point of no return- there is every chance that a de-evolution may take place in the distant future. Some setback, or opportunity, which may force us back up those trees with our new tails between our legs.
Like as in Kurt Russell's "Escape from L.A." where he shuts down the whole world, effectively. No technology left, and that means all we'll have is our hands and heads to rebuild. The question: would we even want to rebuild, or start something else up entirely?
The future's in our hands, figuratively and literally.



Logic is a process of approaching the wrong answer with confidence.
It's true. As in Thank You for Smoking, you can justify anything as long as you argue correctly.
And if you can justify it, it's right.
And if it's right, it's Holy, because beauty is truth and truth beauty, and that's all you need to know.
And if that's all you need to know, then it's God's Word beyond questioning.
If it's beyond questioning, then it's fact. If it's fact, it's logical.
If it's logical, it's wrong, as seen at the start of this process.

A cycle truly vicious. This is the form most reasoning follows. Spinning. Practiced by those individuals calling themselves Spin Doctors.
Talk about The World, they'll talk economy. Talk Economy, they'll talk world progress. Talk world progress, they'll talk The World. And there we're proved wrong, because that's not what we were talking about.

This blog is pretty much inspired by that one film which I hold in great regard. How anything can be justified. Of course, Nick Naylor finally stops when he decides to set an example for his son, but he goes on to prove Cellphones don't cause Brain Cancer.
Argument is the mother of negotiation.
And if you can argue, you can justify. If you can justify, you can negotiate.. if you can negotiate, you can bring the article to the point where it can be argued about once more. If you want to win, pick up a gun.
Often violence is the best recourse. Look at the crusades.
And nonstop nonsense is the best way to mindfuck. Look at me.


Spin (copied from my own blog on wordpress)

The interest has gone, but the classes linger.
History is by far a delicate subject. I subscribe to the theory that history is written by the conquerors. And why not? If there is one religion I truly admire, it is Christianity. From the Old Testament to current era, they have had such a strong base of PR that it is truly astounding. Few people today deserve the title of Sultan of Spin, but there is a precedent, a huge one.
I have nothing against religion in general and Christianity in particular; people should be free to believe. It’s a fundamental right of its own. Yet wanton persecution against non-believers and even worse, pagans, has gone on for centuries; Christians against Muslims, Muslims against Hindus is the case today, Romans against the Jews, and goodness knows who else. Yet it is truly the Christians who take the cake in this case.
‘Does he believe in God?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘Does he attend sermons?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘He has been observing all the holidays and holy days?’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
‘Has he paid this week’s tithe?’
‘No, your majesty, he has not.’
‘Root out this pagan and crucify him.’
And it goes on from there. Idol worship, Idle worship, questions against the faith, against the crown, against the land.. paganism is alive and well. Kill them all, protect the word of God. A highly misinterpreted word of God? No one knows, because if you question that, you’re a non-believer, and therefore irredeemable. Condemned.
It is something to admire indeed, all their machinations, all their plots, and recently with Dan Brown courting disaster (the man’s at the tip of my tongue when it comes to this topic, and he’s hardly a writer but a brilliant researcher) you have to wonder not if Christ existed.. he may have. What should be asked is what did he do, and it is extremely possible the Son of God.. if that was the result of a Vatican conspiracy.. actually did anything that is chronicled.
As above, history is written by the victors, and there is no doubt that in their monotheistic vision, the Church has caused enough bloodshed to preserve whatever secrets they hold, the Crusades being one of the bloodiest, Jerusalem, the Grail if it existed or was in actuality a myth to preserve something else?
In retrospect, no religion has not resorted to violence, bloody primal violence when it came to belief. There is a popular phrase on my mind at this point- Deus Ex Machina. The God from the Machine, coming from the time when Greek and Shakespearean plays lowered God/his divine servants via a crane onto the stage representing flight.
Why is the opposite not possible? Did man project an entity of perfection.. because God is perfect or he wouldn’t be God.. into the heavens as an object of adoration/inspiration/aspiration, even?
And on that note, who exactly are we to talk about perfection? What is perfect? A wonderful saying occurs to me at this point: The Perfect Human isn’t Human.
Of course, that was in reference to a vampire of sorts… utterly different issue, but the phrase is worth pondering over. Back on track, “Perfect” in those terms meant immortal, enduring, almighty, beautiful. A western concept by far. I’m Indian. My idea of perfection is a perfect environment- perfection, in self, is boring. When you’re perfect, then life is not worth living… and for me boredom is anathema, not low marks, not career, none of that. In repression lies my depression.
And society has had a history of corrupting/killing free thinkers, because any ruling power needs dumb followers. Muscle to the brains. Sad but true, and the day we start thinking is the day things come crashing down to a state of anarchy… every man for himself to be drowned in a sea of logic, goodbye higher powers. On that note Douglas Adams disproved God hypothetically, don’t you know?
The Babel fish, one of the best-searched topics anywhere, a fish that allows for universal translation, is so unique that it can only be an act of God. Now, God refuses to prove that he exists, as proof denies faith, and faith is his coin.The Babel Fish is a proof of God, and therefore by his own logic, he’s disproved himself.
Hats off there. Here’s to fascist future full of dumb fucks, I can quietly go and sit in the shade while yonder they fight the mother of all religious wars.
‘The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was proving that he didn’t exist.’ -The Usual Suspects (1995)



Due to interference from the almighty cyberroam, I have been forced to shift base from blogger to Wordpress. Have no fear, I'll still be broadcasting here, but in any case I am stubbornly stupid enough to write off three blogs with different articles on each- keep an open ear, yours truly.

This is the address: sharnblackdotwordpressdotcom.
Simply replace the dots. I hate blue streaks on my blogs.



How deep the hole, and deep the water..
Still waters, they say, will run still deeper.
My fate in life to to climb upward without pause
Seeking freedom without neither zest nor cause...

Depth, constant the definer of life;
Deeper still is that constant strife.

Traffic in anarchy, pedestrians gone berserk-
The roads simply don't do much but irk
And splatter like blood they do, but mud,
And stain, thicker than both water and blood.

Depth is the measure of freedom;
How deep can we go in this slum?

Nonsense from four directions doth assail;
With no fucking around to help me bail
This cesspot of a life into which we go deep
And let shit from all entrances into mind seep.

Ah, 'tis a pity to let bad language mar
What may have been a good piece by far.

Yet artistic license is like freedom in press;
All it serves is to irk and depress.
Once at work I sat down to listen
Hear and absorb, repeat and christen;
More and more nonsense that ran the morass
And came out in a falteringly deep bass..

Depth I need and depth I seek
The field and life do both seem bleak.

Out of my head cometh ideas nonsensical;
Yet deliver I must, and still laconical-
The PTC in class is the subject of the weak;
Sorry, that's week, yet that's the meaning I seek.
Of uncertainty does this blogger reek.

Order ki maa ki chut, I'll write as I like.
And through the sludge of imbecilic rhymes and long-winded nonsense, hike.
My own experience in these matters can itself fuck;
And at listening to my advice I do seem to suck.

Yet that depth I have yet to achieve,
Which writers past often do recieve.

And I seem to utterly fuckin' lack.
No depth, so I may hit the sack.



Problems Fucking My Brains. Part 1
The Problem with the internet- Yessir, there's no doubting that I'm causing no amount of damage to the mindfuckers at cyberroam or whatever they prefer to call themselves, but wtf is with them closing blogspot to me? I cannae open my blogs, no sir, everytime I do, I get a 404 not found error. Fuck me, but last I checked I didst have a blog, milord, even two perchance. Why? I like to blog. Why me? I may fuck the internet bad but I still paid three lakhs for it, and it can't open a shitfucked BLOG? Wordpress is still functioning, although for some reason I can't comment as of yesterday.
Wikileaks, the website I wanted to check. "Labelled as Advertisements".
 You get my point?

The Problem with class- Whasamatter with class? We are back to the Fourth standard, ladies and gents, and you cannae persecute me for saying so. Why else would a whole class- and I mean whole as a whole, even those who sleep in the back rows- decide to argue with the teacher for half-an-hour over... NAMES?
And shit like this is the reason for my atheism; gods above, you know I don't believe in you- 'cause if you were there, and if you were active like any amount of seeders on torrent, then you'd have done something about this mindfucking everyday.

The Problem with Religion- I have no shit for those who want to follow their religions. They can go ahead and do what they like. The fact being that they prefer to shift their faith from themselves to their gods is what I don't like. I don't know why; my parents believe in god. I just don't. I believe that if you have faith in yourself, you can get through mountains and molehills and live to fuck at the end of it. 
But then comes along the concept of a higher power. Now, if god made the heavens and the earth, and if he hates pagans, if he hates us polluting nature, if he hates non-believers, if he despises atheists, then please tell me wtf am I doing here. I am an effective pagan, a non-believer, and I swear to hell on earth that I smoke enough to pollute.
One example of this would be True Blood, a vampire series that used to come on HBO late nights. This is another problem I'll be addressing later, how the concept of a vampire shifted in regards to PR and Brand positioning. Stuff like this is worth doing Ph.D.s over, and no one even looks twice at it.
True Blood has a brilliant opening sequence. And one scene cometh where a billboard proclaims, "God Hates Fangs." And later on, when the protagonists drive past it, the vampire says: 'If he hates fangs so much, why am I here to argue with you?'

The Problem with mindfucking- It's become all too common as more and more people go through mid-life crises in their teenage-semi-adulthood. It's a pity, but young and stupid as I am, I still find myself jaded with so many aspects of what so many would consider a wonderful life. How wonderful? I drive past a wilderness everyday to get to college, and I drive past X amount of beggars, vendors, street urchins and the list could go on further but I haven't the time. 
To them, my life is ideal. To me, it's daftishly mindfucking.
Perspectives define life. Sadly they also destroy it.
I once visited a village near Otopalam (Kerala, where my da's from) and I wandered into the abode of one of those priests you find who cons you out of ten rupees to read your palm. He conned me out of five, and I still think I came off pretty badly, considering his advice- 'You'll die young.' When I asked him how young, he held out his hand for another five rupees. I told him I didn't need to know, and true to form, like an autovalla running after you to agree with your fare, he came along, and told me, in four more years. 
Unfortunately, that was five years ago. Now you see why I keep feeling I wasted my life? Maybe if I'd come to cherish it more, I'd have lost it.
The sad part is that when you try to get what you want, you get the exact opposite. Those four years saw a lot of heartbreaks, mindfucks, exams and general chutiyaapa. I indulged myself too much because I had an idea that I was going to die- why not make the most of it?
Instead life took a cruel turn, and I'm still convinced as to why I didn't die.
Some time back my sister got into an accident and broke her leg. The guy she rammed was in pretty bad shape that day and stayed in the hospital for a longer time. From all the details I got out of the onlookers, that accident had been inevitable.
A parade of sorts on a blind turn is asking for an accident.
And what I remember is I refused to drive her that day and stayed home to watch some films. If I wasn't so self-indulgent, I'd have fucking lost my life, speed demon that I like to be. So there's the conclusion:
Never wish for something so much. You'll end up getting the exact opposite.
And there I'll end my blog.


Memoirs of a boring class.

Till kingdom come we await our doom;
Sitting stony-faced in a crowded room.
When will it enter, on wings night-black?
To torture in ecstasy on the chain and rack?

Yes, 'tis a sorry sad tale, a state.

For those of us awaiting this fate.
And lo, it cometh, of eyes dark and visage grim
To skewer our sanity and health on its whim.
The only greeting arises from boredom,
An aide, for it would not quickly butcher and hoard 'em.

Yes, we were in trouble ungainly-
And worse news to come, our shift doubled cleanly.
So we tightened our belts, teeth grounded.
Alarms of sleep loudly sounded-
Into Morpheus's waiting embrace we flew,
like into sunlight does evaporate dew.

To avoid that one being to deny us beer-
Strict, and surreptitious, the all-seeing teacher!

(Pic from


Once more.

So, here we are again. Or perhaps I should say, here YOU are, at another post in my repertoire. What should this one pertain to?
Obviously the good things in life, to which I raise my glass of heavily spiked rum, of course; that which we love to do.
Yet a worry lies on my heart, reader, a worry that threatens to consume me unless I address it directly, face-to-face.
A worry so odd yet so distressing, a worry that threatens to tear my pace.

A worry, reader, of being too long-winded.
Or perhaps just plain one-sided.
Writing for my own pleasure is not a crime. In fact, to me it's the best way of writing; fuck criticism. Fuck whatever anyone else has to say.
For out of fine material has god made an artist; out of the leftover rubbish made he three critics to hold the artist at bay.

Yet a purpose must be kept. Even in idleness is a purpose; even in misery a joy.
Yet it may not be the idle who keeps a purpose, nor the miser his joy, which only he enjoys who troubles the miser and remains coy.
You get my point?
Please, don't rush, wait till I finish my joint.

A very famous poet did once write "In Xanadu," a splendid fellow who believed that was a source, inebriation;
Of that which fuels artists and grants them relief from boredom; the source, sir, of inspiration.
"Inspired" goes the tagline for some product I can't remember.
Sighing in disappointment, I can comprehend dimly, my memory did these years dismember.

Ah, yes; these wonderful fucksome years I will never forget, may my vocabulary never run out of words to describe it.. enough said.
Most days I come back cradling more than disappointment, and so disoriented that I may take a snake to my bed-
And hope that it in the morning, neither snake nor I may be in the room.
Spare the snake, I would, for PETA is a fire-breathing monster in this age; I only wish for myself that doom.

Spare the rod and infuriate the child.
Yes, the youth of today has boundless energy when riled-
But it fades, as everything must. Time is the ultimate assassin and can destroy empires yet nuture a sapling to mature greatness only to destroy that as well.
Time, the ultimate leveller. Time the master of the universe. Time the motherfucker, ringing enjoyment's death-knell.

Sad it is, and I hate to be Yoda with his twisted talk and unhinged brain at the end of episode six.
That recently came on Pix-
I missed it and watched a porno instead.
Of course, that is what I will do and am doing and did.

Girlfriends come and go, whores even faster. Yet all that is left to accompany us is not our friends or family- even they pass away.
If you're a man, you know what it is- the lingam, to put it politely. Bombs away.
Pity that I must use the same word twice to rhyme but I am so high that I have for some insane reason taken the laptop to the terrace of my apartment, waiting for the battery to give out.
And to my dreams of writing a hugely insane poem without reason nor sense, rout.

And lo- it flashes! As the Lord giveth- the lord taketh away, and I watch the remains of my poem dissolve formlessly into the ether of the universe-
And finish this poem with a bloody good curse:

"Teri maa ki chut HP ki harami bhosadchod aulad!"


Aaj ki 1.46

Aaj ka sawaal hai bade chutiyaapa ka.
Kya hum class me baithe na?
Ya kya hum kare randaapa?
Haina ye badhi chutiyaapa?

Woh lamhe kaha gaye, woh junoon kaha.
Jab hum jaate the budhwar peth yaha
Nahi to Panvel ki chake taazi swaad
Aur wapas aye with taazi yaad?

Ha, bhaisaab, kya kare is duniya ki
Jisme hume ya humaro ki
Hoti nahi hume parvaah?
Bus subah ka ho chutiyaapa
Aur shaam me soche.. aaj kiya kya tha?


Shall I fuck with you now?

(Author's note. If you're a young pup, I take no responsibility for the perversion you may feel. Like it or not, this is actually a serious and current matter.)

 It's the age where MILF has become plain MF, with the words "I'd like" wiped clean off. Yes, sir. Good old-fashioned pornos have gone out, and all that there is these days are those girls who seem to look either like sex-starved bitches or pubescent virgins. On top of that the boob craze. If it ain't silicone it ain't shit, apparently, and we see hooters the size of footballs.
Whatever happened to class, to a bit of.. dare I say it? Maturity?
Whatever happened to all those sensous, sultry ladies, and yes, ladies, not bitches or virgins, those women whom you'd not just want to fuck once, but keep coming back for more?

These are the times of the almighty quickie, the ONS. Wham, bam, thanks ma'am, and we're out of here, just dispose of the used condom.- Unnamed correspondent

A friend of mine is fond of repeating, these journo, and then the porno. Perhaps these days we just don't want to simply sit down and relax. We want quickies, and everywhere.. a quick fix, a jugaad, as you might call it.
Now, I am no stranger to jugaad. I love to use them in most of my work. A jugaad in time is worth all the effort you'd otherwise put into something, and that's a fact.
However, the porn industry may not be the place for it. I remember going through pictures of young, but not too young, ladies, all wonderfully proportioned, sensuously attired. These women could batter down a man with a blink of their eyebrows. And instead we have all the fakers in the business- fake boobs, fake orgasms on both sides.

 And if you think I've been sexist so far, I'm going to impinge on my own rights as a man and a defender of my manhood.

Porn is causing a lot of inferiority among the lesser youth.. those exposed to it for the first hundred kilometres grow immensely... miserable, even, watching those nuclear-reactor dongs. Ten inches, eleven inches, and on and on. And what's worse, the fairer sex has even fucking grown into that trend. I remember back at Sunny's, a brothel I'm fond of, one of the girls, Supriya, a dusky, dark-haired elf of a girl, shortish, remarked-
'Woh mera murder karega ek din, uska lund lund nahi, hatoda hai.' 
Now, I knew the guy she was talking about, a guy with a big enough dick. Gangbangs aren't so bad, anyhows, if you must know. What startled me was her companion's reaction, a tallish girl, one who I tried once and didn't like too much, reply, 'Aise lund ko aadmi bulao. Yaha to bus bachche ghoomte hai, aur mujhe pareshaan karke chodthe hai. Aisa lagta lund nahi, umli chod rahi hoon.'
And that with a lot of longing that left me in no doubt where the puss.. eh..heart.. lay.
It's because of such idiocy that leaves C'nCs wondering where to go. And while some of them will still stay true, others leave to conform to the bigger stick philosophy. At any rate, being a gentleman, I prefer to excite them as much as they excite me. My prior experience with that half-rate fucker left me wondering about his speed- screw it in, hammer it, leave. Like he was repairing a chair.
And not only that, that half-rate motherfucker actually left me to pay the five-figure bill, but that's a different issue.
They don't seem to understand much that those of us, with the average-size dicks, try not to be selfish and give as well as take.. and yes, my dick is average. But I don't mind.. I've had no complaints so far.
It's a bloody pity. With not only the porn industry in shambles, but also the recent nesting habits displayed.. actually a bit irritating. In the end, if we can't get a partner, we do resort to Dr. Hans Jerkov's technique. But if the catalyst in itself is nowhere near the quality we need, then what?
Just stand around, until masturbation is interrupted.
You done yet?
No. I ain't got the bitch.
Helpful, eh?
But all y'all can contribute. We guys can start being a bit more in bed than before.
Because if we don't, we might as well look out for prosthetic dicks. I ain't giving up sex. Neither should you.


Lethargy's no sin.

It's not hard to feel stupid when you're nineteen and instead of interning you're sitting your ass off in a forty-five degree celsius cyber cafe. Added to the fact that my creative juices packed up and went to Simla for the summer, my girlfriend to Pattaya for all I know, my sanity to hell and my energy to the ether.
In short, I'm fucked.
At least torrent is on, but because of an internal combustion problem in the family computer's modem, hellsbells can ring to eternity while googledotcom loads. The worst part about being here isn't even the boredom, or the heat, but the lethargy. There's Nothing To Do, and that leads to Why The Fuck Should I Do Anything, which in turn just goes back to square one: "Fuck It." Pity, actually, that I didn't keep trying for an internship... but I'm not that kind of person, I never wanted the internship in the first place, what I wanted was a sweet summer in Simla or Mahabaleshwar or Chilkhaldara or Nepal or gods forbid even Kerala, Pooja curled up next to me on some beach or high cliff or in some nook or cranny or even in some decadent hotel with a good stiff whisky and a cigar. But no, siree... I've finally shifted the base of operations from Viman Nagar to Wagholi. Inaccessibility, here I come.
The only forseeable advantage is the occassional use of the car, depending on my dad's temperament.

Added to that are disadvantages I don't and won't want to go into now. The only good thing about here is the downloading... the sheer amount of games from yesteryear that I've managed to accumulate has been enough to keep me occupied, but even so it's that guilty sort of occupation that keeps reminding you every five minutes that you should be doing something else.. writing your novel, cleaning your cupboards, watering the plants.. anything else but sit around, and even then stopping doesn't cross your mind... the next level.. then the next one.. or in my case, read tons of ebooks.. turn the page, again and again and again until it's four in the morning and my mom's standing next to me, a red-eyed devil in all glory.
As for ye who tried to reach me on Facebook: I'm sorry, but there was some randaapa on facebook, and it's not worth mentioning except for the words bad language and parental scrutiny. FB is banned at home and for quite a while now my phone has conked off, ever since it got soaked in God's own country.
As a result, social disconnection is the rage and the age, so all I can do is face the same problem a friend of mine faced: where to store all the data being downloaded?
Here's to a month of sundays.


Laawaris- Mere angne mein

One of the few songs I can't remember without taking in a terrific film, a ton of laughs and brilliant dialogues... and one of my favourites. Arre Mere angne mein.. you can imagine that such a song is incredibly open to interpretation, and throughout a fucked-up trip to Kerela (rewards notwithstanding) I kept dreaming up parodies to these songs, one of which was "Tere Bhosade Mein...." I'm sure you can understand the inspiration. This was one of the few ideas for a blog that I could dream up in those listless days. A few hits of coke puts you in the mood to fuck like crazy. And therefore my mornings were spent at the wedding and evenings elsewhere, haha... a wedding's a wedding and there's always the bridesmaids.
Onward, though...

Mere Angne Mein
(Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai)
Joh Hai Naam Wala..
Arre Joh Hai Naam Wala Wahi Toh Badnaam Hai
Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai

Jiski Biwi Lambi Usska Bhi Bara Naam Hai
Kothe Se Lagado
Arre (kothe Se Lagado Seerhi Ka Kya Kam Hai)
Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai

Jiski Biwi Moti Usska Bhi Bara Naam Hai
Jiski Biwi Moti, O Moti, O Moti, O Moti Moti Moti
Jiski Biwi Moti Uska Bhi Bara Naam Hai
Bistar Pe Litado
(Bistar Pe Litado Gaade Ka Kya Kam Hai)
Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai

(Jiski Biwi Kali Usska Bhi Bara Naam Hai)
Aankhon Mein Basalo
(Aankhon Mein Basalo Surme Ka Kya Kam Hai)
Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai

(Jiski Biwi Gori Uska Bhi Bara Naam Hai)
Kamre Mein Bithalo
(Kamre Mein Bithalo Bijli Ka Kya Kam Hai)
Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai

(Jiski Biwi Choti Usska Bhi Bara Naam Hai)
God Mein Bithalo, Haan Haan Haan
(God Mein Bithalo Bache Ka Kya Kam Hai)
Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai

(Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai)
Joh Hai Naam Wala
Arre Joh Hai Naam Wala Wahi Toh Badnaam Hai
Mere Angne Mein, Haan Mere Angne Mein
Haan Mere Angne Mein Tumhara Kya Kam Hai



Here I am, supremely pissed because for some insane reason none of the blogs open. Not even mine, and all those cool games I wanted to download from several gaming blogs now await my perusal from some cyber cafe. Thankfully torrent is back to work, and I'm busy downloading thirty-seven kinds of shit from various torrent websites which all keep flickering back and forth to life any time of the day. At least the speed is usually good.
On top of that I'm also in an air-conditioned environment, jacking off to hot porn in the cyber cafe we all know. Tick one more item off my bucket list- Masturbate at college.
Yahoo, but that felt good. 
Y'all with internships, I don't envy you. You have a busy summer, but I'm simply going to sit this one out- fuck the internship, maa chudaye those motherfuckers. What good is a summer you can't enjoy? Although this isn't my idea of an enjoyable experience, with the firewall in place and AS going around with his squint which says, I'm going to catch you one day, Nair, and you're going to regret it, hahahaha and the evil laugh.
No, sir, this guy's going to have to attend a summer wedding. Not my own, thankfully, but one of the cousins'. And if you think your hometown is worse, think of an autowalla who'll curse in pure malayalam, and this is something I heard from one of them-
"You monkey-tailed brainless bastard with your illegitimate son from the dried-up rotting womb of your three-cocked whore of a wife and your hand busy in your crappy asshole and a fake license, look where you're going!" 
There are just too many adjectives in my native tongue, and all that "Bhenchod" or "Madarchod" or "Betichod" "Maa ki chut" "behen ka lauda" "Laude" "Chutiye" "Harami bhosadiwalle" "Gatargandu" (That's from amravati) "Chamanchutiye" (ditto) are way, way too crude for these people whose favourite pastime in past ages was stringing up alliterations in poems that could go on for hours. And now, they devote their energies to making up such intricate, wonderfully-pronounced cusses that don't even seem foul until you understand the language.
And these are just the autowallas. I already know Kerala's real street culture. It's mostly the fisherman blood, and even the youngest thugs have that tongue... you know when they say some languages are made for stuff? French for the romantics, Irish for the thugs, japanese for business, english for casual talk, and so on?
Well, Malayalam is one of the few languages that has been butchered in a different way. A language full of endless alliterations that can be strung up in so many different ways.
You've got to love a language like that; any autowalla, any thug, any pissed-off malayali has at his command a bevy of words and elaborate ways to string that up in.
I'm in a lot of trouble, though. I'll be meeting a certain guy who used to provide me with certain... products. Read Contraband. And it was uncut contraband, as well... not exactly columbian, but pure nonetheless. But on my family's behalf I've still gotta go...
"Though shall not fall into temptation, for in temptation lies damnation." A priest once told me that. Out of the church, one of my friends, an avid smoker, took out a joint and smoked it, then provided an addendum. "In damnation lies pleasure."


What may I write,
that you may read, and bite
the bullet that goes with the flow.
Well, let me start with a flourish and a bow.
And for your sake go slow.

My exams have ended for good or ill;
No doubt I might face some still.
They were mindfucking, but they're done yet.
But mayhap next sem I'll once more get-
these backlogs once more, you wanna bet?

Ah, life. What a bitch.
I so hopelessly wish I were rich.
Maybe then it might not have been so bad..
but me being me, things would have gotten sad.
I'm no more than scrawny lil lad.

But a fucked-up loser, who games 24/7
And treats virtual death like 7/11
But life's no game, hell no
And if you your one chance blow-
Go reap what you sow.

I don't exactly know where that came from, but god willing I had nothing to do with it forming in my head since I brushed off the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes. My body was, of course, still asleep. It's more sensible than my brain in a curious contradiction. I had to give the backlogs; there was really no choice. And I should have studied, but miserable motherfucker that I am, I actually went and bought a couple of games from Landmark on saturday, then spent two whole days playing games, and not even bothering to learn shit. Even yesterday I didn't study. I haven't, not for a single exam. Why? You may ask. Even I ask that fucked question every five minutes during my exams when random shit flows from my pen onto paper.
Let me tell you a story. Seven years back a little boy was giving his seventh-class unit tests. Unlike his comrades he hadn't bothered to study for the exam, and his parents had been out for a week, promising they'd be back in time for the exams.
So what did he do? At night he crept down while his sister slept and watched porn.
A cardinal sin but at 1 o'clock happy hour began and it ended at six in the morning. The boy had nearly destroyed the chair in his efforts.
As he came, so did the exams and his parents. Without a care in the world the boy kept thinking of "slut getting banged hard by fat cocks" and "MILF taking it in the ass" and so on, and gave his papers in a dream.
Wonder of wonders he got 74% in the results.
And so he thought; if I don't study, this is what I get. Then why bother?
He never studied again, got caught for watching porn by his tenth, nearly got caught fucking his second girlfriend in the holidays before the eleventh and once more escaped by the skin of his teeth- chewing happydent after smokes, showing up at tuitions high, coke on his pants, skipping class and practical to visit brothels, a total hippie. And his grades never dipped below 65%.
And so he continues on that tradition. But he's jaded now, so he sticks to games, books, and he's poorer now for all the aiyyashi that he partook in during the wonder years.

Hahahahaaha. I'm sure y'all got no trouble guessing who that was. In fact he still doesn't study. In SIMC there seems to be no need for it, either.
Fuck this shit; it feels like the summer vacation's begun already. I didn't study even for my tenth and twelfth; never have, and it's an extremely safe bet to think that I never will.


Here I lie

It's a shared opinion that anyone who does anythign apart from study twenty-three minutes before an exam is fundamentally insane.
So sue me.
This morning something even stupider happened, something so fucked that I still can't stop laughing. I sit in the exam hall after dealing with the fucked admin here and rummage in my broken zipless bag for my notes.
Lo and behold, what do I find? It ain't there. But what is there is my rather battered copy of Robert Ludlum's Road to Gandolfo. And chutiya that I am I take it out and read half a chapter five minutes before the exam.
Neat, eh? And now I've gone back home to enjoy a smoke and wadas at Venky's, chatted with the guys there, Raju and the gang, enjoyed a quiet breakfast, before going home to pick up my notes.
And even though they're sitting in my bag, several presentations were already open on the computer I sat down at, I have no intention of studying anymore, as can be clearly seen from the blogging. Maa chudaye the exam.
To conclude: Marks are for losers. Not studying is for the motherfuckers.
And PR is for those who want to kiss ass; I'm a journalist; I mindfuck, I don't reassure.


Maa chudaye....

It would have been something to say had the night been dark, the atmosphere stormy, or the moon full in the sky. Unfortunately trouble brews only when the sun is high in the sky. And so on and so forth. Suffice to say it was a beautiful morning that sees an ill wind blow no good.

Screenings are all very fine, I thought, trudging on perfectly dry tile under a perfectly hot sun. The laptop bag swinging around did nothing to ease the feeling of lazy boredom that pervaded the place. Even with the threat of exams looming around the corner, it was hard to concentrate enough to study... pity. My academic performance was nothing short of average so far, and by the looks of things, it might not pick up. Maa chudaye.

Bigger problems arose in the afternoon. A problem the size of 1350 rupees. Backlog fees. The admin is sure fucked up when they give us a day’s notice for the same. It wouldn’t have mattered for nuts back home, but this is Lavale, and slight.... maniacal tendencies on my parents’ part prevented me from accumulating said wealth. So I borrowed, something that grates on my soul, or whatever’s left of it. In any case the 1350 is by no doubt fattening Mujumdar’s pockets, easing Symbiosis on the road to global recognition.

Or to perdition. Maa chudaye.

By evening I reached out to my room and settled in for the next few hours. Downloading was in full spate, and space on my fucked-up laptop was behaving treacherously, threatening to send me an alert any second. So what did I do?

Write a blog. Maa chuda.


An uncertain beggar

"I just died in your arms tonight...."

"Love is a many-splintered thing... don't be afraid now, just walk right in...."

That last one is from Ribbons, by Sisters of Mercy, a tune I'm beginning to appreciate more and more everyday. I don't know why.

I came to a conclusion yesterday. Knowing is pretty much a shitty deal. The more you know, the more things mindfuck you.

To summarize the conclusion: Minding your business is not going to help.

To summarize the summary of the conclusion: Monday mornings mindfuck.

Yesterday was a sunday, but not in my book. I don't know if any of you escaped Sunday school's clutches yesterday, but I sure didn't. I didn't stick around for the practicals, though, which was in itself a good thing. Apparently there was shit sold cheap there and mindfucking in obscene quantities.

I've got this philosophy; the more you think about something, the more it mindfucks you. It's a philosophy that arises from a typical epicurean; we epicureans are a sad lot, constantly begging to be entertained. We're the most uncertain of all beggars; turning to everything, everywhere; will this work? Will we divert our constantly wandering attention for a few precious moments?

Well, much as I'd like to say fuck that... I can't. And there are the dreary periods in medias res where you don't have shit to amuse you. This semester's a paradox in the true sense of the word.

Why? Because it's been utterly hectic, and at the same time it shows no sign of ending. Days after days of fucking limbo. What's so stupid is that each week's weaker than the last, with screenings and surprise assignments, and of all the fucking stupid things to happen, Dharmendra Sharma finds just a sunday to keep his class. Not that I'm saying it's his fault. Guy looked as mindfucked as me, probably having to travel all the way to Pune from Gujarat. Or wherever. Nah, fuck Pappa. It's that reserviour of endless mindfucking that orchestrates the whole mess, spider on his web, steady, safe, secure, bored.

There was this young fellow

Who thought at the administration he could bellow

And hope to hell they'd be a mite mellow

But he bit off more than he could swallow.

So he wandered in one sunday morning

His mind in limbo a-wandering

Another day with stupidity adorning

His brain's suffering wordlessly dawning.

Tempers flared and cocks inverted

And that was only for the boys, yes, perverted.

And so sleep over their brains delegated

Its minions captured their minds, corrogated.

And the sunday passed us by.

With nary a word nor a sigh.

And I possess a cock, therefore I shan't cry.

But in silence, die.

The only thing worse than a bad sunday is a bad week. So, do ya feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

No, Clint Eastwood, I don't. For three lakhs I coulda bought all the movies I wanted to and screened them at home, instead of shit at college. Ameen Sayani is all very good, but that was so long ago, that even my parents have a hard time remembering. I fucking hate Rumpole of the Bailey- guy drinks and smokes while we have to abstain. Doordarshan should keep its nose in its business... public service broadcasts, my ass.

The worst part being, we have stuff like Monty Python, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and so on sitting in the AV library. How come we're shown stuff like this again and again and again? Half the people aren't interested, the other half are asleep.

Oh, for fuck's sake.... how long will this fuck'd up sem go on? At least have the bloody decency to get over already.


C'est la vie

Morning. Get out of bed. Stretch. Brush. Yawn.
Dress. Douche with laptop. Listen to banshee; escort same out of the apartment. Douche on phone with girl. Get Mindfucked. Fuck around with time. 10 o'clock blues. Leave home, find friends, get to Venky's. Eat breakfast. Note to self: try not to feel so mindfucked so as to taste what the fuck I'm eating.
Get to college. Go to class. Park ass on seat in assigned class.
Recess. Smoke. Drink. Sit in cyber cafe. Blog. Read email. Waste time. Back to class. Try and ignore boredom. Try and ignore sleep. Break.
Go to sleep. Try to ignore sleep and boredom so as not to miss assignment news. Pack up. Leave college. Hang around. Go home. Douche with laptop. Dinner. Listen to banshee's problems. If unluckier than usual listen to girlfriend's problems. Listen to her golden voice swearing obnoxiously.
End of day.

And tomorrow, the whole cycle fucking repeats itself.
Three lakhs later, will it be the same?
For better or for worse, I think I'll be asking myself a three lakh question for the rest of my life.
And if my mind's drawing a fucking blank right now, ye madarchod kya karega after the randaapa is finally over?


The Lady Vanishes (1938)

I seem to be taking cues from PPCC these days, much obliged. Probably because of a lack of something to blog about, so I start writing film reviews. I need to get a life.
Although I'm in no hurry to do so.
So, The Lady Vanishes. So did my resistance against the vestiges of sleep creeping in from the sides. Without much ado, I fell asleep, so I'm not exactly qualified to review, but please acknowledge that I'm a hypocrite, so all's well that begins well.
The plot starts with an Inn in the fictitious country of Bandrika. It's strange how those names all add up; Bandrika, Bengalla (Phantom), and so on. It's as though somebody grabbed somebody else off the street and told them to come up with crazy-sounding names. Bandrika in itself is populated by a mix of europeans talking more gibberish than sense which can be attributed to the fact that Hitchcock reportedly got his people to invent a whole new language and speak it. The same shit was employed in Avatar (2009), although to greater effect to my knowledge.
So, the scene is set; a strange land, a benevolent-seeming old lady by the name of Miss Froy (May Whitty), Iris (Margaret Lockwood) the erstwhile holiday-er on her way to her sasural, and Gilbert (Michael Redgrave, a musicologist looking to write a book on the folk songs. Due to some inevitability in the train's getting late, everyone's got to take rooms in the hotel and wait for the following morning. Some humour is depicted alongside, with the local scene and Gilbert disturbing everyone with his work, which involves three of the hotel staff dancing with their heavy boots on the floor above Iris and Miss Froy.
With some minor arguements the passengers find themselves in the station the following morning, where Iris gets hit by a flowerpot and is concussed for the morning, when Miss Froy volunteers to take care of her.
At this point it would be prudent to mention the book from which the plot was taken. The original was written by Ethel Lina White, who called it "The Wheel Spins," wherein it is not a flowerpot that concusses her by sunstroke. Miss Froy takes care of Iris and accompanies her to the restaurant car (how come India still doesn't have those, even after so long?) and conviniently writes her name on the restaurant window. And then she accompanies Iris back to the compartment where Iris sleeps once more, and awakens to find Miss Froy nowhere.
Now, modern movie fanatics will remember a film, "Flightplan" (2005) starring Jodie Foster and Sean Bean, where Jodie Foster plays an engineer whose daughter disappears during a flight. They will also remember that while Jodie Foster's character, Kyle Pratt, seems to teeter on the edge of sanity and she suddenly spots the heart her daughter had drawn on the window. And her bravado returns.
The same happens here. Iris, this time joined by an ever-sceptical Gilbert who tries to pacify her. She eventually believes that Miss Froy was never there, and then she spots the drawing on the window, "F R O Y," and her moxie returns. The two of them search the whole train, although Gilbert takes her along to an onboard doctor, Hertz, who is apparently carrying a patient bandaged from head to toe. Although the story is good, it's also excellently predictable. There's something about the antagonist; always something about the villain, and Dr. Hertz looks every inch the villain.
After a few misadventures in the baggage compartment, Gilbert and Iris try to expose the patient, but are stopped by Hertz, who drugs them and leaves them asleep in the adjoining compartment. However his accomplice, a nun, gives him coloured water instead of the drug and helps Iris and Gilbert, who by now have established an excellent rapport. Gilbert exits through the window, opens up Miss Froy, knocks out another of il Doctore's  accomplices and leaves her in wraps, literally. The doctor suspects nothing until they reach the station, where he opens the bandages and understands the situation. The railway staff is revealed to be gullible enough to believe Hertz when he tells them there are spies aboard and he is from the British Intelligence. He gets rid of the adjoining carriages, leaving Gilbert and Iris sitting in the now last carriage of the train, which is promptly detached and left at the mercy of german troops.
Following a shootout, Froy reveals that she is a spy carrying vital information in the form of a musical tune which she teaches to Gilbert, and then she escapes, followed by Gilbert who goes to flag down the engine and bring it back to be attached. In the midst of all this there are two casualities, the nun and another passenger, but they're hardly vital to the story, so nothing happens.
The germans give up and the train reaches London, where Iris and Gilbert find themselves in love, at which point Gilbert wonderfully, typically, forgets the tune. But the day is saved when they find the tune played by Miss Froy, who manages to reach London inspite of her age, and the day is saved. C'est fin.

"The Wheel Spins" is differently told, however; Miss Froy has no idea she's carrying around a vital piece of information. The train never stops, and there is no final shootout. Gilbert is an engineer by the name of Max Hare, and it is sunstroke and not a badly aimed flowerpot that dizzies Iris, and the two unlucky cricket enthusiasts are nowhere.
The Lady Vanishes has an 8.1 rating on IMDB, and received the Best Film Award of 1938.
However, in this day and age, it was just another screening in just another sleepy afternoon. Plot? Predictable, after watching Flightplan. Pace? Good, but slower than expected. Visuals and unnecessary points galore.
The best characters were Charters and Caldicott shown on the side panel, the two cricket enthusiasts, who were always wondering if they'd get to the match after all, unfazed by shootouts or spies or the war. And no, they're not gay, although they're a visual treat.
Amen and goodnight.


Another untitled

Having nothing to say is one of the ecstacies of the modern world. If you have nothing to say, nobody bothers you. And life is beautiful.
But this.. blogging.. is supposed to allow us to say something. What if the problem is that I can't think of anything to say? Well, maybe I should stop mindfucking you and fuck off. Maybe that I'll think of something. Nah, who am I kidding. I can write and write nonsense for days and not come to an end. Meandering is an art, a genteel art that must be mastered. So is mindfucking, and the two sometimes go hand in hand.
Let's have at a poem.

There was once a mighty institution
Full of knowledge and miscommunication.
The professors loomed almighty in their power
While all the students try to look innocent, and cower.
And so the whole situation screw'd sour.

The mornings were toast, the afternoons a mess.
The evenings passed by in clearing the cess.
And by night we nursed muscles exceedingly sore,
And tried to catch up on our assignments which were a bore.

And did it get anywhere, I can bloody well ask.
If I didn't like to in boredom bask,
And so I decided to fuck everything and at last, opened up of the pure a cask.
And decided to take my un-inebriation to task.

Again the cycle begins and inspiration runs out;
Like a stomach suffering from dysentry and our skin's got a deadly pall.
There's no energy, none at all; all we do is live,
And at night, we fall.

Not very cheerful. So you see, in so many lines, I actually never reached anywhere.
But you should be proud, y'know you've reached somewhere. At last, I'm sure.
You've seen the light.
You've reached the end. C'est fin.


Who's Confucius?

This old man's a chinese philosopher. One of the most famous, for all the wrong reasons. He dealt with issues of morality, philosophy, relationships and so on. Like Chuck Norris, the man's famous, incredibly so.
But unfortunately the poor guy is known for all the wrong reasons. For that matter, I'm pretty sure the last few were pretty well received, so here's some more. Found from both my imagination and from the internet.

"A bird in hand make it hard to blow nose."

"Man who fall into molten glass make spectacle of self."

"Man who jump off cliff jump to conclusion."

"Man who smoke pot choke on handle."

"Man who read woman like book fluent in braille."

""Man who drive like hell bound to get there!"

"Man who drop watch in whisky is wasting time."

"A man with his hands in pockets feels foolish, but a man with holes in pockets feels nuts."

"Man who drop watch in toilet, bound to have shitty time."

"Man who take sleeping pill and laxative on the same night will wake up in deep shit."

"Man who cut self while shaving, lose face."

"Man who walk through airport turnstile sideways going to Bangkok.

"Man who have hand in pocket feel foolish, but man who have hole in pocket feel nuts."

"Man with hole in pocket feel cocky."

"Man who put head in open window feel pane on neck."

And now a few uncensored ones.

"Passionate kiss like spiders web - soon lead to undoing of fly."

"Man with hand in bush not always trimming shrub."

"Man who masturbate only screwing self."

"Man kicked in testicles left holding bag."

"Man wanting pretty nurse must be patient."

"Man who stick cock in engine get hod rod."

"Man bouncing woman on bedspring getting offspring soon."

"Girl douche with vinegar, walks off with sour puss."

"Man who buy drowned cat pay for wet pussy."

"Girl should not marry basketball player; he dribbles before he shoots."

"Man who sleep with sex problems wake with solution in hand."

"Hooker with bike, pedal ass all over town."


It's the new style

Is there a way I can go back? I don't know. I was looking back today, taking a stroll down a virtual memory lane. My first few blogs. So odd.
If ye like. The first blog I put up. There's such a difference in style, in mentality, that I almost wonder why the hell I decided to come to pune. When I'd first begun blogging, I remember, I didn't have a single follower, and part of me wanted to keep it that way. I didn't endorse it to anyone, not even my cousin. She found out from my sister.
The fact being, why is there such a difference? My ma read my novels both then and now, and she was, in a word, pretty disappointed with the change in style. There was too much smoke and drink, she said, peering suspiciously at me, and hints at worse things. "Dare I partake in unholy sin?" was the question in her eyes. I quickly replied, "It makes things more realistic."
Poor excuse. Of course things like that are going to make an appearance. They'd begun to make an appearance in my eleventh, when I decided to write erotica out of no particular reason. A secretary goes to office and gets fucked (she is the office slut, after all). Then she sues the company after a manager abuses her more than she gives him license to. Then she goes to a lawyer, fucks him, pays him, and gets him to sue the company. The judge's crooked, so she fucks him too, and gets a pile from the lawsuit. Then she searches for a new job, and instead finds an investor who's quite interested in her ideas and brings along his buddies to be persuaded to part with their money. At the end of it all, the secretary sits in her own office, looking out from the fifth floor down into the street below, rich, single and happy, and then she calls a promising young clerk for some more fun.
I put it up on some erotica site... literotica or SSP, I don't remember... but in any case it was one of the better pieces I'd written, four parts of roughly fifteen pages each. Interestingly, it still gives me a hard-on.
I'm like one of those guys who writes down everything he's experienced, just to relive it some other time. Perhaps this was a result of the first few months of solid sex that hit me during that time. Ah, well.
Besides which, I'm still putting up stories on all the wrong sites. You can't call it soft porn, it just isn't. Maybe a bit too.. graphic. I put up warped images of P.D. as well, dressed up and made up in her suit. Hahaha, artistic expression, poetic justice, call it what you will.

I'm not giving you the links. No, sir. That's private territory, I have my own followers up there. Maybe I'll put up some of the more... softer.. versions up on the tome, but I have my qualms.

Anyway, that's what this post is about. Degeneration, or regeneration, of a style that's kept changing. Sarcastic to silly, narcissistic to nascent, nuts to guts, guts to glory, stupidity and serendipity, seduction and sedition, and so on and so forth. Never stopping and everchanging. Bah, if only I know where it'll take me one day, to the pinnacle of achievement or to a lawsuit, life would be so much easier. But until then, experimentation galore, eh?


Burning a hole in my purse.

It's 2.15. On any other day I'd have been fucking running, trying not to get late. Which I would, of course; denizens of the institute would understand my feeling and my feeling to fuck something up when I found a shut door to welcome me.
What the hell. I'm seven assignments late and mindfucked so bad that I can barely remember my name. The last time I left Viman Nagar? Can't remember. See?
That, my dear reader, is a genuinely fucked up mind. And being a student, I'm just begging for more.
This morning we saw a film called.. shit, what was it? The Grapes of Wrath. I'm sure to people endowed with more common sense who've seen the bloody tranquillizer would be able to figure out the connection between that and the theme. But sorry, I didn't. It might have been selected by the Library of Congress or some motherfucker who thought it worth preserving. But this is India. People like that get their asses kicked, and bad.
Generally drifters like that end up in some slum, raise their kids through menial work and then their kids turn to crime, and provide for their family, odd as it seems. Land sharks are everywhere even in these enlightened times, so no one's a stranger to moving out. And then, of course, keeping in mind the Ethnic day that came up; What the fuck?
An ethnic day? Really. What do you have to be ethnic about? It's been over fifty-five years since the british left India. By all rights we should've been far better than the americans. The problem is with India's inherent streak of laziness. No, on further reflection, it's not laziness; it's uncaring. When someone gets hit by a car, the public rushes- oh yes, they drop everything and rush- and then they fucking beat up the driver. Pothhole in the road? Fuck the guy who fell. Somebody does take him to the hospital because they get money for it.
After the German bakery blast, I overheard a couple of auto drivers who'd helped around. They didn't get mentioned in the paper, or maybe they did, but their selfless help came at a cost; those fuckers were actually paid up later, for their selfless help.
A sort of monetary thank you that made me suspect the autovias would have gone on strike if they hadn't got it.
Oh yes, money does make the world spin.
There was an old adage; money can't buy you sleep, can't buy you hearth, can't buy you love.
Sorry, that's wrong. Money can get you the best sedatives that'll guarentee you a 24-hour respite from the world's problems. Can't buy you a hearth? Who're they fucking. It'll buy you a beachhouse. Can't buy you love?
Really. Everyone wants money, and most of the CnC's will just chase men and women who're loaded and give them so much love they'll be dizzy. Yahoo, money does make the world go around.

And that's it. You want a fucking life, you show the fucking green.
And you might just ask why the hell I got this far from nowhere. Well, it's because I've got barely 20 rupees in my purse.


Profane and loving it.

Profanity, as you may have seen, is alive and well in my posts. Recently it was brought to my attention that such matter may be deemed too delicate for tentative ears. Well, fine.
I'll just shift over the adult filter from the Tome to Unusually Untitled, although I doubt it'll filter out any sort of attention. If you can't read my posts without thinking, why this motherfucking cocksucking sonofabitch thinks he's so clever, then for gods' sake, don't.
It's that simple, really. And if you think that you don't want to have to read my posts where profanity is prevalent, then:
Not so profane as it seems, but there's meaning in it.
So go, do yourself.

But my posts will continue, and you can bet your arse that I've barely scratched the surface of my twisted being. Ready for seconds? Then don't forget to read up on my upcoming posts.


Mistress of her trade

Mindfucking galore.

There are no other words to describe the anarchy that plagues life everyfuckingday at a shitfucked institute for the mentally challenged. I thought it couldn't get worse, well I was so dead fucking wrong. Following a session of brainwashing by our own college hypnotist, very well the best the world can see in years to come- those attending indesign classes will know who I'm talking about. I'm not even going to take her name. She is "You-know-ho", someone to intimidate even Voldemort or Sauron, maybe even Chuck Norris.
Chuck Norris can throw a roundhouse kick that destroys your universe. But one word, just one syllable from You-know-ho, will destroy your sanity irreparably.

How can this happen, how does a wonderful morning go to absolute fucking shit? Because.
And the test this morning. Zow, it went so stupidly I'm actually, for the first fucking time, amazed that my G.K., fuck current affairs is so weak. Weaker than shit. Mucho problemo.
And stercus tauri, bullshit, for those who don't check latin.
You know what? I'm gonna end here. Words cannot explain it. Pictures cannot show it. Voices cannot define it; thoughts cannot describe it. Mindfucking is an art, a genteel art, one that You-know-ho has perfected beyond comprehension. I can only bow to her expertise even as I am brainwashed by it.
"Ave caeser, morituri te salutant."


Hats off

Hats off?
We have 007, and his stylized gun, we have Superman and his symbol of justice or Batman with his bat, the Green Hornet had his cane and The Spirit and his mask, Darkman and his bandages, Spawn and his cape, Green Lantern and his... well, lantern.., then Daredevil and the horns, Bullseye, who needs no symbol, he is a symbol; the Joker and his grin, the Mask and his mask, the Grim Reaper and his scythe.
Then who, or more importantly, is this post for? Well, it’s for the quintessential model of bad luck, the man who always pulls out in the end, though... Indiana Jones! And his hat. At every twist and turn Nazis fall around him in Raiders of the Lost Ark and The Last Crusade. Amrish Puri and his accented “INDY-ANNA JOANES” is a different matter, but in essence every film has that one single piece of unchanging fabric that bonds all four episodes in the saga of Indiana Jones- his hat. Never has Indiana Jones been complete without his hat, which accompanies him everywhere he goes.
Here we see Henry Jones Jr., played by River Phoenix who, unfortunately, died sometime after his role in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Henry receives the hat from a stranger, who tells him: ‘You lost today kid, but doesn’t mean you’ve got to like it.’ That keeps him going, until he grows up, where we see that flame of adventuring develop into full-fledged Indy, grinning inspite of the odds and the blood on his chin.

Of course, the hat at that point becomes more of a family tradition, and when Indiana Jones goes off to rescue his father, the original Henry Jones, we see both Harrison Ford and Sean Connery in one of the best Hollywood team-ups so far.
Both in hats.

Ain’t it just amazing. And the best part is, there is such a rapport between two seasoned actors.
Both are made-men. Sean Connery, a few decades earlier, hailed as one of the best James Bonds in history, “Shaken, not stirred,” and Harrison Ford, “Hans Solo,” with an ever-sardonic grin, wishing Luke Skywalker, “May the force be with you.” Both of them are in the Top 100 famous Hollywood movie lines.
Ah, yes, I’m wandering from the topic. This post is about Indiana Jones’s hat.

All weather, non-bulletproof, imbued with Indiana Jones’s legendary endurance. Never a wet rag.

Whaddya know.. it attracts the girls, too... Karen Allen in her role as Marion Ravenwood.
Where’s my hat? Indiana Jones without his hat in Temple of Doom.

That’s no Lone Ranger- that’s old Indy!

He’s evil- you can just tell. Maybe it’s the bald pate, but there’s something unsavoury about this character.

Indiana Jones and the Lost Hat.

“Go back to school, son. Adventuring’s my job description.” Shia Labeuf and Harrison Ford, in a moment of hat-snatching. Who will win?

No hat. Sorry, dude, you're not in Indiana Jones's league.

"Gods, I've had enough of this blatant posturing."

“Women don’t need hats.” Karen Allen, back in her role as Marion Ravenwood, older, and more experienced at the genteel art of confusing poor Indy beyond any hope of salvation.
And so it goes on, and on, and on.

Although the real sequence of events is that Indiana Jones first hit theatres with Raiders of the Lost Ark, then Temple of Doom, followed by The Last Crusade and finally Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Harrison Ford, Karen Allen, Sean Connery, Denholm Eliot as the absent-minded Marcus Brody, John Rhys-Davies, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and countless others who advertised the simple, yet efficient, super-strong, ultra-enduring, tough-as-nails Hat.

What a hat, ladies and gentlemen, what a hat.
The Hat has become a symbol of Indiana Jones. Although Indiana Jones in himself was quite a character, the villains gradually grew stale, the action sequences near-predictable, and almost reminiscent of Bond (must be the girls in each movie), something remains in the franchise that’s still worth something, and it’s not the flesh and blood of all of Lucas’s and Spielberg’s underlings or the acting skills of above mentioned actors, but a small, yet immensely useful swatch of fabric stitched together to keep a cool head.