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.


Last night

Last night, I remembered a big bad world. Trust was bought and sold like honey, and peace, rarer than a venetian virgin. It was a pity. Some revelled in this macabre travesty. Others capitalized. And some more did nothing but simply grin and bear it. Fools as they were, they wanted nothing. Not a care in the world, not a question to be hurl'd.
Then I went off to have a smoke. And perhaps a few revelations. What do I want? What does anyone want?
In the end, peace. Contentment.
Of course, the forms which they take, which we search for, are all variable. So many have been crucified, physically, mentally and spiritually, just for the one reason that their vision of peace was not in keeping with society. Hitler, with his vision of a powerful and strong Germany. Alexander, who sought to bring the world under one banner. Osama Bin Laden, with his strong love toward his people, his culture, his beliefs. And yet, they were crucified. Hailed as history's villains.
Peace. Peace and quiet, I thought, taking another drag. It occured to me that some people spend their entire lives searching for such. Others find their peace in the moment. In the now. That's rare.
I don't have a shred of modesty in me, so I'm going to say I'm one of the latter. I find my peace in the moment. Fuck the past, it's gone. Fuck the future- it ain't never gonna happen.
Today is a gift. The present. I say so at the risk of sounding cliched. Imagine my peril.
I came up with another idea for a film. I haven't made one, a single one till now. I've worked back home in such, when my friends would make what I'd call amateur videos. But they were still films, and got their fair share of hits on youtube.
But I've never really considered making one. Sure, it's SIMC. And sure, I'm mercenary enough to realize what a project is. When everyone is making whatever comes up in their mind, (no offence here, filmmakers of my generation, so don't take any.) I find that I've not even spared a moment to think about it.
Well, like John Cena, You didn't see me. But My time is now.
So I thought, last night.


Sherlock Holmes

Compare him to Hercule Poirot. Or to Marple. Perry Mason, Father Brown. Anyone at all.
He still stands out. Poirot has an ego the size of Belgium. Marple, a wrinkled old lady, so inconspicous. Perry Mason, not exactly the best detective in the field. Father Brown, a kindly father who has managed to acquire a goodly amount of skill just by hearing confessions. Everything's too predictable for Father Brown.
Then you have Herlock Sholmes. Originally intended as a spoof for Doyle's creation, Herlock Sholmes is one of the best, albeit eccentric detectives in the field. Herlock Sholmes and Dr. Waston.
But that's a different genre, deadpan comedy.

Nah. Sherlock Holmes is something else. Utterly impervious to the problems posed by morals and rules, the man simply strides into any situation, and, to use the phrase, sabki maa chod ke rakh deta hai.
It's not Poirot, who simply relies on evidence and reconstructs from the ending. Holmes studies detail on a scale that would have made Poirot blush. The Return of Sherlock Holmes, after his apparent death at the hands of his rival Moriarty (who is presumed to be Holmes himself), returns to 221 B for a cup of tea and his cocaine shots. His brother Mycroft, the equally conniving detective, with powers of observation reputed to be greater than Sherlock's own, and the amicable Watson, all make for a colourful ensemble of characters in Doyle's repertoire.
Still, the image of Holmes was to be Jeremy Brett, with his trademark voice and piercing laugh. Not to mention the heavy sarcasm barely concealed under a thin veener of tolerance. Very rarely has Holmes been challenged. In the end, like Watson, he strikes out at all of his, indirectly laughing at Lestrade and Gregson, two prime incompetents of the Scotland Yard. Jeremy Brett revolutionized Sherlock Holmes at the time. So much so that Frogwares' game, Sherlock Holmes: The Awakened, has his likeness.
But with the newest version, Sherlock Holmes, already so eccentric, became even more so, when Downey Jr., in his usual sardonic, sarcastic, seen-it-all style showed off his skills. Robert Downey Jr., one of the best entertainers of this time, Iron Man, Tropic Thunder to take an example.
Downey and Law made one of the best duos in quite a while. Watson, at this time more experienced with Holmes and utterly unsurprised by his antics, and Holmes, madder than ever, out to solve what looks like a supernatural mystery. Whether it is or ain't you can figure out. But Sherlock Holmes usually makes a laughing stock of the unfortunate antagonist in every case and in this one, by the end, you actually begin to pity Mark Strong.
And the ending is open to interpretation, with a shadowy character lurking in the shadows, with a briefcase embossed with a single letter: "M".
Open for a sequel? Definetely. Open for entertainment? It's Holmes at his best ever since the death of Jeremy Brett.



Thoughts. They define us. In fact, they make us.
It is our thought that influences our choice, our choice that influences our action. And therefore I find myself thinking as to why I typed out the blog in the first place.
Sometimes I just don't have anything to write. Therefore I write nonsense.
An old monk visited me yesterday. He had much wisdom to offer to a sane mind. So I wandered around, quaffing the rum in good quantities and moreover, neat. A miracle that I didn't bring it all back up, was my first thought when I scrutinized the four 62-rupee bottles lying on the ground.
I kept wondering about what could have happened in the six hours I was asleep. What happens to the alcohol inside? The sleep diminished its effects, of course, but I was still curious. So I popped off to the shop and this time got me some soul-stirring beer.
At twelve in the morning, I felt faint stirrings in my torso, so judging that to be a good time, I sent the beer down to find out what had happened to the four bottles.
And I thought, how do we know how it is, to be drunk?
I mean, really, how do we know?

Maybe I should just have asked the beer that.

Another thought that enthralls me as much as anything else. Freedom goes hand in hand with all the good things in life. Smoke. Drink. Food. Sex. Entertainment. Amusement.
But freedom is useless, useless as shit, if you don't have money. I know religions and cultures preach that spiritual gain is better than physical or materialistic gain, but.. I don't know.. it doesn't seem as satisfactory as the feel of smoke inside you, a warm feeling in your throat, or pav bhaji, e.g., or even someone to wake up beside in the morning.
Or on the other hand, you can't go off to see a movie without tickets. Hell, you can't go anywhere, if you ain't got the rokda for it.

The backbone of the human race, the cajoler to the fucked mind. A gentle snake. All those people who say money is a good servant but a bad master don't know what they're talking about.. money drove our entire race over the point of no return and shut the gate. We aren't worth anything without it. And when everyone's for sale, is the fact that slavery still exists such a surprise?

In so many ways. We've paid to make ourselves slaves. Oh yes. Don't you get up in the morning and pack a bag and trudge your way up to SIMC? Yes you do. And therefore you're a slave to a system. It's not a system of a down, either, but a system of a static.
It don't go nowhere, and neither do we, mindless slaves to a mindless system. Money doesn't control man. It controls the system.
And nobody needs to be a genius to figure out what the system controls.



History's written by the conquerors. For example, I'm sure you're familiar with the crusades that took place because of the Catholic Church and their fixation with pagans. Pagans were anyone who didn't agree with the catholics.
Apparently, people weren't big on live and let live down there. Some asshole wanted the TNGs to fear him, so he tried to do something big.
I mean, if you look at a relatively peaceful stretch- that would pretty much make things uninteresting. So therefore, history is full of wars, and hardships and struggles and petty politics, with small stretches of peace in between, as though giving us a concession... "alright, you've taken the shit, here's some peace... you like that? Take it and go." To quote R.P.
Damn. I mean, really. Just how historic is our history? Historic enough that we've had to study it for the better part of four years. And now, we're being asked to regurgitate in three days what we struggled for years to try and remember. And here we go again, studying like rats with our noses pressed to our monitors and papers, while errant thoughts about parties and drinks and girls and smokes and god knows what else drifts through the head.
Not nice, not pleasant, and I know exactly what reactions I'll find among the populace after the test.
If I even attend.



So it came to be in these unhallowed halls, One thing I know:
That I know not where I go.

Each step dragged, forced, depression as thick as my original sin
Which of course was irrelevant over the overwhelming din.

Why? It plagues me every moment of my life, and there's no salvation to a bell;
Only imprisonment. I've consigned my life over to fucking bloody hell.

Sure, it's La Marchoires du Morte, the Gates of fucking death,
And I'd thought I'd fight it till my dying breath,

But sadly fate had other ideas, and did not deign to agree,
It did not, and would never, my view on life, see.

At the risk of sounding cliched, life's a fucking bitch.
No more, no less, weaving magics of foul depression, it's a wicked witch.

And I'm another chutiya, treading the path that a thousand hundred
Before me took, and will take, and lie thinking about it in their bed.

But life does, super majorly suck.

And that's a pity, when I see all that life could have been around me.
But I refuse to stoop to underhanded tricks to make life more livable, see.

It's a waste of my energy and time to complain about it,
And so yours to read about it, your patience ebbing bit by fucking bit.

The end.
Before you go 'round the bend.


Carpe Noctum

Jokes apart, what happens when you get to your internship, fully expecting to pick up the certificate, and instead, you've got someplace that looks like the Grudge girl went through it, picking out the chief first?
Damn them to hell, but what the fuck.
Instead I find myself deputized once more, a bloody pity if there ever was one. I found myself going back to the first days of my internship. I headed for the hills.
Literally. Range fucking Hills, to cover another bloody tournament. It was just a hell of a lot of mindfucking, which I probably did deserve in the first place for bunking so much. I guess I earned it.
This year is neither new nor happy. If anything, it's sad. A sad year.

Which is what brings me to the blog.
I don't know about you, but quite often I find myself more alert and operational at night. I was pondering that puzzle when I found myself in my pjs at two in the night, near chandan nagar.
Whatever in the world possessed me to walk, almost unknowingly, so far? I don't sleepwalk. I remember putting on my pjs and taking my smokes when I left. I walked till around four, by which time I got sleepy once more.
This is the future of humanity, I'd guess. We're becoming steadily creatures of the night. From parties to boozing to plain walking, and then of course the latenight/early morning facebooking and social networking.
Carpe noctum, the order of the day.
Seize the night.


Stercus Tauri

I wrote this exactly at the time of the internship cell meeting, which, without even attending, in my opinion would have been an utter waste of time.
I have been in zombieland for the entirety of this course, which is an utter pity, not to mention an utter waste of my time and energy.

Don't answer. I have a feeling answers don't change much, especially when the college is concerned.

I had a dream, a nice, long dream
That didn't split at either seam,
But went on, fucking regardless,
Wherein I was at peace and bless'd.

Obviously this college is not it.
It's sapped my sanity, or whatever was left of it, bit by fucking bit.
So I wandered, like some lovelorn chutiya, in my dream forever,
And didn't even bother to fuck with what was around me, never.

For two years, this bullshit has mindfucked me,
And rukne ka namo nishaan, tell me if you see.
Perhaps in another year my torture will be laid to rest;
And then, another will begin, meaning I lose my zest.

Post-graduation? Another fucking nightmare.
Both my time and my energy it'll bloody well tear.
I feel like I'm Slevin, in Slevin's shoes and coat
With a mindfucked brain and an aching throat.

Arre yaar, try to understand, I'm not suicidal, I's merely bored.
When people are occupied with studies and fun, well, it's their hoard.
But for me this is not it.
This is "stercus tauri." In english? Bullshit.



It's a commodity parents don't waste their money on. Or girlfriends. Or sisters. To such enlightened beings who grace the very toilet when they commune with nature, privacy can go fuck itself. But we want to know what you've been up to, young man.
Yesterday, I tried to grab some z's ahead of schedule. I was awakened by a phone call, from my parents, who had just checked my FB profile. Obviously y'all can understand that they wouldn't like what they find there. Ever fond of fucking around, they didn't take too kindly to my devil-may-care attitude, if I may call it that, and suggested (actually, they threatened to disown me), that I take steps to rectify their situation.
This afternoon, a few minutes before the blogging, I deleted them from the friends list and blocked future endeavors. Two birds with one stone; now I no longer need to censor my language. The retaliation was funny to the point of laughable.
They were worried once more, about why I'd gotten rid of the friends list.
Maa chudaye.
It's not very often that a son can say that to the very hand that feeds him.
Call me insensitive; they sure did. They also said they didn't like the direction I was taking.
Well, it was their way or the highway, so I went off to fill petrol in the scooty. Which got them worried as to how out of hand their son was getting. Suicide?
"In repression lies depression".
Nah, that's not exactly it. "In caution lies boredom."
I learnt long ago that you can never make anyone else understand your world. Parents prove that simple adage time and again. Not to mention half the people on the streets.
It's a sad world.
Fuck it all, I'll survive.
Or at the very least, I'll blog about it.