Wednesday, April 27, 2011

There is no spoon


After about 3 years since I have started uploading the stuff I write to fend off the evil within me into this blog, I am here to make an alteration... Nay, to completely modify the preamble to this hellhole in which I had stated long back that this would be something to check the sensibility and rightness of my perspectives.




In course of the three years that followed, this blog went all zigzag reflecting my mood swings, turmoils in my psyche and the petty triumphs and defeats at various phases of my life.


In that way, I admit that there is no point at all in correcting something which has lost all its relevance in those wild fluctuations that the entire blog underwent. Anyway, the heat and blinding light from the slanted rays of the April afternoon sun trapped by the translucent glass window of my room instilled a couple of realisations in me along with a severe headache. I’m here to share them, for I believe that gloom is something that the world deserves to have a share of.



What I realised was that there is no spoon. No right perspectives and no wrong perspectives. You can bend it according to your whims since there isn’t one. The whole realisation thing was easy because I myself had a split personality and all I had to do was throw a perspective at them and watch the creepy assholes battling fiercely trying to kill each other over it.


While the translucent window was busy, I was lying on the bed drenched in sweat listening to “The room on top of the stairs” and suddenly I realised that it was not a beautiful country song about ethereal love, but a veiled narrative of how an asshole frequently took a chick upstairs and nailed her. The splits fought about it for a while till I declared the verdict that it could be anything.


You see, that’s the whole difficulty. The fucking perspectives bend. They bend sideways, forward, behind or even go for a full circle.


So what’s the point?


What’s the point in writing about the freakin’ perspectives?


Nothing.


Therefore, no more spoon talk from now on.

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Red Doom, Part-I



Only I knew it. The secret that would save the world. Beer. 



April 18th, 2011. A Monday that would not only begin the week but the destruction of the human species as well. 



No one had ever thought that the so called “advanced” human race would be annihilated from the face of the planet earth which they proudly reigned and that too by a bunch of creatures with technologies at which human beings would have, in another context laughed their asses off. 



Infra red. They used infra red beams for everything. From assessing the conditions to planning the attack. And not a “technologically advanced” human soul except me detected it. 



I spend days watching the night sky through the electronic viewfinder of my Digital Camera because I didn’t have a telescope. The 30X Digicam was my only option to watch the sky magnified. And I detected the beams. The blue streaks. Weeks and weeks, I watched the blue streaks blipping, forming chaotic patterns with undecipherable messages. Initially, I reckoned it was some kind of satellite activity. 



But one night, lying in a puddle of beer beside the splintered bottle on the terrace, I saw it. One of them. It came near me and winced at the sight of the beer. And it withdrew. Whatever it was that it feared in the stinking brewed malted barley, saved my life.  



Waking up next day in the clothes stiff with dried beer, I found my camera gone. They knew that I knew. That was why I was visited. 



Should I run through the streets warning the mortals blissfully living their lives of the impending doom? I’d rather not. Watching them being taken by surprise will be more enjoyable. 



Got a couple of cases of Heineken and few packets of Act II. Let the battle begin. 



-----

Die mortals. Die. Die like dogs.

 


Monday, April 4, 2011

End of Kraz - Part I




     Dust storm finally engulfed the powdering bones of Kraz. Dried up flesh of vultures which greedily fought for his flesh months back tried hard to beat the wind from blowing them away. The desert was a curiously efficient machinery that creepily reduced everything to dust. First it was his hopes, then his dreams, then it was his will and finally through a hundred corporeal and incorporeal aspects that shaped and described the entity that once existed by the name of Kraz Arkin, it was his bones. As the white powder went up the air mixing with a trillion grains of beige, yellow, orange, red and brown, Kraz was reduced to the myth of a legendary blogger whose tale grannies told wide-eyed kids who’d later have nightmares about dust storms and vultures. 



---------

Either the asshole Kraz will resume blogging or I’ll keep posting more nonsense about his end.

Fragment


You are with a unusually cute gal in a lift which malfunctions and you both spend some time trying to sort the trouble out and smiles at each other during the process and manages to get out of it and you both get inside a functioning lift and are both on your way up to your respective floors and suddenly she strikes up a conversation with you about your work and sort and when the lift stops where she has to get off, asks if she could meet you when you are free anytime in the next 2 or 3 hours so that she could talk something with you and you give her your number telling her to call you whenever she is free. 


Since it was happening in India, involving me with an impeccable record of screw ups and a total lack of confidence in miracles from the past experiences in life, I keyed down the following possibilities in the next two excruciatingly slow hours: 


1. Insurance Policy
2. Multilevel Marketing
3. Some weird product for sale (Height enhancing insoles or a set of Books)
4. Emigration
5. Higher Studies Abroad 


Gave me a ring after some time and we met. It was something I should have added, Charity. She worked for CRY. Told her I required more help than any of her CRY kids and she left disappointed.


And I crawled back to the dreary asylum that the courtroom offered.

Hopes

 
 
Sometimes, all that is needed to be convinced about the possibilities of life getting better is reading some old journal entries. Found these two while fishing for some lost documents.

"Existence - Log Entry

08th June 2010
Somewhere in Rajasthan

Half lying cuddled in a woollen blanket on the upper berth of a fresh train scatting over the metal and wood rail stretched across the arid landscape of Rajasthan, insulated from the blistering summer outside by the electrically treated air, I comfortably cud  some old existentialist dilemmas... 


The recent past will slowly become a dream. Stubbornly refusing to acknowledge the truth and after fighting for a while, I will adjust to it. Then I will be back to routine. Delhi. Dust storms. Occasional Rains. Filth. Crowded Markets. Disgruntled lawyers. Sleepy courtrooms.


And I will soon forget. That there is not one but many chains. That they aren’t tightening together but independently. At their own pace.  




09 July 2010
Delhi
Another scorcher shattering the hopes of better days. All those rain showers and the furore done with.

Got fried inside the oven again. Funny how the climate affects outlook. A mere 20 minutes drive in the sun did the damage. Internal thermo recorded 47, sparking off discontent.

Again the routine. Weary steps all the way up the stairs. Kept knocking for about a minute. Door opened with mumbled apologies. Staggered into the room. Everything just the same. The windows that never let anything in or out, even air. A huge pile of clothes for laundry. Unkempt bed. A worn old blazer that fell off from the chair as usual.

It was time to play my part. Open the window. Sigh at the clothes. Restore the blazer to the chair. Throw the socks to someplace under something and make it disappear from the picture. Fall on the unkempt mess. Stare at the ceiling with the dusty fan that struggled in circles. Close the eyes and forget the place. Wake up with a headache, drenched in sweat. Blankly stare at the lizards clinging to the ceiling. Cliché stuff I’d read somewhere. Life, in its myriad forms.

Watched a couple of movies after long, at a stretch. The Secretary, Presumed Innocent and Goodfellas. First one turned to be a worthless softporn and the other two curiously had the guys getting into trouble from infidelity. Probably a message for me. Just like forbidding someone from doing something. Say it and the hitherto alien idea grows on him.

How better can life ever get??? Probably this is the tip. It’s the decline that’ll follow. Stay in this tip or go for the decline. Maybe decline is effortless. Better than dragging oneself all the way up. Just slide down the mountain... Yipeeee...”





Well, it hasn’t got any worse than that yet. Something hopeful.

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Ramblings of a Deskbound Dork



Fuck Life, fuck society and fuck every goddamn thing in the world. 



After a gap of about four years, I am listening to a tout le monde. Sitting inside this cramped office surrounded by a stack of dilapidated files, staring into a glaring monitor displaying a word document with a bunch of legal hooey splattered all over it. The bounty for living a hapless life shaped by loads and loads of compromises. 



“If my heart was still alive, I knew it’d surely break...”



I was never good at singing. But the freakin’ excitement that the jamming sessions and hanging out with the band gave is something worth giving up anything in life. But I gave it up instead of the all those ‘anythings’. 


"Tout le monde" was something that I never messed up much. The Jamming sessions in the college auditorium. Rohit, expressionless on the keys. Dubious Praful, whom no one will see again on the lead. Atul on the base and little dumby with his wide eyes on the drums. Morons with nothing but music in their blasted blood. That was bliss. Something which nothing on this deuced earth can ever replace.



“Moving on is a simple thing, what it leaves behind is hard...” 



The rush of blood when going for “so as you read this...” at a different pitch the second time. The devilling snare and the orgasmic metallic crash of the cymbals. All burned down to a bunch of memories. Leaving them still having the greatest time of their lives and me in the midst of this pile of shitty documents. I’ll rather play these bloody ear phones so loud that it burns a hole through my ears. 



People, mark my words. Just cling on to whatever you love doing or you’ll end up miserably chewing cud like me. Ask the creepy society and the world to just fuck off.



Remain behind that keyboard, bass and drums, buddies. You have no idea how it feels being far off from them. It’s just a lot of mutated miserable dorks racing to establish their lame lifeless identities before each other out there. 


“So as you read this, know my friends,  I'd love to stay with you all,
please smile, smile when you think of me. My fucking soul’s gone that's all.”



And it ends. Silence after the storm. I quietly return to the legal document I was editing. 



Again I start self-pitying for my dashed miserable existence till I see this photo by Mary Ellen Mark and went through the stuff in her page.



I am thankful for this decent job and this not so cramped office, Lord.

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Dreams from my Lesbian Self


 It was an ancient room. So ancient that it reeked of decomposed wood and mildew. But there was a grandeur that was hard to ignore. I stepped inside and eased off the backpack to one of those ancient chairs. I wanted my matchet. Furrowed on one side and smoothly blunt on the other. The ogre that bathed me in blood. 

And I couldn’t find it in the backpack. All that was there was a tiny swiss knife. This was wrong. Very very wrong. I needed the matchet for I knew I wouldn’t survive a minute without it. I could use my power of imagination to find that matchet buried deep inside the backpack. But something revolted against the idea. I was slipping out of the dream and I fought against it. A few seconds of intense focussing found the matchet. From its rough leather sheath, I took the gleaming metal out and quaveringly admired its sheer power to decimate for a while.

The holster held the sheath close to my heart and the savage was ready for carnage. My folks were waiting outside. There were horses or something. I didn’t care. Hormones screaming for butchery, I rode into the woods.
And they came. A white guy with a sword. The matchet quivered inside the sheath. Before I knew, it came to life in my hands. A flash, it chopped his hands and severed it from his body. Leaving behind the bloody hand still clinging to the sword, I rode on fiercely, slicing the thick silence with an ear-splitting scream. 

Then came a black guy with a spear. There were no horses anymore. It was a clearing, just him and me on foot. The sinister forest watched in a grim stillness. Matchet was becoming restless in the hands, aching to discerp him to a thousand bloody shapeless masses. In an oddly swift move, I was on him, the edge of my matchet closing in to his eyes, ready to gauge it out. And he suddenly started laughing hysterically. He was enjoying me over him. Looked like he was gay. As I stepped back wincing, there was a brilliant flash and dazzling brightness all around.

I was back in the ancient room with a slender tall girl clad in glaring white. She said, “shree, there is too much violence inside you”. She took my hands in hers and it was soft as quill. I couldn’t look into her eyes which seemed to pierce into the darkest depths of my mind. “Come with me and I shall lead to your bliss”, she said.

And suddenly, I was in Bombay, sitting inside a cosy metro train, watching slums speeding past me. After whizzing through myriad landscapes and a hundred thousand lives, it came to a halt near an ocean and there she stood, in a casual black attire that contrasted her blinding white skin. I followed her to a group of stand-up comedians chuckling stupidly amongst themselves. Smiling enigmatically, she said “this is your bliss”.


The crazy landlord was rapping on the door, its despicable sound resembling the irritating hammering on a construction site. “bhaiyya, aaj Office nahi ja rahe hei kya? Do baj gay...”
Hell, no. I thought. No office today. I’ll read interpretation of dreams instead.
-------

Too many action and fantasy movies. And too much involvement in fubar’s blog. I’m getting sick of it.

The fake Freud in me identified Apocalypse Now, Lord of the Rings, The Last Samurai and Inception. And by the way, the title was to mislead porn hunting imbeciles. Sorry to disappoint. You can try 3gpking, mikesapartment or naughtyamerica.

Phantasms from the Fog


“Damn, I think we’ve run out of petrol” he finally let the awkward truth out and looked uneasily at her. It was partly her fault because the scooterette without a fuel gauge was hers and all he did was ride it with her. The evening was getting chillier and a mild fog was settling, blurring their sight to some extent. They had been standing there since the last ten fifteen minutes with him diagnosing why the scooterette had conked out all of a sudden.
She watched him leaning down, squinting at the engine and desperately groping the wires. It was very irritating. “What’s the use, you idiot? Just find some petrol from somewhere” she yelled. He stepped back ruefully and mumbled “D...Do you have a can or bottle or something?” Silently she handed over an empty mineral water bottle from the bag. He took it with visible relief and said, “Y..you just wait here and I’ll get it. The pump is just two minutes walk away. You can even see it... Look, there... Put that cap on, O.K? And... I’ll be back in five minutes. Umm... by the way, don’t call me when I’m at the gas station, O.K? It’s dangerous. My phone’s an old one. ESD spark from the phone may... You know, ESD...Electrosta...” “JUST GO, ASSHOLE” she screamed before he could finish.
How did I end up with this kind of a loser, she thought while watching him with disdain, nervously hobbling towards the gas station.
A filthy cur which came limping observed him and the bottle with interest. It sniffed around the scooterette for a while and nestled in a pit beside the road.
Having nothing else to do, she started texting and suddenly realised that she’d run out of balance too. All she could do on the roadside in this wintry evening was watch a stupid dog nuzzling in a pit or talk to him which would frustrate her more. She pondered over the irony; there was no balance to call people whom she liked to talk with but some stupid plan would let her hear his nervous harping for hours if she wanted.
A good fifteen minutes passed and he was nowhere in sight. Her frustration was mounting alarmingly. “Curse this life, why do I have to bear this jerk who can’t even get a bottle of petrol from pump at a walking distance?” She swore aloud.
She flipped the phone open and called him. It rang thrice and suddenly his nervous stammer came through “G... Good heavens... dear, didn’t I tell you not to...” and then everything happened like a scene from a movie. As the call got disconnected, a deafening explosion made her swivel towards the direction of the petrol pump and a crimson ball of fire slowly went up from there, the dog fled past her with shrill yelps.
It was all silent once again. The orange flames were prominent now and clearly visible to her.
She collapsed on the road sobbing and muttering “Bastard, how could you mess up that one simple job???”

------
Moral of the story: Nothing. Don't read random blog posts out of boredom.
The title has a creepy note, na? I was thinking about continuing with the fog thickening, wolves howling, the girl panicking, the burnt dead nerd chasing her with a splinter of his phone and all, but then I got bored. 

Saturday, February 19, 2011

Pulp Friction

It was just another day. Winter on the deathbed. Stray monkeys squeaked menacingly and ran around. Nothing could make a difference. Bored, he got out of the office and walked towards the ATM machine across the road. His life was messed up beyond recovery. Unpaid bills, pending work, laundry that had been piling up since two weeks, calls he never attended... Immersed in thoughts about the whole meaninglessness of his existence and the need for more isolation, he never saw the speeding truck. All he heard was the deafening noise made by the friction between its tyres and the road. That was it. A passerby murmured "this is the end, beautiful friend, the end" and walked away. Monkeys stopped squeaking and a frozen silence prevailed.

This is the story of how a person was transformed into a pulp due to friction.

---

All credits go to Dragon Naturally SpeakingTM trained to 100% accuracy. The nonsense above was randomly dictated to it. It's a damn interesting software, you know?

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Another Monologue

Today, it is going to be my College.


It took me 7 Years to complete a five year law course. You, my hopelessly bored reader would be expecting me to follow this up with an short justification. Na. I’d rather not do that. I’d , as usual give a comprehensive commentary making fun of the college, me and those seven years that felt like 17 or 27...

It was different from the way the N school kids did law. We were a community of blissfully happy kids insulated inside a cosy setting without a hint of what went on outside the college. We used to wonder why those kids who occasionally came down for attending our piteous moot court competitions from other colleges looked so stressed out. In the vacations, we sat at home watching movies or playing cricket or something. College for us, was just a level up from school. After college hours, I played “Return to Castle Wolfenstien” in the newly acquired AMD Desktop. During the vacations, I finished Max Payne-I and II.

There were never many classes. Most of the time, the college was kept closed due to some reason or the other.

The whole concept of placement was so alien to the campus that it was considered a disgrace to accept a job in a company or a firm. Not that it ever happened. Sure, there were stories about kids who had left for Bangalore or Delhi looking for jobs in Law Firms. But, even that was narrated with such contempt as if they had gone to become prostitutes/gigolos.

There were a couple of forlorn kids who sensed that something was terribly wrong somewhere and felt out of place. But everyone inevitably had that tired look in their eyes when someone spoke of a job in the Metros.

So what did the kids do after graduation? Well, they all either quit law or practiced law in the lower courts.

It was a very chilled out campus. I often feel that had some N school kid accidently stepped inside, he’d have probably thought that it was a regular government office or an Art School. The student community was the weirdest. Most of the guys were well above thirties. Most of the gals were ‘Married/to be married soon/desperate due to not getting married’ types. And a substantial number of them came Burkha clad. So it was tough to classify them by looking at just their eyes. Some were dropped at the college by their hefty thick moustached husbands with contemptuous expressions as if whatever we were doing was a criminal waste of time.

There was an All India Moot Court Competition every year. A handful of teams with flashy chicks and laptops would come down with the hopes of leaving with an easy win. This was the time of their lives for the couple of wannabe and perverts in the college. They’d sit on the wall, ogle at these kids and murmur amongst themselves. The wannabes would appear wearing Linkin Park Ts and smoked jeans, ready for service. The courts were the funniest. Two teams, two court officers and two or three judges. That’s all. An incamera proceeding. In the final round, for which the organisers would have struggled days and nights to get hold of some HC Judges to preside, the hall will be adequately packed with people whom no one would ever see after the function.

The wannabes would spend the next few months cyber stalking the chicks who had come down (in ORKUT). The perverts would entertain each other with made up stories of how close he was to hooking up with one of those chicks.

And everything would return to normalcy. Quiet gloomy corridors. Deserted classrooms.

All the hell would break loose during the exam days. Strange faces would appear and there would be introductions. “Hey dude this guy is our classmate.” If its asked why no one has seen him all these years, a bizzare explanation would follow. “You know, I am having a shrimp farm in the Tamilnadu border. I was looking after that” “I went to Dubai looking for a job. Was lucky to make back alive”. I have to say that most of these stories would be raw and amusing. Like how he was promised an office job and was dumped in the midst of desert to be a slave to an Arab looking after the camels. How he managed to escape and all. Sadly, most of the stories would be true.

Another chaos would be unleashed during the election time. Those days would be eventful. Fiery campaigning. We had almost every of those student political parties. SFI, KSU, MSF, ABVP, AIDSO to name a few. There would be occasional clashes. And then the college will be shut indefinitely. We’d return homes cheerful and pleased, for the closure meant more movies, games and TV. Every morning with fervent prayers we’d open the newspaper to see if there is anything on the reopening. After a month or so of more unperturbed life at home, which would have become monotonous by that time, the classes would resume. Unknown to us, those leisure days were added to and not subtracted from our academic years.

Some kids would go out for moots occasionally. And would come back with an attitude. It would take a while for them to become ‘normal’ again. Then for days, they’d be seen outside the Principal’s room, accounts section, dean’s room trying to get a refund for the expenses incurred in vain.

I can say that till the day I left the college, (even) a laptop attracted lot of attention. God knows if it’s the same or the attitude has changed.

I was just one of those kids. There was a strange naivety about those people. They were all sincere folks who are content with their lives, however miserable it is reckoned by others.

That “was” doesn’t mean I’ve evolved into something great. But at least, I don’t stare at girls smoking now. Some improvement.