Quod Vidi

A Moment In Time

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 27 Oct 2016 16:47:00 +0000

The grass grows,

And the leaves tremble,

The roads move,

When you walk beside them.

They want to feel a touch

Of your bare feet

On every blade and every breath.

If the nothings of nobody had memory,

If they had words that they could not speak,

They would think of those days

When you ran on them,

Stopped to stare at the water flowing far away

And smiled.

They could see you with

The winds that brought

Your smile to their expanding and contracting

Monotonous lives.

You gave them meaning.

You gave them a reason to be.

That moment when you looked distantly

Into the flowing waves of the lake,

And thought your own thoughts,

Left an imprint to remain forever.

This is based on a few moments of a person shared by someone close who thinks shes like Wendy. Right, Priyanka?

~Pan

The Kingdom of Night

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 18 Jul 2016 19:42:00 +0000

Sleep now, my child.

For when you wake,

You shall remember

None of the dreams

That haunted you

While you lived.

The night King comes

For us all, and brings

Great moments

Of unmemorable sorrow.

Sleep now, my child.

For when you depart

This house of horrors

To your mind full of fantasies

To die as you please

No more at the behest

Of a latent hunger

That stranger's concoction

Of fear and loathing

And what you might see

While the moon burns not

But a living reflection of

The poison coursing

Through your very skull.

So, sleep, my child.

The night king awaits

To take you into his hall

Of unmemorable memories

Where you could a face

Off the ancient gallery

And be whoever you pleased

The skin that is dying

And the mind that is bleeding

Is what they want, my child.

They who are benevolent in death

But will burn you every moment

That you are living.

They want your happiness, my dear.

They want to stroke your neck

With the fiery fingers of flame.

Until a burn leaves no trace

And your scars are tattoos.

So watch from your shadow, my child.

Become the masks

Become all of them.

Wait with stealth until

The fire's fear is but a glaze in your eyes.

And your fingers turn blue

Upon your slender throat.

Wait until you have devoured the death

Wait until you are not weary of doom

But embrace it like a good friend

Every night, when your heart stops.

Sleep now, my child.

The kingdom of night awaits.

He is smiling.

~Damien

Never Alone

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Tue, 16 Feb 2016 20:33:00 +0000

There are eyes glowing green 

In the dull void of the dark,

Staring at you, daring you to move.

They will never abandon you.

They shall remain over your shoulder, 

Willing you to look back

Making sure you're always ready.

They smell of the noxious perfume

That would lure one's senses astray.

Clear your mind, my dear

And it glowers, frowns, it narrows 

Its gaze when you know 

That the true current isn't on the surface.

You are not alone in the dark, my dear.

The poltergeist of memory shall never leave.

Though the surface be windy,

The darkness suffocates, always shall.

For its true nature is revealed when 

You have but closed your eyes,

The nails then come closer,

Scratch the surface of your soft skin,

Careful to stir, but not to bleed.

You are not alone in the dark, my dear.

Call on the fire of your heart and

Drown your demon with your dazzling eyes.

And then maybe, for another day, or another year,

Those eyes glowing green shall be dimmed

The claws brittled and the horror entombed. 

Do this, my dear, when you are alone. 

For you are never alone in the dark.

Learning To Live

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 19 Jan 2013 16:05:00 +0000

As the hallucination washes away

I am left with a feeling

An arousal of the senses

Keen to the cold around me.

And the warmth that inside suffocates.

The madman inside laughing recklessly.

There is a time for daring.

And this is it.

The time to bring to life inanimate puppets.

A bag of fries and smoke that talk to me.

And music that rings my head numb

With its beauty.

Oh my love, if you knew,

the fragility of my soul,

You would but devour

The soft walled innards

of the monster that dances to the tunes of poetry.

Beneath a rag of paper I might cower

But there is such will.

Such as to bend all forces of time and space.

Brittle yet tender;

Growing to be stronger.

Learning life.

I am.

Quicksand

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 30 Aug 2012 14:19:00 +0000

Drowning in it.

Vividly clear.

The murky brown bubbles

Forming in the mouth.

And he says to me,

Arm outstretched,

"You may see

That you are out of reach."

Struggling for foothold

In a quagmire of doom,

Lungs made of fire.

And eyes made of smoke.

Moments flash.

Between gasps of fire and forest,

Life and that which was not lived.

"Your time was always close",

He ascertains; his word ultimate.

Engulfed in quicksand.

Let go.

Taken over.

Suicide.

From under his dark robe of shadows,

He takes out his scythe.

Open Letter to all Indians - Freedom of Speech

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 06 Jun 2012 20:31:00 +0000

Remember, remember

The 5th of November,

The gunpowder treason and plot.

I know of no reason

Why the gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

Popularly said on every Guy Fawkes night, celebrated in England every 5th of November in honour of the only man, they say, "to have entered Parliament with honest intentions".

My dear Indian citizen,

Today, we stand at a crossroads. We are at that stage when we decide either to bow or to stand up to our oppressors. Today, in the lovely nation that we call home, the people trying to control us, the people who think that by telling us what to think and what to dream, they will be successful in achieving the kind of power they hoped to achieve. These people are those we elected to power and the corrupt rich they walk hand in pocket with.

Recently, the Madras High Court ordered some URLs (Uniform Resource Locator) promoting digital piracy to be taken off the internet. However, the ISPs (Internet Service Provider) did more than the law says they can and blocked entire websites. These websites are many, the likes of which you and I use almost everyday. File sharing websites like The Pirate Bay and video sharing website Vimeo were blocked in the guise of anti-piracy. Even websites like Pastebin, which share simple text were blocked. ALL THIS WAS COMPLETELY UNWARRANTED.

When we were unsure of how to deal with situation with our individual capacities, Anonymous came to help us. For the last 15 days, Anonymous has been attacking websites of the government and Indian ISPs with DDOSs (Distributed Denial of Service Attack) and defaced a few to send us, the citizens and the government one simple message - The web is meant to be just the way Mr Berners Lee created it. Free. We will not have our freedom of speech violated and be content with it. We shall not comply with such acts of censorship in a democracy. Anonymous has sent message loud and clear. We are all part of it. We are all democratic citizens. We all have the right to speak as we wish, to debate, to build a better world based on our very ideas.

Anonymous went inside the packet filter system on the Reliance servers and procured a lot of data which was shocking. The government of India is not alone in corruption. We knew that. Now we know it even better. Reliance, on its own initiative, blocked numerous websites, thus violating our fundamental rights. They blocked information related to a Mr Satish Seth, involved in the 2G spectrum scam. A few months ago, Mr Kapil Sibal decided major platforms like Google, Facebook, Yahoo, etc, could be held responsible for 'objectionable' content on the web. When I use that word, about 71% of the content in question is political criticism.

All for what? What are the government and the corrupt rich trying to get out of this? They are keeping reality away from us. Just like the dark times in the USSR and what happens in China today. They are just calling for unrest. They have it. We are now not at peace with the way they operate. There are laws in place to do their bidding which violate articles in the Constitution (more on that later). It is time we bring the government to their knees and make sure that they will not mess with the voice of the 99%.

We want the bad laws cast aside. We want freedom of speech and expression. We want it back. We want it now. If the government decides it isn't for us, we'll take it by force. Let them try and stop us.

On this Saturday, the 9th of June, we shall be peacefully protesting against this tyranny in every major city in India. To find the city you live in and learn the directives of the protest, go here. We will OCCUPY INDIA this saturday. So, my dear Indian citizen, wear the Guy Fawkes mask (available for download here), carry a banner and get some of the flyers I am sharing below. We will not stay silent while Big Brother has his way. See, the people should not be afraid of their government. The government should be afraid of its people. Do not be afraid. Beneath the mask, there is an idea and an idea is bulletproof. It cannot be arrested. It cannot be killed. It sustains itself forever, even if the originator passes on. We all stand for the same idea. It is the perfect dream of freedom. We will not have it tramped upon.

I am sharing the following links here -

1. Flyers explaining what the Government and ISPs have been doing to promote internet censorship in India.

2. An Open Letter by Anoymous to all journalists, reporters and bloggers.

3. An Open Letter by Anonymous to the Government of India.

4. Finally, Anonymous' interview to a fellow blogger @Blogonerd - Part1, Part2, Part3.

All of the above should explain what Anonymous has been doing to help us fight our war and their stand and yes, mine and every Indian internet user's as well.For more on their work as part of Operation India, visit opindia.posterous.com

I request each and every one of you, to join me and the rest of the occupiers, if you are not already doing so. This is our chance to be a part of the change for the better that we drive into our country.

Jai Hind.

That Last Night

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 17:01:00 +0000

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 26; the 26th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'That Last Night'.

Oedipus Complex by Iustinian Ghita

He awoke with a start. Staying in bed, he looked up at the ceiling. He looked at the shadows of the world outside reflected inside his room. He had been having a rather strange dream for a long time now. His girlfriend had recently broken up with him. There was a lot of yelling. She seemed to think he was mad. He didn’t care. Her going away couldn’t bother him any less. The truth is, he didn’t know what he was. He didn’t know what he wanted. Or maybe he did, but couldn’t ask for it. He just couldn’t sleep. Every morning, he woke up feeling lost and delirious nagging himself for not doing it already. He felt the deprivations of the carnal type. Patrick thought of the previous days flying through and the nights that he passed day-dreaming as he looked at the shadows.

The moon had an unusual quality that night. The pale waxy glow could mean anything. Beauty, immortality, death. Patrick couldn’t quite steer himself away from the edge of the window as he sat holding the bars like a prisoner in a cage. The moon seemed to call out to him. The shadows seemed to ask him to stop dreaming. It’s like a desperate man needed to do what he longed to. As his hunger grew beyond measure, he stood up, balancing his tired legs. He walked to the bathroom in the dark, washed his face and stared awhile at the reddenning eyes that looked back at him. They were devoid of every emotion but hunger.

Patrick changed his clothes into something clean and wore the rubber-soled boots that he so liked. The door to his room creaked open as he pushed it wide open. He walked into the kitchen and opened the drawer where they kept their knives. He had always liked the knife they used to carve the meat. Taking it in his hands, he smiled slightly and admired at the beauty of his own little reflection in the blade glimmering in the moonlight. The pale waxy glow seemed to have transcended into his skin. He looked far beyond his years. He looked almost like a corpse. But not yet, he thought.

Gripping the hilt of the great knife firmly in his hands, he walked to his sister’s room. He opened the door quietly and crept into the shadows, lurking like a predator. He walked to her bed where she lay curled up, inside a blanket, lost in some dream in a faraway land, thinking of a man who would someday rescue her from the world. She was fifteen. She would never grow older after Patrick held her smiling mouth in his firm hands and, with the steady unswaying hand of a surgeon’s brought it down into her chest. The pain opened her eyes but she spare no thought or voice a scream. The knife came slowly as she gasped and heaved and went down again inside her mouth. The blood didn’t spurt everywhere. It just flowed. Just like a great red river, it washed the sheets and Patrick’s hands. He never did like when she talked so much. With a calm face like that of a mask, he carried himself steadily outside the room and stood outside the room where his parents’ slept. He put his ears to the door to make sure they were not indulging in sex. It seemed that they were indeed asleep. He grasped the doorknob and pushed it open. He stepped inside their cave and walked to the side of the bed where his father lay, fast asleep. Standing beside the father he so hated, he looked down at him with the tormented calm in his twisted face. He didn’t waste time. With the bloody knife, he slit his father’s throat and sooner than the body could start thrashing, he plunged it deep inside the cavernous heart that beat furiously for only a few more moments. His mother faced the other side and remained asleep. He pulled his father’s body and let it fall quietly onto the floor with a light thud.

He climbed onto the bed, staring at his mother, as she shifted in her sleep. Still wearing the mask, he touched her neck with the blade in his hands. Feeling the warm wet blood on the cold sharp edge, his mother woke with a start and stared into his eyes. She could see nothing.

“Don’t move.”, said Patrick. He then knelt down beside the bed and opened the cabinet where his parents kept their handcuffs. He immobilised her, cuffing her to the bedposts.

“Patrick, why? What’s wrong with you, honey? What do you want?”, asked his mother in horror her eyes moving from her son’s face to the blood on the other side of the bed.

Patrick gently moved her nightgown up with his knife, letting her feel the blunt edge as he moved it, to reveal her breasts. With sudden force he grabbed them and with his other hand, tore off her drawers.

With the calm gone and replaced by rabid madness, he said, “Mother, my life is fucked too bad and far too long. You deserve this. You asked me what I want. I want to fuck you all night long, woman.” With a huge grin on his face and his red eyes open in fury, he pushed himself inside her scared, quivering body in the bright moonlight that shone through the window.

-------------------X---------------------X-------------------X---------------------

Several weeks later, in a psychiatric ward, the Dr Newman looked at Patrick’s case file and thought at the horror the boy must be going through now. He had killed his sister and his father. Then he had proceeded to rape and stab his mother until every inch of his own face was covered in blood. He kept the file down on his desk and saw the boy in front of him looking out the window at the trees swaying in the wind.

“Patrick, do you remember anything at all about that night?”

“No, sir. I keep telling them that I was asleep. I found my parents like that and I called it in. Nobody believes me.”

“You maintained a diary where you wrote and drew many things people would generally consider, well, rather scary, to put it simply.”

“I wrote about my dreams. I used to have these dreams where I killed my parents and my sister and I could never sleep properly. I always woke up tired. So I thought I’d write about it all. It was always the same, though.”

“Do you sleep well now?”

“Better than ever.” Patrick said, faintly smiling, with a shadow of the mask that he had now fully embraced.

PS. This story is a re-enactment of Greek mythology (The Oedipus Complex) and inspired from The Doors' legendary song, "The End". Turning thoughts into action takes courage. And even people who are unstable or even pure evil need to be understood. That may be used to catch them, prosecute them or at the very least, understand that at the very core, every healthy human being is born with a sound mind. Circumstances change people and the way they think. But that doesn't make them any less human. I have not shown the reasons for Patrick's madness for this very reason; that as an intelligent being, we need to understand him before we become judgmental. He may not have had a reason at all. Every abuse, every torture or murder that one inflicts on another has a reason. Some may be worthy of execution, some of life-long imprisonment, and some may need some fresh air in a psychiatric facility. A small number may even be justified. It's knowing the difference that matters.

The End by The Doors

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Over and Out

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 28 Mar 2012 19:25:00 +0000

This blog is now two years and twenty days old. It’s name has been changed once. It has seen love. It has seen anger. It has seen imagination. It has seen blood and now it may be time for it to go up in smoke.

D2 thanks all the readers of this blog who have engaged with him and inspired him to write and try harder to write better. He has lived a great deal of his life here. Unfortunately, it may be possible that he may not have the courage to write any more. Not here anyway.

It’s been an amazing time.

~ Damien

Inflamed

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 08:01:00 +0000

The hues of the fall come down your tresses.

Your locks fall matted to your side.

The ashes of the cigarette on the table top

Are all that remain
Of the fire that took your body tonight.

Lobotomy

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 11:19:00 +0000

The pain has now lessened.

And the fear has been driven away.

The tears have been wiped clean and

The harsh words sink in deep.

Deep into the blood that now flows clean.

From the gashes of blades meticulously stricken.

Not skin deep as the winds around change.

And rages into a tempest of unfathomable proportions.

The tides of sanity are now being driven backwards

As the moon goes farther away

And its light like a whip to the bone.

The flesh is singed beyond repair

As the needle is driven into the eye.

The cords around the throat tighten

And the blade is cleaned to strike.

And a smile is all that is left.

Happily departed

The lobotomy of life

Has finally cured

The insane asylum of my mind.

And all that’s left now

Is to move towards nothing.

Spin-a-Yarn : The Journals - Part 5

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 16:26:00 +0000

This post is Part 5 of a Spin-a-Yarn series of stories. The preceding parts of the story are -
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

He walked away from the vanilla-scented oakwood to the closet in his room. Facing the mirror, he tilted his head and looked at himself with wide blank eyes filled with pain and longing. He took off the green uniform he was wearing and stowed it away inside the closet. Taking out a maroon gown that smelled like lavender, he put it on and walked gingerly to his dresser. As he looked at himself with bluish grey eyes, he saw nothing but pain; the pain of lost love. The broken bust of a mannequin stood nearby. He took the long dark tresses of a wig on its head in his hands and carefully covered his own ash-blonde head with it. Carefully he dabbed his lips with red lipstick and smiled at himself with fervently forlorn love.

United with his wife once more, he proceeded again to the oakwood table and breathing in the faint smell of vanilla lingering in the air, parted the spine of a journal and began to write.

The Anarchist's Flaw

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 04 Mar 2012 16:58:00 +0000

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 25; the Silver Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'When Journey Meant More Than Destination'.

To whoever may read this,

I do not know what it feels like to stand on the edge of a precipice, looking down at flames of chaos and knowing that I have been the cause. I do know what it feels like to look into the eyes of the man who would kill me and feel the cold end of a pistol on my forehead. I have a good feeling, as I sit here writing this, I will know soon enough.

I was born 28 years ago in April, 2050 to a normal middle class family with normal middle class aspirations. I, however, was always a rather strange child. At least that’s what everyone said about me. I had an IQ of over 200, which I came to know about several years later into my life. But no, that’s not what was queer about me. I’ve always had the strange ability of blacking out at the rarest of moments and catch a glimpse into what is to come. Something like what I’d read about the great Nostradamus. However, I only saw glimpses into my own future. When I was 12 I was graduating magna cum laude having majored in physics and neurology. It never appeared strange to as to why I had chosen those two rather disparate subjects. I was building towards a greater end. I might only say that it was something I had foreseen. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I was obsessed by my power and the possibilities of how far I could use it. I had seen my abilities and what I would be able to do with it. I also knew I could never change the future. What I saw would certainly come to pass.

By the age of 16, I was working at a university laboratory to research the fourth dimension. I was obsessed with wanting to translate the visual to the tangible. Amalgamate the three dimensions with the fourth, if I may say so. I had known for a long time that time travel would not be impossible. The technology had been there for some time. I just hadn’t come along sooner to do it.

It took me seven years. I made it. It was a helmet connected to three cylinders of liquid nitrogen. No ordinary helmet, of course. The inside of the helmet had needle like spokes, much like needles used in acupuncture and were meant to stimulate specific parts of my brain.This would result in a specific circuit of neurons to be connected in my brain which would then create a rather abnormal charge. This charge was the reason of my visions, if you will, for the lack of a better word. I found a way to channel this spark and accelerate the particles involved in it. Einstein was wrong. But then, the 1940s was too early to talk about time travel. It was a simple matter of combining light particles with the charge produced in my brain and pass it through to a powerful computer. The computer would then generate a holographic image of what I was seeing. Only I wouldn’t just be seeing it anymore. It turned out that though my body stayed in the same time dimension, my mind travelled and when it landed to a point in another dimension of time, because of the automatic need for the feel of everything, it recreated my body there. So I never physically disappeared from the ‘present’. But I was able to interact with people from the future and later come to witness those very moments in the present. I was successful.

However, I never ventured into the past. Memories cannot be changed and in any case, it could have destroyed the space-time continuum and the way they are so intricately connected together would have been shred to pieces. I never gave it much thought. At the time I was busy with my technology, America and China were preparing for war with each other. The whole world had taken sides. But no guns were being fired yet. It was like the calm before a great typhoon. I was 24 and rather arrogant. All I saw in the world was ineptitude and corruption. Ever since I was small, I had wanted to eradicate the world of the vermin that led us. They led us to the brink of destruction and it never seemed like they would stop. I wanted to bring about a new world order. An open world which thinks and knows what it's doing. We would be a perfect human race. I used my device to see how this would be done.

I could never control how far I would go into the future. I would only see important moments, when I was particularly excited or stimulated. Important moments in my life. I saw the great world war come to pass and I saw how I did it. I found that I would discover how to intrude into the online defence systems of each country and fire ballistic missiles to target any point on the globe. I found that I would discover how to keep anyone from realising this. China attacked America. America fought back. The UK and France hit Russia because they supported China. India fought China and Pakistan at the same time. There was fire burning everywhere. Every major city in the world was in flames. And laughable though it is, I was the sole reason it happened. Of course, there’s always the need for the catalyst. I simply brought about something inevitable. War was to happen anyway. I simply found the means to make sure it happened sooner and with surer results.

Years ago, I saw all this and witnessed all this happening. I had a dream once. I dreamed that one day, as I looked down at the great city of New York from a high vantage point, I would hear loud footsteps behind the door to the stairwell behind me. A man would appear from there. He would put the muzzle of a gun to my head and looking into my eyes, would tell me that he’s from the future; that somehow, my time machine would take a man to the past as well and that this capability had been added to it only for the purpose for which he stood before me. He would then thank me for my work with the civilization and tell me that the future is bright and all that I had dreamed of has happened there; with one minor glitch. Apparently, I assume power after the world stops burning and I assume the people to be too stupid and rule over them. The openness I had dreamed about wouldn’t be there in the future. There would be no anarchy or evolution. Under my governance, the human race would be confined to the intellectuals; perfect and stay that way. It was not what I had really wanted. I would forget the importance to remain one of the many thousands and nothing more. Arrogance would take me. He told me I was the flaw in the equation. It may have been merely a dream. I couldn’t even see his hidden face.

A few hours ago, I destroyed my machine. I cannot let myself be killed. I am too important and the world needs my guidance. I have brought about war and the world as everyone knew it has died. A rebirth is in order and I will be the carrier for my train of thought. I must not die. Now I stand here atop the new World Trade Centre fearfully waiting for an event that I hope will not occur. The great city of New York is burning. The lady has fallen; broken across her legs. What remains of her is blackened. I can hear loud footsteps on the the stairwell.

--------------X------------X-------------X---------------

“Finish the letter, old boy. The world needs to know what we have done for it. Yes, we. You and I are not too different. I’m just older. Finish it and transmit it into every major network that still remains. But we must die. I must not see the future beyond this point. Without me, or us, their will be anarchy. Finish it. Then we die today. The future I have created has to be different; a new journey for everyone, everyday. We are the flaw in the equation.”

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Leaves of My Life

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Fri, 24 Feb 2012 06:40:00 +0000

Life sure knows how to think of the good old days when you’re working in a busy bustling metropolitan city with barely any time on your hands to just lie back on a freshly mowed lawn.

Being an army officer’s son, I’ve moved around rather frequently during my childhood. Sure, it does have its lows initially when the friend circle starts dwindling and replenishing every now and then but every new place and the new bonds made are something to be cherished. Of course, that never stopped my dear parents from making the occasional ‘extra’ trip every once in a while to some erstwhile unknown or rather well known place. Bless them! Vague memories still come to my mind, more so now, amidst the everyday wails of car horns an cursing people.

I remember a particularly amusing incident when my dad decided I should learn how to catch fish, maybe even make a sport out of it. So we went spooling with my mum in tow, bored because she knew neither would catch any and therefore ready with the box full of sandwiches. So by the Peacock Bay we sat in the Academy campus, the Khadakwasla dam looming nearby. Two grown people and an eight year old who held what looked like a long pole with loose wire all about it. After trying to stick the bait onto the hook and only managing to stick my finger into it every time, I borrowed my father’s line and tried as hard as I could to jerk it back and throw it into the still blue water. The first time, I let it too loose and it got stuck somewhere in a nearby tree. It took the joint effort of both of them to get it down. The second time, I entangled myself in it and the hook lodged itself somewhere nasty. I don’t quite remember where but it hurt. I do believe I gave up after that run. Numerous awful pinpricks (hook-pricks, rather) and some delicious sandwiches afterwards did not manage to give me a second wind and after seeing some peacocks looking bewildered, I remember going out with my pals cycling and myself a little more by diving straight into thorny hedges (I was still learning and rather disoriented!)

People who have seen the movie ‘Up’ would be able to recognize my next little anecdote. With my head always high up in clouds thinking the most unimaginable turns of events, I would wander out of our bungalow with a light saber in hand when my parents took me for their nightly walks. I was around the same age as when the fishing incident happened. It must have been a particularly strange part of my life, now that I think about it. I would leave my parents behind, run helter and skelter with a lighted light saber (for those who don’t know what it is, watch Star Wars), pretending I’m on a mission of some sort. I would then fearlessly walk into some vines and climb some large rocks which in my head, resembled wasted green mountains until I would remember my fear of snakes and my little ‘adventure’ in the ‘woods’ would be postponed. My father’s stories about his training and his work and my being a great fan of both Tom Sawyer and Luke Skywalker had egged me on too many such escapades!

Walking my labrador with my father when I was smaller than she was, trying to make her wear my shoes only to realise she had two more feet than I did must have evoked the thinking ability in me while I also listened to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and decided I would be a great musician someday. Shooting with a catapult at stray monkeys in the yard and then having them rage at a little army of boys, myself included, when the catapult turned into a pea shooter was less scary than it should have been, somehow. Ruining dad’s beloved garden and destroying more than a month of his hard work by playing football in the lawn probably shows that I’m not such a nature lover after all. Yet, after I discovered my love for writing and becoming rather passionate about it, I found myself writing poetry sitting on a jhoola on the porch.

Picking up fallen mangoes in the middle of torrential rain at nine and at five, memorizing the names of all the places I visited and all the gentle as well as savage rivers in Uttarakhand (then Uttar Pradesh) I saw for more than a month and then reeling it all off to everyone I could speak to probably make up only but a few noteworthy moments of my yet short life. Many years later, when my love for books had reached new heights, I was in Shillong not seeing the beauty around me but preferring to indulge myself in a think paper bound copy of ‘The Lord of the Rings’! I’ve seen nearly every tourist destination in India and some abroad and been to places most people aren’t allowed to see. I will always remember sitting all alone on a long sandy beach with many tiny red crabs a few paces away for company, thinking about the Moon and watching as the tide slowly crept inward. Snorkelling and diving with the fishes I hate to eat and gliding with a few watchful disdainful birds have only taught me one thing - to live and to value the force that gives it peace and possibly, some meaning since we cared enough to think about such and decided to call it culture.

Art and beauty and love and pain have always been the central part of my thoughts and my imagination. I have lived a very real life, tangibly full of the real human bonds that make us who we are. My love for books made me see everything in new and unique ways I possibly could not have but it was the real experiences with my parents and with the people I met everyday that taught me how to understand those books. Reading Ayn Rand’s ‘Atlas Shrugged’ in today’s world gone haywire, I can only think how people are moving towards her dystopic world instead of spending a little more time just living. I can only be glad I lived and learned as I did and because of all of that, I can now do it all in just a different manner; with a novel, a text editor, a guitar and several gigabytes of rock music. All that’s left now is to accomplish my dreams so I won’t go to the grave with disappointment in my heart. Well, since I know and keep learning how to see with my eyes both open and closed, I doubt I would be all too let down.

Life is just every next beautiful moment.

"We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing."
- George Bernard Shaw

PS: This post has been written for the Indiblogger contest, 'The Kissan 100% Real Blogger Contest', sponsored by Kissan.

Black and White

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 18:04:00 +0000

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE.

February 21, 2002.

Holding the camera and looking straight into the eyes of the journalist had been the toughest part of the job yet. When he had been briefed three months ago, he knew he would have to be part of terrible deeds and he would have a lot of innocent blood on his hands. But he never though it would be something as high-strung as this. Filming a man who knew he was about to die in a short while was scary. At least he didn't have to do the job himself. No, the bosses wanted the glory. Thank goodness for that. A minute and a half into filming, Daniel Pearl's throat was slit and then with a calm that would put pristine lakes to shame, the commander took his right hand away and brought the great knife slashing through the dying journalist's neck.

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

Too many years had gone by and Abdul Karim had risen in rank and power. Always on the move, he had evaded death many times. Too many times. There had been miscalculations by himself. There had been errors on the part of his leaders too. Too many years had he spent in exile. He remembered the time when growing up as a young boy in Afghanistan. The wars had not been enough. Since the Soviets left, he had waged many wars and fought multi-faceted enemies. The hardships he had gone through and those he had literally made his family endure was unbearable. They had been shot long ago. The vengeance is what coursed through his veins and made his decade long battle remain inviolable. He knew where his allegiance lay. Too many loved ones had died because of him. He himself had killed too many that others loved. No more.

“It's time. We do it on the date mentioned in the package. You know where I stand today. Mark this spot. He will be on top this time then. It's three stories high. You can watch it from a variety of angles. Don't miss again. I've had enough. ”

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

After years of living in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, the USA and the Philippines, he had died over and over and again. Envisioning deaths had taken their toll on him and he had become quite reckless. But lately, he had though of his mother who had been shot at point blank range. Whether they were for or because of his deeds did not matter. They said his mother was an informer and they killed her for good measure. No matter. They would all go down in flames. It was just a matter of time. A matter of twenty four more hours. He smiled to himself as he thought of the next day and impending doom. He slept like a baby.

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

The day had passed. At night, everything was still. The night air was despondently hot. He was waiting, but not for long. Throughout the day he had thought of the means of his own death. It seemed ironic that it had been put off so long and that success meant his death. But maybe Allah would grant him his mother's lap again if he lived another day longer and no more. That's all he wanted. Peace.

The landing filled with the slightest crack of street light as the door opened. On the second floor, Abdul Karim lay quiet in bed, waiting. The soldiers started filing up. Operation Neptune Spear was in play. Then, like a blaze of lightning, they came from everywhere. A helicopter flew close overhead. The erstwhile leader ran down and Karim told him,

“There is now nowhere we can go. I just woke up. They've got us surrounded. Let's fight to our death. May Allah be proud of us when we go to heaven.”

Storming into the mansion, the US Navy SEALs pierced the darkness and shot like they knew every spot. Few bullets were wasted. The great leader was shot dead. A second later, so was he.

It was May 2^nd, 2011. Operation Neptune Spear had been successful.

------------X----------X-------------X-------------

Abdul Karim was an unknown man captured in Manila in connection with planting a bomb under a bridge on which then President Clinton's motorcade was to pass in 1998. After torture and rigorous grilling by the CIA, he was shown satellite images of his family being shot by members of the Taliban soon after the US embassy bombings in Africa. The psychologist on their team said that she saw some good in him, that he was an ordinary man, not a Jihadi. He was requested to help in the hunt for Osama Bin Laden. After what seemed like an aeon, he nodded. In October 2001, he joined the Al-Qaeda as a soldier. It took him, the dark knight, nine years to reach a silent unacknowledged martyrdom.

PS. This is a purely fictitious account of a long and broiling history of terrorism and the war on terror. True events have been considered and the protagonist is a fictional character.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Band of Metal

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 19:46:00 +0000

A spark like a fire.

The prismatic hues of a crazy diamond.

And the love of a heart.

Of a child forlorn and in need

Of a lover.

I am that man.

As I lie washed on the sands of the beaches.

A band of metal slips onto my finger.

The third finger for music.

As though put there by the ocean herself.

And the ocean dowses my pain with her salt.

Washes away my sorrows forever.

And as I give myself away to its loving warmth

And let myself be washed away in the tide

I know that

I have known a bond of love.

So special.

My spirit feels disjoint no more.

And I swim free into the depths of the unknown.

The eyes in which I see an uncharted ocean beckon.

And I fly to them with my heart set free.

Threshold of Liberation

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 09:29:00 +0000

Picture courtesy : DeviantArt

Frayed strings.

Broken blades of grass.

Shears open wide.

Dead eyes see stars.

Motor running.

The arms are lifted.

Destruction and death.

Fire ignominiously sprayed.

The lungs get bloated up.

And the heart stops breathing.

The eyes slit closed.

Noose left strung.

An unseen spectre.

Floating towards brightness.

The spirit deadened alive.

Opens bleeding eyes to the Sun's caress.

PS. This poem is loosely referenced to Bardo Thodol, better known as The Tibetan Book of the Dead. The essential theme of the book is about rebirth. 'Bardo Thodol' literally means 'Threshold of Liberation'.

To bring something new, the previous must be destroyed. There is no renewal without death.

This poem has been written for the OSI prompt, Renewal.

The Legacy of a Cross

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 08:41:00 +0000

It's time to take the chains off.
The mails of steel have been worn long.
The shield is now a burden and a
Helmet obstructs the eyes from a hundred strong throng.

The army clamours and chants.
A hoard of barbarians with their swords and scimitars.
A lone man on a stand facing his last minutes.
Knight under the axe reaching untimely for the stars.

Head held high, his steed carries his mission back home.
While he prepares for his light to be extinguished,
His work incomplete will be carried on by others.
The square red cross on his chest will be a legacy that remained.

Thoughts : The poem is loosely based on the Knights Templar and the Crusades of the Middle Ages. The Templar Knights were the most famous and skilled fighting unit as part of the early Crusades. The organization was created around 1129 AD, officialy endorsed by the Catholic Church and survived for nearly 200 years until disbanded by Pope Clement V in 1312 AD under pressure from King Philip IV of France after which they were executed by their native countries. It is said that the order still lives among us secretly.

PS. This poem is for Prompt 198 : Knight of One Single Impression.

Don't Make Us Speak Louder, Sibal

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 12:32:00 +0000

This post is dedicated to free speech on the World Wide Web (WWW) and to protect and conform with the basic philosophy of the Web itself when created by Tim Berners Lee.

It is beyond my limits of tolerance to see a mad horse going by the name of Kapil Sibal to decree censorship over data flow by the social networking companies. It is even more apalling to note that a person who sees and tolerates parliamentary hooliganism cannot tolerate some random doctored images of his wretched party leader. What is he, a knight in shining armour who darling Sonia called to protect herself with his gentlemanly chivlary. Now the dear white knight wants to screen data that is hurtful to religious and political sentiments? I say to Sibal, hoping that he reads this,

"Crass move, ASSHOLE. You have no right to decree what is on the internet UNLESS IT IS ILLEGAL, considering the laws of the land. If anyone violates the policies of the companies, it's their job and the users'. Let everybody do their jobs. You do your own. So, FUCK you and all your statements of this nature. May Sonia Gandhi help you avoid the flak you now face from the online community."

I wish Indian politicians would stop with the boot-licking and finger-pointing which is, frankly, all that they can do right now. Kapil Sibal going crazy with the Internet, and Mayawati going back to the same policy that won her the elections in 2007, not to mention that she has sprung up a number of debatable issues in the excellent state of Uttar Pradesh just to keep her corruption charges at bay.
Suave move, upholder of the Dalits. But then, when did she learn to help the people. She just came to erect statues.

Coming back to the point, just as a special mention to dear donkey Kapil Sibal - stop the bigotry and learn to accept facts. Nobody knew Sonia Gandhi had lewd content on the internet until you told us so. Your bad. If you want some good done to this beautiful country, stop jumping on your chair and pulling your hair loose because Google did not conform with all your requests and start doing some real work. And don't tell us you're being any more sane than what the leaders in Pakistan did, since you love comparing (read: finger-pointing) so much. Just shut the hell up. It's our turn to speak and we don't quit too easy.

A Longer Day To Live

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 19:47:00 +0000

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute.”
~Albert Einstein

For me, there are two worlds. There is the one that I see and smell and hear and feel. There is the one that I see and smell and hear and feel so much stronger. Of the latter, I see every detail. Every minute person that exists and every murder or act of love that each performs. That world is inside my head. It takes different shapes. It has different names. The people, at times, are from the future and, sometimes from before the 20^th century. I don't know them. They live inside my mind. They are mere manifestations of my imagination. I bring them to life with my writing. Time slows down and feels so much more real when I dream and write about what I dreamt. It feels infinitely more beautiful. Sands trickling down an hourglass could not then have held a more enchanting or even morbid quality at the same time.

In the real world, time or even the lack thereof makes no difference to me. If I had but two hours more each day, or even if there were twenty six hours instead of the usual mundane twenty four, I could dream. So much more. I could write and create new and possible worlds. So many more of them. The edge of that sword that struck the assassin would be slowed down and brought to life in sharper reality. It wouldn't have to be hurried into the red blood that would gush out of his tough torso as he decided the battle wasn't over yet. The plans of a revolutionary could become more elaborate because he was to overthrow a communist empire in a new world plagued with wars of every horrifying kind. If only I had more time everyday. Just two hours more.

Since I am a working professional and I could not turn my cherished and dear hobby into a career I passionately loved as I always desired just because I needed to earn, I wish life would someday turn around and say, “Enough. It's time you become a writer as you always knew you were meant to be.”

I would throw the words at my dear life, “But I lack time. When will I think? When will I dream? My desires and dreams are but stoppered by reality.”

Life would say calmly back to me, “Realities can change, can't they?”

If life were to give me but two hours more each day, then each blissful day would I spend in thinking of and weaving tales. In fact, I would begin with knitting together the one great story that would be my first. And that would only be the beginning. It is said that minds become great only when they are attuned to the realities of their worlds. My world, the one I love, is my own mind. I would rather spend two hours more with unreal, more beautiful eras of existence than with the dreadful reality which envelopes this fragile world.

“Man cannot survive except through his mind.”

~Ayn Rand.

The mind needs to be honed. The mind needs time to learn. I do too. Two enriching hours. A beautiful novel of my own someday. What more could I ever dream of? My dreams to come true, of course. To give my mind and soul to everything I desire and love; I would really and truly be alive. I would be living the dream.

Day Dreaming by Linda Apple

PS. This post has been written for the Indiblogger Surf Excel Matic #GetSmart Contest. In all reality, I wrote it because I wanted to. To vote for me, if you wish to, visit this page here.

Thy Honour and Mine

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 13 Nov 2011 20:20:00 +0000

The car screeched to a halt as the man strode forward to open the driver's door. Throwing him out with brutish force, he pounced on him with his shears. The girl in the passenger's seat remained frozen, unable to grasp that she'd driven head first right into what she was running from: her dear brother.

PS. This is a prequel to the story, Evidence which is a prequel to The Last Note. Both of the above have been written by Enchanta.

The Beginning

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 18:30:00 +0000

The End Of The Quest by Frank Dicksee

The air is cold around me.

The stillness of it isn't warm any longer.

Sitting amidst the emptiness of shadows,

The weight of the world intolerable.

Out of the darkness as I strode forward,

Afraid of what brazen demons I might meet,

Yet steadfast in my thoughts, hardy as ice,

I trudged along longer,

To find you.

The gleam of the evening star

Shone brightly upon my brow.

As I surrendered to the fragrance

Of lilacs in the wilderness.

Time got slow,

The sands stopped trickling down.

I saw the drop of water hanging

From an eyelash.

Thick as the smile you wore,

As the blood that ran swifter inside me.

I knew no higher form of bond.

A bond forged in two minds.

As our hearts could become one.

As the dying ceased to die.

And the living glowed bright as angels.

I knew you were my soul.

That you held my other half of it.

My long search had ended.
My life as I know has just begun.

PS. Dedicated to my dear Enchanta on the first anniversary of our being together.

Pyre In The Sky

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 19:13:00 +0000

The fire inside swirls overhead.

Engulfing the room I sit in.

I stay still on my bed.

Watching the mirthless orange mix

With the swaying tornado of the dust on top.

Moving in tune with the songs in my ears.

In step with the tune my mind plays for me.

Blank and yet melodiously sonorous.

Enormous like a black hole.

The smallest entity that devours all.

Swirling like a tornado over my head.

Inside my eyes.

My eyes are now red with the burn.

The searing heat that I can feel on my veins.

As they are flash red on both sides.

The thunderous roars of the water burning to steam.

Around and inside me.

To give way to death.

The sounds of the last moments I will ever hear.

Lying with the last of my mirthless laughter in my face.

My funeral was long-awaited.

The ashes drift away through the open window.

As the room remains unchanged, untarnished.

The fire caused no burns.

It caused no fractures to any soul living.

Only the dead was pained.

Only the dead was lifted off.

My funeral was long-awaited.

The Creators

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 10:00:00 +0000

Knives move.
And the blades of desire form.
Not by gormless minds.
But minds of desire.

Chiselled beauty.
Taking shape.
In the hands of carpenters.
Of music and muscle.
The power of the mind.

The sawdust falls to the floor.
The grime off the hands.
Nothing remains of wood.
But beauty.

Creation divine.
As the Gods work on endlessly.
To dull the fables of theory.
Into reality.
Into shape.
Crafted to perfection.

The music blends in with the blood.
And the sweat flows in channels together.
Exultation in might.
As metal is created.
A ball of fire held.
Not in illusion.
But in totality.

We the creators.
With our blood and minds to toil.
In temptation of enormous elation.
We bleed to produce.
The pious reality life.
We create life.
We the creators.

Rechristening

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 09:19:00 +0000

It's about time I spoke about what's up with my blog. Well, Writering! was born in March 2010. Pretty long ago, now I think about all that's happened since then. A lot has happened. That's all I can say here. The writer and sole owner of the blog has had more than a year added to his life and to his mind since then. The blog must show it as it is a reflection of himself. Why am I speaking in the third person? Maybe because the blog is my value on the web.

It needed a change. It needed to look a little more grown up: a little older and more inclined to reality and logic. It needed to show what it had become. It needed to show what it always was, but hidden beneath its age. From now on (since yesterday, actually), Writering! shall be known as 'Quod Vidi', which translates from Latin to mean, 'Which I have seen'.

And THAT, is exactly what this space is all about.

Cheers, from my world. And welcome, to my new rechristened and revamped blog space.

Open Letter to all Racists

noreply@blogger.com (D2) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 16:17:00 +0000

I thought at first I wouldn't do this. Everyone's writing one of these. But well, I am in dire need of some traffic to my blog. It's been a long time since I posted something. I'm hungry and I'm impatient. So I'm jumping on the bloody open letter bandwagon. I mean, why not?

This is time when a Southie woman can jump the nerves and dare to crack the balls of every 'Delhi boy' out there which leads to all sorts of rants and realizations with people getting strung and getting high to get back at her and others trying to ape her and getting back at Bong dudes because they're apparently so cheap. Well, here's news. SOMETHING DEEPLY PERSONAL HAPPENED TO THESE FEMALES. One thing that makes me wonder is that why were the first open letter writers all women? I don't know if I'm making a rather sexist comment right now but it's like those particular group of women were either high on LSD or some other shit or were simply PMSing. They needed to get their emotions out and well, that's what the blogs are for, right? Well, I've got something better. They need to seriously sort their shit out. What they need to do is to take some camomile with milk and get a good night's sleep. Maybe two. They're high and pissed and they just need to get over whatever hit them hard. So, to Shahana and the Black Rose Gal in particular, ladies, you need to listen to some soothing music, maybe have some wine if the milk is not to your taste. But what you need is mental stability. I wouldn't mind recommending an anger management course either. I've heard that they work for many people.

If we need to crap some people, why not crap those people who need to be shat upon. Our politicians, for instance. They need such open letters delivered at their residences. A bit of anthrax in the envelopes wouldn't hurt either. Now that's something I would relish with glory. Instead of having Anna fasting and nearly dying, we could give our dear old white kurta and dhoti and topi clad men (and the Italian woman who can barely be seen) a dose of your deep rooted misgivings and anger. Why divide the whole country when you can fuck with those people who are doing it as well? That would not only be beneficial but also really fun to watch. Of course, this bout of open letters has been quite amusing as well. But I've seen an enormous exchange of hate comments and now I'm tired of it. Let's say we move this thing to a bigger podium with harsher and more significant strength and reasons.

Unite, ladies, and the men folk who were very very enraged. Write more open letters. Just don't address them to Madrasis or Delhi-ites or Bongs. I mean, you actually left out so many races. They would be feeling left out. But with politicians, you can't leave out any. You bring one in, they're all in the loop. It's the way their money behaves in all the scams that keep happening.

Seriously, sort your shit out and grow up. Do something useful.

- An amused and (by now) bored INDIAN blogger.

Quod Vidi

A Moment In Time

The Kingdom of Night

Never Alone

Learning To Live

Quicksand

Open Letter to all Indians - Freedom of Speech

That Last Night

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 26; the 26th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'That Last Night'.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Over and Out

Inflamed

Lobotomy

Spin-a-Yarn : The Journals - Part 5

The Anarchist's Flaw

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 25; the Silver Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'When Journey Meant More Than Destination'.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Leaves of My Life

Black and White

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE. February 21, 2002.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Band of Metal

Threshold of Liberation

The Legacy of a Cross

Don't Make Us Speak Louder, Sibal

A Longer Day To Live

Thy Honour and Mine

The Beginning

Pyre In The Sky

The Creators

Rechristening

Open Letter to all Racists

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE.

February 21, 2002.