Depressionism

Release - A Short Story.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 13 Feb 2014 09:43:00 +0000

Bees...I see bees.

They're buzzing all around me. I feel them alive in my ears and it sends shivers down my spine. I look to the left and look to the right. My vision is blurry, but I see bottles…lots of bottles, and the silhouette of a man who grabs me by the collar and flings me out into the night sky.

"We don't need junkies like you in here", says the man with a kick to my butt. "And stay away!"

I covered my face with my coat and licked the snow covered ground sucking in the melt water. I tried to stand and orient myself, but I just ended up falling into the bush by the side of the road. I stayed in that bush till the break of dawn. I was hungry, but to be honest I smelt so bad that not even a soup kitchen would let me use their facilities.

With the sun on my back I walked out of that bush and into a hot steamy bath in my apartment. It was a modest apartment by all counts. You enter the apartment - there's a bed staring you in the face. You look to the left and you have the bathroom. Not the ideal place to get your date home. I used to work as an investment banker until the global recession took my job away and left me helpless in its wake. Of course I had my savings, but a lot of good investments I had made, turned out to be bad decisions, as the markets crashed and left me with too many regrets. I took to drinking heavily with what was left in the bank, but that wasn't the last straw. At one of my bar crawls I made a few friends who introduced me to marijuana. I didn't quite know the implications back then about what I would be getting into but as I spent more time with them, I started trying harder drugs, like cocaine, ecstasy and acid. But like all junkies, I craved for more. I hit rock bottom finally when I got addicted to heroin. I remembered that day just like it was yesterday. It was the day my wife left me. She was done with my addictions. She was done living with a loser. We got divorced and another part of my savings went into the proceedings. By the end of that messy battle, I had nothing. Just enough money to get by, but not enough will to work. I was lost in a sea of opiates and chemicals. It numbed me to the extent that I couldn’t feel pain, merely observe it happening to me from a distance. It detached me from me.

I sat lost in my thoughts looking out through the window as a light drizzle brushed against my face. Below a myriad of cars blew their horns in that uncoordinated pattern that inflicts temporary seizures in most stoners.

I was at the same time preparing my next hit. I wasn't sober back then, because a sober me would have realised that a hit now would put me out of remission for a healthy 8 - 10 hours post which I would want a drink as the effect wore out.

It was on one of these heroin fuelled drunken nights that I met God. Only I didn't believe it was him back then of course. It happened at a bar that I have no recollection of, but I remember being the only customer, injecting myself in the corner. Before I could get on with it, to put it delicately, I was tapped in the back by whom I believed to be the owner. I quietly slid the syringe into my right pocket. The owner was a tall heavyset man with a hoarse voice dressed in a faded Metallica t-shirt that looked like it was bought before the Cold War. He sat across from me, while I avoided eye contact. He was smoking a cigarette and blowing heaps of smoke in no particular direction. He looked me up and down and I could feel his eyes reading my body, telling truth from fable.

He said, "I hope I'm not disturbing you", and blew a thick gust of smoke in my direction.

I looked back at him with the angriest face I could muster and asked him if he needed something.

He looked at me and said, "I think you're the one that needs something".

I was impatient that this man got to the point. I asked him who he was.

"God", he said

I had a look of amusement on my face that somewhat made the man opposite me more self-conscious. "Is it", I said, "I didn't know God smoked menthol" with all the degree of sarcasm I could pump into my tone.

"Not only do I smoke menthol. I smoke every cigarette on the planet. I've tried every drug on the planet, I am the air, I am the sea and most importantly I am you", said God completely unaware of my sarcasm.

Oh, so you can be whoever you want to be huh, I said with derision. I guess you could become Arnold Schwarzenegger and Asta La Vista my ass, I said sarcastically.

And suddenly in front of me was Arnold. Not the puffed up mayor of California Arnold, but the chiselled, Arnold from Terminator and he held a shotgun to my nose"

Asta La Vista....said Arnold

"Woaah there", I shrieked, "There's no need to get violent. Let's discuss things. I believe you", I blurted out as paranoia and fear gripped me.

"Good", said Arnold or wait we were back to nondescript looking gentleman in the bar. "Now tell me. What is the meaning of life?"

I tried to comprehend the full weight of this question, but I had this nagging feeling that I was missing something. My hands instinctively reached out into my trousers and located the syringe. In a flash it was out in my hands and I played with it, feeling its surface on my skin. Rolling it in my palms, my sweaty heroin deprived palms. I was getting angry, but I controlled myself.

"Any Ideas", God was mocking me. Asking me the meaning of life when he knew I had no answer. Heck I supposedly lived every day, minute and moment, without knowing what it all meant. What was I supposed to do? There should be a manual to this, but I was determined not to lose this argument with a fake self-styled God or an insane hallucination, whichever of the two this was.

Life is suffering, I said with a look of amusement.

Good, said God. You're a lot smarter than I thought. So if life is suffering, have you suffered enough?

It was a good question - so many ways to define enough. I was pretty sure I was amongst the population that had suffered enough. I was getting angry with this old fool and his insinuations. My head was a pot of boiling red rage as I thought about my life and what I’d lost.

“Have I suffered enough”, I screamed with agonizing rage.”First of all you give me this face, this ugly disjointed face. When I was growing up I saw my friends getting girlfriends, dating while I was trying to figure out how to get a girl to notice me. The irony of it all was that after I'd achieved a degree of success in my career you give me a girl, a shot at happiness and love. And just as easily as it came, you took everything and more away, I lost my job to the recession, couldn't get a break, my wife left me and I started doing drugs. So why you don’t just let me take a hit”, I screamed at him, through my blood stained teeth and crooked jaw.

I hadn't realised it then, but I had already injected myself somewhere during my heated diatribe. I sat down as the calmness of the drug engulfed me.

God asked me, “Do you have another hit? “

I was a paragon of confusion in that one moment where space and time just stop and you float above your body getting flashes of reality from time to time.

But my reality was God...

And he was saying something...

I pulled myself back and tried to pay attention

Another hit.., said God

I reached into my pockets and found another syringe. I reached out with my right hand, syringe held in my palm and God stretched out his right hand and we held hands. I could feel his sweaty palm grabbing the syringe from my hand.

To my surprise, there was God, patting his arm in that particular ways junkies do. He was tightening the tourniquet and carefully evaluating which vein to exploit. It was fascinating to watch even though I'd done it like a million times.

We were smashed. There was no doubting it. Gods’ eyes were bleeding. His mouth had dried up to a pucker, all signs of a good trip as for me, I had no idea how I looked. I didn't remember the last time I'd looked in the mirror actually.

He looked at me with his sunken eyes and said

“Do you know what comes after suffering?”

“More suffering”, I said

“Well, yes partly but what happens when suffering comes to an end”, asked God.

“I don't know genius, mine hasn't come to an end”, I said

“Release”, said God. “It's what comes after suffering. Freedom - a new life. Isn't that what you want?”, asked God.

“So release me God”, I said with my arms spread open like that mushy scene from Titanic.

God held out his hand and said, “Come with me”.

I took his hand and followed him to a door at the far end of the bar. It was a nondescript door whichever way you looked at it, painted a dull brown and faded at the seams.

He opened it and led me inside to a much larger room. The room in fact, was so large that I couldn't see where it ended. It was like walking into air, but this air was filled with the stench of death. From one end of the room to infinity stretched rows and rows of beds. Each of them was occupied by people at different stages of death. They were all miserable, but the ones who were just about to die, any second, any moment, they looked the most peaceful. The prospect of a new life, release God had said.

"This is what I have to be to change my life", I enquired.

In essence, yes, said God.

“But remember, that you're tired of this life, and I'm giving you an alternative”.

I looked at the sea of sickness and death and was astonished at how much I didn't want to die. I looked back at God, but he was gone.

Where are you God? I said

Where are you?

There was no response, only death claiming one human being after another. There was no room. There was no door.

I was frothing from the mouth, gagging on my own bile. My face was expressionless. I was standing in a room of death and I was slipping. Slowly I lost control and fell towards the ground. My mouth was a river of blood. My eyes were sinking ships as I looked across at a fading God and he smiled.

Short Story Cover Art

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 26 Sep 2013 07:56:00 +0000

Graphic Design is one of my passions aside from writing and after completing every short story, I usually design the cover art for it. Here you will find a few of my experiments with cover art. The story link is below each piece of art. Enjoy!!

1. Animal

Read the story here.

2. Alive

Read the story here.

3. Dick

Read the story here.

4. The Dream

Read the story here.

5. The Room

Read the story here.

Animal

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 24 Sep 2013 07:01:00 +0000

Saturday night; Saturday night was usually beer and cartoons. Buck liked them and so did I. For the last month or so we'd meet at his place, pop open some beers, grill some steak and watch episodes of Courage the Cowardly Dog. That was his favorite show. I kind of thought it was cute. I met Buck at a local bar in town where I was a waitress. He used to always sit alone with his thoughts in one corner of the bar. After observing him for over two weeks I finally picked up the courage to go and talk to him. He was handsome and rugged. Steely eyes, blond hair and facial features chiseled from a rock. The first night we spoke was awkward at best but then we got to talking about our pets. You see, I was a hardcore pet lover. I had two cats, a dog and a parrot as flat mates. We bonded over our common love for dogs. He used to have an adorable dog named Alex. Ever since she died he had lost the motivation to live. He also mentioned that it was the first night since Alex's death that he felt truly alive.

A few weeks of dating and we had taken the relationship a step ahead. He called me over and we spent the night together. It was the first night of many. That's how our little ritual of beer and cartoons began.

One night while watching reruns of Courage the Cowardly Dog I went in to the kitchen to fetch a glass of water and saw Buck pouring dog food into a bowl.

"Hey buck what're you doing there?", I asked

"I'm just pouring out some food for Alex. ", Buck replied not making eye contact.

"Buck, Alex is dead. I know you're still grieving but you've got to let it go." I held his head in my arms and tousled his hair. Somehow that gesture always made him feel better. But then he looked at me and said,

"Do you think I don't know Alex is dead. I do this every night. I leave food in the bowl and when I wake up in the morning it's gone. I don't know who has it but it helps me feel that Alex is back. "

"What do you mean the food is gone?", I enquired.

"I mean I leave the food here and in the morning the tray is empty.", Buck said matter of factly.

I thought Buck was nuts but that's where our conversation ended. So that night, I decided to get up first thing in the morning and prove to Buck that he was delusional. That there was no way his dog tray would be empty.

The next morning I woke up at 5. Buck was sleeping beside me snoring soundly. I put on my dress and tip toed to the kitchen. There at the center of the room was the bowl of dog food and it was empty. "How could that be?", I wondered. I was convinced that something was sneaking up in here at night and cleaning up the dog tray.

So the next night I stayed up past 2 and waited by the kitchen to catch whoever was responsible. I had made up my mind to prove to Buck that he was wrong. I put on the TV and began my watch. The news was on and as usual reports of some murder here and there flooded the telly, but my attention was on that solitary bowl of dog food. That was when I heard a sound. I wasn't sure what it was but it sounded like a door had swung open. I rushed into the kitchen and switched on the light, nothing, no one. I tiptoed to the door and looked in through the peep hole. Just darkness and utter silence. I stood there near the door paralyzed and that's when I heard another sound. It was unlike the first.

It was the sound of nails on wood. Something was scratching the door from the outside and the sound was increasing in intensity. I was shocked, too shocked to understand what to do. I froze and waited, waited for something to happen. That's when I heard it bark. I was convinced there was a dog behind the door, an angry dog. I mustered up the courage to turn the door knob. Even as my heart was in my mouth with thoughts of a ghost dog behind the door my mind was not ready to accept it. Beyond the door however was nothing, just darkness and silence. I shut the door and bolted it, deciding that retiring for the night was the best option.

The next morning when I woke up I saw that Buck had left. He worked as an auto car salesman in the car rentals place a few blocks from the bar. I freshened up and also headed to work. As I was leaving the apartment a car stopped right at our patio. From it three men alighted. Two of them were wearing a suit and the third man was shouting instructions at them.

As I opened our gate, one of the men looked at me and said,

"Ma'am what were you doing in that apartment."

"Ohh, I live here with my boyfriend.", I said.

The man looked at me in disbelief, "You live here? Ohh ma'am that can't be right. This property has been abandoned for a few months.", he said.

"Abandoned? Whatever do you mean. I've been living here the last two weeks.", I said slightly embarrassed at the revelation.

"Ma'am I'm not sure you're quite aware of what happened here, but the last owners of this flat have put the land up for sale", he said.

"What happened here?", I asked him, slightly irritated.

"Never mind that ma'am, you have a nice day. And don't be coming back here", he said.

I walked silently towards the bar, a myriad of thoughts flowing through my head. Buck lied to me. He was nothing but a homeless jerk. He was staying in someone else's house for the last two months. I had dated jerks in the past so this was not a new occurrence, but even still I didn't expect Buck to be a homeless guy.

That night I decided to head back home as I didn't want to see anybody, especially Buck. As I opened my apartment door I could smell something cooking. I made my way to the kitchen when I ran right into him.

"Buck what are you doing here?", I asked.

"Baby, you do so much for me. I thought I'd make you a nice dinner. You must be starving", Buck said.

"Listen, Buck. I don't have time for any more lies. You don't have a place to stay and you certainly can't stay here, so if that's what you're here for, then I'm sorry, but you lied to me", I said.

"Lied to you?", Buck looked at me questioningly.

"Guess what I met some realtors on your front lawn. Turns out that property where we have been camping, has been abandoned. It's not yours. You sure went to great trouble of pasting the place with your pictures, but I'm no fool", I shouted.

"Ohh, so you know", Buck said.

"Of course, I do. And I have no interest in spending time with people who lie to me", I said.

"If it's any consolation, I didn't lie", Buck said. "That house was mine. I lived there for 30 years till..."

"If you have some truth to tell me, do it now", I thundered.

"Until my dog died", Buck said.

"That's a load of horseshit", I said.

"Listen baby, I will leave, but not without you tasting the dinner I've made. I put a lot of effort into it. Would you please taste it?", Buck asked.

"Okay", I said grudgingly. I was more hungry than angry anyways.

He smiled and placed a huge steaming plate of meat in front of me. "Eat", he said.

I looked at him and picked up a spoon. I forked a piece of meat and tasted it. It was delicious and juicy. I looked at Buck and said, "It's really nice. What meat is this?".

"Oh...I'm glad you liked it. It's my secret recipe.", Buck smiled.

Back at the house the three men were having a beer in the hallway.

"So, Ted, what really happened here", said one of the men in the suit.

"Don't bother yourself with it Clayton", said Ted.

"No Ted, I won't to know man. Why would the owners want to demolish this place and sell the land", asked Clayton.

Ted looked up at the fan and said, "Because, a few months ago a man who lived here killed his 3 dogs, seasoned and ate their meat and hung himself from that ceiling fan"

The Conundrum

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 16 Sep 2013 11:41:00 +0000

Every breath hurt

His heart wanted to retire

It had spent years in a futile search

Better to give up and concede

It had lost out in an overpopulated society

It relayed its final communication to the brain

Goodbye best friend as of this moment I cease to exist and through me so will you.

The brain did what it does best, it thought

For years it was occupied with the most routine tasks ever

Akin to using a fully tricked out Alien ware machine only to surf the Internet

It hated it's job

Screw this the brain thought, I'll get a better job

It relayed its final communication

An extensive system of nerves carried the messages to all parts of the body

When the penis received it's signal, it was in a conundrum

On one hand it's master was jerking it off

The latest episode of Naughty America was clearly audible

On the other hand the brain, which rarely communicated with it had demanded it to shut off.

In all its years of service never had it shut off before time

So as the body began to go into shock

The penis continued to fight on

In this battle he was alone but in the war it always won

This would be no different, it thought

And then it came...

Dick

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 11 Sep 2013 11:42:00 +0000

She loved giving head. Right from the time she was 14 when she was forced to take it in. Inch by inch it was stuffed down her young throat. She remembered how she would almost die only to be revived again, spit dripping from her lip. That was the first time.

The second and third weren't very different. After it ended she felt a strange sensation as if she could control a human being. She could make them whine in pleasure or cry in pain. As time passed it got easier and she learned some spiffy new tricks. How to creatively roll your tongue around the head, cup the balls, lick the underside of the shaft. She made men go wild with excitement and anticipation. In her day job she was a clerk at Walmart assisting people with their purchases. But at night she would be on the hunt for fresh cock. She had an addiction. One that she couldn't pull away from. Beautiful, blonde with lips that could bring a dead man to life, that was Veronica and right now she was giving head to a handsome tourist from Belize. She didn't even know where that was. She met him in a local club where he began talking in his foreign accent about how much he loves to travel and meet people, the blah stuff. All she was interested in was his stuff. As it was usually in situations like this her pulse was racing, the anticipation of the hunt. Waiting to anoint her mouth with a fresh piece of meat. Soon enough they were both at her place and as if in character her lips were on his cock. Slowly stroking the shaft, watching it grow. She felt the head slightly tilting to the left waiting to be sucked off. She heard the moans of the boy from Belize. "Are you ready", she asked. "Oh god please" replied the kid. She promptly cupped her lips over his shaft slowly running the length of it with her mouth. She sucked his pre cum and cupped his balls while increasing the speed of her movements. She felt something inside her throat. The boy had cum, already. She looked up at him mouth full of cum and said, "Didn't know you folks from Belize came so fast". The boy looked satisfied and was snoring soundly. She got up and swallowed the cum. She hated not being able to perform her full ritual on dick. This boy had cum so fast she could swear just her touch made him ejaculate. She opened the drawer on her bedside table and removed a pair of handcuffs. She ran her fingers on the cold steel and it sent shivers down her spine. It was time for the final part of the ritual. Unfortunately it had come too soon. She looked at the sleeping boy lost in his dreams. The boy who had come to America to explore the world. One day she decided that she would explore the world too. She handcuffed him to the bed and then bent over and stroked his penis, no response. She looked under her bed and drew out her set of tools.

The next morning she awoke when the first rays of the sun hit her face. The boy was still asleep at her side. She got up and made her way down to the kitchen. Her fridge was shining in the sunlight all white and pristine. She opened it and looked at her treasures. They were all there neatly displayed in glass cases. The boy from Belize was there, his manhood fresher than the rest. Her uncle was also there. The same uncle who unknowingly fed her lust for cock. He was placed in a makeshift altar. His dick floating in a liquid which kept it looking alive. She picked it up and remembered the day she was sexual abused by her own family member. That prize in her hand was special because unlike the rest she had grabbed it with the strength of all her teeth. She sighed and took out a pack of ready to eat sausages. It was time to go to work.

The Dream - A Short Story

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 06 Sep 2013 06:27:00 +0000

It was a silent night. As silent as a dead dog’s breath. The streets were empty. Empty, except for one soul. She walked the streets; face down, breath held tight. Her ears perked up at every sound. The clock chimed 2. An odd hour to be walking down the streets. Then suddenly she hears a sound. Voices from afar. Her hands rush into her purse, all senses active. She grabs the pepper spray and looks in every direction. Suddenly, silence. She tries harder to listen. Crickets buzzing, the soft patter of rain, and something she couldn't quite distinguish. That something increases in pitch. Someone’s screaming. The sound of rape. It grows louder, more intense. She can hear it all around her. She’s blocking her ears. And then, as if all of a sudden, nothing. No sounds. It gets quiet, very quiet. Until she can hear footsteps. Clap, clap, clap. The sound of a death knell. Someone was approaching, getting closer and closer. Her hands clench the pepper spray tighter. Nails scraping against its metal surface. The footsteps grow louder. Her fingers seem frozen on the spray, she can’t move them. From the darkness comes a hand. It touches her like a small gust of wind. Then there’s another hand, this one grabs her ass cheek. Then another grabs her left tit. And she’s frozen, unable to defend herself. Then the hand gets bolder. Soon she’s naked, bruised and battered lying on the street. Utter silence. Crickets buzzing, the patter of rain and a broken & bruised girl lying naked on the streets. She wakes up. Looks around. She’s home. It was a bad dream. She’s sweating. The clock chimes 2.30. Knock Knock. Someone just knocked the door. Who could it be at this ungodly hour? She looks through her peep hole. It’s Dave, the boyfriend. He has a bouquet of roses in his hands. She opens the door. She beckons him in. She embraces him. He kisses her on her neck. She’s in heaven. He clasps her head in his hands. It is beautiful. He slaps her face gently. She looks at him puzzled. He slaps her harder. She buckles and falls. He jumps on top of her. He hits her on the nose. She’s bleeding and crying. Then he tears off her clothes. She’s naked and bleeding. He holds her body. He looks hungry. Like he hasn't eaten in a while. He digs in to her body. Licks the juices of his fingers. Grinds the meat between his teeth. His fly is open. She sticks her hands in his pants. She sucks him off. She licks his balls. She fingers his ass. And then she wakes up. A dream within a dream. The TV is on. Sound of gunshots. Bam, Bam. She switches the TV off. It’s cold outside. She puts on her jacket. She leaves. The street is empty. Silence. She admires the emptiness. Bang a sound. Birds fly. Gunshot. A dark alley. A man walks out bathed in blood. She screams. He screams. She searches her pockets. There’s a gun. She points and shoots. Bam, Bam. Dead. The man drops to the floor. Sound of laughter from the darkness. She moves inside. It grows louder. Manic laughter. She enters the darkness. Now she’s laughing. The darkness is inside her. Groping her. Violating her. Her hand moves to her chest. The gun pressing taut against her breast. Bam. She’s dead. She wakes up. It was just a dream. Dave is sleeping beside her. She brushes his hair. She gets up. She goes to the bathroom. She takes a shit. She washes her face. She looks into the mirror. A black eye stares back at her. A swollen lip stares back at her. The hole in her cheek stares back at her. Shit just got real. THE END.

Alive - A Short Story

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 26 Aug 2013 10:19:00 +0000

You have a bad day. Who doesn't? We all have bad days from time to time. Only thing is your bad day is different. Your bad day ends up with you dead. You wake up in the morning, brush, shave, shit and shower. You dress up in your finery. You smile at random strangers on the bus. You get bird poop all over your white shirt. Your boss tells you that if you don't finish the assignment he just handed you yesterday, you're ass is in big trouble. You get shit from your girlfriend on how you don't have time for her. Then you chain smoke a pack and tell your coworkers how much you're life sucks and you leave work hopeful to not wake up the next day and bam...you're wish is finally answered. One moment you're crossing the street and the next moment, you're dead. Someone just ran over you. Someone you didn't know. All you are now is dead meat. Some dudes road kill. Your brains are scattered all over the sidewalk. You're so disfigured even you're family won't be able to recognise you. There'll be DNA tests to determine your identity and all that. And that dick... that dick who smacked into you and got away, what about him?

Mr. Arthur wiped the sweat of his brow. He dug into his pockets and fished out a pack of Marlboro's. He pulled out one and lit it. A deep breath and release. The smoke came slowly at intervals and melded together to form a thick plume of unwanted vapor. Mr. Arthur had spent 30 years serving students and spreading the beacon of knowledge. A professor of ancient history at the University of Cambridge. A man of morals, ethics and all that. A man who just ran over another. A man whose windshield had the blood spatter of an innocent. As Mr. Arthur sat in his Camaro, contemplating what had happened, miles away a street crew were hard at work cleaning the street. Scooping parts of brain, and tissue of the tarmac. They were equipped with large black bags into which the discarded material went. Their gloved hands were expert and removing traces of road kill from the street. An eye here, a hand there with a limb for company, everything was meticulously traced and collected in that black bag.

Earlier today when Mr. Arthur was delivering his lesson on the Ancient Mayan civilization, a part of his brain was working out the best way to die. It was weighing in the pros and cons of each method. Slitting wrists, too messy. Gunshot to the head, required guts. Death by Hanging could be mistaken for death by erotic asphyxiation. The best way would have to be if he drove his car off a cliff. He made peace with his destiny during that lecture, today he would die. Instead he was sitting in his instrument of death feeling more alive than he had felt in the last 30 years.

30 years of routine. 30 years of being old professor Arthur at the University. 30 years of loneliness. He could feel the blood rushing to different parts of his body supplying them with the motivation to exist. He did not understand it but he knew this moment was special. He was not ready to die yet.

We're all fucked up & that's OK!

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 15 Aug 2013 09:02:00 +0000

When I started this blog a few months ago, I promised myself that I would write at least once a day. I didn't give a fuck whether it was read worthy or plain old crap. I wanted to cultivate a habit that would stick. But as I sit here writing this, I realise I’ve made one more promise, I just couldn't keep.

3 years back I promised myself that I would quit smoking and I haven’t managed to kick the butt even today. That's not the only promise to myself that I've broken. I’ve made promises to be honest, to be a good son, to travel the world and I haven't fulfilled any of them.

My whole life I’ve lived in the protective bubble of my mother's love. Being in the bubble had its advantages & disadvantages but the biggest disadvantage was constantly being compared to others. Son, you know the sweeper who comes to sweep the building? Her son graduated from college and now he’s working in a bank, making 6 lacs an annum. I know she means well, but for the life of me the comparisons seldom seem to motivate me. Instead I drift away and occupy myself with the mundane to forget about the reality of my life. My reality is that I need to make decisions. I read this wonderful article in the times about this Indian girl who went to the states to study, and learned what true independence really was. She was constantly forced to make decisions, from deciding what coffee to have to deciding which course to take. Her stint in the U.S. taught her to be more decisive.

I couldn't help but agree with whatever she said. The environment I live in probably isn't conducive to decision making or it could be that I've never needed to make my own decisions. Whatever it is, I know today that I'm pretty fucked up. But what’s the big deal with being fucked up? Aren’t we all? You show me one person in this world who isn't fucked up in some way and I'll cut off my left testicle. There's nothing wrong with it. It's perfectly alright. We all can't be sure about everything we do. Fortune doesn't shine equally on all of us. Imbalance is the virtue on which the universe survives. Old jungle laws where the weak get eaten and the strong amass empires. Are those folks not fucked up? Of course they are, they are so fucked up that they have dedicated newspapers and websites cataloguing their fuck tardiness.

It's okay to be fucked up and here's why. I wouldn't want to live a second more if I couldn't make mistakes and make the same mistakes a couple of times over. I wouldn't want to live a second more if I was at peace with myself and could satisfy myself emotionally. I wouldn't want to live a second more if I couldn't depend on someone for love, time, and conversation. It's okay if you haven't done everything you've set out to do because that just means that you will do it one day. Call it flawed logic and maybe it is, but it is my logic.

If you want to read the article that inspired me to write this piece head here. Trust me you won't be disappointed!

Meanwhile I'll leave you with a quote from George Costanza that's very close to my heart...

The Room - Short Story

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 08 Aug 2013 13:40:00 +0000

It was a cold dark room. Outside the rain lashed down in all its ferocity. I squinted my eyes to get a better perspective of my surroundings. The walls were painted a dull grey. There was a rocking chair set aside near the bed. It all looked and seemed very familiar. The air was thick with the smell of iron. I sat up straight and rubbed my eyes. I surveyed the room and it felt familiar. I was here last night with a girl I'd picked up from the bar, but where was she? I looked at the other side of the bed and found that the sheets were red, blood red. Just when I was about to make some sense of the situation an image crept in front of my eyes, one I couldn't pull away from. The reflection in the mirror was horrendous. It revealed a decapitated body caked with blood lying below the other side of the bed. I crept closer to get a better look. The only thing recognizable about her was her smile. It was as if, in her last breath she was happy. Her body was gutted from breast to hip. Her intestines were coiled up on the floor around her, jubilant on escaping the punishing confines of her body. Yet strangely I didn't recoil, I didn't feel the vomit at the back of my throat. I silently cursed myself for behaving so level headed right now. I could use some panicking. I went to the bathroom to clear my head. The mirror revealed a horrible creature staring back at me. His face was wrinkled and dehydrated, his cheek was covered in dry blood. His ear had been slashed. Surely I must remember something of what happened here last night . Sooner or later the cops would find their way here and I would have to spend a lifetime in prison behind a woman I hardly knew and because of something I never did or at least I thought I never did .

The thought was frightening. I had to think of how to dispose of the body. I had seen enough crime dramas to know that I would need a large plastic bag and a chainsaw to cut the body into little pieces. But first I needed to remember what happened last night. I was in the bar performing my usual routine to pick up girls when I ran into her. She was beautiful, available and easy so we got pretty close. To my pleasant surprise she seemed to be the one taking the lead. We got into a cab and drove here, a rental apartment in which she was staying. We didn't waste much time getting each other's clothes off and then I remember carrying her to the bed and sucking her off until she held my member and stuck it up her snatch. We fucked, that much was certain but how the fuck did she end up gutted, in a bed lying at the side of me. Too many questions, too little time, I thought. I left the bedroom and took a seat near the bed. Something strange caught my eye. It was a belt, my belt. But it was lined with blood. Now why was that. Something struck me then. After we fucked she wanted more. She asked me to spank her while fingering her clit. I obliged starting with light slapping but her erotic shrieks got me real hot. She wanted it harder. I fished out my belt and began spanking her as hard as I could. I remember seeing red welts forming on her ass. But it wasn't enough for her. She wanted me to fuck her while choking her. I fastened the clasp of my belt to the bed post and placed it around her neck. She choked herself while I fucked her. Pulled out of my reverie, I took a closer look at the corpse. Her neck still bore the marks of my belt. The marks dug deep into her skin and were red hot.

Why much of the night was unclear to me I wasn't certain. I was pretty drunk when we got here but I've never suffered from memory loss the morning after. It seemed very fishy. I stood up and paced around the apartment. My feet stepped on something sharp and I squeaked. Shards of glass. We didn't drink in here as well did we? I bent low to get a better look. This looked like a broken syringe. Heroin! That's what we had after fucking again. I remember I collapsed to the bed while she tried to revive my dying cock, to no avail. She had the frustrated look of a dog in heat. She opened her cupboard and began frantically searching for something. When she finally found it, she had a huge smile on her face. Two syringes loaded with heroin. She did herself first and then helped me. Soon after what happened was still hazy to me. But what was this? A broken picture frame. The glass pieces were hanging out, a few of them caked with blood. This was the murder weapon, I thought to myself. Someone gutted her with these. Was it me?

I could feel the strain on my brain, as the memories slowly came back to me. Once the heroin kicked in, we were at it again like dogs, only this time there was manic madness in both our eyes. I had a renewed sense of urgency to fuck this woman to within an inch of her life. I carried her off the bed and fucked her while resting her body against the wall. That's when the frame had cracked. A few glass pieces had wedged into her back and she had screamed a scream more sexy than anything I had heard before. She was loving this. She held a huge piece of broken glass in her hand, threw me on the bed and cut her wrist. Then she straddled me from above and let her blood flow on my face, in my mouth. It was intense. It only got me harder for her. It only made the fucking better. I lifted her up once more and pounded her hard against the wall. I heard something rip and saw as the light went out of her eyes, but I was this close to ejaculating and I went at it harder. As I came inside her, I looked down and saw blood trickling down the sides of her legs. Lots of blood.

Oh fuck, she had gutted herself. Stunned I stood motionless as tears rolled down my face. I didn't even catch her name. My sperm was inside her. I could see her dying and yet I continued to fuck her. I continued to chase after my lust, my selfish nature of pleasing myself. I heard the sound of sirens. They were getting louder by the second. I picked up a cigarette and lit it. After all this was the last day of the rest of my life.

Ship of Theseus - Movie Review

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 30 Jul 2013 14:01:00 +0000

Ship of Theseus is not a film for the masses. The direction is flawless, camera work eloquent and storytelling mesmerising. It's cinema that makes you think and leaves you with multiple questions and interpretations. The film is devoid of dialogues, all it has are conversations each so simple yet so complex, it's hard to wrap your head around them and look at the bigger picture.

The first story is about a blind photographer who captures and chronicles her life through photos. Her boyfriend vectors them, etches them and she takes a judgment call on whether they are good or bad by running her fingers across the printed canvas. Although she's accomplished she often feels that she isn't good enough. The apprehension stems from the fact that she can't see & believes her pictures are appreciated simply because she's blind. Then she gets an eye transplant and begins to see the world in colour. But the chaos of the world she lives in is far too much for her to take. She finds it difficult to use all her senses to replicate the great photos she used to take. Her story ends with her at a crossroads coming to the realisation that it's about time she experienced the world rather than just purely chronicling it.

The second story is about an ascetic monk who is fighting a legal battle to stop the mistreatment of animals used for drug testing. Somewhere down the road the monk finds out that he has liver cirrhosis and to survive he would need to do a transplant which would involve taking many medicines. Since the monk is against animal testing he refuses to take the medicines and decides to cease existing. The one piece of conversation he has with the law intern is particularly engaging where he asks him, what is the point of existence, if what we do doesn't affect the world in any way? His story ends with him realising that his time was not up and deciding to go ahead with the operation. The monk's inner battle between staying alive and compromising on his beliefs is compelling.

The third story is of a stock broker who gets a kidney transplant. He lives with his grandmother in Mumbai who is not in favor of his job. She would much rather have him fighting for something he truly believes in. The thing is that there is nothing he believes in strongly besides money and the respect that comes along with it. By absolute chance he learns about the plight of Shankar, a poor brick layer whose kidney was stolen whilst an appendix operation. This revelation leads him to believe that the kidney he had was stolen from Shankar and so he tries to learn the truth behind it. Using his connections he finds out that the kidney now, belonged to a man from Stockholm. He decides to help Shankar get his kidney back. He goes to Sweden and convinces the recipient of the kidney to pay for Shankar's transplant. This leads to Shankar getting a cheque for 6.5l and a promise to be paid every month but no kidney which suits Shankar just fine. The director tackles the question of morality in this story. The three protagonists, the stock broker, the bricklayer and the man from Stockholm are all faced with moral dilemmas.

The highlight of the film however, is how the three stories come together and here's why the film stands out from any in its league. The storytelling is different from anything I've ever seen and the punch line comes in its final few moments. I won't reveal the end but leave you with Theseus's paradox.

Heartsong

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 24 Jul 2013 08:09:00 +0000

She came to me like a smooth sea breeze,

Her hair as black as night,

In her wide arms she held me close,

I held her with all my might.

She whispered softly and laid my mind to rest,

I told her what my heart possessed,

It was lonely and loveless,

It was frozen and lifeless,

It was filled with grief and sadness.

She placed her hand on my chest,

I took a deep breath to quell my unrest,

Your heart isn't empty and lifeless,

It's filled with lots of love,

More love than this world possesses,

I don't feel loved, I said,

I can't give love, I said.

She looked at me with her deep blue eyes,

And saw through all my lies,

She laughed and stared through me.

If I kiss you, will you indulge me?

I looked at her and said, "you serious",

"Watch me", she looked at me playfully.

She placed her lips on my lips and kissed me through and through,

I let go of my inhibitions and followed through,

We kissed and kissed till I was blue,

My heart was beating like it was anew.

I looked at her joyfully for I knew,

She had saved me from pain,

A life without love.

I held her with all my might,

Until she let go and dissipated into thin light.

I searched her here, I searched her there,

My aching heart was beyond despair.

I cried out loud wishing she would hear,

No response as I feared.

Then one night she came back to me,

Beautiful as the day I laid eyes on her,

I wept and asked her why,

All she did was tell me I didn't try.

I didn't try to understand,

I didn't try to change,

I didn't try to let go,

I was still the same.

The same cynic, the same pessimist,

The same man she met all those years ago,

I couldn't be changed, she said.

I would die alone, she said.

I looked at her teary eyed.

That's how it's always been my dear,

I don't change you don't change the world doesn't change.

My heart wasn't filled with love,

It was filled with selfishness.

It cared about itself ,

To the point of self loathing.

I realise now I was wrong,

To hold onto you for so long.

Go now and leave me alone,

For my heart will love itself I know.

Rise of the Social Media Zombies

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 17 Jul 2013 08:44:00 +0000

In a digital world dominated by numbers, has real quality lost its relevance. Think about it, a video of a monkey taking a dump gets 400 thousand views & a Facebook brand post asking people to like if you think Penelope Cruz is sexy gets more than 10,000 comments. What is wrong with the world? First it was the idiotization of television and now follows its smaller brother, social media.

Wait that looks like Justin Bieber, doesn't it?

Well I for one think social media is dead, capish! Every second person on Facebook is a troll. How else do you explain guys like Cute Pinki or Prince DJ? They exist in this digital world along with normal folks like us only in this world, us normal folk are the minority. Social media agencies have mushroomed over the years claiming to do everything from managing your online presence to wiping your ass after you take a dump. Agencies that thrive on numbers. Analysts who sit at their desks all day using tools like Social Mention and Radian 6. Social Media Managers who tell content writers stuff like, " See, this kind of shit works, people engage with content when you ask them stupid questions like, who would you prefer to fuck Selena Gomez or an Elephant because questions such as these get shares, comments and likes". Which retarded specimens like shit like this? I know I don't go on Facebook to say hello to Kleenex just because I use it to wipe my ass.

If you didn't believe me, here's the evidence!

Digital media has deteriorated to a bunch of statisticians making sense of data essentially created by trolls of the world and we normal people are once again left to chew on our own feet.

What is the solution? How do we escape the degradation of our beloved social networks? The answer is that there is no escape. If you're on social media, get out before the zombies congregate & fuck your life mentally & by zombies, I mean lame Facebook profiles whose name sounds like it was thought up, by the offspring of Poonam Pandey & a retarded fish & whose profile picture is copied from the first page search results of Google. If Socializing is your goal lift that ass and attend some events. If you want to stalk that hot chick at work, grow a pair and talk to her in person and if you're on social media to engage with brands, then continue doing so because you sir have no life. You were probably born in a social media agency created by an intern who was paid peanuts so he didn't bother giving you a personality.

Personally I'm sick of it.

Rage - An Analysis

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 14 Jul 2013 12:05:00 +0000

Why are we so angry? Is it years of suppression. Years of curbing our natural instincts. This question popped into my mind today as I was watching two grown human beings beat the shit out of each other. Yeah I know scenes like this play out in movies every single night, but to see a real fight unravel in front of you is something else altogether. I stood there as a mere spectator watching with baited breath as the two men went at each other, out in the rain. The bigger of the two was bleeding from the head. Blood trickled down the side of his neck and stained his white shirt. The smaller man had scratches on his face. His shirt had been torn open revealing his rippling physique. Surrounding the men were a horde of people but unlike me they were a lot more “hands on”. A few of them slapped the bigger guy from time to time. They had no sides in this fight. They could have just stood by and watched, but no, they wanted to be a part of the action. They wanted to vent out their anger. Common folk like me and you. Men who struggle to make ends meet but can afford an occasional drink from time to time. The kind of men who can sniff a blood fest from a distance and flock to it like ravens over dead meat. Such is human nature, I thought to myself. Maybe those natural instincts we tried to curb for all those years manifested themselves in hot boiling rage in such situations when bait is easy and there can be no repercussions.

When I was a kid growing up in a noisy suburb of this shit hole called Mumbai, I used to hunt for trouble. During zero period in our school, testosterone fueled pre-pubescent kids such as me would flock from classroom to classroom kicking unsuspecting students in the balls. I've been kicked there many times too. It was like an initiation into manhood. And then I got out of school and tried to channel my rage into more creative pursuits like writing and designing. Every fight I was dragged into, I searched for a peaceful resolution even though what I actually wanted to do was to beat the shit out of the other party. But I curbed my natural instinct. Today as I stood out there, cigarette in hand watching two grown men beat the crap out of each other I felt like letting go. I felt like joining in the mauling and letting my personal rage flow through like the pouring rain, but I didn't because I realised that we are our own worst nightmare & every day we look into the mirror, it’s a fight with ourselves.

The greatest battles are not fought in the battlefield, they are fought in our mind. They fester and grow within until one day our conscious being must face them & that’s the real fight. The fight one must save their energy for. In that battle, who comes out on top is of primary importance. Do you walk out of it, a better you or does it leave you with a hole so deep that reaching its end would consume your entire lifetime. Alas some questions have no immediate answers, do they?

5 pearls of wisdom hidden in Taher Shah's Eye 2 Eye.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 02 Jul 2013 17:03:00 +0000

Disclaimer: For those of you who haven't heard Taher Shah's classic song Eye 2 Eye please click on the little black box below and drown yourself in its infinite wisdom. For those of you who have heard it though, kindly maintain eye 2 eye contact with this blog for the next 2 minutes.

For the last 24 years I have lived my life without a song that truly spoke to me. I'm just glad that eye 2 eye came out in the same generation that I existed otherwise my unfulfilled life would be, well, even more unfulfilled. Here's 5 well hidden pearls of wisdom I gleaned from this song.

1. I can see with my spectrum eyes.

If you haven't been using your spectrum eyes yet, it's because you're one dimensional and only see things from a perspective that suits you best. Notice how Taher Shah looks at himself from the perspective of a black suit clad Pakistani gentleman and in the exact same spectrum a white suit clad, long curls welding Pakistani rockstar (or I hope that's what a Pakistani Rockstar looks like) . It's only when you see with your spectrum eyes do you realise that nothing is what it seems. Thank you sir for that first jewel of infinite wisdom.

Spectrum Eyes are responsible for this illusion.

2. Without you I am like a butterfly, without flying...

There are some people who make you feel like a butterfly, and then there are some whose absence makes you feel like a butterfly, without flying. Imagine how horrible that would be. Through his godlike wisdom Taher Shah tells us to find faithful eyes, beautiful eyes, glorious eyes. Not eyes that berate you, degrade you and make you feel like shit. Once again you're spot on Sir.

This is what a butterfly who can't fly looks like.

3. The neighbor angle

After hearing this song for the 100th time it finally struck me. This song is not only about relationships. It's also about India and Pakistan. Neighbours who couldn't see eye 2 eye ever since they were separated. If only they could, they would see how colorful and glorious they're neighbours eyes are, and we would be one again.

4. Make love with eye 2 eye

When was the last time you made love with eye 2 eye. The world has changed. Guys and gals both like making love doggy style now, because that way you don't need to see your partner eye 2 eye. Shows like Emotional Attyachar have exposed the true beast in teenage relationships. We need to see eye 2 eye again to enjoy true love.

Wait! I just figured why no one see's eye 2 eye anymore.

5. Stylish excellent human eyes

Even dogs have eyes, cats have eyes, fish have eyes but does that mean you should look at them eye 2 eye. Taher Shah has strictly mentioned that he's talking about stylish excellent human eyes. Notice the word human. He doesn't discriminate between caste, creed, religion or sex. He doesn't say he's uncomfortable with gay eyes, eunuch eyes, corpse eyes. His only condition is that they must be human. Bye, Bye discrimination.

His eyes don't discriminate.

People all over the world will take years to truly understand the hidden power of eye 2 eye. But trust me once you've seen eye 2 eye there's no going back.

Life after death

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 26 Jun 2013 17:24:00 +0000

The smell of burning flesh hung despairingly in the stale air. Yashwantrao licked his lips and watched as the flames rose higher engulfing what was left of the burning man. The smell strangely reminded him of how hungry he was. This morning was more hectic than most and Yashwantrao had already arranged for more than 4 burials.

He silently excused himself and made his way out of the crematorium. There was a slight breeze in the air. A few raindrops bristled against Yashwantrao’s face. It was a wrinkled mess of lines and creases, hardened by years of manual labour. His arms were sinewy but muscled and his ribs poked out of his cheap cotton top.

He walked with haste towards the nearest tea stall. As he neared it, something caught his eye. He turned in that direction to get a closer look at what it was. Something shiny poked out from under the earth. He walked towards it and picked it up. It was a heavy ring, looked expensive. Yashwantrao pocketed it. He was about to turn around and head back when he heard a sound. It came from the garbage bin further up the road. Curiously he moved closer to see what had caused the noise but as he neared the bin he realised that it was a bad decision. Sprawled at the side of the bin was a limp lifeless body, not unlike the cadavers Yashwantrao handled day in and day out. This body was caked in dry blood, crimson red from head to toe. Yashwantrao knew better than to get himself muddled in police matters. He shrugged and made a move to leave. It was then when he saw the man painfully open his left eye. The sight horrified Yashwantrao. He had handled a lot of dead bodies in the past, but none of them had looked back at him. These eyes were different. They pulled at his heartstrings. They peered down to his very core. And then his eye shut just as suddenly as it had opened.

With a heavy heart Yashwantrao turned back towards the tea stall. He ordered for a plate of bhajias and tea and sat down to eat. He ate his food hurriedly and after paying the chaiwallah, briskly walked back to handle the rest of the day’s cremations.

Sleep was a difficult affair that night. Yashwantrao had dreams of those eyes pouring into his soul, asking for his help, telling him to give the body they belong to a decent burial. He tossed, and turned until he decided to take a stroll outside his thatched hut. The full moon glared at him as he stepped out and inhaled the fresh air. He had not gone more than a few steps when he caught sight of a horribly contorted figure hanging from a tree. In horror he ran towards the body and held the man's dangling feet. No sooner than he had got the man down from the tree, the dead man opened his eyes. It was unmistakable. It was the same eyes that just a second ago were torturing him in his dreams.

Yashwantrao woke up with a start. Beads of sweat glistened off his forehead and his breathing became laboured and heavy. He waited for the night to pass. With the first rays of the sun, he got up, had a shower, and put on some clean clothes. He was eager to get out of the house and back to work. He thought that it would make him feel better.

It didn’t. It was yet another busy day of cremations. White dead featureless faces, grieving families, indifferent relatives and over the top well-wishers streamed in and out of the crematorium. As the day came to a close a van halted outside the crematorium. A man got out of it and handed a letter to Yashwantrao. It was another dead body, most likely abandoned. The letter had a government seal instructions for cremation on it. Yashwantrao helped the man carry the cloaked cadaver inside and placed it on a wooden stretcher. Then the two of them laid the body on a stone bench & Yashwantrao rushed to collect a few more logs to burn the body. As he worked he couldn’t help but feel sad for the dead man. In life he had no one. Not a single person had come to pay him their final respects. He silently hoped that someone would come when he died. He had no family, just a few people he could call friends, but were they really?

Yashwantrao laid the logs on the pyre and helped the man to place the cadaver on it. Then he proceeded to place the remaining logs on the cadaver. As he was doing this, the cloth slipped from the cadavers face and shock reeled through Yashwantrao’s being. It was the man from his dreams. His eyes were closed and his face white as day. His left hand hung limply from the pyre. Yashwantrao saw a patch on his ring finger where once a ring had rested. He looked at it in disbelief until it finally hit him. With a sudden understanding he fished out the ring from his pocket & mouthing a silent prayer, placed the ring back on the man’s finger. Then as the pandit performed the last rights, he lit the pyre and watched as the man’s flesh melted away from his bones. In life this man had no one, but in death he had made a connection with someone, if only fleeting. A tear rolled down Yashwantrao’s eyes as he set about home. He would sleep soundly tonight.

5 characters you won't miss on Indian roads.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 22 Jun 2013 16:19:00 +0000

If you're a fan of the movie, 'The Fast and the Furious', you probably wont agree with me on this point. The thing is, that whenever I have chanced on watching this or these movies I often tend to become slow and oddly confused. The engine revs and I'm usually looking around trying to figure out if anyone truly understands this shit. I know at this point you'll probably be telling yourself that this guy's got no taste or he probably doesn't live on the edge or he doesn't like speed, but let me assure you I'm a rather prolific fan of speed. So much so, that I whipped out my shades, strapped on my backpack and straddled on out of home in search for some thrills.

And here's what happened next. Now not many people know this but I'm obsessed with Rickshawallahs. This obsession began the day they started ignoring my pleas for a ride here and a ride there till I started wondering if there actually is any logical reason they exist. Eventually I got into one and two minutes into the drive I decided on writing an article on character profiles for rickshawallahs. Here is what I came up with. In all I found 5 distinct characters plying the streets of Mumbai.

Character #1: The Indelible Sage

If you encounter this breed don't panic instead do either one of the two, nod your head incessantly or quietly slip out at the signal. These guys love to talk about politics, the weather and local law enforcement. In fact they talk about it with such measured dignity that you're almost taken aback, just enough to plug in those earphones. I tried that but on first notice my rickshaw guy drove on even slower thereby getting his point across. If I had to take a wild guess at the origins of this breed it would probably be that their ancestors were the neglected turds of parrots but it would just be a wild guess!

Descended from the great white turd number 42

Character #2: Reckless and probably Homosexual

Nothing deters them not even the wind, they ride the lighting and stop only for the occasional leak. They reek of blood, sweat and tears (quite literally). The great thing about them though is that if you're in a hurry then they know just how fast to drive which isn't much because its a fucking rickshaw. But if you really want to catch a glimpse of true speed just look at their meters. I don't claim to understand the physics of its movements but I'm pretty sure its got something to do with the rickshaw actually fucking moving. And off he goes spitting paan!

Einstein's working overtime to figure how this shit works!

Character #3: Disco 82'

Neon lights and blaring retro music (mostly Himesh) greet you as you enter the much adorned haven of this breed. Don't dare tell them to turn off the music or you may just be introduced to their smelly feet. I'm serious they actually take their shoes off, those bastards! Eventually my only advice to get out of this situation is to develop a keen ear for Himesh and for all his songs and this ride may just be a pleasurable experience for you. Just out of curiosity I once asked them why they liked Himesh so much and was stunned by their response. Apparently the general consensus among the rickshawallah union is that they really don't know what's so special about Himesh but ever since they started listening to it they've been passing stools with ease!

Ek baar aaja aaja aaja aaja aaja (X2)

Character #4: Probably trippy

The next set of rickshaw drivers are the one's good girls ignore. That's cause they're probably trippy. They also are ironically some of the most amazing lane cutters, BEST beaters, signal crashers, cock suckers (sorry i put the last one there purely for effect). On a serious note though you will rather enjoy their company if you're all high as well. They usually empathize with the occasional stopping for a smoke and know the best places to find some grass at 5 in the night. All in all I'm satisfied with this lot.

Character #5: The Humble ones

These guys have all those qualities you look for in a girl before taking her home to mom : quiet, reserved, decent, dignified, attentive (I hope that clears the laundry list). The only problem and I mean its a big one is that when they talk which they do, its usually aloud into their Samsung Guru mobiles or to fellow rickshawallahs. This leaves you with an unexplainable gaping void somehow. After an entire day of anonymity you at least expect a certain level of dignified attention from the driver, but you're left feeling hopelessly even more anonymous. These guys are usually the ones you should go to instead of your neighborhood priest for confession!

Cant get more humble than that!

And finally it's time for the shameless plug. You must be wondering what took me so long but rickshawallahs get me real worked up. And so without further ado, I present to you the solution for all your rickshaw problems & yes it's a t-shirt which I designed (applause please). Would love some feedback on it. Cheers!

Of World War Z and Zombies

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 21 Jun 2013 08:54:00 +0000

60 people entered the theater that night and all 60 walked out like zombies. They were paralyzed & hopeless with no sense of direction. They were slow to grasp anything and everything around them. Their brains had turned to mush thanks to two and a half hours of pointless cinema. If you haven't got the zombie reference already, I'm talking about World War Z, starring Brad Pitt. Right from the word go, the movie has zombies, only these zombies are ultra fast and so large in number that they resemble a crowded Virar local. Add a few nuclear explosions and generic supermarket and laboratory scenes and you get the most pointless movie of this decade. On a side note however, my heart goes out to the zombies. How fair is it that zombies are always portrayed as people with zero personality, slow witted and dull? Vampires seem to have a personality, hell even werewolves do, then why not zombies? Why do girls look at zombies and go, "Oh...they're so scary" or "Shit I can't believe it's eating him", and the same chicks look at vampires and say "He's so hot I could lick chocolate sauce of his balls"? Where's the justice in the world? In the spirit of all pointless causes here's one I think we all should support, equality for the zombie kind. After all they're not vastly different from any other monster. So stop wasting your time supporting starving children in Africa, they're going to heaven anyway! Instead pour your heart out for the poor zombies. They're ugly, they're dead and they're miserable. Our support can ensure that they appear more like protagonists in our movies rather than just props we can enjoy seeing blown up.

Ladies, I found my Mojo

Oh No, She Didn't

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 16:34:00 +0000

Jiah Khan, I still remember the first time I saw you in Ghajini. Apart from the horrendous male ape you had a crush on in the movie (read Aamir Khan), you looked so innocent and flirty like a little sexy bunny. Look at you now, you've gone and killed yourself. I mean who among us can solemnly say that we haven't had that exact same thought. But do we go ahead and actually do it? I'm not so sure about that. What surprises me about your ridiculous decision is that you actually decided to kill yourself because of your turbulent relationship with Suraj Pancholi! Really, you must be shitting me. Even a turd looks better than Suraj Pancholi. Turds have personality. They squeeze their way out of your rectum jubilant of their new found freedom, only to drown in an ocean of turds and flushed down like unwanted cretins. Suraj Pancholi doesn't even have the personality of a turd and yet he gets to roam free, making women kill themselves over him. How fair is that? If men had the power to make women hang themselves in frustration, a woman would kill herself every 5 seconds, but we don't have that power, do we, Jiah? It's women like you who empower men like Suraj Pancholi. But we can hope that your sacrifice, sorry suicide will prevent other retarded women from doing the same or, it may just give them the right motivation to go ahead with it. Either way, no one cares, life moves on and you live to die another day. Now isn't that a wonderful proposition?

I would take you home to mother, but then, you just killed yourself!

The Circle of Life

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 08:40:00 +0000

Our whole existence has been defined by others. We do what others think is right for us. We say what others think is appropriate to say. We dress to please others. Taking a shit, is perhaps the only thing we do for ourselves. We were created for three basic things, eating, fucking and sleeping. As men became supposedly more intelligent, these basic needs were replaced by more complicated ones. The need for social stature, the need to achieve success and the routes to achieve these needs took ugly turns. We lost sight of who we truly are. Our idiosyncrasies were forcefully curbed, and we put on a veil to guard against assaults from outside. This veil slowly started defining us. This veil changed us, made us fit in. In a crowd of a 1000 people, it's easy to spot a monkey, because it's a freaking monkey. Our idiosyncrasies are like monkeys, they set us apart. True we may be ridiculed for being unique and different. True we may start doubting ourselves. True we may see no other way out. You see, humans are an opinionated lot. Most of their lives have no meaning, so they look at others lives to comment on. They live for judgment. They sit on their high stools and they pass judgment. They hurt others feelings and feel mighty proud of themselves. They delude themselves into believing that their way of life is the best. And we look back at our true selves with self doubt. We question our idiosyncrasies. We wonder if God had a plan in making us different, making us stand out, making us ugly, making us fat, making us the brunt of every joke. That is when we try to change, to fit in to a set way of life and when we finally succeed, it's too late to turn back to who we were. We're now initiated into a society which will take us down with it. And unconsciously we sit on that throne and judge new souls, because our life has lost all its meaning.

This weeks Top 5 web distractions

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 08 Jun 2013 11:59:00 +0000

1. The Red Wedding

Yes, I read the books. Yes, I saw it coming. No I'm not scarred. Quite the contrary I'm in awe of director David Nutter's vision of the Red Wedding. While it was nowhere near as bloody as the books, the scene where one of the Frey's stabs Talisa in her womb has to be the most brutal of the series so far. It had my stomach in knots. Notable mention goes to Michelle Fairley's performance in the episode where after all the life is taken from her, she forgets her honor and kills an innocent girl. The biggest revelation of the episode for me though has to be the haunting lyrics and tune of The Rains of Castamere. A song penned in dedication to Tywin Lannister's brutal victory over House Reyne of Castamere. A simple message in the song, Never fuck with a Lannister.

2. Harry Styles was born with 4 nipples

This surprising fact popped into my Facebook feed this week thanks to What The Fuck Facts & I couldn't resist commenting. But before you say that's a lame thing to put on this list, check out my comment.

That comment alone got 1451 likes and 37 replies and the irony is, that I don't even know what One Direction is :)

3. It's not about the nail

For all those men who have tried and failed miserably at fixing their girlfriends problems,here's a first class lesson as to why that's an exercise in futility. And the best part is that the director, Jason Headly has made it simple, so that our puny minds may get the message. A must watch.

4. The Gut Wrenching Science between the world's hottest peppers

A pepper that can kill you, that's exactly how hot the Bhut Jolokia is. The Naga Chilli ranges anywhere between 500,000 to 1.5 million Scoville heat units which is considered to be super hot. Mary Roach writes about her travels to Nagaland and witnesses a chilli eating competition for the crazies. This is her story.

5. Zombie Highway

If you're the kind of guy who loves general carnage (I know I am), then this game is for you. You drive down a highway infested with zombies, and all you have to do is keep killing them motherfuckers, so that they don't bring your car down and feast on your innards. Love the brutal simplicity. Download it here.

Smell - A Short Story

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 14:20:00 +0000

He smelt like a day on the beach. He was standing next to me holding my hand with the familiar smell of his Cool Waters fresh in the air. I loved that smell; it reminded me of the first time we met.

I was waiting for a bus, and it seemed like forever before I would finally get one. The line in front of me just kept moving, but for some reason I never reached the entrance of the bus. I tapped the man in front of me asking for answers, but he just grunted and told me the last bus just left. That was when I smelt him. His smell lingered in the air and was a welcome distraction from my worries. He tapped me lightly and asked me if he could help me get onto the next bus. I was slightly apprehensive but accepted graciously. We talked in the bus. It seemed effortless, it seemed easy & my heart missed a beat when he asked me for my number.

Today however my heart was racing. I just couldn’t believe my good fortune. I was going to spend my life with a man who I loved with all my heart. I was also a tad bit hesitant, what if things didn’t work out, would I then be a divorcee? But I guess thinking about these things is natural when you’re getting married.

The priest asked the pertinent question, “Cynthia, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”“I do”, I replied. “Clement do you take this as woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?” I do father, he said. “Then with God as my witness I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride”. Claps echoed across the church. This was the moment I was waiting for, to join my lips to his. I could live like that forever, stuck to his lips.

That night we made love, like it was our first time. He threw me onto the bed, slipped off my panties and with surgeons dexterity began working my clit. It was heaven. I was in heaven. There was nothing better.

Clement used to work in a BPO, and his shifts would very often be erratic. Luckily for a while he was in the day shift. He’d come home, and I would run to kiss him on the lips. I would wait for the time to pass, so I could run towards the smell of his perfume laden with sweat. I loved that smell, it turned me on, and it was meant only for me. My responsibilities at home were to prepare the dishes, keep the house clean and make love to my adoring husband. It suited me just fine.

But as days passed by the familiar notes of his cool waters began getting lighter. He smelt of a mixture of things these days. On some days I smelt cigarettes while on some I smelt alcohol and on most days, both. I brushed it off because my husband was stressed and sometimes vices took the edge of off life. But slowly I started smelling other women on him. The notes of his Davidoff had all but disappeared. They had been replaced by notes of Dior and Chanel.

Then one day he walked in with a strong smell of booze and cigarettes. He held my hand firmly and took me to the bedroom. He barely said a word. He just quickly undressed me and in the middle of the act slowly started spanking me. At first it was exciting; until he thought of using his belt to do the deed. One day he cut me so hard with that belt that I couldn't walk for the next 3 days. I dreaded him coming back from work ever since then.

But he always came back and each night the lovemaking became even more extreme. He had become sadistic. He used to beat me up while on top of me and my tears only excited him all the more. Tears gave way to begging and begging gave way to acts of self-defense, but he was too strong and I was too disabled to do anything about it.

I turned to the only source I could trust, God. It may sound corny but every hour I spent praying made me feel slightly better about myself. I would be humiliated each night only to pray in the morning and hope for a better night.

Then one night, he walked in, but his smell was different, very different, almost metallic. He held me with both his arms and a warm liquid began pouring down my skin. It was blood and I was speechless. What had he done? He moved past me and entered the bedroom; I could see that he was packing his clothes. I stumbled forwards breathless only to trip and fall to the ground. I rolled and faced the ceiling. I was in despair, I couldn’t move & then something rested lightly on my nose. It smelled like money.

I held my breath as he walked towards me and firmly picked me up. The smell of iron wrought in the air. He began dragging me towards the door. I was scared. I picked up the vase on the way and swung. It hit and split and all I heard was a thud and then silence. I slouched by the door, thinking, contemplating, wishing it wouldn’t come to this. I began searching the floor till I found it. A knife so festered with blood its blade,hardly recognizable. With one swift move I cut the artery, but strangely felt no pain. I could only smell the blood that had now become a permanent part of my life. In the midst of it were notes of lost love and stronger notes of betrayal. I had to move fast to survive. I could hear the bells and whistles of the cop car as it swerved to meet us or should I say me. But meds, I needed my meds. I rushed into the bathroom, fished out my meds and washed my face,then I picked up a coat and the bag he brought home and left.

I don’t know what it was but I felt like I knew where I should be going. I stopped a cab, entered and told him the exact address. I walked up those all familiar steps reaching towards a door I knew was my own and on ringing the bell I smelt a fragrance which was my own. The light notes of Davidoff, the musky fragrance of a man I love.

“What do you want”, he said.

“Can I come in; this is my house after all”, I said.

“Are you out of your mind or did you forget to take your meds today”, he said.

“I have them with me, see. I brought them along so you would know what a good girl I’ve been”, I said.

“What’s in the bag?” he asked.

“Never mind that, can I come in?” I said.

“Why would I allow the woman who married me and ran away with another man to come into my house?” he said.

“I ran away with you”, I said.

“Are you so blind you couldn’t see who you were eloping with?” he said.”

“Yes, but you knew that already didn’t you?”I said.

“Stop shitting me and leave this instant before I kick you out”, he said.

“Please kick me out, at least touch me. I need you please”, I begged.

“Just get lost”, he said and began shutting the door. The bag fell from my hands and a few notes spread airborne. Seeing it, he stopped, “What are you doing with so much money?”

“This money is for you honey, all for you”, I said. Clement opened the door wider to get a closer look. This was my only chance; I embraced him with all my might, and took in his fragrance. Renewed I started stroking his dick and felt him getting hard under his pants. Without saying a word I deftly planted kisses along his neck and unzipped him. Then I started stroking his dick and gently took it all into my mouth. That much was enough for Clement to pick me up and take me into the bedroom. He hadn’t had sex in a while and after a few scorching hours of extraordinary sex, we both slumped on each other and slept like babies.

With the first rays of the sun, I snuggled closer to him. He was mine and I was his. His smell would stay with me forever, reinvigorating me, re energizing me. I sighed and slumped into his embrace and after what felt like hours, I released the pressure on his chest; The chest into which moments earlier, I had buried a knife.

Now his smell was all mine. All mine.

This weeks Top 5 web distractions.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 09:30:00 +0000

As far as weeks go, this had to be one of the worst weeks I've had. You know those weeks that you wish never existed. Kind off like that, but worse. A few good things did happen though, I started writing again, not to mention reading again as well, and I encountered some pleasant distractions on the world wide web which is what I want to talk about. So indulge me while I present this weeks Top 5 web distractions.

1. Game of Thrones cello cover by Break of Reality

Okay, I've heard the original by Ramin Djawadi and as far as covers go this one comes the closest. It's well choreographed, and the co-ordination among the 4 is flawless. A plus is the hand drums of course.

2. Radioactive - Lindsey Stirling & Pentatonix ( Imagine Dragons Cover)

A perfect song made even more perfect (didn't know that was possible) by Lindsey's impeccable talent on the violin and the choir of Pentatonix. Impressive production values as well for a You Tube only video. I subscribed, just saying!

3. Bypass - A Short Film

If you haven't watched Bypass yet, you'd be missing the brilliant on screen chemistry between Irrfan Khan and Nawazuddin Siddiqui, a tight screenplay, brilliant shot taking by director Amit Kumar and the flawless way in which the film delivers its dark story without words. Yes, its a silent short film. Spend 15 minutes to watch this and your perspective towards Hindi cinema will change.

4. Moon + Reader Pro

It's an app that has opened my world to Ebooks and has helped me get back on the "reader board". Since I started using it, I finished the entire Shiva Trilogy and just got done with The Adventures of Dunk and Egg, next up will be The Inheritance Cycle by Paolini and Shantaram. Piracy rocks so head over to this link, download it to your phone and simply install it. It should work if you follow all instructions and .epubs are available on all torrent networks so you should have no dearth of books to read. Also install the Goodreads app for book recommendations. It's indeed good.

5. I love you baby and I love you Doll - Nischay Parekh

A song with honest lyrics and honest intentions. Made me think of many of my relationships. Indian singer/songwriter Nischay Parekh borrows heavily from Bruno Mars, James Blunt and John Mayer, but his sounds are refreshing and feel good. Listen to this one.

Notable mentions

Two notable mentions this week.

1. A game of Starcraft

2. Arrested Development Season 4 - Download link

Music to mope to: Look what you've done by Jet.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 29 May 2013 12:04:00 +0000

Ever so often music speaks to you, like it's been sitting there, all this while, as an outsider biding its time to tell you, "Boy, you screwed up". Well that piece of music entered my consciousness yesterday, as a not so sparkling turn of events led me to click on the link presented on Facebook and lead me to this song. I had heard it before, but the lyrics took a new meaning for me today & I wept. Well done Mark Zuckerberg, your Edge Rank Algorithm made me cry. Anyways, here's how it goes...

Take my photo off the wall
If it just won't sing for you
'Cause all that's left has gone away
And there's nothing there for you to prove

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
Oh well, it seems like such fun
Until you lose what you had won

Give me back my point of view
'Cause I just can't think for you
I can hardly hear you say
What should I do, well you choose

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
Oh well, it seems like such fun
Until you lose what you had won

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
A fool of everyone
A fool of everyone

Take my photo off the wall
If it just won't sing for you
'Cause all that's left has gone away
And there's nothing there for you to do

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
Oh well, it seems like such fun
Until you lose what you had won

Oh, look what you've done
You've made a fool of everyone
A fool of everyone
A fool of everyone

Forbidden Fruit

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 29 May 2013 08:36:00 +0000

What is it about the forbidden fruit that makes you want to eat it all the more? Is it that somehow its value increases once you know you can't have it, or is it that you actually think that once you taste it life will not be the same. Maybe its both, but yes the forbidden fruit is forbidden for a reason, because once you have it, you don't know what to do with it. Do you take a bite or do you swallow it whole or do you preserve it and wait to have it at the right time. Far too many questions for a simple mind to process.

I too want that forbidden fruit now enhanced because I can never have it, but just the thought of it is enough to make me salivate. Just the thought of it is enough to make me live for it. And what happens to my existence once I realise that it will never truly be mine. I'll collect my memories, the times I've pined for it and put it into a glass jar and stare at it for as long as I live, or maybe I'll find another fruit to distract myself or maybe I'll make myself forget there ever was a forbidden fruit. Whatever I do the reality is this, the fruit was never in my reach to begin with.

10 life lessons I learnt but never followed.

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 28 May 2013 07:58:00 +0000

Surely I've come a long way from my lusting over Poonam Pandey days to stalking KRK on Twitter to the man I am now. And in life I've learned a lot, lost a lot, won some and regretted some, but it feels worth it, except for the emptiness I feel in my stomach. That could also be because I skipped breakfast, but bear with me nevertheless. Here are some lessons I learnt but do not follow because I'd much rather not take the risk.

1. Always follow your heart

The brain is far too complicated to process what you feel. The heart seems to do a better job. We just need to listen, to take the risk and win or lose at least we wont regret it.

2. Porn isn't the best way to counter loneliness

This realisation hit me years ago, but alas men will be men and they value their penis above everything else.

3. Alcohol makes you forget but only briefly

Unless you can drink from now till the end of days, but doing so will ensure the end of days will arrive early for you.

4. Some habits stick, never make an habit out of anything

We human beings are supposed to continuously evolve so instead of sticking to extinct ideologies and strange fixations, just adapt.

5. Love is a momentary feeling

A momentary but strong feeling & a feeling we must guard, understand and not lose sight of. It's easy to love and lose. It's not easy to keep loving.

6. Sex is the best thing ever

Seriously it is, if had wisely.

7. Honorable men die horrible deaths

Live life with a code? When you die they will stick it up your ass and bury you six feet under and maggots will feast on your being. But it's refreshing to meet an honorable man.

8. Humor is a way of hiding how you really feel

Because no one cares about how you really feel & those that do,don't matter until its too late.

9. Travel the world but leave your baggage behind

No I don't mean travel light, just with no mental baggage to bog you down. The world is incredibly beautiful when seen with an infants eye.

10. It doesn't matter what came first, the egg or the chicken

Because both are equally delicious.