Hero Worship

I can't see any wrong in this guy. I don't even try to. I am an adult of sound mind and in perfect possession of all my mental faculties, but I still can't see any wrong. He cast this spell from the moment I first saw that straight bat with the copybook follow-through as the ball sped straight down the ground. Geometric precision, yet a mellifluous melody in that instant. I still tingle when I see that shot and I have seen it too many times to count; a testament to both the strength of my adulation and the longevity of my idol.

How do I say anything that hasn't been said! How do I even try and imagine some facet yet to be explored! Over two decades in the limelight is enough to strip anyone of their privacy and lay out their faults and frailties for all to see. He's been deconstructed and reconstructed ad nauseum; anything and everything related to him, his life and his conduct have been analyzed and discussed to death. He should ideally have nothing new to offer to the new generation who have just woken up to the sport. They should instead idolize the ice-cool captain or his firebrand upstart of a deputy. Generations past have adulated the Wall; rallied behind their Dada; marveled at the exploits of the run machine before him. How then has this mania survived? How does my heart still skip a beat when a ball beats his outside edge or caroms into his pads? How does this little man with the heavy blade still make me choke up with emotion when his mates take him on a lap of honour around the Wankhede on their shoulders? He's not a politician nor actor nor some religious icon. He's just a sportsman; a supremely talented sportsman yes, but still just a sportsman. How can he make a billion-plus people so frenetic! How can he make me so frenetic! I'm not the most passionate guy after all. Far from it. How does this guy pierce my armour?

The thing about poets is this. You might barely understand the words or the sentence structure or where the bloody hell one line starts and the other begins. You might very well not get the entire point of the piece. But there is that haunting melody underlying that verbiage that your subconscious listens to that makes you see beauty even if you can't fathom it. Your spirits soars on some great emotion; you know not what. The poet weaves a spell around you that beguiles because it's unfathomable; because that beautiful image or impression that gave rise to this melody can't be captured by such feeble mortal constructs as mere words. All you are left with is this tingling feeling down your spine and this lightness in your heart. And that's what this man does. With each flourish of his blade he leaves me a picture too beautiful to comprehend. The mind rebels at the improbability of its existence, but the heart knows what it saw. That one moment captured infinity.

Sachin is a poet, the opiate of the masses, the messiah that carries our hopes every time he walks out onto that oval. He is the perpetual child who grins for all he's worth when he does anything on the field. He's the everlasting fir that spreads its heady fragrance far and wide. The legends will continue long after he hangs up his boots and walks off into the sunset - the assault in the swirling dunes, the scorching brilliance in the veld, the spectacular double without the cover drive, the vindicating century in the chase down south... So many moments. So many memories. So many glimpses of absolute unadulterated perfection. The lone remnant of an era, yet he still strides this world like a colossus. Nothing more I can say can do justice to him. I was lucky to have grown up with his exploits, to have these images in my mind that still move me. All good things must pass and so must he, but these memories will last forever.

That straight drive. That perfect, perfect straight drive...

The Guy with the Dragon Tattoo

"Just have some patience."

"Why!"

"I know you will take some time to adjust."

"Why did you create the need for me to adjust!"

"It's just a phase I'm going through."

"What about my feelings?"

"I understand and respect your feelings, but...but...I just can't help it ok! It just happens!"

"Do you want it to happen?"

"No...um...I don't know. I'm not sure."

"Not sure? NOT SURE?"

"Um hmm."

"Now what the hell does that mean?"

"I don't know ok! Just give me some space!"

Simi glared at Sam as he started pacing nervously around the cramped flat. Not for the first time she wondered just what the hell she saw in this guy. He was scruffy as hell, didn't look at all presentable and seriously had a screw loose somewhere. Add to that his erratic behaviour and outrageous manias and he was certainly not husband material by any means whatsoever. Then again, she was too young to find husband material. This guy was fun; he could be depended on for sourcing weed and vodka at odd hours; and the sex was bed-breakingly amazing! But they were not indulging in any of these activities right now, so the only thing left for her to do now was fume at the dragon tattoo on the back of his newly shaved head.

It was not a bad tattoo to be honest. The artist had showered much love and attention and myriad coloured inks over this one. The flames coming out of the dragon's mouth were particularly vivid. But all that Simi's jaundiced eyes could see right now was a big coloured blob smack on the back of her boyfriend's head, not to mention the utter absence of hair on said head. She wasn't a particularly big fan of his hair - what with the food bits she kept finding in that unwashed mass - but it was still a darned sight better than this gleaming oily dome-shaped monstrosity with an oriental design that was creeping the hell out of her.

"Why the fuck would you do something like this?"

Sam stopped pacing and flopped down on the sofa at one end of the room, giving Simi a lot more space for maneuvering and dramatic expressions.

"Well?" she said, shaking her hands for said dramatic effect.

"Well what!"

"Why the FUCK would you do something like this!"

"Felt like it," Sam replied, trying gamely to sound nonchalant.

"Felt like it? FELT LIKE IT! The guy says he felt like it!" Simi said in sarcastic aside to the wall, "Was that the reason you shaved your head too? Because you 'felt like it'?"

"Of course I had to go bald! How else could I have gotten the tattoo!"

Simi wanted to wring his neck, but her thirst for information was not yet quenched. She controlled her baser instincts and probed further.

"Ok ok," she said in a calm tone that was more for her own benefit, "so you got a tattoo because you felt like it."

"Yup."

"Like the first one that you got on your bicep."

"Um hmm."

"And that idiotic elephant on your chest."

"Hey! It's a cool tattoo!"

"And that fucking snake on your dick!"

"I thought you liked that one!"

"Dude you couldn't fuck for three weeks after you got that! How the hell could you think I liked it!"

"But it got better right? You don't have any complaints now."

"No complaints? I feel like a fucking zoo animal now every time I go down on that thing!"

"You still do it though," Sam replied rather smugly.

"I close my eyes....What the fuck! That's not the point! Don't distract me!"

"Maybe you want to be distracted," he leered, "that can be arranged..."

"Fuck you bastard! I'm not touching you unless it is to beat you senseless with that tennis racquet!" pointing at a very solid looking implement hanging above the sofa.

"I can go for that baby. Sounds dirty."

"Oh shut up!"

Simi sank down on the floor with her head in her hands. She hadn't signed up for this! Sure he was into tattooing himself, but whatever foul monstrosities he inked on his person were mostly shielded from the public (except for beaches and drinking binges which invariably ended with him exposing himself in some form or the other). Hell, she got a kick out of them sometimes, especially that growing snake! But the idiot had now gone and gotten a big fucking dragon that looked like something out of a bad 'shroom trip! How the fuck was she supposed to live with that thing!

"HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO BE OKAY WITH THIS?"

Sam was bemused at that question. It was a loaded question that, a question that beggared any correct response. He was a person who lived in the moment, who was stoned and/or high (he didn't remember exactly) when he saw a porn video where the male lead was sporting a similar look. This was the way he got all his tattoo ideas - including the snake on his john - and he thought nothing of once again emulating his idol Randy Banger. Maybe it was some obsessive gay crush he had for that guy, or he wanted to imbibe his legendary sexual prowess, or he just got too fucking stoned and/or high too many times. Whatever it was, he had gone ahead and done it, caring not one whit for what Simi would say. She was a cool chick, his brain said. She'd go wild and fall all over him, the scumbag continued. It was deep anti-establishment shit this tattoo; it cocked a snook at all that this decrepit defunct society held dear; it was just simply awesome! He was thus, very very obviously NOT prepared for this question.

"Er..." he started timidly, "I thought...er...that is to say I was thinking that...um..."

"You thought? You actually thought and went through with this?"

"Yeah...I mean no...I mean...it looked cool!"

"Looked cool where?"

"On that new Randy Banger video...."

"WHAT?"

Oh shit, he thought as she started to turn red. Not a good time for a brain fart.

"YOU. COPIED. THIS. IDEA. FROM. A. PORN. MOVIE!" she thundered, punctuating each word with barely controlled rage.

"No no no! You misheard me! It was not Randy Banger. It was...it was Mandy Moore! Yes! Mandy Moore. That's who it was!"

Simi got up from her beanbag and started stalking ominously towards him. He sank further into his sofa and fervently wished to be elsewhere.

"Mandy Moore you say," she hissed through clenched teeth, her fists balled up so tight her knuckles were white, "You are telling me that Mandy Moore is bald and has a stupid multi-coloured dragon on her head!"

"No no no! I obviously didn't mean her! I saw some back-up dancer with this look."

"What song?"

"Hunh?"

"WHAT SONG!"

"I don't remember! How am I supposed to remember! I am not the Mandy Moore Fan Club President or something!"

She was towering over him now like some other-worldly colossus. Her flaring nostrils looked particularly gigantic from his vantage point, i.e. flat on his back and cowering in terror on a very exposed sofa. Simi looked at the pathetic worm wriggling under her furious glare and wondered for the umpteenth and oneth time about why she banged this bozo. Sex can't be worth this much idiocy!

"So let me get this straight," she said slowly, the ominous sound of approaching thunder laced in every syllable, "You copied a tattoo from a music video you don't remember by an artist you don't like?"

"Er...yes..." was the timid reply.

Sam cowered even more as her body started trembling with rage. His tattoo was itching, his briefs were scrunched too far up his ass crack and he really really needed to pee; yet he dared not move a muscle for there was something about the way her eyes were popping out that made him eschew any sudden movements. He was a nutter yes, but not a suicidal nutter. The best he could hope for now was to curl up into a ball and hope she didn't break something. So he closed his eyes, did his best impression of an armadillo and waited for it to end.

Simi snorted with disgust as she saw his self-preservation tactic unfold. Never one to accord much respect to this Neanderthal, she was even more disdainful of this blatant display of cowardice. A hotted-up girl bursting at the seams needs a captive audience, an aspen that will bend when she rages and take a few scratches here and there for dramatic effect; but this pussy was depriving her of that joy too. She raised her foot and poked him sharply in the soft part of his stomach.

"Ow!"

"Stop...cowering...like...a...weasel!" she spat out, punctuating each word with another sharp poke.

"Stop doing that!" he screamed.

"Then start fucking behaving like a man you bitch!" concluding the statement with another emphatic kick.

"OW!" was the response as Sam finally scampered off the sofa and fell on the floor in an ungainly heap. He in fact contrived to fall in such a way that the offending tattoo was bang in the middle of Simi's sights. She obviously blew a gasket.

The next few minutes were a flurry of arms and legs and sharp pig-like squeals. Simi was Nemesis in the flesh, deadlier than a brood of famished harpies and twice as more pissed off. Sam meanwhile was literally being downtrodden as he suffered a barrage of kicks and stomps and punches, trying all the while to somehow disentangle his left arm from his right ankle and vice versa. He eventually managed that feat and rolled away before she could land another blow. He then rose immediately to his feet and backed away into the farthest corner possible. That didn't deter Simi though. She could have taken apart an army battalion with her bare hands in the mood she was in. Her clenched fists were literally thrumming with unleashed fury, as were her furious eyes and menacing prowl towards her victim.  

"That's enough Simi!" Sam shrieked, trembling at her approach, "You...you can't do this."

"I can't do what!" she growled in response, continuing to prowl towards him.

"You can't hit me!"

"Why not? You are a lazy fucking idiot who can't find the right end of an exhaust pipe without any directions! Why the fuck should I not hit you!"

"Because...because...because I'll hit you back!"

"Oh really! Try that you fucking piece of shit and I'll have every cop in the district buggering you in the ass!"

"You wouldn't do that!"

"Try me dipshit!"

The situation was getting extremely dire for the tattoo aficionado. Like Simi he didn't expect too much from this relationship. She was hot enough, she was an amazing fuck and she kept him well-fed. But was it really worth this much peril to his physical well-being? His body was just now realizing the full extent of the damage that it had suffered and it was strongly against enduring more of the same. He had to put this female in her place and do it fast before she started scratching him in earnest.

"Wait. Stop!"

"Why should I!"

"You can't hit me! This is not the way to treat your boyfriend!"

"Who says!"

"I says...I mean I say! You can't hit me, or else..."

"Or else what?"

"Or else I will break up with you!"

If he had expected to shake her up in some profoundly metaphysical way he was sadly mistaken. She didn't even flinch. She did pause though, which was good enough under the circumstances. He gave a silent prayer of thanks and slumped against the wall behind him, though he still kept an eye out for sudden movements. You can never be sure with the fairer sex. Here today, gone tomorrow.

The comely representative of said sex was meanwhile deep in thought. Her long lustrous hair that normally made his gonads turn cartwheels were shielding her face from him though, so he had no clue at all what she was thinking. Not that he was particularly curious. Chances were that she was going to jump on him with claws outstretched any second now, so he might as well enjoy what little quiescence was there in his lot. He sent a furtive hand down the back of his pants and adjusted his scrunched up briefs. If I could just get to pee now, he thought as he completed the adjustments. Life would start to look on the up again.

A couple of minutes passed without any sudden movements or claw work from Simi. Ever an eternal optimist, Sam started regaining some of his joie de vivre. Poor angel, he thought smugly, she was probably terrified at the prospect of a life without him and must be even now shedding silent tears behind that ebony veil. His heart went out to her, as did some other important part of his anatomy. Some affinity for vulnerable girls maybe. Once he had had his pee he would go and comfort the poor girl and then show her a good time; a really good time. He was just about to get up and complete the first part of this fantasy when the suffering angel raised her head and brushed the hair back from it. The anger seemed to have been replaced by a calmer and more sober visage. She wised up quick, his inflated ego whispered as he began to extend his hand toward her.

"Where do you get the weed?"

The question threw him a bit. Simi had never expressed much curiosity in this department. He got it, she smoked it. That was the deal. Everybody's happy. This sudden thirst for knowledge after all this kerfuffle was thus a bit puzzling. Then again, this day had been chock-a-block full of surprises. Add one more to the list.

"Er...well there's this place near the station..."

"Can you write it down?"

"Hunh?"

Simi immediately grabbed a pen and a notepad from a nearby cabinet and thrust them in his hand.

"Write."

"Hunh?"

"Write!"

"Write what?"

"Weed."

"You want me to write weed?"

"What the fuck....where the hell do you get the fuckin' weed! Just write down the address!"

"I don't know the address..."

"Directions, phone number, sketches, whatever the hell you can do, just fuckin' do it!"

Sam immediately got down to work, his new-found confidence very much deflated by her sudden belligerence. He was more than a little convinced now that Simi was off her rocker, and once again the internal debate about the viability of this relationship was raging in his bosom. Then he got a look at her bosom and forgot all about that crap. Anything was worth one more crack at that! He scribbled the rest of it with a flourish and handed it back to her.

"The deed is done m'lady," he crooned, adding a theatrical bow for effect.

The damsel thus addressed looked decidedly disgusted by the gesture. She scanned the paper once to satisfy herself about the veracity of its contents. Satisfied, she folded it up and kept it securely in her purse. She then turned towards her hopeful paramour who was still in a supplicant position.

"Don't I get my reward now?" Sam asked in a decidedly lecherous voice, leering to boot.

Simi's frame quivered once under some great emotion before settling down into an ominous stillness. The faux knight was clueless as always as his mind wandered the realms of carnal desires. So it was no wonder when she asked him in too sweet a voice to "close his eyes" that he graciously obliged. She immediately picked up the racquet from where it hung on the wall and circled around to his backside. She swung her arms experimentally, assessed the required force and trajectory and then proceeded to plant a satisfying wallop on his behind.

Sam's first unconscious thought was that his intestine had for some mysterious reason lodged itself in his throat. His second unconscious musing was on the sudden change in equilibrium his body was experiencing. By the time the pain registered he was already hurtling towards the floor and planting his face smack bang in the middle of it.

"OOOOOOOOWWWWWWW!!!!!"

Simi advanced on him with grim purpose written all over her face. There was a job to be done today and she wouldn't rest until she'd gotten it out of the way. She wound up and hit again.

"AAAAAHHHH!!!!"
And again.
"EEEEYYYYAAAAA!!!!"
And again.
"MMMNGGPFFFF!!!!" came the muffled response this time as his hand jammed against his mouth.
"Break up with me will you, you piece of shit!!!" she shrieked, continuing to beat him black and blue.
"Oww oww oww oww oww!!!"
"Try to manipulate me will you, you bloody asshole!!!"
"Stop that bitch!" he thundered in a belated attempt to regain control.
"Fuck you!" she rejoined with a particularly wicked wallop.
"OWWW!!!"

Sam had regained his feet by this point and was running around the room like a headless chicken with Simi and the racquet in hot pursuit. It took him a couple of minutes and some very painful strikes more before he could figure out where the door was. He immediately made a beeline for it and started struggling with the bolts. She stopped just a few feet away and observed his machinations.

"Listen," she said after a few moments.
He jumped literally two feet in the air at that. He hadn't realized that danger loomed so close and turned around instantly to shield his smarting back side against the door.
"Hunh?" he replied.
"I wanted to say something."
"Ok. But don't hit me!"
"I'm not going to hit you you baby! Just listen."
"Ok."
"I'm breaking up with you."
Sam stared stupidly at her for a bit before replying indignantly,
"Hey! You can't do that!"
"Why not?"
"I was gonna do that!"
"Really?"
"Of course really! I threatened to do that didn't I?"
"I saw the way you were looking at my boobs you bastard. A break-up was most definitely not on your mind!"
"Er...Hey...Ah...I'm not going to stand around here and have my character questioned like that!"
"So don't. Leave and don't come back."

Sam mulled that over. The idea seemed very charming to his distraught buttocks, but his loins didn't seem particularly pleased at the prospect. The boobs in question were spectacular after all.

"Baby don't do this! We can work things out. I know we can."
"Can you get that friggin' dragon removed?"
"Of course not! It's a work of art! And laser surgery is so fucking expensive anyway."
"Then we can't work things out. It's best you leave now before things get ugly."
"Ugly?"
"Yes. Ugly," she replied, the racquet swinging ominously in her hand.

He gulped, then turned around and started unlocking the door frantically. Better get out of here fast while he had the chance. Affairs of the heart could wait for a new day. If he stuck around any longer this female would massacre him. He finally got the last latch undone and was out of the house in a jiffy,  ice-baths and soft downy cushions uppermost on his mind.

Simi bolted the door behind him then went back and hung back the racquet carefully. Hopefully she hadn't done any lasting damage to it. The flat was in some amount of disarray because of recent events, but that piece of housekeeping could wait. All she wanted right now was a nice big couch and an equally nice cool beer. The lark was on the wing and everything was all right with the world again. That blithering idiot and his fucking dragon were out of her life after all. Plus there was enough vodka and weed stocked up to last her some while yet. Ideal really this. A zombie apocalypse could strike right now and she wouldn't bat an eyelid.

I'm going to miss the sex though, she mused as she and her beer ensconced themselves snugly in the couch. He did know his stuff. Probably picked up tips from that Randy Banger fellow or something. Maybe I should check this guy out, see what the fuss is about. She got up immediately and retired to her bedroom where her laptop and an internet connection with unlimited download awaited. Might as well celebrate her emancipation in style.

Faith and a Lemon Tree

What do you do when life gives you a lemon tree? Conventional SMS wisdom dictates you sit down and patiently make lemonade from each and every one of those friggin' lemons. Normal testosterone-fueled instincts demand that you uproot the damned thing with your bare hands, set the broken remains on fire and dance around the pyre like a drunk cave man. There is also that timid weepy voice in the back of your head that just wants to curl into the tightest ball possible and forget all about it. But I want to follow the bloke who is bestriding the road like a stuffed up rooster; head tilted back, chest puffed out and eyes looking haughtily at everyone and everything. I want that insouciance. I want that devil-may-care fuck-that-shit outlook to life. I want to leave baggage behind whenever and wherever I choose. I want to look back and laugh. I want to look forward and laugh. And I definitely want to get out of this poetry phase, not that I am bad at it or anything. Too many rhyme schemes can't be good for your health.

What do you do when you lose faith though? Sheer cussedness is not going to get that back. Does it even come back in the first place, or am I supposed to learn to live with its shattered remnants? It's an excision this, leaving no memory whatsoever of what it used to be like before. Faith is a precious commodity I never had too much supply of anyway. Faith in self yes, but others definitely not. Whatever little I had left is gone now, swept away in a flash through that gaping chink in my armor that I never repaired. I don't know why I never fixed it. Maybe I was lazy, or scared, or just too irrational. Maybe I secretly liked the pain because it showed I could actually feel. Maybe it was some cruel self-inflicted experiment that I undertook just for kicks. Research for future writings, matter for future conversations, sympathy points for future dalliances; who knows.

Finally, what do you do in those weak moments in the dead of the night, when all logic and rationalizations dissolve in a haze of shades and shadows and nightmares that keep pulling you back towards that morass? Where does all that daredevilry go in these moments of need? The mind is a fickle mistress, keeps wandering down by-lanes you never ever want to go again. Reining that in is the hardest part. I tried confronting these moments head-on. I tried to stop them from happening also. Nothing works. I have to live with these nightmares for a while I guess; hopefully not an eternity.

I wish there was some way I could cauterize this wound, wrap it up in a nice little gauze and move on. But things never come that easy for me. It's going to fester some more yet, pain like nothing on earth, move me to hysterical laughter and bitter tears and hacking coughs and breathlessness and migraines and god knows what else. I smell of smoke 'cause I have been through fire. Wish it'd burn out already.   

Images

Images,

They scratch, they scar, they sear,

They haunt my living memories,

My waking dreams,

Every minute, every second,

These images.

Images,

They make me weep,

They make me bleed,

Faith, belief, Hope, destiny,

Flow away with the bloody eddies,

These images.

Images,

They shroud the horizon,

They skewer my aching being,

Lost meaning, shattered life,

Depictions that mock me,

These images.

Images,

These dreadful haunting images.

The Face of Blasphemy

The face of blasphemy is not the devil nor a demon nor any thing creepy crawly that gives you the heebie-jeebies in the night. It is not a firebrand orator nor a sexual deviant nor a rabid insurgent. No. The face of blasphemy is not something so blatantly hideous. It is much more insidious than that. It is shielded behind glinting spectacles and immaculate blue turbans, or crisply starched sober saris, or heavily bearded and mustachioed fair faces. It lurks behind rousing oratory and white cotton saris, dalit beginnings and statue worship, aging fingers and moth-bitten scripts, glittering raths and jingoistic moorings. It shrieks with delight when assemblies are disrupted; it cackles with abandon when bills bite the dust; it gloats and gloats and gloats as the gears grind to a total stop with the populace crushed between them. Welcome to the madhouse. Here’s the end of the world, this blasphemous altar of greed, avarice and faithlessness. Here’s to the system.

A cynic I have become, but not by choice. I dreamed as others dreamed when we returned a unified mandate after so long. I proudly brandished that still wet ink on my finger as a badge of honour, as a testament to the fact that I had fought the good fight and played my own miniscule part in bringing back hope and belief in the country. This was the heralded new dawn when we march out boldly onto the global stage and showcase the sheer power, talent and might that dwell within our shores. We were going to take the bull by the horns, break the shackles of colonial submissiveness and roar out loud like the fierce tigers that we are. The world was supposed to quake in awe as we strode across its length and breadth like colossi. This was our promised land. This was our destiny. And this was what they took from us. The mandate, our mandate, became a mockery as Delhi became a ludicrous parody of democracy. Bills weren't passed, policies weren't implemented; heck even a single day wouldn't pass without some uproar or the other in the legislative houses. The logjam only worsened as the regional satraps ran riot and the technocrat lost whatever little spine he had left. Maybe the 123 Agreement had taken too much out of him. How else can you explain this indecisiveness when the nation stands at the cusp of greatness! The Golden Bird, poised to take flight, still teetering at the edge; a sorry image, a sorry figure, and a very sorry state of affairs.

I just rant and rave though. I don't have a solution. I don't think anyone has a solution right now. All politicians have the same smarmy faces and the same smarmy smiles that make you reach inside your pocket and hold on tight to your wallet. I am generalizing too much. I agree. There will be a few gems here and there in all this gunk. But there is just too much damn gunk! It has gotten to the point that I open the tabloid section first before going to the headlines. It doesn't do my early morning self any good to see yet another face bang in the center of the page with some astronomical amount running across in bold typeface below it. I'd much rather read about vapid starlets and their inconsequential fifteen minutes of fame.

I don't know what triggered this harangue. Nothing specific that I can put a finger on. I guess there was just too much pent-up frustration. To see a bold price hike recanted so blatantly at the whims of coalition dharma is just so demoralizing. A single policy decision can't be carried out without some idiot pulling the chain and bringing the entire machinery down to a grinding halt. GDP growth is screwed, investments are screwed and infrastructure was anyway screwed. Everyone knows we are the growth engine the world is looking towards. We are going to be the biggest economy in another 40 years. Experts don't doubt that at all. But I don't think along such lengthy timelines. I just look back to that ink-blot on my finger and I really hate where I am right now. This is definitely not what I signed up for. I want fire and thunder, heavens rumbling and earths shaking, throbbing pulsations and electrifying palpitations. I want vision, drive, dream, conviction. I want someone, something, anything to believe in. I want my birthright as a proud son of the greatest nation on this planet!

Like I said, I don't have any solutions. I hope someone somewhere has them.  

Eulogy

That which passed away was so enchanting,

Like the dreamy cadence of the nightingale,

Or the majestic swoop of the eagle;

How it fluttered gaily under the azure skies,

On which cottony clouds drifted lazily.

Oh how so much was snatched away?

How could it leave not a single trace?

Such joy, such beauty, such sheer goodness,

Where did it bite the dust?

In which wound does it lie festering now,

Which hellhound snatched it into its maw!

Why this darkness, why this deep despair,

Where there was light, why now these demons?

No prophets come forward, no answers proclaimed,

No predictions nor prophecies nor papal presentiments,

A victim of chance aye! A wrong roll of the dice,

Destiny's plaything this cruel fate of mine;

But what use these tears that flow unabated,

With no helping hand to catch and hold them dear.

The horizon's beguiles though, wreathed in shadows,

Happiness is there it says, so walk through these shrouds, 

Another look at the grave, but the dark has already claimed it,

So I walk on again, to dig more along the way.

Nocturne

Hark! Still thy words!
They taint this beautiful stillness,
This peace, this tranquility, this bliss,
Why shatter it thus?
Why mar this image with human vainglory,
That enslaves, but never completes!

The ebony night, those sparkling stars,
Why bother them with such trivialities!
Why tread the velveteen grass 'neath fretful feet,
When the nightingale sings its melodies?
This moment, this perfect joyous moment,
Why not just let it be?


'Tis gone though, long gone, a fleeting memory,
Like a single downy feather floating in the breeze,
I beg, I cry, I implore it to come back,
But the jealous shades surround it, shield it from my grasp!
I fight, I thrash, I beat bite and scream,
But gone is that instant, forgotten is my dream.

All that is left now is this haunting melody,
That sings of quiescence, but'd never let it be...

Story of a Psychopath

(I wrote this one a long long time back. Funny how things have changed since then. Anyway, moving on...)

You know that little voice in your head? Yeah, that sanctimonious self-righteous s.o.b in the back of your head that’s always cribs and cries and never lets you have fun. Whether you’re pushing around that dork in school with those nerdy spectacles and plastic retainer or trying to get it on with the drunk bitch at the party, that irritating whine is always there in your head, bitching and nagging all the time till you give up and go along with it just to make it shut up. Drives you up the wall, doesn’t it? And don’t give me all that shit about ‘doing the right thing’. If I don’t get anything out of it, then it’s definitely not the right thing. That’s why I killed off that whiny little bastard in my head a long time back, and that’s why I’m called a psychopath.

It started with an expulsion from school when I put a bozo in the hospital with a shattered kneecap. Not my fault really. If he had just handed over his money I wouldn’t have taken that two-by-four to his knee. Authorities, of course, chose to look at it differently. I had been on probation for other misdemeanours anyway. Everything after that was just a natural progression I guess. Schools bounced me around. Therapists tried and failed. More and more people ended up in casualty wards and angry parents started baying for blood. I already had one foot in jail before my parents decided to have me committed and packed me off to a mental hospital.

The one year I spent in that place was hell. My entire world was restricted to a 6-by-8 padded cell and I spent agonizing hours screaming my head off at those plain white walls. When the drugs they put in my food failed to calm me down, they resorted to electroshock therapy. Three times a week they strapped me to the chair, placed those electrodes all over my body and let the high-voltage current fry my nerves. Three times a week I twitched and jerked in terrible agony and tried to get the screams past my gagged mouth. They tried their best to break me, but of course they had to fail. A lax moment on their part and I was able to get my hands on a screwdriver on the way out of the therapy room. A thrust here, a stab there and I got rid of the two orderlies and the doctor. It was a simple matter after that – to exchange clothes with an orderly, stash the bodies in the closet and stroll nonchalantly out of the place. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

I started living on the streets after that; there was no sense in going home after all this. Sure, the streets are full of predators ready to pounce on you, but after I carved up a few punks who tried to gang up on me, everybody else gave me a wide berth. I got by pretty well out there, mugging passers-by, having the occasional bit of fun if they were female. I got into drugs after a while, and life became an interminable haze of ecstatic highs, followed by tortuous lows that lasted till my next fix. Drugs are an expensive habit, so I started peddling to pay for my fixes. I kept to dealing in the cheap low-grade stuff so the established syndicates largely left me alone. Those who didn’t, I took care of.

It didn’t take long for things to spiral out of control. The drugs began messing with my head, making me more paranoid with every second. I began to see enemies everywhere around me. I felt hemmed in, suffocated. I needed air. I had to escape. And I did that the only way I knew.

My first kill was in a stinking garbage-strewn alley. The idiot was hopelessly drunk and tried to fight me. I took care of him with my knife. My blood-lust was satisfied for a bit, but I needed much more.

I had much more fun with the next one. I paid a prostitute for a full ten minutes, after which I strangled her with my bare hands and left her nude body in a garbage bin. I wonder if anybody ever discovered her.

I began to vary my fun with each kill. Bat, chain, knife, poison, acid – I used them all. One thing I never used though was a gun. It’s too neat you see, not to mention noisy. I used to chop off the nose and ears too, you know, like a trademark. It got pretty popular with the press. Not a good thing in hindsight, I guess, seeing that I began to attract police attention. I don’t how, but they managed to track me down. I was lying in a drugged stupor in my rented room when they came barging in. Next thing you know, I was behind bars.

I’ve been sentenced to life imprisonment. There are no padded cells. No electric shocks await me. But it’s still A GODDAMN FRIGGIN’ CELL I WANT OUT I can’t live like this!

You know the funny thing about jails? You can find all the things that you normally find only in the outside world. You just have to know the right people. A few greased palms here and there and within no time at all you can get a SIM card, or maybe even a box of reefers. Not for me though. No sirree! I got myself a magic pill. A pill that’s going to solve all my problems, a pill that’s going to free me from these man-made confines, from the shackles of this sick, twisted world, forever. Just like that song you know –

“Swallow it done, it’s just a jagged little pill.”

One gulp. That's it. I'll be on an everlasting high after this one...

Lady of the Night

Ravi knew not what he was doing. That had been pretty apparent for a while now. His vision was blurring around the edges, his hands shaking like an aspen in the breeze and his eyes starting like jelly out of their sockets. The world looked pretty screwy to his sozzled brain at that point and he was trying hard not to notice the way the bartender seemed to be transforming into conjoined triplets right in front of him. He took one more comforting sip from his glass and soaked gratefully in the resultant glow.

"Why izz liiife shuch a bitchhh man?"

"Pardon sir?"

"Why izz liife such a bitch?"

"Ah...I don't know sir."

"You happy with yours?"

"Reasonably enough, though I do want a new cocktail shaker. This one leaks."

"It does, does it?"

"Yes sir."

"So does life maaannnn! Remember that!"

"Sure sir."

Ravi downed the remaining alcohol as the barkeep returned to cleaning his precious glasses. The warmth flared up for a second into a blazing inferno before settling down into something more user-friendly. He ordered a refill from the friendly barkeep and turned back to staring morosely at the people partying behind him.

It was a normal average Friday night at a normal average trendy disc where normal average people dressed to the nines and literally drowning in make-up were letting it all go normally and averagely. And Ravi was cutting a lone sorry figure at the bar counter as the normal average stag guy who had tagged along with a bunch of couples and ended up paying through his teeth for entry. Is this worth it, he wondered for the umpteenth time as the couples of his party got down to serious hot and heavy stuff on the dance floor, is it really worth the pain and humiliation of being the only lonely bugger in this entire joint while Vikas keeps on groping Malti like it's no one's business? And god knows what John and Seema were doing alone in that corner! What a sorry sorry existence this is, Ravi concluded as the Sukhbir and Leena started making out openly barely three feet away from him. It was Friday night, he was drunk of his ass and there was no one to share this new-found vim and vigour with. Might as well call it a day and go play bridge with his grandfather and his retired chums like he normally did. Better than this irritating crap.

The barkeep, ministering angel that he was, chose this exact cue to enter with the refill. Ravi turned back to the counter with a grateful sigh and proceeded to lift the glass. I say proceeded, for a lilting feminine voice halted him in his tracks.

"Hi! Do you have the time?"

The glass stopped scant inches from his lips. He turned to where the voice came from and his jaw immediately dropped. The voice belonged to a very nice face with just the right shade of lipstick and oodles of glossy black hair flowing down it. The very nice face was in turn attached to a very very nice body that promised a lot beneath the deep-cut red-hot dress it was covered by. He gawked and gulped like a fish out of water, but those legs just wouldn't end. So he yanked his gaze right back to her eyes and tried not to look down too much.

"Excuse me? Hello!"

"Ah...glug!"

"Pardon?"

"Gah!"

"You'll have to speak up! It is too noisy in here!"

Ravi leaned in and almost burst a gasket at the vista that opened up in front of him. That was a really low-cut dress! 

"Ten to midnight."

"What?"

"Ten to midnight!"

"Twelve?"

"No ten!"

"Ah! Glad we got that straight."

"Me too...hic!"

"Bless you."

"Thanks."

If there had been a rope Ravi would have hung himself with it by now. Not that he had the slightest chance in hell of doing anything productive with this bombshell, but he could have certainly done without the whiskey hiccups at this stage. He hurriedly put down his drink and pushed it aside. 

"Crazy party hunh!"

"Puh...puh...party?" Ravi stuttered, shocked that this heavenly angel still wanted to talk to him.

"Yeah. Aren't you Rashmi's friend?"

"No."

"Funny. I thought you looked familiar."

"No wait...I know her... no, I mean...as in, I would love to know her."

"Really?" she replied, her eyes twinkling like twin sapphires.

"Why not? Any friend of yours is a friend of mine."

"How sweet! I almost find myself believing that crap."

"Crap? Er...crap? What crap? I see no crap. I speak the truth in the deepest truest sense of the word!"

"So if I tell you right now that I am going to continue talking to you even though I so obviously don't know you, then would you persist in befriending Rashmi?"

"Who's Rashmi anyway?"

"That woman right there, in the canary yellow dress."

"The pudgy one with frizzy hair?"

"Yeah that's the one, though the operative word is healthy and not pudgy."

"Um...I'm sure she is a wonderful lady..."

"But you wouldn't touch her with a barge pole."

"I would like to avoid that if you don't mind."

"That's quite all right. She is a bitch anyway!"

The woman proceeded to take the stool next to him. His drunken mind might have been playing tricks on him, but he thought she sidled a wee bit closer towards him too. He took the chance and leaned even closer towards her. She smiled playfully at that and leaned in even more closer herself.

"I'll tell you a little secret," she whispered, her hot breath sending chills down his spine.

"Ugh!" he replied eruditely.

"I think you are cute."

Ravi immediately crossed his fingers behind his back and clutched the wooden counter-top harder. This seemed too good to be true.

"And I know you find me cute too", she continued, running a finger teasingly down his shirt-front.

"Ungh ungh."

Her lips were almost touching his ear now. He tried not to shiver.

"So what do you think about leaving this joint and having our very own private party?"

Ravi couldn't stop a shiver going up and down his entire body at that. This was straight out of Naughty America! There had to be a catch!

Of course she chose that very moment to send her tongue exploring down his ear lobe. From that point on he was lost. He wanted her, no matter how much it cost.

"Ten thousand bucks honey and I'm all yours all night long!"

The rosy haze abated for a bit, enabling cold logic and calm reasoning to prevail for a bit. The testosterone still raged in the background, but even it knew enough to back off when such matters were concerned. Here's what cool calm logic came up with –

• Pro – She is HOT!

     Con – He didn’t have ten thousand.

• Pro – She is so HOT!

     Con – He had no chance in hell of borrowing any more money from anyone else.

• Pro – HOT!

     Con – AIDS

• Pro – HOT!

     Con – Empty meaningless fake sex

• Pro – HOT HOT HOT!

     Con...Oh why do I even bother!

So here was Ravi, drunk, broke, lonely, depressed and oh so very horny! And here was the answer to all his problems nibbling at his ear lobe; mere currency notes separating him from more decadent pleasures. He had to have her. He had to!

“Um...couldn’t you be mine all night long for a little bit lower?”

The nibbling stopped immediately. She drew back and looked a little less warmly at him.

“I’m not cheap bub! Do you see all this?” she said, running a haughty hand up and down her body, “You think this is worth anything less?”

“Err...no, of course not, I didn’t want to offend you...but ten thousand is a bit steep...”

“Steep...why you little...this is Grade A top class stuff in front of you and you are haggling?”

The rosy haze had decidedly abated by now. There seemed to be a bit too much blush on her right cheek now, but she was still quite quite hot.

“This is not haggling...er...sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“Bella.”

“Bella?”

“Yeah, Bella.”

“That your real name?”

“Of course not! I won’t go around telling johns my real name!”

“Fair enough. Why did you choose Bella then?”

“Why not? Seems like the in-thing these days. Exotic sounding too.”

“True true...so anyway Bella, I’m not haggling. Like you said, I’m cute and you are definitely very very attractive. I’m just trying to get us together with minimum fuss.”

“So fork over ten thousand then. I won’t make any fuss whatsoever.”

“But shouldn’t you give me a concession, seeing that you find me cute and all?”

“What crap! I tell that to every client. You’re no different buddy.”

The haze was vanishing faster now. Not only did she have too much blush on both cheeks, her lipstick was too loud and her dress was definitely too damn low to be called anything else but slutty. But boy was that cleavage amazing!

“Ok ok, no need to get personal. Let’s get down to brass tacks then.”

“Fine.”

“You want ten thousand.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have ten thousand.”

“How much do you have then?”

“Five, max.”

“Final?”

“Anything more and I’d have to sell my house.”

She bit her lip as she mulled over the offer. She was definitely not looking that attractive anymore. The hair was obviously a wig and the legs were propped up by six-inch heels. All that glitters is not gold; though it might it be silicone, he mused as he caught another glimpse of her bosom. Still, he had nothing better to do and silicone would definitely be a new experience. He was about open his mouth to seek confirmation this point when he caught her looking at something behind him. Further enquiry revealed a forty-something balding man in a shiny disco shirt whose protruding belly seemed to have a life of its own as he indulged in some eccentric dance moves. A heavy gold chain around his neck completed the ensemble and it was at this accessory that the erstwhile sex-bomb was staring hungrily.

“How much do you think that chain is worth?” she said almost dreamily.

“I don’t know, but looks quite expensive.”

“More than 10k right?”

“Much more. You don’t know how expensive gold is these days.”

“Yeah, expensive...”

She got up in a trance and began to move towards the chap. Ravi looked stupidly at this for a bit, before he jerked back to reality and grabbed her hand.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

The woman wrinkled her nose at him and immediately freed herself from his grasp. She began to move away again.

“Hey wait! What happened to our deal?”

She turned around at that and shot back at him,

“Deal? What deal? Whose deal? I remember no deal!”

“But...but...ten thousand...”

“You mean five thousand right, you cheap bastard!”

“I can make it six if you want. But that’s all I can do.”

“Oh how flattering! So much money for little ‘ol me?”

“Er...yes.”

“Well here’s what you can do with all your money!” she growled, making some innovatively rude hand gestures and stomping off.

He stared flabbergasted at her retreating back as she made her way through the throng. His gonads were crying out in anguish, but there was nothing he could do to assuage their pain. He could only continue watching dumbly as she engaged her new prey and began cosying up to him within no time at all. This ladies and gentlemen, he thought as he turned back to the bar, has to be the biggest, stupidest and most bloody miserable cock-block of all time. He settled his tab, downed his remaining drink and stumbled hurriedly out of the disc just as Vikas led a giggling Seema into another dark corner. Obviously, no one noticed his exit.

Ode to Slartibartfast

Oh Slartibartfast, such majesty in thy name,

Such magic, such awe, so far from being lame,

How you regaled me with your triumphs and tribulations,

Your fjords, futile causes and funky ululations!

No whale alongside, yet I fall from the sky,

Caught up, as always, no matter how I try,

What is H2G2, how the hell does it make sense,

What is Magrathea bereft of your majestic presence!

Wikkit was stymied, the Earth saved yet again,

Award were won, signatures not at all vain,

Blessed be your grey hair, may you live forever still,

May Africa have fjords and the Vogons foot the bill!