SWEENEY TODD :Life is like a hair cut you never know what you are going to get. I had a bad hair cut today and being an optimist up until the last moment I kept thinking it’s going to get better. It’s like watching a bad movie, you wait for the twist in the tale and hoping it’s not the twists that you have in mind. The result – “A twisted Hair cut”.

There are different kinds of hair cut blunders; one of them is falling asleep when getting a hair cut. The rhythmic sound of the blades sliding across each other can be quite sleep inducing, especially with all the crappy music playing in the background. This would be less painful if you stick to sleeping on the chair and not dreaming. Imagine this, you are dreaming about yourself getting a haircut and dozing off, while you are sleeping in the chair and dozing off. You dream about the barber cutting off your ears, wake up screaming to find a piece of your ear hanging off the metal blades.

If you thought demon barbers only exist in movies and novels think again for they are dime a dozen where I live. The first kind, are the ones who think they are masters of chiropractic treatments and spine adjustment. They pretend to be cutting your hair and when you least expect it they wrap their hands around your neck and twist it like the ninjas do in the old martial arts movie. If it resulted in death it could have been appreciated. Instead, what you are left with is your spine yanked out of your body and readjusted to fit into your wallet. If you sit down and explain how that hurts and doesn’t really work, he starts blaming you for not sitting still. He also claims to have treated Stephan Hawkings who walked out of his shop on his own two feet. He also goes on to tell me that Christopher Reeves was supposed to be his next customer but he ended up going to his rival and we all know what happened next.

The next kind, are the ones who don’t believe in personal hygiene. Sometimes you don’t doze off at the chair but you fall unconscious due to the foul odor coming from the barber’s arm pits when he raises his arms to cut your hair. You somehow gain consciousness to keep your vanity in check and to keep your beloved ones from being massacred beyond the point of growth. All this, to be beaten back to submission by bad breath.

Finding the right barber is like finding your soul mate. She makes you feel good and look good too. Until then every relationships ends with you having to pay for it some way or the other.

POTS AND PANS: Life changing experiences doesn’t have to be a near death experience. Life changing experience is just the moment where you wake up in life. You realize your stupidity but we are like cauldrons filled with boiling negativity and bad choices. Its when this spills over that we really feel the burn. Our aim is simple, cool all the emotions inside and start emptying the cauldron. Once it’s clean we can reuse the same to fill in the good things in life
I have seen people work till they become machines. The only difference being machines don’t complain. They negate all the good work they do by complaining so much. When things aren’t going your way only then will the true you emerge. Stop complaining and focus on the good things, is what all the great saints will tell you but this is hard to practice. The easiest thing to do when things get tough is not to think at all. Its almost poetic, hum a song. Be blank. This I learnt from a life changing experience that I had about two years ago when I was at my miserable best. It helped that I went away from it all but again I was still in my body and my body was a mess.
Recently I had another one. I have always done things my way, never did anything to please anyone. Took my own road, the less crowded one that life offers. Even with whatever I do, be it writing or drawing, I never waited for any kind of validation from people. My motto has always been, I will do something in life which gives me satisfaction, and the world can burn in hell.
This has worked for me till now for I can find at least a few souls who agree with me, sometimes sympathize with me or find me curious enough to look at what I have to offer. Few weeks ago one of my close friends decided to get into business and more specifically into the food industry. I asked him whether he was in it for the money. He said no. I asked him whether he was in it because of his love for fine cuisine. He said no. I kept at it till nothing seemed to justify why he was getting into it. So my narrow mind was stuck at all these little materialistic and sometimes ego centric landscapes. Finally I gave up and asked him to spill it out. This is what he told me, “I want to do something that gives joy and satisfaction to people, and provides me enough to keep my passions alive".
My cauldron is a little less filled because of my friend Prashant.

MONEY: What if you can give someone everything that they ever wanted? If someone likes life, give them immortality. If someone likes freedom, give them wings to soar away from limitations. At this point in time I don’t have the ability to bestow people with neither immortality nor do I posses the knowledge to free people from their earthly bounds.

There are these people in this world that I can help, at least to gain momentary happiness. These are people who love money, not your average miser who calculates everything. I’m talking about a guy who weighs everything in terms of profit and loss. This is a guy who thinks if he talks too much he spends these many calories in turn he has to eat more food, which would lead to spending money on food so, as a logical solution keeps his mouth shut at all times.

For these people money is everything, they rank it higher than relationships, sometimes higher than freedom.

Do not confuse these people with the impoverished. The poor need money to survive; these people on the other hand want money so that they can be happy. They might even have more money than you but that doesn’t really matter since they need more. So why not give it to them. Even if you have only ten rupees, give them five. You can see true joy in their eyes. It’s the same joy you find in people’s eyes when they meet their long lost love after years of separation. It’s the same joy you see in a mother’s eye when their first kid is born. All this joy cost you was five rupees.

FICTION:

Guy1: Dude the letter you asked me to give her totally bombed, she started crying, called me a pervert and said if I ever get near her she will call the cops on me. The worst part was, she said, she hates me.

Me: So, it worked.

Guy1: What?

Me: Precisely. She has to hate you passionately. Then we can convert that passion into love. Remember passion cannot be created nor destroyed but…

Guy1: So. What do I do next?

Me: Do you know who Shah Rukh Khan is?

Guy1: Yes.

Me: Crap. Do you know who Joy Mukherjee is?

Guy1: No.

Me: Excellent. He was like Shah Rukh Khan, but with less epilepsy. In an old movie he goes to this girl who hates her, whips out a knife and says, I will stab this knife into my arm if you don’t stop me and say you love me. If you don’t, I will rip out my heart and throw it at your feet.

Guy1: What happened next?

Me: What do you think? The girl stopped him. They fell in love and got married. Add in about 8 songs and that’s what happened.

Guy1: Cool man. So get a fake knife?

Me: Hell no. This is what makes you an idiot. Fake knife will never bring out the fear and passion in you. She takes one good look at that trembling hand and she is all yours.

Guy1: Thanks bro, you are a life saver.

Guy2: Dude, did you hear what happened to Guy1?

Me: He stabbed himself in the arm?

Guy2: How did you know?

Me: Have you heard of premonition?

Guy2: Is that the girl in Bio-tech first year?

At the hospital.

Me: Did you use a fake knife?

Guy1: Does this wound look fake to you?

Me: Well, Debatable. Anyways, I guess she turned out to be a psycho. How could she stand there and not do anything.

Guy1: She did, she called the cops.

Me: What does that tell you about her?

Guy1: She has the cops’ number on speed dial?

Me: No you idiot. She is not the one for you. There are plenty of fish in the sea and lots of girls on the beach.

THE WHO MAKES YOU WRITE: I have realized something about myself today. I can’t be happy with normal. I can adapt to it but won’t be happy. All these events in the past ten years have made me realize that I was not meant to conform to the lifestyle that is pushed upon us by the media. For that matter anything.

My inner self is not happy with anything around me which even slightly resembles normalcy. That doesn’t mean it’s not good for you. It only emphasizes the fact that if you like them we will never get along, for that matter you won’t even get me no matter how hard you try. Which might be a good thing for both of us. Trying to figure out who we are is a process which takes a long time. When you do you realize that, you have only dug the tip of the iceberg and now you are cold, sinking and afraid to drown in your own self.

Even success seems to be enslaving. I don’t get jealous when someone gets a dream job with a seven figure salary. It’s good for that person who has dreamt of that moment all his life.

What do I want from life? I don’t know. What will make me happy? I don’t know. So what have I learnt from all these experiences. Well, I know what I don’t want.

The mystery to me is, when people dream, why do they always get tangled up with the notion of a good job and lots of money and the urge to settle down in life? Let me try and break this down a little bit.

Firstly, when you are dreaming about the ideal life, why would you ever want to work? My ideal future would be not to work. Just do something that I like and maybe even get paid for it. We are raised to work for others. I wouldn’t call working for someone a dream but a subconscious awareness of what needs to be done to be successful according to the parameters of the society.

Secondly, lots of money. Why lots of money? If money amounts for happiness, I would have always worked towards the perfect bank heist. Money is a like a hot trophy girlfriend with lots of baggage. The sex is good but the next morning you feel like the roles have been reversed and you are stuck with an overwhelming feeling of being screwed. Money is important but it’s not everything. I wouldn’t dream of being the richest man alive. I would hope that I make enough to survive and make enough to keep my passions alive.

Thirdly, settling down in life. I never understood this. The world is a big place even though people claim that it has become smaller. I believe the contrary. People make the world what it is and as the number of people grows so does the world. Every person you meet accounts to a new experience, only if you are open to such poetic notions. Why would you want to settle down and read about events in the newspaper while you can go out there and be a part of it. I want to be a nomad and experience things, than be some guy whishing to grow the balls to get out there and live free.

Breakdown everything and analyze it, then you will realize we are being hollowed out. They just want us to be remnants of absolute freedom that once roamed this earth with its head held high. Nowadays they are going a step further by shoveling in as much as self pity, depression, greed, consumerism and sloth as they possibly can. By the time you cleanse yourself of all these you are fighting to get out of a coffin banging on the door. Trying to tear way the latch with your bear fingers while they ground down to your bones. Wake up from your lousy dream and dream beyond even the possibility of what life has to offer and what death can take away. Dream with your eyes open.

THE VIEW: You can see the water. Your eyes tell you there is water in front of you. Only one of your senses is satisfied. Next step is to feel it. Don’t you want to touch it? Or do you want the water to touch you?
The banks look beautiful. You might think you are in heaven. Everything around you is beautiful. Go. This is it, you think. This is the heaven you had in mind when grandma first told you about heaven. This was her vision, this is what she wanted you to see and finally you have arrived. This should satisfy you. Clear your brain of all the rotten pollution of your mundane life. Looking at the water soothes the soul. Calm. Not boasting. You keep wishing to be a part of the scenery. Finally, a part of something beautiful. Step in; still everything around you is beautiful. You plunge into the water.
Then at that moment where you thought you had finally discovered beauty is where you know how mediocre your image of beauty is. The water and everything in it, transcends to a degree which is incomprehensible to your futile mind. The rays of light reflecting back from the peaceful creatures passing through the clear blue water and hitting your eyes sends shock waves through your brain. Every Grey cell soaking it up, like never before. Your mind rolls back the seconds to a place in time where beauty had a different meaning. You understand that this is just the surface. Feel like scratching? There has to be more than just beautiful banks. More than what your grandma told you. More than just radiating water. Are you ready? Are you ready to take the plunge?

EC-32: Time can’t be measured.

It’s all relative.

Maybe what I’m writing here is fiction in its purest form. Fragments of my imagination delivered at one bit per nano second.

It’s all crazy.

If it can’t be measured can we somehow reach the speed of light? Einstein proved that it can’t be done. Actually he proved that matter can’t accelerate to those speeds. You are thinking early signs of Alzheimer’s. I’m thinking the same.

Underwear inside. Check.

Pants outside. Check.

Super heroes were our models when we were young. You really should be ashamed of yourself. My theory is maybe we can slow things down. We can’t reach the speed of light but somehow we can slow it down.

Q 1. a) What are the benefits of slowing down time?

Answer: The benefits are as follows –

1. One can analyse each and every word that is emitting from the subjects mouth. Every expression can be watched, registered , computed and the output is stored in the main memory of the central processing unit.

2. In the situation of a social gathering of human subjects, the above mentioned experiment is conducive in obtaining a liquid which quenches thirst made by one of the capitalistic giants before others in the test enclosure can reach for it.

3. Oxygen is a requirement for combustion to take place. Filters in bikes provide air (containing Oxygen) for internal combustion to take place. Cigarette also burns with the help of Oxygen. Internal combustion of the soul. Smoked heart soup definitely not for the faint hearted.

The above statement holds good because the slowness of time gives you enough time to grab the poisonous concoction and put it to your lips.

4. The smoked filled atmosphere when slowed down can resemble a cloud cover

over the newly bought computer. The new age parents, fitness trainer, companion on lonely nights. The cloud cover and the halo are essential and can be viewed only when time is slowed down by 82.38% (all other values are considered ideal)

Slowing down time is a dream for anyone addicted to speed. Acceleration is the elixir but the feeling of time slowing down at whim after crossing 100 miles per hour feels almost spiritual.

Slow can be exciting but what about absolute control over time? Time and space when together seem rather far fetched. For now we just stick to time. Freeze it. All movements stopped. Silence engulfing the space around you. Pervert’s dream and a Saint’s destiny. Different things mean different for different people. Grammar is relative. Relativity stretched until the point of snapping. Releasing the finger is as dangerous as stretching it further.

Q. 2 c) What are the advantages of freezing time?

Answer: The advantages of freezing time are as follows –

1. Every major incident in one’s life can be frozen, captured and documented by using database management system.

2. Beauty that surrounds you in every form can be touched without you being stamped a pervert. Sense of touch is one of the five senses of a human along with sight, smell, taste and hearing.

3. Thought can be stopped. The clutter of waves hitting each other making that tingling sound which gives you a brain freeze can be avoided. Serenity.

I have only 7 internal marks. I need 43 to pass.

43+7=PASS

PS: I hate begging bit it’s a critical subject please do understand.

NUMBERS:
51 and newone rhymes.
51 and newone rhymes.

Then 51 and newone are the sameone.

TERRORISM (1,147,995,904-172,800,000=975,195,904):



The first terrorists to step on our holy motherland were white. They called themselves civilized and plundered our land and its people of all our dignity along with our wealth. The natural thing to do is to fight back. Take what is ours. This did not happen, instead we believed in a messiah. A man who claimed we didn’t have to fight because they don’t have enough bullets to kill us. Kalashnikov was just going through its initial stages of development and the Gatling gun was far too unreliable and besides digging graves for millions of people is pure hard work. And Two hundred years is more than enough to transport all the wealth so they got up and left. We didn’t make them. They decided to leave. An eye for an eye doesn’t make everyone blind because always the fittest survive. In the 10,000 years of cultured human living, non-violence has been successful at such a low rate that every instance can be counted by our finger tips. But here we are even today in this day and age where one little bomb can obliterate everything believing in non-violence like fools, fools who believe that their leaders can bring about change. For six decades we have been passive. We have advocated non-violence and suffered in quite dignity. Is this dignity really essential or is this some from of demented ego? Our so called neighbors have exploited us time and again. Now they are on our streets singing along killing people. The terrorist is not worried he knows no matter what he does he still has a high probability of getting away with it. He can attack the parliament and all his family has to do is light some candles and a draw a pretty little poster to grant him mercy and he can be back on the streets singing his favorite tunes, match each beat with a bullet putting a gaping hole into an innocent Indian’s skull. These people should be convicted quicker than the run time of a Hindi movie and executed. Executed brutally, the brutality should only be exceeded by the fact that it is aired live through out the world, along with commentary and cheer leaders. The entire demented notion of heaven and 72 virgins should be the last thing a terrorist craves. The death has to be a symbol; a symbol which says Gandhi died so did ahimsa. The next obvious step to do is rid the world of this cancer. When a person has a cancerous region on his leg, his leg is chopped off to save his life the same rule applies here. We have a population of 1,147,995,904 and Pakistan has 172,800,000. Even if you go by Gandhi’s theory of eye for an eye, we will still have 975,195,904 people to carry ahead our great culture. If a terrorist can die for 72 virgins, I can surely die for my country.

SOUND: Flawed sounds make sounds beautiful. The most beautiful things lose their beauty in the eyes violating them, abusing them, molesting them. Sounds go directly to the heart bypassing the brain in an attempt to reach those deep dark secrets once so beautiful, you guarded them with your life. Life tends to lose its meaning while sounds leave your heart. The laughter, the bitter cry, the burst of anger and the most important sound. The sound of pain. Scream until the pain goes away. Scream till the blood dries and the tears can’t find their way onto the cheeks. Blow out your eardrums, but you can still hear. You can hear your heart race, rhythm of life, rhythm so beautifully coordinated. Miss a beat and the world ends. The world ends for you and only you. No more sounds. Then it happens again. The sound of hope. The cries end and the eye hopeful. Change nears a blink away. Illusion.

DRIVEL: Stop. Don’t proceed further. My legs take me reluctantly pain engrossing every part of my body like wild fire. I started loving pain, it’s like a drug stays with you, while you walk, stand, sit and even in your sleep. The companion whom you never wanted but who has been there for you in times of trouble and joy. Constantly reminding you that you are just a head on collision away from your destination.
Stop. Thinking never goes away. Mind needs rest but I don’t listen. I don’t listen to anyone. The kind of rebel that starts with the letter “L”. This can go on forever. I have tried for two decades. This is not a disease this is who I am. This is me.
Stop. This is not good. I shouldn’t go in. The whole thing is really funny. Funny as in normal funny, not as in Giri funny. Today I’m thinking twice to step into a mart what will happen tomorrow. I won’t even be able to get out of the house. Look around. Things lots and lots of things. Everyone wants to feed their ego. Children can go to hell. Teenagers to a much worse place – “Franchise coffee shops”. Ego has a massive appetite. It is known to swallow whole countries. How do you kill the ego without killing someone? Still learning, these classes aren’t for free. Currency insanity, credit is over rated.
Stop. You are traveling at 100 kms per hour on a road which resembles the surface of the moon. A beautiful song resonates in your head as time seems to slow down. That’s the moment that can be relived for ever. Stop. The moment just betrayed you. The track in your head changes, now you can hear only the voices of people who put you down all your life. All you can see in front of you are the images you wanted to forget so desperately. Twist the wrist, 120. Wrong lane 120. Behemoth of metal carrying tons of steel honking its mighty horn. The wide grin on your face is asking for more. 130. Stop!

MYSORE STUFF: Have you ever noticed how in old Hindi porn movies the background score is always some beautiful Md. Rafi song. Guess what they will be playing in frog porn in the swamp land? Two frogs fucking each other’s brains out. Croak, Croak, Croak…..instead of all that orgasmic moaning. Instead of croaking think about a seductress moaning….ooooohhhh’s and aaaaahhhhh’s. Say it out loud oooohhhhh, aaaaahhh now in the same tone try Croak, Croak, Croak…….
We have established the fact that you can have a successful career up ahead in dubbing for frog porn. Let’s get back to the original question. Gibberish has that effect on you. You forget the question, the discussion; you remember nothing, a void in your memory.
So there goes another train of thought completely out of control a million miles an hour right at the sun. Intergalactic 9/11 everyone mourns, you didn’t get that either. I know. You are a moron and I’m a genius.
Let me try and explain. The train is an Intergalactic space craft shaped as a train. Taking people to their destination, you know transportation. You know like Indian Railways, rainways, drainways, sewage and filth ways. Lot of names one meaning, you know, like synonyms or like they are alike or the same, you know whatever. Now imagine a hot blonde you know like one from the Victoria’s secret catalogue. Like the model Heidi Klum. I still can’t believe she married Seal. You know the singer. Yes the guy with the crater face. You know you might say that he has a good voice and sounds nice but he is no Mother Theresa. She was a hippy who had too many horse tranquilizers. You should watch “The Dark side of Porn”. Download bitch. “Piracy Zindabad!” so I just found out that Ramdoss is planning to ban lollipops coz it corrupts our youth. By helping them get YOU KNOW. This is a scale. All the nasty things that you substituted for that YOU KNOW determines how fucked up you are. I KNOW you are fucked up. Tall and high buildings everywhere - subliminal message. It’s not an IQ test. Primates confirmed proceed. Opposable thumb, proceed. I’m not even going to try and explain Audioslave to you. Sagar lies. They rock.
The spot of my girlfriend is taken. Suzuki Shaolin 138.2 cc, 12 bhp actually its only 11.8 bhp. I lied, so does everyone else. D’s not C’s. Get your eyes checked. Trophies with asses are what they are. Ass definitely more important than boobs. Message sent out and delivered. I’m horny and I’m waiting. Angie will do.
Met a man locked away – Exploder. I’m not going to explain. Do some research bitch. Google – Exploder+lyrics. Read it and get back. I’m here waiting. Gay messages flashing in neon. So you are back. Read it and get back was so gay. I’m sorry. Gay messages work I’ve seen my friend pick up girls with it. Shh! I’m not a squealer. So now you are confused or extremely happy that you have understood the entire thing. Go back to YOU KNOW. Now you know you are dangerous coz you are a smart pervert. I completely understand since I’m one. Look back at all the things we discussed lets just add one small detail. Bangbus and Dirty Sanchez rock. Preston is stupid. If you are confused we can proceed further.
This song should help. Getaway Car. I don’t have to tell you to Google it. Chasing cyclones is a nice slimily to what’s happening in your brain. Buckle up Mister. Mindfuck launch in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…..lift off. All fancy, “shit understood” on your mouth will get me a forgotten smile on my face. Not just shit, then it just tastes awful. The meter kicks in and I’m perverted to the core. If I were a genius there would be shit on each and every one of your fuckers mouth. Sudhanshu was right; lot of fucks in the speech doesn’t make this Scarface. Intelligent fucker! Sorry buddy I just figured fucker is better than fuckless. So here is where I get the idea of a sequel in my mind. Yes, Sarith I’m a capitalist. I’m a lot of things a pervert, almost genius, and a capitalist.
Angie was the last thing. We start where I ended and go back in time and space. Breadcrumbs will help you retrace your steps given there aren’t any birds flying by. So we were talking about beauty which refers to my bike, with specifications to make you understood how beautiful and it rocks. It’s like Audioslave, they both rock. I know and Sagar knows it too. Primates with very high IQ were our ancestors who found music. This reverts to my humble invention of the pervert meter which was supposed to be just a subliminal message. The felony is explained in the subsequent lines referring to a tragedy which rocked the world. Corrupt people banning corrupt things, that’s the definition of corruption, Share people, we got enough. People are dying and you are stuck on piracy. You are pirates peddling human misery. Pirates were pussies compared to you.
Some how “The dark side of porn – Animal Farm” and “Mother Theresa” hit the same nerve in my mind. By now I don’t have to tell you to refer to the pervert and genius meter. Ranking 1, the best, numero uno. Small bubble I live in. Seal looks like a saint; I’m sure by now you are getting the groove. Again if any doubts persist feel free to go to you tube and type in “Seal”. If you didn’t understand, “Thank you for playing”. Go back to the start. Heidi Klum married Seal. So you guys are back again hopefully the ride wasn’t bumpy and you have understood everything till now. She was the hottest Victoria’s secret model, ever. So go back to the pervert meter and put in all the key word you find in this one paragraph and I’m sure I beat you. You thought you had beaten me didn’t you? After a lot of filth I cleaned all of that up with an industrial cleaner named Heidi Klum. Corrupt Indian Railways was the filth I was referring to. Laloo’s huge speech aboard the Intergalactic train. Anybody see the irony here? The chief of Indian Railways on the intergalactic train. Hold on have patience; obviously we shouldn’t wash our dirty laundry in public so we call it transportation.
If you still didn’t get it go back to the end of the line which is actually the beginning of the time wrap. Loop in the space time continuum. That’s where the Intergalactic train is the best vehicle known to human race. After that a meteor killed everyone on earth. “Human Park” in production. Spielberg makes billions and donates it to scientology.
It all started with the 9/11 incident which happened thousands of years ago in the US. Now even the sun is inhibited by humans. Working there in the nuclear reactors of the future. The crash set off a chain reaction of sorts. The meteor was pulled due to the shift in the gravitational pull of the sun. The orbit changed, Boom. The massive impact was not just from the train. The future reactors blew up throwing radiations all across the intergalactic space, a mess of infinite proportions. The suns radiations started causing small black holes. Within a blink of an eye everything was gone. Our native planet, earth will remain in all of our minds for ever. Our stupidity caused our end. Annihilation, synonyms I’m sure I spoke about them.
Gibberish can be anything. I should be a programmer with all that void and fancy language. Creativity is fun that’s what the voices say. They don’t stop until you need serious professional help. So I adhere to the voices. Spineless no slip disc, like the sun complex everything in ruins.
Frog porn visions with the dead frog on the table and the scalpel in my hand. Cheek to cheek smile, inside the grey mask. The answer is A.R. Rahman.

HIGH NOTE: 

I saw two pigeons,

Sarith saw them too,

and they were two.

THE INVISIBLE LINE: Getting to that place where most people don’t want to be. The assembly line life style of our era has put clear bifurcations between the acceptable and unacceptable. The yellow line in the middle of the road dividing the human race into going and coming. Stick to your lane and nobody gets hurt. Side swiping and rear fender bumping are just picnics compared to a head on collision. Ever so often a brash young kid questioning the morals of the society swerves from the designated lane to cause a head on collision. Watching your eye ball pop out of the socket carrying enough momentum to shatter the windshields and slam into the tarmac, not fun not even in Japanese culture. 

            Unusual as it may seem these martyrs are happy of being tagged as “misfits”. They think it gives them credibility like being the Kurt Cobain amongst their peers, the bad seed. It surely doesn’t matter. It surely doesn’t matter to the normal human beings, the Flawless specimens. Everything goes back to normal once you are dead. You can hear the vibration of each and every agitated atom slowing down and finally settling into the absolute silence of the universe. The universe has given up on you so has mankind. The official “Flawed specimens” of the human race.

            Flawed specimens walk amongst you with the same ease as a Flawless specimen would in a straight wedding. I suppose most people know this but deny it so as not to destroy their ever so beautiful and complicated “human” existence preoccupied with money, luxury and trophy wives and apathy towards everything else.  When the Flawless specimen hits 60 that’s when the lines start to blur. The younger generations of Flawless specimens call this dementia and throw the same human who was once the epitome of perfect human into a hole called “old age home”. Irony of this situation is when the Flawless specimen hopes he had conceived at least one Flawed human to provide them with some excitement and made their lives worth living.

            The Flawed specimens realize their defect as soon as they start identifying the conflicts within themselves. Contradictions piling up without any answers, the grand question ballooning as every second drops from the clock.

            Finally you come out of denial to accept your own identity and start enjoying it. Before everyone else realizes it, you have had more fun than the Flawless specimen. Purgatory seems to have come down to earth every moment you pass a shiny object reflecting that which is not fully understood. Flawless specimens are like kryptonite. Seeing them jogs back memory of the embryonic stage of pure potentiality where any thought seemed rational and completely achievable. It also exposes the truth and superficiality of being a Flawless specimen in turn making you curse yourself for ever wanting to be one.

            The converts are the people that both classes need to worry about. These bastards take birth as Flawless specimens and try to be Flawed just so that everyone despises them. Coverts try and ape the Flawed specimens fooling the onlookers with ease, claiming things belonging to the Flawed specimens just to achieve the authentication of being one. Even a Flawless specimen cannot recognize a convert. But the Flawed ones can spot a convert like you can spot a transvestite in a beauty contest. Once spotted the converts plead for mercy for the wrath of the Flawed is not to be fondled with. The penned up anger and frustration dating back to the day he was conceived all the way to the second you are staring at his blood shot eyes, can inflict so much pain that you may end up dead or worse paralyzed depending on the background track playing in the Flawed specimen’s head.

            Bottom line is you can’t change who you are but you can always watch out for the pissed guy with a wrench in his hand.

THE STORY: This is a real story and a real old one too. Once upon a time and all that kind of crap. The protagonist is my friend. Let’s call him “Mr. A”. He was an outcast when we were growing up. The weird kid. He had more four legged and eight legged friends than two. The main characteristic that made him stand out was the fact that he didn’t play cricket. Not playing cricket in the 90’s is like being gay in the 50’s. People frowned; people spat and gossiped behind his back.

            One day he wakes up and decides that he should learn how to hold a bat and rotate his shoulder to deliver the perfect ball. He sets out seeking for an apt “Guru”. His path is one of misery and bad roads filled with potholes. He walks until his legs can’t carry his weight anymore. Completely out of breath he starts panting. He has already covered 800 meters. He reaches my doorsteps. It starts raining. He knows that the heavens have pointed him to the right “Guru”. The door opens and he says,” Aunty, is Giri home?”

            I went outside to find him all drenched and panting like a dog, unfortunately he even smelled like one. I thought he was again occupied in one of his imaginary fantasy games he was known for. Which is sadly a single player game and he seemed to be the only expert in this whole world. I noticed he had tears in his eyes and a poster of Sachin Tendulkar in his hand. He said, “I want to be this”. I asked him how far he was willing to go. He said, “I will curl my hair and speak squeaky.” I knew he was serious.

           

            *The Training.

Like every Guru I wanted my pupil to succeed. I was very rigorous on him. We trained very hard. We trained for ever. Exactly two weeks, but it felt like forever. It took me 5 whole days to teach him how to play the cover drive. He still didn’t get it.  He has one physical deformity which kept coming in his way of being a cricketer. He was too muscular. He had huge biceps for a kid. Because of this his swing was more like a baseball swing. He could never bring his bat straight down. His bowling seemed to be much better. Finally he had found some use for those ridiculous looking muscles of his. He could bowl fast. Direction, line and length were concepts beyond his realm of understanding. Even though he wasn’t a retard these things went way over his head. Nevertheless I was very determined. I could never give up on this kid. I pushed myself so hard I almost went nuts. I eventually picked up a drinking habit. Almost three 350 ml cokes a day, they weren’t even diet. I felt bad; my only solace was the fact that my protégé was showing signs of improvement. Time was running out for both of us. The summer was about to end.

 

*The Match.

I figured seeing his great master in action could help him pickup some of my excellent traits, transforming him into a better player and eventually a better human being. So I decided to take him to a match of mine. All the big guns had arrived. Setting up the wicket and deciding on the bets for the match. Some of them had even bought new hardware. My pupil and I stepped into the arena. I could hear whispers, whispers which said, “Why is Giri with that freak?” I chose not to answer. I had to hold the leash tight since I didn’t know what would provoke my mighty freak of a pupil to rip off their faces. I was quiet. I was completely Zen.

One of the Sensei’s of batting named “Mr. R” throws the ball at me. My pupil leaps and catches it in mid air. The Sensei says, “It was meant for the master not you, Freak.” Insulting the pupil is as good as insulting the master. The Sensei had gone too far. I ask him to take the crease and face my pupil, if he has balls. The Sensei with a smirk on his face takes to the crease.

My pupil begs me not to humiliate him in public. I look deep into those tear filled eyes and say, “Its time.” The run up was long. Every stride kicking up a storm. Perfect balance, the ball rolls off his mighty fingers. Pitches between the Sensei’s legs and the middle stump is floating in the air. Time freezes. I have a smile n my face. The Sensei is devastated. Mr. A is in utter disbelief. Gods were clapping their hands and showering us with exotic flowers. The disoriented Sensei says, “One more.” My friend Mr. A says, “I quit. That was the first ball I ever bowled and that would be the last.” The myth of Mr. A still echoes in these parts. The immortal Mr. A.

The moral of the story is Metallica should have quit long ago.

 

FOOD: Festivals are a big deal in India, delicious food being one of the priorities. No matter what is cooked on that auspicious day it tastes good. At least that’s what I have heard. Four strangers sitting across the table trying to make sense of the word family doesn’t make then a family. Food cooked with a lot of resentment and out of sheer compulsion can never satisfy hunger. Staring at my plate I’m lost in oblivion. Food looks colorful and happy, yet they need to be eaten. Flex your muscles to produce that perfect smile if guests sit across your chair. This is added pressure. I deserve an Oscar. I always knew negative emotions can ruin a perfectly cooked dinner. Dinner is nothing it can ruin every single moment of your existence.
I wish I was born in a faith which had only one festival in a year. This means you don’t have to re enact your Oscar winning performance every few months. Once a year you dress up and give that one amazing performance. I can see my critics applauding. Confetti everywhere and a scantly clad supermodel with a piece of shiny metal with my name engraved at the bottom. Freedom for the rest of the year.
The person who thought cooking a scrumptious meal on festivals would bring people together was surely out of his mind. Let me try and paint a rather grim picture of what exactly goes on.

* Step 1:
Terror starts with the making of the list. The temperature in the room is directly proportional to the sum of the items and the number of guests to be invited. At times the temperature is comparable with that of the surface of the Sun itself. If you are not subjected to these kinds of extreme radiations since you were a toddler there is no way you can survive. Your head might even explode into 546 minute pieces.

* Step 2:
Acquiring the items on the list posses a whole new challenge and at times public humiliation. Expensive items are least coveted. Expensive items are called expensive because they are expensive and the price will only increase as the years roll on. Even if you derive this in the form of an equation and get a certified mathematical genius to approve of it, some people just won’t believe you. Purchasing items that are not on the list no matter how good or how cheap and even if it is free is highly unacceptable. So is leaving an item from the list.

* Step 3:
Cooking the food is the biggest hurdle. The kitchen is booby trapped with curses; enter at your own risk. The ankle bracelet made mandatory, is a detonator in disguise which prevents you from venturing outside the main door. Failing to adhere will lead to the detonation of the small device you are made to wear around your neck which is rigged with a small amount of c4, severing your main arteries and rendering you paralyzed for life.

* Step 4:
Food has to be eaten in a gentlemanly fashion. No matter how dark your heart is it doesn’t matter as long as you have etiquette. The hosts feed their ego with the praise of the guests. Trying to keep a straight face seems to be the hardest part. The clock seems to be playing with my mind. After every 2 seconds the second hand moves once in the opposite direction. For every 3 seconds you have only moved once into the future. These kind of fun activities with your every day clock takes your mind of all these mundane bickering. Finishing all the dishes on your plate gives you 10 bonus points. Each point is worth a minute of complete silence in the house. I always finish all my dishes.

* Step 5:
. No matter how good the critic is and how just the review is the artist always gets offended. People who have uber inflated egos can cook up a storm when offended. As the abuses seem to swirl around in the room I duck and dive for cover under the table. The fury of the situation makes itself visible in the form of “the eye of the storm”. Caught in it I try and keep myself alive. Swimming to get away, I am Collateral damage.

All this for food. Food one of the things that keeps us alive. Fat people even say it cures depression. 10 kilos later I still feel the same. Now I’m depressed because I’m fat. People in Somalia are dying because they don’t have enough food. I’m dying because I’m made to eat food. I end up searching anorexia nervosa on Google. As the days go by I’m more and more attracted to skinny girls. Girls that never eat. On festival you sit across the table with her, no food to eat and no nasty bickering. Just water to console the soul. Just water to start a new family. Just water to keep you alive. Just water to feel the love. Just water.

RABBIT AND THE WOLF: The rabbit runs for its life. It ducks and weaves like a sprinter off to set a new world record. The wolf isn’t far behind. Every move is countered. The bite gets closer the rabbit runs faster.
The lecture continues. Anxious little minds waiting to go out into the big bad world and do something. The knowledge acquired is precious they think. Object oriented analysis and design can end poverty. The little dolls in the flow diagram look happy though. Boxes and rounded rectangles seem to be their entire world. No war just flow of control. Inheritance and a lot more gibberish, isn’t this an effort to make all this sound serious?
The entire process of learning in this classroom is like a delicate dance. He doesn’t know what he is teaching and we don’t know what we are learning. Be careful not to step on his foot.
Every instance I look at his bright red belt buckle I imagine he is a superhero, out to protect us from the evil university. An apt disguise as a teacher, if only he could teach. If only he were a superhero. The pen striking the paper translating thought into words is the only thing keeping me glued to this seat. Mind wanders searching for boredom only then will I learn something. But there is so much to explore, if you look closely you can find fish in the tube light. I’m the only soul looking at the ceiling while the others stare at the absolute emptiness which lies right in front of their sparking eyes. Then he asks, “Any Doubts?” I got so many where do I start. Can you press the bright red belt buckle? The buckle might be a window into this man’s psyche. He might even be an undercover porn star. I can only remember the women in porn not the men. The men are just decorations on the porn set and of course the whole monochrome confetti at the end.
What is validation?
Shut up even if you know the answer. The whole point is to make him repeat the same question a thousand times while we cherish his amateur attempt at humor and sarcasm till the sweet sound of the bell reaches our ear drums. The human heart beats 72 times per minute. Women blink twice as many times as men. He has repeated the question 4 times already. There has to be a savior shedding his blood for the others, the big guy gets up with an air of confidence and the right answer. Heart broken. Beating only 60 times per minute. I sulk in my chair this could have easily gone on for another 5 minutes. The big guy is not finished yet, taking upon the previous challenge of- “Any Doubts?” he fires away. Every question is like a wolf. The dreadful sound of the bell. The rabbit lives to see another day.

THE TRIP: I went back to my roots recently, Kerala, God’s own country and stayed in a rather rural place for 23 days. A guy who has born and lived in a city like Bangalore all his life will feel a little apprehensive the minute he sets foot there as I most definitely felt. This feeling remained with me for a couple of days; then somehow you learn to slow down. No more pacing thoughts, no more awful rat race of the nasty city. There were no modern amenities out of which I missed my beloved 256 kbps internet connection the most. I learnt a lot about myself while I was there. First let me explain why I “had to” do this to give you a clearer picture as to the conditions and all I had to go through during my stay there.


The reason is that I somehow managed to get my vertebral disc slipped while playing football and no I didn’t fall. People have been asking me whether or not I fell. Once again, NO I did not fall. This happened a long time ago which is like two years. I roamed knocking on every doctor, orthopedic and neurologist’s doors and sometimes little cubicles in search of a cure or someway to at least restrict the pain. The only thing the smart ass doctors could do is to prescribe me cool drugs which kept me high all day and night. The nights being special as they helped me write some great stuff. "This is the only use of those little pills" I would say. Finally some neurologist dude said chop off the tissue. I in turn said, “HELL NO”. Two years up and still nothing besides a few abuses for some blogs and beginning of a small novel. This is the part where you imagine me being pissed off and cursing a lot of doctors.


I hated the pain, more than the pain, I hated watching kids play football on the streets. I’m fortunate enough that not many play this game in Bangalore. This is when my uncle suggests that I go see an Ayurvedic doc. I had this in mind but was always a little skeptical. He had Spondylitis which was cured by this doc I’m referring to. Even in his case some modern med doc had almost cut him open giving him a deadline of 24 hrs.


My uncle told me that this place is somewhere in the Western Ghats far away from any form of urban dwelling. I won’t mind going to hell or even selling my soul to fix my back! That’s right my soul is up for grabs, real cheap.


The moment I reached there the gravity of the situation hits me like an apple from a tree. Bangalorean is what I am. Although a malayali by birth, I have no resemblance to one. You need to look at me from a certain angle with specific lighting to figure out I’m a mallu. My Malayalam is so pathetic I could rather speak Brielle fluently!


I don’t know how to wear a lungi (colorful cousin of the Dhoti) which is the official attire there. They even keep their mobiles phones in their lungis which is like some kind of a new magic trick for me. Imagine millions of David Blaines outwitting each other pulling out mobiles, wallets, laptops, LCD televisions out of their lungis instead of a scared little rabbit out of a hat.


I felt like a faker. Everyone there lives on boiled rice, I don’t like boiled like. I’m definitely a faker. I had to share a room with four other guys; the youngest one among them being 34 and the oldest 64. I already feel like an outcast. I don’t like politics and if you have ever visited Kerala you would know by now that’s all they speak about. I can’t get myself included. They look and me and think “Faker” but they are kind enough not to tell me on my face.

* I wore a Lungi.
This was the most uncomfortable part of my whole stay there. They always seemed like they were improving on their David Blaine act. Folding it, running in it and even tying it in different styles. I was truly amazed at all these tricks. I felt I was at level 1 in some weird little video game where failure leads to public humiliation. I used to look down every other second just to be sure that it’s still on.

* I ate boiled rice
I’ve had boiled rice before, never liked it. Whenever I went to my relatives' place I used to douse it with a lot of curry and somehow gulp down the entire thing. This time around no such luck since they gave me a very limited quantity of curry with no spices whatsoever. The first meal I had there was so hard I kept reminding myself that if Bear Grylls (Google it) can eat a live lizard, this is nothing; proteins, vitamins and all that good stuff. I didn’t want to project myself as a snob. "This is health food" was all that I was thinking at that moment. I’ve never been happier to finish my meal.

* I built a fire
Taking a shower is the only thing that brings me back to my senses. Hot water is a luxury that I can’t do without. I soon realized it’s hard to build a fire when the firewood is wet. Yes, I was building fire with firewood... old school baby. I spent like an hour to build a fire and this surely wasn’t helping my back. But my ego is getting a massive boost out of this. I felt like an adventurer and I understand male chauvinism with this little experiment. Man builds fire and woman cooks.

* The Indian Tie
In order to massage your back into shape they need complete access of your body. Underwear is an obstruction. So they gave me a small little piece of cloth with 2 strings on the top left and right corners. The inmates there called it “The Indian Tie”. This is not the traditional Indian underwear, the langoti. This is specially made for this purpose. I was supposed to cover my manhood with this. Like the dumb ass city slicker I am, I wore it the wrong way. Nuts covered but still the wrong way. I proudly go into the tiny area where they do the massage. I remove the towel of my waist and my doc starts staring at me with utter disbelief. He didn’t know whether to laugh or slap me for my ignorance. I apologized and laid down on the table. After it was done, he was supposed to tie a cloth around my waist real tight. I said I’m up for it. I just ate boiled rice and wore a lungi... piece of cake. He said strip. Damn.

* I stripped
I took off everything and my Indian tie was in my hand facing my worst fear of being completely naked in front of a total stranger. If the stranger was the beautiful Angelina Jolie I won’t mind much. Here it happens to be a bearded man in his forties and he is standing right behind me, not the best of positions. He starts tying the cloth around my waist and between my legs. His cold fingers touching my penis in the process, not a good feeling. A man’s hand touching my dick, not good. The result of this weird nightmare is that I can now strip anywhere. Watch out Times Square you haven’t seen anything yet!

The funny part is I want to go back; I felt free there. We know little of ourselves until we push the limit. This sure wasn’t the limit, nevertheless a start.

WILL OF THE WARRIOR: Battered and bruised I stand here all alone in anticipation of the light that would rescue me. With all my might I plunged my sword into the mighty Dragon’s heart to slay the beast and save myself. I thought I killed the beast until I saw its eyes teasing me, making me feel like a little kid.
Seed of doubt the curse of the warrior. The blade seems distant, blade seems heavy. Killer instinct flowing away from me. Hands tremble, throat dries. The spirit of the warrior flies cold. Leaving the heart, leaving the soul. Leaving only doubts galore. Look in the eye seems unclear. It’s an unknown emotion the one of fear. The night beckons the warrior, even though he isn’t here. All that remains is a shell full of shame and fear. Frozen battlefield the souls raise, the warriors, the immortal heroes towards the sky. All that remains is my sword and I. My companion and I left alone.
Take me away and save my soul, the body isn’t worth anything anymore. Couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t feel the pain, void of all senses I stand here alone. If you can hear me shout back at me. Human touch is what I desire. I don’t need love even a slap on the cheek will do. After all human touch is human touch. Tell me how I failed; tell me I can’t do it. Set my blood racing. Make me feel again. If you do I promise you. A million dragons I will slay. Long and far I shall go to places where even darkness dares to go and hunt down every creature of nightmare. I will roam the depths of hell make Satan my concubine. Tell them I have arrived.
Taunting cries of the wolves, darkness magnifies every sound. As the dragon makes its move, I hold my ground as my thoughts soar way beyond the battlefield searching for a thread of life. Something that would make me forget the predicament looming large. I may lose my head, body or a limb but a hero never quits. Fight until you die coz a hero never quits.
What can’t kill me can only make me stronger. That’s a stupid reason to chop my leg and let me limp for ever. To cure is to administer poison slower until addiction kicks in and I can’t kick the poison. The dragons are my addiction how much longer can I chase them? Will my legs hold, will the heart be bold? Only time has all the answers. As a second slips out of the clock, millions are trying to turn it back to the place where no black can penetrate, only bright and brilliant light. Follow the light to a place where happiness is the truth. Beauty is just a touch away. No more misery, the happiness is here to stay.
Your single touch is what I needed; now I feel like I’m free. Free to roam, free to live, and free to feel your love again. I may never be the hero, nor will I be the villain. I’m what they call the man without a reason. A reason, will or destiny, these things seem like a joke to me. What am I to do after all the dragons are dead? What good am I if there are no dragons left? I live without a reason, without a will, hoping for a little destiny to make it all bright and red.