To Mysore Pa or not!

I like Mysore Pa. I do eat it once in a while. Sometimes I get a craving for Mysore Pa and if I could get some Mysore Pa then I do go and get me some Mysore Pa. But I don't go largely out of my way to get a Mysore Pa. If someone I know have some Mysore Pa and if I am comfortable with them, I might ask them for some Mysore Pa; but I won't steal it from them. If someone offers me Mysore Pa, most cases I accept it. I can live without Mysore Pa, but as long as I want it and am able to get some Mysore Pa, I would eat it. 

Does that make me  a    b a d    p e r s o n ??? 

Valsamma Sir

Valsamma Sir is the pinnacle of gender equality in Kerala. She wore a saree to work, she even had the umbrella - folded and tucked under her arm - stereotypical Malayali government employee lady in all senses. The peon calls her 'Valsamma Sir', because 'Sir' is above everything in India, especially in government offices; except to his or her 'Sir'. So this strict hierarchy goes all the way up the ladder; to the very end. But even the topmost person will have someone to call 'Sir'. Oh it's a maze, don't think too much about it now! I digress. Yet these whole complexity doesn't make any change to the fact that Peon Ramu (a stereotypical Indian peon with a stereotypical Indian peon name) has to call Mrs. Valsamma Thampi 'Valsamma Sir'. Now thats how gender equality should be, eh?

Sic Semper Tyrranis. 

Statutory warning; or lack thereof.

There were kids playing on a high ground; much higher than the field beneath, higher than the level of the small restaurant I was sitting with my friends. There was a high stone wall rising from the field, towards the ground, a good 150-200 feet high. The restaurant was in a town alien to me, the menu strange and I was loving every moment of it. There were a few kids in the restaurant too, possibly from the same school.

The kids up there were playing with Table Tennis paddles, albeit with no table. And the paddle slipped from one of the kid's hand and flew down the wall, into the field down below. Another kid promptly started climbing down the wall, holding on to the line of jutting stones, which I think was made specifically for that. He looked deft enough in the beginning, but I was proven wrong soon enough. He slipped and fell down into the field, a good 100-150 feet and it was obvious that he's dead.

Kids started swarming around him, in the field. It was far enough from me to know the details. I saw one elder man thrashing a kid, though I don't know why.

And all I could think was of the guilt the kid whose hands had slipped, causing the paddle to fell off; he would live the rest of his life as one who caused another's death.

Apolitical art?

Can there be any art without political inclinations? Is there anything as 'Apolitical art', worth being called art? Politically inclined art, either for or against an ideal, any ideal, is what that actually exists; the ones that do not talk about the plight of men in a society where they are being trampled upon is, in all reality, siding with the same men who are trampling them. Love poems, stories, sonnets - everything, every single plot is either with them or against them; and if you think you are neither, then my friend, you too are with them.

Set me free!

...

He saw her the next day. How did he know it was her, in that purdah, he did wonder. But he was sure it was her. And he knew that she recognised him too. She hastened her pace.

And, one day she lifted her veil and showed him her face.

It didn't take much longer for them to be deep in love. It didn't take much longer for her family to find out. It didn't take much longer for her marriage to be fixed. It didn't take much longer for some thugs to threaten him. It didn't take much longer for them to decide to elope and elope they did. It didn't take much longer for them to be caught.

It took much longer for her to forget him. Then one day she set herself free.

Caged.

There is a shop near Commercial street, which sells exotic birds. I go there to look at those beautiful creatures, once in a while. I look at them, and I think - 'If I ever have enough money to throw away, then maybe I will come here and buy all of these birds and set them free!'

The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes.

It was Ramzan. She walked through the illuminated stores, looking at the bangles and bindis and colourful dupattas, it all looked like a psychedelic dream. She wondered how she would look in a brightly coloured Salwar-Kameez. A bling sandal. Blue eye shadows, may be, like that girl in the TV. She wondered how it be to wear multi-coloured bangles. She tried on a few, but didn't buy any of them. That's when she noticed that I was watching her. She swiftly readjusted her purdah and walked away, but only after turning around and looking at me - all the colours of that shop were reflecting in her eyes.

...and 

Dream a little dream!

I dream nice dreams. Then I paint them for everyone. I then entice people to join me in my dream. I pull them closer, make them happier, then...I let the dream fade. I betray them, in a way. But I am not sorry about it; I will never be sorry for who, what I am. But I do feel bad. They must have believed that I could be amazing; and I know I could be. I am amazing, everyone is, aren't they? But I drift a lot, I don't paddle when I should, when I could. I leave them be. I tell them stories. I take them through adventures. And, I lead them into dungeons. I am a bad influence. I give hope; I show them light - only to take it all back from them. In a way I am a failure and I drag people down with me.
Well, Fuck off then; go on!

P.S.: Number of occurences of the word 'I' in this passage - 28.

Splendide Mendax!

Man at home, no power. Thunderstorm. People start shouting outside his door, telling him that they knew he was inside; and a door wasn't good enough to keep them out for long.

He slowly gets up and wears his shoes which were in the room. Then he goes to the next room, where he knew that a broken glass is on the window sill. He picks it up and takes it near the door and scatters it there. And he waits. Pounding began. The door breaks soon.

They run into the living room and are immediately scathed by the glass pieces. He takes advantage of the chaos and knocks one down; though it wasn't good enough to keep him down. Then he sees the guns and that was when he knew that he was done. But still he runs into the next room and waits. He grabs the first guy's hand, takes his gun and shoots him down. He had his flashlight; he flashes it, shoots one. He lies down on the ground and flashes again; shoot another down. Only one now. He foolishly walks into the room, aims and shoots - only to find that he is out of bullets. He runs into the remaining thug and in the scuffle gets shot in the shoulder. Yet, he manages to overpower him. He gets out, locks the door from outside; padlocks it. He gets into his car and drives away. It was still raining.

Epilogue:

Later when he came back home he finds no trace of the shooting. Everything is clean. No corpses, no blood stains. He goes and complains to the police. They find nothing. Tells him he is hallucinating. He asks about the wound he has on his shoulder. They find an answer for that too - they find the gun which was used to shoot him, under his bed; and it was licensed under his name, for the last four years.

To be or not to be!

Am I an artist? I never thought of me as an artist. But then, now I think, I maybe one. I could be one anyways. If I try harder with my photography or my writing or both, I can make good art. And if I could and I didn't, then that would be sacrilege!

Bug.

A bug bit me in the morning and I squashed it; and I forgot about it. Now it's midnight and I remember my past. Back in those days, I was a bug. I was despised and then I was squashed by a man. I turned into a man and the man turned into a bug. Now I can feel myself turning into a bug!

Existential crisis.

Existential crisis.
Again!
I am a dog with existential crisis.
In a cage. Born into domestication.
Even my younger dreams had me in cages.
I hadn't met a wild born stray dog yet, then.
Now I see them a lot. Some of their visions have swept into my dreams.
I can now dream things I haven't experienced yet.
I am a caged dog with existential crisis.

Happily ever after?

I saw a movie about love - and I loved it. It didn't have a happily ever after, unlike many love stories. 

I was asked a question, if I would die for love. My first response - why should someone die for love? I mean isn't it ironic that such a pure sweet emotion like love should evoke thoughts of death? But then I thought, it's a good reason to die for, isn't it? I wouldn't know, yet!

Hell yeah!

Imagination is the cruelest punishment a man can be bestowed upon. A curse, it is, thought the man. It was getting ready to burst out of him and he knew he could not control the urge anymore. However, he also knew that if indeed he is going to tell everyone what he thinks of, then that would certainly mean his death; and the current rulers were extremely notorious in the ways they torture and kill people.

Epilogue:

"Fuck you man, you must have been stupid to tell people to be nice to others! And the son of God thing was epic!"

"Well it did end up being epic!"

"Oh yeah! Where are you now? Epic my ass!"

"Yeah yeah rub it on! By the way, I really didn't know there was a heaven! Fuck!"

"What the fuck! No more weed for you!"

As you sow, shall you reap!

Three days after his murder, he woke up. He was in a dingy cupboard like room/box. Oh fuck! he thought, this must be another one of those medieval torture things.

He tried to get out, started scraping at the walls. And then he heard some movement outside.

Someone opened the box. And...

Oh shit! It was that girl he slept with the night before they caught him to 'murder' him. And the this one was so adamant that she has stayed back to ask for the the payment. Fuck no, she's in love him.

He ran; like hell!

Sanctum.

Trails down your memory, there is a sacred lane;
It  is not a secret, yet no one enters the lane.
How far? How far? : one asks,
But no one answers the call.
Not anymore is it open;
No one heeds the call.
Yet it is, so sacred,
Enter at your own risk.