Witch-hunter.

He woke up swearing. The fever dreams were always so vivid and almost always appalling. He vaguely remembered the whole dream, yet some parts were still there; like an after taste from a very strong piece of cheese. The part where his girlfriend did not want to get up from her pet's embrace even to say good-byes to him was one. She didn't even open her eyes, although they both knew they won't be seeing each other for a long while. The part where he wakes up (in the dream) to see a man and a woman speaking in hushed tones was the other one. They got into the wrong house apparently, but they were already inside the locked house. Well, the thing about dreams is that they didn't have to be logical in any sense. Then the girl undresses, wears another dress and leaves with the guy.

Enough about dreams. Now he had other things to be taken care of. He was a 'witch-hunter' in the modern world; but what he was hunting can scarcely be called witches. He was commissioned by a very large and powerful religious institution to hunt and fetch the girls who had married outside their religions. These 'treacherous wenches' has chosen to defile their mighty god. He was supposed to hunt them down, kill their men and bring the girls back to these religious leaders. He was not to hurt the girls, unnecessarily. He was never to sexually harass them either; although hurting young girls was never his thing, even for money. But he doubted if it was the same with the lofty high priests of the religious order.

One thing that he always made sure of is that he would never work for the same religion more than once. After all, there are hundreds of religions and sub-religions; and hence no dearth of new employers. And the job is always the same; pay is always good. He packed his bag and took a look at the photograph in his wallet. It was so ironic to think that he does this all to give  a comfortable life to his two daughters.

Story.

i wake up in the middle of a room to find that there is no window

it's dark but i know it's almost noon and there is light out there but none of it is coming inside

i am not chained

i do hear voices not muffled - real conversations
either unaware of me inside or maybe aware but didn't care

i smell fresh grass

rain - maybe

i get up, open the door, go outside, take a piss and come back inside and start sleeping again; but not before I lock the door shut

that's my story.

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.

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!

The Crystal Sandal

Against all the odds, Cinderella won the prince's hand in the ball. The magic played tricks on her; stepmothers plotted against her; stepsisters hated her. In the end, she got the prince, for good.
She sat looking forward to the night and the consummation of their marriage. Prince came in, sat next to her and told her - "I love you more than anything. You are like a little sister to me. And yeah, I am gay."

Cui Bono.

We all have our existential crises and doubts. We all should have them at one point of time. Here or there? Or where?
Most of us had a cushioned past - the details were made out for us by someone else. We just need to step on to the train. Our life, education and career so far has been just hiking on someone else's shoulders. Then it hits you - and hits you hard. We are here and we are wondering if this is a rut that we are stuck in. We think hard. We aren't content with the glass and the water it contains. We are hungry but we aren't hungry enough. We are fools but not foolish enough.
We read about others who are better than us. We read about their adventures. But, we don't read about their failures. We don't notice the thousands of throws which didn't end up in the hoop but we are amazed and enticed by the beauty of the ones which did end up perfectly. We dream of perfection, but we don't strive for it. We blame the system but we forget the fact that it wasn't meant to be fair. It was meant to be causal. We forget the fact that the only rule in the universe is causality. The cruel and impartial rule of cause and effect. So perfect, yet so simple.

Reminds me of this quote from the Scoresese movie The Departed:
Ellerby: Cui Bono, who benefits?
Colin Sullivan : Cui gives a shit. It's got a freakin' bow on it.

Ready to marry. Made to specs. 20% discount.

I have been seeing a lot of talk/discussion and all those creepy stuff about marriage, especially from the ladies. About the fact that how 'mallu' guys are when they are looking out for marriage; how pathetic they are; how they over-react; how big hypocrites they are - all those very important and exceedingly accurate things, as these lady friends see. This is not a post supporting the guys; this is not a retort from the rest of unmarried males. However, what this is, is a vague (and I'm sure vain) attempt at trying to find out why this is happening.
First of all, let me start with the fact (which might be a little tough to comprehend) that all men are not assholes. Hey  there, your dad is a member of the male fraternity too, isn't he? But I do agree that there are lots of asses out there who are, well asses. But the fact about asses is that it's all about presentation; see an ass is an ass is an ass. But you cover them up with nice clothing, show a bit hide a bit - and it becomes something to die for. Of course, me being a male chauvinistic asshole, I couldn't come up with a better analogy. But then I do believe its a good analogy, my point here being - what might look like Christmas might really be Halloween.
As for the guys asking this and that - honestly I don't understand that. Trust me, I have seen guys who were perfectly honorable and reasonable turn into proper assholes when the case of matrimony starts. (And I know people who are not assholes having a tough time finding a girl, and other people making a lot of off-hand comments about them. And if you are one of those people who makes all those snide remarks, then, Fuck you - till thy kingdom come).
I digress - the fact I was trying to put forward here is that, there are very reasonable people who suddenly flip when a search for a lady commences. And I, for the life of me, can't comprehend how. Then there is an urban legend that these reasonable people are taken to this place - not quite sure where exactly - a quaint little restaurant or maybe a shady alley and hit with a large stone (or a plasma gun which alters your personality, who knows) which  makes them bonkers and matri-ready, to be dished out in plastic boxes with all those bubble wraps by various .com sites. That's one hypothesis; there are many.
Then there is this thing which was earlier called happily ever after; now its called 'Blah'.

P.S. :- There is another theory that after marriage people go into a parallel universe inhabited only by married people. Not really sure of that either. I haven't got the entry pass yet - seems like it's a 'Couples only' joint :D

The best slice of the mango.

There is something strangely mystic about mango trees. Before you completely laugh me off, let me tell you that it is totally a personal feeling. For me, the tree which should be in my backyard should be a mango tree. The tree which should cast a shadow on my balcony should be a mango tree. And after a rain, when I occasionally clean my terrace, the leaves I should sweep out should be of a mango tree. It has nothing to do with the heavenly fruits that grow on them. It has nothing to do with the sweet smell a mango tree in full bloom evokes. Mango trees for me has nothing to do with sweet and shine. It has to do with the shade, the shadows and the feeling of lost love and lovers who ignored me and the lovers I have ignored. It has to do with loss, it has to do with nostalgia, it has to do with Hemingway, it has to do with the alleys that are always dark even in the noon sun, it has to do with all that is there to be taken and yet not taken.

Crash and Burn

There was a tall and fit one. There was another tall and fat one. And then there was a lean mean and obscene one. It was friday and they were coming back home after the school. They were pedalling hard, their bicycles and talking about some exam which they have to come and write on Saturday.The exam was not a compulsory one, yet somehow most of the students are writing it.

There is this small downhill path, then a valley and then an uphill on their way back home. The three of them decide to race without pedalling, balancing their weight forward, in the downhill route. One would think that the tall and fat one would easily be the first, given his weight. But when you are racing without pedalling, in a downhill path, it's the position of the rider that is most important; and also late braking. The latter being very tricky, since the downhill path curves down a bit and the braking has to be perfectly timed or else; well, that's what comes next in the story.

So the lean, mean and obscene one was waiting for the right moment to brake and little did he know that the right moment has already past. It didn't take him much to know that though. Crash and burn is what reminded him swiftly of the mistake.

He fell down the hill, like the stupid Jack and his bike came tumbling behind, like the stupid Jill. What happened next was all hazy. All the lean, mean and obscene one could remember was that he went to the house next to the valley to wash his face. His bike was in need of some serious repair. The three of them started pushing their bikes back home.

The next memory he has is being almost near his home. Whatever pushing shoving talking swearing has all been lost to him. And he tells his friends that 'Hey, I think I have lost my memory temporarily.' To which his friends respond that - 'Dude, you are telling this for the umpteenth time and we hope you get back what you have temporarily lost.'

It's been almost twelve years and he hasn't got back what he had lost temporarily. He still tries to remember (and fails inevitably) what had happened or the scenes in between the crash site and his home.

P.S.:- His friends also say that he recited all their phone-numbers, his registration number for the next day's exam, his date of birth and all kind of stuff in his attempt to prove that he hasn't had a total amnesia. But he denies all of that, still.

Heads it is!

More often, than not, these days, I tend to think a lot about my present point in life. I retrospect and see the last 3 to 4 years to have changed me a lot, as a person. Having said that, it is also true that I have remained in the same position mostly, to a point where I find myself lagging behind all my friends, who all started their careers with me. Many have moved up the ladder; many moved out of the country; many even left this career for another which satiates their soul more. Makes me wonder, why am I still stuck in this rut (that's a bit extreme, but right now I am in an extreme mood).

I know I am not stupid, I won't be boasting if I say I am quite intelligent too and for the things I am passionate about and have conviction, I really come out well above par. The problem, I believe, with me is that I tend to be complacent too soon, which isn't really good a thing.

I digress, so what is this current point of my life? This is the point where most of my friends, with whom I can relate to, are getting married. And they are getting married the Indian way, letting the family find a girl for them. A very dear friend of mine, with whom I can totally relate to (in his own words, we are two people who don't meet or talk frequently like thick friends, but can easily start the conversation from where we left off - which would have been like after 3 4 months) is getting married, and he found a girl the Indian way :)

I don't believe in destiny when it comes to relationships - the belief that there is a girl/boy for everyone somewhere blah-shit. Hell, I don't even believe in Destiny. For me, Destiny is a blind guy with the Cosmic log chained to his hand (er... Sandman porn, My bad!).
The point here being I feel stuck in the deepest ruts I have ever found, in all ways, personally, professionally and every fucking-ly!
I know I'll snap out of it - every one does.

Me and my friends recently moved to a new place, since our earlier landlord was selling the one which were staying. It must have fetched him 1.5 to 2 Crores of rupees for that house. He works in the software industry too, a manager or someone senior - 11 to 12 years of experience. I am quite sure he doesn't come from a filthy rich family - his dad used to be an engineer, old timer. Upper middle class family - must have bought the land back when Bangalore real estate was cheaper. Now he is a Crore-pathi. He hasn't done anything radical or extremely risky, but the timing was good and he was rewarded by a sniff of nice luck and chance.

Conversely, a couple of my friends stay in a rented apartment, and they say their landlord owns 45 flats in their apartment complex itself. He seems to be a young guy - late twenties or early thirties, I have been told. He comes from a community well known for their exploits in the real estate business. His dad must have taken a big risk, a calculated risk nevertheless, and has been rewarded, well and fair enough.

So one either need be lucky or be ready to take risks, isn't it? And since I don't expect lady luck to be rapping on my doors any time soon, it has to be the other way round for me, I reckon. And I am in a rather feisty mood to do something stupid, lately. I am sure the view down from the cliff will be much better than the view from the gutter, at least.