The news is

In the journalism course, we were taught, what makes news is when man bites a dog. Not the opposite. I say screw you, eggheads. Especially if the man  in question is you and the assailant is your own over-pampered, over-loved sonuvabitch and if the whole ordeal leaves you bawling in pain in an operation theatre at a godforsaken hour, it is nothing short of a national tragedy, it is what you call Stop the press, the proverbial breaking news. Alright, you get it.

So there I am, 1 in the morning in Ganga Ram, crunched on a filthy bed at the emergency ward, trying hard to not pass out. with a gauze on my mouth, and tears in my eyes I was thinking of all these morose poets who called hospitals as morgue, a place where one goes to die, where all delusions of survival wear off, a place where hope feels like a cuss word. How true! With the new casualties of dengue and typhoid brought in every hour, I felt like a prisoner of Concentration camp with excessive hair. I can't possibly begin to describe the feeling in words. even now, 5 days later, recalling that night makes me nauseous but if I don't write this now, I will be haunted by its memories lifelong and if Freud has to be believed, there is nothing more devastating to the human psyche than suppressed trauma. Here take 3 ounces of mine! 

Immediately when I was rushed in the hospital  I was put on a drip for low blood pressure. it's another thing that the sight and stench of that place is what would have likely caused the dip in the pulse. But again, it's not something new for me. As a matter of fact, the cause and effect of my disease and its ramifications on my medical condition will make a great subject of thesis for a paramedical Russian scholar. It's more of a chicken and egg situation. I don't know what makes me more sick- falling ill or going to the hospital.

What followed was a World war between fear and will power. The archetype portly Tamilian nurse came with a tray full of shots. One, two, three. I shrieked till I lost count of it. By the fourth jab, I felt like a lampost in  the night outside a shanty bar. Come take a piss at me, I've grown indifferent to your sadism. I say sadism, because to the nurse I was a number, a stretcher among many others. I understand, being indifferent is one of the occupational hazards of their profession and that she was severely overworked but her steely walk, the way she carried about her business and prevented an eye contact with me made her seem unreal. in a business driven on care and empathy this degree of insensitivity boggled me, it still does. Perhaps, it's something to think about our healthcare system and its loopholes.

In the situation where I was, the fear of jab was quick to be dwarfed by questions of survival. I was bitten in the face, on the lower lip. A lot of blood loss had happened and my face looked like a set for a zombie apocalypse film. the cuts were very deep and the doctor thought it was best to wait for the plastic surgeon to stitch them through fine surgical tools. the surgery was slotted for 6 in the morning. I had five hours to muster the strength to take upon a surgery. The situation was supremely tense. My mind ran all sorts of thoughts. I discovered  confirmed my hypochondria. I was imagining everything that could go wrong in the OT. What if my body is averse to anesthesia and the ECG machine shows a faulty heartbeat and it's too late for CPR to rescue. What if I faint entering the OT room and fall down out of the bed and lose the last hope of fixing my face. I looked around to see my mother's face, through  the cloud of despondent faces around me in slow motion. I am not kidding, for a few minutes I saw my entire life laid out in front of me like a dusty film on a projector. In my head, I stood up, took a bow in a dark theater and pranced towards my grave.

Meanwhile, Ma kept coming in every hour to see if I was asleep. She was instructed to ensure that i get some rest in the abysmal hours before the surgery. After two or three times, I pretended to keep my eyes shut, I did not have the energy to fake strength or wellness. To be honest, I was far from being strong.

Looking around patients more severely affected than me, looking at my own life through a hourglass, changed something. I grew resilient. On further reflection, it is what i suspect the diminishing marginal law of utility in economics. Let me explain it through the example I was taught with. Suppose, you're at the peak of your hunger and you are fed with one pani puri, your satisfaction goes up. with each subsequent pani puri your satisfaction curve will go up until it declines, which means a pani puri  after this will make you de-satisfied with it. It was true for my hyperchondria, after imagining the worse, after visualising my death, the fear curve saw a decline. I was ready for to hike to a volcanic hill, I was ready to be pushed from a cliff. I was ready to embrace pain with eyes wide open. I walked into the OT and stretched myself on the stretcher effortlessly.

the next four hours, as an anti-climax to the story turned out to be the easiest. I snored for a couple of hours straight under the sedation of general anesthesia. I had no memory of pain, injury or resistance. when I woke up the corner of my eyes felt sore from accumulation of tears, and my body was attached to all kinds of beeping machines. Ma came and stroked my forehead. the time for self pity or victimization was gone.

 I am Walter White from breaking Bad

I am Adam from 50/50

I am Tyler from Fight Club

I am up for Kate Hudson from A little bit of Heaven

Ha, I am probably Kate Hudson from this tedious rom com movie but I'm ready to trade that in exchange of a happy ending. Well, nearly

P.s For those secretly wishing me to shut up can come visit me to see their wishes come true. I am stitched up for a good while, deprived of proper food and babble.

Degenerate

stretching into the ocean of night
under the sky gone pale with fever
the mind pines what the mind can't find
an hour of solemn, sleep and serendipity
a capsule to erase ill formed memories
that linger like a toothache all day
till its begins to numb you
with a morgue of silence
and a deathless decay

in a room that leaves no room for air
in an elegy that's too eloquent for anyone to hear
in a heart that allowed winter to sneak in
and degenerate

A goodbye note

In his keynote address to the young guns of America, Neil Gaiman said one of the most inspiring things I’ve read in my life. He said no matter how hard life kicks you in the balls, make good art.

Husband runs off with a politician? Make good art. Leg crushed and then eaten by mutated boa constrictor? Make good art. IRS on your trail? Make good art. Cat exploded? Make good art. Somebody on the Internet thinks what you do is stupid or evil or it's all been done before? Make good art. Probably things will work out somehow, and eventually time will take the sting away, but that doesn't matter. Do what only you do best. Make good art.

In the profession I am in, unfortunately it takes more than moments of jubilance and misery to make good art. It needs a good art partner. Copy and art is an arranged marriage made in the supreme court of procrastination. If you’re lucky the most productive hours of your day between you and your art partner are spent in criticizing the system, the account management, the client, the boss, the overly sweet canteen coffee, our laughable CTCs, the new loony Priyanka Chopra song. It is an incredibly creative exercise after the hours you waste on mindless internet trolling.

However, when it comes to thinking on things you’re actually paid for, the equation changes dramatically. Art directors may adeptly write a thesis on how lazy piece of morons our lot is, but sitting down with a pen to crack an idea or sketch a scribble is a rare priced quality these days.

Overlooking all this, if you’ve managed to write a half-decent headline, chances are your art partner would ask you to axe it with the professionalism of a seasoned gardener.  You can’t make the logo bigger with a headline line this long, he argues. To which, you have nothing to say but despondently question your choice of career. At which point, the happy harmony of the arranged marriage goes for a flying toss.

In our field, the idea of you making getting over creative differences with your art partner after a stormy brainstorming session shares the collective fate of Indo-Pak peace summits that have happened so far. Ego, procrastination, demotivation are the familiar demons, we fight too on most days.

The reason I come across so strongly on all this is because I was lucky enough to overcome all this pretty early in my current job. And I’m dreading the days that lie ahead of me, now that my art partner has flown off to another place, a better one I would hope for her sake.  

This is probably the most cynical goodbye note you would have read. But that’s only because putting her worth in a few nice adjectives would be belittling her talent and her persistence in chasing the deadlines we set for our self, the weekends we spent in office more than just sulking. From her, I learnt the importance of presentation, neatness and elegance in the little things we do. The ground rules of teamwork, when it came to defending cool ideas, and clipping the not so cool ones. 

And now that she's gone, my only demand from you- the rest of hackered species of my profession would be make good art partners  

A thing a two about driving

Since the time I’ve started working (regularly) which is close to a year now, I haven’t really picked up a skill or a talent. Too bad, cussing the boss, the media, and the politicians doesn’t account for real talent or else we would’ve been a country with maximum laureates and aficionados represented by the likes of Sir Mahesh Bhatt and Madame Shobha De. However, as I type this, I can’t resist the temptation of adding Driving On Delhi Roads in my Curriculum Vitae for the acute amount of mental-training and resilience it has extrapolated out of me in the past 7 months.

If you were one of those teenage kids, ballsy enough to sneak out your parent’s car keys before your legs could even reach the clutch, then you should probably ignore this post and spare me your snarl for being a naiveté but if you, like me, grew up with a mortal fear of all things in motion- aka the rash drivers, the ignorant jaywalkers, dumb dogs, reckless bikers, the day-dreaming cyclists, the over-working rickshawalls, the precarious thellawallas, the mass-murderer blueline drivers, the addicted- to -phone teenage pedestrians- then please your eye balls with hope and consolation you  are about to find in my words. You too shall overcome the dark phobias one day. With some practice and mammoth proportion of luck, you will have your way with the wheels, and be the master of your foot and eye-coordination. And when that happens, your life wouldn’t be the same thereafter.

For starters, the grand epitome of modern technology also known as the Delhi metro would repulse you in multiple ways. Trading space and comfort in lieu for speed and economy would suddenly fail to make sense to you. I’d rather have my shitty stereo blasting to myself than be a victim to somebody else’s aural distaste. Even if it means moving my head in a retarded way to Icona Pop’s lyrics which incidentally read “ I crush my car into the bridge and watched that let it burn… I don’t care, I love it”. Nevermind, the irony.

My second observation about driving is closely related to the idea of control. I’m forced to believe the real intention behind the invention of automobile is slightly removed from the need for quick transportation which unquestionably triggered the discovery of the wheel. The assembly of car was driven by the need for speed and  to have control over it. Consequently, driving gives me an enormous sense of power and control, which I lack otherwise in my minion corporate life. Thanks to the Indian traffic rules, this sense of power is largely unchecked and wildly legal. Every time I ignite the engine, I’m infested with a spirit of sportsmanship which I last experienced 15 years ago pressing the blue and green rubber buttons on a suitcase sized console connected to a 16 inch Onida TV set. It is absolutely exhilarating.

Nothing can cultivate your ability to focus better than a 35 km ride to Delhi-Gurgaon. No cup of coffee can equal the effect of a 7 minute drive from my house to the main road all the way to the ridge, on my senses. The downside of which translates to menacing amount of honking and cussing but that’s the initial phase of tolerance-development. By the time I reach office, I’m indifferent to my colleague’s grouses and my own incompetence at empathising with them

While I have considerably mastered the art of spotting deathly Gurgaon pits, halting for hurrying pedestrians, spectacularly deranged two-wheelers and stupid stray, my directionally challenged self is the biggest challenge I am yet to overcome.

At 110km/hr I’m the safest driver you will find on NH8. Meet me on an anon road at 20km/hr and I would pray for your safety and well-being. My point being nobody will tell you that your ability to drive well rests upon your dexterity with maps.

Another valuable experience that’s come handy so far is to let go of the fear of crashing. Which is similar to what I learnt during swimming-the sooner you forego the fear of drowning, the better you become.  It is ofcourse, another thing that I always took the swimming advice with a pinch of salt, ridiculing the idea of burdening the weight of my entire body on my two tiny nostrils. But thank heavens to have the machine replace man and a thousand cogs and screws replace two nostrils without which I wouldn’t have sported the accident-proof record I hold.

I’m ofcourse, discounting the time I broke the neighbour’s taillight while reversing my car in the porch and the two..no three..no four instances when I thought I saw my death messenger in a mean grey colour UP number plate. But then I’d rather die feeling like Thelma(from Thelma and Louie) than have my body guillotined between the metro track in the wake of an earthquake.

Karma bites the toe

It all began with Krypto, the laptop konking off six months back. The lazy fuck I am, continued to ignore the multiple warnings flashed upon diligently by Krypto's core processor, the same way I have been ignoring my painful molar, faulty car shockers and the perennially unkempt closet.

The Dionysian lifestyle I have slipped into is beginning to affect me in adverse ways. But before I dwell on that, let me tell you how out of place I felt entering the room I have been living in for 20 years of my existence in delhi, yesterday. Krypto was gone. Poor, over-exploited Krypto was dead because of my tardy negligence and had to be sent to the repair center. My world had crumbled. I don't even remember the last time I was alone in my room without him. It feels like an eternity ago, when humankind bore the familial traits of the neanderthal before turning into cyborgs. When a good night's sleep was not depended on mindless TV shows and mindless trolling on the internet. when laptops bore no influence on your socializing whatsoever and the world was generally a better to place to live.

With Krypto gone, it was pointless to stay home and stay awake in remorse. I had the choice of heading out to the hipster pub in South Delhi or go for a dinner with people I knew nothing about except they were all way past their twenties. I was kicked about a night of retarded dancing in the shitty pub until V talked me into the dinner plan. If you know me well, it's reasonable for you to loathe my decision-making after all the socially awkward moments I've put you in, on occasions, more than one. Well, the tables turned this time. It was awkward for me to contribute to the discussion about why the 30 -something on the table were still single and suffering from some kind of a boob complex. It was hard to miss the correlation between the two, but I decided to be nice and spend most part of the evening chugging giant frothy glasses of delicious German beer, in one corner. 

I remember being referred to 'young gun', in one of their conversations which acted as a positive reinforcement to my alcohol indulgence. I was determined to show them that being young meant being the first one to order another round and be the last one to leave the table. Being young also meant being gifted with the amazing need to embarrass yourself on the dance floor along with a bunch of anglo-american hipsters. I don't know if it was the alcohol or my convincing skills which brought them to the shitty pub. On hindsight, it was a big mistake. they were far more entertaining in their inebriated boob-talk. Understandably, the yuppie music did not appeal to their taste. however, their lousy attempt to concentrate on the dancing was worth admiration.

I was glad that everybody managed to have a good time in their own capacities, during the night. The next task was to walk out of the pub straight. K and N were chirpy as high-school girls walking on the other side of the road. M, the oldest one in the group had gone to fetch her car, before parting ways with us. V, the only guy with us was sent to scour a cab for K and N. I was walking alone in my drunken stupor, patting my back in my head for being far far away from my Krypto-less room. 

I saw M flash her headlights on me. she had her rolled down her window to say goodbye to the people on the other side of the road. I turned right to wave a goodbye to M. Her car had picked up motion. The next thing I knew, I was under her car. My left foot was under her left tyre. I exulted a despicable call for help. M came running and helped me lift myself to the car. I don't remember, how i got into the car. It was a miracle. I dropped my atheism right there. the next couple of minutes passed in a trance.  I could hear faint voices from the back of the car but I couldn't comprehend a word. my mind had just covered the distance between Hell and Earth. I was breathing. That's all that mattered. I slouched on the car-seat. If it wasn't for the alcohol I would have been bawling in pain right now. Instead, I was surprisingly stoic. As stoic as a convict, ready to face his sentence. Looking straight out of the window, effortlessly ignoring the injured toe and M's apologies.  

Today morning, however, was anything but stoic. The effect of last night's painkiller had worn off and I was limping like a dog. Helpless, unhappy, miserable. I wanted to punch everyone I saw last night. Funny boobs, big boobs, three boobs, no-boobs, hipster boobs, all at once. I popped a painkiller and mustered the strength to go to the hospital. Every part of me cringed. The emergency Sunday doctor showed no mercy. he was only interested in knowing if I had noted the culprit's car number and reported it to the cops. After an hour and a half of inhaling nauseating hospital smell, i was sent off with a prescription for my broken toe. 

2 weeks rest, it says.

 Here I am back to being alone in my neanderthal room, mocked by universe for being a slack(?) or a brazen youngadult(?). Who knows.

Krakus, the voice

I have a bone to pick up

with a grimly voice

that appears to have shacked up

one floor above

my nebula oblongata 

It refuses to budge, it refuses to leave

like a visitor habitual of

over-welcoming his stay.

Poking its sneaky nose

into my innocent pursuits

of a goodnight's sleep

or an unsolicited trip

to the rest room

Clouding my brain with its

unceremonious observations.

Slamming upon me

the most misfitted joke of the day,

expecting me to listen

what the bugger has to offer-

A shitty rejoinder on an unrelated topic

or a retort to something that was purposely forgotten.

Ranging anything from boobs

to bohemian rhapsody-

reducing my attention span

to the size of a frog's fetus.

It leaves me tired and it leaves me jaded

the voice that stings

and the voice that murders

my prospects of living 

right there, in the moment

and my ability to do things

whenever, wherever.

The worst is reserved for 

the intimate moments in bed

Just when im beginning to take off

a ride into sexual escapades

It jutts its fat ass into my mildly

inebriated brain

Like a cop harrowing a driver midnight

for not wearing a seat belt.

if only it was this easy to shame me

into stuff, i smirk

"you may save your morality for the women
you see on T.V", i quibble

The threatening, however, means nothing 

more than a plea

The voice only grows fiercely

annoying.

Talking back, is not helping my 

case i realize.

Emptying bullets into my brain

is not really a choice at hand

So my plan is to write

till there is no more left to say

about Krauakus, the voice

and its nefarious ways.
And wait patiently for its arrest
in the court of justice
which would either bring upon me-
a lifetime of peace
or a lifelong term in a mental institution
(sigh)

How a show about death made me think about life

I am not going to eulogize how good Six feet Under is. Most episodes are gloomy and inject you with misanthropic tendencies. Most characters convince you to see a shrink, because frankly you can't tell if they are real or Alan Ball's cerebrally charged lifetime achievements that have had a whole lot of influence on you.

I just finished watching the episode which begins with Nate's family mourning over his death. I hate to admit, that it got me welled up. Obviously, the show is all about coping with the death of your dear ones because death, in Nate Fischer's words, is an inevitable part of life and life has its own ways of teaching us how to deal with it-by parting us with our loved ones, but that's not the end of it. The show portrays death as uncomfortable reality that ranges from being profoundly reflective to profoundly repulsive.

I was left frightened by the thought of how death is constantly hovering on us like a swarm of unfed bees. You can't tell  when and where you will be stung, but death is almost all the time after you. In your bathtub, on the street, in your car, in the beauty salon. Your encounter with death might be a blink away. In such a scenario, can you really afford to be gripped by the fear of death and allow it to hold you from taking a hot shower, driving your car, fixing a session in the salon. Why be afraid of something that would eventually be nothing more than a bittersweet nostalgia for the people you've left behind. 

There is an episode in which a lady chokes over her breakfast and dies in complete isolation of her home. Her body is detected by her neighbours, weeks after it rots and stinks. The fischer family, who arrange a funeral for her are unable to comprehend how a person can fade off without having anyone to pay a tribute to her. Ruth Fischer is never seen more unsettled over a funeral. she goes all kooky in arranging a funeral for a total stranger the way she would for her own son or daughter. There are more such profound instances which make you realize the tacit nature of grief that unites strangers and .brings you closer to your covert humanity 

I always believed it's impossible to keep up the raciness of the plot when you're devoted to finer details in your direction and cinematography. The show proved me wrong. The opening sequence is both surreal and meditative in its description of death much like everything else in it.

Ipso facto

I'm tired of pretending that I've understood life. That i am thick-skinned to wrestle with it, everytime it attacks me. Sometimes through mild tooth-aches, bitter tongues and betrayals. But what i fear most now is the shallowness of my solitude which is eating me from the inside. crawling like maggots on a stale loaf of bread. stealing my little joys-of a goodnight's sleep and a tender kiss which by the way, I can't even recall because it's been so long. I sound like an HIV positive to you don't I? Stuttering about tying ribbons to strangers to feel loved and liked. No, take back your sympathy. Save it for your slurred speech, the next time you drink while I meander into the infernal abyss of my ununderstood being. Signing petitions for world-peace on world-wide web 2.O

cataract

Your memories chain me in hooks of despair
like a fishing rod in the sea of blood
i'm clouded with doubts of me, you and everything we've owned
Unbecoming into units of human mass, which feels like
feces floating in the womb of the universe 

Dog-hair (a short story)

Clement sits by the beach watching the waves break into the cacophony of an untuned radio set. The tip of his fingers is soft and spongy from excessive nail-biting. He wishes to be as thoughtless as he was in middle school. When the biggest fears of life were- how to save the neighbourhood dog from the street-side bullies or how to spill just enough milk on the stove to make it seem like an innocent accident caused by over-boiling, in the opportune absence of his mother. Sometimes he just saunters in the bay in the hope of finding company, worthy of sharing a healthy debate about art and politics. On most occasions, he came with a compulsive urge to reclaim the voice in his head which has become a hostage to contemporary media and its menacing pilferage of his time.

Only yesterday, he had the misfortune of picking up the daily tabloid to see his 19 year old nephew’s class-mate acclaiming menacing success with his new book “Do you have an extra pen”. Preposterous! Literature died with J.D Saligner and lost its mental stability with the reported dementia of Marquez, he thought. We’re living in a collective harem of mediocrity, where one stupid pleases another, and contests for the post of chief of stupidity to ensure the minority of the population turns stupid and raise a poorly mentored generation of stupids. Till there is nobody left to complain. He crumbled the picture of a B-grade Bollywood actress in two-piece, pouting at him from the bottom corner of the tabloid and threw it on the couch. Fucking paparazzi. He forgot that his coffee required sugar, sitting next to the stirrer.

His visits to the beach do not have a discernible agenda. He likes watching the sky with the admiration of an art-critic. But today, was different. It’s been four months since he last spoke to Amelia. It’s been six months since he made sweet love to the female member of human species. He is too arrogant to admit that he yearns for a woman in his life. His past relationships sank with the sanctity of a temple-ritual. As cordial, as a man could become in hours of tumultuous confrontations.

It always ends the same way for him. Barely a few months into the relationship, he would be confounded with a deafening need to be alone, triggering monumental doubts on the choice of partner. Overnight, the person he’s dating would seem flawed to him. He would avoid her till he fails to any longer, resulting in long bouts of depression. Followed by the agony of losing his individuality in an attempt to salvage his relationship. This would have a defeating affect on his libidos and consequentially on the chemistry with his partner. Surmounting into a mental state which would instinctively distance him from the woman. He would have his voyage of excuses ready that sufficiently put across how over worked he has been or how he’s not getting enough time to enjoy his intellectual pursuits.

Completely drained of emotions, he would announce farewell to his partner and walk away from a relationship, as he would, after eating a sumptuous meal, at a fancy restaurant. But Amelia was different from all the other women he charmed. Even though she shared a lot in common with all the other girls he dated. Like, she always wanted to do things together, when Clement insisted on locking himself in the room to finish a new novel. She complained of not being introduced to all of Clement’s friends. She would bawl on the nights Clement refused to have sex with her because he was working late or days where he would not reciprocate her affectionate texts. Amelia, too like all other girls passively embraced the role of a puppy in Clement’s life. Summoned, cuddled, ignored and reprimanded at his whims. Clement knew she made more compromises, celebrated more occasions, bought more gifts in the relationship and it pained him to see the visible difference in their emotional compatibility. However, there was something in Amelia’s affection that made him try to work things out between them. Even it required him to pay more bills, and socialize with her friends against his nature. She was the girl, Clement would imagine playing scrabble with when old age would chase after their youth. Amelia with her puny hands baking sugar-less cup-cakes for him and his critters. With some twist of fate, he would finally be willing to spend his life with another person and die with having one person pay him a dutiful obituary.

Ofcourse, all of this seemed like a perfect plan for future. Unfazed by the anxieties of today. 

“Let’s stop over analyzing our relationship. Isn’t there more to life than a periodical assessment of our relationship. Like career, or friends or one’s individual interests. Why can’t we take each day as it comes and try to be a little bit more detached” After a while Clement was repeating this like a chant every time he met Amelia. While Amelia, like a devout continued to act upon Clement’s suggestions. He could never really tell why would she or anyone for that matter, put up with an egomaniac like him. Sometimes he wondered, if the people he was attracted to were with him because they couldn’t be alone. Human beings have always befuddled with him. Amelia was clearly no exception. They met on a Sunday for their usual lunch at an underground café where they exchanged jokes about Indian boys going to laughable lengths to sleep with expats, to give them a slice of the exotic with their half-accented syntax and half-erect groins. They both smiled a lot that day. He felt his insides longing for her touch after a very long time. His hard crotch wouldn’t lie.

Later that evening, he got a call from her. He paused the B-grade T.V serial he was watching for cheap amusement.

You make me really unhappy. I am breaking up with you. What? He thought he missed a joke somewhere. I said you make me unhappy and that’s my explanation for breaking up with you. They haven’t spoken a word since then.

He watches the tides roar and rest, as he remembers her words with an overpowering sense of melancholy. He’s gone through these words a million times like an overused tape record. Trying to understand what caused him more hurt-the fact that he is now single and miserable or the realization of being dumped for the very first time in his life. Like somebody shoved his mouth with the bitter taste of his own medicine and it makes him throw up every single day. It’s not like, he refrained from laying his eyes on anyone since then but the wounds inside him ensured it didn’t turn into anything meaningful.

 Perhaps he is too exhausted from the calamity of his past relationship to entertain anyone for over a night or two. Perhaps he invested way more than what he estimated in this relationship. Lost in these thoughts, he fails to notice the stray dog that has been fanning its tail at him, all this while. He gestures him with affection. Invitation successful. The dog bears the face of bliss now, sitting placidly next to Clement. Tears roll out his eyes. Unheld, like the time he was summoned to the principal’s room and his monitorship was questioned when a mob of school bullies lit up the classroom. Reason eluded him then, reason eludes him now.

The Warm, fuzzy tears of reminiscence dissolve his resolve. He’s no longer the stronger one. The brute, the prude, he’s been infamous for. The mongrel is scratching his head, it is infested with fleas and god knows how many other parasites. It doesn’t bother Clement who hasn’t felt this naked towards his primeval emotions since he lost his mother at the age of 15 to a freak accident. He thought he had used up all his emotions in one day which was eagerly replaced by cynicism.

He takes out his phone with blurry eyes and dials Amelia’s number. He looks at the sky as if begging for serenity

“The number you’re trying to reach does not exist, please check the number you have dialled”

 With a throbbing pain in his heart he gets up and dusts off the dog hair from his coral-blue kurta. Just as he turns around he notices a huge film crew setting up a presumable calendar shoot. He sees about a dozen of dainty women in cheap tiger-print bikini’s packed together in the vanity van like a tin of sardines, unfit to be consumed.

“Fucking paparazzi”, he says and prances away towards the horizon.

When rain steals your thunder (and poetry)

It rained today. Delhi is cold again. Only less cold than me. there's a reason for Delhi being cold unlike me. I guess I am just desperately searching for poetry in these words to compensate my inability to feel. Sad isn't it? does it even count as a feeling. In comparison to literary stalwarts who wrote about wars, droughts and poverty. Fighting the system, waging a war against norms and traditions. Driven by the need to change the system.
Me?
I am just infested with the Germanic instinct to kill everybody.

So here's what I wrote last night in another failed attempt to scavenge poetry out of the frickle bourgeois life and times of mine

The sound of the sky 
echoes the sound of my head
A thunderstruck moment of
purposefulness.
impaled by the need to break
the norms of well being
As i stand at the bend of the road
I'm daunted by the miles-
that lie ahead of me
To reach a place
where I don't wish to leave
To gather a momentum
that doesnt turn into inertia
because like a fallen raindrop
I lie homeless, in the handcuffs
of sanity.

Ranting in the deep

There's nothing more troubling than not being able to write when I hurriedly get to my desk, pushing aside everything marked urgent, drinking coffee like a sugar starved junkie on acid and do what? sit and stare the screen for extraterrestrial powers to take over me and stab the urge to write  No, really. I can't care less about your cute poodle dying or your friend meeting with a terrible accident or even the tragic death of Arnold Swartz, which got me half paranoid an hour back. I don't think there's anything romantic about a Writer's block. its just a self indulging term created by some narcissist to deal with his menacingly inexpressible voice in his head. A degenerated excuse at its best.

The only good thing I see while experiencing this trouble is the reinforcement of the thought that I feel passionate about something in this world. something to strife for while inhaling someboy's second hand oxygen.something to translate my frustration into without having to consult a shrink. Something to wake up to next morning, apart from a bad hangover. If I die today, my only regret would be to have not written as much as I've always wanted to. if you're still not convinced how troubling it is for me to not able to write. Well, too bad. you've only come this far and that just proves my point.