Gangs of MZMS 🔫💣🔥

when love was war….🔥🔥🔥


In MZMS, when we were in std. VII, we started forming gangs. If it were a pre-80s suburb of Rio, we would have fought for drugs and stuffs; but we were born and bred in peaceful environments, where you only heard of robberies through a very distant relative who had been told of the same by a very distant relative of his own. Sometimes, you’d come across the reports of murder in the locality, and you’d gasp at the realisation that there was a locality right behind your ass that you did not have a hair of an idea about.

Fights did break, among all age groups and over a wide range of issues. Little kids fought for candies and stuffs, elders fought because their wives demanded designer dresses which their neighbours got from sale. Women fought because their mother-in-laws were being bitches. Mother-in-laws fought because their daughter-in-laws were being bitches. Women also fought when the grocer was not ready to pull the price lower than what the worth of a bag of 250 grams of okra was. Actually, okra sellers were an endangered species. Everybody fought them.

At our age, we fought for love, or because the umpire gave a no ball when it was not one. I remember testosterone rushing through our veins, making us feel powerful and eager. We’d watch the scuffles in Indira Gandhi Stadium, hear stories that triggered them, and admire the gang leaders with undiluted awe. If somebody had even a vague connection to those gangs, like if he could tell two or three unheard stories about the gangleader, he was showered with much respect and honour. Most of the fights happened when two boys fell for the same girl. It was war after that. They’d get to the stadium with their gangs and beat the daylights out of each other. A few years ago, a boy was even beaten to death. It came in papers and there was a small candle march.

So in std. VII, with so much hope in our eyes, we started forming our own gangs, so that if ever we confronted a troop, we would have one of our own to fight back. It was not like one of those 4 houses the Sorting Hat puts you in so that you could chase shots riding on magical brooms, it was quite deadly.

We had just made the switch from half pants to full ones, and there was an urgent need to display the privileges that came with full pants. We tossed our beyblades into the wastebin, we stopped watching Roll Number 21, we fastened our belts and geared up for a new life.

The class got divided into various gangs, each with its own speciality.

My gang was called Indo Dragon, the only gang to have a two-word name, and a logo. It was a dragon I’d ripped off from my comic book. We had put together a bunch of weird kids. Churan was the psycho scientist who was trying to derive a formula to calculate the volume of his penis, Bihari was a WWE fan who could imitate sweet chin music quite well. We had Bhola who was built like Thor. Then Mausa who had loads of money. We were an exclusive group where entry required some talent or 80% or above in Maths. My friend PC qualified for none, but I kept him in the gang anyway. For moral support.

There was another gang called Mayo gang. Its leader was Atif, and I don’t remember who were in the team.

Shoodra gang consisted of students who didn’t give a fuck about the rest of us. They were either too innocent or too distanced. There was another group called MARD gang, which consisted of four people the first letter of their names being M, A, R and D, which was the only qualification required for entry.

Later, there was a reshuffle and a new gang came up – Batul Da gang. Batul da is this famous tutor of my city who prepares newborns and infants for IITJEE. So everybody who went there, including me, had to maintain a level of swag by talking in coaching jargons.

Now let’s talk about the girls. Yeah, I know you were waiting for this. Okay. There was this crazy gang of five girls who were high on hormones. They had boyfriends and were known to set girls for desperate boys. If you liked a girl, you just had to contact them. But they were also loud and phoney, and even though I did not particularly like them, they were a force to be reckoned with.

Doctor was a part of the trio which was high on marks but low on kindness. Their favourite passtime was getting us beaten up by the teacher, especially Lauvva sir, whose favourite passtime was beating up students, especially us.

Other than that there were a few random trios. Insignificant but they hung on.

Unfortunately, we never had a fight. The closest thing to a fight we had was the tae kwon do sessions on the terrace during lunch breaks.

The class evolved in the next two years, and then we got divided on the basis of our relationship status into the following groups :

• Classroom couples. The most annoying of all. They’d snog in the back benches and write corny love letters for each other, often in their blood. The girls would bring maggie for their boyfriends and the boys would bring the biggest packs of Dairy Milk Silk, recharge their phone and give them their kidneys to play with, etc, etc. They’d often get caught fondling each other, and we would hear an hour of moral science lecture from someone as inhuman as our Maths teacher.

• There also were people with partners outside of the classroom, and they were usually quiet. Sometimes they’d miss the classes. They didn’t usually care.

• Then there were fucked up one-sided lovers, like yours truly, who used to nurture sadness because true love is immortal according to Nicholas Sparks. Two years ago, when I joined college I gave away all my Nicholas Sparks for free. When I think about it now, maybe it was societal pressure. I mean all my friends were leaping into relationships, and Doctor was kind of cute and funny, so I thought it was love. Maybe it even was – if you ask my 15 year old self, he would swear it was. But I’m not sure. I mean we had a total of 8 conversations on phone, about which I shall tell you in the next post.

• People who were single had it easy. They read Bhagat Singh or French revolution and successfully kept their female interactions to a minimum.

Anyways, so this was it. We passed X and went separate ways. The attempts at reunion have been in vain so far. Let’s see…

Snippet #2 Summer

when it’s hot as hell…

A few days ago, the temperature was a sweltering 36°c with 79% humidity. In the Feels Like column on, it showed 48°c. My mother was convinced it was over 50. My father recounted the good old days when summer used to be mellow and full of rains. They’d go to the field, wading through the knee deep water and watch buffaloes swim in the distant river.

There was a time they used to call this place Mini Darjeeling, but these days you can smelt ores by simply leaving them out in the sun. A few people in the neighbourhood have already been admitted to the Hope because of sunstroke, or some weird photochemical reactions due to the scorching heat.

The air was stifling hot. As I lay on the coarse, trampled turf of Indira Gandhi Stadium, streams of molten lava flowed under my skin, scalding my insides like chucks of meat in a boiling pan. I remembered all those real life stories of spontaneous human combustion, and pictured myself lighting up and turning to ashes. People would more likely record my groans and convulsions and upload them on youtube than pour water or sand over my body. My shirt was sodden with sweat. The stadium felt like devil’s frying pan, where we the evil souls were being burnt and purged. The devil laughed its heinous laugh as we melted like butter cubes.

“This must be the new record. “Commented the IIT guy. He’s the only student from our batch to make it to the mecca of the great Indian Education system, so his comments are respected. We nodded in a unison.

Then we started comparing summer in different cities to while away time, which budged painfully slow.

“Is it hotter than Delhi? “Goteya asked.

“The heat there is different. I mean it’s not that suffocating. “Started Samar.

Well, I remember Delhi’s heat. Apartment blocks all clumped together. There’s no duct for air to pass. Every time there’s a power cut, terrace is the only rescue. I’d wake up in the middle of the night, all sweaty and hot, cursing my fate and rich people who live in hill stations during summer. Capitalism, people, capitalism!

“You must find it normal, right? “I asked the IIT guy, who lived in IIT Jodhpur. He took out his phone and whatsapped this cute girl – half girlfriend – to send him a random balcony shot. It was raining in Rajasthan. Goddam.

We talked about school and memories. I’ll tell you about that very soon.

After it was dark, we trudged back to our houses, hoping for some mercy from the skies.

“It’ll rain tomorrow. “Said the IIT guy. We nodded in unison.

(Well, it did not. )

Back at home, there was no food because my mother felt it was too hot and she hated the idea of standing in front of a goddam stove. So we ate mangoes and slept, praying the power remains forever.

Two Days of Winter : Day 1 #the monkey God

A long walk up the hill…💕

With laboured breaths, I dragged myself on this never ending slope, secretly working on the probability of reaching the peak on my own legs. They said if you mumbled Hanuman’s hymns, the ascent became smooth. But stubborn as I was, I chose to do it without any supernatural help. Plus, I believed Hanuman has better jobs to do than push people’s ass up the hill. I mean I could picture him having his brunch, sweet red berries on his plates, and suddenly the doorbell rings and millions of SOS calls trying to get through. If I were God, I’d probably resign soon and get myself a nice planet where I could fix my chair with supernatural cement and watch torrential rains over dense forests.

This junior behind me swore he could feel a heart attack creeping up his chest. I told him it was just gas and asked him to keep moving.

“I’d collapse. I had an operation a few months ago. “He pleaded. I chose not to believe him.

“Don’t lose heart, boy. Once you reach there, you’ll be reborn. ”

Let’s rewind to the moment we went to the temple, from where we watched the hills and the houses, planning honeymoons.

“If there were no condoms in this world and a couple lived in Shimla, at what rate do you think the population would escalate? “I quizzed.

Acting thoughtful….

“I just want to have a machine gun and shoot down those tiny people walking on the road. “Said the Military man, thus spoiling my erotic thought.

We took photos and then branched off into two groups, one behind healthy male teachers, the other behind diabetic female teachers. We went to Mall road, and Mr. Gabbar asked us to get over with the shopping quickly. We went in an elegant clothes store, where women with rosy cheeks sold swanky shawls.

“How much for this? “I picked one from the counter that had Pashmina written on a plate above. I could buy it for maa.

“Twenty Six thousand rupees only sir! “She said coolly, as if she were selling Kismi bars. The shawl dropped from my hand. People’s stare oscillated dramatically from my face to her face. I could hear Ekta Kapoor background music. Dhoom tana na na na….

“Ermmm…what’s the lowest price? ”

“Thirteen thousand for this one. “She showed me the dullest piece of clothing ever manufactured.

‘Does it come with superpowers? ‘I wanted to ask. But I just said hmm, and turned away, as if I was a ghost and nobody could see me. If I had twenty thousand rupees, I’d start a business in clothes rather than purchase a shawl.

We then moved on to the main street, and the guide told us that we could get to Jakhoo and watch the sunset. One of the teachers revolted against going on foot, so we left him and walked ahead. It was agoddamn race against time.

None of the girls came with us. They got a cab and Mr. Gabbar cited security reasons and sat with them while we the bravehearts walked on the slope, fighting gravity.

Saying that the walk was a backbreaking exercise would be a severe understatement. The muscles in my legs stiffened like cement. My heart pounded like those cheap DJ speakers they put on small scale marriages. I was gasping for breath. I was kind of convinced I’d not make it to the temple.

But I did it. I was the last guy to reach there. It baffled them. I mean I’m a fat guy, nobody expects me to climb mountains and stuffs. Mr Gabbar patted my back.
The girls were already there, without a hint of sweat on their brows, clicking selfies at the base of the sky-high statue of the monkey God. As we sat for a group selfie, one of the monkeys stole a girl’s specs. We had to give him a whole pack of roasted grams to get the soecs back. Monkeys are shrewd, I tell you.

Clicked on the way….

We had missed the sunset, but the last smear of red was still there. We clicked photos and left the temple. Since gravity was now working downwards, girls and Mr. Gabbar joined us this time. Somebody dropped the idea of a bonfire, so we started collecting dead branches with some vigour.

I’d never felt so excited before, I must tell you. I mean who dreams of picking twigs in a foreign land. We got the flashlights and searched in the bushes. It was scary but exhilarating.

As I left Jakhoo, I made a secret vow to some day, get here with my…..alright, maybe I am too desperate. But when you have a beautiful experience, you add it to your bucket list.

to be contd….

Bloody Love

slitting the wrist and stuffs…😂😅

Yesterday, I came across this melancholic poem by Sameera, which made me kind of nostalgic. So I’d like to share this crazy memory.

I remember those crazy teenage years when I pined for Doctor. Gender-based animosity had perished by the time we reached class VIII, and in IX and X, my classroom was more like a lovers’ lane, where couples groped each other in the back benches as we (the monks) crammed French Revolution for upcoming exams. Love was in the air, and if you inhaled it enough, Cupid would himself get down to earth and push you into deep shit. It was a hormonal high for us – everything we felt was an overdose. We loved like nobody ever had, we hated like nobody ever could.

One of my friends fell balls down for this really dumb girl. He proposed her with a diary milk, a rose and a letter – with three grammatical mistakes – written in his own undiluted blood. Needless to say, the girl agreed. They all agree when they are in std. IX. Try proposing the same girl after she’s like three guys down, and you’d know how poverty feels.

Anyways, both of them, and the others really liked this bloody game. Every time they had a tiff or had to prove their love, they’d steal a blade from their dad’s shaving kit and give a small slash on the wrist. Blood would ooze out and all the misunderstandings would miraculously evaporate and they’d be groping each other in the back benches again. Sometimes I wondered if the girl was a vampire. She saw blood and it calmed her tits.

So yeah, blood sacrifice was a common ritual to resolve a conflict or to celebrate sadness. The deeper your cut went, the greater your melancholy. They were all reading Ravindar Singh back then, what would you expect.

So this friend of mine had cut marks all over his forearm. When there was no space left in the left hand, he moved to the right, and when that was filled up as well, he went to the left arm. Before he could move to the right arm, they broke up.

Slitting the wrist was such an important marker of love and grief that I thought I should give it a try. Cuipid had touched me by now, and I was head over heels in love with Doctor ( or so I thought). I really believed love was powerful enough to overwhelm your mind and make you do absurd things. I mean, according to cheesy bestselling romance, what’s love if it doesn’t kill you in the end. Damn those novels!

One day in November, when Doctor probably had her PMS or whatever, we fought and she stopped talking to me. So I thought it was quite depressing and I had to slit my wrist. Writers promise that physical pain helps you forget the mental agony. Plus, it was autumn and I had no porn. Plus, I was really addicted to her texts.

So I got a brand new knife from the local store. In the evening, I decided to do it. I googled how deep a cut would be okay, and it started sending me suicide prevention links. Anyways, I breathed in twenty gallons of air and got down to the business. I swear to God, the moment the blade touched my skin, all the veins became clear to my eyes. I could trace each of them, branching off right under my translucent skin, carrying life in a fluid red. The blade seemed real sharp. I dropped that idea. I’d seen in movies how people spasm when their jugular vein is ripped. Too scary to attempt!

I mean yeah I could die a Romeo’s death and maybe prove my love for her, but hell, I hadn’t even had sex yet. I didn’t want to go to heaven and find out that had I survived, I’d be having a kinky threesome with Janice Griffith and Keydon Kross ten years later. That would be really depressing.

But I was sad. So I had to hurt myself. How else would I be relieved! Everybody writes poems on debris, so I had to be one. But knife was too risky. So I’d to find something else.

There was another trend that caught me as quite romantic. Scribbling the lover’s name on your hand with a sharp object has its own elegance. I had seen depressed people do that in movies. And I was depressed. Damn I was heartbroken.

But Doctor has a really long name. One alphabet short of being a south Indian name. I could write her nickname but nobody would know if it was a real name or some secret, acronymed message for the illuminati. Moreover, I liked her real name more. So I chose to doodle her name on my wrist with a pen, and then to overwrite and overwrite till it was all bloody. I did it. Ah! Don’t ask me how. Annddd…

Fuck those novelists. Really. Goddamn. Physical pain and mental agony have different spots inside the brain. You can never forget a dead wife by amputating your pinkie, for example. Goddam it. Also, go for a goddam slash if you really want to.
Scribbling hurt for weeks. And I cursed all my friends who thought slitting wrist or torturing yourself had a point. I mean it wasn’t half as pleasurable as BDSM.

Our class had over 15 couples in std X. Almost all of them have broken up by now. No, Doctor is still clinging to her boyfriend probably (no idea). Teenage love doesn’t last long.

We don’t slash our wrists anymore. A few friends of mine guzzle beer or smoke Goldflake. I watch porn or try to learn something new. You don’t have to hurt yourself, because talking can heal deep wounds. This I have learnt.

If you ever feel depressed, start talking. If you don’t find people, talk to yourself. It helps. Well, you can always go back to blades. I mean I’m no judge but give yourself a chance. Love does not kill, emotions do. Get hold over them.

Okay now I have begun to sound like Sadguru, so I’d shoo off.

Bye bye.