Diseases of My Life

Beautiful idle thoughts…



I had scarlet marks on the shoulders, so I wondered if I should be worried. The reason I was reminded of those was that I was half-naked, sweating in my chair, observing things so that my brain doesn’t collapse into dysfunction. The fan had stopped due to power cut and my Samsung Galaxy J2 had almost slipped into unconsciousness. It was sweltering hot and I started following my sweat beads out of boredom. Then, I noticed the marks. Red as molten prenatal daggers. Then, I decided to use up the remaining 11% of my phone’s charge and as I was flicking through the web, I googled my symptoms. 
Five signs that you have cancer – It said. 

It’s still okay – I thought, at least it’s not in my testicles. Yet. I don’t have a problem with cancer, but I’d rather not have it. There’s nothing romantic about cancer unless you’re kissing Shailene Woodley in front of 50 people in Anne Frank’s house. 

Talking about cancer, my mother would probably take that deal. Once she got a 6000 buck test and the reports declared – everything‘s normal. She was so disappointed she went for a second opinion which costed another fortune and gave the same result. 

She then called Goldy’s dad, who is a chemist but who my mother has more faith in than she has in a doctor, and asked if there was, by any chance, a teeny tiny possibility of her having a disease. He said no, but my mother insisted so he asked her to take pomegranate juice twice a day.

“Didn’t I tell you? There was something wrong with me. “She told us later. 

Anyway, I dismissed the very possibility of cancer. Why?

I read horoscope. There are only so many things you can do while taking a dump. I used to listen to radio, but since the birth of jio, I usually browse through news and stuffs. I read horoscopes too. Horoscope of today, of the year 2020, and which career suits my personality, and if a Sagittarius, by any chance, is the ideal match for a Capricorn. It never mentions death. Never says – Blah Blah Blah, and oh, maybe you’re dying today. It talks in hints. A few years ago, the newspaper horoscope asked me, for a whole month, to be careful on the road. Then, there was this Facebook post that promised to foretell exactly how one was going to die. The person had to type his name along with a few random letters and post it as a comment. 

When I did it, it suggested accident as the cause of my death. 

I have been so careful on roads since then. I avoid busy roads and walk on the extreme left of the footpaths. Sometimes you’d even find me in the hedges by the sidewalk, hacking my way through, plodding carefully to avoid any truck that might be running in the bushes. With trucks, and Salman’s driver’s car, you can’t take any chances. A National Highway runs through my city and the newspapers often publish the reports of entire huts getting trampled by insane trucks, killing everybody inside. Imagine you are cooking Biryani in your home and an 8-wheeler drops out of nowhere and squashes you like a lemon. That’s a nasty way to die. At least you get to see a hospital in cancer, and your body remains intact, in a single piece. As my stars suggest, when I die, I’d probably be lying in pieces, bloodied and cold. 

So I had to dismiss cancer. 

When I decided I didn’t have cancer, I felt kind of lonely. I am so single that even a disease won’t go out with me. Roads reminded me of Heer, and something crossed my mind, and this was the funny thing. I would always ask her to get on my left when we were walking. I thought it would be safer for her. The bikes would often graze my sleeve, and I’d almost wet my pants, but I’d keep her on my left anyway. 

Things you do for love!

Thinking of her made me even sadder. I needed to eat. When I’m sad, I eat in tonnes. I wanted to be locked with food, and AC. 

I was drenched now. Delhi is a shitty place, I tell you. And if you ever build a house make sure you don’t build it like my apartment. The heat was unbearable, so were the memories. 

I thought about Doctor and all the possible dots on earth where she could be. I was bored so I typed her name on Google and clicked search. It talked about the word origin and its meaning and NGOs by her name. I memorized the names and purpose of a few organizations. 

Things you do for love!


When Sargeant went out to score and be a man…. 😂

​”How was it? “I asked, pepped up as hell. He kept a straight face, let a feeble grunt followed by a sigh, a dramatic slump of shoulders and a slow shake of head. A few beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. And it was hard to believe he had sex just a day ago. 

“Mmmm…Great. “He said, his face exposing a drought of excitement. 

Had I put my dick inside a lady for the first time, I’d have stood on the top of Mansi Niketan with a banner and done a victory lap. I’d have distributed Kaju Barfi in the whole area. Hell, I’d have adopted Bangladesh or something, I’d have been so euphoric. After all, first sex isn’t merely an activity, it’s an event. 

Something was fishy here.

It happened in the latter part of my life in Ranchi. I had practically dissociated myself from the group and had only Lord Evans, The Rana and Heroine as friends. The rest of them weren’t my enemies either, but if I had a pack of Dairy Milk with me, I’d have certainly not shared it with them. The reason, the primary one, was that they were not my kind of people. I was an introvert. They were not. I liked to be alone. They liked to disturb me. I believed that God’s existence was questionable. They believed I was going to hell. Anyway, initially, they used to ask if I’d like to join them in their outings and adventures, and since I was happy just walking down the streets of Shyamli, I’d always decline. Soon, they got that I wasn’t a dreamy wanderlust like them but a lazyass bastard who would stand on his feet only because he is afraid of bed sores.

So they made a plan towards the end of the session. A two days stay at the tourist hotspot of Bihar – Gaya. Gaya is famous for the Bodhi Tree (It’s under that tree* that the most important event in Buddha’s life took place. No, not sex, it was enlightenment). Gaya is also famous for the Sarai Road and a dozen other red light areas that glow in close vicinity. Even a furniture would have guessed that they were not going for pilgrimage. 

“We are going there to pay our respect to lord Budhdha. “Protested one of them when I tried to extract relevant informations like rate-charts and everything. 

“Ah..I see. “I said, not wanting to argue. I wasn’t much interesting in fucking prostitutes (STDphobia and moral reasons and saving-it-for-someone-special shit) but apart from that I’m a pretty curious animal. For example, I have always wondered how many red-lights does it need to make a place a red-light area. And if they have a tv in brothels. What does a whore do when she is not doing her job? Masturbate? General curiosity about their lifestyle and everything. 

“Alright. Maybe Sergeant will fuck a nice little whore. “He admitted after a while. Sargeant’s lips stretched wider than the combined lengths of Nach Baliye winners. His blackish teeth reminded me of coal mines of Dhanbaad.  

“What is it like? “I asked Hymenchoo (I know, weird petname, but he was a veteran in fucking whores, a regular customer at Sarai, and it was his idea to travel to Gaya. )

“Aahh…aaahh….Oh My God…yeah yeah….aaahhh.. “He made moaning sounds that people made during tooth extraction before the era of anesthesia.  

“No. Not that. I know that. I mean how is it like visiting the place? ”

He stared at me like you stare at a maths problem. Then, he said,

“There are rooms. But first they show you a catalogue. Then they show you a room. If you are rich they show you a different catalogue. That’s why always go in my Holi clothes. Once they mistook me for rickshawpuller Ramkhelavan’s son.  ”

“What are the rooms like? “I was getting pretty excited now. 

“Tiny. Suffocating. But you won’t feel it when your cock is hard. “He laughed. 

“Oh. And? Are they pros or what? I mean what about Blowjob? ”

He burst into another bout of laughter.

“It’s not America. They don’t do such things. Most of them are experienced, but still not suck your dick. If you press hard, they’ll charge double or even more. I had asked a girl once. She slapped me hard. They are so angry all the time. But there was this little girl once. Frail and innocent. She started stripping as I entered. Totally flat. I asked her how old she was. She counted on her fingers and said 12. I was so disgusted I ran out. Then they showed me another room. “He said. 

It’s not as if I didn’t know a number of kids are thrown into prostitution, but hearing the live account of it is much more disturbing. 

“Who is Sargeant going to fuck? “I asked. 

“Not a minor, for sure. “He said. “Actually, I’m gonna give him my woman. “He winked at Sergeant. 

I wished them all the best and asked Sargeant to remember the event vividly. 

And since the moment Sargeant had returned, he had been mum as a mummy. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything? “I asked him again. Nothing. 

Another day, Hymenchoo came to my room and asked if I had a brand new extra toothbrush. I shook my head and asked him about Sargeant. He laughed for about 5 minutes and said,

“Poor guy went in with a tonne of confidence. Said I’d fuck her so nicely that she’d pay me. Came out 5 minutes later. Drained and exhausted and groaning like a dog. The whore was laughing inside the room. Red swollen penis is what he complains of now. ”

“HIV? “I asked.

“Premature ejaculation. “He said and laughed. 

The Shop of the Madmen

The house of the devil…and inflation…and fuck.. 😂

I visit there every 3 months. I sit in the big maroon armchair and stare at the scissors, the spraybottles, and other thousand tools plonked in the monochrome vases. The music is faint and soft, and the heads are bowed down; some eyes are glued at the morning daily, some at their messengers. Amidst this soothing symphony comes the brutal snipping of metal scissors, and bunches of wispy warriors fall like colonies of timber in the latter half of the 19th century….

I have been visiting this world famous barbershop of my hometown – B S Gents Parlour – since I was a little kid. Despite our relationship stretching longer than a decade, that cunning fox never misses a chance to rob me of all my money, and sometimes even makes me pay more for what looks like an awful haircut. Barbers are real fuckers, I tell you.

I won’t lie, I have always wanted good hair. In my childhood, I’d see that poster of Shahid Kapoor with light golden brown floppy hair, and the bangs, and crave having a similar hairstyle. But every morning my mother would pour gallons of coconut oil down my scalp, grab that stupid little comb and flatten my hair like you level roads under Prime Minister Gram Sadak Yojna. And I’d go to school, wondering if my mother got her certificate of beautician through bribes. 

Then, as modernised societies germinated, youngsters started keeping gelled spikey hair, all stiff and cold. My friends looked stupid because they overdid it. But it was trending and so I felt like giving it a try too. 

“People with spikey hair are potential menaces to the society. You know how a spikey hair boy pulled Munmun’s necklace and ran away. “My mother argued. I wanted to convince her that not all spikey-haired guys were sublime assholes but she won’t listen to me anyway. 

So every 3 months I’d go to B S Parlour and sit in one of the chairs, checking out the equipments and prepare myself for another ridiculous  payment he asks me to make. He’d smile and I’d watch his red sunken eyes and guess how many quarters he had last night. This is a funny conversation we have without actually speaking. He considers me a prey and I consider him a monster. Nice story.

“So, which haircut are you going to have today? ” 

“Make it short. “I’d say and shut my eyes, and concentrate on the music that played in a distance. 

In the end, I always got cropped hedges on my head that were awful even by Podrick’s standards. 

“60 rupees. “He said, one day. I thought he was kidding. 

“What? 60? ”

“Yes. “He said, and added, “Inflation. ”

Fuck economics

Recently, I went to a salon in Delhi. It was owned by a middle aged Muslim guy who possessed cold, no nonsense looks. I had not watched TV for the last 6 months so when he played that awful song called Ramta Jogi on a loop, I didn’t ask him to stop. Anyway, he kept talking about politics and Yogi Adityanath and appeared to be an extremist in nature. When I sat there, prisoned inside the cutting cape, his cold sharp steely scissors grazing at the back of my skull, he asked me if I supported Yogi Adityanath. There was a danger in his voice, a threat which he tried to conceal, but which permeated through anyway.

I did a few calculations. I thought about imparting in him a bureaucratic approach, however, when you’re immobile with a shrap object hovering over your head, you don’t act like the nuns of the high Septon. So I told him what he wanted to hear. I told him everybody was evil out there, and how Owaisi was actually a messiah, and it should have been a mosque there, and all that bullshit and then he smiled and asked me what kind of hair I would like to keep. 

“Trim it. Use trimmer number 4. Roll along the sides till midway. Cut the rest till 3.4 inches with scissors. Go easy on bangs. And of course, take care of the sideburns. “I elaborated. “And please change the song. ”

He nodded, switched the channel to Zakir Naik’s preaching, and then went on with the job. When he was finished my hair looked exactly like the one done by the dope at B S Parlour. I think barbers have a code. 

“60 rupees. “He said. 

“Inflation? “I asked. 

“Yes. “He said. 

Love Calculator 

I put her zodiac sign and I put my zodiac sign, and I pressed CALCULATE.
And our story just got weirder.

I had been wondering why Doctor and I aren’t together. I mean look at it this way – I’ve known her since she wore butterfly hair clips and brought baby sippy cups to school. I have seen her grow wackier and lovelier. And I have always adored her. She doesn’t find me that repulsive either, she just thinks I need to grow up. Whatever. 

Anyway, it’s been more than 6 years now, more than 6 years of knowing, enduring and holding on to each other, and ideally, we should have been together. I mean Maths says we should. 

I have spent a significant part of my life brooding over the most fundamental question of all time – why on earth is Doctor not going out with me? 

Well, probably because we live 300 miles apart, but that’s not what I meant. What I meant was I don’t understand why we are not a couple? 

She’s cute and I play chess. She eats books and I gobble biographies. She is a witty saint and I’m an oversexed nerd. We so add up, like Juliet and Romeo! 

But then, I started thinking about people who should have been together but aren’t. Like Hazel and Gus. And that’s when I realized, it’s The Fault in Our Stars. It couldn’t be explained in any other way. 

And so, I consulted our stars on google. 

Ive been an admirer of horoscopes, because even though half of what they say doesn’t make sense, the other half does. And they kind of explain why life sucks. I mean there’s no alternative, is there? 

So there’s this website which calculates various probabilities between two people on the basis of their zodiac signs. You have to choose your sign and your potential partner’s sign, and click on CALCULATE. As I did this, an enormous report card popped up on screen. 

The first category of evalution was – What’s Common Between Us? 

It said that we shared 40% of the hobbies. I was happy to see that. I don’t want us to be completely different, or completely alike. 40% is almost perfect. 

So maybe it isn’t the fault in our stars. Or maybe I should read further. 

She’d get bored and want to run away from you – the report card explained. Well, this was a cruel way to explain stuffs. With a heavy heart, I moved on to the next category, which said – Emotional Understanding

There was a long essay about the movements of Jupiter and other planetary crap, and in the end, it said she won’t be what I need or expect her to be. Something like that. 25% success rate. I needed to understand her better in order to overcome the emotional distance. The fuck. It wasn’t true. She is everything I need. Alright, not everything, but c’mon! I love her. 

I scrolled down. 

The next parameter was Values. And as the report card suggested, we had a chance of 20% in this regard. That was terrible. I was going down the slope, and even though this was the perfect answer to my question, it wasn’t giving me the pleasant bursts of satisfaction. 

The next categories were even worse. The communication between us was at 11%, trust at 10%, and intellect at 8%. 

I was shattered like my old Samsung screen, with holes and cracks and sharp pieces and a tinkle. I wanted to go back in time and drop out of my mother in autumn or something. 

As I scrolled down, my jaw dropped to the floor. The last category was sexual compatibility

Okay, Ravish, be a good boy and close the tab. NOW!

But what if it matches!? I mean nothing else showed a satisfactory  percentage. 

Are you mad!? You have seen her in butterfly hair clips, drinking water from baby sippy cup. Exit Now!

But I have to be sure. What if it’s 99 or something? 

I shut my innocent self and scrolled down with quivering fingers.  

The sexual compatibility between us was 3%. 

Theres something unbearable about the sexual contact of you two – it said. That left me aghast. I mean not that I ever think of her in a non-platonic way, but 3% is damn too low. What the hell, God!?

I did a few more calculations. And as it turned out, I had better chances to sleep with my brother. 

After all this, there’s one thing I can say with certainty – of all the sources that can explain my tragedy, the Horoscope isn’t one of them. 



Christmas Day

Another set of ordeals 😠

Indians are gung ho about Christmas. No matter which religion they belong to, they always forward that Happy Christmas message to everybody in their whatsapp contact, even if they don’t give a monkey’s fart about the well being or happiness of the person. Today, my inbox crashed with such messages. I was irked. I mean yeah it’s good to see communal harmony and all, but nobody sends me a Happy Ganesh Chathurti or Happy Eid or Happy Kinky Copenhagen. People are so flashy these days, they care only about dazzling, boombazzling festivals. People like the blinking lights, and so Christmas is the gala day for them. 

Maybe I am being a moaning minnie, but I don’t like people who send me these festive texts. There’s no point to it. 

Anyway, I replied all of them and switched off the data connection. Last year, we had gone – full family – to watch Bajirao Mastani, and I’d blogged about the couple who broke up in the cinema theatre. This time, it’s Dangal; I don’t like Amir Khan that much. Last year, we went to the Pearl too, where we had an expensive VAT infested dinner, which I’m sure my father still remembers with a pinch of regret. This year, I stayed home. 

Well. Except for when Sumit barged in and we went to Atif’s. He bought cigarette with my money once again. This guy is going to feature in Sponge and Mukesh ads soon, of course as a dead body. And this wasn’t even the worse thing about today. The worst ordeal was watching Fan. 

Maybe I really have weird tastes, or maybe filmmakers have gone wacky these days, there are so many stupid movies flowing in that it feels like a national tragedy. And why the hell SRK gives a nod to such offers is beyond the little scope of my brain. What’s more baffling is that Doctor absolutely adores that guy. She goes all dewy-eyed when we talk about SRK. 

Fan had so many logical loopholes that you could have left your brain at home before watching it. 

Anyway, it got better at night. As the world slept, I woke up listening to Tulsi Kumar. The lyrics were dedicated to her love, and she was asking him to come back. Bullshit. But beautiful. 

My Hot Bio Teacher : nostalgia #9


Just when I hit puberty, a hot bio teacher joined our school. She was an incarnation of Aphrodite, a possessor of everything that drives a man nuts. Long flowing tresses, errorless face, porcelain skin, slender waist, firm breasts, round ass, elegant walk, and tight clothes. To be honest, I just got a hard on picturing her. 

Anyway, those days the only literature I worshipped was Antarvasna stories. It was a website that served you countless sex stories, each with a title horny enough to seduce Baba Ramdev. Most of the entries panned to hot bio teachers, where a horny 16 year old student would get private tuitions from a sexy lady who had ethereal dimensions. All the ladies were 36-22-36, and sluts. The guy had a 9 inch long dick, or any size bigger than that of the lady’s husband. The boy would attend all the classes, but he never gave a shit about osmosis and all that crap. The only thing he wanted to do in life was to fuck that hotty. Then, one day, they would move to the chapter called reproduction, and it would usually be a cold rainy night when her husband would be away, when he would finally fuuuccck her brains out. 

But that, of course, never happened with me. Because most of the women in real world aren’t slut. Anyway, when she left the school the next year, five hundred something boys of our school found a common reason to sing the blues.

We spent years in the erotic fantasies of her, and all the while her memories slowly waned away. Now we couldn’t exactly picture her, but jerked off to whatever picture lit up our mind. 

Then, in std. VIII, she made a return. Since there were two teachers for the same post, we had a referendum. She won with a whopping majority. 

By that time, I’d started writing sex stories myself. That was how I utilised my Sanskrit notebook. Of course, puberty had hit me like a storm. 
My nights were heavenly now. In my fantasies, I’d united with her in every location of the planet, right from Eiffel tower to our school toilet. We even discussed her in lunch. 

The only pain in the ass was her fatso nephew. He was ugly as skunk, crazy as bull and fat as elephant, and so we had to keep away from him. But I’m quite sure he fancied her too. 

Anyway, she elaborated everything about plant reproduction, and every time she uttered ‘sex gametes’, I swear I nearly came. The sheer imagination of she uttering ‘penis’ was beyond bliss. 

But as it turned out, she never uttered penis. At least not in front of me. Just before animal reproduction, she quit teaching to marry a millionaire in the neighbor town. Happy ending. 

The English teacher taught us animal reproduction in the lunch break the other day. He didn’t look like someone who’d ever had sex. He was talking about the temperature of scrotum and all, and it was boring as Baba Ramdev’s yoga DVDs. 

I searched her on Facebook but her account was secured like Pentagon. Anyway, I have a photo of her and wherever I go, when people start bluffing about their hot schoolteachers, I flash her picture in front of their faces. Two days later, they come with their Bluetooth devices on, begging for the photograph. I tell them to fuck off. 

The Relative Bomb

It was a fine morning. Mellow sun, chirping birds, happy life.
And then, out of nowhere, dropped a RELATIVE. 😡

Recently, neuroscientists found out that listening to the song ‘Weightless‘ can reduce stress and anxiety by upto 65%. If you ask me, eliminating relatives from your life would fetch much better results. If you are a student in India, you already  know what a pest relatives are. If you’re are an American, imagine a guy who drops in at your house uninvited, asks for free tea, emotionally harasses your kids and sermonises you the nuances of parenting. Basically, a relative is an intellectually dwarf runt whose grey hair is the only marker of his age. He pretends to be wise, but he is exactly what Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary defines as ‘Moron’. 

So yesterday, a relative visited my house. He was potato-shaped, his face as if someone pushed the nozzle of a bicycle pump through his nostril and pumped for two hours every morning. He wore sneakers with formal pants and a jacket. If he were any weirder, he’d have featured on National Geographic shows. I had never seen that guy before. Even from a distance, he radiated a negativity that could roast all hopes black. 

My mother introduced him to me. 

“My son. “She said, proudly. 

“Oh. What are you studying? “was what he asked. 

“History Honors. “I said, preparing myself for a viva. But he didn’t look like someone who could have the intellect to understand history. 

“What do you like in history? ”

“Ancient history. The one that deals with Australopithecines and early homos. “I threw the jargons intentionally. 

He nodded and asked me what I wanted to do in life. I have been answering this question since I was in std. IV, and yet, every time somebody asks the same, fresh beads of sweat roll down my forehead. 

There’s no single purpose of my life. I want to do so many things and be so many people that a decade will fly before I’m finished telling you my answer. 

Anyway, he had zero interest in my dreams. What he wanted to know was how much I was hoping to earn post graduation. He wanted to know my future bank balance, because that would solely describe all my merits. It’s astonishing how different  people view things differently. 

“UPSCE. “My mother spoke for me. 

“That’s good. Start coaching from now. The earliest you enter in the battlefield the higher are your probabilities of coming out as a winner. ”

“Umm…I’m enjoying college right now. I like the textbooks. I love reading. Preparations are mechanical in nature, and I’ve just stopped being a machine. ”

“Oh! You’re a kid. You don’t know anything. You’re in Delhi, your parents have invested so much in you, all that for a simple graduation? You could have done that in Purnea! ”

Did he just compare DU to Purnea!? Alright! I have grown up in this city and it is a piece of my soul, but it’s not better than DU in terms of education. 

“I don’t think so. Purnea and DU can’t be compared. ”

“You don’t know anything. Just because you are in Delhi, don’t underestimate the institutions of Purnea. ”

“I’m not underestimating Purnea. I’m saying it’s a ridiculous comparison. DU represents India at international platforms. They have well qualified teachers, not the ones who’ve bought PHDs from corrupt distance education institutes. ”

This got him. Maybe he too had a PHD.

“You are so much a kid. You don’t know anything at all. Listen to me. ”

I would have countered all his points and forced him to fall flat on his face but my mother gave me a look that said – don’t argue, he’s older than you. 

That was the end of it. I never stopped him. I just nodded for the next forty five minutes as he elaborated his multi-pronged strategy that would make me crack UPSCE in the first attempt. He then gulped the tea and wished me all the best in future. 

As he left, I shut my eyes and pictured him walking on the road, blabbering his multi-pronged strategy to the air around him. An eight wheeled truck comes roaring by and flattens his existence. 

I felt Weightless, and happy.