A Short Synopsis of Monthly Debacles #2

Here’s March and April 😷

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Okay, let me carry on from the last post.

March

By March, the worst of the winter would be over…..
…Not that year.

– Neil Gaiman, Odd and the Frost Giants

Well, it was so much of workload that I had to break character. We even went to college at 5 in the morning and heaved gargantuan flowerpots ( check out the link for some mind blowing weight lifting tutorials -> https://youtu.be/BhEa5DuPheA ) that we picked from a mosquito infested nursery. We dug holes to set flag posts, got the whole walkway and all the rooms cleaned thrice, set the red carpet and flags and decorated the venue. It was fun though. I mean yeah I got bitten by a thousand mosquitoes and got muscles cramps and everything, but it was fun.
The seminar was fun as well, despite the mental breakdown it subjected the audience to. Especially, there was a speaker who was unsuccessfully trying to use the concept of magnetism to prove the existence of God. I could see the white-bearded God in the background, making a facepalm while shaking his head in disgust.

April

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.

– William C. Bryant

On 1st of April, I came back from the 2-day Shimla trip – I’ll write about the trip very soon – and slept like a log for 20 hours. When I woke up I could feel the muscles in my body, all of them stiff like a dead man. It took us some time to get over the bittersweet hangover and then it was college time again. Teachers were under the pressure to finish the syllabus, so they started fucking us right in the ass. We coped, somehow. That apart, something happened that taught me a very valuable life lesson – to never trust anyone. People are not worth your trust, better buy a pitbull.

That apart, I moved in with my classmate. It’s a nice place, and I have a large window by myself, and a balcony and three nymphets in the opposite house. That apart, there are grey skies, and hollering winds.

Well, that’s all for now. See you soon.

A short synopsis of monthly debacles #1 πŸ˜‘

because I’ve nothing better to write…

Well, a lot has happened in the last 5 months and I haven’t been able to write much. Right now I could write three volumes of A Suitable Boy in one sitting, that’s how charged up I am, but I have a tome of European History to guzzle down my wounded throat so that I can excrete well during the exam. I’d save time and effort by touching upon some great events that happened during the last few months and hope that comes out well. Not that many people give a damn, but here’s how life has been from 2018 –

JANUARY

Lots of people go mad in January.

– Karen Joy Fowler, Sarah Canary

Well, I certainly did when my mother told me my marks were drastically down, when they were actually just down by 0.28 sgpa and I’d topped the class. That apart, it was painful because I had to travel back to Delhi, leaving my family and friends and the memories in the ether of my lovely city. And I did not receive any special birthday wishes. And the reunion for which we had carnival-level planning, did not happen. Well, they had pizza at Dominoes (yes we have Dominoes in our city, folks, now we just need some traffic lights and a respectable literacy rate) and most of the time they were trying to decipher the ex-topper’s newly polished Japanese vocabulary. Well, the ex-topper is a nice girl, you know, it’s just that we did not pay enough attention to Haiku lessons in kindergarten, so our Japanese kind of sucks. And she won’t even say ‘thank you’ in English, so they had a hard time talking to a good-looking sushi. That apart, I broke Dhoni’s captaincy record by losing only 2 matches out of a million I played. I also hit Mama for two consecutive sixes, batting left-handed. Then I came back to Delhi and the homesickness sucked for a few days. Then I found Alex Mae’s porn channel and life was all sunshine again.

February

February is a suitable month for dying.

-Anna Quindlen

I want to kiss Anna for saying this. But I assume she’s dead because February passed like a million years ago. Nevertheless, this quote is poetry. You begin by thinking about roses and you end by thinking about roses, only that the entire spectrum of human existence is summed up in these seven words, between the two roses.

Anyways, I did not die. A few people were attacked in parks by Bajrang Dal, but they didn’t die either. Lots of sperm cells might have suffocated to death in the condom sheaths, assuming by the growing din around valentine.

Yeah I know you want to know whether I got lucky or not. Well, you see, sometimes life is more than about finding a right-sized vagina. So yeah, I simply fapped out to Christopher Nolan’s intellectual shit while preparing for the Seminar in the first half of March.

To be contd….

Walking Naked..

who you are..

The wind is blowing. Don’t bend if you want to please him.

– Ljupka Cvetanova

The last few weeks have been quite hectic. First, the chess tournament towards the end of February, where I played 6 matches, won 3, lost 2 and drew 1, and then the National Seminar on Banaras, for which I had the decoration department to lead. So to prove that I was a busy bee would not require more excuses. But the fact is that the beginning months of this year have been the downward fall of a wave. I am not enjoying my stuffs very much. The frequency of sketching has dipped, the quality and the quantity of writing have also slipped and I’m not liking studies like I used to in the last semester. I don’t watch movies and nor do I binge watch Nakamura’s knockouts on youtube. I don’t even play 20 games a day like I used to.

Sometimes I feel like a snake trapped inside his own skin, desperately trying to creep out of its cage. I wear personalities that I’m not. I walk towards my classmates with a smile plastered across my cheeks. It’s a fake smile but they can’t tell because I have practised it a million times. I’ve forgotten what my real smile felt like. The artificial is what I don when I am around people who expect me to behave like the character they think I am. I am just trying to meet their expectations, all the while suffocating under the skin that isn’t alive anymore. I have to act like Ravish – and it’s a terrible thing. It’s so much more perplexing than acting like anybody else. To make yourself into the man the world sees you as is the most disheartening act to pull off.

This morning, I was alone, walking under the mellow sun, with an empty bag on my shoulders. It felt so light – to have no weight pressing down upon you, to have nobody to answer to, nobody to care about. I closed my eyes and let myself sink in this beautiful isolation. The silence around me was enlightening. The warmth of the sun seeped right into my soul and in that moment, my little self lit up with joy. The joy of freedom, of liberty and light.

It’s so relieving to shed your skin and walk naked. That’s how nature made you. And that’s how you should be.

I watched that movie..

The most evil people bring babies to cinema halls…

Yeah. So a few Sundays ago, we stuffed ourselves with fried chicken, and when the breeze ran cold and the sun dipped low, went to watch this famous movie that got its ‘i’ dropped. You know which movie I’m talking about.

Now I’m not a very ardent cinemagoer to begin with. I’ve vague memories of my mother carrying me in her arms to this dreary cinema theatre in Banmankhi where they sold roasted peanuts during the interval. I also remember that they played the same stodgy crap over and over. The movie would be about a woman whose life was hell because her in-laws were children of satan and her own family was a cluster of eunuchs. The husband was a pisshead who fucked whores and had a debt equal to the combined GDP of Bangladesh and Myanmar, which he had acquired from shady people. Not to mention he was vile and violent and loved torturing his wife, which was considered an act of domestic violence before E.L. James came up with Fifty Shades of Grey. The mother-in-law had a PHD in finding faults and the father-in-law was an insignificant character who read newspaper and had no idea what he was doing in the movie. Also, there was unpaid dowry. So they’d beat her up pretty good. But the woman was a devotee of this Goddess, who for the most of the movie, perhaps enjoyed her plight munching popcorn in her higher dimensional sofa, who towards the end realised that the in-laws were pretty evil blokes and so she almost killed them but the good wife requested her to not to do so and then all those evil people somehow got magically transformed into gentle human beings in the last two minutes of the movie. I was a small baby back then, but I swear I knew I had landed up in the wrong place.

When I grew up, we didn’t go to movies that often. Mostly, it would be south Indian mass entertainment crap on Star Gold every sunday at 4 pm, full of ludicrous action sequences and incoherent songs. We did go to watch Veer in JVR Plaza, but it flopped terribly. I also went to watch Kambakht ishq with my mother, a disaster about which I shall talk later.

So anyway, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t drop at multiplexes every Friday, and so when we waited at the fast food counter on the second floor of Vikas Mall cleaning our 3D glasses with the tissue paper, I felt kind of excited. There was a Black Panther poster on one of the walls, and my friends started posing in front of it. There were dozens of army officials, strolling around with big guns. The mall looked like a battle camp.

We went in after a while. And it was a cheap ticket, so we got front seats. They were showing Delhi Police ads against child sexual abuse. The movie started in a while and we put on our 3D glasses. It wasn’t that clear. We’d to really focus hard to see the movie. This intellectual friend of mine tried to explain the science behind it. But when he started using words like refraction, we told him to shut the fuck up.

The movie was good. It could have been better had there not been (1) Stupid people entering the theatre all the time because they were probably given wrong timing or had alzheimer (2) Stupid couple always having to buy some stuff during the movie because they couldn’t buy it later (3) Stupid baby kicking at the back of my chair because, well, wait, why the fuck is it legal to bring babies in a movie theatre (4) Stupid aunties in the back discussing if Malik Kafur was that.

The glasses sucked but I managed somehow. There were very few hot scenes. Khilji was impressive and cruel. I wouldn’t even talk about its historicity because it is pointless. The songs were nice. The plot was a bit stupid. The story sucked towards the end. It wasn’t a Bajirao Mastani. Deepika was pretty but Aditi Rao Haydari looked like someone you could build Taj Mahal for.

Yeah. That was it.

A Train of Thoughts…

What’s a relationship all about!? πŸ˜’

The train was late by two hours. Then, they announced that it’d arrive at platform number 4, which was on the other side of the world, somewhere around Peru. I was exhausted by the wait – rolling the trolley bag felt like hauling a dinosaur egg. I dragged it through the stairway – my palms tired and sweaty – overtaking slow, fat, redfaced aunties who had travelbags so large that you could suspect them of felony. When I landed my bag at the dilapidated floor of platform number 4 and heaved a sigh of relief, they announced that the train would – due to some technical issues – now arrive at platform number 3. So I hauled my luggage and tagged my soul along to platform number 3 where the train showed up after thirty minutes. Before that, I tried to update my phone using railway wifi, but it seemed Indian railways was still using pigeon services, and I did not want another pretext for my brain to go crazy, so I unplugged and decided to write a scathing article about the appalling fall in the standards of government bodies. But then I was too tired so I just watched a flock of birds fly away in the stratosphere above the high roof of platform number one and wondered why don’t they ever get tired. I also wondered if Icarus’ flight was worth it, if what he experienced in those tiny fractions of time would ever be felt by Daedalus, and if history has been unfair to him. Then, the train arrived and I crawled in.

Okay. Let’s establish the facts first. I had a hot copassenger. But her husband was a bit of an appendix. A wheatish poker face. And he wore a black sweater on a dark pink shirt which gave me sort of a headache. And what’s unfortunate is that they had a child. Picturing them having sex was kind of weird – like watching a cult porn or something. In small towns, you can have hot chics plus dowry if you earn well. I can, too. But what attracts me more is intelligence, which is a rare thing in both the genders. This intellectual friend of mine has even higher standards about which we shall talk later.

So, what kind of women do I like?

Well it’s tough. I can’t draw an eligibility chart. I’m in the last year of my teenage and I don’t exactly find Gwen Tennyson hot anymore. I like girls who play chess. But that’s not all.
I guess I liked Doctor. No, not someone like her or someone of the same name or appearance or intelligence or DNA coding or whatever. Just Doctor. It’s not easy to explain, didn’t I tell you.

In a relationship you look for compatibility, because love cannot haul you all along. So yeah, maybe compatibility is the word I’m looking for. But I’m not sure. It could be all about blowjobs for all I know.

Anyways, they looked kind of happy. I mean almost perfect. Compatibility. Blowjob. Or maybe both. I guess you establish that much when you’ve made a baby together. It’s a huge risk, and if it turns out ugly or dumb, you would most probably not relish wiping poop off its ass for years. But then, what do I know. I don’t exactly adore them.

The train trundled on the eternal tracks, and through the tinted glass I stared out; trees, throngs and time past me in a flurry of blurred paintings. I realised I am passing a moment and this was enough to make me sad.

to be continued…

The Last Message

when you are gone…

On the bus, I was thinking what would remain of me when I’m dead. Not as in the physical me, but the overall me which is a synergy of all my physical and abstract components. I know how my bones will melt and leave fossils behind, I’ve read that bit in std. 8, but is that all that’d remain of me? I mean what about my experiences, my voice, my actions? What about the imprints I’ve left on the paths I‘ve paved?

Vsauce says that the photons you’re emitting now will continue to glow for eternity. I don’t want to outlive time, I just want to live till everybody who mattered is ashes and dust….

It was a long ride through the frozen air. The city was sleeping underneath a foggy shroud. Not a soul fluttered, not a leaf whispered. This behemoth universe was a lonely cemetery, where death came quiet, and spirits were scared to step into light. Through it rode this small violet intercity bus, trundling on Vikramshila Setu, a 4 kilometre long bridge over the holy Ganga, taking people towards an end.

We all are rushing towards one – a thought brushed my conscience. Some get it quick, some have to wait till their teeth rot and their existence reeks of obsolescence, and they’re better dead than alive. And then, I began wondering what if the bridge snaps and the bus falls down into this icy river below. It does. That’s death right there. It’s slow but it’s also quick. You’re dying, your cells are dying every second, time is killing you like cigarettes – slowly and painlessly. But you also die very quickly, when the last string snaps, when it’s time, when your body can’t bear it anymore, and you’re dead within seconds.

I pictured myself drowning, flailing my limbs and gasping for breath, my leg trapped in the bus, pulling me down with its weight. I felt my lungs fill with water, the pain unbearable. I felt the squeeze, the choking. I saw my color go blue, I felt my body go limp, I saw it swell and rot, right here, in the holy Ganga. Headlines would cover it for a day and then, I’ll slowly fade away, drowning deeper into the sea of oblivion. What would remain of me? A few specks in the fragile memories of theirs? And even those would keep getting smaller with time. I wondered if Doctor would remember me. I could see myself slowly slipping away from her live memory, lying forgotten somewhere amid the clutter in her big cerebral stowage. That’s the place where light doesn’t reach, where toys rust and where innocence corrodes. It was a scary thought, scarier than death itself.

I thought about leaving a message for her. Like that cool stuff they show in movies. I couldn’t bear leaving her without something. One last message, something she could listen to and remember me.

I gave it a thought. All the things I’d say to her if that’s all I could ever say and that’s all she could ever know. I won’t harass her with proposals for sure, and I won’t lament the tragedy we have shared so far. I would tell her small things I didn’t, like the time I was planning to gift her an empty nailpaint bottle because she liked them transparent, and the portraits of her stacked in my almirah, and about the time I missed her so much that I downloaded 3 apps to record her voice but she didn’t pick my calls so I went back to play store and gave each of them one and a half star. I’d tell her that we could have been together for the sake of humanity. I mean our kids could be, like, world chess champions. I would tell her that I wish she didn’t marry someone dumb. I would even suggest her an iq test for an eligible husband. I would tell her to marry a genius and have kids, I would tell her to write a book about herself and mention me in a tiny little corner. I would tell her to feel that cold December wind and remember me.

The bus jerked to a halt. A boy puked at the door. Within seconds, the air turned rancid. I nearly gagged.
Don’t think about puke, think about her. Think about the message.

To be continued….

Midnight Musings

Greetings are somwhat artificial…

I’ve squeezed myself to the size of a ragdoll. And wrapped two blankets around myself. Under normal circumstances that would be termed a suicide attempt. Through the atomic gaps between tightly bolted window shutters, an evergreen melody flows in. I can’t make out the lyrics but I can swear it’s from the black and white era. Those were great days. Typewriters, post cards and black and white movies – everything was so amazing back then. Now we have an app that shoos away mosquitos. Sometimes I wonder if human progress is actually just a descent.

My father’s not concerned with my stray thoughts. He’s busy warming his hands over the firepan. My mother is snoring in the other room and despite there are two people within a tiny sphere, I couldn’t have felt any more alone. No, it doesn’t have to do with the girls. It’s just this sinking feeling, this termite of the soul gnawing away at my self-esteem. Quite like Jordan. ( I always knew that movie was made for me. ) This simple life I’ve lived so far has left enough holes to worry about. I can’t bear this. I simply wait for my father to get over with his job and switch off the lights. Darkness will make me poetic. Or maybe I’ll just watch porn.

Well, it’s my birthday today. It’s 12 of midnight. I have deactivated my Facebook account long ago. I wonder if I should uninstall whatsapp too. I don’t like birthday or festival greetings. I don’t want to sound like a grumpy old man but it just turns me off when somebody who doesn’t give two pieces of shit about me texts me on particular days to remind me that they do give two pieces of shit about me. It’s so phoney that I wouldn’t even consider thinking about that. It’s not unbearable though. It just makes me disappointed to watch friendships getting reduced to the role of a calendar. I’d happily accept your birthday wishes if you talk to me on other days as well.

It was similar with Doctor. She’d call me on her birthday and sulk because I did not wish her at midnight. And after that I’d call her on my birthday and pretend to sulk, but I’d give up by the time she spoke, like, the second word of the conversation. It seemed sweet for a while, but then, it sort of turned into a responsibility. We didn’t talk for months, but on birthdays we had to wish each other and then resume not talking for months. It doesn’t work that way for me. I’ve got this reminder app in my phone. It sings nice birthday songs for me every year. Why would I need somebody to wish me unless they have, for example, a free holiday coupon for Hawai or something?

So this December I committed the sin of not wishing Doctor on her birthday. Well, I nearly texted her. I had the drawing ready. Everything was planned and prepared. But the existence or death of Schrodinger’s cat depends upon the opening of door. I was waiting for that sulky midnight call. Only a text flashed on my screen.

“Wish her birthday. “It was from Captain. Yeah, my friends remember her birthday, she’s that special.

The call never came. And the day passed. I deleted the message and tore away the pages. It wasn’t my ego, it was just the realisation that maybe she too understands the futility of such greetings.

To be honest, I didn’t feel sad or anything. It didn’t seem wrong or unfair, somehow…

The texts have started flowing now. I slot the earpieces in and play Faasle by Kaavish and Quratulain Balouch. It’s a coke studio song and it just gives you enough pain that you can bear without crumbling into pieces. Maybe someday, I will get that heartbreak. Right now, I’m just a JJ.