Of vodka and apple juice...

...and I almost forgot the username.

"...So, whats up?", she asked.
"Oh, an overly glamorous life. A few girlfriends here and there, some one night stands and the such."
I was as pleased at the reply as a child would be after calling someone a name his mom had especially warned him against and especially after he was name called first.
She knew, and I believe pretty much everyone knows, that there is as little a probability of anything mega or atleast something worth telling happening in my life, as something not happening in a hot girl's life.
Hot girls and me. Vodka and pickle juice. Diabolical in a certain way, the species are. So much more the perceived availability, that much more the tangible unavailability. Take for example the case of this girl...umm...I'd call her more classy than hot. Since classy is hot for me, she is hotter than a lit cigarette tip. Percieved available for what now seems to be a genuinely infantile rationale. The rationale being that she agreed for a cup of tea the first time she was asked. That also was the second time we talked. Very big deal no? Pah, no! The story, as a matter of fact ends there. Nice tea, great conversation, thank you sir - hence second time tea? No sir, 'I just had apple juice'.
I am starting to believe in the theory of a single creator. Special designers for the genus and the species. Lack of imagination can be an attribute to these designers for their creations are aall the same. Or atleast perceivably same because we ordinaries are all the same. Not our fault, though. We are just born , not created.

200 killed in a country of a billion and a half. Big deal? I have heard people condemning the rest of the resilient us waking up the next morning, forgetting about the previous day and walking to work. What is wrong in it? I mean, isn’t it wonderful that you are alive and breathing and getting to see what unfolds? Isn’t it wonderful that you are getting to blog and comment and appear smart about the whole thing? Isn’t it wonderful to think that the air you are breathing might as well carry the scent of blood the next moment and that you are privileged to breathe now? What is wrong then in living and sleeping and waking up and going to work when you get to? Can you be sure you are not one of the 200 in the next blast? I can very well imagine 199 of those 200 thanking God and going to work the very next day after the Ghatkopar blasts, after the Gateway of India blasts, after the Mulund blasts, after the ’93 blasts, just like us.

This is precisely called slow poisoning. You kill 200 in a country of a billion and a half and it hardly matters. The agendas are met and not a feather is moved. You see every man worth a dime commenting and appearing smart, every channel theorizing brand new theories till they get enough air-time to fill their pockets and every politician condemning the acts and seizing the opportunity to gain precious political points. This goes on for a week or two and then suddenly everything takes a backseat and everything is forgotten because its elections at so-and-so. So what is wrong if I wake up the very next morning and go on with my life than be a mere hypocrite?

The whole attitude, though, is like thanking heavens for letting you live for just one more day or a minute. Being a reasonable being, one would rather value his life and take control of it than live at the mercy of heavens. But how and when does one begin to value his life if even such incidents don't move as much as a whisker? What is required here is a shock so huge, everyone becomes a victim. So that there's no space left for resilience, no place to go and nothing to do but revolt. Revolt for our own lives and for a change. A 200 people here and a 50 people there, dead or alive, don’t bring about a revolution or even a minor change, quite evidently.

Instead of doing your fireworks here and there, why don’t you nuke us, fellas? Why don’t you, for our sake? Some place where it hurts a little less but which would shock us out of our pants and make us get to the road than to work. All of us.

There are moments in your life which you always want to hold onto. Moments, so special, they seem to define in a single instant all the joy that is there in your life. Times, at which when you look back, they seem to be posters of your favorite classic movie. And a song to associate with them. Memories so beautiful, your heart aches.

Mundane activities gain special meaning just because it was shared by someone close to you. The most ordinary seems extraordinary just because you know someone had felt the same way about it. You feel good to be alive. The air around you seems so fresh, you overbreathe. Life, at times, does seem beautiful even with all its imperfections. Or maybe, the imperfections make it seem more beautiful. Such an irony. You live for the future but the past, your memories, gives your life all its meaning.

Misery has no face
In her sorrows she’s hidden away
The life that teemed a seemly grace
Did bid away her living days
Misery has no choice
In defying joy she dishonors God
And falls from heaven’s lofty perch
To flow in the river of thoughtless indecision.

Weaving, weaving, forever weaving
A tapestry of lost grace.


My Misery. The darling who taught me to live, to survive, to breathe. The angel, my company for four years. And now she is backing away. The end of a bittersweet relationship. The ones where the parties involved invariably get back for a reunion. I'll welcome her, for she taught me to live, to survive, to breathe. For she is my God.

The Great Gig in the Sky

A lady in a white dress floating like a silk ribbon in an infinite silver-white gray-black sky, stretching across its vastness, holding onto nothing. A man in black shades standing in an ashened earth, looking at the sky, at the ribbon, the lady. This is the image I get every time I hear TGGITS. Effigies of anxiousness, of loneliness, of hurt and of all that I set to achieve and I could not, of death keep flashing before me like nasty ogres.
It’s like seeing your own dead self. How would it feel? To see yourselves dying. Lonely, underachieved, holding onto life, which is past you. Chilling. The lady is me. And the man is me too. Right now, I am afraid to face death and so I can’t face life. Explains why he is wearing black shades.

It's not been a long time since I last visited blogger. I visited it yesterday. My blogpage. She was just there, sitting pretty, my black beauty, untouched, still holding her cherry intact except for one small instance of violation at the top. Her stats have changed little over time, except for small changes here and there in her profile. "You can see me, but you can't touch" - that's what she seems to scream with every pore of her black skin. So people come , see her in profile, take a peek, sometimes do a boo and run. Just run!
But to the ones who choose to stay back, to suffer, oh, how different she is. A perfect host. Does the welcome, white smiles all around. Smiles which throw away a whole lot of her, or so it seems. Fastidious to some, dapper to some and ugly to some. She accepts all in her vanity, unawares to what the world thinks. "Stay on", she says, "and you might as well have a good time. But hey, thats no guarantee - you can go deeper, discover me and I know you will not touch me - I suck , and you can leave if you want. Theres a lot of doors there in the right. You can choose any and I hope you had a good stay."
Slut in the mind, chaste otherwise. My da'ling, neglected blog!

A familiar cry of the engine. Road lay down itself for you like a slave, like a whore. Use and They shall abuse. Trees pass by like strokes of a painter’s brush. Faceless beings like specks of dirt on a white canvas. The shadow of you on a thick cloud of exhaust breathed out from your latest pursuit. Forth ho, before you are lost.

A crooked scooter waiting for his master. A murdered [1] truck, his master lost. Many beads of red on its face. Free and happy and dead. Woman riding the pillion. Hip drawn back, chest ahead. Cheek resting on a cushion. Rider resting on a softer one. Cog up, move ahead. What you see is what you don’t get.

A proud dog barks. A prouder one sleeps, in a pool of sauce. Liver out, eyes in. Red, hot bitch. Highway to another (spell-check: a nether) world.


[1]: Murdered by whom, one might ask. Mr. McFate of course, who else?

Your only defence against your own people is sleep. A long, long, long sleep.