She

You must read more before you choose to strike me down. Otherwise, I will exist, in corners of your mind, and in rooms of mine. It is the only weapon you have against me, to absorb whole length sentences like walls of the ocean bed, indescribably muted. The floor of the ocean is where I learnt to walk, a place where many seas met, merging amniotic fluids with memory, gene upon gene. That is the violence that bought me to you. The violence of birth and the greater violence of living it. I never wanted to live, to breathe, as insignificance does but I was born and hence, I must endure it.

Endurance is a complex word, it does not betray emotion, the only thing the word tells us that it exists to bring strength and despair together, I can endure life, perhaps even death, though I know not much of it; but you must remember me. Always, unfailingly, you must remember me and believe with all that you are, mind, body and soul, that I am there.

He looked up in the sky and saw her face in the white clouds above. She smiled and disappeared behind nothingness.And then it rained.

I look at the red lilacs strewn across the garden. They look oddly familiar. I pick one up and open its petals, revealing dark blue pollen stalks that taste like long lost honey bees. I toss it back and pick up a stalk of grass, crushing it with my forefinger. It allows me crush itself, giving up its sovereignty in the face of brute strength. We are all stalks of grass, our destinies limped by hands of  time. I crush some more of them.

I am awake for no particular reason. Our lives are fragile, we must end them in the arms of the one we love, before cracks invade everything we touch, including each other. Time takes away what never was overs, but was promised to us by genes and fables.

I think of her with my eyes closed. She comes to me instantly. I think of her smile and take in the silence that surrounds me. A brief painful terror holds me close. I open  my eyes and the world is new again.

A Study In The Life Of An Artist: Critical Perspectives From Marginalized Voices

There exists almost no distinction between critical postmodern art and the emergence of the neo-proletariat ideals that have begun to (re)populate the world in small measures. Both work on the singular premise of dismantling existing structures of form and power by subtle rearrangements in societal plateaus. For instance, we can observe non-linear ideological shifts in the way the West is engaging itself with the rest of the global community compared to the half a century back when capitalism as a tool of coercion had gained incredible universal momentum. Art and resistance evolve in similar ways, and share a common ground when to comes to (de) idealogizing the present. That is what art truly represents, resistance/persistence, and the Artist becomes the first and final martyr in the entire process. The Artist which indulges in postmodern art also willingly/unwillingly engages with the war of the neo-proletariat. Power is what the Artist despises and what he ironically comes to use when the dismantling of structures begins. Unlike a mythical context of literature or art, the Artist employs present day tools to create an alternate universe of possibilities, which in turn aims to depopulate the present world of stagnant ideas. This circle of reluctant but inevitable martyrdom repeats itself universally in both time and space. What is interesting to note is the demystifying effect of critical postmodern art on present day power mongers. I do not argue about the absolute possibility of artistic utopia but rather the changing nature of the Artist in today's time and age. An artist whose work I'm intimately familiar with argues that it is not possible to reconcile the difference between a falsified grandiose history and present day post critical nuances of art. A painting cannot be traditional when it comes to form and progressive when it comes to the object simultaneously, it must choose either of the two. Cubism and Dadaism were two such defined centers of artistic gravity, both existed only to inspire and recreate the circular representation of artistic utopia. But neither one of them 'began' with such specific goals, like most movements captured in homogenized nomenclature, these two were also results of pedantic and pedagogic classifications.

fig. 1. Roger Brown. Talk Show Addicts, 1993. Etching and aquatint, 22 1/4 x 29 ¾ in.

(Courtesy of the School of the Art Institute of Chicago)

In the above picture, 'Talk Show Addicts' by Roger Brown, there is a frightening yet prophetic view of urban degeneration via the medium of television. Proximity among neighbors is only possible through a medium controlled by a select few. The dystopia of the Artist is the utopia of the Capitalist. The Artist of today's age has been entrusted with the humongous task of (re) creating 'Art' in a controlled environment of 'mass media', herein lies the ultimate contradiction, for the medium is both the 'enemy' and the 'tool'. This negotiation of being mesmerized and being disillusioned comes at a mental toll for the Artist whose purpose is validated by the very presence of what it seeks to 'destroy'. The products of coercive ideologies such as capitalism are puppets in response to an artistic vision that seeks universal fulfillment. The Marxist philosophy of socialist possibilities is mere lip service to any individual who seeks institutionalized anarchy, another contradiction that the Artist must deal with in order to create parallel self flagellating universes. 

Remembering A Fallen Teardrop

"There are many types of monsters that scare me: Monsters who cause trouble without showing themselves, monsters who abduct children, monsters who devour dreams, monsters who suck blood... and then, monsters who tell nothing but lies. Lying monsters are a real nuisance: They are much more cunning than others. They pose as humans even though they have no understanding of the human heart; they eat even though they've never experienced hunger; they study even though they have no interest in academics; they seek friendship even though they do not know how to love. If I were to encounter such monsters, I would likely be eaten by them... because in truth, I am that monster."-  L, Death Note Rewrite.

Thus says 'L' in Death Note, a Japanese anime manga I've been addicted to since quite some time. Though the series is about a supernatural notebook that allows the beholder to kill anyone by writing their name in it, it essentially deals with the moral decline of its main protagonist, 'Light Yagami'. Furthermore, the cat and mouse chase between the brilliant yet aloof, L and the equally brilliant yet cold, Light Yagami, is the most interesting interaction I've seen among two characters in some time. During the course of the series, we see an inevitable moral decline in both the characters, more so in Light as he holds the ideals of justice close to his heart and the pen to vanquish evil close to his hands. Deduction and an amoral commitment to the task at hand makes both the characters almost indifferent to people around them, their purpose being a purpose, nothing more. Watching this reminded me of the social experiments I indulge in and how they alienate me from reason and emotion. The last one shattered me completely, in fact, I'm still reeling from the effervescence of its birth, love and now untamed melancholy.

I, perhaps, for one, loved too soon and too much. Perhaps I did not even love a woman, it may have been an ideal for my long repressed intimacy issues. But retrospection is useless, to have loved and lost is better than to have never loved at all. Again, I emphasize. I did not love a woman, I loved an ideal, a fixation which arose from the perverse and the divine. It's over now. Shamefully, for me; depressingly for her. I could get her back, of course I could, I am a man after all. I possess what is needed to drag her back in my world. But I choose not to. Like Light of Death Note, I choose to suffer and burn for some great idea; but unlike him I am not aware of what it is. What is amusing for me right now is how I manage to see 'her' even in animated cartoons. It seems as if she is everywhere.

I will burn for her, immolate my soul for her and perhaps find peace in the recesses of the aftermath. Perhaps. I use the word perhaps quite often, it is because I know nothing definite. I do not even know if my raison d'etre is definite, fixed. I have aged by more than ten years in the last one year, you can see it in my face, the lines etched from grief and perhaps, some wisdom. I am no longer the master of my own choices, the only choice I have made is that of destruction. The trajectory of a great fall is always proportional to its rise. The rot and fire, the burning flames within, the putrid mix of acid and alcohol in my belly, the drugs in my bloodstream, and the mighty fall. All celebrating an idyllic winter, a dying lover's last breath.

In a land far from yours,
Far from the rights and wrongs,
Away from the mighty and the weak,
Forgetting promises, smiles and sorrows;
Let us meet, forever and for once, now and then.

I will love again, but not the way I have loved you. I refuse to forget or even, forgive you. I vehemently refuse the solace of your waiting arms. I can afford to do that, for some nights you come to me, in the gentlest of my dreams, in the stormiest of nights and in the burning tears reaching out for my lips. You make love to me, forgiving everything, your body rhythmic against mine. We become one, the heat of your legs my solemn refuge. Love me even if I do not love you back, make me cruel and unworthy of your fuck.Then there are days you don't come and I rage against myself.

October, and possibily November

There is chaos and anarchy in my eyes, mutually inclusive exclusions forming divisive methodologies to create personalized accounts of mythical tales, illusions within seclusion. A very painful sort of rage with an innate desire to alienate myself from one and all rises within me. Simple words cannot do justice to my state as my emotions swirl with complex intentions, only to create fissures in my mind. Curiously, a denial of life is so strong within me that I long to welcome ruin with open arms. Reach the very abyss of existence to find a lowly corner of sordid happiness. The paradox is that isolation is the right of the mighty, the weak cannot have it. Society engulfs the weak completely, it insidiously creeps inside the weak man's life, his thoughts and even his emotions. My thoughts and emotions are so overwhelming that I feel crushed under their weight. By my own logic, I am weak.

It is a sad confession.

Mis-taken-anthrope

My disappointment with my own life stems from thwarted expectations and excess optimism, both, by the virtue of their existence should render me a misanthrope. However, I must admit, although painfully, that I am not a misanthrope at all. It would both be selfish and pleasurable to be one; to easily escape reality and the wounds it serves now and then, but I cannot be human in my endeavors. I detest mediocrity and therefore I must resist it all costs. Social interaction is a powerful tool, both of failure and of success, the path you choose or rather the path which chooses you depends on the sort of people you meet in life. People make all the difference in the world, they mold your identity as you mold theirs, they influence you as you influence them. It is this symbiotic relationship among two individuals that creates social extensions. However with the advent of technology, these extensions have become extremely complex. The individual is no longer isolated, the gaze of technology is constantly upon him. From facebook to cellphones, people are constantly connected with each other, therefore human emotions and relations have now taken a turn for the worse.

My personal problem with the whole rise of social and technology matrices is that they have almost destroyed the scope for personal interaction. Even genuine personal interaction between two people has remnants of previous aforementioned matrices. The cell phone is the one to blame. An emoticon has substituted real life smiles, a message has replaced words and 'likes' have done away with hugs of appreciation. Wherever the latter exist, they exist with semblances of the past. I, for one, have lost the ability to love or hate completely. I am possibly stuck in a limbo of mixed emotions, of anger and passion, and of love and indifference. These dichotomies are further fueled by the sort of people I meet. Hollow souls and empty minds make one poisonous cocktail and I seem to be surrounded by them. Perhaps I am at fault here, maybe I am asking for too much from this indifferent world of ours but even as I write this, I know I am lying. The world is a beautiful place, full of gentle and intelligent beings; perhaps I've been looking in the wrong places.

The most painful aspect of my life is to see mediocrity effectively mimic greatness. If I could address the face of all the whining,pathetically mediocre people of this world who are dependent upon the producers to sustain themselves; I would say what Carl Panzram said years back, "I wish all mankind had one neck so I could choke it!". Of course the only difference between me and him is that I am after the vultures. Does it not bother them to feed upon others, to wriggle like worms, to suck blood like leeches, to ask and beg, to play with the emotions of the sympathizer and finally move on to other sources of prey. I vehemently refuse to be abused, misused and finally deemed foolish by my own eyes. There will be no "Sanction Of The Victim" when it comes to me, no sacrificial lambs to offer you all. Evil is impotent, it seeks its erection from the rape of the 'good'. I refuse to be your whore, This particular piece of my furious writing stems from anger, I am angry at the fact that 'evil' made me doubt my own self, made me crave for misanthropy in moments of despair and seek shelter from those who are themselves leeches.

As I ask today what was once asked from me; "You have been scorned for all those qualities of character which are your highest pride. You have been called selfish for the courage of acting on your own judgment and bearing sole responsibility for your own life. You have been called arrogant for your independent mind. You have been called cruel for your unyielding integrity. You have been called anti-social for the vision that made you venture upon undiscovered roads. You have been called ruthless for the strength and self-discipline of your drive to your purpose. You have been called greedy for the magnificence of your power to create wealth... Have you stopped to ask them: by what right? - by what code? - by what standard?", I still have no answer, however, I am yet to give up on this world or my own world.

Et tu, Brute?

When you are falling in an abyss of self loathing, the darkest epiphanies crawl beside you wreaking havoc upon everything you have created. Betrayed and thwarted by the world at large, you struggle to breathe,  simultaneously marveling at your own foolishness to fall in the same trap you created. Your past is negated by your present and what remains is an ashen future, obscure and meaningless. That slit upon your wrist seems a genuine way out of this pandemonium but bonds of suffering are never so easy to break. The darkest hour is no longer a fantasy but a surreal reality, painful and torturous, the masochist in me is quite proud, the human feels quite aborted though. I was not always like this though. I reveled in the reverie called life, i worshiped joy and happiness and sought it eagerly, hungrily waiting for moments that would inexorably lead to several infused smiles within my heart. Clearly all that is no more, annihilated by forces i failed to foresee, i was subjected to wave upon wave of pure unrelenting pain in mere moments. I had sought to bridge destinies but my own destiny is now hazy, shards of glass and broken,multiple distorted images.I should have known better, Fallen roses are seldom picked up. Several times i have stood against odds unfathomable to most men and i have survived, but odds against life are no longer what i battle but rather the inner, parasitic hollowness of mine. I mayn't have fallen so hard had it not been for the the fact that i trusted too much while journeying through the jungles of my personal nadir. The reasons of my fall are both inanimate and animate, and it is this animate which makes atonement all the more arduous. I may have been called a number of things but not foolish, now i seem to have lost that remaining chunk of respect too. I am now officially foolish. Go on, dear world, make the most of it, devour me completely; while i am still down.

Fallen Roses

She was often unsure of what she was doing but this time,she was absolutely clueless.Her family would never allow such a match.It was true that he was intelligent and a good man but even if was the most eligible bachelor in the entire world,they still wouldn't let her marry him.He was,bluntly put,not of their caste.Why was she still clinging on to him?Why could she not bring herself to leave him forever and move on?Is this Love,she thought despairingly and if it was why did it have to be so painful .Why was everything so difficult in life?

He would understand if she left him.He always did.His large black eyes were deep like the ocean and they took everything within.When she raged at him or cried upon his shoulder,his comforting eyes looked into hers and made her warm.Warm with joy,with comfort and with hope.He was always there for her,like a silent rock who had pledged his life to the raging seas,he always stood by her no matter what she said or did.His silent devotion made her cringe.He knew she could never go against her family but still he was there,by her side,comforting and smiling.He was a good man and deserved better,she thought.She tried to fight with him numerous times,trying to distance herself so he wouldn't feel any pain but he was no fool.He always knew her intentions,he knew her bickering was symptomatic of her frustrations;he simply knew everything.He knew her completely.Both of them were hopelessly in love.Both knew the outcome of their doomed existence but both lived and continued to love.They had reached a stoic understanding of their fate.Their love had transcended marriage and society.Both could lead separate lives,marry someone else,have children and still could go on loving each other till their last breath.

But it always hurt her,she could never reach that spiritual and philosophical plane that he had achieved.She could never imagine life without him.His laugh,his smile,his soft gentle hands,the way he looked in her eyes,his soft,comforting voice and the way he made her feel;like a princess,like only she existed in the world and nothing else.When they were together the world melted in shadows and memories while nothing else mattered.Those moments defined life itself,everything else was a painful blurred memory.She felt alive when she was with him,life began to have a reason of being,she wanted in those moments to live,to breathe and to smile.He changed everything,her mind,her emotions and even her identity.She became someone else,much different from what she had been bought up to be.Her face softened,her voice had vitality and even her stride changed.She felt exuberant to the point of lunacy.He empowered her.He made her complete.

She wanted to die.She wanted to slit her wrists and leave this world forever,a world which refused possibilities of love,a world which was indifferent to her existence.But she never did anything beyond contemplating it in moments of lament,for she knew he would destroy himself.Not merely kill himself but destroy his very life.She would die and leave the world,he would live and die everyday.She lived for him ignorant of the fact that he had precisely the same reasons for living life.Both lived.Both suffered.Each day passed,the sun rose and set,each day she she woke up and wept.He had no answers for she asked no questions.She had been raised by her family,they had fed her,loved her;she couldn't just betray them because her heart belonged to someone else.They owned her life while he owned her heart.Life had no easy answers.She could not risk her parent's shame.She chose them.

Her wedding was a lavish affair.Relatives from far and away were called.Sweets were stuffed in their mouths,pictures clicked,blessings obliged.The bride sat on the mock throne on the stage with her to-be husband.Aunts commented how fair she looked,a detailed observation would have revealed a pale complexion and deathly demeanor.She had stopped thinking;not today but some months earlier when she had conceded to her parent's choice,a well groomed-educated boy of a traditional business family.Her mother had commented that her duty was over and she could now die peacefully while her father had smiled at the poetic exaggerations of his wife.The daughter had not been consulted about her feelings.Assumptions were the order of the day.As she sat frailly on the pseudo-majestic throne,she remembered the day when she had broke him the news of her marriage.He was impassive,he was quiet,he was shattered.Within his mind he always knew that this day would eventually come but the actual finality of the moment paralyzed him.His heart began to painfully coil as she spoke those words,those final words of parting and tender pain.He held her close,whispered words in her ear,looked deeply within those now-wet eyes and walked away.

The auspicious moment as decided by the chuckling,pot-bellied pundit drew closer.Finally it was time and the two walked towards the holy fire that would unite them forever.She walked,matching her partner's stride,numb with realization of the finality.Formless shapes appeared before her eyes and she began her part of the holy rites,dutifully observing each action as she was told.They say your whole life flashes before your very eyes when you die.She was not dying,simply getting married but He flashed before her eyes.His soft caresses,his husky voice,his enveloping frame,all came back to her as she began to encircle the holy fire with a man she barely knew.Each step erased her previous identity,she was no longer a girl,but a woman whose life would now revolve around her husband and unknown spheres of domesticity,not around Him.When all the rites were over and her forehead glistened with perspiration and vermilion,she allowed herself a single tear.No loud wailing and torrent of tears as custom demanded from a newly wed bride but a single tear.It was the final gesture of her love for Him.She walked into the fading night with her husband rightfully clutching her right hand.She glided into a new world,her mind erased of the past and her heart hollow of all emotion for she knew He had left her world forever.



She was wrong.They were destined to meet years later.

Complex/Komplex

We all are actually dead.You and i especially.We have lost the ability to create new thoughts,to give birth to genuine ideas,of thoughts which have never been thought before.All we do is to recycle and reuse thoughts that are being passed to us from existing and dominant nodes of power.Where is our Revolution?In our books,in art house cinema or some dingy old corner of a shoddy pub where speech is ALWAYS predominant to action??Where is your CAUSE?The will to live,the reason to breathe and the melodies of our heartbeats;all are just vague,dull,repetitive entities.I cannot even develop a referential point for a non conformist argument because everything is corrupted.I feel existentially oppressed.The oppressor is a chimera,the revolutionary must become a chimera too in order to overcome oppression.

The CAUSE should be paramount.The very top of the holy pyramid.Its existence is eternal,humans and their actions become both meaningless and meaningful,both descriptions adhering to different frameworks,the particular vs the universal.

As Che said: It is not a matter of wishing success to the victim of aggression,but of sharing his fate.

The revolutionary must live for the cause,burn to illuminate,fizzle to ignite.My cause lies within the very layers of my existence.Its spark,as i understand,is bright.I dream of it very day.It makes everything else insignificant;family,life,success,love and especially myself.I don't have any desire to define myself within conventional parameters of success and failure.I lost the wish when i gained the Cause.It enlightened me,within rudiments of human extensions,gave me a purpose which only i can see.I risk being called mad and unreasonable by the world,even cold and deviant;yes it is true but only within the rules of your world.The rules of my world are different.I adhere only to them.

The mind is the the Source.From here stems all that we know of.It is also the purest paradox.It feeds you illusions but in the garb of knowledge.Revolution takes place when you identify the paradox,Enlightenment when you understand it and Self Destruction when you decipher it.I talk of Revolution only because it is the first step.The first step to salvation.It lies outside the bubble of civilization.A place where the mind is not bound by laws,human or cosmic and death is as alluring as life itself.But my words are hieroglyphics for those who do not understand neither the Cause nor the Revolution but then i am not writing for the many germs of the world.I write for a select few gems.

I have often heard:Long Live The Revolution.Why,if i may ask,should the Revolution live long?I do not want it to be stagnant.It should end itself to give rise to a new Revolution.
Glorious and eternal.
The beauty of every Cause is that it exists.It exists for itself not for the world and that is how should ideally every human should exist.Each human a Cause,each human a Revolution.

“Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply; those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire."
Tucholsky

Hieroglyphic self

I am a broken sound,the equivalent of a muffled infant who suffocates to death all the while exhorting its mind and body for one moment of sonorous pleasure.The incomplete abyss of nothingness,hollow beyond measure,like vapors of smoke that dissolve into space and time,fading away in nocturnal bliss dimly aware of the world outside but thriving like a parasite on its pulsating self,waiting,perhaps for Godot or was it Todog?,into the unreal world of dissolving identities and makeshift masks,melting in moments,to reveal more masks until one day,there would be nothing left to reveal and thy imagination would wither like a worm on an Australian beach,forever shunning the epitome of existence and its few friends;never to look into a mirror for the fear,the heart wrenching fear of finally seeing the self but knowing that both the fear and the self are yet again masks,albeit much more sublime than their predecessors for they have now evolved like man and his coherent cognitive senses,yet again knowing that illusion again is but reality,only simplified for convenience and like smoke,it too,shall fade away leaving behind nothing but an acrid taste of truth,only to deconstruct the constructs and their intertwined fallacies.

Cherry Trees and A Man Apart

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The Land Of Opiate Lions

I walked slowly,haltingly,each step an impossibility of action,of thought.The road was an amalgam of loose soil,blown fleetingly from Kotal-e Salang,and asphalt,a trickling example of modernity in civil engineering.The air was dry and barren,much like the state of affairs of its nation.I felt tired and defeated but primarily disgusted at my own impotency to change anything.War evokes this feeling in the most deadened of hearts,but this was not war,i mused,it was a bloody extermination;of men,of tradition,of culture and the world had turned a blind eye to it.I walked on,each step a symbol of my personal Waterloo.What was it that i had thought that i could change in this fate less nation where death enveloped men not with a quiet dignity but with a hound's blood lust?I was ordinary and the world did not respond to the ordinary;it responded to men of power,but men in power wanted wars and tumbling economies so that they may build their own empires of wealth.Money which came from thriving opium business and the global arms race.What could i do in this world which was governed by laws i could not understand?

Kabul was feverish;with disease,hunger,deaths and grief.Men looked on with hollow eyes at the debris of their spiritual essence,of their homeland which has served as a foster battleground for the mighty of the world.Afghanistan's beauty lies neither in the sheer magnificence of its virgin land and nor in the towering Hindu Kush mountains which serve as its pseudo guardians;it lies in its resilience,its solitude and the indomitable spirit of its people.There have been days when i have cried like a child looking at shards of humanity in this god forsaken land ;where men risk everything for one another,where each day is a battle not for survival but for hope.Kabul was resilient and that was all that mattered to its people.The by lanes of fear,the army rangers patrolling the area for security and the Presidential Palace in all its magnanimity were sights of assurance that helped keep life going on.When i had set foot in Kabul,i was excited and interested in the state of life,now i felt devoid of all emotion except for a confused state of rage and helplessness.I was not alone in my sensitivity,there were many who were aware of the turmoil the nation was in but like me,could really not do anything worthwhile.


I was an outsider but the Afghans welcomed me with open arms.The hard humor at the US Army bases goes as-An Afghan embraces you only to stab you in the back,i do not believe this to be true and a certain level nor do they;but the imperialistic discourse in their foreign policy is unmissable.They never came here looking for terrorists.They came here for a stronghold over Western Asia,a potent strategic location.What is audacious and overwhelming so is America's sordid belief in its exceptionalism and fundamental sense of righteousness that it fails to acknowledge cultures and traditions apart from his own.Afghanistan has/had(can't really place a finger on it) a rich culture and one finds delight and finesse intrinsically layered within its various art forms,something that is disappearing for no apparent fault of theirs;for one cannot really expect them to preserve art when they are struggling to preserve their life?I was certain their must be a logic,a finality of thought that could explain this spectacular holocaust but i was certain no man alive could fit all the pieces together.While i drift towards philosophy,the battle weary Afghans contemplate existentialism,i gather a local translation of Camus would do them some good.I walk some more,inhaling the stench of dry sweat and absorbing the contours of a nation that is fighting since time immemorial.Generations of men have fought for a freedom whose essence they themselves have forgotten.

To quote an old cinematic Afghan about the enemy's prayer-"May God deliver us from the venom of the Cobra, teeth of the tiger, and the vengeance of the Afghan."

My story is not yet over but i cannot write anymore for i fear sheer despondency may force me to abort my endeavors of chronicling my journey of this land of opiate lions.

For The Times To Come

Goodness is incomprehensible.A stain of divinity.Perfection beyond the realm of thought,surpassing action and motives,confusing the world to the point of turmoil.What you call beauty,what you worship as your gods,what you feel as divine is the Absolute Good.Undeviating truth,like a child who sees the world through wondrous eyes,it is our innate goodness that the world takes away from us bit by bit.Don't fear the world,it can be fooled.I have done so.The art lies in deception.Its paradoxical that one must use deception to preserve the very seed of goodness.Act as if you are evil while nurturing the child of goodness within the womb of your soul.The world will hunt you,men who call themselves your brothers will feed upon you if you betray an inkling of your goodness.Show the world that you are brutal,devious,cunning.Only then you may be able to save goodness from its impending doom.



They say its impossible to be good.It is not.You gave up too soon.The world is not bad.I pity it.I see the cosmic joke.Each one of us projects an image.An image of our faults,of our follies so that we may be seen as plausible victors in this universe of duplicity.Drop the mask.Be good.The universe exists in the hope that we all will share a common brotherhood,of love,of tolerance,of beauty.Don't disappoint it.





Men destroy goodness in the light of the day but they weep for their actions in the darkness of night.Gloom settles on them as the world snubs them with the gaze of envy and loathing.You run after love,after wordily possessions,after a sense of complacency.Leave it all behind.You can only reach divinity through acts of goodness.Pure and joyful.The last thread that co joins us to humanity almost like an umbilical cord.Snap it and civilisations will fall.You know the pinnacle of happiness through acts of goodness.You have felt it.You know the sheer brilliance of our poetic selves.We are all creatures of delight,possessing potential for acts of paramount kindness.You will not live to see a thousand suns.But you can illuminate this place with a bit of your own inner light,the very flame that flickers a bit too brightly by the joy you give to the world.You are your own master,your own god,live life as a human being,secretly spreading joy and love,but be always on your guard,for the world should never know that you are essentially good.

*And he smiled and smiled.*

Midnight Rendevouz

Bored as usual,bored of french opera music,of cinema italiano,of endless cups of bittersweet coffee,of reading unmentionable books back to back;i decided to go out.It was almost the middle of the night,an hour to go perhaps,that i contemplated the destination of my midnight escapade.It had to be someplace where i could find solitude,an escape from ennui,from nothingness to nothingness.I had to be quiet or it would be really weird trying explaining your parents why you were fully dressed(not that its otherwise) and trying to tiptoe out of the house in the middle of the night.I had apply all the stealthy moves that i had subconsciously learned from the likes of Bond and Wile E Coyote.I was feeling reckless and bored,a dangerous combination for a quiet,chilly and foggy Delhi night.


I clocked around an average of 122kph and reached the heart of Delhi in about twenty minutes.Connaught Place is a lovely,my kinda place with its obvious Georgian architecture and obscure history.Obscure not in the historical sense,of course,but about those countless stories that make up the place and give it an ethereal charm.So i reach the place somewhere around 12 and am felling pretty rebellious for a change.I drive a bit around,hoping to find a nice place to go to,when i suddenly realize that its been a long time since i indulged myself in a bit of luxury.Well i don't drink(as of yet),so no point in going to a pub and sipping cranberry juice.Both the Meridian and Shangri La are close by but i decided to go to the Meridian instead;a bit of nostalgia with that place,not to mention familiar terrain.I was almost there when i thought that tonight is not the night to do tried and tested things,tonight is the night to try new things,to live life dangerously.I admit going to Shangri La isn't dangerous one bit but such are life's dearies!

I was ushered in Cafe Uno discretely and politely.The ambiance was excellent and so was the coffee.Lost in my own amusing thoughts of how my definition of a midnight snack had changed over the years,i suddenly noticed someone looking at me intently.Now this rarely happens to me and i am usually the one giving people long piercing stares.She gave me a small coquettish smile and i trying to look all suave and confident,gave her an inviting,charming smile.She walked over and said,

'Hi,Do you mind if i join you?'

'Of course not,rather i would be quite glad',standing up suddenly as a proper gentleman.A bit of chivalry doesn't really hurt anyone.

'Aditya, right?'

'Um....yeah but how do you know my name?',i asked,utterly perplexed.

'I am surprised you don't remember me.Hi,I am *****,we met at Vaibhav's party.'

'Oh,Hi *****,i am so sorry.Its been a long time and it was kinda dark at his place',i grinned sheepishly.

'Oh that's all right though i guess his place was dark for a reason.'We both smiled and then laughed.Her laugh was more of giggle but in a cute sort of a way.

And then we talked.We talked about life,about love,about the world at large.It was strange,talking to someone whom i had met met just once before but it felt absolutely brilliant.We shared the same tastes in books and movies though we were at polar opposites when it came to the question of Shobha De;she found her over rated ,i did not.Apart from our opinions on Ms De,we both had the same fantastic tastes!!!

Coffee was brilliant.Our conversation was even better.But as Nelly Furtado sings,All good things come to an end.They actually do.She had to go and i had to leave.We exchanged numbers and i wrote my blog address on her hand.She walked away and suddenly i felt the chill in the air.

I reached home,tip toed back to my room and thought about the evening.Life is one big coincidence and i am waiting for it to happen again.

If you are reading this,then i ll be there waiting for you,same place,same time.If not,i ll still be there.

PS- ******,you are absolutely brilliant and fantastic.

The Murder Of Sherlock Holmes

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Alea iacta est

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An Answer

'Why don't you talk to me properly?'

'I am talking to you properly ,i am courteous,i am polite ,i am ..'

'Shut up.I am not talking about social mannerisms.Things have changed and you know it.Did i say something wrong?Cmon tell me.'

'Oh there is nothing of such sort.'

'Fine i too won't talk to you.'

'OK.'

*Moments pass*

'Doesn't it have any affect on you?'

*Sigh*

'I did not want to be blunt or rude.We have been friends for a long time but i am sorry but i cannot continue talking to you anymore.I gave you hints but you ignored them.Its over.I am sorry.'

'Why?'

'If you haven't understood by now,i won't ever be able to explain it you.But always know,i have known pain,tasted defeat but being with you is a trauma,a finality that i cannot explain.You are so precious to me that i cannot bear to even look at you or hear your voice,because every time i do that i see my life as a failure.Understand and forgive me.'

'You always spoke in riddles but if it makes you happy then i won't see you again.'

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

To give away oneself to another is the most sacred and vulnerable deed.To be thwarted then,is the most painful.The two most powerful emotions known to man are-love and hatred.When both fail to reassure,a new emotion takes over to compensate for loss of pride and mental anguish:indifference.Indifference is chiefly the only thing that will help you sail over rough waters.

Let the world burn to ashes and i won't bat an eyelid.

Taut Warning

Anarchy must end.

I do not talk about political or institutional anarchy,I talk about human beings and their insatiable desire to conquer everything.When Darwin came out with 'The Descent Of Man',he did mention the part about us being descended from apes but forgot about the massive inferiority complex we suffer from.Every human craves and desires,barring of course some monks,yogis and dopers.And each of these sweet and justifiable desires merge together to form a collective desire or collective guilt as my professor would put it.Egos have inflated and brains have rotted.It often astonishes me how people maintain healthy decorum in this world underlined with violence.From language to religion to culture,all that lies beneath is violence.Pure vicious violence.Outside our conceited selves exists everything that actually matters;the universe,nature,gods and polar bears;and they are angry with us.The bright side is that they are forgiving and patient.You cannot repair what you have damaged but stop now.

Stop and the gods will smile.Don't and they might not.

Don't push it.

Ad augusta per angusta

When i sit alone for hours in the darkness of my room i am numbed with joy.It is bliss beyond measure.

Delusion coupled with procrastination.

The irrevocable paradox of my existence.Happiness is remarkably chameleon like,swift to change its colors like passions in the abyss of the self.The mind is a cocoon where i concoct my streams of reality.I am mad by society's measure.Its exhilarating.Peaks of ecstatic joy are often coupled with sadistic morbidity.Its is the ultimate hallucinogen.It is the ultimate high.

The world or atleast a small part of it should be scared.Scared of the fact that if i come to power i will flow with the flow.Flow of spiritual depravity.Seems funny to use the world spiritual.Opiate of the masses anyone?

I am complex.I am proud.I am the man who breathes many lifetimes in one life.I get high with my thoughts.They are scary.Plunging deep in the oasis of redemption is all i seek but i need to cross the deserts of my sins first.

I can win wars of cataclysmic proportions with my indifference.Mix that with devious eloquence and you have arbitrariness of human existence.Power works both ways.It takes you to the cliffs of numbing pride but in the claustrophobic premise of life.You live and die everyday.Kings and lepers,my friends,kings and lepers.

I d rather destroy myself than let anyone else crown me king.I am a puppet but every now and then,i pull the strings back.Moral relativism is the next best thing to pragmatism.The final question is:Will you be remembered by posterity or are you another life sucking organism who is the product of minutes of urgent copulation?

Think about it.

'I' is a just a piece of eclecticism.

Ours is not to choose.

Prince Paradox

I deceive the world at large.Its what i do.I sit in a corner and read Dorothy Parker hoping i could go back and sit with her all day long in a motley coffee shop.I deceive myself too.Its really not that difficult.I spin yarns and tell tall tales of both conquest and loss.I keep my audiences engaged.I tire myself for their joy.I am a performer,a deceiver and a liar.

It is an entirely different matter that i don't see them as lies.They are pieces of genius strewn across the world in lingual manifestations of art.I indulge.I create.Fantasies flow from my fingertips,the world is my stage and i,its improviser.I am,as i say,a world class liar.But i almost never lie for myself,I lie for the world.I lie to maintain order in a world full of anarchy.I am the silent superman.

People love me,i say what is needed.I light up their lives while i extinguish mine.I speak words without meaning.To confess love is same as ordering coffee.Words are all i have in this world.My soldiers.My mercenaries.My love.Words.

It scares me what i can do.I can play with lives,with happiness,with sorrows and anything i want to.I am no one's truth.I am my own opponent.Only i can defeat myself.I am both light and darkness.I love this world but my contempt for it is unmatchable.I am Wilde's student,Genet's slave and Dostoevsky's admirer.

I have a mind of a child.Incalculable wisdom.I want the universe in my palm.I want nothing.I want a nice meal with the view of crematoriums and stench of burning flesh.I believe in nothing.I believe in myself.I negotiate with morals.I revel in their existence.I smile to charm and disarm.I am tired of my being but truly,i am just getting started.

A Blade Of Grass

A blade of grass is the single most intoxicating thing i know of.As i feel it in my hand,it makes me dreadfully sad and happy at the same time.It makes me smile but its a painful,little sardonic smile which is more than any grieving howling i may ever muster.The realization of one's insignificance can be the zenith of cerebral torment.This moment though transcends me to a world where i am invincible but it also becomes the nadir of my life itself.The blade of grass which is ever so gentle and innocent becomes the focal point of all my undivided attention forcing me to painfully realize each breath which i take.The universe is as indifferent to its existence as it is to mine.The blade of grass becomes both my companion and my competitor,both equal in eyes of this universe yet entirely different in each other's perspectives.The blade of grass is undoubtedly in a better state than me because of its Sisyphean indifference,i don't have that privilege.I am Dostoevsky's idiot albeit a corrupted one but that cannot be the basis of my penance.I must understand both the blade of grass and myself to bring forward a basis of understanding which is illuminating and enlightening with the right judgment of rationality.If one were to argue that i am laying much to emphasis on a blade of grass;then let me make it clear that it is something which makes me think,is a sort of a physical manifestation of an epiphany,the object of my desire can be substituted by anything according to personal wishes.I perhaps may not be able to do full justice to the importance to the magnitude of emotion i feel by holding in my hands a fresh,green,vibrant blade of grass.It represents for me the purest link between beast and nature,the colossal beauty of unfathomable nature encompassed in a simple,avoidable,indifferent,majestic,serene,beautiful blade of grass.

*Bliss*