Thursday, December 23, 2010

1947 - Hero

At the crack of dawn, Param and his family stood in mournful silence on Platform 7 of the Lahore Railway Station. The sun rose from behind the tall clock tower and broke the darkness. It lifted Param’s spirits a little.

Paramjeet Singh Raina’s was one of the thousands of Sikh Families leaving everything behind for the promise of a new world, a safer world. Having lost a sister and a grandfather to the communal violence against his brethren in their homeland, the abandonment of his roots didn’t seem too bad a bargain, considering he would live to see his children grow up in a world without hate, blood and heartless genocide.

For a 7 Year old, Param was a treasure chest of thoughts, dreams and introspection.

One couldn’t help it, possibly, if one grew up spending nights in slow, murderous, anticipation for their loved ones to return home, often fearing the worst and, on those torturous, tragic days, having their fears realized.

He would never forget the night his sister died. He didn’t even get to know of it till right before he fell asleep. His mother tucked him into bed, kissed his forehead and whispered into his ear “She isn’t coming back.”

Param never really knew why she told him. It might’ve been to help him brace the horrible news when it happened, but Param was pretty certain so that he knew the harsh reality of the world they were living in, full of hostile adversaries who would raise arms and behead them at the drop of a hat.

He heard stories soon after, how some young Muslim lads had dragged her into the back of an abandoned farm that once belonged to an old farmer who died in poverty. They’d violated her sexually, made her do horrible things, then chopped her up as easily as a knife runs through a pumpkin and dumped her in parts all over the place.

He was glad to leave this world of Hate and Violence. He wouldn’t miss it one bit.

As the train pulled in, he began to admire the beauty of the train station. The British had spent three times the cost of his entire village, he’d heard, to build a station magnificent as this one. The clock towers stood bravely in the face of the wind, not budging one bit, standing their ground though the wind blew fiercely in their face, pushing and howling the whole time. The towers never left their stand, they stood majestic in the place they’d rightfully claimed as theirs.

Maybe leaving wasn’t such a good idea after all.

When Param awoke, the sun stood high in the sky, beaming down on them brightly. It was a strong, blazing sunlight that tore through the lined windows of the train compartment and lit the whole train up. Though the train was still as a rock, he felt more alive than ever. He loved it.

He turned to his mother and smiled. She looked back at him with tears. Her face was pale and she was trembling like a leaf in the strong Lahore wind.

Tears weren’t the only thing in her eyes. Param looked into them and saw fear.

He opened his mouth to call out to her, but she covered his mouth with her hand, pressing down on his lips, almost crushing his face.

His mother’s eyes wandered to right outside the window and Param followed her gaze.

The floor of the station was a bright, blinding red. The blood from the bodies of hundreds of butchered Sikh bodies painted the station its terrifying hue.

He knew what this meant. The ones waiting at the station had been dealt with. The murderers were now coming after the passengers.

The Muslims had arrived.

They heard voices at the end of the train. The butchers were coming, and there was no way out.

“Get under the seat!”

It took Param a while to break out of the fear of what was coming and understand what his mother was actually saying.

“Param, get under the seat, quick. They’re coming.”

As she scrambled to get her son under the long, comfortable, sleeper seats, the noises kept approaching, closer and closer with every passing second.

His mother shoved him under the seat and pushed a enormous bag of clothes in with him to hide him from the enemy. That right on time, for as soon as she stood up, Param could see, through a slit in the shell his mother made, the feet of those who had slain the hundreds of travelling families at the station.

The fear of being found out shut out Param’s senses. For a few brief moments, he couldn’t hear anything, everything seemed blurred and he felt himself going numb.

When he snapped back to his sense, he could feel the weight of his mother’s body pushing the seat down on him. He could hear her screams tear through the drums of his ears, indeed through his very soul.

The young boy of seven didn’t know what he could do to stop it. What could he possibly do? How could a little child possibly attack a group of strong, crazed murderers?

Param lay there in complete silence, listening to the screams of his dying mother, and the cruel, unnerving laughter of her killers, slowly bringing her to the painful end of her relatively short life.

And then there was complete silence. The voices of the killers slowly faded away into the distance and the train started to move.

Param tried to move, but his body wouldn’t let him. He lay under the seat in a pool of blood thinking about the rest of his family. He wanted to believe that they were alive, that an old man and two young girls had fought off an army of butchering madmen and escaped to safety, but in his mind he already knew the answer.

As soon as he regained strength and complete consciousness, Param pushed out the bag of clothes blocking his exit. He regretted the move immediately.

The reservoir of the bag broke free, and brought down with it a river of blood that had, so far been held up by it. Param covered his mouth to stop screaming as his mother’s blood fell from above like holy water from a shrine. He bit his hand to ease the horror and drew blood.

Param didn’t leave the safety of the seat’s underside for the remainder of the journey.

“Is anyone alive?”

Param woke up to the screams of rescue workers, scrimmaging through the mass of dead bodies, pushing aside the dead and the departed in the hopes of finding survivors. He could hear the cries of women, beating their heads and screaming in agony over losing the ones they loved.

Param scrambled out from under the seat and out onto the station. The smell of dry blood filled his nostrils and he threw up.

A hand rested on his shoulder and picked him up.

He knew he was among his own, he knew he was safe now.

Param sat by his uncle’s side, drinking a glass of hot, frothy milk that he assumed what the best beverages in the world wouldn’t be able to match.

It had only been a week since the Horror of the train station, and Param was only beginning to adjust to the new home he’d been given, but it seemed like an eternity had passed since he witnessed the heatless murders of the ones he loved.

His wounds had already begun to heal.

That evening, Param strolled along the fields of Amritsar, skipping his way home.

Two men passed by, bearing swords. It wasn’t an uncommon sight, but Param was intrigued nonetheless.

“What are you doing with those?” he asked with the innocence of a lonely child.

“We’re going to get back at the people who killed your mother, boy. Don’t you worry, those miserable killers will be taken care of”, one of the men replied boastfully.

Param felt an insuppressible anger rise in him. The sight of his mother’s blood gushing down at him rushed to the forefront of his mind. He wanted revenge. He wanted justice. He wanted judgment for the evil men that took all that he had loved from him.

He followed the two men across the fields, keeping his distance, silent as a wolf. He could see the lights from the train station in the distance, warming his blood, heating up his soul.

The screams had already begun when he set foot on to the platform. Blood painted the walls of the train in the company of “This is your Pakistan” scrawled across them. Women, children and men ran for their lives, chased by the very men that had so mercilessly slain only so recently.

Param found himself smiling at the humor of the whole thing. As far as he knew, it served the murderers right to have their lives and loved ones torn away from them. It was fair, he reminded himself, it was only just.

Out of the corner of his eye, suddenly, he noticed a small creature whimper behind the metal pillar right next to the platform entrance. A small Muslim boy, no older than himself, his off-white attire stained red with the blood of his brothers and sisters.

When you see something that moves you immensely, you grow a few years in a few brief seconds. You become smarter, deeper, self-less and understanding.

That is exactly what happened to Param. In the boy’s eyes he saw fear he imagined had been in his own when he was under the train seat. In a moment of self-less life endangerment, Param pulled the boy out from behind the platform and under a sack of utensils pushed up against a wall. He then watched as the hundreds of Muslims leaving for Pakistan on the train were mercilessly slain by his kind, no different than what they’d done to Param and his family.

Was this really justice? Had he become just like the murderers? Did he disarm himself of all his logic and cloud his mind with so much hate, that killing other people with such ferocity seemed to make sense?

The crowd started thinning. The attackers had done what they’d planned. They’d killed, they had avenged the deaths of those they’d loved and lost.

Stealthily, Param slid the boy out from under the sack and scurried down the conspicuous by-lanes f the exit path, out into the fields where they couldn’t be found.

As Param the rescuer ran out into the open fields, running endlessly under the night sky, he didn’t know where he would take his poor, lonely friend. He just knew he wouldn’t let the world take this innocent boy’s life, after god had so mercifully spared him his.

He felt elated. His chest rose with pride as he ran through the fields of Amritsar.

Param knew his family would have been proud if they’d known he’d saved another life, he did not care to believe otherwise.

Param the hero clutched his friend’s hand and ran out to a better tomorrow.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Random Post - Dream

I've been having this dream lately. I'm in a room when it suddenly catches on fire, every single object in the room is aflame. The ceiling is falling in patches, fiery cement blocks always missing me by a few milimetres wherever I step.

I manage to evade the flaming debris and make a quick escape from the deathhole. Suddenly I realise my sister is still in the room and go back in to pull her out. Then throw her out of the room, prepared to follow her out when a huge mass of blazing rubble falls and blocks my exit.

So I'm trapped in this flaming deathcage. i can see the flames licking my skin, burning through my flesh. It's more real than any other dream I've had and I can feel the burn all over me.

The snag here is, I can't wake up. So now I'm covered in flames as far as my brain is concerned, and I can't get away, into the space out of that room, or into the real world. Even though my mind fully acknowledges that I'm dreaming, it's as real as anything else in my life.

I then wake up, gasping for air and sweating.

I'm weird that way.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Y-Marketing : Why everyone wants in

Over the last couple of years you’ll have heard a lot of words thrown around, most of which you wouldn’t know the first thing about. A huge part of this collection, if you have had any online existence recently whatsoever, will be Social Media, Web 2.0 and Youth Marketing. You’ve heard greasy haired men talk about it on Social Networking Websites, you’ve heard of people attending conferences about it and that annoying college guy upstairs seems to go on and on about it every time you fail to enter the elevator he isn’t in.

So what is this magical ball of rainbow lightning that seems to be driving companies around the world bananas?

Let’s picture your average day. You wake up in the morning and make yourself a cup of warm, energizing coffee. You put on your favorite jeans and that new t-shirt you bought from Adidas the other day and step out of the house. You get onto your bike and ride off to your destination for the day. On the way you pick up a can of Coke (the drinking kinds, the other kind doesn’t exactly need to market itself).

During this exercise, you have encountered five products that have marketed themselves to people between the ages of 16 to 35 in a major way, namely, the coffee, the t-shirt, the jeans, the bike and the cola.

The youth of the world are changing, fast. They are smarter, faster than and twice as efficient as the generation before them. They can’t be fooled by their favorite celebrity on a TV screen asking them to buy whatever the corporates of the world wish to sell them.

The youth of the country want exactly Social Media has to offer, consumer involvement.

Social Media, in its essence, aims to reach out to as many people as it can by making them feel a part of the product you want them to invest their money in. Pepsi Co. did it in India with its “Youngistaan” campaign (or tried to), American Outfitters did it with their Spring Break Campaign (Read :

The thing is, the youth is making money, and fast, and lots of it. What sets them apart from their predecessors is that they will spend readily wherever they see value in investment without conservatively holding on to their money like a Koala Bear to a tree.

Mark Zuckerberg is worth some 6.9 billion dollars. If there was ever an example of disposable income among the youth of the world, it is Mark. People are starting companies straight out of college. Some of the brightest entrepreneurs in the world are aged under 40.

In this era of Youth Influence, no organisation can afford to focus primarily on any other target group. The young will rule the earth; they will buy your energy drinks and drive your fancy cars, wear your shiny new clothes and use your cool new mobile phone.

iPods. iMacs. iPad. iTouch.


Welcome to the new world order. This is our generation, and it’s ending one product at a time. The youth never dies out; it just replenishes itself with fresh blood.

Its time companies around the world started keeping up and placing their products where they matter. So go ahead and put your product on that Facebook page, put that fun little app on your web page, run that country-wide college campaign and get some new followers on Twitter.

Jump to the clap, corporates of the world, jump to the clap.

Sunday, October 17, 2010


Happy Dusshera, first off. Bring out the meat laden buffet tables, light up that stage and let the fireworks light the night sky up like the gods themselves are dancing to the music of mortal celebration.

Its a happy day. If you're not from my part of the world (India, once again, just in case you missed that), Dusshera is the festiva that celebrates the triumph of good over evil, the day Prince Ram, an incarnation of Lord Vishnu, the preserver, defeated in battle the Demon King, Raavan, to free from his clutches Sita, his faithful bride. The handsome young prince kills the big bad king, takes his girl back, goes home, rules his kingdom and all is well in the world of Hindu Mythology. Joy to the world.

Seems a little too simple, doesn't it?

Its a strange world we live in. Year after year, giant effigies of Raavan and his brothers are set ablaze, their falls relived over and over again. Anyone who's ever been to India this time of the year knows Raavan. Big guy, handlebar moustache, shiny clothes, ten ferocious, smirking heads. Can't miss the man. Look a few feet to both sides of our subject and you will find effigies of Indrajeet and Kumbhkaran, his brothers and comrades who were killed in battle right before Raavan's demise at the hands of Lord Ram.

As it turns out, Raavan wasn't all the evil he was cracked up to be.

Think about this for a second, his only sister was physically hurt, rejected, humiliated and mocked by a prince and his brother who, though harassed by her in their own right, were too trigger-happy, too quick in punishing the young maiden Soorpnakha for her overwhelming, albeit over-authoritative, affections for Ram and Lakshman(The brother, hadn't you already guessed).

Raavan didn't want to physically hurt Ram, he wanted Ram to suffer. So he devises a cunning plan to take from Ram the thing he values most, his wife.

The funny thing about the story is, Raavan never touched Sita. Never so much as laid a finger on her without her consent. From the day he captured her, Raavan was overtaken by Sita's beauty and elegance. Having her as his prisoner, he could have taken her by force had she not given in willingly.

Not a finger. Not once.

A year Sita was captive at Raavan's kingdom, not a single day was she treated as a prisoner. Raavan kept her under close watch, no doubt, but she lived like a queen, with every luxury she could ever have asked for. All this for no return of affection but the tiny glimmering hope of someday winning over the woman he'd come to love, but wouldn't demand against her will.

Not. A. Finger.

You know how the story goes. "Good" wins over "Evil", Ram kills Raavan, gives their people a new, more widely acceptable king, goes back with his wife and lives a happy life.

One twist though, Ram doesn't just take Sita back.

He refuses to have her back at all. She had, after all, spent a year in the company of another man, said Ram, who was to ascertain her purity.
Of course in those days of no lie detectors and pulse readers one had to resort to more primitive measures of discovering the truth. So Sita was made to walk through a fire created by the God of Fire, Agni, to know if she were still "Pure".

Convenient, I know. But as any arthritic octogenarian will tell you, "Things were just simpler in the old days"

Here's what I'm thinking though. Ram knew he wouldn't take Sita back. Had the gods themselves not intervened, he'd have left Sita all by herself, and he knew this before he went to battle with Raavan.

Why'd he fight Raavan then?

It would be pure blasphemy to say it was pride, for Ram is an incarnation of Vishnu himself, and surely the gods are above things petty as pride. Was it love then? Love for the woman who stood by his side, walked out of his kingdom by his side under no legal or social compulsion whatsoever, simply to support her husband in his time of need? What, then, stopped him from bringing her back once the Demon King was done and finished with?

Ram was a brilliant ruler, and the part of the Ramayana after Ram's return to his kingdom will tell you. He was a kind and benevolent man, as the same story tends to imply. But he was no saint. He placed his principles above all else, even justice.

Raavan, on the other hand, did whatever he did out of pure hatred for Ram for the pain and humiliation he inflicted upon his sister, someone he loved dearly and cared for.

All our Good Hindu lives we've been fed stories of how Raavan is the symbol of evil and burning him, recreating his death over and over again is how we remember that the power of good always triumphs over all that is bad in the world.

Raavan, the ruler of a Kingdom much larger than anything Ram could have ever reigned over, a man whose power the god themselves feared, yet, a man who never let his power overthrow his morality and good sense. A man who never impeached upon another man's love, in spite of all his hatred and contempt.

I'd say there are far worse things in the world.

So bring out your torches and let the Fiery giants light up the world with their exuberantly glorious downfall. But not Raavan, for there is far worse evil in the world that we need to cleanse.

It's about time we started killing those who deserve the contempt of millions of people across the country. So let the torches burn for the church-men who guide innocent children into a world of sexual abuse, for the blood-thirsty power-seekers who destroy lives and families to ensure their stranglehold on the community, for the rapists and murderers of the world for their blatant disregard for basic human rights.

Let the torches burn for what we know is evil, not the evil we've been brain-fed all our lives.
Let the torches burn for the truth.

Happy Dusshera, everybody.

Sunday, July 4, 2010

All you need is love.

I'd give her all my love, that's what I'd do, and if you saw my love, you'd love her too. I love her...

If only you could see her the way I do, in all her grace and perfection. The light at the end of every tunnel, the silver lining on every cloud. She moves in and out of my mind every living moment, and her face is all I ever want to see. She appears in dreams, sometimes only briefly, and lets me wake up content and satisfied.

If only you could see her as much as I do, for I see her wherever I go. She is the only reality I hold on to anymore. Everything else just seems pointless and unreal. She is life, she is everything. She is the air I breathe, the water I drink, the food I eat. Everything becomes a small part of the perfect being that is my love.

You may think you see her, but your eyes merely acknowledge her existence. I have seen her, I see her everyday. The way her smile tilts to one side and her nostrils flare up when she is overcome by fatigue and love. The way a small part of her hair falls on her face, covering only a side of her forehead. The way she scrunches up her face and twists her brow when she is annoyed and wants only to be with me. The way her eyeballs split wide open accompanied by a long, loud gasp whenever she is pleasantly surprised.

You don't see her. If you did, you'd dedicate every living breath to her, the way I have.

So please, say to me, you'll let me be your man...

My love, I am not as perfect as you are, I never will be. I can only devote every moment to living up to the man you deserve, and hope one day, if I'm lucky enough, I'll be a man you can show off to the world, a man who can, perhaps, hope to be suited for you.

I want to be there for you, I want to hold your hand, touch your face and tell you that no harm will ever come to you, not as long as i can help it.

I want to be the man in your life, I want to be YOUR man.

The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful, and so are you....

If only you knew how beautiful you really are to me. There really is nothing I can say to you to truly capture the vision that is you.
You're more beautiful than the sun that rises over the horizon every morning, more than when it sets so gracefully over the same. You're more beautiful than the laughs of a thousand children. You're prettier than a valley of flowers, the wind blowing through the long grass.

Everything about you takes my breath away. Everything you do makes my heart swell.

I'm a loser, I'm not what I appear to be.....

I know you think I deserve you, and that I am every bit as good as you've said so far. But I'm not.
I'm not worthy. I don't deserve you. Every single day is a gift, because every single day has you. Every moment spent without you is a moment wasted, a moment where I lose all worth.

I don't know if this makes any sense to you, but it doesn't need to. Love has no rhyme or reason. It has no logic or algorithm.

I love you, insensibly and uncontrollably, it means that I Love you, in exactly that way. It means that the love I have for you has crossed the threshold of logic. My love, my life, my best friend.

P.S. I love you

Insensibly and Uncontrollably.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Things Mr. India taught me

If you've been an eight to ten year old kid in India in the nineties, you've seen Mr. India. Don't you try to lie to yourself and pretend for even a second that you haven't, that invisible, happy, generous little sonnuvabitch was the magical, fuzzy aura around every happy childhood memory you have.

But besides being the inspirational piece of cinema that we all remember it to be, Anil Kapoor masquerading around invisible served a higher purpose, that of Education.
Yes, believe it or not, Mr. India taught me a lot, and today I share that information with the world.

1. Calendar is a perfectly acceptable Christian name, since it's in English, and hence, very Christian. By this logic, it's perfectly acceptable for me to name my daughter "Kadhai".

2. Your local grocery store owner can very well be an operative for an eccentric old man bent on world domination.

3. Local grocery store owners have henchmen.

4. You can very well pay the rent for a sea-side mansion by taking tuition classes and having ONE paying guest.

5. For brute strength, Hanu-man is the way to go. Bow in the presence of greatness, son of Krypton!

6. Exotic dancers from other countries can get away with Indian names and faces to the effect of "Hawa Hawaii".

7. Children exhausted from two days of not eating food can perfectly well summon the energy to carry out a song and dance routine, post which they will be as hale and hearty as ever.

8. "Zindagi ki yehi reet hai, Haar ke baad hi jeet hai"

9. Enough rain and Green Sarees can get any broke tutor with ten kids the hot, educated, journalist girl of his dreams.

10. Behind a Photoframe in a broken down old house is the most efficient place to hide a gadget that could very well change science as we know it.

11. All respectable gadgets, secret lairs and costumes have huge, blinking lights on them. If they don't, they are either just unimportant or will eventually get blown up.

12. If you have a broken, old mansion on the Shores of Bombay, be careful, it is the perfect place for the aforemention eccentric, old man bent on world domination to launch his nuclear warheads from.

13. Old eccentric, men with an army of evil minions bent on world domination take weeks, maybe months, to throw a skinny old man and ten underage kids out of a house they don't even own.

14. NOBODY can see invisible people, unless of course they conjure up an invisible person's one fatal flaw, RED LIGHT. In Gotham, a rough equivalent to this would be a scene to the sound of "Red Flashlight Man, my mortal enemy, we meet again"

15. Ten year olds can break dance with perfect ease.

16. If your boss, the aforementioned eccentric old man, tells you to jump into a tub of lava, you do it. Otherwise, he'll have you shot. Admittedly, that would be quicker and less painful, but you get your minion ass into that lava mister!

17. Your enemy's lair will always be filled with your mortal enemy, the RED LIGHT.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

Table for four

Krishan sat on his chair near the window, smacking his lips and rocking his chair back and forth. A cool breeze flew in and ruffled whatever precious little was left of his hair. His hands shook on the armest, more in fatigue than in cold. He couldn't sleep, hadn't for days. It was hard to sleep when you had nothing to tire you out except the mind-numbing monotony of every single day, and only the company of an empty house and a wife who hadn't spoken a word in the last five years.

The years had taken their toll on Krishan Lal Chopra and his wife. Life in a small house in the outskirts, that was what they'd always wanted. It was Krishan's dream. "One day", he'd tell his colleagues at the firm "I'll buy a nice little house for myself, away from all this madness, and live my days out in peace with the wife". All they'd do was smile and nod, they didn't really care, but to Krishan Lal, that was what kept him sane during the most horrible years of his life, working in the accounts department of Gupta, Gupta and Dalal.

But even those endless hours of slavery seemed like a godsend. Every living second he craved for someone to walk in through the door and end their misery. There wasn't a morsel to eat in the house, not a penny in their savings.

A joke his friends told him once rang in his head over and over again. "Investing in a pension plan doesn't guarantee you a pension, that would be simplistic and naive". It was funny then, not so much now, when the emptiness in his belly forced a 69 year old man to tie his pajama twice as tightly just to be able to get some sleep at night. Retirement age was supposed to help the elderly enjoy their later years, not merely attempt to survive through them.

Durga sat on her bed, a four poster that came with the house, though it no longer had the magnificence it once shone with. The whole house had lost its charm to the years of rot and decay, and with it, his life had lost its glory as well. Durga knew that too. She hadn't spoken a word since she had her first heart attack six years ago, but he could see it in her eyes. The hunger, boredom and loneliness that haunted him was a part of her life as well, and he hated himself for not being able to provide the means to make it go away.

The sound of a car pulling up in the driveway broke the silence that had made nest in house for longer than he could remember. Nothing fancy, he saw from the window, an ordinary Santro. It was so rare that one got to see a fancy car roll by. A young man stepped out of the car, a lean, short man in jeans and a blue t-shirt. Huge aviators covered most of his face, but Krishan could make a moustache out, rare in young men these days.

A young woman, no older than 25, stepped out the other door. Her hair tied in a plait, dressed in a blue kurta and jeans, a calm and composed expression on her face, obviously the sanity in the relationship.

Krishan couldn't help but be reminded of Durga and himself, not much older than the couple he looked at now, when he moved into this house.

He got up, opened the door, and welcomed his guests in.


"The dinner looks delicious, aunty", Vikram remarked as he helped himself to some aromatic homemade chicken.

"She couldn't have made it without you kids. I can't thank you enough for driving up all the way to the store to buy dailies for a poor, old couple", Krishan responded, a smile upon his face.

"Don't say that Uncle, you gave us a placce to stay for the night. It was the least we could do", Jasmeet said as she poured herself another glass of water.

"Of course, we leave first thing in the morning, we wouldn't want to impose. I have some friends on the other side of the city we can stay with, except they weren't in town tonight"

"Don't be silly, Vikram", Krishan snapped back. "You must stay a little while longer, I insist"

Durga stared at the both of them with a wide grin upon her face.

"You haven't eaten a morsel, either of you. Don't let us hog all the good stuff, please, allow me to serve you", Jasmeet exclaimed.

"Oh no, child. Me and durga, we prefer eating by ourselves in the comfort of our room, its an old habit, you must forgive us for our age old insanities."

"I think it's lovely, you're quite the couple, the both of you", Vikram remarked.

"Oh, I do believe you have us all wrong, you judge too soon" said Krishan.

"What do you mean?"

There was no response, Krishan shook his head and walked over to his chair by the window.

Durga continued to stare and smile.


Vikram spread the sheets out over the mattress the old couple had laid out for them, what a nice gesture.

He thought about how the old man and his wife stayed in the old house, all alone, eating meals by each other's side, not a worry in the world. It was very endearing. He didn't think it possible, for a love to last that long.

He smiled to himself for a second. For a second, he almost felt happy.

As he lay in bed that night, next to his wife, he thought about everything he'd gotten himself into. He wasn't ready for marriage. Not to her, she was too nice to him. So innocent, so naive. He didn't want to deceive her any longer. He would leave in the night, when the whole house'd be asleep. No one would know, and she could live out the rest of her days happily, with someone else.

"Besides", he'd convinced himself, "I can do better for myself. Someone actually worthy".

As he thought this, he started to fall asleep. A few good hours of rest would be perfect before his great escape.

That was when he felt the pain in his leg.

It was unlike anything he'd ever heard before. He could feel the warmth of the old man's breath on his thigh. He could also feel the blood trickle down his leg. Lastly, to his horror, he could feel Krishan's tongue lick the blood off of him like chocolate.

He could hear Jasmeet screaming in the background, out of the corner of his eye he could see Durga pinning her to the ground and, for some reason, running large pieces of metal through her limbs and into the wooden floor.

That was when it hit him. They weren't being stabbed to death, they were being nailed to the ground. It was going to be a long, slow, painful death.

Moments later, overpowered by a weak old man and his mute wife, Vikram and Jasmeet lay nailed to the floor, shaking and withering in pain, unable to scream, unable to move. Helpless, defenseless and shaken to the core.

Kishan stood up tall, the blood stains so clearly visible on his vest and White pajama. He smiled and licked his lips.

"Just lie still and let us finish up, it'll be easier for you if you do", he said as he inched closer.

The blood choked Vikram's throat as he tried to scream.

The old man and his wife were about to enjoy another lovely, romantic dinner together.


Krishan sat at his chair in front of the window, pieces of meat stuck in his teeth. He ran his tongue over one of them, managed to force the meat out into his mouth. It tasted good. It still tasted fresh.

"Make sure all the blood is off the floor. I hadd to practically run to throw the mattress over the stains before they went up to the room", he snapped at Durga.

She was a good wife, she'd stayed with him through thick and thin.

Krishan stared out the window and smacked his lips.

A black esteem pulled into where the Santro stood last night.

"Ah, company", Krishan thought to himself.


Saturday, May 22, 2010


In the distance, there stands a girl,
looking out to sea.
With eyes as black as night itself
This girl belongs to me.

She waits upon her sailing boat
to carry her away
I run across the shore to her
to ask my love to stay

A sky of flaming red appears
and sets the shore ablaze
i see her face, so perfect still
I look at her amazed

Her boat begins to show itself
from far across the sea
She looks to it with eager eyes
but doesn't look to me.

Her lips become a perfect curve
she smiles a perfect smile.
She's everything i wanted
how i wished she'd stay a while

She turns her slender neck around
and looks me in the eye
And I just keep on running
as she starts to wave goodbye

i stand here everyday, I do
and wait for her return
The same red sky looks down at me
the shore still seems to burn

And when she will return, I know
it'll all be worth the wait
I hope she loves me still, I hope
I wasn't far too late.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

To live and die in insanity

Megha. 19 going on 20. 5'4". Skinny. Dusky. She looked at her reflection in her bedroom window. It didn't please her. Why couldn't she be 5'7"? Or fair? And if she was wishing for things anyway, why couldn't she have some meat on her bones?

Perhaps Ma was right. "You can take a girl to the mirror, but you can't make her like it", she always used to say. Maybe she didn't look so bad after all. A lot of girls would kill for her eyes. And being skinny wasn't such a bad thing.

Yeah, things weren't so bad. It was raining. She'd always loved the rain. It reminded her of her father, and the long drives through the city, the steady sound of raindrops crashing against the windscreen music to her ears. She wished her father were here too. She wished he hadn't left with such ease and apathy. She wished her father missed his family half as much as his family missed him.

She wished for a lot of things.

She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye and took a sip from the coffee mug in her hand. Rain, coffee and pretty eyes. Nope, life was pretty much okay. She was okay. And everything was just fine.

The silence was a part of the cold, empty house on nights her mother was away. So much so, in fact, that the sound of the doorbell sent a shiver down her spine. It made the hair stand up on the back of her neck. She had a bad feeling about this. Answering the door on cold, lonely nights was never the smarter move.

She walked to the door of her three bedroom apartment, her legs shaking violently, nearly giving way a couple of times. She hated being alone. She put her hand on the door knob and opened the wooden door. Behind the metal grill door she saw a face smiling at her with kind eyes. A face that calmed her nerves and pumped her legs up with energy.

It was the face of Raghav Dass.

Raghav was your Joe Boynextdoor of the Indian College Scene. Megha had always thought that Raghav looked like an Indian Adrian Grenier. He was also dating her best friend, so that put a lot of things in the crapper.

"What the fuck are you doing here at this ungodly hour?", she said.

"Ungodly hour? You sound like your mother", he answered back. "Now open the door before I break it in, I'm freezing out here"

The bad feeling seemed to have died, because Megha immediately unbolted the door and let him in. Raghav was here. She wasn't lonely anymore. She had company. But would Disha approve of her boyfriend meeting her best friend at ten 'o clock?

"It's bloody murder out there. I just saw a tree smash into a car's windscreen. A parked car, but yeah, it's pretty bad". Raghav kept talking, and she kept listening. There was no more silence, no more cold. It had been replaced by the warmth of company.

"You really do have to tell me what you're doing here", she asked again.

"I was on my way home, but my building was about a Kilometer away, and there was no way i was going to make it there on foot. I thought I'd stop by at your place and, you know, relax till the storm dies down"

Megha smiled. She loved her mother for buying an apartment so close to his house.

"You want something to drink? Coffee?", she asked.

"Yeah, coffee would be nice", he replied.

She frowned a little. She didn't think he'd say yes. She didn't wanna go into the cold kitchen alone. She wanted to stay here with him.

She got up and walked to the kitchen. Three-fourths of a cup of water, she reminded herself. Only three-fourths. She pulled the Jar of coffee from the kitchen cabinet. If he wanted coffee, she was going to make him the best damn cup of coffee he'd ever had.

That was when she felt his hand on her neck, brushing her hair aside, the dampness of his hands wetting her skin. It didn't feel warm anymore. It felt cold, it felt scary. She turned around to look at his face. It was Raghav, but it wasn't the Raghav she knew. The kindness in his eyes was replaced with something else, something she'd never seen before, something she didn't understand.

"What are you doing here? I'll get you the coffee. Go sit in the living room. relax", she said, but she knew she wasn't very convincing.

"Don't be scared. It's only me. The guy who stood five hours out in the heat on your birthday to give you your present right when you woke up, remember?"

She remembered it only too well. He'd bought her a dress. A very pretty one too, which, being a guy, was quite a feat.

"I'm not scared. Just go sit in the living room, I'll be there in a minute."

"Megha, we've been friends for as long as I can remember. We're not going to let our stupid inhibitions come on the way of something we both want right? I mean, we both know we want it"

He put his arm around her waist and kissed her. She didn't resist. It felt so right. It felt like it should have been this way the whole time. Her and Raghav. Not Raghav and Disha.

That's when she heard the lamp fall to the floor and break into a million tiny pieces.

Disha stood there with the kind of anger in her eyes that Megha had never seen before. How she knew where Raghav was and why she was here, neither of them knew. Megha saw fear in Raghav's eyes, but that fear was slowly fading away and the madness was returning to the whites of his eyes.

"Fuck you, Fuck both of you. I should have known better than to trust him with you, you back-stabbing little fuck."

What happened next was not something Megha was prepared for.

Raghav moved across the room with the agility of a five-year old. He grabbed Disha's wrists and pushed her up against the wall. Megha knew what was coming next, but she didn't know what to do to stop it.

He slapped Disha across the face. He was going to get what he wanted, the girl didn't matter. Megha was secondary now. He was going in for Disha. Disha screamed, Megha screamed louder.

"Megha, go into your room, now! Or I'll kill her, and then I'll kill you", Raghav screamed at the top of his lungs.

Megha stood there, frozen, watching her best friend being violated by the boy they both grew up with. She felt helpless and weak. She couldn't bring herself to do anything. Her legs started shaking again.

"Shut up, I swear I'll kill you if you don't shut up and do what I say!" Raghav slapped her again, sending her tumbling off the wall. Disha lost her balance, stumbled, fell.

And then there was silence.

For a minute or two nothing moved. Raghav because he was frozen solid, Megha because she was about to pass out. And Disha because she was dead.

The pool of blood slowly forming around her body made it's way around Raghav's feet. The edge of the Glass table where she hit her head lay shattered all across the floor. Megha wanted to run, but her legs wouldn't move. She wanted to scream for help, but her voice wouldn't leave her throat. She was witness to her best friend being sexually violated and murdered by the man she admired all her life. The man had let her down. It was her father all over again.

She knew what she had to do. She pulled out a drawer and put her hand in.

"What are you doing?" Raghav spoke at last.

"I'm ending this. You'll never do this to anyone again"

The knife wasn't big, but it was big enough. She walked towards him, the little shit who'd killed her best friend.

"Look, it was an accident. You saw it, she fell. We can talk about this. No one needs to know"

What a pathetic little excuse for a human being, Megha thought to herself. This was the turd she'd been awed by all this while.

She didn't want to talk anymore. She didn't want to answer his pleas. She wanted to end the fucker who did this to her and to Disha.

The next five minutes were just a blur. The knife slid through his neck like butter. The blood splattered across her face. It was warm. It smelled like him, but it tasted sweet, it was vengeance. She stabbed him again, and again. In his shoulder, through his arm, a new wave of fresh warm blood hitting her face every time she attacked.

The fucker was still alive.

She knew why he was alive. Death was too easy. She slid her hand down his chest and unbuttoned his jeans. She pulled them off.

Raghav knew what was coming next. She could see it in his eyes. If he could still talk, he'd scream. But the blood choked his throat up, and it bubbled out every time he tried to make a sound.

The Silence was back. Megha wouldn't have it any other way.

She held the knife up, smiled, and struck down upon his privates as hard as she could. Muffled screams filled the room. If he was going to be noisy, she was going to have to shut him up.
She struck at his genitals again. There was no noise this time. He wasn't even moving. He wasn't dead, he'd just accepted his fate. She got up and stood over his face. He was crying, even through all the blood she could see it. It broke her heart. She decided to put him out of his misery.

She bent down and put the knife to his throat. This was for Disha. She was crying too, and she knew it. But she wasn't sad. She wasn't happy. She was just overwhelmed. She screamed, and pushed the knife through his throat.

No muffled screams, no sobbing. The silence was absolute.


Ashish and Sunny passed the building where the Murder took place, three days ago. It still gave them chills just thinking about it.

"Do you think it's true what Ma said? About the girl being a whore who killed the boy because he wanted to rat her out?", Ashish asked with as much innocence as a 18 year old could have.

"I'll tell you what I heard some of them say the other day" Sunny retorted. She was a raving lunatic, that's what she was. She went up to this dude's apartment and tried to fuck him, or maybe he tried getting with her, nobody really knows yet. Apparently, she lost it and started attacking him with a kitchen knife. She cut his penis off, from what I heard, THEN she went to work on his face. When they took her in, she was going on and on about how he tried to kill her best friend, after HE tried to rape her in front of this Megha chick. From what I know, she was convinced he'd been inside HER house."

"Well did he do it?"


"Did he kill her best friend?" Ashish was getting impatient now.

"That's the messed up part", said Sunny, smiling an evil smile that Ashish knew only too well. "That chick, her best friend? She's been dead for six months now. Died in a car accident. This woman never really got over that. That with some daddy abandonment issues, I'm not surprised she did what she did. I'd have snapped a long time ago."

Sunny walked ahead, he didn't want to stay near this awful place anymore. Ashish stood in front of the building. He saw the windows of the much talked about apartment. Duct taped and sealed.
This girl was a year older than he was. To lose your father and your best friend, he agreed with Sunny, he'd have snapped too.

What a pity, he thought to himself, what a damn shame. He ran ahead, catching up with his best friend. He didn't plan on losing anyone today.

The windows stayed shut, forgotten.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

*long deep sigh*

Yes I'm posting in the middle of my exams, and right before the toughest exam in the series.
Yes, I'm smarter than the average indian male.

I've been feeling very blank lately. Like I don't know if I serve any purpose whatsoever. I've also been feeling horribly depressed.
Is it okay that I feel sad because I'm not able to keep the people I love happy?
Is it okay that I start shaking everytime I think of the horribly lonely two months I have ahead of me when NONE of my friends are in town?

Sometimes I wonder if it's only my love for my friends that makes me do it.
But sometimes I wonder if its my constant need for reassurance.

Its just that I've never had to work so hard to keep people happy with themselves and with me. I hate it.

I wish I could go back to the school life I came from.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Go to your room!

Let's start out simple. School isn't what it used to be. Period.

I remember aching to go to school at certain points in my life. I mean, it would physically hurt me to not be in school. School was happiness. School was friends. School was sharing my life with others. Most of all, though, school was freedom.

The other day, the morning of my sister's second day of the new semester in school, my caring, loving mother, ODing on affection, made my sister a potato cutlet sandwich. Now, on a regular day, my sister, being the easily pleased eight(nine?) year old that she is, would be delighted to take this to school. That day, however, she goes, "I want Maggi Noodles today, cutlets I can take tomorrow".

"Why don't you take cutlets today? They're already cooked. Maggi you can take tomorrow."

"No, my teacher won't let us bring Maggi Noodles on any day except Thursday."

When my mother told me this, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. This was not the school I grew up in, this controlling, rule-bound dictatorship. I went to the same building as her, yes, but the school I went to was a refuge from every other thing in my life that imposed any sort of control on me.

What are we doing to our children?

Are we really reaching the point where we tell them what food to bring to class on what day? Is a whole generation of robots really what we want?

Break. Open mouth. Insert food. Chew. Swallow. Break. Open mouth......


Eat food.

I grew up in a household where my creativity and freedom was never compromised, whatever the cost of it may be. I chose my own food, my own ice-cream, my own course and my own college. My sister grew up in the same household, in the same school, ten years into the future. Yet, I see her so dependent on my cousins, her friends and me. I wasn't what you'd call a self-sufficient, independent man-boy, but I could choose what Ice-cream I wanted without having to consult my cousins.

You can teach them everything you want, but none of that matters if you don't teach them how to think. Eventually, rote learning vanishes into oblivion.

2 + 2 = 4
Apples are red
2 + 2 = 4
Apples are red
2 + 2 = red
Apples are four
2 + 2 = red
Apples are four
2 + 2 = Apple

Not everything you feed down your student's throat stays in his system. Our body always could separate the crap from nutrition.
Could you imagine Mozart trying to compose anything except himself from time to time had he been force fed a routine method for making music?

Let your kid be free. Let your kid do what they want to do, not what you THINK they should be doing. Your kid is not a brilliant student, a graceful dancer, a melodious singer, a magnificent painter and an engaging orator all magically rolled into one special little package.

I can't dance. Big whoop. I dare any of my dancer friends to sing like I do.

I had a friend once who was exceptionally good at academics. His mother gave me after-school tuitions for math and science. This boy also tried learning how to play the keyboard and the guitar, sketch, dance, write poetry, write articles and work his way around a computer, all this while maintaining his grades in school. Needless to say, he wasn't exceptionally brilliant at any of these things. He loved football, though.

For his 13th birthday, I gave him a football.
His mother gave him a book.

Don't do this. Don't touch that. Don't watch this. Don't listen to that. Don't play this video game. Don't listen to rap music.

Get off their case. I beg you, as a former member of the under-age community. Leave them the hell be. They are all going to do something that will make you proud enough to strut around in your colony, proclaiming it to all your little friends with the other gifted children.

Its about what your child can and wants to do, not about what you can make your child do. That is what pets are for. And I'd like to see Sparkle the dog give you a father's day card.

*prolonged sigh*

Over and out.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Creative Freedom Inc.

Ever felt agitated by the Censoring Idiots who need to blur out the finer details of your work to be able to publish it in their public forums for fear of being too explicit?
Joy to the world.

Presenting a group that will allow posts of any kind to be published on it's wall. Join today and let countless Facebook members know what you've written, the way it was meant to be read.

Creative Freedom Inc.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Thursday, March 11, 2010

You say alpha, i say omega.

When I woke up, I saw grey. Lots of grey. This was new, even for me, and I'd had my share of waking up in strange places. Zeppelin crooned a classic in the back of my head.

When she gets there she knows.....

The walls were grey too. It was as if this room had been designed to depress people to the point of suicide. I sighed and tried to get up. The earphones from my iPod pulled at the bottom of my ears, scratching the surface, the wire from them trapped firmly beneath my arm.
So the music wasn't in my head after all.

I pulled the earphones out and stood up. The silence that surrounded me was eerie. Never has silence been this monotonous, it was nearly deafening.

'Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings....

Why was song still playing? I ran my finger over my ear. No earphones. I looked at the floor where I'd been lying. Still no earphones , or an iPod, for that matter.
The whole started to scare me. Thousands of questions chased themselves in circles in my head. What was I doing here? Who brought me here? More importantly, where is 'here'?

"Hello, Tony."

The voice turned down the volume on the song.

"Who is it?", I replied, and laughed at my own sentence. I was talking to a strange voice in a room which, in all probability, could have been the room from Saw. 'Who is it?' is something you shout when you want to know who needs to use the loo when you're still fulfilling your morning obligations.

"It's me", the voice replied.

"God?". Brilliant, Tony, I thought to myself, could've said something a little more probable. Dad, Mr. Sharma from the office, Amitabh Bachhan. But you guess god, the one thing in the world that, under no possible circumstances, could ever......


I staggered a little. When you wake up a strange, empty grey room, you pretty much tend to believe whatever the deep, commanding voice from nowhere tells you.

"It's me, Tony Gupta of N-253, Greater Kailash 1. Do you know where you are?"

"Am I supposed to?"

"You were top of your class at LSE. Think about this a bit. You wake up hungover in an empty grey room with a never ending soundtrack and disappearing mp3 players. It shouldn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out."

I knew the answer before the words even left my lips. "Heaven?"

God sighed. Memories of my ninth grade biology teacher looking up at the ceiling in prolonged self-doubt, trying to teach me how plants reproduce came flooding back to me.

"What do you know of heaven, Tony?"

I thought long and hard. When you believe you're talking to the man who created the universe, you try not to mess things up.

"Heaven is this place, see? When you die, and you've been good, and done, like, good shit all your life, you get to go there. Everything in heaven is perfect. But if you've been bad, you go to the other place, where you are tortured over and over again for all eternity and put through loads of fucking agonizing pain."

Smart move genius, cuss in front of god. That'll get you straight to the high rollers' table.

"You don't understand anything about me, nobody does. I created you in my Image, Tony. Every single one of you. Judging you would be judging my own creation and, circuitously, myself.
Why would I put you through that?"

"That was always something that messed me up.", I said," If you made us, and you control everything that happens to us, why would you judge us for our actions? I mean, if we do something bad, aren't YOU the one responsible?"

"Let's start from the top", said the voice, except now it no longer boomed in echo across the room. It was more real, more human. In fact, it was right behind me.

I turned around to see god in all his beauty staring at me with all three heads. Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh. The holy trinity.

So much for all those years of "God doesn't live in a statue".

"So it's true", I managed to say. "The one true god IS hindu"

"I am whatever you want me to be. You lived your entire life trying to think of me as one, omnipresent power without a face or a name. Yet, whenever you heard god, at the back of your head, you drew a picture of an elephant with kind, forgiving eyes. If your friend Joe from college showed up, he'd be talking to a faceless voice, because he believe what you only tried to follow"

It had always been true, I realized. I had never really bought into all that "Spiritual, not religious, non-sense. God was still Ganpati, and mice were still were a perfectly acceptable mode of transportation.

"What about...", I started to ask.

"Atheists? They wouldn't be here. To them, for all intents and purposes, I don't exist. I'm only as real as you believe me to be, Tony."

I swallowed. God was deep. Then again, he did create the heavens and the earth, and you'd hardly expect a hillbilly with a shotgun and two missing teeth to pull that off.

"Now, about what you said. Let's start from the top. I didn't create you. You are the creation of your mother, your father, a honeymoon in the Bahamas and a very low capacity for alcohol. I created the earth. I created your galaxy and I created this vast expanse of nothingness you chose to call the Universe. All of my creations created you, so I'm only a passive participant in your existence. Think of it this way, what do I look like to you, right now? Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh. The holy trinity. The creator, the preserver and the destroyer. That is all I do, tony. I did make you, in a way, but what you do during the period for which I choose to preserve you on my green earth is a result of your own free will. I can judge you and do with you whatever I see fit. I won't, though, but you already know that.
Lastly, these places you either eagerly await or pray never to be a part of, the realms of heaven and hell. I'd hate to be the one to break it to you, kid, but there is no such thing."

And a new day will dawn, for those who stand long, and the forests will echo with laughter...

In a second, my world, or whatever was left of it, came crashing down. There is no heaven. The words "Gigantic waste of my time and effort" came to mind.

"No heaven? That makes no sense, sir. What do you do with those who lead sinful lives."

"You still don't get it", god replied, calm as ever. "I didn't decide what sins are. You did. Churches, Masses, Jihaad and judgement day are just a way for you to try and understand what I really want from you."

"And that is?"

"Nothing. That is precisely the point, Tony. I want you to be born, live and die. Everything else is what YOU want. At the end of it, all that awaits you is death, the sudden, but imperative, passage into nothingness. Your disappearance. Why would you want heaven anyway?"

This was easy. "Like I said, heaven is perfect, so those who deserve to exist in a perfect world for all of eternity get to spend it in a place which is perfect in every way".

"And the fact that you have to live in it for an infinite length of time doesn't bother you one bit?"

"Not really". I replied "It's prefect, so if anything, I'd be better off than when I was alive"

"Let me put it you in a language you understand. What do you love eating most in the world? What satisfies your need to eat more than anything else in the world, leaving you content and happy?"

I thought about this, longer than I thought about any of the other questions god had asked me. It was, after all, a question about food.

"Dal Makhani and Tandoori Rotis", I finally answered.

"Now, if I were to give you Dal Makhani and Tandoori Rotis every single day, how long do you think it will be before you can't eat anymore?"

"A couple of weeks?"

"If I know you, and i do, It'd be sooner. Now think of heaven as that one perfect place that satisfies every need you have ever had, quenches every craving you ever experienced. After a while, you start getting annoyed with the monotony of the whole situation, not unlike........"

God ended on a high note. He expected an answer. The silence was pregnant with expectation.

God raised an eyebrow.

Yes there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there's still time to change the road you're on.....

"My favorite food item" I ventured.

God smiled. I smiled back.

I stood there in awe of God. In a a single analogy, he made me realize the absurdity of everything i'd ever believed in. In less than a minute, he showed me how the thing I'd eventually detest the most was the one thing that I'd looked forward to all my life. In a swift little monologue, God had changed the way I felt about myself and everything around me.

If god were in Human Resources, employee turnover would be an urban legend.

In a flash, I was brought back to reality, or wherever I was, by the dawning of the fact that I still didn't know what I was doing here.

"How did I get here, anyway?"

God chuckled. When three heads chuckle at once, the resultant sound is something you expect your car to sound like with something stuck in the works.

"You came in last night. You got Drunk at Joe's and, in a move displaying both your lack of intelligence and capacity, decided to drive home. You were in an accident. It was quite funny, really. You drove about 40 kilometers before driving into a speeding truck about thirty feet from your house."

You had to hand it to god. The man had a sense of humour, alright. Sure, I'd just died a horribly painful death as a result of my own stupid decisions, but there was no reason he couldn't have a laugh about it.

There was silence, then somebody turned the volume back up.

And if you listen very hard, the truth will come to you at last....

"It's time", god said

I started to ask he meant, but already I could feel myself blurring into vacuum.

So this was it. In a few moments, I'd no longer exist.

And she's buying....

"Wait. Why'd you tell me all this, if I'm going to cease to exist momentarily anyway?"

"You seemed like a guy I could talk to, and there was stuff I needed to get off my chest".

The stairway....

Suddenly, god seemed a lot more human. I could almost feel him, if only I could reach out my hand.

There was of, course, no hand hand to reach out with. I was fading away. My time had come to an end.

In a moment of enlightenment, it all became clear to me. Nobody goes to hell, regardless of how they lead their relatively short and seemingly insignificant lives. That perfect place we dream of, that place is nothingness, for only in complete disappearance does one feel content. Till you exist, you consistently strive to move and reach out for more.

I was going to the place I had long awaited my entire life. I was going to where there was no suffering and no pain, just as promised. i was going into nihility.

Smiling with the knowledge of what had now dawned over me, I moved...... heaven.

Monday, January 18, 2010

We pee standing up

I've been bashed by my friends of the opposite sex a lot lately. I am not, as they would put it "as chivalrous as guys should be". Chivalry, according to most people without penises, is dead.

Yes it is.

Chivalry died long ago. Some brilliant male icon tied it to a chair and beat it's head in with a hockey stick when he told his girlfriend to pull up her own chair, or shut the door while walking out even though he knew she was following him.

I like to believe I am chivalrous. Most men do. I give my seat in buses and metros to women, especially of the impregnated variety. I try not to let girls go home in an auto or a bus after dark unaccompanied. I try to pay for my dates.

In case any of who did the same were mistaking this for chivalry, don't be confused. Its not.
Its an imitation of chivalry we so marvelously follow in our daily lives to make ourselves feel better about considering ourselves the superior sex. We're not, don't get me wrong, I'm all for gender equality, but there is this tiny little sexist tumor that was planted in the , male brain in the 1950s, and it continues to this day. The pride our ancestors held in their virility lives on through us today. We are, in all honesty, living the life our forefathers dreamed of, we're just not proud enough to live it without any remorse.

You may be wondering how any of this makes sense, it doesn't. But we crossed that bridge long ago, so read on.

Coming back to where we started, chivalry.

So if I say "Let me help you with that, it seems heavy" to a member of the opposite, and perhaps more cunning, sex, it's a sexist slur, and I am suggesting that women are weaker than men, and incapable of handling their own business. Women are just as strong as men are, of course.
This does, however, does not imply I'm allowed to inflict physical harm to anything in a suit, skirt or saree, of course. Besides the fact that I am not much for violence on principle, and that I have been programmed to never physically harm girls as a rule, this would be taking unfair advantage of my strengths over hers as a man.
Of course, the two scenarios are perfectly capable of being co-existent inside a woman's head.

Did it ever occur to you that chivalry just might be too convenient for the fairer sex?

I'm a pig if I don't pull up a chair for her, or don't hold a door open for her, or don't pay for dinner.
I also befit the stereotype of the Scum-sucking man-pig if I don't offer the better seat on a rickshaw to my feminine travel companions.

Let me be as clear about this as I possibly can. In a nutshell, your only contribution to society in return for all the aforementioned services is the apparent lack of a penis.
Are you kidding me?

Please try to understand this. You are a different gender. You are not handicapped enough to not open the door, neither are you poor enough to not pay for dinner, and as long as you have the same round butt-cheeks as I do, you are perfectly capable of sitting on the worse seat on a rickshaw if I am.

We are not trying to make you feel better than us, neither are we trying to sound like the superior sex. We like you women, you make us feel nice about being us, you make us feel wanted, and we need that, we are that full of ourselves.

You just have to realize that the next time a man does something nice for you, he is not doing it because he considers you above or beneath him.
Its because he needs you, and he will try to meet up to whatever expectations the members of your sex have forced upon him and all those of similar physical characteristics.

We love you, more than life in itself, we just don't feel the persistent need to express it through actions guided by a particular school of thought. We want to do nice things for you because we love you. Shouldn't that be good enough?

And lest I forget, we can pee standing up, so in your face.