Baap ka Nagar

Every night when we would cross the mall to reach home, these sentences would spurt out inevitably. The riders on the storm, those who storm on the roads with their respective automobiles, create such a nuisance and don't even let pedestrians cross. Hence, the dressed chicken would say "Baap ka rastaa hai kya?" and then started a story. Just imagine! I wish there was a "Baap ka Nagar" (Father's city) and then there would be a "Baap ka bagichaa"(Father's garden). The houses would be called "Baap ka ghar" (father's house) and the societies would be called "Baap ki society". Then no such civic sense propounders could ask you, "Baap ka maal hai kya?" Because then, with a twinkle in your eye you could actually say "Haan!" (yes). Of course it looks like the ideal embodiment of a free state of being but then it is not pleasant. Maybe that is what a society strives to achieve through the overruling of "Baap" phenomena, pleasant communication and a limited (paradox on your face) amount of "basic" freedom to all!

Toc toc toc, Maggot a faim

I know why. I wish it comes true. Maybe that will be proper choices with a bowlful to choose. I feel like pasting Pasta on your face when you jabber and putting pickles on your creative writing. I feel nice and beautiful to draw. I drew the American dream. I dreamt of Shy-lah! She is so neutrum in emo that you could actually figure her out as the joker. She smiles purposefully and though hears all, chooses to emote rarely. She surprises me. I wonder why she bores the others. There is much written garbage in the world- don't add to it. It is stuck to the ceilings of the brain and I wonder how I will manage the novella. Feel like ripping it off. I was wondering in bed why in all relations of amities I would ask the question to myself, how long will this last etc? And then I forget, and then I know of it when that friendship is torn and thrown to the dogfish. I don't even regret Hamster friends. Tech maniacs and reasoning humans. I am on a diet. Of want and penny-less-ness. The resolve to stick around the same till month end. Maybe, then dare demand for more. Till then fast with dignity.Such a feeling's coming over me... my washed clothes are drenched in rain, my stomach groans with hunger pain and I need to pack and move on. I love stealing! I get enraged when someone steals my things and it pushes me to steal. I had the urge last week when I saw a stray phone lying around. But I think my eyes say it well and someone reclaimed it from my hungry eyes. I wonder what my phone thief did to mine. Used images for porn or read messages and giggled? Why couldn't it be an intellectual thief? Making meaning of things rather than selling them off.

Bangalore boom boom

Yeah, there was something that resembled blasts. If not in the death toll and the noise it made, at least in the panic and chaos I witnessed it did look like something serious. The worst was the mall. All shops closed but the mall was open. Spooky and sad. Almost as if terrorists raped it. Kormangla was silent, dead silent, moaning and yelping like a puppy. Mud splattered and tame. No traffic hassles and 8:40 at night seemed like 11:30. Firday night like never before. Parents calling frantically to check whether i was indoors or not. There was nothing very insecure around but suddenly something had gone off and all knew that some black hooded militant was running in familiar streets. Depressing. Even the college was swarmed with speculations and sighs of pretentious reliefs.

Common patterns, I feel like a doorbell

Its all about the same. We three sat there sighing away and I suddenly said, " I thought i was the cheated one and the dumb one and the ugly one, but all face the same." The form remains the same just the content changes. Lou strikes all. Then you are bored and so you decide to pursue the lou-ly's friends and down the drain it goes. Friends turn foes. Friend's parents turn gestapos. Plus it has usual moping. Daily rant is an understatement. There is no angst here! All there is, evaporation. Hot, lava like steam from brains being fried in cold pale yellow classrooms with teachers with a sadistic will to teach! How ignorant and greedy can you get!? First you pretend that you can teach something and enter. Then you actually attempt to teach! Fool, do you not know that these are only master-pupil hierarchies of Krishnamurthy and I use them for nothing else but to impress younger boys in junior classes?! Write others' assignments and you will know how good it feels to work without being told to. I feel like a doorbell with many thumbprints. Pressed too hard, a bit cracked and squeaky.

Photo saga tears

Pha! you saw new photos! So what? He never was with you and never really belonged to you. You still, like a fool did all and was in some trance. Believe it! Today! It is urgent! Faith is shit and hopeless pleasantries are useless. Cry and get him out! Don't feel inferior. You are ugly, fat, loud, wanting and subservient in belief. Rise up in your own eyes and forget him! Please! Its a hangover of life, squeeze as much lemon fast...

An ellipsis does the trick

I sat thinking what to do about Pali and Rio and Jean Maunier. They just sounded too articulate and confusing. I am still working out the 3500 word novella. I want to put them all in bland Indian colors now. A ginger-turmeric spectacle. If the setting does not work out till the end of month I am screwed. I lose 50 marks. Marks are important to Germans as well. Getranke and gesprache...They write mails in ellipsis! Hi... how are you...I am fine...etc... Almost like a marathon of ellipsis when you art struggling to make your self write volumes and get in a rut of cretin creativity. I am tired like an old woman with intestinal problems who wakes up daily with ramblings and groans. Choristes is ugly and blows are okay. Jules and Jim are just forms. They all in fact are just symbols which depict a commom human pattern. I will talk about the common human pattern of lou later. I am lou-lorn copulation struck awe-ridden guffawing duck billed platypus.

Pathos and Mythos.

When I was in the 12th grade, I read this story in English which spoke of some noble prince in some Indian kingdom who was so noble and good that his ashes turned to gold and flew around his kingdom like glowing gold particles. A lot of Indian tales generate an incomparable grandeur. I saw Yakshagaana today. The pathos, the helplessness and the sorrow conveyed through it was blinding. It may sound like an exaggeration but you have to be there to feel the curving of hands with arms, the music, the history, the larger mythos that surround the same. I suddenly felt like becoming Abhimanyu. A deep anguish marks the character killed by his own uncles and cousins, not by one but by scores of them forsaking all the rules and ethic that an Indian battle is marked by. Especially, such a macabre death dance as of Mahabharata. Balls to Indian legacy and honor. They were men and women. Real ones. Progenies of promiscuous liasions and consequences of guilt, sterility and tons of unfulfilled desire. Swishing the golden and red rod in his hand he conquered it all only to be slain by Karna, the bastard of the glorious Pandava family. War claims many but it is altogether different to fight your own brothers and marry your own sisters. Through these, emerges the lute melody again which generates wriggling faces with millions of wrinkles and unshed tears and a deep existential anguish of not belonging to nothing. It flattens conceptions of peace and beauty.

When you are fated to ill-fate, you blow nose

July 2008,

Blah, a bobo alien who is disguised in the form of a 17 year old girl lives in Bangalore, India (SOUTH india). She meets fathers with poppy eyes and building owners who don't particularly admire her. She loses one phone on an average every year. Generally, she has the flair of doing so when her birthday is near. Blah's room on the fourth floor floods every monsoon, for those who think only villages at ground level face water. She surrounds herself with messy things called humans and tries to inject them all with happy hormone. Eventually they all cry because she forgot to photocopy notes for them. She faces green phlegm which resides in her eye-cavities. It gives her sinusitis. The world thinks she is full of herself, gives a blah about them and that she knows blah but she thinks that she knows blah and that is why she goes blah blah all the time. Apparently she is from NORTH india. She just lost her prized phone and some money. So, she will reduce her flabby body by whining, starving and moping. These characteristics indicate the humanization of blah the bobo. She appears the honest-est when she blows her nose. That is when they finally realise that she is crying.
take care
love,
Blah

A whole list of Phew-hah's

There are a few Phew-hah's that hit me just like that. One of them is the disclaimers that my English teachers make. They make learning English so apologetic, broken and incoherent. Half the things they convey or represent, are from books and mostly they do not agree with them. I just feel like throwing them all out of the window. Leave your fears and knots by the door and then come and talk to me! I am sure no one will sue you for them. The other Phew-hah was everything is nothing and nothing is everything. It is so paradoxical and yet all pervading. From Buddhist monks to existentialists, all say it. And yet, I experience it only when I am punished for not greeting a man and am thrown out of home for swearing and scaring. These things heave upon you mind, blow the phew-z and then I panic. For a while I do. Then it all settles. Then I think of a solution and come back to soul searching. I am growing. I can feel it and I don't like the process, it is bitter somewhere, sleepless mostly, poor frequently with guilt trips to the bank. A lot many times I just regret too much freedom of arrangement and resources. It provokes the mind and words like "What did I do?" just come out for the wrong man. Too much of egalitarian illusions make me careless and when class distinctions are gone, I lose things like respect for elders, humility etc (LMAO). A girl should know her limits and responsibilities. And never should she talk like a rag picker on the road... never drink...never fight...rarely pop eyes at old monks... and she should be seen and not heard...and much more

Davidson and intervals

I was outside in Forum, at coffee shop Kalmane. Dead man coughing was stuck up in my ears. I met that random snooty film course guy who was suddenly all warm and chirpy. Nice. Next not knowing what, I actually went to model art shop. The harley davidson model out there is a beauty. It is a genuine piece of enviable elegance and shine. After twenty minutes of admiring all the other vintage pieces inside, touching an Austin convertible's rear carpet and actually holding the seven kg davidson, I left. I watched movie after long time in a multiplex. It got me into full puppy-love frenzy and little excitement. Words should be honest no matter what. Interval and sight of you was enthralling. I was waiting, for you to hop by. The yellow wallpaper scene of tied woman crawling on husband's body to ascertain victory came. I resolved to write to Macchar. In total austerity I read some Theravada. I managed the "a bit queer around here" play. The gay pride parade was playing in the mind. Harley, my boy, when veena plays and that sentiment arouses, old yellow bricks ring and drum, the afternoon weighs on sleep-deprived eyes like a drug. Goodbye

Panic at the window

People are funny, icky and weird. Some claim to be absurd and some claim to be gurus! I mean, they are hilarious, the shame out of the window. Not like I care two hoots about them. I only care if i want to. I only forgive when i want to. Yet, I like to believe in Bodhisattva. It is difficult master, to acknowledge a master. It is also difficult to believe in someone, something above you, beyond you. The extension of self, maybe, is immensely taxing. Worse, the regrets of what is gone, scrubbed off the memory walls and does not want to come back. All you can do is Laugh! Laugh so hard your teeth hurt and cheeks pain, drink some beer if you want and then ask "was mochten sie?" Be happy, that appears mature too. But be you! I am me. I am silent, chirpy, morose me. The hangover of a fuzzy night.

Chamko Yuki Car Dreams

One of those chamko dreams, typically peaky on emo and then wake up with a sudden ta-ta-ta. I dreamt of my both cars. The two white cars. And i dreamt them being sold away to someone. I kept on wailing, sobbing silently to myself. I saw Papa take big bundles of notes which all amounted to twenty thousand rupees.Some old man like Eustace drove the car. Maybe some other girl drove the other one. Then they both stopped near the neighbor's house and got off. They started digging big heaps of bricks, like those gray ones in Bangalore, just that these were red. One fell on the Eustace and just tumbled to the side. He said Oops, churn churn and resumed work. I was standing there, next to them and weeping. His words echoed through me,"I don't miss people and places." I do miss them! I miss even cars and all other non-living objects around me! I am not spaced out! I am Yuki. The lashing rain on your window. It falls with a certain intensity and elegance. Like music pouring down. Yuki doesn't need to tell you she feels, she just does. It is your look out if you never noticed Yuki change color. The cars went away and I was howling with eyes tight shut, Papa don't give them away! But like Yuki, no one really bothers to hear me say anything. And until you don't mean it, i won't tell you anything! Not even if I want you to be around. Those who don't mean to be careful will die thirsty. Rain-less, devoid of Yuki san.