Curious conversation of two friends in the night time.

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— I have read somewhere that life begins at 27. I now realize it. What you think?
— It starts at 30. 🙂 You got 3 more years to prepare.
— Why so? I think 27 is an extremely crucial juncture, rest of the life starts here.
— I guess I am not yet ready to be born. So, buying time for myself. :))
— Great thought.
— 🙂

<long– pause>

— We need some few million lives to experience even 1 percent of this world.
— Yeah. I guess you are right. Isn’t it why I stopped discovering this world? It’s too fucking big.
— Only two small legs, two hands and one little brain (That too a rusted one) How come we even dare to live?

<pause>

— God made us and forgot us.
— Hmm
— May be, we are just his masturbatory waste.
— :)) lol. And he is preparing for more like us. He must be having the time of his life.
— Hey, his sperms aren’t human sperms. They are divine…They decide not to roll down the flush, and mutate.
— ha ha.
— So while god is watching menaka gyrating on his lap… his sperms are mutating, we are mutating.
— ha ha.
— Do you know what Hindus say? God’s single blink of an eye equals whole YUG of humans.
— yep
— So, god has only blinked 3 or 4 times…
— Still, how messed up has he got everything. ;))

<pause>

— Man always wants something divine to protect him, so these all are just his imagination. He doesn’t want to take responsibility for anything.
— Yes, true.
— It’s like dug your head under earth in the face of a storm. Ostrich does it the best
— Like, we closed our eyes and slept curled around a pillow, convinced there were no ghosts.
— Closing the eyes and then imagining that there’s tremendous light, so bright that it can overwhelm the sun.
Fucking imagination
Of the weaks…
— Aint we all weak… one time or other?
— Not only weak, we are susceptible, vulnerable, to every fear, challenge and…so on.
Overcoming our own fears is Liberation.
Ain’t it?
— May be, there is no such thing like STRONG. So we have just imagined it too.
Only monkeys who are sent down the well with camera strapped on their neck, and sandwitches tied around their waist are Liberated.
Tyler says, Self– improvement is masturbation.
— Masturbation of the soul. Not physical
— :)) Interesting thought.
— Like we are churning them out through discussion, like sagar manthan or any other manthan.

<pause>

— My point is, what if there IS a god. And he doesn’t care.
— Then we have to take the helm of the affairs, take the rein in our control: to lead ourselves.
— Where? And what for?
— Do you believe that we are misguided a lot of times in our lives by people we rely most? Like God, the product of our imagination.
— To seek attention of a drunk parent. Who has nothing else to do but watch menaka dancing.
— Yep. Yesterday I saw a documentary, it said 40 million people, all volunteers are dedicated to the cause of eradicating polio.
This is the biggest human endeavour even since our formation.
— Hey, this is all about survival. But why survive?
What’s the point? What are we trying to prove… and to whom?
— My ego wants me to live. Otherwise I will be dissolved in the universe.
I am such– and– such and I do such– and– such…such and such.
It all comes with I.
— It’s like writing on the sea– shore sand… another wave and it’s gone. Forever.
— Yeah. What we write doesn’t matter. It’s going to be washed away anyway.
— Yep. And Father is not home.
— :)) LOL
— He is drinking at pool side.
— Nobody’s home. Not even us.
— Fuck your sis… your mom. or Fuck Yourself. He can’t care less.
He is so fucking careless.
May be, he doesn’t even know we exist.
I’m a big– big girl, in a big– big world… it’s not a big– big thing — — if you leave me.
— I like “kyun aajkal neend kam khwab zyada hai…‘
— Nice song. But very cheerful.
I don’t like things that make me high.
That’s so false.
— You are already high. 🙂
— Yeah yeah. Sperm in sperms… 🙂

<pause>

— We are all heading to the doomsday.
— They all say this. Bible Quran Geeta. All.
— If nobody kills us, then we will kill ourselves. There are enough bitter, disappointed, frustrated people among us
— Aint we doing it already?
— Yep.
— Look at the Islamists.
— Fundamentalist, I would call them. “Lakir ke Phakir”
— No. They have nothing fundamental in them.
Fundamentally man is an animal.
Islam deny that.
For that matter, all religions deny that.
— Hmm. They follow the book. And they are not open to any other possiblity of life.
A closed person is a dead person.
— Yeah. And before this person dies, IT kills many others. Like, closing every book, spread anywhere.

<pause>

— Threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. :))
— It got me thinking.
— At least they say it openly.
— Imagine: You go to a public toilet, and masturbate.
— Okay.
— After some time a woman comes, and masturbates too.
And in the shit– pool beneath, the sperms and eggs meet. And imagine this pool to be warm and congenial, just sufficient to initiate life.
So they mutate… And a baby is born.
— :)) LOL. What has got into your head today?
— No, think about it, seriously. What the fuck will happen to the baby?
— The baby won’t grow there, because the warmth of the pool will be inconsistent.
— Arey, just imagine. This is philosophical, not biological.
— :)) The baby would start to live his/her life as we all do.
— Just like that?
— Just like that.

words of wisdom

“A human being is part of the whole called by us universe, a part limited in time and space. We experience ourselves, our thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest. A kind of optical delusion of consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from the prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. The true value of a human being is determined by the measure and the sense in which they have obtained liberation from the self. We shall require a substantially new manner of thinking if humanity is to survive.”
–Albert Einstein, 1954

Reality skiing on snow

Vishnu Talkies stands lost, like a piece from ancient times, among the crowd of towering buildings that have mushroomed in past few years when the world of India’s Capital chose to move upwards. There stands a curved metal hoarding upon a narrow opening which reaches to its narrow entrance gate. We walk into the street, past a pirated video store, a beauty parlor, a cheap restaurant where a huge potbellied man sat frying samosas at its door in a huge black pan bubbling with overused overheated dark oil. I take her hands in mine when we reach the Cinema’s iron grilled gate. On our left there is the ticket window, closed. On right, however, they are selling tickets, in black.
        Inside, a grimly thin man waits at the balcony door, an Eveready Steel torch sewed around with frayed cotton dangles around his neck. With a haunting screech he pulls the door open, and ushers us in the dimly lit hall and focuses his torch upon our seats. I walk behind her, holding her by elbows, between the rows of aged wooden pushback chairs with coconut cushions, striped covers.

“Why were you staring at her?” She asks, when on the screen a young lady – her Vaseline-lacquered skin shines incredibly against her frazzled clothes – has just escaped her perpetrators, and has taken refugee in this similarly frazzled backyard of a temple. I strain my eyes. Pitch-dark, popcorn-punching-dark hall bars my vision. Time for rape.
“Who,” I ask groping for her face.
“That whore. Outside the video store.”

The scene has moved on, like life always does, to a brighter frame where an old man is holidaying with his family in an exotic country, Switzerland, or Ireland, or may be Holland, whatever… they all seem to have snowsnow and more snow, and castles and castles and more castles, and grass green until the eyes go, and people, all very good, always helping, ever tolerating you knocking at their doors in the middle of the night for shelter and happily granting the same, fuckers, where do such people exist? But then, a movie is not a movie if it’s all about what you see in your real life. It must be larger than life. Villains more villainous. Heroes more heroic. Beauties more beautiful. Life more peaceful. People more generous. And blah blah.
Well in this scene, the old man throws flakes of snow at the kids, they return-fire at him at once, and they all laugh in their heavy jackets and long hoods. Heartily. A little far away, this old man’s daughter skis with her husband, taking turns to skid ahead of the other, coltish rivalry, both laughing their hearts, eyes. Happiness it seems – as they sell it – to be a gift package of return tickets to these snowy hills and laughter and more laughter.

We should buy it once, “Let’s go to some place like this,” I stroke her palm, and on them plant an unusually soggy kiss. She blushes. I know. When she does, she lets her hands loose, almost like giving in. “And what would I tell to my folks?” One curt touch of reality and here goes all the dreams rolling down the hill. Large Reality skiing on even larger fantastic snow. What is large can not be made fit in what is small.

I am blank

“I am blank these days. Nothing seems to cross my way. What…at peace? I am not sure. But it’s quite….you know…the kind of tranquility they used to talk about and the sound they said that started all…am soundless these days…nothing much…”

“Once you are into this game, all you know is fear.” I could sense his eyes piercing through my skull, reaching me, to the basest core of mine. “Aren’t you scared?”

“Who…me..why?” and moved his eyes off my shoulder, at the painting pinned to the wall. “Look at that.”

“You stop talking in abstract terms. Take on with it if it’s that irresistible. Don’t screw your life.”

Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight whom? There wasn’t any enemy, only a thought – a distraction.

I was not he.

If something is increasing with each passing day that has to have a meaning, meaning that is profound and deep and which is rooted somewhere far deeper than our eyes can chase, and our understanding can decipher. And then begins the great saga, and written then is the history.

I was not he. Still, I could peep into his heart and see how he feels a particular feeling and reciprocate to that, when he fell there in front of her, decrying himself and his ego and whatever remnant of self-respect he was left with, openly, in front of everyone, of her, of himself, and when he bent down to his knees and folded his palms, entwined his fingers, I felt as if he was about say a prayer, but no, there was no god in front of him, no temple, no pundit…that wasn’t a prayer, prayers are never said with tears in eyes, with such an afflicting pain in heart and so much plead in voice, he was not praying, he was begging. Yes. That’s what he was doing – begging for her, to her.

I cried. Yelled at the fullest of my voice.

Blinds don’t listen.

Later, when she was gone, I carried him in my arms. Still in the failure of that moment, he couldn’t understand what happened. And what was happening. He thought he was dreaming, in the night, in the dark night, in the darkest of all nights. There was no dawn lurking, no sun lingering, no light, no hope, only darkness, stark darkness…all bleak. All bleak!

I felt as if I was inside him, as if all his nerves and wires touched me before they reached his brain, his pulses were mine, his blood mine, his failure mine.

That was a strange connection: connection that didn’t connect anything, but didn’t even leave anything unconnected too. Strange mathematics.

He needed to talk. He needed it so damn much, so damn urgently, and he kept looking at the roads and trees and passersby. But never at me. He was probably ashamed of himself. Of the act that had disgraced his existence. Of me being a witness of that act.

Did he need consolation? Or rewards? Or just a chance to rewrite his past, his history?

But talking is not always an easy game. Especially when you have so much to talk about and you don’t know where to start from. There is no single point to get into, not a single opening, not a crack, not a hole, no doors, no windows, nothing to peep in through, but only the desperate urgency to get inside the trap and vent your feelings out for the external world to look at, to laugh at, to make fun of.

Sometimes you want to be humiliated. Sometimes you want to be segregated, castrated.

I couldn’t start the long due conversation, and kept driving. The breeze blowing in through the window kept my head cool. And suddenly he found a crack, like it rains in otherwise sunny day, suddenly and abruptly with no pre-omen, no pre-sign, and jumped onto the thread, “you know what it feels like?”

“like hell.”

“yeah. Like hell.” He looked at me, his eyes flooded with self-pity, his hands fixed on his thighs, clutching as if his legs were a prized possession which were sold in an auction and soon he would lose them, as if his legs were his love, the last remnant of what he was when the first day he saw her, the first time he talked to her, the first evening they went on a ride, the first night he took her out for a dinner, and a few moments ago, when he threw himself on the ground before her, begging and pleading, on his knees, his legs had held him, close to earth, close to himself, to his love, and now he would lose them, any moment, to an unknown future, unplanned life. His grip tightened. His look fixed more sternly. Lost somewhere between this world and the void, in the space between me and he, in the thoughts of love and loss, he was pinned.

All I had for him then was pity.

I hated such moments of self-denouncement. And I hated him for this.

Fool’ day

So fool’s day passed without any fuss. No one cared to fool me but a single dear friend of mine. That’s it. Then we went to watch Delhi Heights, which had nothing good in taste but a single song which certainly took my attention to the most. Can I say: this movie fooled me? Well, it did. A perfect April Fool’s Day’s movie. It did everything to attract the attention, trying to carve out a space for itself in arena of contemporary movies like, Bas Ek Pal, Water etc, boasting of a unique cinema about human relationship in a modern society where a hell lot of people live in houses stuck together, horizontally and vertically, in a form of a huge building called Delhi Heights. I can’t talk more about it, just afraid of the after-blues I was left with out of the theatre. But, yes, I had rejoiced once the movie was finished: “sach batao, khatam ho gaya?”

Anyways, I moved into a new flat. Life wanted some change. This place is better than the last one, have more spacious rooms, and like a bonus, two huge balconies. Whatever, I know you are laughing at me that I write such stupid things also. Okay. I stop.

On writing

– Writing is a tough job.
– Yeah. That’s why I want to do it.
– What you wanna write about?
– Umm… that’s funny. Because, I have no fix idea. I am thinking up many things these days. Let’s see which one stays long enough. Guess, I am not yet mature enough to venture into such a serious job.
– They say that we know everything we need in order to make our dreams come true.
– Writing books is not a dream. This is too abstract. Dreams are more concrete.
– May be, the other way round.
– Ha-ha-Ha…They also say that a writer writes only about himself. All great works were reflections, though little manipulated here and there, of their authors’ lives.
– How about your life?
– I have no history. At least no significant one.
– It’s very important to have a personal history in order to write.
– Something that compels your pen. Something in your thought that doesn’t allow you a moment of ease.
– Without them this is an impossible task.
– Yes. I am searching.
– Are you sure?
– Don’t know.

wo lamhe

I am borrowing ideas these days; nothing left with of my own. It’s a translation of a Hindi song I am listening to for almost all the time these days.

Let’ go home, my love!
Let’ go home, my love!
Let’s walk to a lonesome place,
empty of city’s rush,
of these thousands of people, and their pace.
For a while, you, take me away,
Let’ go home, my love!
Let’ go home, my love!

Come close, close to me,
Bridge the distance, whatever may it be.
Hold me; diffuse inside.
Hug me; unto our hearts.
Drown me, into your love endless,
End the tortures of lone nights.
Break the chains, and their rules,
Come close to me, into me.
Let’ go home, my love!
Let’ go home, my love!

Original Lyrics:

na jaha bheed ho.
na jahan bhar ke log.
na shaher mein base lakhon logon ka shor.
chand lamhe tu inse mujhe durr kar.
chal chale apne ghar, hummsafar

duriyan de mita, jo bhi hai darmiyan.
aaj kuch aise mil, ek ho jaye jaan.
bhar mujhe baahon mein. le duba chahaon mein..
pyar kar tu bepanah…khatam bechain raaton ke ho silsile..
yun laga le aaj apne gale..
thod har bandishein, aaj mujh me utar.

Good bye world

Thinking out of the blue; may be life. Weird, as usual!, but sequentially this time.

1.  I can’t stop bleeding,

2.  I am losing you and, my heartbeats.

3.  You still there, else who is it: lurking so silently in so deep a dark.
Death perhaps!

4.  A story that ends happy remains, in the memory, happy. I will be happy, in your memory, a happy person, indeed.

5.  Enough of this brouhaha, put the lights off, let the dark suck into it, and gulp me in, into its enormous vastness, and let me sleep, devoid of hopes, duties, burdens, loves, lives.

6.  “Good bye world!”

Fabled me

I have a bad habit of drawing a fable out of anything. Be it a minor incident, or some higher spiritual shot, I would try to make a didactic lesson, and would never write a line if it doesn’t spread a message. How sick I am, thinking all the time about others, and their lessons, or have become writing, and then reading, my own stuffs, learning and unlearning and again learning from them … I am tougher to my life now. I don’t take things as they come, I ignore them, simply as if they never came to me, simply indifferent, or I deny them – apathetic. And slowly life has become tougher to me as well, and now, ceased to happen altogether.
No more are we running parallels; we are separate, independent of each other, alone, content. Devoid of own life – engrossed, rather lost, in my made-up stories, thought-up fables – breathe, I peep into the other’s lives, draw oxygen from their lungs, sucking blood from their veins, living vicariously, like a fabled beast: the ugly beast who prayed upon beauty of the beauty.

So what do you do in such a situation? Yes, when you don’t have a life, and yet, you are living, what you do?

“I make fables. I write them. Live them,” I replied, simply.