93

A still from the Movie 'Bombay'

न यह '93 होता,

न यह चिंगारी होती,

जिस कोक से तू जन्मा है,

उस पेट से गद्दारी न होती |


(Had the riots had never happened, Would the Cry of death be ever heard?
Would you have ever thought of betraying the womb of your Mother? Your Motherland?)

न कुरान है तू,

न पुरान है तू,

इंसानियत का कातिल,

मौत का फरमान है तू ||


(Oh Holy text, Neither are you Shlokas`, nor are you the Testaments. Are you a mere letter that carries in it, the dance of death?)

न तेरा मज़हब बड़ा है,
न मेरा मज़हब छोटा,
लेकिन फिर क्यूँ यह दिल,

खून के आंसू है रोता  ? |||

(We both happen to be on the same boat, then why are we rowing the oars in our opposites?)

न तू खुनी है,

न हूँ मैं दरिंदा,

अभी इस जहां मैं,

अमन की उम्मीद है ज़िंदा ||||

(Why fight for the blood of your brothers when there is still a glimmer o` hope and a half a reason to believe in the school of peace?)

Of Jimmy Choos and Cavallis

Yes, she wears those big goggles that scream 'Roberto' and 'Cavalli' all over. Yes, she flaunts a leather handbag (17000£ btw), big enough to accomodate her younger daughter inside it ( She's happily married you pervs!) and equally audacious to have the Greenpeace stage their typical (I find it Kinky though *winks*) nude-protests at the door of her Swanky Lahore residence the very next day. So, whats the fuss about it?  We, the Indian Media are so much obsessed with the Austere-Shastra that  we train guns on almost anyone we can. I mean, what is the point in contrasting her flamboyance to the perils of her country? She has a rich dad. Deal with it guys. Mind you, she's more than a  pretty face. An economist by training (Courtesy the Americans, who else?), she was the first lady to present the Budget speech in the Parliament of her land. Beat that.

A lot of people complain that Indian men are going bonkers over her and in the whole process are defaming the sacred ladies of our own land. Lets face it, appreciating beauty is no crime and someone has to be prettier than the rest. That ways, our ladies are nowhere close to her. Not even the one who gets her statue erected (read: constructed) in every nook and corner of Uttar Pradesh at the drop of a hat or even the one who makes a nice spoof of Being Human by auctioning her eccentric Canvasses at even more eccentric prices. Offence intended on this one.

If only she didn't have any political baggage on her, things would have been different, I believe. 

PS- The rest can begin whacking the rotten testicles of that section of the Indian media which has been awesomely irresponsible in carrying out its journalistic duties. For example: 

Till then, Good night (pause) and good luck.

Random Memoirs

And Life takes a perfect circle. Now, i very much believe in the fact that What goes around, comes back around. You do good to people, better things happen to you. You do bad with them, shit happens to you in the same way and style you made it happen to them. Either ways, in the end it comes back to you. Its feels good, this big lesson of life has been learnt.

Random Musings- Chapter One.

Okay. I know that I've been an asshole all this time. Period.

Not that i'm proclaiming or complaining. Its just something i seldom do, ie. speaking my heart out.

Things have been not so good to me of late. Its really complicated to elaborate, but i'd try to do so.

Someone had once explained to me, people never tend to change, they stay as they are. Its the circumstances that change and shift phases in levels and multitudes.

And that was precisely what happened, in my case. Drastically, things that i once used to hate started culminating within me and cunningly attached them to my existence, piece by piece. Things that were *not so me*, bit by bit. I always thought that i was a happy person. Not exactly somebody, who would lock himself up in his room two days straight, whose mom would secure all loose electrical points and connections in his room just in case a self-gratifying thought of *you know what* comes across his otherwise sane mind. Worst case, she'd even take away all the things that'd make you bleed. Namely safety razor, the heart-shaped pencil sharpener, nail clippers, the Ganesha that was chiseled out of a single block of glass, et al just because he has listening to Lamb Of God a lot, lately.

No wonder of why i used to sport a weird beard back then.

"People don't change baby, circumstances do.", that was the direct quote. 

:x

The feeling of betraying somebody and feeling of being betrayed are bad in their own levels. 

*deep shit* in my lingo.

But what if, you put yourself in such an arrangement, that you'd feel both at the same time.?

Is there any manner by which you could do justice to yourself in such a position?

Could you forgive somebody and seek forgiveness,both at once?

Tell you what. Been there, done that.

But anyways, that was then.

And today i realize that I was born free. And it were the circumstances that chained me. 

And this very moment, i Break it away.

But then, don't you think that sometimes its safer to be in chains, than to be free?

Thoughts still keep on fighting within my mind as i get on to fight my mood swings. 

Tell you what, they are real bad.

Of Raavan, Love and Periods

October the 17th, 2010 | 2100hrs.

"Cmon dude, accept it. My smoke is denser.", Abhi proclaimed with an audacious authority as he made circles of nicotine laced smoke from his mouth, courtesy the Milds, his tenth in the day.

"Grow up bitch. Stop acting like a Montessorri wannabe.," UC replied him  and they fought over whose smoke was  whatever-it-was. Duh.! In the midst of all this, i looked up the sky where the smoke from our fags wrestled along with the smoke from the burnt crackers that had a few moments back had taken the form of an impressive display of fireworks.

These very fireworks for a moment's time had painted the Bhubaneswar sky in such a exotic manner that it would have inspired Renoir or Picasso to pick the brush and hit the canvas. That beautiful is was. Or so i believed.

My eyes glanced upon one particular type of the fireworks, the 'chakri' (read: the spinning fire wheel). It at first started glowing and began to spin. When it was at its climax, it was shimmering like some swarovski crystal at its lordly best and then, it began to dim and flickered away like a light bulb on a low voltage power source. And darkness prevailed then onwards. I still don't get it of why this thing caught my attention, but i could pretty much relate this to the elements of  Love and Sex alike.

At first, love blossoms when the sparks fly, literally.Then, the sun is at its highest peak, like the lovers say which is in turn followed by a phase of Darkness with the cold dark moon for company. Well, this is what happens, generally.

I'd choose not to elaborate the same with Sex.

*grins*

Love is like a firecracker. Love is over-rated. This was one view, the three of us shared today. By this time, the conversation over hot pakodas had also shifted to this very topic." There are other things in life that are beautiful and as much inspiring as love is. But still, why is love the only thing cellular companies, Coffee-shops and the likes cash on.eh?", UC stated. "Look at Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin. Most of their lyrics are so intriguing and addicting, yet those lines got nothing to do with love.", he continued."Totally a point.Why the fuck can't Pankaj Udhas and his ass think the same way.? He is depressing me, officially", Abhi said as some typical emotionally-wrenching ghazal played from the loudspeakers. Me and UC looked at Abhi and had a laugh over it.

"Life is way too dramatic you see. If we mortals could afford to cut most of the drama in our respective scenes and strive to live in a more practical manner, life could could be so easy, so beautiful", i don't know who said this as i was busy gazing the fireworks but this line hit me home. I actually got this feeling that God was speaking himself, totally. Maybe it was Abhi, or UC.

"Jeez man!! The fire ain't getting up its crotch. Its stuck in its skirt. I think we must leave. Its late as well.", Abhi Complained.

"Maybe, our ten-headed guy is having his periods today. So he won't burn, i guess.", That was me.

"Now, How the eff do you guess that.?", UC gave me a dirty look with this.

"Oh, Cmon, he's wearing a giant pleated paper skirt with what seems to me like black Polka dots on pink. Don't you see that, macha.?", i replied.

"Bastardos, lets go home before god gets angry on this one.", this was Abhi who was ever complaining about reaching late at home.

Them Bastards

Once upon a time in the suburbs of a beautiful city called Bhubaneswar, lived a bunch of kids who called themselves the 'Mafia on Cycles'. Their targets included 'petty Ice-cream Wallahs', the uncles who sold Balloons - The heart shaped ones. Or the 'Bhaina' at the game parlor where they had a time of their lives playing the likes of Mortal Kombat and Re-coil. Those petty fights after the school they used to get in, for Pokemon tazos or those wrestling trump cards now seemed so childish and immature to them, but each one of them very well knew that this was the seed to something great and lovable, the undying friendship that would follow. They used to return their homes with bruised arms and knees and broken cycles, but on the contrary, the bond they developed between themselves had been deemed un-breakable. Together, they used to shout together those dirty slangs they had picked up at school in the summer evenings after a game of Cricket not caring about those colony uncles who would hear them. As time passed by, the cycles gave way to the Peps, the Dios and co. By this time, apart from the slangs, thick fog of smoke came out from their mouths that smelled tobacco. The tiny rascals had become big boys indeed. Period.
Words like Love, crush meant a whole new meaning for them now. Despite the fact that each of them wore different brands of underwear ranging from the stupid sounding 'Rupa' to the chic 'Puma undies', they had one thing, one fucking thing in common- At some point or the other they had felt for a girl. One of them was a born player, in formal words, they'd call him Casanova. He never fell in love with every girl around, it was the other way round. Sick fucktard, made me jealous at times. Gradually with the passage of time, some of em had break-ups, the Casanova did what he was best at, some just let go for they were bored, two of them were still stuck and were having a tough time on moving on and a last single bastard, the glorious and the most creative of the lot was simply confused of what he wanted. He assessed the girls in his life like stock options, where to invest, where to not. Errr sorry, 'whom to invest upon....' :P
Career wise and academically, most of them had a tough time in finishing school, the 12th grade. A few managed it and passed coolly, one of them failed badly. But the other bastards still stood by him, kept his spirits high and a year later, this tiger fought back and cleared his thing perfectly. The fact that they were now in different colleges and instis` was not a problem. They still kicked ass in town, together.
Cutting to the present, they made new friends and relationships and carefully chose the ones that they knew would last forever, probably. These bastards are indeed proud of what they are now and what they stand for. A poet, a semi-poet, a writer (probably), two photographers, a date doctor, two awe-frig-gin-some Joe Satriani-esque guitarists, a gifted foot-baller, one responsible guy ( he's the Man Friday most of the times when we end up screwing ourselves) and the perfect angry young man. Now that's what quite a many people would call a talented bunch o' individuals.
Love them, hate them, envy them. They won't give a give shit to it.
For they Love all and Rock all. Them Bastards.
Care for more, eh?

Re-fuel ->

He was badly drunk. His two-wheeler seemed to be bit slow for him, no matter how hard he twisted the accelerator. On the signal, he started spilling abuses on his vehicle in colloquial Odia, much to the fascination of the traffic around who tried hard to ignore him. Of course they coudn't.

Two hours ago, he, had puked three times.

When a cop at the signal approached him,he said, 'Good morning Uncle!', It was 8pm though. 'Today is my birthday, Isiliye thoda sa maar diya and got carried away. But you carry on sir, Nothing serious.' He handed him a neatly and symmetrically folded Rs.50 bill. The cop gave him a cursory glance and went away. He grinned.

Maybe i need to re-fuel up first, he thought. A kilo metre from the signal, His wet and Vodka laced watery eyes fell on a sign which read Indian Oil.  He drove in the pump, cut through the crowd which much to his amazement gave him way and right in front of a filling machine.
'Dui Liter bhaina. Plain...( Tank up to two liters mate..)'

The petrol bunk attendant, he was a young guy, probably around 13-14 years of age. He derived a expression on his face which was a potpourri of surprise,Amazement and Laughter.

Why wouldn't he be? after all, a very few people on a Yo-Bike come here, and it was this drunk guy today... :P