Tread end

I remember seeing her for the first time, a timid expression on her face, hesitant and anxious, entering the class, hands gripping the straps of her school bag. Never did I ever imagine then that she will, one day, become a source of great misery to me. Memories of her, manufactured and real, have become a thorn in the flesh.

The tarmac is a soothing presence, with its long-winding turns and killer dividers. These dwarf dividers are assassins in the middle of the night, in the middle of the road, on a national highway. An indefinite stretch of empty roads lead to the next turnpike and, after that, more turnpikes. 

                                                                    
                                                                     - Hishiko Kohima (Balloon at the end of the tunnel)

Blue-moon kingdom

The lagoon we are on gleams blue at night, even after all the beautiful creatures here go to sleep. The moon is a feminine hue, set against dark forces of space. In the distance, we can hear her waves lash against invisible rocks. 

‘This diminutive dimension is home to sorceries we are yet to understand’, the man tells us, letting out a cloud of smoke from his lungs.

I trace the path his fumes take; journeying up until it becomes one with the starless sky.

‘I’m going to tell you a story you will never forget’

Those of us whose membranes are meandering, ready to shut down for the day, give a last push to stay awake to this man’s narrative.    

‘The story takes place in a land far, far away, interlocked between a mountain and a river. The mornings here were full of sunshine. The vegetation, tropical, was in abundance. Dense forests, thick foliage, bovines grazing lazily in the open grasslands. It had everything’

‘The people inhabiting the land had a fun time, nowhere to go, and nothing to do. They mated amongst themselves like bunnies, days and nights, season after season, year after year. Till the day came’

‘What day?’

‘One day they were all smoking home-grown marijuana, like us, on the banks of their great river Sharu. A giant yellow creature, blisters marring its face, made its appearance in front of them and declared - 

‘This River will become a sea one day, then an ocean. The banks you are sitting on will vanish tomorrow and be replaced by crystal blue waters, a lagoon it shall be made. You are to be stripped of all your memories. When you wake up, you will all be newborns again. You will be separated from each other, you will wander across remote stretches of the world, lay your seeds and see them grow into big civilisations and then, back unto dust again. But a time will come when all of you will return to this very same place with this exotic herb of yours, and inhale its juices. Then, I shall set you free again’

I look around our lot and see a racially vibrant group of people. We are embracing sleep, hands on sand and across shoulders. The man smiles at me. I nod my head and we, too, go back to sleep. 

Powers of deduction.

I could think of two people who were fit for the job. Neither of them were around. So I slipped my hand under her skirt, made sure no one was looking, and rested my fingers on her panties. I looked her in the eyes which showed no discernible deviation in emotion. I imagined them (panties) to be white but I had no way to validate the deduction. Three of my fingers started to rub them, the way you would rub a cute little squirrel. She went on talking to me about her daily chores, as if nothing was happening beneath. She knew I wanted her to. Greed overtook me then, I simply had to know the colour of her undergarment, and I kept pulling it down. She paused midway her hyperbole and stood up to facilitate the mischief. Voila! Black it was. 

The childish euphoria he felt on seeing a woman, older than him, standing in front of him, with her panties rolled and crumpled down to her knees, gave way to a sadistic desire in torturing her, giving her enough pleasure so as to render her incapable of resisting his grade-A assholishness. 

Pelvic musing

Dick. A very important name in the day to day existence of humankind. If you are christened with this name, you are forgiven. Otherwise, you should try to not be a Dick. It’s a hard task because take any random person from a crowd and there is .93 possibility that he is, in fact, a Dick. 

Advise: Do not get your dick intertwined with the reasoning in your head. This is the most important bit. Do not, I repeat, make decisions with your dick. If you do, you certainly become a Dick and you can live the rest of your life happily married to your right hand.  

Pussy. Another important name in the day to day existence of our folk. Nobody gets christened with this name unless you are a cat. If you are one, this conversation doesn’t apply to you.

Funny how the colloquial lingoes for both male and female genital organs have connotations that portray attributes that aren't exactly desirable in a person. I know people who are both a dick and a pussy at the same time. But none who have a dick and a pussy on them at the same time. Or at a different time.

In the years to come, I will remember him as a coward and a proponent of negative thinking. There is a disappointment in realising this man is a sycophant, not capable of receiving or assimilating criticism. This disillusionment contradicts everything I had come to believe in my childhood, setting me off on an identity crisis like never before.
There are times I believe if he comes to see his own bigotry, the system would simply shut down and exist no further.

I don’t want to end up as him.

Boo

'There is a bitter vacuum that surfaces every time I go out for a stroll', the three-eyed onion that sits across me muses. 'I feel like making others cry for what they have done and are doing to me'

'What are they doing to you?' I ask him, hands interlocked, a mild lunge forward, feigning earnestness.

'They are peeling me, layer after layer. Honestly, every time I break down I believe it cannot get any worse. But it does'

It's two eyes gaze dispassionately at the ornate ceiling of my apartment while the third bores down on me. 'It's amusing as much as its depressing. Do you think you can prescribe some pills for me?'

'To an onion?'

All three eyes are on me. 'That's racist'

'I'm just saying. There is no way you could ingest a pill'

It hesitates and resigns itself to a shrug of the shoulders. 'Could you at least do something that could get me through these days and nights without inflicting any more harm upon myself?'

'Well, I could put you in a pan, slice you into little pieces, add some ghee and fry till you turn golden-brown, sprinkle a bit of salt and devour you tonight'

Silence is agreement. 

Time-travel

And eyelids.

Tripping Point.

Gorbachev could do a weasel tonight
Handshakes on a full-moon night.
We're in the shady sunroofs
taking swirls at the sky.
Two people caught in the bungalow
refused to come out and play.
I hope you had a good day
Let this play may bay.
Say, may be play anyway
Why nay say now.
Phone.

Morning watch

"We all commit to things in our lives, like relationships and professions, and you make it work over a long period of time. With the relationships you value, you make them work. The guiding principle is, "Don’t be an asshole."                          

                                                             - Citizen

Et cet era,

Very hard. That is the only honest thought I can think of while trying to publish this, high on weed, and coming to a realisation that somebody who types out chat transcripts as a book, shouldn't be allowed to do so. I mean, you know the real authors. They have intricately designed sentences, full of multiple commas that don't make sense but still you go 'aAAaaWh! You see what he did there <-- a="" didn="" div="" first="" has="" i="" level="" meta="" nbsp="" of="" previous="" really="" sentence="" shit="" t="" that="" the="" think="" time.="">

After a phase of phasing out, I'm back with a new paragraph. You'd be amazed if I tell you I think you've been reading this for a long time. You know, like being here with me, travelling through time and multiple iterations of words. "You know" <-- a="" and="" as="" at="" author="" by="" cetera="" div="" dravid.="" et="" got="" he="" inspired="" it="" kid="" mouthed="" occasions="" out="" phrase="" rahul="" say="" sri="" stick="" stuck="" the="" this="" to="" used="" wanted="" was="" when="" where="">

 I've been sleeping here instead. 

Ho 

I've been sleeping in my bed 

Hey 

I can write a song 

Ho 

I've been in-love with you 

You've been in-love with me 

Sweetheart! 

I don't think he is right for you 

Ho

Hey 

Yay! We neeed it now. 

Frozen

saaY 

I've been in-love with you 

You've been in-love with me 

Sweetheart! 

We could go on with different lyrics from different songs. We should, honestly. I was actually going to say we shouldn't because that's what a cheap writer would do. It's like we, the two people in my head, are hoping you would actually be able to understand the different thoughts before it actually gets inked in a digital medium. The craving to write the lyrics has faded after being intensively exhausted trying to make sense.  

Laughter. The next verse begins with a smile. Glee. 

To make us still remember 

Dum. 

You cannot du-du-doo

So when you found we cannot make sense 

We'll still make good friends. 

You didn't have to cut me out 

I don't need your love

You didn't have to stoop low

Now you're just somebody that I used to know

Now you're just somebody that I used to know. 

Those of you who actually know the song would know the state of my being. 

I don't want to live that way.

somebody that I used to know. 

You know, I feel like some open ended funnel. Get any song on my head, I'll be a devilishly obedient slave writing whatever I hear. 

I used to know. 

It's like I really have two people inside. And they are having conversations and fun with each other. On some level, that is something pathetic. You know, I'm so hip that I'm lonely and honestly, I love it, you know, there are two people, but I know I'm on my own but I'm not lonely. Self-loathing shrug of the shoulders. Nobody stood stoop this low trying to publish something. 

Talk show host, that's who I should be. A poker-face, straight-faced son of a bitch with mirthful laughter inside. 

Take this storm to my home 

Swimming in the song 

Jumbled and mixing and mashing 

will get you another verse 

that would look all great 

like another billboard chart singles track. 

Richard Linklater; the man who I'd like to file a case of plagiarism against, for stealing my idea. 12 years focusing on a kid growing up. He had the privilege of age at his side. This blog was my product. He had more content. 

Another realisation, I write the things I have conversations with myself. The muse is my own reflection. That is new. 

Stopping this