Very average day. Chasing a few stories. Mr Rock n' Roll Circus, yesterday came to a conclusion, after a long discussion on North Indian history of 19th century to Orwellian take on smoking being erased from history to surreal cartoons and violence in them to a number of this things. Summed up the entire philosophy of male existence. "If only women could understand the fact that why men actually look up to losers (say like Homer), the world would be an entirely different place". Obviously, this ended by everyone in splits of laughter. But it's a point, think about it.

Saw this very cool picture. Isn't it awesome?

But that train keeps on coming...

It's insufferable, my eyes are burning. Been sleeping late, reading books almost the entire night. Watchin almost any movie that're remotely awesome. Thinking, thinking on random ideas. Smoking too many cigarettes. Not eating well. Drinking, where it's flowing. Listening to blues. Hanging out alone. Living in a single room. Muttering made-up verses like in school. The word hate and putting faces to it. The word love and seeing who all has fallen from the line. Remembering old tired memories. Not talking, only listening. Wondering about truth, and if it exists. Sitting and waiting for the impossible to happen...will it happen?

Man In Black


Walk The Line, is one of the most awesome films I've seen. Although the films is absolutely simple. It deals with a rebel, who produced music for an impossible 5 decades that people feed on.

Dylan and the times

The weekend was cool. Like every single one, it was short lived. Its actualy when you decide to do something, you realise its damn monday morning again. Went to Haze, the small pub, in VV to listen to the grandfather of Indian Rock, Lou Majaw. He was actually playing solo paying a tribute to Bobby Dhillon (Bob Dylan).
Surprisingly, I found a whole lot bunch that knew his song well, even to the chord change of it. Had a couple of beers, sittin on a table with one of the big shot editor's son and probably the kids chick. They seemed like a good sort of people to hangout for a drunken hot Sunday afternoon. The guy was Dylan fan, so we got to trade few pointers.
Harry's dad and the old folks were also there. There like this music craving bunch of middle aged guys who know how to appreciate their drinks and at the same time their music. The owner, whose now become friends of sort, is a blues maniac him self. So it all turned out cooler than expected.
I realised that when you sleep after a few beers you get to embrace a wonderful sleep. A sleep that will sail you to the stars and back without the necessary oxygen tank and the dress code. You even get to meet pretty eyed fairies and sailors that have lost their way on ancient forgotten ships. But that's a different story.
The neighbour coulnd't turn up, he was more or less grounded for participating in all sort of behaviours that good minded folks would disagree.
Dylan is in my head, I really like the music he plays. But you know what, for all I care, the guys music will be forgotten in a couple of years. What will be playing in most retro places in Delhi will be Backstreet Boys and Boys 2 Men, cause you know people will shake there heads and say "that's how the music used to be in our times."
Damn, I wish I'd die to see that day.

Confessions from the dark street under a burnt lamp

The truth like all its strands is that its neither clear and never simple. But whatever it maybe, I'm a loser when it comes to committments. I've lost some of the best people I've known because of this weakness. Now I know that most people who read this page know who I am but I'd like not to believe this information. And even if it is so, let this be known. I know that my blog may not be that cool, as whatever cool can possibly be.
But anyway, like I was saying this is very true. The realisation draws when I see them pack their suitcases and slam the door to the spotlighted stage of my life. And like most times, I don't give a flying fuck about them. But when I do, its terrible to bear the chaos. But that I suppose is the way it all is.
If I can point a finger and put an end to all this I suppose the problem was sowed back in those days when I was in a boarding school. If I ever learnt do something so artistically, it was to destruct every form of distance based relationship. There were many people to keep in touch, folks, girlfriends in the girlfriends in the other school and friends from around. But I suppose I did everything to break all form of establishment and decided it was cooler to live in my mind.
The emptiness now distracts me, although I have so much to look ahead. As all aunties and uncles love to say. I'm not sure about that, its just a matter of odds.

Please to meet you.
Hope you guessed my name.

Just imagine you're at Altamont. There's someone dying around. Every good fuckin' band faces their trial.

The past two days have been hectic. I've been chasing after two stories, nothing that great or anything like that. But they have to be done. The office suck-up is the reason why I've been getting a headache. He loves to explore details in other peoples story. Minor darn details that relate to no great consequence. Sometimes he's so hell-bent upon figuring out these details that he gets carried away. Like 'so whose this guy's mother?' or 'what did she do ten years back' and so on and on 'are yous sure she was born in Delhi grw up in to Bombay did her post graduation in UK and is now back in Delhi?'. By this time, you've lost all interest in the piece and you're hell bent upon quitting journalism. I just clutch my head in despair and head for a coffee, smoke and some fuckin' relief.
Last evening was cool, the chef (my childhood school friend) invited me over. Had a couple of spliffs chugged a few beers and was toasted for several hours. Met a whole lot of people, some who I have never met for more than 10 years. People change, like greatly.
Then I slipped away from the scene, fled to the corner where the chef's younger sister were chilling. It was all good. It was better cause I was told that the minute, I left the schoolmates from the balcony (I was now in a AC room), there was a fight which broke down. Something that is not that unimaginable, if you hang about in the circles of Delhiites.
Crazy shit, hit the sack around 4. After listening to Floyd, talking to a extremely sweet looking and well mannered girl and the rest of them. There was a jackass as well sittin in the room - people called him 'cow' for some reason - who cracked these cliches and tried his best to look as philosophical as possible and muttered Ayn Rand's words 'Who is John Gal' some shit. The sucker kept going on and on, but then a spliff shut him up. Last thing I heard him say was around 3 in the morning muttering about leaving home. But he crashed out near the steps.
There was another mad fucker who was playing music videos on the computer till about 6 am, in the room below. The others looked as though they were looking for a fight. Cursing cause they thought it was cool. Quite pathetic.
But I chilled, I had good company.
The dame next to me, in office, is right now blabbering away on the phone and that's worsening the view that I'm getting from here. People are around and stupid

Oh well this one's for the music critic in city. The one who has been there for ages, and will be there till the time our children grow up and start interning there.

"Rock journalism is about people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read".- Frank Zappa

Oh it was pretty cool, the launch that is. Just like I had mentioned earlier the page-3 frat were all there with the likes of Suhel Seth (need I say more). He was calling me a tiger, for some reason. Bumped into the usual community with Jabberwock, Andy, Ruchir, Ravi Singh, Lil' Sam and his Frontline friend Annie, Mr Rock n' Roll Circus couldn't turn up at the last minute. Don't know where the others disappeared.
Met Chandra as well. He seemed like a nice chilled out guy. Damn spoke to him about Mayo, I really couldn't help it. Ruchir kept on shouting 'Go Mayo', and when you're three wines down you end up repeating a lot of things. But all went good. Met a chick from Express who I thought was quite hot, she was hanging out with Chatterati-express.
His reading went out quite fine. Jabberwock was explaining me the knitty-gritties of the book. Where it looped, and where it swung. A whole lot of other people were there, some boring assholes midst with our drunken lot.
Miss Trip left soon with her TV crew and her byte. She usually can be fun, but I suppose work can really turn people into a bit dry. But I've noticed everytime she says CNN-IBN, her voice turns really sharp. Heh, but she's like my good friend.
Got to chill with Ravi and Meru at the end, like the good old times and the innumerable book launches that I've spent with them. Life was turning out quite cool. Ravi was surprisingly very good about reading one of my short stories, he seemed so cool about the fact with that of course-I-will-go-through-it look, things turned even better. More than the launch, I'm sorry to say, all the arbitrary things were of great consequence. Well till it was time to go home. Work is as usual okay, workin' on a story. The office suck-up is hangin out drinkin tea with the office talk-crap lot. He fits so perfectly with them, sometimes I wish he just hangs out there. The other two haven't turned up

Apart from the insignificant details there's been nothing happening, really. Oh, well that is if you don't count Vikram Chandra's Sacred Games being launched in the evening. Sunday was peaceful as ever, and spent in the usual fashion. From reading, watching crappy flicks, listening to music and smoking cigarettes nothing else surfaced.
I bet at the launch -- like always, Delhi's literati and gliterati will be all there to attend and show off. Excpected list as usual. After all, who minds chugging free cocktails at the price of sitting through some book reading and publishers talking about their authors. Chandra's supposed to be a cool chap. I'm not saying this cause we both come from the same school. But he has few good books to his name, Love and longing in Bombay (a name I I find cool) and Red Earth.
This is perhaps one of the first times, I'll be meeting him. Most Indian authors are assholes who think a bit too much of themselves, and are pissoffs. One perhaps -- even though he writes really well -- is Upamanyu Chatterjee. Then there's the asshole talk-too-much category -- whose writing style, I loathe -- Chetan Bhagat.
The others may write well, but are lost in there own world. I met Siddharth Chowdhury, author of Patna Roughcut, who seemed as a rare kind. An extremely intelligent fellow, writes brilliantly and has no airs or so.
Anyways, I should be writing my short stories soon.

I heard it through the grapevine...

I'd like a cloudy windy day when there won't be any rain.

I'd like to walk in to a pub where the music is soft, well-lit and there're ten different people who wouldn't mind having a conversation.

I'd like a pretty woman to pass a smile and then disappear into the crowd.

I'd like to be lost in a never ending library built in the hills where I can never be traced.

I'd like to watch a film on a couch, drinking rum-cola, smoking countless cigarettes knowing there won't be a morning tomorrow.

I'd like to drink ten bottles of wine straight and be there to tell the actual tale.

I'd like a hot water shower on a winter night.

I'd like to count all those people that made me suffer in school feel the same.

I'd like to write a Catcher-In-The-Rye kind of book, and be like Salinger.

I'd like to meet God and discuss several issues, and hope that he's black.

I'd like to be stoned and watch the most ridicuous movie, I've ever seen.

I'd like to meet Faust and know what actually happened after everything.

I'd like to be sitting in a room filled poets, philosophers, writers, thinkers burning papers muttering this wasn't meant to be.

I'd like a comment that would tell me that my blog isn't really what its all meant to be, I've walked into the wrong place but I will be accepted so long I can pretend that I'm not a depressionist.

I'd like to think that dreams will be exactly what it will be after death.

I'd like to write a song that will be heard.

I'd like to walk barefoot towards the end of the horizon with a bottle of whisky in one hand and in the other a pair of shoes.

I'd like someone to tell me that I write well.

I'd like to have read a thousand books.

I'd like to believe that this will end peacefully, and I will wake up with someone I love.

To my sweetheart across the seas. Lost that she is.

Visions of sin

Ain't it just like the night to play tricks when you're tryin' to be so quiet?
We sit here stranded, though we're all doin' our best to deny it.
And Louise holds a handful of rain,
temptin' you to defy it.


The empty-handed painter from your streets.
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets.
This sky, too, is folding under you.
And it's all over now, Baby Blue.

Then take me disappearin' through the smoke rings of my mind,
Down the foggy ruins of time, far past the frozen leaves,
The haunted, frightened trees, out to the windy beach,
Far from the twisted reach of crazy sorrow.
Yes, to dance beneath the diamond sky with one hand waving free,
Silhouetted by the sea, circled by the circus sands,
With all memory and fate driven deep beneath the waves,
Let me forget about today until tomorrow.

There were good time and there were bad times, think I've got the blues.

Okay, all's swell. It really is. Its more since the office suck up isn't here, the woman who talks a lot is sittin quitely in her place playing the card game. The next department, Sunday are working hard.
I'm doing my usual google around. Visiting those pathetic hi5 and orkut sites, wondering why the fuck would one ever want to be in there. I mean, I know I've bumped into some pretty looking chicks. Met up with people, I wouldn't have got in touch with and nor that I would intend to. But whatever said and done, the idea sells brilliantly.
I know quite a few people who like to orkut and hi5, to network. Guess it just keeps your friends intact, like a schoolgirl's diary you never made. Back there in primary school there used to these kids that used to have these 'slam-books', perhaps thats were these people conceptualised it all.
Nothing much now.

Friday night

The issue is finally going to bed. I'm listening to Johnny Cash, after smoking a tough stick of tobacco. Life is cheerful.

Night tripper

My editor called to attend the Jaswant Singh's book release Travel To Transoxiana. Just like the ole' times in city, she wanted me to cover it and that seem feeling of over-whelming encouragement and trust that she so carefully imparts was put on me again. Although the book has nothing to do with an iota of controversy, and this one being much more tame. I was actually meant to snoop for pesky politicians who would be there and find the workings of a political book release. I was meant to run back to office and file the story for the edition that you see in the morning.
But it so happened the neither Singh could turn nor the brigade of politicians, you see for the first time our Prime Minister Manmohan Singh was talking. When I say talking, I would prefer to imply it as rhetorically as possible. The nuclear debate has been on for quite some while, and this time the PM made everyone listen to what he had to say and naturally made them shut-up.
So while no one was there, I met up with the Picador friend who had come to attend. Discussing whatever has happened so far in the book grapevine, what will happen and what will never happen. The usual authors were there like always: Anurag Mathur, Ruskin Bond etc. To whom I either spoke for a bit or nodded in respect. Then I went and introduced myself to my country cousins (Singh's two sons), exchanged the khamas and kept up with my Rajput tradition.
And headed straight for the bar. My friends were there, bumped into the Queen of Blogs. This was the first time I was meeting her after starting my blog. She had already been through it, and was quite upset with the way I treated my punctuations. Then she was upset with me for not coming for her party. But after a cigarette and a few quick swigs of alcohol, things were retained to being pleasant again.The evening ended in a respectable fashion. Had coffee at the Barista in Def Col with Little Sam and his intelligent friends. Went to my friends place. Smoked a cigarette. Read my 1984, and was swept into the world of blissful dreams.

That's the picture that Mr Rock n' Roll Circus has had as his desktop wallpaper. Its been there ever since I've known him. Its Keith, looking weirdly cool as ever.

These are few songs, that I perhaps beileve may not be the best but have managed to my favourites.

Angie: Rolling Stones
Desolation Row: Bob Dylan
Move It On Over: George Thorogood
Mustang Sally: Buddy Guy
Wish You Were Here: Pink Floyd
Indian Summer: The Doors
Come Up The Years: Jefferson Airplane
Working Class Hero: John Lennon
Forever In Blue Jeans: Neil Diamond
Scientist: Coldplay
Sisters Of Mercy: Leonard Cohen
Cortez The Killer: Neil Young
Universal Soldier: Donovan
Dangling Conversation: Simon & Garfunkel
I Walk The Line: Johnny Cash
Walk On The Wild Side: Lou Reed
Herion: Velvet Undergroud with Nico

Just learnt a new term, back in the Dark Ages they used to refer to prostitues as Harlots. Sounds damn cool.

The life and the times

A story of mine got printed yesterday, one of those early in the week ones. found it on damn page-13, which I'm sure everyone missed. It was on Jaswant Singh's new book. Nothing that great, its quite a silly book, more autobiographical, this time on his visits to Central Asia. The mole saga is being forgotten, life for politicians can run back to normal very soon, well unless they intend to make a anthill of it again and get back on the headlines.
The country's preparing for serious bomb threats that have been floating around town, my brother in Bombay told me that they found one in some peppy mall. But they difused it long before it banged. There are a serious bunch of assholes wanting to bomb the country. I just don't see there point at all.
Anyway, was at Khan Market today. Actually to find if what I had written on the market (which I still haven't recieved the payment for) was there. I saw shit loads of pictures, and in one store found the article. I tried to locate the author Dominick Dunne, in the bookstores. Store owners were more curious than I had expected.
Shuttled back to office, dying for a cup of coffee. And this marvelously hot day to begin its trial on me.

Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose

Yes, quite right. Its 15th August, a national damn holiday, when the whole wide country is asked to rest it self. Think about all those people who lost their lives fighting the British forces, leaving us with a loose term called independence.
It was a struggle, I believe. That went on for longer than a century. There are people in Delhi, I mean elderly folks, who say they saw the century folding and for them its a day to be proud of.
But you know what, I think people today have lost in on the meaning of what this days about. Take me for isntance, apart for it to be a holiday for others and a working day for me. I can't even see the relevance of it.
But the question of the day: are we Indian enough? You know as Thomas Friedman says the World is Flat, and globalisation has leveled the world. There is only a shadow line, as Amitav Ghosh would say, that divides us from other countries and cultures. Is there something apart from a forgotten language, and a damn culture that we no longer abide honestly, we left with?
Today its fashionable to acquire a penchant for other cultures. It happened somewhile back a lot. The Beatles and a whole lot of 'believers' came to our country to find 'spirituality', and found that the green grass on the other side is hell lot sweeter.
You find a whole lot of Harry-Krishnas even today in some parts of the pot-stations of the country; Goa, Manali... sporting the kurtas and smudging the myths with the cloth to wipe their chillums.
And while the devil wears the Prada, a whole lot of people, I know, have identified the seduction of brands like Louis Vuitton, Gucci, Bvalgari, and names like such quite vulgarly. So where's the Indian-Indianess that we so extravagantly explore. I know a whole lot of beautiful people that've stepped across to the other side of the sea. And continue procliaming view so loudly about what they've left behind, sulkily. Broadening perspectives from news agencies about Indian politics, terrorism and poverty that we Indians can't seem to do without day-in day-out. And they believe they're Indians, heck no apart from a blood test.
So my office is all quiet now, I guess the good people are spending their honest time a lot longer with people in their homes who have a good holiday.
Tuesdays, I suppose, are just as bad as Monday, wouldn't you agree? Oh yes freedom, now I think I'll find that in the much-in-news Coke botle.

What bloggers can't take a Sunday Damn...

Jim and me

If you live in Delhi -- and have been to Turquoise Cottage -- you would see a bunch of head-banging idiots who swear by the name Jim Morrison. I look at them and always nod in respect, albeit I can never relate to them -- even though I presume they're undergoing the time I lived, suffered and glorified. Now quite a few many moons back, when I was young and impressionable, Mr Morrison's spirit came and taught me a whole lot of things my parents would not like to divulge.
But I wasn't like the idiots now. I mean, I was a serious fan, or maybe a disciple or maybe him. You know a reincarnation. I had read every book written on him. I heard every song of the Doors, and every poetry written (last or found) by the Lizard King aka the American Poet. It was a Faustian deal I had struck with the devil to transform me into the subconscious of the unknown. The paradise that was built by the Morrison for occult. His every thought and words made a path for me to self-destruction and then the quench to build and lose.
What more, it was cause of him I read all the writers that Morrison was influenced by. Blake, Kerouac, Rimbaud, Nietzche, Mailer and amazing amounts of Greek philosophy amongst a whole lot of things other.
And it was then that everything around me deepened, I could relate and peneterate and glorify this uncanny world. My search for literature took over from there. Besides I indulged, and fell quite gladly into this abyss. This dark tunnel. This room, this world which turned into a party that you and I could only wish to be in.
Then the war begin. It was all over. The dream was lost, the hope vanished and the religion was eaten by dogs. I walked on the desert and who did I find. I find the little girl standing besides a well. A well where there were a million of morals but none to spare. Here eyes were sad with the tears that had fallen into the well. She said its time now, and its getting late.
I woke up to find the shaman dancing.
As you can understand it was chaotic. It was being lost in the Paradise. A paradise that was built to be lost. It could've never been regained. It was always feeding on it self. It was the sacrafice that all great men took and submerged. An affair that would've caused great scowls of discomfort in the circuit of highly established aristocrats and likelyhood.
It was madness. That's what you'd call it. But you'd still believe it. If you'd sense of that cry almost deafening?

Sad rings of Jupiter

As you can observe, life is unapologetically pathetic. I mean, it seems like we're zombies strung by a few threads of shitty morals. Does it make sense to go and on, just imagine yourself sitting on a sofa watching a movie on someone's life which is about you. I mean you would think its rubbish. Something which makes no sense at all.
From the moment when you open your eyes after an Eternal-Sunshine-On-A-Spotless-Mind sort-of-a-thing, and before you sip your tea and read the papers. Does it make sense to be a part of an unruly established and mishandled existence called life.
No, no that's definitely what its not meant to be. I mean aren't things supposed to be all good. Clear and pure. Where there's not even a single reason to be dismay. look at it, all Eve wanted to do was eat the forbidden fruit. Now why would somebody like God send ole' Raphael down and say not to touch it.
Suppose you're in this room, and you feel like drinkin' some alcohol and then somebody send you a message saying 'Dude, just don't drink the White Russian Drink something else'.
And of course, the room has a dipsomaniac's wet dream coming true bar, with all sorts of stuff you could try (maybe absinthe). But once you've been warned, the curiosity is bound to spark. If that friend didn't warn me, I would've just sat there and drunk a Guinness. Without much hassle. Come to think of it, it doesn't make point.
And if Christian Theology is to believed, then that's the first moment when you're being questioned at a stage when you aren't meant to be thinkin rationally at all. Come back a billion fuckin centuries, when we are nicely programmed and monitored. And somebody makes you curious, we'll make the same damn mistake as before.
There you have it. Life.

About the princess of style

This was a bit sad, and since the princess is someone I was awed over since the day she arrived. It was, and I miss her sometimes know when things are slow. For one, she was pragmatic and was earnest about her doings. Two, she gave everyone that space and liked all to begin with and depended upon time to dictate. One year together, I'd hang around with her often. I had my stories to tell her, and I would sit to down o relate with hers. Hers was a different one, one that I was exposed to little -- my work slightly centred around it -- but then she had her keen perspective over things that were curiously trivial but at the same time interesting. I also pushed a few books for her to read.
I greatly respected her, you know. I knew she wasn't the kind of person who you could mess around with much (in the sense, be stupid). Though for quite somewhile there were jokes about us being paired, and I entertained it humoursly. But only as a mild joke. She once warned me about not taking it seriously; it could hurt me, and I drew away from it knowing that there's a line between fun and being an asshole. I knew which side I was tripping towards.
But I was upset.
Then the friendship thickened, cause we at a place where very less there were people that you could chill with at the same time there were so many. We'd begun talking a lot till the time she revealed the troublesome time she was going through.
Naturally, it was hard for me to understand. Cause it involved people I thought were genuine. Things turned nasty, I was also being labeled as 'political'. Being a friend of the weaker instead of the you-know-who's. And being a public school product, decided that whatever may I would be friends with friends, and if foes be decided. Then it shall be decided.
The war raged by the time had to go for a short while. I believe it took nasty turns, but when I came back I knew I had lost something. It was the princess of style. She had been beaten, bruised and humiliated. I couldn't do much. But grew more frightened. Today its a thing of the past, for her. But I miss her around. Also scared, people are different. It takes a toll for me to walk around much. You know

In lurv again?

Anyway, now that I've time as I've just sent the oped page to Bombay and released the other issue one. I can sit down and write again. And if I don't have people yelling for me from here and around, it definitely feels better. I can just tell you that I just bumped into this hot-chick photographer that's newly joint city (and the one which the Mad Scientist once told me about). Of course, I wasn't there when she had joint, cause I was on my friggin' exam leave. But anyway, she's a real swell to look at.
The sad bit is that ever since the Pirate was pirated, I don't feel I have a darn good reason to go to city cause things aren't awfully nice out there. Don't have that many friends as well, the two I know quite well have made it a point to show off how hard they've started working and I feel out of place. My period was swell there of course, two fuckin years of life. It surely is a long time.
So anyway just crossed her for the thrid time in my life, and she narrows her eyes and I can see my bloody heart making its way through my throat and like a pinball falling back in my stomach and settling where it dramatically belongs after that.
Sometimes and just sometimes, its a bitch to have that kind of feeling. Especially, when you don't know the chick and you know its damn corny to talk about it expressively. You know what I mean right?
Like how the fuck would Holden Caulfield say to this. Damn.
Been out of love for a while, which means not-so-good. The fuck up about this is that you feel you require it when you do but then you don't need it that much. Being a male, I know we're accused of thinking from our willies. But, hey, not everyone does. Its understood when you take the example of Mad Yanker, whose the most bizarre dude I've ever met. He randomly walks up to women in office and talks about his habit of molesting women, and drugs and porn and filth. Does he do it for kicks or is he just insane? But sometimes he talks some sense, but very rarely. Dunno.
But then life fits into place if the chick smiles, probably a coffee at our darn office cafe (which stinks) and at the most an evening at Turquoise Cottage. Lord knows, whether things ever take off better than that (you know what I mean.) TC's the fuckin same, listening to the same tracks over and over again.
But seriously the chick is the hottest ever planted there, hope to strike a conversation soon. Will try, I swear. The thing is one doesn't see her so often. Life's surely strange.

Brilliant

Its a Thursday fuckin' morning, watched a pretty cool movie last evening called Flight Plan (starring Jodie Foster). My editor is in the house, and the office suck up has gone after her. Now he's just returned, hoping for me to make some polite conversation. But you know what, I'm not looking at him. I'm just writing this blog. Got whole lot of better things to do, you know.
Anyway, all's quite swell otherwise. Friday pressure is building great. I don't mind it much, cause the OPED page that I make and edit is all under control. Don't have a fuckin' story to give, that eats me up. And what I can do but just sit through this day. Waiting, waiting for a bloody smile.

Let's have a party

I feel that the idea of having fun is being lost, greatly and tragically. I mean there was this good ole' time when we could sit in someone's livingroom and observe women, slug our beers listen to good music and things would fit into place. But last evening was this particular distraction, and if the Sisters of Mercy weren't there I would've been confined to an eternity of boredom.
So here I was all smartened and suave to find that the place Paradiso (god knows what it means, and should've rather been Hello) was where I'd been once before. Its basically this dark cave-like place, with music that will burst the fuckin' curtains of your ears and a population that largely consists of 98.8 per cent males.
And as sweet luck would have it, it was just what I'd feared. So me and the Sisters of Mercy went to have a beer. Came back and sat on the sofa, and I felt that I had sat upon a wet patch. Trust me that feeling when you feel your jeans gettin soaked is one shitty time. Apparently, it was some stupid boquet that had leaked. Anyway with that amazing sound of shit music from Sir Himesh to Sir asshole, our conversation sounded that of elderly folks. "Hah, what? ya ya"....And the "Yes, yes, so what did you say (hah)...oh what you didn't say anything...oh?" Sorts.
Went back to the bar to find out that the beer had gone but there was only vodka left, fair as well. When we finished with that, I returned to the bar to know that the vodka was over and so was the bar.
When you're not that drunk, when you're not that pansy dancer, and weird women from clouds of smoke are passing a smile -- nothing makes quite sense. In a little while, countless smokes had been smoked and I was wonderin' Cohen's lines: "this place is dead as heaven on Saturday nights." Where the fuck do they go to have fun? Oh lord. I found death between drunks and women who thought Ezra Pound had a funny name.

I wrote this somewhile back. Its a work of fiction, perhaps its estranged. A feeling that you suffer for a minute and then its forgotten. I wrote it in a few minutes, don't know what it meant. Its about three people, a sort of a stream of consciousness beat.

Fragmented Minds

She was extremely beautiful, I wished I could have stayed longer and looked at her. But to have looked more intently in those eyes, that seemed as an opening of a lost galaxy that lay embedded in those beads. I would have given away the secret of this desire. I was drawn away. A strange sound of a violin played in my mind, it was as though snatched from the museums where tired spirits and cobwebs slept and brought by the cavemen. It could have gone longer instead, and I could have taken it from there so sweetly and so beautifully as though a murderous surgeon with a scalpel. But the train whistled in.
Mr Filth, was not an unkind fellow he just seemed to have got used to the sudden and pathetic heartbreaks which seemed to be an ignorable but yet a serious part of his life. It had taken him twenty-long years to understand that human nature was such that his name would arouse disgust on even the most admirable set of people. For twenty years he had mastered the art of listening to the chirping of birds to identify when a death had taken place in the vicinity, and could gauge whether the spirit had been satified or not. Death to him would occur the same reaction as sex wuld be. Could it be that his life was a mystery just like the others he had met at the alley behind the theatre. He didn't wish for it to be so, ever since he had lost his parents in a tragedy that he had decided would have fitted a plot -- no edior could agree. But that was not on his mind; the flask of whisky in his coat pocket was running out, and there seemed only a few hours of time that it would sustain him. An old voyeur he was, the cigarette that seemed to be trapped between his thin lips which was almost reaching to its burning end.
By the the time such thoughts had feld from the fellow that I could easily carve from his tiresome expression, she had already left. It was perhaps too good to be true. I wasn't unhappy but I had suddenly seemed weary with the weight of newspapers under my arm. The amount of reading that had taken place over the past few weeks kept my mind running around madly, looking for lines and words to play and then the lack of sleep. It had got late now, but not that late as late would be in natural circumstances. The fellow on my left seemed impatient waiting for me to say something but I had not, it was difficult what troubles could do to cretins to make them look sour. Songs were now playing, how long could it take? He didn't know.
She thought it about for a minute, and then it escaped her easily. For months she had been on trains and cars to know that the burnt smell of anguish inside her giving way. From scrapbooks to magazine, books to newspaper clippings; could she live in this style of fashion forever. Perhaps not, with the way things had seemed a moment back. She could have thrown her hair back and smiled at those strangers that had taken turns to fancy her. But no, her mission seemed more dire than any of those sods. Carelessly waiting for an impatient and rash moment to dictate their unsophisticated love for her. But then she had slept on nails to know that pain was nothing but a prison that has trapped death. Could they have seen that her wrist was bleeding; and then time seemed to be disappointing as well. Her vision was growing thinner and thinner, her heartbeat strummed peacefully and the blood spoilt the pocket of her expensive but old gown. She was on the train, she felt them running in her mind.

Life's a bitch (and we know it)

What would you do, when you see some of the coolest people at work asked to leave because they're cool, mavericks, eccentric, brilliant, intellectual, on their own trip and obviously don't give a shit about things and know how to enjoy life as it is. That's the feeling which that-fucked-up-Monday evening left me with. Anyway, I just wish it didn't happen so. I mean they're a lot of dorks (suck ups) who should be ask to head that way. But you know MANAGEMENT, its always the other way around.
Spoke to my editor, I think I woke her up. But since the matter of fact was eating me up, I just told her everything. She didn't know about it, but then since she's cool and very understanding -- its good to talk to her.
Got invited by a school-chick-friend of mine. Was quite surprised and overwhelmed at the same time to recieve her message. Her party's in some place in GK-11, will head out that way to see what its like. She's promised me that there will be some cute women there, and of course now, how can I not go and check things out for my self.
Otherwise, Its quite a boring day. Chatted with the mad scientist. He writes fuckin well, he's the Pirate. I get wonky at times when it comes to writing. All the other blogmates are slightly haughty lot, I fear to be cornered by them. Oh lord, I'm rushing off for a smoke.

Just as well

Oh well, its a bluesy Monday morning. Its been intesnified because the weekend has been full of booze and blues. Just perfect. It was my cousins birthday on Saturday evening, chilled out with his friends. Despite listening to some horrible music in the beginning, watching drunken youth dancin away on it, in the end I heard some Neil Diamond on the someones iPod, and I got to speak to a cute recently-cleared Stephanian chick. Who I fell heel over head and head over heel. But still the brew flowed like a river, and speaking to some serious people about books got everything running.
Sunday evening, the Saturday Night Blues Band pefromed. Couldn't have been better, as the Cal band got Lou Majaw (from Shillong) and Lew Hilt of HFT to come and jam with them. Although the crowd was a bit wonky, the music was real classic honky-tonk.
Met one of the cutest publishers, someone I know, there. And just like before was head-over-heels for her too. You get my point right: if you're not in love, the idea seems swell. And sometimes there're some real beauties on planet Earth that you get to meet over wine, cheese and Leonard Cohen.
Vasant Vihar's becomin shady, as much as I hate to admit it. I enjoy the notoriety, but then if you see sleaziness then its a real turn off.
Was sittin with Mr rock 'n' Circus, in his office, which is a little further away from where I sit. Over my much-panted-cigarette I read this book lying on his table called A Swell Looking Babe by the American writer Jim Thompson. I've read one book of his before, to know he's exremely cool.
Mr R'n'R Circus is over with his book. I know it'll be a real seller this time. It ought to be. He's worked hard on this, and plus its his third now.
Roli's asked me to add a couple of things more. will have to do it now. Although my thrill for the damn thing is expiring, and I'mw aiting for the check which I'll spend on the good-things-of-life sort of thing.
Rest as well, the damn sub is looking at me. To think for ideas. Oh lord, I forgot its a fuckin Monday.

Hello, I'm Johnny Cash

Saw I Walk The Line, thought it was a fuckin' cool movie. I think this is the most brilliant song, that Cash could come out with. It was perhaps the style of simplicity that made it look so swell.

Folsom Prison Blues"

I hear the train a comin'
It's rolling round the bend
And I ain't seen the sunshine since I don't know when,
I'm stuck in Folsom prison, and time keeps draggin' on
But that train keeps a rollin' on down to San Antone..
When I was just a baby my mama told me.
Son,Always be a good boy, don't ever play with guns.
But I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die
When I hear that whistle blowing,
I hang my head and cry..
I bet there's rich folks eating in a fancy dining car
They're probably drinkin' coffee and smoking big cigars.
Well I know I had it coming,
I know I can't be free
But those people keep a movin'
And that's what tortures me...
Well if they freed me from this prison,
If that railroad train was mine
I bet I'd move it on a little farther down the line
Far from Folsom prison, that's where I want to stay
And I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away.....

And Saturdays

Like all good days, Saturday for me is extremely pleasant. Coming to office is a sheer formality. The work for the next week's issue shapes up on Monday, and I get to be a dreamer.
Didn't have many stories last Friday. But then I had to do an okay-sized article for the Roli Books on the history of Khan Market. You see its Khushwant Singh's Train To Pakistan' 50th anniversary. So fair as well. That's got done.
Thinking of writing a short story, beg some of the publishers I know to fit it in somewhere. Thinking of writing a book, but the plot seems to waver. And then have to read an uncountable number of books (before-I-die sorts).
The mad scientist left the building two days back. He had a showdown in little city. Apparently the editor coulnd't save him, so he had to leave. Mistakes I suppose everyone committs, although I don't encourage them, I don't think it should cost their life-jobs. I suppose everyone's saying there are too many mistakes happening in city. And well, the shit hit the fan and hit my only friend in city.
The thing I'll miss the most of the mad scientist is quietly sneaking down to the pasrking lot -- when days are fucked up or useless -- smokin', bitch about all the bitches and quirkies and head back to our respective departments. I worked with him for quite some while.
Anyway, he's joint Maxim -- that should be good. That's where one of my oldest and most genuine friend Armchair Thinker works. He has to head out of town soon though, but I think its all cool.
So long as its cool. Meanwhile, I'm working on findin myself a decent chick. One that I can chill with. Life gets quite monotonous. You know: working day after day. Not thinkin about the bed much. Sometimes the alcohol.
But my idea of chilin is changin, I don't like going to clubs. The music is pathetic and I don't see any love there. Cheers!

Damn, haven't got the time to even the blog. Friday nights are extremely fucked up, working for the Saturday issue in the HT.

Fucked up day!

You heard it. That's what it is.

A night in life

Every morning like every other mornings are a drag. I have extremely uncanny sleeping habits. I like to read till I'm drowsy, and when I hit the sack its painful as the days memory seems to recollect and one pool of thought leads to another. The last cigarette is reassuring that I'm only strengthning the habit, and well the tea (or coffee) is painless numbing.
My parents often say that I talk in my sleep, my uncle would say that those who talk in their sleep have restless souls. Sometimes when I'm offering myself to indulge in dark and depressive thoughts, I believe its quite true. For in my dreams and sleep, I've often engulfed in strange realms that brought sadness and melancholy to existence in my life. Of course, its pure stretch of imagination and nothing else -- I'd like to believe.
There've been times, I've felt forces that've been draped on me. A force that is invisible which blankets and spreads across me. But that used to happen a lot when I was in my century old school.
I remember once, back there, it was a late April night, I had stepped out of the corridor to drink water from the water filter where we used to fill our bottles. I was strangely not afraid at that time. I had finished drinking water, and I was making my way back to my room. I saw someone, and it seemed like someone in the hostel walking towards me. I thought it was someone feeling thirsty and like me was also heading towards the water cooler.
So I stopped, and looked at him. Wondering who it could be. Although it was late enough, and that too in school, to be hanging out so late. When the person in front of me disappeared right before me. The boy looked as though a juniour of mine, wearing a nightsuit that I was extremely aware of.
I wasn't scared even after that, I made my way back to my bed. And then the shock wore off, and I felt the shivers. Strange.
I've also seen my ancestors in my dreams; talking to me, upset about how the times have changed. I once saw a friend of mine who had died in a accident in the holidays.
Once asleep, I'm unaware like every other human being. I've always been fascinated, as though its a time when one is drawn closer and very closer to his or her soul. Of course, reading and writing about strange things also influence people. But its something which lingers and for long.