I don't know why I chose this picture, of course it looks very nice though. And again, of course, you know very well -- a very Happy New Year to all ye out there!

A Very Merry Christmas to all you. All the very best!

Self doesn't want to talk about things. Self is slightly upset with the way establishment works. But self still, despite having the strongest urge, wouldn't burn it all down. Its very simple to burn things, almost all things must be burnt to ashes.
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The Ed's gone to Kenya for a week of holiday. I guess I'm missing her already. Not only everything runs on a simple beat of order but all the other factors also humble down and there's this uncanny unspoken system which takes surface and for most circumstances takes a very good practice of making things settle in peace or so it seems -- when she's here.
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Life seems to have unsettled now. There are more sources of distractions now than what I have faced before. Situations constantly take new shapes, its different now. Its also a paradise that has been corrupted and the story seems to replicate every century, of course in a worse form. Different portals emerging on the bright blue sky. Its peaceful to stare at it; although you know that beneath the thin sheet of darkness lies a tension that is inexplicable in its nature to fathom and yet you strain your eyes to further an understanding of what you will never perceive but for a serene sense. What dichotomy? It never seems to end and despite all your attempts it grows mysterious and lures you to its new wavelengths.
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Both my parents -- and their parents as well have been member of the Delhi Gymkhana Club. I've also read somewhere that the Ed's one too. Those who have a little idea would not know that the eliteness and social standard associated to this club travels back to the British Raj. The few Indian members of then were the, of course, privileged ones -- today the membership is expensive and remains exclusive to a certain section of the society, there's little opportunity for the old members to afford it had they have to seek it again.
I have no snobbery of my aristocratic lineage. We are from an old family of royalty that barely exists; and if you see that it does in others, then its in a superficial fashion. The old true royal family and the royalty behind it is forgotten and cannot even sustain itself in this century.
(It really doesn't matter now, does it? Between you and me and this world that we allow nudging its way in every personal matters of ours, it really doesn't.)
The cousin was at the club last evening ‘entertaining’ his guests. His guests were none other than his work-lot. Self entered the bar wearing clothes that were not fashionable. But yes if you have a twisted sense of that word, then they were. Of course they were naturally far away from the formalwear. It didn't matter to me.
Its embarrassing now to think about it, but there was a time; a very short while, that I was a 'page 3 reporter'. So now I assumed that I was accustomed to be the oddly dressed at a necktie crowd. But this was different. And despite the imagery that you would have grasped similar from an Oscar Wilde dinner party, this seemed even more grotesque. What was paradoxical was that the outdoor segment to the club's bar had a dance floor where Himesh boomed, and the 'young lot' were 'hangin out' there while their parents threw fly kisses at each other inside and creating scandals no one cares about. I managed to sift between the two sides for the short while I was there, sipping a beer.While walking out, I saw an extremely elegantly dressed woman who could have forged her age easily. She could have been 24 or 35 and with an arrogance that could be luring but also a stubborn one of no interest. But she was smoking her Marlboro, and I needed a light. I casually asked her for one, she didn't have any, so she offered me her cigarette. While I lit my unfashionable cigarette, she locked her face to the right. Even while I mumbled a thank you, she seemed to be distant than in actual. She wasn't beautiful if it hadn't been for the cosmetics. Her figure seemed fashioned to one of class -- whatever that means. It bothered me for a while as I thought of her as I walked further away. Something was wrong. I felt it from her. Was it just the fact that there was an existing social barrier between us; no but then why had she offered me her light or was it some tension in her own mind. It didn't matter -- left me a bit wondering.

Something's wrong. It's not happening right. It perhaps doesn't even matter. But its troubling. Just the thought of it. It enters your mind and does you wrong all over. You begin to wonder about it and then you lose it. Just, just like that. When you start writing about it, you really wonder whether you could find better words to give a better meaning to it or does it make sense to even write about it. Everything is lost. The meaning of it. Its simple and natural loss and then there's joy. But when you think its gone, it shows back again. It torments you. Whether you did, what you did, was moral? Does meaning have to draw a line in every aspect of its sense. can you leave certain things? Wait for them to strike again? Its not worth it right? This life and death? This, everything, that perhaps comes in between it. Is there existence? Does it have to persist this way? Can't it be simpler? Its terribly confusing. But then not everything is. Sometimes life is so lucidly exposed. Then everything darkens. Its bleak. Its wrong. You wan to change things but you can't. Your simple faith gets raped. You pick its remnants smothered on the road by your filthy hands. Next morning is wonderful. The sun, tea and your hot water bath. Your work. Then someone says somehing to you. Its wrong again. There's death around the corner; always. You see her beautiful face, those delicate lips. You never cross her, but you see her in your shadows. Following you. Death is definite and so is birth. Everything in the middle is relevan and at the same time its not at all. It can't be. You wouldn't wish for it to be so. You plunge into a pool, the water feels like blood. You swim against tides of time. Have you ever sat in a room and you have lost track of time. There is no possible way of finding out. You feel so wronged. Your whole meaning to everything blurs. You wish it wouldn't be so. You feel love and hate in the same day. Often you end up hating what you love; and loving what you hate. You explore everything. You talk of reason, when you reason you can't anymore. Your life not only misses a beat of a heart but it races and then it stops to normalcy. You wish and you long; you curse and then spread your words all over the town. Someone misses the point. They have to. Can they see or feel what you do. They laugh and then one day you laugh. You break your heart and you hear it being shattered after it has fallen a countless steps. You grow another one. You live for everything, you wait for it. But it doesn't come. You win and lose some. You gain wisdom but then it isn't justified. You hear words of someone, they died so lonesomely. What could it be this ramblings? Your happiness and my sadness? Your knowings and my sense of priority? Where could I find love, where you have never been? Where could I meet you, where you wouldn't want to be. Its dark and then there is light. The light manages everywhere. You forget the past and the future secures you for a second and then drops you into an abyss. You see a world that Alice may have longed. You are superior to everyone till you step out of the room. There you see shadows, your humilty avoids stepping on them. You wonder for strange maddness. You can't find it. You want to write something, but you can't. You wish it would be simple. You look at others. They are wrong sometimes, but they love you. There is death in them. You don't see that. You never do. The light bulbs in the hallway, they shine like your eyes. The moon is your beauty. The wind is your smile. The shadow is your evening dress. The reason is the sea. I would stand on stand on anything, wait for you, a song, then it will be blown away. I am mad. Don't laugh cause so are you. You may just present yourself well, and we all do. But you are what you never see. The mirror never shows your soul. Its wrong. Your immortality is just a prayer when you're winning. When you lose, I see what you understood. Who talked about learning. We are missing something here. There should be wine. There should be women and the spirits. All undressed in the theatre. A voice of a ghost. And a whisper of dream from ever orphanage. From prisons where every night is tortured where every right is lost. There is a sun. There is a world. There is happiness. I know of it, I don't see it though. I never will. Until I chose not to. We never relate to anything till we die for it. The expression. There is something. I reach and I fall. Into a hole where the armies fell. I live in your eyes. I'm there for only a song.

Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? Your face is all swollen, your eyes are painted red and your beard is already three days old. You look as though you haven't had a proper sleep; as though you've drunk relentlessly and that too as though in vengeance; and now that it will only take medicines and good humour to put you to the good sleep. You look as though the boy in you has died and your face is a mourning funeral of your childhood. You seem that you suffer for no reason and as though you return from a thousand years of exile.
Your crime like all other crimes has made justice see yet another glimpse of how the world is so impossibly filled with wrong. You have done what no man -- or woman, but they don't do things wrong -- has committed. But for that we shall not make another Christ out of you. We will certainly kill you and make sure that history never remembers you -- all that you've written shall now be printed and stuffed down your threat. Your eyes will also be used for an experiment. They will turn it into the jelly and introduce a 'crazy ball' for young children to throw in and around. We believe that the society will finally breathe respite knowing that in someway you've contributed something to others.
Your crime! Where exactly are the files where they've listed them all out? Let me explain to you kind and close-minded society that the 'poet' has to die. He has to die and along with him will die the centuries of hyprocrisy that has so loosely meandered. For he has done that sin that no other sin could or would cure and make life simpler. He has wronged the entire establishment and the Ministry of Truth is looking into it very carefully.
The 'poet' writes not clearly, he has to die. We have had to change and turn his lines. His words and his sentences don't match our incredible understanding of the language. His words are rotten and old; insincere and wrong. There is no one way that we can allow lines like that to prevail and florish. The cause of all cause, you readers the misery that we would no longer dare to associate -- the 'poet' has to die, the 'poet' has to die.

Not that I intend on becoming an Urban Development Minister or even a wedding planner for that matter, my hatred for Delhi roads will never seem to cease; but that apart -- there were some 30,000 wedding in the Capital last evening. Now knowing the city that even an impossible traffic jam can build up if one chap decides to park his car on the highway to take a leak -- everything seems so lucidly chaotic.
First I wondered how alarming a number it is to know that 60,000 (sex equally divided, I guess) will be tying the nupital knot. Then I fear about thinking of a time will come when I will have to be a part of this circus, and how embarassing it would be (getting married). And then -- oh man! -- just imagine knowing that a close to 60,000 people would be getting layed that same night. But that too apart -- I suppose, understanding of any self-deserving Dilli wedding, there have to be at least 500 families invited to each of them.
Just imagine how many cars would they be, 1,50,00,000? That's heck of a lot of cars, ain't it? But Delhi's roads don't mind, not only are they stubborn with the amount of piss pissed on them but they have also been abused for a bloody good time.
So while I was stuck outside TC heading to Saket for a bloody hour -- which is barely a 10 minute distance -- I looked about from that wonderful view from the auto at the endless list of cars. There were a couple of wedding cars -- they're the one's which have thousand flowers stuck on them with tape -- all honking. Which seemed a pretty site. See you're finally getting married, after all these years, and now you're on your way to a farmhouse to attend it, but you can't reach. Screwed and stranded, while your bride waits for you and all the uncles and aunts. Sheesh.

Blues with a feeling

Feeling evil

Been reading:

Carnacki the Ghost Finder by William Hope Hodgson.
Vampire Lestat by Anne Rice.

Roll with it

1) I like songs that have great wordy vocals, not all but some. The words have to be really poetic and the music soft and more treated as an accomplice to the art. Although I like a whole lot of music, lately its been blues. But not even time can kill for me my fascination for the songs of Leonard Cohen, Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, John Lennon and Neil Young. I may have missed some names, lot of bands have numbers in them (Coldplay-kind).

2) I lose people easily. Its a pity that they are people who have held great posts of importance at some point of my life. But its time and distance that displaces them from me; when they return, I feel that we've become strangers till we recover that strayed over past. Often you are unable to connect easily, sometimes catching up is so easy. This doesn't happen all the time but it does. People leave; I miss them -- a new stage lights and a new curtain rises, life. That's how it turns.

3) During a particular age, few years back, I felt that I could see spirits. No not the Sixth Sense kind, its just that they could be seen or sensed around when things would get real dark, dismal and lonesome -- I was amazed how little it had to be with just being afraid. I used to get jeered by friends, so I hushed it up. Things passed. My dreams were nightmarish. I guess it was just a patch of time.

4) Sleep has turned me crazy. I'm turing completely nocturnal. Reading is the only pill. I guess in this point I'll fix both books and sleep together. With books, I guess I'm not getting enough time to finish them all. But the list is also quite endless. No I feel every minute I should be spending on it. I read on the bus ride though, sometimes it becomes impossible. It makes me suffer.

5) Most times, I feel I don't make sense. I also try a little bit not to, so I admit it there. But actualy this is all part of the act of liking people but at the same time not liking them at all. What would you do if your life was spent hating everybody but at the same time not being able to do without them.

6) I hate genralisations. 'All Indians are stupid' or 'All muslims want to do is kill everyone' or 'Women are such sluts' or 'Men always want their way'.

(I'm terrible at being tagged, so I tag all ye now!)

Slaughterhouse-some number

I've been, been -- er around. Don't ask where, even though I know you're not asking. Cause I guess I'll do that here anyway, that's what I'm meant to say, right? Answer me? Oh forget it, how miserable is this. No-no, actually not. I'm quite content, no well, a bit hurt. Why? Surprised? Don't be, please don't. There's no reason for it. We're not Gogo and Didi; no not here, not anywhere. Aah, so I guess I'll get to the point now. Cause you know, its not good for you to make faces at the computer screen. Don't you know that favourite forgotten myth of how the wind changes your expression and it gets locked the way it is? Now you wouldn't want to be seen in your polite social circles explaining to people how you read this blog of some random guy's, and you made a face but it remained that way? Then it would be such a shame to get Michael Jackson done to yourself. Then imagine if we meet someday, by natural occurrence, or randomly. Would it be nice. But then you would get your point across on seeing me with a face like that. So I guess, oh what a shame it would be. So it goes.
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Sunday, when the good lord rest himself, when everyone does and did, there are reasons there are parties thrown. Despite knowing that a Monday comes sooner than playing Solitaire on your nothing to do workday waiting for it to end, it still happens. So it was my uncle who threw a big awesome bash to call all the close relatives of his, and self was there all dressed up, pushing himself on a Sunday to be good to everyone and please everyone. It wasn't bad. Actually not at all. It was just that self forgot that lil' surd had a b'day party at Def Col, the same time, and going by North all the way down South, when you live in a up-market village near the state further away, it was going to be a wee tough. So after a few sneaky wine shots and dinner, it was decided that I will be dropped off at lil surd's place cause he was extremely pushy about me being there. Frankly, the party seemed pretty good till the sight: I saw a pretty smashed bar; 2 chicks, 1 was of course was a kiddo and the other a pleasant looking amiable lit-studying sweet eyed.
Lil surd was all smashed about with a cake. I wished him without shaking his hands. There were few junies from school, all looking grown-up and miserable. Vaz and PC were pretty smashed. There was the big Surd who was using his UK-drinking-habits to sustain himself. There was one filthy kid, who was smoking shit pot. The others were quiet and forcing everyone to gulp a mouthful of vodka with tobasco. Kids I tell you, I felt I wasn't fitting in.
The scene ended, after a few rum n' cokes. Was crashing there, so there was no misery. That while me and Big Surd were discussing journalism in India, and where he's looking to work. Lil Surd went and crashed out in the bathroom. After 20 minutes, we were banging on the bathroom door to get him up. That was scary, had he crashed badly? Finally the caked-smothered-smashed surdy stumbled out explaining he had taken a nap while waiting for the water to heat. I haven't heard a better one, which got me sweating booze out.
The hungover, Monday-bluesed morning, self tried drinking gulping beer with fried eggs for breakfast. It did the trick, not for long though. The day howled pass by me. The evening everyone convinced me that Lil Sam, on his way out to Mumbhai (guess everyone's going there suddenly, what's the rush?) -- to come and celebrate at his small tiny farewell. The only hitch: dude, his place is far across the dirty river of the city. But self pushed self to be there.
Who do I see there: Pirate and Meghs and the office bunch, how cool. Sweet. No sweet for what they were rolling. Hadn't smoked ^ for ages. Although I'm not a convincing relentless pothead, its occasional toke keeps me hanging in and around. Then few more drinks and some random bad jokes, a Cohen listening ride back home turned pretty good.
Although Tuesdays are generally very stupid and pointless days, self called Vaz to make a scene. Vaz called PC, we had a scene. The scene: PC's searching his mansion to find all the rum bottles he owns, not to mention the countless that lie there otherwise. Finally a half big bottle, a half small bottle is found. PC gulps half the, half small bottle to determine whether its not outdated, all neat, says its all fine. Few drinks down we hit NFC to eat minced meat served with mayonnaise. Hardcore stuff. Slept late, woke up, bought my dad Little Walter and Sonny Boy Williamson -- fucking amazing blues artists.
Now at home. Dinner while watching My Cousin Vinny. Folks get back after dinner, tell me: this kid, one year juni of mine in school, got drunk in ran over two people and now's he's run away. I remembered, the kid to be a bit dumb, but I was quite fond of him. The news' got me shaken up a bit. We Rajputs have got a terrible past, doesn't leave some of us.

Its a matter of simple irony -- and funny too, how we actually call Iraq 'middle-east' and Malaysia sidewards, East Asia.

So you didn't like it, huh? I should've guessed as much. I was basically under the threat of being too predictable, so I thought I'd string some randomness and break the hardcore monotony of our usual lives; make a change you know. And now I get to know that you didn't appreciate it much. Cool, shouldn't hurt that much; I'll take it in my stride and unearth a better understanding of you someday. Yea, that'll be the day. What? You still don't get it? (*shrug* and then a *weak smile*) Fine, fine! We'll discuss it later.
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Just walked out of my once a week, every Saturday, 5:30 in the evening, English lit class to my old man's bookshop. There was 2 1/2 bottles of the afternoon beer and a 2 hour discussion on the theatre of Absurd, bit of Beckett and Camus' Myth of Sisyphus swimming all in my head and a cigarette in my hand to settle it all down.
The 15 minute walk was a bit weird. Actually I'm not used to the quiet walks anymore, and I sort of slipped from the edge of reason and went on to wander about to certain visions. Naa, I wasn't seeing satyrs walking along or spirits wrapped on trees and buses -- not the usual thing -- it was actually more just that a series of arguments were unfolding. Deep talk with myself. Then thinking about all the dreams I have dreamt and forgotten. Then questioning the ole' existentialist arguments. Then looking at the faces of women in the marketplace. Seeing a whole lot of people acting accordingly; arranged and well dress-rehearsed. Their different talk, their different lives and yet living as though its not planned; their manners. I also wished for some eyes to smile at me as they passed me; the warmth to let the winter not decide their cold hands which were lost in their pockets. Then it didn't matter. Looked at all the books I owned but had not read. Then felt distant long that I hadn't felt and then I lost them again.
............
The lights went out. This happens quite a few time, enough to actually make you accommodate it in your life as though 'its bound to happen'. So I slipped out to for a smoke, upstairs to the roof. making enough noise while getting there -- there aren't lights -- to remind my sleeping folks that their son now has a nicotine habit that he has to sustain. And I guess they've taken to it well; although not so quite, but perhaps as though its something he himself has gotten into and now that we've told him much about it, its up to him to sort it out. The night sky at 12 at night was brilliant, I was just in time to see a sheet of scattered clouds envelope the blissful moon. The Stones Zippo, the Gold Flake cigarette and my bloody mind kept each other company. Then I slipped back, making enough noise again, lay on my bed and listened to The End -- something that I haven't done for ages -- on the pod and waited for the lights to be back. So here I am again, and perhaps so it goes.
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If there's something wrong -- and I have been meaning to tell you this -- that I've kinda been out of love for a fucking length of time. So I guess that I've forgotten what its like. The whole love bit? The movies explain, but the movies not right, right? Its strange that when you're out of it, you get a bit skeptical about the subject. You feel that its a word, a bit too extreme. Very overrated and bloody common. 'Umm, I love Chinese food' and 'Thought you might like to know: I love you' -- there's a difference right, so why is the word jammed when in either cases you could replace the word like and seem a bit brighter. Then of course you miss the bloody thing. You miss it quite a bit. When you look around, nobody really fits in. There are eyes but they float around; they cross you and they disappear in the mist of the people. You really can't hunt it down; guess love just occurs. Like its a flash. But then there are some that build the darn thing, which is sweet but then I guess there's a flash there as well one morning. I guess I'll just hang around and wait it to crash, otherwise I'll be bloody boring. So that's it.
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I once told someone, I think it was Jabberwocky . This blog is meant to be something that I can look back at; read and laugh about. Guess now it'll be just bloody hilarious.

Helter-Skelter

A very pretty woman told me that I like to indulge in self-misery. That's a very sweet thing to say, felt it was honest and too desirable. Now I'm a few drinks behind. There's nothing but books in my bag, suitcases full of thoughts and empty streets to walk. Need a little time to wake up, wake up. Like the song. Need to write a Howl again -- without the homo bits of course. To be On the Road again for a pair of beautiful eyes.

It's all cool

The Dude woke up at home with a huge hangover. He forced himself to open his eyes, and the first thing he saw is a couple of aspirins and a glass of water on the side table. He sat down and sees his clothing neatly ironed in front of him, all clean and folded properly.
He looks around the room and sees that it is in perfect order; spotless, clean. So is the rest of the house. He takes the aspirins and notices a note on the table. "Honey, breakfast is on the stove, I left early to go shopping. Love you always!"
So he goes to the kitchen and sure enough there is a hot breakfast and the morning newspaper ready for him. His son is also at the table, eating. The Dude asks: "Son, what happened here last night?" The son replies: "Well, you came home around 3 am, smashed drunk and delirious. Broke some furniture, puked in the hallway, and gave yourself a black eye when you stumbled into the door". Confused, The Dude asks, "So, why is everything in order and so clean now; and are you sure the breakfast is waiting for me? I though your mother would kill me!" His son replies, "Oh, that! Mom dragged you to the bedroom, and when she tried to take your clothes n’ shoes off, you shouted, "Hey! Leave me alone! I'm married!"

(This is actually a forward on mail, one of the better ones. I although hate forwards; where I spend up more time cleaning them than reading mails. Changed the name from Rohit to The Dude, to make it cooler. Naa, its not meant to bear any reresemblances with the actual Dude on my blog roll. Cheers)