A singer must die

Now the courtroom is quiet, but who will confess.
Is it true you betrayed us? The answer is yes.
Then read me the list of the crimes that are mine,
I will ask for the mercy that you love to decline.
And all the ladies go moist, and the judge has no choice,
A singer must die for the lie in his voice.

And I thank you, I thank you for doing your duty,
You keepers of truth, you guardians of beauty.
Your vision is right, my vision is wrong,
I'm sorry for smudging the air with my song.

Oh, the night it is thick, my defences are hid
In the clothes of a woman I would like to forgive,
In the rings of her silk, in the hinge of her thighs,
where I have to go begging in beauty's disguise.
Oh goodnight, goodnight, my night after night,
my night after night, after night, after night, after night, after night.

I am so afraid that I listen to you,
Your sun glassed protectors they do that to you.
It's their ways to detain, their ways to disgrace,
Their knee in your balls and their fist in your face.
Yes and long live the state by whoever it's made, sir,
I didn't see nothing, I was just getting home late.

(Leonard Cohen)

So I've got my assured paper evidence -- tickets -- to rightfully enter the Buddy Guy concert in New Delhi. I've also increased the clippings on the board facing me at work, I don't see any reason why I must disclose this arbit news to you but anyway. Another week has whooshed by me, its like imagine being hit by a train and then standing up to collect your remnants. There's actually no very scientific and mathematical reason why my computer screen seems to be switching off on its own. More than many times, I personally feel suckered into smooching it an eternal goodnight. I suppose it would wreck my career if I'm remembered by the sight of it.

Wednesday evening was the launch of Sarnath's graphic novel, The Barn Owl's Wondrous Capers released at the British Council. Sarnath, more a friend and less a 'contact' now was looking all different without his Bob Marley-sort locks. It was undeniably the best launch I have ever attended and enjoyed. He projected his graphic novel in a graphic-novel style film on the huge screen, with all that narration and sound effects. I was over-awed to see some of the tiniest hidden ironies in those small boxes, some pictures contradicting the spoken-bubble and the sheer brilliance and voyeurism of his humour. A classic Sarnath from the maker of Corridor.

Got very, but not that very, drunk that evening. I randomly met the Pirate who was stoned and smashed out of his wits. In the middle of the party, we both were sounding like two deaf people talking while Jalebee Cartil (don't know what provoked them this nice name) played some very trippy music. That amplified if you stared longer at those embers.

Everyone was there, surely no sight of sweet Em who has left for Bombay, it seems for a considerable time. It was pretty neat to meet Duck of Destiny who promised he will update his blog very soon, and I spotted Annie for a good half-a-minute before I couldn't find her. I realised that if you're a flamboyant drinker then you must try drinking whiskey with apple juice, it looks very fancy. But actually tastes like piss, I think.

Omi dropped me at Vaz's place in Saket. The lot were shooting whiskey with coke, I couldn't leave them weeping on the floor so I of course drank as well.

Few hours later, had to drop people around the city. Cheesy looking cops stopped us delayed us further, begging, and quite literally for some dough. Later slept at 4 forgetting that a morning tuition at 9 the next day. Made it for that. A head spinning self met Sarnath again to interview him at 12 straight after the class, the interview kept crashing into random conversations. Remember: don't interview him, if you talk its easier. Head for work after that filed everything and figured the nuts and bolts. Evening more chaotic: Haze had two gig meant for review. Met Smrits, sweet as always, who seemed extremely flustered with her work. Went through some not-very-good-music while I sipped two glasses of wine as Rasna. Smrits called this morning with some terrible news about last evening after I left. My head floating somewhere on my shoulders, I sat through it, asl watching two fat women wearing skirts who I wanted to offer my muffler.

Crashed into bed, read a little and was woken up to see the President of our country waving for 2 hours constantly at the marches. Man, ugliness is one thing, looking stupid is another.

Just see those fingers

The sheer nothingness of a winter Sunday afternoon is a blessing with a note of mindless appreciation. Now this moment too is escaping, the clock ticks carefully. I've been caught in and between the dullest pages of Samuel Johnson and Thomas Gray's poetry. I've also been reading Bill Bryson's writing on his travels in Europe; his humour is almost thoroughly entertaining, and before that, it was the graphic novel V for Vendetta. I also finally got my hands on Thank You for Smoking -- the movie I thought was extremely well made. Almost everyone told me that it preaches an anti-smoking surreptitious campaign -- my cousin even scorned me for smoking while I watched it -- but I thought it didn't achieve anything like that. What it perhaps brings to light is the mere hypocrisy that goes behind the corporate culture, journalism, relationships, politics and human nature. Laced with wonderful wit and great cinematography.
Last week, if I look at it from a rooftop view, was quite terrible. Work heaped like turds in hell, and due to issues I couldn't make it in for Herbie Hancock's show. The lady managing the entrance seemed as though she hated me, and the entire human race behind me. Despite my soft persuasive voice convincing her that I was meant to write a review on the concert she snarled and made me feel like an idiot. She was ugly too, and for the very first time I felt the urge of actually hitting a woman. Besides I think I can justify here: she seemed like an ugly man. And for a show that had only 1,800 seats inside, the Americans spared some 5,000 effing free passes for Delhi to decide how to spend their evening midst chaos. On the gate stupid people like her were acting bloody pricey expecting people to humble down with their illogical pathetic faces. One advice: try selling the tickets lady (even if its for 50 bucks).
I couldn't make it for the Jaipur literary festival where Rushdie, (he's the only contemporary Indian -- mind blowingingly effing genius -- author I haven't met) and the others were meant to be hanging around. Technical reasons for that. But it sure was a pity though. And Trip was there too and so was the Ed. Plus had a class on Saturday so wouldn't have been able to make it anyway, even if I barged in the next day. The class also got cancelled at the last minute, damn, damn!
You know what's pissing about life sweetheart? Its sometimes behaves like a pimple swelling red of monotony, smack on your nose. Now the weekend has ended and we've revolved to the same bloody starting place. And you thought Waiting for Godot was obscure? Check out the track of irony here. We're circling in the same bloody orbit with different mood swinging shades everyday wasting time that has to be anyway wasted.
I'm not too sad you know. Life's pretty decent otherwise. You bet I'll be making it for the Buddy Guy show on the 1st of February. Damn, can give up jazz for the blues.

Like Exile, I've also got very good reasons to blow this entire place out. But I'm stubborn and I won't do that. That I suppose, will be terrible. I know some of us take great trouble searching me only to be embittered with what I write. They expectantly startle themselves and then pretend that this place is ridiculous, and the way I make them feel redundant. The 'kid', they say, has gone down taking himself too seriously; what he makes belief is a total sham of every order. A misfortunate mistaken rambling, see how we've left the it all to deteriorate? But no one seems to be responsible for the blame, if I say I'm Jimmy Porter. The books you read, my friend, we've read as well. You seem to always miss the point, its simple cause it never really had one. Why are you drinking here, when we only thought this was a funeral of yours we had to attend every Monday. It never makes sense, sometimes; perhaps, its not meant to. I'm constantly blamed of being a cynic, someone who refuses to take the organised staid stoic convictions arrayed from your petty mantelpiece to grant as my own. I would challenge what I see in my subtle rationalising to drill a better sense, even a tailor does so. Its always the way one feels, ain't it at the end? You and your thoughts in your bed tossing each other around. Making you feel like a prince in your grave, your sub conscious playing C-grade movies while you sleep on your Mental TV.
And when they ask me: what will you be like when you're in your mid-30s, when you're already like this? What can I say? Can I actually say that if you still have gums that have the strength to retain your teeth and the sight that's impairing, you could find out all for yourself. But I couldn't be rude. Its never complimented my sophisticated sensibilities. But would I be hiding my own horror, to reveal that it never worries me. Doesn't everyone's future has something, that if they know it all would shatter them and make them not move from their winter dressed bed?
What longing to open your eyes. What reason to make sense of the unfathomable. What courage to go on, when your answers are with you all this while.
It really doesn't matter, after all.

There was absolutely no reason why I started to blog. I -- as you have gathered -- have nothing much extraordinary to say. Perhaps the initiation was just to write. But then there's been no dearth of writing for me, as well. So are you trying to say... naa, nothing! Work keeps me quite recklessly at it. I'm not complaining.
Perhaps, it was one another good way to write without having everything that you write subbed. Nothing hurts more than, when your words get slaughtered by someone who fails to see your point of style. Understood that I may not be a 'wizard of words', it neither means that everything has to be thrown away. Some of the biggest frustrations of a sub is to justify their own professional existence; in order to reclaim it, they then evaluate a simpler meaning of your story and begin to elucidate, furthering away from the original style of sense. Sometimes their frustrations fuels, they then, just to add their bit, like to put their words, and make your story look like theirs. The article is then filled with platitudes and jargons, that you neither relate to nor does it make any sense. You wish, if they've taken such great pains in painting your work blue, they might as well add their name and justify it all. But then doesn't happen. Perhaps that's why it was.

Its extremely, quite bitterly cold in New Delhi. The first week of January has brought down the winters to a few degrees. My hands are cold, and while I type, I take a bit longer than usual, as I lower my hands to warm them next to the heater in my room. Its nice around this time, if I don't think about the cold. Listening to Rolling Stones' Rock 'n' Roll Circus, which I just bought, some of the songs are brilliant -- thank you Red Herring. The new re-jigged album of The Beatles, fun I shall say. Had two rum n' cokes at Haze, while I waited for my Old Man to get over with work. Mother prepared some brilliant fried fish -- no-no, I'm not a Bengali -- for dinner. Work is good; killing, but very alright. Haven't been studying as much as I must be. College would be getting over soon -- that seems pretty cool to me. My tarot reading is well -- some wishy-qashy forecast ahead though, but says good things.
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Obnoxious. Throw a fucking stone in the country's most populated spot and you're bound to hit a fucking pervert. The last two weeks -- and I know its been on since a lifetime for most of all -- the amount of crimes against women I've been coming across seems incredulous.
The other day while I walked to the Metro station. There were a bunch of school girls in their uniforms -- they must have been 5th class -- walking ahead of me, while I was a few step behind. On my left was a park that was enclosed by a tall iron fence railing and behind it was this small park with a few swings. A few steps, a few conversations in my mind, I heard -- and I'll admit for the very first time, what lewd remarks to women sound like. To my utter disgust, they were coming from a bunch of guys (say 15-16 old) from the swings. The girls ahead of me walked indifferently through the rude calls to them, as though lost in their child-like minds; oblivious. While I stared at those freaks as though I'd shove the iron rods from the railing up there you-know-where. What amazed me -- were these girls. Its a pity that at such an age, they've learnt the biggest tragic flaw of womanhood: being subjected and inflicted to misery. It left me quite upset and disturbed.
What happened at Gateway of India -- was terrible; and even Noida, to bring it again. How fucked up are we? The Noida case: Moninder is educated (BCS, Stephens), where is our argument leading? The sickness of it all. The desperation?
I know some of you, here, keep raising these questions. Much better than I am attempting. You, I know, who travel through its torrents everyday.
Sure India's becoming a 'superpower' but its actually been progressing in such a decieving fashion. Beneath the thin layer of economic growth -- there's a world of sluggish mentality issues that have to be answered. Where are we heading with all this, if we can't tolerate ourselves.

Dreams and Despair

The first week of the New Year is the most depressing time. Its actually one week that has six Mondays in one row. You wake up with a feeling of a hangover knowing that you didn't even drink last evening. You seem lost and most of the people around you sound boring -- which happens otherwise as well -- its just that your toleration doesn't seem to last.
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So where was I? I was actually in a farmhouse near the end of town -- Chattarpur, with a South Delhi accent -- where some four-hundred-and-twenty-six half-undressed women were sipping their stirred Martinis and refusing to believe that a word 'humility' actually exists. There was enough fog in the empty swimming pool to swim with them. But of course, when things were getting on a terrific wavelength -- I rise from this sweet sleep by someone nudging me asking: so what's the exact scene for this evening (New Year's Eve)?
I was in North Delhi, Delhi University, in a Baskin Robbins outlet where they have plush sofas, the one's where you have dreams like these. I'm not very adventurous, and so an evening with long lost friends seemed like a good idea. The Boxer was with a friend of his, Boxer II. The American Boy Brothers were coming as well. Others random as well. The Boxer's girlfriend, I realised: I was in love with her.
The evening was pretty cool. I was playing the fool well. Which is making people think that I'm completely wasted; at the same time not being at all but yes being slightly (recommended). I was poured whisky for my first drink and there was some vodka and beer that followed, as that got over. I was being overtly expressive as I ripped apart almost everybody with my sarcasm and twisted points of view -- the Boxer II looked at me in disbelief. He seemed unhappy I was there. It seemed I had violated his not-drinking, talking loudly about steroids, cursing women world. He would have beaten the shit out of me, its just that I didn't feel like being beaten on a New Year's Eve.
After years and years of misery-inflicted by the American boys; I think I got the feeling, they knew I was finally bored of their humour and I could counter if I wished. I was a bit distressed of The Boxer, I feared to even look at him while speaking. Fearing that my eyes would give away the love I had found for his girlfriend.
She looked familiar, she had the Keira Knightley-Snow White-Desdemona beauty. She of course liked me, and I bowed to have my thoughts be caught to be caught in her lashes. The American Boy I wanted Mary, and I was explaining him the way from Roop Nagar to Amsterdam but he rushed off to some dhobi ghaat. So he returned after an hour, with some shit-shit, and spent the exact 12 am with some unfriendly and unreasonable peddlar. It was all good.
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"When you decide to be something, you can be it. That's what they don't tell you in the church. When I was your age they would say we can become cops, or criminals. Today, what I'm saying to you is this: when you're facing a loaded gun, what's the difference?"

Watched The Departed, fucking mind-blowing. Scorsese's is a bloody mind-fucking genius. The movie starts with Stones' Gimme Shelter, and you know how it goes. The movie does get Tarantinoish in the end; fucking cool.
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Felt bad that Saddam Hussein was done with. As I watched the string of sequences of a video clipping on TV, I felt something was so hugely incorrect. There was this unspoken-message reflecting: "We'll fuck you anyway now!" Wwas wondering: why watch Desperate Housewives when you can watch Bush-Blair on CNN and BBC.
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What makes everything crap: The Noida sick-bastard that kills, rapes and sells organs (allegedly) mostly children (both sex). It horrfies me!