The Fix (2nd March 2008)

This is a song I wrote a long time ago about the first girl I ever loved and the break-up we endured. I suppose it can be said that I got the short end of the stick... but in retrospect, I think I learnt a lot about love and loss that year, and all of it is priceless to me now. Everyone goes through heartbreak... this was my rendition of the hope I felt in reconciliation and I guess now I feel okay to share it, since so much time has passed and so much comfort and closure has been achieved. I think the title is inspired by a book I was reading at the time, A Million Little Pieces by James Frey. Go get your fix.

THE FIX

It’s as though we met on a sunny day
Picture perfect in every way.
And while it was all thick and thin,
And as we sipped on our juice and gin,
A timeless world we drifted in.
Things would move from stop to spin,
From high spirits to pantyhose,
From eyes to ears to lips to nose,
First times and many times and all the time we’d be
And everyone would know us - this girl and me.

From moments filled with love more than lust,
For all of it to turn to dust,
Or dissipate or transform or just plain go,
What we felt, did we even know?
All I’m saying is – you should’ve said so.
There were times I’d still see it in your eyes,
Other times I’d hope or even despise;
I looked at you the same and songs would know it,
Films would scream it and my face would show it.
Melancholy, despair, agony and pain,
I still love you, if it’s all the same.

Chorus:
And that’s what keeps me fixed
All the stones and the sticks
Don’t seem to turn me away.
And every time it moved
Hot and cold it ensued
Still didn’t turn me away.

I don’t know how
To look at you now
And all the while
I fake a smile
And stop to pretend and pretend to stop
Through so many games I hip and hop.
Until finally I conclude through logic and reason
To love you still is pretty much treason.
But then it hits me hard and fast
I find myself caught in the past
Back to that warm sunny day
Picture perfect in every way.

Chorus:
And that’s what keeps me fixed
All the stones and the sticks
Don’t seem to turn me away.
And every time it moved
Hot and cold it ensued
Still doesn’t turn me away.

I don’t know why it grew to be this way,
Life has no purpose I’d always say,
Except to create one and when I had you
It seemed so easy, so pure and true.
If you’re out there, and listening alone,
I want you to know you can come back home.
I’d greet you reluctantly with open arms,
We’d drive by sea, and country farms,
I’d hold you close and kiss your shoulder;
Every minute I’d grow stronger and bolder.
Grab your waist and bring you near,
Press my lips upon your ear,
“I love you so much”, I hope you know;
Then I’d wake up and let you go.

Don't Stop Believing (3rd December 2009)

You're at a live gig or a concert. You're at a recital or perhaps a movie hall. *Poof* Out with the camera phones.
These technological marvels flaunt high resolution cameras that double as music players with in-built internet browsers. Gadgets of the future.
Oh yeah, and they make calls too. Pfft.

This is a good question: Why is it important to Mr. X to record this event on his cellular phone, a video he is in all probability not going to use afterwards?
His logic: He may use it - he may want to play it again to re-live the experience, he may want to send it to his friends and finally, he might even put it up on the God of all video sharing sites - YouTube.
These are representations of the endless possibilities he is unfolding by whipping out his little toy and holding it up with his hopefully-not-so-smelly arms.

The answer does not lie in the Why but instead the Why Not?
At least this is what I think. Feel free to create new reasons, I don't mean to douse the fire.

Maybe we're supposed to ask a different question. Maybe a better question is "When did there rise a need to document nearly everything that is remotely remarkable or unusual?"
I think the justification here is something that is actually pretty progressive. I mean, c'mon - there has to be an upside.

And this is it - we are becoming a friendlier race, intent on including every Tom, Dick and Harriet into our lives so that the story we tell is
1) more relatable and
2) legitimate.
When I say "story we tell", I mean it existentially.

I'm sure we can come up with more reasons here but the point I'm trying to make is that society is tending towards finding more comfort in sharing and even though that's always been the case, (neanderthals went apeshit on their cave walls back in the day) these technological advances are enabling us to get closer and feel more familial. Communication is the heart of any relationship and if it takes a silly video of a dog walking on two legs to bring a Muslim guy and a Hindu dude to watch and laugh together, by all means!

Ok, all of a sudden my idealism is turning into sappy-soppy stuff. Shit, make that shit. (sounds more masculine AHEM)

So yes, back to what I was trying to communicate.
I think facebook, Twitter, YouTube, and all the forms Google chooses to present itself in are stepping stones toward a community of one and hopefully (stress on hopefully) there'll be some intellectual growth and progress in the mix. (I heart Wikipedia)
Because I'll be the first to say that more people need to start articulating their thoughts and expressing them in any medium.
Be it film, music or literature.
No fucking way is sitting around watching that same dog do hula hoops the answer, you know?

Damn. I have this frustrating love-hate relationship with rambling. I can't help myself. Think of it as ego-food.
If you've come this far, you will be heavily rewarded because I'm about ready to conclude.

Any time now.

Facebook photo albums and videos, Twitter tweets and retweets are brilliant. I seldom use MySpace but hey, that's cool too. Power to the people.
But those darn applications and silly fucking pirate-vampire games (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7MuwPlOiNQ) and also, I just have to put this in here - the whole "Like" option are things that are holding us back, man.

Why am I hating on "Like"? I'll be happy to tell you. Its ok for people like you and me. Heck, it saves time and its a quick and easy way to appreciate something. But honestly, all it's really doing is enabling and perpetuating the lifestyle of folks who can't come up with their own things to say in the first place.
Ooh and toggle case. Let's not get started.

*takes a few breaths*
Seeing is believing, I think I understand now. Because believing is a process that needs to be facilitated and seeing is a big leg up.

When I was a kid I felt like maybe the whole 195 countries in the world thing was a hoax and for all I knew, India was it. The rest of the planet was a clever ruse devised by the powers that be for reasons only known to them. I wasn't buying it. I haven't seen any other country. Yeah, there are pictures and I've watched things on the television too, but that's the funny thing about reality isn't it?

I know now that this "world" thing is real and I am not the mark in a large, large confidence trick and The Truman Show really helped push that idea out of my head but I still can't help but feel like I need to see things for them to be established. And vice versa.

For example, I'm here in Delhi now and my wonderful mother is at home, in Pune, sitting in her room and reading a book. Why am I in Delhi? Well let's not get into tha.. a job, I'm here to work. But my mum doesn't really know that I'm here except for the fact that I left her at the station getting onto a train leaving for Delhi.
Yes, I changed my phone number and Yes for a number of other things but really, the rest is an assumption. What if I planned my escape and what if I'm living in another city or the same city even and keeping it from her?
An elaborate lie, I know and completely unnecessary too. But it's possible, right? Of course it is.

No, Mom I'm not still in Pune... this is just a hypothesis. Mom. Maw-om. MOM! Could you just let me finish, PLEASE?
Phew.

Does anybody else out there think like this? Some times? Once in a way?
I cannot be alone here.

Alright. I'm done. This has been fun. Just a recap:
1. Wear deodorant, especially if you have a camera phone.
2. Keep YouTubing, facebooking and Twittering. It's healthy.
3. Smile.
4. Repeat.

I Never Metaphor I Didn't Like (2nd December 2009)

I see metaphors everywhere. If only there were a way to document the ones that make a heck of a lot of sense so we can use them for further application and allow them to spread into the culture of today's world. I mean, why is it that it is so difficult and tedious to infiltrate the dictionary and books of phrases nowadays? Everyone's become so much smarter and creation is such a regular event now, people ought to have a way or a forum to put their shit out there in a way that makes it official, you know?

I say if you have something note or quote worthy to share, the world needs to give you credit for it. There's always so much fuss over who came up with what and all that jazz. Wait, let me stop here. Who came up with "all that jazz"? I'm going to look it up. Hold on.
---
Ok so it's inconclusive. I did some light research (I say "light" because I only looked at the first couple of hits I could find and there are numerous "theories" and most are plausible. I gave up soon after, since I decided this digression has lost its point.)
OR HAS IT?

I am a compulsive looker-upper. A pretty girl not long ago started calling me "GoSee" as a result of all my endeavours for truth, or something like it. And I'm sure there are more people out there like me... Some not as twisted, but most with the same intentions.
And curiosity.

And with this train of thought, I submit to you a metaphor I thunk up earlier this week - "The Theatre Seat Compromise"

This is an analogy for that wonderful disequilibrium in a movie hall or any theatre where your hand is usually allowed only one arm to rest on. Why? Because the other arm is occupied by another gentleman or (gentle) lady's hand and this phenomenon exists across the entire row. It's a perfect example of a compromise that is conducive for all parties to accept it as fair and favourable.
Win-win? I'd like to think so. I am a firm believer of win-win. It's like my favourite sport.

It reminds me of A Beautiful Mind, the movie about a Mr. John Nash and his delirious experience with university, love and intellectual society; complete with spies and everything. So anyway, he comes up with this delightful theory at a bar to maximise his group's scoring-with-women chances. This theory later graduates to become the Nash Equilibrium.

See, in any competitive game your outcome is usually one winner and one loser. His idea is to change that dynamic and maybe create a possibility for each party to win. Personally, I am not a big fan of competition myself. I mean, I am all for working hard to improve my game and obviously this is relative to others but heck, as long as I'm having fun, everything else falls by the wayside. And you can have fun losing too. Not to say that losing is a favourable outcome, but I am suggesting a perspective shift so that everyone wins, so to speak.
This is not unusual, and it certainly isn't something new to society. (While I write this, I'm imagining a basketball game - but I'm sure you can see how it applies to day to day things.)

Apparently it's called a non-zero-sum game, where "some outcomes have net results greater or less than zero. Informally, in non-zero-sum games, a gain by one player does not necessarily correspond with a loss by another."
"Stated simply, Amy and Bill are in Nash equilibrium if Amy is making the best decision she can, taking into account Bill's decision, and Bill is making the best decision he can, taking into account Amy's decision. Likewise, a group of players is in Nash equilibrium if each one is making the best decision that he or she can, taking into account the decisions of the others." (Wikipedia)

So why is it so hard to come by? Why must everyone work so hard to defend their so called "honour" and "pride" when all we're really doing is kidding ourselves.
There is pride in the process.

Ok I'm trying to focus but I'm at the office and there's other people here (employees and such) who are asking me all sorts of questions and in turn, being awfully distracting! Pshhh, the nerve!
*puts hands on hips*

Later!

P.S: http://plus.maths.org/issue47/features/rey/index.html

Baby Steps (13th November 2009)

I spent 15 minutes watching my 4 year old cousin write 5 words with a pencil.

It was like witnessing a miracle. Honestly, to see those puny fingers wrap around a pencil and press against paper to create script from nothing was nothing short of magical.
Don't tell me it's just me who feels this way.

It was fascinating to see her put the letters together. Each word was an adventure and I felt like I needed to be a part of it, even if it meant I could only watch.
Sigh. I can't wait to be a father.

The Turn (24th March 2009)

I came across this script I attempted to write and complete for a friend of mine earlier this year. He's doing a course in Direction. He wanted something slick and Guy Ritchie-esque and I guess I got a little carried away.
(So what else is new?)

Disclaimer: this was an email directed at said friend, so excuse the lower case and haphazard structure.
--------------
Scene: there's a stray dog. the camera moves in closer and a hand reaches out with a piece of bred or something. the dog snatches the bread as the voice begins: (camera moves from dog to the ground and his feet.. and the rest follows)

"It's a dog eat dog world mate, a dog eat dog world. I mean, in today's world, all one needs to learn to do is keep your cards close to your chest, and bet big when the hand comes along. Don't trust nobody, look over your shoulder and smile at the pretty ladies that walk by." (here there'll be three attractive women going by and we show them grinning in acknowledgement at the protagonist)

(distracted) "So as I was saying, in the world today, a simple fucker like you or me can't make it without a set of rules, a code. You do your business and you watch your possessions carefully." (camera is at chest level as he removes his rolex and looks at the time.)

"You wake up in the morning, have your cup of coffee, walk out the door with a happy face and some money in your pocket and you face the day. Go to work, go to the park, go to the fucking pub if you need to, but you get up and just go somewhere, you know? I mean honestly, how many of you fuckers (the camera pans across the street, focuses on the pedestrians and there's cars too) manage to make your day's keep eh? The world is filled with slimy, despicable filth mate. Nobody's clean, not even your own fucking mum. It's a shame there's no one around to clean up these streets, to do some good in this bloody old world." (camera reaches his face, he stares straight into the camera, takes a blade out from his pocket and cuts his forehead slightly) "I mean, how's a man supposed to make an honest living, eh?"

(he smiles, suddenly straightens his face, blood dripping from his head, takes a few steps and gets hit by a car. he groans and the driver rushes out to see if he's ok. driver helps him up, looks frantic, gazes around to see if there are any cops. our protagonist staggers a bit, holds his head, there are a few gestures made and within ten seconds the driver takes a wad of cash out from his wallet, places his hand supportively on the protagonist (let's call him "bob" for quick reference) and acts apologetically. briskly moves to his car and drives off. as he's driving off, bob limps towards the camera with a pained expression, which quickly transforms to an evil grin and he continues walking)

(all through this scene, there will be no noise. this is where we introduce his line of work, by way of a narrative, so it continues straight from when he steps onto the street and towards a booze store. the rest of this narrative will be quick, and he will swig his little bottle on the way to the bar to meet ricky, that way his alcoholism is conveyed)

"The thing is, I don't. I'm an artist, a grifter. Sort of like Robin Hood. Except I don't have a crew. And I don't wear fucking tights. I pull the small con, I find these douches that can't think right, simple enough marks, and I give them a run for their money. Literally. I mean if you have the money and not enough sense to protect it from the two-bit scum that walks these streets, you don't deserve it now do you? How many times have you looked at the change the cashier gives you? How many times have you taken someone's word for it? How many times have you put your faith blindly on something, without really having a go over it in your head? That's it mate. That's confidence. And I'm one of the best." (pause) "I've been living off of it since I was a kid; my mum couldn't pay the bills and my dad... well he wasn't in the picture much. Someone's gots to put the bacon on the table, right? It started out with petty stuff, stealing veggies and all that. But I soon learnt that there's a better way of taking stuff from folks. Right under their noses, taking it with their consent. When the prick comes out and gives you his money, his food, his liquor, you know you've earned it. My mum, the poor lady saw the pearly gates 'cause of pneumonia and now I'm on me own and I have to say, I couldn't have it better. I've been stashing away some for a while now, with all these grifts and a couple more should put me into retirement. Then it'll be on a boat some place on the mediterranean and our boy can have the easy life, maybe settle down with a girl from Spain; those girls are always fit; and make a couple babies before I knock it, eh?" (pause, as he imagines it in his head, and nods) "Yeah, sounds about right."


(he pushes the door open and walks into the bar, there's loud music playing and he scans the tables for his friend ricky. locates him, they exchange a warm hug and a smile, and sit down. the narration continues, now focusing on ricky, as bob starts describing how similar him and ricky are and how they are friends from back in the day. there's a close up of ricky holding a 20 pound note up towards the bartender, asks for a round of beer, the beer comes and the camera watches him switch the note into a £10 and he takes the change.)

There you go. I had bigger dreams for this than a mere blog post. Maybe one day I'll add to the story and take it further... maybe. Thanks for reading you lovely readers you.

Blueberry Cheesecake (11th November 2009)

Slice One - Standing in a crowded bus, covered in sweat.
It isn't my sweat. Unwillingly subjected to the grime these 9-5ers seem to have accumulated, I stand grinning because one of my senses is distinguisingly privileged.
I have music.

Slice Two - Sitting at someone else's desk at the office.
Trying to use the internet; the server is down, but I will persistently hit the refresh button, hoping it will catch a little signal and then I will have the world at my finger tips. What do I need it for? I don't know yet but it's nice to have the option. The A/C runs dry air consistently through its vents and my fingers are cold. Not entirely sure how to keep myself busy but I've put my friendly face on and it's Day 1 on the battlefield.
Looking forward to Day 2... mostly because it means Day 1 will be over.

Slice Three - Staring at a beautifully lit wooden stage in an auditorium.
One of those classy halls with heavy carpets and comfy seats filled with people wearing mufflers... and reading glasses. There are two elegantly dressed Spanish women bowing to the audience; then they begin their recital. Piano and violin. Classic. They swim through symphonies and give me a lot to think about. My ears and eyes are soaking in the music, but everything else is everywhere else. Where am I going to go after this? Who am I going to meet? How am I going to get there? What am I going to eat? When am I going to find a house for myself? Is this the life?
Well it sure is exciting.
-----------------------------------

"That's enough, thanks", I said to the waiter. The spread is amazing and I am stuffed. This cheesecake really hit the spot. I want to go home now.
But it isn't for me to decide, I need to wait on my Uncle and his wife. I'm at a 40th birthday party, and it is hopping.
I'm outside the city; outside the state, rather. Magnificent house - so many rooms, so much space, yet still very homely. No frills spared, the caterers walked around serving fancy hors doeuvres to the fancy guests. Needless to say, I felt out of place.

But then I also felt completely in place. I watched as these people twenty years older than me were dancing and singing awkwardly and it was exactly like the parties I've been to, minus the fancy stuff.
Honestly, this generation gap business is a myth. Yeah, we were born into the internet and yeah, we are quicker to grasp shit but NO to everything else.

Intelligence is a language by itself and if I looked a little older and wasn't introduced as anyone's nephew, the whole of that night would have been an experiment in camouflage. It made me reflect constantly, like a fucking house of mirrors this party. These people knew each other in all shapes and ways. Some went to college together, some work together, some slept with each other but things didn't work out, some are somebody else's friend and so on.
Sound familiar?

Of course it does.

Their language, their relationships, their concepts felt so synonymous and I felt like I could relate. Once we were comfortable, we got to talking about everything from naming kids to psychoactive drugs. It was amazing. I stood fascinated at how everyone gelled together and I thought about how everyone who grows up with you is obviously someone you consider close. But then there really is no finishing line to the process, is there? We're always growing up.
And then we die.

Haha, I'm only kidding. I mean, yes of course, we do die. Eventually. But there's loads of room for some fun in between. And I was witness to a heck of a lot of that at this soiree. Good time.

This new city life ain't so bad.

And I fucking love blueberry cheesecake.

These are the Days. (5th June 2009)

I pressed my back against the seat and placed my head closer
The wind swept across me and pushed my grin wide
My eyes can see fleeting pictures of dark covered streets and the hills at the distance
My ears listen to the cascading melody and the precise euphoric beat
My skin can feel the touch of soft faces beside me
My thoughts are filled with energy
And my lips taste of scotch.

These are the Days.

Bill Hicks (17th May 2009)

Well, hello there. It’s been long enough since I’ve written to you. I find the best times to write are when you have a lot on your mind, but you’re not quite sure where you want to lead yourself.

So, what’s it all about? Eh? Familiarity is a funny thing. It’s nearly halfway through 2009 now and if the first bit is anything to go by, this year presents itself to be an entertaining one.

Have you ever felt at any moment that you are dreaming up this existence? You’re walking down a street, or driving your car when all of a sudden you think about yourself and how you are perceived by the people around you and you wonder – is it all pretend? Are we under an illusion of sorts, in which we are led to believe that we continue to exist, when actually, we don’t really have a place in this world anymore. I know I started that out as a question but perhaps this needs to lie as it does - a statement of provocation. We need more of those.

Take a second to understand your friends and yourself. Evaluate and assess the dynamic you possess, or think to possess and speculate whether it could get better than this. It probably can. You’re probably sitting atop a whole mess of junk and nobody has the cahones to pick it apart, one by one and sort it all out. Not even me.

For once in my life, I’d like to feel absolutely limp. As a puppet, perhaps, only directed by strings and sticks and my every action manipulated. Your actions are always manipulated, of course. The worst bit is when you manipulate yourself and don’t even know it. Those folk are the sufferers. But who am I kidding? I like feeling this way. I like thinking I’m in control and I like believing I’m not a puppet. In fact, I even go to lengths to rebuke and berate these so called puppets and think to myself, ever so cynically, why don’t they learn? Why don’t they question? Why don’t they understand? What is it that separates me from them? What is it that separates our entire fucking existence? Subjectivity? Bah.

We’re free, you and I. Free in a cage. Do you see how I see it? Do you see at all? Filthy, blind, deaf and mute bastards. Unfeeling, yet sensitive to change. Sensitive to each other, sensitive to themselves. How is it of any consequence?

Right. I seem to have a lot of pent up writing to expel. I try very hard to remain stoic in social situations. I come off sociable and interactive, but all the while refraining from actually engaging in a conversation of conviction. Why, I ask myself and I know the answer already. I’m done. I’m done having to feel like these things matter, and that we’re all really here to help each other figure this massive puzzle out. Piece by piece, brick by brick, each of us has something invaluable to offer and we’re not about to stop proclaiming it for the world to know. We want recognition for our genius and that’s perfectly understandable. But just for one moment, imagine that what you have to say or show or explain to your collocutor is absolutely pointless and borderline retarded. Wow, maybe that’s a little harsh. But honestly, you reach a point where it’s refreshing to find someone who doesn’t pretend to have thought of everything. Maybe I need to pick up a job at a school because I’ve obviously found myself in the most hypocritical of situations: where I want to teach and not be taught.

Unless of course it’s someone like Bill Hicks.

Cigarette Breaks (24th January 2009)

I’m usually stronger than this.
I’m usually bigger than this.
I’m usually better than this.
“How are you?” they ask, with good intentioned earnest and considerate motivation.
“Fine”, comes the reply. It isn’t false. It isn’t fake.
It’s lack of choice.

Give me a second to take it in.
I may be invincible but whatever happened to my cigarette break?
So what if I don’t smoke? Give me a fucking second.

Being who I am comes at a heavy price.
It’s mostly always worth it.
I lose myself while finding the meaning of the word ‘threshold’.
The burden makes me dizzy. Being invulnerable doesn’t mean I can’t feel dizzy, does it?
Maybe it does. Maybe it’s time to redefine these silly terms and unfortunate titles.

There is no better feeling than punching a keyboard with fingers filled with grit and temper.
Dexterity and accuracy are also key. The backspace and the enter buttons make for brilliant release.

And I can feel the fatigue creeping in.
It invades me and floods me. I wheeze.
Slow down. Shift into second gear. Crawl into a groove easily sustained without having to try.

There it is.
Hardened... and back for more.

Wait, not just yet. Let me get off my cigarette break.

A Great Way to Spend Your Day (17th July 2008)

Hello and welcome to the show. My name is V and I am about to recount my experience with LSD. It’s hard to explain... but you need to know. This line will recur, but I assure you, that you need to know; in spite of it being hard to explain :D

We are all trippers, you and I, listening to different kinds of music. That’s what it seems to be about, and I guess it can be described this way. I hope you agree. But I guess that all I can hope for is that you’re listening to the song I’m listening to, at the moment. If I were to be foolish enough to hope in the first place, that is. You and I may even like the same type of music, but that doesn’t mean we need to be listening to the same song at the same time, and that minor difference, is what separates you from me. I cannot deny that you are separated from me. Well I cannot only because I can’t seem to imagine how. But however connected you and I may feel, it is only fleeting and temporary, as is ‘life’; and you can always walk out the door while tipping your hat to that statement. “C’est la vie” and all that. I seem to be brimming with wisdom right now... and it’s hard to explain.

But you need to know :D

Reality is this little party that you and I are attending. So is everyone else. So don’t forget to get fries with your steak, and make sure your glass is empty. Aside from all this rubbish I seem to be on about, I think what my friend here is trying to say, is that reality is what binds us. You and I. We are all left to our own devices, our own journeys, our lives and our Sunday ‘trips’ to the park... but what connects us and what brings us back is this ‘real’ stuff. See now, you may see pink and I see blue, but when we see red together, that’s what we can refer to as REALITY! You dig? Even if you don’t, what can I say? It’s hard to explain... but (you know how this goes:D)

Wait, what’s this? I came here to read about some trippy guy’s trip on trippy stuff! What’s all this real nonsense? Get to the flipping diamonds already, Lucy!

People will and do not believe me when I say I have done acid. Not that it’s a difficult thing to digest, but, oh wait; we’re not talking about the acid yet, are we? So yes, LSD. What it’s like. How does one describe it? Hmmm.

It is one massive mind game motherfucker. For the rest, and if you care to read up, the former portion of this story, I would politely ask you to imagine that I am referring to life. (Life being my topic of discussion). So yes, one large mind game. It is what it is, I’ll give you that. Perception in its truest sense. If there is a true sense, mind you. It basically gives you the freedom to do with your mind what you will. If you want colours then by jolly, you will see colours. Patterns and shapes galore, your trip will seem full of ups and downs and best of all, gives you the ultimate control to decide whether you’d like to see the up, or the down. And that control starts to slip from your fingers. You’re still in control, but less in control of what you would believe control to be. But no, don’t be nervous or wary. EMBRACE IT. Ride the fucking snake. (Yes, I’m still talking about life)

Your brain takes you from one moment to the next in the most elegant and organized fashion, and you see this pattern form in front of you, as each individual’s little autobiography, and it’s brilliant. But ah, with acid, you understand that it is in holding on to that loss of control that counts. “Stop tracing, start spacing”, as he put it.

Music comes alive on your trip. Well it did for mine, anyway. (No, I’m not done with life just yet). The notes and waves bounce around as you see the sound in its utmost clarity. Everything is b-e-yootiful. But this could just as well be me tripping. Haha honestly though, your trip is up to you. You come into it looking for gloom and despair, up comes a double order of depression with some melancholy on the side. But if you’re into it for the divine pursuit of happiness, boy! Do you have an amazing trip in store for you! As you drift in and out of reality, as you stray from exceeding forms of awareness to being absolutely, yet comfortably numb, you start to recognize and realize what it is you truly think it’s about. And that, dear reader, is another way of saying that your favourite artist is left on queue. So get to it. REVEL.

Yes, there are boundaries, yes, there are limits. The Coming Home at Five chapter is quite possibly the epitome of my trip-limit, but you move past it; you transcend. Take it as it comes buddy, and wave at the friendly folk that walk by... because TONIGHT, WE PARTY. Ladies and gentlemen, it really is your trip and I would much prefer to let the space do the talking. So please understand that it is hard to explain, but I cannot possibly stress on this any further - YOU NEED TO KNOW!


Oh, and about that acid. Well what can I say? It’s a great way to spend your day :D

Rage Against the Machine (7th October 2008)

Hello and welcome to the show. My name is Varun Mukerji and I am presently sitting in the most important building in Pune. This worries me. Here's why.

The wind is pushing the trees over and introducing our city to near cyclonic air. The rain is coming down at a pace quick enough to fool us into thinking we're extras in a big-budget-late-90s Christian Slater movie. I am sitting indoors, safe from Nature's wrath. I have a beautifully clear, large glass window separating me from the disastrous goings on. I see it. I stare at it. It won't stop to glance at me.

Right now, however, Nature's wrath is but a mere spark compared to the flame of fury that is human. My writing usually doesn't involve this mildly poetic flavour. But this isn't a usual story. I find the tone appropriate and feel inclined towards the exaggerated. Sort of like Tarantino. This particular piece does not follow my usual, "less is more" theme.

It all begins at the workplace. My office is filled with large, beastly women who will stop at nothing to get what they want. They devour men and children alike, without mercy or repent. They exude power and strike fear into those around them, all the while chewing on vile, processed weed, the juice of which inhabits their mouths and leaves a red film over their teeth as if to signify something a little more... crimson. Young, strapping men tremble at their feet. I feel intimidated, but I tread on. On towards the core of this burning hell that lives in their hearts. I find nothing. What made them so heartless? The games are upon us. The word is in the air. It's on the streets, and in their houses. People can feel it coming. It is coming.

In this very structure, lies the brain of this monster. The blood is rushing and gushing and pouring into each and every one of us. The force is electric. The atmosphere suffers a gruesome manifestation. Purple coloured tentacles embrace each other to create an aura of evil. The humans are sucked in, and put under a spell. They move about, in a trance, fixed upon a destination. Like an army of ants, they swarm together and disperse into tributaries. In this world of ill-will, reigns chaos. But the message flows through like clockwork. Within this chaos, lies organization, and it is evident. People can feel it coming. It is coming.

Amidst this fire, amongst the monsters, between the realms of hell and earth, sits I, with an uneasy sense of confidence but a brave sense of belonging to this unsteady place of doom and despair. It's as though I find meaning in living amongst the meaningless. The contrast incites me. It inspires me. Evoked by this beast, I trudge towards safety, knowing fully well I can live to battle tomorrow. The end is nearing. I can feel its breath.

The evil in man continues to plague the Earth, and for centuries the bold have thwarted its scheme. This time seems different. Overwhelmingly different. The energy invites us, seeps into our veins, mixes with our blood. We cannot help it. The power escapes us, as we let ourselves become it. Each of us a link, all our blood turning to oil, this machine cannot be beat. Chained together by our own fight to survive, we are now components of the monster, feeding it, making it stronger. That which we loathed once, is now what we rely on. Under the influence, and thriving in it.

But wait! What's this? He's trying to escape! Who is he, why would he do this? Jeopardizing all we have worked towards, attempting to ruin everything. We must stop him. Zing! His claws have dug deep, his talons unrelenting. Why doesn't he submit? Naive boy, don't you know this is home now? You can never *snorts* LEAVE! What a fool!

Ignorant and revitalized, this boy pulls and yanks and tugs. He tries with all his might and grit and uses force he never knew he had. Determined little fucker, the colony admits. Poof! He punctures a hole! Like a vacuum, the pressure ejects him immediately. Then silence. It's over. He's gone. The hole is closed, patched up, more callous with this scar. Once broken, the monster reacts to the virus and immunizes itself. The skin, although withered, is mending. It grows thicker. As it hardens, the citizens are baffled. Could they do it too? Did they even want to? Who was that boy? Oh fuck it, we're in this now. Let's not fight anymore. We have everything we need. Foolish kid, he got lucky. Let's not call it luck. His crime was unforgivable. And he will pay for it every single day. It is his penance.

The machine is unstoppable, unbeatable and infallible. Those who stand in its way will cower and perish under its weight; its glory. It is, and always will be, the system.

The Stimulation (3rd October 2008)

Another piece stumbled upon whilst cleaning my room. Apparently I find a lot of time for personal literature during my exams :)

The Stimulation

Standing there, so unaware
A distant look, an onward stare
We meet with our eyes.

She intrigues me, excites me
I feel connecting, unrelenting
It’s as though reality deludes us.

And then I saw her face!
Now I’m a believer!

Haha so it’s raining outside as I sit indoors and write inane script on an inane piece of paper about development – general economics. C’est la vie, n’est pas?

Fresh Prince of 6th Grade (1999-2000) (Re-written 27th September 2008)

This is possibly one of the earliest comic pieces I've written. I must have been 11 or 12 when I came up with this and proudly recollected my prepubescent talent on the back of my midterm exam paper since the front side was boring me with all sorts of economics questions! When I think of it now, I see a lot of clever satire used along with some hidden pop culture implications. e.g. the word gay applied derogatorily. Kids really do say the darndest things, eh? Haha so here it is -


I was walking down an alley when I heard a groan
So I went to check, it was Sylvester Stallone!
I was curious, so I asked him how
He said he was run over by a big fat cow!
I said, “Now?!” He said, “No, two hours back!”
“So you’ve been lying here all this time, is that a fact?”
He was like, “Yeah, it’s true.”
I said, “What the hell am I going to do with you?”

So I took him to the hospital quick and fast
The doctors said he wasn’t gonna last
I yelled, “Oh no! What the hell!”
“Oh well, this is going to be a crazy story to tell!”
So Stallone died, people were sad
I said, “Hell no! It ain’t so bad!”
So that’s it, that’s the whole thing
I want to write some more but I got nothing to sing.
So bye, see you and have a nice day,
And I pray to God that you aren’t gay!

Does he Fall or Fly? (18th September 2008)

(I wrote this at work one time on a little writing pad and only just found it while cleaning my room -1st January 2009)

The weather is exquisite.
There’s a soft breeze blowing that makes the trees sway ever so gently.
The green overwhelmed by the concrete, but still, everything is almost idyllic.
At least from where I’m sitting.

The droll and boring environment coupled with tremendously dull conversation makes for a delight to exit.
The filing of papers and the organization of the filing,
The post-its and the pens and Kangaroo’s punch,
All coloured vibrant pink, purple and blue,
Shiny and well coated but utterly monochrome.

Underneath all of the hustle
And behind all the bustle,
Sits a young man getting a feel of his surroundings.
An average young fellow probably yearning to earn
And earning to learn
And start a career that’s lucrative and profitable and enough to make a living
And more to save for later
And to buy a car and make rent
And pay for tuition and possibly, yes possibly,
Buy that motorcycle he always wanted.
But is he really that guy?

He sits
Bored out of his wits
How much longer must he smile politely at the woman sitting at the desk to the right in accounting who doesn’t look like she’s changed in days?
She’s probably just scared of change; to change.
She doesn’t want what he wants.
If he wants other things, why must he sit there?
You have to wait your turn and you have to play only after your cards are dealt and you can NOT put all your eggs in one basket, he is told.
But he can feel it. It’s his ace in the hole.
BIG OR BUST.

The breeze hits his face as he stares down twenty storeys.
HE JUMPS.
Does he fall or fly?

System of a Down (8th September 2008)

Before I begin, let me assure you that I am no cynic. I am a peace-loving, easily contented fellow who tries to see the lighter side of life. That said, some time in May, I lost my wallet. Now that may seem like a predicament to some, but I resigned myself to the fact that there wasn’t much money in it, the papers were replaceable and I could always buy myself a new wallet. I should have taken one more aspect into account – I live in India. That translates loosely to – yes, the money and the wallet are not a big deal. But the papers? Ah, there’s the rot. My driver’s license and ATM card were the only valuable items I needed to replace quickly, and so began a tedious and troublesome adventure that I am about to recount to you, as painfully yet pleasantly as possible.

Thankfully, I am familiar with a certain ‘agent’ at the RTO so the driver’s license worked its way back to its owner in due time. Of course I had to grease a few palms and the occasional trip to remind the fellows at this quaint governmental enterprise their actual job role. But a little determination and some decent luck (the official in charge must have woken up on the RIGHT side of the bed) finally culminated and I was in happy possession of a brand new license. It took a month, of course, but one really can’t do much more than wait. I choose to exclude an event that took place some time in the interim, when a police man refused to accept my story, in spite of the fact that all my car registration papers and even that darn PUC slip was in place. After coughing up 200 rupees as a ‘fine’, I decided that it was a cost I would have to bear for my carelessness. (the loss of my wallet, still being the topic in question)

The ATM card, however, was an entirely different story. I acted briskly, and within a day, an application for a fresh card was issued. This time the running around was less of a task, considering my branch is 5 minutes away, on foot. But then of course it needed to be done. I was discouraged to hear that a new card would take 21 days to be replaced. But again, I decided to cut my losses. After all, it could have been much worse, if some large bills happened to be in my leather money holder at the time of its escape. And so begins the wait. I try not to let it bother me; I’d just have to resolve to borrow money from the mother or perhaps,when in dire need, visit the bank and stand in a queue and write an application to withdraw and all that jazz. (shudder)

21 days pass. 22. 23. 30. 45. 60! It may seem that I have lost my grasp of ascending numbers, but unfortunately, two months was the holy figure. But I had gotten by alright, and everything was downhill from here. Look at the bright side, right? So here I am, armed with my new card, marching straight to the sacred place of money. Wait. What’s this? Incorrect pin?

I am gently informed that I was to wait for a new pin and that it would take a few working days. I have never yet understood the significance of the word ‘working’ in that statement. If you ask me, it’s just a stalling mechanism, to further alleviate the responsibilities of the powers that be. A few working days pass, and then a couple ‘working’ weeks. But hark! An envelope in my mail box has the mystical number that would prove to be the gateway to my bank account. I rush to the ATM and am greeted with a message that goes something like this – “I’m sorry, dear valuable customer. Apparently some twit went and pushed the wrong pin too many times and now we’ve gone and blocked your card. Have a nice day, sucker.” These words do little to comfort me, and this peace-loving narrator is beginning to lose his patience. But tread on, he does, and applies for a new pin, after a thorough justification of his mistake. I will not talk about the time I have spent waiting in lines in this entire process, because it would bore you to read it, as much as it bored me to be involved in this grueling procedure. Unfortunately, the word ‘entire’ used in the previous statement is fallacious, because that would imply a finish line. As you continue to read, please don’t expect a pot of gold, because this tragic tale is unmistakably not a rainbow, you silly leprechaun.

Present day: 8th September, 2008.

Your humble and charming narrator pays a visit to his favourite bank because he has been summoned to collect his brand new card and pin! It is indeed an exciting turn of events, considering he had almost lost all hope. He drives to the bank and picks up his card and pin and proudly goes to the ATM across the street. During this epic walk, he recalls not so long ago, he was asked to lend some of his precious account money to a friend and actually resorted to withdrawing the money from the sorrowfully not-so-digital tellers at the friendly banking institution. His friend was at the hospital, and needed a meagre sum of Rs. 600, so he used an ink filled vessel with a nib like machine at its end to mark in what seemed like English letters on a piece of paper and submitted it at the counter. The powerful man at the counter needed to see more than the poor man’s pass book, useless ATM card and driver’s license. He wanted to see the man’s cheque book. Cheque book? Our protagonist had never applied for one, so how was he supposed to present it? “Oh wait,” says another uninterested employee, “we have it right here!” Relief and surprise filled his mind, and after taking ten times as long (without exaggerating) this, your cheerful narrator, had successfully withdrawn money from the bank!
This was it. The moment of reckoning. He pushes his fated card into the machine and uses his newly issued pin number and is very precarious with his usage of the wonderful machine he hasn’t seen in so so long… Incorrect pin! He is not in the least bit amused, but also, not unexpectedly, not too distraught. He knows too well, the pain a victim of the system must face, in their endeavours at co-existing with the beast itself. He goes back to the bank and tries to rectify this new found problem. Apparently, the bank’s beautiful online system hasn’t kept a record of its recent issue of the card. This man stands poignantly holding his card, as he stares at a screen telling him he isn’t. He looks up at the ceiling.

“Relationships beyond banking”, read the sign. A smile swept across his tired and long face. The irony seemed a bit much. Perhaps they’ve gotten too engaged with maintaining their relationships that they’ve forgotten to do that ‘banking’ bit, he muses. Then again, their relationship aspect is in itself, a piece of art.
The wind blows in his face, and the fresh air chimes against his body, as he drives away into the sunset, back towards his own private den. A haven for his contemptuous albeit peace-loving mind.

Good day to you, dear readers, good day. The difference is in difference.

And the shoes come off (2nd June 2008)

It has come to my notice that I notice how noticeable and/or note worthy the choices I make are.
This disturbs me.

I am an obsessive compulsive thinker and this I will and can afford to admit. Obsession. Without taking a look at the dictionary, I am made to believe that it’s derogatory. But then I don’t even buy into ethics so why do I even care? I think that’s it. That’s the crux of the matter. I am torn, confused, conflicted about whether or not I should care... and more importantly, what falls under my circle of care/concern and what doesn’t. I also tend to think about whether I should even draw a circle around my concerns. The debate there, is to do with the fact that I am going to be concerned about certain things anyway, so why not organize the situation, considering the fact that I like and indulge in organization pretty much 25 hours a day. Now see that 25 hour witty bit there? I don’t actually appreciate that. What’s with the unnecessary hour just to show how much of a thing I do is done? I mean, you get it. So why the generic and silly 25 that’s supposed to take your mind through the following thoughts: “25? Hey wait a minute... oh! Haha how remarkably witty! Tee hee”

I have found that once I get on a topic, I move somewhat briskly to other connected topics only to find myself back and yes, definitely feel responsible to complete everything I’d like to express including the tangential topics, but the sense of rambling sets upon me (take now for example) and I feel unsettled and once and if I’m done finally, what was it that I even took from the little monologue? Why do I begin monologues? Is monologue the right word?

I want to delete this little document. But I’d also like to keep it for later when I can browse through the shitty bits of writing I have gone and done now and then and ever so often. Most of them are deleted. Particularly the ones I’m ashamed of. But then shame walks out the door just as soon as morality does, which is closely followed by ethics.
I’m an immoral idiot who would like to spend the rest of my life whimsical and carefree, with loads of fun and sex and brilliant food. Just like the next bloke. So there’s nothing “wrong” with this... but can I? Can I float through the rest of my existence? Can I survive and revel in this world without buying into society and paying extra for the tee shirt near the cotton candy stall? Who am I looking for? What am I looking for? Rush. Immediate happiness. That’s what. And I know that... but heck, there has to be an organized way of getting it damnit. The pursuit of immediate happiness. Just for the sake of seeing and further proving that I can, here comes a 3 minute poem/song on this very pursuit:

Pick up that wrapper and put off that light switch
Oh what does that matter to me?
Well it doesn’t and shouldn’t but then again, you’ll see
A hundred years from now the world will melt and all you’ll have is plastic
Well not you, but your great grand daughter and her little sister.
Global warming, poverty, child trafficking, molestation and AIDS for good measure
All a bunch of hogwash
Life is and must be filled with cold beer, women and plenty of leisure
The rest is.

Balloons, butterflies, kittens and fluff
Pink roses and ice cream and other stuff
That’s what you’re looking for aren’t you?
Go get it. Go fucking get it. Have sex along the way.
Go murder that chicken and swim with the fish
Sharpen your blade and act on your wish
Today’s the day to reclaim your life
Do what you want
What could go wrong?
C’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon.

Nothing to prove and nothing to lose
Nothing to pick and nothing to choose
Existence is beautiful, now lift up ‘em bricks
Walk away and slam the door
Build your own house and fill it with sticks
My back is feeling sore.
Just don’t be tripping on those fucking ethics.

I like nothing of what I’ve just written. It’s nearly 11 p.m. and here comes another party. I’m consumed with alcohol and society and friends and opinions. No room to drift or float and no drive to get out and do it. I feel tainted. I don’t like that. Nothing to prove and nothing to lose, V. Now go and have yourself a good time. Get in the shower and wash away that dirt, that taint. Soap off the dust and get out, you must. But first, off with those shoes :D