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
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 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?
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!
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?
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.
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
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
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