Indian Politics: A Critical Deconstruction

Indian PoliticsOnce upon a time, there was a whore who refused to take a bath. She was the biggest whore in all the world. No other member of her profession could match her for size. She could single-handedly take on a gang of twenty men and still beat them all to pulp with brute strength. She was widely known for her prowess and her surprisingly good heart, and everyone respected her. She wanted nothing more than to whore around and make money, something that she’d been doing for almost six decades now. The one thing no one liked about her was the fact that she didn’t take a bath.

She used to take a bath in the past, some fifty years ago, but now, she just couldn’t get herself to do it. She used to carry on her flesh trade using nothing more than deodorant. When she forgot the deo, her stink would announce her arrival five minutes in advance. Yet, she never had a dearth of customers. Buying her services gave people a sense of false pride, something that was an archaic notion in itself. People would line up to wait for her just to be able to spend a few precious moments with her, so that they could be branded with her stinking sigil. They would use it in their résumés, and their families would be proud of their achievement. The fact that they’d just participated in prostitution was never a problem. People didn’t talk about the ethical, legal and moral quandaries in using the services of a whore. These things were swept under the carpets and the mattresses or locked in cabinets, never to be spoken of.

The whore who never took a bath had a certain reputation that she wasn’t proud of: she had been the cause of more deaths in her country than any disease, calamity or natural disaster. She wielded her heavy hand as a weapon and swatted away anyone who dared to come forward to clean her. She used people’s religious beliefs to get under their skin and convinced them to kill other people with different religious beliefs. In fact, her refusal to clean herself up was so notoriously known that even people in other countries were afraid to do anything lest they become scarred and soiled. The whore went on mercilessly killing innocent people in order to satisfy herself of her uncleanliness. A lot of people tried to clean her and were either soiled or killed off as expendables.

Indian politics is, in one word, dirty.

PS: The whore in question has agreed not to sue me for calling her a whore. 

Indian Politics: A Critical Deconstruction

Letter To Cupid, 2012

Statutory Warning: The following post contains words and imagery that some people may deem as inappropriate. I have used the word ‘fuck’ twice and I talk about raising my middle fingers to someone, giving that someone the message to go fornicate with themselves. I have used a photograph of a winged child-thing found dead, face down, with an arrow in its back, lying in a pool of its own filth. If you or anyone around you find(s) my language and mannerisms offensive, please click here. Else, continue reading. 

Cupid is Dead

Dear Cupid Asshole

Here we are again, in 2012. I’m still here, single as fuck, and you’re still there, dancing around with your gay wings and your gay arrows. I wrote to you earlier, around 4 years ago and you promised me that the next time would be different. You are a filthy liar and nothing more. If I look back on this year, all you’ve given me is hope, despair and embarrassment. What the hell is the matter with you, jackass? Can’t you just do your job right?

So, in the light of all that you’ve done for me this year and for the past so many years before, I raise both my fingers to you. Go suck an orange, kid.

Do you remember how I signed off my last letter to you? You don’t? Drop Dead.

In all sincerity,

Go Fuck Yourself.

Letter To Cupid, 2012

The Man From Nowhere

“See the nowhere crowd cry the nowhere tears of honour 
Like twisted vines that grow 
Hide and swallow mansions whole…”

– James Hetfield, The Memory Remains

He came from nowhere and he didn’t know where he was headed. He seemed lost, confused, a paper boat caught in a hurricane, with turmoil eroding the last traces of sanity and reason in his head. He was escaping, hopefully to a better tomorrow, but he didn’t know for sure. He wanted a fresh start, desperately. He didn’t know how he was going to achieve it – his bad luck seemed to have followed him here as well. Everything he tried seemed to fail, and fail miserably. He caught himself searching for straws to clutch at.

He vowed to find a muse, an inspiration, a candle in the whirlwind of his bad luck. He wanted to find the elusive abundance of good luck that had deserted him for so long. He yearned for the peace and tranquility that had been hiding from him. It was not a search in vain.

He met her on a hot, sunny afternoon and they regarded each other cautiously, unsure of just how much attention the other person warranted. She seemed harmless enough, but he was expecting his seemingly unlimited quota of bad luck to step in again.

“Been a while,” he said. Cautiously. Two tigers, one paranoid and the other indifferent, circling each other.

“Yes. How have you been?” she asked.

“Good,” he replied and they went on to talk about other things mundane.

Time flew by and a pact was etched in stone between them, unwritten yet indelible. It took time, obviously. It did not happen overnight. He began to experience her presence more and more in his life until it almost became an addiction. Over time, he started craving for her company. She became the beacon of light in the darkness that had clouded him. She forced him to embrace good luck again, though he never knew how she managed to do that.

He still had no destination in mind, but he knew that his journey wouldn’t be lonely anymore; the journey that he had started from nowhere and had seemed to head nowhere; the journey that she had spectacularly derailed and made more bearable. He had a lot of things to be thankful for. And for a million things more.

He had found his muse. He had found his share of good fortune. The man from nowhere was finally home.

The Man From Nowhere

Locked Out & Lack Of Clothes

Regular readers of my blog would know that a year or so ago, I had been given the rare distinction of being God’s yo-yo. Funny things kept happening to me, things that had no logical explanations. There was the time I managed to get trapped in an ATM vestibule and minutes later, a DHL courier fellow sniffed my butt. Then there was the time when a vengeful airport taxi driver sneakily followed me around town to beat me up. Or the time when an idiot almost forced me into the Idiots Club of India. I have gotten into the weirdest situations possible and for the more curious reader, here’s a ready reckoner of search results.

I’ve been careful with my life for a long time now and haven’t gotten into any embarrassing or potentially life-threatening situations of late. Last night, it all came rushing back. With interest.

I took a strange decision last evening to get ALL my clothes ironed. So, I emptied my wardrobe, dumped them all in a makeshift basket and took it down the road to the dry cleaner. If he was surprised at seeing underwear among the clothes, he didn’t show it. I then happily sauntered off to a mall nearby and started searching for donuts. I was told that a very popular donut chain was operating out of this mall, and I spent a long time hunting. I finally found the little shop and stood there in front of the lighted glass case, drooling and mesmerized at the sight of those sweet dollops of heaven arrayed in front of me. I went wild and ordered an assorted box of a dozen of their favorites and as I walked out of the mall, I thought the world was so beautiful and nothing could ever go wrong. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

It took me a good fifteen minutes to flag down an auto rickshaw  (I could never call it a tuk-tuk) and by the time we navigated through the inching traffic at nine in the night, and reached my dry cleaner, he had shut shop. For a second, I thought I was at the wrong place. After all, who closes down at nine in Mumbai, right? Well, turns out, this fellow does. So, I sat there in the rickshaw, stunned and wondering what to do. I got off and walked slowly back home, thinking of the consequences of the situation. No clothes to wear to work the next day. Forget that, no fresh clothes at all, except for a pair of shorts and a tee-shirt. I reached home troubled. According to the painted sign in front of the shutter, the dry cleaner’s operating hours started at 9 in the morning. I would have to go there and pick up my clothes early in the morning as soon as he opened, come back home, get changed and leave for work. It was a workable plan.

So, I calmed myself a bit and came home, dropped my donut box on the couch and went into my bedroom. Well, at least I tried to get into my bedroom. The door had one of those round knobs with a button on the inside to lock it when pulled shut. Unless I had a key, I couldn’t get into the room. Of course I didn’t have the key. I could feel a horrible cold hand creeping up my spine and my head felt the initial anxiety attacks of being bounced up and down on a cruel wire. I could hear God laughing his Evil laugh as he played with his favorite yo-yo.

I searched around for a locksmith and found one who was wrapping up for the night. In my broken Hindi, I convinced him to come home and open the lock for me and I don’t know how he did it, but he convinced me that it was a good idea to pay him double. Eventually, I got back into my bedroom at ten-thirty, was too tired and frustrated to eat more than three donuts and went to sleep as soon as I could.

I did get my clothes back this morning after waiting for an hour for the guy to open his shop and reached work a bit later than usual. I can’t help but feel a cold presence around me now, like a cold wire wrapped around me, waiting to be jerked up and down when He fancies. I shudder.

Locked Out & Lack Of Clothes

Gokarna & Why I Go There

This one goes out to all those unfortunate, uninitiated and uninspired individuals. Get off your high horse and read this.

There may be a hundred reasons why a person goes to Gokarna. People looking to get laid, people looking to score and get high, people looking for a nice, secluded beach and people wanting to offer their prayers in India’s most sacred temple. I don’t know if there are any other reasons, and frankly, I don’t really care why people go there.

I go there for a totally different reason, and its none of the above.

I lead a difficult life. I need to balance my passion to work, my unceasing urge to travel and roam aimlessly across the country, my singularly fierce attraction to beaches and my bank account. Juggling these four volatile substances while playing air hockey with the family, the bosses, the peers, the juniors, the friends, the foes, the creditors, the goons, the loons, the whackadoodles, the geniuses, the crap, the stench and the slippery slopes of bankruptcy, unemployment and loneliness around every corner is taking its toll on my nerves.

There are very few things I’m passionate about, and those that I am passionate about, I am so with a vehemence unseen in anyone else, for anything else. I do not go to Gokarna to ‘do drugs’. I do not go to Gokarna to ‘sleep with women’. I do not go to Gokarna to ‘drink drinks’. I do not go to Gokarna to visit the temple and offer my prayers. I do not go to Gokarna for the sea food. I do no go to Gokarna for the rustic beauty of the village. I do not go to Gokarna to ogle at half-naked women lounging in the sun. I do not go to Gokarna because I love beaches and water. I do not go to Gokarna to swim in the ocean. I do not go to Gokarna to live. I do not go to Gokarna to die.

I go to Gokarna once every three months because I need to get away from the Greek tragedy that my life is fast unraveling to be; to clear my head of all thoughts – good and bad; to reboot myself. I go to Gokarna because its the only place on Earth that welcomes me without judging who I am or what I have done. I go to Gokarna because that is the only place on Earth where I am at peace. Completely.

I have a sea rock, which I call my own, ten feet out into the ocean, at Om Beach. Its a bit of a hike to get to the top of the rock, and once I get there, I sit, looking at the waves crashing into me on all sides, rising twenty feet high and spraying me with a mist of cold, salty water. I listen to the rush, the gurgle, the power and the wordless songs of the waves and as I stare out into the horizon, imagining a place beyond comprehension, where the sky kisses the ocean, I realize that I am peaceful, within and without.

Gokarna - kudle beachNothing of what is happening in life matters here. Time stands still for me, for the 48 hours I’m there. I put my feet up at a cafe, sipping sweet tea and reading a good book, or people watching on the burning, golden sands. I take a nice pleasant trek up to Kudle through thick brambles and open moors and I wade in the white sands until the sun starts to set. I walk back amidst the gathering darkness to Om Beach, walk all the way up to Half Moon and back again. As night descends around me, so does the peace, deeper inside me.

I need this. I can’t do without it. For the unfortunate, uninitiated and uninspired individuals, I recommend it. The only thing I get high on, when in Gokarna, is Gokarna itself.

Gokarna & Why I Go There

Hunger Strike!

hunger strikeWe Indians have a peculiarly unique way of demanding justice. We stop eating and call a press conference.

It all started with the great Mahatma Gandhi, who went on a hunger strike to oppose the tyranny of the British Raj, back in the 1930s and 1940s. This habit has not died after we got our independence. Every time the government does something that someone doesn’t approve of, a hunger strike is called along with a press conference.

Recently, Anna Hazare did it to oppose corruption in the government. He was hailed as the present Mahatma and the press jumped to draw parallels with him and the original Mahatma. They called it the new Freedom Struggle. And more recently, a guy who made his living doing yoga, Baba Ramdev, went on a hunger strike and no one knows the reason why. I’m sure he gave a laundry list of reasons for doing what he did, but no one really understood them.

It’s like an infectious disease here in India. If one person goes on a hunger strike, it spreads like a virus on heat and before you know it, your neighbor’s on a hunger strike against the local corporation office demanding better roads and clean water. It’s about time I joined in the fun.

I am going on a hunger strike from today onwards to oppose hunger strikes all over. I will eat obscene amounts of food and go on a strike against hunger until everyone stops their respective hunger strikes and eradicates the country of this ridiculous disease.

My diet, during this hunger strike consists of the following:

Breakfast: 12 eggs, 24 slices of bread, 2 pints of orange juice and a quart of coffee
Lunch: 5 helpings of rice, dal and a 12 rotis with vegetables
Dinner: 16 helpings of rice, dal, 20 few rotis, along with some sweets for dessert

I vow to not go hungry again until my objective is fulfilled. This hunger strike will prove to the whole country that I am quite serious. I will not end this hunger strike until all hunger strikes have ended in this country.

I am ready for my title now. I prefer something cool, and nothing with the word “Mahatma” in it. That’s become cliched.

Hunger Strike!

Nefarious, Investigator-Kidnapping Horror From The Isolated Labyrinth

This isn’t a name of an upcoming movie or a third-rate novel being written by someone purporting to be a novelist. This will be my name if and when I become a vampire for a day.

I have been having some really strange urges in the past few weeks because of the monotony in my life. There have been times when I thought I’d just give in and do something stupid. I toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo, and though this urge still hasn’t died completely, I’m beginning to discover reasons why a tattoo would be a bad idea. I contemplated writing for money in a random blog competition and I did. I contemplated quitting my job and working in a bar as a bartender, but I found out that a basic bar-tending course in India costs a hand, a foot and a few hairs from a ‘special’ place. Too expensive, in short. And finally, I started a subtle rebellion against the society at large to excite me out of my monotony and jumped to the idea of vampirism.

It wasn’t a direct jump, though. I did decide to worship the devil and invoke him through a satanic ritual on me terrace. I bought some candles, drew a rough circle with table salt and drew a six-pointed star inside the circle with red water paint. I put candles at all the nodes and sat in the middle and had a smoke. That’s when the foolishness of what I was about to do struck me. “This will never work,” my brain told me. “You have to be naked for this to work.”

Given that my neighbor is an old pervert peep, I dropped the idea of nudity and jumped to a safer alternative which does not involve any indecent exposure. Vampirism.

I did some research online and found that there was a cult right here in Bangalore! I was way too excited. I read up some of their forums and found out all I needed to find out about them. I was hooked. Imagine a bunch of jobless idiots dressed in black, wearing black makeup and standing around drinking wine (imagining it to be blood) and having casual, unprotected sex! I would fit right in. Except that I don’t drink wine and that I usually prefer a contraceptive. Usually.

Still, the idea has some merit and I am seriously thinking of signing up for a week or so. I would rebel against society in my own way and I would dress completely in black while doing so. Awesome! I would also need to buy plastic fangs to make it look like I can suck blood right out of the aorta of a poor, helpless, sexy woman at night. I would be able to transform into a bat at will and I will be able to control hordes of rats and wolves and other undead creatures.

I would be the Nefarious, Investigator-Kidnapping Horror from the Isolated Labyrinth! (Imagine this with the slushing sounds of blood being slurped through a straw.)

PS: For those of you who have realized that my name is actually an acronym for the title of this post, I have a treat. I won’t suck your blood.

PPS: This post is written in red color. Request you to please imagine that this is written in blood. Well, its actually maroon. So, imagine this is clotted and congealed blood.

Image Courtesy: http://spicyvampirefiles.wordpress.com

Nefarious, Investigator-Kidnapping Horror From The Isolated Labyrinth