A First of Firsts

My breathing turns heavy every second while I hold on to his neck with all the might I can muster, my strangulation forcing his eyes to roll up and down as I watch him choke and heave yearning for a release from my firm clasp but I wouldn’t budge, not a chance I could let him live after this day after his vicious backstab, an equivalent of hundred bullet wounds I could sustain any other day just after this deed is done but not fulfilled, not quite yet, almost on the brink of it, just a bit more further I’d have his neck I think, but hey, hold on, no no nononono, wait a second, he can’t die either, he stole my idea of death, agreed,  a valid ground for a remorseless execution of a traitor who suddenly regards the thought of a distant lunar death as his own, possibly a first of firsts in a exotic place nothing less than the Moon itself, can you believe it, a task which is obviously beyond comprehensible poetry that, a mission designed exclusively with the express purpose of performing an unattained death in the history of humanity while I was still a tiny tot for god sake, but now being denied that chance in the fag ending stages by a once trusted friend who has now made plans of his own, stealing my thought shamelessly, dying in my very own hands thus completing his treachery in a high note and I can’t give it to him, I need to kill and be killed at almost the same time, but how I do not know, and I helplessly proceed to tighten my noose in pure blind rage and that’s when something breaks between my fingers and a life departs and I place his corpse in the shuttle scheduling it to launch him back to where we came from, a distant earth far removed from where I am, where his ashes would still remain despite his devious last minute plans, and I remove my oxygen mask in victorious delight awaiting the time I’d rot and meet my maker for once and for all.

P.S: Thanks Karthik for the blogger buddy award! Respect, machi! 🙂

P.S 2: My short story The Sea has been selected for publishing by Forward Press Ltd, UK in their short story anthology “Days Like These” releasing this June. So, yayyy!!!!


In Search For Empty V@niTy

I hate this blank white page. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. Its stare enters the very core of my silly heart and hurts badly. I’m under no compulsion here; I am just brutally forced, propelled, driven by my mad desiring conscious to come up with these words of hatred. It is quite unusual of me to actually slur and make a blog out of it, but tonight I’ve got to make this exception.

Let me present my case with a clear premise that would surmise in a trice the price of being a novice. DO NOT be deceived by the imperceptible guile this whiteness conceals in its hindquarters. The lure to declare fairness and purity on first glance is understandable, but let me warn you, there is an episode of travesty awaiting your unfortunate fate once you decide to do so.

I do foresee a time when this article could be judged as to not worth the paper it is written on, but that is the kind of fate this writer has constantly known his writings belong to anyway. And that’s also the reason why I decided to spurt my vicious black poison all over this white masquerade. My fingers know not the pain I make them undergo now as I type this passage in pure frenzy with no regard to spelling or grammar auto correct! This exercise is in search of that blissful peace that awaits me once I post this blog (That is so cheap. Speaks meanly about one’s character. No one can be so desperate. There are better things to write about. The whole world is in a war right now. I know. Two words. Shut. Up.)

All this anger actually stemmed elsewhere and has carried itself forward to my writing desk. It began in the morning when I forgot my e-banking password. It’s as simple as that. But it didn’t end there. I had to reset it about a week ago and in the mean time I had created logins to four new social networking sites, each with its own unique login name and password. And I would have dreamed another hundred passwords in the past few days. In this entire melee for uniqueness, my e-banking suffered a setback, that too in a moment of personal emergency. Now it was time to reset it.

In an age of rampant identity theft where even shadows need to be checked once in a while for ownership, the option of using a familiar password is ruled out. I am extra cautious about these sorts of things. This is something you need to know about me. Now I needed a new password. Lords of creativity helped me figure out one. I enter it. Judgment was passed as I typed. It was weak. Combinations of lower and UPPER cases needed to be conjured. Trickery was performed in a matter of seconds. Judgment was passed. It was good. I’d jumped a step above. But I can’t be just good. I needed to be exceptional. Tension soared. There is a clock ticking and this page would expire soon. Think! Think! A few numbers needed to be introduced. Done. 9 and 0 selected among the number system. Now what? Judgment was passed. It was ok. It was a ‘what the hell’ moment. Special characters were needed now. That was the missing link. Once that was done, my connection would be secure like that of a Na’vi’s pigtail to his monstrous flying predator. But there are restrictions in this game. No exclamations, no brackets. Oh all right. I chose one. Judgment was passed. It was strong. Finally! I did it! I now belonged to that exquisite league of the geeks who could pride themselves with superior skills of password fabrication. I now belonged to the league of those extraordinary gentlemen. By evening, I forgot what I’d entered in the morning.

Now, I’ll request for a password reset again and the e-mail with the link that would take me all over its burrows for another tour of intellectual squabble would arrive with the stamp of my epic failure exquisitely pasted all over it. This time I’d choose a weak one. Maybe my name, yes, that’d do. It’s all right. No more of these vainglorious attempts to attain empty vanity. I am absolved of mediocrity now. Please go ahead and do whatever you were doing. I feel much better now. Thank you.

A Tarry Sojourn

While traveling through the prism of time, all that Allen wished was to not meet somebody who was going the other direction. The journey wasn’t as swift as he hoped it to be. There weren’t any obstacles as such. But the entire concept was still weird to him and it took a while to get the hang of the entire deal. He was intrigued by the design of the prism of travel; a pentagonal construct with divisions, like the cross section of a ladies-finger, to accommodate other time travelers who were destined to their own preferred landing times. He was traveling from 2010 AD to 1984 AD, a miniscule fraction considering the totality, yet it was all that Allen could ask for.  Stupid of him to not have asked for a more exotic time to go back to you’d think, yet when the question of his choice of landing zone arrived, he could think none other than the year of his birth as the answer. He had no specific reason for making that choice, just a stupid answer to a stupid question, as far as he was concerned. Who was to know the travel would happen for real and the question was not a rhetorical.

The rest five of his companions that day had made different choices and some had even brought their own tools too. The priest carried a camera to record a serpent talk into making a nude lady eat an apple and ruin paradise forever, the holocaust survivor carried a handgun to shoot Hitler in his bunker, the scientist carried an ink marker to erase the history of time and publish her own journal of evolution, and an Alzheimer patient who always forgot he was traveling to a time when he didn’t have the disease carried his false memories.

As soon as the travel commenced, almost miraculously, the Alzheimer patient seemed to have been cured of his disease. He recounted all his childhood days and recited his favorite nursery rhymes without missing a single note. Convinced that he’d reached his destined time, he was alighted from the ship. Unfortunate for him, he had traveled a little further into the past to a day where he couldn’t transpose himself. He had reached when he was one day old and thus was left unable to convince his mother in the hospital that he was the same as the one-day old baby in her arms, just that they were separated in time. Unable to comprehend this bitter truth, the mother died of a heart attack an hour later, leaving the baby orphaned and left to be forcibly adopted by the time traveler.  The time traveler made sure the baby received treatment early in his life to not contract Alzheimer in the future and also, in later days, sent him to London to be trained as a doctor to cure people of Alzheimer. That way, the time traveler lived with a younger himself for the rest of his life and was cured of Alzheimer forty years later without having to travel in time.

The holocaust survivor for all his preparations forgot his handgun in the time machine. Reciting his experiences of the time machine to Hitler in his bunker, he found a true fan in Hitler who was mesmerized by the story, to say the least. Hitler gave up his suicidal plans and called in all his Generals from every squad to attend a get-together that evening where the stories of the time traveler about the future would be recited by the time traveler himself. Overjoyed by the Fuhrer’s response and the adulation he received, the time traveler decided to prepare himself for the presentation. He jotted down notes and rehearsed endlessly. When the time arrived he climbed up the dais and was shot down by the Generals mercilessly. Hitler then went on to instruct his Generals about possible survivors who could one day time travel to recite ugly stories about his regime and ordered them to annihilate every possible survivor in the next 24 hours. As planned before, Hitler then went ahead and committed suicide.

The priest while recording the whole conversation between the nude lady and the serpent couldn’t help falling in love with the lady. He quit recording the video, put the camera aside and barged into the scene. No wonder both Eve and the serpent was shocked. The good lord himself couldn’t believe that a priest from the future could come into the past. The priest credited the Lord for having the potential for blessing humans with such a power later in his career and described the achievement as a feather in his cap. This being a time when the metaphor hadn’t gained resonance among those present went flat. He later talked the serpent into killing Adam, the Lord into leaving paradise and Eve into marrying him for a happy ever after.

The scientist after having landed in Charles Darwin’s time found it difficult to spot him. Since this was time when all men sported beards because there was no Gillette, it was hard to pin point his identity. Darwin being a proponent of a theory that contradicted popular beliefs of the time, was under constant threat and had to use body doubles for safe existence. After a fruitless three-year search for Charles, the time traveler became desperate. It was then she met a Voodoo specialist who killed people by inserting pins into dolls. She quickly learnt the trade by practicing day and night under the supremely trained eye of the specialist. After the specialist had gone closed her eyes while sleeping, she killed him and ran away with his dolls. She then killed Darwin and his body doubles and also self-tutorialed on the Voodoo globe, which she spun to make the whole world spin around like crazy. This continued for a good fifty years when finally two explorers named Frodo and Sam finally found the Voodoo and destroyed it in the fires of Mount Mood, the story of which inspired a writer of Allen’s previous generation to write a famous 1000 page novel involving a ring.

Allen decided he didn’t want to get down at 1984 AD for no specific reason. He kept postponing his departure and bid farewell to all those on the ship. He preferred to go even further into the past. Every minute into the past revealed phantasmagorical images of serene explosions and juggernaut confluences. His march into a certain beginning prodded him into travel further into the next beginning until the many beginnings lead to no more logical endings and trapped in time and space was the traveler, who wandered the whole of next day uncertain of his place’s latitudinal presence and position in the past with no damn concern for the near future.

Apologies, my friend

Dear Blogspot,

Before you begin to get all worked up and pass on the word around the world that I’m back to my home page with this lousy apology letter as a gateway to express (show off, is what you’d substitute the following with as soon as I post this, you bastard!) my creativity, let me begin by telling you that this whole time there was none, other than my family and my work and my TV and my movies and my, hmmm let me think ya that’s it, life basically kept me away from you. I know it sounds like ant crap to you but that’s the truth. You have to primarily understand that Antbrain was my only brilliant brainchild and I orphaned him mercilessly in pursuit of higher echelons of literary glory, the pain of which has lately begun to itch unbearably. As a responsible parent, as most parents aren’t, I’ve come to claim my child again. And not without just love and compassion but also with express regret and shame, which I’m willing to forego as soon as you are done reading this. Everything is time bound in the world of the watchmakers and I’m concerned about it even though I’m not one. Despite its frivolity, I’m compelled to use this time-tested metaphor in order to drive home my point. Which is that, Antbrain is a religion to me. Ok, that’s saying too much. I need to make a seamless transition from a bitch to a Madonna of the Africa. Allow me to try again. To me, Antbrain is an identity. An identity so important to veil my true self as the identity of Batman is to Bruce Wayne. The domains of our expertise differ, yet we are both crusaders and that’s what matters. This again was metaphorical.

Now, you might wonder the reasons for this letter and its intended subsequent repercussions. Last week, as you might know from my updated Google profile, was my birthday. (All those cunts who didn’t care to wish me; this might not be too late a time to send your belated greetings!) I turned 27. And I didn’t know that. I still had a naïve belief that I was married at 25 and I would turn a maximum of 26 that day. But as fate would have it, I was denied that chance. I realized that I’ve wasted another year of my life doing nothing worthwhile. My name still isn’t associated with anything credible or original and whatever I’ve done till now could be pinpointed to a certain source as inspiration. The target of being a household name by 25 has eluded and my funeral wouldn’t possibly witness the largest turnout in the history of the country. It is still a long shot, but something tells me it is still attainable. I know when I say this all the wasted 28-year olds are going ‘yeah right’ with complete apathy and all the wasted 45 year olds are cursing their last 20 years and all the wasted 90-year olds are thinking about time traveling. Worse, the dead are giving my dead grandparents their coldest stares and shoulders. It is still not enough to chill my spine but good enough for my grandda to appear and plead in my dreams for quick action asap. I did not intend this. I told him that. But he’s in no mood to listen. Good man.

All that said, my true intention has always been to write original content. The true high one could experience out of creating one has remained a motivation to me for so long that I tend to forget my age sometimes. In this four months’ time of solitude and desperation, I have partially realized the true power of the written word. Concepts of simplicity and perspective have gained resonance in me. Molecules of tipping points have gathered to form a consolidated mass. And words, and words of words, and so on have finally held hands and arrived at my tollgate of creative dispense. The need to fulfill this long-standing obligation has trickled down to my conscious and now I know the path my footsteps need to leave an imprint on. And you my dear friend! How do I thank you for your generosity and kindness even in our times of turbulence! Now, don’t get all hyper-excited and think supremely of yourself. You have your own flaws like I do, lets face it and agree upon a common ground of individual self-respect. My gratefulness is for keeping my blog space intact and it feels so truly good to be back again in my realm of unitary self-gratification. Lets end at that.

So, beginning today, after this process of adoption has been carried in due accordance to all the ritual traditions of blog handover and takeover, I pledge to carry out thy will wholeheartedly. May the force be with me to wheedle words of appropriate importance and allow them to mould in their positions of significance to singularly convey my message with unforeseen clairvoyance. Simply put, lets stop this bullshit and start working. Thanks for the pardon already.

An Unexpected Delay

The delay of my train by five hours in midnight was unusual and it prompted me to find the station master to endlessly question him until he bled from his ears hearing my tirade, but nowhere was he in sight nor were any other passengers waiting to board the train to Sikhri with me, leaving me stranded in the biting cold of the night, and when sleep began to sway me unknowingly between different realms of consciousness, an unexpected gush of wind blew with a severe might good enough to roll the hut of the station like a dice, carrying paper sand toothbrush forks mice plastic along with it in its belly, and from it rose an apparition holding a tiny dressing table in his palms with pictures of me placed on it neatly, various frames taken during different phases of my ninety year existence, but curiously the reflection in the dressing mirror wasn’t me with my wrinkles or beard but a much younger me, and crowded around me were everyone I’d known until that day, who were now fast receding into their respective distant pasts and unknown futures, their distorted images fading in a whirlpool of muddy mess, instilling in me an unknown fright and lessened being, forcefully awaking me into the real to find my long awaited train depart and fade in a distance, obliging another day’s wait for me to reach godforsaken Sikhri.

Death To Wall ‘E’ !!!

After having cornered him in one end of the room, I knew this was going to be a make or break instance in my day as the probability of a repeat occurrence when my nemesis’ life could again be offered to me in a platter was dwindling, and this sharpened my wits, tapered my senses, rushed me to action, and as I slowly inched towards him with the lethal weapon in my hand, I could see his black body glisten in the morning sunlight in contrast to the off-white background of the wall he was positioned against, and while his eyes moved frantically in search of a gully to rush towards escape, I inched closer to him, and while he sharpened his shears to attack me with all his assembled might, I had moved even more closer to him, and in a quick-second hand movement that left him stunned silly, which was even faster than that of gun slinging cowboy of the Wild Wild West (no modesty intended), I sprayed ample dosage of the lethal poison on his compounded eyes that blinded him completely and made him fall from his grace to the ground in the most atrocious manner, made him spin like a spindle while his sticky angelic feathers still desperately tried to keep him afloat, and as I saw him grimace in pain on the ground I could barely hear him speak because his lungs had accumulated disgusting loads of sticky phlegm, a suffering he attributed to change of weather from summer to winter, while his final recitation was vaguely based on his realization of death having suddenly assumed distinct and perceptible features, which were surprisingly ludicrous as that of a sleep walking donkey bumping into a wall, and out of exhaustion I slouched to the ground beside him breathing heavily and witnessed the tortuous end of my tormentor of last night, that little harbinger of diseases, that miserable composer of odes of incomparable undecipherable melancholies, who had kept me awake all night with his annoying buzz with such ungratefulness in contrast to the kindness I had bestowed upon him the previous night when I had saved him while he was just a suffocated housefly swimming haphazardly in my hot dinner soup.

A Strange Undertaking

After negotiating a fixed price for the funeral rites, the undertaker headed to the funeral yard after placing the receiver back on the phone when the grandfather clock of the church tower announced it was ten ‘o clock in the morning, and right behind the tower was the funeral yard where a lady who happened to be the landlord of the departed had arrived in a solemn dress and a somber mood, singing sad hymns, which unintentionally made the blooming flowers in vicinity droop and vicious cactus plants to frown, in fond remembrance of her only tenant, whose missing corpse from the open casket placed neatly in the grave made the undertaker question the sad woman to its availability (position in co-ordinates, if possible), to which she answered, All in good time dear sir, before continuing to complete the hymn, the intense grief which aggravated each passing minute, making the crocodiles lying at the bottom of the lake cry inconsolably, and forcing the eagles in the neighboring Indus mountains to close their ears and protect their young ones by sitting on top of them, stabbing them fatally with their claws in the process unknowingly, and at the end of the hymn ensued a howl with swiftly increasing decibel intensity emanating from the air just above that of the undertaker, who still had his hands upon his ears like the eagles did, yet found the noise to be deafening like that of a fast approaching train, swore for the first time in his life, God damn it what is that infernal noise, to find a man arriving towards the bosomy earth from the top of the church tower, aligning himself with quick hand flaps to stay perfectly perpendicular to the brand new grave’s centre, remixing songs of failed love and unworthy life in between the howl, fell face down in the grave with a thud, urging the undertaker to confess, Corpse upside down in a grave is a bad sign miss, a sentiment she quickly rubbished as nonsense, wished long life and safe passage to the doors of the Lord for her ex-tenant and added she would join him very soon to declare her unrequited love for him, but little did she know that the day for it to happen was not far, as the annoyed crocodiles and eagles arrived on the scene and devoured her for her extempore delivery of grief and anguish to their hitherto happy families, forcing the undertaker to bury his first customer of the morning in the same casket as her tenant lover with her face up, free of charge.