Chaye Khaana Scene On

Another meaningless incursion away from the office. I would welcome such distractions if they were not so mundane.

We entered the posh and quite pretentious establishment a little after midday. The cheap lighting and the faux-wood flooring greeted us with an air of forced artistry.

Chaaye Khaana, the name itself dripping with bourgeois sentiments, is a favourite haunt of a certain class. Mostly iMac wielding hipsters. The mature, pipe-puffing intellectual reading away at his international newspaper is also a fairly common sight.

The lads from the firm and I took a seat which provided a wide angle of the cafe. People-watching was quite an enjoyable past time for my compatriots. I was impartial to the sport myself, but their company was amusing at the very least.

One of them started. "Yaar woh bachi check kar!"

The rest swivelled on their seats eager to get a look at the targeted prey.

Another piped in, "bara tight piece hai yaar."

A roll of my eyes, and I return to sipping the sad brown slop which they have the audacity to call an espresso.

Mr. T, a likeable fellow I must admit, changed the subject. "Oye, match dekha kal raat?"

The ensuing babble bored me. I turned around and inspected the adjacent bookshelf. I snapped my head back in disgust as my retinas were assaulted by pretentious tile after pretentious title.

The Secret? Really? I can discover self-actualisation on my own, thank you very much. And if it was that easy, that it could be condensed into a remarkably thin volume, you'd think we'd be inundated with superpeople.

Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho. An entire rack of Paulo Coelho. Huh. Arson had never sounded so appealing.

After we had finished off the sad fare, the bill dispensed off, we took our leave of the ostentatious cafe.

"Good scene tha, yaar. Phir aaye gaye."


- published in the first issue of Exist Magazine on ________

I see fire; I hear the wind

I stand in this cosmic cavern
In eternal darkness
My stance unstable;
I am walking on water.

Ripples cascade,
As feet fall on water;
This not be an unfortunate puddle,
Rather an ocean of black.

I walk, I glide,
With rhythmic footfalls.
No shore, no sky,
Only a never-ending ocean.

A luminescence!
Far off in the black horizon;
A speck of gold,
Flickering in the cold darkness.

Another step,
And the spark explodes.
Furious flames rush the horizon,
Surrounding me in a bowl of gold.

The flames twist and dance;
Spectrum of tangible emotion.
The heat overwhelming, cold dark forgotten
But I stand in awe, undeterred.

For I know it is you.

_______________________________

My quest,
Was of enlightenment.
My path,
Was forsaken.

Aimless wandering,
Thoughtless posturing,
Led me inevitably
To the cavern of no escape.

The wide black ocean,
Sapped my soul.
My body an empty vessel,
Devoid of life.
______________________________

The flames would not hurt me.
They playfully entice me
With their burning tendrils
But I'm not afraid.

For enlightenment was mine;
The answer within me.
It needed a spark to ignite my heart,
Remind me of what I knew.

I am the wind.
The flames do not burn me,
I fan the flames
Into a raging inferno.

It is a coupling of nature,
Feeding and nourishing the other.
I do not put you out,
I make you burn

But I do not burn with you.

If I ignite,
I'll be consumed.
Even though that may not be your intention,
It is your nature.

I am the wind.
At peace. Serene.
Flowing, enveloping the universe.
Fanning your flames.

You burn brighter, hotter
A typhoon of fire
Spiralling skywards
Incinerating the roof of my prison.

In the open expanse,
The eternally bright universe,
We do not disperse.
We bind together, becoming one.
____________________________

Our quest, renewed.
Our purpose, eternal.
Peace, and passion.
Fire, and wind.

Tiny spark of madness

Listen sonny

Wanna know the secret of living?

It isn't along some road to success

Nor in the rat race we run from cradle to grave

See, its so much simpler than that, so much more beautiful

You gotta be crazy kiddo

Gotta go full goose bozo

We are only given this tiny spark of madness

The world will try to snuff it out

They can't handle crazy

You gotta hold on to that spark

Its the only way to make it out alive

Gotta be full tip bozo, cuckoo crazy

You know, angels fly because they take themselves lightly

You have to fly above it all

Without that spark of madness

You are nothing

- O Captain, My Captain! Farewell!

Precious on Precious

What are we doing, precious? They told us to write a paragraph in our voice precious, oh yes, they did. Oh, that’s nice. But which voice is precious writing in? Umm, ah, our voice precious; our voice of course. Hmm, precious is not very good at writing. Let precious have a go. Gollum! Gollum!

- Smeagol Gollum

Image Credits : The Incredible Otis Frampton 
(http://otisframpton.deviantart.com/) 
(https://www.facebook.com/otisframpton?fref=ts&ref=br_tf) <3

Night Prowler

Another late night at the office. Why the flying fuck did I take this job again? Because you are broke with no opportunities? Yeah that's probably it, thanks inner-me.

God, so fucking tired! And its only duck-fucking Tuesday? Fuck!

Ah my feisty little hatchback, alone in a carpark inundated with German royalty. And yet I'll choose you every time sweety- Holy! Merc SL65! Are you fucking kidding me? Damn. That profile. Those arches ... Every time babe, you know it.

Still, my three-door turquoise jap strikes quite a pose in the gleaming sea of executive black and grey metal.

Homebound. Finally!

One good thing about driving home this late is that the roads are deserted. The other good thing is that I get to enjoy the stylings of the best RJ this side of FM 100.

Wes Malik of the Drivethru is fucking psychic. The dude peers into your soul and fills you up with all the chicken-soup goodness you need.

And tonight he's right on the money as well: Phil Collins is flying me to Paradise.

100 word story!

"Your turn!"

Garlic hot on his breath, he took my hand, not gently, and slammed it on the Magnum.       

                                                          

How quaint, I thought, the mother of all handguns. The most you can feel like a man, without putting in the effort. It was ironic that now I was pressing it to my own right temple.

The barrel cold against my flesh incited visions. Instead of seeing my life achievements in that final trip down memory lane, I saw Doctor Who and my high-school crush. Hmm. A matter of perspective I guess.

My finger caressed the smooth metallic trigger, begging release.

Back To Flynn's

There it was. 

Flynn's Arcade stood on the corner of Culver Blvd, a decrepit ruin of its former glory. The giant neon sign that was once a symbol for good times, a burnt out husk. Lifeless windows and shuttered doors completed the dismal portrait of abandonment.

Sam edged his bike forwards. This place still held importance for him. Memories of happier days, love and fun had him smiling through his helmet. But it was also a memorial for how those times had been cut short, how neglect had withered love; how guilt had left him empty. The smile gave way to his usual scowl.

Sam would not be here if he could help it.

The message on Alan’s pager came from Dad’s office at the Arcade. From a phone which had been disconnected for the past twenty years.

Twirling the keys to the doors between his fingers, Sam wondered for the umpteenth time what he was doing there, why he insisted on opening old wounds. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself that the past was just that, he could not stop chasing ghosts.

Sighing in defeat, Sam unlocked the front doors. Dusty darkness greeted him as he strode inside. Even through the black pitch Sam easily navigated his way to the circuit box. Wiping the grime away, he flipped the switches one by one bringing the old place back to life.

The overhead lights illuminated the plastic covered arcade cabinets, lonesome without jumping kids. The second switch turned on the cabinets flooding the floor with their theme music. Another rare smile appeared on Sam’s face as he enjoyed the nostalgia. Asteroids, Battlezone, Centipede, Crystal Castle, Millipede, Missile Command and Space Duel. Stunt Cycle. Tempest, Warlords, Yar's Revenge, Galaga and Pole's Position. Donkey Kong, Space Invaders and Pac Man. All old friends.

The distorted music blasting from frayed speakers had Sam reminiscing the countless hours he had spent playing one game after another, only going home when his Dad would close down for the night.

Dad.

Snapping out of his reprieve, Sam flipped the final switch. The jukebox lit up, and the videogame music was drowned by Journey’s Separate Ways.

Dad did love Journey.

Sam made his way to the office. The thick layer of dust on all the plastic covered furniture betrayed no signs of anyone having been there. The phone was broken and disconnected.

Sam fumed at himself. This was a stupid idea to begin with.

Ready to leave, something caught Sam’s eye. Right at the back of the arcade, underneath an unlit neon sign, was the crown jewel of his father’s arcade: Encom’s Tron. Sam made his way to the back, passing row after row of arcade machines. Tron looked as fun as ever. Multi-coloured light cycles ran across the screen trying to entrap each other.

One for old times. Sam pushed a quarter through the slot, only to have it clatter onto the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he noticed deep scratches in the tiles; as if something heavy had been dragged across the ground.

Running his hands across the sides of the arcade machine, his fingers touched upon a switch. Puzzled, he flipped it.

The Tron machine swung forward on hinges revealing a space behind the cabinet.

Sam ducked inside to find a small passageway. Turning on his flashlight he descended a flight of stairs into the basement. The machine swung closed behind him, cutting off the sound of music from the floor above.

At the bottom of the stairs was a metal door.

A sign boldly declared, “DANGER. Electrical Sub-Room. No unauthorized access.”

Keys were dangling from the lock.

Sam paused a moment. He grabbed the handle and turned it. Unlocked. He held his breath and pushed open the door.

A small, dank room, with electrical equipment and gadgets cluttered everywhere.

His torch illuminated a chair and desk. Above it was a notice board stuck with papers and photos. Childhood photos of him with his father.

Must be Dad’s workshop, Sam figured.

Sam scanned the pages, trying to make sense of the printed computer codes and diagrams which inundated the board. “The Grid?” Sam muttered to himself, reading the words repeated over and over.

The desk itself was concealed under a dense coating of dust. Nobody had been here either.

Through the thick layer of grime Sam made out a digital display on the desk; a timer of some sort, with blue numbers counting down to … something.

Confused more than ever, Sam brushed his hand across the surface wiping away the dust. The entire desk began to whir and chirp like a computer. The surface of the desk flickered to life and revealed itself to be a screen.

The screen displayed a few boxes and a keyboard.

Sam typed in a few command prompts, trying to get access into the system’s files, with no success.

A message on the screen piqued his interest. LaserControl.

Sam inputted a command activating it. A dialog box popped onto the display: Aperture Clear? Yes/No.

Machinery began to hum and whine.

Sam paused, thought what the heck, and selected Yes.

The whine became a high pitched scream and a blinding flash of light struck Sam from behind.