We Roam

Sunday blues.

Home felt like a house when we grabbed the keys and made our way down the winding staircase into the brisk October.

Vespertine sounds greeted us as we took in the welcoming darkness. We were delinquents in a modest neighbourhood.

Draped in PJs we all but ran to the car. 

Keys in the ignition. A moment's hesitation.

"Just drive," she said.

The V8 roared to life, lights illuminated the ashen asphalt, we took off, burnt rubber left hanging in our wake.

The roof pulled down, the wind weaved through our hair and stung our eyes. Refreshing, reinvigorating.

She pushed in a CD, drums and electric guitars sprang to life from the speakers and I squeezed the accelerator, putting more distance between us and the rest of the reality.

I laughed. Everything weighing me down now a halfbaked vapour drifting away in our slipstream. She smiled, eyes closed, making my heart do the two-step.

We were free. We were moving. Fast. 

Time lost meaning in the din of motor and music, we drove aimlessly, the empty roads a heaven-sent. 

Nothing but endless skies above us, she raised her arms, embracing the universe. We were lost in blissful detachment; nothing mattered but here and now and us.

A hilltop park beckoned us. Stationary wheels did not stay our spirits. We needed to be loud.

But speaker-fueled ambience was unbecoming. She grabbed her guitar from the backseat. 

Copper strings strummed the still air. The universe hummed along.

The Facebook Way

We don't need friends any more. We need an audience.


I have been on a permanent sabbatical from the accursed website for a week now.

There has been a marked improvement in my life.

For one, i actually have time on my hands. Before, any free moment would have been consumed by the azure headed demon. Now, i can go to other websites. Or, read a book. It's a big difference, trust me.

The fact that i dont know what everyone is up to every waking moment of every fucking day is liberating to say the least.

Have you ever felt shitty after going through your newsfeed? Of course you have. If you say you haven't, you are lying and shame on you.

The reason is simple and quite scientific (numbers are involved!).

We only post the flashy, good stuff of our lives on FB. So we can make everybody jealous obviously! Now, that flashy stuff is lets say half of our lives, on average. Meaning that everybody has shitty days too. But you dont get to see that on FB now do you? One does not simply post that his haemorrhoids are acting up (unless you are going for the sympathy likes, but even then, butt stuff doesn't really garner the same appeal as say, my puppy died).

From your perspective, your "friends" have incredible fantabulous lives. And, comparatively, you are a piece of shit. Boring shit. You dont have one awesometacular day after the other, like everybody does apparently. No, you have got to scrape out the dishwasher and look after your racist, yet ultimately un-entertaining, uncle. Not good FB posting material.

The result: Low self-esteem for you, pangs of jealousy, strained relationships, an inability to prioritise your life, regret, and eventually death.

Simple question: How many hours has this succubus drained from our lives?

I really do not want to know, my self-esteem has barely recovered.

As mom shouts at 3.30 in the morning, "JOIN THE REAL WORLD, DOOFUS!" She cares ever so much, bless her.

She has a point (and an incredible booming voice). FB, and by extension other virtual social spaces, are not real. They are no substitute for actual human contact. And you've all heard this drivel before and i highly doubt this piece will convince anyone of you to actually change your habits.

Introspection is a dying art.

Just do me a favour? You know that person you actually give a shit about? Next time you think of them, instead of liking their post, call them. Don't even meet them. Just give them a call. Trust me.

Yes, i do happen to be anti-corporate and no, i am not "hating" on FB just cause. It kinda saved my uncle's life. No joke.

But it is a tool. A tool being misused. Use it for the base communication device that it is, instead of the attention sucking/seeking quantum singularity it has become today.

I have no hopes that this will change anything. But hey, what's the harm in trying?

There are many videos and pieces out on the interwebs made by smarter people than i, who explain the problem so much more eloquently.

Try some introspection. It just might better your life. No pressure.

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.