Category Archives: Prose

A new apple every day.

I was born in a very religious household. The first thing I learned after the customary abcd,1234, president of India, cm of Bihar etc. , was the Hanuman Chalisa. Nobody made me do it, I had memorized it all just by listening to my grandfather recite it every day. A remarkable event, as my folks declared me a prodigy. I just think it was my inborn hard-on for poetry.

And, that explains all my early fascination for religion. It is just that, a bunch of populist poetry and grand imagery for the juvenile. A collection of shitty stories. Now I write my own. Better ones. I drink the poison of the world, every day, willingly and thus a deity with a blue throat holds no fascination for me. Metaphorically or otherwise.

Religion is the worst idea ever. Right up there with marriage, money and communism. Right up there with shitty poetry. Pop songs. Ghost stories. Religion is just telling kids that monsters are under their bed instead of inside their own head. The biggest dick move of all time. The all enduring ‘father issue’.

Now, every religion is a story. And, every story has a hero. And, every storyteller is trying to put a point across. And, we know it never goes across. Let us take Ramu for example. Ramu wants a president just like Ramu. Ramu is a bigot, who also thinks women are a necessary mistake, and there is no Global Warming. So, Ramu makes Mr. Trump his president. Ramu also reads Bible. And, just like he wants his president to be a Ramu and his children to be a Ramu, he also wants his Jesus to be a Ramu too. Bible or no Bible.

The stupid fucker who told the story first, must have imagined that people will get it. That they would agree on a standard. That they would improve on it. Well, like every storyteller he was living inside his entrails. People only agree with themselves, or those who look exactly like them. And, religion is just that. A bunch of folks laughing at the same stupid dick/cunt joke over and over again. It is the backslapping club. Its books are the ultimate ‘locker room talk.’ Never goes out of style. And, the one person who chooses not to laugh at that joke is a fag. A weirdo. A slut. He is dangerous. She is unbecoming.

I have spent a lot of time studying and examining different religions. I have spent a lot of mornings cleaning the metal figurines of four/ten headed humans and singing songs to them. A lot of breath spent on reciting that blowjob poetry. Millions of neurons sacrificed over faithless dogma. Faithless, yes! Because believing in ghosts with cheap makeup is not faith. One day I just realized that my stories are better. My poetry is real. My dogma is love. My poison is beer. I turn water into sweat and blood and that is real magic. I walk on sea of shit every day and I do not drown. I give birth and I cause death. Of people, of ideas, of miracles. I am the vindicator and I am the punisher. I am the man. A better man every day. With better ideas. With a better body of work. I don’t need no god. A new apple every day, keeps the Gods away.

So eat those bloody apples. Be a better man. You won’t need religion. You won’t need the satisfaction of being mediocre, the sadistic joy of being helpless. You won’t even need a pathetic excuse to commit a murder, to commit any crime.  You will be whatever you are. Good, bad, ugly it is all here. In your head. Inside your soul. Embrace it. Just be.

P.S.-  Just be; Ironically that is what one of the oldest religions of all says. I won’t tell you which. Figure it out.

Looking for ‘tehzeeb’ during a bar fight in Delhi.

Suddenly, one day tehzeeb went missing; from the public discourses, it had gone missing from the streets the day rap music and internet had arrived, of course. He, who hated to miss even the commercial before the movies, was flummoxed. ‘Jee‘ and ‘huzoori‘ both were dead in a ditch.
What the hell had happened? People shouting obscenities at each other wherever there was a camera or a keypad. Was it the lack of guile? It must be; imagine a bald withered actor threatening to tie up a not bald but surely withered writer. Talk about a rooster damning a donkey, that shit would make a great buddhist tale.
Y’know the old adage, if the monkey finds a coconut he will break someone’s head. Well, coconut be found, head be broken. Let us move on. Old people are rude anyway, last big gasp and all. But, he saw something, he had never imagined he would. He saw people throwing coconuts back at the monkey. Nobody had moved on. Cameras and keypads working overtime. The monkey was dying. The fathers were dying. The culture was dying.
A man on TV, bespectacled, dressed up as if all the CR Park’s disapproving aunties were watching: but, he does not break into a Tagore or a Wordsworth rendition, instead he is shouting, mic turned up, shouting at everyone, hurling abuses, sissy ones. Imagine a bar fight in Delhi, where nobody says behenchod. The whole country was a bar fight in Delhi. And, nobody said behenchod. Women got beat up, nerds did too, even the poor Bihari bartender who can’t pronounce lager. And, the badasses, they end up in Cop cars lightening their wallets. Everybody loses, bouncers win. A whole country is a Delhi barfight. It was frigging hilarious. And, sad. Sad things always were hilarious.
And, that is what messed up with his mind. He has been sitting right there, at the bar, drinking his overpriced less whisky-more paani( for illiterate bovines, that is a pun for capitalism. ha!), and he had missed it. The biggest joke of his life. The millnium meme. Mother of all practical jokes. The locker-rooming of language. The ninth ‘state’ of Delhi. How could he? Everything had changed. Nehrujee had become Nehru; firangi, chor aur deshdrohi(matlab padha likha aadmi), all writers including the booker winning ones were chhamia, and all actors except the bald ones were nachania. The only man with a ‘jee‘, the premier, the karta dharta, the ever reliable Vishnu was faring the worst actually. Don’t let the ‘jee’ fool you. He heard people calling him everything from ‘nalleji’ to ‘hitlerji‘. That is a total difference of one gonad, as history insists. All was said, none done, but still no ‘behenchod’ (we are all waiting for the day, tuned to Loksabha TV.) Ask any dilliwala, that shit is way more dignified that calling Gandhijee just Gandhi, and calling every woman on interenet ‘randi‘.
Whoa, fuck. A boom. A crash. Da Da Da Dum. Drumrolls. The fog lifts. Clarity dawns. Time to retrace back our steps. Turns out this whole disappearing act by tehzeeb is not due to lack of mental faculties, or bald old senility, or overactive vocal chords, or bars in Delhi. No, no. Motherfucking nein. Turns out while our barstool prophet was contemplating his next sexual/beef-eating/ crude-joking(which ever is deadlier), the ladies have been speaking. As, in saying shit. Hard brittle shit. Like Tupac. Like Black people wearing sunglasses after hours.
So, that is where it all went bad. Ladies doing rap-rap-rap music. Harlots all of them. They are supposed to be vanguards of the cocksucking ‘tehzeeb’ (inherent similarities, you see). Now he understood everything. Nobody likes women talking. Even women don’t like women talking. And, now they were everywhere, yak yak yaketty yak. This was bound to happen. Eminem has snorted glitter of every color imaginable and was turning into an unicorn with a Jane Austen head. Afterlife; or the limbo between dead and alive. If Razia is on the throne, can Muhammad Bin Tughlaq be far behind?
History will tell you a lot of shit about women. In fact, it is all about women. But he is not one to trust history. So, he turns to the woman nearest to him and tries to engage her in a battle of wits.About who and how should be tied to tanks and pelted with stones. She speaks readily, a little too readily (has not read history.). He has given up hope. The woman won’t stop speaking, and people won’t stop throwing coconuts. (not their fault, they thought all apes are naked, so they must be men. There are no lady monkeys).
As he contemplated moving to Mumbai, and thus indulged in silly juvenile banter with the lady(forgetting the zeal and the thrust of a bayonet fucking Kashmir in ass) she said something. She opened her mouth wide, and he traced each familiar curve with his eyes, he caressed it, as it spelled BEHENCHOD.
Fuck yes. There were tears in his eyes. He vowed to never move to Mumbai. However watered his scotch be, however scary the haryanvi bouncer be, whetever the women fucking said, wherever thezeeb might be at.

Artists don’t die.

‘….when i was a child everybody was always shitting on the poet. The artist. They said the poet is pussy. The artist is soft. And, most of them were. I kept on writing, not because i was so good, because they were bad.’

This was a drunk Charles Bukowski, articulating his thoughts to a guy behind a camera. The video is ‘Bukowski reads Bukowski: Artbound Episode’. One of his few videos on youtube. I watched it yesterday.

A few days ago a young girl killed herself in the town of Kota, Rajsthan, India. She had qualified for IIT (Indian Institute of Technology), which is a big fucking deal for the folks who want to ‘make’ their kids engineers. Yes. Make. We kids in poor countries don’t have much choice in terms of ‘be’.

The girl didn’t want to be an engineer. .So, she jumped from a building, after qualifying for a college, people will kill for to get into. Hell,  i would have killed two or three, once upon a time, to get into that shit. (Trust me i’ve been made to suffer a lot. I was in Kota too, a town well known for IIT “preparation”. i gave up after 15 days of physics.)

Apparently, the District Magistrate of the city or some such officer, wrote an open letter on facebook to all parents so keen on MAKING. The letter especially mentioned the kid’s command over the “English” language. A whole nation of Facebookers mourned the death of a “to-be artist”. Maybe she considered herself an artist. Maybe she did not.Maybe she didn’t want to do anything. Just sit on her ass and kill flies. But she killed herself because she did not have the stomach to say it,whatever it was she wanted to be. She was good enough to qualify an exam that would make Picasso piss his pants before you can Guernica. But, she was not good enough to ‘make it’.

She jumped off of fifth floor of a building and killed herself. I do not know her. I do not know her circumstances. But, i know one thing, that she was not living. She killed a corpse, not a “would be artist”. That is the truth i know.

Today i read a short story. It said,’ As she came home with the news of becoming a doctor, her folks broke into tears. An artist died silently inside, among smiles and backslapping’. Some shit like that. Very fucking moving.

No. Artists don’t die. They don’t die before they start living. That is a pathetic thing to propagate. As Bukowski said, they are not soft. You are not an artist if you are soft. The spit of the world, the shit it takes on your dreams is the part of goddamn process. It is what makes the artist. It will manure your desperation, while you are miserable  doing what they force you to do. You will learn to see. You will learn to speak. You will have something to write about or sing about or paint. Something original. Something visceral. Something which is yours only, and no one can take it from you.

Embrace the pain, the mockery, the neglect, the indifference, their sodden stupidity. Catch everything they throw at you, and throw it back until you break their thick fucking skulls.  Do not kill yourself. A corpse is good for nothing. People will accept our demise, they always do, but they will never respect it. Because they don’t give a shit. Nobody is going to learn from that splatter on road. It shall be washed away. But, not your struggle. Not the fight. Not your goddamn dance of life. Not even your fucking defeat. Nobody will wipe that out.

‘Make it baby, make it’ as one ugly, drunk, poorly dressed,  californian fuckface liked to say.  He was an artist. He would never die.

 

Looking for Rabbit-holes

In my times of despair, and despair, i tell you is not a state of mind. It is a cold, dark, empty room where nothing belongs to me. Not even myself. Not even my diseased body. Not the protestations of my clogged up lungs.
Me, my body, my mind, my ragged breath are all splayed around. Part of the trash. Trash which is all around me. Chewed pen caps and cigarette butt children run all around proclaiming, ‘one of us. one of us!’ They are in your hair and on your tongue. I spit out little tumorous mutants when i speak.
And, in the nights when i am stoned; when i don’t want to listen to any more music. I have already gone out for the 30 minutes walk four times. Take out the trash, but where?
It is 2 a.m., I think about it, but i don’t get up and masturbate.
I just lie there in the dark and listen to the defunct tap in the kitchen go drip, drip drip. And i drip. A cigarette burns in the dark. and another. Drip, drip, drip. Sound of life slowly ebbing away, in warm stale smoke. I wait for the cold light of mornings to come to my rescue.
In these times of despair, you often cross my mind. Infact, you are always there, near the small of my back. You climb steadily, your small feet leaving goosebumps in their wake. You reach the summit, your face appears, you grin of victory, you sparkle of hope.
In my prison of modern gadgets and clean food and endless clutter of existence, i hope for you. I hope of you. Only you. Pleading, praying, believing.
Every concrete thing, the surface i sleep on, the utensils i eat from, the mouths i share kisses with , are mere ghosts in my firm belief that you are somehow tangible.
I survive in the belief that, somewhere there is life, and you are there too. Night after night. On each of the empty, lonely stairs i tread.
And, i keep falling clumsily, deliberately, hurting myself. I am sure there is rabbit hole around here, somewhere.

Culture fucks Missionary and So will you!

I had given up on my blogging habits, but the sudden demise of all the Porn Sites in our alluring dysfunctional nation compelled me to brew words. There is news that this is a temporary measure to weed out child porn, it certainly does not stink like that. The blocking of all pornography websites in stealth mode by a government who has been hell bent on doing so does not speak of altruism at all. So here I am; dirtier, more frustrated and depressed and hopefully more sarcastic than ever trying to understand why the fuck culture doesn’t like Porn. Everybody else does, don’t they? Read on!

There are periods in history, every hundred years or so when the culture is down on its knees, dutifully blowing desires morning, noon and night. These are distressing times, when humans owing to their four-legged forefathers start to behave like one.

We have had one of those, recently. People giving up good ol’ missionary to start humping like dogs, licking each other’s genitals (aargh!), allowing women to get on top. This is what dogs do, right. Ghastly creatures! And if that was not enough, women have been actually starting to enjoy sex, even asking for it. What had the world come to! I mean lesbians, transgender, fucking ivory fucking ebony! The culture would have shouted blasphemy in every language if its mouth wasn’t full of load from the stiff prick of hedonism.

But, times are a changing. Saviors are here. Religion is here, holy books and holy Joes too! Even the goddamn god must be lurking somewhere around. And, they are angry. Holy hell, they want to shove some missionary style sense or should I say lack of it into the holy herd.

I mean, the whole watching people having sex doesn’t make sense. It is supposed to be done in the dark.  You know the total Hitchcock noir style. To keep alive the suspense in the search for the correct hole, right? And, you are not supposed to make noises like that. What the fuck would Mr. Sharma say! And, humor me if you will, how is it alright to show pearly white tits and a totally clean shaven pussy regularly to a paunchy, stinky kid whose only pussy in life is going to be the hairy one his mother chooses for him. Isn’t that supposed to make him some kind of rapist?

And, what of its effects on our virtuous, pure, homely, motherly, holy cow-sy, soft spoken, mild mannered women? They are supposed to bear good strong children, not climb up over their men and jump obscenely! And, children can be bore alright in the good old cultural way where the man provides and women partakes (in the dark of course).

See, the facts are clear. Culture wants men to fuck women (that’s the only way) with lights out, with only optimal amount of nudity (to protect the modesty) in missionary position! No experiments, no going up and down, no blowjobs, no tools, no queerness,  no mixture of ebony, ivory, jaati, gotra and definitely no love jihad! And, anything promoting or advocating otherwise shall be banned, castrated and ass fucked by culture (we allow the rules to be bent inside the mothership).

So, if you want to make porn, make it in India and make it according to our values. And, our values don’t include blasphemy from the Khajuraho or the pervert Vatsyayana. That was part of Nikola Tesla’s conspiracy to rule the world. It was that son of a bitch which predicted all this world connected by screens.

Well, we have got a tech-savvy government here, and we are gonna ban the shit out of internet motherfuckers! Long have culture blown your desires, it is payback time now, with the lights out, in missionary!

To add a footnote of sorts, i would like to say that i do not fancy coming across my kid watching porn someday. That would be embarrassing. But, embarrassment like anger, or sexual desire is an emotion. It has nothing to do with culture. It is about my choices. It would not be very pleasurable to discuss the merits of regular sex vs S&M with my kids in future, so there better be places they could go and things they could see and do whatever the fuck they want. I would prefer that culture keeps blowing the desires, and there be porn sites for me and my progenies to consume. Amen!