Naukatu, Naukatu.

I’m having one of the worst days ever. 2 hrs of sleep, mind fucked up by psycho movies and shows, and nothing at work seems to be going right. Everything is either overdue by at least a week, or is going horribly wrong because of no fault of mine. My most valued employee suddenly has the urge to study further and is telling me that he won’t work for more than 8 hrs. He is asking for overtime if and when there is any. What about all those 7 hr days that he got? oh, you can start cutting his salary from now on. I mean, what the fuck? I can’t relent because that would be a bad example for the rest of them. And I know the demands will only increase. Fuck consumerism.

To top it off, Anubha is having a terrible time herself, travelling herself mental. I feel like running away and switching off all work phones. Like, really, truly shut down work for the whole week and shut myself up in my room and eat fried food and drink ice tea all day long. I feel all too alone at night and the internet and Anubha on the phone alone provide a place for me that feels safe. I can shut out all those enraged people with their capitalist demands and arguments about 5 rupees.

Reading has suddenly started scaring me. I’ve bought about 50 books in the past year, simply because in another time, I’d have read them. But the past year, I’ve managed to read just 2 or 3. The Confederacy of Dunces should never have ended. It should have gone on, like Bold and the Beautiful. Its just too un-interactive for me suddenly. I want interaction, interaction that’s on my own terms, full of love and laughter and intelligent one-liners. Everytime I pick up a book, I feel alone, like the only thing alive around me, like I’ve sucked the life out of everything that’s there, like a black hole that unintentionally but selectively sucks out the soul out of everything around me. My love-hate relationships are now confined to things that come with chargers and batteries. My comforting concepts of time being endless are being slowly destroyed and leaving a dead void. Everything is routine. What the fuck happened?


Winters have arrived.

Its 7 in the morning and I’m up already from last night’s rounds of rum. I look around my room. Reach for the curtains to draw them for the first time in 6 months. Something is different today, and its not just the darkness. Today I feel… chilly, right down to my bones, I feel weak, old and sick. I pick some forms of clothing at random off the floor and wear them.

I need a girl’s  naked body next to mine, one that I can slowly run my blade on, and watch the blood oozing, zigzag, from her shoulders, filling her deep collar bones, and past her tender breasts. There will be silent tears of numbness and she’ll kiss me, kiss me, mount me, hold me, make sweet love to me. But will not bear or dare to look at me.. while I run my hands around her shoulders, arms, back and bottom.

It had been months since the last time I had thrown up and given my offerings to the Porcelain God. Its been months since I took a day off, let alone a vacation. Its been months since the last time I saw her. Lets go to another little town where the street are narrow and un-motorable, street lamps are broken, and the dogs sit next to you in faithful silence when you sip your tea by the fire.

The winters have arrived.


Make Way for the Lemon Parade.

Song: Barely Breathing/Lemon Parade.

Everyday, it keeps getting stronger. The plans, more elaborate. 1 lakh cash, the laptop, a suitcase and sleeper tickets to another city. A place can be found to stay. Explore the place and try to write a bit, try to somehow get by. Work as a waiter, driver, anything. There’s never going to be any content that will be good enough, but maybe. Just maybe. At least die trying. There’s the other bunch, the ones I call ‘them’, the other types, who find me lucky because I don’t have to ‘look’ for a job. But its come too late, the realization. That its possible to not look for them, but to define them and still live off them.

The house with a garden, wife, kids, and the dog. They’ll be good. But its just not the right time to start working for it, is it? There’s the other guy. Abhinav. And his story made my heart sink. Because he’ll always be what I never had the balls to be. The one who hitchhiked from Marseille to Paris over 6 days, sleeping in garages, train stations and gardens in a sleeping bag.

I’m losing sleep sanity and cigarettes over this, to somehow get out of this cubicle maze. Desperate situation. Need help.


I’d Like That..

have you seen this? This is John Mayer in Any Given Thursday.. Its been at the back of my head ever since I saw this 4 or 5 years back.. And so I will go back in time and think about Green asking to go to the book fair. Yes. I love her. Yes. I’d like that.


Match Fixed.

Yeh kya bakwaas hai? First Sam, my neighbour and bachpan ka friend, and Twinkle, my cousin, get married to each other. As if thats not enough, SidSharma calls up and tells me that he’s gonna get married in December to his school sweetheart. The stupid girl’s parents got to know about their daughter’s “affair”, and demanded to speak to Sid’s parents. The message was conveyed, and the whole meeting was fixed and everything was decided. Fuck. We used to play cricket when we were 5, damnit! And the girl lives less than a 100 metres from Sid’s place. Fuckin hell. A completely new meaning to “main mayke jaa rahi hoon!”.

The most irritating bit is that Sid used to always bring up this dumb topic of  “who will get married first among us?”. Obviously, I never used to play. I was put in the “bhaag ke shaadi, if ever category. And now I’m suddenly scared. With Sid struck off the list, its gonna be Varun and Akshay’s turn. Because they’re “settled” in life now. Shit shit shit. And now there’s gonna be all these aunties jumping like vampires at me, “Beta ab to tumhaara number lag gaya hai. Tum hi dhoondh lo koi.” Fuck off. I think now is not a good time to quit cigarettes. I should continue. And also start creating a ruckus after getting drunk everytime I go out. And if possible, start telling people that I can’t get it up or that I’m a homo or something. That would drastically reduce the number of rishtey coming my way next year.. Quick quick. I need suggestions!


Drastic Fantastic. pt. 1

She breathes in, fear in her eyes, like I just held a knife to her throat. In fact, the only thing I had were my fingertips on her stomach. And they explored the fresh, soft territory like a hand looking for the right switch on the wall in the dark. And dark it was, all around. With no moon out in the sky, the only light, as I watched it bounce off her quivering lips, came from the basketball court far off in the distance. I watch with curiosity, as her breathing picks pace with the movement of my hands. And as the fingers move lower, her face moves an inch towards mine, her lips pointing to mine.


Just fifteen minutes earlier, we were walking around the campus. She had called to ask if I wanted to grab a Nescafe before getting back to the movie. I’d just got out of a long shower after murdering myself in the gym. Thoughts of her had kept me running on the treadmill, and had gotten quite graphic in the shower. You know the pain of a smile when you have a cut on your lower lip? I closed my eyes and let the cold water run on my back for a while. Thoughts of her naked body in the shower with me. How long had it been now? Almost 8 months. We were supposed to be together, you and I, weren’t we? Enough. I turned off the shower. I had to dry myself.


“You still think of her?” She asks. My hand stops right there, her soft pubic hair curled around my fingers. It couldn’t have been any more simpler than that. I’d cracked a stupid joke, she’d burst out laughing just as she was about to take a sip of her hot hot chocolate. Horrified at the brown hot chocolate stain on her button down Snoopy top, she had glared at me and told me that I’ll have to pay for it. I had glared back. We’d walked till we were in the lawn behind the library. That’s our spot, the cricket pitch, the one where we lie down on our backs to talk, so we don’t have to look at each other. But that night, she knew as I looked at her, at her breasts when she breathed, at her lips when she talked, her lips when she talked about Mumbai and why the beaches there would always be better than the ones in Goa, and why the people there would always be better than the ones in Delhi. I wondered if she would ever acknowledge my stares. And I wondered when I started caring beyond wanting to have sex with her.


Favorite Worst Nightmare..

MRS is bollywood personified. He belongs to a variety about which we only hear, or read about in newspapers, the ones who totally worship Shahrukh Khan’s acting skills and Hrithik Roshan’s looks. His jokes come from old Anil Kapoor movies, and he can imitate Kumar Sanu right up to the highest nasal notes. When he expresses, and he is quite expressive, he does so in words you wouldn’t hear outside a Yash chopra movie. I admit it can be horrifyingly funny most of the times but after all said and done, he’s one of the most entertaining persons to be around.

MRS comes from Kanpur, from a not so well to do family. His father works in a bank and his younger sister is a brilliant singer, having appeared in the final rounds of a bunch of those tv competitions ever since she was 17. As if that’s not enough, she also tops her university in the engineering exams. Now even though MRS is a pretty good singer himself, he’s not good enough to appear on tv. And he has been, at best, an average student. Pushed from 8th to 9th grade, pushed from 11th to 12th grade, and never managed to land a job during the engineering years. His greatest achievement ever in his not so brilliant academic years was a CAT percentile of 96.5. That score and his father made him the talk of the neighbourhood, especially after he received a call from one of the big shot business schools in India. The black sheep was suddenly the dark horse.

Was it luck, or was he really that good? In his first year in the business school, having failed to score as high as the others did, he decides to man up and start teaching other kids appearing for the CAT at one of the big ‘academies’ in his free time. After all, he has been enough of a burden, enough of a pain for his parents, who never failed to let MRS know that he never met up with their expectations. So in the final year, he does not ask for a penny from his parents, and instead offers to pay for their train tickets and phone bills. He manages to improve his grade too, but that is still not good enough for the companies who start coming in to recruit final year students. In the meantime, the United States is hit by an economic recession, the repercussions of which start hitting the job market halfway around the world in India. Companies suddenly freeze hiring, and MRS, who was going to have a tough time getting a job half decent enough to satisfy his parents’ expectations anyway, is now facing hell right in the face.

The school holds its annual placement week as usual, but instead of getting rid of all the students by the end of the first day, is faced with a situation where 60% of the students donot have a job even at the end of the week. The school panics and calls it a rolling process, where companies come in to recruit whenever they want.

So it comes as a big surprise when MRS, who has a less than 5 GPA (on a scale of 10), is shortlisted by a company as a candidate. Obviously good at talking, he clears the rounds with a breeze and lands himself a job, something that 9+GPA people haven’t yet managed to do. But.. the company happens to be another of the big ‘academies’. It doesn’t matter what MRS does there. After all, it is what a lot of people call ‘tution/coaching centres’. Its not Infosys, or TCS or any of the big IT companies. And MRS knows it.
So he knows what to expect when he calls home to tell his parents about it. “Didn’t I ask you not to sit in for such companies?”. It doesn’t matter if he managed to land himself a job at a time when millions are losing theirs. No, it doesn’t. Because its not one of the fashionable Bangaloring companies where the kids of the proud parents in the neighbourhood work. No, its not. MRS is on the phone for good time, while the rest of us are all excited that he’s finally got a job, trying to decide where to go for the celebrations.

MRS hangs up the phone, and breaks down. “Why? I have always let them down. They knew I’d do it this time around too. How can they still continue to expect so much after all the times i have disappointed them? I have always been useless and I always will be. They should have realized this by now. That has to be the only mistake on their part. Me? They never deserved a son like me. ” – He says. Teardrops pour like rain, streaming down the cheeks to wet the borrowed blue shirt and old black suit that he had refused to change in for a new one even for the interviews, because he did not have the heart or the money to buy one. They had all been spent on train tickets and phone bills for the family’s trip to Bombay to watch little sister appear on the tv show.

I cried. And once again, it was not grief, it was  anger. Anger because he had been blinded by his parents’ expectations to the extent that he could not tell apart what he wanted from what they wanted. “But I do not know what I want. I never thought about it,” He said.

March 2018
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