Monday, November 28, 2011

A Story About Two Sore Losers

Another one of those school stories.

I seem to be reminiscing a lot these days though I am not that old

Anyhow, I was a backbencher and so was this other guy

We didn’t use to talk that much,

Neither of us were much the talking type

We had our share of problems each

And both of us sucked in studies and would barely pass the exams – that too by cheating

in various ways.


we were one of the earliest ones to start smoking,

And after classes we used to light up one cigarette each

as we walked


the bus stop.

Again, without much talk.

During one of those walks we saw this charming lady,

presumably in her early twenties, walking side by side with

what seemed to be her boyfriend.

As we stood and observed,

they entered the fenced compound of a house

And we saw her unlocking the door.

He winked at me, and I said “fuck”

as we resumed our walk.

Both of us had a grin on our faces for a few seconds.

It began to rain that evening and I masturbated in my room thinking of her and of myself in place of

that asshole whom we saw with her. And as the semen came out, my world seemed to throb with

glory hitherto unknown and bugles of a strange victory seemed to roar out of the sky and resonate throughout the world.

It’s not that I hadn’t pleased myself before that and frankly,

I have done it at least a few thousand times since then if not more, but I have never been able to recreate

that particular moment.

It was totally unique.

The next day in class as I recounted

the experience

to him, he told me,

to my sheer astonishment,

that even he got

the very same feelings.

Both of us were, to use a word which was a recent addition to our respective vocabularies then, “mindfucked”.

We had never seen

that girl

since then,

even though on numerous occasions,

we had stopped

right outside the fencing of that house

on some lame pretext or other.

Then, on the last day of our annual exams, we had a huge fight.

I don’t remember how it began.

All I remember is that he called me a “lousy prick” before he gave me my black eye, and I called him a “piece of shit” before I gave him his.

I was in no mood to hear from him during the vacations,

and I am pretty sure that the feelings were mutual.

Then, on the last day

of our vacations,

I was returning from my aunt’s place and the good lady had given me some money.

So I decided to have alcohol for the first time in my life and so

I entered a bar.

I must admit that I was very nervous at first

and I thought I would get nabbed for underage drinking

and would get thrown out,

and that the police and my parents would get to know of this.

But with a few shots of stiff whiskey, I warmed up.

By the time I came out,

it was evening.

After walking for quite some time

I felt like having a cigarette.

I had one on me,

but as I searched my pockets for the matchbox,

I realized that I had left it in the bar.

There were no shops nearby and,

being tipsy, the idea of walking up to the main road again

made me feel like throwing up.

And then I saw him standing before me.

He offered me his lit cigarette to light mine up.

He seemed drunk

as well, though, evidently,

he had had his fill somewhere else.

He gave me two pieces of information, and I still remember those.

The first one was that his father, who, by the way, was also an alcoholic, had lost his job because of drunkenness and hence he will have to drop out of school

And the second one was that his father had taken up a driving job at that girl’s place and he had gone there with his father.

Apparently, the guy who we thought was fucking her was her brother.

We didn’t talk much, and he walked away. I have never seen him again.

As I was walking home, I was still drunk, it began to rain.

I remembered the rainy evening when I got that crazy feeling while thinking of her and masturbating. Even I had a sister.

But I didn’t give a flying fuck.

And the thought that I will have to sit beside a new backbencher from the next class did cross my mind during the walk.

Honestly speaking, I didn’t give much of a flying fuck about that either.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

Beautiful Naked Things.

Waiting for things to fall in place

Waiting for all this boredom to somehow disappear

Waiting for the next train, the next letter, the next strong drink, the next good fuck

And some more waiting

And there you have:

An entire civilization stretching out to the horizon

And rain is a rather stupid metaphor for many things.


To be up all night drinking and writing and listening to music and watching porn and jerking off thrice and G-Talking with random semi-known people who remain up all night drinking and writing and listening to music and watching porn and jerking off thrice and are as lonely and as soulblanked as you isn’t much of a statement. It’s not about angst or phlegm or hyperreactive and distressed loneliness on any such shit. It’s not even about appreciating the gigantic tits that used to haunt your teenage dreams. It’s a form of wisdom we gain over the ages.

And things get cold all around you.

And you realise that you are getting older and that things that used to excite you once fail to do so now.

And your Rebellion is weak and cold and it sleeps by the fire.

And that before long you will get your nine to five and your reserved pussy and all that your parents had once told you to procure for yourself before they are dead.

And so, you are up all night drinking and writing and listening to music and watching porn and jerking off thrice and G-Talking with random semi-known people and you realise that you fit into a certain type. That makes you happy because now you know that you are not unique.

And, like your parents and teachers and other well-wishers have told you, maybe in not as many words, being unique is an unhappy state of being.

And now, you are happy.


Once, when i was in high school,

I saw a kitten being run over by a bicycle.

The cyclist sped up and fled, but the kitten did not die,

At least not then. And then this girl from my school who used to wear braces

Picked her up and got up on her car.

I never had a crush on her, but i was in a good mind to see what happened to the kitten

My parents could barely afford my education and so having a car was out of question

And so I took the bus home from the opposite side of the street.

I never saw her since that day, and i was told that she had left India with her family.

Almost six years have passed

I have never left Calcutta except to travel or to intern occasionally and I am studying to be lawyer

I have seen at least half a dozen lame cats since then.

A few weeks back, i stumbled across her profile on facebook.

She doesn’t wear braces now and, as her profile picture suggests,

She has a really pretty smile, or maybe her dp has been photoshopped with great care.

She is back in Calcutta now and is living in with her boyfriend somewhere in this great city.

It seems like she is a photographer or something, and her boyfriend, who is also on facebook, is a dentist.

I sent her a friend request which was duly accepted but we have not communicated.

I still have no crush on her and i am still curious to know what happened to the kitten.

But of course i won’t ask her because that would be slightly awkward.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

I Can See You Hanging (But do I see an Elephant?)

It’s easy and it’s all written down
Of where children play and clowns clown around
And bluebirds sing and buxom thighs await the next hand to stroke them

We all need miracles,
And we run the machines by the hour
And we get paid
And babies stumble out into the light
And grow up.

It’s all easy and it’s all written down
Like deep fear progenies trace our tracks
Like deep fear it all begins and ends with clocks
As cloakrooms fill and mortuaries fill
And we learn our grammar, maths, history and other stuff
and we fill out the forms and put our signs and seals
And we count our money and we kiss and we fuck
And on Saturdays we drink and on Sundays we fight our respective hangovers
And at times we bow our heads down
And we pray
And we bump into lost friends and lost lovers at bus-stops and cafes,
And we pretend sincerity.
And we count the days
And we get bored
And we get bored again. And tired too.

It’s all easy and it’s all written down
And it’s all been charted and chalked out beforehand
by some lame plagiarist motherfucker.
Mind me, I don’t blasphemise
It’s not god or destiny that I’m referring to
It’s just the way things stand.
And things stand pretty strong, things stand on solid ground –
Foolproof and well insured.
Just pay your premiums and grab that bread and those pieces of ass and that’ll do.

And as we wait for the next glass of whiskey
We move from one honour to the next.
And we move on.
And glasses keep on getting empty.
And that’s pretty much it.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Strange Delight

Kierkegaard was crazy
And I saw him drinking all alone.
As the moon played a trombone

It was pure madness (it still is)
But, like our Messiah says,
It’s there because it ought to be.

There goes Frank Sinatra
Did he ever think of suicide?
Did the bombers scare him?

I saw soldiers in the light
Packing their asses off
To fight the other sordid light

And I saw poets
And I saw prophets
And I saw buggers

And I saw all sorts of people
bracing up for all sorts of torment
And I cowered.

But Hank Chinaski told me:
“take everything out from your mailboxes
and everything out from between your ears
and drown them in the great ocean of alcohol.”

Following his advice
I dragged myself to the bar
with fake cobwebs
where the moon played a trombone
and of which I had heard before.

There I saw Kierkegaard, who was mad,
and who paid scant attention
to the plump waitress with massive boobs, because he mistook her for a puppet.

Suddenly, I was happy
I started to laugh
I still am laughing

It’s a strange delight and I have never had delight like this before.