“I am God, You can’t shake me!”

The proclamations were grand, a rough hue of saffron ruffled into the compartment, vivid comparisons to a world in the past came rushing back, an aftertaste which was not as romantic as the ride from Kangra Mandir to Pathankot.
My companion and I, muted by the distance and our own museums of thought, where we saw and declined, carefully considered, spending just enough time and then moving on from that exhibit were disturbed by a loud scream. A man, drunk, on what seemed like cheap, locally-brewed alcohol, screamed at seemingly no one, “I will not spare you.” Meeting deranged holy men was not something I wanted to believe I adored but the last one was I met by the tracks at Kangra was docile and narcissistic rather than volunteering to save the world.

The man with his head gear similar to those priests of the temple who sit in the periphery, always discluded in the major ceremonies, they accept the money given while they gaze at nothing (They’d like to believe that the world believe's in nihilism of life and those needless celebrations of pedestal worship) before pocketing the “dakshina” (an offering to holy men), smiling at the amount of alcohol all this money could buy, while absent mindedly muttering an odd prayer just to keep up that impression of commune which he swore to maintain.

He sat down on the wooden seats, he looked around and screamed. Pulling out my headphones, Tool, was suddenly not as interesting. I sat down, facing my companion.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Crazy man,” he replied, while making the universal sign of the demented, one finger pointing to his temple and the other pointing to the man.

The “crazy” man’s rant continued and reached a fever pitch when he stood up and slapped himself thrice, before admitting his attraction to money and how he would fight all of those who betray his god, his enemies— Jains, Parsis, Christians, Hindus or “a Musalman,” he finished, looking around, smiling menacingly.

He ranted and the two of us nervously peered out, waiting for our destination, the train would not move fast enough.

“Man, am I happy you came along. I was thinking of doing this journey alone,” I said. My companion smiled back, obviously uncomfotable.

As Pathankot neared, our crazy friend decided that money was not what mattered to him, those who are deeply spiritual need not the attraction to those red 1000 Rupee notes. But he almost stopped short of tearing his notes when he was told that Pathankot had arrived. He stopped. He justified the lack of floating pieces of the 1000 by assuring any one who would listen that he had torn millions of rupees.

He took a swig from his bottle, lugging his bag, ran into the dark platform screaming “ Pathankot Zindabad” ( Long Live Pathankot, would be a safe translation.)

He got into the platform before realizing it was not where he wanted to go. He resumed screaming. I pushed my bag further up my shoulders and running up the steep railway bridge connecting the small gauge platform to the Junction, to create as much distance between me and the man. But my companion smiled unapologetically and continued to stroll, casually looking in the direction of the priest running in circles. The priest screamed about how god had chosen him. The proximity to the unbalanced has always been a source of discomfort.
My grandfather once said, “The more you desire it, the farther it runs from you and the less you want it, it comes right back to you.”
How right you were old man. You looked down from your high heavenly perch to chuckle did you not? You always had a sense of humour.

And there it was, the man returned, just when I thought I would not encounter his kind anymore. But he was back. But this time I felt safer, the bars on the window locked him out. His delusion now made him god. He assured himself that he would not be hurt because he was god, he was death.
He lay on the dusty platform, clutching his right forearm, pitifully twisting in the filth, screaming, calling out for "Amba" (Mother). His desperate cries for his mother were laced in lunacy and pain. I felt a measure of sanity in his voice.
I saw in him a man crazed by the loss of his mother. But, I love romanticizing. Before any one could take control of the situation, he leapt onto the tracks. A gathering crowd peered to see where he was. The police managed to drag him out, into the dark platform, where a few knocks to his neck and back silenced him enough to be dragged away.
The police now started to clear all those who squatted. They however, missed one.

Guess where she made her way to?

Her veil clutched between her teeth while her other hand gripping a red vase. Her sari in a bunch, to hide the vase.
The fingers counted rosary beads. Her dull eyes stared into space. Muttering to herself. She blew air, like exhaling smoke from an expensive cigarette, relishing the twang of tobacco on her tongue. She sat facing me, staring, intently waiting for a reaction. She blew and whispered.

She believed she could call on the spirits to sit next to her and directed them to stand with her to guard her against the evil. She spat to mark the spot. All this while not five meters from my face. The others on the seats had adjusted to avoid her. But she stared at us.
"This is not your seat," I said. She nodded.

I motioned her to leave, but she refused. She rocked back and forth, eyes glazing over. Drooling from the corners of her mouth. A mad smile flashed. It was 12:30 am, my companion had abandoned me. Choosing sleep ahead of the crazy woman.

Like a rabid animal ready to strike she looked at me. I maintained eye contact, neither looking away. Each challenging the other to break, thankfully the patrons of the seat interrupted our staring match. They physically dragged her to another seat. Those seats were taken by the military.

Before she left, her eyes teared up and she looked at me, pleading for help. Self Preservation was an animal I nurtured. Sympathetic smiles and nods followed and I decided to catch some shut eye.

I dreamt about vases.

There is a sadistic pleasure which drives us to watching men hurt others. With sticks or roughed by the military. The silhouette of the police overwhelming a drunk man on a dark platform. The train officials pushing the destitute out of a moving train.
A crowd gathers and watches, some smile, others just wait for the next blow. What is this fascination with violence? To hurt and to watch some one bleed. While our crazy man lay on the tracks waiting for death, there were a few who thought it would be "entertainment" if the drama continued for a little longer.

"Enough," I said out aloud to no one. Try to sleep, I did not know there was a call I would get a 4 am. A drunk past, claiming sleeping in the train was just not right.

That is later.

A fortnight’s conversation. I can use puns like the tale of two weekends. Lets just call it. Two. A little before & a little after

I have been away- from this blog. Scribbling in my notepad the things I had to talk about, to describe, to discredit. Two weekends which deserved mention have passed, but all I have done is sit around, distracted and sometimes too lazy to put across what creeps and talks from within me.

But now that the fueled weekends have resulted in conversations which have to be discussed, I will insist on exploring all the topics which have been either conversed or contemplated. This fortnight has been one in very mysterious proportions divided between the boring and the lascivious.

The first weekend promised to be fueled with desire, inane conversation and beer. Trooping into a fluttery restaurant, the beers were ordered. Tongues loosened. The cigarette lighters were furiously clicked; a few aves gave up their lives for a noble cause.

When the hiccups struck this time, we had paraded our selves to the center of misery, the roundabout of poverty. Society was the cause which my unstable feet chose to run for. We have always tried to find ways of fitting in our own non committal way to the norms which have been laid down by a few confused individuals when they tried to understand human nature, perhaps even to bring sense to chaos (difficult task, indeed.)

We have struggled to fit into the mould which has been drawn. Our hobbies and the paths which I minds wander are the yard sticks which we nervously measure to model clumsily to. All these acts of desperation are to be accepted. The fear of rejection leads to an intense wave of frustration. But if you do what you do, and still survive, this so called faceless monster called society has accepted you. If it did not, you would be nervously tapping your fingers on death row savoring the last gasps of fresh, clean and free air. But how would you still define society. It could stem from the insecurity which man suffers from either death or loneliness. There is never a way to escape from either. Then why fear? Why the anxiety? Ahh, there it comes, the dreaded popularity contest.
When peer pressure the term was first coined, it was intense scrutiny that people subjected themselves to ape others in the flock. Hilariously, all of them wanted to look to be a part of the flock and not apart hence keeping abreast with the pace of the flock.
But this flock has to be following some one, it does tend to move in a vicious circle. This weak hierarchy can never have a constant leader, some one tired of the philosophy gets up and tries to be different, stand apart, a few notice and everyone follows. The willingness to fight peer pressure is peer pressure. The conclusion that can be drawn is when some one willingly decides to be different he is competing with many others trying to do the same and hence falls into the pattern, effectively erasing the originality. Just another stone. There is no way out. Or maybe there is- it was what is called the fox way. Ahh, a new way, I will preach, listen carefully, a fox runs solo and with the pack, but never will the first fox follow the other even though there is an alpha male. If the first is foolish enough to drop into a trap, the second stops and consequently the others. The hunters move on. Fend for yourself.
It was late, and day approached. I lit my last of the day, bade farewell and prepared for the next week.

The next week was uncomfortable. While the watering hole was better, the animals that lapped the gentle teasing flow, were more trying to identify with the flock. Screaming beyond the music, conversations meandered from women in the next booth to moments in the past. I seem to regress to the life; I left behind far too often. I think it is time to get in some new memories.
While hearts were bared. There was an interesting topic which reared its debatable head. I have never had one opinion or the other on Cheating- Adultery. I have been on the receiving end a few times. Not a sweet pill to swallow. But when it dies, it dies a starved and painful death. The breath slowly leaves an empty shell of emotions and promises. It is sometimes beautiful to admire but difficult to keep. No has escaped unscathed. I was even tempted to indulge in my own distractions, but a promise has held me dry, prevented me from drowning. I must say- I respect my values more after 5 beers rather than before the first. Life is strange.

“Open the doors you crazy man, were you not hired to guard me,” I burped at my security guard.

Running on Empty

I have often wondered, what I could possibly write about if I had not spent the weekend hammered and trying to comprehend how I possibly did what I did. The weekend was spent sober. And nothing, absolutely nothing unusual. I could even generally give a discourse on the fall of socialism in Europe or the disturbing trend of a covert nationalistic obsession sweeping the world. It is frankly strange, how “we are world citizens, bound by no boundaries of state or religion” change into raving Nazis. It would not be unlike the signature Opeth albums, with something so melodic as “To bid you farewell” coupled with something straight out of the depths like “Nectar” both coupled one after the other in The Morningrise. Or I could just write about the foolish and mind numbing articles I spend afternoons reading on football, maybe I could make up some rumours. Ronaldo’s hernia has resurfaced because he dove on concrete while playing with 7 year olds, force of habit you see. I could even talk about the deeply depressing graphic novel which started slow and has turned to a heart breaking tale of the Palestinians, worse it is journalism. Not fiction. It hurts slightly more.

But then, would it be worth talking about it? (Co-incidentally the Economist talks about one of them and I spend my spare time thinking about the others.)

I was just imparted a casual statement made through a distracted mind, I was told all about staying happy in the moment (It was a solitary line, no evaluation and philosophies), now I am again tempted to take that statement and micro analyze, tear it to shreds, build it back again. But I am not into a phase of life to talk about something in a dry often deadened tone of self disapproval.
I once wrote, things are lukewarm, not is it frying in hell hot nor is it skiing on the slopes of the Alps cool.
I disapprove of this disappointing metaphor. Callous, unimaginative and so very mediocre.
It is not imaginative to make a statement that I have dug myself into a rut of self assured mishaps; I build myself up to monstrous lonely peaks, you breath in gasps, the view is gratifying but not for too long-
“The projectile will now descend, fasten your seatbelts, enjoy this one.”
I love going down, the excitement is tremendous. Puns. Another mediocre substandard attempt.

I call it a day.

I have so much more to say, describe, contradict and even ridicule. But it needs to be fueled.
Fill ‘er up

Better than Scream 3 a little less satisfying than Godfather 3.I will always know what you did last weekend. About Sex, Religion and those Hiccups

The final chapter of this wonderful series will take its final bow. Please applaud. It has been my only escape, a creative orgasm after work, an explosion of senses, emotions and randomly told stories.

The dreaded Saturday was upon me. My mundane routine would begin an hour late, hopefully enough time to recuperate and get into the zone again. Thankfully, a well deserved break was handed to me. Which I spent doing absolutely nothing, waiting for the evening. I wondered if I could take some more, just a little.

I was game.

The promise of a tower and companions from the past, I strode in again. With the confidence of matador, I warmed up. Soon I was joined by people I knew, the past came rushing back. The three of us, strangers to each other, split in interests, skewed in our own life, sitting on the same table bound together by a vice.

After a few warm-ups, the conversation started to flow almost as freely as the refreshments. Confused individuals often find a way to bridge the silence and the most debatable of topics rise from the awkward ashes of conversation.

My weekends usually end when the clock crosses on to Sunday. I don’t do anything on Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday, I can imagine him in a big cloak, unshaved, idling time, speeding it up when required. Wasting the day, People pray on that day when God got wasted. Attaboy!

Atheist? Me? No.

As the topic swung and swerved, I drove to down to a veranda in the past. The glorious amorous evenings, filled with cigarettes, conversation and sunsets. A lonely spot, hidden by pillars and trees, Sex & Religion was eagerly discussed. It was almost taboo.

My words haunted me, the memories egged me on.

For years have humans looked at the sky, at the zig zagging lines on their palm, dregs of tea, even stared into foggy crystal balls to solve the question of existence. To explain what logic could not, they found their favorite flogging boy—God.

God?
Why is there an obsession with a human form of worship? From the time human beings learnt to speak they have debated, argued and continue to kill on their concept of god. The entire proposition has been doubted and then proved. The eventual solution—nothing. Human beings have tried very hard to find protection in a familiar face, either parents, a nest or even a good night’s sleep after work. All religions, I believe have stemmed from worshiping the elements. Fire, Water, Earth and Air. Co-incidentally the zodiac signs as well. No one pays attention these days. Human beings then needed Fire to cook, Water to drink, Earth to grow and Air to breathe. Simple times. Logical times. As time swept past them, the needs grew and so did a need for governance. Politicians took shape. How long can a man resist flattery before he gives in? The self taught took control and soon became kings. This is when the concept of god in a human/ semi human form emerged. The richest man in all land. He had the strength in numbers. The Alpha male. After the elevation he wanted to control will, and what better way to control will but by laying down laws. The laws of nature were shown the door and laws of the land was soon the now the headlining act. The laws could not be broken, the other side of the law was forbidden. Now repeat this over several generations. The concept of the elements vanished. The king took a demi god status, and thus the church/mosque/ temple was born. A new institution which gave shape to the law. The people’s favorite prophet/ king was made god. A new term was christened. But has some one ever thought, how could man be god. In mortal form?

A human being is shrouded by faults, pitfalls of his own prejudice. Short sighted and very easy to distract. Thus the perfect one could not be man. But then if this “god” could not be man, he could not have a gender. Then what is god?

“I admit there are things which sciences and even elementary logic fail to explain but, I implore you to let me lay down my theories.”
I remember my audience listening. The TV screamed. But they listened. It was either the beer or something that pulled them.

God then has to be something so abstract that fear of an abstract energy put a human face to it and thus followed the eventualities. This could be any kind of energy. A life source—god.

What my point is… Hic. Hic. Hic. Hic.

The cursed hiccups struck.

Conversation then leaked from one flakey topic to the other, it dabbled with sex, sports and back to sex. My weekend was about to end and I had just started stumbling. I began my narcissistic agenda- to mark my territory across half the city, animal style.

After the second packet of cigarettes conversation dragged to a halt, priorities had changed.
Skewed we came, Skewed we left. A few brief drunk hours we spent charting across virgin seas.

Saturday ends, Sunday starts. Remember, God rested today.

"This is the end,Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end"
Jim Morrison.

Godfather two was never as good as the first one. But this is neither. I still know what you did last weekend. Of distraction, dismay & old friends

Here I am writing part 2. It feels emotionally rich and so versatile to have a story to tell that takes more than one part to express. I feel a little like George Lucas, honest. But unfortunately this story does not take place in a galaxy far far away, though there were times where I did talk like Yoda.

Stumbling home on Thursday, the next morning did not promise rays of sunlight and exuberance. Trundling in was a hangover. The hangover was what I compared to as a pesky urchin, constantly craving attention and little change action. While I smoked my fifth cigarette I decided, this celebration will be highly subdued. I could feel the distinct flavour of screwdrivers creeping into my throat. The clock starts six hours and twenty minutes till my next drink.
Oh sweet mother of god, there is the attractive girl from last night, lower the cap, she must not see. A man is not hungover! She looks hungover.

Does this very chauvinist world allow for women to be hungover? The entire concept of chauvinism emerged—and I believe—from a few who respected the women and stormed forward to protect them from all those who wished harm. Animals, maybe another tribe salivating at the robust waist line. Yes, robust.

After a war of words, grunts and clubs, the man walks back, his jaws set almost in stone, soaking in sweat at the peak of his masculinity, showing off his rippling muscles to the other women, hormone raging amongst other things. He decides to look around, who amongst them challenge him?
The women ran forward, in excitement, “my hero” did they scream? One very carefully lifted the leaf. She chose him.
Women empowerment!

Thus followed the agenda of protection and rewards. Somewhere along the way, the rewards were taken for granted. The barter was lost. Alcohol was introduced! Fighting was reduced to slurred words and shaky feet. The strong jaws faded into loose hanging jowls, the stone hard abs were replaced by a pot bellied. Flatus rotund stomachs. The men were lost, who is to blame? Alcohol!
Oh sweet alcohol I mean no harm to you, after all bottled orange juice was meant for Vodka. Did some one not say that?
While heading to the scene of where an important event unfolded, I was driven in a soon to be a socialist country’s prime enterprise. The conversation veered from public policy to price of petrol. A lot of small talk—hot air. (Flatus again!)
People very adamantly spoke about various aspects of life before I was very rudely shoved in. Insider information. Lowest attrition rate was the tall claim. In this process that has lasted over a year and was dangerously topped with uncertainty, the claim would be impressive if true. But the worst information that could ever be gotten of was the very painfully obvious christening of a brand which was to be piped in no other way but one. Oh stop it. Now, you rub it in.

Amongst probably the longest thank you speech, very politically correct and five screwdrivers some one joined me on the chair next to mine. I have since maintained a board- stay away. And it has certainly worked. But not on this one. She reminded me of a past which had to be forgotten in a hurry. Looking around, my companion from last night was resembling in her polka dotted shirt of some one I left far behind. Too much booze, I told myself. Leave. Let the women bicker. Let the men drink. Let the others smoke. Smoke?

Temptation and I yielded.

Adam and Eve when stood in the Garden of Eden, debating the delicious fruit, the tree was called the tree of knowledge and evil. Would you allow evil to walk in if there was knowledge? What defines knowledge? If there was knowledge of a life of hardship and victories, does it not mean the choice was consensual? The apple was never ground and mixed in their drink. No one distracts, no one can ever evangelize either. Screw you spiritual healing!
The windows of the trains seemed to be turning smaller. How did I get in the train? Did I have a ticket? Yes. The letters danced, the music spoke about blue grass.

What was that again? Was I talking to the phone or on the phone? I heard a familiar voice. I was confused. Did I hear the sea? Rushing sound of the waves on the rocks. The spray, the foam, who was I talking to now? The stations floated in and out. I like fast trains. There were those eerie visions of the past. Why do those faces still haunt me?
Is it really her? Should I call out? What is the etiquette? You still alive? She is on a boat standing upside down. Ha ha, the fool.

Oh these torrential tears. Years since we met. Nice to see you,finally.

Drive me home.

I know what you did last weekend. Told in two, maybe three parts. Better than the movies, not as funny as others. A self deprecatory tale of excess

This is simple. It’s either something I want to remember or something I want to forget. In a few ways this weekend was oddly liberating. To dwell into the untold would be revealing secrets. Would it be not?

Thursday was not all the way through. I had left home, dreading, not considering what lay ahead. I almost turned back, to step into a something unknown, not very friendly, nervous and anxious. I wandered along the harbour, staring at the trains. It’s amazing how irony just jumps out when you least expect it. When you entertain confusion over ambitions or mentally debate a path of the right or wrong in life. It leaps out, knocks you in the head. Peals of laughter or cries of anguish, it is what a professor of mine would call, in her very nasal twang- “ It is an either or situation, no and. It is that easy.”
“No it is not,” I always wished I could say. But I was either trying to ward off sleep or staring at this particular girl’s pretty neck, and visualized- my hand on the slopes of her shoulders. Gently turning her towards me, eyes moist, looking at me enquiringly accompanied by that lingering flashy smile, the lips so inviting…

Snapping out.

King’s circle.
Visions of a decorated, sworn-to-be-protected-by-generations-of-strong-muscular-guards, diamond encrusted sphere made of a mysterious metal, in the depths of which lie the secret of human life, the mission and how to avoid throwing up even after drinking 10 bloody Mary’s and not making a complete ass of yourself in public by peeing in what you think is an isolated corner of the railway station. King’s circle, however contained almost no visions of grandeur, finding grandeur would be as difficult as talking to a socialist in a fiercely capitalist organizations, let us say a magazine with international repute. Hypothetically.
The train hooted on a bridge, looking down at King’s Circle.
A few scattered stalls, selling fish, spices, vegetables and a very well concealed stall, covered by white sheets on almost all sides. The stall had a dealer and what I suspected also the house, he dealt cards and a lonely roulette wheel.
White and Black spinning in its devilish recesses was a dark red ball.
Three men stood opposite the wheel, nursing a glass full of what I would assume a local brew. I suspect some Ether would be an integral part of the process. A burly man stood guard.

The location of the tent was either brand new or the dealer/house was not too bright. The guard warded off all the vagabonds in the markets, but no one considered looking up to analyze. Not the heavens, there was some one else watching and not the flying angles of Zeus, with wings so strong that they melt in the heat. Wrong story? Different conversation?

The train stopped right above this very portable Casino. King’s Circle’s very own Las Vegas. Sin and pleasure took a front seat. Morals and intelligence obviously were too drunk on the back seat.
They spun the wheel, I screamed 13! The men looked up and scrambled to run, but the train left as well.
I tumbled to my destination. A luxurious inn, still recovering from the scars of yesterday.

Often before I reach to what I have to say, is when I run out of breath or lose touch something which also happened this particular day, while I tried to balance myself on a chair after a few too many bloody marys and wines. I even tried to have this conversation with a reasonably attractive woman. I do not remember why I said what I said or even what I said. I remember making the poor female uncomfortable talking to completely drunk man. The evening ended with me trying to charge my phone with my laptop’s battery, not before telling a friend about a certain act of lust I had indulged in a few months ago.

Drunken dialing should be outlawed.

It's nice to be back home

It has been funny. I have oft tried (in vain, I might add) to salvage a little pride in me from all the faux passes I very unknowingly indulge in. This insignificant situation almost forced me to leap frog from the train to any piece of solid ground (while carefully avoiding what a friend describes as shit cookies) in absolute agony.

First to present a case with all the relevant background.

Traveling in the second class in one of Mumbai’s most popular trains, during the rush hour is no mean feat. An armpit pushed into your face. Farts. Grinding. If you are lucky, it might be one of the fishing days, when a woman laden with smells (that will cause the olfactory glands to squeal in protest ) will push a saree right in your face. But its funny how that simple shove starts an entertaining conversation which lasts through many words hurled at the men around in Marathi, which would be best kept out of conversation.
She will smile with pride. The hard working community of fishermen. I even encouraged one of these very beautiful people in conversation. The dark eyes looked at me with mistrust.
In a society so erroneously dominated by perverted men, the trust levels usually stay in deep red.
Though her name should be kept secret, she belonged to a family of fishermen, fishing tirelessly, extracting those slimy “macchis” from the sea. A task which woke her up at 4. While her husband fished, she cleaned the house and headed out into the market on her man’s return to sell those very noxious fishes in the market. Those fishes were never my friends. On a plate served with some spices, we then have a different chemistry.

Well Mrs. Fisherwoman here, was heading home to tend to her children. Even though it was not too late in the day. But by fishermen standards, afternoon was upon us. I was on the other hand still fantasizing over a few more minutes of sleep and a thankless job. A melodic death metal band screamed into my ear. The lyrics usually sound a little more immature in the morning. A man, who kills mermaids, is called Mermaider. The elegant mystical sirens would have drowned laughing, but considering they can breathe under water, the entire situation would have been redundant. I drift from my topic.
It was 9.30 am.

One of her children, a girl, named after a very popular yesteryear Indian stunner, who could well have been a very tempting mermaid before she drank her self to death, was heading to school. First day. Mrs Fisherwoman was sending her kid to one of the better ones, she claims. I, however, not an expert on schools, could only nod and smile. The language barrier usually caused the conversations to veer off the track. But madam was doing what mothers have to do on the first day. Take the kids to school, kicking, screaming and tears streaming down their delicate faces, not prepared to let go of the hand which taught them to walk.
After a few minutes of her talking about her precious daughter did I realize how little we find time to look around even during the rush hour, a little peek out of the armpit you are forced to smell would probably even convince him to buy a deodorant. After the waves at Bandra, the embarrassment very painfully surfaced. The mob stared at me as a leper, some even gave me quizzical stares. I was at that point the man who speaks to women without lunging at her chest or gripping her ass. I must be super human or maybe even a prophet, devoid of such emotions.

A man however, nudged me with his elbow and asked me a very simple question.

“Will you talk to my wife? I will pay you.”
Speechless, I stared back. My throat dried up. I have been propositioned a few times before. I usually shake my head and with a nervous laugh often evade these positions by walking away hastily. There was no escape. He stared. I stared back. He even started counting numbers, describing his wife in very colourful terms. It felt like hours before the wheels gently started moving and I shook my head. I looked around for help. Stony stares described me as now an escort. From a prophet to an escort, in a few seconds, the fall from grace was not unnoticed. Then is when his arm snaked around and well… I got groped and then I screamed. I pushed this middle aged man away and got off a station earlier than my expected stop. I got into the next hurtling mob carrier. This crowd was ignorant of my heroic adventures. It felt easier being ignored. I am home again.

Can we smoke here? I promise to be discreet.

Oh how I imagined this week. A fateful sigh left my lips when I first walked in, dreading, intimidated, excited and alone. It was perfect. Almost. A week past and I was anticipating spending these hours trying to sleep off a mammoth amount of beer and screaming over football or maybe even cricket. I had expected it to be a very satisfying end to a very fruitful week. Can we play another hand please? Maybe this time I win it all. Smile contently.
Wishful thinking. A week spent injecting into blood that there are a few unpaid bills which will remain due for a few more months or even years before I can lay my dirty, bloody and soiled hands on the creative satisfaction which is desperately craved. An imagination in vivid colours, brush strokes of excellence, carefully brought out contrasts of images being conceived on a black background along with some anticipation. What was I talking about? Hope? A dream about a roving eye on paid sportsmen and their activities on the field or was it the unpaid politicians and their antics off the field languishing on my other arm while words passed under my fingers or am I looking at it from the wrong end of the bottle?
The city is out of synch. Vibrating on a different frequency, I have desperately strived to achieve the resonance which I felt with this land of heritage when I last bade a teary goodbye. A new being, the traveler, has surfaced. A manic and fanatic emotion to start a run. To look, to wander. But I wonder how a faint hope of that glimmer which I anticipate time and time again will present itself to me, to banish all the clouds (An umbrella?) will steer a very heavy ship to port.
Did I read that somewhere? Is it possible to lose intelligence progressively in a few hours? It feels like a steady process of mental degradation. Oh fiction, why do you desert me so? Unknown reader any bet when it all snaps?

An Attempt, a little effort and lots of smoke

It has truly been long. How have you been? A certain silence on the other end would echo thoughts that have been sounding loud- a little too loud. The volume, turn it down?

After vain attempts to revitalize a fallen soldier, fought, lost and defeated, a strong desire to create a civilization has once again seen new light. An inane and stoic fancy to destroy. Can I be God for one day? Life has been a brisk breeze and to stumble upon various incidents, which the woman who calls herself destiny has shoveled so faithfully. Destiny such a pretty name, but a figment of imagination, a needless supplement to a defenseless mind.
The connection with the past falls rapidly and quickly but a free fall never lasts. Oh the free fall, the sense of liberation, the illusion of flight. You can try to fly, tell me when you do. No, Serious. It has now become a challenge to write beyond the obvious, another attempt to don the visage. You see the creases? Do you? It looks real doesn’t it? The adorning jewels of fancy, the sparkling, sensitive and sexy wounds of mistakes, another vice added. Are you counting?

The other end still echoes. Volume… turn it up this time. Silence was never my forte.