The Incessant Reruns

I am back. Back? Back, yes. Can you believe it? After one year of eerie silence in the cyberspace, I return. I wouldn’t say I haven’t been spewing words into this ingenious world of 1s and 0s but to put pen to the metamorphic paper—that hasn’t been done in a while. The colonel’s furious and unnerving note making, pushed me over the edge. Apart from running down snowy slopes howling like a bitch in heat the colonel inspired me to write—again. The colonel is a very inspiring human being. I’ll, as the subsequent blogs pan out, describe the colonel in detail and with a lot of colour. He is the one responsible of pushing me down into the chasm of writing—for you. Yes, dear reader, for you.

I live this pointless life for you. I make mental notes to tell you, funny anecdotes to narrate, plagiarise one liners to make you sniffle and plentiful more. I am, as I claim to be, a budding social commentator and a failed comic. I like to call my brand of humour as vague.

Vague humour translates to—not really funny, but usually interesting observations that you usually miss or choose to ignore. Erm… I’ll stop defending myself.
In the 5Ws (or was it 4Ws?) and 1H there is a Why? Why am I back? Like I said before, blame the colonel. His revolution has enamoured me and he has his first and, I can safely say, final recruit.

Solemn oath:
This blog, henceforth, won’t philosophize especially by using immature metaphors. It will stick to a topic and rant. There will be no talk of wolves or any other animals of the night, unless I spot one and I talk about it. Otherwise, rest assured, Mr Sociologist has left the building.


Feels good to get that off my chest. You must wonder have I wasted your time? I won’t debate it, I have. You are here, because I have either arm twisted you into reading this or you are me. Not many bother. If you are a potential employer, I am flattered. But please, don’t judge me through this. I am better than this.
This blog won’t be an Ayn Rand-like monotony of self-righteous vomit, nor will it be Paulo Coelho’s pop spirituality. I won’t attempt a Tom Robbin’s brand of humour. I won’t be as clinical as George Orwell. I won’t be as dramatic as Franz Kafka. I am better than the second and I am not good as the third. The first is a bitch who never got laid and hence her bitter life entombs her writing. The others are out of my league and comparing myself, even in physical presence, is like erm me and George Orwell. There is none.
If you, dear reader, are an Ayn Rand loving zombie who can’t stand the thought of me whipping out my dong and bathing her grave in my spite, I would implore you to read other authors and leave this blog. Goodbye.

You still here? Excellent. Either you don’t like Rand just like me, or you want to see where it goes. Or you have a lot of time to kill. Either ways, this preamble is a peek into the life I have lived in the last one year. The places I have travelled to and the people I spoke to. There is a story everywhere and I promise to narrate them, the only way I know how to—brain farts. (Brain farts—this word isn’t mine. It was used to describe my attempts to turn my usually witty self into a social networking celebrity. I doubt it was her invention but we won’t dive into it. God bless her.)

I will start with my trip to the Sikkim then drive into Raigad, shove my ramblings into Pushkar and then love-fucking-dale—Ooty. Hopefully, I can wrap all of these up before my next one.

To think about it, this entire blog was thought, planned and written on a grubby platform in a rundown old town in West Bengal, while I waited four hours for a train to steam into the station. Yes, it was a long time for someone who did not have a lot to think about.