The death of the blogger

Why should one write a long paragraph when one can get noticed by one single tweet ? From scraps to statuses to tweets, the blogger has been watching them come and go and watch himself sitting in a corner in a heap of long forgotten muses and incomplete articles. Its a shame, its a shame. Words are getting shorter and lives are getting longer. But who shall have the time to read ? I for one was never in the habit of reading but typing the odd word or two would be never that much of a pain.

Today the secret is out, the secret to a successful life is not to waste time thinking about it. Just do it. So why write ? You could type once, you could text once and now you just touch and the impossible happens. The human mind's lack of thought has come down to 5 seconds, his mind diverts from one point to the other, there is too much information and too little time. Updates, deadlines, PINGs and all those superfast things.

Little did one know that while we were caught up in this rat race.

All the cheese had been left behind.

Happy 100 posts

Not so suddenly, I am not the man I used to be, theres a shadow hanging over me. But despite the difference in the light, I can still remember the joy of reading and writing. And I might find it apt to put this as my 100th post for this blog that may have been ignored so many times by my oh so lazy self, yet Its been with me since the days Justin Bieber was still not potty trained. Facing a mid-mid-life crisis is something that shouldnt really happen to men my age but do end up happening purely because of the fact that youre surrounded by those who seem to have given up on life already.

I choose to solemnly swear with my conscience as my witness, that I shall not be a man whose decisions are based on his peers or predecessors, I shall not fear the future or rue the past and nor shall I ignore the Gym anymore ! Its high time I got in shape :) And let the Ruskin Bond in me not be forgotten because despite facing the dreariest of deserts and the murkiest of swamps, there is always a leopard waiting, on the other side of that hill.

The kill joy

I am a kill joy, I don't have parties to attend and I am in no mood of creating parties of my own. I shall sit with my glass of whiskey and ring in the new year watching my life pass by right in front of me. Maybe a light read of fiction by my side and some nice music in the cold stale air of this December. I will not ride the streets nor will I be driven around like a chaperaun.

I like my silence and I love my life, but to celebrate events that hold no meaning to my life I care not of. So let the bubbly pop and let the glasses clink and let them forget their worries for this one night so that they may wake up again with the same worries and a headache to top it all.

Don't forget to put up the photos on facebook where your girlfriend is too disinterested to pose and your couch has somehow changed its entire colour. Where your back yard has been watered by your guests and your wall has found new designs drawn on them.

So yes, please do remember the new year and its memories, each one as vague as the last one.

The workaholic

I have a job where I see lazy laid back officials, Ignorant fools who cant seem to get anything right and ass kissing idiots who just cant help sticking their nose in every matter.

And then there is my boss.

A big notice on the office board reads in bold, office hours shall now be from 930am to 610 pm, a wind brushes its corner up for a second and then passes a figure right past it. At 830 in the morning he walks up to his chair, opens up his laptop, places his left elbow on the table, resting his head on the hand of the same arm and strategically places his finger infront of his teeth. As the screen of his INBOX pops open...

His day has begun

Biting on his fingernails, staring at lines of gesture and urgency, his eyes widen and narrow at figures and deadlines. They look as if they are about to drop any second but that isnt sleep taking over, its just the way he looks, gives him the gentle yet cunning image. He sits there with his phone of a way beyond obsolete model kept at such a distance that the moment it rings, it is snatched from the outside world and taken into his own. His workaholic world

And as the day turns to night, he makes his calls, settles his bills, gives his reports and is up for more but alas there is one call that he cannot attend, his better half that keeps him sane. Its 8pm and his drug has not worn off, he can have more and still stand straight. With a few soft words and a tender touch he sends his last mail and heads back home.

But in his sleep too he settles his deals and has executive meals, staples his tenders and licks his envelopes. Waiting to see a new dawn of the day.

For he is all work and no play.

If I were truthful to you ...

If I were truthful to you, I would tell you that it has been nice knowing you but I will never call once I've stopped seeing your face everyday. I would also tell you that your status messages on Facebook are lame and so are you. I would tell you that you are so full of yourself and hearing your name on other people's lips and minds gives you a rush that is replaced by no drug. You thrive on your image and gorge upon your admiration, going deeper into the abyss of your narcissism.

If I were truthful to you, I would tell you that you can't write a word of creativity and you're just a sham who wishes to be loved and you're ignorant of your flaws and your weaknesses. You have only been treated as a child because you only wish to be one, but little do you know that like every child has to grow old and lose the attention to a new one who is cuter, sweeter and maybe who can even write.

If I were truthful to you, I would tell that I love you sometimes but always never. I would tell you that I have dreams of another each day and I am carried to worlds where the Sun dances with the hay and the cure for cancer is not far away.

If I were truthful to you, I would tell you to stop living your life for one soul for there are many waiting to open yours, I would tell you that you can imagine your life alone and that you can be known by your name and not by your kin's. That it is not too late to dream and it is too early to lay down your lives.

If I were truthful to you, I would ask you to tell me the truth and make me feel like I deserved to know something and not just believe something.

Alas, I can't do that for the world will also know and think of me as a bad person...

So let truth not prevail
Let us hide in this veil
Be silent and shut our mouths
Till through the gaps,secrets pour out

The Blasphemous Boys hostel

We lie on the edges of our balconies, with our T shirts covered in dirt and plaster of paris as a cigarette passes around in the circle and one strums the strings on the guitar. Our vocal chords gain their heat from the burning after effect of the cheap vodka and as the smoke rises up to the stars, we chant our idols in music. The flame driven eyes of our past rise from below and look at what we have become. Single, feeble, independent and yet without a soul to sell.

The sounds of the midnight birds cast their spells in their almost perfect periodic timings of chants. On the floor lies a bone of chicken mangled and torn, as the predators of yesteryear look at their only piece of nutrition. They have grown tired of chasing cars, hoping that a piece of meat will drop from them. It is not their game anymore, they have resigned and realised. That it is a man's world and an animal's mind they live in.

The Silent Echoes

As the eagerness of returning to a familiar location reached its brink, I stepped on what seemed to be the soil of a place long forgotten. In the humid air of a night in March, I carried my belongings and subconsciously walked to my depot of transportation.

But on arriving at this depot, there seemed to be a change in the chaos that would usually embrace me as I looked the other way with the slightest bit of snobiness. Not disturbed by this slight change in proceedings, which could probably be another step towards reating the ideal world, I grab my wheels and head home. As the shimmer of the street lights light up my vehicle as it arrives on the centrestage of madness and disorientation, the lull seems to continue. It was as if my hearing abilities seemed to have been enhanced or deteriorated. Everything looked the same,smelt the same but somehow the fragment of discontent and disturbance seemed to have vanished. I raised my ears to gather the blare of a horn or the rumble of an engine but of no avail. Maybe it was the wind that was different or the time of the night was too late. But it actually remained the same as it was before. Probably I had changed.

Proceeding on through the streets of the forgotten metropolis, I glanced at the walls and faces of the millions. In the glow of the street light, I seemed to have caught the face of a woman in her late 40s holding her child as her better half drove their scooter. Making use of my ability of deduction, I deduce the age of the scooter, the cause of its dents, the price of the driver's watch the nature of the barber who cuts his hair. But what I was really interested in was what I had seen first. Surrounded in the halo of the street light that decided our fates to cross paths, was her visage with the hair on her face a little more prominent than expected. Not the hair that sprouts from your head and is a nuisance to get rid of from unwanted places, I talk about the tiny ones that are millimetres in size and almost invisible.The ones that seems invisible but are felt at the back of our neck whenever we feel the chill run down our spine. They stood as one and chose to accept me as their admirer. As I smiled at them, they waved back at me.

As they illuminated her aura that was shadowed by the smoke in the air, it seemed to be a masterpiece of sorts that was yet to be signed.

And it was in the middle of my admiration for the picture I had just captured that the baby chose to intrude and cut the strings I was attached to. A wailing cry leapt up in the air and grabbed hold of the chaos ready to erupt. And it was then that I caught a hold of my own belongings and found myself back where I belonged, the epicentre of noise and cacophony.

It was good to be home

Light

The flickering tube light brought him back to reality, the power had returned after a gap of 8 hours. As his eyes slowly opened, he disturbed the pools of sweat that had been formed and wiped his face with his sleeve and got up from the board. It had been 3 weeks since he had felt the feathery touch of a pillow. With his mouth parched and throat dry, he hopelessly searched for any source of water, he forgot what water tasted like. As he scratched his unshaven beard, he dragged himself out of the room and to the toilet. The smell of ammonia and waste flooded his nostrils but he didn’t show any signs of disgust. He was immune now. This was his aroma, his essence, his odor. To give him company, came his roommates, they had met on the first day, and despite their differences and fights, he learnt to live with them. They never used to bother him much but always got on his nerves whenever they tried to steal the food that he had managed to accumulate. Dwelling in the toilet bowls and hovering around the light bulbs, they came to his feet and head as he stomped on a few and fisted some more. He walked to the urinal and began to do his job, his thoughts of water were flowing into the drain and so was his life.

Glancing at the window, the evening sky was a deep red, birds were flying into the nests as the last rays of the sun faded into the night. He always hated dusk, it always created a sense of sorrow in him and he would even cry at times. But today, he did not care, he was now free, free from debts, free from the income tax, free from his loved ones, free from sorrow. He was free and yet he was not happy. As he walked out of that hell hole, his thoughts diverted to food. The bread in his pocket had been there for 2 days now, saving it for the ‘right’ time, and yet he felt now wasn’t it yet. His body was weak and frail, his hair had grown to his shoulders. He laughed to himself, thinking that the last time he grew hair this long was during his days at college. How he would imitate being a rock star with shining cars, blazing guitars and pools of money to swim in. The nostalgia crept back to him and the tears began to form at the corners of his eye. He wondered where the water for his tears came from. He was never like this, he had been happy once, he was fat, with a wife, with kids, a house and even a dog. He had everything that a man could wish for, everything except enough. Greed is what took over him, he wanted nothing else but more. It became his food, his sleep, his love and his life. Misfortune was never far from him and one day it rained down on him. The tumultuous downpour stripped him off everything he ever had, even his self dignity. The rain did stop but the clouds never parted, leaving him begging in his tracks and today, begging on the roadsides.

He walked to the balcony and looked at the world beneath his feet, he was on the top one day and today he was well below rock-bottom. As the sun finally set, the entire sky flooded with the noises from blaring loudspeaker of the nearby mosque. The evening prayers had started and he by his religion, was to sit for his prayers as well. But he chose to stay still, he chose to stand and not utter a single word in the name of God. All his life, he had prayed and prayed, but what was it all for? Where was God when his cheques bounced and his company faced losses? Where was he when he found out that his wife had betrayed him and departed with his kids without a note, a letter or even a phone call. He had prayed through these times, pleading for mercy and sympathy but all he got was silence. His vision was now blurred with the tears, he couldn’t control it anymore. He ripped open his shirt and screamed out curses to God and to life, at first people looked at this hobo with surprise and disgust and sometimes even pity. He screamed and screamed till no one noticed him anymore. His throat was now completely exhausted, he was still waiting for that glass of water. His wait lasted for a few minutes, he walked into his room,took his begging bowl in his hands and walked out into the open.

This was what happened everyday with him, he could have given up on life long back, but he chose to wait, wait for his glass of water and wait for God to put a hand on his shoulder and lead him into the light...