Ramblings of a delusional dumbass

(A truncated and self edited version can be found here Dear Editor, It’s  been just three days into the week, and what a week it has been already! Nestled between the explosive news pieces of banning condom ads, Ockhi’s horrific aftermath and Rohit’s 200*, was the illustrious affair of the Virat- Anushka wedding (the need to portmanteau couple’s names to make a weird sounding word seems absolutely stupid, but that’s a piece for another day). And what a grand event it was! I’m sure you would have seen the pictures of their wedding online. However, this grandeur hasn’t been awarded the attention it deserves, in my humblest of opinion. Dear editor, I don’t have to tell you how utterly impossible it is that a private ceremony of such grandeur to escape the scrutinizing eye of a seasoned journalist. Like a hungry mongrel scouring the dustbins for scraps of rotten food, any news channel worth its salt races ahead to squeeze every last bit of information from whatever blurry image/ ...

So you don’t think that’s subversive? No. Absolutely not. If you don’t think that’s subversive, then I’m sorry to say this, but you don’t know the meaning of subversive. Do you want me to get you a dictiona… Apology accepted. But only because you’re as stupid as a wet plank. You can’t be serious. No, I seriously accept your apology. But only because you’re… I get it, I get it. Stupid as a wet plank. You don’t have to be that condescending. Especially when you’re so wrong. I am not being condescending. And I’m being especially considerate because YOU are wrong here. I’m not wrong, you’re wrong. No, you’re wrong. You’re wrong. You’re wrong. So you REALLY don’t think that’s subversive? No. How many times do I have to tell you that? I’m sorry, this whole conversation is making my head spin. I’m so confused. Yes. That’s how you usually operate. Dazed and confused. Okay. Okay. Bye. ...

The UN recently declared that a mother’s love towards her children is directly proportional to the tastiness of the chitranna she makes. Which doesn’t say much because the quality of chitranna is measured on a binary scale- it’s either wonderful or aweful. Most people I know who hate chitranna are also the same ones who are unable to appreciate the finer nuances in life. Unprofessional humans. Chitranna happens to be one of the go to breakfasts of Indian mothers because of its ease in making, simplicity of ingredients and it being a great way to get rid of last nights’ leftover rice- your share of rice- which you didn’t eat because you had gobi fried rice at the corner shop 12 minutes before dinner time although our mother warned you not to. This type of chitranna is a punishment of sorts- bland, colourless, and even the bloody kadle beeja tastes bitter. Then there’s the chitranna your mother makes for special occasions, especially when you have guests over. The one with cashews ...

It would be foolish to discredit the power of an idea (or ideas) that is vehemently acknowledged and ingrained in the minds of a collective group. Bloodied pages of history have shown us time and again, the incredible power that ideas wield. Ideas themselves are powerless. They are objective, unbiased and detached of all moral and ideological inclination. Only when the idea is acted upon, do we get the kind of explosive reaction that is capable of disrupting the very foundation upon which a civilized society rests. Only when an idea is passionately cradled, nurtured and moulded under the thin veil of biased false intellectualism does it transform itself into a weapon, whose prowess is directed by the strong allegiance of a dedicated group of followers. It is however, hard to get a group of people to pledge their allegiance to an idea. Ideas are invisible. Hard to see, hard to feel and hard to acknowledge. Only when you give the idea a tangible face to be acknowledged wi...

All he wanted was for her to spend some time with him An hour or half or quarter or two  She always made excuses, “Sorry, I’m busy!” “Not today, darling! No time for you!” He pursued her, nevertheless Unabashedly Shamelessly Expectantly For he knew, That time didn’t exist Before the Big Bang

I was at my desk trying very hard to not pass out from the sweltering Bangalore summer heat when trouble came knocking at my door. She was wearing a wide brimmed hat and a pair of big sunglasses, which obscured her face just as much as the long, black woollen poncho obscured her figure. Just looking at her made me sweat a little more. "I need you to find a man." she said in a thick, raspy voice. She was no stranger to whiskey and cigarettes. "The marriage bureau is in the next road, lady" I said, knowing very well what she meant. But it's not every day that a poor, private dick gets to chat up a pretty lass. I wanted to make this last as long as possible. "Please mister, this is no time for jokes." she said, nervousness slipping past her sandpapery voice. Maybe it was the way she said it, but I immediately cut the crap and up straight. "Does this man have a name?" She fished out a glossy eight by ten from her purse and slid it acro...

 “Yeah, and he loves midget porn” “I absolutely do not!” “Dude, shut up. Your favourite pornstar is a midget” “She’s not a midget, fool” “Wait, how do you know who his favourite pornstar is?” “Nigga she’s over 5 feet tall, at least” “So, she’s a tall midget. But she’s still a midget” “Shut up dude. There’s no such thing as a tall midget” “Yeah there is. You know Mountain guy from Game of Thrones?”  “He’s a midget?” “No dumbass, he’s a fucking HUGE normal person. So, it’s only possible that there are 5 feet tall midgets, equivalent to him in midget world.” “But isn’t he like Icelandic or something? And everyone there is like 7 feet tall, man.” “I wonder if the pipes match the building” “What?”  “It’s like if the carpets match the drapes. Except with size” “Dude that’s gross” “I knew you were a faggot.” “I’m not, you morons. It was an honest curiosity…” “Yeah, curiosity to suck a dick” “Fuck you!”...

If the doctor gives you, say six weeks to live from today, you will either a) appreciate the fuck out of every living second you have left or b) mope around until you finally kick the bucket. Guess which one will stretch time the most.  In the grander scheme of things, however, it won't matter how you spend your last six weeks alive. You'll be dead by then, so you won't sentient enough to give a fuck about what happens after. The ones you were with will either remember you as the cheerful happy go lucky guy who smiled bravely in the face of death, or as the sulking, sad mopey dude- a natural response to impending death. Neither of which will remotely affect how your near and dear ones look at you on account of you being earthworm food for all intents and purposes. You see, when you are dead, people tend to sympathize with you. People always tend to be compassionate towards people who have a prior appointment with death. I mean, we all do, but for most of us it...

Dear you, This is the second time I'm writing a letter to you. The first one was quite different- what I wanted to tell you was different, I was a different man back then. You never got a chance to read it because I couldn't muster the nerve to give it to you. But the intended message was conveyed,  albeit slowly. And this one, well, it's currently being read by everyone BUT you. So, I guess nothing's changed on the courage front as far as I'm concerned. I wish I could look into your eyes, those beautiful eyes that can swallow whole galaxies, loose myself in them, and tell you how I feel about you. How I'll miss your smile, that twinkle in your eye when you look at me and that annoying laugh of yours that I adore for some odd reason .Maybe because it's yours. And the way you smell, God I love the way you smell. It reminds me so much of my childhood. Our childhood. Goddammit woman, this wasn't how it was supposed to be. Not in my world. This clus...