Where we push back, tired beyond belief but also happy that we finally have found something to do

Push back. Always.

Always push back.

Unless of course, the sign on the door says “Pull”. Then you should pull.

Always pull.

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I think travel time would be a whole lot more interesting if you could only jump for really short periods of time. Like maybe 10 or 15 seconds.

Why you ask?

Because then the level of planning involved would have to really ramp up. Right down to the last, final detail. So that when you zap back (or forward) you arrive right at the moment when it is crucial.

So are you saying that you could go back 600 years in time, but only for 15 seconds?

Yes.

Fuck.

That would be pretty cool.

I wonder what you could change if you had those 15 seconds. What could be the chain of events that your 15 seconds could push into motion. A little tweak here and there, a nudge here or perhaps not there. If the sands of time really do change with one grain.

Who knows.

Who indeed.

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But never forget to push back. Never. Or pull.

Maybe I should just change that to always read the door.

Perhaps.

Where trillions of trees brush against the gale, driving it down until it is but a whisper of a breeze

I quite like the word trillion. It is right up there in words that dont give a fuck.

Trillion.

You know when it is a trillion of anything, it is a LOT. And that really is all that trillion really needs to do. I mean no one is going to ask what is one trillion minus twelve, or whether it would have been better if there were two trillion.

It is a goddam trillion for godsakes. You could never require more than that.

Never ever.

So gangsta ya. So fucking gangsta.

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I passed by a tree the other day which had lost most of its flowers and leaves. It seemed quite at peace with the world, not wanting anything more. Just content with the way things were, the flowers and leaves memories to keep or may be memories to forget.

It was rather beautiful.

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Not sure if I like this new WordPress editor layout. But then, perhaps I don’t like change. Yes, that seems far more likely.

I don’t want change. Not in a trillion years.

Where we examine our hands, and think about the people who discovered butterflies

Actually, not butterflies per se but the fact that they are originally caterpillars and then go to sleep for a long long time and awake with wings and all.

Who the fuck who would have thought this out? And how did s/he figure it out? Was it just a case of just being at the right place at the right time. Explorer Bob, always known as “Slow Bob” amongst his friends, ambling around in the ole garden when a movement catches his eye?

Why it is a little cocoony thingie which is wriggling around like something alive is inside! Hey I got nothing else to do (Google calendar is all clear till 5 pm) so let’s just stand here and watch what happens.

Slow Bob running into the neighbourhood bar in the evening. All excited. Just waiting to hear what his friends are going to say. And then breaking the news, “You know those colour butterflies? They are actually little worms who build white cocoony houses and go to sleep in ’em and them come out with wings!”

His “friends” breaking into laughter. slapping his back, “Oh that is why we love you Slow Bob”

End of Part One.

Where some calmness is felt, furtively, like at the very bottom of a giant box of popcorn

You know what I mean. When the popcorn is nearly over, but the best scenes of the movie have just begun, and so you don’t really want to look down and hunt the little fuckers down.

So you just drag your hand from one end to the other, hoping and hoping that you can find some of those delicious salty crumbs to stuff your face that little bit more, and also numb the un fucking believably sweet soda that you will then proceed to slurp into your body.

But oh wait, did that ACTUALLY happen? Fuck dude, total plot twist ho gaya.

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Whenever I hear the words “plot twist” I am forced (yes forced) to imagine words jumping out and doing the shaky shaky.

Aaoo twist karein motherfucker!

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No but seriously, there has been some calm that has been felt off late. Comforting calm, the kind that some monks (and non-monkly people too) tend to radiate. I think it has something to do with slowing down the speed at which your mind functions, and also savouring each thought. Slowly, so that you can taste the individual flavours and textures.

It is not particularly easy to do, and I don’t think I can do it for too long (wink wink) but when it does happen, it is definitely worth it.

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For now though, aao twist karein!

Where we examine an apology closely and with great intensity, all in the hopes that we learn from the mistakes we live through

Made an apology the other day. I thought it was quite mature, heartfelt and should have easily produce the desired results.

Now that the context has been provided, let us take a closer look at this apology shall we.

First, was it addressed correctly?

Yes. As tempting as it was, I did not begin with words such as “Hey” or “Whatsup” or something as generic as that. Instead, I opted for the deeply personal “nothing at all” pathway.

So you just launched right into it? How brave.

Uhh not really. So what I did was start with a conciliatory note, you know, like I know you have reason to be angry.

Ooo thats smart.

Well, I did not quite use those words exactly but the sentiment was quite obvious.

I am not so fucking sure boy. Did you use the word sorry anywhere?

No.

Let me guess, the sentiment was obvious?

Yes.

You are going to die alone.

Probably.

Are you sorry?

Yes.

Truly, really sorry?

Yes.

Then why the fuck did you not just write THAT you fucking moron?

The sentiment –

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There is something wonderful about living through mistakes, and I mean living right through them. The full body experience so to speak. There is the usually braindead moment at the start, where you have absolutely no idea (or perhaps just this vague feeling in the belly which you attribute to that vada pav you may or may not have eaten in 10 seconds).

And then you step right into the mistake. Wallow in it. Feel the anger and the shame and wonder what it is about you that makes you act the way you do. Is it the genes (yes, of course) or the way your head is wired or something a bit more complex.

Actually, before this moment, there is also that moh maya type moment where you feel like you have done the right thing. No no, you know you have done the right thing and you pat yourself on the back, and eat another sub-10 second vada pav cause goddamit man you deserved this fried oily motherfucker.

Yeah, and then you step into the mistake.

Sometimes, if you are lucky, you never really get to this phase. You remain in the vada pav phase only. Stuffing your face forever and ever. Like that mermaid in that cartoon except what was the thing she liked eating? Grapes? Pasta?

Anyway. Yeah, so if you are lucky, then you will eventually become a fat mermaid.

If you are not.

Then you have to deal with phase 3 which is the second worst of them all. This is the realisation phase. Sadhus will tell you that self-realisation is beautiful – that is a load of fukin bull shit. Full on bull tatti only that is.

Self realisation is ugly, and uncomfortable – like bursting a hundred thousand whiteheads while making a guess appearance on a Louis CK standup special (no, I have not forgotten Louis, I am sad that he did what he did, and he should pay the price but I have not forgotten).

Anyway, phase 3 can last forever. It usually feels like that even if it doesn’t actually last that long (nothing lasts THAT long wink wink)

Perhaps, if you are lucky or wise or a little bit of neither, you stumble into phase 4 which is when you start wondering if you should say the S word. If there is some way that you can redeem yourself. Like one of those gift vouchers you get for your friends but those fuckers never end up using it. But that is okay cause the vouchers came for free with that double cheese vada pav you ordered from that uber cool food delivery start go fuck yourself up which has got a trillion dollar evaluation and has gamified the entire food tech delivery ecosphere pivoting motherfucking sequioa entrepreneur incubator influencing data AI and machine learnig synergizing collab.

Anyway.

I am sorry if I caused you hurt or anger or pain. That was not my intention, I was/am a foolish foolish fuck. If you think you can give me another chance, to share a few thoughts and perhaps even a few secrets, I would like that. A lot.

Toodles

Where the vision blurs and then self corrects, like a wobbly tomato in the middle of an earthquake

I have often thought about earthquakes.

That is a complete lie.

I rarely think about earthquakes. In fact, I cannot remember the time when I gave them more than 30 seconds of my brain time.

Why would you start out with a lie?

Well isn’t that what most humans do? How are you? Nice to meet you? I am doing good.

That is just the way the cookie crumbles.

It just is.

Where all we have is a giant poster of Jupiter’s moons, a poster so big it makes our egos small

I wonder how large the largest painting in the world could be (Try me – God). And whether it could be painted by one artist or would just have to be a group effort. The answer is not as obvious as one would think. If you have a single artist devoted to the cause, toiling away throughout her lifetime, then perhaps you could get the maximum possible result.

On the other hand, if you have a group of artists, the most difficult bit would be manage their different visions, keep them motivated, and ensure that at the end of it all, there is a clear message or vision that is being sent. Not sure how easy that would be.

Ideally of course, you would want one central vision, and a host of braindead, unquestioning loyalists whose labour would be exploited until they burnt out, replaced by more of the unquestioners, driven by greed, lust, fear, the promise of rewards etc etc until the vision was met.

Wait a minute. Are you trying to say something Kro?

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I am not sure how I feel about roller blades, the fancy ones where you have all the wheels in one line. Whatever they are called. My heart goes out to those four wheel wallas, the one which were metallic and had shoe laces type things. And shit suspension. You could really, really (really) feel the ground beneath you. Hear it too. Those fucking wheels were definitely not silent.

Grr grrrr gaarrrrrr. Gzzzz gzzz gzzz.

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It is blatantly unfair how similar astronomy and astrology are. Like identical twins who like to fuck around with people. Fucking twins. (Name of your sex tape?  Haah you wish). With their creepily similar looks and mannerisms, always going “What are you saying, we look SOOO different ya” and sniggering all over the place.

Probably each having only half a soul, and doing all sorts of sorcery when no one is looking.

I am on to you, you fuckers. I am on to you.

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Where the words are read and not forgotten, safely carried in a warm hug

I wonder what it would mean to live with the words and die with the words. Born in a library, dying after a book falls out of a window from the 10th floor of an old, rusty building.

Or what it would mean to see words and words and only words wherever you looked. To be unable to speak or shout or laugh or cry. But only write. I wonder if that would be a happy existence. I suppose it would be provided that you are taught very early that this is a blessing and not a curse. That this is a gift, this reading this writing, it is a gift that very few have ever had. And even fewer will.

If this is not taught then there could be much jealousy, regret, sadness. Why would you write the words “I am sad” when all others really have to do is cry? Or convert free laughter through ink and paper when all others do is open their mouths, and point their heads backwards. And laugh.

Or maybe there is much jealousy, regret and sadness even when the teaching has taken place. And that all of this only goes away when the realisation is made. When, in the quietness of a bright sunny day, you look inside and you look outside and you look all around and you realise that people and things and the world – all of it is just made up of words after all.

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If I ever wrote more than one book, I would try and make this the plot. Actually, to pull something off like that you would probably need to write more than one book. Like have a proper fucking fan club and do book readings and have people murmur wistfully, “Oh fuck I wish I could write like that” or whatever it is that fans of authors do when wistful.

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I am not sure how I feel about the word “karva”. Has such a negative connotation to it. Duh obviously, fuck you are stupid. And then there is “dahi” which is just misleading really. Daheee. What the fuck is that. It sounds like a noise, not something you mix nicely with rice (TS ftw) and belt with your hands.

Dahee.

Ya, not too sure about it.

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There is very, very little that I know about squirrels. I mean that is not too surprising if you think about it. They are not particularly interesting, don’t seem to have any superpowers (dont’ ask just don’t), always look like they are either in a hurry or are trying really hard to come up with a retort. There is nothing in between. It is either “oh fkfkfkfkfkkf I gotta run run run run” or “Oh well maybe you should NOT HAVE…..wait wait wait fuck”

Run run run.

Thats right. Run you fucking squirrels. Run all over the place. Just run like noone is watching. Just fucking run. RUNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN.

I dont like the fact that “N” is just a “Z” staring at you funnily outside your car window.

Tata.

 

 

 

Where we become leaves, silently swaying and gently dancing with the breeze

Been staring at trees a fair bit these days. Two trees in particular actually. One, is this coniferous giant fella, squirrels running up and down. A real tall bugger this one is, his height all the more surprising given that I remember him being this chuntani little chap who had to be carried in a little mud pot before being planted into the soil. Perhaps it is a memory that I have made up, but there was a time when I could look over him quite easily.

Perhaps.

The other tree that has caught me fancy is this spiny thin chap who has grown and grown and grown. At the very top, two of my friends K2 and K-ro (no relation) have built their nest. I initially thought that they were being stupid young lovers, going too high to build a home. That the wind would be too strong, and they would have to give up.

I was wrong.

They seem quite comfortable there. Cawing now and then. I think they will make fine parents. I really do.

They did get me thinking about nature and nurture and instincts and if true knowledge is the kind that flows through your blood and not in your head. The kind that will never leave you, that stays with you until you die. And that this is the knowledge that will keep you alive, will keep you you.

Who knows.

I like words that are delicious. Or rather I like how words can create things that are delicious. Like a pause, a silence, a little whisper that carries so much. A smile that enters through your eyes and fills up your head slowly. So slowly. Letting you get a hint of the taste, just a hint. Delicious.

But, like I was saying, there is something to be said about leaves. And how they do the delicate dance with the breeze. So sensitive, so gentle. You think the breeze whispers through the leaves, sharing a laugh or a grin before moving on to where ever it is that breezes go to.

You think there is a place where breezes get together and take a break? Discuss their day or their month or their year (how long do breezes live). About the things they have seen, and the stories they have carried. About the smiles and the smells they have taken into their arms?

Who knows.

Indeed, my dear friend, who knows?

Where we muse, which is like thinking except you get to stroke your own chin

If you know whattta I mean.

Self reliance ftw bois.

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I wonder if pirates ever got (get?) sick of “eye to eye” jokes. Like “Why was the pirate so misunderstood? Cause no one could see him eye to eye.”

Hahahahaha.

I do wonder what pirates actually joked about, and whether the constant sound and fury of the waves changed their sense of humour. And the sun. And the breeze. And the weird still temperature every time they would hit that belt of sea where the sun dies. What is it called. Equator? Tropic of go fuck yourself?

Now there is a sociological essay just waiting to be written. “Affect of meteorological factors  on development of the gaiety factor.”

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I wonder what would happen to religion if aliens came off to our home. And not like oh fuck they are invading us but just like ding dong oh honey can you see who is at the door. Oh my gosh I have never seen anything like this.

Like they would waltz in, smooth jazz playing in the background. And we would all be ha ha hee hee look how cool they are.

Yeah, I wonder how the interpreters of god would deal with something like that. Heck I wonder how the non believers would react as well. Actually, I cant imagine anyone whose reaction I would not want to document.

Except perhaps Raveena Aunty. That lady knows everything. Every bloody thing. She aint got no telescope in the balcony but ask her what colour was Sunil’s shirt on Tuesday morning and she gonna be bang on the buck.

Raveena Aunty. I mean she makes great idlis and mysore pak and all but goddamit man, she can get mighty nosy.

It is a love hate thing.

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I have realised that what I really need is a side kick. Like not a proper full on “I am with you all the time” type side kick but a slightly flaky one. Who you never really know will show up and do kachow! and pow! and dishoom! with you, but seven to eight times out of ten, probably will.

Wait, so you think you are a superhero?

Perhaps.

I sure as fuck aint Raveena aunty.