Where the will remains, a flaky, skeletal little thing with barely any flesh

You can break will, of this I have little doubt. But what I also know is that it can surprise you with its strength. Resilience? Though perhaps it is just one of those tough elements you know. Like real hard-to-break mofos. There is no value judgment attached to it, it is just the way it is. Real tough. Hard.

I suppose it is cruel to disparage things for their inherent characteristics. Cruel and unfair. Like making fun of clouds for being white, or coal for being so smoky. I quite love the word – smoky. Hint of romanticism, unclear vision, and that nagging feeling that this is not really good for you.

It is pretty easy to want things that are not good for you. Call it the seventh law of attraction – Thou shalt crave what gets you to the grave.

And so He spoketh. And His word was law.

That is all for now.

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Where we are tickled, and not tick-led like some mangy canine

Led by ticks. You know. Dogs. Ticks. The kind that shit and lay eggs in your brains which then affects your neurons and you fall under the control of the tick. Or something like that. I was not paying attention in that particular lecture.

Don’t lie.

Why do you lie so much? I don’t know for sure but there is a definite bias towards the horizontal approach to things. If you know what I mean. I don’t actually.

Horizontal approach. I dont think I would have particualarly minded if the human race had evolved directly from salamandars or whatever. Like no legs and all. Just horizontal, mermaid-like, slipping and sliding on the ground.

That would have made some awesome wars, of this I am sure. Thousands and thousands of soldiers sliding on their tummies towards each other. Propelling themselves with angry squirms, yelling and trying to look the enemy in the eye. I suppose the weapon of choice would be a hammer. One that you can swing from the side. Or even a gun actually but that would take some time to aim and all. Swords would be more or less redundant. As would shoes.

Public transport could be just giant moving aquariums.

I don’t like this idea anymore. So I am going to discard it. Like chuddies. Chuddies with full holes and all. Not looking back. At the idea. As it dissolves, and dies. Or not really dies, but is just sucked into that misty, grey cloud of Forgotten Ideas.

Clouds must be real naughty fuckers. I am sure. Floating in the sky, like full innocent and all. Covered in these delicate, white fluffy things. While inside. Who the fuck knows what they are upto.

Naughty Clouds.

Another fucking awesome name for a band.

What kind of music do you guys play?


If i ever perform in a packed auditorium, I would probably piss my pants. Perhaps I could work that into my act. But then only towards the end, because you know what happens when you pee your pants and then dont change it for a long time. A friend told me.

A naughty friend.

Real naughty.


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Where we are stuck in some sort of bootloop hell, a special space reserved for the true rascals

I really would not wish boot loop hell on the people I hate the most. Well, maybe one or two of those fuckers, but definitely not every single one of them. Even I am not that cruel. May be.

May be only.

I wonder if cruelty also has measurable units. That would be plenty difficult though – way too much subjectivity involved. What is one man’s drink is another…. and so on and so forth. Don’t mean it should not be tried though.


That is what the unit of cruelty ought to be called. One drip of cruelty. Two drips of cruelty. ONE MILLION DRIPS OF CRUELTY. I think the subjectivity aspect could actually be worked into the measurement. So you need this measuring device plugged into your brain or nuts or wherever cruelty hits you. With a digital display at the other end. So whenever something cruel happens, the number of drips flashes.

But then what.

Where do you go from there.

You could probably make it into some sort of saleable commodity if you tried hard enough. Of this I am sure. People with the most drips in a day win some sort of prize. Or maybe get some more drips. Just to be funny. In a cruel way. You could definitely have competitions for this. Like week-long, year-long little fucking fuck fests where you sit around collecting drips. (Sounds a lot like your life – Ed)

If you could not hide the display (if it was stuck on your thopra) and the numbers could not be manipulated, then there would definitely be a deep culture of envy surrounding drips. For sure.

“Oh look at her, she only got one drip and it is nearly nine in the morning. Must be leading such a sheltered little life”

Or something of that sort. The low-drippers would get fucked over by the over-drippers for sure. Or perhaps not. Because the low-drippers would be all protected and have bodyguards and insult guards and their life would be so fucking perfect that they would barely cross into double digit drips their entire fucking lives.

I see where you are going with this. It is not particularly clever but you may have something there.


Went and bought (another) shitload of books and now am sitting and nicely belting them one by one. There is something to be said about just running through books with this hunger like thing. Cause when you have all the time in the world, there is nothing like a good old book marathon.

Which reminds me.

It is time to start running again. For real this time. Proper real. Time to start waking up and training and feeling the nipples bleed. Or at least quake in fear for the bleeding that is going to happen.

Happy new year.


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Where the straws simply refuse to work, a sudden strike throwing everyone and everything into startled confusion

Straws that refuse to work.

In my list of things that can fuck up the world, non-working straws rank pretty much up there with the most effective. Yes, I do have a list like that. No, I am not going to share it with you. No, I am not making this shit up. Fuck you.

So anyway.

Yeah, those non-working straws. Straws on Strike. SoS.

I wonder how they would go about it. Perhaps take deep breaths and puncture themselves into redundancy. Tiny pricks (haw!) that can’t be spotted with the naked (haws!) eye.

Or perhaps they would breathe in just at the moment they were about to be used. Like really sucking it in, right in the gut. So that the liquid would get stuck right in the middle. Fuck that would get real annoying, real quickly.

Although it has to be said that there is a very primal glee about drinking things directly. Especially coconuts. Those fuckers are the best, because you can lift them and slam them into your face and feel the rough skin on your mouth. Feel the cool, sweet water gush into your mouth. Holding the coconut, tilting it till there is no water left.

Wiping your mouth, wiping the sweet sticky that is now stuck on your mouth.

And then, of course, wiping your t-shirt. Cause that is what we junglis do.

Oh, the t-shirt wipe. Surely one of the greatest joys in the world. Nice, shameless t-shirt wipe. There ain’t no napkin or towel in the world that can come even close to a nice t-shirt. I swear to god.

where was I?

You were here only. Your mind though…..

I think my mind ran before learning to crawl. Which kind of explains why it runs in these random, jerky, very unco-ordinated type moments. Like a full on mental case. Full on.

Fullllllllll on.

Yeah baby.



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Where we try, and try again but with a certain amount of laziness, secretly hoping to fail

Am sure you know what that feel like. Don’t lie. The times when you pretend to work real hard, perhaps looking and hoping for some kind of external validation, but inside your heard (and I do meanĀ inside) you know that you are hoping to fail.

Hope to fail.

That is like walking on this real rickety bridge and just hoping that the wind picks up and the bridge falls or collapses and you fall down the valley along with it. That is a bit morose no? And also kinda impractical. I mean how many times do you have to cross a rickety bridge over a valley. Like seriously. Your life is not that adventurous also.

Don’t lie.

Anyway, what part of Depresso World were we talking about?

Oh yeah, that part where you hope to fail. I think I would like to have some superman levels of objectivity when that happens. Examine the hope from all angles, including one out-of-body type viewing angle. You know, the one where the bhoot inside you steps out of your body, and looks at you. Usually with some levels of condescension or ridicule in those bhooty eyes.



I fucking love that word right now. It carries that appropriate mix of fear and comedy. Like you could be scared as fuck when you hear someone scream “Bhoot” but then you could also laugh a little. And I don’t mean nervous laugh. The kind that is usually accompanied by a nervous fart.

Or paadh.

If we are being all Hindi about it.


Another supremely phonetic word that must have taken very little imagination to create.

“Aye shaamu. What just came out of your bum.”

Not sure man. It went like paaaaadh.

Or something like that.



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Where we wonder, and wander, but more wonder and less wander

I came across Pankaj Udhas’ picture earlier today. Made me wonder what his come face would look like. And then I thought about it some more, and tried making a list of people whose come face should never be made public. Like ever ever. Well, perhaps they can be made public if you looking to promote celibacy.

I didn’t get too far on that list. Primarily because that Udhas fellow totally distracted me.

Like totally.

Lyk totes.

I sometimes wish I learnt a calligraphic language like Mandarin. Learnt how to write it I mean. Full proper, with all their thousands of alphabets and permutations and combinations and all that.

I don’t think this has ever been as tough before. Just difficult to write. It makes me uncomfortable, yeah it does.

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Where the wind shifts uncomfortably, like when you are wearing loose undies and you feel a wedgie in progress

Right now, I cant think of a word that is more accurate and succinct than the word wedgie. I mean it has got everything going for it. Short, relatively easy to say, and conveys everything you need. Even the sound of it is just sufficiently annoying and uncomfortable.

Wah wah.

Nahi nahi wah ustaad.

That advert will obviously stay with me for a while. Husain banging away on the tablas, all rapture and sweaty. A man deep in his art it seems.

Deep. Very deep.



I like words that sound like what they mean. So direct, so blunt and to the point. Like impatient little fuckers with no tolerance for a little ambiguity. None at all. Maybe they were the children of a pair of really focused fuckers. Like full time-table and timeline for every single thing.

“Ten (why waste time on names), will be potty trained by age 21 months”

“Nine, brush your teeth forty one times.”

Or some shit like that. You never really know. Unless you actually sit down and study the history of words, the manner and circumstances in which they were born, and raised, and their personalities developed. Were they spoilt, made to feel more important than they were, and then, as they grew older, grew more and more distant from reality. Until, very few actually remembered what they meant or what they were supposed to mean.

Others were born rich and then slipped into poverty, selling off their uses one by one, becoming smaller and smaller, until they were tiny little acronyms. And on the other side, those who everyone thought were useless, becoming the stars of the show, spoken on every tongue, all around the world.


I like watching fires. It feels like the flames are alive.

Maybe they are.


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