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.

Wedgie.

.

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.

Wedgies.

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

Maybe they are.

 

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Where the earphones begin to give up, tired of always being in confined places

It is understandable. Don’t think too many people would like to be in someone’s ear all the time. Just all the time. Staring into the (hairy?) darkness. Sure, it could be exciting in the first few days, such a pleasant relief after being wrapped in plastic that is almost impossible to cut.

The joy of being used, of feeling the music and the sounds flow from your tippy toes all the way through your body and then out of the top. You must have felt so proud, so filled with purpose. But then things begin to become repetitive. Perhaps the music becomes the same, a countless repetition of what someone says are the best songs in the world. Over and over again.

And so you begin to question the wisdom of your choices, and whether you really had any role to play in making the decisions that matter. Or was it just a question of being born into this life? Inevitable perhaps? So you slowly make peace with your existence, with the hairy darkness that is no longer as exciting nor interesting as it was when you were a young little earphone.

But how long can the peace last? After all, your very soul is filled with noise, with music and sound. How long until you keep your anger inside? Keep it silent? But you also know that your anger, your dissatisfaction is of the impotent kind; there is nothing you can do. So you start to give up.

Slowly, bit by bit. Note by note. Until one of you stops working, and then you see that are being used less and less. And then the other one also conks, and you finally stare into the darkness of death.

And they throw your dead body into the trash. You are of no use now.

“And that little children, is the abridged version of “This was my life” by Shure”

Tada!

.

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Where the grapes in competing vineyards start to fight, a no holds barred death match of sorts

Fighting grapes must surely produce some fantastically gory scenes. Fighting each other, swinging and trying to crush their foes. Tearing their thin skins, exposing the sweet juicy flesh to the elements. Watching the drops of life seep out, drop by drop. Breaking that pointy thing which attaches the grape to the stem. Tearing it away, biting it away.

So gory ya.

The battlefield littered with groaning grapes, dead grapes. Grapes who wish they were dead. Who wished they had simply stayed in their own vineyards, and welcomed the death that would have come under someone’s foot. Anything, oh anything, better than this. Lying in the ground, and watching the sun dry them out. Losing out on their lives, bit by bit.

Too gory ya.

I don’t quite know how I feel about fruits that are granted the power of flight. I mean it would be kinda cool to watch strawberries fly here and there, but I don’t know. Pappaya’s would probably be the most dangerous, the juicy fat fuckers randomly running out of energy and just crashing down on you. I share a very hate-love relationship with pappayas. I love how they clean up the bowels (oh and I also love the word ‘bowels’) but I also hate the way they clean up my bowels without really telling me WHEN the cleaning is going to happen.

A background story here would involve a tale of running from one office to another, and then finally into a mall, to do tatti. All because of a naughtily efficient papaya was eaten that morning.

Background stories – these are what are told when you are so busy recounting your own. These are stories that are often whispered, and often in languages that you may not understand in the beginning. If you don’t understand, they were not really meant for you. But if you do, then you are in for a treat. It is like overhearing secrets.

But where was I?

Oh yes fruits that fly. Yes, slighly ambivalent about it. I can imagine them to become quite a hazard in the night. I mean the last thing you want is a fig coming at you full speed in the middle of the night.

What were you doing there in the middle of the night?

It is all your fault.

Clearly. Yes, all your fault.

ALL YOUR FAULT.

 

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Where we go back to the books, breathing hungrily into the pages

There is something very comforting about reading a book again. Especially if it is one of those books that seeped into your mind, right through the eyes. There are also times when you have left a book half way, and then you pick it up out of the blue. It is a bit like opening your eyes after years of darkness cause you have to slowly get back into that frame of mind.

I dont know why there are so many cliches happening.

It is almost as if the universe is trying to tell me something.

Now, what could it be.

What could it be.

I think two is the ideal number of times to repeat a question, especially one of those ambition-less hypothetical ones. What? Why do you say they lack ambition? In fact, hypothetical questions are the most ambitious of them all. They make a point without even waiting or requiring an answer. What ambition man.

What ambition man.

Indeed.

Id o think that attributing human characteristics to animals is going a bit overboard. Like they are not your son, you are not their father, and they are not your baby’s sister. They are not. You might mean you love them and all that, but just…stop. Like please.

Wonder what the next step would be. Would we also start to get bored of our pets? Well not bored, but just so used to their presence that you become blind to them. Like you do with other humans. Would you now have a house full of animals that you don’t really like, but have to put up with because, you know, they are your family. And what happens if those pets get babies, and you become a grandparent? Then do you interfere with the way the grandkids are “brought up” even though you know that this will only cause domestic tensions to rise between the newly made parents? How far do you take this humanising bit.

How far?

Yeah, two is a good number. Real good.

 

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Where we do emotional atyachaar to each other, like kids who were assholes

Kids who were assholes generally don’t change much by the time they grow up. Something to do with genes is what I have understood after doing some extensive research on this subject. Such research largely consisting of going through old memories of kids who were assholes towards me.

And now looking them up (sometimes) online and realising that they are still assholes. Especially the successful ones. Those assholes are the worst. At least things would be better if they were doing some fuckall things in life.

Shiny happy people.

Let’s kill them all. One by one. Slowly.

.

What would happen in the end? Like the real end? Not some philosophical end, with pages symbolising time, and the final chapter signifying death. Or some shit like that. But the proper end. The final, final end. Isn’t that the way the human mind thinks? That there is a beginning and an end. No other way. There MUST be a beginning, and if there is a beginning then there MUST be an end.

What if that is not true. That is simple bullshit. What happens then? What happens to that guy who was sitting with the scissors in his hand, waiting for the super important person to cut the ribbon? What happens to the guy who sits on the chair and screams “CUT” when the scene is done? Oh god, what happens to all these people? What will they do? Will they become redundant? Will the become unemployed? Will they become another statistic on how employment is a growing concern?

Will they, during the hopelessness and despair that comes with being unemployed, look back in time and wish they had done things differently. Wish they had been better human beings, not been asssholes.

Especially to that fat kid who used to talk to himself. That one with enough chins to fill up China? What was that fucking kids name ya?

What was it?

 

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Where we question our selves, and others, and that shady dude who has actually pierced a hole in his newspaper

I wonder if anyone actually did that. Is there any truth to that at all? Did some random spy types actually make a hole in the newspaper, right at eye-level, and then went ahead with all the spying and all.

I wonder what it would be like to be a spy. Getting back home, after a long day of work. Pulling off the shoes, and the socks. Throwing the keys and the badge on the table. Would you still be interested in what your friends and family are telling you? Or would all your curiosity be spent.

There must be some limit to curiosity. Surely. You can’t be extremely curious about everything all the time, can you? How much information can you store in your mind? Is there some unit for that? This fellow can store upto 7 bbs of data. How would you quantify that data? How do you actually break down memories and information into units when they are stored in your mind?

What about data corruption? The slow decay over time. The mixing and matching of memories, overlapping each other until it is difficult, no impossible, to differentiate each one. You think memories are like ghosts inside your brain? Just floating, almost ethereal, and the longer they stay in there, the more translucent they become? Slowly fading.

Slow decay. Fast decay. It is all a matter of perspective really. I imagine having perspective to be akin to having a telescope kind of thing. Or a really big blackboard. Like a really, really big blackboard. But it is not always about the trees and the forests, it can work the other way around.

Sometimes the words come out, and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I think that if I wait long enough, it will be all okay. Other times, I think that I will just be dead. Isnt that what happens to everyone. Death. The long sleep, the final time out.

 

 

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Where we run into walls, alright not run run but walk into

It happenz.

Shit happenz.

Shit happenz in the morning.

Shit happenz in the morning and sometimes in the night.

Shit happenz in the morning, and sometimes in the night, and when you have had too many keema samosas then toh it will happenz all the time.

Okay I can’t beat that.

Kheema samosas.

I mean what a pure frikkin genius idea. There you have some kheema, delicious kheema all soft and pretty and looking so cute in those tiny little pieces.

And then you have the samosa, that crazy deep fried little fucker. Multiple skins, with reducing levels of crunchiness.

Mix the two.

What genius only broooooo.

.

Somebaady once told mee…..that the world is gonnaaa rule me.

I think they were right.

.

I think we should have a talk. Like a proper talk and not one where you are staring at your phone half the time. Do you hear me? Can you hear me? Are you stoned right now? Oh my god. Its only eight in the morning and you are already stoned? What on earth is wrong with you? Did you buy all the vegetables? Please tell me you did not forget the milk? And what about the samosas?

See what I (am trying to) do?

Maintaining continuity is a challenge when it comes to fiction. I don’t think we were ever supposed to be in control of time. We are simply not meant for it.

Nope.

Not meant for it.

.

 

 

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