Where inspiration tries to land, an overweight and scruffy owl with a squint

I think about owls some times. Usually during the day because in the night they become slightly creepy. But in the day, they seem to enjoy not taking themselves too seriously. Like a bunch of old friends who are used to cursing and spitting on each other. Frivolous? Is that the correct word? Not sure.

Anyway, yeah owls. Good old owls.

I think they would make some fantastic stand up comedians. If they can just keep that same expression on their face. Through the entire set. Just looking, big eyed, staring. Perhaps a really long wink now and then. And then boom again with the big eyes. Just staring ahead. Joke after joke. With that same goddam expression.


I don’t like decreasing attention spans for both, consuming and creating. There is a very silent joy about savouring an idea, building it bit by bit. Letting the flavours slowly make their way in, slowly because that is the only way to make them stay. Not really knowing what it is eventually going to taste like. But still savouring it.

It is like that tea you make with hot water poured over the leaves. The kind you have to just let it rest for some time.

I dont know where this is going. But instead of tearing this sheet down and chucking it somewhere, I am going to just leave it here.

For you to stare at.

Like….you know.




Posted in Fatty Speaks, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Where the words have to be forced out, bit by bit, because that is what we decide to do

I like decisions. I like their finality, the fact that they have been (hopefully) arrived at after some sort of intellectual process. That a “decision” rests on a number of factors, perhaps not many, but (hopefully) more than one. Making a decision should be like figuring out a jigsaw puzzle. It need not be a complicated one, it could just have three pieces but you still have to put them together no?

Yeah, I like the idea of decisions. A stable, grounded decision.

Of course, not all of them fuckers are like that.

There are those decisions that are so ugly that even their momma be like “That deci be one ugly motha”. Ones which are those weird half colours, with one colour blending into the other and then another and another so all you have is this mixture of colours that don’t really become one. Tilting this way and that, with the reasons real flimsy little fuckers. Shaking and daring the other to fall. “Aye, reason 2, you know you are half imaginary na?”

Fuck. Reasons trash talking each other. Willing the other to fall, to come crashing down, to remove the mask of logic, and go all jiggy wiggy in the rain. Like mad men and children.

Yeah, those decisions are there too. The jiggy wiggy ones who dance in the rain. Like mad men and children.

Here’s to those kind of decisions as well.


I have recently started drinking wine and I have to say, I don’t know what the fuck I am doing. But it is a start. And I like holding the glass in my hand and taking a sip now and then. Eating a little bit of this and that, with the glass in my hand, and some music in the back. Shuffling gently into my ears.


I would shuffle to most places if I could. Just shuffle. Not walk or run or anything. But shuffle. Like the moonwalk except you are going forward. Ooooh, that would be cool. But then what would you do over uneven ground? I don’t know man. I clearly haven’t thought through this.

Oh you mean, your decision was not a well-made one?

Mad men and children.


Posted in complete and utter bullshit, Stop making Sense, When you snore a puppy dies in somalia | Leave a comment

Where the tingling begins somewhere down there, right between the toes

I don’t think much of that area – the one that is between them toes. I suppose the one between the big one and the fourth one is useful if you want to wear those chappals, but other than that I don’t see much value there.

Unless you could use toes like you could use fingers. That would be a fun way of eating ramen.

I like ramen. I would pay for ramen in my blood.

Probably slip a few drops into the ramen as well.

That would be cool actually. If you could eat the currency you trade in.

But coming back to bloody ramen – I guess that is what a Japanese vampire would want. Vampire restaurants with blood instead of tobasco sauce. Little bottles of blood. That you sprinkle over whatever it is that you have asked for. You know, to get the real flavour.  I wonder what the vampire version of a spiked drink would be. And also, whether they shop in the duty free shops.

Somehow I don’t think they actually shop much. I mean first of all the shop timings work against them (damn you vampire haters, damn you!), And then what would they like buying? Something for the coffin? Perhaps a little upside down cross to hang on the wall. Mirrors, you know for the aesthetics.

I don’t know. I would like to meet a vampire though. One who has dined sufficiently well of course.

Of course.


Posted in When you snore a puppy dies in somalia | Leave a comment

Where the belles order Goldspot and Citra, unafraid of what others will say

Bhaiyya, ek Citra please. No straw. (#SaveTheDolphins)


I wonder if  there is a minimum, quantifiable unit of rebellion. Like the very least you have to do or say or have or whatever to qualify the saying or doing or whatevering as an act of rebellion. And the minute you cross that point, you become a rebel. You could have grades of rebellion for sure. One is rebel-in-mind, grade two would be armchair critic, three would Only in My Car and so on and so forth.

Or may be not. May be just your very existence could be a sign of rebellion. I have a feeling that famous or dead (or both) types have written about this. They must have. There is that quote flying about now and then – be in a world where just your breath makes you a rebel or something like that.

Which does beg the question – if you are a rebel on an uninhabited island, are you really a rebel at all? I suppose you would be. After all, the world around you is a world that exists in your mind yes? Well, not only in your mind. Or maybe yes, only in your mind. Your very own personal little world.

I don’t know where I am going with this.

Maybe I should have a gold spot. Or a Citra. Or maybe even a Limca. No straw. #SaveTheDolphins.


Posted in Stop making Sense | Leave a comment

Where the glasses are left all alone, forgotten in the blind shadows

There is that beautiful moment in that animated movie Coco where someone is completely forgotten and that person’s soul then just dies. Or something like that. Essentially, the soul is only kept alive because of the fact that they exist in someone’s memory.

I thought that was such a beautiful thought. Beautiful in a sad way. Like a photograph of the final moments of a bird that has been caught in plastic, and is drowning in the sea. Or a copy of an unfinished will. A handwritten, unfinished will.

It would be amazing if we could document the final thoughts of every single person in the world. The very final thoughts, the thoughts that exist in the mind just before the final end. Just before. Maybe in the twenty seconds before the end. Just twenty seconds. There must be some way to measure that. I mean they have those jackets that change colours depending on the person’s mood.

So are you saying that you want to cover the nearly-dying person in that jacket?

Pretty much.

And it would be fucking hilarious if every single time, the jacket would turn only one particular colour. Just one. Every single time. Irrespective of the age, sex, gender, profession, wealth, health. Irrespective of it all.

They would not believe it at first no? Probably blame the technology initially. But there would be that one, half-crazed fucker who would say no, we need to continue with this. And so they would. And the results would always be the same. Always. They would check and re-check and re-re-check the findings. And it would always be the same.

Would that mean that we all feel the same just before we die. That, in those final moments, somehow the heart and the brain and all that causes emotion acts in the same, identical way? That we may not be born equal but we certainly die feeling the same?

Now that would be something else. That would be beautiful.

May be.


Posted in Stop making Sense | Leave a comment

Where we listen, our eyes towards the skies and our ears close to the ground

You think the earth breathes? Like proper inhale and exhale type breathing? That would be an amazing sound to hear. Perhaps you can hear it if you simply try hard enough. Block out the noise in your head, outside your head, and hold your own breath. And stare up while lying down in some quiet patch of earth. And listen. Just listen.

That would be worth a lot of effort.


It would be.

Posted in Unsure | Leave a comment

Where we listen to winterqueen, wondering how it would be hear the band perform live

I would pay a lot of money to see them play live. I definitely would.

Some of their music is very calming. It is what you need to listen to when things get a bit too much and all you have inside your head are angry voices and this humming noise that seems to come from within your skull?

What, you don’t have humming noises in your thopda?

Don’t lie.

Everyone does. Everyone.

Is their one sound to unite the world? Just one sound. I don’t know. But I was reading about some sounds recorded in the Mariana Trench and I did little tatti in my pants. Because I imagined myself swimming somewhere there, in the darkness, and then hearing that fucking thing in me ears. And anyway, your anus must be under full pressure cause you are so deep down, and you hear what sounds like the lyrics of a song written by The Predator.

Fucklesh only will happen no. Full tatti in the pants fucklesh.



Posted in Shut yaaver mouth | Leave a comment