Where the minutes follow each other, like blind children following the warm smell of honey

Time, time, time.

No matter how much you think about it, you can think some more and then some more. And still understand nothing at all. Does it go in lines, does it go in circles? Is there a way to stop it? How did it even start?

Do you think there are other kinds of time?

Ones that have different colours, and different smells, and different ways of marching on? Do you think Times get tired? Of just moving on and on? So desperate for a pause, a break, a wish that will never be granted?

Who/what do you think forces Time? Or is that just too narrow a way to look at things, through the prism of free choice? Why is it so difficult to accept that some things just are. Some things just be.

On their own. Completely on their own.  No connection with anyone or anything.

But how is that possible? Surely everything and everyone is born out of something else? Surely.

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When is the last time that you had to question something you believed was the absolute truth.

Absolute – like death – is far too decisive a term.

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Listened to the Bare Naked Ladies. After a long, long time. And Duncan Sheikh, and I remembered how beautifully out-of-reach that Palthrow chick was. Some things (I suspect more than just “some”) are beautiful because they will never be yours. You know what I am saying. Cause without actually “having” it you can think about how beautiful it would be, and your imagination does not need to be chained down by reality.

That is often the way I see the relationship between imagination and reality. Imagination this slightly goofy, on and off hyperactive drooling dog. Blind. Completely fucking blind. But with an amazingly curious nose. Going here and there, sniffing there and that. And Reality, this big fucking heavy chain that is holding Ima down. Just holding the poor fucker down.

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You think Time is like that. Bossy Time holding onto Freedom Time, pushing it down so that it only escapes every once in a while, bringing some sense of freedom, of not being held down.

So ephemeral.

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Where the words slowly crawl back, like those little baby turtles on the beaches surrounded by do-gooders

Do-gooders.

If there was ever a species of people who deserve to be extinct, do gooders would be it.

Imagine if they are killed by the very causes they are trying to protect. Would they become martyrs? “Thats Tom the Orka Protector. Died after unpleasantly surprising Free Dilly” From now one, he will be called Torka.

T-shirts bearing Torka, worn by hitch hikers, and hung on the walls of backpacking hostels all over the world. The entire universe of twitter bursting with #Torka all over the place. #IswimWithTorka trending on whichever “social” platform you “choose” to be on.

The illusion of free choice could not be made more illusory than in the current scheme of things.

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I can understand why people went all gaga over Hema Malini. Those big brown eyes being all mischievous as shit, drawing you in. Skating all over the place, badminton racket in hand.

She must have been quite the bomb back then. Dream girl for shizzle.

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So Asin is getting married. To the guy who builds phones. Cant compete with that. Just cant.

In fact, there are a lot of things I cant compete with. Orkas for instance. For sure. I would never want to get into a swimming competition with Orkas. That would be a fucking disaster.

I wonder if orkas trash talk. Like serious trash talk.

“Yo mama so ugly, she froze Free’s willy”

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I should grow up. Up up and away!

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Where we sit down and talk. Like really talk. Talk-talk.

I think the hyphen is one of the most underrated things in the world.

Do you mean hymen?

No. I mean hyphen, a dash, the line between two words that usually are not seen together. But because of Mr. Hyphen here, they become full close to each other, and doubly powerful and shit.

Like totally.

This was not what I wanted to write but you know how it is na? Sometimes you start with the alphabets and suddenly your mind wanders to the Classical section and you are all like “Oh look there is a book I am soooooo going to read” and then you pick it up. And then you see another book (this one is covered in faux leather) and you are all like “Cheh, now that I have all the time in the world, I may as well add this to the collection.”

More than buying books though, I really miss buying music. Like good old tapes. Glancing enviously at the CDs section (wondering when you would have enough money to pick one of those up)

Musicworld – I think that was the coolest shop in the world. They even had DVDs of performances and stuff like that. What else was there. There used to be a Musicworld right on Brigade Road. Now, there is some rubbish there.

And then did Archies stock music? Not sure.

There still is that Radio shack, rythym whatever place in Fort. That is dying.

Dying is kinda like the shit side of living. Like when Living takes a dump, Dying is born.

Ok. that is all for now.

Toodles.

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Where the dastardly doggie realises that he has actually shit himself

You know.

That dog in those cartoons. What was his name. Mut. Muttley. Always being all sneaky and shit. With those evil giggles.

So, in an episode that was never aired, there is a scene where is giggling and then just shits himself. While looking straight at the camera.

So embarrassing it was yaar.

Wtf.

I would replace wtf with jhulu umpa but it somehow does not quite have that same tang to it. Like you can’t look at a a really rally fat woman using a pogo stick and go “jhulu umpa”, now can you. A “what the ….” is so much more appropriate.

Speaking of pogo sticks.

I wonder what happened to them. I don’t see to many people using them anymore. In fact, I dont think I have ever seen one in real life. Let me think.

The scary bit of technology is when it starts intruding into your sensory spaces. What you feel, and touch and see and hear are all forced through some form of technology or the other. And so you slowly forget what real laughter sounds like or what real mountain mist looks like. All the while, scratching and clawing at the screen in front of you.

Damn, and we thought we were going to talk about pogo sticks.

And fat women.

Jhulu umpa motherfuckers.

I forgot who I was talking to the other day but it was a conversation bordering on the hysterical. Like when you call someone and they sound just like you. Like exactly like you. And I don’t mean just in terms of tone and tenor but even what they say. Its like you had a cross-connection with a parallel dimension.

Ohhhh cross connections. You don’t get them no more.

Just like pogo sticks.

Okay what the fuck is this pogo stick obsession kro? Are you trying to be all symbolic and shit and trying to link the pogo with your own state of mental well being?

You mean like up and down?

No I mean like flimsy and very easy to bend.

Jhulu umpa motherfuckers. Jhulu umpa.

Guacamole.

I would like some guacamole please.

There is something disturbing about the fact that food is never too far from any conversation that takes place, in my head or otherwise.

That’s what I like about the word “without” cause it can mean outside but it can also convey loss, sadness.

With or without yooooooooo

With or without yoooooo

Like the best drunk song ever.

Cause all the syllables are pretty easy to pronounce. And you can be all lazy towards the end and just go “oooooooo”

Nicki Minaj would like kinda cool on a pogo stick. Them be bouncin alright if ya know what I mean.

Jhulu umpa motherfucka!

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Where we wish the worst for others, drinking in the hatred and anger of the world through our eyes

I would totally drink through my eyes.

Or maybe just one eye.

Would take shots with an eye dropper. Fuck.

That would be a pretty cool party trick though. If you could chug through your eye/s. Take the bottle with that pointy pouring thing, point it right into your eye and chug away.

What if you would also throw up through your eyes?

Fuck.

That would be slightly freaky. Not sure if you are having an eye-to-eye moment when boom, them barf chunks spewing out at you at rocket speed.

“I condemn thee to be the bottom of every sick bag ever made”

Decreed Juve, the God of Ill-Wishers.

I can see how hatred can be a disease. It creeps into you, you know. Like a bug, a visible bug crawling up your skin and up your veins and puking into your blood and your mind. Covering your eyes with its puke, making you see things that are never there. Entering your ears, pushing words right into your skull. Pushing and cramming the things that were never really there in the first place.

Hate.

Don’t hate ya’ll.

Or do.

Hate like you have never hated before. Hate like it is the last day of your life.

That is my fav inspirational line. Like it is the last day of your life.

I wonder what I would do on the last day of my life.

Run? Run, just run for those seconds, those minutes those hours. Feel my lungs gasp and my legs giving up. Run and breathe in the air and spit out the spit. And run some more?

Fuck no.

Why you hatin kro? Why you hatin.

Kung Fu Panda is coming back.

Can. Not. Wait.

….

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Where we sleep face down on the cold floor, painfully aware that our noses will never support our body weight

There is a lot you can learn from sleeping on the floor.

Identify people by the sound of their feet, the one’s who shuffle slowly with old bones and older feet. The ones who stomp their way here and there, sometimes with those anklets going all chrr chrrr in the background.

There is a lot you can learn.

Learning is a lot like going to sleep and having a dream except it is a lot slower and sometimes you are not asleep at all.

This sleep fucker is also one more.

Anyway. Was having me this delicious chicken cutlet today. unfucking believable. Cause it was covered with this light coating of egg white (like a kobiraji but bit more delicate) and it was a mix of crisp and soft and I was all like “I WILL EAT YOU”.

Wait a minute.

Horses for courses.

I really don’t like the fact that those two dont rhyme. Yet have been forced together into one saying. Like cousins who hate each other but are forced to sit in the same room. Side by side. As the will of their late grandfather is being read out.

If I ever wrote a will, it would be in Italian. Or maybe Gujarati just to fuck with people’s minds.

If I had a school, the school song would definitely be in Italian. Like for sure. And I would force everyone to learn to march ulta pulta, with each side’s hand and leg going in the same direction. I always thought that is far more difficult than this alternative shit we are taught to do.

And there would be biryani in the canteen. For all those poor chubby fuckers who dreamt and dreamt of food during class and waited for the canteen hour to start only to find a tiffin box filled with vegetables and rotis. Those poor fuckers.

Oo la la is one of those terms that was once sexy but will never ever be again. Like even if you saw a black and white version of “oo la la” you won’t find it sexy. Ever.

Oo la la.

That would be how my students would be forced to greet the teacher. No “good morrrrrrning Mrs……’  but “oooo la la Mrs….”

Fuckyeah!

Admissions opening next summer. Donations widely accepted. Receipt on demand.

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Where the poison drips down slowly, sorta like honey but with less of an after taste

The honey after-taste is so under appreciated. It is quite the nice me thinks.

After-taste is like a very recent memory.

Fuck. Memory. You think memories stand in line, according to height order in the brain? One single line of memories, stretching from the honey you just had to the time when the doctor pulled you out and spanked you right in the bum. You think you can fuck around with that order? You think they get older than that, to when you were a really bad idea between two people who ought to have not gotten that drunk?

Heyzoos kro, why the dark side kro why the dark side.

Because I am Batman.

Always.

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I would not want to be Batmans’s shrink. Or even his speechwriter. fucker is barely understandable half the time. Can you imagine writing an entire speech of short sentences?

“Ladies and Gentlemen. Where is heeeee? Whoooo are you?”

Fuckleshwar.

Fuckleshwar is what happens when you intend to go to Mahableshwar but end up in Mahim. Mahim East that too.

Ooooo east versus west. Fuck global relations, I am talking about our very own Mumbai right here bitches.

Apart from Andheri (which is fubared on both sides), west is usually a bit more uppity and nice. No actually bycullah is also pretty cool on both sides. And Dadar has a pretty useful east and west side.

Split personalities.

Where are you going with this?

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I am going nowhere, I am just going to stick me bum into the sand and watch the giant giant waves rumble and grumble their way towards the land.

Have you ever seen the sea raging in the rains? Raging and breathing and shaking with anger. Quite beautiful.

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