Where the words crawl back unwillingly, questioningly. Unsure.

They do you know. Look at you questioningly. The words. They want to know if you are going to be nice to them or if you are going to mangle them and make them ugly. Make them incomprehensible, unwanted. Having no place to go and so just forced to wait it out. Wait for the rest of their lives, or until someone comes and rescues them, sees some value in them.

Words can hurt too you know. They can feel pain and neglect. They know when they are not wanted, not cared for. They have feelings too.

They do. I like to think they do. Because, and I swear this is true, I can see the words prancing and dancing in the air. Right in front of me, like those motes. You know those tiny tiny pieces of magic that have come from another universe and are having the time of the lives here. Dancing all over the place.

Be kind to the words. Be kind.


I saw a crazy man walking down the road yesterday morning. Right in the middle of the road, screaming and muttering at something I could not quite see. He could though. He could see it clear enough.

I wonder if madness is something you can voluntarily dip into, and then climb out. Or does it taint you forever? Is it something that never lets you go? Does it seep into you, seep right in to you. In to your eyes and your mind until all you can breathe is the madness? Or is it something a little less sinister? At least in the beginning. Like a warm pond you dip into and play around with, until its time to go home. To go back to the predictable and the sane?

I wonder if it is an addiction of sorts. If there is an element of voluntariness involved. That, at some point, your mind wants to go into that pool, into that warmth, where things dont need to make sense to others, just to you.

Madness, like most evil things, can be a terribly lonely thing.


What do you think happens to unfulfilled wishes? Do you think they all end up meeting somewhere? Carrying tiny bits of self-pity? There must be some relieved unfulfilled wishes though. Like that fucker who wished for all toothbrush bristles to taste like karela.

You think all the UWs are just lying in a bar somewhere? Somewhere far far away where these things can and do happen? Talking to themselves, chatting about what they could have become, what they could have done, how they could have changed the fate of an entire species.

If only.



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Where the walls are climbed over, jumped over, skipped over

Life can feel a bit like a treadmill at times.

Which is not the worst thing in the world but it could be better. In fact, this writing could be better. It is terrible to hate your own writing, its a bit like hating your own kid I suppose. For being ugly.

Cause sometimes, no most times, the words just look back at you. Unable to comprehend the hatred, the contempt, the disgust. They just stare back at you, no they don’t. They refuse to meet your eye, they look away. That is what they do. But you are still left with your hatred and anger and all the things that should not be there.

I wonder what would happen if the sky fell down. No really. It just fell down. Boom. Right on top of us. You think it would break into little pieces? Can you imagine the sound that would make. The entire sky, heaving and hurtling its way right on top of you.

I dont know where this is going. Most of the time I don’t. And I think I prefer it that way. Cause then there is a sense of suspense, of anticipation at what comes next. There is some joy in waiting.


Had the most delish bombay duck today. It was freshly fried and absolutely wonderful. I like the texture of that fish the most. Slightly icky but just so good to taste. Yummers.


It is getting harder and harder to write though. Every single time it feels like that much more of an effort, that much more of planning out, writing it out and erasing it and writing it again.

Does talent diminish with age? Of course it does. That is a stupid question. Of course it does. Well perhaps it does not. Perhaps it changes its shape and its sharpness and perhaps we are all stars floating in an endless sea.

I like the idea of floating in an endless sea. I like the idea of floating. I like the idea of a sea. Of so much water and waves and currents that you cannot see but you can feel.

It is important to feel. To be able to feel.


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Where you forget, because that is what we do, but you also remember

You have forgotten haven’t you?

You have forgotten what it feels like to run. Just run. Not fast, not slow, but just run. To feel your own feet, yes our own feet, pushing you and carrying you and stamping down on the ground.

You have forgotten what it feels like to get into that rhythm, where your arms swing just a little bit and you are running. And you can feel the wind in your face and the sun is not too harsh. So when you look up, you can see the sky and the clouds and you can feel the smile that is creeping across your face. Feel the smile, and with it the slow stream of happiness that flows into your blood and towards your head.

You have forgotten that pain that starts somewhere in your legs and builds slowly and slowly. When you have to breathe harder and faster, and you suck in the air. You can feel the air run down your stomach, you can feel the sweat.

Like a lot of things, this seemed a lot better in my head.

I have forgotten but I am also beginning to remember. And that feels good.

You can forget to write you know. You can actually forget. The words will no longer be your friends; they will hide in this deep darkness where you cannot see a thing and all you want to do is wait and wait some more.

But you can remember, you know what it felt like. What it was like. What it was.

And that is important because then you know what you are looking for, the signs in the darkness will slowly be read. And you will walk the way of darkness because that is the only path.

But you will walk and you will remember.

It is our memories that makes us what we are. There is precious little otherwise.

The memories we have, and the memories we must make.

This is not funny. No, not everything is meant to be.




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Where we begin once again, realising that busy streets and painted eyebrows are another home

There is something magical about it. No question about it. Getting down from the scooter, pulling the keys out and then walking it.


You can walk down one-ways, you can walk on the wrong side of the road, you can cross wherever and whenever you feel like.

So magical. Like a switch. A magical switch.

You have to forgive me, the keys are a little bit rusty right now. Or actually its not the keys where the problem is. No sir. It is more like a tap. A rusty tap. Not rusty but clogged.

Where are you going with this?


No. You need to write. You need to let these streams and rivers flow out of your mind and above the space that exists right outside your head. Right above it. That magical hidden space where all your thoughts and your words hide at times. Where there is always  sparks and thunder and lighting. Because you need that space. Oh yes, you do. You need it so much you would give up anything for a little bit of that space. Just a little bit. All you need is just a little bit.
And there. Boom. Just like that we segue into a 50 cent song. Why kro why kro

Why cant Five Dimes stay away from your mind? Or is 50 in that magical space too? Playing Candy Shop?

Fkkkkkk. Now can’t get that song out of my mind. My magical space.

You say it like a slightly crazy (are there any other kind) woman would speak of her vajuju.

“Enter. My Magical Space”

That would be slightly creepy though. If someone actually said that when going bangy-bangy. I don’t know. Maybe she could pull it off. Some women can you know.


My new fav words are “Dont lie”

I love them. I really do.

So cute, so naughty naughty. Like little rabbits on ganja. Entirely devoid of malice.

“I lost 8 kgs!”

“Don’t lie. Must be at least 20 it seems.”

So harmless. Like amputated dolls.

Ok thats all for now. But I am back. I am full back only.


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Where we discover that this blog is dying

It is. And there is very little I can do about it.

What do you mean? Don’t you write here?

Yes, but yaar feel is not coming. The feels yaar. There is no the feeeeeeels.

And just like that, it may be back. It seems.

Oh it seems, my dear dear it seems. So naughty you always are.

Also how the FUCK have I not heard the DJ wala babu song?? Whattey gorgeous song with so many meanings at multiple levels. A silent yearning for the melodies and memories of happier times. A shy, bashful some may say, request to the Almighty to “play” the “song”.

Her song. My song.

Mera song.


But that is not what this post is about.

Or is it?


Who knows. Sometimes I think that this blog is the toilet paper for my mind. Cleaning the anus that has little pieces of shit sticking it. Tiny, little, hanging by a thread (butt-hair?) pieces of shit.

Pieces of feces.

That rhymes. With limes. And porcupines.


Fuck. Porcupines are proof that there was a “foreign hand” in the creation of animals. Like somehow, when the Almighty was looking away or something, the “hand” crept in and did some naughty naughty gandugiri.

Gaandugiri – am surprised that has not caught on yet.

Next time.



Till we meet again. Forgive and forget. Especially porcupines. Forgive them for they know not what they have done.


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Where we continue to see and stare stupidly, so confident in our ability to outlast and outwait and outlive

You think life is all about waiting?

Just waiting.

Waiting for things to happen, waiting for IT to go away, waiting for IT to come to you. Just waiting?

Waiting can be awfully cruel you know. Especially when you dont live to see the end of the wait. It is the hope that kills you. The hope that this time, jus this time, the wait-er will win. The Waiter will become the Victor.


Wait for it.


Was listening to my main Man 50 cent (fitty to his friends) and I was all like that man was the shizzle. The rizzle dizzle of the shizzle.


Some times to reach the gold you have to go through the garbage. Wait, and wade through the trash that we are creating. No trash is not a creative, it is a destructive. You have to destroy to make trash. What a concept no? Like life.

Not sure what you are talking about.

Not sure what I am talking about

Are you sure about anything?

Well….I am pretty sure that if an elephant sat on me, I would fucking die. Just fucking die.

Imagine trying to convince that fat motherfucker to get the fuck off me.

‘Aye fatty, get the fuck off me.”

Don’t think that would work.

Walruses too. I am pretty sure if a walrus decided to sit on me, I would just fucking die.

But first, let me take a selfie.


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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.


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.


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.


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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