The Psycho Guy is dead.

Go away.

I am Satan; I am he,
The fallen prince, whom you despise,
The hated one, the enemy,
Who's said to deal in sins and lies.

Here I lie, endarkened in
A place where sulphur burns so bright,
A place where violence and sin
Lie buried in the silent night.

Here is where the passions burn,
Desires form, ambitions thrive
And here is where you humans learn
Just how it feels to be alive.

Think you that I live in Hell?
Well then, you'll be surprised to find
The one you fear the most now tell
You that he lives within your mind.

Yes, your mind, that feeble place,
That storage room that you forgot,
Competing in the Human race.
When was the last time that you thought?

And you live by the rules,
Which borne of whims, enforced by power,
Of politicians, priests and fools,
Who be as stupid as you are.

Still you mortals wish to be
Subservient, afraid of thought,
Afraid of ingenuity;
A less rebellious wife of Lot.

Must you stay on god's green earth?
Where all around you, all you see,
Is sly, profane, where there's no dearth
Of Mankind's own perversity?

'Course you must, what can you do?
Except, perhaps, to sit and cry?
It's all your fault, you know it too:
Inactive lie, inactive die.

Wake up, Lazarus! Come to life!
Embrace your mind and so create
A world devoid of sin and strife,
Of pain, of misery and hate.

Open wide your eyes and see
Your only hope, your sole defence,
Against life's blatant anarchy
And chaos is intelligence.

And intelligence, you know,
Through perseverance is begot.
And knowledge helps it thrive and grow
To be displayed in human thought.

Know you now the path I trod,
And you shall know just who I be,
I am he, who challenged god,
And questioned his authority.

I'm the one who did not care
'Bout consequences, recognize
That I am he who told you where
The fruit of knowledge really lies.

Being slandered, here I lie,
Within your mind: so dark and dense.
I've borne a lot. Enough. Now I
Shall speak out loud in my defense.

I am Satan; I am he,
For ages whom you thought was bad.
Recognize me now, and see
I'm the god you never had.

Hear my words, you mortals, and
Question that which you've presumed
And think and know and understand
Or else humanity is doomed.

Paradise had not been lost
It's in your mind, my friend, and well,
Neglected. Now you pay the cost:
Your paradise is turned to hell.

Oh well, what the hell!



It's time,my friend, that I confess
Of all the things that I posses
The things I love the best, I guess,
Are my brown undies.


They fill my heart and soul with glee;
With happiness, tranquility,
They let me breathe, they set me free:
My brown undies.


They really are the best in town,
So soft and silky, smooth and brown;
My god! I cannot put them down!
My brown undies.


Take them off?! Don't think I can.
In them, I feel the perfect man.
There's nothing I would ever wear, rather than
My brown undies.


They keep me snug, they keep me dry.
They're so damn cool, they catch the eye.
The women croon, and purr and sigh
At my brown undies.


And so, my friends, I hope you know
That should you want, I'll gladly show
Them off to you: I love them so!
My brown undies.

Perhaps this is plagiarism. I don't care.
Perhaps this is rubbish. I still don't care.
I'm sorry Até, that I could not do justice to it.





Dream on, dream on you poor child
You stupid twit that we’ve beguiled
And frightened, scared; and while you dream
And while you want to yell and scream
And scratch your face, and tear your hair
And moan and groan out in despair
We’ll mock and rile and laugh at you
And watch you weep, and then we’ll do
Exactly all those things you fear
You cannot try to stop us dear.
Where would you start? What would you do?
And what’s the point? You know it’s true:
You can’t defeat who you can’t see
You cannot fight society.


And so you spend your time in dreams,
In writing rhymes, and plotting schemes
And when time comes, you shall awaken
And you’ll find that you’re forsaken
Looted, robbed or so it seems
While you were busy chasing dreams
We’ve slit your wrists, and chopped your nose
And even chopped off parts of those
And you’ll wake up and scream with pain
And gnash your teeth and go insane
And while you’re at it, we shall smile
Again, and mock, again, and rile
You. Then, perhaps, you prick, you’ll see
That dreams are not reality.


So dream on, pal, dream on, dream on
And then when all your dreams are gone
You’ll wake and find that one fine day
We’ve stolen all your dreams away.

You poor thing. You won't make sense of this (but then again, you might). However, it's damn good fun writing these things (and not as easy as it seems). You ought to try it. Vot's there.

The Music of the Night
The Music of the Night.
I sit in vain
And writhe in pain
As fancy takes her flight

A field, a tree, a star
A field, a tree, a star.
With reason gone
And tap turned on
I walked into my shower

I looked into my eyes
I looked into my eyes
So lame and trite
There, in the night
I knew that I was wise

My monkey looked at me
My monkey looked at me
I tried to grin
I could not win
Continuity

And J.K Rowling cries
Yes, J.K Rowling cries
With perils fraught
And Voldemort
Young Harry Potter dies


The Vectors in a field
The Vectors in a field
Though Vader tried
And Emperor cried
Young Yoda would not yield


My god, you’re such a nut!
My god, you’re such a nut!
You stupid shit
So full of it
You homosexual slut


I have berated you.
I have berated you.
You sit and read
With so much greed
What else was I to do?


The Music of the Night
The Music of the Night
I’m in a cave
And oh, so grave
I head towards the light

Dedicated to all my math teachers.


I wonder what it would be like to try
To punch my math professor in the eye.
To tear his hair out, beat him back and blue,
To maul his face and chop his limbs off, too.
To kick him then, with all the strength I've got,
Really hard, right on his you-know-what.
T'would serve him right, you know, it really would;
T'would really do us all a world of good.
And then no other prof. would ever say
To us, " Go memorize your formulae."


I'm really childish at times.

Once upon a time in bed
A boy woke up and spied
The girl he loved was wide awake
And lying by his side.


The night was cool and cloudless, this
He noted with surprise.
He turned t’wards her and saw the moon
Reflected in her eyes.


He closed her eyes and kissed them, and
He kissed her fingertips.
He kissed her cute, determined nose,
And kissed her on her lips.

He held her hand in his and said
“ I love you, don’t you see
That I’m the only one for you,
And you’re the one for me?


I love you true, you know it too,
Oh Sue! It’s meant to be.
You know it too, I know you do,
So will you marry me? ”


The girl, she did not say a word
But, by some private whim,
Pretended that she hadn’t heard
Or even noticed him.


He tried again, “ I love you Sue.
I swear to you I’ll try
To be the kind of man you want,
To be the perfect guy. ”


But still, the boy, he was ignored.
It seemed she did not care.
The boy, he sighed and stroked her cheek,
And stroked her long, black hair.


Although she was so mean and rude,
The boy did not berate her.
He told her, " You can take your time
To think, I’ll ask you later. "


He smiled at her, and lovingly
He bent and kissed her cheek.
But she, so proud and adamant
A girl, she did not speak.


He pulled the knife out of her neck,
And saw the wound was deep.
And so he kissed her lips again,
And then went back to sleep.

A little birdie came and said
A little voice inside my head
Once told me not to get alarmed
And quickly pleased and quickly charmed
I told you not to go away
But you don't care 'bout what I say
And though I try to help you find
Composure, peace and calm of mind
So let's play football, come with me
And let's go climb an apple tree
And eat the apple of your eye
You foolish girl, so quiet, shy
Away from all the trees you see
The rose you hold it holds a bee
Which stung me on my bulbous nose
And yet you hold and flaunt that rose
And hold my hand, go for a walk
I've got so much to tell you, talk
'Bout numbers, sets, ellipses, squares
Depression and 'bout worldly cares
And with a baseball bat I hit
You on your nose, your stupid shit
There on the road, please watch your step
My god, your boots, they look so hep
Just like the may-fly, buzz away
And bow your head, my friend and pray
That India plays her football well
And on that precious thought I dwell
Within a cave, in search of light
It's getting late, let's have a fight
And I'll be black and you be blue
Let's fight all night, and with your shoe
Let's drive away the creeps and crawls
That so infest your stomach walls
All lined with Villi, mucus too
And what was it you'd have me do?
A geek, a freak, a bathroom leak
So cute, so scrumptious and so chic
I'll tell you, pal, let's not go play
It's getting late, call it a day
Call it a night, or what you will
Or call it crap and tripe and swill
Or call it me or call it you
Have you got nothing else to do
Than call me names, let's bounce a ball
And maybe then some fruit will fall
And we shall eat it and be cursed
And we'll be learned and well-versed
In art and science, in style and class
12S, dude, which I did pass
Just barely, yet, I'm quite the threat
Of cholera in the village wells
And waxes, wanes, and quicklly swells
Just like a sty upon my eye
Oh give up now, don't even try
To comprehend this, well, you can't
And so my enemies shall plant
A bomb inside me and then blow
Me off to where I want to go.

A little birdie came and said
I took a gun and shot it dead.

For those of you who understand Math.



Axiomatic Mathematics
That’s the way it’s done.
The number 3 will simply be
A 1 + 1 + 1.

But should you want the number 4
Don’t fret, here’s what to do.
Just go ahead and multiply
(1 + 1) by 2.

And 2, my friend, is 1 + 1
And dot associates
And over +, it distributes
(it also commutates).

But (1 +1) dot (1 +1)
It equals 2 dot 2.
And there you see, I’m stuck again
I don’t know what to do.

Let’s try again - So 1 Dot Q
Is Q, because you see,
For dot in Z, the number 1
Is called Identity.

So Q dot (1 + 1) will be
Q + Q, you know.
‘Cos dot has distributed here
( a step I did not show)

Put (1 + 1) instead of Q
And look at what you’ve done
You’ve gone and added 1 + 1
Again to 1 + 1.

But 1 + 1 + 1 + 1
It equals 4, you see.
And after all that crap and tripe
You can say Q. E. D.

There is a glass of wine on the table. There is a cigarette, there is an ashtray. There is the rhythmic drip of a kitchen tap. There is a corpse on the floor. There is a gun in her hand. There's nothing else to say.


Why did she kill herself - you ask. Why was she unhappy? Why is she smiling? Who is she anyway?

Why would you think I'd know?



Stop disturbing me. I'm not interested. Not in the corpse, and definitely not in you. I'd much rather watch television. There's a soap on mothers and daughters in law. It's fascinating. You find yourself drawn into an intricate web of deceit, love, lust, greed and authentic Indian values. A real gut-wrenching, tear-jerker. Much more amusing than a stupid corpse (or, for that matter, you).


Kyon Ki Saans Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi

Chapter 1



I'd draw you a portrait, but you wouldn't be amused. It would bore you. You would yawn - and tell me to stop. I don't blame you: you cannot help being stupid.

She caught me by my hand, and dragged me there. She looked cute, and so, I let her. Besides, I wanted to see where this place was.

We reached a house. A big, brown, disgusting house, with a garden and a fence. The fence was painted black, with yellow speckles. The atmosphere was that of decadence. Of decadence and fear. I loved it.

I asked her how she knew about the house. She was to young, too immature. She was only 9 years old, goddammit.

She looked at me, and smiled. She seemed to think I was better off with my mouth shut.

I was about to enter the house, but she stopped me. She made me bend down, and kissed my cheek. Then, wishing me luck, she disappeared. I knew I'd see her again, of course, but I didn't want to. She makes me cry.

Chapter 2

I entered the house, and looked around. The house, I found, was quite familiar. It was as if I had been there before. Strange.

Somebody called out to me. A tall, handsome man, with shaggy, brown hair. He greeted me and asked me whether I remembered him. He said his name was Wolf.

I shook my head and said I didn't. I had never seen him before. He smiled and told me not to kid around. With nothing to lose, I decided to play along.

Aren't you - I asked - the guy I met in Kazakhstan? The corrupt witch-doctor who tried to cure himself of impotence?

He smiled and nodded his head. Encouraged, I went on - Aren't you the one whose mother was a striptease dancer in Siberia? I remember you quite well. I remember having raped your sister. I sold her to slave traders in the Bermuda Triangle. She became the President of the United States, didn't she?

He nodded his head vigorously. I knew you'd remember - he said. He was still smiling. He put his arm around my shoulder in a rather friendly way.

And aren't you - I persisted - the guy I killed last Friday? The guy whose head I chopped off? The guy whose body I burnt?

He nodded again - Yes, yes, we're old friends, you and I. It isn't possible that you don't remember me.

I pushed him away and ran for my life. He was weird.

Chapter 3

I ran through long, convoluted corridors. Then, tired, I stopped. I saw a lady walk towards me. She was tall, with dark hair and no lipstick. She stood in front of me. She smiled. I smiled. We smiled.

Hello - I said.

She smiled again, and smooched me. We smooched for about a minute. She then punched me in the jaw and stomach. Still smiling, she walked away. I didn't follow her.

Chapter 4

When I caught my breath, I opened the door nearest to me. It was a passage. It led to the garden. The garden led to a forest. The forest led nowhere. I went to the forest.

It began to rain. I was cold, tired, miserable and wet. I was hungry too.

I was in the forest for two days. Then, I saw the little girl. She wore a pink dress. I asked her to take me away. She just kissed me on my cheek, and disappeared.

I couldn't help crying. She always makes me cry.

These are what my shona drew for me. Well, consider yourselves blessed that you saw them (I know ... I know... I'm a kind and generous guy). And well, meow meow (to her, not to the lot of you).

I'm disappointed
Lightning has never struck me
Though I've tried so hard.

****

The day I went mad
I screamed for all to see and hear
But no one noticed.

***

The girl I loved, she
Spent her time with other men
Disregarding me.


So gorgeous that I
Did my best to take her in
She laughed at my face.

***

Red drops trickle down
Staining grimy fingertips
Seep into the ground.


Scars on gorgeous wrists
Hurt the ones who love them so
Foolish foolish child.


***

Insanity's hard
Madmen don't know how to cry
Don't know how to laugh.


***

The devil's my friend.
I help him and he helps me.
We don't need a god.


***

Shameless shameless child
Don't know why you write Haiku.
Bores the pants off me.

***

I entered warily. Thunder. The smell of burning rubber. The smell of rotting meat. The smell of my mum cooking.

I was a little boy - timid and hesitant. I was afraid. I picked up a tomato and stared at it. Maybe if I stared hard enough, I'd dissapear and reappear somewhere else. Somewhere nice. Somewhere safe. It didn't work.


I put the tomato down. Chop chop. Chop chop. Dabble dabble, toil and trouble. Fire burn; and couldron, bubble.

"Mom," I said, my voice shaking "I'm not hungry. May I please skip dinner?"

Her eyes were filled with tears. Suddenly, the story took a melodramatic turn, not unlike a crappy, television soap. She was weeping, and it was all my fault. "Okay, okay, I'll eat," I said, regretting it immediately. Because dinner, my uninterested friend, was served.


An hour later, chaos. Three hours later, silence. The silence of a hospital ward. Or maybe a morgue. I don't know. I was too disoriented to notice.
There was a lady standing beside me; pretty, blonde, and, by the looks of it, rich. She had a dusky, enchanting voice. "Come," she said "Let's make love." I smiled, and shook my head. "Let's not," I said "Let's just have hot, sweaty sex instead." And just as she was about to agree, just as she was about to expose her ... ahem ... nevermind. Well, just as she was about to expose them, she turned into a huge cutlet. My mum had made cutlets for dinner.


I woke up shivering. Ofcourse it was a dream. My mum doesn't cook that badly, you know.

I hear a tinkling, bell-like noise.
I wake up,
And SCREAM.


I hear her soothing, rhythmic voice
She tells me that it’s all a dream.


I wake up later, and she’s gone
She left me with a teddy bear.
I hold it, kiss it, cuddle it
I wring its neck,
And SCREAM.


She does not hear me, is she ill?
I cannot see her – look around
A purple mist flows off the ground,
Draping me
Caressing me
Making my eyes burn; and I
Cannot scream. I go sit down.


I shall wait until she comes.
How mean!
How cruel!
Leaving me all alone while I sit here raving ranting to myself with nothing to do and no one to see and no place to go incidentally I wonder whether you’ve noticed that cool silver orb floating towards me ever so slowly as if it were trying to fool me into believing it isn’t there which is so stupid I think because –
Oooooooh! What a pretty little yellow elephant!

Will you be my friend? We can go on amazing adventures, you know. No?

Nevermind. No thank you. I’ll still wait for her.

"H don't howl in iambic pentameter". Yeah right.

Oh the hurricane was howling,
And the sky was grump and scowling,
And the mist was out a-prowling,
On that cold and scary night.


And the lonely winds were shrieking,
And the dark, black clouds were leaking,
And the sky seemed to be speaking
Now, in dazzling bursts of light.


Oh the trees were all a-swaying,
And the villagers were praying,
For the night seemed to be saying,
That nobody would be spared.


And the priestesses were preaching,
With their priestly voices screeching,
And the village was beseeching
Gods who hardly ever cared.


And the children were all crying,
And the mothers, they were sighing
For the stormy nights were trying
times, as trying as can be.


And a lunatic was talking
to himself, and he was rocking
on a chair, and this was shocking
Since the lunatic was me.

Let’s write a little rhyme
‘Bout sex, and sin, and crime
Dishonesty and cheating
And violence and wife-beating
‘Bout cancer and ‘bout AIDs
And steely razor blades.

My god, it’s such a terrible bore
To write down things which I adore.

Ding Dong Bell
What’s that ghastly smell?
Well, what do you think?
It is the kitchen sink.
And I must tell you
It’s time to clean the loo.

This is the house that I possess
I’ve got to clean my ghastly mess.

One day we played at the beach.
My sister winked at a leech.
The leech was so happy,
It peed in its nappy,
And made my poor sister screech.

O, watch the fat boy dance
O, watch the fat boy dance
O, Sit and sigh and shut an eye and go into a trance.

Then hear the wedding bell
Then hear the wedding bell
The mournful ring, a curious thing, somebody’s gone to hell.

Let’s sing a little song
Let’s sing a little song
Let’s rant and rave, and misbehave, and curse out loud in Bong.

Let’s all go out for tea
Let’s all go out for tea
What I will do is poison you, before you poison me.

I’ve got a brand new car
I’ve got a brand new car
But Oh my gosh! It needs a wash. I’ll park it in my shower.

And is this bugging you?
Oh is this bugging you?
Then roll your eyes, and fantasize, ‘bout something better to do.

Of course, you could just leave
Of course, you could just leave
I’ll write some prose, and wipe my nose upon my new shirt sleeve.

I’m as mad as can be
I’m as mad as can be
I’m so insane, I lost my brain, or maybe it lost me.


This childish little rhyme
This childish little rhyme
I love so much, although it’s such a waste of all your time.

For those of you who don't know Pikachu (not the Pokemon, the other one), you missed something special.



Once upon a time in space,
Quite near the x-y plane
I came across a curve who was
So obviously insane.

A carefree, happy curve was he,
He spent both day and night
Plaguing math profs ‘round the world
And giving them a fright.

For when they thought they had him graphed
He’d suddenly inflect.
And being perverse, he’d turn around
And then self-intersect.

He’d go, hit on the circles and,
Seduce the kinky squares.
He’d try to touch his asymptotes
And feel their ordered pairs.

The profs at Harvard soon gave up
He drove them all to tears.
The profs at Brown claimed that he was
The sum of all their fears.

The profs at MIT (you know,
They’re such a cool, hep bunch!)
They tried and tried, and fail, and sighed
And then went out for lunch.

The profs at Caltech tried to hold
A small math convocation.
The profs at UPenn all gave up
In anger and frustration.

The profs at Yale are orderly,
they sat and tried in pairs.
The profs at Bhaggu … Nevermind
‘Cos no one really cares.


The math community at large
Was quite depressed and sad,
And claimed it never saw a curve
So misbehaved and mad.

But when I saw this curious curve
I smiled, because I knew
A creature who could help me out
And that was Pikachu.

And Pikachu approached the curve
And smiled his dreamy smile.
He blinked his eyes (which mesmerize)
And stood there for a while.

The curve, he seemed to be in shock
For he had never seen
A boy so clueless and so dumb,
And frankly, so obscene.

Then Pikachu began to speak,
His English gone awry.
In his ghastly Madu voice,
He asked him, “Vot’s up, bhai?”


The curve grew pale, he screamed to me
(His voice was filled with fear)
“I swear I’ll do the things you ask,
Just GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”

“I swear, I swear, I shall be good
And I shall go get graphed.
I will not be the way I was,
I swear I won’t be daft.


And ever since this incident
The curve was never bad.
He never freaked out on the graph,
He never acted mad.

So if your curve does misbehave
Don’t fret, here’s what to do:
Just go ahead and intersect
Your curve and Pikachu.

It’s six o’clock at Monadock
And they say all is well
We lead our life
In little hives
Towards a private hell

Sit there, talking to the ocean
Gazing wide-eyed at the sky
Angels dance on silver pinhead
Thoughts and reason gone awry

Shell-shocked hair; and eyes grow weary
Stubble itches, teeth decay
Face grows haggard. Told you, dearie
That’s the price you’ve got to pay

Think you’re smart, and so talented
Delusion seems to have a way
Of leading smiling sheep to slaughter
And that again is the price you pay

Creepy little good-for-nothing
So much ego, so much pride
I notice that you’re always smiling
Hiding scars so deep inside

What do you call a worthless someone
Who it does seem has no goal
Than weep and wail, than convulse with laughter
End up scarring his own soul?

I hope you have a nice day, reader
Go dream about the flowers and trees
And oceans, clouds and golden sunlight
Bleak, dark human miseries.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Where insipid dreams come true
A fairy-tale place, where you trusted me
And where I trusted you.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Where love is as it should be
Where I don't end up hurting you
And you stop hurting me.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Where all our dreams come true
You learn to stop deceiving me
And I, deceiving you.

Somewhere over the rainbow
Where days and nights are young
Where songs of pity, pride and pain
Are left unheard, unsung.

Somewhere over the rainbow
The sun, it dared to shine
And I did dare to sit by you
And hold your hand in mine.

Somewhere over the rainbow
A nightingale did trill
In pale moonlight, beside the lake
we sat, and time stood still.

Somewhere over the rainbow
I heard you laugh with glee
Tintinnabulation
Laughing there with me.

But this side of the rainbow
The world is bleak and bare
The night is dark; and cold; and long
My rainbow isn't there.

Oink was here. Again.

Oink was here.

Time stopped; frozen. As if trapped in amber: immobile; like a little insect.

She looked at me, and smiled.



Then, the music began to play. It was some orchestra, playing some classical piece, by some great composer or the other. The music was very faint and coy; as if not to invade my privacy. Reduced to barely a whisper, it died out.

She looked at me, and smiled.



I could see the play of light on the wooden walls. Glimmering; shimmering; while the fireplace roared. The pale, silver moonlight tricked in, and merged with the golden glow. A portrait of an admiral on the wall; looking regal and haughty - expecting me to admire him. I paid no attention.

She looked at me, and smiled.




Our hostess introduced her to me. A friend, she said, a very close friend. Our hostess’s voice, usually so nasal and annoying, didn’t seem to bother me.


She looked at me, and smiled.



I looked at her, smiled, and left the room. I was too afraid to say hello.

For reasons beyond my control (like laziness and ineptitude), I cannot complete the previous story. Hence, to those few who've actually read it: I apologise.

Anyway, ho hum.

Chapter 5


I was flush against the wall: my lips squeezed against it; my hands twisted behind my back. His head was just beside mine; I could smell his breath, and his red hair tickled my ears. My eyebrows were bleeding, and some of the blood seeped into my eyes. I could hear him breathe: long, deep breaths, like a raging bull. And just to irritate him, I laughed again.

"Don't laugh at me,'" he said, menacingly. "Don't ever laugh at me."

"Why not," I asked, still laughing. My mouth was cut too, and I could taste my blood. I was feeling faint, and my head was reeling.

"Don't EVER laugh at me. EVER," he repeated. He hit the wall with his right hand; cracking the plaster, and sending shock waves through my head.

"But Bill," I said, still laughing, but this time, softer," It's so hilarious to hear you sing. Just like Porky pig, you know. You've got quite a talent there."

I was finding it difficult to speak, or even laugh. My mouth was fast filling with blood, and it hurt like hell. I knew that I would faint in a minute or two. Still, there was no reason Bill should know this. Taunting him was so much fun!

"Come on, Bill! Sing again. Just this once. Pleeeease," I implored. "Just once, Bill, don't disappoint me, just this once. Sing anything. Sing ... sing Clementine. I've never heard Porky Pig sing Clementine."

The next thing I knew, my ears were ringing. My face was numb, and I couldn't feel my mouth. Bill had slapped me, and was now twisting my arm. I felt a searing pain in my arm, as the tendons finally gave way, and snapped. And as I felt my bone dislocate, I blacked out.



When I awoke, it was early morning. I was in a the jail hospital, and I could hear the wind whistle through the trees outside the window. And there, beside me, sat Bill, singing Clementine.

Chapter 4

"Get out."
I ignored this,of course, and began sweeping the floor."Get out," he said again,his voice growing menacing. I looked up at him, smiled and carried on with my work. He looked at me derisively and locked himself up in his bathroom. And he stayed there till I left. When I did, he slammed his door shut.
That was Bill, and little did I know that he was glad to see me.

The next day, he was standing at the door; his massive arms barring my way. "The room is clean," he said, "You are not needed." I looked inside and, indeed, the room was clean. I turned away, and began walking down the stairs.

"Come back in."

I turned around and looked at him. He looked like a stubborn child, who knew it but wouldn't admit he was wrong. He asked me, very grudgingly, to sit down. It was quite funny, actually, the way he was behaving. I began laughing, and this seemed to offend him. He got up, took a step forward - as if he were going to hit me - and then, suddenly,stopped. " Get out. Get out of here," he screamed. As I walked out, I heard him fuming. He didn't eat his dinner that day.

I never met him the next day. When I came to clean his room, I found that he had locked himself in the bathroom. He seemed to hate me and, for some unknown reason, was not eating as well. But I met him the day after that - the day he broke my arm.

Chapter 3


Wait. I have been extremely careless; I apologize. I am Antonio; janitor, philosopher, psychopath. I work at the Illinois state prison, or rather, used to. A janitor’s job here, is a perilous one. Your superiors insult you, your colleagues are either retards or bastards (and sometimes both). And the inmates, well, the less said the better.

But things went quite smoothly for me, you know. On my first day, while I was cleaning the toilets, three inmates sneaked up behind me. One held a knife in his hand. I smiled at them; I’m a polite guy; and continued working. Suddenly, I found the knife placed, not so delicately, at my throat. Also, strangely, they had twisted my arm behind my back. Evidently they wanted something. I asked them what. They didn’t answer. Since I was getting late, I had work to do, I lunged forward and the knife got wedged in my throat. I kicked one of them in the groin, banged his head against the commode,breaking his skull. The others ran must have run away, because at that moment, I fainted.

When I awoke, I was in the prison hospital. The knife hadn’t pieced my windpipe, but nevertheless, had left a nasty scar. In a few weeks, I resumed my job. The warden thought that I’d sue, but I didn’t. However, I found that everybody was afraid of me. Nobody would speak, or even be in the same room as me. I didn’t mind, of course. They were a bunch of losers anyway.

But Bill was different, and I found this out the day the warden knocked on my door. He was a fat, semi-bald man, our warden. He smelt of stale cigars and cheap cologne. He had a thick moustache which he adored. It was rumored that it was a fake. He had large, watery eyes which, at that moment, looked uneasily about the room. He noticed that I was writing down something. “Ahem,” he said. I looked at him, and raised an eyebrow. “Your duties have been changed. From tomorrow, you will only tend to Bill's cell."
" You have also been awarded a pay raise,” he added hastily. He looked at me, as if expecting me to refuse, or protest. I grunted, and returned to my writing. He waited a while, and left.

Meanwhile, in his cell, Bill was smiling to himself.

He was a monster, and his name was Bill. He was huge, with large bulging muscles, and red, wavy hair. His eyes were cold and heartless, and his lips would curl sardonically. He looked intimidating, and hardly ever spoke. Everybody hated him, and everybody feared him. Everybody, except me.

At first, I was completely indifferent towards Bill. I didn't care whether he was a fiend; whether he sang or not; or whether he even existed. I knew all about him, of course. Rumour flies quite quickly here. They said that he was an assasin, and perhaps, was the best there was. But unlike other assasins, Bill didn't kill men or women. No, he killed children. The only son of the sultan of Dhabi, the daughter of a rich swiss buisnessman, the 6 month old baby of an aristrocrat in Prussia, and George Bush senior's imbecellic little boy, George Bush junior - he had killed them all. This was why Joe, and the rest of them, hated him. To kill men and women, to rob, to sabotage, to sell fire-arms, all this was acceptable. Even rape was not frowned upon. But killing innocent children - well, only a sick bastard would do to that.

And apart from being sick, Bill was also extremely violent Yesterday, he had broke the arm of a janitor who had gone to clean his cell. The day before, he had broken the nose of an inmate who, it seems, had looked at him disrespectfully. He was now kept in isolation, and made funny faces at the people who delivered his food. His was due to be hanged in a week, and yet he engages in the most childish trivialties. Hmm... perhaps he was mad.

But Bill's mental condition was not my concern. I had other pressing problems; like the warden standng just outside my door.

Chapter 1


"He's a monster!" said Joe, vehemently. "He's a remorseless, inhuman fiend. I feel ashamed to be the same building as him. If I ever see him, I swear to god, I'll kill him."

That was Joseph Conrad, the most famous illegal ammunitions dealer in Europe. He's blonde, with dark black eyes; and very tall and muscular. He looked around menacingly, as if daring anybody to disagree.

"And you know what?" squeaked Tim, "Last night, I woke up and heard him singing! Has he no conscience? Has he no shame?! Anybody else would have committed suicide a long time ago."

Timothy Jacobs; a quiet, frail accountant. Tim had always been a bit of a pushover. He's very timid and very insecure. His wife, Lorna, was a gorgon. And you know how it is with these hen-pecked husbands. They don't complain, don't argue, don't raise their voices, until, one fine day, they pull the trigger. And everybody understood why Tim killed Lorna. Everybody sympathized with him. What they didn't understand was why he killed her father, her mother, her sister, and the postman.

" I say that we all boycott him," said Joe. The rest of them nodded affirmatively. " No one will touch, speak or even look at him. If I find that somebody has disobeyed me ..." He glared at them and walked away. Everybody else followed shortly, whispering to one another.

Soon, the hall was empty, except for the janitor, sitting beside the window. He was smiling.

Her eyes were wide with fear. She was trembling. Cold beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. She backed away from him hastily, and stumbled on a chair.

"Jack! Honey!" she gasped, "We can work things out!"

She looked into his cold, emotionless eyes. "No, we can't," said Jack, very matter-of-factly. In his right hand was a large butcher's knife.

She tried again. "Jack! Don't! I'm sorry Jack, I really am. I promise to do anything you tell me, anything! If........... If you want me to go away, I will. I'll go away and never see you again. Please, Jack, please!"

Jack shook his head calmly. He gave her a wry little smile and blinked his eyes. He then took a step forward.

"Jack!" Susan was hyserical now. Her wide eyes darted around the room, looking for a way out. "The Police .......The Police will arrest and hang you. You cannot escape. Aren't you afraid?!"

"No," said Jack simply. She looked into his calm, blue eyes and realised that he wasn't. And with the knife in his hand, he lunged forward.


Ten minutes later, Susan was shoving her clothes hurridly into a large suitcase. She was filled with relief, but shivered occasionally : she was nervous.
"Thank you, thank you Jack. I swear I'll never see you again. I'll ...... I'll go far, far away. Asia, or someplace. You'll never see me again, I promise."

Jack was sitting on a chair; a smile on his face, and the knife wedged in his throat.

Lots and lots of tea. A cool, windy evening; eight people engaged in conversation. And beside them, sitting on a windowsill, a little boy watching the clouds. A little girl walks up to him, and looks at the shapes.

A dog changing into a snake changing into a dinosaur changing into an elephant changing into a shark changing into a fish. A half eaten fish, floating in the sky. A mermaid, with long flowing hair, reaching out to catch a ball. The hand of god, holding a pile of cotton. A shark chasing a ball. A peacock, no, a phoenix spreading its wings.

The little boy is sad, the clouds are gone. The wind has stopped blowing.

Obituary



The psycho guy regrets to inform you of the sad demise of Feanaro. Feanaro was, as you might know, the other contributor to this site. He was last seen whispering sweet nothings into his sweetheart’s ears. One can’t blame him, actually, because she does have very pretty ears. What puzzles one, however, is the fact that, ever since I.S.C. , he was unable to post on this site. Very strange.

Well, unlike conventional obituaries, you shall not be given his biography. But let this be known, Feanaro was a romantic. He was perpetually in and out of love. One can imagine him as Romeo, wooing his fair Juliet on a cool, full moon night. One can imagine him as Don Juan, kissing the hand of his señorita passionately. One can imagine him as a middle aged Bong dad, taking his wife and 5 children ( Monglu, Chimpu, Rinku, Promesh and Pinki respectively) to the zoo on a Sunday morning. One cannot imagine him sitting down to write something.

The problem with romantics is that they tend to get obsessed. Feanaro was obsessed too. He seldom thought about anything except the pretty girl he was dating. So hypnotic were her eyes, that he saw little else. So beautiful was her face, that nothing else, including the blogsite, seemed to matter. One does not hold this against him, though. One understands that love makes people do stupid things. And so, with a heavy heart, one puts him out of his misery.

So long, farewell, auf weidersehen goodbye.

Ladies and gentlemen, do you believe in magic? Well, I'm about to introduce you a magician who will take your breath away. He is Mr. Joel Delano (check the link to his blogsite). Go enjoy.
And while you're at it, check out what Mr. Delano posted on August 31, 2005; I think it's wonderful.

Corn fields. Many, many corn fields. And a little boy in one of them. He is asleep; dressed in an old, torn shirt and faded jeans. He is thin, and perhaps malnourished. There is a yo-yo in his left hand. His legs are full of mosquito bites. He twists and turns in his sleep while the crickets chirp irritatingly.

Another boy; another place. A pond, this time. A dark and dirty pond, filled with weeds. He stands at the water’s edge, hesitant. Then, on an impulse, he dives in. The cold water hits him, followed by a nauseating smell. His feet get entangled in the weeds. Something brushes past his left foot, something slimy. A fish, perhaps; or maybe a snake. He swims towards the centre of the pond, gasping for breath.

A quiet little room. The sunlight streams in through the open window. It reflects off an ugly vase and falls on her hand. She is sitting by a piano, preparing herself to play. She smiles and presses the first key. Then the second. Then the third. Soon we find her playing quite fluently. There is no music in the piano. Its strings have been removed. It stands there like a carcass. A crow sits on the window sill and begins to caw. We hear the sound of little children, playing in the other room.






Wish you were here.

My monkey and I are the best of friends. We’ve spent many mornings looking out of the window, making faces at strangers. We’ve spent many afternoons scaring away stray dogs, and throwing pebbles in the pond. We’ve spent many a night looking at stars, wondering if anybody’s looking down on us. We do everything together……….. well, almost everything.

My monkey, who doesn’t have a name, is half as tall as I am. He’s half as old as I am. He’s half as handsome as well. We spend most of our free time throwing fruits at each other; fruits which don’t squash easily. We used to ride my bicycle, but he broke it. His tail was always getting caught in the wheels.

The village cricket team hates me. They call me names and say hurtful things about my parents. I try to avoid them as much as I can, but they always bully me. I think that they’re jealous of me. They want a monkey just like mine.

My monkey brushes its teeth more than I do mine. He loves his toothbrush and is very possessive about it. He hates washing his face, though. And he hates having a bath. People say that he stinks, but I’ve never noticed that. He always smells of lemon to me. That strong, and deeply intoxicating smell.

My cousins love my monkey. They play with him whenever they can. The little one even pulls his tail, but he doesn’t mind. I do feel possessive about him sometimes, but I can’t help that, can I? My monkey and I are the best of friends, but I wish I had a pet duck instead.

No one cares, no one cares
Go dry your tears, you horrid child.
And comb your hair, and wash your face
And brush your teeth and tie your lace
And go sit down, for all to see
A mannequin, a Christmas tree.


And smile, and laugh and sell your wares.
And shut your eyes, so manic, wild.
It frightens those who we adore
And makes them hate you all the more.
You can’t rebel, ‘cos you’re too young
You’ll die alone, unheard, unsung.


If only you were one of us.
If only you could see
You’d be so good, we know you would
Alas! T’will never be.

And so we have to stop you now
And this is what we’ll do
We’ll watch and smile, and in a while
We’ll go dismantle you.

He sat in his rocking chair; listening to music. His eyes were shut, and on his face was a smile of pure ecstasy. It was Mozart's Requiem, his favorite. As the music reached its crescendo, almost shivering with delight, he pressed the red button in front of him. The music stopped, and the explosions began.

Through his windows, he could see the buildings explode. The schools, the hospitals, the police stations; all momentary infernos and then piles of charred rubble. The advantage of a huge window was that he could see it all.

Then, the houses began to explode; one by one. The chain of explosions was like a symphony by some great master. So much energy! Music to his ears.

When the last explosion died out, he looked at the village with a gleeful smile. Carnage! Pure Carnage! Of course, some people would escape. He knew that. "In fact," he thought, as he looked at the mutilated bodies, "There'd be no fun if they didn't."

He took a sniper rifle and scanned the village with its scope. He noticed a lady, half buried in rubble, trying to get out. With meticulous care, he aimed for the spot just between her eyes. Then, he decided against it. He shot her in the throat, and yelped with glee as the blood spurted out. He saw a little girl running. She looked very afraid. He shot her in the leg and, as she fell down, shot her in the head. He just adored target practice!

Half an hour later, he was walking the streets of the village; or what was left of them. He had, in his hand, a Desert Eagle. He looked around and saw a little girl approaching him. She was no more than eleven years old; but she looked quite mature for her age. She was afraid, but did her best to hide it. She was fair, with blue eyes, and her face was covered with dust. She looked extremely tired. Doing her best to hold back her tears, she asked him for help. Her parents, she said, were injured in the blasts and needed help. He looked at her, smiled reassuringly, put the gun to her temple, and shot thrice. He smiled to see her tears, now free, make runnels on her dusty cheeks. He was about to go kill her parents as well, when suddenly...................

"Goooood morning, Mr. Peterson. And how are we today?"

He saw the nurse enter, with a smile on her face. She knew he couldn't answer; and yet, every single morning, she asked him the same damn question. Stupid Bitch! He watched her fiddle with his respirator and the various gadgets keeping him alive.

"I'm going now, Mr. Peterson. If you need me, just press the bell next to your left hand."

Stupid Bitch! Knowing full well that he couldn't, knowing full well that he was completely paralyzed, she insisted on taunting him like this every single day. He gave her a venomous look, full of pure hatred.
Someday ............................

He controlled his rage, and shut his eyes. He went back to his world; a more beautiful world. The world of Carnage.

Changes.
Deal with it.
Cannot.
Will not.
Why?

Decision.
Really?!
Take it.
Fake it.
Let it be.

Wake up and smell the coffee,
You’ve been asleep all night.
Wake up and see
Your destiny
Wake up and scream with fright.

They say that you refuse to bend.
That you refuse to change.
You can be sure
That we can cure
An anomaly, so strange.

And if you still refuse to bend
And think you can stand tall
We’ll make you ache
And then we’ll break
Your spine, and make you crawl.

And time, it changes everything
You cannot run or hide
One day you’ll see
Unknowingly
You’ve already changed inside.

I CANNOT GET WHY YOU’RE SO SMUG
WHY ARE YOU SO HELL-BENT
ON SPOILING WHAT
YOU HAVEN’T GOT
BY BEING SO CONFIDENT?

The Garden of Eden lies in disuse. The beautiful flowers, which once delighted Eve, are now withered. The birds and beasts, which once lived in harmony, now prey on each other. Even The Forbidden Tree (the tree of Knowledge) is rotting. Its leaves have lost their sheen. Its fruits no longer tempt. Every once in a while, Satan visits the tree and sighs with nostalgia. Those were the good old days……..

In one corner of the garden, lies a little chapel. It is surrounded by weeds and thorny creepers and dreadful flowers that eat insects. Its walls are white marble, and its windows are frosted glass. And inside, on a marble slab, Yahweh is sound asleep. The whinging voices of countless priests (praying for peace and prosperity in their congregation; and suitable punishment for atheists) fails to awaken him. The urging voices of hundreds of selfish people praying for some favour, and the quiet prayers of the selfless few, have no effect on him. He is as indifferent to the bellows of the drunkard (praying for whiskey) as he is to the melodious voice of a terminally ill girl (praying for world peace). The numerous thanks sent to him; by the people who, in the course of their miserable lives, have got what they wanted; go unacknowledged. He sleeps silently and peacefully, just like a baby. After all, he did work for six days. What more do they expect of him?

The hyenas cackle, in the Garden of Eden, while the lion preys on the mouse. The Satan sits in the shade of The Forbidden Tree, watching it die. While the Satan weeps, and Yahweh sleeps, the air acquires a characteristic smell. The smell of decayed piety.

Sit and cry
Sit and cry
I hear her pray
I watch her die
“O praise the lord!
The lord be blessed!”
She will not stop
She is possessed.
No reason and
No sound advice
Can ever hope
To exorcise
Her of her foolish
Blind belief,
The self imposed
and silent grief.

The mirror shatters,
curtains tear
And as the chorus
sings its hymns
And as her reason
slowly dims,
Her blessed soul
So pious, pure
(But so afraid
And insecure)
It cries out loud
In song and praise
Raises its voice
Lowers its gaze
It uses prayer
Like LSD
'Cos prayer, like drugs
Can set you free.

And drugs can make you
Feel secure
Secure and warm
Warm and content
But then you find
That you have spent
All of your time
In self abuse
And then you cry
And sigh and bruise

And prayer, like drugs,
Demands a price
And god demands
a sacrifice
Are you so daft,
Are you so dense
To sacrifice
Intelligence?

The church bell rings


And then it stops
I sit here speaking
To a corpse.

For a moment, imagine that I am not Alexander Paupoff. Imagine that I am an English Detective, trying to solve this mystery. This is how I would think –“There are four people in the store. Of these, the owner of the store cannot be the murderer. He is an eighty year old man, and so he is too old to murder anybody. The little girl is too young to handle a gun and so she cannot be the murderer either. Mrs. Putt is a lady; and everybody knows that old Englishwomen cannot shoot. They would, if they had to, poison people to death. And so, strangely, I am the prime suspect and most probably the murderer as well.”

Hah!

But I, Alexander Paupoff, shall approach things differently.

Perhaps it was a “hate crime”. A hate crime is typically a jealous old Englishwoman murdering her unfaithful husband. Or a bookstore owner murdering his partner who had cheated him. Or a little girl murdering someone she hated. But then, why would the murderer steal the copse’s money?

This, of course, assumes that the deceased did have some money. It is highly improbable that someone murdered Monsieur Roberts for the money he carried. The gunshot on the head was quite accurate, and no thief would go through the trouble to get such a good shot. Therefore I conclude that Mr. Roberts was indeed, as the Americans put it, broke!

Though I digress, I must comment again on the shoes worn by the corpse. They were expensive and well maintained. Experience has led me to believe that most people who maintain their shoes so well are professionals. So the deceased was most probably a professional of some sort.

I made up my mind to search for more clues. I was trying to find the gun which the murderer used. It was, most probably, hidden somewhere in the stall. A person smart enough to leave no clues wouldn’t be foolish enough to carry the weapon on their person.
And so, while the delectable Mrs. Putt was busy telling everyone to stay in the shop, I began looking.

By the time I was done, I had, in my hands, two guns. Both had silencers but only one had been fired recently.

This gun, I found behind a curtain. The murderer knew the way the retarded English Police thinks. No English policeman would have looked behind a curtain. They would have torn the place apart; ravaged the bookshelves; and wouldn’t have stopped short of burning the store down. But they would never ever have searched behind the curtains. That’s just how foolish they are.

The second gun was hardly concealed. In fact, I saw it sticking out. It had been placed between two books, as if someone intended to use it later. Aha! The plot thickens!

With the weapon, there was a chance that I might have got some fingerprints as well. To check this, I needed some powder (the kind that ladies apply on their faces). Therefore, I needed the help of Mrs. Putt.

I went back and stood by the corpse, waiting for her to finish a telephone conversation. When she had finished, I approached her gingerly. I bowed and introduced myself; we French are always courteous, even to people who don’t like us. And besides, I quite liked Mrs. Putt; she had very intelligent eyes.

“Excuse me, mademoiselle, but may I request a favour of you.”

She looked at me and pursed her lips. Her look could freeze water; she was intent on being hostile.

“It isn’t much, just a little favour. I require some…….how shall I say……, powder. Yes, I require some powder from you.”

“No.”

She refused instantly. I wonder why. I also found myself wondering whether she was curious about why I needed the powder. And what did she hide behind her back so hastily? Was she hiding a clue, perhaps? Or some evidence against her?

Just then, the little girl began reading a book out aloud. Oui….these English; they are most uncultured.

Chapter 1

This would never have happened in France. In France, the people are cultured. Unlike these English, we have principles. In France, you would never find a dead body in a bookstore.

I hate London, and I hate its people. They make things so ………. so inconvenient! Like Mr. Haverstone; whom I had come to meet, all the way from France. Like Miss. Shearsworth; the hotel manager who winks at me. Like the owner of the bookstore; who hadn’t heard about Albert Camus. Like Mr. Kirk Roberts; whose body I found in the bookstore.

Dead bodies tell you a lot. Some even scream and shout in their silence. But one must be accustomed to hearing them. One must know how to converse with them. But the police here, they are like brutes. Savages. They treat dead bodies (and foreigners) as if they were unimportant! That is why I was glad that the police had not arrived. I wanted to listen to the corpse; to hear its side of the story. I, Alexander Paupoff, am quite adept at this.

This was the quietest body I had ever met. Almost shy and introverted. It had hardly anything to tell me. It had a card with the name “Kirk Roberts” printed on it. In its pocket, it had no wallet; neither did it have any money. Its shoes, however, were shiny and new. And on the back of its head was a small hole, the size of a bullet.

There were four people in the store (no one had left after I had entered), including the owner of the store. Since I wasn’t the murderer (this, I was sure of), I had three immediate suspects. And one of them discovered the body as soon as I did.

She was an old lady, around fifty years old. Her name, I learned later, was Mrs. Putt. She looked proud and haughty, like most old Englishwomen. But, unlike them, she looked intelligent. Her eyes, which were blue, looked at me as if she were assessing me. As if I were a problem and she was deciding which way she should solve me. Her look seemed to suggest that no matter how difficult a problem I thought I was, she knew that she could solve me. She was, therefore, my prime suspect.

The lack of clues pointed towards a smart criminal. But Alexander Paupoff is smarter than any English murderer. Jack the Ripper would have been apprehended, I assure you, had I been on the case. And so I went about my job with the kind of efficiency which would put any English detective to shame. But first, I took out my lunch box and began eating my sandwiches. Murders make me hungry, you see. And besides, they were smoked ham and tuna sandwiches.

There was a little boy who was sixteen years old. This boy (thin, lanky and quite ugly) decided to do things differently. He said, “Well, honestly, I think I’ll let the rest of the world go hang.” And he did.
There were repercussions; grave repercussions. His studies suffered (to the horror of his parents) and so did his popularity. In the school he studied in, nearly everybody was popular. Those who weren’t were considered geeks and nerds. Well, he became a geek. He did what he pleased, and loved it. He read like a maniac and wrote petty little rhymes. In time, his rhymes became longer and, perhaps, better. He nearly failed his subjects, and ended up doing pretty badly at his ISC examination.

No college would accept him. What he did for a living, we don’t know. All we know is that it wasn’t enough. He was poor, and poverty entitles starvation. He gradually starved. He lost all his books and all his belongings. Worse still, most of his classmates ended up quite well off. But he was happy. He wrote his stupid rhymes on scraps of paper, and had fun. One day, when food got too elusive, he committed suicide on the railway tracks.

Note that this story is devoid of all the pathos of poverty. That’s because I hate melodrama.

Well, I think that such a life is worth living. That at least it is interesting and original (which cannot be said for most of the lives my peers are planning to lead).
The Imp disagrees.
What do you think?

Here are five ways of identifying Madus.

1] The guy has at least one i-pod (or a really expensive diskman).
2] He has watched “Kaal”, “Zehar”, and “Rang de Basanti” at least twice.
3] He’s seen “Sarkar” and thinks that it’s as good as The Godfather.
4] He loves throwing eggs at people (a strange fetish, I know).
5] And he’s read all the Harry Potter books so far.

Notice that I don’t speak about female Madus (though such creatures might exist), but that’s because I don’t know many females. However, my association with these Madus has brought to my notice a strange relation. Madus love J.K. Rowling.

One wonders why this is. Why J.K. Rowling? Why not Enid Blyton, or Issac Assimov? Why not, for that matter, Tolkein? To understand why Madus adore Harry Potter, one must understand the way the Madu mind works (if it works at all). Towards this, we ask a more basic question – “Why do Madus read?”

Most of us read for pleasure, and in order to stimulate our minds. Most Bongs read to get a 99% in their board exams. Most Surds and most Anglo- Indians don’t read at all. But Madus, aahhhh! Madus are interesting. They read for dinner conversation. And lunch conversation. And bar room conversation, and (the hot favourite) cell phone conversation. In fact, these conversations are what their lives revolve around.

Mrs. Singhania is never happier than when she and Mrs. Chopra discuss literature. This seems strange. Mrs. Singhania, who spends most of her time watching soap operas made by Ekta Kapoor, does not have the mental capacity to comprehend literature. Mrs. Chopra suffers from the same disease. So their discussions largely comprise of naming books on the bestsellers list.

“Listen na, did you read the new, latest recent Harry Potter book. I must tell you, Mrs Chopra, it was amazing. The story is about this small boy who does magic. Yaaaaah! He really does real magic. And he lives with such wicked people na, I nearly cried. Bunty bought the book.
*She smiles lovingly at the thought of her bratty Madu kid*
Bunty reads so much, you know. Bunty read all Harry Potter’s books. I tell him, ‘Beta, go and play Beyblade like your friends’ and he tells me that his friends are also reading the same book! I let him read, of course. Otherwise when his friends talk about it, he will have to keep quiet. But the books are Vunderfull! All the dragons (chipkali type things) and magicians are Vunderfull!”

It isn’t strange, therefore, that Bunty grows up to become the average girl-crazed, i-pod totting, Yamaha riding Madu; a kid with loads to spend but nothing to buy. You’ll never catch Bunty in a library (unless it’s a DVD library) or in a good bookstore often. You’ll never find him walking in a park, or smelling a flower. Bunty, like all his predecessors, has become comfortably dumb. And so he shall remain. Hence he reads only bestsellers (The Da Vinci Code – another typical Madu owned book).
And this, ladies and gentlemen, explains why Madus love J.K.Rowling. Apart from being a simple, stupid and boring fiasco, the Harry Potter series is also famous (thanks to foolish Britons) and hence the Madus love it. They would have loved Tolkein as well, because of the three movies, but they don’t. I’ll bet they think (and I agree with them on this) that it’s too boring.

And there you have it. The Madu mindset. One wonders whether they should be pitied, or quarantined.

I’m in daddy’s arms now; and everything is all right. He carries me as if I were a baby. I no longer feel fat and awkward. I feel special. My eyes are closed; I feel his warm breath on my cheeks. His hands feel my forehead: checking to see whether I have a fever. I do. 102 degrees. I hear him sigh; he is concerned.

He puts me down on the bed and covers me. He then caresses my forehead. I feel his strong hands on my head; reassuring me. I don’t mind the fever; in fact, I like having fever. I love the attention, the warmth and love. I still don’t open my eyes; afraid that I’ll spoil this wonderful moment.

I hear mother’s concerned voice. She isn’t angry; she isn’t ashamed of me. She’s just worried. She loves me. If this is the effect that my fever has on her; why then, I love the fever even more! She sits beside me, and puts her hand on mine. A simple gesture of affection; where was it all these years? Who cares? As long this lasts, I’m content.

Mother has gone to get a thermometer. Daddy is still beside me. My eyes remain shut. I have this overwhelming urge to tell them how much I love them. I forgive them for ignoring me all these years. I forgive all those cruelties, the insensitivities. All that matters is that they love me, and I love them. Life will be better now.

I open my eyes and tell them how much I love them. The thermometer slips from her hand; the glass breaks, the mercury splatters; I wake up.

I’m alone in my room. My parents are sleeping, somewhere. I lie in my bed, shivering. I have a fever. 102 degrees. I swallow two Crocins and go to bed. Life won’t get any better.

I looked into its eyes, and it looked into mine. Neither of us said a word. I stood there, staring; glaring; overbearing. It sat there eating an apple. I think it was smiling.

“I’m way better than you; way more superior.” I hadn’t spoken, my looks said it all.
I had to show it who was boss.

“No, you’re not! You little wimp! Where do you get your delusions of grandeur?” its eyes replied.

“Come, come. You can’t possibly deny that I’m smarter, can you? I can do things you can’t even dream of. Ever try to graph an ellipse? How ‘bout a quadratic function? Know what the Contra positive of a statement is? Of course not, dumbass.”

“Ha Ha! How many poems have you memorised? Two? Three? Ha!
Ever read “The Curious Incident Of The Dog In Night time”? How ‘bout all of Sartre, Evelyn Waugh (Brideshead Revisited, especially), hmmm? Read those? Or have you read only “Hardy Boys” and “Nancy Drew” and “Goosebumps” and “Fear Street”? Hmmm …”

“Ever see me write? Read my (ahem) magnificent poems, my wonderful pieces of prose? You see, I am a true intellectual. In fact, I’m also a mean, warped up psychopath. I’ll bet you don’t even have the guts to be half the person I am.”

“Mean? Warped up? You little wimp, you’re actually a nice guy. Under all that gore and slime lies a sweet, cute little boy. Haha! That hurt, didn’t it? Ha! Oh, and by the way, what you call guts I call lack, chum.”

“You’re lying, of course. There isn’t any sweet, nice guy. And he definitely isn’t cute. Also, you can see me, can’t you? I look like a psychotic genius. I don’t care about my looks. While other guys are busy patronising Kaya Skin Clinic and VLCC, I spend my time reading Chekov. See?
Oh, and by the way, don’t ever call me ‘chum’ again.”

“Of course I’m lying! And it’s such a pity you ignore your immensely good looks, isn’t it? You’re so handsome. You’re so intellectual. Wow! You’re god’s gift to mankind. Hah! Get real.
The only reason you ignore your good looks is that you don’t have any. You’re way beyond Kaya’s scope. In fact, you don’t look like a psychotic genius. You look like a serial killer and rapist (and kidnapper).
Face it; even if you did take care of your looks, you still would have ended up looking like you do. A warthog’s ass.
Too bad. Chum.”

Ouch!

I threw a spoon at it, conceding defeat. It smiled victoriously and scampered away. I had just been ousted by a monkey.

The sun had set an hour ago.
The moon refused to shine.
The withering trees
Swayed in the breeze
The air, it smelled divine.

And on a tree, an adamant bird
Deciding it would sing
Cleared its throat
Released a note
And tried to call on Spring.

The cruel, callous, vicious fog
Deciding this should cease
Went on a spree
And killed the tree
And made the birdie freeze.

A little flower that saw all this
Was quite beset by gloom
It wept and cried
And shrunk and died
Never more to bloom.

A brown dog lay beside the road
And wheezed and coughed up blood.
Discarded pet
Or social threat?
It lay there in the mud.

A madman sang a lonely song
And then began to weep.
Like all wise seers
He dried his tears
And promptly went to sleep.

The cruel fog, it spread around
The village where I stay.
With frozen breaths
And cattle deaths
The place turned dull and grey.

I feel the comfortable numbness of my fingers,
As I softly touch the skin on my cold pale cheeks,
Wet recently by warm, salty tears.

I hear you laugh, and you’re happy.
I claw you down
And you cry for the pain I feel.

You suffer for my foolish, irrational ways.
I don’t know how I controlled you
I’ve snatched your laughter away.

With every mistake I surely must be learning,
But I look at the world and I notice it’s turning
And you’re still standing here chained to me.

I don’t know how no one told you for whom to unfold you’re love.
I don’t know how you were diverted,
You were inverted and no one alerted you.

I look at you now
I see the laughter that is sleeping,
And it’s why I’m still weeping.

The Princess

Run and hide
Run and hide
I smell a corpse
Someone just died.

The women wailed
Fëanáro cried
The Princess smelled Formaldehyde
And in his grave, so deep and wide,
The Psycho guy got lost inside.

It was a long and weary ride
And yet he did his best and tried
To warn them ‘bout the way he is
And ‘bout what his name implied

So bring carnations, lilies too
And presents, well, and what have you
Got to say, what do you feel
‘Bout this cool little funeral deal?

And all you psychos just like him
So smart and sharp and yet so dim
He laughs out loud and one last time
He snaps in verse and snaps in rhyme.

So stay for the funeral, have a blast
He sure will, ‘cos it’s his last
And now he leaves and now he flies,
He disappears before your eyes.

You can’t find him, please don’t try
He wasn’t there, t’was just a lie.

A ball of fire, raging yet,
So gentle, meek and mild
Insensitive, and cynical
Yet like a little child

So haughty and graceful, she
Was as regal as could be
And still had manners plain and sweet
A sheepish smile, and clumsy feet.

So brilliant, smart and snappy
Her skin, so bright and fair
Her clothes mismatched, her slippers torn
Her shell-shocked, unkempt hair.

Her voice so sweet, melodious
She sang just like a bird
But when she spoke, I thought her thoughts
Were foolish and absurd.

She loved me, no she hated me
No! Wait! She did not know.
Maybe she did, but god knows why
She did not let it show.

But who is she, this paradox?
Does she exist, and why
Is it that I cannot find her?
Why do I even try?

And I shall name her Pandora
The scourge of all mankind
And she exists, I know she does
In the darkness of my mind.

I’ve been a soldier for five years now. But, strangely enough, I’ve never seen a war. I have, however, seen some strange things happen, and such strange things are also scary.

Tom Wilkins was a good soldier. Unfortunately, he was a weirdo as well. A thin, lanky, weak twit; prone to shyness (in fact, almost an introvert). People often wonder why he was allowed into the army. “He’s clearly,” they’d say, “too weak, mentally and physically.” What they didn’t know was that Tom was the best shooter we ever saw. With a gun in his hand, he was invincible. He once shot a walnut out of the mouth of a Major General; he was thirty feet away. We were real lucky that he was on our side.
Unfortunately, Tom had a problem. Two problems, actually. Ned Johnson and Peter Horth.

Ned was a true blue soldier. A real asshole, a vulgar braggart and a sexually frustrated dickhead. The type the army thrives on. His friend (lap dog, actually) was Peter. Ned, and Peter, loved to bother Tom, to make his life hell. They’d abuse him, hide (or destroy) his clothes, steal his gun, and even (one Sunday morning) poison his food with gun powder!
The fact that they were thrice his size helped. They also hit him, but only occasionally. They were afraid he’d blow their brains out.

Unfortunately, Tom revered shooting. He’d never use a rifle to exterminate scum like them. What he did use was a meat hook (the sharp, jagged kind). Peter was found hanging from the ceiling, his neck slit. His face looked serene, and there was a cigar in his mouth.

It was strange that we didn’t apprehend Tom. We waited for Ned to die. And he did. He was found in the gym, his wrist, neck, arms, legs and tongue slashed with a meat cleaver. On his eyes was a pair of Ray Ban glasses. Later, they found that one of his eyeballs was missing. It was in his pocket.

We apprehended Tom, of course. Although he did plead guilty (with a lot of pride, the weird freak), the rest of us felt guilty. It was as if we had wanted the other murder to take place, we didn’t prevent it. None of us, however, was man enough to take a punishment for this. Tom Wilkins stood alone, and we respected him for it. Unfortunately, our respect wasn’t worth much. It was sad, really.

But what is sadder still, is that I’ve never seen war. I’ve always fantasised about being in a war. I’d go, fight, and earn so much renown, save my fellow soldiers from the jaws of death. Alas, my dreams lie shattered. I can never see a war, never have seen one. And it’s going to remain this way. In a few minutes, the warden will come; his grim and pale face will have a smile. He will lead me to the compound and have me shot. Have me executed. I never got to see a war.

-Tom Wilkins.