the PSYCHO guy

2008-09-07T21:38:00.000+05:30

The Psycho Guy is dead.

Go away.

2007-12-24T15:54:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-08-08T21:27:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-08-05T19:55:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-07-24T11:59:00.000+05:30

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

2007-07-12T22:52:00.001+05:30

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.

2007-07-12T22:01:00.001+05:30

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.

2007-06-24T15:16:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-05-11T19:02:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-04-07T18:49:00.000+05:30

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

2007-03-02T14:30:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-02-13T19:01:00.000+05:30

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).

2007-02-11T20:09:00.000+05:30

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.

***

2007-02-05T18:43:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-01-12T21:17:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-01-06T22:23:00.001+05:30

"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.

2007-01-02T23:10:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-01-02T23:09:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-01-02T22:59:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-01-02T22:48:00.000+05:30

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.

2007-01-01T21:07:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-12-19T11:08:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-12-16T16:07:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-12-12T18:11:00.000+05:30

Oink was here. Again.

2006-12-03T18:53:00.000+05:30

Oink was here.

2006-11-22T08:08:00.000+05:30

2006-11-22T07:58:00.000+05:30

2006-11-13T07:35:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-11-13T06:34:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-09-13T13:00:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-06-30T12:33:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-06-25T19:09:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-06-24T11:07:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-06-20T20:02:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-06-06T18:50:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-05-13T22:53:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-05-04T22:23:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-05-04T16:17:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-05-01T19:18:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-04-30T15:40:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-04-17T22:08:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-03-27T15:24:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-03-19T21:24:00.000+05:30

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?

2006-03-19T02:07:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-03-12T11:43:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-02-15T00:23:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-02-10T20:34:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-02-06T15:43:00.000+05:30

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?

2006-02-06T15:33:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-02-03T19:33:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-02-03T19:24:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-02-01T21:09:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-01-26T17:46:00.000+05:30

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

2006-01-25T17:42:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-01-22T11:36:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-01-22T11:34:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-01-22T00:55:00.000+05:30

The night was dark and scary, yet
The boy was not afraid.
And as his tears ran down his cheeks
His mandolin he played.

And as he sat and wept and prayed
The racket filled the sky.
He went on playing the mandolin
And asked the question “Why?”.

She came out of the deep grey mist
With unkempt face and hair
When she tapped him on his shoulder
She gave him quite a scare

She came and stood in front of him
And took his mandolin
And with a smile ever so sweet
Broke it on his noggin.

Having killed the cacophony
With pride and joy, she leapt.
She went home and got into bed,
And peacefully, she slept.

The boy lay there, totally dazed,
Thinking of the last bang.
He wondered how, she struck the chords,
Made a musical “twang!”.

He went to the place, everyday
Waiting, impatiently.
A single question on his mind,
“Will you please tutor me?”

2006-01-21T10:52:00.000+05:30

The Boy and I stand outside school. We wait for the Princess and the Imp. They're late, as usual. When they do arrive, the Imp has to leave in a hurry. She always leaves in a hurry.
The Princess, however, can stay. I smile at her, but she doesn't notice. She always smiles at the Boy first. Perhaps his smile is better than mine. Then the Princess speaks to me.

I have come to believe that I'm really good conversation. Perhaps this is because I'm so smart. I'll bet, however, that speaking to me so much bores the Princess. But what can she do? She can't speak to the Boy, can she? The Boy hardly says anything except "I don't know".

Ask him if he wants coffee.
"I don't know."
Ask him if he can meet us tomorrow.
" I don't know."
Ask him how his day was.
" I don't know. Good, I guess."

The reason why she speaks to me is that there are somethings that I do know. What the Boy does not notice is that, most of the time, we speak about him. Does he not know why; is he as dumb as I think he is?

And then I snap.
The Lady Lazarus once called me " a bleeding bastard. A snivelling skunk". I agree. And because I am so, I snap at and be mean to everybody (especially the Boy). But I am mean to the Princess, Mordiah, Lady Lazarus, my classmates, everyone I know, and myself. That's just how I am. The Boy knew this two years ago; he has no right to complain now.

But the Boy is sad because the Princess snaps at him. Of course she snaps! That's because he infuriates her with his I-Don't-Knows. With his inability to take decisions. His inability to take charge. And besides, the Princess is a semi psychopath herself. Didn't he know this?

But today the Boy said something hurting.
He said " sorry for not properly playing the role of the puppy that the she will kick when the psycho’s around , and pet when he’s not."

This angered me a lot. In fact, I'm so angry that I'm going to stop speaking generally, and speak to him personally.

Youi dumb Bastard! Choothiyar Bal, Asshole, What the fuck is wrong with you! Instead of cherishing the affection you get (Which is a lot, I must say) you fucking write something like that. If you can't take decisions, can't be smart, cannot know what you want; the least you can do is count your blessings. The reason I'm so pissed is that if I wern't so mad, so stupid, so paranoid; If I wern't who I am; I'd kill (or die) for the affection and love you get. If you cannot recognise that, then you deserve to cry yourself to sleep every night. Bastard.

2006-01-20T23:37:00.000+05:30

Wait outside. Wait for the imp and the princess. The psycho waits with me. Why do I wait ? Really, what’s the point? The princess will come, give me a benevolent smile, and then talk to the psycho. The imp will be there, and we’ll say hi to each other. We’ve been friends for years, and yet she lies. She lies about who she is, or rather, isn’t. Everyday there’s more and more proof on the site that they are one and the same. I don’t know whether to blindly believe, or to question. The psycho will turn and say something mean. I’ll take it with a smile. The princess will want in on the action, and will say something even meaner. A sadistic game of who can be meaner. Her words, because they’re her words, cut to the core. The psycho will say “ Snaaap.” And the princess will giggle. I’ll probably take that as well; without a retort, and make up my mind not to say anything at all. The imp will leave. The three of us will start walking. The psycho and the princess will keep being mean, telling me how dumb and stupid I am, (compared to them). I will still keep shut, and swallow the sadness and anger. Suddenly the princess will get concerned, and ask why I’m not saying anything; she will explain how that if she is happy, everyone should be happy. The psycho will agree vehemently. I’ll try to explain that I have my moods, but when they don’t agree, I’ll try to ask permission to be in a bad mood. The princess will proclaim that she is now depressed and wants to go home; she’ll start walking towards a cab. The psycho will give me a look that a raping child murderer deserves. I will again swallow my anger, my hurt, and my pride, no matter how hard it is. I’ll say sorry to the princess, sorry for being myself , sorry for showing emotion, sorry for not properly playing the role of the puppy that the she will kick when the psycho’s around , and pet when he’s not.
The princess will return, and their conversation will ensue. We’ll reach the princess’ house. She’ll go home. The psycho and I will walk to the bus stop, chatting normally. I’ll catch my bus and come home. I’ll eat and go to my room, and tell my servant to wake me up in two hours.
I’ll go and lie down, and all the hurt and anger will come out, as tears on my pillow.

2006-01-18T01:07:00.000+05:30

The boy sits down in the middle of the night,
Thinking and wondering, about what to write.

The works of the Psycho Guy and the Lady,
Makes him feel insufficient and shady.

Their lines and rhymes are constructed by magic,
But he wonders why the stuff is so tragic.

He knows these people, at least the first for sure,
And he wonders why they are so insecure.

He thinks he is the Psycho’s best compadre
And he wonders why the Guy worships Sartre.

Poems about mandolins and hearts breaking,
These poets like to show how much they’re aching.

So much sadness and pain, these pieces contain,
He reads the pieces and sighs “No, not again.”

The Psycho Guy claims proudly to be insane,
But it’s quite sad really, he’s just mundane.

The boy doesn’t understand why they’re so sad.
But a small piece of advice, try to be glad.

Rabbits will run, guns and knives will end your pain,
Be glad and laugh at nothing, then you’re insane.

2006-01-16T22:25:00.000+05:30

The night was dark and scary, yet
The boy was not afraid.
And as his tears ran down his cheeks
His mandolin he played.

And as he sat and wept and prayed
The music filled the sky
He stopped. He broke the mandolin
And heard the music die.

“It isn’t worth it anyway,
My dull and wretched life.
The time has come to end it all.”
He whispered to his knife.

He thought about which vein to slit.
About which way to die.
Just then, he smelled her sweet perfume
Just then, he heard her sigh.

He saw her there, a pretty lass
Just as old as he.
Her light brown hair, it brushed his cheeks
As she sat by his knee.

He heard her speak and comfort him
She said, “It’s all all right.”
And she sat there, petting his hand
And saw him through the night.

Soon his grief, it turned to joy.
He felt he was reborn
She cured him of his bitterness
Of helplessness and scorn.

The night had past, and with the sun
The birds came out to sing.
And life was great and cheerful now
There was no suffering.

He looked around, but she had gone
And so he waited there
But alas! She never came
His heart filled with despair.

And life was hard and horrid now
A loathsome task to do.
And with each painful, passing day
His grief and sorrow grew.

He could not bear the misery
He knew he could not cope
And yet he could not kill himself
All he did was hope.

He hoped and prayed, and prayed and hoped
And still she did not come
He knew not why; he hated this
Ghastly conundrum.

And so it was that he was doomed
To lead so sad a life
His only sin: on that dark night
He did not use his knife.

2006-01-12T23:07:00.000+05:30

Run, rabbit, run
Go dig that hole
Hide from the sun
And when your lonesome days are done
You shall peek out and meet someone

And in her sweet, round eyes you’ll see
The pain, the grief, the misery
The weary masks
And loathsome tasks
That she did do, and why.
You see a teardrop in her eye

Her lips, they quiver when she speaks
And tears, they stain her pale white cheeks
And then, you won’t know what to do.
In your sleep you see her eyes
You shut your ears; but hear her cries
And still you won’t know what to do.

And then it is that you decide
to help, and feel all warm inside.
But wait! But No! You foolish child!
How can you help? What can you say?
Can you ignore your feet of clay?
But feet of clay aren’t all that bad
They are in vogue, the latest fad
Disillusionment and Hate
Blame it all on god and fate.

You wish to scream and shout out loud
You find yourself part of a crowd
Of people; plain; so boring; sane
You only wish that you could see
A vision of pure insanity.

Too late, chum. You can’t. Too bad
But don’t you feel relieved and glad
you left that hole and lived your life?
So don’t complain, and don’t regret
You cannot think, so just forget
That you were mad; don’t let it show
So just forget, and let it go.

And so I say (for heaven’s sake!
The decision is yours to take!)
“Run, rabbit, run
Go dig that hole
Hide from the sun
And when your lonesome days are done
Please use a Noose; a Blade; a Gun.”

2006-01-12T23:02:00.000+05:30

To say, “I woke up that morning with a feeling of apprehension” would be to lie. Who would have guessed that a day so cold, so annoyingly depressing, could actually get worse. Strangely enough, it did.

I reached school with twenty minutes to spare. My mind was blissfully blank. It was a twenty mark paper, and I didn’t know a thing. This was not a strange feeling. Not many people know this, but I am a man of faith. And I had faith that something would turn up.

Midway through the exam, I decided that I didn’t like sitting idle. Of course, staring at the boy beside you and making him squirm (while occasionally winking, to freak him out some more) is never boring. It does, however, tend to get a little bit monotonous. And so I began imitating whatever dissections the boy opposite me was doing.
Some hasty reader might jump to the conclusion that I was cheating. That I, like those retards who steal the credit for work they haven’t done, was actually cheating.
No no no, you foolish person, I was merely entertaining myself; I had no ulterior motive. Honest.

Unfortunately, I ended up dissecting the wrong flower. This meant that I got a zero in that section. Oh well! At least I was entertained.

When the teacher was nowhere near, I decided to get entertained again. So I asked the boy sitting opposite me ( named Sabyasachi) the answers to the questions. Again, I must stress that this was not cheating. I resent anybody jumping to such absurd conclusions.

So, as I was saying, I asked him for the answers. Strangely, he ignored me. I tried again; and again, no reply. I asked him a third time, but he was virtually deaf. When I raised my voice, ever so slightly, he looked up with a venomous glance and said, “Shut up!”

I thought that this was rude, and told him so. He ignored again! And so I did what anyone would have done in my place. I filled his enzyme sample with iodine, costing him five marks.

Later, when he began to tell me the answers, I took them down. I had nothing better to do at the time. Little did I know that that snake, that low down and treacherous back stabber, fed me the wrong answers. I was unaccustomed to the underhanded tricks played by scum such as he, and so I believed him.

When I was looking through another classmate’s answers (admiring his handwriting, of course!), I noticed that my answers were wrong. It was too late to correct them; but not too late to make sure that the root sample which Sabyasachi dissected disappeared. And so, with the root sample in my pocket and a smile on my face, I left the bio lab. It wasn’t until five minutes later that I remembered I had forgotten to answer one section. Ouch! Ten marks. Oh well, such things happen and one must learn to cope.

Sabyasachi looked distraught. When I handed him his root sample, his face grew red and he became incoherent. He was saying something like, “………….youbastard,IlostTENMARKSyoustupidprick……….” or something. When I told him that I had lost ten marks, he said “ Serves you right” with so much hate in his voice. Some people can be so vicious!

Some other classmates were discussing the paper. They said that it was too easy, that any idiot could have gotten full marks. I ignored them, of course. One must never believe rumours. But I realised that I had learnt a lot from this exam. And what I learnt, I can never forget. It was this knowledge that made me recall the question that was plaguing me throughout the practicals. The question was, “Why oh why did I not take Humanities?”

2006-01-09T11:48:00.000+05:30

For those of you (I mean the only three people who read my blogs) who were zapped by the last post, thank you. At least you tried to read it (which is more than what most people do with the work on this site). Well, for effect (and 'cos I lack), most of the previous blog was typed in a dark shade. So highlight the non yellow parts of the blog and read it. And tell me how you liked the highlighted effect.

2006-01-08T22:16:00.000+05:30

A little boy got lost inside a room within my head
Two years ago I left him there; I thought that he was dead.

He was afraid: a room like this he’d never seen before.
So full of gloom, that dank dark room; it didn’t have a door.

He begged and cursed and pleaded me, “Oh please! Don’t take me there.”
He asked me, “Please! I’m on my knees!” I said I didn’t care.

And in that room he yelled and screamed and shrieked and wept and cried.
I heard him pray; I walked away; and left him there inside.

He tried to find a ray of light; there were no rays to find.
For he was bound by fear profound; the poison in my mind.

But then today, I heard him laugh; he laughed hysterically
A smile did grace his cold hard face; he rubbed his hands with glee.

For he had found a ray of light; his happiness; his joy
So warm and bright, a brilliant sight; this ray he called “The Boy”.

And then he found another ray, and this he called “The Kid”
He loved the way this ray would play; he loved what this ray did.

And then I heard him laugh some more, for now he found a flame
Its golden glow was regal so the “Princess” was its name.

And with the rays and flame he tried to cast his pain aside.
He dried his tears, dispelled his fears; and laughed and never cried.

The golden flame and those two rays were what I tried to find
I tried to look in every nook and cranny of my mind.

I had to put that bright flame out; I had to block the light
The little boy must feel no joy; he should feel no delight.

But though I tried my very best, my dark endeavour failed
The rays and flame, they overcame my will; and they prevailed.

And there, defeated, I did lie; I asked the little boy
“Why did my mind not help me find the sources of your joy?”

And in his face I saw my own, when he looked up and said
“They’re in a tomb, a dank dark room; a room within my head.”

2006-01-06T22:48:00.000+05:30

The Travelling Psychopath

Day 1

It was night.

Life hates me. The fates constantly strive to make me sad and depressed. Most of the time, they’re successful.

It is a crime. To make an eighteen year old spend New Year’s Eve on the cold, hard floor of Howrah station is nothing short of criminal. But here I am, waiting for a train which is two hours late. I miss the Boy, the Kid, and the Princess. I think of them and sigh. What I would not give to see the Boy laugh, to see the Kid’s embarrassed face (as we speak of kittens) and to hear the Princess say “Hi!”

Oh well, this too shall pass.

Day 2

New Year’s Day

I hate my life.

After bribing the Ticket Checker, Dad managed to get three berths in an A.C Second Class compartment. The train stopped at Kharagpore for ten minutes. I tried to find an S.T.D booth. I just had to call the Princess; to hear her voice; to hear her voice; to wish her. Alas! There were no booths nearby. Dejected, I get back into the train. Malicious fate again.

The Bihari in the berth near mine was snoring. His fat belly wobbles; his bushy white moustache twitches. I cannot help staring at his stomach – that huge lump of wobbling jelly. He stirs in his sleep and half opens his eyes. He sees me look at his stomach and, wonder of wonders, blushes coyly! Yikes! What’s going on?! I quickly shut my book and pretend to sleep.

The sun rises. I awake. The person in the berth opposite mine is reading a book. You can tell a lot about a person by the books he reads. He is reading “Tough times never last; but tough people do”. He is, therefore, a wimp.

Throughout the day, Dad and the Bihari speak about the government. The Bihari tries to monopolise the conversation, but Dad’s no amateur. The wimp nods his head wisely, keeping his mouth firmly shut. To escape this hypocrisy, I read the book I had bought for the Imp. Alas! It depresses me more.

Presently, putting the book down, I see the Bihari looking at me. He rubs his belly and chuckles! My God! I’ve got to get out of here!

Day 3

Bangalore

I hate this place. I feel so insecure, so lonely. This is a rare feeling.

Nothing exciting happened in Bangalore. Boring relatives, boring meetings, in short, it was boring.
My only source of pleasure is the telephone conversations I have with the Princess (while Nasht Karo-ing my Paisa).

Day 4

The day I fell in love.

Went to Brigade Road today. Bought some candy for the Princess. Bought her a book as well. This was the book I fell in love with. “Jonathan Livingstone Seagull” by Richard Bach. Giving her this book meant something; hope she gets the message.

Bought another book for the Imp. I don’t know why. Perhaps because intelligence should be appreciated.

Didn’t buy anything for the Boy. The day he finds out what he wants; I’ll try to get it for him. For now he remains, as always, confused.

Day 5

I cannot stop laughing.

I find myself in a train, on my way back to Calcutta. The women near me are part of the Bengali intelligentsia. Or so they think.

They discuss Education and Marriage and Bollywood and Employment and ……..
Typical of Bongs, they discuss everything under the sun. Their conversation is too good
to miss, and so I shall quote some of their sentences verbatim.

“My sister wants Rani (Mukherjee) to marry Abhishek (Bachchan) .”

“Preei (Zinta) is not a good girl. She looks very innocent, but …..”

“ Rekha has ‘khoob baje’ luck. Whoever she is married, that person is died.”

“ Karishma (Kapoor) is a foolish girl, marrying not an Abhishek but a business man.”

“When we were young, we learnt and played; but now, computer games and all, ‘ ooh Baba! Ki baje’.”

“Now my Hindi become very worse.”

“People coming from interior places will be habituated with Hindi.”

“Ambulance or something was going on.”

Well, that was that. The Travelling Psychopath is now finito.

2006-01-06T01:12:00.000+05:30

I sit under a banyan tree
Writing his biography
He isn’t dead, but soon will be
I don’t know where to start.

When was he born? Well I don’t know
And was he rich? It didn’t show
But when I met him, years ago
He seemed to be quite smart.

He had a certain way with words
He seemed to love to watch the birds
And speak of math, like other nerds
He didn’t give a damn.

He could debate, he could refute
He also loved to elocute
And though this does not follow suite
He also was a ham.

He loved to watch the moon at night
He loved her glow, her gentle light
Although this sounds so very trite
He was a psycho guy.

He loved the sight of his own face
At any time and any place
He was so vain, so very base
But mirrors never lie.

Did I hate him? I cannot say
Who likes psychos anyway?
That sadist hurts me every day
Why can he not just die?

And when he dies, no one will weep
No one will fret, or lose their sleep
As he had sown, so will he reap
I’m sure I will not cry.

2006-01-06T00:00:00.000+05:30

And in that tower, so dark and damp
A boy stood there and cried.
Eleven years they cheated him
Eleven years they lied.

And as he stood, handcuffed and chained
He heard his chains go “clink”
For he had sinned horrendously
For he had dared to think.

His other crimes, his other sins
His ego and his pride
The joy he felt when he achieved
The joy he could not hide.

He heard a voice, so harsh and cold
So full of hate and spite
His teacher’s voice, he recognised
Was so cliché and trite.

“Eleven years, you little twerp
I taught you every day
And yet you are so insolent
And yet you disobey.

You were a child; I played you down
I made you insecure
I drained away your confidence
I made you feel unsure.

You tried to fly, I clipped your wings
I tied your feet as well,
And when you tried, I laughed and laughed
And made sure that you fell.

It should have worked, my master plan
But you tried to rebel
But I caught on, and now you see
I’ll make you live through hell!!

But wait! But Wait! Surrender now
And I will let you go
Just promise that you will not fly
Or learn or try to Know.”

The boy gave in, what could he do?
He knew he could not fight.
And if he tried, he couldn’t win
Perhaps teacher was right.

And then he lived just like the rest
Like them he knew no joy.
And then, with time, he would become
An Ordinary Boy.

His brain rebelled, and then one day
It just shut down and died
This made no difference anyway
For he had lost his pride.

2006-01-05T13:28:00.000+05:30

A game of chess is in progress. An eleven year old boy versus a nine year old girl. The boy is nerdy looking, with disheveled hair, and tends to stare at the board. The girl has a plain and mischievous face, and speaks as if she were a baby.

"Mate in five," the girl declares proudly.

"No," says the boy, still staring at the board. " I can escape."

"Hmmm......,"she thinks for a while, and then "But wait! In seven moves I can pin your Rook, forcing mate in another three."

The boy thinks furiously and shakes shakes his head again. "I'll just sacrifice a Pawn, and then fork your Bishop and Queen. Playing that won't help you. However......... In twelve moves, with Ng6, you can mate me. I can't escape."

She considers this, looks up, smiles and nods. They shake hands; she has just won the game.

What they did was nothing short of phenomenal! Twelve moves, each having an average of three variations. WOW!! 3^12 possibilities in under five minutes! The boy was elated! He was so pleased that he could die.

The girl, on the other hand, was happy. It was nice, winning another match. It wasn't as though she particularly enjoyed playing, but she liked winning anyway. Since the age of two, she was coached at chess by her father. She hardly did anything else. And now she could win most of her games. Winning was nice.

The boy pitied her. Although she was talented, she didn't enjoy what she did. That was sad.

"Have you memorized a game?"
This was the voice of their teacher. The boy asks him, yet again, "Why do we have to memorize games?"

"Bobby Fischer and all the great masters learnt that way" is the answer.

"Did they know why they memorized games?"

"Why is that important?"

The boy is exasperated. He shakes his head. "No, I didn't memorize the games."

A cruel smile creeps over the teacher's face. "You lost to her, didn't you?"

"Yes," the boy answers, surprised.

"Do you know why?"

" No."

"Because she does her homework and memorizes her games and you don't."

The boy did not know many abuses. Of those he did know , Son Of A Bitch was the worst. Therefore he says," You Son Of A Bitch! You stupid, stupid Son Of A Bitch! You're supposed to teach me chess, not this shit! Memorize games. You don't care about the game, only the results matter to you you Son Of A Bitch."

A few seconds of silence and one tight slap later, the boy walks away from the Chess Academy; his face red and his eyes watering. He vows never to return to that hell-hole again. He tells his parents that going to the Academy from their new house, in some village somewhere, would be too much of a trouble. They buy the excuse.

In a room, in that Academy, the girl memorizes yet another game; much to the delight of her father and teacher.

Seven years have passed.

The boy notices her walking on the road. They recognize each other. She is a national level player now: she might even become an International Master. He remains, still, obscure.
He has seen those eyes before. They are like the eyes of many of his classmates. Boys who don't like what they study, and yet end up with high scores. Boys who study, yet never learn. They spend their lives pleasing other people.
The boy smiles pityingly.

The girl smiles pityingly as well. She has seen people like him before. Losers, has-beens, talented people who threw it all away. They who could have been Winners, but didn't make it.

Without a word to each other, they walk on by. And life goes on.

2006-01-02T19:00:00.000+05:30

Date: 1st January 2006.

The princess sits down to write something. She hasn’t written for so long that it becomes a craving that she cannot resist. The princess sighs. She wants to write so much, but writing takes so much time, and time is something that princess cannot spare. Yet however, the princess gives in. This will probably result in the losing of twenty marks in her forthcoming examinations, but that cannot be helped.
The princess smiles. She’s actually refilled her ink pen to mark the occasion of her writing once more [this has resulted in the blackening of the princess’s fingertips, but that does not matter]. She also smiles at the fact that she’s calling herself the princess. It is the name the psycho guy gave her. She remembers how she felt when the psycho guy first called her that. She felt this sense of happiness; and such a warm feeling inside that seemed to rush through her chest to her face, making her cheeks warm; a shy coyness that made her lower her gaze; and a smile rose to her lips that she couldn’t stop. Of course, her humility made her protest weakly at being given this name, but the psycho guy just brushed that away. She tries hard not to be vain by letting herself be called the princess but she really can’t help herself. She simply loves being called the princess. Every time she calls herself that, or the psycho guy calls her that, it elates her. It makes her stop, smile uncontrollably, take deeper breaths, a flush rushes to her face, and she actually stops for a moment to savour the happiness and the joy of being alive, and loved. Loved you wonder? She wonders too. She’s not sure, but it feels right to say that, to feel that.
She smiles again [she’s smiling too much already, but she feels happy to be so happy for once]. The princess loves the psycho guy. He’s such a darling. She doesn’t know what she’d do without him. She’s already missing him terribly. She hasn’t talked to him the whole day. He is necessary for her good health. But what cannot be cured must be endured. The princess clings onto a tiny ray of hope that the psycho guy will call her in the evening. Yes, it would be good to talk to him. It would make her happy.
The princess thinks about why she likes the psycho guy so much. He tells her that she should think about her friends or she will end up with friends like Rajarshree. That’s scary. But still. The princess does not want to think. The princess doesn’t like thinking. It gives her fever. But she can’t help thinking too much for her own good. Thinking makes her sad and depressed most of the time. But she can’t stop all the thoughts from constantly flowing through her mind. So she writes now to unburden herself. Most of the time she discovers and explores her feelings while she is writing, and that accounts for all the rubbish along with the few worthwhile lines. He princess apologizes for this, but decides not to change her style, as the princess truly wants this to be a portrayal of her feelings and thoughts, so it must be like this. For all the suffering you must endure [for having to plough through the rubbish], she is truly sorry.
So, going back to thinking about the psycho guy, she decides she likes him because he is someone who is, at least in her eyes, comfortable with who he is, and not afraid to show it. He also understands the princess and indulges her all the time. Yes, that’s why the princess loves the psycho guy. The are not many people who really know the princess, or when they know her accept her for who she is with all her quirks and indulge her [and the quirks] as is they were actually all right. Yes, the princess has always missed that sort of ‘unconditional’ acceptance and indulgence. She has always longed for it. And the psycho guy has given all that to her; not as if it were a favour, but as it was his honour. There are truly no conditions attached. He makes her feel loved.
The princess’s mind flits back to a conversation two days ago.
“…Please, please write something for me. Nobody ever writes anything for me.”
“Awwww…so sad. No.”
Barking laughter and then,
“That’s so mean, oh my God! I thought you were going to say you would after you said so sad like that. Oh my God! Really.”
A girlish laughter ensues,
“I’m just me, get over it.”
But the princess couldn’t help herself after the psycho guy had asked. She loves the psycho guy too much already. And she thought that there wasn’t a better way to show her love, appreciation and thankfulness toward the psycho guy than this. [She decides that she will pray again tonight to thank the Lord.] And this was really all she could give to ensure that the psycho guy had the best start to a new year amongst the last eighteen ones of his life – the Jean Paul Satre and a burden of a few [no actually too many] words that she’s truly meant from the bottom of the heart.

P.S – the psycho guy says that he’s ‘horribly nice’, but you know what – the princess is still nicer.

2005-12-30T10:40:00.000+05:30

And there I lie, on a rickety bed in a little room, in some hotel somewhere. The room is dark, with just one red table lamp. The windows are shut, the curtains are drawn. I heard someone enter the room. This person is a man, or a woman or just confused; I didn’t care.

I feel a large, fleshy hand stroke my cheek. I don’t move. I see a pair of drunk, lecherous eyes. A cruel, filthy smile. I shut my eyes, and clench my jaw. I feel those hands feel me, feel me everywhere. …………everywhere…………..everywhere.............everywhere.

I am repulsed. I wish I could defend myself. I wish I could get up, take an axe and cut those hands off, pierce those eyes and rip that face apart!

I wish I could wish this away. Wish that I were alone in some field, somewhere beautiful. I wish I could hear the birds twitter, smell the sweet lilies and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. I wish I could feel the cool waters of a lake, see myself in it and laugh like I’ve never laughed before………….I wish……………

The hands have finished what they started, the beast has gone. Discarded, I lie there like some …… some….thing. Repulsive and repulsed.

What would I do now? Should I commit suicide? Should I pretend nothing ever happened? Or should I take the money those hands had left on the bed, and walk away? What should I do? ………………I don’t know………..

Why has this happened to me? What did I do to deserve this? I cannot say.
But I.S.C is just months away. I have to study. And this is how it feels.

2005-12-30T00:32:00.000+05:30

You wanna pick up a nine
And blow your brains out
Cos the pain’s in your brain
An’ you wanna blow the pain out.

But you
Took a decision
It was the wrong thing to do
But it felt so right
An’ to run, try you might
But you’re gonna fight it thru.

And you think it’ll stay the same
And you think it’s just a game
But that’s the problem with feelings
They’re gonna send you reeling.

( Psycho, please don't lecture on metre and feet, this one moves to rhythm and beat {kind of}. )

2005-12-27T22:36:00.000+05:30

Another poem by the Princess.

Vampire Poem 2

Part 1

The sound of soft footfalls on the steps,
And a flicker of fruitless hope flamed in her heart again.
But they faded
A soft sigh left her lips,
And her eyes dimmed once more.

She looked at herself in the mirror and mockingly smiled,
That she was moved to smile at all.
A cascade of ebony brushed her shoulder,
Oh! what a shoulder
The golden hue of sheaves of wheat in summer.
Her bitter chocolate eyes smouldered with passion.
How many would give all to touch that velvet skin
So many,
But................................
And her eyes dimmed once more.

* *

Part 2

Peals of playful laughter filled the air,
Like a raptured fruit, overflowing.
Green and blue, his sharp eyes twinkled,
And a smile sparkled upon her face.

" I'm never happier than when I'm with you," she said, flushed with joy
" I'll try to be there always, my beautiful girl,
I just seem to be disappointing you in so many ways," he said, a shadow across his face
" You'll never disappoint me," she whispered lovingly.

With a secret smile upon his face,
He pulled her into a warm embrace,
" I love you," he quietly said.
" And I love you too."

* *

Part 3

Her heart longed for him,
And her eyes looked far away,
Envisaging a place where she was eternally in his warm embrace,
Locked within a deep kiss.
Where she could look into his loving eyes,
Thinking of what it would be like to be with him,
To touch him,
To.........................

The glass slipped, crashing onto the floor,
Shattering into a thousand pieces.
And as she watched the blood, her wine spill.
Dipping her finger into the deep, red liquid,
She licked it off.

He had done this to her.
Her Sire.
But she had loved him so much,
And she loved him still,
And her eyes dimmed once more.

* *

Part 4

The sands of time was the desert between them,
He loved her,
And she loved him more.
They were so different, and yet, so deep in love.
She was young, beautiful,
A darling fawn in a sprightly dance.
He was older, he was graver,
He had played the game of Life,
And Death
A little more.

But the chaos in his life
Left that emptiness in hers.
He couldn't be there for her enough
But she had loved him so much,
She loved him still
And her eyes dimmed once more.

* *

Part 5

"Why are you doing this to me??"
Her piercing shriek was like a whipcrack through the air.
Her eyes were red with crying.
She was in despair.
" Please don't leave me like this,
Don't let go."

She slit her wrists in pain,
But no blood flowed out.
All was in vain.
" I'd rather die than live without you,
But I am in this cage."
And she cried,and cried, and cried.

Then suddenly once her eyes burned alive,
And she flew into a rage.
" I don't need you, " she screamed out.
" I don't need you at all
I can live without you,
I hate you so much."
And her eyes dimmed once more.

* *

Part 6

The streets were bathed in moonlight.
A soft swish of a cloak here,
A glimpse of a silken glove there,
Treading in her dark, velvet boots she was out a hunting;
To have a little fun.

A chattering voice she heard
He was the only one.
She smirked.
The tall, dark, handsome sort,
Rather pleased with himself,
Yes, his blood will be hers.
She moved in for the kill,
Till,
Stunned, she stopped,
For this is what she heard:

" Yes, I think she's falling in love with me, I quite like her too. The problem is, I barely have any time for her. I can't decide what to do. But I don't think I should tell her no. It's really okay. It doesn't matter. I'll have a good time anyway. I won't tell her no."

Then what she'd suppressed for months
Welled up, swelled up,
Her mask shattered,
All torn and battered
In her blaze of rage,
Swift as a shadow,
She stood before him
Looking at him with her pitiless eyes she whispered
" She deserves better than you."

Then deep into him her fangs she sunk,
And drained him of his blood.
Barely living he lay on the cold, grey stone
Shivering, fear in his eyes, white as bone.
In a fit of wrath, her dagger she did unsheath,
And stabbed him, and slashed him,
Relishing his every scream.
Till a pool of blood he lay,
Dipping her finger in the deep, red liquid,
She licked it off.

He had done this to her,
Her sire.
But she had loved him so much,
She loved him still,
And her eyes dimmed once more.

* *

Part 7

Slipping back into her room that night
Try what she might ,
She thought she could never be at peace.
Looking out into the deep blue sky
Gazing, she realised
She could never stop loving him.

She had been a fool to even try
For we can never stop loving those we have once loved;
The memories remain.
She might have said she hated him,
She might have said she didn't care
She might have said he was just like any other to her,
But deep in her soul she realised,
And did what she never before did dare,
She accepted what she felt for him.

" I know I said a lot of hard things," She began whispering into the night,
"And we've even had our fights,
I've said I hated you.
The truth is, that it isn't possible,
Because without you i'd die.
I still wonder why
We had to say goodbye.

Will I ever really feel your love again?
Will you ever fold me in your arms again?
I don't know.

But whatever it may take
And however my heart breaks,
I'll keep waiting here for you."

And with that quiet resolve in mind,
She smiled.
And turned away

* *

Ladies and gentlemen, I must have died and gone to Paradise. For such pleasure can exist only in Paradise. Thank you Princess.

2005-12-27T22:28:00.000+05:30

The psycho guy is impressed. He has been reading the works of the Princess, and he is stunned. Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness the work of a genius. Although the Psycho guy revels in the pleasure of such BRILLIANT writing, he must state that he had no role to play in its creation. The credit is entirely hers.
So enjoy her work because there is, as the psycho guy has noticed, a lot of pleasure in what she says. And please feel free to comment on it, infact, the psycho guy wishes that you'd tell her what you think.
So here they are, two gems from her treasure trove. The inimitable, and again brilliant, Princess.

The Seed

A little black seed;
Buried itself deep within
The folds of my chest.

Loathsome convention
Has shrivelled and festered it
Utterly within

With stretched black branches
It still grows sinisterly
Flowering in me.

Memory

As the thoughts flow unbidden through my mind,
I catch a glimpse of your eyes looking into mine -
Of what could have been.
And then it passes me by,
And I think of someone else instead.
It was never meant to be .......................

I smile,
And it becomes a fleeting memory.

2005-12-27T09:15:00.000+05:30

He stands in the shadows, away from the crowds. All you see is a pair of sparkling, insane eyes. Look closer and you see a silver tie, fighting the darkness in which he is engulfed. He sees them arrive, and steps out into the light.

He wears a black suit, a black full-sleeved shirt and black shoes. These, with his silver tie and piercing eyes, make him look suave. He’s never looked this way before. He’s never felt this way before.

The Boy steps out of his car, flustered and impatient. Along with him is an intelligent, straightforward and, especially tonight, an extremely beautiful girl. In her black dress, and black (high heeled) shoes, she looks enchanting. She looks like, and henceforth shall be known as, The Princess. The Princess and the Boy (who is dressed like a prince) walk into the cathedral together. They look so nice together.

He sits beside the Princess, waiting for the Kid. The Boy will be unable to join them, he has to serve mass. Sitting in the cathedral, He takes a look at the present the Princess had given him. Three Pink Floyd music CDs, wrapped in red cellophane paper, with little golden stars inside. The overall effect was amazing. No body can wrap a gift like the Princess does!

A girl, with enchanting impish eyes, sits beside the Princess. Because of her eyes, and the way she behaves, she shall be called The Imp. She speaks to the Princess, and speaks to him, maintaining two parallel conversations together. He is amazed, he could never do this. She hands him two books; she lets him read her books (free of charge). He wonders why she does this.
He looks at the books and his jaw drops! Albert Camus! She had just made his day. The Imp was an Angel. He chuckles at this paradox.
She says he looks like a vampire. He likes this; he was always fascinated by vampires. She says she has to leave; she is part of the choir. He pities her.

The Kid arrives, in a daze as usual. No doubt he was thinking of his kitty. She wasn’t here. As he sits down, he knocks down three candles, and hits the person in front of him on the head. Confusion ought to be his middle name.

The Princess and He, tease the Kid about kittens and chickens. They laugh and notice that the mass has just begun. They notice Zombie, leading the procession, her face as ugly as ever. She lumbers towards the priest, no doubt scaring him. The Boy follows, carrying a golden cross on a long pole. His face was a picture of grim determination. Perhaps he was going to war against the Zombie.

The mass is boring, the priest is confused and Bishop Raju is murder. But He had a nice time. He refuses to pray, and spends his time joking with the Princess. They take some important decisions, as well.

The mass ends. Hand shakes, smiles, sighs and excitement. Christmas day, hugs and kisses, moments of pleasure which fade away. He holds in his hands two Garfield comics, three CDs, three other books, and of course, Albert Camus. He remembers spending his time with friends; memories don’t fade away. And though this sounds cliché, this was the best Christmas ever. Sometimes, life is worth living.

2005-12-27T09:10:00.000+05:30

The cathedral was dark. Saint Paul’s cathedral. At eleven o’clock at night, someone entered. He was an old man, thin and balding. He walked up to a statue of Christ; his steps were feeble and lacked resolution. He was in pain.

He knelt down and began praying. Nowadays, that was all he ever did.
He began,

“Our father who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy will, be done
On earth as it is in heaven
Give us today our daily bread
And forgive us our trespasses
As we forgive those who trespass against us

It is true. I have always forgiven. Just like you had taught us. And have I not borne my cross faithfully? Have I not suffered for the sake of righteousness? Have I not sacrificed? Why, then, do I feel so empty? So sad, so pained?

My wife, lord, she does not respect me. She knows that I’m afraid of her. That I fear her. I see her looking at me, looking as if I were insignificant. Her slave, her puppet, devoid of reason. Maybe I am.

But I am her husband, I do not deserve this……this….this….SUFFERING! I don’t deserve this. Do I ?

A long time ago, perhaps I loved her. But now………..

So what should I do, lord, what can I do? Leave her? I cannot. I had vowed to take her, for better or for worse. And this is worse. Besides, what reason will I give? That she makes me unhappy? Frightens me? Is overbearing? Is controlling, to the extent of tyranny? I’m a MAN!! I cannot say those things. What will people think? I will not say those things. Even though they’re true.

My daughter is crying in her room. Her mother tries to control her life as well. She looks to me for help, I know what she feels. But if I tell her that she’s right, that her mother controls me too, won’t I spoil her? Will she not hate her mother more, and hate me for this predicament? Will she not lose respect? And so, I tell her that she’s wrong. Aaargh! It doesn’t help. She hates me anyway, my little girl. She thinks I have feet of clay. Perhaps I do.

Lord, help me bear my suffering. I’m not complaining, lord, I never complain. I know you have a purpose. My wife complains, my daughter complains, but I never complain. I have borne my hardships humbly, your humble servant, her humble servant. Help me lord. Help me. Help me…….. Help……”

He chokes on his tears and is silent for a while. He then leaves the cathedral, his head bowed low in servitude. A slave to god, a slave to her, a slave…….a slave……

The cathedral is empty again, and god goes back to sleep. Everyone is asleep, except a little girl. She is crying in her room; life can be terrible. One wonders when she will laugh again.

Is insanity the only way to be happy?

2005-12-22T22:19:00.000+05:30

Vunder, Vunder
thoughts asunder
make a blunder
then regret.

Why? Oh! Why?
is it I cry
Why do I sigh?
Why do I fret?

I know the pain
the thoughts profane
enclosed, insane,
within a net.

But I don't know
what I must show
where do I go?
What do I get?

What do I care?
A lion's share
of pain I bear.
I must forget.

I am depressed
with pain supressed
anger repressed
In my palate.

But I must stop
and go shut shop
work on the mop
Repay a debt.

I know I should
not think I'm good
Misunderstood
And yet....and yet.....

This sorry rhyme
a waste of time
Is it a crime
To be upset?!

2005-12-21T20:00:00.000+05:30

Ladies and Gentlemen, your attention please.
This blogsite has a new contibutor. An entertainer like no other, he will have to introduce himself (I refuse to do his dirty work for him).
If you thought that the Psycho guy was mean, sarcastic and abusive, wait till you see this guy.
By the way, this guy happens to be a whiz kid in Math, and he will entertain any query you might have. He loves the Calculus.
We look forward to the readers annoying the living hell out of him.
Cheerio.

2005-12-19T21:59:00.000+05:30

I look into her eyes. She is sitting in front of me, concentrating. She is wearing a blue dress, long and flowing. She wears no make-up, she looks so fresh. NO! NO! I must concentrate on her eyes or all will be lost. Everything I worked for in the last four years. EVERYTHING.

I concentrate on her eyes. I try to figure out what she is thinking. At the same time, I must guard myself. She must never know my weakness. Therefore, I must never acknowledge it. I MUST NOT GROW TO LIKE HER. I CANNOT LIKE HER. MUST CLOSE MYSELF TO ALL EMOTIONS. MUST BE COLD AND CALCULTING. I MUST.

She looks up and smiles. She has such a sweet smile. She has made her move. She sighs. I look at her arms, her skin looks so smooth. So fair, so enchanting. NO! DON’T LOOK AT HER ARMS. MUST NOT LIKE HER. CONCENTRATE ON HER EYES. HER EYES. HER EYES.

I make my move.

Does she like me? Is my hair combed? Do I look alright? WAIT!! STOP THIS! CONCENTRATE. CONCENTRATE. HER EYES. Please don’t lose focus now!

She makes her move, and looks up with pleading eyes. “We can work this out. We can be happy.” I read all this in her eyes. Aha! I can defeat her yet!

Now comes the hard part. I must be ruthless. I must be heartless. Inhuman. What I feel does not matter, only what I think matters. I ignore all my feelings and, with a cold and piercing look, tell her “Checkmate.”

She looks regretful. She looks so beautiful. I almost feel like telling her that it doesn’t matter. But that would be a lie. It does matter. It always matters.

She takes a pistol from her purse and shoots herself. As the bullet goes through her head, I notice a look of regret in her eyes. I feel sad. I regret what I did, wish I could change it.
I wish I could hear her sigh again. Perhaps I should have stopped her. Perhaps I should have been more human. I groan in pain.

The Psycho guy laughs hysterically. He is incapable of emotions. This, he claims, is what keeps him insane. He tells me that I have lost the game, and that she has won. That I have broken the first rule of the game. That I have felt regret.

Why is this bastard always right? I wish I were dead.

2005-12-19T18:47:00.000+05:30

She looked at me and smiled. She walked up to me and stood beside me. She never broke eye contact. She was teasing me. I was afraid.

She held her hand out. She wanted me to hold it. I sat dumbfounded. Why was she doing this?

“Oh God! OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod!! Please let her not hold my hand, OhpleaseOhpleaseOhpleaseOhplease! OH NO!! She’s held my hand.”

I jerked away. I was petrified. She looked so pretty. Her perfume, I could smell it! Her eyes were smiling. She said, “You’ll just have to get over it.” And then she took my hand again. I began to wish that I were dead.

I like her. I really do. Does she like me? Am I forcing her into a relationship? Am I hurting her in any way? Does she really like me, or is just she flirting with me? Will she hurt me? Will she ever grow to like me as I like her? Why am I thinking such things?

WHY IS SHE PETTING MY HAND? CAN’T SHE SEE THAT I’M UNCOMFORTABLE? WHY DOESN’T SHE STOP?

She looked at me and smiled. She offered me some ice-cream. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She began to feed me.

WHY HAS SHE STOPPED PETTING MY HAND? COULD SHE NOT SEE THAT I LOVED IT? HAVE I OFFENDED HER IN SOME WAY? I hope she will stroke my hand the way she did.

She seemed angry at the fact that I could not take decisions. I couldn’t help it. My mind was numb. And I can never take decisions, especially when they mean so much to me. I can’t help it. That’s the way I am. I hope I haven’t hurt her. I feel miserable.

When I left her house, I felt sad. I had a smile on my face. The smile said it all.

2005-12-18T15:06:00.000+05:30

Two days ago, I had the worst bus ride in my life ever .EVER. I told the psycho about it, and, sadist that he is, he laughed till he got a cramp, (then I laughed).
So, this is what happened.
I was rushing back from bong tuition, 7:30 p.m., cos I had friends over for the night. The bus arrived, Ushagate- Howrah. And I got in. usually, this bus isn’t very full, and I get a place to sit. That day, I didn’t. Within two stop, the damn thing was full. I was pushed and jostled around till I finally was standing, very cramped, next to a person who was sitting , and asleep,( at this point , it is imperative that you scroll down and look at the given diagram in the previous post, to understand places and positions).
As the bus approached the Gariahat Bridge, some @%$#@^$@#@#^^&#%$*(%^&$ let loose a silent killer. It was horrid, and I noticed as the faces of all the people around me turned to ugly grimaces. I was grimacing too, and was pissed off that I couldn’t get my hanky out to cover my nose, because of the jam-packed scenario.
Now, the dozing person I was standing next to woke up with a start, (most probably due to the fart.). In the course of his waking up, the idiot jerked his elbow upwards and connected point blank with my groin. I felt my nuts bounce off my kidneys.
As a late reflex action to this unexpected blow, I automatically jerked my butt backwards, and bummed the person behind me. This person (thank god it wasn’t a woman, or I’d have got slapped) apparently liked it and did it back too me. Please note that this was happening during the time I couldn’t breathe due to the tremendous pain you know where.
When I didn’t give the person a reply, he did it again, &%$@^$.Then, thankfully, some people got off the bus and there was a little place to move. I quickly moved away from where I was standing and stayed there guardedly, without making any sudden movements, till the bus reached my stop.

2005-12-18T15:03:00.000+05:30

2005-12-17T17:45:00.000+05:30

Tom Greene was born a Christian. For as long as he can remember, he always wanted to do the right thing. He said his prayers religiously, did his homework everyday, helped his old grandmother read her letters and never hurt anybody. He did all this because they were the right things to do.

When he was seventeen, he grew to like a girl from his parish. He wouldn’t even consider liking a girl who wasn’t a Christian. This, he was taught, was the right thing to do. After three years of courtship, he proposed to her. He was convinced that this was the right thing to do. He wasn’t in love with her; love was too strong a word. He liked her, liked chatting with her. But, of course, he had to do the right thing.

By now, he was working in a bank. As a child, he had loved to cook. He had been happiest in the kitchen, always cooking up a treat. He had wanted to be a cook. Unfortunately, his parents would not allow this. And so, he obliged them. It was, after all, the right thing to do.

Two years after his marriage, he found himself the father of a child. He wondered why he never felt like staying at home, and why he never liked going to work. But he did go to work, and did come home every day. He hugged and kissed his baby girl, even though he didn’t want to. Again, it was the right thing to do.

His wife was always bored. She always found that she wanted something more out of this relationship. There was something missing, perhaps it was love. He was a nice person, good company, a nice friend. Yet………..
She would never consider leaving him. Instead, she decided to wait for him to improve. “I will honour my commitment”, she thought, “It is the right thing to do, and I will do it. Even if it hurts me.”

When their daughter was seven years old, she committed suicide. Her parents were very nice to her; they were nice to each other. But something was missing. This little child sensed this. And so, one night, she slit her wrists (It takes a lot of courage to do that). It was not the right thing to do, but she didn’t care.

Both parents missed their child. But they weren’t heartbroken. It was sad, but they would live with it. They would just have to have another child. It was the right thing to do.

WHEN WILL THIS HORROR STOP?
Ha Ha Ha!!! It doesn’t matter, it is the right thing.

There is a girl who wants to do the right thing. For her sake, I would advise her to think about this decision. Sometimes the right thing is doomed to be wrong.

2005-12-16T05:03:00.000+05:30

Although Fëanor thinks the following piece sucks, the psycho guy is of the opinion that it deserves to be posted. Hope you like it.

He was so full of virtue,
he had a heart of gold.
And she, a brazen harlot
routinely bought and sold.

Her powdered face and perfume
which was so sweet and rare,
They failed to get a glance from him
he didn’t really care.

And so she tried to mock him
She riled him day and night.
He grew to hate the sound of her
to hate her very sight.

And so she tried to hurt him
and so a rumor spread.
They said he was in love with her,
that he had shared her bed.

She had so many lovers
Accomplices in sin.
She used them, and she used their power
She knew he’d never win.

It’s true that she did hurt him
But this she did in spite.
Although she cursed him every day
She wept for him at night.

One dark and stormy morning
His soul fell prey to vice.
His face grew stern, his eyes and heart
became as cold as ice.

He walked the streets with purpose
And when he saw the tart
He stopped her, and emotionless,
he stabbed her in the heart.

And as she fell he saw her
His heart filled with despise
He saw her blood, he did not see
the love in her dead eyes.

2005-12-15T22:38:00.000+05:30

About two weeks ago, the psycho guy got acquainted with a very interesting person. A girl like no other, she fascinates him. Apart from being kind (she likes cats), gentle, forthright and very beautiful, she seems to be (and this is what is important) extremely intelligent. It is this intelligence that he appeals to, when he asks her to finish reading this blog.

A very dear friend of the psycho guy likes her a lot. Deny this though he may, he does like her and this shows in the way he behaves. From what he has seen, the psycho guy is led to believe that she likes him too (although she may not know, or may not want to recognize, this). If one were to see them together one would admit that they make an admirable couple. Alas! There is trouble in paradise.

This girl thinks she likes a certain “Kangaroo Jack”. Since Jack lives in Australia (lucky guy!), it is unlikely that she has seen him in person in the near past. This confuses the psycho guy. He wonders, “How do they maintain a relationship when they are so far apart? Internet and telephones are all very well, but a relationship requires so much more. A shoulder which one can cry on, an arm which one can hold when one is weak, a smile that makes one smile and the knowledge that there exists a person one can rely upon (and constant proof of this knowledge). All this over the Internet?!! I think not. And what happens when she gets really lonely and needs company and advice? Jack cannot come to the rescue; he has parked his lazy butt somewhere in Australia. What does she do then?”

Well, perhaps she waits for him, all lonely and in pain. If this be true, then either we overestimate her intelligence or that Jack is a god! That Jack is a god (extremely handsome, with a brilliant sense of humor and a wonderful personality) is highly improbable. Because if he were, why did he not find a girl in Australia to shower his affections on? Also, how can one be sure he isn’t showering his affections on another girl in Australia? He is, after all, human.

Perhaps she expects my friend to do all that Jack is supposed to do. My friend would not mind doing this; all he desires is her happiness. This arrangement seems unfair and, if I have judged her correctly, she seems to be a very fair girl. So there is no way that she would wish this for my friend (as he happens to be her friend as well). So then, why does she not end her relationship with Jack?

If it were some other girl, the psycho guy would have inferred that this girl is more interested in the fact that Jack is Australian, rather than that he is Jack. But in this case, and this is true, this is cannot be. This girl is far too intelligent to chase crap like that.

Perhaps she wishes to remain faithful to Jack. What she does not understand is that she is 18 years old, and therefore, still a child. She cannot be expected to understand what it means to be faithful. If Jack expects this from her, well then, we know who the dumb fuck is. Also, it is really easy to ask one to be faithful when you yourself are jerking off in Australia instead of being where you are needed.

The friend does not know whether he likes her or not, but his actions speak for him. From what the psycho guy has seen, he adores her and she adores him. However, the psycho guy does not ask them to trust his judgment. That would be stupid, trusting a psycho guy. What he asks of them is to take a decision. The tricky thing about decisions is that one must not have regrets after they have been taken. That would be really painful! So choose wisely and stop deluding yourselves.

Lastly, it might seem that the psycho guy is biased towards his friend. He is. But there is another thing bothering him. He thinks of the straightforward, pretty and intelligent girl and wonders, “How many people are like her?” The answer is “very few”. The world is neck deep in foolish women trying to make themselves pretty. An intelligent girl among them is like a breath of fresh air in a morgue. Such a person should never be made to feel sad. Ever. But forgive the ranting of a psychopath and go take your decision. Best of luck. Also, if possible, please post your decision as a comment, or at least inform my friend of your decision.

P.s. The psycho guy still thinks that Prometheus is a marvelous name for the kitten, and not some elvish bullshit.

2005-12-14T00:21:00.000+05:30

I wanna be me,
I wanna know,
But they won’t let me be,
But they won’t let me grow.
And as far as I see,
And in my heart, I know,
I can not be free,
They won’t let me go.

2005-12-13T23:56:00.000+05:30

An Ode to Mordiah

Riddle me this, and riddle me that
So many riddles, I smell a rat.
I mask the smell with what I say
Alas! I give myself away.

Ofcourse I judge, ‘cos I’m so smart
and gentle, with a kindly heart.
I’ll rip your masks off, one by one;
my exposé has just begun.

And while I cast my pearls so dear
I try and hide my greatest fear.
You cannot see it, I won't show
but oh! I wish it were not so.

I’ll judge you and your childish mask
And while I’m at this loathsome task
I smugly smile and deftly hide
The secret mask I wear inside.

I quote Pink Floyd, I quote his ilk
Their poetry as smooth as silk.
But behind this silk I hide
The days and nights when I have cried.

A psycho guy advises me
to think about who I might be
What is my mask? What do I wear?
But I pretend that I don’t care.

I don’t believe his vicious lies
about those tears in my eyes.
Who cares ‘bout what he has to say
He’s just a psycho anyway.

2005-12-13T00:54:00.000+05:30

And as I sat in that dark room
I saw a pair of eyes.
They looked so morbid, full of gloom
Full of malicious lies.

I saw no face, only those eyes
So hateful, full of pain
One look, it made me realize
the owner was insane.

I asked him why he looked so sad,
where was his zest for life
What was the pain that drove him mad,
what kind of grief and strife.

I heard a voice, it frightened me
It said, " You foolish child,
Your greatest fear’s insanity
You run from terrors mild.

I love the beauty that I see
But here’s what I love more
I love the sight of misery,
Of pain, of blood and gore.

Wake up and smell the coffee chum,
the world’s so dark a place.
So full of vermin and of scum
And masks on every face.

Do I respect a fellow man?
Ha Ha, I like that joke
They stifle talent, best they can,
Behind society’s cloak.

I do refuse to weep and wail
I do refuse to cry
Refuse to be compelled to fail
I do refuse to die.

And so I’m happy, full of joy
That’s just how I am
Because I will not be a toy
And be part of this scam.

You shake your head, you poor child
What have they done to you?
You still prefer to be beguiled
Though what I say is true."

"YOU LIE!," I screamed, "YOU DO NOT KNOW,
YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE LIGHT!
YOUR IGNORANCE IS WHAT YOU SHOW.
SOCIETY'S ALWAYS RIGHT."

The room grew bright, and with disdain
I saw who owned those eyes.
I screamed and screamed, but all in vain
A mirror never lies.

2005-12-13T00:47:00.000+05:30

This is to inform you that I shall not be posting anything anymore on www.lukeatme.blogspot.com. I have, after some thought, realized, that it was very ungracious of me to open a blogsite of my own. When I was asked to write for this site, I was thrilled, and now, I shan’t be a traitor to the psychoguy, and therefore won’t write on another blogsite. So, if you guys wanna read my stuff, the place is www.thepsychoguy.blogspot.com . Thank you.

2005-12-13T00:29:00.000+05:30

I have decided to change my name slightly from Feanaro to Feanor. This is because I checked and found out that my real name ,Luke, means Bringer of Light, and , freakishly , so does Feanor. So there , from now and henceforth , I'm Feanor.

2005-12-12T23:58:00.000+05:30

just some of my sketches.

2005-12-11T16:35:00.000+05:30

This is to inform you that my blogsite is up. It’s called
www.lukeatme.blogspot.com.

The first post is also up. Just some of my sketches. Sorry, psycho guy, for using your blogsite to announce my own , but I figure that it’s the best way to tell people about it.
Having my own blogsite, however, doesn’t mean that I’m going to stop writing here as well. I’m not.

Apart from that, I’m REALLY CURIOUS about Gollum and ladylazarus. Also, I would also be really pleased to meet Solitary Reaper and The Changeling. Do you guys have blogsites? Please please please tell. Don’t think that I’m being rude or anything, but, do I know you guys?
I really want to know.So , people, check out the site.

2005-12-11T05:38:00.000+05:30

This is for a person who insists on being stupid. Obviously her "momentary lapses of reason" happen ever so often. The song I refered to that day is called "Brain Damage". To quote a few lines from it,

" And if the dam breaks open many years too soon
And if there is no room upon the hill
And if your head explodes with dark forbodings too
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon ."

And also,

"And if the cloud bursts, thunder in your ear
You shout and no one seems to hear
And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes
I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon"

And finally,

"I can’t think of anything to say except...
I think it’s marvellous! HaHaHa!"

The Lunatic has spoken.

2005-12-09T18:07:00.000+05:30

Look at these pictures carefully. The one on the right is a calm face, as opposed to the angry one on the left. Now walk as far away from your computer screen as you can, and notice that the face on the left becomes angry and the one on the right becomes calm. It's BRILLIANT!! (Thanks Harsh)

2005-12-09T17:58:00.000+05:30

"No Mr.Roberts, I am not sad. ........... I am not lying. What’s that? Yes..............Yes..........That’s right. Yes. It was cancer. Yes, she did suffer. What?............. Why?........... What do mean ‘painful and disturbing time’? She was the one with cancer, not me. .............. No, her parents do not know. She didn’t tell them. ....... Yes, we eloped. We thought it was love. Turned out to be a mistake. ............ No, we don’t have children. She aborted one five years ago. .................... I don’t know if that affected her health. There’s no reason why it should.........Yes. I will miss her. She was good conversation, and cooked decently too. .............. No, I have no plans for the future. ....... Yes, I will continue to stay here. ............... Thank you for the raise. It will cover the cost of the funeral. ......No, I will come to work tomorrow. The funeral is in the evening. You are welcome to come Sir, after all, you did pay for it. ................ No, I’m not in shock. .......Yes. ..........Yes. ........Yes, I will be all right. Thank you ............... Thank you."
He put down the phone and switched on the television. He didn’t want to miss his favorite show.

2005-12-09T05:58:00.000+05:30

Though he risks riling most of the people who read his blogs, the psycho guy will publish this blog. In this blog he discusses a new breed of losers, a new flavor of lack.
The die hard J.R.R. Tolkien fans.

Although the story-line is good, and the characters are fascinating, the psycho guy finds the works of Tolkien rather boring. This, of course, is a personal opinion and might not be yours. If you think that a walk through a forest is best described over twenty (or more) pages and that it is wonderful that characters burst into long, tedious and boring songs (refer Tom Bombadillo), well then, that’s your choice.

This blog does not criticize Tolkien, rather, it criticizes that vast majority of geeks who think that "Morgoth never dies" is a "kewl" e-mail i.d. Often found debating on the justification of Gollum’s schizophrenia, on the fact that Morgoth cannot die and whether or not Gimli (son of groin) is cooler than Legolas (that she-male elf), one wonders whether they have nothing better to do.

Of course, one is glad that they aren’t Harry Potter fans, and that they don’t spend their time discussing whether or not Ron and Hermione (two characters who deserve Dante’s 8th hell) are romantically involved. But this does not justify their obsession with Ainurs and Valars and The White/Grey/Black wizards.

Lastly, one hopes that these pathetic people will come to their senses in the near future (yeah right!) and decide to GET A LIFE !!
Or, as they say in elvish, Flean drewme laughen screwme.

2005-12-08T05:59:00.000+05:30

The psycho guy opens his window and sees the winter fog on the surface of a pond, swirling in intricate patterns. It is four o’clock in the morning and the world is a beautiful place.

An hour later, he makes his way to the bus stop. He notices the first rays of the winter sun, how they break through the fog. He notices the glistening dew drops on a spider’s web, like smooth diamonds. The sun peeks out and smiles at him. He smiles back.

Two hours later, he is in school. The serene atmosphere of that magnificent building overwhelms him. He stands there sighing. Ten minutes later, he is in class reading a poem. He cannot help smiling, he is really pleased.

He feels like a magician, a wizard. It is almost as if he has created the world and all its beauty. He feels the way Adam would have felt when he first saw the garden of Eden. He was in paradise. This was magic.

Alas, it was not meant to last. He sees his classmates enter his world. Slowly, this world began to grow bleak. He hears a bunch of ultra-turbo-IIT-bongs discuss the Photoelectric Effect. For them, it wasn’t the Effect which was important but the marks it would get them in their exams.

And ‘mid this hypocrisy and chaos, the magic died out.

2005-12-08T01:01:00.000+05:30

The Boy sits in front of his computer, reading blogs, when he’s supposed to be studying. He smiles inwardly. The “psycho guy” has said lots of nice stuff about him in his blogs. He reads the comments (especially the Mordiah one gets a little ticked off when he finds out that The Kid has more common sense than him, but gets stupidly happy again when he’s called “a complete darling”) and closes the blogsite.

He goes to his table, takes out his sociology book, and starts making notes for himself, much to his mother’s satisfaction when she enters the room half a minute later. She smiles at him and leaves.

Two minutes and one page of bullet points later, The Boy’s fickle mind starts to wander.

He thinks about the blog, and sees the whole episode in his mind.
He realizes that he is really blessed, by way of his friends. He starts smiling again, as he remembers the first one-and-a-half years he knew The Introvert. They were the most bitter of enemies, constantly abusing, insulting and hurting each other. They had a common friend, and decided they should get along, at least for the sake of friend. How they ended up such great friends, neither of them knew.

He then thinks of The Kid. They had been friends for about five or six years, since their sisters were friends. They had always got along really well, even though The Kid was two years younger, and this was easily explained by The Boy’s immaturity.

The Boy then suddenly realizes that he is the reason that The Introvert and The Kid are such good friends. It was because of him that they met, and talked, and were now such good friends.

The smile unconsciously turns into a full fledged grin, as The Boy gets all happy with the “feel good” feeling.

Then he recollects, to his remorse and guilt, as the smile starts to fade, that he has also been the cause of a lot of ill-will and bad feelings. He thinks of Esther and Rajarshi, of how he had introduced them, and of how they weren’t talking to each other anymore. He still kind of blamed himself for that sad episode in both their lives, especially for Esther’s confused disappointment and anger.

Then , while his mind is pondering over romantic relationships, and very purposely and deliberately steering away from his own, The Boy recalls The Kid’s entanglements, and again the grin broadens, for again he realizes that if it weren’t for him, The Kid would probably still not know the girl’s full name. He starts to feel all important and needed.

Suddenly he feels his mother’s presence, snaps out of his daydream, looks at his book and finds it open to the last page, with freshly drawn doodles and squiggly lines.

The Boy turns and looks at his mother.

She isn’t smiling.

-----------------------------------------------Fëanáro

2005-12-07T20:47:00.001+05:30

The psycho guy apologises. He has just noticed that Luthien had been commenting on the earlier blogs and the psycho guy (unknowingly ) has been rude enough not to reply. Henceforth the psycho guy will make it a point to view (and reply to) all comments to all blogs. He is truly sorry.

Well Luthien, strangely enough, someone has shown me the lyrics of "The Trial". It was brilliant (of course it was, it was written by Pink Floyd). Also, I think that Roald Dahl is amazing. I love (and have read) all the poems he had written for kids. Personally, I think that "Cinderella" and "Snow White and the seven dwarfs" was better that "The Three Little Pigs".

P.s. Should I reply to your comments as a comment or as I did just now.

2005-12-07T20:28:00.000+05:30

There are only two things that the psycho guy fears, that make him scream with terror. One is Chemistry and the other is Love. His Chemistry phobia began when he was asked to memorize a valency table (whatever that means). His fear of Love is more complicated.

A long time ago, in a galaxy not so far away, the psycho guy was unafraid of love. He was an introvert who was very good friends with another boy (refer the very first blog). Their friendship was deep and they loved each other.
Years later, one ugly day, they had a fight. This was not such a big deal, they had had many fights before. But this time they did not make up.

It is hard to say why they did not make up. Perhaps one of them had changed, perhaps both had changed, or perhaps it was not meant to be. But this got the psycho guy thinking. He began wondering whether it was wise to deal with love and friendship (which is love actually). Surely a force so potent is best left alone?
And so the psycho guy decided that he would not make friends easily. That in order for him to love another person, that person must be judged using extremely harsh yardsticks. Also, that person must really want to be friends with him. He is of the opinion that it is very unlikely that this will happen.

When the psycho guy decided that he would not make friends easily, he hadn’t counted on meeting two people. The first exception to his usually strict rule is Luke. Luke is an immensely likeable person, and for some reason, extremely close to the psycho guy. The second exception is the Kid. The Kid is an innocent introvert and also very likeable. One wonders why these two were preferred over all other likeable people. To this, the psycho guy has no answer. Perhaps when he is older, and wiser, he shall know. Come to think of it, Luke and the Kid are extremely special (even though they don’t know it yet).

Before Mordiah jumps to any conclusions (ooops! too late), the psycho guy would like to clarify some issues. The decision was made keeping in mind that he was an introvert and could entertain himself. He doesn’t really need the company of people, even though he enjoys that of his friends. Also, the decision was not made just because the psycho guy had been hurt. It was given a lot of thought. And, whether he be right or wrong, he intends to stick by it.

Strangely enough, though he had started writing about love, the psycho guy has written only about friendship. The issue about "love for one’s parents" is tricky and will be addressed some other time. Notice the psycho guy shy away from the topic of "romantic love" (that sounds so tacky, doesn’t it). He will not get in there. About love for inanimate objects, he loves anything beautiful (but his definition of beauty is warped).

And finally, what the psycho guy wrote was not written so that you sympathize with him. He hates sympathy. So if you have any sympathetic comments to make, shove them. But he is interested in your opinion on what he just wrote. Maybe you think that he is completely wrong and, in short, psycho. Or maybe you agree with him. Or maybe he just bored the living hell out of you (boring shmuck that he is). He would love to know what you think.