Saturday, April 28, 2012



So there we were sitting on a grassy cliff staring down at little puddles on the grey black sand. They were in fact large quick sands, but from a height they looked like puddles made of rain. But there was no rain, only a strong breeze, the kind the Arabian sea is proud of. The sun was setting the way it always does, or the earth was turning away the way it always does, you may choose. There can be infinite more versions but for now the pale orange sky gave no respite to our jagged nerves. 

We had fashioned ourselves as two young runaways who wanted to be somewhere one can sit on a newly purchased cheap straw mat, when the city mall and the city mall’s watchman had denied us the joy of sitting on a straw mat on a sidewalk. It wasn’t the strangest thing but nevertheless, I had uttered, 

“this would have never happened in ......” 

And so with a brand new straw mat we two were on a bus to the beach hundreds of miles to the west. Now this place held no promises as it had seen a serpentine queue of people, things, songs, trash and pigs come ashore for half a century, all seeking some imaginary promise. Earlier in my life I had concluded it was the music the sea waves made at five thirty in the morning but only if strong psychedelics were administered. I could attribute nothing else to the magnetic field of this red coastline, which now lay infested by elite university educated selfish kids. 

“There is a tsunami coming…” 

My dilated pupils and my jagged nerves proclaimed. The coconut trees were being pushed away from the beach by the strong breeze and the odd probability that the large puddles were in fact quick sands kept us rooted on that grassy cliff and completed the weather forecast.

With every last penny donated to our man Jackson’s pockets, who had given us a discount sitting on his purple straw mat, while our regular brown one stood against the green wall, we only had the sunset and now somewhat soothed nerves. 

“ Tsunamis don’t come here…” 

Nothing could convince me otherwise so safety was sought inland. We walked for sometime and sat at a juice bar. The green hut was inviting with the juice bar man putting down two cold beers in front of our dilated pupils. I didn’t open it, because of our man Jackson’s pockets and my wallet being every beatnik’s every fantasy. 

There was so much disdain in our dilated pupils and so much fear of the tsunami in our nerves that one opened one of the beers. Then decided there was no money to be paid. So two just sat there, doing nothing. Only laughing. We had left the straw mat in a tiny room, as the sun and the rain, both were gone. The cows that had tormented me all day were still there, but could not be seen so well at night.

The juice bar man noticed our plight. He was closing his tiny green hut. His four white customers had reached happiness, talking in high voices with lots of laughter. They stopped at us, sitting there ashamed with the one opened beer and the one unopened beer. 

“We saw you girls walking at a beach carrying a mat over your heads. Do you sell them?” 

My dry open mouth could not say anything. The other one answered something about students and poverty and films and the sun. 

“You two are actors!” 

And, the juice bar man announced with ancient authority. 

“Money … no problem! 
 Party… no problem!” 

We were walking down thin winding roads with two warm beers in each hand, trying to follow the zipping two wheelers’ in the direction of the huge shaft of light zipping across the black sky. Some years ago one local man had stood astounded outside his house staring at the sky, where a sheet of reflected light was zooming across the open sky. He had no idea where it came from. I decided not to tell him. I had no idea he had no idea. 

He must have watched that serpentine queue come from across seas, canals, continents and cities carrying their big lights and dilated pupils. 

Earlier in the day, under the scorching sun, the two had sat on a sandy beach, infested with bodies and beers, with the straw mat now under their tired backsides, and lay there with the satisfaction the two had sought. After ten minutes the two had once again started the trek down this red coastline, searching for another hit, another excuse, another wave, another sky, and another tsunami, which never came that night.

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Thursday, April 26, 2012



In early twenties, like every other selfish kid who believed that elite  university education entitled me to greater things in life, as long as one picked from within, writing, theater or painting, the last of which was just a pretense, I too picked up the one that required the least resources and gave ample room for procrastination. It wasn’t long that I never wrote again. Internet taught me to type, but to write. Many years later I did meet a wandering selfish kid in his mid twenties, who scribbled on a tiny notebook while his drug addled brain blocked the noise of other drug addled brains in his vicinity. A month later I found him in new company with more drugs and no notebook. 

The elite university education, the two kinds, one abroad, one inland, one created jobs and managers, the other created jobs and managers had finally entitled me to greater things in life. It wasn’t long that I never had a job and never managed anything. 

I did have a job once, albeit only to protect myself from elite university education abroad. It goes back and forth. Strange. However, I was sitting in a white cubicle with no work but a job, and a fellow elite university educated colleague asked me to give him a ride to his nearby apartment as two giant boxes of books had arrived from the previous city he held a job in. We were all writers with jobs and I saw the brown boxes filled with books. My colleague and friend was a rather shy person. If you said hello to him he would walk backwards. If you did not say hello to him he’d walk forward. I used to say hello to him in the morning. He would nod. 

Now in my early twenties I had never imagined living in a city where no one knew me. But later I did learn that trick and it wasn’t long that I never lived in a city where anyone knew me. So outside a door with two boxes filled with unknown books, I tried to persuade my shy friend to let me in so that the selfish kid in me could go through that vast unseen collection of books. I wasn’t allowed. Finally I opened the boxes outside the door and so I was reluctantly let in. I saw flying black things in a room that had never been cleaned. I didn’t understand it back then, but then it was my early twenties, not mid. So I took a broom from the neighbours’ and started cleaning. It wasn’t that I was a nice, I just never knew what it took to live in a city where no one knew you. My shy friend joined in the cleaning and he was not shy anymore. I felt like a great person who was meant for greater things in life. I must have left with five or six books that day, two of which I probably never returned. 

I spent a year in that room surrounded by semi constructed walls of books on three sides, and lazy music and films from the world, believing that my early twenties are well spent in my pursuit of greatness. Some vague notions of art, love, music, bonds, what nots floated around, all nothing but a bad cocktail of hormones or something. Anyway it was all very vague. That is the best thing about a decade, everything is vague. It's not a long enough time or a short enough time for anything except for internet radio stations and television music channels to make sense of. 

But then how else to divide time, considering it’s not even absolute anymore and will one day become a rubber ball in the hands of an enterprising elite university educated selfish kid. 

I once had a conversation with a friend during the later part of my elite education. In my mid twenties we felt obligated to defend the nineties as a decade. It was the most anonymous decade, a decade no one even claims, but then what else could one do, except wait for the millennium which was a great managerial feat promising everything with a fancy name. They saved the internet for the millennium, after the clocks didn’t go crazy, how could they, time could be fitted in any box, in any size, like books. 

Finally we agreed, Seinfeld was the nineties and hence the greatest decade of all. We had to conclude as the walk was over and nobody really remembered the nineties, it was just vague.

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Friday, April 13, 2012


The universe is made of infinite heavenly bodies. They are called heavenly bodies for a reason. The reason is that every atom, every quark, the tiniest deducible particle of matter can be reduced down to the vast universe, and you know what happens, a vast multitude of permutations and combinations that defy the time space continuum existing only as an illusion. And within that exists little ant like colony of us human beings. But every atom that might make us is unfortunately borne into consciousness. Thank the heavenly non existent Gods, that- that word exists, that word which gives meaning to life.

How arrogant can one be. If only the heavenly bodies went about playing there mythology of gravity and dual existence.

There is no time; no space. Don't be so ignorant. A moment can be millions of light years when objectivity and subjectivity create this multiverse.

Be absurd. Be a freak. Sing to the sky and the sun. Dance in unison. Be the universe.

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