Quick Update

Yes this looks different, mainly because I've scrapped the old template that I'd lovingly coded more than two years ago. This blog's going in for a major overhaul, inspired by Terra who's totally sexified her blog. I'm leaving it as a standard template, for now, but come Saturday I'll try do a little more to make it 'my space' again.
I had to make the upgrade, my old template prevented me from adding a whole bunch of widgets that I guess I want now that it looks like I'm back to blogging. Sooo.. for the time being put up with this till I can mess around with some graphics on photoshop and presonalize this bloody boring template.
Cheers till then.

The story

For Zee.
There are two sides to every story, there’s mine and then there’s reality, there are three sides to every coin, two you know of and a third that never did exist, there are four corners on a triangle the three that you see and one just around the bend.
I live in a world of fantasy, where it’s all love and hate, fast cars and machine guns, where the sun sets on scenic beaches and I fight villainous characters in dense marshes. Where love is in the arms of the first beautiful woman that you lay your eyes on and success scales dizzying heights. I’m the bastard love child of a growing economy, Hollywood and Scandinavian death metal , I’m a victim of IT and offshoring .
Today, the day before Diwali, the day when Hindu good won over Hindu evil, the day when we light up our skies with the blood sweat and tears of a million children, we celebrate, I celebrate, (I raise a toast to you my dear friend), fuck, we are in a frenzy of hell fire and brimstone. Rockets, rain down from the skies, bombs leave ear-drums ringing, dogs squeal, children yell and nothing can stem the flow of consumerism and the ostentatious display of wealth.
I’m living the dream of the nouveau kitsch, markets crash and I don’t care, I applaud myself for never earning enough to save, to invest. I applaud the government and the opposition, a standing ovation for the left. Kudos to Mamta, way to sock it to big industry, India on the moon, India lying drunk in a drain, kill some more Christians, their own damn fault for being a minority, it makes me want to cry.
I ride, the October night flies by, frigid at the speed of ninety-seven. A green streak illuminates the sky and I look up as it disintegrates into an umbrella of reds, blues and yellows, another in red flies up from behind me and fizzles out midflight. I slow down, peak traffic, Audis, Mercs, Beamers, bloody hell, where are all these cars on normal days. I feel like such a pauper, dead if sample some paint with my handlebar.
But that’s enough on that, this is the festival of light, a time for celebration, a time of family and god and that kind of stuff, the Hindu Christmas. Is it all in my mind or is the city more beautiful all of a sudden, I see smiles where I only noticed sullen frowns, I see lights, strung up and blinking and merry where till today, all I saw were dark and dusty, cob-webbed corners. I am happy, really I am, it’s only the alcohol that’s getting me down. Is an atheist allowed to enjoy a religious holiday? Strictly I don’t think so, but if you don’t tell anyone, neither will I.
I’m on the roof, I’m floating fifty feet above the city, I’m a bird and I’m a snake. Who am I as an individual as an Indian and a citizen of the world, insignificant? Or is that giving me too much credit.
Flying high, buffeted by the wind, coasting through clouds, a festive city burns of its own volition, I pull out a torch, light it up and lean back on the breeze, dig my heels into a patch of smog, twist and release. The flaming torch describes a neat arc as it falls through the night sky. As it reaches the earth, a burst of flame and seven rockets fly back toward me, converging and exploding, the rainbow, a chameleon sky and then all that’s left is the smoke trails.

The Peacock

He struts through the room, a spring in his walk, he owns the room oh he does, he’s got the brightest most magnificent plumage. Rivals slink into corners, hoping he won’t notice them, but he won’t he’ll just strut on, unconcerned, unperturbed and unmolested.
He’s not got much in particular to do, he just paces the room, up and down, up and down. Not falling flat on his feet, weight thrown slightly on his toes so his heels touch only on every alternate step. This makes it look like he’s lighter than air, floating an inch above the ground, that very ground that we, mere mortals are fettered so irresistibly too.
He can, so he will, he executes a quick pirouette, it would look ungainly was it not for the riotous mass of colour that balances him, leaning forward, stretching his plumage, open, extended, balancing him. It catches the light as he spins, rays reflecting, a glimpse of heaven, a concession, a hint of what we do without, what he takes for granted.
We stand awed, envious and impotent. He’s a god, a superman, a shining peacock in a naked flock.
I’m nothing more than a plucked chicken, free-range. Clucking, pecking and laying to my heart’s content, satisfied with the empty life I lead. Devoid of any beauty and pride, lacking those few feathers that could serve to elevate me above my lot.
Those feathers belong to me it think as I hurry to tuck my adolescent growth under me, fearing he should see my innocent aspirations. Like a prepubescent beard, one that won’t be shaved and will not acquiesce to grow, my tail feathers just stick out, loud, undeniable evidence of my lack of power over them.
I coax and cajole, plead with them to grow, but they won’t, they have a life, a mind of their own. In due time, they reassure, when the time is right and not a minute sooner. Till then I guess I’ll have to do without.
Till then I guess I’ll have to just look at what he has and just have to wish, to hope that someday I too will have it all, the color, the light and the grace to pull it off.

Instant Coffee

He was, after all and instant kind of guy. Not that you would ever be tempted to hold that against him. It was always now or never, here there or everywhere. Sit him down and he’d fidget, start by wriggling a toe, the toe would then set the foot into motion, which, in turn brought the leg too life. And there he’d be, a lanky leg swinging from a lanky body. The movement would then cascade in a wave of flesh and bone through his body till he was rapidly and imperceptibly vibrating, eventually it would get too much and in one convulsive shudder, he’d explode, his body would lift two inches off the seat and he’d be on his feet. He’d leave if he could, but if required to remain in the vicinity for instance if he was in the midst of a conversation he couldn’t postpone, he’d pace violently around the room bouncing from wall to wall and occasionally off pieces of furniture.
He lived a fast paced, half-baked abbreviated life. He cooked only instant meals, drank only instant beverages and accepted only the easiest of tasks to finish. He gave up watching movies in theaters and on the telly since he couldn’t fast-forward to the credits. He gave up on relationships because after the initial high they gave him, he had to work to make them work.
He gave up sleeping because his mind never gave him the opportunity to do so any more. He’d lie in bed for a couple of hours, the lights out, holding his eyes shut, making effort to try fall asleep. It never worked and soon he’d be out of bed with a leap and light up an endless chain of cigarettes, till dawn found him pacing up and down the hall his brain working in overdrive, flitting from one line of thought to the other.
Occasionally, the urge to accomplish something long-term would over take him and he’d strap himself into a chair and list out an action plan that should have in theory got him where he needed to be. He was dedicated, for a week he’d stick religiously to his objectives and then suddenly something would happen, he’d spend a weekend drunk, shack up with a girl he’d met and suddenly another set of long-term goals seemed more attractive and he’d set off in pursuit of them and so on ad infinitum.
He’d been like that since he was ye high (palm held somewhere in the vicinity of the knee) he’d always preferred the adverts over actual programming on the telly, mainly since they got to the point faster and never left you hanging till next week. Next week? Who knows where you’re going to be by then, he needed the plot resolved in 30 seconds or less or it was a full 30 seconds wasted.
He was proud of it and inordinately so. He’d boast about it for a full five minutes till his concentration gave way and something new popped into place. He was brainy, his head buzzing with ideas, occasionally he’d swat one down and lay it bare but mosquito sized bites never make for a mouthful and that’s all there is to say about that.
He didn’t let emotion bother him, that’s not to say he never felt it, anger, love, jealousy, greed were as real to him as they are to any man, only he never felt them too long. Pangs, like hunger and a needle in the arse, short intense bursts of emotion that were quickly replaced and forgotten. They’d flow over each other in waves one often riding on the crest of another while he played in the surf.
It was all good, the world was made for him, for the likes of him, geared for people who would not and could not give a fuck. For those who would flit from one trend to another, from one orchard to another, not even bothering to pick the fruit.
It was a disease growing progressively worse as time bounded forward. His ability to do, to think and feel anything for a period of time grew shorter. To keep up, he began to think, speak and feel faster.
Now he’s alone, locked in a room, bouncing, straight jacketed. He doesn’t speak anymore. All you hear is an unintelligible monotone. He doesn’t think, his brain gave up a long time ago, all it processes now is a continuous stream of words mostly monosyllabic. He doesn’t feel, his emotions overlap and he is ecstatic, enraged, lusty and repelled all at once all the time. And that’s when he’s sedated.

Four Stages of Love, Lust, Longing and Loss

Love
“Look at me…”
“Look at me…”
“Oh fer fucks sake why won’t you look at me?”
Furious he gives her back her the white cane, turns away, just in time to miss a solitary tear run down from her eye.

Lust
Like a dog marking its territory, canines bared and an evil glint in her eye, she sinks her teeth into his shoulder, bites in deep, a spurt of blood, a warm ruby, flood in her mouth. She leans back to inspect her handiwork.
“That should keep your shirt on for at least a week”

Longing
Amy Lee makes him cry.
Tracy Chapman makes him cry.
Tarja Turunen made him cry and Annete Olzen makes him cry.
So he now listens to Angela Gossow, but she turns him on.

Loss
Ok says he, hold on for a mo’, this might get uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt much, well not immediately anyway. He reaches in, deep, fiddles around a bit and then with a twist, wrenches it out.
Arm extended, fingers dripping, he hands her, her heart.

Here’s To The Future

Chose life, chose a job, chose a career, chose a family, chose a fucking big television
Chose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers…
Chose your future, chose life,
But why would I want to do a thing like that?
I chose not to choose…
Renton- Trainspotting

It’s been a long uneventful two hour flight from Hyderabad to Delhi but all of that seems set to change, we’ve been in a holding pattern over Delhi for the last 30 minutes or so. It’s near twelve at night and as the plane banks left, turning one wing over the other at regular intervals, I see the city I love so dearly pass under me, a dark, midnight blue fabric, patched in swathes of bright, connected by tendrils of light, that snake through the black. Red and yellow lit ants mechanically navigate the map, only to be curtained suddenly as the wind sweeps upward, revealing a similarly hued sky, dotted now with stars.
It’s all going wrong I calculate in my head, horribly wrong, but I’m not perturbed, not in the least. I foresaw this. To the casual observer, I may seem silent, a barely conscious being, hulking behind thick black frames but my brains been ticking in overdrive, long before I even reached the airport, before I checked in, before the plane had landed from Chennai. Something was going wrong, something had to. I didn’t see it in the stars, nor in planetary motions, neither was it revealed to me in a dream or in the entrails of sacrificed beast. These arcane methods of fortune telling don’t work, nope, not one bit. I’m not psychic, at least I don’t like to describe my gift that way, the word psychic, carries in my mind a negative connotation. It carries with it the stench of ignorance, of fortune-tellers in tents, story-telling for their two pieces of silver. No-fucking-way, I’m not one of those, not a fucking charlatan, hiding behind a veil of mumbo-jumbo and semi-scientific sound bites. For that reason and that reason alone I’ve never revealed my gift or rather my talent to anyone. The explanation or the best one that I can think up still sounds far too far-fetched for anyone to take me seriously. Well sure there are those who have an innate instinct that attracts them to bull-shit, but they are the same ones that religiously read the astrology columns every morning, precisely the people I want to avoid.
I see the future. Well not really I don’t really see it, no actually on second thought, I do. It’s like this, take a point in time. Draw this on a sheet of paper, it’s easier that way. From this point you can draw virtually infinite lines. Assuming that point represents a situation, then each line represents a decision, we spend our lives swinging by our decisions from one point to another. Unfortunately it’s not that simple. Some points on the sheet, seem to have an attraction greater than others. You could represent these on the sheet as thick black dots as opposed to the regular points which are best depicted as fine points. These big points ‘focus’ lines from the smaller points toward them till their vicinity is a thick maze of lines being drawn irresistibly into them. To allow one’s self to be drawn to any one of the surrounding situations means any decision you now make will inevitably reach a predictable conclusion.
Some of these situations you can predict, others you cannot. The decision that I made that I made that led to my descent into what I can now see as inevitable was waking up that morning. Obviously one of those decisions that you cannot but help to make and can dissect only in retrospect.
I once tried to explain this ability of mine to a friend, he was predictably excited at the start, but he sank deep into discontent as I continued. At the bit where I had just concluded explaining the bit about the ‘attractor’ points or inevitable situations, he snapped and began to pound the shit out of me in the fury and despair of life being revealed as a seemingly deterministic progression to an irreversible, unavoidable conclusion. That was a dilemma I too had wrestled with for a long time when my abilities had first revealed themselves to me. Was life a preordained, custom designed and delivered package, break open the seal and live. If so, where was the purpose, was one necessary?
I’ve never been particularly bright, so I quickly abandoned this philosophical line of thought, partly motivated by the fact that I could look ahead and see that it was leading nowhere fast, merely a long circuitous route back to situations that were easier reached without too much complicated thought.
I could have predicted his response, had I looked closely enough, there was a single line leading from the situation to one where he would react badly, well, badly for me anyway. But so caught up was I in the more probable outcomes that I lost sight of this one single outlier. The problem was that for the situation to escalate to that one outlier, depended on the choices that he made too, something I, in the excitement of sharing my secret, had forgotten to factor in.
He was partly right, it is a terribly deterministic view of life, to know that you are swinging from one point to another in a predetermined fashion, that at times your choices may make no difference in the inevitable outcome, that all the possible decisions that you make and all their possible outcomes are mapped out, a cosmic game of connect the dots.
But think about it for a minute, it isn’t all that strange, we make choices and there are consequences. While we do think of most of the consequences of our actions, some are unpredictable, these we attribute to chance. Chance is not something you can do anything about, you can prepare contingency plans, the famed plan ‘B’ often ’C’ and ‘D’ too, but chance is by definition chance. Does it really matter if it is destined if we don’t know about it?
Anyone who sits and clearly thinks about a decision will be able to predict the most probable outcomes, they can plot out the lines and situations, like an elaborate game of chess, thinking a couple of thousand moves ahead, they advance a pawn. That’s seeing the future too, except, I can see chance, I can see your opponent falling face down on the board sending kings and queens scattering amidst a shower of bishops and knights, I see the rook flying into your eye.
Today morning I awoke, scanning the probability continuum, I spotted an anomaly, an attractor point, rotating slowly, strange, never seen one like that before. I quickly scanned the horizon and all I could see were lines heading inward, in toward the point. What struck me as strange though was that the points that led outward, darted out, struggled against the gravity of the situation and unable to attain escape velocity collapsed inward, transcribing long defeated elliptical paths as they fell back. The implications of the situation horrified me, but in an instant I was normal again. The future had long lost its power to shock me, I had turned indifferent. Success and failure didn’t bother me, I accept them in my stride, easy if you can see them coming a mile off.
I went through the day mechanically, planning out my course of action, what I would do and when, not that it would make a difference, I knew what was going to happen and I was powerless to avert the inexorable conclusion.
As the plane banked again, left, ever left, now over the outskirts of the city again, I followed the lines, leading from patches of light, inward toward the city. From a distance, Delhi appeared a large blot of light against the night. Small buds of light lay on its periphery, soon to be swallowed by the amoeboid growth of the capital.
Now we straighten out. My ears hum as the plane drops, flaps extend accompanied by a crescendo of wails, mourning the future to come. I see the streets now, rushing towards the inevitable, faster, faster still. They have now resolved to parallel streams of red and yellow, rushing towards me. I close my eyes and see the lines of fate sketched on the immense plane that was once my life surging irresistibly toward the point.
I sat, relaxed, sinking into the seat for the first time on the flight, lay my head against the headrest waiting. Then I saw it. The plane that I had assumed to be flat was curving, curving away from me. I had always looked at the future in two dimensions and had always seen a flat surface, now I found to my confusion that it was anything but flat. Here, it was curving back on itself like an immense cylinder, so wrapped up in this revelation was I that I did not look at the point. When I did, I found it lying where the curve started.
A whine as the wheels lowered and a thump as they locked into place, the air rushing past now increased in violence, threatening to rip them off, then, with a loud thud and shudder we were no longer being held up by the wings, solid earth had taken over. Below me I saw the lines emerge from the point and collapse over the edge of the cylinder to other points, beyond the horizon and not as I’d thought, back in. As I travelled over the horizon, I saw emerge beneath me another universe of points and lines, situations and decisions, choices and consequences. Below me was unveiled another network of hubs and spokes and attractors and outliers.
As I disembarked, I heard an airhostess whisper to another, “what the fuck is he so happy about?”