Monday, December 10, 2012

Tiny Measures

“I can do this. I don’t care what the Queen thinks. I don’t care what anyone thinks. This may not be what an ant was born to do, but it sure as hell is what I was born to do,” Aeolis told his reflection in the miniature water pool in his room.

“Say what?” Lars called out from the other side of the mud wall.

“Oh no, nothing Dad,” Aeolis replied dismissively, “Just heading out to the farm now. Later!”

Slamming the door behind him, he joined the line of the rest of the workers on their way to Exit 635.

Aeolis thought his colony was both lucky and unlucky in the sense that it was situated in the city’s largest park. Human families picnicking on the lawns always brought enough food to last their colony (and every other colony in the park) years.

Of course, getting the food from them was the problematic bit.

Humans have this very confusing tendency of killing any kind of insect that tried to take some of their food, or even breathe anywhere within their proximity. Why? None of the ants knew, but word on the tunnels were that once, giant wasps ruled all the earth and insects were at the top of the food chain. Then, when humans realized that wasps died when they were separated from their stings, they started a war creating a terrifying weapon they called the “knife”.

They cut off every single one of the wasps’ stings off, and left them to die the most cruel, most painful deaths. Ever since, humans never gave a second thought before killing an insect, for fear of them evolving into a superior race.

“Idiots,” thought Aeolis as he followed Ludwig and Erlin in the long line leading towards the exit. “When will humans learn that war and fighting is never the answer? Why divide and rule people when every individual and species on earth deserves a fair and equal chance at life?”

“So what if we’re tiny. We work our asses off every single day just to survive! How does that, even in the littlest way, give someone else the right to invade our territory, dictate terms of living to us and commit genocide whenever they feel like? Screw them!” Aelois thought.

He had had many a debate over this very issue, of why humans should be the known as the “dominant” race in the world, with his father, his friends, and the next door neighbours, even at his not-so-secret meetings with the wasps, bees and grasshoppers he liked chatting with (Those guys saw so much more the world than I could even dream of seeing, with my tiny legs).

But the only thing the people who bothered listening to him rant would ever say was, “And what’re you going to do about it? Revolt? Bite them so hard, they get down on their knees and worship you? Ha!”

What bothered Aeolis so much about this reply was he didn’t know what he wanted to do about it himself. He wanted to do something that would teach the ants, and every other insect in the park, that being small didn’t matter when it came to being counted as a living being. He wanted them to know that even insects had just as much say in the world as humans, reptiles, amphibians and other mammals did. But most of all, he wanted the humans to notice.

Aeolis wanted them to know that even the miniscule ant played as much as a role in the ecosystem as humans did. That they had voices and opinions about the way the world was being run, and that they didn’t like it at all. He wanted them to know that the continuity of a race did not depend on technology or aggressiveness towards other races, but on the way they handled society and communal issues. Success depended upon communal happiness, not shows of strength.

He followed the rest of the workers out Exit 635 into the bright sunlight that blinded him for a second. Then, instead of following the line through the safety of the grass towards a red blanket laden with ham sandwiches, potato chips and glasses of juice, he turned right and made his way across to the group of kids playing with their toys a bit further away.

Today’s the day, he thought to himself. Right here, right now.

“Aeolis! Hey! The food’s this way!” Ludwig called out to him, but Aeolis didn’t turn around. Ludwig and Erlin shrugged and fell back in line with the rest of the ants.

Aeolis had thought about this before: children were the most impressionable, most willing to learn. So he made his way up to the kids and crawled up the jeans one of them was wearing. It was easy considering that this one was content sitting and watching the other kids rip apart their toys while he carefully ensured that his G.I. Joe didn’t get a speck of dirt on it. He seemed a reasonable little chap to Aeolis.

Finally, the time has come, he thought to himself as he made his way across the length of the kids arm. It’s time for the end of human domination, and to make way for a new era where every single being, regardless of species, size, weight or genus, would be able to live in a peaceful and harmonious existence with each other! Where mindless killing would have no—

Aeolis was dead before he knew it.


“Ryan, there’s an ant on your neck!”


“Ow!” Ryan yelled as Debby slapped the ant dead.

“Couldn’t you feel it crawling over you?” Debby asked Ryan incredulously, flicking the little black remains of the ant off her palm.

“I don’t know,” Ryan said, rubbing this now red neck where Debby had smacked it, “Maybe it was just too small to notice.”

Originally posted here:

Thursday, November 29, 2012


It’s just little bits of madness that starts to creep in, inch by inch, into your mind. You don’t even realize it’s there until it’s got you pinned to the floor belly down, squeezing every last ounce of air out of your lungs, but letting you taste the dirt on the floor. But it could take months, maybe even years before it gets to that. So don’t worry, you’ve got time.

Of course, you can’t do anything about it. Nothing you ever try will help you get rid of it, or be able to change the ultimate, pitiable fate that you’re going to meet. No sir, you’re doomed to utter and complete madness. 

It’s never a question of “What should I do?” It’s only “When?”

So what do you do in the mean time? Chill out. Have fun. Do whatever the heck you’ve always wanted to do. Just don’t take too long, or plan too ahead into the future. You know--things you probably won’t have the time to finish before you “descend in the darkness”. Nobody likes having to finish what someone else has started. Unless, of course, it’s something really important. Like a Scotch. NEVER LET A HALF FINISHED SCOTCH GO TO WASTE. 

Try looking at things in a different light. Don’t hang on the things that shouldn’t matter for too long. You’ll just end up getting yourself and everyone else around you down. Why worry about the past when you can worry about the immediate future? That’s all that really matters anyway. Be happy you’ve still got your sanity in place. For now.

Then again if you really, really feel the need to go ahead and do that, please do. You’re free to make your choices after all. Just don’t do it in when everyone else around you just wants to have a good time, relax and just chill the fuck out. Do that shit on your own time, okay sweety?

Anyway, the point is be happy, and let everyone else around be happy too. You do not have anything to worry about at all. Really. Life’s a bitch, yeah. But in the end it doesn’t even matter. I had to fall, to lose it all. But in the end…oh wait. Sorry, wrong thought process. *shuts off Linkin Park part of brain*

Yeah. So. Madness. That’s going to be a pain in the ass. But hey, I hear they’ve got HD TV at the sanatorium. Premier League in full HD. That should make up for it!

Oops, gotta go. The girlfriend’s calling. 

I dunno, there’s something about her I love that’s just so…maddening.

Friday, November 16, 2012

The One

I’m not the one you could put your trust in.
I’m the one who was betrayed.

I’m not the one you could crush.
I’m the one who fought back.

I’m not the one you were supposed to end up with.
I’m the one who finished it.

I’m not the one you could take for granted.
I’m the one who gave you up.

I’m not the one you could tie down.
I’m the one who broke free.

I’m not the one you could have lived with.
I’m the one who rose from the dead.

I’m not the one you could walk over.
I’m the one who walked.

I’m not the one you could keep up with.
I’m the one who led the way.

I’m not the one you could keep captive.
I’m the one who let you go.

I’m not the one you deserved.
I’m the one who made the sacrifice.

I’m not the one you were meant to find.
I’m the one you lost.

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Just Like Suicide

Take the time out to enjoy the little things in life, they say.

But what if those little things, the things you truly care about, turn into your worst nightmare?

That’s exactly what happened to Sam. Short for Sameer. My boyfriend.

He loved his life. Perfect girlfriend, perfect friends, perfect car and his perfect family. That’s all he ever really needed, and that’s all he ever really cared about.

He wasn’t a smart-ass, a douche. No, he was the guy you’d love bumping into on your walk to class at college, who’d make you laugh your guts out no matter how shitty it was going until then and manage to turn it around in a matter of seconds. That was his gift. The gift of gab.

So why did he, the most popular guy in his college, with the perfect life, suddenly decide to kill himself? That’s exactly what I wanted to find out. Needed to find out. Because without that closure, without knowing why he did what he did, why he threw everything away, I would never be able to move on.

I’m a realist. I loved Sam. But I know he’s gone, and there’s nothing I will ever be able to do that will bring him back. If he chose to leave me behind alone, he would’ve had his reasons. He loved me, and I know that.

I needed to move on, and that’s exactly why I’m sitting here in the dark in (what was) his bedroom, with the nightlight giving me just enough light to read his suicide note. Just enough light to watch the gleam shine off the edge of the knife I was holding in my hand. Just enough, while I pondered on how to go about what I was going to do next.

So why did he kill himself? Well, let me tell you in his own words:


Dear Maddy.

I know you’re going to find this note sometime or the other. I know you’re going to sneak into my room once I’ve done I’m planning to do. Well, by the time you’re reading this it’ll be something I’ve already done. Wow, that’s heavy. It’s like I’m writing from beyond the grave, haha.

I can just picture you sitting on my bed reading this after having snuck into my room in the dead of night, knowing that you just HAVE to find out why. Why I left you. Well, I’m not going to stall any more. Here’s why.

I woke up a few weeks back and just couldn’t get myself out of bed. I couldn’t move my legs at all. I thought it was just my feet going numb because of a weird position I was sleeping in. So I waited a while, and sure enough the feeling returned to my legs. I got up and got through the rest of theday just like any other and completely forgot about it.

Until it happened again, 3 days later.

This time, I knew there was something wrong, because it took me half an hour just to be able to feel anything in my legs.

I didn’t wanna freak my parents out so I went to the doctor, and he gave me a couple of tablets. Thought it would be cool after that, but it didn’t get any better. In fact, it started getting so bad, my butt (haha, I know it sounds funny when I say it here) started getting sore too.

So I went to the doctor again and after a very…how should I put this…”intimate” check-up, he asked me to set up a secret video camera while sleeping at home.  

He didn't say why, but told me to tell this to no one, especially not my family.

I thought it was going to be for some sleep therapist (do those even exist? You have weird ass specialists for everything nowadays, no?) to check up on. So I did it.

I set up a camera and recorded what I thought was going to be a regular, peaceful night of sleep for me.  How wrong was I!

Anyway, I don’t think I can tell you everything here. You should watch the video I recorded. And then follow the instructions that are in the next page of this letter. But please, don’t read it until you’re done watching the video. It’ll spoil the fun. ;)

It’s on my laptop, in the folder named “For Your Eyes Only”. (Drama King I am, no?)




So that was the letter.

And then I watched the video.

I remembered his password, which was my full name (something I hate being called) and found the video in the folder, just like he’d said.

I cursed him for the password, opened the file and started watching the video.

He had turned the camera on, and gone to bed like he normally would’ve done. Curled up into a ball under his blanket, with just his head poking out as he always does.

Sam had edited the video, so it suddenly cut away to an hour later when Sam was fast asleep (snoring his ass off like he always does).

The door to his room opened slowly. And his  dad entered his room, holding a cloth and a tiny bottle in his hand.

He stood there for a few seconds watching Sam, making sure he wasn’t awake.

He poured something out of the bottle into the cloth and walked carefully towards Sam, not making any noise at all. It was surprising he could be that quiet; when you’re 50 years old and weigh 105 kilos, stealth isn’t usually something you’re known for.

He covered Sam’s face with the cloth for about 15 seconds, and then took it off. He clearly knew how long it took for the (what I correctly guessed) chloroform to take effect.

He walked back to the door, a little quicker and not trying as hard to be quiet, shut the door and locked it from the inside. And then he took off his pants.

I giggled involuntarily. I’d never seen a man that fat, that naked before. Unless you count the time I caught the drunken neighbour next door peeing in our garden.

I shut up and continued watching, knowing but not knowing what exactly was going to happen next.
Sam’s dad got into his bed, threw away his blanket and then slowly pulled Sam’s pyjamas off him. He stroked his leg for a bit, then tugged Sam’s boxers below his knees, exposing his bare butt to him. To the camera. To me.

Sam’s dad already had a hard-on. He didn’t need to try to get aroused. He didn’t need to feel Sam’s testicles, or play with his dick to make him any more turned on than he already was.

And then I watched him fuck Sam.

The negligible amount of food I had for dinner, which was already halfway up by the time I had come to this part of the tape, finally seemed to have found its escape route through my mouth. I threw up on the bed I was sitting, all over the laptop on which I was watching my boyfriend get raped by his own father.

I didn’t need to watch anymore. I shut the laptop.

Now, I knew why Sam killed himself. Why he threw away his “perfect” life. Why he left me alone.

I picked up the letter, and turned the page over.

It only had seven words written on it:

“The knife’s under the bed.
Kill him.”

Friday, October 5, 2012


I'm awake. I'm asleep. I'm working. I'm feeling. I'm riding. I'm staring. I'm breathing. I'm seeking. I'm searching. I'm crying. I'm learning. I'm reading. I'm watching. I'm loving. I'm waiting. I'm yearning. I'm finding. I'm wandering. I'm losing. I'm fighting. I'm raging. I'm gazing. I'm lying. I'm dead. I'm alive.

Boy Meets Girl

Not long ago, there was a boy 
Who set off on his dream.
He carried with him nothing more than hope and courage; 
In his eyes they would gleam.

But one stormy night he lost them both, 
He knew not where to find.
He searched the path, both high and low, 
Almost losing mind.

Hope and courage both nowhere now, 
He looked back towards the start.
Taking one short step back home, 
He held his broken heart.

But then he felt a warmth around his hand, 
A comforting, kind touch.
Looking up, he saw a girl 
With bright eyes that shined so much.

She'd lost her hope and courage too, 
She told him as he listened.
He held her tight, and said, "It's fine," 
As tears in her eyes, they glistened.

The both of them sat on the ground, 
Not knowing what to do.
They sat in silence, weeping not, 
But sorrowful, too.

Then the boy stood up, held out his hand 
And said, "Let's walk together."
"We may not have what wanted at first, 
But at least we have each other."

The girl took his hand, smiled and said, 
"I'm glad that we do."
And down the road they walked hand-in-hand, 
with new found hope, courage and a little faith too.

Tuesday, September 11, 2012


He looked at the clock to check the time. 17:51.

The damn clock. Two fucking thousand rupees for that chrome plated piece of shit.

Just another thing you made me waste money on, he thought to himself. He didn’t say this out loud though. He knew it would upset her.

The crystal glass lay empty in front of him on the table, but he didn’t pour himself another drink. He hated rushing his drinks, it always gave him a bad hangover the next day.

And I really don’t need the hangover at work tomorrow, he thought. Lots to do.

He looked at her long, wavy brown hair that followed the curve of her breasts as it made its way down to her waist, and he felt a strange sense of arousal. He smiled, slightly embarrassed.

Don’t even think about it, he thought.  She’s not in the mood, and it’s just plain wrong to force yourself on her.

Plain wrong.


She walked in the front door, smiling brightly with the bag of groceries she’d bought from the market yard down the road, to find him sitting with his face buried in his hands, crying his eyes out.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him. “What happened?”

He didn’t say anything immediately. He just looked up, eyes blood red from crying for hours, tears streaming down his face, stared at her for a few seconds and then screamed, “I hate you, you bitch.”


He looked up at the clock (the damned clock, he thought) again. 18:00.

He leaned forward and picked up the bottle of rum from the table, poured out an almost accurately measured drink and placed the bottle back. He’d left just enough in the bottle for one last drink.

He would’ve poured one out for his wife too, but she didn’t drink anymore. She’d stopped drinking for a while now, for no specific reason. If anyone asked her why, she’d say “I just can’t handle my drink anymore, and he doesn’t like it,” nodding towards her husband, who’d just laugh, shrug and give her a kiss on her cheek.

So he sat and sipped from his glass alone, wishing he had better company than his wife who didn’t drink anymore.


“I saw you with him.”

“With who?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know shit, you know just who the fuck I’m talking about.”

“I swear I don’t know…”

But he saw her eyes dart quickly away from his gaze and then back. He heard the faint quiver in her voice as her last word trailed off into nothingness. He felt the heat rise as her face flushed with guilt.

“You swear?”


Her voice cracked and she stood dumbfounded.

He stood up.

“I saw you two. I saw you get into the car with him. I watched as you two drove away. I followed you. I saw you park in that asshole’s apartment cellar, right in the corner. Perfect spot, eh? I watched him kiss you. I watched him take your shirt off, and I watched you remove his jeans. I watched him fuck you, you slut. I watched him fuck you like the whore you really are.”

She was crying now. Tears fell from her eyes quicker than the bags of groceries that fell from her hand to the floor. A packet of chips fell on top of the box of Hershey’s kisses that she’d bought for the next-door-neighbour’s kid.

He took a step forward, and the packet of chips burst underneath his shoe.


The damned clock said it was 18:35.

He took one last drag from his cigarette, and then stubbed it against the leg of the table. Flicking the butt across the room, he stood up and walked towards the front door.

Before he could he open the door, he turned around and surveyed the room.

His wife was still at the table.

He couldn’t just leave her alone like that. She wouldn’t like that at all.

He went back to the table and sat down. He poured himself the last of the rum, neatly put the bottle cap back on it and placed the empty bottle between him and his wife on the table.

“Cheers,” he said to himself, and sipped at his glass, slowly, so that he could spend as much time with her as possible.

He didn’t want to leave her while she was still that upset. He couldn’t.

He smiled at her.


He slapped her hard.

He slapped her in a way he had only slapped his younger brother once as a kid, when he had found the little fucker stealing the money he had been saving for over a year to buy that leather jacket he had wanted for so long.

She was bleeding from her lip, but he didn’t see it.

She didn’t scream or yell in pain. She just sobbed through her now slowly swelling lower lip, mumbling words that sounded like “sorry” and “I didn’t mean to hurt you” and “I was going to end it”.

He didn’t hear any of that however.

He picked her up from the floor and steadied her. And then slapped her again.

This time, she did scream.


At 19:00 on the damned clock, he drained the remainder of his drink.

Standing up from the table, he picked up his glass and washed it in the kitchen sink.

He put it back in the showcase in the living room, but not before wiping it dry. He knew his wife hated it when he didn’t dry the crystal out first.

He went to the table, kissed his wife’s cold cheeks and said, “I’ll see you soon, bitch.”


He pulled his jacket on, and shut the door behind him.

It was cold out, but the rum, along with his jacket, one that his wife had bought him for Christmas last year, kept him nice and warm.

He found the neighbour’s kid playing with his remote controlled car in front of their house, as he always did.

He smiled at the boy, and pulled out the packet of Hershey’s Kisses from his jacket.

The boy’s face lit up immediately.

He wiped the still fresh blood of the packet on to the back of his jeans, and gave the chocolates to the boy.

He ruffled his hair, smiled at him, and walked down the road, until the boy couldn’t see him anymore.

Saturday, July 21, 2012


“The perfect words never crossed my mind, ‘cause there was nothing in there but you.”

I don’t remember the first time I spoke to her, saw her or was even introduced to her. It feels like she’s always been a part of my life, even though I’ve only known her 4 (not sure about that either) years. I find it strange, how people in love keep saying “I’ll never forget the first time I saw you, you were wearing a really cute green t-shirt and jeans and had your hair tied up in a ponytail and…” while I’m still trying to figure out what the fuck it was that made us look at, let alone speak to each other.

Maybe it was a common friend who introduced us to each other. Or maybe we were standing in line at the college canteen and we had both smelled (tasted?) the fart from the fat guy in front of us. Or maybe we met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. I don’t remember.

I don’t remember when we started falling for each other; whether it was slow realization after endless conversations about (other) things we love that went way too late into the night, or if there was an instant spark that turned our whole world upside down with feelings for each other that we just couldn’t ignore.

I don’t remember the beginning.

“No, I won’t wait forever.”

I don’t’ remember the fights, the name-calling, and the deafening silence. I don’t remember if it was jealousy or just mistrust. I don’t remember if we tried enough to make it work.

I don’t remember if we promised to be in touch and for how long we let that fa├žade drag on between us.

I don’t remember when we stopped talking each other, and when those endless conversations of ours ceased.

I don’t (want to?) remember the end.

“All I wanted just sped right past me, while I was rooted fast to the Earth.
I could be stuck here for a thousand years, without your arms to drag me out.”

All I remember is the way she held my hand when I felt alone and had no one on my side, and needed nothing but a hug, some company, and peace and quiet.

All I remember is the feeling I’d get when I met her after a long day at work and needed someone listen to things that just plain pissed me off.

All I remember is how she’d always take my side no matter who or what I was upset with, and how she’d manage to turn my mood around.

All I remember is the way she’d listen when I was ranting about music and writing and the things I wanted to do with my life.

All I remember is how whenever we kissed nothing else in the world mattered to me as much as she did (does?).

All I remember is us.

“In the confusion and the aftermath, you are my signal fire.”

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

So. I'm a writer.

So I can write.

Big deal.

Does that mean I need to make a career out of it? Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life sitting behind a computer or with a pen in hand struggling to find words that describe perfectly the exact emotion I feel, or my character feels, while trying (in vain) to look like I don’t give a shit about the rest of the world, that’s slowly starting to spiral down into madness and chaos?

(Like I care. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to spend the rest of my life begging the world for solitude and quiet and peace and go all emo to “just leave me the fuck alone, will you!”  while secretly lusting for the world’s approval of what I so desperately try to get the world to notice?

(I don’t need you. Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to drown myself in hard liquor and slowly burn the insides of my lungs with that pack of cigarettes a day I just CANNOT do without, sitting outside a coffee shop with three empty cups of cappuccino (Grandes, naturally) staring into space giving off a mysterious aura of *wait for it, and I’m only using this word to be on par with what what I mentioned in the first paragraph about always having to find the right word, NOT because I’m out of words, which I am SO not. (Hmph!)* mystery?

(*sip, puff, aura* Hmph.)

Does that mean I need to live “alone” in a studio apartment the rest of my life, going out only to be inspired by the people walking past me into the coffee shop and by the night sky or the rain or the rainbow or the sunset or the lyric of my (current) favorite song, and only bringing home people when I’m horny, and need that post-coital smoke to inspire me too?

(Sex? Hmph.)

Does it? DOES IT?!?

Oh it does?

*emo, sip, puff, aura, post-coital puff*

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


He tried to move. But he couldn't.

His hands weren't bound. Neither were his legs. No iron chains or rope binding him to a wall or tying him down in a chair. No visible injuries on him, except for a long-forgotten, but clearly visible scar on his arm from an accident he'd gotten into on his first motorcycle. In all physical senses, he could've just as easily carried his wife and walked out of the room, as he could've batted his eye lids.

But no, this didn't have anything to do with his current physical state. Neither did it have to do with the hospital room he was in. He was not alone (well, technically alone NOW), but the room still felt empty to him. The air around him was ice cold, a tell-tale sign of the proficiency with which the air conditioning repairmen had worked just the previous day. It made him cold, but he didn't care. The cold air wasn't even the last thing on his mind.

He stood, holding in his arms an hour-old baby. His baby. His own child, who he wasn't even looking at let alone bother to notice that it was crying it's eyes out, bawling like, well, a little baby. Only an hour before, it was his wife in his arms, and he was holding her, comforting her, willing her to push, to give birth to that beautiful baby girl that now had taken her place in his arms.

One would say at the time, the girl had no idea what had happened. But the girl knew. Just like her father knew.

He tried to move. But he couldn' he stared into his dead wife's empty eyes.

Friday, July 6, 2012


I've been a slave too long.

That constant feeling you're being watched. Or maybe you're just lonely.

So it arrived this morning.

I woke up with a start, trying not to think about how many times I’d snoozed the alarm, wishing I could shove my foot up my ass for being such a lazy fuck.

And then I saw it.

I wasn’t scared. I didn’t panic. For some strange reason, I was almost expecting it to be there.  It looked at me in the eye, sitting calm and still in the corner of the room, not moving, not saying a word. It just stared.

It followed me out of my room, and I wondered whether it would follow me into the bathroom. I wouldn’t have liked that at all. I’d spent a good five minutes in bed trying to get used to it, but I still wasn’t comfortable with it watching me undress and bathe. However, it was polite enough to wait outside while I bathed.

It didn’t do anything while I got dressed for work. It didn’t do anything as I found the bread that was supposed to be my breakfast covered in mould. It didn’t do anything as I double checked my pockets for my phone and keys and locked my room.

Its weight as it rode behind me on my bike seemed to be making my journey longer than the ten minutes it usually takes me to get to work. Turning and manoeuvring around the traffic felt like an hour’s workout. Almost lost my balance a couple of times. When I finally reached, I glanced at my watch. I wasn’t late. It really did take me just ten minutes.

It sat next to me at my desk, still staring, as I worked through the day, giving me company during the lunch break too. It never left my side.

As I got used to its constant presence being around me, I found myself starting to get used to it. Found myself being glad it was around. Glad for the company it gave, I guess. Maybe it felt the same way too. I certainly didn’t see why it wouldn’t like to be around me all the time. I like to think I’m that nice a guy.

I brought it back home with me, along with a chicken shawarma I planned to have for my dinner. (The shawarma was good. A little dry, and would’ve tasted better if the Persian guy down the road that made it had used pita bread instead of a roti, but all in all a good shawarma.) It didn’t complain or ask for a shawarma for itself. It just watched me eat. It didn’t seem too hungry anyway.

I got into bed and tucked myself in. I turned around to say goodnight to it, but I couldn’t see it. It was gone.

I figured it just needed to be around someone for the day to make itself feel better about, well, itself.

I rolled back into a comfortable sleeping position, one that was just close enough to the wall touching my bed so that I wouldn’t fall off (as I used to frequently when I was a kid, therefore leaving me with a life-long fear of “falling off the edge”, something that still torments me with sleepless nights through nightmares) but far enough give me room to stretch and roll and kick in my sleep in the night (as a friend of mine very rudely found out last Saturday when I kicked him in the face several times in the night), said quietly, “Goodnight, you piece of shit,” and dozed off almost immediately after.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012


Random shit I wrote for a placement exam.

Growing up in a family of musicians, music has always been something I’ve been passionate about even as a kid.

From my grandmother singing me to sleep, to my dad’s country and classic rock music blaring every weekend on the music system, it has all shaped the interest in music I have right now, influencing my tastes and preferences in music.

My day has to start and end with music, with my earphones on from the moment I wake up to the time I get in to bed. Living without music is not only unthinkable for me, but even the thought of it is suffocating.

What I find in music, is not just a bunch of notes and beats strung together with someone singing random words into a microphone. For me, music reflects a musician’s and lyricist’s soul that can be mirrored by people who feel the same way around the world, no matter who or where you are, and no matter what kind of music you listen to.

I personally have no prerogatives against any form of music; music is music. It may be Bollywood, filmy stuff or classical Beethoven, or The Sex Pistols or Jimi Hendrix or Zakher Hussain. It’s all music. I may not listen to each genre as much as the rest, I’ve got my own preferences too. But it all forms a part of this musical world where everyone can have a say about anything they feel like, be it love, heartbreak, rebellion, war, peace or even plain human laziness.

Learning to play the guitar since the age of 7, I’ve been exposed to both contemporary as well as older styles of music that has only made my obsession with it grow with every guitar solo, or lyric or drum roll I hear.

What I love most about music is the lyrical aspect of the whole thing. Lyrics are what the music revolves around, and I’ve always found the fact that one can write such brilliant, meaningful lyrics while maintaining rhyme and rhythm extremely mystifying and fascinating.

Of course, I’ve tried my hand at being a musician too; playing acoustic sets at a coffee shop near my place and having even strangers around me clapping and singing along was one the best feelings I’ve ever had in my entire life. Maybe I didn’t give it my best though, for then I’m sure I’d be a full-time musician by now, but I guess I just didn’t trust myself enough.

Then again, if life ever found it fair to give me a second chance, I’d be picking up my guitar and lyrics book without any hesitation and running out that door, into a life that would make me happier than anything else in this world.