Sunday, 14 December 2008

the end.

Today was one of the strangest days in my life, I was on the verge of tears thrice, I cried twice, I wailed once and laughed hysterically twice. Then I almost fell of the auto, and ate almost half a rooster. This was an eventful day, and thus I conclude, that my blogging days are over.

Which is to say, that I am completely incoherent now, I will never be back, mostly because I don't want to be back, I wish everyone who reads this much happiness and end-of-year mirth, I hope all are poetic, and if not poetic, happy. Those lately philosophical can go skinny dipping in the Ganges and get eaten (whole) by the rare and exotic Gangetic dolphin.

Please to realize, a chapter closes here, as it should have closed long ago, before we had to turn twenty and learn it the hard way, with knobs on.

Goonight, sweet ones- ladies, ladybirds, and lollies. This world is so beautiful that it makes one shiver with anticipation for the counterfactual.

Goonight, and gooluck.

Thursday, 11 December 2008

the essence.

You fool, they said.
As original as the moustache on Mephistopheles, as daring as the Falls behind which he disappeared, as existential as a piece of chocolate cake, as sad as a torn teddy bear...
You can be a piece of sadness, stupid, but you can't be sadness. I want to be sadness, I say, I want to be everything that I cannot be, and is that not being sadness? What qualifies, in that case... a further dazzling (bewildering) originality? How can I solve this problem, oh how can I, oh how.

Then she came, in a whirl of whiteness, chiffon and silks and satins rustled, but she was wearing cotton, the basest cotton; torn and limp and futile. The essence, of course, being the essence, as it were... and what is the essence?Is the cotton the essence, or is it her, or is it both? Is the presence the essence or the absence?
There being no answer, she shuddered, drooped, cried, and made a scene.

She was a fool, they said.

Saturday, 6 December 2008


When Angrez-log i.e., not the firang Angrez, but people who study the Angrez language, have crime fiction, they die. This death is called 'soocayde', as they told us in Sholay.

We did this to ourselves. We read books that are actually histories of the time-tables of trains in rural England. Thus the book is a red herring. It is not the real thing, Ms. Dorothy L. Sayers.

And the rest is silence.

P.S. If the Don doesn't offer History, Literature and Criticism then Nandita and I have planned to enact the famous scene on the ledge. We will call him Mausaji and shed gallons of genuine tears. His heart will melt and we will study Ideology. Life is such a bed of roses.

P.P.S. If the Don still doesn't agree, then I think it will be suicide. Not soocayde. And someone will have to do much chakki-peesing as divine retribution.

Thursday, 4 December 2008


Achha, tell me.
Sexpot; ki short for Sexy Potty noy?

Monday, 1 December 2008

sExy pOTty

When nothing made sense, when life seemed horror or ennui ad infinitum/ad eternatem, when I was sick of (in)comprehension, when I desired to be liberated, when everything piled up and up into this mountainous whole... Does the sum of the parts add up to something greater than the whole? Who knows. I would write on the last page of my notebook, feverishly scribbling away, as one almost in delirium...

Sexy Potty.