I’d rather be home with my dog…

Sounds…a melee of sounds wake me from my slumber. Birds chirp, sounding strained, torn and sick. Somewhere through the window I hear drilling, a car honking, a doorbell ringing and a woman shouting. I pull my dog, towards me an bury my face into his warm fur and sigh, hoping to be welcomed back into that void called sleep.

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An hour later I sit staring at the phone, while he sits curled up around my feet. I have received a meme; a bunch of girls pouting at the camera, and below that is a bunch of orangutans pouting at the camera. The text says, “Girls be like…”. And I respond “LOL” without even twitching my lips into a pretend smile.

I shift to FaceBook, JK Rowling has started a tweet storm against some self proclaimed liberal guy who called Theresa May a whore.

I like it. I mean, I long press the like icon without actually liking it.

A friend has posted an image of herself, holding a newborn baby, I like it too but I don’t think I really give a fuck about her newborn named Alia.

A woman was raped in an auto in Gurgaon, her 9-month-old baby strangled and thrown off the auto because she was crying too much. A surge of anger flares somewhere deep inside and I fervently search for the angry emoticon, religiously share the post with a status that says, “When will our country change…”

A BJP Leader thinks Momos need to be banned just like the beefban. I go to the comments section and think of something smart to write, I read the other comments, somehow the discussion has moved from Momos to Muslims, and I realize that I really can’t be bothered with this level of bigoted fuckery. It was not my fuckery to begin with anyway.

I switch to Instagram, and notice that my steaming hot plate of oats is no more steaming, nor hot, instead it has now turned into in to a hardened pudding that tastes like a sweet piece of shit.

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Blackout

I got up from a blackout on the cemented floor of a rundown grocery deli next to a gun and empty cases of nine mm bullets.

The back of my head had a blotch of an amorphous something and my hair strands were glued together in a thick syrupy red liquid, that could have been my blood or ketchup. My forehead had several linear bruises, like someone took time out of his day to scrape it precisely with a kitchen fork. And when I breathed into my palm, I smelled like I had eaten raw meat not too long ago. My gums, although still loosely holding my teeth together, tasted coopery and when I squished the edges with my tongue, a fountain of bloody juice shot up inside my mouth like the slimy pus when you press hard an acne or a blackhead.

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I looked around for someone – for anyone. But amidst the maze of pillars and layers of dust, all I found was my ownself restlessly fidgeting the unintended patterns casted by rusty ventilators and the lamp post light that entered through them. And all I heard was someone gasp in the back of my head, except I realized – much sooner than I thought I would – that my own voice sounded to me like it came from somewhere else.

The cars parked in the parking lot looked like they weren’t meant to be there; haphazard, out of line, with their suicide doors open half-way up in the air, engine perhaps still warm, an expensive jacket thrown on the passenger’s seat.

Who came to this garage like place far away from the city with a car that had suicide doors? A gangster? A rapper? James Bond?

The empty cases of bullets on the floor that rolled in circles and clinked against each other, were far too many in number and still not enough for me to draw conclusions of any sorts. Except for a blood spattered forehead and a round tiny scar right in the centre of it, and a distorted dental anatomy, I thought I was pretty okay.

Then who was shot? Where did these bullets go?

The wall took a few, yes, and few went through the windshield of the parked cars. But the rest of them? The whole deli looked like there was a massacre; blood stained clothes on the floor, bits of flesh on the ceiling or high up on the wall, gloves and other fabrics on the floor, all scattered here and there, calling for mercy or angelic intervention or redemption of some kind. But yet there were no dead bodies.

There were just tapes, orange tapes, fluorescent green tapes, stretched out from one corner of a random pillar to the other and then on to the next one, with no uniformity like that of a maze and I was in the middle of all of it, trying to make my way out.

I noticed the amateur drawings on the floor carved out with blackboard chalks. There was no sense of art in those drawings, the colors did not seem like they were colors I had known existed and the drawings on the floor looked like they were drawn by a kid – the outlines of a man’s body with no clear demarcations between his legs like a mermaids bottom flappers.

The stairway that led to the other floor of the deli was taped too and I made my way through it. Upon entering the other floor of the grocery shop, what I saw, did not just add on to the whole mystery but also left me disappointed. There were still tapes, more stretched out tapes than I had seen in my entire life. Tapes and tapes and more tapes and then some more drawings on the floor, on the four walls, on the cashier’s desk.

Needless to say, the shop was locked from outside, there were no guards, cops or civilians, no sign of life, except maybe a few rats spurting around in the light and munching on the leftover snack packets, Oreos and Pringles.

I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. Perhaps I had eaten right before the blackout or perhaps my appetite was rather secondary to my existence or perhaps I had simply lost the sense of time.

I opened the jars and fed the rats, from two rats to five rats to fifteen to fifty rats. The rats owned the place and hid themselves in the dark, like rats do.

And upon hours and hours of kicking the empty boxes across the room and shouting for help I broke a few racks and wedged them in the shutter, trying to uplift it, but none of that accomplished anything. Except it made me tired and sleepy.

Needless to say, the phone was dead and the TV on the cashier’s desk perhaps last worked when this place did.

So what was I doing here?

Did I end up here accidently after perhaps a drunken night at the nearby bar?

I had no idea and I stood clueless in the middle of this redundant colony of hopelessness.

Much much later or as it may have seemed, my eyes hugged the darkness of the place and I surrendered to what seemed like a new life of nothingness. And from what I can tell you now, I got up from a blackout on the cemented floor of a rundown grocery deli next to a gun and empty cases of nine mm bullets.

Daddy’s little girl…

http://www.creativeadawards.com/hurt-girl/

You lug yourself forward, it hurts in places you did not know existed, until now. You drag yourself ahead; your body is heavy, panting like a dog in a desert. You are all alone, but that is a relief. You don’t mind dragging yourself to the bed stand, you don’t mind using the dying strength in your arms to slowly lift your upper body, and plop it on the bed. You don’t mind being alone; in fact you are positively relieved in your solitude. Because the alternative, the alternative to being alone propels you into tears of dread, misery and frustration.

You know that for at least another three to four hours, you will be alone. That time would help you lick your wounds, huddled in the corner of your bed. But before that you need to check, check your body, check your bones, check your face. No cuts, no visible wounds, no broken bones; that is your first priority; because the last thing you want is for people to notice. Your abdomen screams in pain, so does your nine months old daughter, she screams in hunger. Your abdomen can wait maybe, but not your daughter.

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Notice me Trump Senpai

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Assad sprawled upon his large four poster bed covered in red satin bedsheets. He drew his silk bathrobe closer to cover his bare shoulders as he blushed a little. When the phone on the other end of the line began to ring he blushed harder and crossed his legs in their white polka-dotted briefs. He twirled the silk string of his bathrobe in nervous anticipation. After a long time, the operator told him that his call will not be received at the moment and they would get back to him at the earliest. Assad sighed and hung up the phone. Then threw it at the bomb proof window of his palace. It thudded dully against the window and plopped down to the thick carpet.

Assad flopped into a nest of his goose feather pillows and switched on Skype in his ultra large smart TV. He dialed Kim’s number. He knew not to disturb Kim at this time…But he was feeling too dejected and Kim always knew how to cheer him up. Kim answered the call and the camera took moment to focus on his large round face. Kim’s face was covered in a thick green paste and he had cucumber slices on his eyes. He seemed to be soaking in a large tub of bubbly water. He pulled a cucumber slice off of one eye and chomped on it.

“Ah, my friend, the butcher of the east, come to give me my weekly dose of venison…” he laughed until his jowls quivered like those of an obese pig.

“ Kim, my buddy, I was just feeling a little IL! Thought I would check in with the sickest man I know!” Assad laughed until his bony shoulders flapped like those of a freshly skinned chicken. Continue reading

The End of Reason

 

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A hail of arrows flew up and blotted out the sun for a second. Sudarshan Chakra, the divine discus, flew into the arrows and swept them away like a broom would some stray twigs. The Chakra flew back to the forefinger of Lord Krishna, cunning statesman and flirt extraordinaire, and kept spinning there like a DVD in a disc player. “ We could do this all day, Partha, and we would get nowhere with it…” Krishna gave a nod and the peacock feather in his crown nodded emphatically, “ You of all people know this. I am your elder and I have laid a claim to this. For your own good, let it go.”

On another chariot halfway across the battlefield, Arjuna, handsome prince and master marksman, lowered his divine bow the Gandiva and scoffed, “ If just being elder was enough to lay claim to anything, then the war of Mahabharata would never have taken place, Madhava. You of all people should know this…” Arjuna raised Gandiva and in a blink cocked an arrow and released it. It flew in a wide arc towards Krishna’s and halfway through its path it split into a hundred arrows that burst into flames. The flaming arrows plunged towards Krishna who yawned at their descent. As the arrows got closer Krishna twirled his flute and waved it at the arrows, the arrows popped like popcorn and transformed into large marigold flowers that rained over the chariot and Krishna.

“The same old tricks Phalguna? Your arsenal is growing rusty…It’s long overdue for a hardware update…” Krishna smirked.

“And you are still using the same old parlour tricks, Keshava, your magic could do with a software update…” Arjuna grinned back. Continue reading

Mean Animals

“When I was a kid, I used to nag – a lot. I would go to my room, shut the door, often latch it from inside, and talk to the posters of animals in my room and nag some more. Yell out my side of the story, seek sympathy, say things out loud that hurt me. Talk about other the mean kids. Yell out bad words.”

Mom would barge in and say, “Keep the door open baby. Don’t latch it from inside.”

“But why mom?”

“Because kids shouldn’t be confined in their rooms all alone. That’s why. God forbid, if something goes wrong, we wouldn’t even come to know about it.”

“Okay. Fineee, mom!”

“And that happened every other day. Any time things went wrong, or upset me, I did the same thing; locked myself in and talked to these lifeless posters for hours and hours.  And it was not always just a one sided vent. These animals talked too. And I listened to them more than I listened to my best friend, or my teacher, or my own parents.  And this went on, say, till I was in my late teen years.”

“And then what happened?” asked the doctor.

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“Then it stopped. Obviously. I grew up.”

“But why is it the obvious, Sam?” Continue reading

Asha and the thought police (Akhil Bharatiya Vichar Arakshak)

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Asha climbed down from the mountain after a long arduous trek to catch the first glimpse of her city, her eyes widened and her nose twitched when she saw the entire city covered in what appeared to be a glistening orange mist. The rest of the way down she peered into the mist and watched it as it swirled around in unique patterns. How long has she been gone for? She counted the days on her fingers, she wasn’t gone for more than a week. What had changed in a week? She hurried down faster towards her home.

As she neared the first street of the city, she saw that the mist was made up of a formation of small flying quadcopter drones. All of them were painted orange with images of tigers, Shiva or Shivaji Maharaj drawn on them. Each one of them had a small orange flag flying on top of it that read ‘ABVA’ on it. Asha walked on in silence and mouthed a “what the…” as she stared from one drone to another as they moved about lazily. She knew the state would have elections while she was gone and she had expected some changes, but this was beyond anything she had imagined.

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