So some lame-ass in my college gang of 2004 has suddenly decided that it would be an awesome idea to find the phone numbers of 57 other class mates (two dead, may their souls rest in peace away from all social media) and form a whatsapp group. The poor dear has convinced some of his other friends to go through the painful task of collecting all the phone numbers, with the sole intention of forming another whatsapp group that we could all rudely exit from.
But this time, I’m pressing pause on that exit button. And I’m watching the damn ball game. Or very soon, this will escalate into a full blown cocktail party invitation.
There’s the usual two-person conversations that happen with a 58-strong audience.
“Hey Mark. How’s Oregon?”
“Hey Jude. Oregon is amazing. But tell me about Portland. Because I’m sure that the 50 member audience mostly stuck…
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I had wished they would all go away….and they had. Every last one of them.
My over-talkative colleagues, my clingy boss, my non-existent boyfriend, my ever-questioning maid, the ever ringing phone, the overflowing mailbox.
And then, with a snap of a finger, someone’s cruel idea of a joke, I was there. I was away. On this island, with not a single human in sight. And a very very hungry stomach.
If I were in a finer mood, I would have seen things differently. I would perhaps have seen the waves thrash on a bed of rocks, spraying fountains of glistening green and frothy white. I would have imagined the sand lying beside it like a well-oiled woman because, in my brighter moods, I pretend I have an imaginative mind. But the sand did bask in its watery glow, reflecting the silver of the rising sun, the palm trees and the rocks galore. I knew this because I saw it later in the photographs.
For now, my eyes were fixated on a dog. A big scrawny one, with a pink patch on its belly that reminded me of diseases I could catch that would have me barking as wildly as that mad dog. Continue reading
Let me begin with another inappropriate quote from George Carlin “People say you can’t joke about rape. That rape is not funny. I say, fuck you….I think it’s hilarious. I can prove it. Picture Porky Pig raping Daisy duck. See? And I know what men are gonna say…Daisy was asking for it. She was coming onto Porky. She had tight feathers. Porky got horny and lost control. A lot of men talk like that.”
So Salman felt like a raped woman. He feels empathy. Ten points right there.
He got ripped in the boxing ring, his body ached in places he didn’t know could ever feel pain, sobbed like a two-year-old for his mommy as some nonamer Fight-Clubbed him.
He tries to imagine, as per the drug addled capacity of his room-temperate IQ brain….that this was perhaps how a raped woman felt. Continue reading
You know what I can’t stand? Insufferable prick-writers who are probably describing say….an action scene…the two-faced son-of-a-gun who raped your wife and stole your life’s belongings while pretending to be your best friend is on the loose, and you chase him on one of those fancy-named sports cars, with a nine-inch revolver and a backup butcher knife just in case, and suddenly, just as you almost nailed the line-of-sight to shoot the motherfucker’s tires like a piñata annihilated at a five-year-old’s birthday bash, you stop. You gear down your story to screech-halt, no not because you want an urgent pee so that you don’t have to halt in between the brutal head smash that you have planned. But because there is a sunflower field, in full bloom, and you’d probably be OK with it if it was a tear-jerker scene, holding the hands of your dead wife, while the wind blew through her hair, and the salt of your tears mixed with the sweat of your palms, adding further adrenaline to your enraged screams for later, but no…you are just admiring the sunflower field….the hue of the falling sun warms your hardened heart, the dew drops on the leaves are your uncried tears, the fucking cat in the corner is your listlessness personified, everything is oh so sad and whimsical.
And what’s worse, while you, the semi-turned-on reader is now cursing the inappropriately timed tease of the writer, you suddenly notice a few other readers gliding to a gentle pause as they step out of their own literary rides, totally entranced by the copulating sunflower bees as if they were on psychedelic vines dished out by shamans in Peru. You know…. the manicured reader, stepping out of her ride with the refinement of Convent English, her husband is a ‘dear’ even after the three no-good brats masquerading as the ‘Saints’ in hill station-schools, and in every flower that stand together, they see the nuances of writing, the finesse of the technique that awakens the fellowship that drives the bravery of the protagonist, right before he beats the pulp of the bored-to-coma villain who is probably contemplating suicide by ingesting a pound of sunflower seeds than listening to the drivel slushed around.
Disclaimer: Mild erotic content
“So if I do end up sleeping with this guy, can you tell me what would be your psychological analysis of the situation?” said Lena, raising an eyebrow across the table.
She watched as Serene’s hair fluttered in the gentle breeze of the fan, as an image flashed before her – Lena leaning forward, planting a gentle kiss on the therapist’s lips, savoring her shock and the crumbles of the strawberry lip balm.
“I would say you were giving in to your symptoms,” replied Serena, matter-of-factly, clearly unaware of Lena’s wandering mind.
“Sexual needs are a human requirement.” replied Lena, brushing aside her own hair roughly.
“Yes. But what’s the worst that could happen if you don’t sleep with this guy?” Serena smiled at her, almost as if the therapist enjoyed the mental bondage that she was putting Lena into. Lena could have this guy, but she shouldn’t. Lena had to undergo the turmoil of watching him every day. Like a hungry predator lusting after a deer grazing a few feet away. Continue reading
Warning: Explicit Content
As George Carlin would say, what’s with all these writers. Could you stop describing the damn clouds and get to the fucking.
But it is kinda breezy. In a wistful way. The leaves gently quivering. And really there is no fucking. There is actually a fucking ban. So its more like….making out without clothes…only we are actually just talking, and the clothes are still on, but obviously we want to take it off…even if we were just talking. But I guess that’s not really your scene. But do wait up. We could probably have a kiss. A nice hello kiss. Not just for the readers pleasure. I tell you we aren’t just a bunch of asexuals holding hands, and getting off on it. There really is a ban. Not a moral ban, like the RSS-valentines-day-gives-us-a-headache kind. Not even a legal one, like adulterers-be-stoned kind. Its more of a spiritual kind. Like…not eating onions on Thursdays or whenever. Or chicken for a month. I think it teaches you restraint. Then you don’t end up shopping on sala Continue reading