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.