The Chosen One

The Sun shone… again! Banging those jaundiced rays of light upon my closed eyes. I groaned and twisted, my back craned, perhaps a joint popped, but that wasn’t new now, was it?

With my eyes still closed, I made kissy noises for my cats Cleopatra and Nefertiti, to come over and give me some of those hugs and kisses.

Just then I heard Cleo’s low purr sounding like train huffing somewhere in the distance; somewhere far enough to be close to the bedroom window. It was that damned owl again, I realized, come to deliver my tenth Hogwarts invitation.

“Go away!” my voice took on a high-pitched shrill. “I told you already, I’m not joining any of those floozy wizarding classes.”

My words sounded like whiny gurgles. I opened my eyes, my hands fumbling for my dentures. When I did find them, I could feel the fur of my cats stuck on the sides of the dentures. I rubbed it against the bed sheet, which was a mistake because it added a few more strands of the ginger hair. I grunted and popped it in, moving my jaw up and down, side by side adjusting it to fit into my small mouth. I gargled the fur out with water.

The Chosen One

I screamed at the owl again, “Like I said, I am not interested. Don’t you have some twelve year olds to recruit?”

The owl cooed and flew inside my bedroom, driving Cleo and Nefi into a frenzy of screaming and jumping.

My hands then fumbled for my spectacles and when I did find them, I felt Nefi’s regurgitated hairballs. I shrugged and wiped the vomit off the bed sheet.

When I put on my glasses, I saw that there was someone else in the room apart from that wretched owl.

“Mrs. Morpe”, said a tall man whose beard hung like untrimmed hair from a vagina. He bowed in pretend flourish, “Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts, at your service.”

I felt like I should bow for this excessively hairy man, but then my hips weren’t what they used to be, so I settled into a barely perceptible nod.

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The toxic straight male virus

toxic straight male virus

“Sir, there is another individual here to see you about Avalon. Claims his…um apparatus is in working order” Jeffrey, my butler, announced as he placed my nightcap on the coffee table.

I paused the TV for the first time that day. I was watching a rerun of one of the seasons of my TV show “Style fails for the straight males’ from what seemed like a lifetime ago. I liked this particular episode, I had done a brilliant makeover for a mid-west truck driver if I do say so myself. And he had had the audacity to tell me Pocket squares were not a necessity in his line of work. It was memories like these that made me think that perhaps the epidemic was justified. I am sure this truck driver was amongst the first wave of victims claimed by the virus.

“Ehm…ehm..” Jeffery cleared his throat. Being a man good old Jeff had also fallen victim to the TSM virus, but had somehow managed to maintain his will to clean up and look after me, which was all for the best. But it did make one wonder which way the butler swung in such matters, not that that was a question that could be discussed obviously. I had simply placed him in that esoteric basket of asexuality, shuddered at the thought of it and moved on. Continue reading

Gratitude Hoes!

They say people who live with gratitude, live longer, happier lives.

Unfortunately, the people on my social media seem to take this mantra a little too seriously. Not that my circle of acquaintances is any different from your circle of friends. You know the kind, don’t you? Or you maybe the kind; the kind that makes me barf my lunch, breakfast and last night’s dinner all in one go.

I can almost categorize these Gratitude Hoes in four different buckets; The starry eyed lover, The disgruntled housewife, The pseudo intellectual and finally, The self-appointed Spiritual guru.

Are you the starry eyed lover?

Woman Embracing Man

Well, most of them are women, but, mind you, there are many men in there too. I am sure you know them, you have seen them, or you are one of them.

You can almost immediately spot them with their profile pic. They clamber on each other like Siamese twins, and they never, ever, never walk, without holding hands.

Every single birthday, anniversary, valentine, non-valentine, the gift of a fucking KFC bucket has to go online on FaceBook, Instagram and Snapchat with a tagline that says, “Blessed to have this wonderful man in my life.”

Darling, you are not fooling anyone. Give it a few years and ask that college mate of yours who saw your husband canoodling a woman ten years younger, wearing a dress with a plunging neckline, while you now turn into the next in my category, the disgruntled housewife.

Are you the disgruntled housewife?

Those images every morning you post, where you plop your three-year-old twins on the breakfast table with orange juice and fruity oatmeal. A bow strategically placed on the girls’ cute pony tales and a forced smile lining their lips.

The title of the image says, “My rays of sunshine” and then a 300 word write up about how lucky you are to have these two angels in your life. How God has blessed you with divinity in the form these girls. Yet, when the glass of juice crashes the floor in the midst of you writing this beautiful eulogy to parenting, you slap the wrong twin senseless for breaking the glass.

I mean seriously, ask that mother in kindergarten who saw you drag the wrong twin, again; by her hair across the road. Your perfect life on social media doesn’t fool a fool, love.

Two Toddlers Sitting on Grass Field

Perhaps one of the most annoying gratitude hoes ever, the pseudo intellectual:

They post on a good day, especially when it rains outside, the kind of rain that sends tingles down your spine; the kind of rain that brings a sigh of relief after an unforgiving bout of heat.

The kind of rain that makes them want to open all doors and windows, take boomerangs of their plants dancing in the rain and post them as their Instagram story.

The kind of rain that is perfect to sit by their porch, drink a hot cup of coffee and read one of those ridiculously talked about books, with names like ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck.’

Of course now, they wouldn’t just read the book, would they? They would shoot one of those artistically framed photographs, perhaps of the book lying next to their colorful pot of succulents and their spectacles casually placed.

Golden cup and basket with books

But then they wouldn’t just post the photograph on Facebook now, would they? They would write five hundred words about how that book makes them feel, how ‘The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck’ has freed them from those iron shackles in their lives, has elevated them to the next one in my list, The self appointed Spiritual Guru.

As they type their long drawn, beautifully worded, heavily philosophical message; they don’t forget to give out the impression that their life is too intellectual for basic bitch stuff like ‘checkins’ into hotels or airports, group selfies and dog pics.

The rain still pours outside their door, one that is wide open, to let a cool draft in. They smile in contentment. They are only five pages down the book in the past two hours, yet that doesn’t matter. They check on Facebook every five minutes and shower hearts generously to those who have decided to drop equally verbose, brimming with gratuitous comments on their post.

Yeah, well I wonder how they find time to read, with these six, five hundred word posts on Facebook within a span of ten hours.

The last, but perhaps the one that gets most on my nerves is the self appointed spiritual guru? You are one of them, aren’t you? You know I am talking about you, don’t you?

Oh, I know you have managed to somehow add me into this Whatsapp group that is filled to the brim with your followers. You make it a point that you start every new day with a long tirade about ‘Mindful conversations’, ‘Being one with the universe’ and ‘Self reflection’. It is then followed by twenty acolytes agreeing with you and adding their two cents about showing up, about sisterhood of gratitude hoes and about being humble. And by the twentieth message of universal thankfulness, I have managed to regurgitate last month’s biryani.

You have the formula down to a ‘T’, don’t you? You are the worst form of con artist that an unsuspecting fan would ever have the misfortune of encountering. You have the ego the size of Donald Trump’s ass and you hide it under the guise of your acolyte’s trust issues.

When someone dares to question your wisdom, you subtly lay the blame on them by questioning their own values and beliefs. You are the Queen Bee among your acolytes and you ensure that those who challenge your unreasonable tirades are no more tagged in your daily posts, under the tab of ‘Thanks to these wonderful people in my life, who make it all worthwhile.’

Silhouette of Person Raising Its Hand

Now dear readers, you may ask me, why would I even be a part of such groups, or follow these people on my social media, if it bothers me so. Well, I mean, I have nothing against gratitude, really. What I have against is the bullshit being spewed in the name of gratitude. And I do start my day going through these posts and thinking these thoughts, it is like coffee to my sleepy brain.

(P.S: Except for the last category, every other category is generic and not based on someone I personally know.)

You are late

you are late.jpg

“Ah, why am I late? Well, in fact, there is a very interesting story behind that. But, do you think we have the time of that now? Oh, we do, is it? We have time for a long story, but we don’t have time for me being late by a few minutes, is it? Ok, I see how it is. Well fine, I will tell you the story.

Long, long ago before there was anything, Father time had just begun seeing Mother space. They had decided to go on a date that day. This was before they had moved in together and Father time still lived at his own place. Father time was very different then, not the busy, bossy, no-fun time we know now. He was young and relaxed. He had flowing black hair that needed a lot of care to style. And so by the time he took a nice long shower, styled his hair, picked out his outfit, and reached the venue of their date Mother space had been waiting for what seemed a very long time to her.

“You are late!” She shouted when she saw Father time. Continue reading

Detective Phansy and the case of too many women…

Detective Phansy knocked thrice on the gargoyle knocker and we waited for the massive oak doors to swing open. In five years with the murder squad, not many things intimidated me, I had seen it all, or I thought I had. But the three-mile drive inside the estate and finally parking my mini wagon among rows of Ferraris, Rolls Royce and Lamborghinis had ensured that I stand smaller than my five feet eight inch, in front of whoever opened that door.

“The Kains are wealthier than I imagined, Sir.” I spoke, tapping my feet.

“Of course they are, McLane. You Irish don’t know the meaning of true wealth now, do you?” Phansy said, roaming his disdainful gaze from my mop of waist long red hair down to my freckled face and a body that worked out, but did not say no to baguettes.

“Sir, we got wealthy people in Ireland, what are you talking about?” my voice took a high-pitched whine, the kind that appeared whenever I felt defensive.

“Not like the English do, McLane, not like the English.”

Just when my voice was about to reach a pitch higher than earlier, the door swung open and a stately woman of about fifty opened the door, and said, “Yes?”

Phansy jumped in to educate the woman of the house, “Oh Mrs. Kain, I am Detective Phansy, with a ‘Ph’. I know this would be terrible inconvenience but we have some questions regarding your husband’s unfortunate demise yesterday. I do hope you can give us ten minutes of your precious time.”

Detective Phansy

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Bad erotica…

Abhay paces the small one room kitchen apartment, it wasn’t a lot of pacing; four steps back and forth made up for his tiny dwelling. But then again what is a struggling writer, if not living in a space cramped with a chair, a bed, a foldable writing table, a solar powered lamp, a bowl full of cigarette butts and five day old pizza.

Abhay’s predicament wouldn’t be something new for you, but for him it was a dilemma that put him in precarious situation. You see, the next chapter in Abhay’s highly ambitious debut novel about four friends who had just passed out of IIM – B; was that one of those friends was finally getting lucky. And Abhay had to describe him getting lucky.

Now this shouldn’t be a problem to many writers, or maybe it would be. I would never know. But Abhay is still a virgin, which means, he has never gotten lucky. And the poor little peasant has no idea how to, either.

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The evolution of a belief

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The sun dragged itself lazily over the horizon. The ocean seemed to yawn as a large wave crashed loudly on the beach. The wave receded into the ocean to reveal a small fish, it pulled itself on the sand with the help of two fins. It opened its mouth wide as if gasping for air and finding that it burned its gills. It looked around itself with large wet eyes.

There was a long low noise that sounded like the electric farts of a artificial intelligence that couldn’t digest its own thoughts. A large rip appeared in the air of the beach, and when it was large enough several hooded figures stepped out of the rip. These figures wore long robes that covered their whole bodies and hoods that covered most of their faces, around their necks were chains from which hung insignia of their religions and they chanted in a low rumbling voice.

After the hooded figures a chair emerged from the rip, it floated effortlessly in the air and seated on it was a man in a black flowing robe. He was bald and dark-skinned, his eyes were bloodshot, his brows furrowed and he looked like he was about to yawn. Behind the flying chair, a head poked out of the rip, it had curly hair and eyes that looked magnified behind glasses with lenses that belonged on a microscope. The head looked all around itself, sniffed the air took a gingerly step out of the rip and finally stepped out. He was wearing a white label coat and carried a flat device that he constantly checked.

“There it is…” one of the hooded figures shouted pointing at the fish.

Everyone stared at the fish, the fish took a step back into the ocean.

“Indeed…” said the scientist, almost to himself and took a step closer to the fish, he adjusted his glasses to zoom onto the fish, “fascinating…” he clapped his hands.

“Your honour…this is the fish that we intend to destroy…” one of the hooded figures said.

The judge squinted at the fish hard, he sat back in his chair and yawned, “ tell me again….why do you want to destroy it…”

The hooded figures huddled closer to each other and whispered, then one of them said, “this fish is what led to evolution…”

“Aha, so you do believe in evolution…” the scientist scribbled on his device still studying the fish.

The hooded figures whispered among themselves, “what we meant, of course, was that this fish led to the development of the stupid idea of evolution. And we firmly believe that it is against our religious beliefs. Hence we would like to destroy it…”

The judge had almost closed his eyes but snapped them open again, “wait a minute, you will destroy this fish because it is against your religious beliefs? I cannot allow that…”

The hooded figures huddled again, “what we meant to say of course was that we would like to destroy the idea of evolution, which is quite clearly holding back the spiritual awakening of our civilization. Destroying this fish will help us prove that the idea of evolution is pointless.”

The judge’s eyelids drooped again, “when you put it like that…I can consider it…”

“Of course not your honour…” the scientist stood up and looked at the judge, “we cannot allow that…” he looked back at the fish, “what we are looking at is the ancestor of us all. This fish gave rise to all life on land. We cannot destroy it or else we will destroy humanity and life as we know it.”

The hooded figures began to bristle, “I find this highly offensive.” One of the hoods shook violently.

“This is a hate crime, the scientist must be punished for it” another hood shouted.

“We were not born from a fish. We were created by a loving God” another hood spat out.

They whispered to each other again and one of the hoods stepped towards the judge, “your honour, this is the very point we are trying to make. We firmly believe that destroying this fish will not make any difference to human life whatsoever. When we destroy it and return back to our own time we will be happy to return to our families and have a blessed meal knowing that God made us who we are. And these scientists will be silenced once and for all about evolution. You have to allow us to destroy this fish. We claim it as our religious right and our spiritual duty.” The hoods all murmured loudly.

The judge rubbed his eyes, “ok, so if we do this and return back to our time…that will be it. You will look at the result and believe them. There will be no further debate on this issue?”

The hoods huddled for a long time, they turned to the judge and in unison said, “yes, your honour.”

The scientist stepped in front of the fish as if to protect it, “but we cannot allow that, your honour. Evolution is a fact. There are literally tons of data to prove it. Destroying this fish can change the course of all history as we know. We are not sure if we can reverse the effects. We would lose everything just to protect some crackpot sentiments. You cannot allow this, your honour, for the sake of all humanity. We will destroy all our ancestors, us and all of our children. You cannot allow this..”

The judge rubbed his eyes and massaged his back, “curse the guy who invented time loop judiciary. Look I know what you are saying. But how long have we been debating this case?”

The scientist looked at his device, “over two and a half years now…”

The judge sighed, “see and I know in the real world it has only been a minute, but in here it feels like an eternity. So you know what, if they want to destroy the first of all of our ancestors, so be it. If the world was created by some intelligent God who wants you not to wank then so be it. Either way, I am tired of this whole mess. What is the worst that would happen? We will destroy the world and all of humanity? At this point, it doesn’t sound like a loss at all. I will allow it.” The judge nodded and there was a clear sound like an invisible gavel had been hit.

The scientist shook his head but stepped away from the fish.

One of the hooded figures pulled out what looked like a metal stick and pointed it at the fish. There was a thin arc of electricity and the air was filled with the smell of fried fish. The fish gasped one last time and fell to its side.

“Ok, now that is done. Let us return to our own time. And remember, whatever we see that is the final verdict.”

The all stepped back into the rip and returned to their own time.

The stepped back into their world, but instead of a court building, they stepped into a great forest. The hooded figures, judge and scientist looked around themselves.

The scientist began to tap vigorously on his device.

“There is no sign of human life anywhere on the earth. Take that you morons…” he punched the air in glee, “I just hope this is reversible.”

“So there is no life? How can this be?” One of the hooded figures said.

“Why has god forsaken us? Why has be not made man?”

“Actually it is not true that there is no life. Sensors indicate that the forests are full of large octopus-like creatures and they have huge settlements. In fact, there are large cities under the oceans with advanced technologies. It seems the octopuses evolved in this timeline, and have become the dominant species on the planet. This is great, this proves evolution again.” The scientist said.

“But there are no humans. This is no good. What do a few octopuses prove? Nothing.” One of the hooded figures said.

“Why has God done this? He must be angry with us?”

“The octopuses are trying to contact us. They want to meet us.”

“We have got bigger problems than talking to some octopuses. We have to figure out why God is angry at us.” One of the hooded figures spat angrily.

“Seriously?” the scientist squinted at them.

The hooded figures broke into a frenzy and chanted their scripture and shouted at each other. This went on for a while. The judge dozed in his seat. The scientist tapped at his device.

Finally one of the hooded figures shouted, “my dear brothers and sisters. Of course, God is angry at us…”

This seemed to calm the hooded figures, they all gathered around this figure, “we have committed a sin. We have asked our Lord to create his creation on the foundation of a murder. We murdered that cold-blooded fish in cold blood. Of course, our loving God is angry. He will not create his creation from murder. The fact that humans don’t exist proves that God made us in love. We were just too blind to see it. In trying to prove the scientists wrong we have forgotten our God’s love. We have sinned. We need to repent.”

The figures all shook their hoods and agreed with each other. They turned back to the judge.

The judge sighed “whatever…” he clicked a few buttons on his chair and the rip reappeared.

The returned to the beach just back to the exact moment. The figures approached the fish, it took a few steps back into the ocean, “Live little fish, in the love and mercy of our Lord, live.” The fish gawked at them and gasped.

Everyone returned back to their own time. They stepped back into the courtroom.

“It is a miracle, our Lord has returned humanity to us. His love is infinite. This proves we were created by a loving God. Praise be.” The all hugged each other and cried.

“Really? Even I could not have designed a better experiment to prove evolution. How can you still claim we were made by a God?”

“That does it…I have wasted enough time on this case. I am throwing all of you and this case out of my courtroom. The decision is…I don’t care. Just get out” The judge’s gavel made a sharp sound and everyone was thrown out of the courtroom.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash