Nowadays, going through newspaper editorials often gives one the uncanny taste of repeatedly eating the same dish cooked in different styles. Even though the basic ingredients remain crime and punishment, there's so much hot and cold blowing about the now fragile issue of a criminal's fate, it makes me wonder whether it's really a matter of life and death. Between Dotsovesky and opinions as risky, I'm hanged if I can understand the reason of debate.

First of all, I don't hear any rumbles against rewards being befitting appreciation of merit and virtue. Conversely, then, the concept of punishment befalling a defaulter should be considered a natural corollary. And just as, at the apex, Lifetime Achievement Awards have been fashioned to befit superlatively laudable performers at home and abroad, so does the life sentence befit the indicted criminal, for whom then lawful society has no use. No arguments yet.

Now objects like locks are deterrents to the virtuous, not to the criminal. So, I imagine, are laws, respected by the lawful, spurned by the awful the offender. As matters stand, therefore, just because responses differ, it does not negate the existence or need for locks, laws, their protectors or enforcers, does it ? "No, it doesn't", you grudgingly agree. So by now, we have sifted society into, largely, 'inlaws' and 'outlaws', if you know what I mean, with the latter having developed an immune conscience. Obviously, therefore they have to be dealt with separately, as our grammar teacher would have said, with sensible sentences. And, the Lord help us, when it comes to the rarest of rare cases, when paediatric and geriatric predators (to name a few) outrageously outrage, plot, plunder, ravage and kill, the sentence has to match the extremity of the crime - sensibly, brutally. When Cain killed Abel he was marked for life to hang his head in shame in a society of three. In a society of billions, the onus would be on us to hang Cain, head and all. After all, despite the Human Right Activists' clamour (in protection of subhumans, I'm sure), people like him are as much use to society as a diseased appendix (also God's creation, mind you) is to us. And I don't hear anyone say if you can't make an appendix you have no right to destroy it.
As for those publicity seeking amatuer cooks waxing eloquent about capital punishment (I thought 'capital' meant 'perfect' !) being redundant because it does not prevent future such (a) crimes (b) criminals from evolving, they ought to have their heads examined before talking their heads off. I mean, do they have a divine missive from Nostradamus, including a comparison chart, as to how many such 'scheduled crimes' were encouraged by, or occured unmindful of such punishment ? Are they propogating giving such offenders another life, even as the single life of the hapless offended has ended ? Do they imply that a victim's right to live and be respected ends with his or her death ? Do they plan to cite Holly and Bolly Woods as the prime instigators of crime, with the criminal merely "doing as directed" ? The sentence of death is instituted only to criminals that richly deserve it many times over. Though any form of punishment cannot stop crime, it can nip the growth of many potential perpetrators in the bud, even if not all. No, there's no argument; vicious non-life in the form of killers and sexual violaters needs to be rendered lifeless, albeit within the purview of law.

The final victim of the imbroglio remains the Judicial system - hanged if they do, hanged if they don't. Sure, they're slow and overworked, with holes in their set-up like Swiss cheese (though not as palatable), but then they are not on trial here. The system is relevant, and it takes much debating and deliberating for judges to sentence an offender to death - not for joy, sadistic pleasure or a chance to play God. I dare say the final sentence is delivered by them with immense remorse and repugnance. One thing is perfectly clear, however - there is absolutely no scope for any more laxity than already exists. The Lord knows, already there are a lot many people around that deserve the noose but never end up getting it.

In conclusion, the most appropriate justice we need today in such extreme cases is, sadly, what the modern, sensitive and increasingly democratic world has left behind; the public display of punishment commensurate to the crime, including the death penalty. No closed door 'hush money' fines or out of court settlements, but a veritable exhibition of performing justice, understood and absorbed by the most illiterate; where lashing and chopping leaves a lasting impression on both the criminal and the viewers. Perhaps even the publicity seekingr cooks would grudgingly acknowledge the probability of a substantial decline in heinous crime thereafter. While hoping for a revival of that period, any punishment remains a capital idea. Of late, lawful citizens have begun to show their way of befitting instant justice by public lynching of criminals. Let's hope modern State law enforcer takes a leaf from their book soon - already the suspense is killing.

Journey

It once happened that I was standing in the middle of a bridge that led to nowhere known to mankind. The origin of the journey was so radical and surprising that it didn’t even leave me time to pack necessities along. By necessities I mean important requirements during a journey, which involves stuff like, emotional stings, reasons to cry, thoughts of differences with the ones you never thought you could have any. And although I was standing half-way through that journey, I didn’t even feel the need for any of these.
The initial steps were tough, if I be honest enough to confess. I had load which I had to shed, and shedding off that load was not less than being stripped in freezing conditions. Because, believe it or not, these not so happy memories leave us wrapped in a cocoon and at the end of it all we start enjoying the warmth we draw out of them. No matter how indifferent I try to behave I miss them somewhere or the other.
Complications have a specialty, the be-friend the human race very quickly. And much sooner than you know, become a prominent part of your entire persona. I sleep every night with a silent prayer, and a firm promise to me that I shall wake up a simple person. With a promise to make sure, that I would make the next day as simple as it could be. But I end up lodging these complications right where they deserve to be, in my heart and in my head.
So as I tread my way to the unknown land, while standing on that unknown bridge, in the middle of nowhere I gaze into blank open space and wonder why I wanted to shed off the emotions of stress, confusion, dilemma, rage, etc. etc. in the first place, they have been a part of my life forever. I mean I can still recall the first time I was called a cheater by my not so sweet girlfriend. Or, my first break-up. Or, the first time I sat alone in a class full of forty students. Or, the first time I realized how complicated love is. And yet I want to lose it all. The question was still unanswered, when I recollected the origin of such a journey.
“When you are about to let go off of someone who you dearly love, there’s a conflict in your head, a fierce battle. Where you fight the best of you, and the worst of you, at the same time. And in this battle, the only loser is you. It’s you who gets crushed between the two.”
I was crushed. I needed life again, so I set off. Wandering aimlessly, thinking about nothing, wanting to be left alone.
They sometimes make me smile. The complications I mean. They can be such a relief sometimes; life would have been so boring otherwise. Just knowing the fact that they are around makes you certain that you have a normal human life, and one hell of a life, full of events and disasters, if I may say. So once u are convinced that these not so happy yet vital parts will remain with you through your good and bad, un conditionally, you tend to develop a strange liking towards them. And such a liking is a sadistically paranoid love, but provides you with a lot of comfort and peace in its own way.
I never wanted to be a sadist or a paranoid, so I sat down to write down my well organized planned and peaceful life. A written life. With no complications, no rash words, no discomforts. Gave my best to it. And when I knew I couldn’t carry on, I decided to stick to my same old unwritten life. The one which I thought would give me immense pleasure. The joy of surprises. The element of anxiety.
I failed drastically, and realized, “there’s no such thing as an unwritten life, there’s only a badly written one”.
So as I continue with my badly written life on my journey to the unknown land, I have a lot of realizations, a lot of unfulfilled dreams, dreams not accounted for, dreams that have been destined to be just dreams, and fade away with the sands of time.
Complications, however, will always remain a part of my badly written life, and I hold them near. But not on this journey, I’d call it a sabbatical rather. This bridge is not the destination, it is neither where I want to be standing right now, it is but a bridge, and I shall pass it without the necessities, for sure, leaving behind crumbs on my way so as to tread the same road to an unfinished life that I leave today, and if I find the same people I leave here today, the same problems I have with them today, the same complications that I go through everyday, I shall know that I have made it to the lands unknown that still remain unknown. The only known land for me is this, the one where I live today, where I wish regularly I’d not be here, I wish I had been in some unknown land, and yet I can’t live there either.
So I walk ahead following nothing but my instincts to complete my journey. I will be back soon; after all it’s not easy to survive in an unknown land forever.
Complications are not that bad after all.
How bad can friends be!

@zaidi

Its All in the Name of Television

It has taken me some time to figure out the appeal of The Pretender. Never watched it when it was on network; seemed like a Fugitive ripoff. Now that it's on early and in syndication, I catch snatches now and again as I'm channel-surfing for the weather.

Sadism is the show's appeal. Every episode, Jared assumes a new identity, and finds new evil-doers. They're inevitably co-workers or associates. Jared finds out that they've hurt, killed, or screwed someone, preferably killed them. Jared then sets up the evil-doer so she or he is faced with the same fate as their victim. Then, when the evil-doer has taken the bait and walked into the trap, Jared tortures them. "Do you think this is what poor Sally felt when the flames were surrounding her? Do you? Huh?" Meanwhile, the fireman, cop, contractor, whomever, is stuck in some fashion, handcuffs can do, but it's just as good to have them stuck in a machine or hanging off a building, and is about to have a building go up in flames or collapse on top of them, or roll off a precipice. The evil-doer now begs for help, because it looks like they're about to die. "Help. HELP! I'm going to die here!"

Jared smiles his malevolent smile, and continues to torture them. Inevitably, they admit their crime, "yes, YES! I did it. I didn't mean to, but the money was good, it was me or them, I couldn't die, go to jail, be in debt, what have you!" Jared then waits a little, just for justice sake, then gives them a painful way out. Meanwhile, the person's associates were around the corner, or listening on a radio, or watching the matter. The evil-doer is safe, sort of, for the moment, but his victims now know the truth and can look for justice if they so choose.

Jared, meanwhile, savors his little victory with a slightly less malevolent smile, proceeds to leave, and is about to be caught by the annoying woman or syndicate or whomever is after them, preferably all three. One of them catches Jared, but a character unique to the episode intervenes, Jared escapes, and the pursuers end up looking at each other.

And The Pretender moves on (though we dont know where)

It's one fucked up evil show. I don't want an avenging sadist angel like Jared working for me or for my family.

Got Something for Emenem to work on!! :P

It’s fuckin dumb to try and secure our future through education
That shit is way worse than premature ejaculation
School don’t ensure a foolproof livin
You don’t get nothin back but you gotta keep on givin
Fuck school, fuck college I repent havin done both
I learned fuckin squat and my life I now loathe
Motherfuckin authorities confine us like slaves
Tryin to break us and change how one behaves
School’s a fuckin controversy, it destroys our greatness
It curbs our freedom and our right to say “Fuck! I hate this”
They teach us to fear all and to distrust our own minds
Kick us into ditches and call swamps gold mines
The fuckers who control all try their best to brainwash us
Takes us for morons and tells us things obnoxious
We like fuckin idiots follow every rule they make
Fuck them dawgs do things for your own sake
Our dreams and desires are replaced by new ones
Created by them which fucks up our endurance
What we do is labelled as a motherfuckin let down
What they say is hailed as the acts of uptown
I fuckin wasted my whole life tryin to live their life
Fuck the universe I ain’t lookin down I’mma stare high
If they don’t like what I do I dare them to stop me
Fuck them all I won’t go down even if they try to top me
My life is for me to live whether I come up or I fuck up
But I won’t be their slave no I won’t fuckin succumb
They can shove all their rules and ideas up their cocksuckin asses
I don’t want nothin to do with those dogfuckin masses
So if any of u readin up got a shattered fuckin dream
You against the authority then you in my fuckin team!!

Rakhi Bandhan

When people hear the name Rakhi Sawant, they associate a certain degree of quality and integrity with it. These are the same folks who hear music when you scratch a plate with a fork and who stand and click photographs when they witness a terrible automobile accident. Now, it's not a closely-guarded secret that Rakhi Sawant, like many celebrities whose faces are splattered across our screens, is not a traditional star but someone you can categorise as a shock-star.

Shock-stars do and say things that jolt the average complacent viewer so much that witnessing their antics on TV becomes a form of guilty pleasure that you can't resist. And a 'reality show' is the golden ticket that gives a thick-skinned ambitious individual the opportunity to become rich and famous in very little time. The late Jade Goody is a name that comes to mind when you think of international shock-stars. However, desi shock-star Rakhi Sawant has done one better.

She is now part of a show called 'Pati Patni aur Woh' where five 'celebrity couples' will embark on a challenging and learning experience while we, the viewers, get to see the goof-ups and predicaments they get into trying to take care of the particular baby allotted to them. Sure, the producers of the show would be expecting young parents, especially mothers, to empathise with and maybe even feel properly represented by these struggling-in-more-than-one-way celebrities. The show is apparently intended to capture all the stages of parenthood, from being pregnant to raising teenagers. I might be getting it wrong as a guy, but i'm pretty sure wearing an 'empathy belly' and walking around for a week doesn't quite replicate the experience of pregnancy.

And since the show aspires to bring in all facets of pregnancy to the forefront, perhaps the producers of the show should have devised some ingenious method to duplicate labour pains too. A friend who is a recent mother once, reluctantly, agreed to let the newly appointed nanny carry her baby girl for a while. Minutes later, she almost had her heart sliced when she saw her baby slip out and fall from the nanny's grip. Fortunately, the baby was fine, but it makes one wonder about the parents who let their babies turn into props on such reality shows and even advertisements. I once watched a segment on television where it was shown that chimpanzees are so protective of their babies that they wouldn't even let a tiny bird near them. And to think, Charles Darwin said we evolved.

Master of Fire

God is the devil, he burns us alive
Made fuckin impossible rules for us to abide
God himself misleads us and makes us sin here
Forces us to wear masks, fuck our veneers
He watched over me tearin myself apart
As i crawled to the shore he lacerated my heart
You’re giving me the worst kind of pain, God,
Each one of my loved ones you find and maim, God,
I would never have fuckin complained even if you slit my throat,
You’re the fuckin storm which splits the boats
You split her life up, you ignored my prayers
You broke her methodically, layer by layer
What did she do wrong, God? She is Purity
But you put her through hell, you fuckin destroyed her security
Let motherfuckers trample over her pure heart and soul
Her role of an angel you reduced to a prisoner’s role
Her heart is paradise but you filled it with dark clouds
Her smile gave me light but you covered it with black shrouds
I did my fuckin best to be good I did it for her sake
All my interests for her I was ready to forsake
But that’s not what you want, is it God?, you are a perv
You’re unfair, you never give people what they deserve
You fucked our lives, I feel destroyed
What I thought I had is now null and void
I trusted you God, in you I sincerely believed
But now I feel dead, I’m my own bereaved
I always told myself that you’d set things straight
You didn’t, you never do, you enjoy hurting and call it fate
Do what you wish to me God, I fuckin don’t care
But don’t hurt her anymore, she’s a gem,a stone rare,
Love isn’t real, there that’s the truth right there,
Life isn’t divine, it’s a motherfuckin nightmare.

Break Ups and Downs

I was in a relationship before. I guess i’ve realized lately that i’m over it, and now it’s time to tell others how to do it too.

My friend says that it’s all chemicals and after three years the chemicals stop working. I’m not in that relationship anymore. How long did it last? Five Years.

We were a lot alike. My other friend says those relationships Are the best. Or the worst he adds. Usually both he decides.

When you blow aside the leftover dust particles that once made up the connective tissue (that you considered to be unique and magical), you see that all relationships are about the same. The things you said to each other, they probably said to other people. You’ll go on to say those same things to other people, too. We’re all running tapes.

What I’m saying is that you probably landed here because the title interests you, or Google sent you here because you’re sitting at home on a Friday night looking for tips on how to get over a breakup.

The tips after the jump….

1. If you’re reading this list or others like it in hopes of getting over it, you’re nowhere close. Get off the computer. Leave your apartment. I know you’re still reading but really: go.
2. Call and Text your ex until you’re pretty sure they think you’re pathetic. If you were at fault, which you probably were, this will insure they will realize through your persistence that they made the right choice.
3. Don’t Believe the above rule and figure that your situation is different. Revel in the difference of your situation while your phone sits silent and your ex bad-mouths you and mocks you with their friends over martinis. Since this is tactical, and believe me it is, friends want to be on the winning side of anything. If you’re calling and texting, you already lost. And you’re behaving like a fail-factory still. If you’re lagging behind, they’re getting ahead.
4. Move from wherever you live. Your ex knows where you live and they know your stupid roommates, your crapcan furniture and can visualize you sitting at home. Take that away from them.
5. Change your number. I know this seems drastic but its necessary. They have your email, friends’ numbers, IM, etc. if they absolutely must get ahold of you.
6. Don’t Date anyone until you absolutely can’t stand it. Nobody will measure up for awhile and you won’t even be at your best anyhow. Dating someone out of the gate puts you at a tactical disadvantage, because you’re such a pathetic shitheap right now, nobody that you want will want you. You know how you told that fat or ugly person that you just got out of a relationship and you blah blah blah… Do that, but in earnest. Then keep doing it.
7. Enrich Yourself. Now that you’re free you have a lot of spare time on your hands. Your friends that you neglected while you were in love don’t feel bad for you and will treat you the sad sack that you are. So: read some books, find a better job, get some exercise, take a class that you wanted to take or build one of those homemade helicopters from the kit that you see in the back of Popular Science.
8. Become Less Ugly. You know what I mean. If you were better looking they would’ve put up with your bullshit for longer. If you were better looking you’d be reading this saying “i’m not really sure where Nikhil is coming from on this one”, or you wouldn’t be reading it at all. I’m not going to get into details here, you know what makes you ugly, try and change it.
9. Reflect on the relationship. The good and the bad. The only viable conclusion here should be that they are an idiot and despite your failures, they lose. And they’re probably out with some cheeseball right now, having a terrible time doing whatever they can to stop thinking about you. Now imagine them kissing that cheeseball because they don’t know what else to do. But you do. Think of that until it doesn’t bother you anymore and you loathe them.
10. Stop Looking for advice from lists, or from friends, or especially lists on a website that has the word Misanthropy in it.

Chin up, and all that stuff…

Half Conversations

“….so then I realized that the end was too big for my mouth!”

Yeah, that’s what I heard as they passed me. Two seemingly innocent girls walking down my way to work, but surly……I misunderstood. I mean really! Could they be? Talking about….that?

This happens to me at least five times a day. I’ll be minding my own business, working on work related activities, and I will hear half a conversation –or even just a blurb. The question is why does it always seem to be about sex? Am I sick? Is my mind a dark place of deprivation and lurid images of things better left on film?

I guess. Correction –yes, yes it is.

Here is a list of things I have heard this week (I know because I write them down……for posterity.

“….it smells funny (something, something) so I washed it.”

“….only when on top. It’s more comfortable.”

“….I keep it under a quarter of an inch, otherwise it’s just out of control.”

“….he’s a dick!” (can go either way with this one)

“….batteries (something, something) then I wasn’t bored all night.”

Now…..what the hell is going on with all this? I know what I heard, but could women really be sick little monkeys like us? Or, am I just hearing little parts of a very normal….and work related conversation?

Fuck it! It’s more fun this way!

A Kindered Spirit

Nikhil Sharda surfaced on the information highway to establish a connection with those of like mind. When he loved and lost in love (or so he thought), the attacks against him likely caused him to submerge once again into the safety of obscurity.

Perhaps reality has layers. The sensory illusion and idea of a flat earth was peeled back to reveal the more fundamentally true concept of a globe. This will in time give way to the idea of the earth as a three dimensional snapshot or time/space sample of a multidimensional mental construct. Will the real truth please come forward. Maybe the only thing we can rely on is that our present concepts and understandings will in time be exchanged for more expanded versions, forever.

Do soul mates, divinely matched pairs of polarized opposites really exist? I don't know for sure. Nikhil proceeded on the assumption that they do and his experiences seemed to align with and confirm his assumption. For a while anyway.

Is Nikhil now presuming that we have multiple soul mates, many people who come into our orbit with whom we may be compatible as life partners? Maybe. The thing that interests me is that when we set up other people as our gurus, role models, and teachers, we will in time become disappointed and disillusioned, we will take a fall. This is because no man can lift us to the level we desire. The power to ascend is within yourself; it's your own chronic imagination moving you from one plateau to another in your own awareness. Maybe the rising from one level of consciousness to another, or peeling back another layer of truth is the only ascension we will ever experience.

Nikhil Sharda was faced with the dilemma of many new thought authors, how to deliver his concepts of truth without setting himself up as a self-proclaimed authority figure. He used the vehicles of Peter (his alter ego in school) and even himself as younger and alternatively real versions of the current Nikhil Sharda. This took some of the heat off the delivery by making it appear that the material was coming from a second person source. As his ideas were embraced as gospel by many in school and college, the rigid verbatim acceptance of them caused mayhem in the lives of some that forfeited their own conclusions and common sense in favor those of their benevolent leader and romantic savior.

Belief in teachers and masters outside of our own awareness is a confession of ignorance and slavery. Leaning on these mirages will eventually result in a fall to the ground. Spirituality was always meant to be become first person real to YOU, the whole reason for the seemingness, the purpose of the whirling of the atomic cinema. The followers of Sadhguru Vasudev surrendered their critical factor and their sovereignty to a charismatic leader. Perhaps they waited for some divine intervention, some sign that they were going down the wrong road, but instead they drank the cool aid and fell silent in piles.

Nikhil is a human being, makes mistakes and has limitations just like anyone else. He has articulated ideas that resonate deeply within me, and while enhancing some of my own conclusions, they do not replace them. We should give him the space to turn around when he has made a mistake, to go in different directions, to experience his own ascension within himself. We should relieve him of the burden of anything but self-mastership not press upon him like the multitudes in the first chapter of his future novel.

Man's weakness for leaders, and his worship of idols makes him an easy mark for schools, teachers, governments, masters, clergy, presidents, authors, and outside authority figures of all kinds. Good will eventually come of this to everyone as they will discover after years of subjection to these "outside" agents, of waiting lazily for some writer, or teacher to show them the way, that what they've been looking for can't be found in another. That there is only one master, their own awareness, the unique God within themselves. Stop looking for the teacher to come, lean on your own version of truth that comes from the center of yourself. This is the only authentic savior you will ever experience.

Instead of developing the imagination of man, our educational system stifles it by attempting to put in our minds the wisdom that we seek. It forces us to memorize a number of text books, which all too soon are disproved by later text books. Education and first person spirituality is not accomplished by putting something into man; its purpose is to draw out of us the wisdom latent within us, the first person experience of ourselves as God. This "peep show" culture of ours isolates us from the assumption that we have the knowledge and truth within ourselves and we go running everywhere to find it, in books, churches, temples, rituals, observances, best sellers, and talk show hosts.

When these let us down as Nikhil's articles do, we are shocked and we mentally and emotionally fall to the ground. Every belief that we have accepted from others tumbles as we realize that our consciousness is the one and only savior. We have so long worshipped images and truths of others that we find this revelation to be blasphemous. When we start to see the reality of our own imagination and awareness being the basis for our life, we begin to slay our belief in a God apart from ourself.

The world is as giants to us, all those out there who "know" make us feel as small insects helpless in our worlds. We don't see that our world in it's every detail is our own consciousness crystallized and extruded into our environment. We can only be to others what we are to ourselves. When we revalue ourselves and begin to feel ourselves to be the giant in our world, a center of power and truth, we automatically change our relationship to the giants, reducing these former monsters (teachers, gurus, therapists, writers, ministers, parents, coaches, etc.,) to their true place, making them appear to be the small helpless insects in our world.

There is a divine conspiracy of the entire universe to help each of us find, develop, and express our own truth. Each of us individually is as qualified as any one ever was or ever will be, to unravel the mysteries of life. This conspiracy waits patiently for you the subject, to step forward and identify yourself as the commander, to stop laying yourself before servants, and accepting the second hand experiences of others as the spiritual truth and fire of your own being.

There is only one everlasting Lord and Master; your awareness of being. This is what is peeling back the layers of reality, moving you however haltingly, back to the recollection of who and what you are as God. Enjoy writers and entertainers but don't substitute their synthesis of truth and reality for your own. Seek your own counsel as much as you can. Dependence on any one or anything else will eventually result in disappointment and this may be, as it always was.

Brothers in Arms

When you're at work and you don't have any work to actually do, and you have at your disposal a high speed internet connection, YouTube often turns out to be your best friend. I sought of this aforementioned best friend some cricket videos involving India and Pakistan about a week ago.

The infamous Sohail-Prasad incident, Sachin playing impeccably and then missing his century for the umpteenth time, and the trio of Wasim, Waqar and Shoaib destroying the Indian batting order were some of the videos YouTube presented before me. I reminisced for a few moments and purposelessly scrolled down to the comments section. That was when a storm of unbridled venom smote me down from my ergonomically flawed chair. I had stumbled onto a virtual India-Pakistan battle that has been raging vehemently since the day these videos were uploaded.

Pakistan supporters were showering heaps of heartfelt hatred upon Indians and the Indian supporters were returning the favour with equal fervour. I came across several gems that made me laugh and stand back in awe at their innovativeness on wading through the ocean of racial abuses, which had very little to do with cricket. All of them are unprintable in a newspaper. A handful of pitiful comments begged the furious parties to stop and focus on cricket in the midst of these racial attacks. And, predictably, both parties silenced the wannabe peacemaker with a fresh batch of invectives involving his entire family tree.

It's remarkable how the antagonism between India and Pakistan is inherited by each generation with so much vigour and enthusiasm. The hostility one witnessed online between Indians and Pakistanis was so vile that for a second one thought one was reading a chat transcript between the Ambani brothers. The participants dabbled in foul language that covered Hindi, English and Urdu. It was an all-out multilingual cuss fest. When we see the rulers of each country appear on TV and talk about constantly improving India-Pakistan relations, we naively tend to believe things might one day be alright between the two countries; when we see an Indian cricketer bantering with a Pakistani cricketer on the field we wrongly assume that a much-awaited friendship between the two countries will blossom in the near future. The truth is that we are far from getting things right, much like

Emraan Hashmi's real estate agent.

Right to Write

The last time I saw some good quality violence was when I watched Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto on DVD. Little did I expect to experience a similar jolt whilst flipping through the Mid-Day newspaper on July 28, 2009. Accompanying the news of a husband and wife in Noida who was found hanging from an electric pole and a tree respectively, was a painstakingly clicked photograph of the dangling lifeless bodies. And underneath this rather graphic photograph was a line that may easily have been penned by the comedic hand of Groucho Marx or Woody Allen. The caption read “Till death do us part”. At that point a phrase that I was taught in school but which I never thought I’d use came to my mind-Cognitive Dissonance. I didn’t know whether to recoil in shock on seeing such an explicit image in a national newspaper that even children have access to or applaud the incongruous humor that the reporter engaged in.

A few weeks ago when I read a news report, in another newspaper, regarding a plane crash I was surprised to notice the amusing use of language. The report said that the plane had been carrying a wedding party and the celebrations came to an “early crashing halt”. Now, I love puns as much as the next guy; you could even say I’m a pun-loving guy but it did baffle me slightly when I noticed it in a news paper that was reporting a plane crash. After living in India, the one lesson that we should all have learned by now is that the media can do whatever it wants whenever it wants to whoever it wants. And the public will take it all in without any resistance. No one is slightly concerned if while a news channel is covering a terror-attack the background music is purposely sinister and eerie; we overlook the fact that the man one channel denounces as a villain is lauded as a hero by another channel; we are least shaken when in the midst of a national emergency or tragedy the one thing every news channel emphasizes is that “you saw it first on our channel”.

However, the proliferation of pun-based humor while reporting harrowing stories is a new and interesting phenomenon. It’s only a matter of time before some news network, while reporting a terrible bomb explosion, proclaims “The victims had a total blast”.

Link to the Mid-Day article:

http://www.mid-day.com/news/2009/jul/280709-Noida-Sector-14-married-couple-hung-electric-pole-Delhi-alleged-suicide-shocked-people.htm

Re-Introducing to you - Nikhil Sharda

Hey People... It’s so good to be back! Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages... Re-Introducing to you - Nikhil Sharda

Almost 10 months ago I had been prescribed to take dosages of Risdone Plus. And if you are taking prescription medicines but don’t know how they are prescribed to you then you are abusing drugs, so I found out about them and soon realized that I suffer from a psychosomatic syndrome.

I suffer from Bipolar Disorder, this means that I cycle between bouts of acute depression and stints of absolute mania. I never knew that this was a disorder... I thought it was something everyone goes through.

So I ask - where lies my viewpoint of sensible thinking and reasoning?

Anyway, this mania thing is extremely confusing. First of all my mind gets filled with ideas. They come faster than I can write them down. Each one is an idea to treasure. Each one is brilliant and fascinating and sure to enlighten and engage.

And then suddenly the depression sets in, and my furious actions of everything I do (writing stuff, reading books, watching telly, listening to music, hanging out with friends); all of these seem like a waste of time. That is the reason why my recent posts were all apathetic and depressing.

The most disturbing thing of all is to feel so passionate about something in a state of mania only to feel unsure about it the next moment. Or worse, feel that it was absurd, silly and immature.

But the biggest question is - which one is the reality? Which state, mania or depression, is more logical or should I say the least delusional? And is there a place where most individuals live their lives, where both states are toned down with sensible thinking?

I am now “functioning” (and I use the term very loosely) in a distorted condition, so it is difficult to judge the merit of anything. It is difficult to choose from one of a thousand ideas.

Through all of this, there are people who genuinely want to see me get a good life and all, but they don’t understand what I’m going through... In fact I don’t know what is being conjured up in my twisted brain!

Well, thankfully the medicines are working. I am sleeping soundly. I have slowed down which is a great sign. The “bad thoughts” have decreased. But there are times when I feel really alone. The people in my life don’t understand. They are concerned but they have no idea what I am talking about. I want to know that I am not alone. Isn’t that what we all need? Please let me know that you are out there. Let me know that I am not going crazy.

Justice and Life

What is the value of a single human life

in a judge’s sentence of a serial killer?

How many days do you subtract from

the life expectancy of the murderer

to pay for the extinction of his victims?

How many days per body do you estimate

before the killer should be eligible

for a parole hearing? Should he be eligible?

What is a parole hearing in aid of

that would justify consideration

of such an unholy candidate?

What’s the release date? How long does a killer keep

in a can? How do you refrigerate evil

when you can’t define or contain the germ?

What’s a bad person got that isn’t a disease?

Should it be quarantined? Can it be caught?

If it’s not a disease and the killer

is most at ease and organized and deliberate

in his acts, is not sick or deranged -

at least not in any accepted way

that could be called mental illness

and eliminate rational behaviour, will, and choice;

he is not neurotic or psychotic;

he is psychopathic ...

(Subtract empathy, add caution.);

he doesn’t want to be caught

so he’s got a kit and a script

(Add deliberation, malice aforethought.);

he is dangerous and devious,

deliberately deceitful and adept;

he has programmed himself

to various pseudo- and paraphylia;

cares not a jot for the lot of others,

only in how a body can be used and abused:

how long and at what temperature

and under what conditions do you

quarantine such a creature?

Bend or break, the body is expendable,

something to use up in a burning bush of malevolent

neural delight, whenever, however he likes.

What does sequential sentencing mean then?

What is your duty? How serve and protect ... ?

The guy would make lousy fertilizer!

What would grow then?

An Adman So Bentsome

“Sin some, win some,

Use some, lose some,

Bet some, get some,

But never let an ad-bum

End up so bent-some.”

-Popular Jojo4 song-

People often ask me if I know the saga of the old bent man that roams the streets of our historical city, each as decrepit as the other, each retaining vestiges of the imposing figures they once had been. IM Singh was how he introduced himself; ‘I am King’ was what he meant. Perhaps the best few words to describe him would be “Much Admired” despite it being light years away from the truth. That’s because no matter which way you examined him, he had been much mired in the field of advertising for decades, and that’s all that mattered to him.

IM truly epitomized the front page solus ad; stand alone, unarguable, persuasive, assertive. Any lesser being was considered no more than a four page pullout or feature, neither controlling nor intrinsically part of the main stream, but merely a parasitic addenda sharing the same media vehicle. In his mind he was second to none, uninvincible, irrefutably supreme and unparalleled. Unquestionably not only was his word law, he also took vicarious pleasure in coming up with unpopular decisions and rulings in establishing them. He could retain usable information for years on someone without using it. Additionally, he had no qualms about manouvering other people to achieve his objectives; to wit, he was an opportunist, not an impulsive but a calculated one.

While on wit, he was rich and well endowed in that department. He could endear himself to the most suspecting and be a popular epicenter at any gathering with the greatest of ease. He could influence people to go out of their way to prove their loyalty, allegiance and gratitude to him, however hesitantly, just for having touched their lives. A masterful manipulator, a tactical planner and adept executor, he was happiest and most secure in his opulent trappings both at home and away, surrounded by his familiar transparent sycophants and opaque critics. When the time came for him to seriously consider starting his own family, IM had planned his gambit many squares earlier.

He had an industrialist friend RRM with a massive budget (organized, people say, by the father-in-law ) that IM did not initially pursue to enhance his social image. What the industrialist did not know was that the adman was in on his gaining sexual favours from the his plain jane’s wife’s sister (who was fed up of RRMs flaccid advances in any ‘case’). The socialite adman harboured no more delays, dropped anchor, distributed the ornate cards and, using his newly found wife Kiran’s influence waltzed off with the account as a bonus. For a while, Kiran was the light of his life, a popular hostess and an able supporter of his schemes. Alas, she was able to bear him just one son Jojo though one dare says IK’s overbearing personality hoped to be borne more !

Over the years, his interest in Kiran waned, overtaken by his resolve to make Jojo an echo of his own personality. Not much was heard of Kiran thereafter, though one is sure she continued to lurk in IM’s shadows. Perhaps she was relegated to the “womb-to-tomb” syndrome adopted by any vibrant society to anyone that does not contribute sizeably to its activities. What misadventure it was for the adman to realize that Jojo could never be as malleable and ductile (like mallards and ducks !?!) as his adheart desired ? IM spared no funds or efforts to afford Jojo the best of education and exposure, but could not shake the romantic core off the latter. Naturally endowed with good looks, Jojo was infinitely more comfortable with literature, poetry, art and music than IM’s commercial world of punch-lines, adfilms, catchy jingles and misleading statistics; more at home with the occasional pink champagne than a seasonal print campaign. Despite threatening strictures from his father, Jojo’s passion honed in on being quite an accomplished lead guitarist who wrote his own songs, even more so when he organized (reminiscent of his father’s skill) a young group of talented musicians to complete his quartet. Their aspirations to be a successful rock group continued to meet IM’s stony disapproval, but there was scant little the father could do about it. Social pressure detracted him from outright disowning Jojo or evicting him from his house without further provocation; Jojo soft exterior as a contrast to his father enjoyed a more acceptable public persona.

Meanwhile, Jojo4 music gained rapid popularity in the city, playing live at many leading watering holes and gaining commercial success that IM tried fervently to distance himself from. Unpreturbed, Jojo soon inducted Nisha, an intelligent, attractive young dancer as part of his music act. The young musician had known her family from earlier days; Nisha’s mother began her secretarial career at IM’s adshop. Jojo and Nisha’s combination on stage was so electric that they brought down the house (IM’s included !) wherever and whenever they performed. After this there was no looking back for Jojo4 – though as time had it, there was not too much to look ahead for, either. The affinity between Jojo and Nisha cemented, nay, became concrete. Sadly, IM viewed this constant albeit melodic display of union of minds and body on a daily basis as a veritable spurning of his ‘superior’ values by his son. Unwittingly goaded to a fitting reaction, he publicly joshed Jojo to join him in a debate on the morality of latter day art at the local Country Club, of which he was secretary. Equally fed up of the scathing asides delivered directly at home everyday, Jojo readily agreed. Its often said, in matters of the court, its not the mover or the defendant but only the lawyers that benefit. Setting up this bout was pre-destined, therefore, to entertain society at large rather than settle any issues per se. An evening of interesting banter of great minds therefore ended up as a landmark battle that spawned only losers.

IM opened the debate with describing Jojo’s passions as wasteful pursuits encouraging wayward youth to more wayward ways; Jojo countered with accusing his father of befooling consumers and overcharging clients for years, gathering the wrong kind of notes. What’s more, Jojo divulged instances of rip-offs architected by IM. Visibly embarrassed, the adman became excessively personal, straying from the issue, bringing out details of his son’s more laid back life style and lecherous skits of the guitarist’s amorous tryst with Nisha. Inevitably, the atmosphere became explosive with Jojo crucifying IM’s personal and commercial morals, and his shameless misuse and disuse of people. The crowd cheered silently in their heart of hearts, but the die had been cast; IM announced Jojo’s expulsion from his house, the club and resolve to have his contracts stricken from whatever bars and restaurants under IM’s influence. His ire enveloped Nisha whose dancing licence he vowed to revoke with the administration’s collusion. With an illogical vendetta yet unslaked, the rumour spread like wildfire that the adman may well have his son bumped off - he couldn’t afford to have such a strident voice of dissension in circulation, even if it was a son. Another die was cast – Debt Wish 1. Society remained mute in their disapproval, even though they had secretly admired the fearlessness with which Jojo had lampooned his father. It was unfortunate that many were slated to lose much.

Nisha was no less resolute than Jojo, on hearing the rumour she boldly quick-stepped to her beau’s ad-dad with as fearless a Debt Wish 2 alternative; “kill me if you will, I love him still, but won’t love him more, if you let him go” ( a Jojo4 number). Nisha’s mother took up the chorus with “you-owe-me-one” from her halcyon days at the ad-venture, and beseeched the boss she once had beached to spare the lass; she may well be his “Sin some, win some”.Now IM was an astute man not wanting blood on his hands; he was more than familiar with most publications and their owners. Knowing the owner of Walled City News in the next town for being the perverse (and worse) martinet he was, IM made Nisha take a pledge never to contact Jojo or be seen dancing in exchange for a hellish life and employment under the WCN management.

Meanwhile, Jojo4 lost music contracts in the city, and considered migrating elsewhere. His pecuniary reserves dwindled. Gyrating Nisha was nowhere to be (scene) located, dyeing his music to a deeper shade of blue. He often sought comfort in the company of his mother, herself a flickering flame, confused twixt the morals and morales of her life. “Use some, lose some”. Branding his father as Nisha’s assassin, he voodoo-dolled the adman, pricking him with needles of barbed lyrics at every chance. He can still be seen love lorn at seedy bars, now reduced to a trio, bleary eyed as a man denied, a single that never cut a single, a living slipped disc. “Bet some, get some, kiss some, miss some”. He lives in a seedy shack and feeds at seedy snacks, hoping to meet Nisha again. Debt Wish 3.

And there’s IM. Debt Wish 4. Now a bit bent and gnarled, too aware of his exposure in the War of Words many years ago, but stiffened with ages of self-deception, ages of grandeur – some deserved – some not. A body reinforced with promises, but a mind deflowered – a fervour displayed but an audience unswayed , a wife dismayed and later mislaid and a son more bound with musical chords than familial cords, festooned with notes of wispy melody rather than crispy currency. An iron ad-venturer that went out to conquer and control what ihe could not control, an “event sum that ended up so bent some”. Had he not tried to control destiny, destiny would not have controlled him. Burdened by the debt of a royal spouse for whom he scarcely cared; stooped by the debt of a dancer whose life he snared; smitten by a son he never spared and weighed down by animosities he himself had reared, he continues a broken man – an adman so bentsome.

Cliche Means Weird

It’s so easy to label some one as ‘weird’.

Girl A – “Gosh! He’s so weird he didn’t even ask me for my number”

Girl B – “Gosh! He’s so weird he asked ME for my number”

(Cold pause)

(Giggles)

Chorus - “He IS weird!”

It’s even easier to laugh off a difficult situation.
Scene 1

You and your boyfriend’s cozy picture

Villain- your over-protective brother

Tragedy- he gets hold of it
Scene 2

The Taliban Bro. – “WHO THE HELL IS THIS!!”You –“These are my two friends”
Scene 3

Laughter, laughter……

And there are people who would laugh at anything be it someone tripping over something, a slight slip of tongue basically at some one else’s cost.And there are people like me who have the ability to find humour in the mirror
Laughter comes in different shades and the best one is that howling one which embarrasses “khul ke hassi” itself. It’s too contagious and you try your level best not to go beyond your sophisticated giggle. But your wilderness escapes leaving you red, teary and with a tummy ache!
That’s what is being crazy, over the edge! Believe me this world is so much better on the crazier side. The senseless giggles, ear-blasting laughter and not too forget the foot stomping, belly hugging!
Oh yes! I am a laughter fanatic, I can make any one totally annoyed just by the “hehehe” I do. And if my company is good well…we are a riot!
I hope you had atleast a smirk on your face while reading it. And I’ll be cracking up just seeing your twisted smile! Don’t be such a miser, smile big and nice and come on give me some teeth. Oh yeah! That’s goooooooooood!
Who says jokes can’t be funny if they are not dirty. :)

To all the poets and suckers at WritersCafe.org

What is poetry? For real? What the fuck is it? Is it rhyming? God I hope not. Is it alliteration? Free verse? Is there a format one must follow in order to call themselves a poet? If so, the we better come up with different terminology, cause I for one need a title, and as so many feel the need to point out, I’m not a poet. I read some kids quest at popularity today, where he called the people on this site untalented. I disagree whole heartedly. I think that there is enough talent on this site to make what we do mainstream again. Back in the day it was “hip” to write poetry, now it’s considered angst, or “emo”. I honestly think some of the words within these computerized walls hold so much more weight than they are given credit for. If you’re new to the site, I hope this shit reaches you. I know that invitations to join the writers café are handed out as if they were candy, meant to be consumed in a fun manner. I know that the more members, the more lucrative, I get it. Everything’s about the almighty dollar, this is no different. But even if you were brought here under false pretenses and grand illusions, take a minute and look around. Starting at my top ten and filtering down into my friends list, FUCKIN A, these kids can write. Even Lyttleton, whose relationship with me has morphed into a manly nod at the end of a work day is publishable right now, no editing, no bullshit…just fucking good. Kelly Dafni, Ilene, William, I could go on…and those of you who know me, know that. On the knowing me note though, I will say this. I have been known to say what others are thinking, so here it goes. There are some of us on this site who are writing because we want to make a career out of it. Then there are the kids who are scribbling in their online diaries. Both are vital to the writing community, but do I really have to listen to them critique my shit as if they were college professors? Then they claim, “Well I have been published, have you?” Damn right I’ve been published, do I go flaunting it in others faces? No, because there no fucking point. If I was that good, I wouldn’t be here, and neither would you. We should all sit back and examine why on earth we spend so much time here. How many of you have people in your lives who want to know why they share you with a website? Let’s give them an answer, we have to do something with this, or what’s the point? There are enough good writers on here to make fucking history. You know I met Hedra Helix ( Ivy ) at her house about a month ago, we talked, and we whined, and we smoked some serious pot. But in the end, I left there knowing only one thing to be absolutely true… I was not alone, and I was not fucking crazy. I know so many of you now, and I actually consider a lot of you “real” friends. I genuinely hope for the best for all of you. You kids who are coming up, who have talent, and know how to make your words speak for you. I want to know you. But you idiots who come on here and think that you are God’s gift to the literary world, Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. You are no better than any of us. I am no better than any of us. We are all in the same sinking ship; it’s time to concentrate on bailing out the water, and sailing into that fucking sunset. I know I have rambled like a mother fucker, but some Jim Henson reject really just pissed me off today. I have been coming on here less and less, because every time I do, there’s new drama about old topics. I am trying my best to get Charlie on board, we’ll see how that goes. I want to do something with all of this, it seems such a travesty not to. To all of my friends on here, right on, you guys are good PEOPLE, let alone good writers. To my BAPTS homies, you guys are actually interested in bettering yourselves; I applaud the energy and talent we are creating. To all the new kids who are on here for all the right reasons, welcome to the WC, check your egos at the door. To all you fucking idiots….. Bite me, and be gone..

P.S : By the way, since i logged on just twenty minutes ago, i've been called a douchebag, untalented, and a guy actually told me I was a faggot, and he was going to kill me...lmao, but yet i will log on tomm... go figure..

Meandering

Now, I’m not sure if what I’m about to state has come to the notice of anyone else who lives in India. Although unless you are blind or wear shades straight from Bappi Lahiri’s collection, you are bound to have encountered this, quite frankly, dumbfounding aberration. I refer to the inexplicable abundance of Tibetan monks inside places like KFC, McDonald’s, Pizza Hut and extravagant malls. The first twenty five times I experienced it I assumed it was the effect of the hallucinogenic pancakes I have for breakfast but once I realized I wasn’t the only one who was seeing these robe-clad specters-these Dalai Lama spinoffs- I knew that Apocalypse was here. Fuck you if I’m wrong but I was under the impression that these Dalai Lamas were more of the “meditate, eat leaves, shit once every two weeks, stay inside the temple” kind. And I thought nirvana was the only fucking thing on their minds. I wasn’t aware that enlightenment could be attained by gobbling down Colonel’s chicken or wolfing down McGrills by the dozen. I have even seen these Lamas lurking around inside malls feverishly text messaging fuck-knows-who, probably their fellow monks letting them know that they just clocked a hot bitch who would make Buddha’s halo get bigger. I don’t even know where these Lamas pop out of. Do they sit inside their fucking monastery praying for salvation when suddenly hunger strikes and one Lama says to the other Lama “Hey, McDonald’s ya?” And the other Lama says, “Ya, ya. Big Clown, funny, burger good”. And if at all they want to hang around in malls, why in the name of fuck do they want to loiter wearing their ridiculous clown outfits? I mean they make Ronald McDonald the fucking clown look like a fucking corporate executive. And if you have a uniform and you’re adamant that you will only walk around in that specific uniform, which happens to be sleeveless, don’t fucking flail your arms around. I don’t care if you have exclusive access to the 39th chamber of Shaolin, don’t fucking show your hairy underarms to unsuspecting passers-by.
On the other hand these chicken-crunching text-messaging semi-urbane Lamas might be the new breed of monks that a religion like Buddhism needs. Buddhism has often been dismissed as being too, what’s the word, pseudo. The very story that Buddha attained nirvana by merely sitting under a tree is a little boring. Sure, the subplot of the little raccoon that was trapped under his robe is rarely mentioned but monks are, by and large, considered a little erratic. A few decades ago, if a Lama was upset he would tell the other Lama, “I upset. What do?” And the other Lama would counsel, “Set fire to yourself.” Meanwhile, this new breed of Lamas, the McLamas, who despite their obsession with exposing their fluffy armpits, are bound to react in a different manner. If one of these McLamas tell the other, “I upset. What do? Set fire to myself?” the other McLama is likely to say “Fuck that. We eat fried chicken and check out bitches. Ya?” eliciting a “Ya, ya” from the first McLama.
If you think about it the lifecycles of all the bizarre things in the past have proved that if they stick around long enough they become part of our lives, like cows and donkeys shitting all over the streets in North India, fat bitches ruling the South Indian porn industry, and Rakhi Sawant . Similarly, these McLamas, if they rise in number, and make their presence felt long enough and strong enough they are bound to blend into our daily environment like terrorism or a third nipple. Nevertheless, this phenomenon of McLamas is the strangest experience I have had from a religiously inclined group of people. Unless I see the Pope deepthroating a hotdog inside Nirula’s

Been away too long....

I admit it’s been long since I’ve blogged. “Too long”, one email said. “Have you finally run out of venom, you cunt?” another mail politely enquired. “I think in an effort to find more shit you shoved your head so far up your shit hole you asphyxiated to death,” yet another fan surmised. While I appreciate the concern showed by my loyal followers- or pedophilic, murderous blotches on humanity as the police call them – it’s rather complicated for me to shed light on why I stayed dad- I rarely stay mum- on so many several issues all these months. Why the U.S President’s residence is still called the White House even after a black man is in charge; a theory about how the terrorists who attacked the Taj Hotel could have been scorned prior customers who were rendered bankrupt by the hotel’s exorbitant tariffs; how an ‘activist’- or a useless piece of maggot-ridden foreskin who wants his fifteen minutes of fame – upheld our Indian values by getting Akshay Kumar and his hot biatch wife Twinkle arrested for vulgarity. I confess I too always imagined situations involving Twinkle and handcuffs but somehow getting her arrested wasn’t quite what I had in mind. And a hundred other sundry instances when I felt like indulging in some graphic ranting but four words stopped me from doing so. “Oh, well, fuck it.” And then one day I came across something that didn’t just irk me. It vexed me. I swallowed my overpowering instincts- and mind you that’s the only thing I swallow- and decided not to react. And I waited almost two months hoping the bitter feeling of poison would disappear from the roof my mind. It hasn’t and therefore I’m forced to take up this unenviable task of misusing the English Language to vent my fury. If anyone of you reading this voluntarily switched off your electricity at eight thirty in the night on March 28, 2009 calling it the “earth hour” then let me be the first to inform you that you deserve nothing less than being tied to a gurney and subjected to a five hour bukkake by ten grisly bears and Ramesh Pawar.
I’m as ecologically conscious as a stray canine. I mean, if I ever accidentally take a shit in the middle of the road I have the good sense and etiquette to hose it down with my urine. But when people, which include the ever conscientious media, start telling me to turn off all the switches at my place to save electricity because the whole world is doing so, that’s the kind of thing that galls my balls. No one gives a fuck even if their neighbor is raping his daughter or when thousands of kids are recruited to be terrorists at the age of four or five but when it comes to saving the fucking planet everyone wants to hold hands and act together. Otherwise it’s “your country, your problem”. And once again the most annoying thing of them all was the appearances made by these scrotum smelling celebrities who think that we are a bunch of brainless, mindless, spineless puppets who would fucking obey whatever the fuck they ask us to do just because they make more money than us. If Krista Allen thinks that merely because I have made love to my hand watching her “acting” she has the authority to tell me to switch off all my lights then that biatch is way off. And if Aamir Khan thinks having a cunning image consultant empowers him to start controlling my life then that little fucker would actually be better off suffering from short term memory loss because he can forget about it. When will these assholes realize that we don’t like being told what to do? It doesn’t matter if it’s the right thing or not- don’t fucking tell us what to do.
Since the promotion of the “earth hour” was so vexing I had made up my mind to ‘switch on’ every single working thing in my home at eight thirty in the night on March 28. I bought half a dozen extension chords, borrowed a dozen irons and about twenty electric heaters and prepared myself for the Mother-fucking-Earth Hour. And at eight twenty nine my finger began itching as it edged closer towards the switch to flick it on, and a minute later I found myself sitting in utter blackness. Not because I blew a fuse, not because I changed my mind and decided to acquiesce to what the world wanted but because at eight thirty on March 28 the power was forcibly cut by the government. The entire month they preached to us about doing what was right, acting now to save the planet, being responsible, and when the crunch time came they decided to cut the power no matter what. If you were one of those dumbasses all eager to play your part in saving the world, kindly enlighten me at which point of the power cut did your contribution happen. Now, why couldn’t they just have been a little more honest with you from the beginning and tell you what they were really thinking? Instead of painting this picture where you were this powerful individual who had the ability to make a difference why couldn’t they simply tell you “Listen, you dickless cretin. We will do as we please and there ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.”
So next time you want to do something along with the world for the greater good of humanity, or the planet, chuck the “earth hour” and go with my “snuff hour”. On any selected day at a fixed time, chosen after a universal poll, all the human beings stand next to each other, holding hands forming the largest possible human chain ever, and, oh, fully covered in kerosene. When the clock strikes the agreed upon hour the first human being in the chain and last human being in the chain take a lighter and flick it. Then we stand there and feel powerful until the two fires meet in the middle. The “earth hour” requires you to immerse our world in pitch blackness. I really don’t think darkness and obscurity is what we need in today’s world. Don’t we have a lot of that already? What we need is some light, some spark, and some fire. What we need is the “snuff hour”.

Best Possible Orgy (BPO)

BPOs have become as integral to modern India as boob-jobs to Bollywood actresses. A lot more Indians are crossing the streets listening to their IPods now; more Indians have become efficient at slavishly reading nonsensical printed material off the papers given to them by their bosses; and the number of Indians, and this might be the most heartening outcome of them all, who can speak in a freakish American or a British accent that’s so accurate that it just makes u want to start speaking Konkani have risen higher than ever thanks to the advent of Business Process Outsourcing. However, for those of us who can’t quite pull off an accent as American as that of Babu a.k.a Bob or as English as that of Jeevan a.k.a Jeeves there’s always a way to get a piece of the BPO action. We can easily get a job as a cabdriver for BPO companies, drive the employees back and forth, and while we’re at it, rape and murder a few women workers during the course of our career. The only glitch in the aforementioned scheme is that the level of sexual freedom in India is not as liberal as it once was during the days of the Kamasutra, when you could forcibly suspend your brother’s wife from a running fan and fuck her in the armpit till she died of vertigo. If you do that now you are labeled a deviant but back then you were merely a gentle, sensuous man executing position # 89 (the Rotating Pit). So, no longer will you be applauded if you engage yourself in rape and murder, unless of course you work for Narendra Modi. Your actions will merely be described as “not adhering to the company rules”. Due to excessive protests from human rights groups, women’s groups, and Maneka Gandhi a meeting between the Chairman of BPOs (COB), Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists (COCR), and the Chairwoman of Women (COW) was set up to discuss and resolve the issue of the increasing threat to the security of women workers at BPOs. However, at the last minute Maneka Gandhi backed out in indignation when she learned that it was only a human being and not a stray dog that was raped and murdered. The discussion broadcast on NDTV’s sister channel NDTV-GOOD TIMES, SHIT PROGRAMS turned out to be rather fruitful especially with celebrity moderator Navjot Singh Sidhu (NSS) overseeing the debate.

NSS: Let me tell you something, Sonali, a discussion is like an orgy. It’s no fun unless we all take part in it.

COCR: First of all, your little concubine Sonali isn’t here so stop addressing every goddamn thing to her. Secondly, I would like to raise the point that while orgies are necessary for the proper functioning of a society, it is the concentrated act of rape that demands more from an individual’s character and consequently churns a better man out of him.

COW: You assholes sicken-

COCR (interrupting): I know, I know. You will ask me now what the difference between a gang-rape and an orgy is. Well, let me break it down to you. When you gang-rape someone you stuff two or more…

COW: This is not a discussion celebrating the heinous act of rape. This is a discussion condemning it and demanding nothing short of capital punishment for anyone committing rape.

NSS: Rape is like a horror movie-

COW (thinking Sidhu had completed his sentence): Thank you, Mr. Sidhu.

NSS: -the more the screams the better it gets.

COW: Shut up, you hairy spit bag. I blame the greedy, exploitative BPO companies who demand unreasonable working hours from women and do not provide them enough security.

COB: Now, look here, you Cow-

COW (angrily): What did you call me?

COB: I meant Chairwoman of Women. Now, you look here, I understand where you’re coming from. But even an autistic child would understand that we’re not to blame for the crimes committed by the drivers we employ to transport our workers to and from our offices.

COW: Now, you look here dickhead-

COB (offended): What did you call me?

COW: I meant greedy dickhead. You listen to me, if you had a security guard compulsorily accompany every car-ride this would never have happened.

COB: We do give our women employees that option.

COW: It shouldn’t be an option, it should be a rule. If a security guard was there in the car the latest case, and several others before it, could have been avoided. But, of course, that would mean one less person in the car and more guards for you to employ, doesn’t it? And it wouldn’t be such a profitable decision for you greedy billionaire bastards, would it?

COCR: To be fair to the BPO guy, our premier society, the RA or the Rape Academy, has been fairly successful in recruiting several security guards as well. So, I’m not really sure how much protection they would have given even if they were present in the car. It would have probably meant an extra cock violating the helpless cunt.

NSS: A cock in a cunt is like a candidate at an interview. He enters with all the energy and zest in the world but comes out deflated and perspiring.

COW: So, that’s it, then? Cabbies will rape women; security guards will rape women; politicians will rape women; filmmakers will rape women; in short all men will keep raping women and nobody’s going to do anything about it?

COCR: Now, let’s be honest, women don’t really object to getting raped, do they? On some level, it’s guaranteed that they enjoy it.

COW (disgusted): You sick piece of psycho shit, why don’t you go rape the women in your family and see how much of it they enjoy?

COCR: Well, that’s where the women in my family and the rest of the Indian women differ. The women in my family are traditional, wonderful, dignified women who cover themselves up in long opaque saris. But you slutty whores, with your sleeveless tops and your tight jeans, you want us to rape you, you want us to take notice of your goods, you want us to enjoy you, you want us to give you that wonderful feeling of pleasurable pain. Damn, I’m getting a hard on just talking about it.

COW (speechless with anger): You vile repulsive motherfucker, you mentally ill scum of the planet, fuck you and your inherent chauvinistic outlook. You base venomous bastard!NSS: A bastard is like AIDS. Nobody really knows who fucked it into existence.

COW (shaking with anger and desperation): It’s never going to change, is it? This despicable perception of women as objects for men to relieve their sexual frustrations upon. And a patriarchal society like India where all men are closet rapists will never really respect women, will it?

COCR: That’s like asking if Ellen DeGeneres will start fucking men.

NSS: Lesbians are like male homosexuals who like penises. Except they are female and like pussies.

COCR (surprised): That wasn’t an analogy, that was just a definition.

NSS (sadly): I miss Sonali.

COB (feeling bad for the COW): Look, chairwoman, I think I may have been a little insensitive to your arguments. I’m sorry. I think I will be making additional efforts in providing enhanced security to our women employees.

COW (still emotional but allayed slightly): Do you mean it?COB: Yes, in fact, I’ve already thought up a few security measures. I’m thinking from now onwards one of the qualifications to be a driver working for BPOs is for the candidate to be a eunuch.

COW: Ok…NSS: A eunuch is like a car without an engine…and no testicles.COB: And we shall also make sure that all our women employees are given electrically charged chastity belts to protect their…femininity.


COW: Ok

COB (thinking): And perhaps a bra that would make their breasts look smaller than they actually are.

COW: I appreciate your good intentions, chairman. Thank you. But maybe you can also supply your women employees with bottles of pepper spray and maybe tasers. You could also install tracking devices in your vehicles, which can be done, and have someone monitor it on a computer. If the vehicle goes off the prescribed route or stops for more than five minutes, you can call the driver. And if he doesn’t answer your call you can inform the police.

COB: Come on now, that’s a bit silly and impractical.

COCR (bored): Now if you airbags have finished chattering I would like to leave. There are more unsuspecting women out there for me to go and rape.(Both the COW and COB look at him with disgust and shock)

NSS: Actually, there’s one thing left to do.(Sidhu goes to the side of the room, opens a kit, and takes out three thick cricket bats. He hands one to the COW, one to the COB, and keeps the third one for himself)

COCR: I don’t have to time to play. Some little girl or nubile woman is out there with her fresh cherry ready to be popped by me.

NSS: Now as you know, I haven’t done this in a while.

(Sidhu signals to the COW and the COB. They step out from behind their podiums and approach the COCR. He starts protesting but the thick willows land against his teeth and balls, crippling him to the ground. Sidhu square cuts his dick; the COW cover drives his skull; the COB straight drives his nose. After a few minutes of some industrious batting and a good partnership, the Chairman of Cabbies/Rapists breathes his last. His bloody carcass lies in a hot pool of blood)

COW (looking at the corpse): Go to hell.

NSS: Hell is like Pakistan. Except there are more Hindus and Christians.