Birthday Post

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.

First AID(S)

India is developing at such an astonishing rate that if Anna Nicole Smith were alive her tits would have exclaimed, “Jeez! And we thought we were developed!” Technology, entertainment, literature, lovemaking positions, morality, tolerance, you name it we top it.

If there was anything that was holding us down it was probably the fact that we hadn’t done anything extraordinary in the field of medicine; some discovery, some cure, or, perhaps, the shattering of some mistaken theory that the world of medicine all over had been embracing as true all this time. But, thanks to the Government Medical College Hospital (MCH) in Kolkata (Calcutta) we have finally broken that jinx. The hospital made the groundbreaking discovery that a certain type of AIDS is, in fact, transmitted by the patient breathing on or by just looking at another person continuously, without blinking, for seven minutes and twenty-two seconds. And it was because of that reason that they threw an AIDS patient, named Kno Mani, out of their hospital and refused to even go near him, finally catalyzing his death.

Kno Mani, after he was diagnosed as HIV +, first went to a place called the School Of Tropical Medicine (STM) in Kolkata, where he was asked to go to MCH instead since, apparently, that was the day STM staff members had kept apart to hand-clean each other’s bowels. So the AIDS patient, Kno Mani, and his wife, without any consideration to the people on the streets, walked exhaling their contaminated air frequently towards MCH. The employees at MCH, thanks to their trained eyes, were able to intuit that the patient had to be dealt with delicately. Kno Mani and his wife went straight to the Emergency Ward and requested to get hospitalized. The authorities screamed at Kno Mani to keep his distance and not come any closer. After wearing their spacesuits, welding masks, and their virus-reflecting pink panties they approached Kno Mani and told him there was no bed available for him.

Kno Mani: But I saw a man in an executive suit arriving with a sprained little finger, accompanied by his seven relatives. They all seem to have got their own beds.

MCH (bravely maintaining their stance): I’m sorry, Kno Mani, No Bed.

Kno Mani and his wife, once again, without any sense of social responsibility, walked back to STM with the selfish desire to receive some sort of medical treatment or at least a free glass of water (Oh, the human greed!). However, by the time they reached STM it was already the next day and that was, incidentally, STM’s eat-your-neighbor’s-puke day.

So, Kno Mani and his wife, the opportunists that they were, returned to MCH breathing out into the normal people’s atmosphere while they trundled along. By this time MCH had called for backup and their expert doctors were already waiting for Kno Mani’s return. Kno Mani and his wife, shamelessly, repeated their plea. But the strong will and the indestructible conviction of the doctors shone through.

Kno Mani: Why can’t you help me, please? I can barely breathe. Please, help me.

MCH: I’m sorry, Kno Mani, No Treatment.

Unfortunately, after being pressurized by a group of no good ogres (NGO) the hospital had to finally give in and find a discarded corner to accommodate Kno Mani and his wife. However, the combined plan of MCH and STM to make Kno Mani walk back and forth, and thus deprive him of his already weak breathing, slowly began showing its effect.

Thankfully, they retrieved the corner quite soon as Kno Mani died a couple of days later. However, the extensive research that MCH had done, with the assistance of the bowelgroping, puke-eating STM showed that it was from the corpse of an AIDS patient that one was most likely to contract the disease. So, as a quarantine measure, every single one of them refused to even go near the body let alone remove it from its spot. Instead, the authorities felt it was more advisable if they hired a bunch of homeless kids to move the body.

Later, at a press conference, MCH authorities talked about the strange case of AIDS that Kno Mani had.

MCH: This isn’t the first time that we have had someone with this particular condition. There have been reports of similar cases in the past. And at all times, we have strictly followed the official hospital code of not giving a shit. What common people fail to understand is that there are two types of AIDS Type R and Type P. Type R stands for Rich AIDS and Type P stands for Poor AIDS. Unfortunately, Kno Mani was suffering from a severe case of Type P AIDS. There was nothing that we could do for him except keep him as far away from us as possible.

The doctors also talked about their latest project where they would do extensive study to try and prove that cancer can be contracted through forwarding email attachments.

Suddenly, I feel a lot safer living in our nation.

L(if?)e: Old Journal Entry

During the 19 years of my life, I've seen my fair share of crap, tried my share of crap, gotten addicted to my share of crap, two of which still remain burdens albeit those two burdens being something I can never see myself without. I smoke and drink. That's it. Beyond addictive burdens, the social anxiety and mental depravation and misanthropy are probably also somewhat noteworthy. But not to any large extent. They just help make me who I am, they allow me to function.

The only problem I have with the world, is the in grown hypocrisy. People call me a cynic, I call it realistic and honest. Things that people don't value at all as much as they say they do. Far from it, they avoid these things whenever possible. But even so, I understand why. The world is a shitty place, and I would trade away all my knowledge and experiences for blissful ignorance any day of the fucking week. But people shouldn't say one thing if they really mean the other. That's my problem with people, they say something without thinking about it. Without having experienced the opposites. I've been there, I've been everywhere. I tread the path of adventure, and the path was paved with gold, and every little detour was filled with joyous surprises.

But then you get to the end, and the fates reveal your truth. One truth. The one truth. Your path is paved with five layers of the dead. Ragged flesh and blood-stained bones. Forever stepping on those who sacrificed their lives to make yours possible. And far into the horizon, you can see your goal, your final destination. And the path is far from finished. Can you make the sacrifice to see the end of your road, and can you live with it? It's a grim, yet oddly cathartic realization of how life works. Everyone else is a stepping stone. Build your own road, or become part of someone else’s. It's up to you.

It's a crazy world. And I'm proud to be part of it.

Strange memories on this nervous night. Strange dreams, strange aspirations. Strange hopes. Stray hopes. My life eludes even me, I can't believe I'm still here. And that I am not completely alone anymore, as I was just 3 short years ago. From the age of 9 to 16. Completely in voluntary isolation, because the world sucked, and they did not deserve my company. And because I didn't deserve theirs. At all. It really was a double-edged sword, to use a tired cliché.

I took up smoking when I was 9, at school. At least I could be immediately adjacent to someone during the breaks, and be a continuous victim of mooching, since I was desperate for human contact, and everybody knew that. It cost me a pretty penny, and my parents too. Smoking doesn't come cheap at age 9, and when you give away 90% of your smokes, that doesn't help. So I stole. Nothing big, just from my parents' wallets and the occasional shoplifting. Not enough to get me in real trouble. After all, I was only 9. I didn't know what I was doing.

I took up drinking when I was 12. Got some really bad moonshine off a guy that was desperate to sell it, because it was unfiltered, and 12 year olds just looking for a buzz are easy targets, they usually have no contacts. So I got it, for a price that could feed a Romanian village for a fucking week, and went into the nearest forest all by myself one night when the stars shone bright above, and the temperature was tropical, and got absolutely tanked on a bit over a pint of around 93% pure ethanol. For a twelve year old that's about enough to require getting pumped. I also got unbelievably sick, because as said earlier it hadn't been coal-filtered.

My late teens before moving away to go to "high school" (I can't find a more suitable word) was unfortunately well timed with a wave of mild, pseudo-heavy and heavy drugs that flowed into our tiny tiny community. By age 15 I had experienced sex, crappy 5 minutes in a bathroom somewhere with the village skank, I had tried marijuana, hashish, shrooms, mescalin, opium, cocaine, ether (easy to attain at your science class we learned), PCP, LSD, ecstacy and a multitude of other rave-associated substances which is odd taking into account the size of the town I grew up in and the fact that we never had any raves. I sniffed a small amount of glue when supply fell short of something else, also sniffed baking grease which worked surprisingly well. And then I got to try the killer; heroin.

You will never guess what substance is actually the worst to be on of all the above ever, unless you yourself have some experience in being caught in a web of drug addiction hell. And I won't tell you.

So there I was, completely alone and constantly high on something that had a literally corrosive effect on my brain, but I still functioned relatively well in school, graduated from compulsory school with a grade point average of 5.1 out of 6. I just didn't deal well with people. By this time at least, I had gotten out of the destructive drug abuse, save for 2 which I have already mentioned. Alcohol and cigarettes. And I'll probably carry those 2 with me to my grave by choice. So then it was off to "high school", with a bunch of other 16 year olds that were all complete strangers to me. I was the only one in my new high school class that was from the place I was from. It suited me just fine, although I was of course nervous, it gave me some peace of mind that these new classmates would probably stick to their own already well-established social conglomerates, and not pester me for anything. Until one of the guys started talking about needing some booze for the weekend.

"Shit, a possibility to make money" I thought. "I can't let this pass, I'm fucking starving."

So I just turned to the guy and asked him with a certain degree of subtlety and a genuinely serious look on my face; "How much do you need?" To which he replied "2 litres if you can spare it." At all times I would have 50-70 litres stockpiled somewhere, so yeah I could spare it, of course I didn't say that in fear of surrounding ears that could listen in to our little barter. We agreed upon a price, and a place to make the trade. And by agreed upon a price, I mean I said it would cost him $30 a litre, and he gave me a disgruntled "fine". I knew he would. He had said himself he was desperate, I could risk overpricing it when I knew he was desperate.

Then after 3 weeks, I'm the dealer of ethanol for the whole fucking school. I made shitloads of money, and suddenly all these people want to "hang" with me, no doubt for their own phiscal and/or social benefit. After a while, I started exaggerating on the drinks on school nights, or spending too much time at the local internet caf, and I ended up being absent for 72 days of a total 180. I was of the belief that if I didn't show up and the beginning of the day, there was no point showing at all. Mostly because I would be hung over the entire day anyway, and not just the beginning. But atleast when I did show up, I was still pretty apt at schoolwork, so I miraculously passed most of my classes, save for math and German. And even those were just based on absense not actual academic performance.

What also happened after 3 weeks, was I got a call from my sister. Just a short while before that, I had gotten a drivers license to drive a 125cc light motorcycle, and my father had loaned me the money to purchase a Honda-ish thing that looked like a Harley. Actually, it had a bigger gas tank than most Harleys do, at 13.5 litre capacity. Anyway, she called me, she was crying, she told me her fiancee's brother had just raped her. I didn't even let her finish talking, I just asked her where the bastard was living, and I was off. She lived 800 miles from where I did, I covered that distance on my pathetic 125cc in 4-5 hours I imagine. I met up with my sister and her fiancee, her fiancee told me where the sack of flesh lived, and we were off in his car.

The next 5 hours are all blurry. We spent alot of effort keeping him alive, I remember that. Death was too good for him. I consider myself a relatively respectable citizen. Misanthropic and sociopathic and a multiple felon perhaps, but certainly not dangerous. So when I came to, and what I see is a man drowning in a pool of his own blood and vomit, his akilles sinews severd, nipples snippet off, ear lobes missing, holes poked into his abdomen avoiding vitals, I was shocked, and I threw up at the sight of it. Never before, and never after that, have I totally snapped like that. Ever. And I still carry this huge sense of guilt because of it. And I always will. Not because of what I did to that guy specifically, fuck no I hope he contracts every venerial disease on the planet and survives them, and becomes a walking cancer that plagues the earth, living each day until his life is claimed by old age and heart attack in excrutiating sexually deprived agony. It was just the simple fact that I, of all people, snapped. I had after all kept my emotions under lock and keep for 7 grueling years.

So that was something I carried to the end of my Cambridge year, which marked the end of school for me for a year, which I spent "maturing". Unfortunately, this period was spent at home in the town I grew up in, which was just one great big hole of bad memories for me, so I locked myself into my room and went online for about 8 months. I still blame my parents for that one, they should have known better. They never did take the time to actually find out about what I was doing when I was 12-15. They never got to know me.

Euphoric asocial misanthropia. In my own way I was content with my isolation. I hated them, all the other humans out there. They were capable of all kinds of crap, like raping innocent girls. Or suddenly losing control and maim someone, not taking their life, but making the rest of their life worthless. And I hated myself for having the same potential. For being the same as them. I had already proven I was not worthy to socialize with others, and the others could not be trusted anyway. In a way I was better off alone. But it really is depressing to not see, hear or touch another human being for 8 months, actually I had gone the entirety of my puberty not ever touching a girl. Sometimes I think the only reason I didn't suddenly flip and become a rapist myself was because of that incident with my sister. Nothing in the world is lower. But you need one to strike close to home before you actually realize that. Call me a cynic if you must, it's how it works.

So after a year, I figured I was ready for another go at school. Boy was I wrong, fortunately I realized it before it was too late and dropped out in time to meet the dead line so I didn't have to repay the scholarship all boarding school students studying away from home are given. But that meant another 8 months of isolation, with the internet as my only companion. Then I get a call from a girl that was in my class. One of those that you secretly stare at all the time, but never ever dare to ask out because she's way out of your league. Well, in my case the only thing that stopped me was the feeling of inferiority in general. I'm pretty arrogant, but I never felt like forcing all my burdens onto others so a relationship to me was pretty much out of the question. But I had secretly been staring at her, dreaming for 3 years. She calls me, and asks if I want to come back to the city for the old class' graduation party. I had misgivings, but finally I came to the conclusion that fuck it, it's a chance to get good and hammered. The town I lived in was all dried up anyway.

I get there, to the party she's invited me to, thinking there would be all my class mates. Turns out it's a girls party, me and 7 other chicks with the ugly friend everyone keeps talking about no where to be seen. Needless to say I feel uneasy. So I start to get drunk, she starts to get drunk, she drags me into a corner and sticks her tongue down my throat. Then she starts talking.

"I've been secretly staring at you for the past 3 years."

Immediately I think hey, that's my line. Then I start thinking about what she just said, and I refuse to believe it. Is this where I get to have sex for the first time in 5 years? With this, the hottest chick in my entire school? No fucking way. Later when the rest of the girls have left to go club-hopping, it turns out yes fucking way. Literally. So we saw each other for about 2 weeks, she talked alot about her ex and how much she hated him, they had been going steady for 2.5 years. She actually hadn't been around that much. Then I decide she deserves to know my past, only if she can accept what I am can this really happen. So I tell her. Bad fucking move. She freezes up, and I start to cry and go downstairs and chainsmoke 12 cigarettes. She comes down and asks if I won't come back to bed. Maybe she's come to terms with it, I think to myself hopefully. No such luck, it was just to ease her conscience so I wouldn't stay up all night and be a wreck the next day when she drives me home, smiling, lets me off at my place gives me a smiling kiss good bye and tells me over short message service later that we can't see each other any more on account that I'm too depressive.

I feel like I'm holding a pair of aces and a pair of eights. Just waiting for that bullet. Hoping for it. Now I don't even count those 2 weeks into any equation. It never happened, and she almost smothered any hopes I had for my life. One man and one man alone is responsible for my continued existance. And later on, one girl.

Now I'm in my late 20’s, things are starting to go my way. Finally things are going my way. I'm on my way to become a licensed house-builder, I have 2-3 people I can call friends, and 1 I can call a true good friend, and 1 very special girl (my Precious, I LOVE HER) I would take a bullet just to spend time with. I've got everything I need right now, and I like it. I know it'll end, but that just makes me appreciate it more. The path I made, the road I built, is starting to pay off. And even if it's the death of me or anyone else, I will see it finished.

The Secular War

We Hindus have taken a lot of shit from all the non-Hindus residing in our country. They have taken our jobs, our land, our women, our wealth, and even a few rolls of our toilet paper. We made an attempt to stick to the honorable technique of preaching non-violence and then murdering them- they responded with the same. We demolished their churches and mosques and covered it up saying that Parvati Melton’s boobs crashed into them- they didn’t buy that. We sent anthrax-infected deer as part of a bio-warfare scheme to kill the Indian Muslims- but Salman Khan shot all of them dead. Finally, we genetically engineered a battalion of stand-alone monster cocks, in our laboratory in Los Angeles, to attack the Indian Christians but they were intercepted by a hungry Britney Spears after her MTV VMA performance. And just when we were about to announce a truce, the anti-Hindu Government goes ahead and does something so insulting and offensive as suggesting that the Lord Rama didn’t even exist; they want to demolish the Rama Setu, the bridge that Lord Rama built thousands of years ago so that they can build a shitty canal for the economic growth of India. Now, it’s war.

               Thankfully, the official spokes-group for Hindus, the BJP, has taken matters into their own hands. That is after all what Lord Krishna said to Arjun in the Bhagwad Gita: “Ahead of you lies a pool of shit, trust the BJP to push you into it.” Apparently, Lord Krishna rhymed. Urged by the BJP, Hindus from all across India march through the streets protesting against this overt lack of respect for Hindu beliefs by the Congress Government. Interestingly, they are met halfway by a vociferous group of Muslims.

Hindus: This is Hindustan. ‘Hindu’-stan. Figure it out. If you think that you can hurt our religious sentiments and still keep all your internal organs in tact, you better get a new doctor.
Muslims: When are your religious sentiments ever unhurt? Let a lady enter a temple, you go berserk. Give birth to a female child, you flip out. Draw nude paintings, and your whole world is on fire. You people should learn to not be so touchy.
Hindus: Ha, look who’s talking! Strike out all the days in a calendar when you Muslims haven’t issued a fatwa against some loser or the other, and you couldn’t even make a week.
Muslims: That’s different. Those shitheads insulted our holy Prophet. That’s blasphemy of a different kind.
Hindus: Well, our Lord Rama has been insulted and to us, that’s the biggest blasphemy possible. He is the Hindu religion’s highest power.
Muslims: Oh, ok. So does that mean it’s alright to mock Krishna?
Hindus: No, he’s up there with Rama too.
Muslims: So, mocking Vishnu is fine, right?
Hindus: Umm…not really. The three of them are like a team.
Muslims: Then Siva, Ganesha, Durga, Laksmi, Hanuman, Saraswathy, and the others are open for criticism?
Hindus: Look, you bearded wise-cracks, all our three billion, five thousand, six hundred and twenty seven gods and goddesses are important. Neither can you say anything about them nor can you even slightly imply that they are just figments of imagination that popped out of some guy who was really, really stoned.
Muslims: But seriously, how can anyone refrain from making a comment when they see thousands of people queuing to get blessings from the idol of an obese elephant sitting on a rat?
Hindus: In the same way you refrain from making comments on someone who gets so delusional walking through the desert that he claims to have talked to God; in the very same way you do not make comments on how this certain God’s messenger deemed it alright for old, paunchy guys to have sex with girls who were seven or eight years old; in the same manner you back out of criticizing this messenger’s claim that God wants every man to marry and impregnate more than a dozen women like they were tube socks.
Muslims: We have no idea who you’re talking about.
Hindus: Just what the hell are you doing stopping us anyway? The Ram Setu issue has got nothing to do with you. So why don’t you just buzz off? Isn’t it time for you fellas to go have your seventeenth prayer of the day?
Muslims: Well, we thought you’d never ask. You see, this bridge that you so conveniently designated Rama’s Bridge is in fact the creation of our Prophet Muhammad. He built it with his own hands so that he could go talk to God who was standing on the other end.
Hindus (mocking): Oh, that’s about the funniest thing we’ve heard in a long time. Your Prophet built this entire bridge all by himself? Ha, that’s rich! That’s so far removed from reality.
Muslims: Oh, yeah, how do you claim your Lord Rama built it?
Hindus: Lord Rama got the help of his army of talking monkeys to help him build the bridge.
Muslims (sarcastically): Why, what happened? The steroid guzzling hawk was on strike?
Hindus: Well, for your information, Lord Garuda was injured trying to stop Ravana’s flying chariot.
Muslims: Damn, who directed your religion? Michael Bay?
Hindus: Who designed your costumes? Stevie Wonder?
Muslims (angry): Do not mock our traditions, infidels!
Hindus: Hey, calm down. Why are you guys always so pissed off? Is it because all of you were circumcised when you were kids? We agree, that’s got to sting. In fact, there’s every chance that Osama would not have turned into a terrorist if he still had his foreskin. Messing with a man’s penis can really piss him off for life.
Muslims (offended): It helps us last longer!
Hindus: Then why didn’t you just slice the whole thing off? You could have kept going all night long.                                                                                                                                (Before the angry horde of Muslims can respond a large throng of Christians arrive. The Christians have condescending smiles on their faces as they shift their glances between the Muslims and the Hindus)

Christians: Praise the Lord! How are you Ramaholics and Muhammadophiles?

Hindus and Muslims (in unison): It’s Hindus and Muslims.
Christians: Sure, sure, Praise the Lord!
Muslims: Why don’t you take your cross-bearing asses back home and praise the lord? What the heck are you doing here?
Christians: We’re here to inform you barbarians that you are arguing over a moot point. The bridge in question isn’t Rama’s Bridge nor is it Allah’s Bridge or Muhammad’s Bridge. It’s in fact, Christ’s Bridge.
Hindus and Muslims (taken aback): Jesus Christ!
Christians: That’s right. The same guy. If you verify the facts you’ll see that Jesus was in fact a carpenter. And if anyone was skilled enough to build that bridge it was Jesus. Not Rama and the monkeys, not Muhammad and the camels.
Hindus: Carpenters don’t build bridges. Architects do.
Christians: Jesus graduated a part-time course in Architecture as well. The only thing you heathens need to know is that the issue is now ours. You guys can just pack up and go home. The matter of Christ’s Bridge will be dealt with by Christians.
Muslims: Who do you think you’re talking to? You think we’ll just buy into whatever you’re saying? You think we’re as gullible as your GOD TV audience? Your Jesus couldn’t even carry a cross for a few miles and you’re telling us that he built this entire bridge by himself. Let’s face the facts, maybe he spoke persuasively but he wasn’t cut out for physical work.
Hindus: Both of you should just leave when you can. This is a matter between the Hindus and the Government. They expect to get away with saying that Lord Rama didn’t build the bridge. What are they going to say next? That his skin was not actually blue? So, leave us alone, it’s a Hindu issue. Christians and Muslims should just scram the scene.
Muslims: You would love to play the victims, wouldn’t you? Well, guess what? It’s Muhammad’s Bridge and it’s our sentiments that are hurt. We are the ones against the demolition of that long pile of rocks.
Christians: If anyone’s a victim, it’s us. You Hindus and Muslims have been hogging the spotlight for years with all your communal riots and shit. This is our time. We are the victims. We deserve all the attention.
Hindus: No, we deserve all the attention.
Muslims: No, we do.
(Suddenly, a fourth group arrives. The group has a number of bald, half-naked monks with plastered smiles on all the faces)
Hindus, Muslims and Christians: And who the hell you are you baldies?
Baldies: We’re the Buddhists. We have come here to ask you to not resort to violence.
Hindus: You have no business here, monkeys…or monks or whatever you people are.
Buddhists: Buddha says nobody really has any business anywhere. Just love each other.
Muslims: Seriously, you fellows need to take it elsewhere. We’re having a serious discussion here.
Buddhists: Buddha says nothing in the world is really serious. Just love each other.
Christians: If you’ve come to claim the bridge you better wait in line, eggheads.
Buddhists: Buddha says that the bridge isn’t real. Nor are eggs real. Or heads. Let’s all just love each other.
(The Hindus, Muslims, and Christians look at each other, nod in agreement and simultaneously launch an all out attack on the Buddhists. The Buddhists are battered to pulp within a matter of minutes. The bloodlust of the other three groups simmer down. They sneer at the Buddhist carnage before them)
Hindus: They’re so gay.
Muslims: Total fudge-packers.
Christians: They put the homo in Homo sapiens. Praise the Lord!
(The three groups hold hands, walk away into the sunset, world peace and harmony ahead of them and a bloody pile of fucked up monks behind them)

To be Beautiful

It’s exciting, at first. You think at first that you’re different, that you have something special to offer, and that can even be true. Then you remember you’re the same person you’ve always been; the only change is that suddenly your picture is every where and columns are being written about who you are and what you’ve said and where you’re going next and people are stopping to look at you. And you’re a celebrity. More accurately, you’re a curiosity. And you say to yourself, I don’t deserve all this attention!” 

She thought carefully. “It isn’t you that matters to people when they turn you into a celebrity. It’s something else. It’s what you stand for, to them.” 

There’s a ripple of excitement when a conversation turns valuable to us, the feel of new powers growing fast. Listen care fully, Nikhil, she’s right!

“Other people think they know what you are: glamour, sex, money, power, love. It may be a press agent’s dream which has nothing to do with you, maybe it’s something you don’t even like, but that’s what they think you are. People rush at you from all sides, they think they’re going to get these things if they touch you. It’s scary, so you build walls around yourself, thick glass walls while you’re trying to think, trying to catch your breath. You know who you are inside, but people outside see something different. You can choose to become the image, and let go of who you are, or continue as you are and feel phony when you play the image.

“Or you can quit. I thought if being a theatrestar is so wonderful, why are there so many drunks and addicts and divorces and suicides in Celebrityville?” She looked at me, unguarded, unprotected. “I decided it wasn’t worth it. I’ve mostly quit.” 

I wanted to pick her up and hug her for being so honest with me. 

“You’re going to a famous writer or filmmaker one day,” she said. “Does it feel that way to you: does this make sense to you?” 

“A lot of sense. There’s so much I need to know about this stuff. In the newspapers, have they done this to you? Print things you’ve never said?” 

She laughed, “Things you’ve not only never said, but never thought, never believed, wouldn’t think of doing. A story published about you, with quotes, word for word, made-up. Fiction. You’ve never seen the reporter . . . not even a phone call, and there you are in print! You pray readers won’t believe what they see in some of those papers.” 

“I’m new at this, but I have a theory.” 

“What’s your theory?” she said. 

I told her about celebrities being examples that the rest of us watch while the world puts tests to them. It didn’t sound as clear as what she had said. 

She tilted her head up to me and smiled. When the sun went down, I noticed, her eyes changed color, to sea-and-moon-light. 

“That’s a nice theory, examples,” she said. “But every body’s an example, aren’t they? Isn’t everybody a picture of what they think, of all the decisions they’ve made so far?” 

“True. I don’t know everybody, though: they don’t matter to me unless I’ve met them in person or read about them or seen them on some screen. There was a thing on television a while ago, a scientist researching what it is that makes a violin sound the way it does, I thought what does the world need with that? Millions of people starving, who needs violin research? 

“Then I thought no. The world needs models, people living interesting lives, learning things, changing the music of our time. What do people do with their lives who are not struck down with poverty, crime, war? We need to know people who have made choices that we can make, too, to turn us into human beings. Otherwise, we can have all the food in the world, and so what? Models! We love ‘em! Don’t you think?” 

“I suppose,” she said. “But I don’t like that word, model.” 

“Why not?” I said, and knew the answer at once. “Were you a model?” 

“In Mumbai,” she said, as though it were a shameful secret.

“What’s wrong with that? A model is a public example of special beauty!” 

“That’s what’s wrong with it. It’s hard to live up to. It frightens Miss Moviestar.” 

“Why? What’s she afraid of?” 

“Miss M got to be an actress because the studio thought she was so pretty, and she’s been afraid ever since that the world is going to find out she isn’t that pretty and she never was. Being a model was bad enough. When you call her a public example of being beautiful, it makes it worse for her.” 

“But, you are beautiful!” I blushed. “I mean, there’s certainly no question that you’re… that you’re… extremely appealing....” 

“Thank you, but it doesn’t matter what you say. No matter what you tell her, Miss M thinks beauty is an image someone else created for her. And she’s a prisoner of the image. Even when she goes to the grocery store, she should be all done up, just so. If not, somebody is sure to recognize her and they’ll say to their friends, ‘You ought to see her in person! She’s not half as pretty as she’s supposed to be!’ and Miss M’s disappointed them.” She smiled again, a little sad. “Every actress in the world, every beautiful woman I know is pretending to be beautiful, she’s afraid the world will find out the truth about her sooner or later. Me, too,” 

I shook my head. “Crazy. You’re all crazy.” 

“The world’s crazy, when it comes to beauty.” 

“I think you’re beautiful.” 

“I think you’re crazy.” 

We laughed, but she wasn’t kidding. 

“Is it true,” I asked her, “that beautiful women lead tragic lives?” It was what I had concluded from my Perfect Woman, with her many bodies. Perhaps not quite tragic, but difficult. Unenviable. Painful. 

She considered that. “If they think their beauty is them,’ she said, “they’re asking for an empty life. When everything depends on looks, you get lost gazing in mirrors and you never find yourself.”

Indian Institute of Molestation

The Rape Academy of India (RAI), in coalition with its brother branch, the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM), invites applications for Diploma Courses in Rape and Molestation, Sodomy and Murder, and also a 3 month certificate course in Hypocrisy. Applicants are requested to forcibly collect a pair of white panties from the assaulted body of a strange helpless girl and affix on it, using fresh semen, three attested copies of passport size nude photos of the helpless girl’s pubis and sent it to the address given below:

To,

Mr. Horny Man,

The Rape Academy of India,

Any street,

Any city,

Any where,

All the time- 247365

About The Rape Academy of India

               The Rape Academy of India is an autonomous rape institution recognized by the Government of India. It comprises the Indian Institute of Molestation (IIM) and the Centre for Sodomy (CFS), two institutions highly regarded for their major contributions in the fields of physical harm and sexual violation of women. The Rape Academy of India is a professional rape centre which offers a variety of services in forced sex and assault of women and young girls. It is also the only institution in India that does not follow the regressive idea of affirmative action and gives an equal chance to rapists from all walks of life based purely on the merit of their raping.

Courses

1) Diploma in Rape and Molestation: The R&M Course is a full time, post-graduate diploma programme. It aims at giving young and aspiring rapists a professional outlook on the highly competitive field of harming women. The Rape Academy arms the young dicks with the expertise and skills needed to break into the pussy of unsuspecting bitches and smoothly leave the scene without getting caught. Students will also be educated on the history of rape, some of the great names in the field of rape, and also the latest innovations that has made itself inevitable in the arena of rape. Many renowned politicians, police officers, and various media personnel will visit the Rape Academy from time to time and conduct various rape workshops and educational seminars on pussy-bashing.

Electives: Amputee rape, Relative Rape, Date Rape, Moving Car Rape, Preteen Rape, and Gang Rape.

Eligibility: Anyone with a dick can apply.

Career Opportunities: Unemployed bum, Horny Loner, BPO Cab Driver, Pervert Neighbor, Lecherous Servant, Police Officer, Politician, Bollywood, Tourist Guide, Shack Owner, Teacher, etc.

2) Diploma in Sodomy and Murder: The S&M Course is a specific course meant for students that are strictly into ass ramming. It is designed to give a thorough knowledge in the field of ass raping and the subsequent slaughter of the victim. There is a strong emphasis on student performance evaluation through projects and practical assignments and on research work by the students themselves. The first semester provides a comprehensive perspective of asshole ripping and butt cumming; the second semester is project-based with hands-on production and execution to provide knowledge that is essential in the field of sodomy and murder. Highly esteemed members of several rape organizations like the ‘Blow Job Pirates’ and the ‘Salacious Indians Violating SExy North Americans’ visit the Academy to give lectures and narrate dick raising stories of real sodomy and murder.

Electives: Tourist Sodomy, Roadside Sodomy, Public Sodomy, Workspace Sodomy, Backseat Sodomy, Dead body Sodomy, Bludgeoning, Stabbing, and Drowning to Death after Sodomy.

Eligibility: Anyone with a dick or a sharp object can apply.

Career Opportunities: Member of the Parliament, Government Official, Minister’s Son, Bollywood, Political Kingpins etc.

3) Certificate Course in Hypocrisy: A three month short-term course in saying one thing and doing another. Students will be taught to engage in several hypocritical activities like salivating after and secretly harassing secretaries and interns while publicly denouncing women who dress in anything other than a ten-layered sari and a full-sleeved blouse. Students will also be given training in lying through their teeth and acting like a complete shameless retarded motherfucker. They will also be given training to appear on news channels and compare cheerleaders to bargirls while jacking off on the side leering at the reporter’s cleavage.

Motto of the Rape Academy: An unraped bitch is a terrible thing to waste.

Journal Extracts#14

Image by A PICTURES, New Delhi

"It is early, early morning," she said, her voice suddenly low and mysterious. "Dark. We stand on a beach like this beach. First hint of dawn. Cold." 

We were there in the cold and dark with her, living her story. 

"In front of us stands our easel and canvas, we hold our paints and brushes." It felt like being hypnotized, by those dark eyes. I felt the palette in my left hand, the brushes in my right, brushes with rough wooden handles. 

"Now the light rises in the sky, do you see it?" she said. "The sky is turning to fire, gold poring, ice prisms melting into sunrise...." 

We saw, stunned in colors. 

"Paint!" said SHE. "Catch that sunrise on your canvas! Take the light of it on your face, through your eyes, spread it into art! Swiftly now, swiftly! Live the dawn with your brush!" 

I'm no artist, but in my mind was that glory, tuned to bold slashes on canvas. I imagines Sakshi's easel, saw her own dawn wonderfully delicate there, careful beams blended to a starburst in oils. 

"Done?" said SHE. "Brushes up?" 

We nodded. 

"What have you created?" 

I should have painted our teacher, that moment, she was so darkly bright. 

"Two very different sunrises." said Sakshi. 

"Not two sunrises," said SHE. "The artist does not create the sunrise, she creates..." 

"Oh of course!" said Sakshi. "The artist creates the painting!" 

SHE nodded. 

"The sunrise is reality, the painting is what we make of it?" I asked. 

"Exactly!" said SHE "If each of us had to create our own reality, can you imagine the chaos? Reality would be limited to whatever each of us could invent!" 

I nodded and imagined. How to create a sunrise if I'd never seen one? What to do with a black night sky to start the day? Would I have thought of a sky? Of night and day? 

SHE went on. "Reality has nothing to do with appearances, with our narrow way of seeing. Reality is love expressed, pure perfect love, unbrushed by space time." 

"Have you ever felt so at one with the world, with the universe, with everything that is, that you were overcome with love? She looked from Sakshi to me. "That is reality. That is the truth. What we make of it is up to us, as the painting of the sunrise is up to the artist."