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”.