ahem

im not very sure about the following one.
but here goes

Mummyjis who like to fuck.

Sex scandal and brown trash’s ultimate young novel.

He paced around the hotel lobby, nursing his classic milds, dressed the exact antithesis of his true dress sense, tight skinny fitting jeans hed saved up and bought for an unheard of price, tight man cleavage bearing neon party shirt. Enough hair gel to make him look like he showered in it every morning,

Every once hed stop and look at the mirror, and spontaneously dissolve into a mind numbing seriesod subtle poses trying to figure out which one he needed for tonight. Tonight wouldn’t be about the inteelectual, the patroness in question was from a very rich diamond merchants wife in surat, She needed Bollywood, she needed low threatening voices, uber masculine, urban cowboy with a low self esteem type looks and yet submissive in bed, the type whod have to jump through hoops, the type which was trying to dissolve a lifetimes worth of repressed sexuality with a vengeful efficiency. The type who’d pay really well though, and often bit on more than they could chew. They liked submissive, but not to an effeminate extent. Just enough to rid them of the frustration of always being told what to do.. Not really Skinny dominatrix parsi from south Mumbai who once made him lick a commode

A hoarse absolute monstrosity of a woman sat at a table in the lobby, having successfully, (though not very well) managed to fit into a dress much, much tighter than her poor waistline deserved.

Not her, for fucks sake, not her” our man thought, but sure enough, she made a not too subtle sensual hint for him to sit by her.

He could almost feel his penis shrink back in repulsion, and as he did so incredibly often in these situations, our man began with what promis to be the heart and soul of this entire tale, he begins his youtube famous conversations with his penis.

It might seem funny bu it really wasn’t, for ever since that one time he popped a tab of acid at goa, he started having these very vivid often elaborate conversations with his penis. The began with the penis’es (penii???) initially dancing in his head as they sang little monologues, limericks and occasionally stand up comedy which was, (obviously), always below the belt. But soon they became full on conversations, with topics ranging from “does megan fox really have a wiener?” to the more serious, “would you ever do Mayawati, even to gain enormous political power??”

“all right laddie, no shrinking back, the dress makes her look fatter than she actually is”

“are you fucking with me man,” said his penis, in a voice almost exactly like Danny DeVito”if I entered her it’d be like trying to bridge a crack in the hoover dam with a thumb”

“it paying a lot”

“fuck that, the last time we were paid this much I was scared to come out for weeks, This ones gonna be freaky”

“you like freaky”

“not when the person being nasty looks like she ate an entire lineup of hells angels as a midnight snack”
“you’re exaggerating again man, she still has vestiges of smouldering beauty in her eyes”

“that’s not smouldering beauty, she’s half a bottle of black label down”

“we were paid in advance and shes paying twice what she initially offered”

“I’ll need performance enhancers though”

“attaboy”

“I told you, I hate being referred to as a boy, or little man, or the small soldier, Just because im so attached to you doesn’t mean I cant be hurt by what you say”

“ricky?”, a tobacco toughened, 70 going on 17 voice asked.

“Hi sexy, I wouldn’t have guessed a sexy woman like you would’ve needed me, Charmed”
And he kissed the mottled palm, looked up at her grotesquely made up face and tried to stop thinking of what the next couple of hours would be like.

They went up the lift, the attendant looking at them with a cynical knowing look. And as they finally entered the beasts lair, he launched into it.

Being a gigolo in india was a fanastic job opportunity, simply because most Indian men thought foreplay was a blowjob and maybe squeezing a few tits. So when he xpertly kissed her neck and trailed a wet tongue right around her ear, she was randy as a bull with a chastity belt during mating season.

“try not to look down” he chanted as he gave the diamond merchants wife a reason to sparkle.

After three hours where he wanted nothing more than to throw up, he succeeded in giving mrs Mehta a screamer.

Gets out of the hotel. Rumbles his thunderbird twinspark and rushes home. For a long long shower and some very strong alcohol to forget what had just happened.


Ends up jacking off to something. Forgets what it is.















Morning brings life. Wakes up at home.

Its 10.30 in the morning and hes a college student. An engineering college student.

He had a girlfriend too.

He loved her.

He liked booze and pussy just as much though.

Hes home now.

question everything

Question everything.

What makes democracy just so incredibly fucked up is that somehow, every single person seems to have gotten it in their heads that they have an innate right to tell you what exactly is good for you.

Lets break it down now. There I was watching a gorgeous absolutely gorgeous sunset off marine drive, watching the sun emblazon a dying trail of orange in the murky waters of the choked Arabian sea. When a cop stops by. And offers me an oh so friendly piece of advice that, I ought to stub my cigarette out. Not because its unhealthy, or because the smell was damaging the unborn foetus that would be the only way to explain his extremely large girth. But because I was too young to smoke and therefore did not appreciate how much effort it took to earn the 5 rupees that I spent on said fag.

Yes.

No I get it. Im a spoilt brat who indulges himself in the carnal pleasure of a pensive smoke with a vengeance. And therefore I ought to be taught the value of money. Im not questioning the cops motives. I even stubbed out my fag.

But It got me thinking that that’s where we all got buttfucked in the name of the glorious ideals of democracy. That somehow people have begun to subconsciously think that BECAUSE they have the right to free speech and a hefty amount of self appointed authority, they therefore reserve the right to pontificate.

Think about it. That’s where democracy in india made the faeces hit the fan. Not because people now had the freddom of thought and expression and of choosing the people they wanted to legislate their own morality. But because they appointed themselves to be the guardians of their own ideals.

Okay big brother.

Lets play it your way shall we.

Let me exercise my right as a free thinking superliberal and tell you where youre going wrong.

Everywhere.

Haha

See you’ve already developed a hearty, justifiable dislike for me. You already hate the fact that I smoke; I drink and that I lead a life that your mummy and daddy wouldn’t really like a lot.

The problem is that because youre entitled to your point of you, and because there are just so many of you who think youre right and that my point of view is too elitist and radical for you that youre allowed to tell me im wrong.

But the bigger problem is when you gather up the dumbest, most dimwitted of your lot, and rampage through the seams of my being. Forcing your irrationality into my very pores until my only options are to be a societal outcast, or submit forcibly to your point of view.
You disgust me, the lot of you. You disgust so many trodden others who aren’t in a position of power to tell you that what to force upon us isn’t right.

I write this for every couple that couldn’t sit in a garden and enjoy some time to yourself because some older women got jealous of your vitality and called the fat watchdogs of justice on your tails. I write this on behalf of every person who wanted to have a smoke in an outdoor café and couldn’t because the self righteous individual to your right couldn’t handle the simple task of moving indoors. I write this for every single shopkeeper who had his windows broken because his signboard was in the wrong language. For every person who stood there and watched as “swayamsevaks” made a mockery of justice, democracy and hope. For every individual who was forced to hide indoors when groups of mentally deficient individuals ran amok frothing at the mouth and baying for the blood of innocents to avenge a death that occurred on a different continent. For every individual who reads the morning paper and puts it down in sheer disbelief. For every person who wished SOMEONE would say something. I write this for the true minority. I write this for the free spirits, for the thinkers, for the rationals, for the atheists.

But I don’t intend to be one sided. Im a part of the minority, the very same who do things like heart warming campaigns telling people to switch off their lights for an hour and throwing pink underwear, and rallies for peace, brotherhood and social justice (don’t get me wrong, I loved those campaigns, I still do.), only to go home to their high paying jobs and go to sleep each night hoping SOMEONE would continue the work to be done. I write this with a steady hatred building in me. I froth at the mouth that im writing a synopsis of something that should have been said, or already has been said a million different times, in a million different contexts, I write this with the devout hope that what I say wont be confused for the arrogance of the ignorant youth. That my message isn’t blown off by me myself as an outburst of failed attempts to communicate with the other side.

The truth is im scared.

Im terrified. Testicle freezing terrified that I grow old and lose this one thing that seems to drive me, that like the billons of others before me, I give up on this one true war. This war against the people who would allow their children to be brainwashed, people who’d wrap themselves in their own blankets of yuppie warmth to an extent that they didn’t realize when it became their shroud. Im terrified as I see the number of supposedly brilliant, supposedly rational individuals who still refuse to think for themselves. We’ve let ourselves believe that our true victory often lies in the fact that we were left alone forsaking actual proactivity for the sake of good natured coexistence, regularly punctuated by interference from the arseholes when they think we’ve crossed a line, and then obediently toeing the line.

Im in a college that prides itself in beign a hotbed for intelligence, I study amidst individuals who might eventually grow to be captains of industry, and sadly therefore, of society itself, and yet I see people who would subscribe to the QES, the quickest, easiest solution for things.


Because obviously, that’s the root of all evil, the QES, Cant get laid because youre too ugly and stupid??? no worries, just ban any sexuality to permeate into any media around you. Cant get a job for yourself because someone else smarter and more hard working than you came in the way??? There there now, that’s an easy one, find a bunch of others just like you, form a state for yourselves, and throw the others right out of it. Don’t like the new music, that your son’s friends are playing, the new movies theyre watching??? Well, forbid your son from meeting those evil westernized good for nothings, and youll never have to listen to it again. Cannot decide, or rather would not waste valuable brainspace to think of a way of life that would suit you, or one that answers the eternal questions?? Use centuries old philosophies and pretend everything that was said then is and was true. Brought up to realize certain things are good and certain others are bad, no problem son, why take the effort of finding out for yourself, just stick to the one you’ve been taught and things will be fine and dandy.

Ive said and rued this a million times before, were shining india, were the country that might one day rule the world. But weve never had a summer of love, weve never really had a generation that wanted to stop doing blindly and start thinking. Weve never had our bill hicks, or our timothy leary’s, if you think that a generation of hippys would be counterproductive, go ahead, look at some of the most insightful corporates today, steve jobs comes to mind, an out and out hippy, who came to india, smoked more than his share of weed, dropped out of college and thought for himself.

Im tired now as a shrink back into a world weary state of existence, but I truly do live for moments like these, for moments when I lie back and think. For the few times when I didn’t have a deadline to submit to or an exam the next day.

I know that what ive written right now might positively be the single most clichéd thing ive ever managed to write. That even as I re read this I realize I sound like a paranoid hippy questioning government conspiracies. But for too long have we just sat by and procrastinated, and sought nothing more than to be left alone. And maybe this is just me, But that’s my point. Where on earth are the Indian hippies???

and how have you been

ive had the time, or rather the opportunity to write something for the first time in over a month and a bleeding half. its been fucked, the month that is.

and no this isnt im so exhausted and i broke up fucked , but more of a i was hospitalised for the exact duration of my exams with acute glomerulonephritis post streptococcal infection.

what that means, is that somehow, a bunch of bacteria with an attitude gave me a throat infection.

and then, as if making me wince everytime i eat wasnt bad enough, they hit my kidneys.

severe kidney infection. complete with the almost complete loss of ability to breathe, peeing blood, and the coup de grace, my body began to retain water and i looked like a bullfrog in mating season.

end result, a bleeding week in a hospital, an entire day on oxygen, 15 blood tests, 20, yes 20 urine tests and food without salt or protein for almost 2 weeks.

ive lost all that weight now, and then some.

still feel the exhaustion sometimes,

on the bright side though, the attention was kinda cool. plus i got to travel in a wheelchair.

REALLY dont know why im telling you this.

p.s if youre ever seriously sick in mumbai, go to saifee hosital off charni road station
doctors are amazing, its state of the art and i had a better view of the queens necklace than mukesh friggin ambani.

confess edit

the alarm shrieks into his unconscious mind. and he jumps out of his bed. his enormous queen size bed that the company provided as one of the perks for his ability to withstand constant monotonous bullshit for the better part of his existence. he gets up to look into his mirror naked. hes a short man, barely 5 feet and some inches to show off about. his body covered in hair, a greying carapace of age. his expression one of forced acceptance. he looks at himself in the mirror, and sees himself, short, fat, grey, watery eyed, he hopes that one day when people read this, they appreciate how painfully the raconteur attempts to achieve noir.

but today is different. even through his myopic watery eyes there seems to be a hint of electricity. a sharp clarity gleaming through the opacity of mundaneness that seemed to normally cataract his eyes.today he doesnt wish he were another human being, this morning as he looks himself in the mirror, he doesnt feel the pangs of nihilism that normally drive him to the teetering point when he realizes that the only thing left for hm to do was to die.

but today is different. its the end of the first week of the first month of the year. and as he hurriedly dresses up, carefully picking up something out of his obviously insignificant wardrobe that might make him even less conspicuous.

he shuffles out of his barely furnished apartment, peeks into his tiny, meticulously clean dressing room that was scattered with pornography.

he read one as he had his breakfast. he read of how these immensely gorgeus bleached blonde women loved nothing more than to fuck. how they loved men with a sense of humoour and no money in their name. how size did matter to them.

he hides a nostalgic smile as he remembers the first time he nervously picked out a magazine from a newspaper vendor on the other side of town. hed promised himself it was simply an interlude. a simple harmless cheap way of getting some pleasure.

15 years had passed. the magazines had exponentially increased only now they were backed up with the internet and the tv. hed attempted to satisfy himself once or twice with some women off the street. but had discovered that fiction was far far more satisfying that truth. he was a conoisseur, a gourmand. his appetite sharp and his ability to not be disturbed llegendary. he loved every one of the genres, the ones with the cheerleaders, the ones with older women, the ones with animals, and men and leather whips and pain. but he loved most of all the amateurs on secret cameras, the people who seemingly led ordinary lives, but given the right scenarios could be exceedingly obscene and inhibition free.

he told himself he was better than the other men he knew but could no longer talk too. women had for long stopped talking to him. something about his eyes they said. he was better then the men; them with their alcohol and their strippers. splurging inane amounts of money on girls who coudlnt hold a candle to his candies and tiffanies and ambers and foxxs.

he lived an otherwise abstemious existence having convinced himself that the trade off was more then fair.

but something very very unnerving had happened the last few times hed , as he put it in his mind, had some quality time. for 15 years whenever he was done, hed lie back for a moment, his mind gloriously blank, and clean and observe reality begin to sketch surrealist whorls on his mind. hed feel truly and joyously content. hed feel like a man.

but now, it felt hollow. it felt incomplete. it was beyond frustrating, the feeling. but he persevered, believing that it was only the brunette whod put himoff. but it kept happening, with every magazine, ever video, every genre, every toy.

he couldnt sleep. how could he. no longer was he the virile, ever pleasing stud of his dreams. the adamintinee chains of escapism hed tied around himself beginning to weaken, hie shroud letting in light.

he took days and weeks off work, spending all his time on his couch, spening quality time. his member ached, his eyes watered, but he still couldnt feel what he felt.

but today promised to be different. the idea occured to him while he watched a nun getting gagged and violated by a horse as she fellatioed a midget. he walked to the nearest church. the one in his incredibly boring, locality. with its stepford wives and abercrombie dads.

the surroundings felt alien, the silence stiffling. he looked at it, and walked around inside. a man in a cassock walks towards him. an enquiring look in his creased, world weary face.

he mumbles an apology a the intrusion, then states his business. he tells the priest hed like to donate half his monthly income to the church, every month for the remainder of his life.

the priest is taken aback, but doesnt wish to look a gift horse in the mouth, the church is poor, its flock a little too tightfisted for devout people of god.

but the man states his single, seemingly perverse condition. and the status quo.

the priest looks away into the distance, and starts sweating tremulously. our protagonist, the seemingly harmless pervert has taken a new dimension, the position of power. the man who knows the priest liked to be tied up and gagged a very long time ago. It gves him a terrifying sense of power. something the magazines never did. And as he walks out, as he steps into the sunshine. he looks into a mirror, and sees sparks fly.

the agreement is made and no more words are said.

For the entire week he lives in a limbo, the incredibly long wait for something you never knew you wanted, but that you realize you just cant live without.

the next sunday, as mass files out our man approaches the priest, nods at him and disappears, only to appear clad in the cassock hed brought with him.

the switch is made. and he finds himself where hed fantasized the most.

he begins to listen to faces unkown, to spy into the underbelly of humanity. to see real amateurs perform for him the way the sites promised they would but never delivered, to touch himself again. to mumble out his vile advice. to be the ultimate voyeur. He realizes that this was going to be his newest addiction, that this was as the magazines put it, the real deal. he sits there for what seems to be an eternity, and watches the flock pile in. blondes, brunettes, children, men, women.

they tell him of indiscretions, of naughty things done, of unspeakable acts committed, he listens to the girl next door tell him of her violent propensities in the boudoir, to the mother who liked to fuck her poolboy, to the man who paid for his babysitters abortion. the just turned 18 year old cheerleader babysitter who was raped but didnt know it.

He listens to the stories hed only fantasized about actually happening. he sees nothing but their eyes, and this makes him harder than ever. for all the pornography hed watched, hed never seen the eyes commit the act, hed always seen them to be grey mirrors indulging in, but never a part of the deeds the bodies committed.

but these eyes were real. these eyes told him the truth. these eyes were one hundred percent. silicone free real. they revealed to him another plane of personal pleasure. he realized what hed been missing out on all these years as he immersed himself in the skin deep sensory overload of airbrushed bodies and screaming orgasms.

he listens

and listens

and when hes done spending some quality time in the confessional.

he emerges.

satisfied.

he buys himself a cigarette from the same newspaper vendor who sold him his magazines.

the vendor winks at him, and takes out a rather large bundle of that months newest and latest offerings. discreetly wrapped in brown paper.

he exhales a cloud of smoke, and through the grey fog, the vendor could still make out his shining eyes.

"porn?? thats for suckers innit?"

rant

im blogging because i simply want to, because ive sent the better part of the last 20 days trying to think of one awesome idea that would all at once make th world sit up and take notice. obviously this has been ample reason for me to sit alone in my EMPTY FOR 6 MONTHS flatby the parapet watching it rain like a bitch outside with my first bottle of single malt, a cigarette and my fleecy bathroom slippers and just remember how kickass life can be sometimes.


but then again i tried to force it, to sit down and literally choke an idea out. to regurgitate from a conversation id already have had, to mope over ideas id had ages ago and build something worthwhile. and all could come up with was a billion ideas all of them ither already done or too simplistic to consider.

and so i thought of what might happen the day after tomorrow.

what if we evolved tomorrow into perfection, a be all end all state of existence . what if all at once every single being on the planet mutated into near omnipotent omniscient beings who knew the answer to life the universe and everything.

even why girls have to go to the bathroom in packs.

what if we achieved all that weve ever strived for, a state of complete and utter supercomplexity or one where we attain a simplistic end.what if we ran out of ideas, if no one person had anything new to say to the other, if all our humour had become an email forward even before we thought of it ourselves, if weve had all the conversations, built all the buildings, screwed all the people, sang all the songs and basically did everything there was to do. what if every woman found a caring sweet stud-like sensitive man who had a sense of humour, loved kids, was a kachingabingabilliionaire and could give back massages. and every dude found a smoking hot chick who was into threesomes.

what would we be then?? would we succumb to a utopian ideal society where somehow everything managed itself?? or would we implode in a mass suicide due to a coke overdose because everyone was just so bored.?? we might even try to go for a zeus like scenario, where we connect ourselves around the world at the same time, and then all at once, we perform a complete memory wipe. the ultimate flood, as it were.
free to loop everything again.


aussi, ive been reading a lot of dawkins recently, about how our raison d'etre should be the discovery, of how every day of our existence should be propelled by the driving force that is our curiosity, our abilty to wonder, our knowledge that we still know practically nothing.

im not so sure, i mean sure it makes a lot more sense and certainly sounds a lot better then going into a good looking building where having sex is a taboo and complaining into thin air. but is there a third alternative???

Dubai/daddy needs a cigarette

i got back from dubai just last night, after a 5 day weekend sojourn avec famille.

if that doesnt explain the title, you obviously havent read my blog enough.

dubai is a seriously messed up place, i know i ought to be myself and write a verbose, spiralling bore like i have over the last couple of weeks, but seriously that place has died a true rock star death, choked on its own puke after a binge.

either that or the ruler has to have the smallest penis in thee world as is obvious by his overpowering need to build skyscrapers for abso-friggin-lutely no reason at all.

dont get me wrong now, i adore architecture, i really do. but with the exception of maybe 3-44 outstanding buildings, nearly everything was blah. be it the TWIN copies of the chrysler building and most of the newer business bay buildings.

the tragedy of the entire situation however, is the fact that dubai is suffering what bill hicks wished would happen to LA, that its on the verge of sinking metaphorically under the weight of the recession. most of the buildings are still incomplete, and stare morosely at the stagnating city through broken window-eyes.

it is a city of extremes though, there's no two ways about that, but its not for the proletariat. its too expensive, too flashy, too gaudy at times and speaking as a resident of mumbai, its too sleazy. thing about mumbai is that its like a good natured con sometimes, honestly dishonest so that you learn to sidestep the cracks in the pavement.

dubai thought is a whole new level of sleaze (or maybe it was just me on a dry spell), but it seemed too hypocritical, too artificial, just so incredibly fake that its a tad abhorring.

but there were tons of laughs though, and in retrospect i should have taken a photo of this, wild wadi the incredibly expensive water park, had so much skin on display, even someone so inherently voyeuristic as i, wanted to run around covering people up, (probably not because its morally wrong to dress so skimpily, but because i knew i didnt have a shot, not even at all,)

not that i wanted to, you understand.

the awe inspiring irony was that just at the entrance of the park, right opposite the ladies changing room,was a picture of attire that was permissible, the attire being a full body loose swimsuit that looks like a waterproof salwar kameeze, and a head scarf.

i mean come on man.

and if i sound like speedy gonzales after one too many cups of coffee its not my fault, ive been under very very close parental supervision over the entire trip and i NEED a ciggie now

been there done that

bob dylan plays in the background and his harmonica echoes as he tries to get the idea out.

all his life our insomniac wanted to find the person who fitted the bill, like the man about town in o henrys short story, he sought to find the man who'd been there and done that, a person who when he breathed his last realised he hadn't died at all but had attained the state he'd wanted his entire life, immortality, for someone who through his last breath, wheezing though it might have been, smiled as he nodded off into sleep and beyond.

he sought that person in every place he went, from his amorous overtures as an awkward teenager, striving to find love, torn betwen pablo nerudas lush verse, and marquez's choleraic eternal ideal and the bitter sweet truth of oscar wilde. from his visits to the women of the night, if only to find out whether love was lust or whether it were the other way around, and to the moment when he stared into a pair of perfect brown eyes and felt his soul sink into an oh so comfortable rest

he sought to find his happy being over swigs of bitter liquor hoping to stumble across him through a haze of hypnotic.

he sought him through the purple haze of green, through the senility of opium, submerged within the peyote cactus, and emerging through the frenzied pulse of amphetamines.

he wandered through urban jungles and dwindling forest cities, pausing every now and then to appreciate how mankind could pull himself in a downward spiral and then second guessing his past.

he waded through corporate whorehouses, through shrewd witted bankers, and in the near somnolent beauty that is the yuppie dream.

he looked here and there for his tambourine man, and sought others who shared his dream too. and finding none, he'd often grit his teeth as he went to sleep each night. discontent as he'd always been since that one fateful night.

he roamed aimlessly through the confusion of adolescence, through the aggression of youth and the empty deserted wilderness of age.

he knew not why he sought to meet the person. he knew not why the person beckoned to him in his sleep. why that person had become a misty echo over the remainder of his life.

discontent he remained, as he did always.

until one day, he realized he'd lost the game of chess with the reaper, that his time of equality had come, but just then. that very moment when he gritted his teeth because of his ignorance. he looked skyward, and reflected in the barely moving fan, solemnly moving as he lay on his deathbed, his love holding his hand, his friends by his side. choked tears everywhere. he saw himself, ravaged by age, his cheeks hollow, his mind wandering. and just as he'd begun to draw his final breath a chortle emerged from him.

and smiling, he sank through the curtain.

the fateful night, 50 years ago.

he wakes up in the middle of the night, after an entire day well wasted, muttering it to himself, he thought of something that sounded clever and kept muttering it under his breath. he sits down to type, and hopes the words flow as they used to whenever he felt this way, whenever he felt the germ of an idea beginning to sprout.

happiness is truly a life spent in discontent

of all the things ive ever written, this is the one im most unsure about.
side question though.

what would your epitaph be?? and how would you like to be interred.
me, id want to be buried, in my yard if i could afford it, with the title of this post written on my tombstone.

ive stolen the following idea from an old readers digest page, so bear with it.
and from my coffin, just where my mouth would be id want a pipe that opens into the ground, and on birthdays, special occasions, or even just randomly, id want anyone that morbidly bored with life to pour down a drink for me.

flowers are just way too passe