Mere coincidences?

• It's no mere coincidence almost everybody feels that they are somehow treated unfairly by others.
• It's no mere coincidence that everybody cheats but only YOU get caught.
• It's no mere coincidence that Carlos Slim is 73 and is worth $73 billion. 
• It's no mere coincidence that your trolls are precisely those whom you haven't followed back yet. 
• It's no mere coincidence that the crazies usually make all the difference.
• It's no mere coincidence that the expression 'take it from me' is mostly used by some of the worst misers. 
• It's no mere coincidence that finding goodness in a person ain't as easy as pointing out flaws.
• It's no mere coincidence that the ones having a problem with Twitter contests don't win anything anyway.
• It's no mere coincidence that we seldom bother to remember those who made us laugh. 
• It's no mere coincidence that words of wisdom always sound better when they are flowing out of YOUR mouth.
• It's no mere coincidence that glutton already comprise of the word ton.
• It's no mere coincidence that all the unrated folks find their rated counterparts overrated.
• It's no mere coincidence that the people we like are generally very similar to us.
• It's no mere coincidence that all of us are alive at this very precise moment.
• It's no mere coincidence that a lot of us abide by the temporal property of two things happening at the same time.
• It's no mere coincidence that drink and think rhyme.
• It's no mere coincidence that the term 'committed' is often followed by 'suicide'.
• It's no mere coincidence that hindu is an anagram of hundi.
• It's no coincidence that both facebook and facepalm has the word face in it. 
• It's no mere coincidence that ‘enjoy' and 'office' don’t complement each other in the same sentence
• It's no mere coincidence that although i've got nothing new to say, you're still reading.

42

Life is more of a punctuation and less of a word.
Life is a brilliant joke that others fail to laugh at.
Life is all about waking up at a place where you don't have to ask yourself - "Where am i?"

Life is everything about nothing. 

Life is a poor trick gone miserably funny.

Life is fair as long as you're winning.
Life is changing whether you'd like to be a part of it or not. 

Life is beautiful even if it's a lie.

Life is a long series of "Sab theek ho jayega" being told to each other.

Life is as young as ever but you are getting old.

Life is touching others without molesting them. 

Life is the greatest scam of all. 
Life is an attempt at ditching the highlights and going live instead.

Life is all about moving from one Google doodle to another. 

Life is what happens when you're trying to figure out what concerns you the most. 

Life is already lonely with friends. Imagine how it would have been without them. 

Life is like going all the way to Paris but not visiting the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Life is an occupational hazard too.

Life is very dreamy. And then we wake up.

Life is happening to each none of us.

Life is so freaking cold that i can feel it in my sneeze.

Life is a good art but a miserable artist.
Life is like a box that effectively hides those non-existent chocolates.

Life is uncomplicated. For a lizard who does nothing but meditate.
Life is chess with added colors.

Life is indeed wonderful… in movies!  

Life is an eternal struggle, particularly when you're unable to control your bowel movements.

Life is all about seeking those few people who'll remark "So good to see you" and mean it.

Life is wonderful provided everyone is equally unhappy. 

Life is only as sorted out as others think.

Life is an attempt at dark humour.
Life is more than just waking up with a face you don't want to claim.

Life is too long to let others decide your mistakes. 

Life is miscalling, where are you?

Life is an overrated bitch and death, a momentary twitch.

Life is your greatest love story.

Life is letting your past seep into your present and destroy your future. 

Life is something that usually happens to others.

Life is basically a film with horrible cinematography. 

Life is like a simile.

Life is bootiful when your enemies are greeted with boos.
Life is the slowest way to death.

Life is simple but quotes about it are pretty complicated.

Maa

Heaven doesn't exist. Mothers do. They are and shall always be the purest form of love. Perhaps love was discovered by a mother as her heart wears no boundary. Besides, nobody knows you better than your mother. And there's no point in asking her whether she's proud of you. She is and will always be, no matter how great a douchebag you've become. He keeps telling her "Some day you'll be proud of me!" to which she smiles—as mothers usually do. As selfless as her mind.

                                                                   *****

The poor mother looks at her son in amazement and wonders where has her innocent lil' boy disappeared. This was the very kid who used to point at her tummy whenever someone asked him "Where are you from?". To him, his mother has grown old now whereas to her, he remains a newborn. From a very young age, he knew we belonged to our mothers more than anything else. Birth might have separated him from her but a child actually never leaves the mother's body. As tranquil as her lap. You appreciate her more when she's gone. For more details, get in touch with those who've lost her.
                                                                    *****
No matter how short the barber crops your hair, she will always find them long. To her, you are the most eligible bachelor. For good or worse, an Indian mother loves reminding you that she's your mother and there's a bigger chance of her inquiring "What?" instead of "Who's that lucky girl?" when you mention your marital intentions. As intrusive as her concerns. Once you settle down, you'll realize that she is present in your behaviour too. Turns out the risky habit of telling everything to your wife is cultivated during those years spent close to dear mama.

                                                                   ***** 

As nourishing as her hands. Single or married, the burden on a woman pretty much remains the same. Kitchen often becomes her coveted part of home. In there, she works harder than the exhaust fan. Well, she deserves air-conditioned kitchen with no noise or steam to deal with. Almonds are good for her provided you have them. She cares for you as if her life depended on it. A mother straightaway fetches her children a glass of water whereas they ask her whether she needs a glass of water. Difference. 

                                                                   *****

Why are they the way they are and why aren't we the way we're supposed to be? As unblemished as her intentions. Worrying is their favourite pastime. She laughs at the lil' boy's jokes, not because they were always funny, but because she thinks she's responsible for his happiness. He may turn out to be a crappy stand-up someday but it's OK for the time being. In an ideal world, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day on a daily basis. Better still, we'd be celebrating Mother's Day and Labour Day on the very same day. Ahem. Those who have a problem don't celebrate their birthdays, right?

About time... about him

He has come a long way from worrying whether his mom will approve of her to worrying whether she'll approve of his mom. For better or for worst, times are indeed changing. He thought he had all the right moves. This was before she asked him to move on. When she left him, he felt the whole world will come crashing down. Unfortunately, it didn't. As one can imagine, he abhors her for making him feel like a fool; especially when she's fully aware that he is one. However, as far as she knows, he doesn't know much. Perhaps she is lost in a dream whereas he lost her to a nightmare. The idiot is breaking up with him although he is breaking down with her. If only he was to her what she was to him. In related news, he almost drowned in the very river she cried. Too many complains; too few answers. Nevertheless, she doesn't unlove him. He's still in love while she's returning to friendship. Yeah, the sham old story! She never accused him of not paying attention but he certainly needed to brush up his pretending skills. He'll say what he has to say but she'll hear what she has to hear. She loves believing the words he never said. Plus, she knows more than enough about his history to distort it according to her convenience. Nowadays he's busy thinking of her thinking of him. After all, she reminds him of someone he's trying to forget. He is right though, particularly when she is destined to be wrong. He was like a Band-Aid. He stuck to her and healed her. And then she threw him away. Even though he tries, he can only give her what he wants. Furthermore, she never got into his mind the way she's trying to get under his skin. She even wrote with an accent and always forgave him in English. When she claimed they shared similar views, she was referring to their poor eyesight. When she said little things in life make her happy, she wasn't referring to his genitalia. There were moments when he used to miss her absence. The part of him that trusts her happens to be the very part he doesn't trust any longer. But he should be glad that she doesn't hate him as much as she'll hate herself later. For what a relationship is worth, she has no idea how much she's going to miss him in the future. To add to his woes, neither does he. He'll turn out like electricity. We miss it when it's gone. Days from the past reckon. There were nights when she fell asleep hoping he never woke up. But both of them eventually did. Even if she got up 25 minutes late, she cursed herself like a witch. He'd sleep through the day—miss the sunset and the moonrise—and yet managed to grin. In the end, she smiled back—the exact point he's going to regret later. How can she forget those moments that brought them closer? She didn't have a life, nor did he. So they thought, why not not have a life together? She was at the epicenter of a disastrous existence and he couldn't help giggling at her. She didn't even know what she has to worry about. That's how messed up she was. He simply knew he could fix her. He noticed warm symptoms of spirit in her defeated heart. He ended up loving her from the bowels of his soul. The idiot even sprained his ankle once chasing her in his reverie. The incredible baloney of courtship. Television played a role too. He held the remote but she, control. They went shopping too although he was allergic to retail therapy. He apparently suffered from a disease called She. And vice versa. In an alternate universe, they are still together. Someday he's going to be there... and never come back.

About time... about her

Every morning she wakes up and wonders whether she'll be able to survive the day. However, as soon as she lifts herself from the bed, life resets to normal. She's been grim for a while now. 3 days out of 7, she wants to cry. 7 days out of a month, she cried. A month out of 12, she couldn't figure out why. Sometimes she stares at the mirror and witnesses herself fading away. Fortunately, she hasn't aged a bitch. She's still adorable. Regardless, she feels like stabbing herself but the coward in her worries that it would make the poor knife look criminal. She cries a lot and her face feels like jute soaked in tears. She's so beautiful that even Narcissus would have fallen for her. She's so gorgeous that she'll take your bad breath away. Even if there's a God out there, She can't possibly better her smile. She is that legend beauty is made up of. She is a little more than beautiful and a lot less than humble. She appears lovely in your dreams. Maybe because that's when your eyes are tight shut. She's so cute that PETA would outrage if something horrible happened to her. Sadly, they call her sunshine while she's dying inside of darkness. You know what she hates the most? We not knowing the answer to this question. She is just another romantic who refuses to believe in love. She's not stupid; she's crazy. And there is a difference. Once upon a time, she thought the clouds were made up of detergent. Her closet is full of skeletons and she desperately wants to replace them with designer clothes. She's being sarcastic when she accepts being sarcastic. She's a poet as long as poetry shuns her. You'll pretend to fall for her verses when she is the real culprit. She'll tell you secrets you mustn't be aware of in the first place and she mustn't share in the last. Even though she has acknowledged the existence of her big mouth, she hasn't learned how to keep it closed. Don't scream out your secrets. Gently whisper them into her ears. She'll take care of the rest. She keeps saying "Whatever!". Whatever that's supposed to mean. She puts the never in whenever. She says nothing but she says it pretty well. She doesn't remember the last time she went speechless—neither does her mouth. At times, she is so reticent that she should patent silence before someone else does. She's a nudist when it comes to changing her mind. She's effortlessly good at bad habits. She likes honest people.... lying to her. She reserves her cold sighs for winter. She's neither Rihanna nor does she like the way you lie. Nonetheless, she's a well non singer. When she sings, you'd rather prefer to curl up in Death's lap. She always hoped to do something in the field of music but to her, humanity comes first. Thank her for small mercies. She is an unrealized nightmare eagerly waiting to open her eyes. She puts the quit in unrequited. Every time she laughs, a joke dies a million deaths. Given her number of breakups, she is a leaving legend. But she's one of those decisions that shall make you. She reminds you of a lover you never had. She's that damsel who was meant for distress. All things said and done and left, she has finally reached that point where her life turns pointless. And her anecdotes, more so. Freedom has become her middle name. The day she finds someone as fucked up as she is, she'll settle down and live happily ever after. She doesn't know where she's going but she'll reach her self soon.

A beginning of the end

Dammit, i missed the doomsday once again. Fuck my life. I don't know how but i somehow manage to do it every single time there's an apocalypse alarm. Without fail, i sleep through it and wake up fresher than a lotus. It's almost like a gift. Or maybe it's not me. Our species is indeed blessed with the talent to survive a non-existent closure. Just to keep up with the flow, let's not give any credit to Mayans here. They were just messing around with their mumbo-jumbo from the very beginning. Moreover, unlike Indians, they didn't have an Aryabhatta or a Brahmagupta to do the calculations for them. In plain words, they sucked at math. So I'm not at all surprised by what happened the day before yesterday, yesterday, today and what's going to happen after today. The verdict is out: We are meant to suffer longer. Mother Nature is not going to put us out of our misery anytime soon. She's planning the most expensive special-effects movie ever made and she might ask Peter Jackson for assistance. The rest of us are on our own now. And going by the chronological iniquities, we haven't fully paid the price for our so-called intelligent brain. Speaking of which, has anybody seen that prophetic calendar yet? Does it have half-naked models on it? Yes? Bazinga! Does it have the-turbulent-end-of-Vijay Mallya scribbled anywhere? No? OK.

More pointless than ever!

There's no point in putting the Paris in comparison. It's peerless.
There's no point in flashing your middle-finger to barking street dogs. They don't get it anyway.
There's no point in resisting weekdays' laziness spell that primarily occurs during working hours.
There's no point in crying in front of those who don't care; especially mirrors and monitors.
There's no point in talking to you. You've already convinced yourself that you aren't a fool. 
There's no point in arguing with the clouds. Always carry an umbrella.
There's no point in staying online on Twitter and criticizing your overindulgence at the same time.
There's no point in searching for your soul on Google.
There's no point in recco-ing films to those who tolerate cheap cinema.
There's no point in debating with someone who believes Reshammiya is the best singer of all time.
There's no point in criticizing an unseen film. Critics earn that right after going through the pain.
There's no point in advising a fool. On a second thought, there is no point in advising anyone.
There's no point in acting smart with time. It has got all the answers—even of the unasked questions.
There's no point in preparing a friends' list. They'll leave later and you'll be left with a dumb list. 
There's no point in having a staring contest with one's troubled past. 
There's no point in wasting a breath on stating that life is pointless.  
There's no point in asking a beggar or an Indian politician to declare their real assets.
There's no point in praying to God on weekends as She goes for shopping on Her off-days. 
There's no point in judging others. They aren't an art form. Just human scum like the rest of us.
There's no point in starting with "Personally..." as almost everything we say is on a personal level.
There's no point in discussing religion just like there is no point in discussing religion.
There's no point in furthering this utterly stupid blog post.

Caught in the heist

Sometimes, you look up to someone as your role model and then they goof up. That's what happened with Fareed Zakaria. As of now, the celebrated columnist has been given a clean chit on plagiarism charges and reinstated too. But he's not the first to steal something from someone and pass it off as his own. Nearly everybody does that. Like we show off an iPad as if we invented it. And if my memory serves me right, Prometheus stole the fire and put it up on eBay for sale—thus angering both Olympus and that hapless Stone Age guy who rubbed flintstones. Talking of anger, Rajat Gupta must be feeling deeply sorry for himself as he didn't even rob a dollar. The lecturer in him was just sharing knowledge. Oops, bad luck. The greater trouble, however, is that overachieving folks like him had already reached the pinnacle of their field. And what they don't realize is that they are harming those they once inspired. I don't know much about insider trading but i see how plagiarism works. After all, I'm pretty active on Twitter (not as much as I'd like to but still). On the timeline, the day someone starts plagiarizing your lousy tweets is the day you actually arrive. On the contrary, nobody needs to arrive on Facebook. The reason being very simple: Famous-quotes beget one-liners beget copy-paste. Personally, i don't give a damn about credit as long as I'm getting paid for my lame tweets and blogs (which I'm not). At the end of the day, we'll be forgotten like the rest of them. Only our work will be remembered and if we are lucky enough, shall get plagiarized too.

"You plagiarist, you stole my f—ing quote!" - what one Anonymous said to another

Those awkward moments....

That awkward moment when your future interrupts your past.

That awkward moment when a housefly whizzes around in the office.

That awkward moment when Sharapova's opponent grunts louder than her. 

That awkward moment when an Indian mother asks "WHAT?" instead of "Who's THAT lucky girl?".

That awkward moment when you utter the right thing by mistake.

That awkward moment when you're all set to sneeze but your nose ditches you at the very last instance.

That awkward moment when you type emoticons using a typewriter.
That awkward moment when you see someone gorgeous and James Blunt's ominous song starts messing with your head.

That awkward moment when someone takes ROFL way too seriously.

That awkward moment when you get stuck in between Judgment Day and Qayamat Ki Raat. 

That awkward moment when you acknowledge in you the presence of an individual you used to hate once.

That awkward moment when you're trying to act cool with a toothpick in your mouth but accidentally choke on it and die.

That awkward moment when you introduce Rabindra Sangeet to a Bengali.

That awkward moment when you say "You cunt" instead of "You can't" in a hurry.

That awkward moment when hatred miraculously turns into unparalleled sympathy. 

That awkward moment when the camera fails to detect your face but effectively detects Che's on your t-shirt.
That awkward moment when you participate in the mutilation of an otherwise decent joke.

That awkward moment when you're hit by a speeding ambulance. 

That awkward moment when you notice a grammatical error and curse yourself for taking Pink Floyd's lyrics earnestly.
That awkward moment when the Devil sneezes.
That awkward moment when you rectify a typo and feel better about your miserable existence.

That awkward moment when you remark 'Bahut boob' instead of 'Bahut khoob'.

That awkward moment when you nearly kill yourself in a freak accident but survive to tweet the tale.

That awkward moment when khoon and pasina meet each other.  

That awkward moment when Federer goes "Aila! Sachin!" on meeting Tendulkar.
That awkward moment when Bhishma is having second thoughts on death.
That awkward moment when not killing yourself is as bad a decision as killing yourself.
That awkward moment when you're greeted with "You aren't dead yet?" instead of the usual silence.

That awkward moment when you really wish your eyelashes stopped falling down at once. 

That awkward moment when you chance upon your old poems and realize how much you sucked at it…and sadly still do.
That awkward moment when you laugh all the way to the bank only to be greeted by a long queue there.

That awkward moment when Mourinho pokes Vilanova on Facebook.

That awkward moment when an idea covers multiple victory laps inside your head and then grows too fatigued for any more use. 

That awkward moment when nature miscalls.

That awkward moment when someone takes a dig at your ugly nose.

That awkward moment when "Why the hell are you talking?" keeps echoing in your head when you're talking.

That awkward moment when life comes a full rectangle. 

That awkward moment when you mistake “I respect you” for “I suspect you” and grin like an idiot.

That awkward moment when Katie Holmes sees a couch. 

That awkward moment when your friend pokes you on Twitter. 

That awkward moment when you tweet a typo only to correct it with another typo and then promptly commit suicide.

That awkward moment when you say "Take care!" to a doctor. 

That awkward moment when you read your stupid blog post but don't delete it as you're too busy redefining awkwardness.

Restrain order

One month ago, I realized that I must quit pretending that I can write. Just like four years ago, I acknowledged the painful death of a murmuring poet in me. Of course, I am being dramatic since that didn't stop me from spewing horribly bad poems later. But this is another story altogether. Anyway, what I'm trying to emphasize here is the urgency to learn something and work on it. I discovered that I'm not attuned enough to take writing seriously. Which is why I'm not a published writer yet. Or better still, I don't post pieces on my blog regularly (if posting four articles a month is regular) like I once used to. It has indeed relieved me of a burden to impress myself considering the fact that I don't play to an empty gallery. Unlike on Twitter. There is an ample crowd of vellas there who bother to pay attention—not to mention react—to your crap. Speaking of which, I'm restraining myself from spending too much time on the timeline either. Fortunately, I'm successfully overcoming the urge to share pseudo-wisdom in less than 140 characters. Yes, there was an era when I used to post one-liner after one-liner on random topics. Sometimes even on topics that don't care to exist. Besides, penning mindless one-liners is way too easier than drafting lengthy sensible paragraphs! Having said that, I'm just 35 km away from attaining virtual nirvana. And I've got to tweet this thought that's jogging in my head after publishing this whatever y'all just read.

It's never too late to post crap

It's never too late to facepalm. It's never too late to be kind. It's never too late to get our priorities wrong. It's never too late to catch up with who we really are. It's never too late to commit a mistake or two. It's never too late to wake up and feel hapless. It's never too late to give a damn. It's never too late to create a fool out of yourself. It's never too late to die. On the clouded side, it's never too early to rain.

Some days you are Calvin and some days, Hobbes

It's high time they made a movie on Calvin and Hobbes. But they won’t. Of all the animals on this planet Calvin chose a stuffed Indian tiger to be his imaginary friend. Or perhaps, it was the other way around. Any which case, it can’t be a mere coincidence though. There must have been multiple layers of metaphysical factors at work to make this event a reality. OK. Even if there weren’t, let’s believe otherwise.

The reason why we should do so is Calvin and Hobbes don’t happen everyday. They are not only unique but also unique. Their friendship is the ultimate paragon of a human being’s verbal interaction with another entity – real, imagined or both. Sadly, there is a limitation too. Both of them are characters from a comic strip illustrated by Bill Watterson. Like all cartoonists, Bill doesn't let Calvin learn anything from his misapprehensions lest wisdom corrupt his delightful eccentricity. And we are so grateful to him for that.

Being cartoons, they’ll never age. In a way, this is precisely what makes both of them adorable. The fact that Calvin might never grow up fills millions (like me) with hope. On the other hand, as much as Calvin’s parents might want him to mature, Hobbes would never let that happen. You see, he’s not an ideal friend. He might be a wise tiger who blabbers not as much as Calvin does but he rarely roars any sense into the li’l boy’s wicked head.

One can go a step further and state that Hobbes is an Indian tiger who happens to have a crazy American friend in Calvin. It’s all about multicultural perception. Talking of culture, Calvin's popularity and longevity owes a lot to his parents not being Indian. Had they been Indians (like mine do), the kind of stuff Calvin pulls off every other strip wouldn’t have been viable. Parents in India are, well, you know, quite un-American when it comes to parenting.

Anyway, let’s take this analogy one more step further: In Soviet Russia, Calvin would have been just another boy and Hobbes, just another toy. (Ahem. There was no need to add a communist tangent here but who gives a damn about Lenin-Stalin duo anyway?!) Speaking twitteratically, every tweep is a Calvin and every timeline, Hobbes. (At least no one can dispute this primarily because all the concerned parties are busy tweeting.)

By the way, the most interesting aspect however is we conveniently overlook the possibility that Calvin could well be suffering from a severe mental disorder. Children are meant to be delusional. It helps them in their development but abusing imagination is something else. Anyway the day everything comes to an end, Calvin and Hobbes might be the ones having the last laugh. With us.

Write whatever is left

Last week, I found myself in a conference room with an elegant lady sitting across the table asking me “Why do you want to write?” That question caught me off guard and I did what I do best – gape with a patented awkward look. Then I mumbled trying really hard to make sense in my fluent Nonsense. Obviously, she didn’t buy them. Neither did I.

But now that I have ample time to improvise on my answer, I’ll sit back and type what I believe are the reasons why I want to write. For a start, I’m neither mundane nor skillful. And this reality is attested by my absolute disregard towards learning something as basic as replacing empty cooking gas cylinder with a filled one. It goes without saying that I’m darn lazy. But when it comes to writing, I guess I’m a different person. I can write. No matter how rubbish my thoughts are, I can truly write.

A: "I want to be a writer."

B: "You mean you want to die of hunger?"

A: "Nope. I want to be a writer."

People usually wait to break in. Like actors have their break with a certain movie. Or an IT professional with a remarkable project. But a majority of us often forget that we had our first break with education. We were lucky enough to grow up as literates. And the ugly fact that there are still billions who don’t receive the kind of exposure to knowledge the way we did is preposterous. No matter how big a Pink Floyd fan one is, s/he can’t disagree that that cult song couldn’t have been penned had the band members been illiterates.

Having said that, not everyone can write. Everyone has a story, yes. But not everyone can write, no. There is a widespread misconception among literates that they are always write. In simpler words, some of the brilliantest writers who lived never had the fortune to write. There are zillions of thoughts enveloped in an idea but very few are able to draw them down to alphabets and let it flow on a page or screen. Besides, it’s rather tough to find an excellent writer as they are mostly lost in thoughts. On the other hand, some of the greatest writers will remain so as long as we don't get to read their books.

I want to be a writer too but while I’m at it, I wish to get paid. Though I don’t harbor Indian middle class’ (read: parents’) ambition of getting married and settled, I don’t desire to be broke either. You know the awkward moment when you and the ATM screen engage in a staring contest and you always end up blinking first. Yeah, that.

My love for writing is conceptualized in a simple philosourphy – don't bother whether you're wrong or right, simply write whatever is left. In a not-so-ideal world, a writer is the pauper who writes on his own, of his own, but nothing to own. Well, that may be the harsh reality but a writer is not someone who writes but someone who gets paid for doing so.

For instance, have a look at Twitter. Some of the brightest thoughts disguised as jokes are relegated from public memory in the name of tweets. These lines get circulated far and wide but eventually they don’t carry the name of the person who wrote them in the first place. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with it as plagiarism and attribution don’t sleep with each other on Internet. In any case, pro bono tweeting is rubbish for charity. And to help this illation, there are remnants of a failed writer in every tweep.

Fair enough.

Coming back to the HR’s question, I thought I’ll be able to express why I want to write in this blog piece but I digressed and got carried away as usual. Perchance I need to abandon one-linerism and go back to poetry. Back to a boundaryless world where the poet and his poems are meant for each other. He writes them. They read him. Or maybe I just need to STFU and then write a book on how.

Lost and found... in childhood

No matter how tough we think we are, we aren’t as tough as our childhood memories. There is something about them that grows on us. And then we reach that point in our life where it's impossible to go back. And then we die. And then they return to the womb of nature.

Childhood memories are untouchable. I mean, in a good way, not in the Indian casteist context. Of course, you may not remember every single detail of what happened thousands of days ago but still. Your childhood memories will never forget you. If you think about it, memories are what we are left with at the end of the day. Or for that matter, at the end of our existence. And what can possibly beat the era when we had no idea what we are getting ourselves into. Everything little incident was a surprise and continued to be so.

My childhood lacked imagination as I never had a friend like Hobbes. It wasn’t epic. The primary reason being that I can recollect quite vividly most parts of it so the veneer of mystique remains missing in my case. Though there were folks from those days who threw permanent color on my psyche when we passed each other. Such people somehow fail to perish. They just linger on in the nous triggering your nostalgia button every now and then.

One such personality was my grandma. I miss her as she was the only one I knew who loved me expecting absolutely nothing in return. She was a wise angel who weaved and narrated ceaseless yet brilliant stories. She used to tell us, “At any give time, you can be a lot better human being.” At that age, we had vague understanding of what she was trying to convey but those words, along with myriads other words, remain etched in my Tulu mind.

My cousin was another such person who made a huge impact. He was a free spirit – someone who won’t lay manacled to societal (dis)order, especially bunt community’s endogamic mores. He dropped out of medical college. I still wonder why he did that. After all, he was the one who told me, “A doctor saves life. It’s a rare gift.” I too wanted to become a doctor when I grow up but that phase didn’t last long. All things said and not done, he passed away at the age of 29. Unfulfilled potential, withstanding.

We basically miss the childhood we never had. Exaggeration is a pain reliever against our present state of affairs. The shy child in us is what makes us act all grown up. Sometimes, there is not only a child but an entire kindergarten in each one of us. Funny how our species is programmed to grow! By all accounts, one stops growing the moment one avoids being childish and begins to perceive others as childish.

I reminisce all the stupid things I committed when I was very young and how little I’ve changed since then. I guess it’s my karma to be an aching two-legged creature who failed to become a superhero despite being bitten by spider on numerous occasions. Perhaps selecting a proper childhood hero makes a hell lot of difference. Hence I blame Mowgli for whatever I am today.

I blame God too for not existing nor pretending to listen to my childhood prayers. I’m convinced that if at all there is a God, he'd be a lot like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. Only a bit more childish and with severe OCD.

Life, try not to die today

Everybody believes the race is up against time when in practicality, it is Death we are chasing. The poor florist has to sell his flowers before time smuggles them to Death. No matter what, we are all programmed to end up on the losing side of Life. You see, the problem with Death is it knows exactly what it's up to. Life, on the contrary, doesn’t. In the battle between Life and Death, one of them gives up to let the other survive. Furthermore, Life speaks Death fluently and vice versa. They are made for each other. Ironically, Life and afterlife are conjugated by Death.

A few days ago, I woke up to the news that Steve Jobs has passed away to a place in dire need of technological innovation. I always admired him for the way his Life shaped up and inspired millions not only to touch buttons on their small screens but also give digital revolution a chance. And like the rest of them, I too was shattered. The last time I felt such grief was when Pope John Paul II deceased. It’s kind of a strange feeling to be sad for someone whom you haven’t met but are damn sure about their goodness.

A few hours later, I was confronted with the knowledge that my close friend’s mom has fallen victim to a fatal heart attack amid Vijaya Dashami in a local temple that very morning. This was too much. It was like Death retweeting itself (for those who are familiar with Twitter). She was such a beautiful person. This was not only cruel but also unjustified. But then, who will challenge the final verdict? No one, I suppose. Maybe Death is the most pragmatic thing that ever happens to us. If not, kindly point me down the path that won’t lead to Death.

And then today, dad informed me that Jagjit Singh, one of the finest few Ghazal singers I admire, has left earthly bounds. Of course, there’s nothing phenomenal about people taking birth and then dying eventually. But still, you want others to survive; live one more day; get a better hang of Life. And if things don’t materialize according to your wishes, then you pray or hope the person dies an easy Death. The reason for this concession lies in the fact that there is no such thing as a perfect Death. How can there be a perfect Death when there ain't no perfect Life? By the way, Humpty Dumpty deserved a better Death.

Dying is totally over-rated. So is birth. Both happen every single day. Well, can't say the same about Life though. After all, the most constant side effect of Life is Death. People die in earthquakes and whatnot and term it accidents, either man-made or natural. While doing so, we conveniently overlook the truth that Death is a natural disaster, too. These are the times when all our opinions about Life and Death sum up to what they are indeed worth – nothing. Apparently we face too many of near-Death experiences but very few of near-Life ones to comment. That’s the reason we haven’t come to terms with this reality YET! Give or take, nothing else kills us faster than Death.

Birth gets trampled by childhood that gets trampled by youth that gets trampled by dotage that gets trampled by Death.

Lately, some Tibetans immolated themselves as a protest against Chinese aggression in Tibet. They merely burned themselves to Life, not Death. I fully endorse these sort of protests in which you hurt yourself instead of innocent bystanders. Needless to say, The Burning Monk is my hero. History is rife with such hyped glorious stories, permanent deaths and a little bit of temporary lives embedded in between.

Poets, not philosophers, came close to deciphering the mysteries of how everything begins and ends. They made a habit of romanticizing the experience of leaving this planet forever. I've got nothing against them or the alcohol they were on but I’m sure there must be better ways to die a poetic Death. Metaphors containing myriad meanings had been employed by them which help us get close to the cold truth. I agree with most of these verses and disagree with very few. For instance, economy, not Death, is the great leveler. And sometimes, we do feel older than Death.

Tip: Smile. Death can wait for your poker face.

There comes a moment in everyone’s Life when they finally learn to STFU. Nah, I ain’t talking about Death here. It’s called common sense. The court think it can decide (preferably, on behalf of the citizens and based on human laws) what is right and what is wrong when it comes to sentencing someone to hang till kingdom come. In any case, Death penalty itself is a crime. You can’t go wrong with this. If A kills B and C kills A via legal frameworks, then there is very little difference between A and C. Having said that, I’m not at all in favour of Kasab *enjoying* the costliest criminal status in India. There is no way can he reconcile with the grave mistakes he committed under the guise of ignorance and brainwashed ideology. Perhaps Death is more disappointed in him than Life itself.

"If you were on a death row, what would you like your last meal to be?"

"Delivered on time."

Death is beautiful because, unlike most other things in Life, it happens just once. It will certainly smell sweet if one is drowned in a pool full of chocolate or ice-cream. I keep discussing Death as it makes me feel good about the Life I never had. As I’m growing older, I’m realizing how lonely I really am. I don’t fantasize killing myself or anything. I am too selfish for such foolery. But every time someone I look up to or love decides to call it a life, I wonder why. Thankfully, I’ve stopped molesting poetry. Or else I’d have written some miserable verses on the perpetual shallowness of Life and the escapism facilitated by Death instead of this lengthy falderal. Anyway, just because I never had a Life doesn't mean I can't comment on it. By that yardstick, none of us should ever mention Death.

Can’t go to sleep? Go somewhere else!

I didn't shut up. I was asleep. To be honest, I wasn’t as I’m too sad to be happy to be asleep. But I couldn’t come up with a better excuse for the delay in scrawling a thing or two for my Space.

Besides, I don't remember the last time sleep walked up to me. It was always me who shamelessly chased her. Yup. That’s how it is. Leading a nocturnal life for the past four years has taken a heavy toll on my eyes and the areas surrounding them, including brain. I’d love to be Rip van Winkle for a day and stay asleep for the next 20 years. Or if possible, at least 40. After all, falling asleep is not as risky as falling in love. The process begins with you and ends with you, no strings attached.

Going forward, sleep will be one of those tricks only babies can perform. For insomniacs like me, expressions like "sleeping like a baby" is such a cruel joke. However, I try to find some solace in the fact that sleeping like a log *sounds* a lot better than sleeping like a baby. Ask any newly-parented parent.

Speaking of parents, I love my family but I love them even more while they are asleep and almost non-existent. On a bad day, you can't tolerate them breathing around you and then they go to sleep. And snore. Similarly, my ma, like all other mothers, is beautiful; especially when she's asleep and not nagging me to shut down the PC. You know, you're supposed to close your eyes and pray when your ears starts whispering something and the quickest way left to overcome a night is by going to bed. Embarrassing as it is, when I’m asleep, my boner points to God. On waking up, it points to Devil. Life!

"I feel numb on waking up from sleep." "Try to wake up from something else." “o_O”

If you wake up to go to work and sleep to wake up to go to work, there is not much in your existence to live. On top of that, if you are not able to cover your forty winks adequately, life’s worse. At work, you may be just a blink away from falling flat on your nose. But before you know it, your job teaches you how to doze off with your eyes open. Sometimes yawning is the only thing that keeps you from typing with your nose. While going through such ordeals, all you desire is the floor you’re standing on, nothing else. To make matters pitiful, sleeping on the job cannot be as bad as waking up and finding yourself in office. And you just want to go home to watch a movie and drift off to sleep with headphones on, providing background music to your vacant dreams.

On weekends, being asleep is like a routine before Monday blues take over the scene. Waise, due to irregular sleep patterns, Monday doesn't wake up before we do like it once used to. Thanks to sleeplessness, we don't wake up scared in the middle of the night anymore, either. So in a way, there's plus points too.

There are two kinds of people in this world - those who try to sleep and those who try to live their dreams. The ones with sleeping disorder don’t fit in. They are the eternal misfits tortured by a f-ed up biological clock. For them, insomnia is rest for the soul. Moreover, by any logic, a deaf man sleeps soundest. Come to think of it, disability is an advantage in this case. When you have a sleepy face, no one frankly bothers whether you are paying attention to what they're saying or not.

I don't have a dream left/ Just a volatile wish/ A night to sleep my life off/ Or live my death in peace!

Sometimes all you need to do to make the world a better place is sleep. After all, you don't sleep. You just successfully pretend to dream. And at the end of the day, you go back to sleep with yourself. Happy are those who are asleep when they wish to be asleep and richest are the ones who sleep sound at night. Bleh. Sooner or later, everyone falls asleep. Despite massive advances in science, we neither know where sleep comes from nor where it goes back to.

May you sleep so deep that you forget your old self and wake up as the person you always wanted to be.

Enough of sleepy jabber. I should be asleep now but I am not. I shouldn't be napping in office later but I will be. Anyway I hereby exercise my right to be asleep again.

The monk who never sold his old bike

Einstein and I share a liking for bicycle, violin and sailing. Okay. I haven't touched a violin nor sailed yet but I’ve got to start somewhere, right? You see, I like to think of myself as a very simple guy. Not because I am one but because I like to believe I am. Even my bicycle agrees with me. After all, we are friends. What are friends for other than pretending to think alike? As for the simple-guy-fantasy, someday I may not show up coz I'd be in Himalayas to fulfill my pursuit of becoming the monk who sold his bicycle. Yeah, something of that sort!

I’ve got to admit I love my bicycle dearly. But thanks to the kind of road we Indians are blessed with, it’s a tumultuous affair. In a more philosophical words, every once in a while we end up loving those who keep disappointing us. That's precisely the kind of relationship I share with my ‘cycle. He doesn’t appreciate my choice of riding under heavy rainfall with my windcheaters on. Maybe he gets cold. Whatever. Bicycles aren't supposed to be emotional. And it’s not his fault but he’s getting old like me and showing signs of infirmity.

It’s all right as long as the wheels are spinning.

Lately, while riding home, my bicycle turns nostalgic reminiscing the good ole days when there used to be a decent road instead of ruthless potholes. Anyway, I try to keep him well-groomed and oiled. Getting killed because of faulty brakes may sound heroic in Tour de France, not here. Moreover, no matter what, I often end up with a flat tyre. If you are a cycle-rider too, you must have noticed by now that a flat tyre is bicycle's way of demonstrating who is faster amongst you two. If you are not, think about it. I know this all thanks to the quality time I share with my bicycle. In fact, many a times, talking to my punctured bicycle while walking it home turns out to be the highlight of the day.

Me: “How far out can you take me from this society?”

Bicycle: “I know you're a teetotaler so stop talking like a boozer!”

By the way, do you remember the childhood thrill of riding a bicycle for the very first time on your own? You do? Well, that experience won't repeat itself again. Ever. This may sound cornier than I intend it to be but trust me when I say this – those moments may get lost in the labyrinth of our memory but nothing can possibly beat it. Deal with it.

Besides, bicycle is THE vehicle of the future. That’s a given. When this planet will be out of oil and all the misdeeds associated with its procurement, all of us will be going Dutch. And by Dutch, I don’t mean splitting the cost equally or something. I’m referring to the Netherlands’ love for cycling. Even today on a busy highway, the one riding a ‘cycle is the odd man (sneaking) out of the maddening rush.

Since I started with a narcissistic paragraph, let me end with one. I want everyone to know that I'm the only guy in my office that commutes by bicycle. Ergo, I'm saving the environment for your kids. In legal terms, each one of you owes me big time! Also, I’m the only known superhero who prefers to be a messiah who can’t walk on water but can balance himself on two wheels!!

Know news is good news!

Disclaimer : No journalist or media-person was harmed during the making of this blog post.

You wake up everyday. I’m sure you woke up today, too. Once you are done with that, you get started with your routine. And one of the commonest human rituals is to read newspaper or to switch on the TV for news. (Unless you are one of those lucky people who are illiterate but content with their mundane ignorance!) Now, if your day begins with news, what does it say about you as a person? You are curious? Yup, always been. Want to stay abreast of current affairs? Great!

But what exactly do you do with all that you read and learn and watch presented under the garb of news? Nothing, in most cases. Following news is just another evolutionary practice inculcated into our daily life for knowledge’s sake. There is not much one can do about a majority of stuff out there on the paper or screen. So why are we so fond of news, be it good or bad? Because we are an entertainment-loving species and news is gossip presented in a very refined manner. As elementary as that.

On a personal scale, I relish half-baked truths. I have them for breakfast daily. The French in me calls it biscuit. They call it news. To add to the misery, I read something or the other every morning which tells me I should quit reading them. But I never do. In fact, the recent events revolving around Rupert Murdoch made me realize that even some of the oldest media giant might go down for news. Meanwhile, I’ve got no doubt that the world would miraculously change for the better the day we stopped reading newspapers. But then, even if I switched to TV, I’d still be hopeless. After all, in India, the thin line separating TV news from TV soaps is almost invisible now. And this has been the case long before Arnab decided to put the media in comedian.

You see, there might be absolutely nothing out there to report but our media will beautifully turn it into news for gab-hungry masses. Anyone can create news out of thin air. If nothing else works, the media can report on the thinness of the air. [No, wait, the weather bureau is already doing that, aren’t they?] Moreover, watching news destroys a few of those newsworthy moments that could have been ours. Being the minions that we are, we’ll never know what is true and what is being reported as true. Unfortunately, rumours won't give up on news at any cost and vice versa. Fortunately, the spread of fire will never catch up with the spread of its news.

One lesson newspaper teaches us every single day – better not believe every crap you read. Times changes, perceptions changes and of course, news changes. Remember when they got Osama (at last) and how he got killed by breaking news? No one was allowed to see his face nor his dead body but we somehow managed to gulp the shoddy information of his demise. At that moment, the less you looked out for news, the more you’re convinced of the sheer wastage of time and energy.

And the hard part is when they collect too many viewpoints at once and make you look confused than a newborn dinosaur. Goes without saying, the plural of news is nuisance. As a part of social experiment, we should read last week's newspapers and ascertain its relevance in present day, if at all. Or not check news, at all.

You’ll never come across a channel which will go “We’ve got breaking news for you! Damn. We just broke it!” That’s the whole point. There’s hardly anything sacred about truth or news or journalism at large. I don’t mean to sound cynical but everything is commerce now-a-minutes. And the day each one of us is happy is the day news dies.

Putting the quit in mosquitoes

You know what sucks other than my blog? Mosquitoes. Humans may find it offensive but "You suck!" must be a compliment among mosquitoes. Yes, that’s common sense unless you are a mosquito who‘s reading this piece and feeling offended. Moreover, for a mosquito, human body is just another free bar.

For the record, I share a very bizarre relationship with mosquitoes. I admire them as well as hate them. It’d be fair to say that we are engaged in a die-unto-death battle. One of us has to give up to let the other survive. In my otherwise insipid life, I am guilty of massacring millions of these pests but it was always them who started the fight, not me. But I have to admit that every time I slay a mosquito, the loser in me receives a massive ego boost. The feeling that follows such act is beyond words (and sentences and paragraphs and blogs and universe and everything else!). Thankfully, it's easier to assassinate a well-fed mosquito than a famished one. Perhaps that is Mother Nature's way of making sure no one dies hungry.

It goes without saying that they effortlessly defeat the Gandhian in me because I’m usually a staunch pacifist, even to the point of wimpiness. But being a human, you’ve got to do what a mosquito wants you to do i.e. murder it. Despite all of this, we share a mutual respect for each other. But love is not in the air. Mosquitoes are. The trouble with mosquitoes is that they think they are smart. And the bigger trouble lies in the fact that they are INDEED smart.

For once, they are born with this innate ability to overlook human ugliness. We should be gracious to them for this kind consideration. No wonder they are pious beings. They are a god-fearing as they constantly hum their prayers. Killing them is like a double-edged sword. You are displeasing both Devil as well as God. To make matters worse, they are born musicians. Anyone can kill a mosquito but no one can take away its music. Besides, you only share your blood with them, not your wretched DNA.

I guess early human beings clapped to kill mosquitoes and then clapped more to celebrate their kill. That’s how clapping and mosquitoes got introduced to each other. On a personal level, I firmly adhere to the principle of not mulling those who don't belong to my house. And anyway, even the mosquitoes in my office are professional. They'll bite you only if you're idling around.

Like I mentioned before, mosquitoes possess some attributes unbeknownst to the rest of living beings. For instance, dignity. A bed bug will be prepared to get into your pants but a mosquito won’t ever stoop so low for food. They do face hard times like the rest of us but they’ll keep their proboscis stiff and stay out of fear. Well, for anecdote’s sake, I do remember a swarm of panicked mosquitoes once invading my room. I figured out then that nothing else scares the shit out of them the way rain does. Rain is like a wet ghost to them.

As I’m typing, I can’t help notice this time of the night when some fat mosquitoes get high on blood and crash into walls like drunkards do on street. It is also the period when you’re bound to be touched by their unparalleled love for your skin. You can’t deny that they love you even at their cost of their bloody life.

Appropriately, to set the mood right, I haven't killed a single mosquito tonight. Yeah, age and non-violence is catching up with me. Peace is temporary. Also, it’s a relief there ain’t any clapping limits on killing a mosquito. Or else, I wouldn’t have been the mighty mosquito warrior that I claim to be.

In closing, killing mosquito is a lot like playing Counter-Strike with your own blood and obviously I enjoy it but I won't be satisfied until I participate in the execution of that one last mosquito left on Earth.