The soundless language

When mosquitoes don't bite...

For the record, i've got six tattoos (seven, depending on how you look at it) under my skin. They don't make me a better person or a member of  a gang. [Related: I won't mind being a member of a Russian-mafiosi-with-a-desi-touch group where everybody else fears me and my tattoos.] Coming back to reality, none of my artwork seems to have impressed my parents so far—not even the one that has both their names mentioned in it. Regardless, i somehow feel vindicated by my choice to go under the needle. Besides, what more can a son do to express his love to those who are convinced that he's a perennial underachiever? Anyway, i digress. Everyday we discover something new. Not in the way fire or faith was found but somewhat close. Like the other night, i woke up to an itchy acidic experience only to confront my worst nocturnal problem after sleeplessness: mosquito bites. These wannabe-lesions appear somewhere stuck in between love bites and hate bites. Anyway, i digress again. That night, i observed a distinct pattern. Mosquitoes are afraid of my tattoos. No, seriously. They don't dare poke their hideous proboscis into the area that's inked. In fact, they go for the tiny space that lies in between the black design. Isn't that astounding? Of course. Do you know how it feels to have an entire community fear you? Hitleresque, yeah. Milosevican too. Thanks to this rather intriguing behavior amongst Sanpada mosquitoes, i've grown more confident of my pursuit to get a lot more tattoos than i initially intended to. I just hope this ain't Mother Nature's conspiracy to make my face end up like Mike Tyson's or those Maoris who intimidate you with their Haka moves.

The real power of ink

Tattoos make skin speak for itself. And it has a lot to say given its status as the largest part of our body. It has seen way too much to keep quiet. However, it can't do anything on its own other than cry (perspire, if you like). We need to use our mind to make it our mouthpiece. So a tattoo artist becomes our partner-in-crime in this attempt to give voice to those who can't talk for themselves. But a tattooist doesn't see things this way. To him/her, your skin becomes a painful piece of canvas. They don't give a damn about how much the syringe hurts. After all, they have an advantage over God in this department. Birthmarks effectively prove that our Creator sucks at tattooing and hasn't got an inkling of design. What can possibly beat the joy of doing something to others that would, in a majority of cases, last a lifetime? Sadist much!