I thought I shouldn’t begin the new year with a rant, but what the hell, it helps sometimes.

I’ve figured what the problem is/was (Yes, I’ve finally graduated. I now have a PGDM and my convocation is done too, this post was sleeping in drafts from early this year) at college. My college life. It’s just too much of it. I’ve had it. I’m done with it.

I’m done with all the hostel life one can cherish for four hundred and sixty lives yet to strike this planet, click pictures of food and upload it up on instagram, build a start-up, become rich, write a book and the many more thousand and eight expectations that can be set by any conglomerate education system and motivated by a proud family. Especially if you are a PG it’s like “oh dude, just enough of this already” *cries*

I’m done with all the mindless drinking through endless nights, talking mindless and endless shit with the worst part being, having to put up with all that mindless shit, and clean all the shit (Lays american cream onion chips packets and half-opened and half-attended aloo bhujia ones because let’s face it, no one can eat just one) that gets littered around mindlessly, the next day. Enough.

In many ways, if you have been a hostel being, things don’t change much from UG to PG. There are the same premature beards vomiting premature thoughts with premature bravado, only difference in PG being the overgrown beards (manly things) vomiting overgrown thoughts (ego) coming out with overdone (excessive learning and rationalization begins) bravado. It’s like  until we permanently turn silent, we never learn the importance of silence.

We want to recreate experiences, the same people who we made friends by addressing them as sister/mother fuckers, the same visualization in winamp, the same South Park joke, the same old Akshay Kumar song we cherish because we listened to it when pappa and mamma took us to Shimla (because, you know, we need to keep reminding ourselves that we are Indians, especially when we are drunk- we drink responsibly) and the same Led Zeppelin song when you are hopelessly slurring and somehow the purpose of drinking is to make sure you keep establishing the fact that you are never, ever, god-Sachin forbid drunk, yes, but sooner or later you get to know the act behind all of it. During the initial months of UG, there is this Spring Breakers moment (watch the film, its hilarious in more ways than one) which makes you think oh this is where we were supposed to find ourselves or some crap? Well, guess what, things don’t stay poetic any more.

Dudes just start getting weirder and weirder. Everyone has got to do their drinking bit, talking loud and talking out of their ass.People are just the fucking same and we all end up trying to act nice about it. You know, the marriage-hungry women in rom-coms keep coyly saying, “men are funny, aren’t they?” whenever someone acts like a doofus?, nope, it isn’t. It’s not funny when 85% of conversations don’t sustain without a Honey Singh song in the background punctuated by Sunny Leone’s tits suffocating in something very unhealthily tight on a cum-stained Lenovo screen and believe it or not, I’m supposed to be genuinely interested if not entertained in such subject matters (without focussing on the cum-stain, because hey, that’s how cool we are bro) to be rechristened daily as a boy-man/man-boy. Yes, we boys need reaffirmation everyday, in some 5-6 inch measure at least and if you resist to involve yourself in those matters with a perspective/opinion/taste you are first thought of as a kill joy, then a sophisticated punkster who just isn’t desi enough (yes, that’s a crime) and then finally a faker/wanker (not necessarily in that order).

I feel 722 years old and all the unsaid, unassailable and untarnished rancour has begun to creep and stand taller than ever in front of me, limiting my self into an ever-diminishing dot. There is no personality any more. No act. I totally dig Imitiaz Ali for saying, “I’ve always been interested in women. I find them/expect them to be more intelligent”. I get that. Ofc, expectationsaresubjecttosubjectsrisks.



I’ve been thinking about this for quite a while. How do you reason with people who only believe in dichotomy? See, for example, there only two kinds of people, the ones who believe in dichotomy and the ones who don’t and of course this is an endless argument because the latter kind wouldn’t agree there are only two ways to go about it and also if you see where am heading with this you’d also agree with me there is only a certain extent to which we can question the things that are the actual question, i.e., a scope to philosophize and just when I think this is all mad, Mr. Context comes grappling at me saying, wtf man, where’s your head at, when I’m there. I’m always there. Always stick to me. Stick to a context, if not many and bear the logic.

yeah? well, fuck logic.


It happens before you know it, like the yearning to start your conversation with a metaphorical implication, using “like” to soothe and iron the mirror’s (whoever’s listening) likings. It happens because the worldview that you have been gathering is oscillating to a conforming people’s view like a hallucinatory trip almost everyday, punctually and almost consistently like a pendulum in vacuum. It happens because of a fundamental fear of slipping away like what you feel when you stand at the periphery of the sea, when the beach sand’s slipping away to the tune of the sea while you obey gravity and in this juxtaposition of existence, the byproduct fear, overestimates the sea’s presence beyond and submit to a horizon that makes you breathless.

The comfort found in cynicism could be compared to a harmless nicotine addiction. It bothers you to always find ground. While the ground is common to all, in its own way it controls, pulls and ties you to itself. In the metamorphosis of intellectualization this becomes a constant dilemma whether to cross this beautiful brook called charm using a swing called the wit.

Now, are you game enough to use the swing?, is the primordial question.

Ages after, the spirit of game has been comfortable and almost blissfully enjoyable that the swing swings so low almost kissing the brook, gently, passionately, curving ripples and making love through design. Patterns emerge.  An intention exists. The sportsman has become a traveller in a palanquin.

It has become picturesque.

Goon cake.

That’s it. End of the road. You just have no idea what has happened to you, do you?

So somethings have happened.

Nowadays it seems like there exists some kind of calm in unhappiness that it’s almost unimaginable to pass a day without it. It’s permanency in recent times are a concern. Earlier, I used to think it’s because of some perennial gap due to unmet satisfaction, but on closer reflection, it just seems like there just can’t be peace anymore that can be bought so cheaply like from a Rs. 10 Milkybar or stolen that easily like those times when it used to rain in Madras, the whole city gets flooded and you host paperboat races with Giri and his brother from FLAT 50/3. Everything has to pass through this mind. There just can’t be one side that’s winning. People won’t just shut up. It’s not raining that frequently. I want to walk in knee-deep water now! Maybe it’s because you don’t shut up. That is, I don’t shut up. Somewhere ago, I think I played the wrong ball again and this time the ball is stuck with goo.

Things are stuck like fevicol left-overs.

I love people. You know those simple logical fellows trying to be humble every chance they get? That guy who is waiting to get married just to hide his fundamental insecurities of not striking love? “Hey you know love marriages are overrated machi. Arranged is not that bad. Its about following traditions. Also all this atheism and all is just to look cool. They will read a couple of books and put off so much scene. They don’t know anything. Dostoyevsky Doy soap bajji Mannangatti. See this blogpost? My intelligent uncle who graduated from IIT-IIM knows so much about religion and he also feels the same.  People should be allowed to believe whatever they want. Listen, I am going to write a blogpost on my proud tradition, I’ll see you later okva?” and..You know that guy with many friends, marrying into the money with a fat dowry and also posting links about rape in FB? “What a shame to this country! I am ashamed to be a man. Here take scissors, cut my penis.” My favourite common-forever-alone-guy who (also a Calvin and Hobbes fan) constantly worries, “When do I get to take couple pics and upload pics? Nowadays not only the no. of likes matter, but the rate at which you are getting your likes also matter. Competition yaar. When is my chance to go to Bali on honeymoon?” Or that girl who just finds her lover in the right caste, speaking the right language, so righteous. Perfectly arranged love marriage. Or that good-looking friend of yours who is constantly worried about his hair and skin,  who says “Dude, who will marry man? Fuck, I just can’t imagine it, I just want a trophy wife”. I just found out that pretty people are happy because they are pretty. Or that girl who just has that boyfriend so she can tell her friends that she’s dooinit dooinit. “We did it in the car on the way to Pondy. It was so wild! No wait, it was Goa.” Or that friend who uses his friend’s failure for his own ego boost. Hehehe.

Things are people happening. 

I am yearning back to become emotional, feel stupidly special and impart misdirected self-importance to me to tingle that dormant ego. I want to cook up my own world, (that’s right, where is my world?) make opinions thinking that they matter, make people listen to me and make them care because that’s what gets the game going right?  “I mean why don’t you watch EPL or IPL or atleast just accept Sachin and ARR or at least one is God da, you are useless!” I don’t know man, it just seems the world is spinning too fast for this one, this me. Somehow commerce has made everything personal, impersonal. A public equity. If you say everything that strikes your numb head to everyone every minute then who is your muse? Which is why this blog-post is sitting here and talking to itself for like it’s been a month. There is just no time to gaze, even before that, all that’s done is shared and diluted.

People make things happen.

I am fascinated about people becoming snobs because they possess above par knowledge. With information openly shared in the internet, all you need is someone to analytically apply and seed-in the most regarded opinion and there you go, you’ve got the next blogger who can educate (hey look! I know so many things am so awesome and mature) and amuse you to all glory. I call this knowledgeable gajabujagangzz. Educated trying to educate others. Somewhere in between many interesting things happen. Someone giving advice on what actually actually rape is. Someone trying to cheekily articulate his knowledge and masturbate his ego in a licensed moral ground. Some digging up mud somewhere to prove that Laad Krishna was on this heavenly, blessed Earth. Someone who watched a lot of Seth Rogen movies trying to act like him. Someone who is analytically pursuing to prove that Sachin is actually actually a legend. Someone who is trying so hard to not sound dumb. Self importance cognitively translated to group importance and the whole all is one,one is all card. Poor me who thought social media was just a bridge, now it’s like I need to build a bridge to walk out of it all the time.

Things are things. People are people.

So that’s that. All that’s left is to come to terms with underachievement and a sea full of underwhelming cynical wonderment? Nope, maybe not. I still like Dosa. Lot of things may happen and I can control whether I can become subject to any forthcoming constraint. I hate control. It’s when as we gain control we realize how little control we have over things. I think someone said that change can be brought on by sustained logical thinking and keeping things simple, one step at a time, no need for revolutionary heroism. You know, those simple, ordinary people trying to be ordinary all the time. Yes, even that has become fashionable, thanks to Murakami maybe. I saw Cloud Atlas and Life of Pi and reason has made me indifferent to both these films. It would have been a different story five years ago. I am tired of fighting with myself.

Things have happened.

I recently got drunk with my brother. Jagermeister and Jameson. We were at a friend’s place. It was a good evening except my brother drank so much that he lost control. We were driving back home when in between he got this sudden urge to meet one of our cousins, who was in Chennai at that time. A cousin who he felt had been close to him (they belonged to the same group) when they were young but have seemingly grown apart. Of course, alcohol helped him suddenly see this. I didn’t argue much. I wanted to see him as well. But things happened when we met him. My brother made it evident that these things happen and that they shouldn’t let him grow apart from the people he used to love, things that he used to cherish. He grew so vivid with my cousin, drunk-hugging him and reminiscing constantly as I watched him in awe. I could never see myself feel that openly about someone.

Things have become pretentious.  


I am getting old.

But its like, I have always been this way, kinda thing, this getting old thing. Anyways thought I’ll blog it and see what comes out. That never gets old right? Heh. Anyways, I find a sweet sense of hatred in me nowadays. Good refreshing hate. Also, luckily, refreshing love, love is there somewhere too. But somehow this place and time living has become easy(yes, that’s how I refer boring as) for me. That is the problem and the solution isnt it? Fucking glorious paradox. Whether its people or their redundant wavelike emotions , up and down , UP and DOWN, or their insecurties getting more predictably annoying day by day and you getting annoyed at youself . Haha, So much fun. Predictable waves. Random waves, my toothache or my dinner skipping habits or the pigeons that stay outside my window and pose for silhouettes all day and night! What do I do? Fuck with them?

I clearly don’t belong here. Sometimes I think not in this world only. Abe!, (yes I have started using that a lot nowadays ) am serious yaar. My roommate often says, “We all need something to look forward to and someone to love, I mean that’s what everyone wants in the end right?” and he was not even asking for my approval. He just smiled proudly. A broad knowing smile. He is getting married in December. He will be 22 when he does. *Should I not ? Should I? Should I not? Should I?* mmmm… ok, fuck it–> He is Mellu. (*Curses you for judging, also if you find it any racist/offensive, you are RIGHT, make me famous*) Also after that delhiboyoutrage have been getting some interesting links. Caught this.

With that thought I’ll continewww, EH-nyways, “I think people seem so surficially afraid of what’s deep down. Floating to the next horizon floating and panting. Surficial surfers. Shouldn’t drown shouldn’t drown. No, surficially surfing sufferers. Yes. Not wishing to look down and worry the depth, or atleast ponder. Have to surf. Surf. Surf till the sun sets and surf the next day too. I just choose to float and look above. Am I right? Please tell me I am. I mean there should be someone doing this right?”

 Hello fellow surfer skimming through my blogpost, Wassa? How’ve you been?”

Sometimes I just love animation films. They just make sense like in one just grand heart warming simplicity. Watched Surf’s Up recently and was wondering why it is called surf-ing . Perhaps the surfers got too lazy they didn’t even want to tell the word surface fully, just surf- that’s it. Well fuck your inner Pink Floyd and wipe all the Cold-play that you’ll ever have in you.

Existence shouldn’t be this tough. You just be. But beyond a goal it seems like , there are no goals, you can get whatever you want , it’s all fucking there. When, your ambition has chosen to spread an easy chair and recline to music. When, your senses have become sensible enough to stop proving to any cultural paradigm. When, your vision can’t get any clearer, because if it does, then you become a control freak. Like a fucking machine. Counting minutes and making schedules for your precious human design. Oh am working out, oh this is my catching-up-with-movies time. Well When is dowhateverthefuckyoufeel like time? Do you need a smartphone to remind you of this pointless idealogical metaphor, time? and make a parody of plans?

Then there are those comfortable cynics justifying themselves by throwing sharp arrows at these cute, bubble blowing romantics when one could’ve easily popped them up cheerfully with their hands (or just let it go!), Sighabeyaar, forget them romantic bubblers who wanna live inside them. Let them.

Let them cynics give up and dig their own profound peaceful grave while poets seem to medidate down near the sea bed.

Sigh, all seems like a fucking adventure doesnt it?

Let’s dive in. Come. Let’s get some poetry.

It must be the Whiskey talking.

This had been in my Desktop for like two months now. A notepad file that I had typed in during a drunken night. Or maybe I was sober. Don’t know. Anyways, thought I’ll put it up. Real arbitness follows, kindly avoid if you are not interested.

Sometimes when so many people are around you ,it becomes relevant (I call in interesting ) when many hearts and minds are at constant work of survival. It is hard to ignore people’s faces , the things they say with intentions and sometimes no purpose except for their own security and ego sheild. People feeding on people’s ego. It is quite interesting how different minds work. All though the finality in every conversation and experience you have with them can be decided by you and only you and whether it has an impact on you, is discovered by your own response and that is when you see for yourself who you really are. You put your own heart and mind at work , to try to understand and try to feel. The recent times for everyone living in their respective present , past and a hopeful future if holds any relation to the occurances of others , a society emerges. It might be intangible in the sense that it is an invisible contagion, be it the happier times, a party , a reminiscent binge with your closest friends or the dreamiest conversations with your dearest or the worse times with yourself and others. What happens to them seems to vicariously experience within you . A relationship forms , a mirror to see others while you are at your own self.  But more than the How , What and Why , it is this non-present interrogative verb that holds this entity together. An unanswerable question and an unquestionable answer. What is the difference between the closest and the farthest in your life, in this ever changing chaos? The whole cycle of logical justification of your feelings entering the realm of philosophy and later a vanishing thought into an abyss of forgetting well. Life just seems to go on. It most probably would go on, whether or not an account is made of it. So little that it actually matters to ponder about it. So big there is not a single day that everyone craves to be recognised. Everyone wants a piece of others and there by themselves.

Ah, such earthly matters , you think ,don’t you ? Ah, such pleasant comfortable futility you feel, don’t you?

Those hours.

This Valentine’s day my uncle (periappa-mom’s side) passed away.

It is coincidental that while I was reading the lyrics of (while listening to) Meshuggah‘s Dancers to a Discordant System , he took his last three breaths. Three long, sweaty breaths before he passed away in bed with my periamma at his side with a teaspoon of Gelusil in her hand and a face full of utter confusion. Futile.

My six hours from Trichy to Pondicherry was made bearable only by Hosseini’s Mariam in Thousand Splendid Suns. Time seemed to flow as smooth as a fresh tear on her cheek. It was almost as if the news hadn’t hit me. But thinking about it , I questioned on whether what I should feel. Sad? Broke ? Shocked? I thought maybe if I reach the house I could muster things inside to respond. A cheek flex maybe. But no. Nothing happened.

I reached at the street filled with plastic chairs and the samiyana spread on top. I remember how much I paid the auto guy. Rs. 60. I remember walking into the house filled with relatives looking urgently at me , like they all were waiting for some sort of distraction. All those swollen eyes glared at me. But after a second they seemed to look astray. Were they telling something to me ? Then, I looked at her. She was sitting there almost not existing , though people around her were chanting her name , wailing at a loss they could not even begin to understand, claiming God’s explanation at a disaster they were not even part of and crying rivers for something they could not even feel. She on the other hand, her eyes  shut open. Omnipresent in a social gathering where usually she would’ve been the life and centre.

I remember this and I also remember this has happened to me before . 5 years ago , another uncle (chithappa-dad’s side) of mine passed away due to acute diabetes , again young age. I remember myself feeling nauseated and had dried up my throat . I remember my eyes getting wet and not able to see clearly . I remember I felt. What happened in between these years can be justified in variety. But the face of death can change a person. (2 years ago, a close friend of mine had died). It is only fair that witnessing it affects.

Now this time I could see but not really feel . I could actually say I vicariously felt more when I was on the way to her house, but arriving there seemed unreal. I remember seeing women crying by the call of a second and for a span of hours. He had 5 brothers . Every single one of them cried. Then, then an interesting thing happened. People whom I see like once a year, the pseudo relatives all seemed to gear up for a mourning contest. Invisible to the clothed eye. A cry-o-meter was used by all these visiting aunties to detect the emotionless visitors and scorn at from inside. After the body was taken to the crematorium (where I also went, with his son heading the faction) People around kept changing , gossips replaced cries on day two, banana leaves were spread where an ice box was before, water sprinkled and hot food was served to make grief replace hunger and suddenly all of a sudden a person was forgotten.  And she . She had her eyes shut open. It was like she was in a soundproof room singing the most beautiful elegy the world is yet to hear and the world seemed to be outside the room shouting for her to emote more visibly.

I remember her lacking the strength to cry. More correctly put, I remember her will not to cry. I remember her wail incoherently in gibberish when his body was taken. I remember her getting shy when he used to mock her . I remember her sudden living at those hours of silence. I remember the evenings they used to spend together during my conventional visits (well, who was I kidding, I’m a pseudo relative too?) , talking and pulling each other’s legs like second-grade children. I remember her not willing to let go of him when he was being taken away.

My periamma is an amazing cook. She can make delicious food for hundreds in the quickest time possible.

But in those hours her life was shut open.