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?


Green Magic and Stoner Logic.

The possible implications of

the facts you are to read about

Could definitely, most certainly

stun you without a doubt

For, the plant in question

is not any ordinary kind

Its the most awesomest, blossomesht buddy

that any person can find

Found on the highest grassy mountains which blend with the clouds

Or found on the blissful seashore

waiting to be plucked from the ground

Its procured from the deepest forests

like a rare exotic herb

or sold by Mary Jane akka

on the Trichy-Thiru curb

Some crushing, mixing and rolling in a jiff

if finely done, deftly done, you’ll have yourself a spliff

Its not just the booming or taxying that gets me all in a flurry

There’s the quite unique marijuana high

that you cannot forget in a hurry

For it is a moment of supreme ecstasy

and superior imagination to bolt.

A sense of utter lightheadedness

leaving you oblivious to a jolt.

And the flood of insane ideas

that storm your depleted brain

that sober heretics around me

look on with disdain.

It betters concentration, amplifies your senses

but leaves you a tad bit clumsy, or arbitly jumping fences

So join this fucking stoned age Give in to green desire,

Release your inhibitions,

Get ready to light a fire

For when life’s just sad

And things seem tragic

Light a joint

Its Fucking Magic!


The Shaman Stash.

Believe it or not , Kuppusamy has a family.
Now, he knew that he was no Ambani.
But he had children that counted to many
with ladies who were fading in his memory.
He has fucked everything under the sun.
Of those whose names he knew none,
But he knew for sure that he has put Osama to shame
and convinced himself a Limca record and some shoddy fame.
Now, standing outside the ginger bread house,
Hansel and Gretel were stabbing each other for fun,
His paternal emoshun tickled to arouse.
WTF?, for all he knew, even Hansel could be his son.
He knew none of his children’s names.
It might be some Anand , Birbal or James.
The only son he remembered was not because it rhymed close
but because of the insane pot he grows.
Munusamy was just ten , when
he inspired himself to the house of Zen.
Fortunately now, he had access to Chinese pot.
And Kuppu was thinking whether he should ask him or not?
Will his own son betray the ever-peaceful ganja truce?
Which is more tastier Eclairs or Chocolate mousse?
So many thoughts trafficking his hungry baked head,
that he settled on Roasted beef ,Thick , Juicy and red.
As his mouth was filling with drunken saliva,
his head swung into a hallucinatory dilemma.
The search for the Chinki Shaman stash has begun .
And thus Kuppu, half mad and smoked-up, broke into a run.

Stoned Kuppu. (Contd.)

Kuppusamy noticed that Sundhari had become mad
Now,he didn’t know whether this was good or bad.
Stoned out of her head,She seemed to look at the sky and cry.
He thought, Its better to leave her high and (her mouth) dry.
But,wait ,Would leaving her make him happy or sad?
and then he knew he was nothing but just a Kundifry.
He wanted history to refer him as a stoner,
who was always searching for a big long boner.
Its always fun to run downhill, especially
when your bladder is boozefull till the brim.
He stopped at the foothill, “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Jack and Jill were at it and didnt care to even look at him.
There was no time and room for talk and air.
But for Kuppu to join or interrupt ,had no interest nor care.
He had places to get stoned and joints to go,
Shots to gulp, beers to chug and people to mug.
He was gonna meet a stoner from a long time ago.
He was a douche , a fool , a fuck , a wannabe-thug.
He was called Muniyandi with a Motto,
for he always said ,Drugs for life , till I meet Death,
But used to fool people by sniffing ajino-moto,
telling them that it was actual crystal meth .
He sometimes even painted his nostrils red.
And cried, “I told you !, very soon am gonna be dead!”
An old timer and a long lost schmuck,
about whom Kuppusamy didn’t give a fuck.
He knew meeting him would be such a bore.
But Kuppusamy had nowhere else to score.
Muniyandi was the man with the potlis , the pot , the Ganja.
You would do the same If you were me , wouldnya?

Kuppusamy during 90s.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
taking his time on which side to fall.
East or West ? This is Berlin nineties
and people are nothing but a buncha crazies.
“Demolish the wall!!, Demolish the wall!!”.
and thats when Humpty got a missed call.
Humpty Dumpty was delighted to see,
it was none other than Chinna Kuppusamy.
He called back and asked, “Are you that cheap?”
and Kuppu said , “I just like your ringtone ,you creep!”
“Ringtone?! wait a minute ,or you somewhere here?”
“Nooo, now STFU and talk fast cuz the line isn’t clear.”
“Am Humpty on the wall , please do help me. “
“Am a little too high to help you, do you get me?”
“East or West , which is a better country?”
“Doesn’t matter because you are now in mad Germany”
“Oh please Kuppu help!, they closing in on me”
“OK. Pick East and climb the nearest tree.”
“Why not West?”, asked the fatty .
“Because West is where I use to pee,
when I have  lil toomuchothat good ol’ Whiskey.”


Oh, I do love these ads where those yellow mountains , dusty roads and the wet green of the God’s own country and likewise steal your eyes and lock them in a cell of  drunken belief ,
“Incredible India”
Oh yeah , India is Incredible.
I don’t mind Aamir Khan teaching us a thing or two on how to behave in front of foreign visitors.
Yes, Aamir Khan ,you short genius of an idiot ,
Please give us some gyaan on social interactive skills.
Because , you see , only if people like Amir Khan tell us we would get it into our coconut heads.
India is Incredible , indeed.
We have Dal Makhani , Ganges and Rajinikanth.
We have Idlis , Bombay and shit everywhere.
We have Sania Mirza to constantly embarrass us.
And yes,we have Maoists too.
Some say we invented the zero.
So ,I think we are smart people.
We have people who pee/spit/shit/abuse/kill/eat/beg on the road , but you look at a girl in a public place for more than a minute ,you are fried like those crispy appalams you get in any South Indian house for lunch.
So , no sex on the road.
We have people of all colours from fainting white to extreme devil black.
Both may be equally appalling or attractive given to your individual likes.
You can select your gradient.
We have religions.
Oh ,hahaha , yes we do.
Name it , we have it.
We have Fathers who rape young girls.
We have Swamijis and Gurujis pimping the house up.
And We have Sachin.
We have A.R.Rahman.
And yes, We have people like M.F.Hussain and Laxmi Mittal too.
We have villages where people make their living one meal at a time and government bodies where people make their living one crore at a time.
We have pubs serving alcohols and a dancefloor.
We have a ceremony to celebrate one’s death .
Here too , you can dance with alcohol and the road is your dancefloor.
We have Independence.
We have smart young Indians who go places ,steal jobs from other countries, sometimes fuck women there and never come back.
We have diversity and hypocritic unity.
We have ugly secrets and mindblaasting truths.
We sometimes are stupid and drunk with passion.
We have differences.
It is a beautiful painting of a country and most said , beauty is an illusion.
We become sick sometimes.
Its the passion , I say.
Drunk with blind Violence.
Hear the story of Prana and her proud sons from a village in Sitapur district , Uttar Pradesh.
Prana’s 17 year old daughter , Pushpa had fallen for Chottelal who was in the same village and had refused to marry Rajesh who was ‘fixed’ by the family.
So what happens?
Pravendra , Prana’s son takes a sickle and hacks his sister to his satisfaction  while she was sleeping and buries her in his house’s courtyard, while Prana was out distributing  marriage invitations.
Police digs out exhumed body.
Pravendra had run.
Prana cries.
But here is the twist.
The Indian twist.
She cries not for her daughter , but for her son who she says defended the family’s honour and had to run.
Poor Pravendra.
After all ,sickles are made to hack heads.
“We are glad that she is dead”, said Sachinidra , one of her brothers.
And that reminds me,
We have honour , too.
We are Incredible.

Visit. (Beware of senti-shit)

It has been quite difficult for me to blog ,with my laptop given away for service.
Hp , battery fail within a year.
What ya expect?
Anyways I’ve always wanted to rant about this play of frequent occurence in any Indian/any sane,sober orthodox societal country , “The Visit”.
The Visit is often casted by precariously curious aunties, whom you might have randomly been introduced during a marriage somewhere sometime with often big eyes (or they make it look big).
Jabber Devils they are , with new leather handbags swaying away to glory for attention ,supported by the headlines of the new dearest gossip filling the air and ears of the lady host.
This is often punctuated by the big , short uncles with bountiful bellies just enough to make their presence felt in a comparitively small hall once they arrive along with their sense of humour which is by the way unquestionable because of their self-ignited laughter which goes on about a minute interrupted only by an occasional fart stressed for a long time and this creates more humour as if there is something missing already.
Gastric problem , they claim and start laughing again.
These are just the post-food entertainment guys.
Let me bullet it out.
The Attendance.
Greetings by the stench of an arbit Arabian perfume (NRI relatives) pulls you out of your room and just when you are about to say WTF?!! , you are compelled (or rather forced) to silently smile back at their already beaming white faces.
The attendance in this play , instead of raising hands in a classroom , is either a firm handshake (for uncles) or the widest smile you can stretch (for aunties) to make your presence felt. You better make the attendance exact otherwise you will be  filed with a complaint of concern from the lady visitor to her respective counterpart.
If the Visitors are accompanied by Children you are in for some shit my friend.
This Kid is the real deal .
He is the only entertainment factor in this play.
They start searching toys not to play with but to throw .
Sometimes a slipper comes flying across if he/she is angry due to lack of attention or an apple on the table to aim at his/her own mother or better sometimes a host member.
The attendance for the kid is quite normal.
You just need to ask him which grade he/she is in .
This is usually reciprocated with the kid just not replying and running off to grab the nearest familiar leg ,meanwhile ,you must continue smiling and make remarks romanticising the baby’s cuteness , eyes so on and so forth.
In some cases the kid might just utter gibberish and ask what are the videogames you’ve been playin.
Then you are supposed to escort him to the laptop/pc which at that exact moment might be decorated with a sexy Scarlett Johansson flaunting her curves.
Shut it!
The kid starts crying and you are left fumbling with the fucking keypad.
Even better if the kid is smart, it won’t cry ,it will just stand there staring at your stupid face or in some weird cases at Scarlett Johansson.
The visitor aunties come to the rescue and then start questioning on your future and fortune.
What are you planning to become?
MBA, Ph.D or GR-fucking-E ?
and when you start talking she keeps staring at you lost in something else.
suddenly she breaks conversation and turns to the host mother “He looks so much like you.. “.
That is when you realise you are just a character in this play.
In this beautifully set-up ,brilliantly performed orchestra of human actions and expressions.
I am in awe.
The purpose of a visit is never important in “The Visit”.
It is a gathering of the most trained thespians.
Masks fit so tight that people have forgotten there is a mask.
They have become the inevitable , to be.
The play nears the intermission when the members of the host and visitor are left with their respective counterparts.
You are left with your siblings(if you have any) and these people will be waiting to fuck with you only just at this time.
It is mutual , actually.
You also tend to be in the fuck-around mood with the visitors.
The Offer.
This may range from food to forcing the visitors to stay over in the house for a day or two.
It doesn’t matter whether they are your distant cousin’s wife’s fuck-up-brother-in-law or your persistantly cheerful uncle’s new son-in-law or even your worst enemy,  The Host has to OFFER.
There is a saying in Tamil (Thirukkural) which substantiates this social and conversational default.
It would be poor of me to state that in English.
Declining the Offer.
With the offer laying about it is also a signal for the visitor to the get the F out of the Host’s house or in other words ,Its about time.
The play has reached its finale.
The offer in return is declined and you will be in awe on how subtle it is dealt with.
It in itself is an art.
Reasons are put forth first in an arbit fashion.
Then the reason’s take shape and weight gradually.
A heater has to be fixed.
The paper guy has to be paid.
The kid has tuitions.
Then the offer’s gravity is praised with promises of another visit which, they are sure ,will extend longer.
The Withdrawal of the Offer.
Just when the host observes the declination he persuades the visitor even more and this makes the visitor make more reasons and this battle goes on for a while.
Silently the offer is buried among the hugs and the wet kisses exchanged symbolising departure.
Here again if a small kid is present , he is tortured with cheek pinches , anti-gravity stunts and sometimes even bites (usually from overtly hyper uncles) that make marks on the skin.
That poor kid.
Again as said, the purpose hardly matters.
But visits are always fun.
And it is like when people leave or die that we feel their absence.
The cars take off and you stand there ,waving your hands as vigorously as possible .
Happy you are, that it is all said and done with.
You turn to your host parents for a sign of acknowledgement.
There is none.
You find them to be genuinely happy.
You beg to differ with them.
I asked my dad ,why all this? ,he bluntly said,
“People need people.”
Yesterday was my dad’s birthday or so that is what he made us think all these days.
This is For a man who doesn’t remember his birthday.
It is all in the play .
It might be, but it is often amazing to me that people come in/with different forms and faults.
…friends , families and so many different kinds of them…
Each one makes everything about themselves interesting.
By the way ,I came across this Canadian movie,
C.R.A.Z.Y 2005 (French)- about 5 brothers in a family.
Pretty crazy, try watching.