Sunday, September 1, 2013

A New Me is on Uprise...

This blog is dead because the one who used to write ...is oozing with pain and want to lay to rest. 

- From a wounded soul. (RIP, Myself)

Saturday, February 16, 2013

I'm Gay Even When I am Asleep!


Eating the self-made fish patties for the lunch can causes mental diarrhea with severe dream constipation. It happened so that while I was having my afternoon siesta, like any other Bengali ‘bhadrolok’, after having 6-7 fish patties I dreamt:

My dead father woke me up, this morning, but I found him sleeping inside the car. My driver, Zia standing beside the car, pulls out a carrier filled with ‘chicken biryani’. Both men start feeding each together. What? My father (who is dead) and my driver (who will be dead soon). [...I’m the only guy who wants his father to be gay...]

Leaving both the old gentlemen to each other’s company, I start driving the car seating in a crumpled state. When I was at the flyover that connects Appu Ghar to Secunderabad Station, I realised that my seating position needs to be changed and start adjusting my seat by opening the door. A policeman helped me...(how unreal this dream could be?)

Finally, I parked my car in a forgotten place and decide to take the metro-rail to reach home. I left my car keys at home.

In the station, a gang of girls, playing with colours fell in love with me. I realised, I’m a not a straight guy [how melodramatic] and so, I dumped them all; except a fat girl with ponytails with whom I got married. [I seriously need to operate myself now...] Thankfully, the dream sequence repaired the reel soon, [I can never be a straight - not even in my dream...uhuh!] so I start running away from the fat-girl and finally, escaped through a tunnel to the flyover where Appu Ghar meets Secunderabad. [I saved my 'gayhood'....yeah!]

Now, I am awake. Can anybody tell me where I parked the car?

Monday, December 31, 2012

What A Year It Was!


Lying over my lazy bum, I’m waiting for the last few hours of ‘this year’ to close-by. Little have we realised that the ‘past 365-days’ was all-spent under the shade of ‘Doomsday’, as predicted by the ancient guys when they ran out of their scrolls. Then, when it passed without the world splitting into pieces, we realise ‘it was stated metamorphically’. Indeed!

Look around yourself. The country of peace and non-violence has suddenly awakened to the most violent expression of humankind; The Great Satan losing its title to ‘The MAN’ and phallus, became the most degenerated scar every grown on man-kind. In fact, the world order is assumable, set to change forever and hopefully, at the 24th hour of this 365th day.

It’s not only the world order, but each one of us, individually and personally has an irreparable loss to talk about. To me, there are reams to talk for. Wait a minute! In the initial months, you were counting a loss; in fact – a great patch-up headway. (Oh, yeah!) Under the impending shadow of ‘A’ heading far-away, it was a compromising situation to smoothen the catastrophe to hit on the forthcoming ‘First of July’.

Agree! It was a joyous moment for ‘A’, both financially and professionally, as he settled down abroad with a lucrative offer but, left me for-ever to be homeless once again. For past 37-years, I’ve pretended to be happy with four walls and a silent voice within me; except of those ‘four years with some A’ – the years when I lived as anybody else. Well, I’m happy for him, but to me; the doomed walls and silent voice returned. Now, with an unknown future, a gulp-on-throat, and forced smile; I start to make a living again.

Providence! Oh, don’t make me smile. No sooner did A left me forever, few carrots are offered by the Providence. An impending promotion, a car at throw-away prices; only to realise that the ‘I am to be doomed day-by-day’.

The promotion happened without a raise and the car take-away all that I’ve raised. Inflation found a new way as bills get doubled and subsidies subsided. Banking is no more a fun and life passed paying off the EMIs things that I have rented. I was still managing, till each month – there was a broke-age.
  • First, the year-old laptop died and a new one is the only replacement. 
  • The passion dried and the muse had left. 
  • The house keys were lost and the door was broken.
  • The taps starts leaking, the air-conditioner was misused, the gas cylinder leaked, and finally, the plants dried away.

If this was not enough, a series of bouts with families, friends, colleagues, relatives and domestic help followed throughout the year; as each month passes. Well, stop finding blame with me; if relations has got soured day-by-day. I could narrate their state, at length; truthfully, I sternly reacted.
  • A bunch of colleagues promised a holiday-trip only to trip off, at the right moment. 
  • A junior colleague asked for 2-hour break when the project was underway, and then didn’t turn up or informed to make the delivery happen. 
  • A father-son duo, belongs to my extended family, stayed for 10-days at my expenses and left me a bill in an inflationary state. 
  • A dear sister, always complain and blames me for things-that-happened years back; but decline to give an ear to my woes, when I wish to lament. 
  • An aunt, howsoever good, always cribs, complains and nags like a ‘pain’.

Finally, the dear mother – she sided my dear sister and had the wrath for all-the-nonsense. Ugh, the year is finally lost and all my relations have doomed away. Sitting in these last few hours, with handful complains, I wish myself – a happy new year ahead.  

Sunday, September 9, 2012

A Day Called 'Sunday'


September 09, 2012 – Sunday, Time: 05:10 P.M.

My home got no clock yet, I am punctual to core. I got no driving license yet, there is a car parked down that belongs to me. I can’t measure distance yet, have walked miles; and I am bored yet I trying to be funny.

What a Sunday?

Friday, August 31, 2012

Silence Please, Men at Work!



Oh, this ain’t a roadside signage that drawn my lecherous self, to sweaty and hard-bodied men under-constructing a road or building, to whom I could serve myself as the turkey that they will feast upon. Rather, it’s the unsaid rule of 36 people who work together but, never talk – AT MY WORKPLACE.

Historically, I know a ‘shy guy’. It was me - a silent geek with grandpa’s spectacles although my childhood; the only among the 50 students whose transformation to a melodramatic, over-the-top, cacophonic (but outspoken) bitch was the talk of the town today. In fact, I was so silent that nobody knows that ‘I was gay’ till, I start speaking so voluminous that nobody could ‘make me straight’ now.

Dude, let’s concentrate on those 36 people rather writing a character certificate for your own self. (Err…) Okay!

So, here’s this 36 people who comes to work every day (in singles and doubles) but never punctual, find a seat for themselves before the computer and remain seated for 8…no 9…err! 10 hours. What’s un-natural about it? All goes to work and seat in their chair and do their work, on/ off computers…! Oh yea, these are different.

In a 1500 sq. ft, where the air-conditioner don’t work when it is summer but, keeps you freezing when it’s raining or cold outside – the 36 people seat in their chairs, next to each, in different cubicles and start working. An hour, another hour, (add) few more hours; they still working...

No looking to LEFT, not to the RIGHT; nothing to scratch, nobody sighs…no phiss-phiss, no khus-phuss! Maintain distance, maintain silence…men are at work. Sometimes, the silence sound so horrible that even a metal pin might feel embarrassed of ‘being dropped’. (“Oops! I made some noise, SORRY!”) The icy-cold conditioned air swept through the room, embalmed each to a corpse laid to rest in their grave-desk. The best of the dedicated peoples, among all the countrymen, that my company has hired. And, the only non-dedicated me who jump around, crackdown the most lewd jokes and breathes so moanfully that could give my neighbor a ‘boner’. (Ouch!)

Look at the bright side, for Heaven sake! They work dedicatedly and concentrate to core. Oh yea! Getting their freelance work done at office expenses; fixing the same errors for n-number for the same program in every similar project and continues for more than 6-months, fixing their dates and lovenotes on Spark (intra-chat message application) and staring to their computer screen without a blink – if that’s what you call working then, indeed I take a bow. Has anybody heard this, “All work and no play make 36 dull men…”

Surprisingly, these 36 people unfix their posterior from the seat and walk out the glass door, turn bright, fun-filled, cantankerous individuals. Ain’t that sounds strange? Sometimes, I feel they are too hideous and too ‘silent’ in their real self. I feel betrayed now coz’ my HR promised me “a energetic and amazing workplace…”

Can you Measure the Distance?


Dear Az,

Since, you love reading me through my write-ups than to chat-in-person, let me now do some talking.

Three-months and you are gone. I am somewhat recycling to ‘what you have met’ (with few exceptions); keeping myself busy at work. In past two months, I have started contributing and collecting accolades again – for my work, for my ideas, for my creative talents; and yes, the political brick-batting. [Suddenly, worms of politics have dirtied my workplace and, I get soaked into it. I hate this but always the best player to the game.]

Anyways, this is not to speak about what going at work. It’s all about YOU and ME – the two most dearest peoples I have loved, and misses.

I haven’t said you many a things, till now. I haven’t spoken about me to you, so hurtfully. Agreed, we did spend years with each other; many a evenings, fought-and-kissed, made to the bed and satisfied; yet…I always remain standing in the dark behind you, watching and waiting.

In the last few months, a strange feeling was overcoming me and I was basking to glory; or about to reach your love till you bought a ticket to highlands. I regaled and left to my mooring with a broken tambourine. I haven’t said you, that last time when you hugged me – the night before you left; I had a gulp hidden inside my throat about to explode, yet I smiled back; only to break down once you are gone. That night, I cursed myself, and complained to Almighty (if there is any) for making me ‘what I am’.

Honestly, I don’t recall the numbers of raindrops that have drenched me one evening, while we were returning on a bike from Gol Gumbaz. I don’t make an effort to visit the places where we have memories of ours. I lived those moments to every nanosecond, I knew your touch, I can feel your breath. But now, they all gone frail and fail to measure the distances…

I ain’t complaining, but I impatiently wait for that little chat window to open with a scribbled word from you. Do you know sometimes, it feels like waiting for the postman, from the yesteryears and then he cycled through without any packet from me? I know, it sounds too dramatic, rather melodramatic to core but, that’s how it feels. And, finally one-day you says something which is nothing much a few monosyllables… (Ah, dear me!) I die a thousand deaths reading those monosyllables.

I ain’t complaining, I do understand – we have lives different from each other. I ain’t trying to bring the poles together; I didn’t wish for ‘something crazy’. I know, I am standing at the dead-end and there’s nothing for me, to continue. In fact, I expect nothing except ‘you’ – the forbidden fruit, which the GOD has denied to me. I ain’t a Eve, I am Adam dahlin’.

But, could you spare few minutes after your friends are gone, the prayers are said, the food is eaten, and the lights are out. Could you spare few minutes for me, and say ‘that you’re fine, you do think about me’. Life might start cycling and, I am hopeful, there will be ‘a day’ when we both meet each other again – till that time, please spare me few minutes of your for MYSELF. 

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

Happy Birthday, Mom!

To Dear Mom,
First, she made me a baby, then the 'man of the house' and now; doubled as her 'father'. Thanks for everything that you did, and mostly, you was born. Happy b'day! Big Gal.

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Searching for the Gothic One...


After an extended and exhaustive orgylicious weekend, when the mind needs no more; I stand bare-backing my camera, and walks miles of Hyderabad for more orgasms. (Ain’t, I confided to being a self-proclaimed maniac. If not, then it’s best of the examples.) Clad in my unwashed, crumpled blue denims that can smeel far away, I strayed around the streets hawkish-ly for the gothic drama to unfold. But fatelorn...

In this part of Andhra Pradesh, Goddess Yellamma – one of the many myriad forms of Kali being celebrated with aplomb. As traditionally, the gold and silvery brass pots craftily painted with rich turmeric and extravagant layers of vermillion shaping the surface, filled with rice mixed with jaggery and fried julienne onion strip are carried to the temple by women, to please the god for gifting rich harvest.

For an atheist like me, this piece of information is not interesting; but, what could set me a** run through the streets are the gothic face-masks that most do. Yellamma, as imagined, is vociferous, dominative kind known for her temper is worshipped by a bundle of screaming cheetahs dressed in their gothic attire but artistically best. But, I am fatelorn and found none as the entire day passed.  

Yet to my surprise, when revisited the camera book, are the glimpses of vibrant colours of festivity filled with holy orb and sunshine. Holyness devoured but I ain’t satiated yet. (Thumbnail images of Bonalu festival are lined below.)



















Friday, July 6, 2012

Yearning, Longing (Alone in City)

I ain't a brood yet, there's nothing significant left to live after AZ depart. In fact, what he has left behind are the 'cherished memories' and a life; and continued. We still talk over the phone, although, it costs me damn. But, nothing worth than listening to him. (He is gradually settling down. Good.)

As for me, here's a few lines that wraps it all.

- I -
Hath the blossomed spring, be withered away, from my orchard
For, my dear love, left me to my own.
The butter bed, now longing for a body, to crumble its folds
But, dear sleep - hath kept me awake, all alone.

- II -
Yunhi kuch baatyon ko, bayan karne ki, izzazzat nahi hoti...
Ab, hum tanha kyun hai? yeh, kaise kahe?

Sojourn love.

Sunday, July 1, 2012

A Leftover to Survive!



Scrawling the unkempt corners – a shirt, a memento, an empty bottle and the mobile number (that won’t be dialed now) is what's left. My fingers run through each of these, rested on few, and hold – to clean. Then, placed them back to where they were; in dust, of unkempt corners of my household.

Morning is dripping outbut I ain’t moving by a single bite; except of a few cups of tea – sweet and bitter. A silence speaks, a dog bark, and sheathes of breeze fly by my dusty household. I’m still the motionless like the shirt, the memento, the empty bottle and the number (that won’t ring again).

No, I’m not dead. I got leftovers to survive.