Come, let's all be mad together---- W. Erbery, The Mad Man's Plea

There is a revolution around me. And I have nothing to say.
I never have anything to say. I can only stare at hands and teeth and feet rustling by. There are many things that we can never articulate. If only, articulation was easier. Somewhere, now, there is a man on an operation table. Those big yellow lights over his almost lifeless body. That red light telling others to steer clear of the area. That hospital smell makes me sick. I am not a flower person, I'd rather smell kerosene. Or burnt matchsticks. Not hospital, no.

But I should have been right outside that door, counting my steps and biding my time. Should. Really? A violent past is something that you can seldom avoid. And when everything is over, you are left with nothing but the strange uneasiness. There is a little fatigue and a little guilt, but there is never a going back.

Maybe a part of me is glad to imagine you like this. Helpless, sir. And scaringly alone. I am not alone, do you see? I can scream and tell you this. You are alone. Remember our last deal? You would not touch me and I would not look behind. I won. I won. I am the winner. You are dying to touch me. Literally. And I have not looked behind.

I will not look behind. You can die.

Cigarette smoking is injurious to health

I buy my cancer everyday. It costs a lot. And yes, I am an idiot to do so.
I love to see smoke. When it comes out of my nostril, I get that elevated feeling of being a dragon. I feel like a dragon, just about to breathe fire. Yes, I fancy myself as a dragon. I also want little scaly wings to grow from the posterior region of my body. Green and tough. In fact, every night I dream of my flights over medieval hills and vales. No, I am not yet another Middle Ages freak. I just fancy myself as a dragon. I wet myself with excitement each time I light a cigarette. It is one of those queer sexual perversions. Dragon fetish and all that blah.

Well, I digress.

I also happen to like ash. Paper and tobacco giving way to ash is like a rehearsal of everything. Just like we go to bed every night and indulge in a meek rehearsal of our death. Life is a very cheap play. Shoddy production, bad lights, fake script, underpaid actors and a tin orchestra. High farce, however, is what saves it all. Ash is like a divine prop. Whenever you run out of fire, put some ash, the bastards will understand. When you run out of water, pour out some ash, they will know. When you run out of make - up, smear some over your forehead.
Well, come to think of it, ash is bio-degradable, too.

I digress, again.
I am just bored, and I need a smoke.

Things fall apart

"Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world"

- W. B Yeats.



Amidst sunrise and powercuts; premature monsoon and immature drainage systems; Gorkhaland blues and deforestation greens; inflation and banned smoke rings and etc., the government is falling apart. One must applaud them, however, for all the great things that they have bestowed upon the nation.

Always give these honest men their due.

A dog, residing within a 500 m radius of yours truly, has bitten his canine mate. The dog is dead. Well, both are dead. One, because the bite was deep and bloody. The other, because people trying to save the other dog hit him with bricks and one hit his head. Both, I repeat, are dead.

There is a place yours truly goes to. The place is quite nice with many trees and a couple of ponds. There were bridges, they say, but someone burnt them down. There are dogs and birds and fishes and windmills. All of these merge together and make the place a nice place. But the nice place is also aflame. There are a few very intelligent men and women who want certain things. They want it so badly that they are throwing tantrums. They are shouting so loud that the nice place is noisy and uncomfortable. They are not just loud, they are black and blue and red and they want to break break break break things down. Sadly is a terrible adverb. It has a sour taste and never looks good when put together with things you love. But sadly, you are they. Yours truly is they too. We are they. In this loop of incomprehensible pronouns, I am getting lost somewhere.

Did I tell you that the dogs died? Both?