Colossal.

Pain makes us make bad decisions. Fear of pain, on the other hand, is almost as big a motivator. Bring in the New Year, Greg.

Two is company. Almost always. Jay & Silent Bob.

Jay : All you motherfuckers are gonna pay. You are the ones who are the ball-lickers. We're gonna fuck your mothers while you watch and cry like little bitches. Once we get to Hollywood and find those Miramax fucks who are making that movie, we're gonna make 'em eat our shit, then shit out our shit, then eat their shit which is made up of our shit that we made 'em eat. Then all you motherfucks are next. Love, Jay and Silent Bob.

Days reflective.

My girlfriend calls me a square peg in a round hole. She rebukes me for being so uptight about my feelings and opinions even when she shares everything with me without recourse and without inhibition. I look at her and say nothing. Let the moment pass. We stare at the traffic in silence.

Bloggy blogga'.

I'm thankful I have this, at least. It's so hard to opine when you have your conscience and your friends breathing down your neck. Better be a virtual Colossus than be a timid lab-rat. And I'm appalled at what people have come to regard as creative.

Floydian Slip.

My mind conjures up this image whenever Syd starts crooning.

A-raindrop-too-much.

I won two awards today - the Aditya Birla Mental Athlete of the Year and the Sulonia Cup for Football. But, sadly, I forgot my sweats at home.

I can't cook. Who cares?

"I've got a couple of those Gossard Wonderbras. They are so brilliant, I swear, even I get cleavage with them."

– Kate Moss, 1994, New York Times Magazine


I think somebody should make an Alice in Wonderbra.

Houses of the Unholy.

My eyes open to find the ceiling above painted a vivid pink. I stare blankly at it for a moment, then glance at the sleeping figure beside me. Her eyes are closed, and she clutches the blanket tightly. Her breath reminds me of lilies and her hair has settled comfortably around her neck. I remember she said that her parents would be home by noon, so that leaves me about two hours to get dressed. I throw the covers off myself, then sit by the side of the bed, catching up with the events of last night. Although much of it is a haze, I can recollect enough about it to get a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach. I proceed to the bathroom, splash my tired face with cold water. As I dry my face with a towel, I can tell that a hangover is on its way. My head is already throbbing and a vein is pulsating on the side of my head. I remember now.

Four of us sit at a table in a pub at Powai. We are almost done with the hors d'oeuvres and are already in high spirits. The girl beside me is pretty and intelligent enough to be pleasant company for many evenings. My friend and his girlfriend sit across the table from us, and they are motioning to the waiter to refill our drinks. I can hear Eddie Vedder screaming in the background and my arm is around the girls shoulder. She looks at me appraisingly, as if she wants me to up the sexual tension between us. While her hands go limp in mine, I smile haplessly at my friend who is looking at me knowingly. I am irritated at the look he is giving me, but I don't say anything. Better to let the madness wring itself dry. His girlfriend is talking about how Jack Nicholson should not be allowed to sleep with so many women. He signals her to be quiet, because she is already tipsy. So, they excuse themselves and make for the exit. As they pass the next table, I hear her heave. Sigh. I look at the girl beside me, whose hand is now resting on my thigh.

X : Foolish, aren't they?
Me : More than I'd like to acknowledge. But, they are happy with each other. That is what matters,doesn't it?
X : Ah, good. What are your plans, now that they have left us in peace?
Me : Let's take a walk. This is getting stuffy.

I pay for the table. We make a quick exit. I look ahead at the glittering city. Men and women hasten to get out of their sedans, the women balance themselves on their stilettos, the men stare at their exquisitely-cut dresses, and the women giggle. God, I'm trapped in Bukowski's world again. There is a momentary hush as we pass the doorway. The girl must be a familiar face and they ogle at her backside as she runs to keep pace with me.

X : Walk slower, man. You in a hurry?
Me : I'm just not too used to the glitterati. I like to keep a low profile. You know, conscience-keeper and their ilk.
X : Oh. And here I was thinking you were at ease with these people. (smiles)
Me : Yeah, I tend to give that impression. Where are you studying?
X : St. Stanislaus. You?
Me : Singhania.
X : Oh,good. You live in Thane?
Me : Yes.

We are silent. She weaves her arm around mine. I don't object. She looks sullen. Probably, I look sullen too. One can never tell how these nights end.

X : Can you come to my house? I have a stash of weed somewhere.
Me : Haha. Okay, but I'm not sleeping with you. What about your parents?
X : Oh,don't worry. I'm not asking you to. They are not home.

We walk to her house. As she turns the key in the lock, I look around. Either the neighbourhood is sleeping or it's a quiet neighbourhood. I walk through the hallway.

The rest I have forgotten. Fuck. Now, I'm an alcoholic AND a man-slut.

The girl is now one of my best friends. Irony hits me square between the eyes. And I look back at how time murders everything so rapaciously.

A Case of the Lonely Lips.

I'm bare-chested. I am Iggy Pop. I swing my tee over my head, and land on the eager,outstretched arms of the sweaty,fornicating crowd. I look outside the window. The city is quiet tonight. As I look into the mirror, and take the razor to tough stubble, I am reminded of my date tonight, with a girl who has maddeningly beautiful lips. The razor sears its cruel way through the hair, and the tufts fall to the wash in agony. The sex is good. A long time since I had a good time. I feel the cold edge of the blade as I dunk the razor in the shaving-water. My upper lip looks bruised. Form follows function. I come out of the bathroom, do a quick search around my room for my parka, wrap it around myself and feel the cold night air bite my exposed face. Come July, and the weather is almost pleasant. The streetlights are cold and flickering. The bodies around me moan as they weave in and out of focus. I go inside a bar, sit on the bar-stool and ask the bartender for a drink. He knows I'm underage, but he also knows I'm a regular. I come here with my father often and we exchange pleasantries with this soft-spoken man behind the counter. The Dandy Warhols. Good. He brings me white rum, with a dash of lemon. I look at my drink, then take a mindful sip. I wait for the date. Tonight, I'm the Passenger.