A dreamer and blogger. I write because why not! In the world of mindless reels let’s write the old fashioned way! Deep and meaningful. To sing and dance.
Feel free to connect, comment, or just lurk in the background—I’m happy either way.
The river that flowed through the place I lived in, Where the weeds were serene and shallow; And quick reflections leapt up, gently hung for a while and dispersed.
The boats on the banks in bland colours of brown and black lounged in tranquil, when no wayfarer asked it to be rowed across. In the outbursts of the afternoon sun, calm and gentle, the stone steps reposed. No hurried crowd bothered it then to the calls of the evening aarti and the ringing of temple bells.
Tiny trinket shops dried it out ere the evening came, with the bursts of festive footsteps gallivanting about. In there, amidst the hustle, I stole myself in the bunyan shade, musing: If all was a giant illusion, the Cosmic Maya, Was there a point in holy bathing and the chantings of Shiva?
If you could permanently ban a word from general usage, which one would it be? Why?
If you could permanently ban a word from general usage, which one would it be? Why?
What! You say if I could permanently ban a word… Are you nuts, sir? I ask. No word should ever be banned, sir. Let me tell you—if I ban you from existing, how would you feel?
This is exactly like that. Don’t ban a word. Or anything, for that matter. If people don’t like it, it will fall into disuse and go out of currency. As simple as that.
But if you are still adamant about banning words, then ban yourself first. There will always be crazy people asking for your ban. Just assume I want you to be banned. But should you ban yourself if a blogger, absurdist, or satirist wants that? No. I know your answer. Not even in seven births would you want that. Banning something from existing is reprehensible, sir. Don’t do it. Instead, whatever you don’t like, mock it. It will die of embarrassment. Exaggerate it, absurdise it, fill it with pebbles of metaphors neck-deep, it will die an instant death.
But don’t let a fatwa kill it by banning it. Let me let you in on a secret. It doesn’t die instantly by the mere issue of a ban. People will be interested, curious to know what it was that was banned. There will be a secret circulation of it, and so it will survive. Why make something stronger when you want it to be erased?
And you know what? What’s banned today may not be banned tomorrow. Lady Chatterley’s Lover was banned when it was first published. Anything where a woman decides her own fate scandalises society, you see. So yes, it was banned. Now it’s not. It’s living freely, breathing, gulping air with its bookly nose. Yes, books have noses. Only book lovers know this. You can ask the Book Goblin for confirmation. She is absolute authority on everything book-related.
Let me not digress. The point is, I want you to be banned. But will I demand your ban? No, sir. See, I am a mildly intelligent person. Instead of banning you, I am mocking you. You are simply a supremely silly person who wants words to be banned. What a world you live in, mister… umm… whatever. Sorry, I don’t know your name. And therefore, there’s no point banning you. You effectively do not exist for me since I do not know your name. And yet, I am here mocking you. Can you see the irony?
I know you can’t. You are not mildly intelligent like me. You are just a whatever demanding the banning of words. I ask you for reasons. You show your teeth. Stupid people do that. They ask things without understanding the head or tail of it.
I know you consider yourself supremely intelligent, and there lies the fallacy. But you can’t see it. Because if you could, you would simply demote yourself and become a mildly intelligent person like me. Anyway, you being the mockee and I the mocker, I will play a game with you, where I will ask simple questions concerning the topic. So, mister whatever, why ban words? And instead of answering, you are showing your yellowing teeth. And you are not even embarrassed. In fact, I am suffering second-hand embarrassment because of what you are. You didn’t even correct me by saying, “Ma’am, start by asking my name.” See, I totally know that I should ask your name first. But I didn’t, just to see if you are intelligent enough to raise objections or not. But no. You are just a supremely silly person showing your yellowing teeth with utter unembarrassment.
No worries. I would still not ask for your ban. I will simply mock you. That’s where I shine. So good day to you, mister whatever. I congratulate you on your supreme intelligence. Because of you, sir, the earth rotates, and mockers like me earn their bread and butter.
Disclaimer: This is a work of satire and humour. Reader discretion is advised.
What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
What is the biggest challenge you will face in the next six months?
Biggest challenge you say. Living in itself is the biggest challenge.
But I don’t want to talk about it. I want to talk about trivial things instead. No life, no hosiery, no loom, no weavers. Sorry for all the weaving imagery. Actually, I have been reading George Eliot’s Silas Marner, who was a weaver from Raveloe.
However, I will say only one thing connected to this: I love George Eliot. She is perceptive, immaculate, scholarly, and brilliant. Now moving on to trivial affairs of life. Let’s talk about boots. Boots are things that are not hair.
Now I understand your problem. I have a tendency to make linguistic mess of everything. There’s no synchronic or diachronic connection between the boot and hair. I think you find it challenging. But for me, it’s trivial — as trivial as nuts and screws. You see, I digress a lot, but I remember where I was. So no problem. Crisis averted.
Boot and hair. Let me explain to you the connections. I am pretty good at making kin of every distant and unusual thing. Boot is simply boot and generally black in colour. Now there could be other coloured boots also, but you would agree boots are predominantly black. The same way, there are other coloured hair, but hair is predominantly black. You see how good I am at this already.
That was a proper general connection. Now on to absurd connection, as you already know that absurd is my forte. I excel at that.
You can store your surplus repunzel hair in your boot and smuggle it safely out of the country you live in. Your beautiful, downy hair will live in a boot. Why so, you ask. Obvious query. Because Sylvia Plath said she lived in a boot and grew ‘white and poor.’ Can’t you see the absurdity of Sylvia Plath’s residency in a boot — her father’s boot, no less? But not only do you not question this absurdity, you actually prescribe the poem for undergrad students.
It’s beside the point that I, who is talking to you right now, love Sylvia Plath. She was a girl I could relate to. So now I think you are fine with smuggling your surplus hair in your boot. I know you don’t need to, but you may want to. Because whatever I know of you, I can clearly say you are a normal human. And all normal humans love to act queer. Because there’s nothing called queer when a normal human is doing it. All this discrimination in the name of queer is so ill-founded. I do not like it a bit, to tell you candidly. I can see hair-smuggling-in-boot is already shining bright in your eyes.
Are you still not convinced about the connection between boot and hair? Do you need more explanations? If so, then I am happy to oblige. You see, I am always eager to disburse my hard-earned knowledge among simpler folks. Hair and boot are normal. You can smuggle and make money. That’s the lesson you learned finally. I am relieved and even proud of you.
Listen, I have a prophecy to make. Very soon you will see new arrivals in shoe fashion. Boots made of glorious hair. Yes. Now run off. Your face looks like you are dazed and confused. Get me a boot and hair ASAP.
Disclaimer: This is a work of satire and humour. Reader discretion is advised.
Wow. You just hit the bull’s eye with this prompt. And yes, several things do bore me, but that’s the point. Boring is my one true love.
I understand that this is something difficult for you to comprehend. Much like a black hole. You have heard of it, but you actually have no idea what it truly is. And whenever you hear people speaking about a black hole, you nod your head because you don’t want to look silly or stupid.
But let me tell you, here you don’t have to pretend. What I said is pretty simple.
I love boring. And it’s sincere. Why? Because it’s ishq wala love. (Yes, I know it’s typical Bollywood. Yes, the phrase is actually from Bollywood. And yes, they make trash movies. And yes, I have seen cringeworthy Karan Johar movies.) That aside, my point is: I love boring.
Let me explain like you are a stupid kid. Don’t mind it. You are just a stupid kid for the sake of knowledge, which I will shower you with. After that, you will become a Bournvita kid with an extraordinary mind. Yes yes I know all ads are lies, including Bournvita, but just to make you feel good, I said it.
So where was I? Okay. I was explaining why boring is my one true love. See, they say love is blind, and whatever they say is always, and cent percent, right. So I love boring. Why? Because love is blind. And I wholeheartedly accept that, in this case, I am blind pro max.
But there is another reason also. It’s slightly tragic, and I really don’t want to ruin your day. But since you insist, I will whisper it in your ears: I love boring because of Stockholm syndrome. See, boredom is my captor. You get it? No.
Sorry, I forgot, you are a stupid kid. No worries. You simply understand the first reason. Love is blind. Conventional, easy logic. (Except there is no logic.) Why go there? Why challenge conventional wisdom? We must submit ourselves to the altar of conventions. But that’s for another day.
Everything that bores me makes me more in love with boredom. That’s the gist of it.
Note: The idea has its seed in one of my posts I made on X some days ago. It reads: “Not having much to do(except reading and handling job related stress) or living by myself simply made me fall in love with boredom . Being far steeped into it, i fell in love with my captor. I realised what true ‘ boring ‘ is or like plato’s cave people i only know the shadows are real and there’s no reality other than what my ‘boring’ turbine plasters on the wall for me.”
Disclaimer: This is a work of satire and humour. Reader discretion is advised.
It’s din here. Around me. People are dealing in people and papers. Constant shuffling of footsteps. And then suddenly there’s quiet and then the noise resumes. It’s strange. And i think of the word queer. Such a fancy word, i think. Noise sometimes recedes , other times develops in a racket. Then someone came wielding a paper towards me, asking me to sign. It was not my domain, I replied. Some other colleagues took up the matter and convinced the man and he left. The previous din resumed. I wonder, how life would be without the constant racket of dappled sound. I considered many words while writing ( in this case, typing) before writing dappled but then i settled with it. Dappled sounds so literary. Again, to sound literary is a fancy thing. What a life. A good life is a boring life. That’s my proposition. I don’t think many would agree.
This is from my ongoing series on twitter with the hashtag #writingsubconscious
All posts in #writingsubconscious series are an attempt to record thoughts as how they come, as soon as they strike my mind. I do minor polishing after writing it like punctuations and spelling- correction. The writings may come across as abrupt and jarring at times. It may also have grammatical inconsistencies. I thank you for your patience. Have a great day. 🦋🌹💗💐
It’s like an ocean brimming on the edge… Receding and flaring, the cycle not daring to go quiet . The balloon-pants and flip flops, those tourists gawking around, they don’t see, they do not live , they say the repetition which has been fed to them by way of conditioning. It’s so beautiful. What nature what beauty. And they eat, drink and make merry. They do not see for seeing is an act of projecting and thereby confronting our mirror self. So we prefer not seeing and just go by the trite epithets, the hackneyed phrases and cumbersome, sterile praising. Ah! The ghastly lack of originality and inventiveness.
This is from my ongoing series on twitter with the hashtag #writingsubconscious
All posts in #writingsubconscious series are an attempt to record thoughts how they come, as soon as they strike my mind. I do minor polishing after writing it like punctuations and spelling- correction. The writings may come across as abrupt and jarring at times. It may also have grammatical inconsistencies. I thank you for your patience. Have a great day. 🦋🌹💗💐
Writing my mind, this is the exercise. Something and then it’s quiet. I pause to listen. When i concentrate fully all thoughts disappear. Where did they go? When i am not paying attention, they rattle like fake coins and seek quarrels with each other. Thoughts are not too distant from human relations. Anyway. The same scarcity and the fear. Can I spell it out but I don’t want to. Maybe naming it would magnify it. Embolden its looming presence. I just hope things turn alright. All my prayers to the god i always keep doubting and questioning. I lack the faith i know. But then faith is not something to be bought at the grocery store. I was raised in faith. I used to be a staunch believer. Then I felt forsaken, abandoned for no fault of my own. I started questioning, first diffidently then aggressively. My rational mind can see the truth now or that’s what it thinks. But a lot of questions remain unanswered. One of them is , why faith? I understand the psychological benefits one can derive from it but other than that, I see no reason. Perhaps my seeing is limited. Like all humans i have flaws. Many. And now I don’t know what else to write. What’s this exercise about? Will it come to any good? It’s just an experiment. Like everyone I have been pretty obsessed with the Epstein story these days. I am planning a short story on the topic. Yet i fear i would abandon that in the middle. I have a propensity to do that. I lack patience though I truly do understand why it’s the biggest virtue of all. Things are happening. We are the witnesses. To what end,we do not know yet. There will come a time when our words will add value to the future generations but by then we will be long gone. There’s no time to be wasted yet I feel burn-out all the time. Because there’s no time to waste. It’s such a pressure. I am feeling like I should abort this attempt, once and for all. But then living comes with its own perils. This is one. I am determined to take it head on.
This is from my ongoing series on twitter with the hashtag #writingsubconscious
All posts in #writingsubconscious series are an attempt to record thoughts how they come, as soon as they strike my mind. I do minor polishing after writing it like punctuations and spelling- correction. The writings may come across as abrupt and jarring at times. It may also have grammatical inconsistencies. I thank you for your patience. Have a great day. 🦋🌹💗💐
How difficult then how easy, just to write in rawness , the baring of your soul and still hiding something not pretty because the world doesn’t like ugly. Why ugly and why beautiful? What’s they seeking, what is they after? The lurking fear and the blooming mountains. The getty images and slicker bandaids. Who is being ripped, what’s being hushed up? Questions and questions and there’s reckoning on the wall. An estimate of your behaviour, you don’t want it, you want it to go unpaid. You couldn’t care less and all of a sudden there is a rattling in the closet. You stumble you fall. What you face is why you are aghast. A true thing of horror. Never beauty. Your deeds are not pretty. You blasphemed your way and trampled far too many to be let go. Your crime is even beyond punishment. But are you beyond redemption if you truly do repent? You wonder, you perhaps want to but you can’t. You are Claudius, you are far too steeped into your crime to ever repent. So you commit more. Your heaping deceit, your ghastly lies your pale demeanor. Your umbra dying a death for shame and still you can’t repent. For you don’t even understand what repentance is and what for? You are bewildered and lost and perhaps the path to lightways may be a remote dream for you, the dream and the longing with not even a tinder of salvation. You are not saved. You didn’t want to be . It wasn’t okay. And yet it was. You knew it.
This is from my ongoing series on twitter with the hashtag #writingsubconscious.
All posts in #writingsubconscious series are an attempt to record thoughts how they come, as soon as they strike my mind. I do minor polishing after writing it like punctuations and spelling- correction. The writings may come across as abrupt and jarring at times. It may also have grammatical inconsistencies. I thank you for your patience. Have a great day. 🦋🌹💗💐
Don't hide behind the big ugly gaberdine, Say the words! You are a writer, utter it.
If not, You are a coward, a liar and a fool.
What's this polish, polish The burnishing buckled shoe — Your acridity, your cutting words But a pitiful display of jealousy — You said it, you hid it I found it when i ransacked it.
In a world of morals You hide behind playful words If i say, You are a coward, a fool, a liar, I see a gleam in your eyes —
Your brilliant mind! Your industrious mania! Certainly, you hid in plain sight I found you When i ransacked your gaberdine.
But no, the nosy git that you are, you directly pose a personal question, shamelessly. For why not!
That’s been your pattern. We know it.
Anyway, I am in no way obligated to answer you. So I won’t.
But I can write for my readers. They are few and far between, but there they are.
I won’t talk about the most boring thing in the history of the world, the universe, and the black hole. I added “black hole” just for the heck of it, just to make the sentence seem complete. You see, whether I like it or not, certain obligations are still there. Like the obligation of writing.
See, I digressed, as usual. That’s my pattern. So I was saying… the most boring thing in the history of the world is love. And I won’t talk about it.
Should I talk of hate then? Is hate truly the opposite of love? I think so. Some people say indifference. But I disagree. The opposite of love is hate. You can be indifferent to boring things, but a certain evil and disgusting person,if he or she is closely related, will engender hate, a deep sense of loathing in you. You cannot remain indifferent.
However, I have come to understand that indifference is the best way to be. Difficult to practice, I know, but if you succeed, your life becomes jhingalala.
Now don’t ask what jhingalala is. Google or AI may give you some answers. I think I heard this word years ago in an ad… The ad was something, but the jingle went, “Something, something… life becomes jhingalala.” You may find the ad on YouTube.
You know what, I have sort of found my purpose in life, as they say. “They,” I mean, they. You see… language and its irascible nature.
A tentative purpose, I would say. But purpose, nonetheless. I have been musing upon it for so long. You do get answers if you keep mulling things over. Speaking from experience.
So that’s that. Let’s wrap here.
See you.
This is a work of satire and humour. Reader discretion is advised.
The vastly vast as deigned by noone, Only the moon and the sun and the earth And tawdry stars in the making, Capped by the humongous, Endlessly fascinating, Human brain.
Some accounts were kept Starting, firstly, in memory, then Falling upon fingers To calculators to the Super computers To mimicking of human intelligence The fancy LLM,or, as they say, The new dawn, The advent of AI.
The conundrum continues As God scarcely answers Or rather falters, Falling flat on its hind-legs And then on all four —
The vista enhances The vision shrinks Suffering endures Evil works at the optimum The good suffers acting Or rather barely acting in self defence —
The world of sun, moon, earth and the tawdry stars reclaimed In one gigantic swoop—
The mighty wins, However, immoral and unethical, The losers,though good,bite the dust Perishing in it.
Their empty threats so hollow That it didn't even echo From behind the veil.
Life and its stuttering paraphernalia Falter, rise Falter, rise In the eternal loop Of contrarian tension.
The painter of this loathsome painting Misses or remains at large Or simply doesn't exist People, however, the ignoramuses they were — Chose to worship it.