[I] SEEK NO MOKSHA

Rockstar (2011) - The End of Bollywood

2011-11-16T12:53:00.001+05:30

RockStar reminded me of a phase of Bollywood that produced utter bullshit like Neal 'n' Nikki. Bhupi and his Dramatics Club from college would have made a better movie with two bloody digicams, if they had Rahman for music, and maybe the 7 year old daughter of a doorman at a writer's office for story-screenplay-dialogue.
FUCK YOU Bollywood. I am done with you. You have not only bitchslapped the term 'Rockstar' and disrespected the lives of over a million artists and fans, you have also touched a new low in talent.

What budding SuperHeroFilm-makers can learn from Ra-One.

2011-10-31T11:57:00.002+05:30

You should not use slow motion if you have used strings to levitate a person, and travellators for his lateral movements. It only goes on to show that 50 percent of the hyped budget of the movie has been used for costumes (that could have been bought for a fraction of the cost from a fancy dress tailor running shop from a basement in Khidki Extension), post production/pre editing parties, and banquet hall bookings for the shoot.
You cannot say that it is not magic or projection, and then go on to call a (projected) holographic 2D image, the invention of the century. Unless you explicitly mean the 20th century.
Glee has far superior song mashups/medleys.
A Sci-Fi movie should not have characters named Desi Girl, Iski Lee, Uski Lee and Sabki Lee. Even Khalnayak for that matter.
The actors should not look like they have been forced to act and speak exactly like how a standup comedian would, if he were mocking them.
It is not a good tactic to show the protagonist’s OMFG reaction for the first 4 seconds of his love interest’s helpless 3m fall to the ground, 2 seconds for his turn-around-and-get-up-because-suddenly-travellator-flying-is-not-an-option sequence, and 9 milliseconds to reach and grab her comfortably so as to reveal that the scene was shot in 3 parts, the last one being..” Okay. I’m here, directly beneath her. You can now cut the fake rope knots, and lower her down (with the strings) enough to make it look like I caught her”. Physics dictates that a 3m fall for Priyanka Chopra should last less than a second, and if he had concentrated on killing the villain than to “save” his love interest from a back sprain, he could have saved atleast a few lakhs in INR and themselves from this bullet point, while sacrificing a few voyeuristic screams in a crammed up theatre in Greater Noida running on emergency power, since their Kundi connection from the SEZ lines suffered a major fault in last night’s windstorm.
When you choose a language/accent for your superhero, it is better to use Punjabi, because it is flexible and the people there are more likely to shell money to go watch it in the theatres, than Tamil, which is one of the most difficult languages to learn, especially just for a movie and more so when you’re pushing 50. To top it, the tech savvy people down south will probably feel that bandwidth to download a pirated copy is a better investment in an Indian Sci-fi than a ticket at the theatre, and the commute.
If you’re trying to work up the audience’s appetite before the interval, so that they eat more in the theatres, increasing the theatres’ and in turn your own profit, Noodles-with-curd is not a good choice for a family dinner scene.
It is better not to justify the pathetic title you jammed down your own throat, than to further humiliate game developers in India by calling it “Random Access Version One”. It does not make any fucking sense. It isn’t the same motherfucking zipcode as making sense. And G-One is closer to Gone than Jeevan. You should take notes from the life of a mildly successful filmstar by the same name. I am a Civil Engineer, so I do not know whether a resonance transmitter is a practical device. Assuming that it is, anyone in their right mind would agree that Hertz Amplifying Resonance Transmitter is pure douchebaggery. So here is what must have gone down in the meeting room of Ra-one director-producer-writer conference:Raman: If you say you are amplifying Hertz, you mean you are actually amplifying frequency, right?Gauri Khan: I guess so. Who the fuck are you?Raman: Did anyone call for a crate of Red Bull? I’m the delivery guy.
Gauri Khan: Set it there and fuck off.
Lowly paid Game Developer hired as a consultant: I think he is right.
Gauri Khan: No!!! We cannot name the “main part” of the game as FART: Frequency Amplifying Resonance Transmitter, now can we? So, it has to be HART: Hertz Amplifying Resonance Transmitter, I don’t care if it makes sense or not. And I forbid you all from using the eleventy trillion Cyborg name generator websites on the internet, (which would have done a better job than whoever came up with fucking HART).
// I cannot count the number of times old Bret Hart would have cursed his ancestors for carrying on with that name.//
I know it is difficult to sell to Indians without a couple hundred cheerleaders shaking their Ds around the product, but it is absolutely unnecessary that the owner of the company dress up like a magician and anchor the whole fucking show. Steve Jobs was allowed that because he did not dress up like a magician. Or maybe PC Sorkar, because he is/was (nobody cares) a magician.
When you convince the audience that the alter-ego’s son is so much a fan of the bad guys that his online identity is named “Lucifer”, you cannot, absolutely CANNOT, pull off his decision to play the good guy when he actually gets his hands on the game. And that flaws the whole fucking script of the movie. Also, a good father will always stay to watch his son’s first game, especially when he designed it with one aim: that his kid likes it, instead of almost kissing Akon, and dressing up as him while a molested Akon playbacks to him wooing his wife like they just met.
Your antagonist ceases to sound badass as soon as you decide on a Shakti Kapoor kinda voiceover for him. And it is inappropriate to show a son giving a red rose stem to his dad. And unsafe to drive home in a Beetle after being hammered drunk.
It is unwise to further confuse the audience of an already highly confusing movie like Ra-one, by cremating one Shekhar Subramaniam with Christian rites. And showing the wife pouring out the ashes of her husband when their hale and hearty son is standing right behind her, with a portion of his dad’s ashes in his hands. YOU CANNOT LET YOUR WRITERS GET CARRIED AWAY/SHITFACED at afterparties, so much so that they fuck up scene rewrites like these. I know there may be several explanations to this, but a fast paced movie like this, deserves quick judgments too, right?
You should be ready with explanations to questions like “How come Ra-One’s presence causes nearby cellphones to stop working, but he can chat up his enemy on his phone that’s pressed close to his own fucking brain?” right after the screening. And answers like “The script always demands a little relaxation in Bollywood.” will only fetch you further disgrace because in Bollywood, the relaxation usually favors the good guy.
Ra-one should not be a fucking dumbass. He is. I mean, why else would the script writer allow him to blow his cover to a kid? And after reading these 14 points above, you should not be surprised when I tell you that the kid, blew his greatest enemy’s cover with this trick: He SAYS that, yes, just fucking blurts it out, “Iska matlab hai Ra-One Aakashi ban gaya hai.” Paenchod, kiska matlab???????? Till 2 milliseconds ago, you were chatting him up thinking he is your dead dad’s best friend, and now iska matlab Ra one Aakashi ban gaya hai?
It is not a good way to create suspense if it makes your good guy look like a dumb fucking moron. Jenny and Prateek are hit by an excellent idea: If they follow the exact steps listed in the log (which must have been inside a Blackbox since it survived the mini-holocaust havoc that Ra-one wreaked on the laboratory whilst being careful enough to Shift-Delete Ra-One.Bkp before leaving the premises). There however is one problem: Between the two of them they share the IQ of a metamorphic rock. They couldn’t follow the steps exactly as written in the log, because if they would have, G-One would have picked up the FHART on his own and become a cheap imitation of Iron Man like his bad cousin Ra-One did. Instead, they forgot it, to bring “realism” into the movie and to fulfill the basic Bollywood commitment to its audience: that of wasting time. And if G-One cannot fucking pick up a lightweight plastic FART, how do you expect him to beat the crap out of Ra-One in the plot yet to unveil? The script writer’s answer to this: Because he is not “Activated” yet. Shouldn’t he then switch to Ra-One’s cellphone operator? They seem to activate everything within nanoseconds! Okay, now Prateek makes life a little easier for G-One and plants the FART in his chest. How did he? Wasn’t G-One inside the game till now? Because he is not activated? Or did he put it in the suit in the display case? In that case, he just let his fate in the hands of a mannequin. Well, good going, since mannequins are known to have a higher IQ than rocks.
You will get a better looking film if you cut out on five star food for your actors’ Chihuahuas and actually smash the SUV for scenes after the F1 accredited lady has rammed it into a dozen RCC barriers damaging JUST THE NUMBER PLATE, and cut super hard right turns without strapping on a seat belt. Btw, good presence of mind to strap your kid and yourself to the seat seconds after you have given up hope of not ramming into a double decker bus and just before you..wait for it.. go right through it, RIGHT THROUGH the monster of a bus. And a bus, just sitting there.. perpendicular to you…sideways. And without a scratch to anything but the windshield. Yay Volkswagen!
Don’t repeat what ensues after, as it is symbolic that we haven’t grown up since the days of The Mahabharata on TV. The antagonist, Ra-One, decides he’s better off looking like a ramen slurping gym teacher at a Chinese middle school than return to his own costume, now that his cover is blown. He’s okay wasting 20percent of his CPU power on a ski/theme since he thinks he can take on the fresh off the lab shelf G-One in the trash talk of muscle fights: they both show the audience that since they are in a parking lot, how many cars they can trash. Rules of the game: You cannot touch your opponent’s cars with your own flying cars. SuperfuckingLOL. Only one good thing comes out of this parade: Ra-One realizes he wants the 20 percent CPU power back.
You cannot make the good guy stand on the hood of the car, mysteriously delivering enough angular momentum to it that it keeps revolving right in the middle of the fucking highway, with a very comfortable angular velocity, for about half an hour while G-One lets out a fifteen minute fart (as evident from his posture), the kid touches his cheeks to make sure it’s tissue, and not Garnier’s Anti Aging Anti Death miracle, and Mrs. Subramaniam tries to battle with her decision of whether to laugh, smile or cry. So she sheds a smiling tear.

My tears were however real as fuck, as I ran out of my seat in the intermission straight to the parking lot 10 meters under the ground. I never looked back.
I am however hoping to read the other 20 odd things (that unveil after the intermission) from someone who showed more HART than I, and suffered through the whole quarter-to-three hours of cerebellum rattling motion-picture that is Ra-One.

Hard Day's Night

2011-10-19T22:26:00.001+05:30

I don’t know how to ease her pain. I want to, but I cannot even hug unless I am asked for one. She asks, “Why? Why? Do you want to make me cry?”

I rang the doorbell, my heart in my right hand, hugging a laptop in my left arm. I needed to listen to what he had to say, if he had anything to say. I wanted to hear him say, “You’re no son of mine. Don’t expect me to ease your pain.” I am not sure I even understand pain is. My mother knows pain. One of my earliest memories is one of me trying to ease the pain in my mother’s legs when she was carrying my brother. I wasn’t strong enough, so she’d ask me to hit her calves with a kitchen pin as hard as I could. She’s not the young bear-it-all woman she was until a decade and a half ago. I have grown up unapologetic. Part of it might be because my mother never let harm come to me. She grew old with one aim: Never to let the suffering ‘fate’ had imposed on the family pass through her to her two sons. She took it all. Never let a drop trickle down. Except tears, in private. While he sat there catering to what he considered family. Drinking and laughing with his sisters’ families. My mother and I were always serving cutlets to them, with an exhaust fan saving us both from choking in the kitchen. It was then that I swore against patriarchal families. And joint families. Nobody ever hugged my mother. Except, maybe, during the three times of conception.

I do not blame my upbringing. In fact, I am proud of it. I am proud of who I have grown up to become. I understand human emotions better than most of my friends. I can not, however, boast of my reactions to an emotion that needs a reaction. I had recognised very early in my day that I could either be a good person, or a correct person. It makes you think about how poetically Pink Floyd defined “The Wall”. It keeps you safe from all the atrocities, but also traps you inside. The choice is yours: Would you realise it on time, before the wall you build gets too high to be torn down, or be trapped behind it forever? You cannot always see all the edges of an object. And you can easily mistake very sharp ones to be non existent. And that ignorance will cut you. Because that’s their job. They are designed to fool you and cut you. The fleeting definitions of what they represent will make no sense. Also, they’d disappear before you arrive at a definition. Take for example, an angel who’s also a killer. Such romance in the idea. Such flickering hint of scent in it that it draws you to itself, by the sheer brutality of where it hits your imagination. It starts with a cry for help. You could ignore it, but how many times have you ignored a landline ringing? You could be in the middle of an offspring scarring fight with your spouse, but you’d still stop, or atleast pause it to answer the home line ringing. The cry demands an answer, similarly. Most times you give up mid way, assume a comfortable answer and ignore the reality just because it lies outside the realm of your imagination. You can always silence it with such an approach, but it will always come back. This time as a yelp. You will not have a clue as to what to do with it. And you will not realise how or when it turns into a scream, a deafening one, something very familiar to your ears if you’ve had anything like the experience I have had growing up. It appears to be coming from a source hidden in one of the invisible edges.

Don’t we all assume the shape our life will take whenever we reach a sort of a checkpoint in it, soon to realise that the door opens to a bottomless, disorienting free fall into an abyss lit by neon glow lights like the sabers’ in Star Wars?

The Dog days are here.

2011-01-24T17:38:00.000+05:30

:|

2010-12-26T22:50:00.000+05:30

Happy Birthday

2010-11-23T20:48:00.000+05:30

Disasters don't even matter anymore, I have collected so many.

The Irony o’ being holier than thou.

2010-11-04T04:28:00.000+05:30

He puts on a mask, so his stuttering lips are hid.

“What’s the point of talking if no one can see your lips moving?”

When he’s nervous, he cannot speak without a million indistinct and consequent pauses. He has a way out though. He releases his hands from the clutches of his baggies’ pockets. They do not need to be steered to the power button. As the system whirrs to life, they let his anger and dejection reach a level of hypnosis. And in that trance, he becomes who he is: A liar, a thief and mad. Something he can only be with the one he wants forever to be with. Astrology, time, her self and life may be against his union with her but he knows and believes that once they are juxtaposed, no force field in the world can take them apart. He fakes being good, honest and an open book to the world. To everyone he doesn’t give a rat’s ass to. But when with her, he becomes himself: a lying, conniving, insecure, ready-for-brawls prick that he is. There is no one in this world who shall take him like he is. Still he expects her to. He expects that her being so much like him, she shall understand. Unfortunately she ignores. He knows his tricks are no good for the ultrasmart face-and-mind-reading storm of a woman that she is. So he won’t try to fake. To the world, he’s a pussybanger casanova, to her, he’s a virgin, and so he honestly confessed, the harshest predicament of his alive time.

Scene two. There’s a lie, a hint of cheating and a dressing of nonchalance in his very presence. He cannot help it; he’s too engrossed reading her complaints against him. He always needs time alone with her to let him grow into her. Time she won’t allow. Time that has always been against his very existence and their very coincidence. It’s love, you untrusting, insecure, ever-misreading woman, it is. It is the way he expresses his desire to be yours truly: he being him. You want him to be who you love, he won’t learn it with distance, he will learn by experience. You, of all, he expects to mindread. But what-the-fuck-ever. Why would you even care? You have got options, people trying to be what you love. People trying languages. You could blindfold yourself and the first guy you bump into shall be your slave. He is just a little too naive to be his alter ego around you. Yes, he lies, he steals, he wrecks, hell, he even beat up undeserving lust. Atleast he does not fake. Our suspicion and disbelief is a turn on. Except when you brand it permanent. When you make it sound like there’s no go around, and no second chances. He has lost the battle already, hasn’t he, when you say ‘never’? Doubtful? Haaah. What else, when waiting for you kills.

He doesn’t think you’re insecure, ‘cuz he knows insecure.

He lies, and you can trust him to lie. But he would not lie about you. Ever, he is not that cold and strong. Neither are you. Love is supposed to be beautiful, even if not pretty and happy. You can tell he lies, because he does, for he cannot be who he’s not. Atleast not around you. So, if he kills for you, do not be surprised. Fuck him. Sideways. Twice. He doesn’t care. He loves you like the moon loves the tides. So do not be surprised if his actions entice a tsunami that engulfs only him, ‘cuz you left him alone, like everybody else.

Sitting alone, ignoring calls from his friends to come out and celebrate this Divali, inhaling drag after drag of poison a little less deadly than your love, there’s only one way out: Your love. True, not one twelfth of an year, the whole lot. Until then, read between the lines. Three of them.

Light Headed

2010-10-09T14:19:00.001+05:30

There comes a time when you are in awe o' something so fucking extravagant that you wish it didn't exist to make you feel puny. And then you thank it's creator.

"What the fuck would you know?", he asks. A wry smile escapes your smoke filled mouth, making you feel bigger, grander, expansive and stronger than the creator you so felt puny in front of.

That smell of air around you when you come out victorious. Suddenly, the thinkloop begins. A part of you wants to believe that the creator, the self proclaimed almighty is a fucking hack. Another part sees it as His divine plan to make you feel better about your disgusting self. There: you just lost all you ever dreamt of winning and did. But then you decide you earned it. You earned it.

Knock Knock.

Who the fuck?

I bought you a truck.

You did?

No you fucktard, but you didn't earn it. You blew it away!

The clown's smile speaketh

2010-08-12T00:55:00.000+05:30

Grizzly Wolves and their score.
You know what they call this phenomenon in my world? You don't? I won't tell you either.

Consciencefucking porcupines. Like how freakishly short your incarnation and my temper is.

Oh so now you want a hint. You see how you react when YOU need us? You do not give a fuck about how you never gave a fuck when he was down on his knees, wriggling like a de-fanged snake, for one little word.
But you know it, don't you? He's going to forget all humiliation and smile at the thought of another two hours even though he's pretty sure of what's going to follow. You DO like how a big L appears on his forehead, everytime.

Tonight, is toast, to what you never let be.
Tonight, is toast, to what sane minds could easily call cannibalism. You like the taste of fresh blood being pumped in your hands with the last few strokes of the heart you ripped out, again.
Cheers.

Seriously, don't fuck with me anymore. I hate losing stuff. Although I do it more than often, but this time, it will not be just me who'll regret it.

Did you read Dates? Did you read how I lost my most precious posession? I dont say my second most precious posession, because I say posession. Actually, be yourself and don't answer that 'cuz I fucking know what.

There comes a time when I pump like a motherfucking supernova. You clapped when the ladder broke (You get everything I say, I psycho hope you got this one line) I clapped when I burnt ashes. Not bones, ashes. Yes, I burnt ashes.

You will choose to ignore this too. Haha, how predictable!
We had koan problems in college. I solved each one on my own. Maybe none of them was as mystique as you, player. I love playing games I hate. God, I wish this was a game. You'd lose this one like I lost love, sweety, you have no idea. None.

For this one time, try staying true to you. If you like the results, extend.

Yours truly,
The clown.

Dates.

2010-07-22T00:10:00.000+05:30

Another change.
Another point for self psychoanalysis.
A day reminded by my phone, like a rose stem springing up from grounds charred by blazing trails.
A good two years ago and this is how I need to remind you.

Incoming Call. N. Count: Six. (1. CCD DC ND, 2. Chd to ND 3. DC ND 4. DC ND 5. LPN ND 6. Now)

**Fuck you! I want to hug you for 9 months to make up for every single second you've not been with me, kiss your lips until I die of ecstacy and lack of oxygen. ** Get a hold of yourself, Sumit, say Hi. **
Hi.
Saltwater profusing, "God, you're sweating" and moisturised hands reaching the fan speed knob. Sonic Boom. Vision impaired. She's centimeters away. The needle pricks must be real. Bite tongue. Make assumptions. Don't take eyes off. Now you're making her uncomfortable.
Drive, motherfucker. For this one time, be what you are! She's the round hole, you're the square peg. Turn down Korn drumming in your brains. No respite. Turn it off. Fuck! she's saying something. Like, real words live in front of you. Turn the damn thing off!
Then let me drive.
"You want to?". Claustrophobia. Red Light.
Yea. **Hug me before I put it in drive? Oh you're gonna just climb to the other side. Okay**
The glitch mob in my head. For most time. Except TATV for a few minutes and Arch Enemy/Cradle of Filth when that moustached guy in a silver TATA Safari gestured to you.
Teri maaa ki #%*%##%^%}.
Chase. Brake, or you'll kill her and her car smashing into the Xylo at the Dhaula Kuan Naraina stretch just ahead of the underpass.
"Thankyou for slowing down". She doesnt mean it, keep going/You're high, you'll kill her/ Focus on her, not that moment to get carried away. DL9C3***
Still undecisive. Lets get coffee. Lets cross the road together. Wow. Her password's your favorite word. How convenient. She's been with girls. She's been with liars twice her age. She's been with people who wouldn't be stones. You don't react because you're so disgusted imagining her in another's arms. If only it were for access to a baseball bat and all of them against me. But she won't be with you. You're worse than all of them. So, like always, seeing you once means You're done with until she finds a reason to get angry with you and mask her disappearance for a good part of the year. She wont lie, so she wont talk. **Stop fucking talking to yourself, talk to what you've earned **
Her kolhapuris are you. Broken.
Surprise her. Get laughed at because she cannot have caffeine.
Leave. Return to pay.
She's got to go see bhua. Doesnt she hate her? Doesnt she love me? So why this choice of hate over love?
I cannot let go. And i cannot tell her. I want to play the last 3 hours in a recursive loop. I cannot. Drive her back home. Not home. Close to home.
"Next kab milna hai? Sunday?"
Call her bluff. Say nothing.
Kal?
"I'll let you know"
Yea right.

I love you.
"Just Go!"

A long walk back, knowing all you had is now lost. Want to run back. You know where she lives. You're wrong. She won't do it to you again. You've earned her love. Need a smoke. She didnt even leave you that consolation!

Ride back. Thunderstorm. Phone screwed. iPod screwed. Drenched and you dont even know it. So lost in what just happened. Skid. Bang head on a stationary bus. Bruised bleeding knee. Favorite pair of jeans torn. Scooter busted.

Get up. Get back. Dry up. No new messages. Not even pretending we had a goodbye. So you pretend you had a goodbye. No use. She, like Tuesday's gone.

And that, I couldnt even remember dates of my JEE.

A page from the diary of a shattered MadMan.

2010-07-01T02:16:00.001+05:30

Preface/spoiler: This will be sad. And about me. Been long since I found a hole to whistle off the pressure building inside me. Breaking things and writing isnt anywhere near a vent to how low, alone and destitute i feel today. I will be gay for the next half an hour while I write. Because turning on the gay mode lets one totally carefree.

I have had people die around me. I have had people ignore me. I have had people chew and spit me out in attendance of a mob. But what I havent felt ever is this unwanted, this bloody paralysed, this unlucky, so fucking powerless. I, in fact, could use some pity, some company, a little help, or just a text rally. Really, I am that screwed. Or atleast i feel that way. I do not cry. Very few things can do that to me. To be very honest, I cannot remember the last time something killed a part of me. Except once on seeing a sea of dead people around a burnt bogie (in a photo at an exhibition) [60 ton angel falls to the earth]. I cried today. I needed a hug. My camera tried to give it to me. And so tried Ozzy. I couldnt hold them tears in. I sighed and sighed and drank bloodsoaked tears. Like unvoluntary turning of warewolves. With alcohol inviting me in for comfort. Good thing I could hold that off. Not because of conscious concerns, but I am going to have to burn myself in the sun at work in a few hours from now. And Love is hangover enough. Couldnt afford another one. I screamed out aloud. Unmuffled, not held back. Like I always do. But this time the scream ended midway, getting knocked out to one shot from Mr. Tears. Restlessness, my only drive, is also the only enemy sick enough to drive me (crazy). I loathe myself at having no reciprocal, no one with an evening reserved for me, at breaking down over an unreceived text, at hurting someone you always want tucked safe in your arms. I sound so lovelorn and shattered, i know. And i wouldnt deny it.

I need help.
I am MadMan.

Plastic Blood color my hands.

2010-06-28T21:00:00.000+05:30

It lay still in my palm.
Dedicated like a child to his favorite Joe,
committed like a receiver to its satellite,
punctual like gravity,
unsuspecting like just before a powercut.
I blocked out the few thoughts that could have enlightened and brought me out of a bursting vaccum hole of anger, impatience and destructive chimes ringing in the cerebrum.
Like Stairway to heaven played backwards.
Like class 7 when I made my favorite wristwatch meet a dishonoring death.
All that I had felt collecting the shattered plastic a decade ago must have flashed somewhere across my subconscious mind. But when you are so disgusted by your helplessness at "No unread messages.", you see nothing beyond a concrete floor and a messenger who never had his palm read. You cannot see the logic your subconscious wants to shove into the only active part of your brain.
I squeezed his neck until it puked out every single syllable of love it had ever brought to me. The sight calmed me down a bit. I fell right into the booby trap, I guessed at that time. The puppy chirp "I love you." killed every sentiment of hate, disgust and absence of logic. Almost. Like caisson. But the pressure rose a little above what the caisson could sustain. A little flash. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang bang.
The clutched hand rose too, with a lifeless machine trapped helplessly in it. Altitude heightened, disgust embraced, eyebrows twisted with half a sun that appeared mysteriously between them. I collected power from the spine and the heart, breaking their rhythm for a while, transferred it through the shoulders to the arms for a sling action synchronised with a loosening grip allowing it soak in some angular momentum. Rotations started. They must have.
With all that power near a rotating machine, you can die. And so I did. But I was not going down alone.
I pulled down my hand continuing the arc that had given it the altitude and was now going to take it away.
Click. Bounce. Click. Smash. Clicks. Bounce. One final end.
By the time my arm completed a semi circle I could see the smashed plastic following the same lines they left on my mind ten years ago. Only spread over a bigger site and hence, tougher to collect, if this time I intended to immerse myself in guilt by doing that, that is.

The first rule of war is to never kill the messenger.

Paranormal Activity Original Ending (Different From the DVD Screener)

2010-06-21T01:22:00.003+05:30

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XuTsqNDBC4I&feature=related

One Free Heart.

2010-06-06T00:35:00.000+05:30

Blatant projections on a bright screen.
Almost silhouttes.
Ugly anger that doesn't let go.
Smart corrolaries that only you understand and hate to explain. Not
because you are selfish, but because either it's too much effort, or
nobody would be interested.
Divinely pure hate that refuses to cede.
No explanations for why you get tongue tied.
None for why it's such shameless aggression for you to not curb
yourself against cheesecake.
Ramble on and you're talking only to yourself.
Reverend's dick stuck half way into your ear. So you hear ezekielly
unchallenged Fuck-Yous.
Link your sports.
Your music.
Your drifts.
Your highs.
Link your self somehow, so you can tempt her into betraying a few
words out of that coup-inspiring mouth.
Ridiculous expectations of one touch.
So you feel close. Close enough to feel an unhindered flow of energy.
You even fucking earth yourself, half expecting a shock to bring
yourself back on the ECG monitor.
Far enough to resist the temptation to trespass.
Sleeve tearing jump over the fence.
Back on the other side.
You were there.
You made sure she knew.
You call her, not expecting her to answer.
So you hang up undialled.
Type it all out.
Dial.
Ring.
Halfway through, it's all over.
Remember a few lines.
Remember pointing it out. Remember not to reply.
Remember revenge.
Remember not to fall for the puppy chirp.
Fail at all this.
Try out sigma.
Synonymous to Sum.
Fail again.
Disgust yourself.
Wrought as iron.
Feel like venom, like motherfucking riddance of the black suit.
Want to be like Batman.
Epic Fail.
Try not to hurt.
Feel guilty at receiving a few words.
Humiliation.
Contempt of your own existence.
Merciless dehiring of safety equipment.
Stay, hold on clutching to the remaining few prestressed strands of sanity.
Write half phrases that remind you of an absent mind.
Choice between impure love and pure gaming.
Design a GPS to locate and pinpoint where your mind is.
Forget calculations.
Regret having learnt so much.
Regret sending away a whore untouched.
Regret your 23rd birthday.
Sample absinthe.
Snort chemical.
Insert a voided needle.
Lose yourself.
Lose your self.
Lose track and hope.
Sing marbles.
Dance melody.
Blow a whistle.
Roll stones.
Kill grass.
Fuck venting out.
Burn inside with all built up aggression.
Black serpent on your cup of tea.
Spring loaded auto launch medium range weapons.
One bullet in the magazine.
Bang on target.
Blood splatters.

And so I sleep unwilling.
Proud owner of one free heart.

BlogPot

2010-05-16T21:00:00.000+05:30

BlogPot is my new favorite time management tool. With its latest release, it enables you to post stuff to the world whilst sitting on your pot. It easily defeats non interactive activities you might currently involve yourself in to look efficient. For example, my so-called dad prefers to take The Tribune stuck mercilessly within his armpits to the toilet. The fact that it has water (I so hope) drops at strategic places when he comes out every morning of the last 2 decades has played an important part in "The Indian Express" being my all time favorite newspaper.

Anyway, i know he read very little or nothing at all because i saw him reading it atleast twice outside the closet. I mean, c'mon, who has to read the same news thrice? So, as much as he pretended to save time before work, it really just decreased his, or let's face it, anybody else's shitting efficiency.
And no, magazines aren't any different from newspapers in this regard.

Bottomline, everybody wastes time in their toilet, not to mention the total lack of interactivity.
Dogs waste time too, while they poo. Petty rhymes aside, What they do when they take a dump is not very out of the way of what they do when not pooping: stare at bitches, lust over the sleekest poles and look out for stones ( or other projectiles) hurled at them. Not great time management either.
Men down, dogs down. I have never mustered enough courage to try and find out what women do with their free time on the pot. I stop guessing at "File nails". Because who wants to visualise this: the girl of your wet dreams excuses herself (without ofcourse, noticing you following her to the door, in which case it will be a gore nightmare instead) and you hear her farting (Oh yes women, we know your kind farts too) alongwith her toilet time management activity which may be as stunning as the aroma and symphony of their farts.
Well, basically you get the point and the basis of the need for the invention of BlogPot. That's what I do. I blog when I push stuff out of myself.
This one was pu(bli)shed with my left hand because my right hand holds squares you do not want to know the fate of.

PS: Cutting it short because i guess i have nothing left (pun intended).
PPS: I request others who intend to BlogPot after reading this to not get carried away and refrain from PhotoBlogging. It's preferrable to use a device that doesnt include a camera.

The bliss in indifference.

2009-12-25T23:22:00.002+05:30

It’s amazing how your blood can thicken within one day of happily succumbing your love to ego. Try one part grease kneaded in 4 parts cement. By volume. It’s like being caught in the hydraulic chamber of a robotic arm. You cannot afford rest. Or cohesion. Adhesion, intimacy and the likes follow. Strike one.

You just got served marinated flesh from the saddest part of your heart you no longer have. Standing at an incompetent sounding 35 feet from ground level, maintained mostly by wet, loose and backfilled earth, you let go the fear of height. But once you’re up there, you want to sit your ass down. Live glory. Your pessimism and non belief in love will spell your doom, just in case you lose balance or slip off a raiser.

Adrenaline measurement can go to hell, thanks to the highly viscous blood running in and out through your veins and arteries.

You remember the only day you held that needle from the haystack in your palm. So proud of it. Too happy to speak. So ecstatic, you came across as uninterested. Bad management has led to a beep. The needle wants to slip away. Maybe because it thinks it didn’t interest the palm enough. Maybe because some expectations went down the drain, without so much as an orgasm. Maybe because the palm did not deserve, nor did the needle believe in second chances.

Half a hug, half a kiss, half a heart, complete door shut.

Stepping on the pedal, Strike Two.

Thus begins the best part. The part where you cannot rely on safety nets below to catch you. Because one wrong move will strike you out. It’s like a loner’s life playing back right in the middle of the pitch. This is home. Far away from ailing grandmothers, from shacks where coffees turn into hard drinks, from ecstasy pills deleting 3 hours of sanity at a time, from litmus papers turning red, from coincident birthdates.

You climb down the thirty five feet, backpack hung on one shoulder, switchtasking between landing your foot on the correct raiser and averting thoughts of needle pricks you miss so fucking much. You jump off the remaining two raisers to end an accomplishment. You stared vertigo in the eye. Now you dig. Maybe even hire an excavator. When you’re done, you’re appalled. THIS cannot be the bottomline. This, at most, can only be the face, not the source of it. This love is real. And it could have bore fruit. Strike Three.

You’re out. The needle could well have jumped across to someone else’s haystack. She thinks that’s where she belongs – lost in a haystack where she cannot see emotion and therefore, danger. The needle cannot afford to care about the palms that could ever have found her. Her defense mechanism cannot let her.

You resort to friends of sort. You dive in their worries and feel important by making them happy. You drown yourself in it so you cannot hear anything more than the sweet melody silence can play. You’re in awe of the bubbles of your breath. Bubbles that this needle cannot prick.

Just as you thought you did not care about the lost piece of your heart, Shun sounds that other gate too. Your friends are dead. All one of them.

Incredible feeling. Indifference, my sweet abode, welcome back. You feel lighter and your conscious allows this time. Because you know the sources of this feeling. One, your heart weighs you down a little less because of that lost piece. Two, the fact that cigarette smoke is lighter than oxygen. Three, the buoyant force of water caught between your ass and the bottom of the bathtub.

Bliss is this.

Final Lap.

2009-09-16T14:31:00.003+05:30

When in Bullet Time, you have to steer corners at an angle 50 degrees lower than you normally would. That is how the game is played. But what's interesting to note is that when you're playing this game, your senses are jammed with insecurity. That the whole world is plotting against you, your car, and Mia. You're leading by a good 4 seconds when unexpectedly, the final right turn has been made sharper in the final lap, and a shortcut introduced. So that while you panic seeing it and pull off a fucked up bullet time turn, the others take the shortcut to glory, the pink slip, and Mia's pants. Then you get expressive. Unlike the last decade of your life, where you have had to make do with chocolate truffle. If you're anything like me, you're already in the whirlpool of love. You'll press the circle button to restart. Your life has been completely changed by this game, and you cannot let this go now. You'll kneel to play until you win. And then you'll play some more. When Mia's yours. Today, I feel like taking it off the track, into a lay bye. I want to get out but Mia's shapeshifted into a seatbelt that locked on the last corner I cut. The worst part is that I believe she doesn't lie and that I'm not just another thing she can or cannot do without. It had been a good year without all this adulteration. This, my friends, is the final lap. Everything else, is dust and air. 9XM chooses this time to play Dilli-6. I vow to be happy. Goodbye, Delhi.

The devil that is Gurgaon/Corporate.

2009-04-26T17:47:00.001+05:30

I’m going to be very clear and straight. I hate Gurgaon. In the eight months that I have spent in the corporate, and here, a devil has taken over the most integral part of me. I have stopped thinking about us – my people. I have stopped caring; I have become indifferent and cold. It’s like a machine running my conscience. There’s a reason I call this machine a devil. It’s because of an unforgiving behavior like that of quicksand. Your fight to excel inevitably becomes your struggle to survive. You cannot dare take a friend’s hand or you’ll drag him in too. To me it seems like a classic case of giving up. People come here from places that taught them to care, cherish what they had. But the hunger for success and climbing the ladder becomes so primary, that they stop wanting to care. The tendency of going back home every weekend dies out eventually. Maybe because we’re cold, maybe because after a 5(6) day week, we calculate that spending time, money, energy and morality at the local sports bar is more profitable than the shackles of mumma’s love that is bound to make you look weak when you don’t want to leave heaven for hell, but its Sunday night already. You want to throw up on this thought. You try to make Friday (Saturday) nights at Howzzat! /TGIF/CTC look like fun nights. You make yourself agree that you’re having the best times of your life because you’d rather be wrong and happy than alone. When in fact, this is the best..err.. The only thing you’ve got. Last night after very minor resistance from my end, she left the place. If I were in Chandigarh, I can bet my balls, I’d never have let that happen. Now I realize I have no remorse. I like that I snuffed the old me and had a great time. The point is I never, for the whole night, thought how she must have felt on driving back home alone (hell, she didn’t even know the way back!), what she went through facing her dad who had clearly stated if she was to come back, she better not be alone. I just focused on my share of the fun. If I say it wasn’t me, but the devil that is Gurgaon/Corporate, it’ll be no better than the time Ross tugged his weenie between his legs and cried, “Mommy I’m a girl! Take me with you!” The stars have set on that feeling of temporary joy as I like to call it. Single Serving Joy, if you ask Chuck ‘The Cult’ Palahniuk. You look at your soul. Fluid. The color of water. And now I can say I’ve been there. The devil is so well rooted now, that you are addicted to the pain. What you’ll never do is, make an effort to uproot this phenomenon. Because that would not be routine. And you could get late for office. And then you’d have to stay longer than the stipulated 3 hour overtime that pays zilch. Which means you’ll be late for the Friday nights or maybe not even make it at all. Now that’s a terrifying thought. You miss your only high point of the week, where you get to have fun at the cost of a friend’s. So basically, don’t try to get off road, carefree, childlike and pure. It’s like Rock music. You may deem it to be the crudest form of expression; it’ll always stay a symphony of the bad guy up there. I’ll get to the point I made in the beginning. All this text is about me. 90 percent of the sentences start with an ‘I’. That’s what Gurgaon does to you. What corporate does to you. Oh wait, Should I tug my weenie between my inner thighs and scream now? The good thing that has come out of all this is that I have finally promised people around that I’ll deliver better, on time and with the minimum damage possible. I am hopeful. Are you?

The weird and the complex. They don't go out.

2008-07-18T13:27:00.004+05:30

XY:it's weird,u know. XX: what is? that ur a close match to the guy i wanna go out with, nd still we're not together? XY: NO. that's complex. so complex that i'd rather sky dive than try to think of an explanation for it. pataa ni. XX: it's nt that complex. think bout it nd tell me tomorrow. Abhi, I gotta go.

You know what? I think I knew the reason already, but i dint say it because of the only reason I don't say things: I wasn't sure. She gave me one night to think about it. I could be sure. Although I knew I had the whole next day to "Think about it". But it was agony i couldn't prolong. Down to the reason, however. I have always had this feeling that bandiyaan think I'm over ready for a thing as delicate as a relationship. That I'll smother her if we go out. That the intensity will ruin both our lives. They're right, and not because they're ladies, but because I agree. But the point is not why I’m not ready, or over-ready. The point is why would she hold back when she's been talking to a guy she could go out with, for so long. This was what I gave my whole night to. I couldn't zero in on the perfect answer, but I short listed 4 most probable. PLEASE REMEMBER: Even God can't fathom what goes on inside a woman. But ‘He’ tried in the following lines :D 1. Pyar ke side effects She's been committed passionately, completely, and religiously once. And she's been out of it. She may deny it, but I think she's scared of her next boyfriend being what her ex was. She doesn't want to dig into ice cream tubs again. Even though they're low-fat. 2. The career woman in her holds back. It's not love I see. It's like she can forecast a flowchart: Girl goes out-is happy-but not focussed-1 year later, she ends up heartbroken, and not an IAS. The thought scares her so much that she goes Hollywood...If the guy can't wait an year, I’ll wait. For another guy :P 3. All men are fuckin' pigs. When you're talking to a girl for over 2 years (1 yr out of which she's been single) and still not going out, bells ring. And if you're one of her very very few male friends, the logic is inevitable. It has to be one out of: 1. All men are fuckin' sex starved pigs. 2. You're her gay teddy bear. I'd turn my suicide note into real, if it's the latter. Right now. 4. I'm not just there. And never will be. I started this thing with a dialogue about me being a "close match....". Is that the catch? I mean there's always been this "you-are-just-a-friend-sumit-and-I-want-to-talk-to-you (but-ur-so-ugly-I've-never-ever-thought-of-going-out-with-you) thing running up and down my brain cell membranes. Is this true? Is it true that maybe I AM her gay teddy bear? *wide-eyed-can't-believe-it-expression*

Wanted Girlfriend. Alive.

2008-07-17T22:29:00.002+05:30

Contract Conditions - Any out of: hire/lease/rent/any other (Please Specify) Prerequisites/ Qualities I am looking for : 1. She be talkative as hell. I am not much of a talker, and that’s because I stutter and feel embarrassed to open my screwed up mouth when I talk. I’d be glad if she did most of the talking. I know it’s selfish and all, but hey, check out the picture alongwith! 2. She be funny. Actually all I need is that she be having a good sense of humor. My PJs can be the worst level of sickness, and if you can’t handle it, you’re gonna bail anytime. I won’t want that. 3. She be practical. If you need an explanation for this, you’re not her. 4. She NOT be gay. Wasn’t this, like very obvious!??! 5. She should NOT demand a reason for every, actually, make that “Any” kiss. I’m a lip virgin (Crash… there goes my popularity) and I’m not sure of what advances a man has to make to successfully start a kiss. I’d be grateful if I had lessons on it. And if I have to give out a reason why I wanna kiss you at the restaurant, I’m expecting myself to bail out. 6. She should NOT feel molested if I swear. Ofcourse I’d be a dick-head if I swear on her. I grant her full rights to embarrass me in public if I ever do that. I don’t do that. But if I’m like fucked up and all, and let out scary swears, I expect her to be in the zone and not make it the break-point of our contractual (or otherwise) relationship. 7. She should NOT be a timebomb Being a bomb is cool. It’s sexy. But being a timebomb.. I mean like “I gotta go. Got some work. I can be here only till 12.” Then its awwwn-awwwn-awwwn [I write alarm sounds like that]. Seriously, if you’re with me, be with me girl! If I’m boring you to blast, tell me before u blast. I’d not do that the next time. 8. She should NOT ruin my life for not quitting smoking. I can handle rants, I can reason my way out of rants. But when u sound like I’m on the penultimate stage of cancer, it doesn’t make an impact. I’d not even listen. I’m not kidding. 9. She be comfortable with comfortable silences. You know those times when you are on a date, and you have a lot to talk, or don’t have a lot to talk, but you would wanna spend a lot more time with him/her. You should be able to do that. Without feeling the urge to constantly blabber on. 10. Sex* * Conditions Apply : The 10th point is applicable only when the contract is “hire”. ‘Cuz in that case, I’m paying for all of this (thru dates, or cash! It’s the same for me.), so I might just go shed it. What’s the big deal? If I can stoop down to this level. I might just stoop down a little bit more. IN THE END. Actually all I stated above isn’t a requisite at all. If you can mean the magic words, and say them. Only if I could be wanted. Only if I mattered. Only if I were special to someone and reciprocate. How despo and unwanted am I? Comments invited. If I din’t force you to read it, that is. Hehe.

My only friend, The End.

2008-07-07T01:07:00.011+05:30

This is the end, my only friend, the end – The Doors.

No, this doesn’t go out to Chetan Bhagat, and I’m not popping one sleeping pill with every fullstop I add to this text. I have a different way of living, well in this case, dying. I have always loved smoking a Cuban, and sipping away at an on-the-rocks peg of Chevas Regal, while I write. Or do anything else. I was short on cash, [no, that’s not a reason I’m saying bye-bye to the world] so I have to make do with vodka and cigarettes today. And No, you can’t kill yourself by sipping vodka and smoking cigarettes while writing. But that’s not all I’m doing. I have a jar of Benedryl, and a half full (this is a sad text, so I should have said half-empty, but what the fuck, right?) bottle of vodka. Yes... there’s the twist. But I have a plan B. If I’m still conscious after finishing this text and my jar-bottle combo, I’ll go the old fashioned way. I have always been stuck between choosing the ultra modern or the uniquely classic. So, here’s my suicide letter to the world. That is, if anyone cares. Hello World, I am Sumit Sharma, and I have to tell you this, cuz no-one else would. No actually, no one else could tell you my name cuz no one else knows. I’m that guy who would become famous, but only in his own house, and for a few seconds, and only when something goes wrong. And when it concerns me, it has usually gone wrong terribly, and irreversibly. So I seldom have any comebacks, or excuses. I usually accept my punishments and my boycotts as they come. I have no regrets at this point of time, but that’s always been the case ever since my dad regretted wasting sperm 9 months before I was born. Yes, I am hopeless, and I know it and I accept it. I have to, it’s not like I have a choice you know. If you’re ugly, its right there… you have to accept it. The truth is shoved in your ass-like-face every morning by your own mirror. Or anyone else’s, doesn’t really matter. It’s the same with me. If you’re hopelessly pathetic, the world is your mirror. Everything you do, or try doing, or suck at doing, shoves the truth back into your fucked up brain. So after 21 years of taking that shit every single day, from every single one of your imaginary peers, (Yes, I have no friends. Yes, not even online.) and the things you bang your empty head into, you kinda get used to it, and you accept it. As I said, you don’t have much of a choice. It’s shoved right into your face. I have faced reality for 21 years now, and I could have gone further and taken it for the other 2/3rd of my life too. But I think I’ve just taken the wisest decision of my life today. I’m going to end it. Not the decision, my life. It actually is an attempt at making people notice. I want to voluntarily, and happily end my life, because no one ever has done that I guess. You’re either killed, or you kill yourself being fed up of something you can’t take any longer. Or you die naturally. You may be happy when you die naturally cuz old-age seems really fucked up to me, but I don’t think that’s voluntary. So, my point is… I am doing what no one else has ever done before… Killing myself, and being happy at the same time. No, I don’t expect Guinness Book of World Records to register my feat, there’s another way people could notice me. I feel so conducive to attracting rejections, that I’m pretty darn sure Life’ll reject my resignation letter too. But there’s nothing much It can do about it, cuz by the time it rejects it, I won’t be alive, and hence, out of its jurisdiction. Without a valid NOC from life, I guess, my after-death thing… anti-life, or whatever [Death isn’t the opposite of life. Read my previous post for that] will reject me too. So I’m left hanging at a point, where I can enjoy my half alive-half dead-but-still-not-a-zombie existence. I could then take a print out of this letter, and flaunt it to the world at how cool I am. And maybe then, GBWR will register my feat. PS: I’m not serious with anything I wrote above in the last 2 paragraphs, it was just an example of how hopelessly pathetic my brain, and my chain of thought is. Sincerely Fucked Up, Sumit Sharma.

TailorMade Hell

2007-08-17T13:47:00.001+05:30

I have always wondered, (until I believed in all this crap, that is), where the directors of these low budget movies get their idea of hell as they show in ‘em movies. Lakes of Fire, Giant gunpowder balls that didn’t fit into the canon mouths hanging from thorny iron ropes ready to blast through you, as a sign of warming up welcome, swearing in caucus voices, an enigma of neverending adventure that surrounds you, and for the more creative ones, a golden thrown with its legs melted from being too long in the lake.

Later that I grew up, and didn’t believe in judgment day, and god and stuff, I still found myself using words like hell and paradise way too often. I was afraid of being called a hypocrite, so I thought it over. Hell for me isn’t the regular fiery area where the bad folks go when they die (-Nirvana). It, I believe is a place designed, created, and tailor-made to your own perspective. And to give it a real touch, unlike the movie–hell, you may have to go there even if you don’t deserve it. On the brighter side, it is not a permanent gig, living in there. People who choose to go there, are usually the ones who feel they deserve torment and find it the apt place to torture themselves without showing off.

These people make me proud of my definition; they make it the word for extreme self-malice. I even thought of a logo for the place… Razor Blades and water-filled balloon. Red Water. No, Black. Whatever. It is a place of null and void. Something that doesn’t exist. Or maybe a place of non-existence that does exist? Or of oblivion that I now nothing of.
Sahil ke 2 words : Pataa Nahin
Inspiration and Current Song: Lake of Fire, Nirvana

Oh and yea… Vande Mataram

Ziddi…Ziddi…Ziddi… Hum Bhi Yahaan!

2007-08-06T17:45:00.001+05:30

Date: August 5^th, 2007
Venue: My place
Occasion: We dint intend the Sunday to be Friendship Day, but it was some fuel to our plans.

Almost an year, and 5 reschedules later, we were finally getting ready to launch for one destination that had always eluded our gang... The fort pictured in one of the most inspiring movies (for me, atleast), Rang De Basanti.
For the uninitiated, the movie has shots of two different forts.. one is situated in Jaipur, Rajasthan. This is the RDB gang’s Classroom.
The other one, and my personal favorite, is the one where Ajay (R. Madhavan) proposes marriage to Sonia (Soha Ali Khan). This one’s in Doraha, Punjab.
Friends confirm about reaching my place, the plan is all set, and Deepak calls Jitin.. he aint coming. Whaddufuck, must have been the unanimous scream. I call him back while I wait for Jitin, Mohit and Arjun. After 1.52 minutes (that’s how long I can go with guys, with girls its an entirely different story, hehe!), I knew he won’t come. So it was Jitin’s car selected to bear the brunt. :D
Half an hour later we were riding Dakshin Marg after fueling up.
The journey showed me shades of Punjab, I remembered my roots, and finally decided I do miss being in Punjab among all the love and affection. Where everybody’s a brother or an uncle. [And the ladies are stunning. ;)] 2 hours and some minutes later, we were entering the fort from the rear entrance. With Khalbali hai Khalbali filing its bass in our eardrums, we knew the spirit of friendship, patriotism and more… was gonna gush into our body, mind and soul. So it did.
I could picture the fort’s magnificence as it would have stood in the times before independence. It did retain its magic till now. I’ve gotta rush right now, so I leave u with the pics.
Enjoy and Envy!

Black

2007-07-28T02:30:00.001+05:30

Today might not be the day. Maybe even tomorrow isn’t. But a day will come when the sun will set on your temporary joy. You’ll be wasted. There is no hope. There’s no light emanating from the little space below the cracked wooden door that shuts you off from the brighter shade of everything in this world. You’re ineligible for anything good. Your platter does not match the ones accepted in the society. You wont be served leftovers. You’ll fight among others like you to gain control of the fanciest trashcan. The one with the maximum amount of leftover food. So that you can take a day off when others of your lot fight it out once again. Your situation will change your character. You will no longer share. You will no longer wish luck for anyone. You will no longer be noticed. You will no longer be called. Not when you’re sick. Not when you’re dead. Your bones will be corrupted.. right down to the marrow. You’ll feel your head, for once. Fucked too long. With used grease and cheap lubricants. You will watch words like friendship and care tear by the seam and not shed a tear. Your aims lie in dreamless sleep. Your brain echoes of chemical brothers. Your thoughts are bashed back at your own mind with tons of illusion. You live in constant denial of the true.

And you remember the day you died. People consoled you. Their words of “Its just a phase, you’ll get over it” scar your inner skull. Like needles screeching metal.

She left you standing. She killed you. You died. But the bullet missed your heart. She should have been more careful. For the heart is capable of unimaginable horrors beyond your wills, your perceptions, your sight, your love. Her only mistake.

A friend is sorry

2007-07-19T18:55:00.000+05:30

Love and Hate are two very similar feelings. While hate blinds you from something until its past, love pushes you forward so fast that you can’t see it until it’s past.

A friend is someone who helps you out in both the situations. After all, they’re just emotions that describe petty likes and dislikes. But they’re both similar and dangerous. I’d kill in love, and I’d kill in hate. Hell, you’ll say, I’d even kill for friends, so my personal opinion doesn’t matter. But how far is your truth from mine?

Anyways, I’ll rather be back on the point. Well, a friend, apart from being a savior is much more. He’s the one who helps you imbalance the equation between hope and its perfect antimatter, disappointment. This friend would care for you in the day, and continue in the night. He’ll repeat this until your world is dismal no more. I’m weird, I agree. I can be the most protective, and possessive friend. I can even expect to be cared for. Shame on me! Whatever happened to “tu karam karta chal, fal ki icchha mat kar”!

This friend is sorry for not speaking to a friend today, for he didn't know what to say. I just want to say I care for you a lot more than I can say. He’ll stay away, and never bother you in any way, and all this friend can say today, is that this friend is sorry. Sorry for whatever I did wrong, although I wish that whatever was known to me.

GooseBumps - 2

2007-07-10T18:21:00.001+05:30

“If you smellllllllllllllll(aaao) What The Rock, is Cookin’! ten-den-nannenanemmm ten-den-nananenemmm” Sounded the echo when I entered the green and white painted room. Making a point to jump up and touch the metallic plate on the hood of the door, saluting the spirit of the words etched on it - IX-B. Who gave a damn about what Section A guys would think about me, as long as the girls thought I was “cute”.

Hi-5s, 3D flips, Hip-hop salutes, and I joined in. Atleast 6 minutes before bus no. 7 docked in. For I was another one of the despos vying for the coveted seat next to her bench. Which one was gonna be ‘her’ bench today? 3^rd one. Na yaar.. kal bhi 3^rd pe baithi thi aaj pakka 4^th. Aur waise bhi jab 4^th khali hai to 3^rd pe thodi baithegi. Alright, 4^th one I put my money on. And the bit of money I am left with now can be traded for the 3^rd seat if she takes that one again. ;)

I hear a whisper near my neck, “Saale abhi dekhiyo sumit kya kya laya hoga uske liye. Ekdum paagal hua pada hai AQ k picche”. My mind was on a high tide of thoughts, and I was tryin’ to surf. 24^th August, the grey-blue card, the wordings on it that were so very true, the mixed feelings of whether I should be happy that the name I had given her was catchin up, or angry that people were thinking I wasn’t serious about her. AQ was the result of my insanely desperate attempts to ward of the moral dangers against her that seemed so disturbing that I lost many a friends in the process. A fight, verbal or physical, was a daily routine 2 years ago.

[[Flashback: Enter ladies after holidays into a new grade... Class 7^th B. The physical signs of adolescence were clearly visible. And boys will be boys. Girls were getting called by names they won’t have a slightest idea as to what these abbreviations expanded to. Or maybe they did. I’d never know. Names I would rather not reiterate here, hehe, were flowing all across the first 3 months. Anyone could have guessed she was the next target. Fights were picked, tu itna senti kyon ho ra hai saale.. teri sister hai kya? The concept of love, I could see, hadn’t caught up this early. And as they say, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I did precisely that. Suggested a name for her. Attitude Queen. Now I look back and think, I did act smart when I had to ;)The more vulgar names were reserved for the bold-er girls in class. I had managed to save her. And I am glad I dint continue fighting, for then people would have needed a new name for me. Haha]]

Amongst all the turmoil in my head, and the fact that I had been stripped off my monitor-ship of the class, I no longer had the advantage of being able to go over and talk to her, no questions asked. I had to wait till lunch. 4 sessions of 40 minutes each had never lasted one full brain-damage for me. Today my arm was not aching of all the “Ma’am, the writer means this as a pun, doesn’t he. So why did blah blah blah ”. Anyhow, managed to reach lunch without any new punishments. The impression was still there. But so was some cruel misunderstanding. I couldn’t think of a better day to clear up the mess than this one. I wanted her talking to me again. The Science lecture got over with her warning us about how difficult this time’s cycle test ‘could’ be.

Thankyou lord for the world so sweet,
Thankyou lord for the food we eat,
Thankyou lord for the birds that sing,
Thankyou lord for Everything.

Amen!

And as I turned after plucking out the card and the rose paper wrapped gift, she had zapped off. Out of the class. With her friends screaming “Yea!” and “Treat!”

I wasn’t going to barge in on her good times with friends and spoil her mood for I wasn’t sure the card was (in her words) ‘cute’ enough to clear up the misunderstanding. I needed time. And this wasn’t the place either. I wont be slapped in the school playground, and that too in lunch break. :D

Waited with heavy hands and a light tummy. Saving the card from prying eyes, prankster brains and lightening quick hands. And the school bag was the dumbest place to put it in. I didn’t any place more than my own hands to take care of her (card). Roaming around without a motive in corridors and stairways, I missed playing maaran-pitti today. And the foil ball looked so juicy today. I could have beaten the crap out of Sahil today. But the only thought that was keeping me from hiding the card in my most trusted flowerpot of 3 years and running over to play was that maybe somehow she comes to know of my devotion to her, and my job becomes a little easier. Haha, I know, I was into a lot of hindi flics those days :p. and anyways, I wanted to be in my best dressed days when I handed it over to her, and most importantly, I dint want to be smelling rotten.

So here I was, standing alone, faking the turmoil inside me on the outside so people thought I was very busy and not ask “Ssup dawg?”

The Sherpa never looked this sweet ever earlier as he walked past me with the dong in his hand, eyes on his target – the lecture bell plate. I could see people atleast surprised to see me non messy, and more shockingly, already in class, on my seat, when they arrived. She walked in behind Sahil, who had been exceptionally lucky today. There was no eye contact, no waves, and no square looks.

It was bangrhu’s class. Haha I absolutely loved this name. So desi, yet so sleek. But some still preferred to call him ‘paplu’, or ‘math wale sir’. Oh yea.. did I mention that she took the second seat that day while I pushed myself to the sixth? Why I did that is a whole another story which I myself don’t remember lolz. So there she was looking so radiantly pretty, her hair falling over her hand strategically placed on the forehead, slightly caressing the smooth skin on her cheeks, while she read the blackboard and repeated the words that seemingly flowed out of her stunningly beautiful pink lips that always had been like the morphine shot I could never get. Saagar brought me back to the classroom from I don’t know what number heaven it was.

Moment of truth, I could visualize myself standing with the card and the giftbox in hand while she boarded her bus back to home if I dint do it now. The next two lectures were sarita ma’am’s social science and they weren’t going to help in my condition. I wasn’t this anxious when I asked her out 6 years later :D

So the bottomline was.. it’s just a birthday card, go ahead.. wish her a happy birthday. Risk your reputation on the thesis that girls melt easily.

I asked the guy sitting in front of me to exchange my seat while the shrewd bangrhu turned to scribble on the board. Repeat. Reached the fourth seat. Sahil was sitting on the third and I felt like an escapist not wanting to attract the cop’s attention. I have to pass on the card. No alternatives. Did. She sent it back. A note attached. Guts hain to khud aake de. I could hear Stone Cold Steve Austin’s entrance video of the shattering glass in my mind. Today’s not MY birthday, it’s hers. Went ahead, as bangrhu turned his back again to the board. “Happy birthday to you. This is for you, I hope you like it” Just as I reached sahil’s seat, the prof had turned around and I stood cold with the “Damn ur unlucky for me, sahil” look engraved on to my face. Friends were getting ready for the masala. They were expecting their favorite punishment – Chalk on the cheeks for the whole lecture. And god and bangrhu were generous that day. The duster was rouged to my chubby cheeks as the card came flying back to my feet. Don’t dare u remove this. I couldn’t cry. I was the ever smiling perfect guy. I never cry. I never feel low. I could handle this. It had been done to me before. And I was proud of me that day. But I had to confess I hated being so damn happy always at this moment.

She turned around. De De card. My middle finger was itching so badly to lead the war. My mind said no. I wish I had been out of this very frikkin mind that day. But anyhow. The card reached her back. The motive wasn’t complete. And I had lost. Completely and evidently.

I couldn’t even hate her. That had been her effect over me for all these years. She could stab me in the eye, and I’d still not hate her.

And till today I hear people saying, it was just adolescent attraction yaar. I wish they are correct.

Goosebumps-1

2007-07-10T11:04:00.001+05:30

This is a rare moment. I wanted to post something today. So damn many ideas. Picked two. Shit. They have the same title. The title of this one!

So here it is: The Goosebumps Part 1

Irtaash - Khauff

This song. It’s in the league of the very very few ones that make you cry with total energy when you karaoke. Gives you goosbumps once it catches up on beat. And works as a safer alternative to your personal dose of Blenders’ Pride.
Listen to it before some Emraan Hashmi movie remixes the shit out of this one too. [R.I.P Toh Phir Aao (Roxen)]

The Bliss of bein' Sumit Sharma

2007-07-07T14:15:00.001+05:30

So Cool! I was tagged by Jeya Anand and this being my first tag, I’ma make the most of it…. And use all 8 tags that I can ;)

The rules are as follows:

1. Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
3. At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment and tell them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.
4. If you fail to do this you’d be doing your blog friends a huge favor, and making their life easy. I’m sure not many want that. So I’ll definitely be forcing the tags.

So lets start with me.

1. The most noticeable fact about me is indeed the one that I stammer. It’s given me rough tides to surf over, but in a way it has helped me too. Since childhood, I’d rather figure things out myself than ask for help. I’ve been laughed at, which I obviously hate. I’ve been sympathized with, which I hate more. And I’ve been asked to shut up because someone else could speak, which makes me fired up enough to kill the one who did this. Hehe. But I’m over these phases, hopefully. I know I hafta live with it, and I am doing quite a decent job at that ;)

2. I am in love with bass. I could live without air if my woofers had enough. Good music with lyrics that make me think is my fuel. I am mostly into heavy metal, psychedelic and sometimes alternative rock. I hate fakes like Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit. Sorry to those I disappointed, or maybe even offended. :D

3. I need friends to hang out. Everyday. I can’t stay alone for more than 5 seconds. I love it when my friends come over 10 times a day. I love to hangout and party. Outside is where my heart is, contrary to my image among most people around me.

4. I believe in recognition of one’s work. I have not been able to decipher till now why people can’t admit something rocks when it does! I sometimes overdo it, though. I can get excited to a weird extent when I see something awesome! I also make it a point to congratulate the person. If I like it, I say it. Even if that means contradicting a gazillion other people’s opinions or beliefs.

5. I am an atheist. I wasn’t always. But now I am. But I AM decently optimistic

6. I am affected by a lot of things. If I start counting, I’d probably end up 80 yrs older. Rang De Basanti, VJs Nikhil, Rannvijay and Cyrus Broacha, people with an amazing dressing sense, and most importantly people who be themselves when it can be almost impossible to do so.

7. People can act important if they are, but if they still don’t, I bow down to them. Humble is one thing I always thrive to be. I don’t know how successful I have been in that though

8. I hate people with 2 faces, or people who fake being something that they’re not (like people who act cool and end up saying “Oye! Did u went there?”), and people who can’t admit that any-damn-body can be better than them in any-damn-field.

------ Aaah the bliss of being Sumit Sharma!

And here I tag my superbloggers VIII

1. Aman

2. Sahil Dhar Hakim

3. Mohit Rodeja

4. Bhupinder Singh

5. Rajeev(y) – I’m sorry, but I was awed by the last 8 you posted. Need More!

6. Nothingman

7. Ravisekharan

8. Cupid’s Best Pal

Taking PlayTagger for a test ride

2007-07-04T18:23:00.000+05:30

Franz Ferdinand - Take Me Out I think i should start with one of my favorite songs. If you notice a little blue button next to the link above, it's working! EXAM UPDATE: Sat for 2 reappear exams, took the two most challenging tests in the history of civil engineering department in my university, and the results come out tomorrow. 2 more left.

i hope i stay away

2007-07-02T17:47:00.000+05:30

Yes. I really really hope i stay away from blogging, and probably even my computer. Atleast i'd be able to save some time for studies, especially when i appear for my first exam in a few hours from now. A week of exams, and i'll be back guys... So pray you don't see me before the 9th! Adios, Sumit Sharma PS: Civil Department haaye haaye! The department with no balls! my 7 yr old cousin has more self confidence than the HoD of the Civil Department in my university. Say it with me.. Boooooooooooooooooooo!!!!

She's so wrong!

2007-06-27T15:08:00.001+05:30

She’s so wrong when she thinks she can pull off being a bitch. She’s so wrong when she thinks I’m still not over her. She’s so frikkin wrong when she thinks she can make me even a wee bit sadder. Haa! She’s so wrong when she thinks I was in my perfect senses when I told her she was the one. And that I have been crazy about her for 9 years. Fuck yea I believed that too… but no longer.

She’s such a fake, a hypocrite… I can’t imagine her being so dumb that she cant even pull off bein a bitch perfectly. She’s so insecure about her own self!, not even half as mature as her friends say she is and confuses her ego with self respect. She says friends foreva without knowing what that means to the other person.

I got a few words for her… with that hell of an attitude you got, life’s gonna be tough sweetheart. And the kind of so called friends you have around yourself, eh! I’m not even sorry to say they’re just like you… so don’t expect them to be sidin widya! [Not that you would be expecting, but still…. ;) ] The only one who had it in him to have your back… dumb as you are, you forced him out!
Haha... Wasted so much of precious booze tryina get over her! God I love it when girls act bitches, throw their weight around with that attitude, but she’s dumb, just plain dumb... And I gotta admit it... I must have been dumber to fall for her with all those awesome girls around me!

I’m fine again, I’m no longer broken. I don’t love you anymore. I thought I’d never say this. But there’s never a never, I guess. People move on, and things change.

There are a few things I’d like to say to everyone on this planet, and if you don’t agree with me, I’d be so very grateful if you throw in a comment.

CHOOSE LOVE OR FEAR.
And for people who like to disguise their fear with bull crap, go shove it up where the sun don’t shine. By bull crap, I mean something that sounds like “Sumit, I want to concentrate on my career right now. Love’s a bad thing and even my parents agree”. If I start replying to this thing, I am sure I’ll blow your brains out and you’ll end up in tears, or worse(for you), my apartment >:)

NEVER SAY SOMETHING YOU DON’T MEAN
Never say “We’ll still be friends, Sumit” until and unless you really mean to be my friend. And as friends, I don’t expect you to ignore my messages, change your phone numbers the very next day. It’s ridiculous, and though I’d be over it in a few days, you’re still gonna be a loser. Nothing more.

>>There are a bunch of other things… but I’m kinda lazy ryt now to think and write anymore! Expecting some critique :D

Antithesis

2007-06-25T01:49:00.001+05:30

Opposites attract in Chemistry. Opposites Repel in Social Science. Hence chemistry is the opposite of social science as proved by the opposite definitions of opposites in these opposing sciences. Not quite. Red-Blue. Faith-denial. Impulse-Reason. Matter-Antimatter. Each a part of the other, and each the opposite of other.

Antithesis can be interesting. I asked a friend for an opposite of life. Death. Impromptu. But is it?

Death, in itself, is a process as complicated as life. Both occur instantaneously. You seldom have control over that instant. When does life begin? When you’re born? Conceived? Thought of being planted? Half way into that? Nobody could say for sure, unless ofcourse he doesn’t differentiate the inseparable opposites – Reason and Impulse. Who knows when a dying man has moved on? Are you dead when your heart stops beating? Or is being brain dead being dead? Or when you lose the will to live? Stop the hustle to ‘just survive’? Origin creates life. Death ends it. Origin and death – the opposites? Can’t say. But if origin is the opposite of death, I have fallen into the circle….

That being said, isn’t it logical to consider that inanimate objects like this camera are just absent of life, and still not the reverse of it. Wait a second… what’s the opposite of my mobile phone?

After putting quite a lot of thought.. the only logical conclusion I could offer myself was that a mobile fone or the camera are not singular objects.. they’re complex union of several simpler objects, that, in turn, are a smaller but an equally complex union of even smaller objects. So it having an opposite would be something intricately complex. So for a camera, it’s opposite might be a projector. Life, on the other hand is something so indivisible, so important to the cosmology of existence. But still, should and can not exist without an opposite.

On second thought.. what if origin is not life itself. What if origin and death, the opposites are merely transition processes into and out of life’s opposite? The Anti-life? Or the inlife or something?

Someone help me out of this unending circle!

No Remorse

2007-06-23T02:53:00.001+05:30

Sweat dripped down my brow, onto my forearms stained in blood. I dint stop there, for I wanted to see no flesh, I wanted the bone to peek out. The inner edge of my palms was bruised, nasty cuts that bled. I can’t stop for its my passion. What’s a passion without endurance! What’s a passion that dies down before a climax! The heat is making it impossible for me to lift my arms. There’s a desperation for self destruction, filling my eyes which I can hardly open now. It’s a need to destroy something beautiful. Equally beautiful is the essence of pain. I suddenly realize I don’t want to go any further. The passion is still alive. But something’s changed. Definitely. Can it be the passion itself? Can it be changing form now? Logic is denied. The passion that was once kindled with her touch. It’s no longer the same. I can feel it. I can feel something churning inside me. My guts are bloodied. My faith is dead. It’s the birth of a higher power. It’s my sacrifice. It’s gonna be over in a few moments. I’ll be gone. I can see my entire life flickering between the empty space over my head. I can see it. I can hear the screams. I can see the hugs. I can see the love. I can see no hate. I can see my guitar. The amp. The blue rose preserved in my organo box. The thorns still intact. The bruises still visible. I don’t want to see these beautiful things now. For they make me weak. They make me unstable. I’m dying. I can’t live with them now. The purpose is met. I have no remorse. It’s like a loaded gun to your face. You don’t wanna think. You want to get over with it.

I’m Pain, I’m Hope, I’m Suffer
-Metallica

It’s the devil. My intestines make way till they can, break away when they can’t. the heart is beating. Tirelessly. In Vain. Until I disappear. I can’t speak now, my saliva is red. Enormous. All I see is sepia, are my eyes bleeding? I have no remorse. I no longer feel connected. My skin doesn’t crawl at the thought of being half demon. After all I have seen, I dint my end to be as easy. I was numb, no feeling, my mind was numb, no remorse. The devil lunged out as I saw myself lying in a pool of my own blood in the mirror. The sound shattered the mirror and splinters ousted cells from what remained of my body. Blood erupted out of my wet mouth as a sword was lunged in my heart, stopping the only movement in my body. I could still see its shadow.

Do you bury me when I'm gone
Do you teach me while I'm here
Just as soon as I belong, then it's time I disappear
-Metallica

Cons of "The Girl"

2007-06-22T04:35:00.001+05:30

Location: Xenon 3, Fun Republic, Chandigarh
Occasion: Nothing too specific, but I don’t know if it was maybe the 6^th week from the day I asked her out.

I could make out something was important about today by the way she said “AAJ ka din plan kiya?” I would have taken it lightly if we hung out together every damn day, but we did not. Anyways, I may disappoint my male readers by letting out the fact that I’m usually on time (actually 5 minutes or more before it), and hence, I’ve to wait some time before I can see her. But on the brighter side, I’ve to wait at the ‘hottest’ hangout of Chandigarh. The place where I can check out girls, and they wont get all upset. The place where I learnt city girls can really be sporty sometimes (That’s another story though :p )

Anyways, the tickets had been booked, and this time I dint even try convincing her on Ocean’s 13, as I knew I wouldn’t be winning. Actually, I dint try not because I knew I’d be wasting time, but because I knew I wanted to ‘watch’ Ocean’s 13. And so did my friends :D. So, Jhoom Barabar Jhoom [JBJ] it was. Seated, after lunch (and that made me doubt more, and being me, I could have asked an answer to the ‘occasion’ question, had I been sure if it was the 6^th or the 7^th, hell, even 6.5!), we talked about how SHE’s been, and how SHE was doing with HER summer training, and how HER sister was, and how HER day went, and what was new in HER and HER family’s lives. It was maybe an attempt to make me write a flawless thesis on her yesterday, cuz I’d heard each of the lines she repeated on the 3 calls last night, and then read them in the countless messages in the morning while I tried to finish ‘The Janson Directive’ I bought last month I guess, and then again on the lunch table in McDonalds (Or McDeez, as she likes to put it, for McDonalds is cliché and childish). But I couldn’t afford to tell her that, as then I won’t be caring enough for her. Hmmm, actually, that wasn’t the real reason :p. It’s already the end of the month, and I couldn’t afford a teddy bear and a chocolate cake to ‘make up for how senseless and cold and heartless and …… I had been’. How I got through the grilling session without letting out a clue of me already knowing it is not a wonder, it’s okay, just takes a little getting used to ;). She was so excited to notice 3 shimmering golden lights attached to each corner of the screen, that she almost hugged me. I’m sure you know why… Yes.. each one of you got it bang on… They looked cute!!!! [I’m so sick of this word, I’m gonna be writing another post on this topic!]. It dint take much time to convince her that they weren’t put there by the xenon guys, but it was a new frame structure of the movie… and that they wont burst if somebody accidentally brushed the screen. The next dialogue… any guesses? Yup, I heard someone say the right one… I knew it dumbo.. I was just being sweet. You could have just said yes, they were lights put there intentionally just cuz we were watching the movie together.

[FLASHBACK: My cousin had a breakup with his girl because he made fun of this dialogue during didi tera dewar deewana in hum aapke hain kaun]

I dint realize how easily I could have broken up with her!!!!!!

Like a stone, alone

2007-06-22T03:39:00.001+05:30

I'll wait for you there, like a stone
I'll wait for you there, alone
-Audioslave

Maybe I've learnt to strive for what i want. Maybe i don't like to give up anymore. Maybe it's a change I always wanted. Maybe i'll survive now. Maybe I'll stop wondering if i want to survive. At All.

ROCK BLESS YOU, guys.

Dodging the temptation to give up.

2007-06-12T20:05:00.000+05:30

Me: I’m about to fail. Again.
My ‘self’: Yea. Time you gave up.
Me: I told you to shut your hole up. The only reason you’re in it with me is that I had no choice.
My ‘self’: I’m just here to make your life a little easier.
Me: Oh yea? I don’t want to get into the long run short run crap with you, nor do I have the time for it. So why don’t you do your job and let me do mine
My ‘self’: My job? What job?
Me: Shutting up. You even suck at that!

The challenge is to dodge this, now that you believe you don’t want it. All I ever wanted to say, or have, was a little feeling that someone cared. My self conspired with my ego and almost convinced me to give up, stop expecting anymore. But smart as you are, you must have guessed this post is an “I-won” post! And so I did.

The only hope I could cling to, was expectation, a desire. She obviously doesn’t want to talk to me. But she won’t say. She won’t let me arrive at this “obvious” conclusion. But anyways, all I want is one last chat. One last thanks. No clarifications, cuz if she needed any, she could’ve asked for em already. I’ma give her what she wants. A quite exit from her life. And it’s strange considering the fact that there has been nothing more than just that short tag of friendship between us. In a world of brands. Pun Intended. All I want is half an hour. Then I’ll be gone. Forever.

“And please remember that I never lied” – Don’t Cry, Guns ‘n’ Roses

The temptation is growing strong. I can feel it. Like venom, taking over Spiderman, slowly, but very very surely. The change is evident. The resonance has begun. There’s no getting out of this. You wanna dodge it bad. You don’t wanna give up on your friend. Maybe she needs your support. More than ever. Maybe it’s the perfectly incorrect time to be even thinking of giving up. Maybe you’ll be the cruelest person on the planet if you give in.

But that’s just a maybe, right? What if she really wants you to get out of her face? But what went wrong? There’s no ending this debate. A battle of grit and mind. A battle of guesses. You can look away, but you can’t disguise. There was something about you once, a light in your eyes, but now all’s gone. And so should you be. It wasn’t my mistake, nothing I did wrong, but as they say, sometimes learning to give up, is the same as being strong. I have to let go. No I can’t. I just can’t. I’d like to wish you well cuz it’s the hardest frame of it all, to know that I’ll miss you so much. And you don’t reciprocate. Sometimes doing the right thing must involve letting go.

I can win. I can dodge all of this. But do I want to? As I drive away, leaving all this far behind, I hope she’s satisfied. And if just my bowing out quietly out of her life aint all she wants, I hope it’s good enough to make it worth all the precious time, and things we (or rather, I) are giving up. Cuz if I knew what was “all” she wanted, I wouldn’t be thinking twice.

I decide to lose. I decide to give up. Logic seldom fails you, but whenever it does, it’s a helluva job arriving on a solution, especially when the debaters are all yourself. No matter how irrational I sound, there’s no logical explanation. Ha Ha. Tyranny of an irony!

The temptation to give up may not be unassailable, but how it ridicules you! In short, the aftermath is not pretty.

It’s like you’re at war. You’ve the targets all locked but you still wont fire. In Hope. A wave of seemingly perpetual pain overwhelms you. You’ve been raped. You’ve been trying to close your eyes all this while, in a desperate attempt to avoid accepting the fact that you really are dizzy.

The passions behind this post are inspired by the song “Surrender”, by Billy Talent

She’ll never know what she means to me

I’d play the game but I’m the referee

THE END da style.

2007-06-10T10:32:00.000+05:30

Diljeet: o kaake mai kee keh reyaaa si?

Sukhi: The End da shtyle
Diljeet: haaaan.... o sukhi yaar jo marzi kar le.. gali ka kutta b ni bhaunkega saade marrne te. Saada The End da style ikko hi hoyega.. safed kapde mein lapaet k lae jayenge bhain de takey. Sirf Ajay ko lapeta jayega.. t(i)rangey mein. Aur di jayegi... ikki sopo di talaami.

An excerpt from the complete-st movie I’ve ever seen and the most admired work of Indian cinema (atleast according to me), Rang de Basanti. I have been discussing the way I would want to die in many forums, but those threads haven’t really received enough replies to sustain their activity for any longer than a day or two. The thought dies. Every Single time it’s given a new life. In false hope and amidst high optimism. Just yesterday I was reading Aman’s blog and I knew I just had to blog about this.

Picture this. Your hard work and sacrifices (in many a field) have paid off. Monetarily. You are filthy rich. And all you want is that silver black McLaren Mercedes SLR BRABUS. What a bitch. Sleek. Powerful. Convertible. FAST. Hop on and fly away. Maybe I took it more literally than I should have. Driving all the way in the plains till I have had enough. And then, to the winding roads. Or a cliff. And forget I had brakes.

Aman did a fantastic job with his reply to the cautioning boards that advise u to drive slow and steady.

Whenever I read this sign board on road - "Speed thrills but Kills" I just feel like adding a line to it..
SPEED THRILLS BUT KILLS
BUT THATS PRECISELY WHY YOU LOVE SPEED

I have had so many people call people who commit suicide as quitters. In most cases, they’re correct. But not every time. How can you call that to someone who’s done all he ever wanted to, and just one thing remains in his to do list now. Experience flying without bounds. No safety belts, no life saving equipment. Pure 100% flight. The feeling that the world’s all yours. Or has been. A note that says thank you, world, you’ve been nice and I hope I did my job. And it with “I love you all..” well maybe not all but doesn’t it sound nicer?

From the comments on his blog, I now know there aren’t many takers for this idea. And those who do identify a tid bit, or more, have different ideas for their own THE END da style. Best of Luck people.

This is a picture from a kasauli trip last September. And has the hidden intent. It might never be too early. But I definitely need to be more sure than I am right now. A perfect plan. Fool Proof. The perfect gear shifts, the perfect timing of the take off. For that maximum Air-time. I may even consider jumping out of the merc mid air. But I would allow atleast this amount of instantaneous reaction, to decide whether or nor I’d jump, or pettier things like what am I going to wear that day. But as I said, its gotta be perfect. For no magic kiss to wake me up. I wish I could play Max Payne 2 in real life.. all the bullet time I’d save, for this very moment.

With all this brewing in my mind, Chop Suey seemed the ideal choice for the playlist starter. The Thorn within was next. No Questions asked. My brain usually has different notions than my heart about my playlist, but you know who should win, don’t you?

“I don't think you trust, In my self righteous suicide”

NO EXCUSES.

2007-06-08T04:26:00.000+05:30

A finger is worth a thousand words. Here're two more. NO EXCUSES.

When only “things” miss you

2007-06-07T14:34:00.000+05:30

It’s a particularly mixed feeling that drives you high, and crazy, when the on the rocks half filled glass of single malt scotch, and the 84mm sticks in the shiny red and black Marlboro pack complete the ”who misses me?” list. And if you’re among the weird few people who constantly need someone to care about, we have a lot in common. When I decided to write this manic depressive rant of me against myself, I was actually, and ironically, schizophrenic. Why? The answer comes later, a few lines later. I pick up the phone several times a day, no new messages, no received or missed calls, and that’s when you feel unwanted, un-missed, and unimportant. I go back all the way to the home screen. Dial a number I don’t need to look into the phonebook, and once I type it out, I wait and listen carefully for a little voice to tell me which key to press next. Schizophrenic, right? This post wouldn’t have come if that was the end. I wait for that little voice. Nada. I grow anxious, and random keys are pressed next. If the phone is unlucky for the day, it might be thrown on the carpet, or even fly out of my hands into the open drawer, some 10 feet away.
What do you do when everything boils down to that small phrase you always feared – “Rage against yourself”? Brought about by a vichyssoise of angered emotions swirling like turmoil in the soup your head and mind now is in. Devoid of that feeling of fulfillment, the idea that out there, exists someone who misses you when you don’t talk for 2 hours. Or 2 days, at leastL. Sometimes it hurts; sometimes I’m too numb to notice. It teaches you no life lessons. Nothing but memories take over from there. No nightmares, nothing. Just the sweet dreams I wish. Remnants of a shattered mind, unwanted. I’m just forced to endure rage, endure my pointless existence, the whole idea of unnecessariness. The utter senselessness of this life, that seems just an alternate, a backup for someone more meaningful than yourself, is overwhelming.
This is my life. The life, waiting to be wanted, waiting to find the purpose of existence.

But I guess its asking for a little too much.

Getting sick in here.

2007-03-15T23:17:00.000+05:30

I sit alone in my room, alone n bored. I don’t know what I want to do. I don’t know what I wanna write about. And I don’t even know whatsup! I am signed off yahoo messenger, and others of the same lot. I don’t wanna talk today, I don’t wanna listen to songs either. Part of that’s because I am unsure of my mood. I can’t describe my mood write now. I have no longings, no desires; I have no mood for anything. But as much as I know I am doing what I can do right now, and that’s NOTHING, I am not happy. Wait, you’ll ask when was the last time I was happy when I blogged. Well, you’re pretty right as well! But anyways, the crux is – it’s getting sick in here.

I feel like I am illusion, I feel I am untrue, and I feel I suck. My friends would disagree (thankfully, now it seems) but nothing matters right now. I don’t wanna be stoned, I don’t wanna be shouted at, I don’t wanna roam around with friends. Pretty funny, but I aint lookin for peace either. Cuz I pretty well know there’s nothing in this world as peace or perfect, or for that matter, self! And I don’t regret that I’m not ready to find another world where these exist.

People have often told me that someone somewhere right now, is missing me. Should I, then, not infer from this that I am too, this instant, be missing someone? Anyone?

I couldn’t turn round enough to see what time it was, I think it was around 1.30.. or 2.30. Still can’t sleep! Do I want to? Why wont I? Am I lying? Why would I? Something pokes me at the back of my neck. I feel like I’m Neo, being freed, or plucked from garbage. Huh, you thought I was garbage. You should have crosschecked. But it wasn’t needles poking me. It was my fone. My best friend. Second best. Right now, the switch would glow red if I tried to turn it on. It’s out of battery. Has it had enough o me? I don’t wanna think, I turn over, pull the blanket a little closer, still hating the light seeping in through the bottom of the closed door. I don’t want bright things to ruin my high-ly sadistic state of mind. I am more at ease with it. I’ve grown indifferent. To sadness. To that state of coma I am when I meet with people I am supposed to please. Perpetual Déjà vu.

Why is it then still getting sick in here?

It’s feeling like I accidently drove into that parallel universe I exist in – where I try to connect one bogie of thoughts to another expecting it to make sense. Its getting damn sick here. I wanna get away. Should I push aside my blanket, run downstairs, find that keychain.. again try each and every one of them to find which one fits today’s lock, run out on the streets, screaming like I always wanted to. Why not today then? I step down the bed. Feels cold. Wait, it feels good. I am sitting on the floor now. Barefoot. Clutching one end of the blanket for in case I want to get back up. Get back to where i have been. What I have been doing.

IN CASE I WANT TO GET BACK UP. GET BACK TO WHERE I HAVE BEEN, TO WHAT I HAVE BEEN DOING.

It feels good here. But I’m lonely. I wasn’t lonely then. It didn’t feel good then. Moment of truth? Or choice? The Oracle would say I already have made the choice. But I don’t think I wanna understand it (why I made this choice) now. I’m not The One.

And it’s getting sick-er still.

A win

2007-03-12T00:20:00.001+05:30

A win over that 180cc pulsar. A win over that crude-style punkass with a macbook pro. A win over another one in that league. A win I’ll never forget. A win over myself. People were quick to ask me.. for how long, bitch? How long do you think? I honestly don’t know. But for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t care less.

Small it may sound, but the effect it has on your mind, your guts, your everything is much more heartening, much more healing and much more high-up-there than a win over your harshest rival. But as much as you may itch to conclude that this turns you against yourself, the same people would rather skip another enviro prac to get a cliché in your mind – it helps a lot to be your own best friend when you’re alone.

You may agree, or even submit to that thought. Sometimes when I think about it, the only phrase that unrelentingly tends to enlighten my still unlit grey is “Food for Thought”. The last thought of the day I messaged everyone was about how people can be easily made to hang out. One thing I ‘forgot’ to add was that the ‘people’ I mentioned were essentially special souls that don’t feel somewhat like lonely aliens in a crowd of earthly matter. Maybe this is the reason why most of the thoughts of my days do not apply to me.

A theory I very recently read somewhere(where, I dunno - I was hardly paying any attention to what the address-bar had on it) goes somewhat like we would rather walk with our heads down than notice the personal salvation cocoon everybody is busily encased in, out of a fear that they may bust your own if we unintentionally burst their’s. Sometimes you feel you’re drifting lanes on an expressway at rush hour. Survival is never guaranteed. Yours, and your cocoon’s. But every drift, every churn in your stomach that follows it, reminds you of probably the most important relationship of your life… your relationship with food. The highs and lows of it… the days you would even eat a chocolate cake (replace ‘chocolate’ with something you don’t like) and the days the food would better be on the plate than inside you, for you that’s inside you is a lot more anxious to get back on the plate. The days when u have omelettes, protein shakes, black current coolers on your table and all you think is “I’m Sumit Sharma and I am going to make myself stronger from you. I am not sure about my mood swings and I don’t know when I’ma eat again, so right now, you all are just getting in me.”

My friends always warned me against a self destructive lack of concern for myself. But one thing they, according to me, couldn’t understand was that lane drifting on an expressway wasn’t self destructive, well, so it seemed before …………………….

Question: if you set high standards, do you feel good? Yes? But what if you cant make em? Did u fail? Maybe… but do you no longer feel good? IF you don’t, what put you down? The hope you pinned to yourself? The hope you didn’t live up to?

Its not pointing blame if you know what exactly its pointed at. Atleast not always. What I feel for my situation now is my fault, my blame, the center of the forehead between my rolled up eyes is target.

The infinitesimal flickering of compassion of pushing myself into the zone. The blame is mine, the acknowledgement of facts, mine, the change expectedly, mine. But I am a winner, and that’s another fact, a fact I don’t need to acknowledge ;)

How many times have you thought of “the last 10 minutes” and wished so insanely there was a way to preserve them in a glass jar so they could last for ever? And that’s in spite of the fact that you know science isn’t that advanced as yet :D

Do you call it human? How many times have you thought people don’t treat you like one? How many times have you wanted to think like that? Interesting, once you give it a thought shot.

QUESTION: The weirdest thing you can do to get high? Can you win when you’re high?

Answer: Variable

You already are a winner when you’re high.

The last cigarette

2007-02-14T00:27:00.000+05:30

The only way I could breathe was through the cigarette. For once, I did not wonder if the last person who shared this prized B&H had brushed since the last Valentine’s Day. The nicotine raced up my respiratory system but if it beat the adrenaline, I can never be sure of. Maybe, I dint care. Was I going to throw up? I was dehydrated. Food for thought here. As much as I hoped water could stop, or at least delay the throw up, I knew it wouldn’t. It wasn’t dehydration, something was choking me.

I had disappointed my friends. Friends who believed in me. Friends who could swear upon my words. Friends who looked up to me. Am I just another fake? The questions wouldn’t stop, unless of course, I throw up an answer to hand over a valid rejection to the very root of these questions.

Half the personalities on my orkut friends’ list couldn’t have imagined a sight of the half smoked cigarette pressed between the lips that had once uttered those one line phrases of wisdom that almost changed the way they thought of life. Well, atleast so it seemed.

“Burn in hell”, phoebe’s words denounced me in high treble, crossfaded, and un-synced frequency sounds.

Back to the basics

2006-03-26T13:11:00.000+05:30

yes... the dark stealthy (?) template is out... just hated it, finally :D So the title.. but i hope to hav something back up son, something that matches the title, that itself no longer matches the content of my posts, nor does it do justice to my mood swings lately. I hope i keep on writing stuff around here, cuz its been almost an year after my last official publication. Meanwhile quite a lot of my friendz hav started blogging, and hopefully, they'll stick to the "basic" funda of being punctual when u r a blogger. Not much there that i can say, i know, but hey, atleast i remember the funda. and vow everytime i write to be punctual in the future. But now that my site is constantly showing feed from the blog, i think it would be cool if newer feeds were shown more frequently :D. Its training time in second year now, and i am looking towards Delhi/Gurgaon/Noida to spend the 2 weeks. Any help is appreciated lolz.... Oops i should get rid of this friggin habit of lol-ing everytime i laugh while typing this. the source of this habit : DY No. i wont be quitting posting there, but i'll surely try to move the cursor a bit more, and use the smileys instead :biggrin: oops... this is another way

The Rising!

2005-08-15T22:21:00.000+05:30

The Rising

Ahhhhhhh! Finally i have it. A pal to hear me out. A place to vent my feelings out. A blog inspired by Shantz . A place to let the world hear me. A place jus 'bout me ........ hey , wait, or is it......! But first lemme wish all Indians, a very Happy Independance day. Jai hind... though um a bit late on that. A blog, no , i resolve to call it a Web log, what it actually is.... Yesterday was perhaps the happiest day of my life, had my own site launched www.smitzworld.co.sr The Acid tongue i am and that's probably what you will come to know in the subsequent blogs..... see ya! And hope to have b-band access soon!