and how have you been

ive had the time, or rather the opportunity to write something for the first time in over a month and a bleeding half. its been fucked, the month that is.

and no this isnt im so exhausted and i broke up fucked , but more of a i was hospitalised for the exact duration of my exams with acute glomerulonephritis post streptococcal infection.

what that means, is that somehow, a bunch of bacteria with an attitude gave me a throat infection.

and then, as if making me wince everytime i eat wasnt bad enough, they hit my kidneys.

severe kidney infection. complete with the almost complete loss of ability to breathe, peeing blood, and the coup de grace, my body began to retain water and i looked like a bullfrog in mating season.

end result, a bleeding week in a hospital, an entire day on oxygen, 15 blood tests, 20, yes 20 urine tests and food without salt or protein for almost 2 weeks.

ive lost all that weight now, and then some.

still feel the exhaustion sometimes,

on the bright side though, the attention was kinda cool. plus i got to travel in a wheelchair.

REALLY dont know why im telling you this.

p.s if youre ever seriously sick in mumbai, go to saifee hosital off charni road station
doctors are amazing, its state of the art and i had a better view of the queens necklace than mukesh friggin ambani.

confess edit

the alarm shrieks into his unconscious mind. and he jumps out of his bed. his enormous queen size bed that the company provided as one of the perks for his ability to withstand constant monotonous bullshit for the better part of his existence. he gets up to look into his mirror naked. hes a short man, barely 5 feet and some inches to show off about. his body covered in hair, a greying carapace of age. his expression one of forced acceptance. he looks at himself in the mirror, and sees himself, short, fat, grey, watery eyed, he hopes that one day when people read this, they appreciate how painfully the raconteur attempts to achieve noir.

but today is different. even through his myopic watery eyes there seems to be a hint of electricity. a sharp clarity gleaming through the opacity of mundaneness that seemed to normally cataract his eyes.today he doesnt wish he were another human being, this morning as he looks himself in the mirror, he doesnt feel the pangs of nihilism that normally drive him to the teetering point when he realizes that the only thing left for hm to do was to die.

but today is different. its the end of the first week of the first month of the year. and as he hurriedly dresses up, carefully picking up something out of his obviously insignificant wardrobe that might make him even less conspicuous.

he shuffles out of his barely furnished apartment, peeks into his tiny, meticulously clean dressing room that was scattered with pornography.

he read one as he had his breakfast. he read of how these immensely gorgeus bleached blonde women loved nothing more than to fuck. how they loved men with a sense of humoour and no money in their name. how size did matter to them.

he hides a nostalgic smile as he remembers the first time he nervously picked out a magazine from a newspaper vendor on the other side of town. hed promised himself it was simply an interlude. a simple harmless cheap way of getting some pleasure.

15 years had passed. the magazines had exponentially increased only now they were backed up with the internet and the tv. hed attempted to satisfy himself once or twice with some women off the street. but had discovered that fiction was far far more satisfying that truth. he was a conoisseur, a gourmand. his appetite sharp and his ability to not be disturbed llegendary. he loved every one of the genres, the ones with the cheerleaders, the ones with older women, the ones with animals, and men and leather whips and pain. but he loved most of all the amateurs on secret cameras, the people who seemingly led ordinary lives, but given the right scenarios could be exceedingly obscene and inhibition free.

he told himself he was better than the other men he knew but could no longer talk too. women had for long stopped talking to him. something about his eyes they said. he was better then the men; them with their alcohol and their strippers. splurging inane amounts of money on girls who coudlnt hold a candle to his candies and tiffanies and ambers and foxxs.

he lived an otherwise abstemious existence having convinced himself that the trade off was more then fair.

but something very very unnerving had happened the last few times hed , as he put it in his mind, had some quality time. for 15 years whenever he was done, hed lie back for a moment, his mind gloriously blank, and clean and observe reality begin to sketch surrealist whorls on his mind. hed feel truly and joyously content. hed feel like a man.

but now, it felt hollow. it felt incomplete. it was beyond frustrating, the feeling. but he persevered, believing that it was only the brunette whod put himoff. but it kept happening, with every magazine, ever video, every genre, every toy.

he couldnt sleep. how could he. no longer was he the virile, ever pleasing stud of his dreams. the adamintinee chains of escapism hed tied around himself beginning to weaken, hie shroud letting in light.

he took days and weeks off work, spending all his time on his couch, spening quality time. his member ached, his eyes watered, but he still couldnt feel what he felt.

but today promised to be different. the idea occured to him while he watched a nun getting gagged and violated by a horse as she fellatioed a midget. he walked to the nearest church. the one in his incredibly boring, locality. with its stepford wives and abercrombie dads.

the surroundings felt alien, the silence stiffling. he looked at it, and walked around inside. a man in a cassock walks towards him. an enquiring look in his creased, world weary face.

he mumbles an apology a the intrusion, then states his business. he tells the priest hed like to donate half his monthly income to the church, every month for the remainder of his life.

the priest is taken aback, but doesnt wish to look a gift horse in the mouth, the church is poor, its flock a little too tightfisted for devout people of god.

but the man states his single, seemingly perverse condition. and the status quo.

the priest looks away into the distance, and starts sweating tremulously. our protagonist, the seemingly harmless pervert has taken a new dimension, the position of power. the man who knows the priest liked to be tied up and gagged a very long time ago. It gves him a terrifying sense of power. something the magazines never did. And as he walks out, as he steps into the sunshine. he looks into a mirror, and sees sparks fly.

the agreement is made and no more words are said.

For the entire week he lives in a limbo, the incredibly long wait for something you never knew you wanted, but that you realize you just cant live without.

the next sunday, as mass files out our man approaches the priest, nods at him and disappears, only to appear clad in the cassock hed brought with him.

the switch is made. and he finds himself where hed fantasized the most.

he begins to listen to faces unkown, to spy into the underbelly of humanity. to see real amateurs perform for him the way the sites promised they would but never delivered, to touch himself again. to mumble out his vile advice. to be the ultimate voyeur. He realizes that this was going to be his newest addiction, that this was as the magazines put it, the real deal. he sits there for what seems to be an eternity, and watches the flock pile in. blondes, brunettes, children, men, women.

they tell him of indiscretions, of naughty things done, of unspeakable acts committed, he listens to the girl next door tell him of her violent propensities in the boudoir, to the mother who liked to fuck her poolboy, to the man who paid for his babysitters abortion. the just turned 18 year old cheerleader babysitter who was raped but didnt know it.

He listens to the stories hed only fantasized about actually happening. he sees nothing but their eyes, and this makes him harder than ever. for all the pornography hed watched, hed never seen the eyes commit the act, hed always seen them to be grey mirrors indulging in, but never a part of the deeds the bodies committed.

but these eyes were real. these eyes told him the truth. these eyes were one hundred percent. silicone free real. they revealed to him another plane of personal pleasure. he realized what hed been missing out on all these years as he immersed himself in the skin deep sensory overload of airbrushed bodies and screaming orgasms.

he listens

and listens

and when hes done spending some quality time in the confessional.

he emerges.

satisfied.

he buys himself a cigarette from the same newspaper vendor who sold him his magazines.

the vendor winks at him, and takes out a rather large bundle of that months newest and latest offerings. discreetly wrapped in brown paper.

he exhales a cloud of smoke, and through the grey fog, the vendor could still make out his shining eyes.

"porn?? thats for suckers innit?"

rant

im blogging because i simply want to, because ive sent the better part of the last 20 days trying to think of one awesome idea that would all at once make th world sit up and take notice. obviously this has been ample reason for me to sit alone in my EMPTY FOR 6 MONTHS flatby the parapet watching it rain like a bitch outside with my first bottle of single malt, a cigarette and my fleecy bathroom slippers and just remember how kickass life can be sometimes.


but then again i tried to force it, to sit down and literally choke an idea out. to regurgitate from a conversation id already have had, to mope over ideas id had ages ago and build something worthwhile. and all could come up with was a billion ideas all of them ither already done or too simplistic to consider.

and so i thought of what might happen the day after tomorrow.

what if we evolved tomorrow into perfection, a be all end all state of existence . what if all at once every single being on the planet mutated into near omnipotent omniscient beings who knew the answer to life the universe and everything.

even why girls have to go to the bathroom in packs.

what if we achieved all that weve ever strived for, a state of complete and utter supercomplexity or one where we attain a simplistic end.what if we ran out of ideas, if no one person had anything new to say to the other, if all our humour had become an email forward even before we thought of it ourselves, if weve had all the conversations, built all the buildings, screwed all the people, sang all the songs and basically did everything there was to do. what if every woman found a caring sweet stud-like sensitive man who had a sense of humour, loved kids, was a kachingabingabilliionaire and could give back massages. and every dude found a smoking hot chick who was into threesomes.

what would we be then?? would we succumb to a utopian ideal society where somehow everything managed itself?? or would we implode in a mass suicide due to a coke overdose because everyone was just so bored.?? we might even try to go for a zeus like scenario, where we connect ourselves around the world at the same time, and then all at once, we perform a complete memory wipe. the ultimate flood, as it were.
free to loop everything again.


aussi, ive been reading a lot of dawkins recently, about how our raison d'etre should be the discovery, of how every day of our existence should be propelled by the driving force that is our curiosity, our abilty to wonder, our knowledge that we still know practically nothing.

im not so sure, i mean sure it makes a lot more sense and certainly sounds a lot better then going into a good looking building where having sex is a taboo and complaining into thin air. but is there a third alternative???

Dubai/daddy needs a cigarette

i got back from dubai just last night, after a 5 day weekend sojourn avec famille.

if that doesnt explain the title, you obviously havent read my blog enough.

dubai is a seriously messed up place, i know i ought to be myself and write a verbose, spiralling bore like i have over the last couple of weeks, but seriously that place has died a true rock star death, choked on its own puke after a binge.

either that or the ruler has to have the smallest penis in thee world as is obvious by his overpowering need to build skyscrapers for abso-friggin-lutely no reason at all.

dont get me wrong now, i adore architecture, i really do. but with the exception of maybe 3-44 outstanding buildings, nearly everything was blah. be it the TWIN copies of the chrysler building and most of the newer business bay buildings.

the tragedy of the entire situation however, is the fact that dubai is suffering what bill hicks wished would happen to LA, that its on the verge of sinking metaphorically under the weight of the recession. most of the buildings are still incomplete, and stare morosely at the stagnating city through broken window-eyes.

it is a city of extremes though, there's no two ways about that, but its not for the proletariat. its too expensive, too flashy, too gaudy at times and speaking as a resident of mumbai, its too sleazy. thing about mumbai is that its like a good natured con sometimes, honestly dishonest so that you learn to sidestep the cracks in the pavement.

dubai thought is a whole new level of sleaze (or maybe it was just me on a dry spell), but it seemed too hypocritical, too artificial, just so incredibly fake that its a tad abhorring.

but there were tons of laughs though, and in retrospect i should have taken a photo of this, wild wadi the incredibly expensive water park, had so much skin on display, even someone so inherently voyeuristic as i, wanted to run around covering people up, (probably not because its morally wrong to dress so skimpily, but because i knew i didnt have a shot, not even at all,)

not that i wanted to, you understand.

the awe inspiring irony was that just at the entrance of the park, right opposite the ladies changing room,was a picture of attire that was permissible, the attire being a full body loose swimsuit that looks like a waterproof salwar kameeze, and a head scarf.

i mean come on man.

and if i sound like speedy gonzales after one too many cups of coffee its not my fault, ive been under very very close parental supervision over the entire trip and i NEED a ciggie now

been there done that

bob dylan plays in the background and his harmonica echoes as he tries to get the idea out.

all his life our insomniac wanted to find the person who fitted the bill, like the man about town in o henrys short story, he sought to find the man who'd been there and done that, a person who when he breathed his last realised he hadn't died at all but had attained the state he'd wanted his entire life, immortality, for someone who through his last breath, wheezing though it might have been, smiled as he nodded off into sleep and beyond.

he sought that person in every place he went, from his amorous overtures as an awkward teenager, striving to find love, torn betwen pablo nerudas lush verse, and marquez's choleraic eternal ideal and the bitter sweet truth of oscar wilde. from his visits to the women of the night, if only to find out whether love was lust or whether it were the other way around, and to the moment when he stared into a pair of perfect brown eyes and felt his soul sink into an oh so comfortable rest

he sought to find his happy being over swigs of bitter liquor hoping to stumble across him through a haze of hypnotic.

he sought him through the purple haze of green, through the senility of opium, submerged within the peyote cactus, and emerging through the frenzied pulse of amphetamines.

he wandered through urban jungles and dwindling forest cities, pausing every now and then to appreciate how mankind could pull himself in a downward spiral and then second guessing his past.

he waded through corporate whorehouses, through shrewd witted bankers, and in the near somnolent beauty that is the yuppie dream.

he looked here and there for his tambourine man, and sought others who shared his dream too. and finding none, he'd often grit his teeth as he went to sleep each night. discontent as he'd always been since that one fateful night.

he roamed aimlessly through the confusion of adolescence, through the aggression of youth and the empty deserted wilderness of age.

he knew not why he sought to meet the person. he knew not why the person beckoned to him in his sleep. why that person had become a misty echo over the remainder of his life.

discontent he remained, as he did always.

until one day, he realized he'd lost the game of chess with the reaper, that his time of equality had come, but just then. that very moment when he gritted his teeth because of his ignorance. he looked skyward, and reflected in the barely moving fan, solemnly moving as he lay on his deathbed, his love holding his hand, his friends by his side. choked tears everywhere. he saw himself, ravaged by age, his cheeks hollow, his mind wandering. and just as he'd begun to draw his final breath a chortle emerged from him.

and smiling, he sank through the curtain.

the fateful night, 50 years ago.

he wakes up in the middle of the night, after an entire day well wasted, muttering it to himself, he thought of something that sounded clever and kept muttering it under his breath. he sits down to type, and hopes the words flow as they used to whenever he felt this way, whenever he felt the germ of an idea beginning to sprout.

happiness is truly a life spent in discontent

of all the things ive ever written, this is the one im most unsure about.
side question though.

what would your epitaph be?? and how would you like to be interred.
me, id want to be buried, in my yard if i could afford it, with the title of this post written on my tombstone.

ive stolen the following idea from an old readers digest page, so bear with it.
and from my coffin, just where my mouth would be id want a pipe that opens into the ground, and on birthdays, special occasions, or even just randomly, id want anyone that morbidly bored with life to pour down a drink for me.

flowers are just way too passe

recycycle

what im about to embark upon is a very very long post about practically nothing. so feel free to not pay attention.

I write this while having a typical muscat moment, by the wall on the sea. watching the aquamarine sea lash out in a controlled rage against the barnacled steps of the pier. Smoking a cigarette that im starting to like, then walking to the starbucks on the other side of the beach across swathes of people having that perfect evening in paradise, white couples having a walk as they watch their babies gambolling in front of them, the locals playing football in the evening on a working day. then a french pressed cup of single origin coffee as i watch the sun set into the sea, just as ive seen it submerge every single muscat trip ive had over the last couple of years. and it still brings upon me the same wondrous joy it did when i was a 10 year old kid learning to swim at the same beach.

Im having a moment, far from the maddening crowds and the all pervasive desire of every person in mumbai to stay afloat, to push themselves to rise above the surf to a place where people have surrendered heart mind and soul to the sea and the sun.

A Macondo, a place for marquez to revel in its magic surrealism, sheltered from the storm that seems to buffet the outside world, Where solitude doesnt seem like an abhorrence but a perfectly natural state of mind. A place not for bachhanalias but one where its perfectly allright to blow off the day to sit at the cafe by the sea, have a coffee or smoke your shisha and watch as people around you raise a silent toast to peace, quiet and to listening to your inner voice.

But I dont want to live here in tin the prime of my life, I possess too much ambition, theres too much chaos residing in my soul for me to be at rest for long in this city where peacefulness, nay, near somnolence seems to throb gently at its core. even so, you only have to go with the flow, to let yourself sit down and watch the clouds skate over the sky. to allow yourself to be an insignificant grain in the cosmos, and for once revel in the anonimity it gives you, rather than fight your way to exert your individuality.

leaving on a jet plane.

all my bags are packed and im ready to go.

i love that song. Im leaving for muscat in about an hour and a half. and i sit here my mind blissfully empty not really knowing what i ought to be feeling right now.

I hate leaving mumbai. I hate knowing that i wont be able to see hear or feel lamour de ma vie for the next 2 month

on the brighter side of things, anisha sarma, and I have single handedly come up with an entirely new section of jokes so incredibly morbid that dead baby jokes seem decidedly sunny, the comatose chick in the bar jokes