The road goes ever on and on

This stuff is obviously affected by what happened yesterday and my anger surrounding it.
The anger, though, is gone and has been replaced by a gnawing feeling of helplessness at my (and the community’s) failure to be able to impact this at all. The judiciary has turned over the issue to the legislature, and the legislature seems, at least, incapable of doing anything about this. 

The law is supposed to be a reflection of society. Thus, as society evolves and changes it’s views, opinions and norms, the law changes to accommodate the change. In this issue, however, I believe that changing the law has had some serious advantage in trying to change the society. Just the fact that a person is able to walk on the street knowing that who they have sex with and who they love won’t put them in jail made serious waves in a mass acceptance of the community.

The LGBTQ community is one of the most beautiful things that has happened in my life. It is filled with beautiful, beautiful people that have had an irrevocable impact on the way I think. They have been such amazing friends and such amazing people to look up to. They now find themselves as criminals, as per the law, if they were to exercise their freedom to have sex.

This is a clear violation against human rights. To use some draconian outdated law from the 19th century to govern what purports to be a democracy and a place of universal brotherhood is just insane. My friends in the know inform me that the supreme court has acted completely by the letter of the law, that this is a job for the legislature, not the judiciary.

Maybe, but yesterday the supreme court was in the position of becoming one of the most forward thinking institution it could think of. India’s supreme court is probably the strongest court in the world, if simply because the power of investigating and interpretation of the largest constitution in the world is entirely within its purview. Irrespective of whatever their position was with respect to the legislature, the supreme court yesterday consigned a major chunk of the population to another eternity behind the closet. It consigned several teenagers in schools and colleges to more bullying, more tears and more injustice.

Article 377 was used specifically to target a certain section of people. There is no dearth of evidence there. That law was used deliberately, over and over, for decades, targeted towards our community. The court claims that this is not the intention of the law, but if a law is a reflection of society, isn’t it also affected not merely by the words contained in it but by society’s response towards it? Isn’t if framed by the contexts in which it has been used? 

As I said, I find myself in a not unique place of helplessness. I cannot convince the government to cut the crap. I cannot convince my peers to not vote for a particular government next year which has already declared it’s intentions with respect to the issue and which has had a history of terrorizing everyone and anyone that is different. My friends say I’m just being a pessimistic observer, my grandmother says I should leave it to God, my friends from outside the country advice me to just chuck this place. 

I’m not sure what I’m gonna do, tbh. I’m a nineteen year old something with an average knowledge of all that’s happening. I’m not an extraordinary person with the charisma or the power to pull something out that will save everyone. Perhaps I’m just one of the multitude of souls waiting to be saved. Maybe I’m just one of those useless footnotes in history who found themselves in the sidelines of the crowd shouting slogans as the heroes raised hell. Maybe. 

But whatever I will do, I’ll fight. I don’t know what I will do but I’m so gonna fight. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna take this quietly. We did it once, we’ll do it again. Any advice? :) 


The faint whisper in the background

Of cafes and canteens

Has become a cacophony

An amalgamation of pain and fury

And an orchestral movement

Of fire and ice


Nothing makes sense anymore.


We chucked aside logic and rationality

God and sexuality, fiction and reality

An ocean of people descended upon

The shared space of the collective

Consciousness and said big words

And dreamed and screamed


Nothing makes sense anymore.


We jumped and we felt the

Blood from our feet splatter as

We danced on the broken glass

Of the collapsed sepulcher

Of all that this came from

Of everything that was.


Nothing makes sense anymore.


One shook his fist at the firmaments

One cut his wrists to see if the blood

Was as red as it was yesterday

One overdosed on every drug he could find

And one decided to step onto the clouds

He could see from the fortieth floor


Nothing makes sense anymore.


We talked and we walked and we railed

And we wailed and we died and we

Cried and we bled and we pled

And one night that little girl

With the long sleeves who sat on the

Front desk alone in math class

Tried to commit suicide

And we taught her to live

And we taught her to die

And we taught them to live

And we taught them to die.


Nothing makes sense anymore.

Deus ex Machina

That shield shall not protect you
Brave hero with a
Dozen flaws and an endearing
Personality which would stand out in
A morgue.
Throw it away.

Your pleas for life shall not protect you,
For you live in a world where
I am God and
I am All and
Today you die.

I was going to kill you
At the end
But I shall kill you now
And end this.

I reach the middle
The page but this
Dialogue wearies me.

Hark! The pen moves faster than
The javelin directed at your jugular.
Your blood is flowing like
Monotype Corsiva.
Your pupils are sinking
Beneath to the deep abyss
I have just sent you to.

Mark the second guessing!
But I shall stand firm.
There shall be no miracle.
No plastic surgery.
No fake jump.
No hurried contrivance to
Appease them shall
Save you.

Your fame shall spread
For eons and miles
The man who would stare down his
Except, of course, for the fact that
I never deigned to give you a name.

Die well, my brave warrior of
The hued helm and the
Blazing sword.
You fought well.
Only the odds were not in
Your favour.

And now maybe
We can get back
To the plot.

God, do I hate how wordpress fucks up with the formatting. .-.
Anyway, I’ve been exploring the whole author is God in their creation and all- character death.

This day, That year…

Originally posted on Orderly Chaos:

26 November


Remarkable isn’t it?

How a date can trigger

A wave of memories.

Of a night spent in misery.

Of kin calling from ashore

 “You’re alive, my darling!”

He exclaims over tears.

“I was hoping you’d be,” he says.


And you think about other calls,

Of uncles, aunts, sons and the like,

When the caller cries differently,

When the receiver reels

In emotions undigested.

Of the news blaring

And families staring,

Horrified at the violence,

“Why?” cry some

 “Why me?” cry others.


So someone can make a point

Of misguided notions,

Of baseless propositions,

Of broken families,

And the unknown dead.

Where lies the world,

“where promises were kept,

Or one could weep because another wept.”


Are we humans at all?

Do we feel?

Does one’s pain pain us?

Does one’s death kill us?

Or does it kill the part that feels,

In the race…

View original 134 more words


Yellowish brown leaves

Falling to the ground


Black clouds fly over them

Expelling tears and they



Funeral bells and funeral songs

Dirges and  the deadbodysmell

Hospital beds with coughing corpses

Waiting rooms racked with sobs

Heaving bodies and broken hearts.


There’s a beauty to death

One that you cannot admit to

Admiring, one that you cannot,

Shall not notice. But it is there.


I see myself fall to my knees,

In my head, helpless, useless.

Years later I thought of the tears

Brought by memory. Brought by death.


I saw you hold in your thoughts

Sweatdripdrops on creased brow

I saw the love pour out like

Too much water in washed clothes.

When would they dry?


You asked.

Time, I said.

Time heals, I said.

It healed me, I said.

I almost said I wasn’t broken.

I was broken, it would have been wrong

If I wasn’t.


There’s a beauty to a carcass

Torn to pieces by dogs in a

Forest, the body abandoned in

Death as life abandoned it.


There’s a charm to the dead

Mosquito I just crushed beneath

The palm of my hand, the blood it

Sucked is glittering, sparkling.


There is a beauty I see in life

As it slowly dies

As it slowly decays

As it flickers and then



I loved you, I thought.

Why don’t the tears come?

I loved you, I say,

You were the pieceofheartthatwasn’t

In me, you were the painting I only

Admired from afar without quite

Understanding it.


The tears don’t come.

The tears won’t come.

How can there be a physical signature

Of a grief my brain cannot feel?


Did I not love you, I wonder

When you were alive

That when death took you apart

I could not feel sad.


There was no heaviness in my heart

No tightening in my chest

No brokenshardsofincomplete


Time heals, I said.

Time healed me of the grief.

Time couldn’t heal me of the guilt.


I will die too, I am dying

Clouds shall pour as the leaf yellows

I shall cause pain by dying

A pain caused by love.

Maybe it is this love that is

Beautiful to me.


For death inspires love like

Life never can.

You never know what you’re missing

Until they’re gone.

Love lends a beauty to all it touches

A touch of green to yellow leaves

A glimpse of the rainbow in stormy weather.


Love, I lived for you. I think.

Love, I died with you. I think.

Memories of your love

Won’t let me live.

The guilt over the tears

Won’t let me die.


I am not alive.

Not dead.

I am a green leaf in a bunch

Of dead leaves left burning.

Am I alive?

Does it matter?


The tears won’t come.

The grief will not rise.

My love shall not live.

My guilt shall not die.


And I mourn, my thoughts

My dreams, memories, my life

My love in a prison created by death.

But hey, this stuff is beautiful.

I roam about in a dream world

Of collapsed forts and shattered

Skulls, in an endless search

For the tears that won’t come.


There is something beautiful about death.

There is something poetic about the idea.

There is something artistic in the concept.

There is all the grief of the tragedy in the pain.

There is all the bloom of our youthful joy in love.

There is all the world in these tears.

That just won’t come. 


So finally, after much effort, I have managed to put up my life story on this blog. ‘Tis a sad, sad story and I seek your pardon for its depressing nature. I implore you to pray with me so that no other living soul may go through this perilous fate!




A long long time ago, on a warm, bright summer of sorts,
Handsome a youth, entered my life, and stole my beating heart.
Admirers all the way he ignored, and straight he sat on his seat,
While I expressed a deep felt gratitude to the almighty for this feat.
For, he was not an ordinary creation like you and me, my friends.
Sleek, stylish, serious he was. Filled with jewels of uncommon sense.
His face glowed when he awoke, and never grew he tired of the day.
Yet on the darkest of nights, if awakened, he’d still shimmer away.
Love at first sight it was for me, I could behold him for hours together,
Nervous he made me, I stammered at him, he ignored me altogether.
So I screwed my courage to the sticking place, dignified, my approach.
He looked at me, and his face dimmed, he treated me with reproach.
I swallowed my pride, and went up to him, his forehead I gently kissed.
he grew dark and hot, he shocked me, and my eyes were shrouded by a mist.
Yet, relentless was I, sat by his feet, and loved him with all I could muster.
He spurned my advances, ignored my existence, laughed at my pleading stutter.
His derision I accepted bravely, tears I hid and with a sad, hurt spirit I pleaded,
But he stopped responding to me, and I cried more even as his scorn receded.
And then a day came, when he fell ill, for he wouldn’t awaken whatever I did.
So I called the expert, who deemed him sick, and carried him off to his clinic.
I waited for my love outside his room, and prayed for his health and recovery.
But the expert kept him for longer and longer, much to my despair and worry.
Finally one day he was returned to me and I helped him settle back into his place.
But now he was angry, he pushed me away. My very warmth was to his distaste.
And now my woeful tale comes to an end. An end designed by me in depression.
I bought a stout rope from the nearby market, and from it, a noose I fashioned.
Messy are the tangles of unreciprocated love. For not once did my love lovingly see me.
Enough had I seen of life I decided and accepted, that “Alas! My computer hates me!”


There’s just a burn,

Some burnt stuff

And a couple of tears.


There’s a pie, baking.

Some hope brimming.

Some fool cooking.

Some jerk eating.

Gratitude is dead.

Words unsaid.

It’s only just a plate.

With a pie. A burn.

Some burnt stuff.

And a couple of tears.


Then comes the day

Fresh, and new.

Starts with hope.

Ends with self hate.

Something in between

Best left unsaid.

Tis a long sad day.

Uneventful burns,

Some burnt stuff

And a couple of tears.


You quell my spirit

Extinguish belief

Challenge my optimism,

Make me feel meek.

Am I that hateful?

You’ve got to be kidding.

What’s my worth? Burns?

Or burnt stuff?

Or even some tears?


Can such people be?

See the good in everyone.

Rise low spirits. Shine.

Every colour forms white.

Do not see the lacking sight.

Appreciate girl. Learn to.

For better days may come.

Days devoid of burns

Some burnt stuff

And a couple of tears.


Board Exams and Me

A long long time ago, in the sleepy village of ancient India, there was an outburst of energy. The village, Fidelius was much like the famous shire of Tolkien. Its inhabitants, the Fidelians, were habitually boring people. They never wavered from the familiar. This was a place, where the only thing called an adventure was not following the routine and where the road not taken- was indeed not taken.

But suddenly, as told earlier, in Fidelius, there was an outburst of energy. The Fidelians had all gathered in the house of the local seer- Sibal. Sibal was now on his deathbed. His popularity, judging from the number of people by his bedside, came from his prior prediction- that is-the only accurate prediction he will ever make henceforth will be when he was on his deathbed. And being the brilliant seer that he was, he never made a single correct prediction. He saw rains when the clouds vanished and sensed fog on the brightest of days. He predicted death to the healthiest of men, and sterility to hormonal teenagers. He became the talk of the town, and his seer abilities were spoken of far and wide.

On his deathbed, the great seer, sensing Fidelians hanging on his words gave out his true predictions. “The local doctor shall face a great, personal tragedy.” All eyes rushed, transfixed, on the local doctor. He gave out a whimper and looked like he had just seen Medussa.

“A war of mammoth proportions will break out in Fidelius.” A collective sigh of “ooh’s” and “aah’s” swept through the crowd. The Fidelians knew not the ‘W’ of war. The last war they fought was over a chicken, half a thousand years back!

“And then,” the poor seer raised his voice over the din, “everything will get back to normal.” The word normal stretched unnaturally in the last syllable wherein the great seer breathed his last.

The next day, the local doctor dared not step out of his mansion. He locked his family in and himself tended to his bulging waist and receding hairline- matters he had postponed to periods of scanty patients so as to swindle the dwindling population of the Fidelians with ease. The Fidelians suffered from Roachoc pox, a disease of the Roachocs (ancient cockroaches). After chicken pox was eradicated with much pomp and ceremony by the doctors of a century ago, no Fidelian doctor ever earned enough to have a square meal a day- until Roachoc pox announced itself with the vigour and velocity that shook Fidelius. And the local doctor triumphed. Therein came his state of the receding hairline and the bulging waist.

Anyway, the local doctor was locked in his mansion, while fifteen miles away, a fifteen year old teenager was gazing at a greenish blue solution in a test tube with the adoration and adulation that only a Grecian Urn could receive from Keats. The major ingredient of the solution was extracted from the intestines of a nasty little Roachoc who had bitten the youngster on his finger when he had tried to scrape its gut. But the boy had not bothered. He gazed and gazed at the little, gleaming test tube and then, all of a sudden, he “yahoo’ed” and jumped in the air, a finger over the test tube protecting that precious solution. He got out of his little cottage, and yelled to all the passing Fidelians, “Wah re wah!” (A chant akin to Archimedes’ Eureka, except our boy deemed it less prudent to strut the streets naked.)

And so he hopped, skipped and jumped his way, his lab coat swaying behind him with the test tube to the mansion of the poor doctor- him of the bulging waist and the receding hairline. He shouted out from below, “Doctor? Doctor? Come out at once! I have found a cure for Roachoc pox!”

Behind the security of two layered brick walls and curtains and fireplaces and what-nots, the doctor gave a sigh. His expression was akin to that of Macduff screaming out the death of the noble Duncan- “O horror, horror, horror.” The great tragedy had stricken. No Fidelian ever got Roachoc pox again. The doctor’s role reduced to a mere degree and a title. The only thing he ever prescribed now were tonics of vitamins and minerals for those with flatulence and poor digestion. The doctor of the bulging waist and the receding hairline became the doctor of the flat abdomen and the hairless scalp.

However, the Roachocs were hunted down far and wide. The ruthless Fidelians looked under drains, and sinks; in the roots of old trees and under big rocks, they looked everywhere. Everywhere the Roachocs were hunted and degutted, until the Roachocs had had enough. The disgruntled lot of them assembled under the old banyan tree by the outskirts of Fidelius and looked up to their president, the old, the wise, the experienced, Riddle Roach. Riddle paced the stage and coughed loudly. At once the crowd stopped chattering.

“As you know, the Fidelians have surpassed their limits. They have been hunting us down and degutting us for mystic reasons that do not concern us. They leave us in states of no-digestion. We can no longer eat without the food falling off our oesophagus in a pile. This cannot go on.”

The Roachocs nodded their little heads vigorously, their little feelers swiping away the Roachoc in front of them. Some of them gave out angry chants of assent with their chief. Encouraging the anger of his subjects, Riddle continued in that deep, wizened, experienced voice of his- “We shall not take this any longer. We will wage a war against those dim witted monsters and not give up until they promise not to hunt us anymore.”

His words were drowned by the screams and “woohoo’s” of the raging crowd. Out they flew, those little Roachocs fluttering their leathery wings and cart wheeling in the air with the agility that would have made an Archaeopteryx weep! They flew hither and thither. Here, they defecated on a sleeping Fidelians face. There, they rendered the alarm clock useless by releasing their stink pellets on the old man’s moustache. And there again, they poked the school going Fidelians so that their skin attained the texture of the Gobi desert. The war of mammoth proportions had broken out!

images (1)

The Fidelians, dim witted like old Shemar had wisely said, were at their wit’s end. They had no knowledge of wars. They fiddled with those heavy AK-47s imagining what the trigger did, and where the nozzle must point. And by the time they figured this out, they wiped out most of the Fidelian army. The news of the mass suicide broke out, and the poor Fidelians deciding that the government must have retreated, stepped out of their homes and bowed down to the Roachocs and accepted defeat.

AK 47

The Roachocs were delighted. They knew they would win eventually, but this easily? No, they had not believed it possible. Riddle Roach called out finally, over the din and stated in that deep, wizened, experienced voice of his- “We will end this conflict if the Fidelians promise never to hunt down or degut a Roachoc again.”

The timid Fidelians whimpered and nodded. They sobbed into their fingers, internally relieved that the war was over and they could get back to being lazy and lackadaisical again. The Roachocs were reinstated their rightful homes- in the sinks and drains of the Fidelian households. The doctor of the flat abdomen and the hairless scalp once again grew the bulging waist and his shiny head showed just the hint of a few white hairs. Roachoc pox was once again prevalent. And everything was back to normal. The great Seer Sibal was awarded a posthumous place of honour in the nonexistent Fidelian government, because after all- it was exactly as he had said it would be.


The teenage years are about self discovery. Introspection. About finding yourself-what you’re meant for, meant to do. That is why- the time you spend as a teenager is the most harrowing, energy consuming, depressing time until worse.

Me… I am a conformer. I am a piece of wet clay. I mould myself as per people’s expectations. So naturally, other people, and their expectations mean a lot to me- in fact they shape me. I’ve always cared more about other people’s opinion than my own. But then again- so do a lot of people.

There are a lot of good things about being a conformer. One thing is people generally respect you. How can they not?  You’re everything they look to respect. People appreciate you. They think you’re nice, very accommodating, very easy to talk to, very sweet and understanding. You probably are most of that- so it doesn’t hurt to know that others think the same way about you. You’re admired. You’re liked. You’re called. You’re talked to. You’re asked for advice.

But there are downfalls obviously. People take you for granted. Every mistake you make is counted and accounted for- because you can’t just make mistakes. That’s what humans do. Not conformers. You lose your originality, your individualism. Or you probably just didn’t have any. You’re a blend of good qualities and a hidden store of bad qualities. Of course you have flaws. You’re just excellent at hiding them. Or avoiding them.

I have a ton of flaws. The worst- I cannot trust. I have a mile high walls. I cannot stop thinking sometimes. Sometimes- I am thinking so much and so hard that I cannot wait to put my headsets on and empty my mind. Thinking is a curse-believe me. I have lost touch with myself. The real me. I cannot find her. I don’t remember being her. Who am I actually? I’m like Julia Roberts from Runaway Bride-(stupid film but I connect with her)- I have no idea how I like my eggs cooked.

The thing is- conforming is a safe haven. Its security. It’s like an engineering job in India. You’re well set. And I am too comfortable being a conformer to change. This life- it’s not easy mind you. Its difficult being a different person all the time. But then it’s easy in a very different way. I’m risking nothing by living. I’m protecting myself-the real me-from the real world. I’m safe.

Then why do I hate it? Why am I tired of it? I haven’t the faintest clue. All I know is- I’m nearing the end of my teenage years. And if I don’t find myself before it ends- I’m going to be a conformer for the rest of my life.

So… this was a random post. And I’m bored. So.. meh.


On Freedom

There is no meaning to freedom

Not in words, bound by strictures

Not in actions, scrutinised by society

Not in life, described by deeds

And Facebook statuses

Not in death, coffined and cremated

Memories sullied and bullied.


There is no meaning to freedom

When a baby is given a name

Without its will.

There is no meaning to freedom

I can’t choose where to be born

And I can’t choose when to die.


There is no meaning to freedom

When people look to smoke

And drink and fuck and score

And they do it quietly by the

Back door of the canteen or some

Place in the Ridge, for fear.

There is no meaning to Freedom

If there’s always a Big Brother.  


There is no meaning to freedom

And perhaps that is wise.

For freedom is a great power.

And you don’t need to have seen

Spiderman to know that

Great Power means great responsibility

And responsibility is yet another cage

For this free bird.


There is no meaning to freedom

If one looks for meaning.  

There is no meaning to freedom

When liking a Beiber song is

Social suicide.

There is no meaning to freedom

If everyone is free and some people

Are free-er than the others


There is no meaning to freedom

If diagrams in Bio must always be perfect

If essays in English exams should not

Be lesser than five hundred words and

If Geography answers should always

Be in points and if History students

Must always mug up the dates.


There is no meaning to freedom

For the birds are bound to the sky

Their wings beat futilely in an effort

To escape gravity and all that rots on earth

And leap into the non-matter beyond

But that is a cage as well

And the sky is bound to the earth

And the earth is bound to something which is bound

And on and on, some fuckery’s involved

For Freedom is a myth.

A romantic piece of Bakchodi.


And Freedom is such a drug, man,

We’ve never even been free,

And we’re already addicts.


Freedom is such a high, man,

We’ve never even been free

And just thinking about it is enough.


Freedom is such a temptress, man,

We’re born caged and die caged

And live caged and damn,

The grass must be seriously green on the other side.   



Heh. ‘Night. 


(Random translation/notes/stuff that may help you understand)

i) “Bakchodi is a remarkably versatile Indian swear word. I am unsure how exactly to translate it, but urban dictionary says it refers to senseless and baseless gossip. Hmm. 


ii) The Kamla Nehru Ridge (referred to as Ridge) is this really forested area where you can get some private space. *nudge nudge wink wink* There are also a huge amount of monkeys. Baby monkeys are cute. :3


iii) Big Brother- a reference to the villian in Orwell’s 1984. You should read it naow. 


Orwell reminded me of that some people are more equal than the others quip in Animal Farm, so I stuffed that in too. Okay. 


Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 28 other followers

%d bloggers like this: