Bhenchod!!! i am bored

e enjte, 22 tetor 2009

Psychological Therapies are Effective

Psychological Therapies are Effective

Psychological therapies are recognized by both researchers and healthcare providers as effective treatments for reducing the frequency and intensity of symptoms of OCD. Effective psychological treatments for OCD stress changes in behavior and/or thoughts (sometimes called cognitions). When appropriate, behavioral and cognitive treatments are combined alone or with medication to get the best result.
Behavior Therapy: Facing Your Worst Fears

Although there are a variety of behavioral therapies for treating OCD, almost all focus on exposing you to those things that you fear most such as contamination or the troubling content of an obsessional thought. This exposure provides you with an opportunity to gain new information in hopes of disconfirming your worst fears.

One of the most popular and effective forms of behavior therapy for OCD is exposure and response prevention or ERP. ERP involves exposing you to the anxiety that is provoked by your obsessions and then preventing the use of rituals to reduce your anxiety. This cycle of exposure and response prevention is repeated until you are no longer troubled by your obsessions and/or compulsions.

ERP usually involves 15 to 20 exposure sessions that last about 90 minutes. These sessions usually take place at the therapist’s office, although you are usually asked to practice ERP at home. While some therapists prefer to begin with exposure to the most feared stimuli (this is sometimes called flooding), others prefer to take a more gradual approach. For example, it is not uncommon to have people begin ERP by simply thinking about being exposed to the things they fear most.

Although behavior therapy is highly effective for about two-thirds of people who complete treatment, there are drawbacks.

* Behavior therapy involves facing your worst fears; many patients dropout before treatment is complete.

* Behavior therapy is hard work and requires completing homework in between sessions.

* Behavior therapy may not be that effective for people who experience primarily obsessions without compulsions.

* Behavior therapy can be expensive, although your insurance plan may cover all or part of the cost.

Cognitive Therapy: Opening Your Mind to New Possibilities

Cognitive therapy for OCD is based on the idea that distorted thoughts or cognitions cause and maintain harmful obsessions and compulsions. For example, although the majority of people report experiencing intrusive, and often bizarre, thoughts on a daily basis, if you have OCD you may over inflate the importance or danger associated with such thoughts. You may even believe that by having such thoughts, you increase the likelihood of the feared thought, event or action taking place or being true.

In another example, if you have OCD, you might dramatically overestimate the degree to which you are responsible for a catastrophic event taking place and feel you have to take actions to prevent it. For instance, you might experience an uncontrollable urge to count or order a particular object to prevent a plane crash. Of course, counting or ordering a particular object couldn’t possibly have any impact on whether a plane crashes or not. This illogical thought pattern is often called magical thinking.

Cognitive therapy involves examining these harmful thought patterns and coming up with plausible alternatives that are more realistic and less threatening. It is not uncommon for you to be unaware of some of the distortions that are present in your thinking and the therapist may help to point these out. Cognitive therapy often integrates elements of behavior therapy. For example, your therapist may have you test out some of the plausible alternatives you have come up with through exposure therapy.

Like ERP, cognitive therapy is usually done over the course of 15 to 20 sessions, although the cognitive therapy sessions are often shorter in duration, lasting 50 to 60 minutes. As with ERP, you are often asked to do homework, which usually comprises keeping a daily journal of your t

in reference to:

- Treatments for OCD - What Are Psychological Treatments for OCD (view on Google Sidewiki)

e hënë, 19 tetor 2009

Excerpt from an Eduardo Galeano interview.

He is always first when the end night approaches; silence is broken by the one out of tune . . .the bird who never tires, awakens the master-singers and before first light all the birds in the world begin their serenade at the window, sailing over the flowers and over the reflections. A few sing for love of the arts, other broadcast news or report gossip or tell jokes, or give speeches or proclaim the light. But all of them, but all of them, artists reporters, gossips, cranks, and crazies, join in single orchestral overture. Do birds announce the morning? Or by singing do they create it?

in reference to:

"He is always first when the end night approaches; silence is
broken by the one out of tune . . ."
- eduardo galeano | identity theory interview (view on Google Sidewiki)

e diel, 11 tetor 2009

Dont fuck...

This poem is for every pretentious and pious feminists...

Don’t fuck…

Don’t fuck that lady
She is infertile
A dead body sack

Forced humps, body gore
Hanger smiles, creaking cries

Pulled from the leg in bed
Pulled by the hair in bed
Punched in the eye in bed

Her disgruntle is loud enough
Your TV just booms louder
She goes on too much
Shove that dick in her mouth

City girl, city girl duh..da..da..duh
She eni mini miny moe’s the guy she fucks
She sneaks in with a key at 10
Emancipated, empowered and bold,

How easily she senses freedom?
How easily she feels hurt?

She keeps in the inaudible
The muffled cries in the pillow
She keeps in the blindsight
The battered cunt

Sexy mtv girl has to fight dirty in mud
She has to foam wash a car in white

Pious mild housewife hands bag to husband
Has to pick out colour-coordinated tie for him

She waves him off smiling,
Returns to the world of kids, vegetables and TV

Doctors chanced upon a hole, shouted “girl
You cried, dictation of life had begun.
Did you hear the booby trap snap?

Denounce the right to fuck
Till no guy says,
“all in all, every girl is the same”.

To be laid out plain in your lover’s eyes.

To be laid out plain in your lover’s eyes,
Is what truly is, being vulnerable.
Staring deep into the silhouette you form in her eyes,
And you know it means to have reflection.
Let her words fall upon your ears while you hold her,
And you know what it is to be mesmerized.

With every kiss she is born within you,
With every touch she will arouse in you.

To be held in loving arms is a retreat,
Away from the mad hustle,
Away from the crazy bustle.

The real profound of logic

There is a euphoria bursting within me.
I have unlocked the key,
I have solved the mystery.

Life is speaking a new language,
I can see an order that prevails within this world.

A world without God is a crazy place to live in.

I originate because,
One night,
One man one woman,
Got horny,
I call them my parents.

The world deconstructs itself in front of me,
There exists no mythical governing entity in this world.
There exists what you have before you.
In material presence. In touchable presence.

I feel like a Maverick,
No, not your tom cruise.
But one who sucks energy,
From freedom,
From thought.

My pen doesn’t talk no more

My pen doesn’t talk no more

May be capitalism has begun to erode my brain.

May be it’s a just a phase.

I am just scared,

To come out on paper.

And face myself on the other side.

A mind less compelled to struggle against others pains,

A mind more compelled to bargain and gain.

A mind that has struck a deal,

Between capitalism and communism.

To enjoy the perks of capitalism,

And the ideology of communism.

A mind who’s struck a deal to process limited info,

A tv, a tabloid, a poster ad,

Simple, cut and dry.

Ah I am screwed I know,

But I rather talk about who I screwed.

Crisis shimmering in cities of the world,

Fear breathing in the lungs of the people,

This world, this life, this stage.

I feel the misery in every sweat and pant.

A mind comfortable only when

Drunk and stoned

High and bored.

e enjte, 15 maj 2008



No, the puppets don’t have lives
Their puppets never have lives
Wake up soon
Its not okay
To just nod anything to be true

These puppets don’t have lives
Their master is not on your side
These puppets will be stitched up
Given a bow tie to look good
Living from the fringes of life
Gives them their promotions and perks

Rushing on the way to the top brass
They put their hands up too soon
What they stalk and what they crave?
Bollywood dreams are being forced down their throats

Will you look when you leap?
To be the spark or the burning ash.
To be simply stuffed into a chest
Or to be the anger when you are slapped
Don’t let freedom become a favour
Don’t let your voice become rare
Don’t let them scrape your mind
Say fuck off when ask you to be part of the grind

e diel, 4 maj 2008


Hey, police.

Hey, I know you?
Alone today?
I have something new to say to you.

Grab my collar and strike me
I want no fear of being stricken
Grab my collar and fright me
I want no face to frighten me
Grab my collar and punch me
I want my gut to know it’s part of a man
Man part of a democracy

Tear my shirt apart and rob me
I want no fear of any loss
Shove me on the street harder
I know you can’t run me over

The radial hold of your fist stops at your palm
The end of your stick is just wood
The end of your bullet is just smoke
But the splinters of pain spread much further

Hey, I know you?
I meet you everyday
I curse you everyday
My hate you know well of
There are many of me on the lists
Your bosses will tell you my face
Not my name and never their game
When will you be more than a swirling’ red light?
More than a club and more than a van?



Teaching mom teaching mom
Noises shouting at a blackboard
But teaching mom
Driving them around the safer miles ahead
Teaching mom preaching mom

Grinding mom grinding mom
Grind in pattern and grind in way
Blind insane and that’s the way
With a loose gown on and head-ache on
Grind mom grind, you have bodies to embalm

Buying mom buying mom
Discounted your sale in the bid, did you?
What will the tinkle of your wind chime mask?
Thud of your day can be heard all around

Trembling mom trembling mom
Crawling up in her bedsheet and trembling mom
Husband arms have no warmth
Praying mom praying mom
Got to ask a lot of favours from god
Slipping mom slipping mom
There slid an eel under your feet
Slipping mom slipping mom
What will it take to stop your bleed?

Loving mom loving mom
Loving her son, he doesn’t tick his bomb
Hoping he better pick the safer faction
Trying to diffuse loving to diffuse
Too late mom I have already bombed.



Tumbling, tumbling, tumbling
I am a boulder on a rage
An actor on a free stage
A dart piercing, don’t have bull’s-eye craze

Tumbling, tumbling, tumbling
Look out I am heading straight
And then may be left and then shift my weight
And let myself heave through waves and billows

No affiliations from no institutions
No id cards to validate my existence
I can see my shadow, cant I
I do pervade through this space
That’s all the proof I need.

I am the fleeting feather
I am the sweep in the wind
My head tumbles in a free dance
My feet kick rubble and stones
With a pall of dust and all
I am on a no-buckle ride
No head-support, no safety-cage ride

I paint away all the slouching ghosts aside
Brush them off the canvas of my vision
How dark their eyes are
The neon lights are more than just blinking here

e shtunë, 12 prill 2008

When we meet

Yes, we will collide one day
May be in the smouldering silences
Of the office lobbies and pressurised cabins.
Our greetings will rise above their din of chatter.
People will perch their head away from,
Coffee mugs, copy machines and cubicles.
We will rejoice our chance, thumping aloud each other’s backs
We will embrace like anxious lovers do after a war
Our laughter will ring louder than their telephone rings.
We will disturb the motions of the floor
They will ponder over the earthy fragrance of our meet
Our hugs will not be worried of our shirts getting creased
Notes will now be made to include in lunch break gossip
Through a systematic human chain a memo will be passed
And the bosses will be informed
They will twitch, tense and taut
They will question: “ how have they escaped the reign?
How inappropriate is this?
Our formal design doesn’t allow this?”
We are still not ready to leave our embrace
Now the jokes will surface
Now, readers and listeners
Do ponder as to what we both aim to achieve there
Why would we be in that scene?
Well, we both want to see for ourselves
The edifices of production from close quarters
The modern slaughter house in action
We want to see if any alive eye still remains
After examining and extrapolating the gains.

e enjte, 10 prill 2008



You have two doors locked shut
One with rails and one with a lock
Men below with clubs lay watch round the clock
Who do you want to keep out?
What is so precious in your house?

What are you so scared of father?

What’s so unruly outside when the lights go low?
Why does an empty road offend so?
Who are you trying to save me from?
What do you avoid and escape?

What happens if I don’t come back?
What happens if I don’t locate?
What happens if I do run out money?
What happens if people don’t know who I am?

When will the unknown become known?

Do you see the futility of your feats father?
AC’s in every room,
A new car with much more room,
A mini-bar in the drawing room

How long will the mist in your mind last?

Lecturing for long to son on life,
A bit about blueprint, business and foundation base

When do the jobs stop following?
When does the life begin?

When will your barriers stop building?
When will you look and say, “We are all the same”?
People are not cheating you off your name

Your fist is clenched in a tight fold
Is money worth every fight?
Your measuring tape is always out
Does everything have to be big?

When will your lies stop repeating?
When will your habits stop suppressing?

Yes, tomorrow I will forget you.
No, not the father
The person
The existence
I defy all that you are.

e premte, 1 shkurt 2008

Snatch the pen and paper

Snatch the pen and paper

Yo, my fair lady
Don’t dis or scoff at my verses
Authority to truncate and suppress
Exists only in your head.
Gauging write or wrong through
Society’s bestowed magnifying glass,
Censor my ass why don’t you
If the benign word butt causes harm to you

“It’s against our college culture, you see
Slash out the whore and fuck too,
Damn you youngsters. (Mumbled)”
She said lashing out at my purposive assemblage of words and sentences

Ideas don’t flow in educational cauldrons
ideas are meant for regulation and manipulation to suit
Convenience and dogmatic ideologies.

Divergence to your safety and acceptability causes you to flinch I see
Fuck, whore, cunt, assol… haha couldn’t help myself
I love it when you flinch.

Framework of rules and permissions you erect in your premises
to infiltrate minds and manufacture mind-blocks
you want to set precedents of the ideal
Veil the voices, envelope the mind, shove the brazen outcry is how you plan to do so

Your dictum of dogmatic and retarded views
Vouchsafes me a view of your brain-damage
Physics, chemistry, management degrees you dangle at drooling students
Liberation of mind isn't your priority, to breed in captivity is
Education frees not curbs
Education propels not regress
Suppression and subjugation corollary to
the non-pulsed and condescending education you offer

Is this what your seek to create
A clustering of mind-numb followers who seek approval for peeing,
salted and dressed for a hearty lunch for some hungry demagogue

Give up, enough, shed your false pretence
Of being the nobler than noble teacher
Conformist no more, many minds will wield the pen and many arms up against
Your need to slit voices and throats.

e hënë, 22 tetor 2007

Balls of Steel.


“I am quitting from today onwards”, mumbled Mahendra. It had been sometime since he had mumbled out words instead of bellowing them out.

“Sissy’s like you don’t deserve to be in the team anyways” the coached leaned back and passed the snide remark without as much as blinking. He had been subdued by his star player’s overbearing persona for far too long. Nothing less than rubbing salt into Mahendra’s deep wound and even stomping on the bruise with spiked shoes would suffice.

For the first time, the bellicose side of Mahendra did not erupt in such a situation. He meekly took the abuse on his chin and let it fall flat on his chest. He got up gingerly and inconspicuously slid away from the locker room and out through the back door. Once out, he slipped away into a reverie of his former dominant days he had enjoyed within that very cloistered locker room. The menagerie of photographers and reporters scuttled towards him expecting a sound byte of some sort. They were expecting their hero to hurl his persona into their face and give them that consolation that the entire country was expecting from him. He did nothing of that sort. He ran. He lunged hard for his Jaguar and screeched away from the parking lot.

Mahendra closed his eyes hard and shuddered.
“What was this behaviour?”
“He of all people. This way”

He wanted to hate himself so bad. More than hatred what he felt was regret for using this illusion for as long as he did. His façade had visible cracks and he was falling hard into them.

The team he was formerly a part of comprised not of teammates but more of followers, idolisers and even aria-singers of his praise. All of whom had seen him come apart.

He could not possibly imagine going back and “high-fiving” his adoring teammates who had seen him naked and bleeding. How could he call them “losers meant for fucking only cheap whores” anymore when his male-dominance was under serious question and doubt?

It was so very different before. He had gained quite a larger than life prominence in the team, which was no more egalitarian in its make. Every play flowed through or was left to be initiated by him alone. Mahendra’s talk, Mahendra’s wham-bham attitude, Mahendra’s intimidating style of play, Mahendra’s swagger on the field.
His effrontery in every matter was never a matter of discomfort. None had the audacity to point any part of the finger at him.

Mahendra was a stud. That was that. Felt by all and believed by all, to be questioned by none. It was a religious obligation to one and all to abide by and hold onto this opinion. Possession of anything apart or resembling in any manner a divergent opinion was considered to be blasphemous.

His prominence was, however, not a simple matter of acceptance by 15 or so cricketers. This foible of his transcended the locker room and landed it self in every possible media outlet. It put star-strung celebrities to the back pages of disinterest. Front pages carried bold interviews and photographs of his ever-present stubble and commodious chest-hair. The press happily lapped him up and gave him all the space to comfortably lie with his arms and legs spread out on newspapers and TV time. He was their macho-man personified. For a country apparently devoid of true masculinity he came as a whiff of virile and masculine air. The country had been skilfully induced into a blissful comatose state where only Mahendra existed and mattered. There was no cessation in sight to this frenzy. It was getting harder to look away from him.

A vital component of this peculiar congeries of everything that ill-defined and misunderstood masculinity stood for was in full show in his bedroom. This man that he was, actually took birth in his bedroom with a sizeable contribution to the gasps that his coital partners gave out. The baby steps of ego, self-worth and self-respect in a man are usually taken when he looks down up himself, when aroused or looking for arousal. Mahendra’s pride too stemmed from the pleasurable discomfort that his girls took to take in a piece of his appendage or member. The awes that his 10-incher gained were in no way limited only to the females but also to the guys. His bulging lovestick had the perfect exhibitionist streak in him and found a perfect accomplice in an ever-ready-to-peel-off towel. Mahendra’s imperiousness had spurted out quite literally, out of his unending pubic protrusion.

All this had become all too common now, and in a normal due course came a day which had nothing normal to offer. He had once sauntered onto the pitch with his sinewy brawniness cascading recklessly out of his folded sleeves. He had let everyone know in the locker room of his disdain to the suggestion of a protective gear in the groin area. “Balls of Steel” is what he proclaimed to have possessed and any sort of protection was tantamount to personal abuse. Within five minutes of being out there he had hurled a racial abuse at the bowler, slung a meaty boundary, and cut his career curtly short. He brashly hit out at a furiously fast paced delivery, which sneaked in beneath his bat and carefully chose to miss his “balls of steel”. What it did hit was however, wasn’t even close to made of steel and was quite meaty tender. He crouched up hard and fell with a thud dismissing a cloud of dust from the ground. Well the expectant reaction was that he would any second belligerently lash out at the accurate bowler with his bat and completely play to the gallery. He didn’t get up. He just lay there. Crying. In the scorching glare of his faithful audience he was clutching hard at his groin. There was a red blotch in the portion possibly because of how hard he was clutching at it. The medicos moved onto the field surprised at his outburst of an emotion they knew not existed within him. Mahendra’s wail rose above the stunned silence of the crowd who with their disbelieving eyes were watching their “man” flap, cry and writhe away in pain. He deteriorated further once he was brought back into the locker room. In a state of delirious frenzy he stripped off his clothes, while continually gripping hard at his injured companion, very reminiscent of his usual antics of stripping off his towel to earn some applause from his team-mates. He wasn’t worth a single applause now. Behaving like a moronic whimper crying his eyes out for help was something Mahendra would have had nightmares about. Vanity and blood bled out from him in spite of his firm hold. His medicos and his mates simply looked on Mahendra lying naked now on the massage table, bleeding and crying. A lost endomorph, contorted in an aberration of his self. The coach rushed in from behind and broke away the inactiveness of the circle. He smirked at Mahendra and looked dead in his eye and said, “Losers like you are meant for fucking cheap whores only”.
Mahendra stopped crying, got dressed and passed away to oblivion forever.

e hënë, 1 tetor 2007

The man with the red file, the pregnant lady, the old lady and me

This will appear a bit vague on first reading. I would prompt you to go through the thing twice and then try to make sense or no-sense out of it. I have a lingering feeling that it could do with something "more". Not sure what, but would help if you could suggest something. So do hit the comments link after the reading and leave some thoughts or suggestions or vulgur abuses that you think could prove useful.

The man with the red file, the pregnant lady, the old lady and me

“Dream of Californication,
Dream of Californicaton”

“Saaale woh khud aurat ban ke chupa hua, toh hum kar bhi kya sakte hain”

“The girl was hot dude, you wont believe the fucking cleavage she was showing me”

“Lucky Assol”

Too many voices were being heard that day. More than what was usual.
I couldn’t help myself from overhearing whatever was audible in the din of the excited but nonsensical chatter pervading throughout the bogey.

A man sitting opposite to me, carrying a red plastic file, was in the middle of this telephonic conversation:

“Sir, I have the report in my hand.

Yes, sir I know. But I want you to read it again.

There must be something to help.

I know the medicines are there but I cant be like that sir.

Sir, you are the doctor, you must……….

Yes sir, yes.”

The man pushed hard onto a button on his cell. Disgruntled. Disappointed.

He closed the red coloured plastic file that was laid open on his lap.

The file had on its cover inscribed the address of some sex clinic.

I flinched and smiled. The assol in me concluded the guy was some looser who could not get his dick up. The man next to him shuffled in his seat. I guess he too had read what was written on the file. Assols are there in all of us. Such priapic thoughts can originate, quite obviously, in a man.

The man wiped the sweat of his brow with quick and hurried dabs at his hairy eyebrow. In his clumsiness he poked his smutty handkerchief into his tired eyes. It evoked another sardonic smile from me.

Here I was, the perfect embodiment of all things that are truly masculine and virile and exactly opposite to me was sitting a small, timid and malfunctioning example of man. Man or should I say the all-exalted man is so self-conceited that he will reason himself out to believe the most ill-conceived idea to be true to him.

A Pride so artificial, it beats the man in his Pride.

The train chugged along slothfully and languorously. I still hadn’t stop smiling.

The train braked and landed itself at the next station. I had tuned out all the other conversations that we taking place inside the train at that moment. Now my sole object of ridicule was the unnamed man with the red file. In between he gave me looks of complete desperation, almost begging me not to be judgemental about his condition. Such moments where my upper hand was obvious didn’t present themselves frequently enough for me to give away this opportunity. I could look down, mock, ridicule the man for the entire span of the journey, without him raising an eyebrow. He knew where he stood. He knew, I knew where he stood.

In boarded a lady at the station with a large bulge in her abdomen. She looked pretty flushed, probably out of the strain she had put in to get on to the train.

The lady entered and waddled through the crowd and seated herself in the seat that had been now vacated by the person sitting next to me.

As soon as she seated herself in the she gave a broad grin to all those in the train who out of boredom had nothing to do but stare at the lady. The lady tried hard to shimmy and wobble and get herself to fit into the seat, all of which gathered more unobtrusive stares at her.

An elderly lady approached her who I presumed knew the lady from before and was assigned to meet her in that bogey itself. I came to this presumption because as soon as she approached her she started mouthing her the amount of pain she had taken to climb on to the train with her bad knee and how no one here bothers enough to get up and help her.

Definitely mother-in-law material I presumed.

By know she had successfully grabbed the attention of the bored ears away from the other lady. Those who earlier were involved in some sort of conversations, I felt, had the urge to break their conversation and overhear what the old lady had to say.

“I have told you don’t travel by trains it will harm you. You are in your 5th month”

“I can’t see why Ramesh can’t get the government car to ferry you to the doctor. Others use it quite freely when ever they have somewhere or anywhere to go to. The party, the gym, the dentist. If they can why can’t us. Useless.”

“Have you been taking your pills? Don’t take too many though. These doctors you can never quite trust them”

I wondered why the old lady felt the need to talk to the pregnant lady (revealed to all by the old lady earlier) as if she was deaf or she was on the other side of a long distance STD call.

All this while the man with the red file listened on with rapt attention. I too had forgotten my self-assigned task to look down on him.

The man with the red file however did not waver his glance for a moment.

My glance and his were, however, made to waver by another stop and another attention grabbing entry.

“Baba aur Baby ke liye khilone lelo”
“baba aur baby ke liye khilone lelo”

“aap bhel-come hain khelonon ko haath main lekar dekhneko. Kharidne ki zaroorat nahin par dekh toh lijiye ye kitne acche hain”, he appealed to all the passengers.

The pregnant lady lifted her burgeoning rear only partially to view the man offering the gifts.

She called out,
“oye, zara idhar aana”

The hawker rushed over and handed her a girl toy whose pantie, I observed, was coloured red (it is through the possession of years of experienced, forever roving and wholly pervert eyes that I could manage to steal this detail)

“kitne ko doge”
“10 rupay ek ka madam”
“huh, nahin nahin bahut zyaade bol rahe ho…”

The pregnant lady had hardly completed her sentence when the man with the red file flung out a 100-rupee note and belligerently lashed out at the dolls and took all of them away from the hawker.

“mujhe sab ke sab chahiye”

He was sweating quite profusely and his lips quivering. He pressed all the dolls hard against his chest and his blood-shot eyes gave me and the pregnant lady the coldest stare.

e hënë, 17 shtator 2007

Stop Faking It!

Stop Faking It!

“Stop faking it”, I bellowed to the girl underneath
“No, I am not, why will I?” she gasped with her moan beneath,
“What do I know why, trying to flatter me I guess?”
I insert out, it had only been in five minutes or less.

Jumped off the bed, with a bed sheet rolled around the torso and body
“The cocoon has only been half unravelled it seems”, at the sight smirked the lady.
Through most of my masks and cloaks her eyes never failed from piercing
She very well knew she wasn’t the one faking.

I rushed out to the kitchen tripping constantly over the nagging bed sheet.
How was it that my eyes never had the courage to confront her orbs and meet?
The magnifying view of her eyes had cornered me in,
Why did she always snatch away from me my beloved curtain?

The “stop faking it” beseech was not meant for the orgasms,
Rather it was a self-reproaching statement just for that organism that was me.
Ostensible is what appears from appearances alone,
She knew ostensibly is the only way I had lived all these years by gone.

P.S. Don’t you need an identity to have an identity crisis?

e shtunë, 1 shtator 2007

Slapped Hard

Two pretty and young girls came up and landed
An uncalled slap across my face
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
Heaven has no place for a woman drugged
The words tumbled off from her
Trying to fathom what was being done to me
Trying to decipher what had gotten into her
Could do neither of it in that state of bewilderment she had taken me to
In one cold swipe, she had mocked everything I had stood for
Completely belying what I thought my generation stood for
A bloody and degrading label was readily applied onto all those who she was not
On all those who didn’t eat the way she did,
On all those who didn’t feel the way she did,
On all those who didn’t live the way she did,
On all “those” Muslims
She spat venom injected into her by the world, by the infallible society
Apparently the entire monolith of the community was the devils incarnation
Her words were Amoral and Immoral
Paying scant regard to truth or life, history or facts
She went on as I, non-pulsed, sat there being slapped of my existence
I uttered, “Nah, it ain’t so” trying to break away from an unfamiliar hold
“It is very much so”, she said in defiant voice and tone and flicked her tresses
And returned back to her drugged existence
Seeing through the glasses society had presented her
Breathing the contaminated air institutions were administering
Feeding off the crumbs leaders were serving in dollops
Living the life whose strings were in the hands of…

e enjte, 30 gusht 2007



Wrinkled and fluffy fat fingers slid through the fake mane,
They also bent the mirror to the master to give him a glance.
Smiled a fake smile at the mirror and gave himself a pat,
Looking good was a goal these days with dentures in place.
The lady sitting next was not amused but still smiled a smile on seeing the fakery of it all,
Bemused at the adolescent fantasies of her not-so-adolescent man
Worried at the wanton and pervert mannerisms of her not-so-adolescent man,
Stared hard outside and not at her man salivating at the naked feet on the footpath.
Steering wheel was being steered forcefully and stylishly by one hand
And the other reaching for the vigour bursting within his crotch.
A bump was evident now and so was the palpation on the mans face
Curt came the reply, “Stop now, you know the doctor has warned of a another heart attack.”

e mërkurë, 11 korrik 2007

Boxes, boxes, boxes


Boxes, boxes, boxes
There just has to be boxes
Into nice, tight, rigid, chained and stained confines
Everything here has to go into boxes

Boxes, boxes, boxes
The rich and poor in
Boxes kept very far away

Boxes, boxes, boxes
Brahmins, Scheduled Tribes, Scheduled Castes
See how blood can be put into so many boxes

Boxes, boxes, boxes
Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs
All in tight boxes only to give excuses

Boxes, boxes, boxes
Even all the sexes
Have fucking designated boxes

Boxes, boxes, boxes
The good-looking, the bad, the ugly
All have nice labelled boxes

Boxes, boxes, boxes
Hungry Sweeper or Hungry CEO
You will never misplace them in a box

Boxes, boxes, boxes
Smart or dumb, as you like it
They all always agree with boxes

Put them all in boxes
I think I am being crouched into a box too
It is labelled wasted or horny youth. Either of the two or both

e hënë, 9 korrik 2007


It's quite a long read. Do proceed only if you are suffering from extremely painful bouts of boredom, which i guess is the reason why you are here in the first place.

The clouds kept thundering. The earthly creatures kept scurrying.
Luminosity of the day had begun to fade to give dawn to a cancerous darkness.
The rain had started pelting down hard. A passing vegetable vendor gave refuge to many under his blue-plastic canopy. The water bounced off the roof of a footpath–encroaching store and fell directly onto the face of these shelter seekers. This in turn earned the storeowner wrath of these irate refugees. . A genetic aversion to public fights and roadside arguments led me to flee the cover and rush off aimlessly.

Running frantically for nothing in particular, trying to save myself from the downpour of rain and pain, I chanced upon a neglected cover. A defunct bulldozer in its last days had been parked quite oddly outside a clutter of tumbledown slums. I circled the bulldozer and found the upside down shovel large enough to accommodate my thin build. I got holds of the rusted cover and pushed it on to my side and with much I strain managed to crouch myself and get some shelter over my head.

I had company.

Rounded, shining and beautiful brown eyes welcomed me in. Its undeterred stare made me stutter a bit but the gleam of the eyes seemed more welcoming than the torrential downpour of pain.

I unconsciously felt for my cell phone. Flipped it open and shone it on the eyes. A juvenile, dark skinned boy gave me the coldest stare.

I fumbled and fidgeted with the backlight of my cell for a while. The boy coldly asked,

“kya dekh raha hain be”

“Kuch nahin”, I replied.

The boy wasn’t appreciative of my intrusion. I gingerly stepped closer and squatted clumsily onto the ground.

Sharp pointed pebbles sprayed on the floor made me squirm but didn’t make the pain on my rear evident on my face. I think the boy let out an impish smile on seeing me blunder and fumble. Out of fear he probably didn’t know.

Awkwardness unsettles you. The numbing silence amidst the disorder of the world seemed unnerving.

Both of us stared into blankness, uncomfortable of each other’s presence. Both of us were intruding the other’s space, both of us wanted to reach out and grab the other person’s hand. Haven’t you ever felt the need to feel physical touch when you are not quite sure who is the one deranged- you or the world. In such nights a stranger’s cold vibes seem quite comforting.

Five minutes of numbing silence had to be broken by the clumsy fall of electric thunders. The boy let out a spontaneous shiver. I didn’t. I let out a smirk at being the braver one. I was just kidding myself.

No sooner than the smile had started to fade from my face that the boy now had a reason to smile mockingly at me. A rat scurried by looking for companionship and I flinched quite girlishly.

Both hiding under a long abandoned bulldozer were trying to see who gave way first. Judging each other in silence and silently letting out a sardonic smile at every possible show of fear and fright.

Both scared, both not teen enough to admit it.

The boy had enough.

“Teri phatt rahi hain na”


I replied with disgust at the audacity of the kid to term me a scary cat.

How dare he. How could he have possibly known?

“Haan, teri path rahi mujhe pata hain. Tu toh apne pant main hi muut dega”

“Oye chutiye, chup reh. Phat toh teri rahi hain. Tu toh apne chaddi main hi hug dega”

We had lost it. So had the night.

Lips sealed again. Both of us edged closer consciously and unconsciously. The pungent odor of his body otherwise would have given me nausea but today it soothed the tempest in my head. Knowing someone was around, knowing someone was around to see me burst into tears any moment.

I couldn’t help myself anymore.

I asked sheepishly.

“teri kyun phat rahi hain itni”

He retorted back

“tujhe kya karna hain. Bol tujhe kya.”

“Bas aise hi. Kyun problem kya hain”

He remained quite this time around. The conversation was temporarily allaying our fears away. We liked that.

He then muttered

“mujhe apni ma se darr lag raha hain”

I was surprised.

“Woh daategi agar main abhi aise bheeg ke jayega”

I said
“Unko pasand nahin kya tu bheegta hain”

He raised an eyebrow at the respect I gave in referring to his mother.

He replied

“Haan. Saala mera bhai bhi isi tarah mara tha”

I was scared again.

He took a pause. Almost trying to come in terms with what he had just said to a stranger.

His started muttering to himself.

“Woh pura raat bheega tha. Wapas ghar aaya toh cheek raha tha. Fir raat ko bukhar aagaya. Pura raat rota gaya. Doctor saala paisa maangta raha. Tab tak saala bhagwan wait kahan karta. Bhenchod saala”

I gave a slight pat on his shoulder. I could see he was craving for some human touch. I couldn’t dare deny him that. Balls to class divide.

He was still sobbing. Though, a little less slower. He looked up and asked,

“Teri kyun phat rahi hain”

“Bas aiise hi. Baarish pasand nahin”

“Aacha nahin lagta.”

I took a deep breath. I wanted to go on and tell him how the rains made me feel weak and insufficient.

But he had already started nodding his head. He understood what I meant. Didn’t he? Why else would he nod?

He kept on nodding. I wasn’t even saying a word. He just kept on nodding.

What was I saying to which he was nodding, quite ferociously now, and giving his approval?

The rain had now ceased. I heard a vehicle park itself nearby.

Reckless and hurried footsteps advanced towards us.

Suddenly a hand uncovered our shelter and got hold of the boy and dragged him up.

A mustached man with muscles coming out in heaps, wearing all white appeared in front of us. He was breathing heavily. He started hurling abuses in Marathi, which I didn’t quite catch.

“Aiiii zawli. Kutriya. Bhenchodd
Bhaagega saala maadarchodd.
Pagla saala. kahan bhagega. tu usi haspataal main marega
Kutriye madar….”

The frantic screams of the boy saying nothing in particular just screaming out Ma muted the rest of his abuses.

I didn’t react. I just lay motionless watching the burly man shove the child into an ambulance van while continuously smacking him on the head.

The van sped away.

I could still hear him calling out his mom.

In such nights you wonder who is the one deranged- you or the world