Hello Nirvana. Meet Samsara.

When Celine Dion sang," Its all coming back to me now," she meant two things. In context of the whole song, it means the sensual memory of the estranged lover. Out of context, it means, what you do, so shall you reap. Not necessarily from the same person or group of people. Human nature pays you back in your own coin. I am making an organic thing out of human nature.

Your curse still reigns supreme.

Now my foresight comes back to haunt my foreskin.

Devaluation

The perfect title for the first chapter on you.

How selfish an act it must have been?
Equating our relationship into an exchange value between clusters of people
And not class.
Because we all belonged to more or less the same class
Except you.

You were always classless
or you stood for an entire community of people
Whose lives have enticed me
So much so that I grew to love them
Through you.

I objectified you because I needed an abstraction from you
Exclusive love is an abstraction
If you come to see life in philosophical terms.
Somewhere down the line, I felt I have started caring about you
My class thought that always.
Not the class which studies with me
Or doesn't turn up in class.
But it happened that day, I started to question
why I care about you?

These are not questions of travel
but Questions asked during moments of travelling
From Vishwavidyalaya to Kailash Colony.
Its a one hour and ten minutes ride to a coffee shop
Which saw us order one espresso every evening
For Some months and some days.
I use some these days
Its a better adjective to quantify the times
We spent walking together but alone.

After the Sun arrived
These words shouldn't have seen the light of the day
But they are.
Maybe with the hope that you might just pass by
Read through this
and not claim
to have understood what I've meant so far.

I didn't want us to be sorted out in definite terms.
I wanted to hurt myself and everyone else in
this indefiniteness that misplaced desires could give us.

You live with your misconceptions.
I'll live with mine.

Good Shit. Finally.

The reading for the Nineteenth Cenury Novel paper has been boring till about 6 hours before the end semester exam. Just then I read Dorothy Hale's summary of Benjamin, Lukacs and Jameson's Marxist approaches to the Novel as well as this-

http://thowe.pbworks.com/f/WattNotes.pdf

Kind of cool, no?

These are the moments I look forward to before every exam. Which is when I take away some theoretical formulation which will prove useful in life and not just for those measly three hours.

Here comes the Sun!

There's something extremely refreshing about a hot bath on a winter afternoon in Delhi. What is it, I dont know. But the activity cleared my mind and gave me a new perspective of things. I have reading novels about adultery, of late. Also something called Triangular Desire. I have come to the conclusion I have not been in love so far. Just like the characters in those books who seem brilliantly confused. Now This is not my bildungsroman, so you cant expect me to jump onto railway tracks or be guillotined  or undertake community development projects. I shall not be unhappy about nothing.

Only the best lies ahead of me!

This is not pOetry

Get into a new set of clothes. Exchange your shabby sweater for navy blue thermal. Be superficial enough to wonder whether you should paint your face before you meet the friend. Take up strip of bamboo, dip it in white poster paint, make a magnetic field around your left eye, accentuate the fact that you were wearing lenses by putting on kohl. Smudge it out, in a vain attempt to hide the crow's feet. Leave.

Stagger a hundred metres, push through a line of bodies, wondering when to blow up the tightly surveilled entrance to the metro. Wait in the queue to check into the station, before flashing your Metro id, check your sms. If your friend has fallen asleep, take a step back. You put your feelings to sleep the night you confessed it again. This time, the Big Sleep. Because it clearly aint a person you'd ask to call you up when you see 5 deaths back to back.

Mashup your thoughts. Second image.

Text to clear up confusion. Clarify your position with regard to an event, maybe a sheaf of poetry mistakenly addressed to the wrong person. Clarify that you like the imagery, you like the thoughts, you like the textual help that person can wield. But clarify as well, you dont give it much of a thought. You'd rather figure out people who come across as complicated. Because complicated people are the most perceptive and the most sensitive and well its important to put on a sad face when somebody dies. 

Somebody jumped to his death. Three deaths in four months. Three suicides. Three people away from exams, misplaced feelings, failed ambitions, and the tiring business of proving yourself everyday.

Actually three human deaths. 

Repeatedly insist on the fact that you need to find an answer to your dilemma. Depend on human beings to hand you the golden ticket to soul satisfaction. Get bewildered knowing that the world actually speaks your language of there being no-labels and shit. Live and let live. Meet people, smile, be friends, be like a breeze, never be a storm, pass. 

You are in control of your life. Not your death. 

Sit by your lover. Gently caress her trembling legs. Realise you are sitting in a pool of blood and that you'll start feeling cold soon. Be dumb so as not to realize that maybe you could've prevented this blood loss or whats to come after that. Dim the lights, when you smell the odour which greeted you as you trapezed down the hospital morgues. Watch your friend get afraid and rush out of the room, when the first still born arrives. Put on your headphones, shuffle your blues playlist, and pick your lover up and place her on the bed. Get down on the floor and read british modern poetry while the children arrives in kidney shaped packages, dead and hanging from a lifeless umbilical cord. Smile at your lover while she stops eating her children and looks at you. Go upto her and kiss her and when her mouth's adequately bloody with the flesh of the newborns, gently sing her to sleep. Pick up the remaining two babies, place them close to her deflated tummy. Assure her its alright and leave for the friend's place. Its time to sleep.

There are so many lives and deaths to choose from. Its pointless wasting words for people who are vague or beside the point. Travel for yourself. No use compromising, no use pretending that this companionship means anything to you.

I never thought I'd deal with horror with the help of a blogpost. I am attempting that right now.

Winter's here, getting food for you has become tougher than useful. They have installed artificial eyes all over the place to keep track of rationed food being used for non-human purposes. I stopped eating the juicy pieces of chicken or weekly quota of eggs that I am allotted as part of mess food. I pack them in tiffin containers when apparently no one's observing, hide them in my jacket and rush back to my hostel room. You aren't always around and when you are, you seldom listen to me. Tasty food is all that  you look forward to.

This evening was supposed to be like the previous few winter evenings. You'd express delight on rediscovering the weekly mess food, wag your tail while you munch on it and after some time, you'll doze off to finish your daily habit of 15 hours of sleep.

It didn't go as planned.

I returned to my room to find the entire placed bathed in blood. I have seen bloodshed in my life. I spent half my childhood in operation theatres, observing my father sew mutilated limbs and reset bone dislocations or mend fractures. Blood used to flow out then but there was a very strong disinfectant used all the time which masked the smell of warm blood.

The eternal search for the next stranger. When does