Clock

Obituary

The writer in me seems to have died. You might never see anything new here again. Thanks everyone. Regards.

(Image: The Dead Fred Pen Holder)

Story of stuff

Thank you, Asha.

Meankind

I think the sole purpose of our existence on earth is to destroy everything in sight.

Forget Satan, I think humans are the opposite of God. God’s the ultimate creator, and Man, the ultimate destroyer. God creates things out of nothing. We create things by destroying or cannibalising his creations.

We consume forests to make paper. We tear the ozone layer as we create faster modes of transportation or refrigeration. We pollute the sea in our quest for fuel. We destroy reefs to feed our own kind. We damage the ecosystem to satisfy our avarice. We destroy God’s architecture to make room for our own.

Yes, we’re the destroyers. And we seem to have accepted it as a fact.

We ask for a warranty card on everything we buy. We might not be sure if we really need a particular product but we’re very particular about how many years’ warranty we should get on it.

Come to think of it, we insist on a bill too so that we can pin the blame on someone. As if that is not enough, we insist on a list of after-sales service centres.

So there you go; we are subconsciously sure that we are extremely capable and very likely to put things out of commission, sooner or later.

Everything we buy breaks down at some point, which is usually exactly a week after its warranty period ends. But we sometimes fool ourselves by believing that a product is unbreakable. It’s usually a sales tactic used by entrepreneurs, who I’m sure must be laughing to themselves as they use it.

We might know a few well-to-do divorce lawyers but when it comes to a priest for a wedding, we might need to make a few phone calls.

Year on year, we pay hefty premiums towards our health and life insurance policies.

We buy insurance for our car at the same time we buy the car itself. We might not be sure if we’ll make any fatal mistakes but we can almost guarantee that someone of our kind will do them for us.

We insure our homes and build fire exits because we know that either we or someone is bound to be stupid enough to bring it down someday soon. Interestingly, we sometimes agonise over the safety of our worldly possessions more than that of our loved ones. Life is up to God but material things? Oh, some of us are sure to destroy it one of these days.

We buy spares of everything we possibly can.

We back-up data on our computer’s hard-drive, store the same on an external hard-drive and also have a collection of back-up CDs & DVDs. We’re sure that, if not us, our creation – the computer - will definitely royally screw up things for us.

There you go. I just destroyed this blog post and possibly your peace of mind. Mindless destruction, I say.

Anyway, I got to perorate now lest my comp gives up on me.

Addendum

Like many of my readers, I too forgot this blog!

I had promised you a post on six-word short stories. Well, I posted it on Bhejaa Fry.

Here it is: To cut a long story really short. I hope you like it!

Word's worth

When asked to write a story in just six words, Ernest Hemingway wrote:

"For sale: Baby shoes. Never worn."




Note: A post on 6-word short stories, coming soon.

Love on hold

Gifts ungiven.
Flowers unsent.

Messages unreplied.
Phones unanswered.

Words unsaid.
Thoughts unexpressed.

Letters unwritten.
Poems unpenned.

Moments unenjoyed.
Memories unetched.

Company undesired.
Solitude unsought.

Feelings unreturned.
Agony unbridled.

Mind unwon.
Heart undone.

Girl unimpressed.
Love unrequited.

Misfortune

Finders weepers. Losers keepers.

Broken compass

It’s the glass of the window that keeps the yearning window-shopper from touching the mannequin and, in effect, making his pangs consume him.

It’s the glass of an hourglass. Sands of intense feelings trickle, recklessly and irrevocably, from one recess into the other, one painful grain at a time.

It’s the glass of a television that separates two worlds – the unalterable past and the uncertain and at times unthinkable future.

It’s the glass of a photo frame that has imprisoned a life, frozen in the confines of its own past. Touchable, but unchangeable, indelible.

It’s the glass of a one-way mirror. From his side, he sees his glorious future. But from her side, she sees a hurtful resemblance of her past.

It’s the glass of a life support system shackling a being nay dividing the surviving from the living. Free it from its vice-grip and it just might succumb.

It’s the presence; the glass that separates them.

So close yet so far.

Each passing day tells him she is the one.

Each passing day tells him he is not the one.

After all, it takes a diamond to cut glass.

Michael Bublé - Home

Michael Bublé - Everything

Michael Bublé - Lost

Michael Bublé - It Had Better Be Tonight (Meglio Stasera)

When do you say you are in Love?

Answer, if you dare.

Implosion

How do you stop your mind from thinking? Especially, if they are thoughts that only hurt you? Is it even possible?

Mind Expansion

"I'm a woman of substance", said the Indian Woman of today.



"Good, I'm into substance abuse", replied the Indian Man of today.

Memories like fingerprints...

Of all the things I remember trying, forgetting is the toughest. Quite impossible, in fact.

My memory doesn’t just serve me right, it’s a downright slave to me. Fetches me every little thing at the slightest.

Guess I am a pachyderm by one more thing besides size.

.

The Lost Key

He was back in the corridor. Locked out. For he had lost the key. And not just any key.

The key opened many doors. Doors that opened to love, happiness, enthusiasm, energy, strength, passion, tenderness, humbleness, self-respect, appreciation, ambition, laughter, understanding, caring, enlightenment and, most importantly, hope. All the good things. In fact, everything that he was looking for and would ever look for.

But he had lost the key and was back in the corridor. The corridor was familiar. It had to be for he had paced up and down it for 2 long years. The overwhelming stench of alcohol and cigarettes; the stale air; the stained walls; the cob-webbed corners; the depressing lights; the distant voices. Echoes of recent past. It all came rushing to him, like long lost friends. Friends you had made an effort to lose.

That was before he had found the key and started living again.

Should he look for another key? What if it did not open the right doors? What if it did not open any doors at all? And, even if he did find another key, would he not try to have it carved like the one he had lost? Also, what if some wrong person found his key? What if that person overlooked all the nice things within those doors? Is it his problem? Should he be concerned? Then again, can he ever stop being concerned about its fate? His heart won’t let him, will it now? Lots to agonise over.

The tubelights buzz ominously.

Hmmm...

Giving someone something when you have everything is nothing. Giving someone everything when you have nothing; now that's something.

(I think I made this up myself. Not sure if I'm quoting from memory.)

.

Ah...

Love is like money.





You value it a lot if you've worked hard to earn it. You don't value it as much if someone has gifted it to you.