Introducing Krish

I am glad u have approved of me in my short stint as a writer, though the numbers in the comments section is far from being flattering and the wide variety of people who have linked me to their blogs is yet to reach two-digits. But atleast, U guys have allowed me to exist . U have let me pen my thoughts (thoughts? plural? u may ask) , despite those being worthy of a certain Ramapithecus or worse the "virginal stud" Adam himself. Allow me to express my gratitude. And its time, I reward you, for your infinite patience. Don't rejoice! I am not going to stop writing. The lamb is far from being roasted. But I am going to outsource the thinking part that goes with the process to a dear friend of mine, whom u may call Krish (He fears a definite damage to his reputation by associating himself with my blog and hence pleads anonymity).

This ghost-writer-friend of mine has an adulterated mind, in that, he has drunk from myriad fountains of knowledge (and probably urinated in some of them too) , be it the mind-games of Logic and Mathematics , or the string theories of Meta-physics, or chemistry of mental patterns in Psychology,or the progress of man through time for his fight for dominance in History,or the search for truth and atman in Philosophy.

The most striking feature of his personality, however, is his humility. He is remarkably modest for a man of his abilities. When i point out to him , u know , the stuff about the fountains of urine etc , he gives a characteristic shrug and launches into one of his innuendoes. I would like to reproduce one of those, though obviously plagiarized , but so vastly read is he that, i doubt if many of you have come across this piece of prose , which i for one , consider to be the Kohinoor among the many glittering gems in literary-prose. He says:

I will quote F.Scott.Fitzerald to let you in on a little secret in Life. In The Great Gatsby , Fitzerald says
"I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college — one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the "Yale News." — and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the "well-rounded man." This isn't just an epigram — life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all. "

So my readers,
Now that the formalities are over, and u know my ghost-writer (much too well , infact)...Here's the deal, man to man. He's gonna think, and i am gonna write . And this scheme would help both the affected parties (with Krish playing the catalyst here).I could hang onto my dear old blogspot, while you people could hang on to the few remaining strands of hair on your head (and not pull them off after reading one of my railings).

So here I start..with a slight nod to my ghost-writer. Krish leans back in his chair and sighs...

There are two types of black-holes. One was the name of a prison in Calcutta where Indian Freedom fighters were tortured and the second..............

Wish I could

As I lay on my bed in my newly-rented dimly-lit rainy-wet shit-hole of an apartment, looking at my spread-eagled image on the blank TV screen opposite, contemplating my existential dilemma ( or put in lesser words WTF am I doing in this dungeon).......

"Staying alone is not about more space or more freedom or one extra peg for urself. Its about ennui, utter lack of events happening around you..Well i was geared for it when i chose singleton status out of my own volition. Its a little price that one has to pay for being a sucker for more space in one's life.I have been geared for it all my life, the dreamer that i have been. Well then...this blog is a very recent harvest from the fertile land that my imagination is"

.......I was also keeping an eye on the little polythene bag lying by the side on the floor. Before I go into the dramatic events about to take place there , let me give u a shyam's eye view of my room from my current position ( spread-eagled remember!!!). Opposite me was the door to my balcony ,left half-open, but with no inkling as to how important a role it was to play in the proceedings. The little whirring sound made by the brand new ( claims my landlord ) ceiling fan was the only auditory signal that reached my brain. A really long sideways glance to the right would have brought the main door to my house into focus. Instead , I chose the healthier way of turning around sideways , because a little movement there had caught my attention.
This polythene bag which I mentioned about a few lines back , had been lying derelict near the door for quite some time , but as it was not a blond bikini-clad bimbette, I hadnt taken notice.But now it had started undulating slowly and lustfully to the tune of the fan whirring inside the room. The bag brought some life back to the listless surroundings and how it did!!!


The convoluting air would somehow manage to lift up one of its corners and thence it would revolve around like one of those lithe russian figure skaters gliding around on the rink . It was captivating enough a sight to make me turn around to watch the spectacle. As if to acknowledge the attention of an unexpected spectator, it started see-sawing more violently for some time before it suddenly stopped and lay hugging the wall like a little girl hiding her face, embarassed by all the attention she was getting. She lay there that way for quite some time and I was just about to lose hope of watching any more of the action , when.....

"For every artist or a sporstman , a little external stimuli sometimes does wonders, like a cheerio! cry for a tennis player or a Wah!Wah for a reciter. And for the little bag to come out of its sabbatical , it required a door left ajar to act as the stimulant."

....a strong wind breezed in through the balcony door and lifted it high up in the air and for one whole minute, set it free!! Free from the strings which attached it to the ground, free from the inertia of rest , free from the ennui of inactivity and free from the reality of gravity. For one whole minute ,the breeze dint slacken and the bag gained height , some in leaps and bounds and some in graceful arcs , until it brushed against the ceiling. Sky high for the little bag meant my room's ceiling and frustrated with its limits, it started banging against the walls looking for an opening , an exit out of this world which looked suddenly too small for its exuberant spirit. The one opening that it had was for ever closed for it because the force which had set it free was still active and was insistent on teaching it discipline. The force threatened by slackening a bit to bring about its fall , but at the last minute would scoop it up again to let if afloat for a few moments longer. And the bag finally complied , realizing its limits, and stopped its upward surge and started dancing around in mid-air. It was living for the moment unaware of the inevitable fall which stared ahead and like all things living for the moment, it too won its spectator's heart. The fall was inevitable, the wind had to die down, the bag had to spiral down and my heart had to go down. The bag did come down (in another of those beautiful spirals) , but not before it extracted a promise from its creator to come back. The wind kept its promise, many a times that night and I lay awake the whole night wishing I could fly.