God was Murdered

Thunders are blasting; souls are stoned Winters are feisty, foreboding a snowstorm Heart’s lonely; heart’s lovelorn It feels frosty, it feels torn Even when heart is free-falling without gravity, in it, floats hope it made friends with serendipity; it heaves and beats raising ocean’s shore Levitating above the endless jetty, it knows dreams are reality waiting to be born it knows you will one day appear from the mystical skies it knows we’ll meet before lord declares it is time to say goodbye it has seen what’s written in karma’s ink, it knows you and I are destined it has read our stories beyond the threshold of death, eclipsing the highs of crystal meth it knows, on the other end of nightmares & failings there’s someone who’s holding a promise ring someone who’s never forgotten, who’s always missed someone whose lips will liberate the fabled rare kiss it knows our moment hasn’t arrived & won’t be here in a blink so it’s ready to fight...

Every time Vivian Richards walked onto the field to bat, it didn’t matter if the score was 300 for 2 wickets down or 2 runs for 3 wickets down, the bowler, no matter how great, was always under pressure. Richards & Windies dominated the cricket world through the 70s & 80s before their empire began to collapse in early 90s. By the mid-90s, Australia, under skipper Steve Waugh, started a juggernaut & for the next decade annihilated everyone. I wasn’t born or was too young to witness the Windies’ aura & fierce dominance, but I was bloody lucky to witness Australia murder the mortals & tame immortals [Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar & Brian Charles Lara]. In the middle of the Australian magical spell, I happened to move to Oz as a teenager. At that stage, I was more patriotic {towards India} than a Nazi soldier {towards Hitler} in the middle of World War 2. In the mid-90s, India had its greatest superstars playing together that included Tendulkar, Dravid, Ganguly, Laxm...

Of all the days, on 1st April - the fools day, I met someone for the first time & she totally killed me. That morning, I hadn’t the faintest clue that I will meet & spend the day with someone, who will make me believe in miracles, but it happened. Serendipity.   That was 2005.  In the 12 years that have rolled by, I’ve rarely met someone who totally smashed me & made me realize how bloody lucky I’m to born in the magnificent world.  On 1st {another 1st} November 2017, I got real lucky.  I woke leisurely as I didn’t have to go to work. I’m the weirdo who doesn’t go to work on Wednesdays. After gulping down tons of white herbal tea & reading the newspapers, I ran for 33 minutes then ate dried nuts, sunny-side up eggs & watched the comedy - Veep. Then it was time to go teach underprivileged kids in the slums of Majnu ka Tila {New Delhi}. This was my first day with an altruistic organization run by a bunch of gold-hearted youngst...

P.S. The writer - Aashima Talwar, 27, - is a vicious, vitriolic-mouthed, non-violent vegan; often monikered ‘cunt’ - a freak street kickboxer, a beauty pageant 3rd runners-up, a failed actress, whose film never released. Now, she lives off her wedding money {$123k}, which she convinced her father to donate to her after she crushed his heart by saying ‘I’m never getting married, dad.'   Aashima wrote this letter in Kabul sometime past midnight - in the day, she was lifting dead bodies & assisting the still alive people after a suicide bomber attack, a staple delicacy of Afghanistan. I present to you her letter, with zero censorship: “Ninety-seven days I’ve been in Afghanistan. On all my clothes, I’ve blood marks of people, including infants, who are now dead because of some fallacious belief that killing these random humans will make Allah ecstatic. Twice, I’ve been shot at, mistakenly, and once I’ve been smashed into a wall, deliberately. I’m scared. I’ve brui...