God was Murdered

I’ve two stories - A relevant. An irrelevant. I meet him every morning. I meet an emaciated, abandoned, barely alive old man begging in silent dignity to stay alive. I don’t know why he wants to. But he does, each day, he does. He dropped a coin this afternoon as he got up to leave for god knows where. He turned & looked down but couldn’t spot it. I quickly bent, picked & handed him a rupee coin. I didn’t make eye contact. Deliberately that. As I climbed up the stairs, my eyes did what they had done when my wedding at Niagara Falls was called off a decade ago. --- I met  her two weeks ago. I met her again. I don’t know her last name & neither does she. I know she has a damaged toe nail. Left or right foot, I forget. She’s sly about her age. She looks 14 – born on Valentine’s day. She is an author. Published & all.   --- I choose to tell you the irrelevant story as no one gives a fuck about him . Part of me thinks I do. The tears & all you know. But I

“The trouble isn’t not knowing what you want to be. The trouble is becoming someone you never wanted to be.” I scribbled that when I was seven years old. From that age on I knew, for dead certain, I wanted to be a killer. The trouble was I was born without any hands or legs. I was born into money so they got me prosthetics. But prosthetics are no good when you want to be a killer. If life shuts one door, it opens another. If it doesn’t, then break it open. That’s exactly what I did. Before I turned nine, I was already stealing information without moving an inch. The keys on my laptop fell in love with the metal in my fingers. I wanted to steal from people who were so powerful that they can get you killed with the click of a button. The fear of death became my cocaine. I cut down my sleep time by half. Nights are the time for people like me. When everyone sleeps, I come alive. And I steal the unstealable. Now, almost two decades later, I’ve painstakingly become the bas

There have been great questions that have mesmerised humankind over infinity. Did Gandhi have a threesome with his nieces? Why Shawshank Redemption didn’t win any Oscars? Is Pamela Anderson’s sex tape superior to Kim Kardashian’s? Who the frock killed John F. Kennedy? And why does Kingfisher beer taste like pigeon piss? But, I’m shallow & all I care about is why the frock I’m so ugly. And why do girls dress up. I’ve asked them, of course, lots of them. The hands down winner answer has been: “I dress up for me, dipshit.” It isn’t difficult to insult me, but fooling me is as tough as beating Paris Hilton at being stupid. I don't even want to pretend to know what or how girls think. I haven’t a darn clue why I wake each morning or why I was thinking of Nando’s chicken when I was in the middle of this one night stand 11 years ago with this Oz-Greek girl whose name I had already forgotten or never knew in the first place. May be she dolls up for the street dogs o

My story will give you both the chills of multiple orgasms & the shivers of getting shot in the ass.  The hero of this story is really a villain or is he? 2 billion dollars (15,000 crores) were stolen from The Royal Bank, Park Street, Kolkata, on August 17th, 2015.  A 31-year-old man walked in - held 19 people hostage. He told them all, the police & the world who he is. He withdrew the billions & disappeared in 23 minutes. 47 days had passed & no one knew where he or the money is or how he entered or disappeared from the bank. Of course, I do. I ’ m She rlock. And unlike the fictional character of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I ’ m as real as racism. And I ’ m a girl . And I ’ ve my Watson too. His name is Harvey Oxlade. I call him Ox. He isn ’ t a doctor; he ’ s a pothead philosopher. Seven years ago, he landed in India from London, England. What a shit place London is - he had told me the day I met him in Manali. He fell in love with the land of missing sewer c