God was Murdered

Hola, Mōnalisã — Olâ, Örla — Halō, Miss Forrest Gump You’re 22 today. 11 years, one-&-a-half months ago — 25 th Oct 2011, Marina Keegan turned 22.  She wrote a beautiful letter —The Opposite of Loneliness— during her final days at Yale & weeks before she was about to step into the real world of jobs & bills, a.k.a the World of Wolves. Marina never stepped into the World of Wolves. She never turned 23.  Marina died in a car crash 5 days after she graduated.  World will never know what she would’ve become. In her last letter, she’s grateful, she’s scared, she’s starry-eyed, she writes about never-ever losing that sense of infinite possibilities. Marina is spot-on about everything, but one — “ the best years of our lives are not behind us .” At 22, I was also like Marina. I ate cotton candy for breakfast & dined on fairy tales. But we can keep waiting for 77 virgins in heaven or Santa Klaus to place gifts under our bed on Christmas Eve, or we can accept the reality that

Hey, Adéle I'll begin with a tiny story. I often sit for 3.23-7.17 hours to write at this Starbucks across Hansraj College — Delhi University — North Campus. I get up after every 61-87 minutes to take a brisk 14.9-min walk in the back alley. As I’m old now, nothing surprises me anymore & when something does, it’s always something a little peculiar.  In that alley where I walk, I often cross path with this lady dragging two oversized bags of recyclable trash. There’s nothing distinct about the lady or what she does — what’s distinct is her age. I don’t know her age, but like my grandma, she has a million wrinkles. My grandma is 87-odd years old. Looking at this million-year-old lady do what she does to put bread on her table makes me realize that before I complain about anything in life, I must always remember my undeserved privileges. And shut the fuck up instead of whining about how the bloody Goa airport is a Disgrace, how the washrooms at most cafés are filthy, how my room

Hundred years ago & decades before he killed himself with his favorite shotgun, Hemingway had warned humans — “ ✫ Never go on a trip with anyone you do not love ✫ ” — As I listen exclusively to paranoid writers who kill themselves, I went on an 11-day solo trip as I had girls to take along, but I didn’t love any of ‘em. I woke up before the sun on 10 th October — sat in a six.am train from Delhi to Kathgodam [this station is prettier than your girlfriend]. To reach Nainital, I hopped on a shared cab with a girl who was wearing two masks & seemed more paranoid than Hemingway before he shot himself. Three days later, I saw her walking in Nainital, so she hadn’t shot herself with her favorite shotgun — well, not yet .  Between April 1994 & March 1999, I lived in dorms in a boarding school amidst mountains.  23 years later, I was back in dorms amidst mountains. Though these hostel dorms & my boarding school dorms were different , they were similar in two ways: no mixed

Imagine your girlfriend is dead. How would you feel if you were handcuffed, arrested, shoved into a cop-car & kicked into a stinking jail cell for 23 hours , where you’re made to eat rotten food & share a doorless-flushless toilet with psychopaths, child molesters, mass-murderers, & rapists? Reason : Mistakenly arrested for murdering your girlfriend. Now imagine, those 23 hours turn into 23 years . Nothing proves 17-year-old Adnan Syed killed his ex-girlfriend on 13 th January 1999. There was no physical evidence, eye-witness, or forensic report linking him to the crime scene, but fuck evidence — Adnan was convicted & rotted in jail for 23 years in Baltimore, Maryland, USA. On 11 th October 2022, Adnan, 41, was set free after prosecutors dropped all charges as no DNA evidence linked Adnan to the murder of Hae Min Lee. It took these cuntface cucks 23 years to figure out that Adnan didn’t kill Hae Min Lee when Asia McClain had signed a bloody affidavit 23 years ago sta

27 th May ’22 — Sitting in a café where everyone is talking & laughing with their phones, not with each other. I’m intensely attracted to a deliciously chunky kid in a pram — I’m waiting for the kid to nap so I can kid - nap this bulky betch. As I wait eagerly for this meaty munchkin to doze-off, I write this letter to you about Birth, Love, Lust, Death. Hey, Doosh “We all were once a baby. We all will soon be a corpse.” Isn’t this slice of Truth so fucking poetic? Four Facts 1. Birth is fluke . Most of us — surely You & I — were born because our mom-&-pop couldn’t care to slip on a latex balloon that insures against the undesirable outcome of sex — birth of morons . Knowing that You & I are mistakes is infinitely liberating — it lifts the skirt & drops the panties off the parents who tell us we were born out of love & our birth is God’s miracle. Had I got a shilling for every lie ‘baby humans’ are told till they strike puberty [or puberty strikes them]