God was Murdered

  While growing up in the 90s I was addicted to Hindi films like Punjab is to smoking-&-snorting-up. A lot of them starred Mr Shahrukh Khan. I admired the man so much that I walked the streets of Melbourne wearing two sweaters after his film – Mohabbatein released. I looked nothing like my idol – I embarrassed the birds, blondes and the border-jumping Bangladeshis alike. I didn’t give a damn. I was in love with a man. And mark my words – you’ve not lived if you’ve not fallen in love with the same gender without wanting to bang them. I could never have imagined that a decade and a half later I will cringe at every film Mr Khan does and be totally dying to bang him, I mean his head-into-a-wall.  Somewhere in the 21 st century he lost his balls, sold his soul and became a prostitute of fame & box office. He’s arguably the most gifted spineless actor of the last quarter century. Sometimes I feel like going to his kitschy house with a graffiti spray and prin...

Dot on schedule - 00.00 midnight - amidst chilly-polluted-as-fuck Delhi air and the asshole owl giving me the stink eye, Sunny Leone showed up in a short scarlet dress on the roof of PVR Saket. Instead of fake greetings, Sunny and I – {as she’d been briefed earlier} - pulled down a Patiala long island iced tea. Then I asked her to place her hand on the greatest religiously pious book of all time – Play Boy – and repeat after me. ‘Everything I’ll say today will not be said to offend or flatter someone. It will not be said to show myself in graceful light or justify my choices. I will speak my heart & if someone is hurt because of my views, I shall never apologize to them across my living years. Not because I’m cocky, but because doing so will mean I’m apologizing for my honesty.’ She repeated to the T. ‘You don’t feel cold?’ I asked curiously. ‘This is practically summers when you’re born in Canada’ I felt a little ashamed wearing a fat bomber jacket. But, it wa...

March 25 th  2016 is a marked date for me. On this mammoth day there will be two freak clashes — Me vs. Ex-supergirlfriend and Batman vs. Superman — but till that life-altering event stabs me in the deepest corners of my heart, you and I will have to settle for Star Wars vs. Bajirao Mastani. Comparing these two films seems like a mistake of even greater proportion than me inappropriately cuddling a freshwater crocodile on that unusually cold evening on a park bench in Gold Coast. But, then where's the fun in life if its very existence isn't in danger. There are similarities between the two worlds of the films. Both are larger than life, one set in the mythical future and the other in the mystical past, are indulgent, mega budget in their respective milieu, and with niche directors & sleek performances. To my limited intelligence, the similarities end there, and a gulf emerges – a gulf bigger than the sexual freedom of an ISIS Jihadi's wife and a gir...

We’re a nation of sentimental polythene romancers and fancy sticker hoarders. And we love it – we flaunt it. We never remove the polythene from our televisions, laptops, car seats, cushions, sofas, phones - Ironically, we never slip on the polythene when it’s crucial and the result is 1.3 billion marriage junkies. We’ve this incurable inbuilt inferiority complex that we must prove at the drop of a hat that we’ve  arrived  - Monetarily, of course. We’re always going to Mussourie in a Volvo (never in just a bus), to Jaipur in Shatabdi (never in just a train), flying to Bombay (never simply  going  to Bombay) and deliberately forget to take those airport tags off even if they read – Kingfisher – a company now defunct for over three years. My iPhone is dead (never just my  phone  is dead), I forgot to wear my Rado (never simply forgot to wear my  watch ) dude, my Audi got scratched (never just my  car  got scratched), my house in G...

I screwed up two dates in three days. Even by my miserable standards, that's god awful. Second debacle had a silver lining; I got to sit on two seats as I watched Imtiaz Ali’s Tamasha. At midnight, I tucked into my sheets. Before I disappeared into the world that lives in between what we call life, my heart said to me, “When girls go out on a date, they want to feel special, told their hair smells fabulous, receive a flower or two, get a chair pulled and told literally that the dress they’re wearing is pretty, but it’s pretty only because  they’re wearing it . But you have none of these qualities because you’re an asshole. Just give up already & let the girls live in peace for Christ’s sake.” I took my heart’s words with me into my dreams. I asked myself “Why haven’t I given up, already. Aren’t I tired of this Tamasha?” I’m. There is a girl I loved - we loved crazy. We were to marry & make babies. She married & made babies with someone else....

13 th  November 2005 – Possum is munching on a stolen chocolate on a tree & watching the boys play footy. And I. I’m about to be fucked. I don’t know my heart is breaking. But it’s breaking alright. And tonight - it will fall apart. In about 13 hours, I will disappear from this place. Like death it will end suddenly. No returns, no coming back. Game over, bitch. Goodbye university. And I’m expected to live on. How & why - I haven’t a damn clue. I’m sitting at my window. It’s the first floor – a broken ankle at best if I fall. Nothing notable. Boys playing footy won’t even pause to take a look. Girls will smile, laugh & walk away like I was fucking around. Possum will climb into my room through the window & steal my Nutella. He’s a bitch with a sweet tooth. Suddenly, I’m thinking of the things I have lived, screwed up, touched, melted, broken, bumped, fallen into, flown, blessed, escaped, fallen under, smashed into, the magic I’ve seen - All ...

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 kno...