God was Murdered

The writer is 21, a girl. Skyler looks at sleeping birds. She’s missing one of her molar teeth. “How the fuck can you not be a feminist, Skyler?” Water yelled at me as we were walking out of Adil’s house a little before 7am — 27 days ago.  “Cigarette?” I asked “Do it” I lit up a slightly bent cigarette for her & we sat down on the pavement with the pigeons. I sat sipping on coffee out of the bronze porcelain cup I had taken from the kitchen. Adil had thrown a party as his dad —his mom died in a plane crash when he was 9— was out of town with Scarlet — the girlfriend. A little after 3am, Zara said “All the feminists, raise your hands & take a tequila shot.” Everyone but Virat & I did. Everyone knew Virat wouldn’t. He’s a nihilist. My non-conformity surprised the 9 feminists more than I had imagined it would. “Do it” I lit up another stick for Water, my oldest friend in the world. We first met in 3rd Grade when we’re 7. We shared lunch boxes, shirts, skirts & we bo...

Do you know what’s the difference between an actor & a sportsperson? There is never a Charlie Sheen/Abhishek Bachchan in sports because unlike acting, sport is driven by exceptional excellence & athleticism not exceptional levels of nepotism & bangability. But let’s not be ridiculous & say sport is absolutely fair. Even God, if real, ain’t fair. That basterd loves white people.  Money. Tanks & Banks full of money buys the best ever coaches, best ever players & builds tens of mindblowingly spectacular stadiums with 100-thousand spectator capacity but no amount of money can create half of Lionel Messi or Michael Jordan. Mumbai Indians can buy Sachin Tendulkar’s son in the IPL auction, but they can never make him even a quarter of Sachin Tendulkar. On Sunday [18 April ’21], A break-away, closed-shop Super League was announced to literally replace the most prestigious annual club competition in football — Champions League.  For the humans who are aliens o...

Jerome David Salinger [1919-2010] wasn’t a prolific writer, or rather, not a prolifically published writer — by choice. Most of the people I know who have read Salinger’s work have just read The Catcher in the Rye — his outrageously popular novel. Holden Caulfield, the teen protagonist, became a household name in the ‘50s & to date, the novel has sold 70 million copies & perhaps another 70 million in fakes.    In his lifetime [Salinger lived till 91], he published 4, thin-as-wafers, books/novellas The Catcher in the Rye [1951] Nine Stories [1953] Franny and Zooey [1961] Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters and Seymour: An Introduction [1963] 1965 onwards till his sudden death in 2010, Salinger didn’t publish anything. That’s 45 years of absolutely nothing. Though Salinger’s family claims he wrote everyday till he departed. Even 11 years after his death, we are yet to see anything new published barring — Three Early Stories — which were already published in 1940 ...

The writer is 21, a girl. Skyler doesn’t comb her hair & she grew breasts at 11. I don’t know of any human who writes letters to trees like I do. I know it’s weird — but not in the way you think it’s weird. In my mind, it’s not weird to write letters to trees. But it sure is weird to write on paper that’s made from the murdered dead bodies of trees’ friends & neighbors. It’s like giving toys to babies made from the dead bodies of their baby sisters. But we humans are weird. We like to talk to dead people. We like to fuck pretty people. We like people who are nice to us. We love animals in the morning & eat them at dinner.  I’m alright with all the weirdness, but one — liking people who are nice to us. And now you think I’m weirder than you already thought I was.  I’m. After I got my period at 7, I grew firm breasts at 11. Since the arrival of my breasts, I have never met a boy who didn’t want to unpant me. For the last 10 years, boys have been really...

I sit on a chair-table next to the see-through glass wall. A pigeon looks at me & wonders why humans live in cages of bricks & glass. A girl walks towards me with a smile. I speak before she does.  “I will take a coffee in a ceramic cup — black, no sugar — thank you.” “Sure.” She made a note. “And are expecting company, Sir?” “I don’t know if she’s coming” “Um” “It’ll just be me” “Alright, Sir” I don’t know of anyone who has drunk more coffees in a café sitting by himself. I like the amalgamation of solitude with coffee, ink & paper - that’s how my soul weaves stories. It’s the thing that makes me come alive even when my heart is frozen. Today is different. Not different like when it rains on a sunny day - different like when a bride dies on her wedding day. The calendar had no 29th in February. The calendar has a 29th in March. The calendar of my life & hers also had a 29th.  Now, it doesn’t —— In life, I didn’t expect to fall in love.  Not because I didn...

New Year ’ s eve — 31 December 2 0 2 0 It was a usual Thursday afternoon for me & my seventeen-year-old daughter, Krystal. We were drinking bootlegged Mexican tequila right out-of-the-bottle, when I had an epiphany as I gazed at the eight-letter word tattooed on her left arm. I knew it was time to come clean & tell the world of my grotesque sin.  This letter is my profound confession. I, not China, am the monster who created Corona — I’m solely responsible for the chaos that the world of humans finds itself engulfed in 2020.  Let me take you back to the origins of my original sin. I was a mediocre little baby, who grew up to be an even more mediocre little boy. The only way to move up the golden ladder of the “Social Order” was to join a cult — of course, Religion & Baba-worship were the obvious choices. But I knew my best bet was to latch on to something that’s not mainstream yet but had the potential to be the Next Big Thing. It was new year’s eve - 1991. I...