God was Murdered

I don’t know — Who you are? You could be a Wife Beater or Baby Eater or worse than K u K lux K lan — W hite W oke W oman.  But now that you’ve unwittingly walked into my House of Words , I must regale you with my pseudo-wit & cunty charm. Caveat : When you’re done swallowing my words, you will feel worse than you do on Day 2 of your period or after getting whipped in the balls by a girl on Day 2 of her period. Alright! Let the bloodshed begin. I don’t know — If you want to be dead [Franz Kafka] before you become famous — If you want to write a novel about your dead girlfriend [Ravinder Singh] & make a sweet million     — If you want to write an immortal novel [Wuthering Heights] at 29 & be dead at 30 [Emily Brontë] — Whatever it is that you want to be, just don’t go at it half-assed. Go d ogle gives you — About 61,90,00,000 results (0.50 seconds) — if you type  — How to Become a Better Writer? — But what the heck, here are my 11 W hite W oke W oman-...

You’re dead or you’re not. You’re in love or you’re not. You’re a writer or you’re not. You can like both frogs & dogs — romcoms & gore — rock & pop. But, Writing doesn’t work that way — it’s exclusive like Love & Death.  The million pakistani-rupee question is  — What makes you a writer? Every motherfucker can write a poem, a short story, a diary, a letter, a song, a blog. None of that makes you a writer. Not even writing a bestselling novel makes you a goddamn writer. What the hell makes you a Writer? When I was 13 [may be 14], I wrote a poem for my boarding school’s newsletter. It felt good when it got published on paper. I don’t recall writing anything else in high school. In college, I often scribbled & thought about writing a brilliant story or a film’s script. But I never wrote beyond 3 lines. At 22, I began reading a lot. The more I read, the more it became crystal to me that I can’t be a writer. One has got to be super smart, super discipli...

22 July 2021 — 14.47 hours — Thursday — Nainital — Mischievous clouds are pissing ever so slightly — the million-million-year tree is my umbrella. Tea has little milk, no sugar — fried eggs have little oil, no salt. Hey, Miss Marx At the Academy, most kids don’t mind me, but most adult humans don’t like me. The deal is, I don’t like most people — because I’m rude to almost everyone or fail to recognize them when I see them — they, as a consequence, dislike me. And I swear to satan, bad reputation is real easy maintenance. P.S. “The trouble with us humans is — we all love to hear the truth, but the moment we hear it, we instantly realize, we aren’t ready for it. Because truth is a lot like death — they —truth-&-death— aren’t nice, they’re just fair.” As I was about to leave for Bombay on July 4 th 2019, I was adamant to get someone to teach Meher — someone who wouldn’t walk out on her within 2-3 weeks. We screened a bunch of volunteers. I didn’t like any of them. I knew they...

23 July 2021 — 11.47 hours — Friday — Nainital — Sitting on a wooden bench under a fatass, oldass, sober-as-fuck tree, drinking sugarless black coffee & bun-omelet — surprisingly, it’s not raining — the tree has my ass covered when it does rain/drizzle/thunder shower. Hey, Doosh We met in June ’15 — six years ago. You had just turned 17. I was teaching SAT in the class that you walked in with coffee spilled all over your light-colored T. Through the class, you kept taking smallish sips from the take-away coffee cup that was placed precariously on your chair’s writing pad. There’s no way in hell, I would’ve known in that moment that I — twice your age — would be writing you a letter —6 years later— when you’re 23 & you’ll be reading my novel — 143 Days — about my star-crossed yet indelible love story when I was 23. A lot more than that extraordinary fact, I’m bloody glad to have you in my life. And I say that not to be nice or kind, I say that as the truth. It’s also true, ...

Bollywood & I don’t speak anymore. But our love wasn’t always this grey & cold. When I was ridiculously young, B & I were madly in love like Jack & Rose. Over time, our Titanic drowned. Let’s start at the start . B & I had been friends for years before our first real date — a matinee show of 1942 — A Love Story on a blazing afternoon of May 1994 in Delhi’s legendary Delite cinema. When Gorgeous Koirala & Hairy Kapoor kissed, B & I froze & surrendered to the avalanche of bone-chilling winds of crushing attraction. I had already seen 20-odd Bollywood films on TV, but watching 1942 — A Love Story on the silver screen was an experience worth killing innocent newborns for. Soon, I got addicted to watching movies in the theatre like MJ got addicted to touching kids. B & I’s crush metamorphosed into young love when I watched the second half [my parents were super late & missed the entire first half] of DDLJ in 1995. By the time the curtains fell, I was...

My parents almost never traveled anywhere unless a blood-related, three-month-old baby died after a Pa.kiss.tani drone crashed on her/they house or a non-binary god called my mom on the housephone to visit him/they. Pick up, Mom ! God is Calling ;) And all our travels were shorter distances —141-327.8 km— & mostly in inter-state buses & rarely in a car. The earliest memory I have of travelling in a train is when mom decided to go to Vaishno Devi — I was about 12. We traveled in a non-air-conditioned coach. I don’t recall with absolute certainty, but I remember liking or at least finding the train travel a lot less mindfucking than a bus or a car. Even when I first sat in a plane — on an international flight — at age 18, I felt mildly nauseated sitting inside what felt like a claustrophobia-inducing, penis-shaped tube filled with people who had sold their personalities on eBay — we all sat constipated for hours that felt like weeks in a Vietnamese prison. Of all the modes of t...