I rest my case

Some smiles are wry,

and flimsy and grey.

Some shores dry out,

Some seas never sway.

In the hollow of the night,

Some echoes fade away.

Some blood reeks of the sky,

n birds fly mislay.

My leap leaves me behind,

As my life stales away.

With all smoke in my eyes,

I rest my case.

Arreee.. Its OK naa...

 

Sometimes I wonder how difficult is it to be real and moreover how difficult is it to maintain your realness (if I can call it so). How darn hard is it to be yourself?

Not that the real you is not liable to change.
It is and pertaining to the laws of natural growth, it should change.
But the consciously real you still exists albeit it is unpredictably invariably variable.

There are bundles of packaged and synthesized knowledge (ahem!) present all around us. And it is said and believed that ideally one should approach such a preprocessed bundle and readily and compliantly (and blindly in awe of the presence of such a fancied nugget) absorb them and then drive one's entire life to become "them".

We are so conditioned by the idea of the inevitable helplessness to live and hence, "then why not happily.." that we deliberately ignore and magnanimously push the seemingly unquenchable thirst to question existence. We just don't want to think anything beyond or other than what the general-happy go lucky-ease loving and presumably content (going by the idea that if one never questions anything (even when it is not just natural but decidedly human to ask), one would become a lover and appreciator of everything and hence reach "happiness") have thought (so to say) and decreed universally acceptable. We hate and disgust the analytical and reason-seeking part of our minds (however pithy it be) and bribe and subdue it with obscure, undeniably incomplete and politically and diplomatically honey-laced justifications, fooling it with the mirage of its obviously understood other half.

There is no other half because there is nothing to complement it.
There is no first half. Its absurd and shite and repetitive and general. Its anything. Its random.

But we don't mind. We have time and again equipped our heads of the bitter truth that there are no answers. And hence that it is retardedly foolish to question. So just take what they give you and be great full for it because otherwise one would have to create one's own private justifications, which though are equally ignoble but do not guarantee a general acceptance of the crowd called society.

And yes the social acceptance of faffing and debating life and its beauty comes handy with it.
Just like a free gift worth the double of the price of the product itself on immediate order placement.
Sounds like a great offer, right!

But believe me the real satisfaction of being the real you and weighing whatever you have with reason and maybe, by the end of the process even discarding it, is far more REAL than a thousands glorious figments of imaginations of the desperately-happy-content you can ever ever get you.

Think about it..
Maybe the water does not just have a tendency to fall from a higher level to a lower.
Maybe your cell phone does not just dry out of battery even when it is in a stand by mode, because it has suicidal tendencies.
Maybe invention has mothers apart from necessity.
Maybe you should not avert the demand of reason when it comes to accepting something new.
Maybe you can question a seemingly universal fact.
Maybe you are allowed to think.
Maybe its not OK.

01-01-11

It's the new year.
All these years of my life I have lived in some kind of complex yet funny haziness of aim. And in the eve of the year's-end, the last few over-rated seconds without fail, make me realize the size of the hole of uncertainty and the feeling of utter foreboding for what is to come next. I have never clearly understood as to what are the grand celebrations in awe of. Is it the end that people eagerly want to celebrate or the start that they feel greatly hopeful for. What more changes could an year end and the beginning of a new possibly bring to the lives of anyone that any other random second that they waste masturbating, or a minute they pass faffing, or an hour/ a day they let go dreaming what the new year has for them, could not.
I mean, what's the big deal?
Apart from a few brands giving some very intricately manipulated discount on some of its cheesy products and you perhaps falling for it, what else could a new year do for you? Would a student who has been in a spree of failing pass without studying because its the new year or would some desperate one sided lover find his/ her fancied partner deeply in love with him/her on its account?

What is that one thing that would just all by itself conveniently change and make life easy for one living sole on earth, because the Roman Calender choses to restart itself from Square 1 on December 31 every cycle?

--NOTHING--

The celebrations for new year as I see them now are lame excuses for merry making on account of the end of the highly over-rated last few pseudo seconds of unsuccessful dreams and desires that could not be met. The arrival of the new year is like the arrival of new conveniences, new hypothetical opportunities that would definitely be met, and new unrealistically beautiful avenues that would certainly be conquered. Its a glorious figment of fancy imaginations that we celebrate and think by some undeniably outlandish logic that everything else would automatically fall in its place.

Every single thing that the much hyped new year could possibly bring, any second of the realization of truth could also bring. The truth that success would come to whoever would be ready to put his/ her heart and blood into their work and start applying reason to their decisions, whenever such an honest regard for logic would dawn upon them. Success is not waiting for you around the corner for the new year to come and grab it for you. Its a fool's paradise. There is no substitute for intelligent and hard work.

Time doesn't stop and start again. Nothing changes on its own unless until you decide to change it. So don't wait for the new year to come to take your decisions that you have left pending for it.
New Year or no New Year, "Just go and kick some ass".




n by the way,
Happy New Year.
01-01-11...

Jarhead

I have seen this movie a few times now. Every time I watch it I fall in love with it and prepare myself to write about it and then without fail, in its volatile aftertaste somehow lose my appetite to write.
I have been following the same protocol like a blonde for a while now. Now I kind of blame it on the movie itself (it's the safest move dude!). Jarhead is a precise, intact, insightful and objective movie with a very delicate and well-wound sense of subtle humor and pun in it. I break out into a laughter every time the Sargent tells the marines not to attempt to approximate the distance from a target in multiples of the size of their dicks. They are too small he says.
The opening and the closing lines as well as the visuals are deadly and the "Can I grab a seat?" of the supposed ex-marine who jumps into the bus with evanescent gusto fills me with juices of sad nostalgia. The moment is electrifying.
Same goes for the, "No definite protocol exists" and not to forget the last line, "We are still in the desert." It shows you how focussed the director has been in wanting to take the story to come to this note while playing around with the sarcastic humor of the body.

Afterall,
All battles are different.
All battles are the same.

Romantiks..

However when you stay aloof from me,All that shades my heart is murk.
A certain reverie peeps down in anticipation from tall unimpressionable towers,
And another, defeated fancy wraps itself into the oblivion of a lonesome corner.
Sometimes, the corridors to my heart are clouded by gloom,
Whereas, other times, there is light till the capacity of sight.


Nevertheless, of one thing I am sure,
I don’t love you…

The big plunge...

There were birds in that sunlit trench
all singing in vain, no loss no gain
no clue of worries or of pain..

and there was me.

There were trees with branches plush,
over colored grass drenched by rain
No! autumn would not arrive again..

and there was me.

And the clear bluish-grey sheet overhead
was flowing aimlessly, insane
in the whim to cover every iota of grain..

And there was me,
the happiest of all,
as sustainance I did sustain,
Lost a thousand times, stopped, chained
struggled, starved and fought to regain

And now complete as I am,
I am here to claim my rewards, my bunch
Here i am for the big plunge..

There were light leaking stars,
and trees playing sieves,
and there was me..

Busted...

Colors are fascinating, and so was my life,
the pull of thirst, the call of a drive.


There 'er fancies, unreached, dull and bright.
Likewise, I dreamed of water, sand and light.


And the windows that gave pass to the stars,
were ever open for the eventful and alive.


The roads shrunk in a flick, just one wrong turn,
It was too dark to fight and too late to return.


Now, there ain't much left to save,
A pile of shredded dreams, and my shed turned grave.


Confined by my protection, I feel stuck,
I am busted..


Abandoned by you, my imaginations have rusted,
I am busted..


Left to myself, I feel torn and wasted,
I am busted..


Hey Chris, hi Ana, fuck you, fuck all,
I am busted..

The destined pop

Let your whims embrace you,
and let your demons die,
go, go take a plunge tonight.

If it quacks like a duck, n it walks like a duck, it must be a duck!!

It was raining that day.
The sky was colored gray with blobs of reddish-brown secreting for expanse, randomly. It seemed as if the earth was being shielded from the sun by a dark canopy of clouds, patches of which were faded of the quality of abstraction, thus allowing the purposefully ignored star to surreptitiously evince its presence in form of the reddish-brown sores. He was enjoying the idea of his heterogeneous occurrence, brazenly speculating this contemptuous haggling between the “non-living entities” from his rooftop. As if a revenge to the impudence of “the living”, the rain started pouring heavy…very heavy, in fact. He, the avidly exuberant witness of the celestial bargain, wanted, as if in full cognizance of his guilt and in welcoming compliance to the penance, the rain to stay.
To his dismay, he knew, it would not.
He, the flow-awaiter, the motion-seeker, the velocity-instigated-mirth-reaper, in killing-destitute of continuum-preserving happiness, saw himself covenanting with quiescent-death, by trying to stop the rain water pouring on his terrace of its flow by mercilessly blocking the niche letting the water flow-out, with an imperfectly carved brick.
This was a deal between dynamic and static existence.
One between life and death.

He waited, standing on the drenched floor of his terrace which was virtually rising above its absolute level, by effect of some law of optical physics which he did not care to recall then, and paradoxically, virtually sinking down under the effect of the relatively rising water-level.
He waited till the umbrella was drained-off its last drop of water, thus loosing its virginity of abstraction to the scorch of virility of the sun.
His soaked eyelids opened up to see the manually maneuvered, natural-mirror of the thick loaf of water, choking him to the depth of an ocean of nostalgia for the last drop, the last emissary of the kinetic form of universe, that was dying in form of seceding wrinkles of motion somewhere on the periphery of his extent of vision.
He stood still, sans motion.
He could see the soggy hair of his feet, loosing their otherwise dry fluffy form as if in homage to the quality of flux of water, to a more jovial and living form of underwater weed.

He could recursively watch his own self, peeping down to finding his interrogative eyes darting up from under water.
He could see the bed of the water below and that of the sky above as a reflection on the still surface of the mirror, transparent and opaque at the same time.
To him, it seemed unreasonably logical to feel that it was the pair of eyes he could touch, that were watching the ground he could feel under his feet, and the pair of eyes, he could not define the power of volitional perception of, that were observing the lightly grayish sheet of impalpable sky above.
Strangely, the sky was still fighting for its gray, though faded, metaphorically resembling the almost inevitable coyness of a young girl left breathless after her first tryst with the divine, leaving her spirit open for gamble, trying to hide her bare skin from her lover.

He found himself smiling at the discovery of finding himself smiling.

Then recollecting his self, at the event of perfect-cessation of flow from his immediate world, he carefully rose his feet, thus relinquishing his fantasies unearthed, and moved, driven by a cause towards the clogged opening, as if to set his own will free of the stagnancy of this uncommendable, flux-indifferent void of space.
He moved, relieved by the knowledge of his aim, inconsiderate of the undefiled state of equilibrating inertia of the stillness of the coating of concentrated water, clumsily splashing it and forming ethereal craters of vacuum with the follow-through of his steps.

Then, at that point of time, standing inert, over the blinded life-redeeming orifice, in full heed of his longing, and the abstract longevity of his wait for this self-regaining moment, he ruthlessly murdered the agony of his past, and relished the completeness of the anticipated-future-soaked-present.
This was the pain he bored while intentionally experiencing the waste of the dynamics of the cloudburst to the stale of a reserve. He did pass through that state of self-indignation, only in light and hope of the enormous potential of that waif reserve and because he could foresee the most dignified climax of that source of flow.
And, this was the joy one lives through when a decisively planned outcome is just about to be met and a long-deserved prize awaits you.
Then, with one swift, brisk motion of his hand he almost plucked the motion-refraining occlusion and haughtily lived the déjà vu that he knew was to be faced.

With a thunderous swiftness, heavy masses of water, as much as the down treaded pipe adjoining the hole could carry, flowed out of the rear end with uncompromising brashness.
As if in coherence with the flow, the glow of the sun, streaked of the expanse of perceptible mortality, indiscriminately cutting through the gray sheet and eroding the earth with its bright.
At the same time, something burst within him, as if a bag of emotions punctured, and loud with the immense of vigor and exuberance, a clear, sparkling drop of tear rolled down his eyes.
…
HE is ME.

By the way, who is John Galt?

is..

It was his move..
He looked at the cue ball, and then ran a race of his sight for the flawless, undaunting solids.
Substantially, he rose above the table, the warfield of his mark, above all organic and inorganic complexes, beyond worries and envy, surpassing greed and social demarcations, vacating the earth that was serendipitedly underneath, to his mortal physical form..
He rose up for he knew that only a broader picture of the dash c'ld bring him closer to fetching his aim.
He rose up for he wanted to do justice to the game by rendering the necessary homage to its flow...
He leviated for he was 'he'...

43 degrees right of centre, towards the bottom, a mild stroke...
The purple beast couldnt' buck and budged compliantly to the knock.
Coupled with this, the cue ball, retracing its path in the mirrored fashion, and exhaustively spinning on its axis, as if exuding the consequence of the impact, stopped acquiescingly 7 inches from the GRAIL of the round, ball no. 8.
There was an evanescent clamor among the personae.
He heard a voice blurting, "damn! the black bastard eclipsses the hole from the white."
At that moment he had his due, for another murmur conformed from within...
It said, "well done."

...
HE is ME...

"FANCY" is the name of the game..

You're beautiful.
You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, It's true.

I saw your face,
in a crowded place.
and I don't know what to do.
'coz I'll never be with you.

The Drizzle

It seeps through the edges,
it drips along the banks.
it trickles for a cause,
repressed and gone.

it waits for its turn,
graved, bygone.
unheard, unfathomed,
stays there for long.

your rainbow tears,
your romance wears.
they say, all your believes,
are junkyard thongs.

it dribbles, it creeps.
the tumbler into the well,
sapless, as it is,
dead, forsaken, as you raise the tong.

the drizzle of life,
the nectar of animation.
is a part of the game,
be it right or wrong.

let it flow,
and wet your cheeks.
for then would you leviate, to self-cognizance, 
and every trill from the roof-top, would be a song.

The Protocol of Reason

All this crap, that you, prodded to depression, by me, are actually about to sift through, was destined to surface here, when, I, dolce far niente, exhausted of the mighty dormancy, finally decided to land my arse, submissively, on the single seated, Chetak, the thirsty mule, quench its lust for Rs.50/litre, and frisk the roads of Lucknow, aimlessly, and in the odessey, happened to drift around a lively turn, banging head on to the massive human-culture that seemed to irresistibly block the passage for some petty diordered jam, that reflected to centre around a couple of blockhead buffons with no traffic sense(no sense, for that, i concede).

the side-effects of the encounter:

and when you trace the trajectory of the turn, you know you have entered the arena of the sortie, for here comes face to face, for the first time(, every time) a mighty graciously lengthed track of the dash.

Do everything, anything, something to get par the still more genially packed live trash, that you add to, as and when the point of reference changes.

With your hands, which refrained, some time, not long ago, to budge, when someone called authoritatively for forelimbs to "I's", and slacked for want of enthusiasm, when someone, a bit more earlier, asked for volunteers for the pithy rank of class-monitor (foreseeing the fact that everyone would see you as some-being, baptized, "Mr.Bicthy-shit monitor", and then there would be a time, when you, for avalanche of mighty social recognition(read prickings) would cease looking for the cause of your nascent existence, and drift to the eclipse of self-oblivion.), in complete attorney of your destiny, you know, that what has been is history, with lessons to teach, and precautions to preach, and look optimistically to the one that would be archieved to apostels of your memory in moments to arrive.
Every sense in you(i guess, even the non-sense), is then assigned a layer in the infrastructure of thought-building and stimuli-generating algorithm that you need to adher to, cohesively, coherently, in full cognizance of the differential changes of entropy generated for continuum of collective swings and trails of the normalized air content and decibel level in the ambience.

A whoo$$$shhhh there, and a bon$$g-bon$g here, everything has a meaning, every sign is a regalia, which epitomizes/decodes some broken piece of information of the childishly drafted(childish for its haphazard outlay) gijzaw to which you are so often put to test, that the question of more relevance to you, has transmorgified from the "This one! Lemme see.." to "This one??! phoo$$$sshhh".

The aim at hand, the wish to realize the win, the pricking(which reasons out as an enticement) ambient-thrust, the mashing turbulence of the massive eddy thought-flow, and none the less, the want of an alternate redeeming exit, yell cries for an honest, avid, and spontaneous participation.
As and when you comprehend this utter need of the bypassing moment, you, for the first time, androitly relinquish some of the innate energy to flex the neck muscles, in order to abet the two synonymously placed spherical lenses above, to buoy up over the almost collinear head-lings, and look beyond to peruse the peculiarities of the labyrinth turned Armageddon. Shots of these visual singnals synchronously hit another bifurcated organ of the body, thus generating collateral pulses of high's for the jerking-tool of your organic frame, which is in full charge of the most microscopic motion of the alien machine under your bums.
Everything that follows has to abide by the impulsively conglomerated(do not read, generated) set of protocols in order to abstain from the almost inevitable sense of expurgation.

The Protocol of Reason:

(1)Time: Always time your run, right from the begining. Do not dare to loose a flick of undaunting heed, for something(the only thing, fit for the adjective to follow) absolute, with a talked of mnemonic, TIME, would not spare you for the most probable fidgety.
P.S.- Never race time, race yourself(read I, Dimension for comprehension)

(2)Foresee: Visualize, foresee results. Try, not to bump to outcomes, land onto them, and that too along the strip lenght.

(3)Act: Do not wait for your turn to come, for its not going to descend on you. Grab the opportunity, and dare to risk your score at every dash, for only then at the end of the innings would you relish every differential slam to its apogee.
P.S.- Every tang of a differential victory, brings you close to enlightment and nirvana.

(4)Synchronize: enuf said.

(5)Move on:
Its yet not reached, move on.
Two of them left, trod on.
None of yours continued, pace on.
on and on.
on and on and on.

(6)Modulate your thresholds: Be ready to compromise your thresholds (no off-line principles), when the blaze of the infermo is at stake. Do not let the fire die.

(7)Alter objectives: An effecient and indomitable feedback link, to the arbit
source of human-ness for unquestionable amendments in the definitions and
approach of the previously defined aims, would be appreciable.

(8)Comprehend your stand: Always be aware of the distance traversered, and the displacement achieved.

(9)Whack off the traces of track cues: Do not cram the fucking track. Dont be such a dumbass as to extract the sap of contentment from the cowardly morphed win over a similarly morphed challenge, framed hypocritically over the carcass of a mugged head-slot.
P.S.- Why the hell would any sane homosapien then, fathom a word as
relieved as "recollection"?

(10)Contemplate your win

(11)Be ready for next.

Romantics

As the spent sun,
overpasses the harmless river.

On the swamp of the green wetlands,

it would bobble and flub for a single uncautious step over the moss.
Fence it from tumbling,

as I, meanwhile, would lay the net.

Buttress it, do not let it down,

as I would dole out a helping hand, however strong it be.
Let not, the day fall..

zephyr

That day (that sprout of a day) was no exception. With the same dreariness in his eyelids flickering retardedly in coherence with the eventual, deciding attempts of the neuronic array (above), to simultaneously identify, recall and modulate the swiftly fading trashes of the passing night's dreams, and with the synonymously laden holds and nails (gums and teeth) he physically tossed his whims-loaded psyche to piece-up the burden. His was not a voluminous space, and there were inmates (a refrigerator, an almira, and a dressing table) sharing the limited reserves. His cot was lengthed alongside a grilled alcove and the aligned door, facing the balcony surreptitiously permitted the Sun to trespass the life inside. It was time, and the incandescence of the star smoothly embrazed the bifurcated tips of his inter wound hair. Within no time, the gentle sheen reached the scalp and raced through the contours of his forehead, when for the first time that day he savvied the over-concern of the celestial intervention and non-compliantly pulled his pillow over his head. His brashness was instinctive and subconscious (or Para conscious, I guess). This was utter blasphemy, and the aroused Sun was determined to filch him off his slumber. Intensifying the blaze, the Sun scurried through the length of his frame, and scorched every bit of his mortality.

All through these millennia of civilization, man has sought measures to control the flow of nature. At that point of time, the entire humanity was siding him, for he penalizingly shut the door down. The Torch, in dilemma, was forced to wait outside.
But then, the job was done, the revenge smitten.

He had nothing to nap for, all sub/para conscious memories lost, the contact broken, the communication with the unsung source withheld. He submitted, habitually lamenting for his loss and stood up to see the nothingness of another day lumbering through his feet. Compliantly he pushed the door to the toilet, loosen his pants, and hung his thing out carelessly, disapprovingly, and after a pre-calculated time, withdrew the pair back to his waist. The androit within him dragged his frame to fetch the toothbrush and its accomplice and casually made him polish his teeth with the automaton. He obediently took after.

To this submission, his alter ego, the corpus that he was, woke-up to cognizance, dominatingly snatched the rein of the spirit, and made him trot to the terrace to relish the freshness of the virgin dawn. There he was on the terrace of his dwelling, with a toothbrush to his teeth, and a soothing, alien puff, tickling him to life. ...a petty left-over of some mighty glacial blow, a miniature intrusion looking for a way through existence, an austere nomadic wind with no prints of its passage, made him realize his flow, his oomph, his saprkle, his vigor, his zest...made him rise to himself...made him live.

Gulzar is a belief, a thought, that imaginary flurry, breath, of “the bindu” which makes us think, which prompts us to explore, understand and nourish our nascent selves with the flow of personage.

Gulzar is no human, its the pen which has evolved with the phase of time, through progress and regress, rain and draught, sun and shade, mangoes and apples, and which treads against the papyrus to sqiggle the intricacies of "the flow" being held in the hands of a fellow mortal named, Sampoorna Singh and more prominently called by the monogram, GULZAR.

CHEENI KUM (The Carcass)

Elucidating in the flash-back mode, Cheeni Kum was a potential project, with a rare, rational, thoughtful (apropos the Bollywood standards) baptization, buttressed by a balanced initial start-up (both in terms of the story line, the flow of the script, and the characterization of the exponent (mainstay) parts), melidious (more of a step-up, slide-down, void-spawing) music, and raw, virgin, methodically synchronized lyrics,
rendered impotent (which 'ld mean packing up to mediocricy, for a movie of this stature) by the following:
* the spasmodic (discontinous)switching of importance screened for the "inside the kitchen" frames. There were fillers (all so very predictable, blatant, and incongrous) through-out the first half, and none promoted their cause (of reaching out or guising as instigators for the more relevant scriptoral moves to descend)...none.
* the unfathomable brashness and arrogance innate to the protagonist (a 64 yr old man, who owns a passable food joint with not more than 20 labors) , his incessant boasts about his tavern being the Best Indian Restraunt(BIR) in UK, and the supercilious, egotistic self he exudes every time he utters, "Haai-deraa-baadi Zaafraani Pulao" (read,"hey!, Vijay Deenanaath Chauhan").
* the desperate, coquet, bold, hagrin and sadist psyche that the female exponent
of the movie manifests. How c'ld so choosy a woman, with undefiled virginity for 34 years, fall pliantly to the woos of this ponytailed, heedless, and an otherwise vanilla-personatily (plays pranks with his "sex and the city" oriented, gym-freek mother, and talks life and stuff with his "senile head over juvenile shoulders" 9-yr old leukemic neighbour...) , patriarchal, "aham bramhasmi" he?
* the foreseeable climax of the movie.. once you have a leukemic, adorable (aphoristically) character, even the most simpleton, screw-head, and jammed ass in the world 'ld suggest its repose as the turning point of the story. Every nut can reckon that.
* the unhinged, unorganized, vexing(again) definition of the father-in-law (antagonist), his unscroupless denial, and spontaneous come-back to the argument of his daughter's marriage.
* the time elapsing (no more, no less....serving no other purpose) mental scuffle, and cold war b/w the contemporary (father n son)-in law.

With so many flaws and weak-links, the movie ended up to the miss-list already flooded
with unattended, waif, releases, all of which are destined to leave no more
than a wallpaper on the desktops of the jagruk junta.

Remnants...

Though the last fall was belittling and opprobrious (or may be more than that), the encounter had righteously concieved residues (leftovers).
They were:-
(1) The austere dogma of "surviving on the avilable".
(2) The fire to master the epics of jurisdiction/law enforcement, in order to track out sections under which one can sue a person for trafficing the personal bandwidth (simile to time-space) used for jerking off (or metaphorically, downloading carnal fantasies, and fleetingly uplinking the punches of adrenalin to "the bindu" in the pay-off.)
(3) A mysterious piquing curosity for the moot of the argument, "Cheeni Kum".

Cheeni Kum (The Prologue)

The first time I heard of the title, I said, "wait a minute...who did u said, the movie stars".
"Amitabh Bachchan, Tabu, Paresh Rawal..." was the cold, irked reply. "u r a real dumb-head, 16-bit processor..it takes u umpteen buzzes to realize n register three names..fuck you.."
"ok, Godhead, go n mug...u 've a test tommorrow, n lemme fix my innate mother-fuckin-board...i 'll fuckin format it today....cram the crap, u gud-fr-nothing psycho." i replied slyly, pretending that i was jst trying to pique him by expressionlessly repeating the same question thrice, though i actually was not. The time that elapsed b/w the first gusto echo, n the vilifying "fuck you" was genuinly the time I took to corelate the work at hand (the usual job, sitting n concocting plans to find an idle flapless private-"time n space" to jerk off) to the first few alien strings that rapped my drums,"Cheeni Kum, this is the new movie on the block", and that which saw me floating in the sea of infinite upsurges (that followed the beat), n unfold the relation b/w cheeni(=sugar) kum, plans, amitabh bachchan, tabu, cheeni(=chinese) cum, jerk-off, paresh rawal, n all the other permutationally possible sets.

Then finally, after the nimbus of mayhem cleared, i mouned sighes of distress..."oh fuck wid this head. do u 've a hammer? i need to settle issues nw n for all...i 'll fuckin thrash it..no more of me, n none of this ache...it seeps like ice-cold titanium cutting n flowing recursively from the sheath of the mycoderma to the gravity of the cerebrum...it fuckin kills.."
"Whats this time, Mr. Delicate?" he roured.
"oh! leave it. its the same fucking head-ache, my legacy fr life..but, you dont worry pal. I 'll get the pills myself. The chemist is at a stone's throw, n I think...ahhh...i can handle it. Its nothing..believe me.."
"u sure??" said he to my foreboding.
"certainly. Thanks for ur concerns dude, but I 'll manage....ooohh, aahh..ouuch...yeahhhhhh..fuck it..fuck it....(I 'm a horrible actor, n the most blatant plagiarist feasible...these cliched porn verses never bare off me.)"
"r u fine?..jst lay down n have some rest..i 'll get u the pills asap..."
"oh, no i 'll do it"
"shut up, n lay prostrate, my bitch..I 'm goin to the chemist to get my armour, n then I 'll crib ur blurting fissure...got it"
"oh, yes my master, u be my bait.."

leaves..
fuck you, motherfucker..."whats this time?" hann...
"sick my duck, pimp!!!"
5 minutes, thats all I 've got..
think, think....
wake up!..wake up. grab a brush, n put a lil' make-up (what the hell!!..fuck you all)
no brush, no fuckin make-up... only take-up n blow-off..
....
...
..
knock-knock. "open up, slut. I 've got the insurance.."
knock-knock-knock-----knock.....
blow-blow-blow....
"get ur hands off, you bloddy insatiable pervert.
i know of you..i 'll fuck u this time."
...
...
...
Fucked big-time.

Cum nahi Kum..

n u know what, there was another movie, this time a bollywood starrer, contemporary to, or for the exatitude of the nugget, twin to the filthy, erogenous Chinese version. Directed by ad-maker, M. Balakrishnan(Balki), it was supposedly, a lesson of morality to its namesake, or rather homophonic contender.

It was later clearified by the director, who himself called for a press conference, that the much hyped news of Paresh Rawal playing the lead role, "the cum pump", in the Chinese abstract was a undeniable hoax, with no relation (not even in 2nd or 3rd blood) wat-so-ever with reality, though the convict n victim (both, Mr. Rawal) denied out-rageously to face the camera.

The news that Paresh was later (wen stoned) caught conceding that he actually went to the shooting spot of the "other movie" for a urine test, n was forcibly made to leak mililitres of his virility, was out-pored after a sting operation, sponcered by Shakti Kapoor, out of an earlier issue langering b/w the two.
The tapes were ulteriorly found phoney, n only then did the fact found surface that the person forging Paresh in the tapes, was actually Aman Verma.

sumtimes its gud to read crap..
u jst did.

Cheeni (Chinese) Cum!

The most eagerly awaited (with a record breaking public awareness, prior the release) heebie-jeebie resurrecting, gooseflesh reverberating, bum clamping, n "thing" hardening XXX aphrodisiac of the decade was Chinese Cum (jst look at the saucy brashness of these kinky, plush producers...at least the name c'ld be modest, like "Chinese (Cheeni, the desi look) Beauty", or "Cheeni Babu", etc.).

Justifying the nomenclature, it (the Baal Film) was surfeited with mating shrieks, and coy, banging shrills of chummy, lecherous, salacious, voluptous, flawless SE Asian tarts, bumping on top of streched, hardened, and tensed muscular frames (which with the advancement to the peak, were to abruptly slack down to gosammer strands, n discharge to placidity).