Tuesday, September 26, 2006

SLIPPED...EXCUSED...

Thursday, September 21, 2006
12:25:44 AM

456? Excuse slip?Present sir…will show my slip in the next class!
……
……
…..
…..
463? Excuse slip?
(same as 456)
464? Excuse slip?
(all the more same as 463)
…….
…….

….
472?
Yes Sir!
474?
Yes Sir!…
….(maybe, 473 is right at the end…I hope, unwillingly…)

….
489?Absent (minded)!

Once again, no 473s in the register…like some elapsed convict, who was either released or have fled from jail…I raise up my arm only half-expecting to be asked for an excuse slip, even before making an entry into the register that had always been reluctant of 473…

HOD writes my name and roll no. in the register and ticks at his own veiled discretion…he is too ashamed to even ask me for an excuse slip…as if such slips can console my pain for always being left out or measure up to my tolerance level for over a year! Not to mention the occasional patience quality control team (BOB) who volunteered almost involuntarily to shuck a grin or express their irritation every time I fought for my number and my attendance, never mind the poor attention I paid in all the classes…

What’s so wrong with the number 473, I wonder…numerology would consider 473 as 4+7+3=14=1+4=5…so 5 is the number…and since I am born on the 4th, 5 is an anti-number for me…so is 3…perhaps, a 4 person is hard to be represented or roll numbered as 5.
Nevertheless, nothing does really stop for 473!


We had our elections and Linux won…any day! With the source code open for all in this laissez-faire world, Linux can win any day, leaving poor Vinay the beaten underdog, for the third and the last time in the history of BSc. Computer Science, Session: 2004-05! I say “poor Vinay” particularly because he had nothing left to even mask his shame, only to be ‘read’ by someone who taught us how to do quality control of software…

But seriously, what’s wrong with 473??? Elections, excuse slips and Vinay’s sob apart, what’s so unreal about 473 in the register??? Does it take a lot of space inside that hideous register?

Didn’t do JGD…couldn’t stand the thought of another missed out 473!

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Turn, turn, turn...

Friday, September 22, 2006
12:23:13 PM

To gripe would be under-doing…he was tired of imagination that was only to be smashed by the prosaic reality…or, was it real at all?

Let’s not think about it at all…let’s lie in the soothing arms of Chimera and alleviate poignancy.

Love rolls over the muddy broken pitch…crawls over evoked mountains and flies off in parachutes…feeds on human flesh, overjoyed by paranoia…cancels itself, and condenses into the singularity of a chocolate…damn!

A forgotten poem…
A half-remembered letter…
A crescent dream…

So much for love…is there another word for it?

Synonyms would scare you: bang, eff, bonk, fuck, passion, screw, hump, jazz, have sex, sleep with…

Sleep WITH…and not sleep OVER WITH…hmm…

Are you sick with love or cloyed with honey in your gullet???

None of the above…none whatsoever…

It’s just his eyes…paired, scorched, questioning, burning, self-evasive, giving, behind locked collapsible gates…and when they meet hers when she least expects it, she doesn’t even know how to avoid his gaze…it’s the only time he sees her true colors, or at least seems to…but then, instead of baring her soul, and instead of avoiding the gaze, she engages herself in the marvelously painful task of masking the fabric that made her, like an expert con artist...and then he talks to her like she was the one who wanted to bare his soul in the first place! In place of paired exotic eyes, she contracts a virulent strain that would make her eyes scorched, questioning, burning, self-evasive...and surprisingly, ruthless!

All of the above…all of them…

It’s strange how much clarity you can get from psychedelic paradox…

High On Grass...

Tuesday, August 22, 2006
11:13:34 PM

He rolled the filter paper and filled it with grass that he tore and grounded on his palm with much care and ardor, like a young man writhing on his beloved…the wild smell filled the nothingness around and the wind blew past them, the small group, which waited for him to finish making whatever it was that would make them lighter as grasshoppers, so that bats could walk in daylight and crows could pair with the pigeons…

The other groups stared at them, making their own grass, as though a non-verbal competition had challenged them. He made it rather inexpertly, but finished before the rest…he smiled at her and she stretched out to smoke some of it…they took turns, the girl, the boy, him, him, the girl, the boy…all destined to laugh incessantly, until they grew tired of it.

The sky grew darker and darker with cumulus clouds… The goddess of Parthenon drew closer towards them and love scattered in all directions…

“I love apple juice…how good the original sin tastes!” she said.

“What??? Are you alright???” asked the goddess.

“Nevah mind…” she answered.

“What do you survive on with such madness?” the goddess asked again hopelessly.

“Grass…my friend…” was all she said, without finding anything more brilliant to say at the moment and resumed her laughter.

She got up to the basketball court and dribbled along witlessly…he watched her with stoned eyes…

“Purotai khepa!” he remarked and the rain poured down abruptly…