Friday, December 17, 2010

Death Meets a Stripper.

Author's note: Don't judge a book by its cover nor a blog by its title.
 ----------------------
The room was dark, but she was clearly visible against the window, silhouetted against the light of the pale moon. In her semi-transparent negligee, I could almost make out the soft promise of warm flesh, almost seeming to glow in the light.
She spun, not quickly, not worriedly, but in the manner of someone who had waited for this moment, calmly, seductively, unhurried, a slight smile on those ruby lips, a slight arch to that thin eyebrow. With a passing glance at the door she shrugged off her ensemble, and stood before me Eve in all her glory. The likes of Salome did not do her justice, I thought, as she danced, slow and seductive, hands high in the air to stretch her body sleek and lean, hips gyrating to a tune only she could hear, for me to discern without knowing. 
And I stood there, harvester, harbinger, even after witnessing so much, she still stunned me with but a glance, telling me to wait and enjoy, listen and admire.
The music changed, abruptly, I could see in her movements. When she had moved aloof, afar, a prize out of reach but forever in sight, now she turned teasingly, coming closer and closer, within the reach of my hands but darting out just before my fingers closed on warm skin. A pristine laugh escaped her as I missed once more and she danced away, out of reach again, content to watch me snarl from where she'd bound me.
Then once more she changed. Smooth and direct her movements, her leg extended with a grace only fit for an emperor's ballet, her knee coming up to her belly, then flexing, gently curving back down to the floor, and she jumped back smoothly into reach.. and this time I did not falter and trapped my prize.
With a smile and a pale hand on my cheek, she came into my embrace- and we descended into my domain of darkness and peace.. the room stood empty, her scent the only trace left of her in this world and life.

Monday, September 27, 2010

The Encounter


The Apple of Discord, it floated in on pearly strings; there was tension in the air, a social time bomb that would soon incinerate all around it in a holocaust of biblical proportions.
For once, I understood the true meaning of the phrase “a pregnant silence”. This was going to be Armageddon; have you ever seen that look in a man’s eyes when he’s beaten down to the point of no return, past which all there is would be sheer animal rage?
Well, I hadn’t, and I was lucky in that I would not only be the witness to such ferocity of emotion but also the target of it. Poor, unlucky, depressed me, to be subjected to a coup de grace of nuclear dimensions. There is a certain adjective that comes to me when I write about situations like this. For lack of modesty, I will say that there is no lack of adjectives when I choose to wax eloquent, but that is our failing as a member of the tribe of Writers; while we may counsel and talk long and deep on subjects we know not an iota about, in that selfsame situation where our character comes out not only alive and well but also smiling, feeling like a million dollars, and even with an attractive member of the opposite sex, we will emerge (if that happy opportunity is ours) dishevelled, dry and utterly exhausted, wondering how so much bad juju may happen on such a beautiful day.
It is situations like these that tend to cause a memory gap; subconsciously we are punishing ourselves to the extreme by forgetting life’s little lessons, all in the name of human forgetfulness- so that we may repeat our mistakes time and again to the very extent of stepping elegantly and gracefully into the same brouhaha from which we fail to find a way out of.
This was one of those roles wherein the best way out is also the worst way- truth may work wonders, but truth is a bitter medicine to swallow and harder to administer. Nine times out of five we will retort with a sombre and deeply contrite demeanour or mayhap if our skills extend to the bluffing levels of a poker face, provide a soothing falsetto and facade to emerge, if not victorious (of course not) then at least with satisfaction and solace in that we have managed to stave off whatever danger was presented until a later day. Which brings us back to square one with the addendum of perhaps a litre more of perspiration on various parts of the skin, nervousness that falls upon the fear-sodden mind like a ton of bricks, and a feeling of utter hopelessness that pervades all five senses...
Experience is a bad teacher. Logic at such times proves to be an excellent ally, providing a strong defense along the lines of “yes, this is my mistake; no, I intend not to repeat it once more, on pain of death- and I vow to excel in my pursuits and not allow any more obstacles to lengthen my road.” Of course, in the face of such opposition that I stood before, and comparing this answer to the question, a single syllable that pierceth the armour of logic as a missile would a haystack, the situation was grim to the point of laughable, nay, fatal, even.
My friend reader, I have been amiss; in my description of my emotional pandemonium I omitted the cause of my worry, and a most distressing cause it is indeed.
That cause matches accurately the dimensions of paper you will find at any stationery vendors, which that most busy of vendors will use to print this very description; it is plasticised, and stylized, and boldly gilded, to protect from the elements four; on its visage exists a code that could destabilize your world, to say nothing of your life; turn it over and you will find the means to decode what you wish was gibberish; study it for a minute, and you will recognise the crushing weight on your shoulders followed by a rictus of rage and the boot of retribution respectively.
That agent provocateur, in the truest sense of the phrase, is stamped with the bold headline: “Academic Assessment” and for those who believe in the axiom of brevity’s equality to wit: the almighty “Report Card,” the coin of academic performance that I have played for a fool and now proceeds to return the favour tenfold with added interest and a quarterly bonus to boot.
Amen, semper fi, au revoir, and there the tail droops between the legs in defeat utmost and crushing.

Wednesday, August 18, 2010

The Chaat

You know about the Chaat?
Maybe you don't. If you do, I think a recall is in order. The Chaat stands for Chutiyaapa Aahat.
Remember, it was the Second of September. Eight days later, it ended. The Indias were suddenly invaded by chutiyas. No one knew where they came from, or why, or what they wanted.
The CBI (Chutiya Brigade of India) policed the cities in the nights and wilder, unrestrained chutiyas roamed the suburbs and wildlands, looking for stray humans of which there were less and less.
The CP (Chutiya Parliament) High Court commanded that all those left "unchutiya"-ed be infected immediately so that their dream of One World would be realized. All the leftist and rightist wings together, guerillas with gorillas, revolutionaries with rotationaries. One world, "Peace Through Stupidity" was their slogan.
Although some of them were so empowered, the free-thinking chutiyas realized that the last thing they wanted was a free India.Or a free World for that matter. They conferred with their western associates the MIA (Masturbators In Accord), the MFB (Mother Fucker Brigade) and the Fucikaze of the East to conspire and bring down the three-day old empire that threatened to bring around World Peace. They realized that to destroy this horrendous nightmare of One World Order, they would have to exterminate their species. And with no ado, they (being chutiyas after all) pulled the plug on the entire operation. All records were erased. All memories destroyed.
No one remembered the eight-day old empire; everyone woke in their beds unable to account for an 8-day lapse in memory.
Except for one. A boy born eight days after on September 10th. He remembered in his subconscious. He never understood those memories, and would one day put them to paper. Until the CBI was ready to return to the world.
He was a true chutiya, to carry on their legacy.

Twenty years later, he stood on a cliff, remembering.
Understanding.
And what did he do?
He walked right up to the stars, and said to the watchers of the Chutiyas.
What did he say?
"Maa chuda, chutiye." And walked away, the last free Chutiya. 

Friday, August 6, 2010

The unnamed poem

A little piece I composed during the drearily dull afternoons of yore. Enjoy.

There was a castle, upon a mighty hill,
'Twas tailored to fit any villain's bill.

Perfectly suited for a her's demise-
Its lords wore the devil's disguise.

No bulwark by human hand
Could stand so against every band

And this castle upon the Hill
Did so many hopes kill.

One hero, he thought otherwise;
Oh treachery! The villain's cries

Echoed son and fast and strong,
Yet this order did seem wrong-

For the castle was still unbroken;
And now by a master, newly unspoken.

This hero sought only the villain's defeat,
And not to the Castle beat

With armies and engines of siege; Nay.
Instead stole he inside under a bale of hay.

The Trojan Horse, it work'd wonder;
And in the face of certain blunder

What villain could not fail?
And be granted death without bail.

Now the castle, foreboding, dark;
Without a lord seemed verily stark.

The Hero took it for his own
And mayhap seeds of redemption sown?

For the Castle was immortal in Time
And far too evil for this poet to rhyme.

Corrupt 'twas, and corrupt 'tis,
Young hero, give that conquest a miss.

Friday, July 9, 2010

The Traveller

The road did go on and on, much like the song from Lord of the Rings.
This isn't so different, the Traveller thought, continuing along his path of self-destruction. Almost like a scene from Dante's Inferno the city was ablaze and reminiscent of hell.. yet the Traveller walked alone, empty of all feeling. His was hell and oddly enough he revelled in it.
Around him were all scenes from a horror novel, yet he did not flinch, observing with humour, even, those visions of gore and destruction, of dangers in the open and dangers yet to come.
Fear, it seemed, had no hold for him. None others walked the road he did.
And as he walked, he grew aware of time, of distance, then, as his stride dropped to a crawl. There was a light at the end of his tunnel, and he did not like it. He hated it, with all his will, for it showed him the path to a place he had grown to detest.
Yet he had to walk out, and when he did, the skies brightened, the sun shone down upon him brightly, and sounds of gaiety and carnevale were in the air.
And the man waiting outside that door proclaimed in a thin reedy voice:
"Thank you for walking through the House of Horrors, that will be twenty-five rupees. Enjoy the circus."

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Bourne Loser

(On the heels of the Bourne Legacy comes the much-plagiarized version which bears no relation to Robert Ludlum's trilogy and its addendum.)
It was a fine morning in Malibu. And by fine it means really wonderful. The kind of morning where you wake up feeling strong, confident, sexy and ready.
But it wasn't a very good morning in Pune. In fact, it was raining. And it was the kind of morning where you just keep sleeping.
And so James Earl Jones slept. Named after the legendary actor, he kept sleeping, drunk on rum and whisky and vodka, pissed and mindfucked. But did that matter? Of course it did, in a world where miscreants were forgiven and forgotten. This was not that world. This was earth, and on earth, colleges did not forgive. They trained students into perfect warriors, unfeeling, immature, and incompetent.
And James Earl Jones Deshmukh awoke. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he looked around his room. It had been pristinely clean once upon a time. Two years ago, before he had moved in, to be exact. Now the room looked like something even a nuclear bomb wouldn't want to explode in. He rose, and donned his working clothes. He'd outgrown the tight shirt and jeans last year.
Picking up his toothbrush, he brushed, stepping on the toothpaste, forming a puddle of white on the brown floor. It contrasted so badly that he didn't see it and stepped on it, vaguely wondering why his toes felt slimy. The morning passed like the US Marshals, quick and fast, and James Earl Jones woke up again in a corner of a class, with no knowledge of how he'd gotten there. He didn't remember. 'Fuck it,' he decided, and went off to grab a bite.

There is a reason colleges are so clean sometimes, because they have something called a mess. That was where Jones Deshmukh went, to get something to eat. The place was crawling in the beings called students. And there wasn't a place to sit, so he leaned against the wall, hardly glancing at what he was eating. He was confident there weren't any insects in it. No insect would want to sample the food he was eating, they had better appetites.
Suddenly the mess erupted, and people began to shout, crowding into a corner of the mess. 'Fight! Fight!' They called, and Jones Deshmukh held up his fingers. 'Peace,' he said, and was promptly beaten up and left for dead.
'Ouch,' he intoned solemnly. Of course, considering the condition he was in, it wasn't likely he'd say anything else. He rose and went to the bathroom, and cleaned himself amidst a group of neanderthals who were comparing the size of their dicks.

"And this assignment needs to be submitted in five minutes. So get working. I want to see all of you with your notebooks out, your pencils on your tables, rubbers on the sides, scales in your left hand, pens in your right hand. Open the page and close your mouth."
Jones Deshmukh looked at his hands for a moment. Both were occupied. He thought for a few moments more on which hand to raise; he had a question. Compromising, he raised both and the lecturer exploded in righteous fury. "Mr. Deshmukh, you will speak only when spoken to! I do not want to hear about why you cannot be more efficient. Now open your fucking notebook! Now!"
'Er..' How does one address a transvestite? Sir? Ma'am? He eventually said, 'er... professor.. how do I open the notebook with a scale in one hand and a pen in the other?' She-he- stared hard at Jones Deshmukh as though something somewhere had rendered him genetically defective.
"Mr. Deshmukh! Fuck you." The transvestite jumped up onto the table and lowered his-her- pants, revealing a shaved ass. "Fuck your motherfucking dick. Use your dick, Mr. Jones Deshmukh. Use your dick to turn the page!"
Jones wasn't done yet. 'How do I open my pants without letting go of the pen or the scale?' The teacher reddened.
"Mr. Deshmukh! Get out of my class! Now! Now! Take your fucking stuff with you! You are suspended from all further classes in our esteemed Shitfucked Insitutute of Misogynistic Cocksucking. I want to talk to your parents! Bring them tomorrow! Fucking get out!"
'Erm.. my parents live in Amsterdam. It'll take them a while...' he trailed off, hurriedly packing his bag. The teacher retreating into himself-herself- and came back out as a more dangerous person. His- her- hands outstretched to strangle him.

A year later, a solemn group gathered around a grave. The epitaph read,
"Here masturbates
James Earl Jones Deshmukh.
Pissed off a teacher and died at his hands.
We pray for his soul."


Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Smuggler's Paradise

This is paradise, a small piece of land on a faraway strip, away from all the major ports of call, such as Port Royal, Puerto Rico, Caracas, Trinidad, roughly in the centre of the wide Carribean.
And roughly in the middle. No captain would spin his ship toward it unless absolutely assured of his crew's secrecy; it was a secret within secerts, kept away and afar from prying eyes. It was such a place that anything could be bought and sold, gold both white and black, flesh of so many colours, wines from around the world, arms from a dozen countries. Pleasures to be had for all, perils to be faced with a ball.
And usually the perils were in the open waters, where pirates and navies alike battled it out in duels. The location of Paradise was a gulf, and a particularly large one, where ships could take on each other in one-on-one combat. And Captain Harrigan was no different. Captain of a large enough galleon, plundered but not destroyed, taken for his use. His opponent was a pirate, a jolly old fellow by the name of Duelling Dan.
"Bloody pirates with no imagination," he growled, fingering his eyepatch. His left eye had a deformity. He could see but not well enough to aim. And Harrigan endured no deformity he could not use. That eye had seen no light in a dozen years.
From the stern to the prow sailors crowded the deck of the Ventura, his formidable galleon, that dwarfed the pirate cruiser by a goodly length. But Duelling Dan made up for it with his ship's agility. The air was rife with curses and grapeshot.
Opening a telescope he spied on Dan's crew, who were, with a typical lack of subtlety, loading chainshot.

"He's going far. Hard-a-port, bring her around. I want those cannons up their ass, you worthless dogs." The sailors brought the ship to bear. "Fire!" A massive round of grapeshot was let loose from sixteen cannons. A galleon should have more, and it did, but Dan had been quick with sabotage.

The smaller, agile Diablo tried to circle but was caught in the barrage, and sailors fell in showers of blood. Dan's crew was larger than Harrigan's, and far more expendable. Dan retorted with the pirate's hand, a close-range musket barrage, that took down several of the cannon crews. Six more cannons out of action when the handgrenades hit.

"Is this going somewhere?"Harrigan asked himself, and gave the order to board. "Come what may. Lay covering fire, you scumbags, your mothers are screeming shit from the grave. Heave!" Near to ninety sailors climbed aboard the Diablo and the bloodbath started. The captain grabbed a musket and aimed it for Dan's melon-sized head, letting loose a single shot of lead, that embedded itself in Duelling Dan's brain. "A man with three balls can't walk. Rout those bastards!"
Duelling Dan's second found just a few seconds of reprieve before a sabre took his throat. And the third went down to a lead ball, and the dance of death continued. A headless snake had no venom in its bite, and comparing the Diablo's defeat, a hundred sailors to Harrigan's seventy, was one of the easier battles to be won in Paradise. Some ships made it back with perhaps ten or twenty sailors alive. "The devil's own hand," they called Harrigan for his legendary luck. Some of the Diablo's sailors took his side, the rest walked the plank.

And Harrigan left the Diablo roasting in oil and retribution as he headed deeper into the gulf, to every winner's prize, Smuggler's Paradise, the lost town.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Kane and the Bloody Bullet

(This is a fiction/mystery piece that I wrote in the twelfth standard. I unearthed it recently and.. suffice to say, edited it slightly. The Ajay Kane angle is one that intrigued me greatly, and especially due to my enthusiasm for detective novels at the time. Needless to say, Ajay Kane, Justice Raman, Smeet Deshmukh, K. Mohammed, Arpita Lade (La-de, hindi) and Jaykishan Malhotra are my own creations, and so on and so forth. Lastly, "Kane" is pronounced Cain, not Ka-ne.)

The bright morning dulled his mood. His cold coffee dulled his mood. Everything dulled his mood.
"Why is the coffee cold?" he asked, in his reedy, sepulchral voice. His girlfriend strode in, lighting his cigarette. "Because you overslept. It's been sitting there for hours now." 
Ajay rose, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Twenty-nine years had taken their effect on him. From the college hothead to the grieving, melancholy adult, the years had not been kind. First the parents, then his sister. They had all nearly died. But then they had recovered well, and slammed the door on any chance of his inheriting the four-crore family estate when his sister had remarried.
"And here I am, owner of a supermart chain with nothing to show for it." Ajay went off to brush his hair. Long, thick and utterly unkempt, like the body it was attached to.
The phone began ringing, and Arpita went off to answer it. After a few moments of nodding her head she turned to him. "The manager," she said dryly, holding it out.
"What's that old geezer want now?" Ajay pondered, and took the proffered phone, leaning against the wall. Arpita leaned against him, more to get the cigarette out of his mouth than any amorous intentions. He held her close anyway while trying to calm the sixty-five year old schizophrenic epileptic at the other end of the line.
"You've got to come here fast. There's been a murder. The police are demanding your presence."
"I didn't do it," Ajay said, trying to wonder which loser would want to shoot another loser in his supermart at twelve in the afternoon. Didn't they have offices to go to?
"Just come here," Jaykishan Malhotra ordered. "Give the phone to Arpita." Ajay held it out and she began to nod again, with occasional "yes"s and "no"s. Then she hung up and glared at him for a full minute, her eyes set with that gleam of determination that said, "You're getting out of the house if I have to drag you in your underwear." Ajay's chiselled, baggy face twisted in a wry smile and he meekly allowed himself to be taken to the closet.

Ten minutes later they were both on his bike, and Ajay was already wondering why he woke up this morning. Not a cloud in the sky in the middle of July, and the sun shone brightly. His gaze went to a couple of college girls snacking at a roadside dhaba. One was pretty, and he examined her studiously, slowing the bike. Arpita shoved a pen into his back reminding him where he was. He had been quite the romeo in his college days, when he had been sure that the estate and business would go to him, and he'd indulged in every fantasy money could pay. Then, his parents' recovery from their four-year illness and his sister's remarriage had been enough, coupled with the fact that his academic record was almost non-existent, the single chance of a rich, fat life had been taken away.

The supermart was in the centre of town. Amravati was an up and coming town, with all the multiplex craze and the multitude of colleges. The roads were jammed, and it would have posed a problem for his car, but not for the nimbler bike. And so in his self-confidence he rammed it up an SUV.
"Accelerate, you moron!" Arpita nearly yelled in his ear, and he obeyed. They reached the supermart five minutes faster, only to be stopped by the police.
"Vahane tithe theva," the cop instructed in fluent marathi.
"You fucking asshole," Ajay replied in a crisp english accent, and the cop nodded, not a trace of comprehension on that dark face. Arpita stifled a giggle. They were saved from a minute of arguing when Malhotra came over to help.
"What's this problem?"
"A clerk and a woman died here in the line."
"The CCTV out of whack?" Ajay asked, striding into the supermart like he owned it. Which he did. Many would have trouble keeping up with his six-six frame, but Malhotra was a buzzing bee. He was everywhere and nowhere, like Schrodinger's cat. Justice Raman was waiting in by a stand, devouring a pack of Kurkure. The benign, smiling judge was any criminal's nightmare, his nonsense of humour coupled with his huge belly and sharp eyes. Raman glared at the scene. He glared at the officers. He glared at Malhotra. And he reserved his best glare for Ajay. The forty-nine year-old judge was an authority on murders and made a hobby out of criminal psychology. But he was a good friend of Ramnathan Kane, Ajay's father, and almost like an uncle to him.
"Ajay, why in God's name are the cameras not working? Ajay, why are you late?" And he was also ten times the nag Arpita could never be.
"Why drag God into all this? Poor guy has enough on his plate." The hon. Justice glared again. "The central system is down, not the cameras. They were still recording, but it'll take time to get the footage. J.K., please get the technician." Malhotra scowled; he hated being called J.K., which was why Ajay did it. He pottered off, punching in a number on his cellphone. "Do we have any evidence? This is my supermart. Where's the officer in charge?"
"Out for a smoke."
"We found this. All that we need is the footage from the cameras to identify who did it." The judge held out a packet with a bullet inside it, stained with blood. It was a small metal ball, not the usual nine-millimetre or the revolver round, both of which were common in the Amravati Underground.
"This looks like one of the war-time guns... lead shot. That's stupid; who the hell would use something like that when other guns are so much cheaper and easier?" Raman queried. Ajay took the packet under close supervision of the remaining havaldars.
"Odd," he remarked. The bullet sparked something in his memory- it should, his father loved guns and particularly hunting rifles. But this couldn't have come from that. Too small. "Somebody's got an odd gun."
The technician had managed to sneak in at that point, and removed the data from the camera. Now Malhotra sat at a terminal trying to get the picture.
"How's the camera footage?" Arpita asked, going over to look.
"No sound," Malhotra grumbled. The screen showed a man alongside two others. "He took a packet of chips and another of soup. Then he waited. And then-" The man sprang into action, jumping over the corpse of the woman just before him. From the angle the camera had been placed- behind- nothing could be seen. Now the man jumped over the counter, and stood once more with his back to the camera. The clerk raised his hands up in defense, but he collapsed as well.
"That gun couldn't have been a good one if it needed close range."
"The victims were killed by a knife," Raman calmly explained, surprising Ajay and Arpita, and even the technician.
"So what's the bullet doing here?"
"Good question. One that everyone's asking. Who's is it, where did it come from, and why is it here?" Arpita summarized, while Raman, oddly enough, chuckled. Malhotra looked flabbergasted.
"What about the suspect. Can you recognise him?" Ajay asked.
"Smeet Deshmukh. He's wanted for a dozen other crimes, including pickpocketing, chain-snatching, theft, arson.. you name it. The guy's not so clever as he is crazy."
"And where is he?"
At that moment the inspector entered, with a stride as long as his ego. K. Mohammed, was what Ajay called him. His name was Iqbal Khan Raheem Khan Ahmad Khan Mohammed. Ajay had long ago renamed him as "K. Uncle" when the man visited and drank with his father.
"Smeet Deskhmukh has escaped. Again. He knocked out the two guards who were escorting him, hit a biker, took the bike, and I'm pretty sure he's halfway to Akola by now."
"He didn't pay for the damn chips and soup. His bill came to Eighty rupees fifty paise." Malhotra, the human computer, Ajay thought. He then thought, Dad, why did you send him to me?
"He did, incidentally. He didn't take the bill, but left the money on the counter, next to the murdered clerk. With someone else, I'd say he dropped it. But in his case, crazy as he is, he's left exactly eighty rupees fifty paise."
"Now comes the mystery of the bullet. Why in God's name would someone leave a bullet? And more to the point, who the hell used it?" Arpita asked, taking the packet from a havaldar, glaring at him for pocketing a pack of cigarettes.
Ajay studied the bullet. Something about it pricked at his memory. Something... something... Ignoring the havaldar's protests, he opened the packet and took it out. The small metal ball sat in his hand, trailing blood. Odd-smelling blood. He tasted it and received a poke in the ribs for his trouble.
"Disgusting, don't do that, Ajay," Arpita complained, the pen she kept especially to poke him going back into her handbag.
Ajay went off to a nearby stand, where the sauces were kept, and ignoring Malhotra, opened and tasted one.
"The same taste. Chilli sauce, from Akola. Home-made, you could say. This bullet came from there, then. Come on, Arpita, let's go!"
They ran off to the bike, leaving the others to ponder. Ajay waved at his father as he entered, not stopping for a hello, letting him enter the supermart.
"Raman, Iqbal, did you catch him?" The inspector shook his head.
"Too bad. My son- my other son- came here yesterday to buy some of that pickle. He was delivering a special gun from Dubai, and seeing as the supermart is near the highway, stopped by for my daughter. At that moment, his old, aging briefcase- it was an heirloom from his uncle, a smelly thing- split apart, and he dropped both the briefcase and the sauce he was holding.
"I thought I'd come by, because the gun's missing two bullets. One I found in the ruins of his briefcase, the other should be around here."

Friday, January 22, 2010

The Big Long Absence

Yes, t'was a rather long absence. But now it had finally returned.
And so had the danger. You see, such a thing, so marvelous and exciting, was just as dangerous as... well, say death itself.
And what was it that the boy longed for, yet could not bear the sight of, any longer?
A TNG.

Thursday, January 14, 2010

The Evening

It was like any other evening. Spent inside the lab, utterly boring. Then, the bell rang, and the lab which, mere seconds ago, had been a hub of utter inactivity, rose in a tumult of gossip, politics and bakchodi.
This is not the story of that evening.
This is the story of how I, a mere denizen of SIMC, typed out a blog on that fateless evening.
Well, now you know.