He called, pathetic, and made false confessions.

A Lack of Excersize

Aside from becoming obscenely obese, he seems to be exceedingly angry most of the time. The reason for this overwhelming rage eludes him, and has led me to conclude that the concerned maternal types are right. He is not getting enough exercise. Exercising though has not helped in the short term. And he is getting worse. Social interaction, which has never been easy has reached an all time low. He survives at work thanks to the patient indulgence of my colleagues. Who listen to him rant and rave, insult him thoughtlessly and of course, he never crosses the line in his retorts.

The things that appear to precipitate this rage are not new. However, the potency of their influence has been sharpened to a degree where one finds it hard to breathe. His social conscience seems to be impelling me to either destroy everything or do nothing. One can sense becoming a clown, ranting on for the amusement of others, but to no avail or effect. No stories to tell, no changes to make. Just a sense of resignation in the face of irreversible impotence.

Soon, he shall either remove or get used to the underlying stresses that have been causing this outrage. His righteous indignation shall return to acceptable levels. The walk away from the borders of insanity shall certainly be pleasant. Filled with drink food and 'good human beings'.

A virgin neutered dog doesn't know he cant fuck.

The Enchantress of Florence

I read the Enchantress of Florence, and it was good. Surprisingly, because the last Rushdie I read was sad to behold. Shalimar The Clown was a pale shadow of his erstwhile genius, a sad imitation of an inimitable style. The Enchantress seemed to be heading in that direction. The prose was convoluted, the descriptions perfectly oriental and the ease with which it flows even hint at lazy writing by this master. But the book is anything but lazy. I am certain it was heavily researched and then a bulk of the research was summarily discarded.
What is brilliant, so brilliant about the Enchantress? Two things, one of course is magic. The old world seen as magical, not trivial tricks or wizardly wonders. The magic of witches or women, whores or mothers. Within his characters he personifies perfectly the desires which bind us to them. The pull of adventure, power, playful experimental invigorating sexuality. And the other, not unrelated kind of magic that holds the world together. The sorcery of kings, the cursed that set history into motion and the omens that usher in great events. And of course stories and tales and histories, untempered by reason, or that oh so boring obsession with chronology that passes of as time. Bringing to being, opening up a world. A Heideggerian exercise in creation. "To carve out from the earth and set forth a world."
Rushdie has done what he does best, told stories about storytelling. Seen history, not as history but within the vocabulary of its time. Anachronistic? How could it not be. But that is hardly the point.
And lastly, he has examined once again how a world disappears and is replaced. How enchantments fade and gods die. How backward causation ends dynasties. It doesnt end well, but then none of his stories do.
Every story teller re-invents his masterpiece and regurgitates it for the rest of us. This is an excellent re-invention.

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I have never been a big fan of the monsoon. I appreciated what it brought to delhi. A sense of relief, escape from the searing purity of the desert, life. However, a good monsoon always made me cringe. Pregnant, fat, large lizards, followed by disgusting hordes of lizard babies. Flooded, collapsing roads. Inconsiderate mother-fucking drivers splashing putrid muddy water on you at the bus stop. But on the whole, the monsoon was tolerable. It balanced itself out. And it feeds the lot of us.
In Bombay, there is no balance. It does not fucking stop. Clothes never dry. Shoes are destroyed. One is forced to walk in floaters and slippers, wading through water which has unknown quantities of human animal waste thoroughly diluted in it. And then, if wealth is but a distant nightmare, you go back to a flat that isnt what it would be in delhi. Mine is more than comfortable for one person. I am, however, over-run. By earthworms. Lizards. Flies. Everyday I spray three kinds of Baygon in what has to be toxic quantities. My maid is efficient and regular. I clean up crumbs, wash dishes and take out the garbage on time. To no avail. It is a losing battle. I feel like any day now i shall be evicted by the creatures from beyond. Some insects whose names i would rather not know. Earthworms in the bedroom. Fuck. I shall die either of caner or one of this things laying egs in my brain while i sleep.

The itch or lack of responsibility

Ever been bullied? An obnoxious punjabi/ jaat taller and broader says 'haath mein khujli ho rahi hai' or some such and proceeds to pummel you into an assorted selections of jams and jellies, for sale in C.R park and Uttarakhand Seva Kendra. An itch, thats what bullies get. An itch, caused by a lack of something.

Ever had an itch? Not a regular physical one, or the bullying one. The deeper metaphorical psychic one. Where to go? What to do? Life isnt this. This is not my home. Not like a physical itch. The physical itch is caused by an irritant. Your scratch is an open declaration of hostilities. A battle easily fought, where the enemy is clear and present. Shirk says the itch. The deeper itch. Get out. You're losing your soul. Fuck the soul. Your losing your intellect. Honed to arrogance with millennia indoctrination. The woman made you happy, run motherfucker run. The job, they scoff at it, you love doing this but the scorn of those you wish to impress, run motherfucker run. Dont like the city, whine bitch whine bitch, get over yourself you little shit. People come here hoping to be able to be poor. Do an honest days work and be happy for it.

Ever been bullied? I wasnt enough.

"Into the same river we step and we do not step, we are and we are not."

It has been a long time since i have written anything at all. Words are being ejaculated like bits of phlegm from a smoker's cough. A year or two ago i always had something to say, mostly i think, because i had an air of superiority brought on by some watered down version of leftist idealism. The idealism is being chipped away at by a score of events, mostly to do with the way 'the party' has shamed itself. I wish more  ever that it was something worth believing in and fighting for. Now when it lies on the cusp of losing what power it had, i would like nothing more than to submit myself to it. The maoists cannot fill that void, at least for me. Firstly, because they are not (unlike the CPM) at their core an upper class elitist party. And more importantly, i would hope, i have engendered in myself a faith, not unlike that of american girls in unicorns and homo-erotic vampires, in the Indian state. I cannot believe that all it has done is wholly undesirable and cannot go to war against it. 

Lately, having 'sold out' on a massive scale, the small material benefits, and the large ones do in many cases seem to be what people desire. Social upliftment as defined by the liberal capitalist good life seems to be what they want. And while i have my own opinions on how and why they desire what they do and articulate it as they do, i no longer have the courage of conviction to call that opinion knowledge.

So now i do something i enjoy, and am suitably ashamed of enjoying, among people whom i would never interact with had my life taken the trajectory it was supposed to. In addition i am now unable to write. I shall learn again. 

Shilpa Shetty in a dazzling display of brilliance said that we should let the 'law take its course.' With respect to Lalit Modi.