It’s probably best to not let holy entities decide your fate, but with a train hurtling at my face, I felt no misgivings about invoking the Lord’s name twice: once in vain and then once in pain.

No, I wasn’t dead. Or was I? I can’t tell in this strange fog. Sure, I’d love to be dead, but not all of us are lucky enough. Now then, where’s the guy who pushed me?

Did anyone push me though? Who knows. Wow. Hmm.

What is this post? Chyayla. Summers are horrible.

Winter is the best season. I cannot stress on this enough.


The Visitor – Part 3

Please read the earlier parts before continuing further.

Part 1

The wind whooshed through my hair and clothes as I fell, and I spun mid-air to look at him. He stared at me from his vantage point far away, as I tumbled to embrace the sweet, sweet concrete…

Oh. Somewhere along the way, my fall was broken by something that I never felt, and everything turned dark. Feeling like an overpaid Matthew McConaughey from Interstellar, I floated aimlessly in pitch-black nothingness. A sliver of light emerged from the far side. I swam towards it. My other version was nowhere to be seen. The light grew brighter, more colorful.

As I reached the light, I began to orient myself, and soon realized that I was in some kind of viewing area, and the entities to be viewed were beneath me. Like a reverse planetarium, where I was part of the stars.

Below, a scene materialized. The Pacific ocean, as though a live-feed via a drone. The view focused on an island deep within the tangle of landmass. For maybe 10 seconds, the ocean rippled naturally. Then, a resounding boom shook the area and a shaft of blinding light shot down from the heavens onto an isolated island. This bright column of light pulsated for more than half a minute, and then disappeared back to where it had come from. The scene below remained unchanged. However, where once it was calm, the live picture now shimmered, alternating with another picture of the same spot. It was horrible. Through the stuttering montage of both pictures I saw how the ocean turned ugly and how all the surrounding islands lost their foliage in what seemed like a reverse timelapse.

And then poof! It was all gone, and I was at a restaurant. The same restaurant that I was at before I was thrown out by-

MeTwo. He just sat there like the smug prick we both are, alert for signs of trouble. Noticing my frown, he leaned forward. “That thing you just saw, it was an attack.”


“No one knows. But that one pulse of energy was enough to disrupt the entire continuum. Well, not entire, but a good chunk of it.”

“So what now?”

“Now we stop it from happening.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Of course not. The person who is rumored to have done this is at large in an older timeline.”

“Why are you basing your manhunt on a rumor?”

“I never said that. I know where he is right now.”


“Yeah, what are you, deaf or something?”


And then he was shot in the head.

Ready Player One

A summary of the book:

I listened to it in early 2017.

The writing is horrible. It’s like almost as bad as mine when I’m happy. The plot is decent but more predictable than stuff you’d predict easily. The prose seems childish at times, and yet is fun to read.

That said, the content is excellent. People fond of the 80’s lifestyle and pertinent pop culture will find the book to be filled with references to the videogames and movies and other famous entities of that era.

I listened to the audiobook of this particular novel, so I have had an experience different than most. Again, the story is very exciting and you get caught up in it. Keep in mind that the plot remains childish and predictable throughout. The characters are nicely fleshed out, in my opinion, although some are so clichéd that I don’t have an appropriate analogy for them.

All in all, the book manages (barely) to balance a half-decent plot with the story of a young boy wanting to save the world (two worlds, to be fair) against the backdrop of the aesthetic zeitgeist of a different time.

Genre: scifi, adventure, cliché


And the movie isn’t releasing in all theatres in India due to distributor issues. Oh well.

Neon Angel

I spend my entire life looking for answers that were never there. At an indescribable point, I give up all of it in favor of hedonistic pursuits. My business/pleasure trips take me to places I’ve never dreamed of, and to some I’ve had nightmares about. It’s a good life. A beautiful life, even.

On a warm March night, I end up in an alcove bar along a naturally dark but well-lit beach in California. There are LED lights of purple and blue shades everywhere.

The bartender is a recommissioned robot from a bygone era. The initials B.A.R.S. are engraved on its huge metal chest. I love it. There’s a hidden speaker thumping out So Far Away by Lazerhawk. I could quite very probably settle here.

The crowd is sparse, and I stroll around, nodding in sync to the melancholy chords of the track. And then I see her.

The light catches her face in a way that makes her look half-blue and half-violet. She’s wearing nondescript clothes – a female activity almost unheard of – and little to no makeup. She’s gorgeous. I smile at her and she smiles back. And then we talk.

The bar closes down, but the music doesn’t stop. In the background, B.A.R.S. has switched the track to We’ve Just Begun by an artist I cannot recall at the moment.

For the remainder of the night, we somehow manage to talk about obscure joys and ubiquitous sorrows. Of lost lives and an uncertain futures. I’ve fallen in love with a stranger.

At the spark of dawn, we’re both exhausted from talking and thinking. Soulful, or soulless, melodies creep up on all sides. Tired, I fall asleep. It’s the most satisfactory sleep I’ve had in years. After what seems like an eon, I wake up to find no living soul in sight. The beaches are laid bare, and the LED lights are gone. Even B.A.R.S. is absent. The haunting music still plays. I never see her again.

It’s a good life. But it’s beautiful no more.

TRON: Cycles

I want to win a best (voice? idk) actor award in a extremely competitive peer-reviewed competition.

Next joke: Gay male couples should all be managers because they’re always taking it up with each other. This is not my best joke.

I love the idea of the super cool light cycles in TRON: Legacy (also the first movie). I also love their idea of time. I actually hate the idea of measuring time; but I roll with it because it messes with my megalomania-powered idea that I can’t invent time travel if I’m not measuring it.

I stay awake at night sometimes thinking of a different possibilities, say for example if Jesus of Nazareth had never been born, or maybe if all level-headed human beings died in the plague and the next generations went crazy, just like Michael Crichton feared. Blade Runner 2049 was amazing.

Anyway, the format of a time cycle seems pretty cool but then again all earth days are basically light cycles with integrated dark modes.

My career is now at another crossroads! Ting ting ting! Meditation and r/wholesomememes are a tried, tested and sureshot way to fail at being less mean to people. What is this schadenfreude omg

Can’t think of anything else. Maybe I should delete this site.

Failed Ideologies

The sun is weak today. The park is bleak today. I like rhymes. Temperatures are weird right now, and not many joggers, or even generic park-goers, are in attendance. In fact, there is only one other soul within a 500 radius of me. It’s a cat.

The theory of individualism, if you think about it in a group, looks like shit. On closer inspection, however, one sees that the underlying ideals are actually conducive to physical and mental betterment…of an individual. And on stripping away the layers of logic, one concludes that the idea of individualism is a doomed one.

I do not talk here about a totalitarian government, no. Rather, my focus in these troubling times is on the literal usage of the word. Living life as a single, lonely hermit, trapped inside the transparent maze of modern life. Sounds utterly pretentious. It’s not. It’s a stupid social experiment that I’m willing to undergo, chiefly owing to the fact that I’m a self-centered arrogant prick.

Hindu culture and mythology has a long roster of such hermits, rishis. A typical such hermit would remain a celibate for life, which would often be a long one. Some of these rishis have been known for their rebellious approach and heretical tendencies. But not all of them. In the right context, they could be compared to modern day survivalists: insofar the comparison does not take paranoia into consideration.

Think I’ll write a 1000-word longform on this and get it published somewhere.

I sometimes toy with the serious prospect of living such a life. And yet such a future evades me. I wouldn’t last a year without human contact. Ah, to live with nothing and everything simultaneously. But that remains to be seen. Alright then.

Miranda – Nahi Baraka

A rape is in progress at street 4, barks the operator. The drunk constable on duty, having been jarred from a considerably salubrious dream involving the commissioner’s wife and daughter, rubs his eyes at the unexpected disturbance. He wonders how a rape can be in progress, since there is no way for a rape to actually progress anywhere. Except, of course rape. Pushing away such innately wholesome thoughts, he boards his duty vehicle and vrooms off to the crime scene. Again, he reflects rather sullenly, there should be a separate law for such occurrences; naturally, it would have very little to do with the actual crime, and would be based around what terminology to use while reporting such crimes. Ah, he sighs. There is the apartment, and yet nothing seems amiss. But of course, he says, tapping his forehead. Surely the rapist must be Isaac Newton’s direct descendent. Such a genius move, to choose a vocally disabled woman. Pure excellence. Pushing such thoughts away, he barges in on the crime scene, and adds mental air quotes to the “crime”. The man is facing away from him, busy in the vulgar act. Baton in hand, the constable steps forward. Why, he thinks, there must be this level of paucity in brilliant constables like myself? He hits the rapist, who spins around.

“Aila, Pankaj?”

Pankaj, momentarily forgetting his “sumptuous [sic]” victim, gapes at his childhood friend. “You’re still drunk.”

“And you’re still so charismatic…”, groans the constable, and slips and falls. The potent liquor finally shows its true power. But oh! One cannot shirk from one’s duties even while in a state of extreme inebriation.

Thus the constable, drifting away into another curvy dream, watching his childhood friend grab the hapless woman once again, starts to read him his rights. “You have the right to remain violent…”

Week 4

I have changed the color scheme of this site and it will remain that way for the foreseeable future. (yes, I am working on The Visitor’s next installment)

Twitter is like selective AIDS, in the sense that it only affects the queers, in this case, budding writers. This isn’t a joke. Wait. No it isn’t. Why is twitter actually bad for writers? It’s like when you think you’re having sex with a mexican mama in a beautiful tropical setting but it’s actually a dingy public washroom and you’re calling your hand oh Carmen. On that thought, visiting my maternal uncle’s family has been really weird for the past year. Oh well.

Again, this is one of the reasons I’m on a break from Twitter from my original account. Tweeting oRiGiNaL fuNnY cOnTeNt is, in a way, good because it acts like the occasional adrenaline rush from running away from the local police. The real rush, however, will only come from an actual highway chase with at least one female lead dying of unnecessary bleeding. Or from that time when you though you were in love but it was just a fleshlight with better mechanics. This is why I have to keep writing long pieces; tweeting short but unexpectedly brilliant tweets like this and this and this helps me retain my sharpness but actually writing something meaningful helps me get sharper. Does it? I do not know. It should. It probably is. I think I’m drifting away from the point here.

Fuck it. My manuscript folder logged a virus today. Like the trojan dude probably always looks for inactive places on the PC hahaha haha ha… Talk about avast laughing at my script’s avastha am I right? I had a backup, so all of it is safe for the time being.

These days I’m weighing my options: I could start drinking and start writing with lesser inhibitions, OR I could kill myself. University is exhausting. Archer is the best, ever. I think I won’t drink after all. Let’s see.

Apathy and other small victories.

Deep Blues

All fully lived lives will inevitably comprise of highs and lows and mediocre incidents. I never knew I was addicted to activity till I crossed the teen threshold a few years back. Like what is this even smh

There’s some kind of cultural celebration at my old college next week; almost certainly another typical gathering of awkward men and women brought alive by a tiny group of typically exceptional individuals. I have been part of the latter crowd for the better part of the last decade, but guess who has two thumbs and typed out “no thanks” to this year’s invitation: this guy.

I want to somehow be in the limelight but also be the one controlling the light switch. Perhaps I will surprise everyone and go to this ageless tradition of coercing innocent denizens of a troubled era into a socially aware force field. Perhaps I will not. That remains to be seen.

To be or not to be is an inherently stupid thought, I think I’m depressed but I tell myself I’m not. This isn’t my idea of a haiku. > This is >

Haiku var haiku
Lok hotil khush jevha tu
Hoshil majhi baiku

A wise man once said, only a fool would fall in love. The best part about this is the irony. More to follow in the far future.