In Search For Empty V@niTy

I hate this blank white page. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. Its stare enters the very core of my silly heart and hurts badly. I’m under no compulsion here; I am just brutally forced, propelled, driven by my mad desiring conscious to come up with these words of hatred. It is quite unusual of me to actually slur and make a blog out of it, but tonight I’ve got to make this exception.

Let me present my case with a clear premise that would surmise in a trice the price of being a novice. DO NOT be deceived by the imperceptible guile this whiteness conceals in its hindquarters. The lure to declare fairness and purity on first glance is understandable, but let me warn you, there is an episode of travesty awaiting your unfortunate fate once you decide to do so.

I do foresee a time when this article could be judged as to not worth the paper it is written on, but that is the kind of fate this writer has constantly known his writings belong to anyway. And that’s also the reason why I decided to spurt my vicious black poison all over this white masquerade. My fingers know not the pain I make them undergo now as I type this passage in pure frenzy with no regard to spelling or grammar auto correct! This exercise is in search of that blissful peace that awaits me once I post this blog (That is so cheap. Speaks meanly about one’s character. No one can be so desperate. There are better things to write about. The whole world is in a war right now. I know. Two words. Shut. Up.)

All this anger actually stemmed elsewhere and has carried itself forward to my writing desk. It began in the morning when I forgot my e-banking password. It’s as simple as that. But it didn’t end there. I had to reset it about a week ago and in the mean time I had created logins to four new social networking sites, each with its own unique login name and password. And I would have dreamed another hundred passwords in the past few days. In this entire melee for uniqueness, my e-banking suffered a setback, that too in a moment of personal emergency. Now it was time to reset it.

In an age of rampant identity theft where even shadows need to be checked once in a while for ownership, the option of using a familiar password is ruled out. I am extra cautious about these sorts of things. This is something you need to know about me. Now I needed a new password. Lords of creativity helped me figure out one. I enter it. Judgment was passed as I typed. It was weak. Combinations of lower and UPPER cases needed to be conjured. Trickery was performed in a matter of seconds. Judgment was passed. It was good. I’d jumped a step above. But I can’t be just good. I needed to be exceptional. Tension soared. There is a clock ticking and this page would expire soon. Think! Think! A few numbers needed to be introduced. Done. 9 and 0 selected among the number system. Now what? Judgment was passed. It was ok. It was a ‘what the hell’ moment. Special characters were needed now. That was the missing link. Once that was done, my connection would be secure like that of a Na’vi’s pigtail to his monstrous flying predator. But there are restrictions in this game. No exclamations, no brackets. Oh all right. I chose one. Judgment was passed. It was strong. Finally! I did it! I now belonged to that exquisite league of the geeks who could pride themselves with superior skills of password fabrication. I now belonged to the league of those extraordinary gentlemen. By evening, I forgot what I’d entered in the morning.

Now, I’ll request for a password reset again and the e-mail with the link that would take me all over its burrows for another tour of intellectual squabble would arrive with the stamp of my epic failure exquisitely pasted all over it. This time I’d choose a weak one. Maybe my name, yes, that’d do. It’s all right. No more of these vainglorious attempts to attain empty vanity. I am absolved of mediocrity now. Please go ahead and do whatever you were doing. I feel much better now. Thank you.

Apologies, my friend

Dear Blogspot,

Before you begin to get all worked up and pass on the word around the world that I'm back to my home page with this lousy apology letter as a gateway to express (show off, is what you'd substitute the following with as soon as I post this, you bastard!) my creativity, let me begin by telling you that this whole time there was none, other than my family and my work and my TV and my movies and my, hmmm let me think ya that's it, life basically kept me away from you. I know it sounds like ant crap to you but that's the truth. You have to primarily understand that Antbrain was my only brilliant brainchild and I orphaned him mercilessly in pursuit of higher echelons of literary glory, the pain of which has lately begun to itch unbearably. As a responsible parent, as most parents aren't, I've come to claim my child again. And not without just love and compassion but also with express regret and shame, which I'm willing to forego as soon as you are done reading this. Everything is time bound in the world of the watchmakers and I’m concerned about it even though I'm not one. Despite its frivolity, I'm compelled to use this time-tested metaphor in order to drive home my point. Which is that, Antbrain is a religion to me. Ok, that's saying too much. I need to make a seamless transition from a bitch to a Madonna of the Africa. Allow me to try again. To me, Antbrain is an identity. An identity so important to veil my true self as the identity of Batman is to Bruce Wayne. The domains of our expertise differ, yet we are both crusaders and that's what matters. This again was metaphorical.

Now, you might wonder the reasons for this letter and its intended subsequent repercussions. Last week, as you might know from my updated Google profile, was my birthday. (All those cunts who didn't care to wish me; this might not be too late a time to send your belated greetings!) I turned 27. And I didn’t know that. I still had a naïve belief that I was married at 25 and I would turn a maximum of 26 that day. But as fate would have it, I was denied that chance. I realized that I’ve wasted another year of my life doing nothing worthwhile. My name still isn’t associated with anything credible or original and whatever I’ve done till now could be pinpointed to a certain source as inspiration. The target of being a household name by 25 has eluded and my funeral wouldn’t possibly witness the largest turnout in the history of the country. It is still a long shot, but something tells me it is still attainable. I know when I say this all the wasted 28-year olds are going ‘yeah right’ with complete apathy and all the wasted 45 year olds are cursing their last 20 years and all the wasted 90-year olds are thinking about time traveling. Worse, the dead are giving my dead grandparents their coldest stares and shoulders. It is still not enough to chill my spine but good enough for my grandda to appear and plead in my dreams for quick action asap. I did not intend this. I told him that. But he's in no mood to listen. Good man.

All that said, my true intention has always been to write original content. The true high one could experience out of creating one has remained a motivation to me for so long that I tend to forget my age sometimes. In this four months’ time of solitude and desperation, I have partially realized the true power of the written word. Concepts of simplicity and perspective have gained resonance in me. Molecules of tipping points have gathered to form a consolidated mass. And words, and words of words, and so on have finally held hands and arrived at my tollgate of creative dispense. The need to fulfill this long-standing obligation has trickled down to my conscious and now I know the path my footsteps need to leave an imprint on. And you my dear friend! How do I thank you for your generosity and kindness even in our times of turbulence! Now, don’t get all hyper-excited and think supremely of yourself. You have your own flaws like I do, lets face it and agree upon a common ground of individual self-respect. My gratefulness is for keeping my blog space intact and it feels so truly good to be back again in my realm of unitary self-gratification. Lets end at that.

So, beginning today, after this process of adoption has been carried in due accordance to all the ritual traditions of blog handover and takeover, I pledge to carry out thy will wholeheartedly. May the force be with me to wheedle words of appropriate importance and allow them to mould in their positions of significance to singularly convey my message with unforeseen clairvoyance. Simply put, lets stop this bullshit and start working. Thanks for the pardon already.

An Unexpected Delay

The delay of my train by five hours in midnight was unusual and it prompted me to find the station master to endlessly question him until he bled from his ears hearing my tirade, but nowhere was he in sight nor were any other passengers waiting to board the train to Sikhri with me, leaving me stranded in the biting cold of the night, and when sleep began to sway me unknowingly between different realms of consciousness, an unexpected gush of wind blew with a severe might good enough to roll the hut of the station like a dice, carrying paper sand toothbrush forks mice plastic along with it in its belly, and from it rose an apparition holding a tiny dressing table in his palms with pictures of me placed on it neatly, various frames taken during different phases of my ninety year existence, but curiously the reflection in the dressing mirror wasn't me with my wrinkles or beard but a much younger me, and crowded around me were everyone I'd known until that day, who were now fast receding into their respective distant pasts and unknown futures, their distorted images fading in a whirlpool of muddy mess, instilling in me an unknown fright and lessened being, forcefully awaking me into the real to find my long awaited train depart and fade in a distance, obliging another day's wait for me to reach godforsaken Sikhri.