Musing of a verbose mind. It borders on all that takes a skeptical and highly critical view of whatever is happening or has happened in our world..... do read it and post your comments..... discourse is welcome.....

Dark Matter


Posted on Monday, February 07, 2011 | By Gautam | In ,

I remember when all the games began / Remember every little lie and every last goodbye / Promises you broke, words you choked on / and I never walked away / it's still a mystery to me.

Well I'm so empty / I'm better off without you and you're better off without me / Well you're so unclean / I'm better off without you and you're better off without me.

The lying, the bleeding, the screaming / Was tearing me apart / The hatred (deceiving), the beatings; it's over.

Paint the mirrors lack to forget you / I still picture your face and the way you used to taste / Roses in a glass, dead and wilted / To you this all was nothing / Everything to you is nothing.

Well you're so filthy / I'm better off without you and you're better off without me / Well I'm so ugly / You're better off without me and I'm better off alone.

The lying, the bleeding, the screaming / Was tearing me apart / The hatred, the beatings (disaster); it's over.

As wicked as you are, you're beautiful to me / You're the darkest burning star, you're my perfect disease.

The lying, the bleeding, the screaming / Was tearing me apart / The hatred, the beatings; it's over.


The lying, the bleeding, the screaming
/ Was tearing me apart / The hatred, the beatings; it's over.


It's over now...

- The Bleeding, FFDP

A snap of fingers startled him from a state of suspension. The lyrics were making perfect sense to him. The walls of the cubicle started to come down on him. Everything’s imploding. The rage started to flow in his veins. He felt bitter. He tried to get up. Slump! A lil’ part inside him died.

Nothing much was left inside anyways save for a bitter heart and tar filled lungs. He tried to speak. Squeak! Meek was him. His laptop screen was staring dead into his eyes. He tried to make sense of the gibberish on the screen. The words seemed to come together to make an amoeba like figure. It’s color, dark. Darker than the heady cocktail of bitterness and tar in his lungs. He wanted the figure to spawn around him and suck him in. Killing the last breath of humanity in him he had saved for his coup. It would be a bloody coup. The figure moved. He wanted to be in unison with the dark matter. The matter seemed to writhe and twist changing its shape. It was doped. It made a crying sound, a pitch which would deafen mortals. He was barely alive. He wanted to be in unison with the dark matter. Spit! The dark matter just spat on him. The defeatist in him had won.

Snap! again. He tried to come to terms with his surroundings. The walls around him had collapsed. He couldn’t move himself. He was being crushed under his own weight. So this is how a black hole would feel like, he thought. Betrayed by the dark matter already, he now wanted to be crushed under this immense weight. But he felt no pain. In fact he wanted this to continue.

Pat! The last stick was successful in breaking his neck, again. He mumbled under his breath and turned his neck. His colleague was holding a telephone receiver. He felt as if he wanted to shove the receiver down his throat. He couldn’t hear anything. He knew the routine all too well. The receiver was cold. He liked the numbing comfort it provided. After a while, he returned the receiver to his colleague. Looking at his face made him feel disgusted. What a sorry excuse for life, he thought. It made him think about his life as well. But he is morally subjective. He wanted to retort. He wanted everyone to retort. No one did. And this fueled his bitterness. He wanted to smash the receiver on his face, spurting blood. He wanted to be drenched in his blood. Maybe that’ll wash away some of his sins. He was true to himself. He knew the defeatist in him wins every time. And that made him feel nauseated again.

Or maybe it was the smell of his office. Yes, it was the office. He hated the stench of conformity all around him. He hated it. But he hated himself more. The nausea was making its way to his throat. He looked at the cold and numbing telephone receiver. He wanted to shove it in his throat. Maybe it’ll stop the snot of defeat. He didn’t want to be defeated. He rushed to the washroom. He passed numerous cubicles. His hands felt numb. He punched himself in the throat. The snot that had built was pushed down, but only momentarily. And he knew it.

Each step of his was growing heavy. He felt cracks were developing on the spanking clean office floor. He hated it. He wanted the fissures to burst open and engulf him in the molten matter that was brewing beneath. It wasn’t red. It was dark. And it was cold. Dead cold. Yet it was boiling. The matter was following him everywhere. And he lunged into the washroom. The snot was now being flushed. He felt week.

He splashed water onto his face. The topology was gone. It was flat. He felt it was slippery and shiny like a manikin made of steel. He looked up into the mirror. But it was already painted black. He had already painted all mirrors black for the fear of not recognizing himself. He was no more human. He didn’t even look like a demon. He felt pathetic. The black paint on the mirror was slipping down. The dark matter was back again. He wanted to be at unison with it. He could now feel the stench of his office. He took a deep breath. The stale re-circulated air was cold. It smelled of dead dreams. He was hearing voices. Of dying men and dying dreams. The voices were too shrill for him to take. The rage inside him was making its way to the far ends of his limbs. He felt alive.

The black paint on the mirror was gone. It was lying plump on his feet. He looked up into the mirror. Yes, his was an expressionless face, shiny like cold steel. He looked down at the dark matter. Rage was throbbing against his veins. He nodded. He felt the dark matter making way up his feet. He felt good after a long long time. Rage had now taken over his senses. His brain was long gone. The dark matter had now taken over him. He was black. Pitch black. He sighed. Clasped his fists. And then he made a war cry. He felt glass shattering around him. Shards of glass were flying towards him. They stuck themselves in his flesh. But there was no blood. He took out his baseball bat he had hid years ago in this washroom for his coup. It felt good in his hands. He smirked.

The coup is here.

He emerged out of the washroom and made way to his cubicle. He struck the bat with the worst fury known to him on his colleague’s head. He felt a sweet cracking sound. This was the best stroke he had played in his life. He stood there looking at the motionless body. It was soaked in its own blood. The blood was not red. It was colorless. He felt good. He looked around. No one cared. Everyone was busy in their own cubicles staring into their monitors mindlessly punching away at their keyboards. Slaves. He thought. He looked at the bat and then at the room again.

The coup was here.

He felt overwhelmed as he went on a rampage indiscriminate between human life and machines. But were they alive anyways? No. He was simply freeing souls. It would have been hours. Or days. He barely remembers this now. But it is immaterial anyways. He went out of the building and lit a cigarette. He took a long drag. The smoke hit his lungs. He got his kick. There was an explosion. The building collapsed. He was caught in the aftershocks. But he stood his ground. It lasted for hours. And he kept on lighting a cigarette after another. He threw away the last butt. Blood was trickling out his flesh. And it was red and warm.

He stood there for a while and gulped down the red pill. Darkness spawned around him.

Sometimes your darker self is your true self. Darkness isn’t absence of light. Black isn’t lack of color. Light isn’t strong enough to overpower darkness. Colors, collectively, cannot overpower black.
For Sir James Alan Hetfield.

Polygamy? Will have!


Posted on Thursday, January 20, 2011 | By Gautam | In , , , ,

Statutory warning: Stop judging. This post has more to do with polygamous thoughts than absolute polygamy.

Polygamy. It's a dirty word (I'll continue at the expense of being booed as a Mahesh Bhatt clone). Or so you believe because the social construct around you has programmed your thoughts in a certain way. Here I am, claiming polygamy, something deeply detrimental to the moral-social fabric, as the truth. It is an antithesis to the very institution of marriage which is more of a system to prevent family wealth to squander away. Or in some, err most parts of India, an instrument of amassing wealth. Yes, dowry. But that is not the bone of contention here. Man is a polygamous animal. Our 'thoughts' wander all so routinely. No? Maybe you're a reincarnation of some yogi or you need to see a doctor.

As much as we hate to accept it, polygamy creeps in our daily lives. Traveling in a bus, I can't but appreciate how a certain lady carries herself. Oh! I should've talked to that cute boy, a female's tweet proclaims on Twitter. A lil' bit of flirting is harmless, isn't it? And why or rather where do we gather the courage to indulge something as ungodly as that? We're alone. It is our zen of solitude. And our thoughts wander. To the unholy, unacceptable evil. Cocooned in our monotonous 9 to 5 lives, maybe we do look forward to that bus ride, that air travel or what have you. Platforms like Twitter have given masses a medium to vent out or confess, as the case may be. It lets you be anonymous yet true. And I see more and more rants, confessing. In our secret lives, we all want to be Barney Stinson or as the older generation would have said, Hugh Hefner.

How or why is beyond my comprehension. We just do. A rather pathetic example witnessed is of a certain moral broker of how certain birds like penguins stay true to only one partner for their entire life. Lest we should forget, we're talking about an animal, a brain which hasn't evolved. Most of the activities that animals indulge in are either out of their sheer instinct or they're wired in a certain manner. Have you ever witnessed any animal procreating beyond its mating season? No. Humans, on the other hand with their highly evolved brains and a false sense of morality mate all year long. And that is why you see so many of them around you eating away resources at will. The parallel drawn is flawed. The underlying logic beneath this example would put a Systems Theory professor to shame.

Pick up any lifestyle magazine, TOI or whatever you read, a self professed relationship guru will be doling out suggestions to save marriages / relationships. Most of them will suggest couples to indulge in role plays and pornography. Such voyeuristic pleasures. If it was for your monogamous behavior, traffic to pornographic sites would be minuscule instead of a Goliathesqque 80% of the total traffic. Avenues like Facebook has married / in a relationship partner stalking. If you need to imagine someone else while procreating, are you really monogamous? The fact that we accept it as counseling to save marriages is a step in making polygamous thoughts legal in our moral fabric. Men are openly polygamous. Ask any woman from Delhi about her plight to cover herself from lecherous looks and you'll be opening Pandora's box. This is not to suggest that women are absolutely monogamous. All these years of my existence have taught me otherwise.

Morality isn't absolute. It evolves with time. It is influenced by many factors. But most of it is rooted deeply in either Victorian era or is defined by the clergy or the moral police of that region. But morality is flexible. It is subjective. It varies from person to person. So should be the construct of monogamy.

Christopher Nolan's Joker indulged in a social experiment. And he did expose the frailties of a morally strong yet weak people. We indulge in such experiments daily. And we keep the results to ourselves only to look forward to another such result. As far as morality goes, I like to baptize with the following adage, "Make a stew out of your morality and have it".

French - a subset of Bengalis?


Posted on Wednesday, January 19, 2011 | By Gautam | In , , , ,

A few thousand of years ago, some 'adventurous' Bengalis went to Europe. We now have France~ Gautam

Atrocious is the word brewing in your otherwise uncultured mind (cultured if you're a Bengali). Atroce if you're a French. But French are too lazy to read anyways. Right? Now I've come across a plethora of blogs dedicated to decoding the rather peculiar race of Bhadralok aka Bengalis. Some of them like Dhoomketu's - The Bong give an excellent insight into a shy community. Which presses me to digress momentarily into 'Bongs'. Bongs is the culmination of the process of anglicizing which began a couple of hundred years ago. I see more and more Bengali kids referring to themselves as Bongs. The problem is a widespread one. Mallus, Tams, Bongs et all. The said communities are easily the ones aligning themselves to English education. And it is a well documented fact. Now before you get ready to shatter my mistaken-to-be-a-communist-posterior with your capitalist kicks, it is a case of mistaken identity. I hate communism as much as Lenin did.

Coming back to the issue of a highly anglicized race, Bengalis take pride in the fact that they're Bhadralok - the reminisce of ruins of Gora Sahibs. Perhaps that is the reason we take pride in distinguishing ourselves from rest of India. Heck, give us our own country. Viva la revolucion! And for those from UP / Bihar / Jharkhand / Chattisgarh / MP (see what I did there!), we group you as Hindustanis. For a Bengali, Hindustanis represent a brazen, uncivilized, loud, manner-less set. Which brings us back to the topic.

Yes, the French may very well have emanated from the Bengali gene pool. And I have proof. Gaping, in your face comparison to ensue. Read on!
  • Bengalis are known to be lazy. Lazy shudders at the mere mention of a Bengali. French laziness is well documented. The only active French was a corporal called Napoleon. But I doubt his pedigree. Yes! We're lazy because we are thinking. Of politics, of art, of wars, of culture, of nations, of Obama's policies, of Pamela Anderson's D-cups, of what-have-you. Period.
  • Culture - If it's one thing we can shove down rest of India's throats, it is Culture. Bengalis are the sole custodians of India's culture. It is safe with us. Look what people with frail will power from North and West did to their culture. Our's? It is still intact. Desh aka Kolkata is still the cultural capital of India. So it'd be in the best interest of our nation to officially appoint Bengalis for the upkeep of our culture. French? Oh, that is their only export. Apart from a few over sized jets and particle colliers. Who cares for these anyways?
  • Coffee houses - Picture a place frozen in time, full of the sweet clutter of china, smoke and intelligentsia of Kolkata thronging for their daily shot of adda. Yes, I'm talking about the National Coffee House on College Street. You can hog in under 50 bucks (yes, hog). Intelligent discussions free. Adda is a daily activity without which a bong cannot sleep. Discussions. From politics to what have you, even porn, is discussed. And believe me you, it can get heated. France? Can you imagine France without it's cafes? No. QED.
  • Art- A Bengali is a born connoisseur of art. Since his birth, he is exposed to varied forms of art. What other race in India can boast of influencing their kids by sending them to learn music, painting, dancing, film making etc? At the same time? None. Hindustanis are simply happy watching their kids become barbarians to continue with their business of extortion and stuff. India, we have given you your best directors, actors, singers, poets, novelists, what have you. French, their love for art is well documented.
  • Food - A Bengali lives to eat. A Bengali will attain moksha only if he dies choking off on a generous morsel of machcher mudo and bhat. Sweet tooth? Well a legend goes that early British settlers decided to immortalize a Bengali's love for all things sweet by coining a phrase for this phenomenon - sweet tooth. French love for good food is unparalleled in Europe.
  • Smoke - Now the next best orgasm a Bengali experiences other than the now much cliched macher jhol, is a drag of Navy Cut post a heavy lunch. Unlike primitive races, we don't depend upon sex alone to experience orgasms. Salted biscuits, strong tea and cigarettes is what has kept Communism alive in West Bengal for so many years. French are avid smokers. Too bad, they now have ban on smoking in public places and cafes. Bengalis, on the other hand showed a big-collective-middle-finger to deliver a very simple message to the Central Government - Fuck You! We smoke in offices, restaurants, cafes, banks, railway stations et all. As suggested, we are a nation unto ourselves.
  • Unionbaji - Unions in West Bengal are legendary. So are their Union Leaders. French Unions are legendary. Their Union Leaders are pale compared to Bengali leaders. 'nuff said.
  • Women - Bengali women are dusky, have curly hair (or not), are voluptuous, are cultured, cook excellent food, make excellent mothers, etc, etc, etc. French women are said to possess similar qualities albeit in lesser potency. A gene pool will depreciate with years of intermixing.
Bengalis. Whattey race.

And yes, Bengalis shall inherit this earth.

PS: The post is a result of a drunken discussion with one of my elder cousins who wishes to stay unnamed for the fear of getting raped by Hindustani barbaric women.