Reacting to a friend's comment on Delhi Gang Rape and Girls Venturing Out at Night

I do not disagree with you. I do live my life with as much caution. I just DO NOT LIKE TO. I do not believe in destiny. I do not believe in God. But I believe I should be able to live a life where my gender does not prevent me from being happy. And I feel happy when I am walking alone on the street, sitting alone in a coffee shop, travelling by the last metro...where you bond with people you meet at those junctures...people who do not rape you.

Moral Policing of Women

Yes of course, a woman's safety lies in her, not drinking, not smoking, not carrying a mobile phone, not arguing, not dancing her heart out, not singing to herself, not working, not having sex when she wants, being pregnant when the entire world wants it to happen but her, taking care of the dog that her children wanted so much, not writing explicit, not swearing, not walking alone, not complaining, not wearing clothes she feels beautiful and hence confident in, not getting promoted in jobs, not getting ahead of men her age and men in general, not living life in her own terms. Yes, a woman is safest that way, because she ceases to be human, perhaps she has become a spirit like that of a Murakami novel. Something deep inside the jungle with half a shadow. The entrance stone has been opened and the door is still ajar.

Provocation

My constant attempt has been to not to get provoked by vocally expressed intelligence; I need to keep reminding myself - keep calm, you are learning at every step; enjoy that process, and that vocal intelligence out there, is a product of naivete, because if it was not, it would not be so loud.

Real Time Memories

My real time memories slip into my subconscious, effortlessly. But the new raw material in my subconscious become predominant – as I grow up; become a man from a boy. While they say it is ‘sub’ conscious – it forms a new consciousness in me. Images and sounds, shrieks and wails, blood and gore – more gore. A memory taken for granted.

(A child encompassed by domestic violence). 

Even the Title was Empty!

You got what I am doing right?

I am going through my blog's draft articles segment to see if I left any traces of an article, perhaps inconclusive (they all are, but...) and if I could just add a word here, add a punctuation there and publish them. 

Since this was an absolutely EMPTY draft, I thought I'd utilize the space to tell you what is it all about.

Gravity

She pulled out one of the patterns. But it was glued to the rest, hence she could not quite separate it out. Instead she had mozzarella cheese like patterns clamoured to the cubes and cylinders. She decided to walk through. Her hair got sticky and was smelling of patterns. At one point she had to resort to crawling. The tunnel kept narrowing down. She clung on two symmetrical patterns and whoa! She was dangling in mid air space upside down. Somewhere there is gravity; but she had left the world far behind long time back.

She woke up with a fall.

At Random

Oh! This draft was empty! 

Commenting on a child's photograph in which he is not facing the camera

...like an elusive man he busies himself to random as if nothing ever happened...as if there never was wit, wisdom and opportune moments to be captured...and hence it is felt at each passing minute reminding civilizations of the greatness of a child's heart...

Commentary on Good Writing

Boy! Your feelings are so normal yet (or rather, hence) so beautiful...your writings are simple yet so deep. Went through your writings today, and an otherwise mundane office hour livened up. 

Illusions

She heaves a sigh of relief.

It was necessary to bring this to an end. She was under an illusion of individuality.

And then there were mistakes.

And there was a life.

How many more illusions she will need to break before she can call her skin her own?

Options

Conflicts will never cease to end.

Rich or poor.
Comfort or pain.
Sex or celibacy - haaah!

For some things there is no conflict - you are simply left with no option.

The larger game will be creating these options.

Did I End Up Becoming a Writer?

Okay, let's rephrase. Did I eventually become a writer? Did I or did I not? Do we think that we would become writers? That's all we would do when we grow up? Write? Is it essential to publish what you have written? When do I start my own publishing house?

"Wait a minute, did not you just say you wanted to write...now you are saying you want to publish? Let me do a reality check for you. Writers cannot publish and publishers cannot write; because there is a huge capitalist structure that works between these two worlds. You have to run a painstakingly long and complex marathon to reach from one end to the other. Hold on, you are supposed be an artist, aren't you one??????"

Desires

She stealthily observed Anne. She was lying next to her on the bed catching up her favourite late night show; occasionally switching channels during ad breaks. The television screen was the only source of light in the room;  it lit up the contours of Anne's cleavage. A sheet was covering her waist below so Uma could only imagine her bare legs. The sheet over Uma's body concealed  the changes that it was undergoing; the stiffened nipples, the wet vagina. She could hear the sound of her own gasp and feel her dried lips. Uma got out of her sheet and walked towards the dresser and started looking for her lip gel in the blue light of the television screen. That's when she felt a pair of cold hands grasping her waist from behind. She saw the reflection of Anne's body partially in the mirror in front of her. Anne's hands were gradually moving towards her breasts. All Uma could do was to surrender herself bodily and emotionally to the burning desires she had been storing in her closet so far. 

Dream

I hogged. I smeared food all over my body...it was as if, the last time I'd ever eat. I wanted to copulate. I was carrying something within me - a rock solid tumour.

I woke up. Dream.

When did I type these words? I cannot remember. Whatever it is, I am distancing myself from these thoughts as of now. The strange feeling of non-adventure is creating a strange vacuum. I need to be away for a while. Far away from the day-to-day existence.

Sixty seconds of thoughts as I lie motionless on the bed that shook with the violence of the earthquake.

I fall asleep again. This time I burped and then puked out all that I had eaten in the prologue of the dream.

Inspiration

Finally, after producing crap for seven months, I am inspired to write again. I cannot guarantee quality writing over here because the strange nature of my job of cleaning up shit has perhaps made me intolerant to good writing; worse of all, I have lost the ability to distinguish my own good from my bad.

When I start my writing with "...I am writing again...", I know I have already crossed the edge of good writing and fallen in a pit of shit. But I have to write something before my body starts producing maggots.

While going through some files on my laptop I realized I had written a story about a girl who turns into a colour blind butterfly. I cannot remember writing the article - okay, for the uninitiated, I usually remember the moments in which I write my articles because these articles are usually produced when my mind is jamming up with a complex matrix of thoughts or there is a vacuum out there. Sometimes certain memories are so chaotic and stressful that my brain automatically pushes them to the unconscious part. In short, they are wiped out of my memory. Now this butterfly-girl story looked like a harmless piece of shit. But considering the fact that I cannot recollect the moment when I was writing it, it worries me because I must have been in a filthy state of mind while writing it.

Today I started writing after going through Anjali didi's blog - she was the one who inspired and gave direction to this otherwise unguided missile. This post is an ode to that inspiration.