A stoner life

He is a lunatic with a rhetoric interior,
Spending life driving pleasure out of drugs and drinks,
He never shaves, doesn't give a thought to his career,
A hedonist grows, while a slave shrinks.

An apartment or a cave,
They look pretty much all the same,
Shelter, cloth and food, his needs are crude,
A putrefying body, a purifying soul.

Longing for love, friends, teachers and loneliness,
He is happily lost on a road through a dark tunnel,
Madness, they called it,
It is simply a will to be weird.

He behaves normally,
As a calm straight hippy,
No desire, no yearning for a pot of gold,
Just a hunger unsatisfied, and dizzy highs to explore.

A shabby exterior he looks upon, gazing into a mirror,
lost, aimless and desperate it glares,
Wondering with amazement at his own earthy form and reflection,
reminiscing sacrifices, as he pushed those boundaries of reality.

Resurrect and polish, they crooned,
Get a hold, join this raging, mad herd,
spend life on collecting furniture, car and money,
carry them to a worthless grave, they chaffed.

To him, life is blissful, yet cruel,
he finds soft death more comforting,
Yearns for peace, and a clear, untroubled, unburdened, unprejudiced mind,
wishing he could show others, what he had just heard.

G..U..JJ..U... gujju !!

It took me a rather long battle to win in my head before writing this. The incidents might be framed or rather fictitious, any serious consideration is deeply forbidden.

Love is in air for our dear Gujju. He has searched for it, begged for it, lusted it, yet never found it, up until now. He ties new bonds, and enters realms of those sacred dreamy promise-lands. That too with a girl. Unbelievable. Believing myself to be the best man, it is an honor to roll in the credits before a silent warrior-within takes on his journey, finally with a pillion rider for his FZ, which he had incidentally bought using my money. This saintly, pure at heart, "gujju "warrior is a picture of resolute determination towards conquering those battles inside his head. The question of "WHAT? WHAT sagar WHAT?" is still being sought for answers. Those scars are deep, they kept him a hungry lusty beast.

We all had our doubts about Gujju. Adi, and I, with utmost horror recall those nightly-adventures of Gujju with SunnyKaBaap. A signal filled with love and a gentle reminder of "its night, lets sleep", was foreplay for a night of sheer terror, for people, sleeping in adjoining rooms, filled with creaking sounds of rusty springs from a battered mattresses, broken by muffled shrieks. Pain and pleasure. Immense ferocity ending in a soft embrace. The result of those nights was a broken back for one and lust-satisfied blissful day for the other. Despite those ghastly, goose chasing, bumpy nights, we now are glad to hear that it had not left a mental scar on Gujju. He is straight but with a lingering back ache. After a lot of pleading and begging for mercy, the lord has shown our Gujju a "straight" road. Love is finally in air.

Gujju is still the machine we all admire, for his neatness and adherence to schedule, be it washing his clothes or shaving his beard. Even the speed at which he eats his food is timed to schedule. It is his heart that is priceless. We, the "Burger Generation", pledge sincere loyalty to him who saved us from starving. We owe our dog-like loyalty and faithfulness to Gujju. He would inadvertently break his sleep to fetch some food for us lazy fat asses. He would feed us water. In case of emergency, we could safely bank on using Gujju's soap, comb, razor, towel, milk, clothes, socks, even wear his jockeys in some instances, when the maid had lifted ours. He wouldn't mind, and even if he did, we really never cared of it then. But now that he is stepping into a new land, leaving a gaping hole in our lives, and no free rides to have cold cocoas, we stop to get a hold of those moments.

Gujju will remain in my memories as an under utilized stud, a gujju stallion with no one to ride. He has seen more action at night with "Lina" and "rikimaru" in forests of dota than in real life. A true geek, with solid interiors and attractive exteriors, more appreciated with guys than girls. A true brother, who carried his own birthday cake from the bakery. A real gem.

My parting words would be stolen from Johnny Depp and altered to make me appear enlightened. "Life is not so much about the destination, which for all of us is death, but the journey, which is bliss if traveled upon with the right companion".

On the Road

"They danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!" .. "

This much is true: You can't burn out if you're not on fire. ..

Life is as simple as we want it to be. A draining but purposeful journey, to search for that we call happiness, in our own dwarfish narrow worlds. Craving to expand our horizons beyond those constrained by our vision, knowing those chains that bind us to reality, become a charming burden to bear. A reason, providing fake solace to ones wandering mind, watering the ashes of a tigers wrath into fodder for a trained bull. Misleading us into pastures of prudence, away from cliffs of dreams. Yet we all live, waiting, just like a cigarette butt, glowing for one last moment before it fades away, wondering, whether it will leave behind a black searing shadow on a white surface or a white illusion of ash on a black one.

Madmans Scribblings

World would be a lot cooler if we could all discover the "amazing" inside our heads.

I have the mental scars to prove the predictability of my unpredictability.
It is not me, but the presence of a set of preconceived perceptions about me, that you are talking to.

From Hell.

Dwelling upon those mysteries of life,
I pondered, sore and tired,
Can any hell be more terrible than the present,

We forsake time to save more money,
Slavery, it has become our middle name,
Society, it has bound us, obstinate as a mule,
Television, brings us soft death, every hour

Life's joy,
More fleeting than a comet,
Its pain, stays forever.
Collect those tiny timbers, to make ourselves a boat,
Row across the ocean, hoping to meet an uninvited visitor.

Prisoners own their cells,
Kings cherish their throne,
bloodbath either one has caused,
One gets time for retrospect, other gets a gemstone.
Generals lead us into wars,
Warrant medals for their bravery,
A killer, we take his life away for butchery,
Murders roam our streets,
Vowing to protect us.

Yearn to acquire soulful wisdom,
lead my way through that dark hour,
Death, wild haired, will bring us peace,
unwelcome and undesired,
Myriad of miniscule trifles,
consume our existence,
Cribbing, lusting, we rot, until death finds us.
Where is the child who believed in miracles,
Where is the innocence in simple plays with street urchins,
Where is the will to dream,
To conjure castles, to date fairies, to fight monsters and rescue hapless villagers.
Confined in a labyrinth,
Is our present any different from a matrix, devoid of free will.
For man likes not to travel inside his head,
yet call himself an artist,
Never take a detour, to find universe in a grain of sand,
to lie under the stars,
yet Man has advanced, from living in caves to pigeon holed apartments.

Yet we disapprove of death, our only friend,
Set us free to limitless joy,
Rid us of troubles,
Open those doors,
Cleanse our soul, so we can perceive,
The devil promises infinite, God restrains desires.

Aimless and lost.

"Are you a writer", it asked of him.

No words came out yet. I am a lost traveler, he said to himself. Searching for a thing which should be sought more. May be it doesn't even exist. There must have been people before me, who would have gotten lost. Meaning of life, inner peace, a guiding hand in the wilderness, a lonely charm, tranquility in thought, access to deepest secrets of the universe. The little game inside the gold mine, our head.
I often feel like a bystander on a highway, waiting, for a blue bus. Watching cars pass by. The make, reflected the drivers' soul. Those souls had immersed into a myriad of materialistic obsessions, craving freedom. Life too just like most cars on that highway, never stopped for those who stood and wander. With an irony in the face that it often passes by unnoticed , remembered more for a set of unforeseen calamities.
Looking heavenwards, the sky, it seemed a lot calmer. Clouds scattered across, breaking blue plains with tiny white specs of cotton, yet, thick enough to engulf the light. A gentle cool breeze washing his face, bringing sounds of laughter from the west to his ears. Birds gliding along. Chirping, perhaps asking questions of the wind. A lonely bee, wandering, having lost a scent of treasured flowers, rests on a hook, as it take a break from its search. A pigeon flapping vigorously trying to untangle itself from leaves, branches. It had been entrapped while searching for a place to build its nest.
Universe has conspired. It always has. The idea has been simple and yet never understood. Blinding, to keep everyone searching for ways to make themselves feel happiness, to have an illusion of control over what we call life. A momentary sense of pleasure, to help its secrets remain hidden in plain sight.
Sky is a lot calmer, he thought.

"Are you a writer", it asked again.
"No, I am just a sojourner in civilized society".

Madness or Precision

Each second ticking through,
Presence, was all it asked of us,
Beckoning us to follow a timer sound,
Awaken to an inevitable truth.
Riding a new high,
Waiting for a new sun,
Realizing a futility in reason and judgement, cage that last fleeting glimpse of glory,
Living, waiting for the end to come.
Engulf us, the flames, glazing, gold, a stove of knowledge.
It will burn us, its our salvation.