Kill me

Kill me
Before you shit
Before you clean
or masturbate.

Waste me in the sewage...
Paint me -
with dirty colours
- one dirty collage.

Cut me two
like a vegetable
For that’s what I am
humpy-dumpy manipulation
Consternation of constellation

Kill me
Just for heck.

or, let me try myself…

One easy job it looks
though,
I quit [:-(]with sweat in my
brow.

Before an empty paper i sit and mull,
the world sits empty
their pussy their hands
laughing with bare teeth
masturbating beneath a sheath.
Everyone's growling-n-howling
ladies are out shopping
gents rubbing pink panties...

who i write to, who i write for
who has come, who would ever come
inside the womb i'm gonna hide
fuck you'all... now no more slide.

Like a thunder in a rainy night,
Who doesn’t know, what t’show, what’hide.
You seem to be asking every moment,
Baby, you wanna stop, or take’ride.

You never open the door by my side,
Never step out to say, goodbye.
Never see a drop when I cry,
How could it go when you always keep me so dry…

I know I am gonna miss you
And it’s going to hurt…but I am sure to do
I’m gonna teach myself how to fly
And catch a cloud to drift away

O baby don’t pretend,
You wouldn’t die
The pain will pass through…

Pull over here and bid me adieu.

who am i?

ALOHA! I am Animesh. I was born on March 16, 1982, to a middle class banker's family, in a small town Sindri, near Dhanbad, in Jharkhand, India. Like, any other middle class family, my family, too, was debris of dreams; dreams that were conceived but couldn't be realized; and as in legacy, I was offered to carry them further. And I did, as they lay my path there-on, as they shaped my destiny there-after.

Dreams beget dreams! Slowly...slowly, the treasury manifolds like an assortment of positive and negative battles, sometimes like slow realm over dust, sometimes like sudden rout after long-fought success. Dreams kindle hope and hope kindles life. Life is an itinerary with hope as its mile-stones, at some you lose, at some you win ...and you keep going on and on, conceiving one after another, betting one after another until among those obvious, you find a dream – of much more importance, of much more significance than rest in the flock – suitable enough to bet your whole life upon and then, you decide your destiny.

A layer of dream upon the rubble of dreams! Looks bookish! But this is exactly what my life is all about.

A man has one destiny. And so is mine!

Destiny is a protocol, a destination that emerges when you shape your dreams against the evens and odds of the universe; an adamant idea that you cease to abandon; the ultimate reward you put yourself at stake for. Destiny is one's own religion, one's own faith, one's own cause to surrender. It is the definition of man. he is unique if he makes his destiny unique.

None other than an engineer can really understand the multinomial equation of the destiny, the ever increasing entropy of the dream. I do, not merely because I am an engineer or I believe that I am something extraordinary sort of, but because I chose to pursue such, to understand such.

The world has two types of people, first: a conscious activist, who chooses his steps and thus takes the onus of the consequences, second: an unconscious actor, who lets others decide what should he dream of? Which one is better? ... I can not hear a single voice. Quot homines, tot sententiae! No two men can think alike. It is exactly this fundamental instinct of humans – to pretend to differ, to deny others – that has caused a society like ours' to evolve and to weave us with its multiple forking adherences. Some people choose to govern while some are chosen to be governed. Governance is not of people but of ideas that few have chosen to bestow their faith upon, thus, have colonized the fundamental lineament of humanity.

Who am I then? The former or the later... I don't know. I really don't know.


Perhaps, I am an object of the super-class; who has inherited all the public qualities, by default, that he bears at the core of his existence; who has grown inured to the gloom of captivation ...gradually after begetting, executing, and terminating... and then again resurrecting; who is nothing but a sound replica of the template code – generated by the routine process of cut-copy-paste.

Or may be, a "human" – a byproduct of a retrogressive alchemy; a settled and quite grain of the finality; a manicured boulder abandoned by nature; an ethnic perennial ruined off by the age-old ethnicity; a kind of a biological fauna, heavy of his past, light of his future.

Or rather, I am a parasite, feeding myself upon the generous humanity and the complacent society; stealing my share of sustenance against their simplicity, against their complexity.

I don't know!

I may be many. I may be one. Like a cone that remains faithful in one frame but suddenly changes its shape in another – not in a deliberate attempt to equivocalise the truth, but in a normal tendency to cease candidness, to keep from simplicity - I too may be deceitful. I don't want to become a victim of "TRUTH"; neither would I like to fall prey to the manly strictures. So, I leave it to be answered by my destiny.

It will take time, I know, but I am certain that eventually it will answer. Until then, I will wait. Will you? :-)

Sarkari Naukri

A sarkari (governmental) job secures you, protects you from asperities of life!

They said this. She believed this. Time passed by, I remained confused. She remained determined to get me a sarkari job, I to chuck off any such predicament.

She wanted security, I cherished insecurity, believing that “the best comes only at extremes”, and “extremes only when you have something to lose” and security stagnates you, leaves nothing to your fear, unless you go all the way round.

“DRDO! Amazing na...” She proclaimed - when we met after the long final semester – when I had told her about my campus placement scenario.

“...you didn’t take its test.” She turned red, gaping at me as if I were a thorough moron, incapable of understanding security, love, or life. Nothing! Capable of nothing, I was just a moron.

“No. I didn’t want to.” I said straight-forwarded, stole my face from her constant stare and fixated my mind over the Chinese noodles.

That one job, made me lose her. That one job, one sarkari naukri. And you say it protects.

I didn’t opt for it, meant I didn’t understand it – and didn’t at all value it: security. Everyone out here is on a constant hunt for security, for safety, protection, defense, guard, shield. Except me. I abandoned it and weeks later, was abandoned by her.

She made it to a sarkari daftar (Government office) today. Must be happy!

I am happy for her. I want to share it with her, the way I could have, only if things weren’t changed in the following years.

She is secure. She got what she had envisioned to get, of course via me then, vicariously, and now on first hand. I was useless then. I am useless still.

What I want...I don’t know. Do I want her?

No. I can’t want her.

Forever?

"Forever?" it was a question, or an answer to what he was asking himself for the last few days, to things he couldn't understand, satanic, ghostly, sometimes lovely, tempting, kind of a rubber ball held in hands, pressed against the pressure and its own past, to the will of a single man, or of the whole universe, or just of its fate - questions lurking so deep, so deep that he felt them become part of his anatomy, physical, spiritual, and sometimes he saw them becoming he, clouding over his existence with such god-dam bleakness that he wanted to run away, far to a distant place, and while running he saw his thoughts clutching at him, and dragging him back to the point where he had started, and then he asked such things - to whom? - that was not important. Forever doesn't come on its own, you got to make way for it; and then after its lifetime, un-make for another forever. No forever is for ever. "Heck, you don't know even the basic principles," she cried at him, seeing him lost, duped with the uncertainty of the certain.

Men are the lost animals.
And when they try to seek for themselves, they find only darkness.
They are what they are not; what they should never be.
Personal crisis.

"Can you guarantee me your love for the whole of our lives, this one, the next one, and the next…write me this, and fix it somewhere in the history, can you?" The anger, built over silence is nauseating. He was stinking of his thoughts, of the lack of thoughts, of disorder, of hatred. She could have held his hands then, put his head in her lap, stroked his hairs, her fingers soothing his head, the disordered, burning head, sweeping the remnants of hatred away from the roots of his hairs, and have talked him through that mess. But she had her own mess to talk to. Her personal dustbin.

That night he couldn’t sleep a wink.
And the night after.
And after.

Until he left home, in one similar dark night, left her sleeping in the dining hall, on the porch, where she snored hanging between the floor and the roof, precarious balance, he thought, at mercy of four iron rods, her whole life, and found no space for a fifth rod. And he left, without any letter under her pillow, or any indication to tell her about his exodus from hell to god-knows-what. Her breathe, typically masculine breathe, followed him until the main door of the house and bid him good-byes, best-of-lucks, fir-aanas. Even her snore wasn’t part of her.

“I am blank these days. Nothing seems to cross my way. What...at peace? I am not sure. But it’s quite....you know...the kind of tranquility they used to talk about and the sound they said that started all...am soundless these days...nothing much...”

“Once you are into this game, all you know is fear.” I could sense his eyes piercing through my skull, reaching me, to the basest core of mine. “Aren’t you scared?”

“Who...me..why?” and moved his eyes off my shoulder, at the painting pinned to the wall. “Look at that.”

“You stop talking in abstract terms. Take on with it if it’s that irresistible. Don’t screw your life.”

Fight. Fight. Fight. Fight whom? There wasn’t any enemy, only a thought - a distraction.