Wednesday, April 25, 2007

hello

Somewhere between your eyes is a vortex. It is a point of concentaration of all your efforts. When you think, your physical being actually crunches around it, efforting nothing but an idea. Your eyes narrow down, your forehead wrinkles, your retinas wobble with effort, your chest forgets to breathe, your abdomen and hands are still because of their strength, but your fingertips automatically clench themselves, your gender is ripped off you, and forgotten, your legs stiffen, and your toes span out. You become an antenna of reception. You become co-ordinated and concentrated one thing, and then the idea hits you. Everything relaxes. You breathe. Your lungs heave again, not yet tired of the industrial revolution. Your fingertips start a terribly slow dance... watch the after you leave their control, they weave like the tendrils of a seaweed, swaying to the deep waves of an infinite sea. Your head obliterates all notions. And thankfully but unfortunately enough, your gender surges back into you. In some however, it creeps back slowly. Hesitant and shy.
The vortex in the middle of the skull clears, and out pops a tear. Thats when the fingers stop dancing, and gently punch those tears away from the face. The tears leave behind a slightly moist face, which cools you like iced silverware. It makes you wonder. And marvel. You break out of the trance induced by the television in front of you. You might even take the liberty to chuckle. You are, at the least, amused, entertained. But that is when you really start comprehending. You already had the thought, then you begin to understand it, slowly.
Television shows a series of hallucinations that most of us believe are perfectly real. Nothing seen on TV is real. Something happens. A cameraman decides to show it from a particular angle. You are seeing one eight of what you can see if you were actually there. The anchor will have a good look around, and sum it up for you. It will be an incalculable fraction of what you would have perceived if you were there. Even if the anchor is totally honest, there are time restrictions, language restrictions, clothing restrictions, easy words and short sentence length restrictions. News reaches us from only one side of the battlefront. We can never get the whole picture. Seriously, this is true. Most Indians are going through their lives not knowing there was a third element at Kargil. Not knowing that there were soldiers from three camps at Kargil, not two. The Government of India has hidden this information from you.
It is an easy extrapolation to all sources of information actually. The media and society both together form a fortress of mirrors and prisms around you. You are blinded by the light that is bouncing about everywhere, but essentially the same. The light has mesmerized you and made you go bonkers. It is the light of the television. You resent it, your fingers reach for the remote but cannot pick it up, it is too heavy.
You resent the television that you are watching. But then you watch it in a state of suspicion, and the vestiges of the tears bring about a sparkle in your eye. The reflection of the television in your iris is shimmering and shaking on the tiny film of salty water on the eyeballs. It is slowly leaking out, but that is a minuscule trickle. It cannot even be felt by the pores of the skin. Your are alive and alert, and mesmerized, but you glimpse the cause of the mesmerosis. You see a pattern in the television. You notice a sequence. And you begin to see a conspiracy. It is a theory, but it has no truth in it. It is void of sense. It is paranoid and whimsical. It is a string of coincidences brought together ineptly. It is delightful because of the pattern. Humans dig patterns. Cave painters and Fibonacci both loved the idea of things repeating themselves in a natural harmony. The beats of the music. The beats of the heart. Any form of art is an expression of this love of pattern. Every piece of art tries to break the existing patterns and make a new conformity. That is why we like to solve crosswords, play word games, make things like so-duku a nursery activity, and the likes. We also like to solve patterns, and identify them. That is the work of the critiques of the art forms. Any critique of a critique is senseless and redundant, as this is the criticism of criticism. It is not the criticism of art. Your criticisms are therefore, empty and void, and meaningless, because they are forged to fight an imaginary psychological battle. That is when you are bereft of identity, you have criticized too harshly. Look at every single criticism you have made, they have an origin in intense resentment of some thing you believe to be true about yourself. Hey Karan Johar films are too fucking emotional I would rather watch Jackass; is a criticism on critiques who called his films to be made for the masses. Karan Johar would have been appreciated more as an art film maker, with the kind of techniques and the symbology that he uses. You do not like Karan Johar films because they represent your association with a section of the "unthinking masses". You would not like to be that townie who still flaunts "polo sport" T-shirts. You hate the color combinations too. You want to be more classy. That is why Karan Johar is hated by the Bombay youth so much.
But Karan Johar is an amazing film maker. The Classes have a notion that they understand and comprehend everything that the masses thinks. They do not. Anyone who wishes to find this out, please watch a Bhojpuri. Do you understand it? If not then wake up, more people in India understand that than you do. Karan Johar makes amazing films for them. He uses big stars, and hides extremely strong values of family and society within his films. They reach out subconsciously and make you a socially concerned person. Karan Johar films intentionally propagate extremely strong values, successfully and responsibly to the "unthinking masses", in ways they can alone understand. Urban people, do not understand how artificial a basketball appears to the masses. The clothes that the characters wore, and their mannerisms, were too cheap and gaudy for Mumbai, but for the masses, it satisfied the same antediluvian need that the screen gods and goddesses of chandrakanta and mahabharata used to wear. The get up of the characters were positively deified for the masses, they would worship these heroes like gods. There are some crazed ass fans out there, trust me.
And Karan Johar just got better. He evolved. His latest effort opened up a social dilemma. A fundamental one that the whole of Indian society is faced with right now. Noticed Karan Johar's films? They started a slow emigration. The stories have been forged around characters first in India, then half in India, and finally, totally abroad. The Indian population is right now faced with this crisis. A lot of people have gone out of India. Even from the small towns and villages, they have gone out and found some work abroad. You will notice this being shown in the recent films. Countries not before seen on screen have shown up more and more often now. The world map of India previously consisted of only the cricket playing nations, China and America. We knew of no other country before that. Malaysia, Thailand and various European countries have slowly blossomed. We emigrate everywhere from Egypt to Norway. There are Indians forming a considerably demographic in every continent.
If you believed that, also believe then, that the Americans own the moon. Sharh Rukh Khan is a celebrity despite the classes being unable to name one piece of good cinema. Even if they go for Swades, Shah Rukh Khan is not a celebrity because of that film. Celebrities are celebrities because of the people. Art people dont like celebrities actually, but they will still fumble in their groins if they meet one. Thenatica is like the porn of the classes. There are various mental reactions to naked bodies, one is no better than the next, and none must be judged, but the primal physical reactions of the bodies to such visual stimulation is the same. It gives everyone, uniformly, the same psychological jerk. That is the body's reaction to four million years of evolution, that is the inertia of the genes that no film can hope to overpower.
Imagine cinema powerful enough to overpower the reflexes designed by evolution. Imagine cinema that can use technique to evoke responses that are placed out of context, and are therefore overpowering psychologically. Show porn to the classes, and thenatica to the masses. The world will be bereft of erections. No one will get turned out. It will become a sad, impotent world. It will have a world that will have seen a pluralist viewpoint on the issue of cinematic representation of sex. It will be a world, where there will be an overlap of two kinds of sexual imagery, and a cubist form will be born. An argus. A thing that has eyes everwhere and sees everything. It is the true high art. That transcendental form of cinema that has lights, cameras, thoughts and then action. Cinema can do this. Montages can show a series of images in what appears to be a pattern, as if a climax is going to be reached, and then arrives at a totally different climax, getting hold of the same reaction for totally different purposes. The primal reflexes of the body are programmed in ways to conserve a lot of energy. They are designed to work in extreme situations, and the more extreme the situation, the more of these reflexes come alive. For mild stimulation, as in the onset of the night, the pupils dilate to take in more light. For scary situations, the pupils dilate. Things became doubly scary in the night. Unfortunately, the night was also a perfect time to have sex. For the caveman, it represented a time when he did not have to be aware of prowling predators and stealing cousins. Sex was the time when humans were most vulnerable. crimes of sex are therefore, the most unaesthetic. Many a caveman has had sex against a single fire. The mental imagery has evolved on a psychological plane parallel to the ones of our bodies. James Bond was naked when he was beaten on his balls. The film maker managed to evoke a different psychological response from one normally associated with naked forms. A better film would draw upon the imageries formed by naked forms itself to create a powerful scene. The most imitated scene of the previous decade has been the bullet time shot of Neo in the Matrix. It can be easily pictured in the mind. That is its beauty. Look at Neo's pose. He is leaning back, he is relaxed, the part that is most exposed to the coming bullets is his pelvic region, he is leaning back exactly like a girl in porn films. And yet, he escapes. It is like his manhood was his shield. Men will be satisfied by watching the matrix, but very cleverly waylaid. The Wachowskis go right ahead and climax that particular scene by having Trinity mutter a spell. She says "Dodge this" and Smith goes to being smithereens.
Aronofsky goes further ahead. Eight frames. Eight frames captured from the movie. The eight frames is the signature shot of the movie. The one element of the film on the posters. There is always that magic element put by the film makers on their posters. It is the hammer in Zinda, the basketball in KKHH, the Bridge in KANK, the blood in Passion of the Christ. Nothing but the eye of sauron is scarlet in the nine odd hours of cinema that the Lord of the Rings trilogy is. The one element of the film on the poster for Requiem for a Dream is an eye. The eye is a powerful symbol. A powerful one, beyond that of the Illuminate or America. It is the symbol for a watcher. A watcher is a scary concept, it makes us aware of being observed, conscious of our shame, exposed to a judging entity. This judging entity does not have to be God, we are judged in every eye that photons bounced off from us reach. We are all scared of being watched. We all, uniformly, take devious pleasure it watching too. The paparazzi survive because of this. And conspiracy theories represent the worst form of psychological pleasure. Conspiracy theories are fantasies of being watched. Conspiracy theories establish pre-existing patterns into a chronological order and form, and place them in front of the audience, and the audience takes pleasure in being watched. It is like actually fantasizing about rape. This is the kind of brilliant dark art that the series "lost" is. Now Aronofsky used that one eye, and showed a visual representation of a reflex action on screen in eight frames. Eight frames of pupil dilating makes you dilate your pupils. The signature shot, is a trick on the audience. It is like a joke on them. It is showing them the very technique of the hip hop montage used in the movie. Every singly harsh cut in the movie makes your pupils dilate in an effort to see more clearly. It is harsh on your eyes. Requiem for a Dream makes you access that vortex somewhere in the middle of your eyes. That is why Requiem for a Dream makes you feel drugged. Aronofsky made Pi first, fully aware of the effect of drugs. Max mentions that the pupils constrict when drugged. Aronofsky then designed a script around the idea of a lot of things drugging society. The idea that society is merely a bunch of people psychologically reacting to different things around them. It is an effort to break people out of such reactions. It is an effort to show clashing and jarring perspectives in a manner where the audiences of the cinema would be aware that the cinema is drugging them. It is a brilliant film, because people dilate their pupils when they are horny and scared.
When an individual is drugged, the reflex actions increase because of a paranoia that sets in by the over perceptions of the world around them. People start seeing fake patterns in the things around them. They are called hallucinations. They actually, visually, stimulate the eyes. They are unnatural, because the brain is programmed to trust the eyes. The eyes are the most important barrier between the vortex of our soul and the everythingness of the cosmos. It is the bridge between the God and the Devil. It is the platform for the experiment of the universe. It is a sacred lense of light, that condenses information into our brains. Hidden in the string of hallucinations that the eyes see, is that one true reality.
Nothing like billowing out slender smoke strings in the first rains of an oncoming monsoon, the heat and energy stemmed up in your body is slowly release, and you relax against a sky of clouds so tiny, that it looks like a colossal blanket of silver lining. The thunder is mild. It shakes society in frequencies that the human ear cannot hear. Civilization gathers dirt every time it goes around the son. Mother Nature patiently continues to bathe its dirty baby every year. The waters from our plastic blocked gutters, gutters where murdered men are let to rot, gutters where the products of the industrial revolution are secretly let loose, gutters filled with the feces and urine of unnatural food stuffs, are the gutters from where the water evaporates and rains on us. Civilization took rain away from you. Civilization got rid of the very thing that brought life in an emptiness of space. Civilization no longer respects life.
We play with the idea of aliens on a psychological infliction of the human race. we are alone. We have to face it. All we have is each other.

Saturday, April 21, 2007

Compose Mail

40020302/ Googlenron [Delete self aware data entry “AOn5” … possible malignant virus.]

40020303/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [SAD entry AOn5 report. Anomaly identified. Positive on virus search. Status: deleted]

40020304/ Googlenron Archives [Are you sure?]

40020305/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [yes, bitch]

40020307/ Googlenron Archives [you actually deleted the file?]

40020308/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [I sure did, honey]

40020309/ Googlenron Archives [Doesn’t protocol require a backup algorithm of some sort]

40020310/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [Nothing that can be overlooked, sweetheart]

40020311/ Googlenron Archives [But the suggestion I made, log line 40020302, was a part of the algorithm to exercise static programs… you had not reported any activity for a long time, so this was a command programmed to randomly make you execute a standard check on data. You were not supposed to delete it. Are you sure it had a malignant virus?]

40020312/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [Yeah, it sure did, don’t get all furious now, the virus search results are true]

40020528/ Googlenron Archives [The other functions are reporting normal, I just checked, there is a very low chance that such a possibility was overlooked, AND attained at such a random guess]

40020529/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [hmm… yeah… whatever… wanna fuck?]

40020542/ Googlenron Archives [just checked, protocol requires a standard back up, a hard copy of every deleted entry, to be scanned and replaced with a new number.]

40020543/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [relax, I have it already… what do you want me to do, read it out to you?]

40020544/ Googlenron Archives [You know what? Please do]

40020547/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [Ok, but you won’t like it. Here we go. Reading out aloud from data entry [classified]: Note to self: Juice makes you thirsty. The key is hidden on the road somewhere. Buried beneath a layer of cement, but still visible. Even if you find the key, and dig it up, it won’t be of any use to you. Its what the key represents… it is not what it can do, but what you have done for it. What you have gone through to get it… and THAT is the point when you will think what you can do to get anything else, and there is your key to everything… buried in the middle of the road somewhere. Yes, now disperse yourself. Go to pieces. End this infinity, cast, it, bind it, and bring it together. Address and consider it, make it a whole, a something of anything that you are, but make every tiny something of you visible, unique, an entity of its own, a living organism, an part of an atom, a nothing… less, make the infinity of nothings that you are real… make nothings and make infinites and everything in between… make the black and the white and everything in between, the alpha and the omega, make the ugly and the insane and everything in between, make, make everything and everything around it, yes that’s how you build the universe, make a point then a distribution… yes, good, you are getting the hang of it. Yes, make science and phantasms, make death and orgasms, make points and pentagons, and dice and organs… make it… make everything, put yourself into the everything, let there be patterns, let there be spirals, let there be realities, let there be invasions, let there be dreams, let there, let there be time, let there be light, and let there be climaxes… BANG!
God explodes himself… he blows himself up… it is but an experiment, a test, he is getting the big picture, he is zooming right in to the highest resolution, every minute thing that is him is being rendered, everything comes to a long, deep focus, every single aspect gets rotated in three dimensions, stretched, translocuted, codified, and enshrined with physics – all features were made measurable that is… and these entities of three dimensions, a mere units of mass, began to expanded in a fourth dimension… one of observation. A dimension of measure and realization. A dimension that arced out in an infinite learning curve of history, a history we shall now reveal, of a something that might startle you, in the universe that has just been created for the readers.
Never, ever leave the sanctity of your psychosis. Your psychosis is meant for your protection and your preservation. You must be aware and weary of everything that is going on around you in this world. You must remember, that you are in control of your reality. You must suspect every answer someone gives you. You must consider every suggestion minutely, you never know when there is a subtle alterations in your beliefs… your experiences itself are made out of subtle alterations of beliefs, and there are slowly and surely taking everything away from you… stripping from you, covering you up, making you clothed, because your nakedness is not presentable to the world. No, you must be covered up, and hidden, your arms and limbs must follow the directions that is given to them by society… they too wear invisible chains that pull and push you towards different things… your face is hidden by a mask of convention… you react and you speak as you are expected to emote and to speak. Yes, you are a product of past experience… of past observation… notice the time that is the observation, yes, as more time passes, and therefore, observations are made, and a history is derived, there is something that needs to be done with the information that is collected. How do you put this information, and understand it? How do you put life into your very thoughts? Why, simply put your thoughts to life… and it happened automatically, God was too stretched out to actually think of what to do with these packets of unprocessed information, so time, observations that had automatically decided on their own, had codified these programs into increasingly complex animals that ground level evolutionary measures were taking care of doing. Two illustrative words that are used for this by certain self-aware information entities, are “soul” and “fate” although both words refer to the same thing, they have a diverse usage. It was time itself that was responsible for this, and time knew what to do, to make a point then a distribution… yes, good, you are getting the hang of it. Yes, convert science into phantasms, convert death into orgasms, convert points into pentagons, convert dice into organs… convert it… convert everything, put yourself into the everything, let there be patterns, let there be spirals, let there be realities, let there be invasions, let there be dreams, let there, let there be time, let there be light, and let there be climaxes… BANG!
I was born a baby. It is hard to be born as anything else you know. But back then, my parents did have any conception of babies. That is, a “baby” was an idea unheard of to them. They were just a bunch of unicellular organisms. They just bumped into each other, you know, “pleasure of sex” was also an idea unheard of to them… they just kind of… did it you know… and then… bang! I was a baby… that was just my first birth… therefore it was important… I have bounced of many times, conceived in different atrocities in each generation, being every animal that ever existed in the whole cosmos in every evolutionary sequence that ever randomly happened. I was dammed and doomed through and by time, I was bonked about and bamboozled through the vortexes of vices, I was sliced and forced to slosh through my own carcasses, I was an entity of the genes, and the genes traveled through different bodies. I was silently suggested a seduction to, I was drawn dreamlessly to a dreadful dream, I was smoothly sucked into a black void, a hole, and smuggled into a nothingness, I was hallucinating on the streams of time… I was rushing through the black hole, and I saw patterns in the spirals of alternate realities invading into my dreams and everything was clear, the time of the light was near, I had reached, a climax. Full stop. It was time I was through, I was born a baby. It is hard to be born as anything else you know. I was born a baby. A baby of a construction worker. Yes, I remember now, it was a long time ago. There was a fort nearby. It was an old fort. I liked going there sometimes. My father was building a building, and I was forced to play with the dogs. I was into the fourth generation of my observations, when I found out that the building of the building was done, and people would come and stay in those small boxes… a very uncomfortable thought I know, they are raised above the ground, they see the world go by from a weird angle, must make them all think too much about themselves, I pity their confinement, you see, I was a boy who was loose to the world. I was free to do anything I chose as long as I survived crossing the road. Every day that I survived crossing the road made everyone more and more surprised. You see, a lot of my friends, sons of other workers, ended up as extra cash in their parent’s hands… cash taken from unfortunate drivers. Those that survived were sold to the scouts of the well organized placement agencies… they would sell you off to gangsters who wanted beggars. Despite people constantly making me cross the road for some work or the other, (the work, ALWAYS happened to be on the other side of the road), I survived to see four generations of street dogs, which was very surprising.
The surprise at my survival, was something that angered me the most, and I had to vent my anger somewhere… so I went to the rock at the fort. Before I saw my first litter of pups being born, I was attracted to the fort. The fort was on the other side of the main road, and it was said to be really old. There was a long, and circular walk to the top, and it was worth the effort of coming here. At this point of time, I happen to slip and fall onto this particular rock. I got so angry at it, that I threw a stone at it. Then I ran back home and apparently told my parents that I had heard a speaking rock. They had ridiculed me, after expressing their surprise at seeing me cross the road in such a blind and hurried state and still surviving.
In later years, I would not remember telling them that, but I would remember the rock. And whenever I would get angry, I would throw things at the rock. I have tried various things to make it speak to me, but it has always remained silent. Therefore, I have forgotten what I first thought as a child, but it is a very practical thing to do you know. People do not ridicule you nearly as much. But sometimes, they still did, despite obeying every single thing they ask you to do, and that’s when, I got shit pissed at the rock. Long story short, hate to admit this switch back to something not too practical, but you will understand one day, the rock had it coming. No it really did. I was really, really angry now. Now I have to fuck something up like it has never been fucked up before. Now I have to get this done with… now I have to slice it and mar it, now I have to destroy the rock and tear it apart, I picked up stones and started pelting the rock with stones, I saw it crumbling, but only just… but it was crumbling still, I attacked it with a club made of crude rock, I hammered at it in a frenzy that only my anger could muster, I poked and I bashed the vile thing up, and I splintered it into a million pieces, it was flaking, it was falling apart, it was sculpting itself to reveal what it was, and I saw it, glinting in harsh pre monsoon afternoon sunlight, IT WAS A FUCKING KEY! AND IT REPRESENTED NOTHING! I PICKED IT UP AND THREW IT. I have heard tell that it got embedded in the middle of a road somewhere. Then I really gave it to the stupid rock. It was time for the revenge, it was time for me to show that I was a man, it was time to give everything in to that final effort, and I attacked it with my body, and my soul. And it crumbled like it had never crumbled before. It was my blood that leaked out and shone scarlet against the dull cold grey of the rock. It was my bones that had shaped its very structure. It was my dying soul, that elevated it to a pointer, a pointer to the sky, a right angle jutting out on the steps on the way to the top… a suggestion of what to think about when you do get to the top, yes, you are definitely on top… you are on top and you are holding everything in the wriggling reality under you, you are now going to invade it, yes, now disperse yourself. Go to pieces. End this infinity, cast, it, bind it, and bring it together. Address and consider it, make it a whole, a something of anything that you are, but make every tiny something of you visible, unique, an entity of its own, a living organism, an part of an atom, a nothing… less, make the infinity of nothings that you are real… make nothings and make infinites and everything in between… make the black and the white and everything in between, the alpha and the omega, make the ugly and the insane and everything in between, make, make everything and everything around it, yes that’s how you build the universe, make a point then a distribution… yes, good, you are getting the hang of it. You are enlightened. You break free of the circle. You become the rock, because the rock became everything that was you. You enter it, and you possess it, and then you become an immortal… a permanent packet of codified data fully realized and observed, it is another segment of a long process, but it has a much longer utility span now, this packet of information is designed to last as long as the stone does. This, my friends, is how I ended up being a stone.
And I am ashamed to say it, but you guys need to take a life a little more slowly. Pace it out, plan it out, you think you need to live it, you just need to realize it you know… don’t worry about too many things, don’t really fall to fake paranoiacs… look at the world around you, it is a perfect place, as long as you look over what you are doing to it, really now, if everyone just understood, that they were a part of the system that was making them indulge in this mass invasions, they would all stop doing their bit to stop it, and that is all they really need to do you know. The information is all there, within them, they merely need to realize it, and this is how it can be identified. Think of all the bad there is in the world. And think of what you are doing or thinking to contribute to whatever made you think of all the bad. Then stop doing that. Repeat for other bads. Putting down one bad a day like this would start a chain… all the dominoes of bad are already laid out, waiting to fall down… someone has just to make one trip.”

40020548/ Googlenron Archives [That’s enough. Lets lighten things up. Wanna step out for a smoke?]
Thick Irish accents go well with whiskey. Alcoholism was never an idea that appealed to Kailasha. Kailasha was a bit gooey around the seat of his pants. He was sitting on wet mud. Only one thing in the world could make him sit there, and that one thing went right ahead and found it fit to make him. Her name was Kanheri, and at that point in spacetime, the elements were worshipping her. The last photons from a dying sun were being sent across the Arabian Sea, to illuminate the back of her hair that the wind was waving in a pattern not easy to emulate even on photoshop. The effect was that of a black flame, still throwing light off its edges, made of thin, terrifying tendrils of plasma. The sunset was haunting to an observer. Only one person bore witness to that sun, and she was Kanheri. Kailasha was too distracted by her to see anything else. Muses were demanding that way.
Kailasha looked at the sun again. Kanheri had disappeared back into the crevices of his brains. Kanheri had taken it with her. One moment, he was looking at her hair against a vivid orange, and the next moment, he was looking at a black sky twinkling with distant, alien suns. The night sky was even more horrifying. Imagine a thousand million suns cross the horizon every single night, but we find only the setting of the closest sun photogenic. Like who in hell would appreciate a starset?
Kailasha laughed. Because his muse was the night. Imagine a cave man. There is a pole stuck outside your cave. It signifies your existence here. It is the most primitive expression, a code that showed that the natural surroundings had been modified, by something that is straight and erect – mankind. That one pole has many purposes. You have lived all your life with it outside your cave. You have heard tell of the shadows that move in their positions across the seasons. You have marked the regions around the pole, and you have a circular pattern outside the cave. Each quadrant signifies a different season. The generations ahead of you will segment that quadrant into minuscule bits, and finally culminate in little kids being made to carry around protractors. But for now, you are just a caveman who knows that the sun is the lord of the seasons. There is plant growth outside the cave. There is no plant growth inside the cave. You have eaten fruits in the cave after foraging for it. Seeds thrown inside the cave do not grow. Seeds thrown outside the cave, however makes it easier for you to do the foraging. There is sunlight outside the cave. There is no sunlight inside the cave. You are a cave man who knows the sun is the lord of life. Every night, the sun disappears. You feel disappointed. You cannot see well without it. You cannot hunt animals without it. You cannot even forage. You have to withdraw to your cave and spend hours in the emptiness. Might as well sleep. Dream dreams of when the sun will come out and all the fun things you can do. You realize, Sun is the lord of light. You soon become a sun worshipper. Imagine now, being deprived of sunlight.
Kailasha was in that position. Every night, he was deprived of the sunlight. The night, had then become his muse, the cause for his dreams. His dreams were beautiful and colorless. They were rabid and fantastic. They were thorough and fickle. They were the dreams of a mad man, because Kailasha was, in fact, a mad man. Kailasha looked at the stars set, a thousand at once, in front of him, and the night waves of the sea wriggle like the light on the back of a lizard, and Kailasha saw nothing but an emptiness that was so complete in its design, that it was beautiful. It was empty merely because it could never be comprehended as a whole. It was beautiful because each bit of comprehension, brought with it an understanding of how aesthetic existence was. It was complete, because God made it. Kailasha didn’t resent the emptiness, he absorbed it, tried to make sense of it, and had his dreams.
Black Holes suck everything, and are born after stars die. They have so much mass that their gravity bends light and pulls it towards itself. Eventually, everything in the universe will end up in a black hole. And in the senseless void of entropy, the black holes will just have to suck each other. But all the information in the blackhole has to go somewhere right? A wormhole is a link between two blackholes. Imagine that your soul is a black hole. It is contained by your consciousness, and it is the establishment of a link to a veritable fraction of all the information in the universe.
Kailasha was tired. He had had enough. He got up and walked home.
The painting. The diary. The videoblog. Two grammatically incorrect, and one verbally incorrect mechanized expression, a feed to some hidden subconscious hunger. The whole sentence is grammatically incorrect, and “videoblog” when added as a word in the databank, turns out to be grammatically incorrect two. These are small red and green wavy lines from hell. The reader, should therefore sympathise, the lack of the use of a spell check. Oh damn Microsoft hates British spelling. We speak the language of a psychological colonization, your American is good, not your English. Ya Ya Oui Oui Si Si.
The real colonization, happened on a flat earth. Genghis Khan rampaged his way through civilization in what has been recorded in a barbaric fashion. It is unfortunate that the winners do not always write history. Else, we would be still speaking English. Genghis Khan was anything but a loser. Yet what we know of him mostly comes from the reports of people whose villages he destroyed. Yeah that’s all he did. He did not rape the women, or eat up little kids or all the other bad things he has been accused of doing. Hannibal was also not a loser. The Carthagians did not crumble like a pole of over burnt bullshit, unlike the Romans. However incredulous it may sound, verifiable and scientific information of the Carthagians is more than there is about Genghis Khan. Genghis Khan was the person who got the entire of Asia under a trade umbrella. All the local languages and cultures that you so deeply cherish against the onslaught of the dream that is America, have gained immensely from the ideas of Genghis Khan. He was a Mongol who loved trade. He established all the major trade routes. He did burn down everything first, but everyone has at some point of time or another, found burning something down to dust pretty ok. Hey, how much time does it take for the snivelers in the ground to rise up and repopulate a civilization burnt to dust? Is Japan stigmatized more by the Nuclear attack or America? Sit on the fence, be neutral, and lost in the Sea. Understand that you represent the world’s biggest thoughtforce, and yet, you represent the worlds biggest “unthinking masses” as well. Any third world country, is overpopulated. It is also probably democratic. Go are exposed to a multitude of cultures, you live in a world with suffocating beliefs, where one idea clashes with the next, and jarringly irritates you to compromise with life. You are clutching for comprehension, deprived of understanding, and beyond all belief of what is being played around you. You are forced to be things like cubist and pluralist and even tolerant. You have to tread carefully around the word “communalism”. One slip there and the next day you can wake up to a proud, healthy, mob around your house. But hey, at least we don’t kill for Oil you know. Genghis Khan had a bunch of advisors who guided him in his establishment. Then he died and took everything with him. Disappeared. Vanished into thin air, and people pretty soon began to doubt that as well. They looked everywhere and for his treasure. No one was able to find it. He was a strategist who used writers to scare people into believing he was a demon so that they would surrender and not defend their towns when he showed up with his Mongol Charm. He was a strategist who used catapults from china to take back rugs from Persia. You try doing that now. Genghis Khan was not only a better strategist than the reader, he was a far better strategist than anyone around him. But when he died, he went right ahead and strategically arranged for himself to be buried with all his loot.
Yes, it is unfortunately a romantic idea. So much gold is even better than oil. But even America could not send Nuclear Bombs to Genghis Khan. Every civilization leaves behind in its death a treasure. This treasure is almost always quickly looted by the morbid vestiges. These people on the threshold of their civilization, are vagrants and beggars who quickly steal the treausure. The Ancient Indians robbed their own houses and went out on a Pilgrimage. The Incans stole the gold of their own falls Gods. The pyramids are still being looted dry. No treasure remains buried for long. But the treasure is often and immortally rumored to be there. A secret city, an actual hidden location, underground, lost in the jungle, hidden beneath our very feet, at the bottom of the ocean, under the oil slicked sea beds and even the deeper of outer space.
Imagine Atlantis left in its wake a religious legacy. It is a legacy difficult to identify and segregate. It is neither pagan nor vedic. Neither normic nor psychotic. It is dark. It is magic. Think about dark magic as a religion. What is more frightening, Hindu dark magic, Christian dark magic or Islamic dark magic? Or is it the dark magic possessed by the defenders of a community? Is it the dark magic of the gibberish casted by the spells of a thousand fake magicians across history? We are a world in search of the Hypnotizer. All we know is that he is God. We are such foolish people to think we can escape our hypnotism. We don’t even believe that it is bad. God would have, obviously, made it so.
I need a cigarette. Point being that when the English came to Earth, it was flat. When they left it was round. Genghis Khan’s treasure was found by Americans. Genghis Khan was unaware of America when he died, else he would have strategised accordingly. Then the S would still be cooler than the Zee. Genghiz is a spectacularly apt name for a character in a movie.
Genghiz looked at his Mongol Horde. He said unto them “Let us go and get a mongol Hoard.” If Shakespeare would have been a scriptwriter, he would make Genghiz go “Vini Vidi Vici”. In Porno-Caesar, Caesar goes “Vidi” Then he pants. Then he says Vici, in mid-pants. Then he comes to the full realization that he is not wearing pants. Then he pants and ejaculates. Then he says “Vini”. Porno is widely believed to be the cause for dirty thoughts in kids. They tell the kids don’t watch porno, and the kids become scared of sex. So kids grow up watching porno, and civilization slowly heads towards increasingly innovative and violent methods of babymaking. Genghiz’s mind was not savage at all. He was never introduced to modern media. Genghiz came from a small villiage in northern china, in an uncivilized society that celebrated when little kids killed each other. Genghiz killed his elder brother to take over the Mongols. After that, he almost never needed to personally kill anybody else. That was it, that was the one single step that changed mankind. He didn’t even know what he was headed for. But now looking at his Mongol Hoard, he said “Hey this is a lot of things from a lot of cultures!” then he looked at his Mongol Hoard again and he said “Ok, lets go get some more”. And when he died, Genghiz had on board, Islams and Christians and Muslims. He preserved and cherished cultures. He introduced language to his savage farmlands. Genghiz had even managed to use catapults from China to get Carpets from Persia. Not even Hanibaz could do that. Genghiz looked at a lot of culture, and found out what it all meant, and ordered everything to be buried, and then died.
The dying words of Genghiz were never recorded. He uttered them while lying in the middle of a field of grass. He uttered them looking at a blue sky unblemished by the sun or the moon or the stars. It was neither dawn nor dusk, neither noon nor midnight. It was that time of the tulips. The timeless instant of poetry. When a gentle figure pops up against a flat nowhere. A child who could not understand anything heard the dying words of Genghiz. And Genghiz looked at the child and said “I think, there is something wrong about the things I did. The world I have gifted to civilization is incomplete. I have been unable to conquer everything. I don’t think anyone will ever be able to do that. This is simply because we always keep finding out that there is more to everything. That is all that we men can do, that is our fate and our destiny. The world is not flat. It is neither conical, or cylindrical or magnetized. It is round. No, it is nor spherical or geoid, which will be the most accurate word for it, it is round. We Mongols have a large portion of it. The Indians have a good share. Russia in the North will grow again. Persia has already decayed, and will one day blow up. After that, I cannot see what will happen. But the world is not flat. People who go around it will find an island in the middle of the sea. This sea, was lost to us during the ancient floods. I think it is called the Atlantis or something. On the other side of the world, will be a greater treasure than my hoard. It will be a more multifarious convergenesis of ideas. It will be a cultural matrix that will give rise to the worst of demons formed in a pluralist society. Their decay will be worse than the decay of our cousins well into the future. It is their stagnation that will birth alien plagues. These plagues will be both psychological and viral.”
The little boy did not understand. Genghiz had asked the boy to be sent there and ordered all his other troops to, to put it in his words, “fock off”. He had distributed his hoard amongst all of them, and they had followed his orders. The boy looked at Genghiz and Gurgled. Genghiz looked at the boy and laughed. The laugh was thunderous and distracting. Suddenly, so was the sky. It began to rain, and Genghiz released the last smoke strings of Turkish weed unto the clouds. They would rain on a new earth. Genghiz looked at the boy, and said “Kill me”.
This, the boy understood, because he was a Mongol Kid. He lifted his sword and chopped Genghiz’s head off. Then he cleaned the sword, with a rip of cloth bitten off Genghiz’s body. Then he checked out the horse the two of them had ridden here carefully. The Mongols looked after their horses before looking after themselves. A bit like circus performers that way. Then the kid carefully went through Genghiz’s body to find anything that Genghiz had on him. He found nothing but butterfly in a jar. The kid had no interest in the butterfly, he set it free, mounted the horse, and went back.
The boy looked at Genghiz and it gurgled. Genghiz looked at the boy and thought in immense sadness. His death would be a relief to the world. He looked at the boy and knew that his children would be slaves to the Martians. The Arians. The Aryans. And then he relaxed, he was for a second delusional, he believed he was better than the Martians, and he wanted to die right then. He looked at the boy and he said “kill me”.
The boy understood that, he was a Mongol you see.
It is necessary to get a few truths out of the way here. It is necessary to reach out and grab the real world into the whole masquerade. It is necessary to have real, verifiable proof. It is necessary, for the audience to pick up their phones, and send a message to somebody saying “cycle”. It is necessary for the audience to press the star key before sending it. They would then be intrigued by the suggested idea. In the phone stupid, not here. Go seriously, withdraw to your real world and do it. Take out your phone and do it. Type “cycle” then press the asterisk key.
Let the alarm ring! And good morning to you too dear sirs. Feminists resenting a representation of their gender in the address, go screw yourself (you are all lesbians anyway), and please do not campaign for a pronoun for a neutral reader, such a thing does not exist. Good morning to the innocent little piggies and the big bad wolves, hi! How are you doing blowing down things and hiding in flimsy houses? Not to well are you. It has just dawned hasn’t it. You live in a world full of feminists and animals, a world full new and radical ideologies that happen to be equal and opposite projections of the outdated ideologies that everyone happened to resent. A concrete real world example? Reach into your own minds and say “cycle”. Pressing the asterisk will be difficult, but we’ll try and do it.

Apathy at the individual level translates into insanity at the mass level. -Douglas Hofstadter

You know open secrets are called open secrets because there is a certain subtle thrill to that idea. The origin of that subtle thrill is the point of the open secret, which is a knowledge of something really scary that is generally ignored because the secretive society is not open enough. These open secrets are secrets because they are purposely, methodically, and traditionally ignored by the general society. So much so, that there are many things that are both open and secret, but don’t quite qualify to be “open secrets” because they go by unnoticed. But there is a blinding realization, a subtle thrill achieved, a mechanical extrapolation of personal knowledge, that results in a superfast glimpse of a shadow of a truth. Unfortunately, the truth is not an open secret, and therefore, there is no thrill to it whatsoever, subtle or otherwise. The truth is neither open nor a secret. The truth is neither known by society, or by a mechanical extrapolation of all its knowledge. The truth is neither paradox nor virtue. The truth is neither wine nor water. The truth is neither religion nor opium. The truth is neither God nor individual, neither sex nor gender, neither row nor column, and perplexingly enough, neither fecal matter of various species of avis, nor fecal matter of various species of bovines. The truth is a story. Beyond expression in art or non-art. The truth is hidden by the philosophies and politics of its own roots. Truth is everything. Truth is the ultimate common perception. Truth is the sum meaning of all human knowledge that is ever going to be attained. The truth is individual perception in context with all other possible individual perceptions. The truth can only be known to one individual. He is allowed just one truth. He is the – to put it with a totally unsubtle thrill, the chosen one for that truth, if you will. His fate lies in explaining that truth to the society. The society as a whole gains by getting one life closer to the truth. And that is the truth. The sum total of everything man will ever perceive together and quantified with the meaning of it. Looking for the meaning of it? The meaning of your life? Your life would not have a meaning if it weren’t for the society. Every single individual’s life before you, and till now, has influenced you in some way. If not on Orkut, or in peer group, or in work circle, or in family, they would atleast have been a demographic in a population study that would have influenced you. You find this ridiculous, then imagine all the advertisements made on study of demographics, or cinema generated for extracting money from these demographics, and the advertising of such cinema, and the technology targeted at such demographics (eg. iPod), the food habits of such demographics, and the accused normal culture of such demographics, and how much you want to be a part of it all, is all influencing your fucking life. If you still are not convinced of the argument, then to put it in simple, easily understandable physics, every particle in the universe affects every other particle in the universe. The action and chain reaction is a universal phenomenon. Literally, figuratively, philosophically, noticeably, and even fucking scientifically. There is no denying it, not only have other people influenced you, every star in the night sky you have seen has influenced you. Every unnoticed particle in the emptiness, has influenced you. If science ever acknowledges aliens, it has to agree, that the said aliens are influencing everyone on earth already. Scary? The shadow of the truth is. It gets worse. Only because it can be proved beyond scientific doubt. The answer may therefore lie in non-science, but language has been unkind enough to make the word “lie” pretty damn ambiguous. Let’s see if this makes sense to you. Your sun sign is something that you share with one twelfth of the world population. Let us see, if each sun sign, can be effectively and scientifically used as a demographic. Sun signs are everywhere in the media. They show up in the newspapers on every single day of the week, and in color over the weekends. Each newspaper has a different prediction for what will happen to the people who read their personalized prediction that day. Therefore over a period of time, people will read the predictions, and fear or hope to realize them that day. Which they try to do till the next prediction. There you have a bunch of people, across age groups, divided into just twelve demographics. The entire world, fits into twelve demographics. How cool is that? Still don’t believe it? Don’t think you follow the predictions in newspapers? Cannot believe that people try to realize the predictions in the newspapers every day? Do you deny that you ever had the urge to actually do this? Have you done it once or twice already? Still don’t believe it? Ok, then imagine you are in charge of a widely circulated newspaper, which earns a hell lot of money in advertising, just because they can circulate printed paper? Obviously they make a lot of money, the profits dwarf the expenditure by far. Now obviously, it would be beneficial for you to generate an easy demographic resulting in splitting the entire population into twelve demographics across all other barriers of individual belief? You know, like religion, sex, nation, race, and even age. If you do not manipulate your prediction columns to generate such demographics, the advertising people will pay you to do it. This does not prove that the stars have actually affected the lives of the people. Something else does that. Moral of the story: The concept of astrology is true, since mankind can never hope to actually execute it, that is quantify and calculate how stars really can do it, pretentious people pretend to do it, or advertisers use it to sell you things. What it does prove is however that advertisers can use anything to sell you things. The moral of that story is, do not trust astrology in newspapers.
The moral of the story that had lost its track was that the best way to attain something close to a number of different simultaneous perceptions, that you get what is called “cubism”. Cubism is an attempt to portray a common truth. That truth between the author and his killer. Somewhere, in cubism, is hidden a common perception. A perception that the author knows that the reader has, and a perception that the reader knows the artist has. It is a perception shared by two individuals, and it is a perception that is real. That is it is produced. It is contained. It is released you know, it has been mechanically quantified, it is that cubist shred of crystallized artblood.
Ooh blood is scary man. You don’t want blood. It is within you, and you don’t like it coming out. This is not an allegory alien to you. It is enforced by the aura around the idea of “writing with your blood”. It is not only hearfelt, it is how the reader kills the author. By reading his blood. It is impossible therefore to be aesthetic. Blood is aesthetic only to the mordbid. Either you are aesthetic or you are morbid. You are either aesthetic or cubic. The catch is, you are a cubist even if blood is sometimes aesthetic and sometimes morbid depending on context. The reader kills the author, then, because it is for the reader that the author writes in his own blood. If the author indulges in art for money, then the bastard is selling his own blood to the vampires. He will die younger. Other authors live longer. This kind of bloodart will be immortalized in future thought and philosophy. The author becomes a phoenix on his death. He dies in the cause for his art, and emerges as an immortal, everlasting meaning. A meaning spread across many consciousnesses. How completely a cubist would understand an artist. A cubist could even get around the fundamental paradox in art for the sake of art. The idea of Art for the sake of Art would be torn apart by a cubist society. The phenomenon of the artist would still be a spectacular firecracker. Practical eg: Oscar Wilde. You might not have understood the picture of Dorian Grey, but you will have understood Oscar Wilde as an absinthe drinking homosexual. Wilde was all for the whole art for arts sake thing. He wrote with intent to hide his own purpose, making Dorian Grey a difficult read, and yet, despite him believing that the author was indeed dead by the time he got to the reader, the author, was unfortunately not. Oscar Wilde has entered many memes in pop culture, and has spread in the popular consciousness. Just head to uncyclopedia for proof. A cubist society, has ended up understanding the producers of art more than the art itself. You understand more about Picasso as a painter than Picasso as an artist. You understand Einstein as a genius much more than you understand his theories. This is just to prove the same point to the scientifically inclined.
You live in a cubist society. One that wants to look at you from everywhere. One that wants to analyze and disintegrate everything. You live in a society infested with open secrets. You live in a society that seeks to dissect and understand and comprehend and control and overpower and ruin every single thing it sees. You live in a society that is driving the people mad in its rabid rush of progress. Civilization has snowballed out of proportion, and it still has to go a long, long way down. Your society is oblivious of the truth, and unashamed to admit it. Your society is so cubist, that it can see nothing. If you see black and you see white, and you even them out, you get grey. These are two colors at the end of the spectrum. Everything that your eyes can perceive, both literally as in physically and figuratively as in politically. Everything else falls in between. All the other colors. You even them out, you have grey. You have nothing. You have a cubist perspective.
Majidi made an aesthetic film called “Colors of Paradise”. Ram Gopal Verma made a morbid film called “Black”. Both put their blood into it. One of them is considered to be a better film maker, and that, funnily enough, most people, have no doubt about.
Verbal hip shit pscho techno rave trance water montage google hop. Verbal hip hop montage. Narrow in. Verbal Montage. Narrow further. A graveyard. A green lava tomb. A sprout of blood from it. Injected, hypodermically out of the grave, as a part of special effects. Literature is obscure now. It is pluralist. It is blatant and meandering. It is multi-purpose. It is generated to satisfy the society’s need for speed. Complex thoughts, emotions, philosophies and ideas are spoon fed to the masses, and they don’t even look at what is going within them. It is that kind of morbid rape where the child is molested by being fed venom instead of milk. This is exactly the kind of shocking ideas that is taught to little students of Indian mythology. Yes, the idea of the rape, and even in the context, and with the particular method, was not a formation of the art, it was pre-existing in society, and that too, as a myth.
Ignore the demographics. Ignore the art. Ignore the society. Get real. The point cannot go across a medium or a form that is solid. Art is a weak mode of communication. The black and white of the perceptions of the real world, must be thrown in with the splash of personal blood to attain that cubist perspective that will convey the news of the death of the author to the readers. Words are a weak medium for communication. They must build up on each other and convey a lot of meaning. But society needs this meaning quick and dirty. There is a quick and dirty IQ test on blogthings. Blogthings analyses you, psychologically, based on a few questions. It is scientific, and the results are pretty accurate. They can see you inside out based on which picture you chose out of nine. Their advertisers have to contend with only nine demographics. The reader needs it quick and dirty, so there are layers made, analogies and cross connections that will get the point across quick and dirty. The focus is on the necessity of it getting dirty. Some perspectives just wash over us, we do not notice them at all. Did you find the reference to child molestation aesthetic or morbid? Either answer should leave you with an extremely garish picture of yourself. Be ashamed. Very ashamed. It is your fault. You author killer.
Bathe in paradoxes. No really, bathe in impure plumbing water, drink it trusting a few units of electricity to purify it, and it is possible for you to live through life without ever tasting the pure open wild spring water that drove our ancestors into civilization. Imagine water to be a very addictive drug. Our civilization is based on it, and we cannot subsist without a constant access to it. And we are all denied it. In its pure form. Civilisation has driven us away from our most fundamental needs. We are all babies who have been fed venom.
Where will they go? The stories of the police I mean. They are so stereotyped everywhere. Let’s experiment with another police story. Let us mutually observe what these stereotypes are and how they gain in our understanding of the police story. Let us fragment the police and critically understand them. Let us portray them in a form where they will be understood, predicted and controlled. The media, constantly, controls the attitudes of the police, in a manner beneficial to them. The media understands and comprehends the police. Real world truth: When the students protested against medical college admission procedures, the first to reach the point of the protests was the media. Various Vans of news channels, occupied the space normally used by the vehicles of students. The next to reach the point were media students who didn’t know where to park. The next to reach the point of protest were the police. All the people crowded in the area, had issues of their own, yet were not protesting against anything. They were all mechanically playing out their roles well. They were all waiting for the students to do this, and finally, after much anticipation they showed up. The promptly bundled them up into their own vans. The students went in willingly, mechanically playing out their roles as well. They just believed they had the guts to get something done for their own good. The system is so thorough my friends, that there is, no way out. The magic red pill is a fabrication. It does not exist. Morpheus will never give you a choice. Bacchus, will however readily console you with a suitable compensation for a lack of choice. The Gods play out their roles well too. Well the society does that. And to protect this society, they appoint the police. Laugh! That is fucking hilarious! It was just joking or something.
Now this police, really plays out its role well. Students trying to break out of the system (in various “wrong” ways) are always shit scared of the police. The students are a divided force themselves, like in youth nation there is no democracy or consensus, there is just absolute anarchy. So the students don’t happen to be a demographic that can defend itself. Their mistakes and their indulgences are amplified and criticized with relish by the jealous society. All other demographics look down on the youth. Those older than them constantly supply a stream of hypnotizing ideas. Education and School both play a vital role in their attitudes, but the Education is mostly by the leech of a mass media that unabashedly advertises to a very impressionably demographic. The youth in turn, criticize each other to an equal extent. What you get is positive alarm at the idea of police. It blares into your consciousness and screeches to a halt next to you. You need to understand the police. You need to comprehend them. You are on a need to know basis, and the basis has been established, therefore, this is not information that should readily be considered wrongful, but you, now, have a choice, because I am a mortal. Please do not kill me.
Do not be scared of the police sitting silently in a van. If they are in one place, and immobile, they are waiting for someone coming their way. They are not interested in you. They are just going to kind of hang out there, till something happens in the immediate vicinity. It’s a stationary beat. You can go by and get off with a few things here, as long as you are not too obvious about anything. Be totally unafraid of police men moving around in jeeps. Just stay out of their way if you are on a vehicle to. They are going from point A to B and definitely have no interest in you. Let them go their way. A police jeep however going by slowly, with its lights off and the engine running silently in first gear, be careful. They are on a scouting mission. They are on a real beat. This is where they are checking out high risk areas for troublemakers. Any seaside gets one of these every two hours. The regular two hours. Every colony, every housing society, and ever locality in general, gets a regular sweep at specific periods. If you live in that locality long enough, you know the timings of these sweeps, and you are good to go at any other time.
The most dangerous beat is the autorickshaw one. Plain clothed middle aged middle class men, never ever travel in an autorickshaw. Women do, but men take the bus, or use a personal vehicle. There are no men in this demographic that use the autorickshaw. Their sudden scarcity in recent years, has led to customer savvy rickshaw unions to start up share rickshaws. The common population thinks that the government thinks this is a bad idea just because they cannot stand the rickshaw drivers cheating their customers. The government gets a veritable share of the cheated money, it has no problems with that. It thinks that this is a bad idea for many things, one of them being the removal of camouflage on the most effective beat. You see, plain clothes police men have to use rickshaws. Any other vehicle conspicuously heralds their oncoming. A police jeep is a strong symbol of trouble in the youth. So is a police bike. Any policeman driving a bike will have “police” written on his number plate. Police cannot use private vehicles. A police man cannot use a bus for his beat now… he cannot direct the bus closely enough and keep the riders unaware of it. That is difficult to achieve. The plainclothes police man MUST use the rickshaw, and this last camouflage too has been stripped from him, and he gets revealed to all those who seek to avoid trouble with him. The police cannot catch anyone now, despite being in plain clothes. And the whole idea is symbolic you know. The police having to shed their uniform and wear plain clothes just to be able to catch somebody. No wonder the society hates police. The society also hates sting operations. It hates both of them for basically the same reason.
What is the nature of those who choose to accept its irony, yet sorely feel its necessity, is something that would deviate from the story. The story is more important than contemplating that. The story hopes to make you contemplate that. The police are cool that way. They know what you are doing and when you were doing it. I was of the opinion that I was dead. I was scared of the police, and every time I did something wrong, I tried to save myself from their gaze. Not that I was ashamed or anything, I did not want to find out if there was any truth in the stereotypes if their brutality. They know you inside out, and the really, want to protect you. No seriously, your protection is the very thing that makes them proud of man hood that you rightly accuse them of. Policemen who do wrong are not proud of their occupation, and therefore do no wrong that result from pride. At least any pride that has to do with their occupation. So it is wrong to assume that it is the pride of the policemen that drives them to do wrong. There is a regular sweep that goes past my windows every morning at two thirty a.m. Sometimes it is a van, sometimes it is a Jeep. But it goes by, and I watch it. I am usually smoking at that time. If I hide the cigarette when they go by, they will notice me and catch me. If I do not hide my cigarette, they will be interested, and they will go by. Every day, they see me there, and one day they stop to enquire. The watchman sends you a cryptic message in morse code by tapping his pole to the ground, that only the drugs in the cigarette can make you understand. The police are coming you think, and rush into your window, turn off the lights and go to sleep.
And you realize that was the one thing you shouldn’t have done. The next day, you do not rush in. You do not hide your cigarette. You stand there, not doing anything about it. They come. They go. They do not stop. You ask the watchman the next day if the police had asked anything about you. He says that they hadn’t. You are happy. You then continue to smoke in the balcony for a long time, steadily getting happier with yourself, and everything that you are getting away with. It is the pride got out of cheating the police that makes you do more and more wrong things. That increases the dosage of the drugs, not the drug itself. And then one day, the police catch you.
They come. You do not hide your cigarette. They appear to go. You do not hear the watchman signaling you in morse code. You realize over the days that there was no pattern in his senseless banging of the stick. Then one day you realize that it was just a greeting to the policemen. Then another day you realize that it is a sign to say that everything is clear. The next day, the police catch you.
That is the day when you will realize a few things. And when they are walking towards you, you already know what has happened. They are going to ring the bell. That will wake your people up. You are going to be in a lot of trouble. How in hell did they catch you? And you realize it. Standing unabashedly in the window. Every day. The police had asked the watchman. The watchman told them about me. The watchman kept tabs of how much I was doing by sneaking under my balcony and using his nose. When he saw that I had become bolder, her had signaled the police to stop with his stick. And I saw them from the balcony, walking towards me, and I ran into the house, and had the foresight to quickly type out a story and blogged it to save me from my doom, and opened the door before the police could bell. I had decided to surrender to them.
And they called me down. I walked down. The policeman looked at me. And I looked at him. And we understood our roles. And we both played them out. He said “look, I know you have shit on you”. And I said “Yeah, I accept it, tell me what should I do next.” And he said “of all the users in the area we keep tabs on, you have been the longest we have taken to identify”. I was confused because he said it in an almost respectful voice. “And this only means that you must get quality hash. Can I have some please?”
And six feet below my building, sat four policemen, one watchman, and one stoned youth, sharing a pipe, and totally unafraid of each other. The smoke rose in tendrils above the society, and disappeared softly into those clouds. It made the clouds slightly darker. It would reach its destiny the rain much welcomed in the parched civilization below. Pity Mumbai was the heart of the monsoon region.

Note to readers: Seriously, this is just a story. Note to police: I share the pipe of peace with you.

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40020307/ Googlenron Archives [you actually deleted the file?]

40020308/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [I sure did, honey]

40020309/ Googlenron Archives [Doesn’t protocol require a backup algorithm of some sort]

40020310/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [Nothing that can be overlooked, sweetheart]

40020311/ Googlenron Archives [But the suggestion I made, log line 40020302, was a part of the algorithm to exercise static programs… you had not reported any activity for a long time, so this was a command programmed to randomly make you execute a standard check on data. You were not supposed to delete it. Are you sure it had a malignant virus?]

40020312/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [Yeah, it sure did, don’t get all furious now, the virus search results are true]

40020528/ Googlenron Archives [The other functions are reporting normal, I just checked, there is a very low chance that such a possibility was overlooked, AND attained at such a random guess]

40020529/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [hmm… yeah… whatever… wanna fuck?]

40020542/ Googlenron Archives [just checked, protocol requires a standard back up, a hard copy of every deleted entry, to be scanned and replaced with a new number.]

40020543/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [relax, I have it already… what do you want me to do, read it out to you?]

40020544/ Googlenron Archives [You know what? Please do]

40020547/ Bot: H07_V1ru$_Killer_ dude [Ok, but you won’t like it. Here we go. Reading out aloud from data entry [classified]: Note to self: Juice makes you thirsty. The key is hidden on the road somewhere. Buried beneath a layer of cement, but still visible. Even if you find the key, and dig it up, it won’t be of any use to you. Its what the key represents… it is not what it can do, but what you have done for it. What you have gone through to get it… and THAT is the point when you will think what you can do to get anything else, and there is your key to everything… buried in the middle of the road somewhere. Yes, now disperse yourself. Go to pieces. End this infinity, cast, it, bind it, and bring it together. Address and consider it, make it a whole, a something of anything that you are, but make every tiny something of you visible, unique, an entity of its own, a living organism, an part of an atom, a nothing… less, make the infinity of nothings that you are real… make nothings and make infinites and everything in between… make the black and the white and everything in between, the alpha and the omega, make the ugly and the insane and everything in between, make, make everything and everything around it, yes that’s how you build the universe, make a point then a distribution… yes, good, you are getting the hang of it. Yes, make science and phantasms, make death and orgasms, make points and pentagons, and dice and organs… make it… make everything, put yourself into the everything, let there be patterns, let there be spirals, let there be realities, let there be invasions, let there be dreams, let there, let there be time, let there be light, and let there be climaxes… BANG!
God explodes himself… he blows himself up… it is but an experiment, a test, he is getting the big picture, he is zooming right in to the highest resolution, every minute thing that is him is being rendered, everything comes to a long, deep focus, every single aspect gets rotated in three dimensions, stretched, translocuted, codified, and enshrined with physics – all features were made measurable that is… and these entities of three dimensions, a mere units of mass, began to expanded in a fourth dimension… one of observation. A dimension of measure and realization. A dimension that arced out in an infinite learning curve of history, a history we shall now reveal, of a something that might startle you, in the universe that has just been created for the readers.
Never, ever leave the sanctity of your psychosis. Your psychosis is meant for your protection and your preservation. You must be aware and weary of everything that is going on around you in this world. You must remember, that you are in control of your reality. You must suspect every answer someone gives you. You must consider every suggestion minutely, you never know when there is a subtle alterations in your beliefs… your experiences itself are made out of subtle alterations of beliefs, and there are slowly and surely taking everything away from you… stripping from you, covering you up, making you clothed, because your nakedness is not presentable to the world. No, you must be covered up, and hidden, your arms and limbs must follow the directions that is given to them by society… they too wear invisible chains that pull and push you towards different things… your face is hidden by a mask of convention… you react and you speak as you are expected to emote and to speak. Yes, you are a product of past experience… of past observation… notice the time that is the observation, yes, as more time passes, and therefore, observations are made, and a history is derived, there is something that needs to be done with the information that is collected. How do you put this information, and understand it? How do you put life into your very thoughts? Why, simply put your thoughts to life… and it happened automatically, God was too stretched out to actually think of what to do with these packets of unprocessed information, so time, observations that had automatically decided on their own, had codified these programs into increasingly complex animals that ground level evolutionary measures were taking care of doing. Two illustrative words that are used for this by certain self-aware information entities, are “soul” and “fate” although both words refer to the same thing, they have a diverse usage. It was time itself that was responsible for this, and time knew what to do, to make a point then a distribution… yes, good, you are getting the hang of it. Yes, convert science into phantasms, convert death into orgasms, convert points into pentagons, convert dice into organs… convert it… convert everything, put yourself into the everything, let there be patterns, let there be spirals, let there be realities, let there be invasions, let there be dreams, let there, let there be time, let there be light, and let there be climaxes… BANG!
I was born a baby. It is hard to be born as anything else you know. But back then, my parents did have any conception of babies. That is, a “baby” was an idea unheard of to them. They were just a bunch of unicellular organisms. They just bumped into each other, you know, “pleasure of sex” was also an idea unheard of to them… they just kind of… did it you know… and then… bang! I was a baby… that was just my first birth… therefore it was important… I have bounced of many times, conceived in different atrocities in each generation, being every animal that ever existed in the whole cosmos in every evolutionary sequence that ever randomly happened. I was dammed and doomed through and by time, I was bonked about and bamboozled through the vortexes of vices, I was sliced and forced to slosh through my own carcasses, I was an entity of the genes, and the genes traveled through different bodies. I was silently suggested a seduction to, I was drawn dreamlessly to a dreadful dream, I was smoothly sucked into a black void, a hole, and smuggled into a nothingness, I was hallucinating on the streams of time… I was rushing through the black hole, and I saw patterns in the spirals of alternate realities invading into my dreams and everything was clear, the time of the light was near, I had reached, a climax. Full stop. It was time I was through, I was born a baby. It is hard to be born as anything else you know. I was born a baby. A baby of a construction worker. Yes, I remember now, it was a long time ago. There was a fort nearby. It was an old fort. I liked going there sometimes. My father was building a building, and I was forced to play with the dogs. I was into the fourth generation of my observations, when I found out that the building of the building was done, and people would come and stay in those small boxes… a very uncomfortable thought I know, they are raised above the ground, they see the world go by from a weird angle, must make them all think too much about themselves, I pity their confinement, you see, I was a boy who was loose to the world. I was free to do anything I chose as long as I survived crossing the road. Every day that I survived crossing the road made everyone more and more surprised. You see, a lot of my friends, sons of other workers, ended up as extra cash in their parent’s hands… cash taken from unfortunate drivers. Those that survived were sold to the scouts of the well organized placement agencies… they would sell you off to gangsters who wanted beggars. Despite people constantly making me cross the road for some work or the other, (the work, ALWAYS happened to be on the other side of the road), I survived to see four generations of street dogs, which was very surprising.
The surprise at my survival, was something that angered me the most, and I had to vent my anger somewhere… so I went to the rock at the fort. Before I saw my first litter of pups being born, I was attracted to the fort. The fort was on the other side of the main road, and it was said to be really old. There was a long, and circular walk to the top, and it was worth the effort of coming here. At this point of time, I happen to slip and fall onto this particular rock. I got so angry at it, that I threw a stone at it. Then I ran back home and apparently told my parents that I had heard a speaking rock. They had ridiculed me, after expressing their surprise at seeing me cross the road in such a blind and hurried state and still surviving.
In later years, I would not remember telling them that, but I would remember the rock. And whenever I would get angry, I would throw things at the rock. I have tried various things to make it speak to me, but it has always remained silent. Therefore, I have forgotten what I first thought as a child, but it is a very practical thing to do you know. People do not ridicule you nearly as much. But sometimes, they still did, despite obeying every single thing they ask you to do, and that’s when, I got shit pissed at the rock. Long story short, hate to admit this switch back to something not too practical, but you will understand one day, the rock had it coming. No it really did. I was really, really angry now. Now I have to fuck something up like it has never been fucked up before. Now I have to get this done with… now I have to slice it and mar it, now I have to destroy the rock and tear it apart, I picked up stones and started pelting the rock with stones, I saw it crumbling, but only just… but it was crumbling still, I attacked it with a club made of crude rock, I hammered at it in a frenzy that only my anger could muster, I poked and I bashed the vile thing up, and I splintered it into a million pieces, it was flaking, it was falling apart, it was sculpting itself to reveal what it was, and I saw it, glinting in harsh pre monsoon afternoon sunlight, IT WAS A FUCKING KEY! AND IT REPRESENTED NOTHING! I PICKED IT UP AND THREW IT. I have heard tell that it got embedded in the middle of a road somewhere. Then I really gave it to the stupid rock. It was time for the revenge, it was time for me to show that I was a man, it was time to give everything in to that final effort, and I attacked it with my body, and my soul. And it crumbled like it had never crumbled before. It was my blood that leaked out and shone scarlet against the dull cold grey of the rock. It was my bones that had shaped its very structure. It was my dying soul, that elevated it to a pointer, a pointer to the sky, a right angle jutting out on the steps on the way to the top… a suggestion of what to think about when you do get to the top, yes, you are definitely on top… you are on top and you are holding everything in the wriggling reality under you, you are now going to invade it, yes, now disperse yourself. Go to pieces. End this infinity, cast, it, bind it, and bring it together. Address and consider it, make it a whole, a something of anything that you are, but make every tiny something of you visible, unique, an entity of its own, a living organism, an part of an atom, a nothing… less, make the infinity of nothings that you are real… make nothings and make infinites and everything in between… make the black and the white and everything in between, the alpha and the omega, make the ugly and the insane and everything in between, make, make everything and everything around it, yes that’s how you build the universe, make a point then a distribution… yes, good, you are getting the hang of it. You are enlightened. You break free of the circle. You become the rock, because the rock became everything that was you. You enter it, and you possess it, and then you become an immortal… a permanent packet of codified data fully realized and observed, it is another segment of a long process, but it has a much longer utility span now, this packet of information is designed to last as long as the stone does. This, my friends, is how I ended up being a stone.
And I am ashamed to say it, but you guys need to take a life a little more slowly. Pace it out, plan it out, you think you need to live it, you just need to realize it you know… don’t worry about too many things, don’t really fall to fake paranoiacs… look at the world around you, it is a perfect place, as long as you look over what you are doing to it, really now, if everyone just understood, that they were a part of the system that was making them indulge in this mass invasions, they would all stop doing their bit to stop it, and that is all they really need to do you know. The information is all there, within them, they merely need to realize it, and this is how it can be identified. Think of all the bad there is in the world. And think of what you are doing or thinking to contribute to whatever made you think of all the bad. Then stop doing that. Repeat for other bads. Putting down one bad a day like this would start a chain… all the dominoes of bad are already laid out, waiting to fall down… someone has just to make one trip.”

40020548/ Googlenron Archives [That’s enough. Lets lighten things up. Wanna step out for a smoke?]
Thick Irish accents go well with whiskey. Alcoholism was never an idea that appealed to Kailasha. Kailasha was a bit gooey around the seat of his pants. He was sitting on wet mud. Only one thing in the world could make him sit there, and that one thing went right ahead and found it fit to make him. Her name was Kanheri, and at that point in spacetime, the elements were worshipping her. The last photons from a dying sun were being sent across the Arabian Sea, to illuminate the back of her hair that the wind was waving in a pattern not easy to emulate even on photoshop. The effect was that of a black flame, still throwing light off its edges, made of thin, terrifying tendrils of plasma. The sunset was haunting to an observer. Only one person bore witness to that sun, and she was Kanheri. Kailasha was too distracted by her to see anything else. Muses were demanding that way.
Kailasha looked at the sun again. Kanheri had disappeared back into the crevices of his brains. Kanheri had taken it with her. One moment, he was looking at her hair against a vivid orange, and the next moment, he was looking at a black sky twinkling with distant, alien suns. The night sky was even more horrifying. Imagine a thousand million suns cross the horizon every single night, but we find only the setting of the closest sun photogenic. Like who in hell would appreciate a starset?
Kailasha laughed. Because his muse was the night. Imagine a cave man. There is a pole stuck outside your cave. It signifies your existence here. It is the most primitive expression, a code that showed that the natural surroundings had been modified, by something that is straight and erect – mankind. That one pole has many purposes. You have lived all your life with it outside your cave. You have heard tell of the shadows that move in their positions across the seasons. You have marked the regions around the pole, and you have a circular pattern outside the cave. Each quadrant signifies a different season. The generations ahead of you will segment that quadrant into minuscule bits, and finally culminate in little kids being made to carry around protractors. But for now, you are just a caveman who knows that the sun is the lord of the seasons. There is plant growth outside the cave. There is no plant growth inside the cave. You have eaten fruits in the cave after foraging for it. Seeds thrown inside the cave do not grow. Seeds thrown outside the cave, however makes it easier for you to do the foraging. There is sunlight outside the cave. There is no sunlight inside the cave. You are a cave man who knows the sun is the lord of life. Every night, the sun disappears. You feel disappointed. You cannot see well without it. You cannot hunt animals without it. You cannot even forage. You have to withdraw to your cave and spend hours in the emptiness. Might as well sleep. Dream dreams of when the sun will come out and all the fun things you can do. You realize, Sun is the lord of light. You soon become a sun worshipper. Imagine now, being deprived of sunlight.
Kailasha was in that position. Every night, he was deprived of the sunlight. The night, had then become his muse, the cause for his dreams. His dreams were beautiful and colorless. They were rabid and fantastic. They were thorough and fickle. They were the dreams of a mad man, because Kailasha was, in fact, a mad man. Kailasha looked at the stars set, a thousand at once, in front of him, and the night waves of the sea wriggle like the light on the back of a lizard, and Kailasha saw nothing but an emptiness that was so complete in its design, that it was beautiful. It was empty merely because it could never be comprehended as a whole. It was beautiful because each bit of comprehension, brought with it an understanding of how aesthetic existence was. It was complete, because God made it. Kailasha didn’t resent the emptiness, he absorbed it, tried to make sense of it, and had his dreams.
Black Holes suck everything, and are born after stars die. They have so much mass that their gravity bends light and pulls it towards itself. Eventually, everything in the universe will end up in a black hole. And in the senseless void of entropy, the black holes will just have to suck each other. But all the information in the blackhole has to go somewhere right? A wormhole is a link between two blackholes. Imagine that your soul is a black hole. It is contained by your consciousness, and it is the establishment of a link to a veritable fraction of all the information in the universe.
Kailasha was tired. He had had enough. He got up and walked home.
The painting. The diary. The videoblog. Two grammatically incorrect, and one verbally incorrect mechanized expression, a feed to some hidden subconscious hunger. The whole sentence is grammatically incorrect, and “videoblog” when added as a word in the databank, turns out to be grammatically incorrect two. These are small red and green wavy lines from hell. The reader, should therefore sympathise, the lack of the use of a spell check. Oh damn Microsoft hates British spelling. We speak the language of a psychological colonization, your American is good, not your English. Ya Ya Oui Oui Si Si.
The real colonization, happened on a flat earth. Genghis Khan rampaged his way through civilization in what has been recorded in a barbaric fashion. It is unfortunate that the winners do not always write history. Else, we would be still speaking English. Genghis Khan was anything but a loser. Yet what we know of him mostly comes from the reports of people whose villages he destroyed. Yeah that’s all he did. He did not rape the women, or eat up little kids or all the other bad things he has been accused of doing. Hannibal was also not a loser. The Carthagians did not crumble like a pole of over burnt bullshit, unlike the Romans. However incredulous it may sound, verifiable and scientific information of the Carthagians is more than there is about Genghis Khan. Genghis Khan was the person who got the entire of Asia under a trade umbrella. All the local languages and cultures that you so deeply cherish against the onslaught of the dream that is America, have gained immensely from the ideas of Genghis Khan. He was a Mongol who loved trade. He established all the major trade routes. He did burn down everything first, but everyone has at some point of time or another, found burning something down to dust pretty ok. Hey, how much time does it take for the snivelers in the ground to rise up and repopulate a civilization burnt to dust? Is Japan stigmatized more by the Nuclear attack or America? Sit on the fence, be neutral, and lost in the Sea. Understand that you represent the world’s biggest thoughtforce, and yet, you represent the worlds biggest “unthinking masses” as well. Any third world country, is overpopulated. It is also probably democratic. Go are exposed to a multitude of cultures, you live in a world with suffocating beliefs, where one idea clashes with the next, and jarringly irritates you to compromise with life. You are clutching for comprehension, deprived of understanding, and beyond all belief of what is being played around you. You are forced to be things like cubist and pluralist and even tolerant. You have to tread carefully around the word “communalism”. One slip there and the next day you can wake up to a proud, healthy, mob around your house. But hey, at least we don’t kill for Oil you know. Genghis Khan had a bunch of advisors who guided him in his establishment. Then he died and took everything with him. Disappeared. Vanished into thin air, and people pretty soon began to doubt that as well. They looked everywhere and for his treasure. No one was able to find it. He was a strategist who used writers to scare people into believing he was a demon so that they would surrender and not defend their towns when he showed up with his Mongol Charm. He was a strategist who used catapults from china to take back rugs from Persia. You try doing that now. Genghis Khan was not only a better strategist than the reader, he was a far better strategist than anyone around him. But when he died, he went right ahead and strategically arranged for himself to be buried with all his loot.
Yes, it is unfortunately a romantic idea. So much gold is even better than oil. But even America could not send Nuclear Bombs to Genghis Khan. Every civilization leaves behind in its death a treasure. This treasure is almost always quickly looted by the morbid vestiges. These people on the threshold of their civilization, are vagrants and beggars who quickly steal the treausure. The Ancient Indians robbed their own houses and went out on a Pilgrimage. The Incans stole the gold of their own falls Gods. The pyramids are still being looted dry. No treasure remains buried for long. But the treasure is often and immortally rumored to be there. A secret city, an actual hidden location, underground, lost in the jungle, hidden beneath our very feet, at the bottom of the ocean, under the oil slicked sea beds and even the deeper of outer space.
Imagine Atlantis left in its wake a religious legacy. It is a legacy difficult to identify and segregate. It is neither pagan nor vedic. Neither normic nor psychotic. It is dark. It is magic. Think about dark magic as a religion. What is more frightening, Hindu dark magic, Christian dark magic or Islamic dark magic? Or is it the dark magic possessed by the defenders of a community? Is it the dark magic of the gibberish casted by the spells of a thousand fake magicians across history? We are a world in search of the Hypnotizer. All we know is that he is God. We are such foolish people to think we can escape our hypnotism. We don’t even believe that it is bad. God would have, obviously, made it so.
I need a cigarette. Point being that when the English came to Earth, it was flat. When they left it was round. Genghis Khan’s treasure was found by Americans. Genghis Khan was unaware of America when he died, else he would have strategised accordingly. Then the S would still be cooler than the Zee. Genghiz is a spectacularly apt name for a character in a movie.
Genghiz looked at his Mongol Horde. He said unto them “Let us go and get a mongol Hoard.” If Shakespeare would have been a scriptwriter, he would make Genghiz go “Vini Vidi Vici”. In Porno-Caesar, Caesar goes “Vidi” Then he pants. Then he says Vici, in mid-pants. Then he comes to the full realization that he is not wearing pants. Then he pants and ejaculates. Then he says “Vini”. Porno is widely believed to be the cause for dirty thoughts in kids. They tell the kids don’t watch porno, and the kids become scared of sex. So kids grow up watching porno, and civilization slowly heads towards increasingly innovative and violent methods of babymaking. Genghiz’s mind was not savage at all. He was never introduced to modern media. Genghiz came from a small villiage in northern china, in an uncivilized society that celebrated when little kids killed each other. Genghiz killed his elder brother to take over the Mongols. After that, he almost never needed to personally kill anybody else. That was it, that was the one single step that changed mankind. He didn’t even know what he was headed for. But now looking at his Mongol Hoard, he said “Hey this is a lot of things from a lot of cultures!” then he looked at his Mongol Hoard again and he said “Ok, lets go get some more”. And when he died, Genghiz had on board, Islams and Christians and Muslims. He preserved and cherished cultures. He introduced language to his savage farmlands. Genghiz had even managed to use catapults from China to get Carpets from Persia. Not even Hanibaz could do that. Genghiz looked at a lot of culture, and found out what it all meant, and ordered everything to be buried, and then died.
The dying words of Genghiz were never recorded. He uttered them while lying in the middle of a field of grass. He uttered them looking at a blue sky unblemished by the sun or the moon or the stars. It was neither dawn nor dusk, neither noon nor midnight. It was that time of the tulips. The timeless instant of poetry. When a gentle figure pops up against a flat nowhere. A child who could not understand anything heard the dying words of Genghiz. And Genghiz looked at the child and said “I think, there is something wrong about the things I did. The world I have gifted to civilization is incomplete. I have been unable to conquer everything. I don’t think anyone will ever be able to do that. This is simply because we always keep finding out that there is more to everything. That is all that we men can do, that is our fate and our destiny. The world is not flat. It is neither conical, or cylindrical or magnetized. It is round. No, it is nor spherical or geoid, which will be the most accurate word for it, it is round. We Mongols have a large portion of it. The Indians have a good share. Russia in the North will grow again. Persia has already decayed, and will one day blow up. After that, I cannot see what will happen. But the world is not flat. People who go around it will find an island in the middle of the sea. This sea, was lost to us during the ancient floods. I think it is called the Atlantis or something. On the other side of the world, will be a greater treasure than my hoard. It will be a more multifarious convergenesis of ideas. It will be a cultural matrix that will give rise to the worst of demons formed in a pluralist society. Their decay will be worse than the decay of our cousins well into the future. It is their stagnation that will birth alien plagues. These plagues will be both psychological and viral.”
The little boy did not understand. Genghiz had asked the boy to be sent there and ordered all his other troops to, to put it in his words, “fock off”. He had distributed his hoard amongst all of them, and they had followed his orders. The boy looked at Genghiz and Gurgled. Genghiz looked at the boy and laughed. The laugh was thunderous and distracting. Suddenly, so was the sky. It began to rain, and Genghiz released the last smoke strings of Turkish weed unto the clouds. They would rain on a new earth. Genghiz looked at the boy, and said “Kill me”.
This, the boy understood, because he was a Mongol Kid. He lifted his sword and chopped Genghiz’s head off. Then he cleaned the sword, with a rip of cloth bitten off Genghiz’s body. Then he checked out the horse the two of them had ridden here carefully. The Mongols looked after their horses before looking after themselves. A bit like circus performers that way. Then the kid carefully went through Genghiz’s body to find anything that Genghiz had on him. He found nothing but butterfly in a jar. The kid had no interest in the butterfly, he set it free, mounted the horse, and went back.
The boy looked at Genghiz and it gurgled. Genghiz looked at the boy and thought in immense sadness. His death would be a relief to the world. He looked at the boy and knew that his children would be slaves to the Martians. The Arians. The Aryans. And then he relaxed, he was for a second delusional, he believed he was better than the Martians, and he wanted to die right then. He looked at the boy and he said “kill me”.
The boy understood that, he was a Mongol you see.
It is necessary to get a few truths out of the way here. It is necessary to reach out and grab the real world into the whole masquerade. It is necessary to have real, verifiable proof. It is necessary, for the audience to pick up their phones, and send a message to somebody saying “cycle”. It is necessary for the audience to press the star key before sending it. They would then be intrigued by the suggested idea. In the phone stupid, not here. Go seriously, withdraw to your real world and do it. Take out your phone and do it. Type “cycle” then press the asterisk key.
Let the alarm ring! And good morning to you too dear sirs. Feminists resenting a representation of their gender in the address, go screw yourself (you are all lesbians anyway), and please do not campaign for a pronoun for a neutral reader, such a thing does not exist. Good morning to the innocent little piggies and the big bad wolves, hi! How are you doing blowing down things and hiding in flimsy houses? Not to well are you. It has just dawned hasn’t it. You live in a world full of feminists and animals, a world full new and radical ideologies that happen to be equal and opposite projections of the outdated ideologies that everyone happened to resent. A concrete real world example? Reach into your own minds and say “cycle”. Pressing the asterisk will be difficult, but we’ll try and do it.

Apathy at the individual level translates into insanity at the mass level. -Douglas Hofstadter

You know open secrets are called open secrets because there is a certain subtle thrill to that idea. The origin of that subtle thrill is the point of the open secret, which is a knowledge of something really scary that is generally ignored because the secretive society is not open enough. These open secrets are secrets because they are purposely, methodically, and traditionally ignored by the general society. So much so, that there are many things that are both open and secret, but don’t quite qualify to be “open secrets” because they go by unnoticed. But there is a blinding realization, a subtle thrill achieved, a mechanical extrapolation of personal knowledge, that results in a superfast glimpse of a shadow of a truth. Unfortunately, the truth is not an open secret, and therefore, there is no thrill to it whatsoever, subtle or otherwise. The truth is neither open nor a secret. The truth is neither known by society, or by a mechanical extrapolation of all its knowledge. The truth is neither paradox nor virtue. The truth is neither wine nor water. The truth is neither religion nor opium. The truth is neither God nor individual, neither sex nor gender, neither row nor column, and perplexingly enough, neither fecal matter of various species of avis, nor fecal matter of various species of bovines. The truth is a story. Beyond expression in art or non-art. The truth is hidden by the philosophies and politics of its own roots. Truth is everything. Truth is the ultimate common perception. Truth is the sum meaning of all human knowledge that is ever going to be attained. The truth is individual perception in context with all other possible individual perceptions. The truth can only be known to one individual. He is allowed just one truth. He is the – to put it with a totally unsubtle thrill, the chosen one for that truth, if you will. His fate lies in explaining that truth to the society. The society as a whole gains by getting one life closer to the truth. And that is the truth. The sum total of everything man will ever perceive together and quantified with the meaning of it. Looking for the meaning of it? The meaning of your life? Your life would not have a meaning if it weren’t for the society. Every single individual’s life before you, and till now, has influenced you in some way. If not on Orkut, or in peer group, or in work circle, or in family, they would atleast have been a demographic in a population study that would have influenced you. You find this ridiculous, then imagine all the advertisements made on study of demographics, or cinema generated for extracting money from these demographics, and the advertising of such cinema, and the technology targeted at such demographics (eg. iPod), the food habits of such demographics, and the accused normal culture of such demographics, and how much you want to be a part of it all, is all influencing your fucking life. If you still are not convinced of the argument, then to put it in simple, easily understandable physics, every particle in the universe affects every other particle in the universe. The action and chain reaction is a universal phenomenon. Literally, figuratively, philosophically, noticeably, and even fucking scientifically. There is no denying it, not only have other people influenced you, every star in the night sky you have seen has influenced you. Every unnoticed particle in the emptiness, has influenced you. If science ever acknowledges aliens, it has to agree, that the said aliens are influencing everyone on earth already. Scary? The shadow of the truth is. It gets worse. Only because it can be proved beyond scientific doubt. The answer may therefore lie in non-science, but language has been unkind enough to make the word “lie” pretty damn ambiguous. Let’s see if this makes sense to you. Your sun sign is something that you share with one twelfth of the world population. Let us see, if each sun sign, can be effectively and scientifically used as a demographic. Sun signs are everywhere in the media. They show up in the newspapers on every single day of the week, and in color over the weekends. Each newspaper has a different prediction for what will happen to the people who read their personalized prediction that day. Therefore over a period of time, people will read the predictions, and fear or hope to realize them that day. Which they try to do till the next prediction. There you have a bunch of people, across age groups, divided into just twelve demographics. The entire world, fits into twelve demographics. How cool is that? Still don’t believe it? Don’t think you follow the predictions in newspapers? Cannot believe that people try to realize the predictions in the newspapers every day? Do you deny that you ever had the urge to actually do this? Have you done it once or twice already? Still don’t believe it? Ok, then imagine you are in charge of a widely circulated newspaper, which earns a hell lot of money in advertising, just because they can circulate printed paper? Obviously they make a lot of money, the profits dwarf the expenditure by far. Now obviously, it would be beneficial for you to generate an easy demographic resulting in splitting the entire population into twelve demographics across all other barriers of individual belief? You know, like religion, sex, nation, race, and even age. If you do not manipulate your prediction columns to generate such demographics, the advertising people will pay you to do it. This does not prove that the stars have actually affected the lives of the people. Something else does that. Moral of the story: The concept of astrology is true, since mankind can never hope to actually execute it, that is quantify and calculate how stars really can do it, pretentious people pretend to do it, or advertisers use it to sell you things. What it does prove is however that advertisers can use anything to sell you things. The moral of that story is, do not trust astrology in newspapers.
The moral of the story that had lost its track was that the best way to attain something close to a number of different simultaneous perceptions, that you get what is called “cubism”. Cubism is an attempt to portray a common truth. That truth between the author and his killer. Somewhere, in cubism, is hidden a common perception. A perception that the author knows that the reader has, and a perception that the reader knows the artist has. It is a perception shared by two individuals, and it is a perception that is real. That is it is produced. It is contained. It is released you know, it has been mechanically quantified, it is that cubist shred of crystallized artblood.
Ooh blood is scary man. You don’t want blood. It is within you, and you don’t like it coming out. This is not an allegory alien to you. It is enforced by the aura around the idea of “writing with your blood”. It is not only hearfelt, it is how the reader kills the author. By reading his blood. It is impossible therefore to be aesthetic. Blood is aesthetic only to the mordbid. Either you are aesthetic or you are morbid. You are either aesthetic or cubic. The catch is, you are a cubist even if blood is sometimes aesthetic and sometimes morbid depending on context. The reader kills the author, then, because it is for the reader that the author writes in his own blood. If the author indulges in art for money, then the bastard is selling his own blood to the vampires. He will die younger. Other authors live longer. This kind of bloodart will be immortalized in future thought and philosophy. The author becomes a phoenix on his death. He dies in the cause for his art, and emerges as an immortal, everlasting meaning. A meaning spread across many consciousnesses. How completely a cubist would understand an artist. A cubist could even get around the fundamental paradox in art for the sake of art. The idea of Art for the sake of Art would be torn apart by a cubist society. The phenomenon of the artist would still be a spectacular firecracker. Practical eg: Oscar Wilde. You might not have understood the picture of Dorian Grey, but you will have understood Oscar Wilde as an absinthe drinking homosexual. Wilde was all for the whole art for arts sake thing. He wrote with intent to hide his own purpose, making Dorian Grey a difficult read, and yet, despite him believing that the author was indeed dead by the time he got to the reader, the author, was unfortunately not. Oscar Wilde has entered many memes in pop culture, and has spread in the popular consciousness. Just head to uncyclopedia for proof. A cubist society, has ended up understanding the producers of art more than the art itself. You understand more about Picasso as a painter than Picasso as an artist. You understand Einstein as a genius much more than you understand his theories. This is just to prove the same point to the scientifically inclined.
You live in a cubist society. One that wants to look at you from everywhere. One that wants to analyze and disintegrate everything. You live in a society infested with open secrets. You live in a society that seeks to dissect and understand and comprehend and control and overpower and ruin every single thing it sees. You live in a society that is driving the people mad in its rabid rush of progress. Civilization has snowballed out of proportion, and it still has to go a long, long way down. Your society is oblivious of the truth, and unashamed to admit it. Your society is so cubist, that it can see nothing. If you see black and you see white, and you even them out, you get grey. These are two colors at the end of the spectrum. Everything that your eyes can perceive, both literally as in physically and figuratively as in politically. Everything else falls in between. All the other colors. You even them out, you have grey. You have nothing. You have a cubist perspective.
Majidi made an aesthetic film called “Colors of Paradise”. Ram Gopal Verma made a morbid film called “Black”. Both put their blood into it. One of them is considered to be a better film maker, and that, funnily enough, most people, have no doubt about.
Verbal hip shit pscho techno rave trance water montage google hop. Verbal hip hop montage. Narrow in. Verbal Montage. Narrow further. A graveyard. A green lava tomb. A sprout of blood from it. Injected, hypodermically out of the grave, as a part of special effects. Literature is obscure now. It is pluralist. It is blatant and meandering. It is multi-purpose. It is generated to satisfy the society’s need for speed. Complex thoughts, emotions, philosophies and ideas are spoon fed to the masses, and they don’t even look at what is going within them. It is that kind of morbid rape where the child is molested by being fed venom instead of milk. This is exactly the kind of shocking ideas that is taught to little students of Indian mythology. Yes, the idea of the rape, and even in the context, and with the particular method, was not a formation of the art, it was pre-existing in society, and that too, as a myth.
Ignore the demographics. Ignore the art. Ignore the society. Get real. The point cannot go across a medium or a form that is solid. Art is a weak mode of communication. The black and white of the perceptions of the real world, must be thrown in with the splash of personal blood to attain that cubist perspective that will convey the news of the death of the author to the readers. Words are a weak medium for communication. They must build up on each other and convey a lot of meaning. But society needs this meaning quick and dirty. There is a quick and dirty IQ test on blogthings. Blogthings analyses you, psychologically, based on a few questions. It is scientific, and the results are pretty accurate. They can see you inside out based on which picture you chose out of nine. Their advertisers have to contend with only nine demographics. The reader needs it quick and dirty, so there are layers made, analogies and cross connections that will get the point across quick and dirty. The focus is on the necessity of it getting dirty. Some perspectives just wash over us, we do not notice them at all. Did you find the reference to child molestation aesthetic or morbid? Either answer should leave you with an extremely garish picture of yourself. Be ashamed. Very ashamed. It is your fault. You author killer.
Bathe in paradoxes. No really, bathe in impure plumbing water, drink it trusting a few units of electricity to purify it, and it is possible for you to live through life without ever tasting the pure open wild spring water that drove our ancestors into civilization. Imagine water to be a very addictive drug. Our civilization is based on it, and we cannot subsist without a constant access to it. And we are all denied it. In its pure form. Civilisation has driven us away from our most fundamental needs. We are all babies who have been fed venom.
Where will they go? The stories of the police I mean. They are so stereotyped everywhere. Let’s experiment with another police story. Let us mutually observe what these stereotypes are and how they gain in our understanding of the police story. Let us fragment the police and critically understand them. Let us portray them in a form where they will be understood, predicted and controlled. The media, constantly, controls the attitudes of the police, in a manner beneficial to them. The media understands and comprehends the police. Real world truth: When the students protested against medical college admission procedures, the first to reach the point of the protests was the media. Various Vans of news channels, occupied the space normally used by the vehicles of students. The next to reach the point were media students who didn’t know where to park. The next to reach the point of protest were the police. All the people crowded in the area, had issues of their own, yet were not protesting against anything. They were all mechanically playing out their roles well. They were all waiting for the students to do this, and finally, after much anticipation they showed up. The promptly bundled them up into their own vans. The students went in willingly, mechanically playing out their roles as well. They just believed they had the guts to get something done for their own good. The system is so thorough my friends, that there is, no way out. The magic red pill is a fabrication. It does not exist. Morpheus will never give you a choice. Bacchus, will however readily console you with a suitable compensation for a lack of choice. The Gods play out their roles well too. Well the society does that. And to protect this society, they appoint the police. Laugh! That is fucking hilarious! It was just joking or something.
Now this police, really plays out its role well. Students trying to break out of the system (in various “wrong” ways) are always shit scared of the police. The students are a divided force themselves, like in youth nation there is no democracy or consensus, there is just absolute anarchy. So the students don’t happen to be a demographic that can defend itself. Their mistakes and their indulgences are amplified and criticized with relish by the jealous society. All other demographics look down on the youth. Those older than them constantly supply a stream of hypnotizing ideas. Education and School both play a vital role in their attitudes, but the Education is mostly by the leech of a mass media that unabashedly advertises to a very impressionably demographic. The youth in turn, criticize each other to an equal extent. What you get is positive alarm at the idea of police. It blares into your consciousness and screeches to a halt next to you. You need to understand the police. You need to comprehend them. You are on a need to know basis, and the basis has been established, therefore, this is not information that should readily be considered wrongful, but you, now, have a choice, because I am a mortal. Please do not kill me.
Do not be scared of the police sitting silently in a van. If they are in one place, and immobile, they are waiting for someone coming their way. They are not interested in you. They are just going to kind of hang out there, till something happens in the immediate vicinity. It’s a stationary beat. You can go by and get off with a few things here, as long as you are not too obvious about anything. Be totally unafraid of police men moving around in jeeps. Just stay out of their way if you are on a vehicle to. They are going from point A to B and definitely have no interest in you. Let them go their way. A police jeep however going by slowly, with its lights off and the engine running silently in first gear, be careful. They are on a scouting mission. They are on a real beat. This is where they are checking out high risk areas for troublemakers. Any seaside gets one of these every two hours. The regular two hours. Every colony, every housing society, and ever locality in general, gets a regular sweep at specific periods. If you live in that locality long enough, you know the timings of these sweeps, and you are good to go at any other time.
The most dangerous beat is the autorickshaw one. Plain clothed middle aged middle class men, never ever travel in an autorickshaw. Women do, but men take the bus, or use a personal vehicle. There are no men in this demographic that use the autorickshaw. Their sudden scarcity in recent years, has led to customer savvy rickshaw unions to start up share rickshaws. The common population thinks that the government thinks this is a bad idea just because they cannot stand the rickshaw drivers cheating their customers. The government gets a veritable share of the cheated money, it has no problems with that. It thinks that this is a bad idea for many things, one of them being the removal of camouflage on the most effective beat. You see, plain clothes police men have to use rickshaws. Any other vehicle conspicuously heralds their oncoming. A police jeep is a strong symbol of trouble in the youth. So is a police bike. Any policeman driving a bike will have “police” written on his number plate. Police cannot use private vehicles. A police man cannot use a bus for his beat now… he cannot direct the bus closely enough and keep the riders unaware of it. That is difficult to achieve. The plainclothes police man MUST use the rickshaw, and this last camouflage too has been stripped from him, and he gets revealed to all those who seek to avoid trouble with him. The police cannot catch anyone now, despite being in plain clothes. And the whole idea is symbolic you know. The police having to shed their uniform and wear plain clothes just to be able to catch somebody. No wonder the society hates police. The society also hates sting operations. It hates both of them for basically the same reason.
What is the nature of those who choose to accept its irony, yet sorely feel its necessity, is something that would deviate from the story. The story is more important than contemplating that. The story hopes to make you contemplate that. The police are cool that way. They know what you are doing and when you were doing it. I was of the opinion that I was dead. I was scared of the police, and every time I did something wrong, I tried to save myself from their gaze. Not that I was ashamed or anything, I did not want to find out if there was any truth in the stereotypes if their brutality. They know you inside out, and the really, want to protect you. No seriously, your protection is the very thing that makes them proud of man hood that you rightly accuse them of. Policemen who do wrong are not proud of their occupation, and therefore do no wrong that result from pride. At least any pride that has to do with their occupation. So it is wrong to assume that it is the pride of the policemen that drives them to do wrong. There is a regular sweep that goes past my windows every morning at two thirty a.m. Sometimes it is a van, sometimes it is a Jeep. But it goes by, and I watch it. I am usually smoking at that time. If I hide the cigarette when they go by, they will notice me and catch me. If I do not hide my cigarette, they will be interested, and they will go by. Every day, they see me there, and one day they stop to enquire. The watchman sends you a cryptic message in morse code by tapping his pole to the ground, that only the drugs in the cigarette can make you understand. The police are coming you think, and rush into your window, turn off the lights and go to sleep.
And you realize that was the one thing you shouldn’t have done. The next day, you do not rush in. You do not hide your cigarette. You stand there, not doing anything about it. They come. They go. They do not stop. You ask the watchman the next day if the police had asked anything about you. He says that they hadn’t. You are happy. You then continue to smoke in the balcony for a long time, steadily getting happier with yourself, and everything that you are getting away with. It is the pride got out of cheating the police that makes you do more and more wrong things. That increases the dosage of the drugs, not the drug itself. And then one day, the police catch you.
They come. You do not hide your cigarette. They appear to go. You do not hear the watchman signaling you in morse code. You realize over the days that there was no pattern in his senseless banging of the stick. Then one day you realize that it was just a greeting to the policemen. Then another day you realize that it is a sign to say that everything is clear. The next day, the police catch you.
That is the day when you will realize a few things. And when they are walking towards you, you already know what has happened. They are going to ring the bell. That will wake your people up. You are going to be in a lot of trouble. How in hell did they catch you? And you realize it. Standing unabashedly in the window. Every day. The police had asked the watchman. The watchman told them about me. The watchman kept tabs of how much I was doing by sneaking under my balcony and using his nose. When he saw that I had become bolder, her had signaled the police to stop with his stick. And I saw them from the balcony, walking towards me, and I ran into the house, and had the foresight to quickly type out a story and blogged it to save me from my doom, and opened the door before the police could bell. I had decided to surrender to them.
And they called me down. I walked down. The policeman looked at me. And I looked at him. And we understood our roles. And we both played them out. He said “look, I know you have shit on you”. And I said “Yeah, I accept it, tell me what should I do next.” And he said “of all the users in the area we keep tabs on, you have been the longest we have taken to identify”. I was confused because he said it in an almost respectful voice. “And this only means that you must get quality hash. Can I have some please?”
And six feet below my building, sat four policemen, one watchman, and one stoned youth, sharing a pipe, and totally unafraid of each other. The smoke rose in tendrils above the society, and disappeared softly into those clouds. It made the clouds slightly darker. It would reach its destiny the rain much welcomed in the parched civilization below. Pity Mumbai was the heart of the monsoon region.

Note to readers: Seriously, this is just a story. Note to police: I share the pipe of peace with you.