Walkety - Walk.

I was walking down the street the other day and as i have developed a habit of walking real slow when I'm alone, I took my time in reaching where I had to reach.

When you're walking alone and your pace is slow, you start noticing the smaller things around you, things which your mind is just too occupied to notice at other times. Things like the patterns on the leaves, the branches, cracks on the walls, the dog rolling in the sand and the expressions his face dons. Sometimes you'ld stumble upon a point from where there's a view of a remote building or a structure or even somebody in your vicinity which or who you feel if photographed even novicely would be the one of the most beautiful pictures ever taken.

When you're walking alone and your pace is slow, you start thinking. Reflecting. Pondering over ideas which at other times just don't occur to you. You start thinking of the things that you like, not those which make you laugh and give you a momentary feeling of happiness. Not those. But those which upon thinking of give you goosebumps and make you realize that life is totally worth it.

When you're walking alone and your pace is slow, you start thinking music. Your mind sings. And sometimes, you get this urge to sing it out. And so you do, not caring whether there's anyone around or not. This makes you realize that you can sing and that practice would perhaps do you great. You also realize that music does bind the universe as you start relating anything and everything you see around you with the music your mind sings.

When you're walking alone and your pace is slow, you start remembering the days that were. You begin to feel happy as your brain digs up memories, and you feel everything was worth the buck and that your life has been a lot awesomer than those of most of them out there. You feel like quitting what you are doing presently because its something that you just dont feel like doing. Instead you feel like travelling; travelling to unknown places, walking or on a bike, all alone. You swear that you will one day set off on a long journey and never come back. You feel ecstatic. You thank God for that.

Life is awesome. That we have been given a chance to explore and to relish proves it that God does want us to live it. Travelling, exploring and asking are few of the many things which we all need to learn and apply. Only then will our lives reach full efficiency. Only then will we attain nirvana.

I thank God.

On Bikes.

“Cool bikes, full throttle, and totally in the wind. This is what its all about.”
- Billy Lane vs Dave Perowitz, The Great Biker Build Off 2.

The idea itself is so amazing that every time I think of it, it shuts my mind off and detaches it from the surrounding universe injecting fluids, vibes, mixtures of countless emotions, into it. Hope, adrenaline, freedom. These things stimulate the senses in the most vigorous of ways possible giving a high not achievable by even the strongest of drugs. Imagine. Long hair. Long roads. Long bikes. A bike is possibly the only thing that, once taken an experience of, never lets one forget of it. Be it a girl. Or a boy. Isn't this what life is all about? Not having fun. That mightn't be the right way to put it. But experiencing something new all time. And a bike does exactly that.

"The core of a man's spirit comes from new experiences."
- Alexander Supertramp.

It is true. Without doubt. The wind on your face. The speed. Gravel, metal, leather, wind; these ingredients make us. They give us something new to think of, something new to ponder over. Everytime. These ingredients mix and give birth to experiences that mesmerize and enlighten.

I believe anyone would sacrifice anything and everything for such experiences. The sound of the engine and the changing gears, the feel of that metal, the sight of that long road ahead. Who wouldn't? But sadly, lots don't feel the way I do. It hurts to see the way things are here. People ride bikes for purposes other than enjoying the ride. I don't see that look on their faces while they ride, that look which should be there. A look of satisfaction. Nothing. It hurts to see such blasphemy. Bikes are not meant to be considered as creations of utility but creations of marvel. And yet they are. It hurts.

I hope people of our country come to realize the beauty of this activity called biking. And fast.

Biking is another name for rebellion. It definitely is.

Mildred: What're you rebelling against, Johnny?
Johnny: Whaddya got?
- The Wild One, 1953.

Here, I have penned my thoughts down; thoughts on a subject that's on my mind everyday, every minute. Things I'd been thinking of blogging ever since i started blogging. This post may seem very erratic to almost all of you, but give it another read and you'll know what I have in mind.

@ 6:30

Its 6:30 AM and there's :

1. Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix on the playlist.




2. Parle-G.



3. Sunlight. This is the only time my room gets lit brightly by sunlight. As the sun rises. And now's it.

4. Topgear.com & DC++ on the screen.




Small things. But its just at moments like these that we realize how a couple of them, together, can make life temporarily awesome.

I've got a class at 8. So the awesomeness of 6:30 AM will soon depart.

Family Problems.

Found this in a joke-book by Khushwant Singh. Worth a read. Its awesome! :

Two men met at a bar and struck up a conversation. After a while, one of them said, “You think you have family problems? Listen to my situation. A few years ago, I met a young widow with a grown-up daughter and we got married. Later, my father married my stepdaughter. That made my stepdaughter my stepmother and my father became my stepson. Also my wife became mother-in-law of her father-in-law. Then the daughter of my wife, my stepmother had a son. This boy was my halfbrother because he was my father's son, but he was also the son of my wife's daughter which made him my wife's grandson. That made me the grandfather of my halfbrother. This was nothing until my wife and I had a son. Now the sister of my son, my mother-in-law, is also the grandmother. This makes my father the brother-in-law of my child, whose stepsister is my father's wife. I am my stepmother's brother-in-law, my wife is her own child's aunt, my son is my father's nephew and I am my own grandfather and you think you have family problems!”

Visit Us. And Eat Too.

I hate socializing. I hate meeting family friends. I dont hate them, but its the visits that i hate. I hate replying to their very stupid questions in an alright?-is-your-hunger-quenched-now? manner. I hate it all.

Every time I go home, I have to attend at least one of those very stupid social gatherings or the friendly visit-us-and-eat-too things at various family friends’ before my parents are convinced beyond doubt that I get extremely bored -just sitting there-. Here’s what happens:

When we’re still at our place, ready to leave, I give it a shot. One last shot. I try.

“Mom, I’ll get bored. Please! Let me stay here. I’ll eat something.”

“No. They were asking about you. They are very eager to meet you.”

I acquiesce unhappily. I don’t know a single family having a guy-kid of my age. Even a chick of my age would do. But no! Kids having jobs or kids studying basic polynomials. Where’s the –between- gone? So I know that I would have no one to talk, with remote normalcy, with. It so happens that if the friends of my family haven’t seen or met me for more than half a year, they ask me this:

“Arrey! Look at you. You’ve grown so big! The last time I met you, you were (gesticulating with their hands, suspending the palms at knee-level) this small.”

Fuck! I was that small when I three. But they don’t get that. Somehow, I was just two feet high before six months. We enter their house. We sit on those sofas. We drink the served water. The uncle tries to show that he WAS looking forward to meet me. Like this:

“So, holidays, huh?”

“(I don the best smile ever.) Yeah!”

“When are you going back?”

“Blah (blah’s the date.).”

“Hm. (turning to my dad.) The stock market has gone insane! Hasn’t it?”

This is what I was brought along with, for. This is usually the intensity of their eagerness. Did they just want to know when my college reopened? For the remaining of the –very exciting- visit, I do nothing but watch TV along with the still-polynomial-learning kid who finds really horrible jokes funny. And then there’s the cell. I message a few. Hi!-Wassups. No replies.

This goes on. I feel jaded. And it’s only after we come back that my mom agrees with me. And I get to avoid the next social visit that’s there. Barring the food, everything sucks. But as the vacation bells toll again (next time), the reality hits me with such lacerating ferocity that it becomes difficult to keep my cool. The QED is there no more. I realize I’ll have to attend several visits again to prove it to my parents that I –get bored- there.

The friends of my Dad and Mom might probably have concluded that since half a year has gone by since they last saw me; I might not be a three year old anymore. And so it becomes utterly important for them to meet me. Very eager they become.

Of Mosh-pits, Chicks, and Maiden.

“With great bad-ass behavior comes great confidence.”
- Analogous to that dialogue from Spiderman.

“FUCK Bush.”
- Vocalist, Cyanide Serenity.

“This is what happens when you FUCK with nature. Or, let me put it in simpler but more graphic terms; This is what not to do when a bird shits on you.”
- Bruce Dickinson, Iron Maiden, before starting Rime Of The Ancient Mariner.

“The greatest spiritual leader a nation ever saw was a music concert.”

“Maiden! Maiden! Maiden!”
- One of the many requests for an encore at the concert.

Words fail. The sheer awesomeness of it. Its Brobdingnagian appeal. Amplified.

But I can try. The only way to describe it is the DB- way.

1. DBT : Death By Train : Try traveling more than 24 hours in a train. 6 hours of which were spent in a general compartment. With people around you, digging their nose-holes wildly, see if you can survive the torture.

2. DBC : Death By Chocolate : The ice-cream which costed us a bomb. Here's how its made: A thick layer of vanilla at the bottom. A thicker layer of chocolate brownie on top of it. Then comes the hot chocolate. Lots of it. Lots. And lastly, a huge layer of nuts. And we ordered three. One for each of us. Tyrant proved himself worthy of his name and finished all of his DBC. Slash and I couldn't.

3. DBP : Death By Pit : The CRI winners covered Lamb Of God. That's when all the moshing started. Crazy shit! And to an alien eye, it may look/sound very enigmatic. But to one participating in the mosh-pit, the mere idea of crashing into someone else itself is intoxicating.

4. DBM : Death By Maiden : Two hours of Iron Maiden! I can finally start a -done- list with IM's name checked off it. Less than 50 meters away! That's where they were! Plain -Fuck!-!

5. DBR : Death By Rickshaws : Fuck them! All of them! Assholes! They fucked us badly. The rickshaw-walas.

This is it. This is how it was. How it went. Awesome! And i didnt even miss a single practical class. The Tyrant missed three though. I want to list out a few points worth remembering. Here:

1. The Tyrant's business card. A joker. And the guy at the entrance gates who laughed when I informed him that what he happened to see accidentally in the Tyrant's wallet was not any ordinary joker of a cards-deck but a business card.

2. The general compartment.

3. The grandness of the ISKCON Temple.

4. Corner House. Not all of us were able to complete the DBC. But the first bite of it is totally unforgettable. The look of it! DBC. Respect!

5. Mosh Pit. Easily, the best thing (after Maiden, ofc) that happened there. Then. I regret not moshing for whatever time I might not have been present in the pit for whatever reasons possible. But the time I spent in there gave me a high unachievable by anything. Bliss!

6. Chicks! Hot. Hot. Very very hot! With piercings here and there, a few looked super-sexy. And the fact that all of them listened to metal amplified their sexiness. Laurren Harris was hot too.

7. Iron Maiden. All hail Maiden.

8. Andhra Style Family Restaurant. Saved us from possible death by starvation. Hogged like dogs.

Tyrant, Slash. Any additions?

Body's still aching from moshing incessantly. Kaan abhi bhi baj rahe hai. But I give no fuck. I saw Maiden perform live. That's one off the list. Slayer should come. Lamb Of God too. Many.

Early Morning Blues.

Waking up early is, by far, one of the hardest things I've done. I just cant. The ringing alarm, the knocks on the door, the ring-tone in my cell; everything merges with the dream and a less pleasant dream replaces it. A new story starts being told.

I'm sleeping. The alarm in my computer/cell has been ordered to start its ordeal at 6:00 AM. And it just cant wait.

1. I'm dreaming about races of flying dolls and talking motorcycles at a nuclear war. A big one. A Triumph is just about to chop a Barbie's head off when suddenly another Barbie pops into the picture. But instead of rescuing its comrade, it starts singing. It doesnt stop. Somehow, in an era of talking motorcycles and really deadly flying dolls, Lynyrd Skynyrd is still liked. The Triumph stares in wonder as the newcomer continues singing Sweet Home Alabama (alarm-song). The song gets louder by every second. Suddenly, the motorcycles and the dolls are replaced by a big man. A monster. Twenty storeys tall. Someone is still singing the song and the big bad guy is not pleased. Irritated, he starts searching the streets frantically for the mystery source of the song. At the end of the road, he finds a house. He peeps in through one of the windows (He's big. He can easily do this.) and sees a guy with a goatee having a tape-recorder in his hand. The source. Determined, he charges at the guy with a sword.

That's when I wake up.

2. I put off the alarm and sit on my bed trying to remember why I wanted to wake up so early. Its cold. I start shivering. This stage is the worst.

You now remember the reason for waking up so early. So you know its utterly necessary to stay awake and do what made you see sunrise. But then, there's the bed.

I give one look at the bed. Its one mammoth pizza. Too big for even several dehydrated hungry obese men, lost in the Sahara desert for over a month to finish off. And I'm one of them. So I sleep off. Again.

3. But this time, the dreams dont have any of the dolls or motorcycles. Not even the giant. Instead, the thought of not accomplishing the task I had so enthusiastically set the alarm for and so irritatedly woken up for nags the mind. Its not the deep sleep that I wanted. But the superficial-subconscious one haunted by dreamy images of some random guy ordering me to get up and get going who my mind very adamantly ignores.

Dream time is much slower than real time. An hour goes by. And its 7:00 AM. I wake up again as the random guy wins.

This is how it is. The three stages. Seldom have i been able to wake up early. On a few days, when I have, to study, I have dozed off while doing so. Being nocturnal is so much fun. And then there's Chandrama. Who wants to study when others dream about bikes? God bless the -that someone- who introduced snooze. "I tried."