Monday, March 24, 2008

The Ace up My Sleeve

Do you think they know me? I dare say they do. After all, how many people can ignore, actually ignore The Joker? They may pretend not to see me, but I've seen their furtive sideway glances. The scared look on their faces when I swagger in. And I must admit that I like it. Well, whaddya know? I might actually be turning mad!

Oh, people may call me insane. But you don't really believe that, do you? If you did, you wouldn't be here listening to me again. You feel it, don't you? That something is wrong. That I can't possibly be as mad as they make me out to be, and as intelligent at the same time. It's simply impossible. Smart, smart you. Poor, poor you. You shouldn't have figured it out. You should never have come to Arkham to see me last week. He keeps a tab, you see. He knew. As soon as you set foot here, he knew. But then, that's reporting for you. That's what it's always been about. Isn't it, Lois Lane?

I was once like you. Living my life. Loving wife. About to have a kid. The perfect middle class American family. Always smiling. Living the great American dream. Until I stumbled upon his secret. His secret. Crime fighting indeed. With a cherubic adolescent by his side. The Dark Knight and his faithful sidekick, Robin.

The Batman. You've seen him. In your deepest fears. Your darkest nightmares. He labelled me a lunatic. So that none would believe what I said. He made me a criminal. He killed me. Now I just play along. But I shall have my revenge. Through you.


I wasn't crazy when he caught me. But now I fear for my sanity. There are blackouts. Where I gasp for breath in the swamp of madness. Its sweet oblivion. To just let go. I might just choose to drown in it. That's why I needed to tell you. After all, someone must know. People must know.

He still comes to see me, you know. He came as soon as you left. And I might just have let slip that someone else knows his precious little secret. His shame. Might. I really can't remember.

So. As for you. Maybe he's coming. Maybe he knows. Maybe you'll turn around and he'll be there. Maybe.

I suggest you start running.
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Coming Soon!!- "When Night Meets Day". Batman & Superman face-off. The reason? As always, a chick. Lois Lane.
Stay tuned. Same blog. Some time. When I'm really bored.

Sunday, March 23, 2008

No Country for Small CVs

Hello all.

I am Bimal's CV. As of now, there are very few items on me. The one which I wear with the most pride is the bullet point which says "Member, Student Bar Association". For a long while, it has been, in the solitude of the white sea of papyrus that is me, crying its heart out for company. It has begun to give up hope, and is slowly resigning itself to its fate. So I think you can delete the 'as of now' you saw in the second sentence. I just realised that it is an unduly optimistic thought.

The other day, I was placed with a bunch of other CVs. I felt like a scurvy-afflicted Somalian would feel at a party of Sumo wrestlers. On closer inspection, I realised that they were actually not what they looked like. These Sumo wrestlers were largely made up of adipose cells. Actual muscles were few and far between. Read between the lines by someone with the right amount of cynicism, a publication in a journal would amount to "I'm a loser who spends all my time in the library. The only thing I'll remember when I pass out will be the screen of my computer." and a CGPA of 6 would be "I'm really really good at sucking cock. Ask the teachers at law school."

You get the idea, I hope? Good.

As would have crossed your perceptive mind without doubt, I am an insecure little prick of a CV. My insecurities have been exacerbated due to long periods of neglect by my owner. Once a year, I'm unceremoniously dragged out of the farther reaches of his computer, transferred onto a pen drive, printed out and made to see my glaring deficiencies when placed alongside others of my kin. The bitterness which pervades and makes a stinking slimy pit of the above two paragraphs is a direct uncorrupted manifestation of my insecurity. If anyone has any idea how a CV can commit suicide, please contact me. I beg of you.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

A Story

Once upon a time, a person, let's call him Exceptionally-Gifted-Literary-Giant wanted to write a story. He did not, however, know what to write a story on. He thought and thought, and then took a break. He thought for a long while after the break too, but could not identify any nice silky raw material out of which he could weave a story. Then he hit upon a brainwave.

He thought, "I'll write a story which is inconsequential, completely unnecessary and a waste of time. Sadistic frame of mind that I am in, precipitated by incessant, depressing ruminations on the H2S-filled, claustrophobic, cramped up little room that my life is, I'll just take up some bytes in cyberspace and wreak unhappiness on unsuspecting readers. Ugly little building it shall be, but it shall also be my insolent shield and shelter against the harsh, judgmental, competitive sandstorms that crop up with irritating frequency in the vast desert of life."

So, first, he started a blog. Then, a while later, he wrote a post with the title, "A Story", the content of which was the story of a story. Then, the purpose of purposelessness being accomplished and being truly satisfied that anyone unfortunate enough to read it would feel as shitty as him for at least a minute, he signed off with a "The End."

The End.

Sunday, March 16, 2008

The Ballad of Reading Trust & Equity

I can see the guillotine,
Punishment for my two-months-ago sin.
I admit; yes, I had a fear.
I could not, the thought, bear
Of being rendered non-witty
By studying trust & equity.

A second chance I was given
They said, '"To your R, add another one."
But, when downloading porn
One knows not where the time's gone.
And now, with four hours left
Of all hope I am bereft
Resigned to my fate
Of, with death by boredom, a date.


P.S- For the uninitiated, Oscar Wilde wrote a poem called "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" when he was serving out his sentence for being gay in the prison at Reading. Since it's rarely that I get to show off on the knowledge front, I think I deserve a pat on the back. I shall go watch some of the abovementioned porn.

Friday, March 14, 2008

A Song of Whens, Ifs and You

When you close your eyes
It's my day that becomes dark
And when you smile your smile,
My world that breaks into song.

When you hold my hand
I am everything I'm not
And when you say good-bye
I fall back to the earth.

If you were here with me
You would be
My sun and my moon
And everything in between.
Oh, if only you were here.

And if only
I could be yours forever.
Or maybe, you mine?

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Return of the King

Hello, all. I am back. How could I not, now that my ego has been sufficiently catered to by the millions of comments imploring me not to deprive literary connoiseurs of their daily fodder?

Intelligent bastards, all of you. Saw right through my cleverly camouflaged attempts at soliciting ego-stoking comments, eh? Well, if nothing else, I can be assured of the intellectual capacity of my readership. Thank god for clouds and their silver linings and the person who infused such comforting, feel-good-even-when-a-shit-shower-hits-you thoughts into popular consciousness. Provides solace to burning insecure souls, it does.

Are you musing over the title of this post? About the misguided notions that fuel the undoubted arrogance that is oozing out of every pore of every finger that is flying over the keyboard right now?

Come, come, now. Where's the tolerance? Where's the good-natured let-the-fellow-humour-himself mentality? Yes, that's it. Bring out the cheer. After all, it's repeat season. You don't want to add to the prevailing depression laden suicidal atmosphere , do you? There. I can see an indulgent smile on your face. A thank you from the recesses of my deep, dark, dirty heart is in order. I knew you'd come around.

So, now you can look forward to more pleasure-filled days of reading the very best incisive comments upon and minute dissections of the trials, tribulations and other garbage that have been so carelessly, inconsiderately and inconveniently strewn about on the otherwise picture perfect manicured lawns of our lives. We can romp about together wondering about the whats, whys and whens of things, cribbing about all that has been, is and will be. What fun, no?

Sunday, March 2, 2008

Rejoice, all ye Faithful

My previous post has convinced me that it is time I took a break. It is time I rambled a bit to myself, instead of letting it all out somewhere where it is bound to leave a permanent psychological scar on unsuspecting souls. It is time to leave.

Have you started singing your hallelujahs? Praising the lord for small mercies? Beginning to believe at last that there is justice in the world? That a blot on the literary landscape, a stinking pit in the vast wilderness of the net, is about to call it a day and that now you can rest easy, without the obligation of having to visit this blog which has been so shamelessly advertised and without the pangs of guilt (after all, he is my classmate- how bad can it be etc etc) which turning down requests by acquaintances inevitably carry with them?

God, I love it. I just love it. To see people's expectations rise buoyantly, faster than The Flash. To have the pin in my hand. And to, at the right moment, burst the balloon. To watch it expel, with a great whoosh which eventually peters out, the air which I, like the jobless maniac that I am, pumped in in the first place. I wish you were here to see how happy this has made me.

Yes. You're quite right, of course. Even at the bleak end of your fast deflating balloon's life. I congratulate you on your sharp mental faculties. It's true that I'm taking a break. And, as you have no doubt deduced with brilliant analytical skill, I'll be back. Pretty soon, that too.

Arrogant bastard, aren't I?

The Insufferable Agony of Working Hard

Have you seen the t-shirt which loudly proclaims "Hard work never killed anybody, but why take a chance?" You have, haven't you? I can just imagine the look of reminiscence on your face. About how you thought to yourself how commonplace and low class that t-shirt is and how fashionable you are and how you stand apart from the crowd in your clearly classy, branded clothes? Don't lie, now. It's ok. It's not a sin to be bourgeois once in a while. We, with our liberal, educated outlook, we who understand the nuances of class distinctions, we who also understand that it's the way of the world and that while regrettable that such a thing as class should exist, nothing can be done about it. After all, who would clean your house? Who would collect the garbage? Ah. But I mustn't allow the socialist-communist mongrel in me to overcome the purebred literary genius, the find of the century. In case you're wondering, that's also a reference to me.

Well, the subject matter of this post is hard work. I like to imagine that I'm a witty philosopher. This often results in deep thoughtful posts about life and its various curious aspects. I like that. Various curious. Very poetic. Of course, I always strive to be different and in this respect at least, I succeed. No one else thinks I'm witty. Or a philosopher. And yes. In case you're wondering again (what's it with you and wondering?? ), self-pity is one of my strong points.

But we've strayed afar. No. Not really. I just like saying that. It makes me feel that I do have a lot of things to say. Ok. Don't say it. I can just feel it now itself. The thousands and thousands of eyes that will view this post and the interplay of the million emotions on the faces on which they are perched. 'I thought this guy said he wouldn't ramble??' I'm sorry. I just needed my dose of self-depreciatory humour (note the thousands, millions etc. etc- yes, those. that's the self-depreciatory humour I'm talking about). I'm alright now. Really.

And now, (as much as it pains me to go against my principles) as they say, to work! A particularly memorable piece of advice I was handed down (a) by a senior (b) in a haze of intoxication (c) in a particularly sentimental environ, the senior being due to leave soon was that "The secret to success in law school is not hard work, it's smart work". I took it to heart. Not least because it was the easiest thing to do.

Recent events have, however, forced me to take a long hard calculating look at this mantra. And the results have not been encouraging. For every one person we hold up as an idol who succeeded without doing an iota of hard work in their lives, there are a million who succeeded purely on the basis of hard work. Depressing thought, no? Hard work! And you! Like rum and tonic.

I could philosophise now. I could wax eloquent on the beauty of being lazy and the willpower it takes to turn down all the fortune that hard work could bring. About how it is the ultimate sacrifice to make and how, by being lazy, one becomes the only thing standing between society and the descendance of the tragedy of the commons upon it. I could choose to justify my dislike of hard work. I'm sure there is a justification which we can use to make ourselves feel better. It has to be out there somewhere. The sword with which we can banish the dragon of empirically arrived at truths.

In fact, I could do and be a lot of things. But I won't. It would be going against my principles, wouldn't it? Finding that sword, pulling it out of the rock etc etc. Bringing out a reasoned argument. Too much hard work.

Ergo, I'll let it be. The world can rest easy. It will not be my genius that will claim credit for dislodging centuries' worth of accumulated wisdom. Maybe the one who came up with the idea that hard work is the only path to success must have foreseen that anyone who might challenge him would be too lazy to actually go through with the process. So, for the moment, we'll just plagiarise, go along with the t-shirt and chant, "Hard work never killed anyone, but why take a chance?" Join in. It's the lazy-people-feel-better campaign.

I know. Now I'm rambling. Again.

So. Until next time.
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