| Sunday, November 26, 2006 |
| Its All Good. |
This is dedicated to the two tottering old women that beg at Juhu-Versova link road signal every night.
To the millions of hero-heroine wannabes pottering around Lokhandwala.
To the few amongst them who are doing it for the passion and not the money.
To that kid who sometimes studies under the streetlight near D.N Road police station.
To every bastard star kid and star father who abuses his celebrity status and power on helpless junior artists and background dancers.
To every assistant director taking shit from his director, his producer, his stars, his girlfriend, his family, his friends, in the hope that someday he’ll make his movie and it’ll all be worth it.
To every bhenchod director, producer, star, girlfriend, family, friends, who make life miserable for him or her.
To every life lost in every natural and unnatural disaster the world has ever seen.
To all the bitches in power.
To Jessica and her killers.
To so-called distinguished arseholes who throw chocolate wrappers out their fancy car windows.
To that rich kid who raped a prostitute his mother's age.
To everyone who wants something so bad it hurts.
To everyone who loves someone so much it hurts.
To the snotty nosed kid who wipes my windscreen dirty unfailingly at the Shopper’s stop junction.
To Shweta Mahajan, I thought you were stronger than that.
To every fucking management of every bloodsucking multinational pharmaceutical company that’s using innocent Africans as guinea pigs to test trial versions of their drugs.
To every girl who got married too early to someone she shouldn’t have.
To every worthless husband who’s got his head up his mother’s arse.
To every street urchin outside every 5 star hotel and restaurant in the world whose waiting impatiently near the back door of the kitchen for leftovers.
To every waste of flesh and blood who wastes food.
To every Delhi trader affected by the sealing drive.
To every motherfucker in the I.T Department who contorts rules to facilitate tax evasion.
To every madarchod politician who’s stacking his swiss bank account while people die of hunger, road accidents, substandard construction, food poisoning, malnutrition, health hazards, fraud, defamation and poverty.
To every honest middle class clerk who skips lunch on alternate days to save money for his son’s school fees.
To every top level manager who fleeces his company relentlessly without their knowledge and blows it all up on expensive gifts for his mistress, who's bonking all his colleagues, friends, squash buddies and golf partner.
To every Mumbaikar hanging out of every local train that takes him back home.
To every drunk driver, murderer, rapist, crackhead, film critic, contract killer, prostitute, call center worker, grocery store attendant, taxi driver, part time student and full time stripper and bargirl.
To every oil company that’s sucking up to a sheikh and successfully manipulating the price of oil - one third world daily wage immigrant at a time.
To the farmers committing suicide for reasons our government refers to as ‘excuses’.
To all the heroes fighting drug addiction in rehab clinics.
To the sacrifices of our forefathers.
To every NRI who thinks India is a third world country even as he celebrates life as a second citizen in the developed world.
To every gunshot wound inflicted in the streets of Byculla everyday.
To every stray dog that gets run over.
To all the scum that makes the world the filthy pile of stinking shit that it is.
To all the good souls that make the world a better place. |
posted by n.g. at 23:01
(0) Peg(s) of Whisky
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| Wednesday, November 22, 2006 |
| Cracked Rear View. |
You always do this! When you’ve run out of stuff to ask me, you ask me about this one damn film!
She flashed an irritated smile at him before turning her attention back towards the road. It was dark, and the rain had just started coming down in buckets.
Hahahahha … so tell me. I mean, you gotta remember that scene, the one in which Lester Bangs is giving gyaan to William Miller, about writing that article about Stillwater for Rolling Stone. There, I’ve practically given it away.
They were playing their usual ‘Remember the lines’ game. He was really good at it. He pushed his seat back a little as he watched her drive. He silently admired her long hair, her long black hair that she thankfully never bothered to fuck with, unlike other girls who’d colour it and streak it and do what not with, her beautiful long hair that fell all over her shoulders like a directionless waterfall that enveloped everything in its mystique. His fingers played lazily with a couple of stray strands.
Haan toh bol na. He egged her on.
She laughed and shook her head, motioning him to wait.
Ruk naa … let me remember. We saw that film abhi …. I remember, of course I remember.
It happened very fast. She didn’t see the broken piece of divider. It tore into the gearbox, sending the car spinning wildly across the road, away from the boulders on the left side but into the path of oncoming traffic on the right. An oil tanker smashed into the passenger side first, sending the car on another frenzied motion, spinning uncontrollably and crashing side first into the road dividers where it threatened to do more, until it settled into a rhythmic slow séance of silent tragedy.
Ma’am … ma’am … don’t move … don’t make any sudden movements. Relax, don’t panic, we’ll get you out of there.
Instinctively she tried to raise her hand to grab her throbbing head, but her hand refused to obey. She had no energy to make it listen to her. She gulped hard and swallowed the blood that gushed out of her mouth. She slowly turned her neck towards him … he wasn’t there. His door was open, he must’ve gotten out. Her vision started to clear slowly, it was still drizzling, but the black-blue of night had turned into a grey-blue of dawn.
She saw him walking towards the car. She closed her eyes in a silent ‘thank you’ to the powers.
Are you ok? she asked him as he came by her window.
Yes, are you? He replied as he caressed her face. His touch was warm and calm. He had a smile for every occasion.
I … I’m sorry I did this. She fought back her tears.
No no … no don’t be sorry. It’s ok, everything’s ok. He smiled again, not blinking, not turning away, just, there by her side.
Ma’am … we’re going to pry this door open, and cut your seatbelt to get you out … so be calm.
He held her hand as they freed her from the car, and strapped her into the stretcher.
I give up … I can’t remember the lines … I can never remember those lines …
He whispered them in her ear.
The only currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone when you’re uncool.
She smiled and lost consciousness as her hand slipped out of his.
The paramedics banged the door of the ambulance shut and it raced away towards the hospital.
He watched it disappear in the distance. He looked at the mangled remains of their car. He touched his blood on the shards of broken windscreen. It was still warm.
Be uncool, my love.
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posted by n.g. at 01:26
(3) Peg(s) of Whisky
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| Monday, November 06, 2006 |
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its hard to wake up
when the shades have been pulled shut
this house is haunted
its so pathetic
it makes no sense at all
i'm ripe with things to say
the words rot and fall away
if my stupid poem
could fix this home
i'd read it everyday
so here's your holiday
hope you enjoy it this time
you gave it all away
it was mine
so when you're dead and gone
will you remember this night
20 years now lost
its not right |
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posted by n.g. at 01:38
(0) Peg(s) of Whisky
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Name: n. g.
Home: Bombay, India
About Me:
this fire is burning and its outta control its not a problem you can stop its rock and roll.
See my complete profile
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| They Rock! |
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| Recently Brewed |
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| Aged Liquor |
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