Monthly Archive for September, 2010

A lone me

Believed 1 year, 4 months ago in Chick Tales. 0 Comments

There was this weird looking puhsan looking at me.. He had a weird blue rectangular cardboard cover, and was weirdly staring at me intensely. For what joy? Buh buk. Would he be the doer of my fate? Oh, looks like not, he is walking away with a tear in his eye… Weird puhsan. All these puhsans are weird.

There are random feathers scattered near and far. Souvenirs from numerous battles, and submissions. Needless to fight, I say. After all, who are we to battle and win over them puhsans. They gonna beat us, and they gonna eat us. That’s the way its gonna be. I say this world economy won’t let us be otherwise.

I am alone. In a weird buh buking sense, its nice to have all the space. It was kinda cramped with us twenty pushed in here. But on the minus side, I have no one to have a small buh buk with… Sadder still that I had to see them all going the buh buking way… Them puhsans they come, they choose, they conquer. Them chief puhsan he comes, he takes the chosen one, and pulls out her feathers, one bunch by one bunch. Musta hurt for sure. I ofta wondered why they do that. Is it ‘cos they got none of their own? They gettin tired of their fancy colourful skins, mahbe…

Anyway… Puhsans come, puhsans go; and with them goes one of us… Or perhaps a couple of us, if puhsan‘s having a party tonight.

In front of me, a couple couple of my cousins hang in frightening defiance of that gravity which none of us seemed to conquer, unlike other compatriot winged ones. Sadly, the bravado was not for the brawn in their wings, but for the iron wire which held them hooked from their now featherless legs. No, they had none feathers any more. Nor had they heads. Couldn’t have said who’s who out there…

Ofta have I wondered why we were born into this buh buking life. I meanta say, whats the entiring point? We hatched like some auto-hand tweaking a nut on a car, afta which we fed like some drainage recharge the seas, and then we’re packed into them big truck, all of us cramped in, leg in a ear, beak in a cloaca, stuck to the core of our existence, to end up here… Now, we are defeatherised to dehungarise those puhsans. Whats tha buh buking point? I am missing it?

Oh here passes a few of my co-faters.. They aren’t experiencing the stuck-in-a-truck deal though… They’re rather taking a free-air ride, hanging a dozen from the seat of that two-round thingy that that puhsan is riding. Tied by the leg they are. Oh, I should buh buk them! Not a peak of a buh buk from them! Inspite of the bumpy roads! Stoics to the heart… That’s not the most of the comfortable position to be transported is it? Nor is a beak in your cloaca, but then, its still better than dangling by your feet from a two-round thingy, swaying and hitting against all and sundry. Now thats like adding insult to injury… Its like that puhsan they all kneel in front of, him by the name of Jesus, poor guy having whipped to pull up this gigantic plank of wood before they finished him off…

I feel a little alone.. A couple of my feathers are bent all the wrong way.. But then, that ain’t no surprise after that mechanical farm, the truck, and this holding pen… Driplets of waters dripping down the barbed wire… Isn’t rain supposed to be beautiful? Whys it this then?

Is there perhaps a meaning to it all that we do not comprehend? Is there a reason why I sit now, in this barbed wire cage, shuffling my feathers to keep myself warm, the last one in the queue to painful death.. Is there a reason why I see my cousins endowed in the fate which shall soon be mine.. Why am I alone, and why am I here at all… Is there a reason, reasons, and is there a reason, reasons, to the reason, reasons?

Why, here comes a puhsan now… I wonder if he’s going to buy one of my cousins… Hmm. They’re looking at me. I guess this is it. Yesss. Here comes the big guy puhsan. And here he opens the cage. Should I try to make a run for it? Should I buh buk and fight? [like I'll escape him... if I do, then what? what do I do in this world I do not know? what shall I do in this world when I know not to walk, fly, jump... what shall I do for food.. no one shall feed me.. no one shall be there for me.. ha ha, like there is some one there right now.. this world is an illusion. and the sooner I'm done with it, the better.]


“This one weighs three kgs. Thats a hundred and eighty bucks.”

“Thanks.”

“Shall you have it like this, or shall I dress it for you?”

“Dress it please.”


Buh buk.

Oh yeah!

Believed 1 year, 4 months ago in Political contemplations and Tech Chomps. 0 Comments


Must watch song by David Ippolito. Explains why he thinks Facebook is a Stupid Idiot.

Of course, I think that Facebook is a Stupid Idiot for all the different reasons…

I mean… Really… Do you want to be on Facebook?

After this song… And considering the fact that Facebook is one big bad multinational owned by a hormone [read 'economics'] driven twenty six year old? And also considering the fact that Facebook owns everything you put on it? Including last night’s party photos, where you were drunk like a fish? And the last “Love you too” private message you sent to your boyfriend? And your little poetry status message? And that depending on your privacy settings, that big bad multinational can use all your information for their publicity, or even sell it?

For me, friendship is about love. Its about remembering people’s birthdays if I care for them, not about receiving reminders. Its about talking to someone when I remember them, not finding them on my news feed. Its about having my closest friend tell me what has been happening and how (s)he feels, not about reading it from her ‘wall’. Its about reading whats in the news, not what my neighbour thinks about the news – I can ask her that if I wanted to. Its about having a physically-real farm, and a physically-real cow, and not about having a Farmville. (Come on folks, if you have two hours a day for Farmville, why not start a garden and see those physically-real tangible beautiful fragrant flowers and those eatable vegetables?)

Its about meeting a bygone friend in the middle of a forest (ok, lets be more realistic, in the middle of the grocery store?). Or giving a hug because I truly cherish the soul I hug, not to get points. Its about showing pictures – those fleeting events which we arrogantly try to capture – to people who know, not about tagging people and commenting on the X’s balding forehead. Its about letting people who care to ask where I am or what I’m doing, not about publishing that to the world. Please, its about going out there and actually doing something for that poor Panthera tigris and not about clicking a button!

Yes, this is a rant. But for me, its about the non-digital. Yes, the non-digital. Yes, I believe it exists.

Actually, no. Its not about the non-digital. Its about the person, the human, the energy, the force. Digits and non-digits do not play there.

And Ippolito and I have something in common. We both think Facebook is a Stupid Idiot.

Confessions of a volunteer

Believed 1 year, 5 months ago in Anecdoticals and Political contemplations. 0 Comments

Words are flying out like endless rain in through a paper cup… hums the musical soul, thrumming a guitar resting on his lap, sitting cross-legged, resting against the wall, at the far end of the room from me. Me, curled in a lotus position, echoing his thoughts about how we came to be here, the state of the world, hypocrisy of folk, and tonight’s dinner… Escaping into notes of the Beatles melody, both of us knew that world was cruel, that life was pointless, and that it was hard. It. Being a volunteer.

That is how we had come to know each other, three long years back. Volunteers for a ‘social cause’. Embraced into the welcoming folds of righteous feeling, passion, and collective conscious of our associates, we had taken up the yoke to return in time and set right the un-rights. It has been a long journey, across stereotypes and beliefs, hopes and trust, across oceans and seas, love, hate, beauty, hospitals, slums, villages, people, words, emails, blueprints, plans, schools, songs, and literally half the way across the world. Yup, this currently octopus shaped cynic, and his guitar-possessing optimist.

Armed with the wand of change, we swept across human-inhabited (and otherwise) geographical spaces, waving our magic hither and tither. And every once in a while, we would come up with the same thought as we were manifesting now – how did we get here again?

It, volunteering, is hard. Why is it hard, you might ask… What is there so much to it? Isn’t it just a matter of educating the poor to break the vicious circle of poverty? Isn’t it just talking to people to make them aware of social issues? Isn’t is just about being socially minded so as to make a better world?

Oh no, that is the tragedy it has become. In fact, it isnt. It is, simply put, about thought, change, and delusion.

With great power comes great responsibility (Plato’s ‘Gorgias’). And a volunteer is armed with the greatest of powers – of change. Change is, in a way, the creation of something new. Thus a volunteer has the power of creation. The same power attributed to God, in all religious faiths. And this power has immense capacity. Thus making a volunteer intensely responsible for her/his world. What (s)he does with this power is what makes volunteering hard.

A question to begin with could be, what am I working for? Which will probably be shortly followed by what am I doing? Of course the question of who am I doing this for and is this what they really need or what are we doing to them would come up somewhere in the body of thought. These thoughts will probably take you to change. Change. Not of others, not of someone you work for, but of yourself. However, you probably wouldn’t have come to a satisfactory conclusion for your questions, which would probably continue through your change, questioning your change. Soon, you would have a Plato-Socratic battle raging in your head (and heart) – they are of the poor, I should help educate them to break the cycle of poverty; but is education the answer? Isn’t education just conditioning you to conform to society; and isn’t the heart of the problem within the system of the society itself? But what else can I do? Shouldn’t I be doing something? Should I be doing something? Who am I to decide what is best for someone else? What is good, what is bad? So what must I do?

And finally, you reconcile by doing something to smother the raging fire of your thoughts. Welcome to delusion.

Amidst all this, you would have travelled through the most passionate of beliefs, the best of friends, the heights of love, the top notches of efficiency, the worst of heartbreaks… And finally, you and me, we end up in this room, pondering about our dinner, and losing ourselves Across the Universe as we try to negotiate life. It is hard. It better be. If not, its time to start thinking.


[this article, titled 'Confessions of a volunteer', has been written by the author of this post as an entry to a social work organisation magazine. If published, the rights to this article will belong to that magazine and the publishing organisation. Until then, it falls under the general rights policy that this blog follows.]

[this article is dedicated, with love, to all the new volunteers at the above mentioned social work organisation, and the guitar-possessing optimist soul]

Wings fall apart

Believed 1 year, 5 months ago in Within yet Without. 0 Comments

The butterfly swimmered and swammered through the egg man’s revengeful sunflower. The hazy yellow circus blob was blogging with all its might. The petals were screaming teaming deaming beaming with red yellow orange crazy freestyle eatin ants. No longer seeing deeing peeing freeing, she sweated metted in the sun.

“Ow” and naught more, no fought more. Caught sore, she held up her head bed ted and rose to her froze. Drunk in exuberance of life’s seeming lubrication, she moved in and out of that orgasmic realm of incomplete nonsensical insanification. The deep dark countenance of the deer park foundation led her to the mysteries of Zen Buddhism, amongst other pseudo Chritio-Islamic-Hinduistic ideologies.

The core of her very faith shaken, she retaliated in terror. She tore apart her seeming soul to feed the hungry beasts waning at the door. In vain. The S became an s and the T a t, before she fell down in a crossover melody.

Sleepy creepy flippy floppy, She looked at the egg man. The Walrus was close behind. So was the carpenter. Hello hare! Are you late again?

Oh yesss, life’s a tripping blipping hootin cootin footing mystery.

The wings fall apart.

And glistening in the yolk, she whimpers, for what?

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