THE PINK HOUSE ON TOP OF A GREEN HILLOCK PART 1

There was a pink house on top of a green hillock. It was as old as I was. Or maybe older. Houses whisper their age if you listen carefully. They talk to you. They tell you if they want you there. The pink house wanted me there, of that I was sure.

I have lived in that house since I was drawn out of nothingness into this mad world. That house is the Cartesian origin of my entire existence. The pink house is that single constant in this world of flux. This pink house has been my guardian and my scribe. I have witnessed love here, I have witnessed hate. I have met Death here – he came for someone else. I have met him thrice. “Not today”, he would whisper every time to me. “Not today”.

Existence is pain, and my pain is relentless. I am an accidental amputee, my limbs of faith chopped off by sharp blades of reason and hatred. I had this house for comfort, whatever comfort an accidental amputee can afford. But not anymore. I have been torn away from its concrete embrace, ostracized into one hostile terra firma after another. And my wounds festered.

I would like to go back there. To live there. To die there. I would like to smell the rain from there, I would like to get lost there. Amidst its crumbling walls and leaking roof, I want to find solace. I want to find peace. I want to find the chaos in me. And rest. Oh how I want to rest.

A Monster Who Bursts Into Short Melancholic Poems on Being Inquired About the Weather and Winter in Particular.

Winters,
What are they?
The only Winters I have
Is in me.

A million Cold Stones
Engraved with colder poems
Of lost laughs
Is in me.

A veiled Future
Of countless possibilites
Now murdered
Is in me.

A dying Sun
A sycophantic giggle
Forever echoing
Is in me.

An ancient Dread
Older than Death
A rage eternal
Is in me.

I am immortal
In you and everyone
Who seeks me
And you are in me.

Of Death, Remembrance and Other Such Poems of Loss and Hope

“I remember
bittersweet sky
talk of cigarettes
and goodbyes.” – Maharnab Hazarika

 
The last thing I asked him to do was to read Jerusalem (Moore, Alan; 2016).
The last thing he asked me to do was read Billy Childish.
“Rustic and bare” he apparently is, “kind of very personal” he said.

 

Death does tear everything apart,
It is the void that shames an empty heart,
But he is there now – and everywhere,
For death is eternal, like everything else.

 

“Each day and every deed’s eternal, little boy. Live them in such a way that you can bear to live with them eternally.” – Moore, Jerusalem.

 

“Life is fucked up bey” he told Bhaskar Anna once, “Feel depressed like rainfrogs”
“What are rainfrogs?” asked Bhaskar.
“Frogs that don’t like rain, sadly they do not exist.”

 
There are rainfrogs, for he thought of them
There is sadness, for he was amongst Her
And then there is him- stardust, ether, voidless, endless
For we are here, with his rainfrogs and sadness.

 

“You get what anybody gets – you get a lifetime” – Death (Gaiman’s Sandman)

 

He had his lifetime,
He has his lifetime,
He will have his lifetime,
He lives, he dies, he creates and crumbles.

 

.Forever.

A Medieval Hero Who Was But Mad – A Children’s Poem

The hero rode on gallantly,
Cackling as we went,
For he went barking mad,
Little he knew of his quest.
The hooves clattered on loudly,
On the stony streets of Tianjin
For it was no ancient age,
But two thousand and thirteen.
“Then why dost he ride?” you ask
“On a strong and able steed?”
Because lunacy was his cause,
And forgotten were his deeds.
The hero rode on fiercely,
Cursing and spitting as he went,
For he saw things we didn’t,
And took us all for mad.

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Of Books Reviewed by the Baazigar Actress

Following Shilpa Shetty’s revelatory review of Animal Farm, here are some other books she wholeheartedly recommends to school students –

it

A book on pronouns. Especially the pronoun It. Recommended for toddlers.

house-of-leaves

A book on tidiness and how to not let leaves inside your house. Recommended for ages 3 to 5.

satanic-verses

A religious treatise outlining the basic teachings of Satanveda – one of Hinduism’s fifteen Vedas (not taking into account Kamasutra, which is a picture book for kindergarten). Recommended for middle school.

carrie

The true courageous story of a young girl named Carrie on how she fought gender politics with her mind (not literally of course). Recommended for budding feminists, especially from the Deepika Padukone school of applied feminism.

finnegans-wake

A simple story about Finnegan and how he woke up one day. Recommended for easy reading because of its simple style.

metamorphosis

A handbook on weight reduction, a must read for anyone who is into self body-shaming. By the way, join Iosis.

jerusalem

A travelogue of Jerusalem, capital of Iran. For the budding traveler.

 

Gormenghast the Terrible

The rain surrounds the Earl,

The young Earl Titus;

The wind howled inside and out;

But not a leaf fluttered in

Gormenghast’s heart.

 

Titus Groan the Young,

Visits his library – his aide

The sullen books were adorned with dust;

But not a word escaped from

Gormenghast’s vigil.

 

Madness had consumed Sepulchrave here,

Titus’ father and once King

And he wept for him and his misfortune;

But not a tear was shed by

Gormenghast’s stone heart.

 

 

 

A Comparative Analysis of How a Bottle of Nutella is a Better Philosopher than Paulo Coelho

So Paulo Coelho sucks. In case you were wondering why, because he does. He sucks. In fact when it comes to philosophy, a bottle of Nutella is better than Paulo Coelho. To articulate this innate universal truth, I have compiled five analogies that will drive this point home and burn him down with alchemy. And yes, Buzzfeed sucks as well.

  1. Paulo Coelho is the Brazilian “Sri Sri Sri Sri to the infinity” Sai Baba, but without the latter’s parlour tricks and fantastic hair. Nutella has chocolate and hazelnut.
  2. Paulo Coelho is the guy who sells you stale popcorn with the promise of a non-existent super flavor, which often leaves you with a sense of false optimism and ultimate regret. Nutella has chocolate and hazelnut, which makes you unconditionally happy.
  3. Paulo Coelho tries to tackle world problems with the finesse of a baby taking a dump in his diaper, with his head deep inside his own nether region. Nutella tackles world problems by providing you fulfillment through chocolate and hazelnut.
  4. Paulo Coelho is the thinking man’s philosopher, where the aforementioned thinking man is but an unapologetic nincompoop who thinks Paulo Coelho is the thinking man’s philosopher. Nutella professes the philosophy of chocolate and hazelnut for the masses, showing you that commercial philosophy does exist.
  5. Paulo Coelho recites recycled wisdom, with a smug sad face and an all knowing beard, making you reconsider your own sanity to even buying his latest piece of shit. Nutella holds no such pretense. Nutella provides you with chocolate and hazelnut.

A Sunday mid-afternoon conversation on the pros and cons of nothing

“Does it hurt?”

“Yes it does.”

“How much?”

“Like one terabyte of pointless data vanishing into the ether”

“Ouch”

“Yeah.”

“And all the feigned care for the world in general?”

“It is not.”

“It is not?”

“It is not feigned. It is the outcome of genuine concern.”

“Are you being serious here?”

“Yes I am. We are the sum total of everything. So everything is a concern.”

“But isn’t everything nothing? Like how a coked up Pete Townshend preached after chancing upon the Gita?”

“We are the sum total of that nothing. So nothing is my concern as well.”

“So are you superficially concerned? But you are hurt, aren’t you?”

“Terribly. And no, it is an intimate concern.”

“Do they know that you care?”

“Who’s they here? It is a selfish endeavor. No one needs to know.”

“Then who will keep you in their concerns?”

“That’s what the hurt is. A cosmic indifference.”

“Ouch.”

“I know.”

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Old

I am old now. I would like to forget that, but my legs won’t let me. I am too old for regrets, my pain is no more metaphorical; it is mostly rheumetism. I am as blind as a bat, I can’t even see the shit that I am typing. I am old enough to fart in public and pee on my sandals. I am old enough to say “fuck off” without offending anyone. In fact my last “fuck off” received a collective “Awwww” of affection. It was a repulsive experience; a vile condescending act. But I am too old to scream again.
I am that old.
Sometimes I smell cats, probably my neurons are fucking up again and mingling memory with reality. I think I used to love cats, I don’t remember why. I hate them now. I don’t remember why either. The mischief in their eyes draw me near. Or does it make me cringe? I don’t fucking care anymore. People bore me. They are all the same. I have seen all of them before. Humanity is like a recycling factory of bigotry, fakery, selfishness and assholery. Except for one. I don’t remember well, but there was one like no other. Maybe this someone is a figment of my own decaying imagination, she most probably is. But I cling on thinking that she was real. Such is life, all of it. In the end, there is nothing but rotten skin and bones. And a small warm gently dying heart thinking of all the would have-beens.