Obituary

I have not thought about you in a long time. I havent cared about what you were doing and what you allegedly did. I really didnt care, or so I thought. I was born with 'Thriller' , grew up with 'Bad' & 'Dangerous' , freaked out with 'Scream', fell in love with 'Earth song' , hoped with 'Heal the world' and yearnt for my love with ' You are not alone' . I realise now how much my life has been interwined with your magnificient creations. I didnt care when you were alive but sick. Why now does a tear trickle down my cheek when I see you on tv? Why does a pain gnaw away at my gut when I realise you wont be around to make magic again. I thought I didnt care Michael but I guess you had touched my heart everytime I hummed along with your songs.

I am unable to put words together to express what I feel so am borrowing some from W.H. Auden :-

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crêpe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Rest in peace Michael , for rest was what you never had when you were here weaving magic and exuding hope. May your music live forever.

Drool factor!

Just like every kid I love my parents cooking. K let me cut the bullshit and say , I love my mother's cooking. I called her a lot to consult , to cook like her and to enjoy the dinner like I used to when I was 17 and ravenous. Life it seems, wanted to laugh at me in my face. I tried every single cooking secret and grandma's recipe but sorry to say it all tasted like bullshit. I yearn for the weird but wonderfully peculiar stuff that only my mom can cook. The mishmash of various greens and a dry dish made of various types of beans, the wonderful different types of rasam and the amazing makeshift gravies. My mouth waters and my eyes tear up.

Let this not sound like a mommy suck up attempt. It just, is the simple desire of the salivating child of a loving mom to taste the food that one has grown up with. Never mind if the child is 29 , drooling and desperate.

Cooking has rubbed off on me but am no bourdain , I would rather be a kwong trying to discover ones roots. The core truth is that u may cook like angel but any guy would still love and prefer his mom's cooking to ur mess. Lv u mom.

Blood lust.

Its funny that i havent written for a long time. Funny because so much has happened and I have somehow managed to drown myself in my own self deprecating logic and lethargy and have remained mum. I travelled through the highest road in the world, tasted the salty waters of the pang-gong, drove through zoji-la, tasted then-thuk and pee-shee and lived and never wrote abt it till now. Oh yes by the way I also shot some stupid guy burning a mini-bus.

Not bad eh! Enough action I would say to generate adrenaline by the gallons and also enough conscience to drain every ounce of motivation and satisfaction. If I didnt know better I would definitely say " Dementors at work".

It pinches and pricks when every ray of sunshine and every drop of rain seem to taunt and remind me of the blood I have spilled. Maybe its the guilt I feel or the cold feet I have developed, it frightens me. I never thought I could hurt somebody like that. Not in ignorance and not in haste but in pure fervour and earnest. I enjoyed the pain and the groans. When I realised and awoke from the battle inflated blood lust, I wept. I wept for the life I had taken, I wept for the tears of a mother. I thumped my hollow chest and proclaimed my mowing down of an anti-national and I cried because I had become an anti-human.

Strange thoughts to engulf one who kills by profession is nt it? The fact is we have all forgotten that killing is always by profession and not by choice and we dont enjoy it. All that I fear is that, I may be in a position again to kill and lose the nerve to let loose the ammo. I hope I can go on with my job and I fervently hope the pride and the honour swamps the guilt and the remorse.

I pray for the pride to swell my chest and press the trigger often to do what I know is necessary. I pray for the souls I injure and my own. I pray for the fortitude to do this again and again and again. I pray for the day when remorse is but a word that I hear and not an emotion I combat.