Cerebral Fallacies

A genuine piece of boredom I gift to you a yen for inspiration an elsewhere, a has-been moment of guiles and of potential lies scattered in droopy eyelids that nursed a dream just a few sleeps back a genuine piece of boredom I gift to you it catch you with a net, slowly enveloping your senses, marauding, it suffuses you with a pink light and sharp shooting caffeine hungover mornings are better dealt with a sip of nonchalance a grip loosing itself to reality a truth dawning on known unknown faces its an interesting moment to be in a bubble that should not crack until awakening returns you to the folds of this life-induced pill LA

chaikalaals मन कि भडास मांगे चाय, दिल का हाल मांगे चाय, कोई धमाल मांगे चाय, इस गैंग हर लाल मांगे चाय.... रातों के हम रास्ते है चाय हमारे वास्ते है एक हमराही, जो मनचाही आवाज़ ओ ढाले चाय हम है अमदावाद के मैल्कलाल लोगों हमें तुम बोलो चैकालाल हमें अपने चाय से है प्यार, कितली के काका के हम यार यह दोस्ताना रहेगा सदा याद महीनों के बाद, सालों के बाद चाय कि जब हम लेंगे चुस्की याद आएगी हर उसकी जो इस गैंग के हैं चैकेलाल.... लक्ष्मी अजय Yeah thats truly us....

Nothing stirred me as magical words that define the process of an entire day or explain in a lilt the larger than life concepts in a nutshell. Imagine that a few vowels and words strung together hinge the entire history of human evolution to the species we are today. I read voraciously. Still do, strange books that are flung into a little dark corner on libraries and reading rooms have a special place in my heart. Also far flung stories that revolve orbit around the nonsensical, prose catches me. I wrote some. And some more! I wrote when it suited me. When something ached in me to scream in letters and phrases. I did write then. I made an education of it and then a profession of it. I wrote spuriously and with real connect. I wrote for an audience that moved. I replicated theories and introspections with calm affability. Only to find my writer languishing somewhere. The reverse osmosis had already begin. Rot and decay incessant. Word after word repetitive, hardly stimulating. For all I...

An unfilled page is like a festering wound. It drives you mad with a constant itch, a nag, a personal goal but a social pain. Some love to itch and colour it with blood in riotous reds, some let it get yellow, fecund in yellow rebellion while some make it go white with tubes and antiseptics and make it a clinical chore. Nevertheless the page will be named first. Labelling as the society's best pastime admits to itself here. Later the self-same words will then arrange themselves into organisations and rallies and clubs. No countries of servitude here and no sermons of religion to adhere to. They fall with military precisions with dots and tucks and zits and zig -zags into broad lines. Seems like they do not have any problem aligning their forces with their neighbours as word after word contain the selfsame alphabets. Zealous labourers, they work for their keep in a fastidious way that makes their management weightier with idioms, phrases, nouns and verbs guarding them religiously. T...

He likes And she hides He's scared She's poised He attempts She's miffed He blinks She's charmed They fall In love or lust or whatever They pick up Pieces of each other Puzzles of the other and piece together She calls He calls back She possesses He retracts She arranges He combats She cries He's haughty He's calm, She's tacit Rearranging, retrenching, retrieving and recouping In spite, in love, in loosing and winning… in them!

If you thought having five years of an intense experience as a hostelite and then some is not enough to write on then you would be wondering what would. Leave aside a bestseller, the kind of extreme situations that a boarder has to face to complete a decent education away from home in India would make for a gazillion case studies of the bizarre leanings! But we will leave that to the saner; right brained ahem babushkas (whatever that means). While a lot is being done about making hostels luxurious and livable mostly ‘India’ still thrives on the ones that I have been to. Having been an avid reader of the wrong kind of moral books like the very tame Enid Blytons in my childhood, the little adolescent in me had created my own very magical world of how a hostel life should be! It was full of midnight parties, tuck boxes and fun unlimited. Well you could say that it was much 'more' than a mixed bag for me. Well the tuck boxes and the midnight bashes were there all right, but so were...

A genuine piece of boredom I gift to you a yen for inspiration, an elsewhere, a has-been moment of guiles and of potentials, scattered in droopy eyelids that nursed a dream just a few sleeps back a genuine piece of boredom I gift to you it catches you with a net, slowly enveloping your senses, marauding, it suffuses you with a pink light and sharp shooting caffeine hungover mornings are better dealt with a sip of nonchalance a grip loosing itself to reality a truth dawning on known unknown faces. it's an interesting moment to be in a bubble that should not crack until awakening returns you to the folds of this life-induced pill...