How to Procrastinate Without Taking any Blame: A Step to Step Guide

I love to procrastinate. But that’s like saying I love boobs – everybody does. And so I figured out and presumed that you might love to procrastinate too and so I also presumed that you’d like to know how to procrastinate things without taking any blame because blame is like the penis of a shemale. Who wants to take it? Not me.


This is how a shemale’s crotch looks. Gross.

So here is how I experimented and found out the ultimate formula of procrastinating.

Step 1: Fall in love with a girl who has never been to Goa.

Step 2: Continue loving her.

Step 3: Continue. Patience is the key to success.

Step 4: By now, it’s your birthday. If it isn’t, you’re going to have to use some more patience.

Step 5: At least by now it’s your birthday. Hallelujah. Ask your girlfriend to plan a trip at some faraway place for your birthday.

Step 6: She will plan a trip to Goa because she hasn’t been there, but if she has other places on her list, drop subtle hints like “I want to go to Goa”, or “Let’s go Goa.” Or “Goa, Goa, Goa.”

Step 7: Go on the trip and eat good food and have fun.

Step 8: Go to Morjim beach and play in the sea for three hours. A lot of fine sand will go inside your ears with the water.

Step 9: Go back to your hotel and try to poke ear buds in your ear until it begins to hurt.

Step 10: Call off the trip, go home and see a doctor.

Step 11: Put the prescribed ear drops in your ears and swallow the prescribed meds and cover your ear with cotton plugs.

Step 12: If anyone asks you to do something, don’t fucking do it.

Step 13:  If they ask you why you didn’t do the work tell them the story of your ears. If they say “Ohh I didn’t know that”, reply with “It’s okay. Happens.”

Step 14: Smirk and continue watching porn on your laptop.

That’s about it folks.


“If You’re a Real Writer, Write About Goats.”


This is Ashia. I know Ashia because Ashia knows someone I know and that someone we know is someone you know too provided that you know this blog and have read a few articles prior to reading this one which might have then led you to know that I have a girlfriend who is anyway the only other person apart from me that my readers know, know what I’m saying? Ashia is Isha’s best friend. Now Ashia knows that, no not the asshole part. I mean yeah she of course knows that but what she also knows is that I write quite a great deal about her best friend to keep my blog going and that it isn’t always exactly romantic. So a few days ago she snapped at me and said, “Why do you have to write about her all the time? If you’re a real writer, write a 1000-word article about something else.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Goats”, came the reply.

It was pretty funny because Isha’s horoscope sign is Capricorn whose symbol happens to be the goat which means in a way, I have always been writing about a goat. But I didn’t tell that to Ashia because there was the fear of Isha getting pissed at me for using a goat-metaphor while mentioning her and because then Ashia could have very likely said, “Then write about cats”, and would have made it tough for me. So I began thinking about goats. It was actually a pretty rad subject and let’s be honest, an opportunity wasted. If I ever had a chance like that to make someone write about what I want them to write, I would have asked them to write about The Fluctuation of Sexual Attraction in an Eskimo When He Sees Contraction of Nipples due to Exreme Cold at the North Pole After Having Seen the Contraction of the Same Nipples due to Extreme Cold at the South Pole. Then I’d have taken a dramatic pause and added, “Goat’s nipples.” I know it’d be gross because goats have four tits and no man would be interested in bestiality anyway but that’s my whole point. I’d have given a subject that would be tough. But Ashia asked me to write about goats. Just goats.

I don’t know why but every time I say goats, it reminds me of boats. But we’ll talk about boats some other time, perhaps when Ashia asks me to write about them. For now, let’s keep ourselves to goats.  Honestly I’ve never given much thought to goats although there had been an incident when I was 16 that involved some goats. Yeah I know what you’re thinking and no, it wasn’t an animal orgy, sorry. I was just riding a scooter then and a herd of goats appeared on the road from nowhere and two of them fucking jumped on my scooter head on. So I lost control of the scooter and it slipped and I landed in a puddle of engine oil. When I got up on my own wondering how come every time a girl meets an accident there always seem to be almost fifty fucking generous and helpful men present at the scene, I saw that no goat was hurt in the accident which honestly hurt me because I had thought if at least one goat died, I could have later told the whole story to my friends and when they would have said, “Ohh poor goat.”  I could have pretended to not give a damn about it and said, “Collateral damage.” But that couldn’t happen because the goat didn’t die. So then I went home and told my mother what had happened. The scooter was badly damaged and it was inevitable that my father would therefore call me a ‘loser who cannot ever ride a scooter’ conveniently forgetting the fact that I am the best he could deliver – his champion sperm. So to assist me in shielding myself from the torrent of his spite (just being poetic, read: to save me from the blame), my mother validated my point in front of him by saying she herself saw goat hair on the scooter’s front panel which was really funny because goat hair stuck on the scooter? Can that really be someone’s defence? But my dad didn’t scold me and that was my first and last encounter with goats.

I wonder what would have Ashia done if she found herself tackled to the ground by goats. Perhaps she won’t have done anything because fifty fucking generous and helpful men would have come to rescue her and would have massacared the goats and then while telling her friends about the incident, Ashia could have said, “Collateral damage.”

Although my morbid fantasy of killing a goat in a road accident for the sake of a dialogue may sound sick, I must admit that I really like goats. In fact I wish I had a goat and if I’m ever allowed to keep a dog in the house, I would instead get a goat and name it Ashia and train it to be the world’s most intelligent goat and then organize its shows everywhere.

In the show I would ask the goat, “What comes after April?”

And she would say, “Mayyyyy.”

Then I would ask, “What is Peter Parker’s aunt’s name in the movie Spiderman?”

And the goat would say, “Mayyyyy.”

Then I would also ask, “Fill in the blank space, what is the name of the stupid, mushy movie they show on the Valentine’s Day some times?  Definitely, _ Be?”

And the goat would say, “Mayyyy.”

There would be a lot of money and then I’d buy a house at Beverly Hills with that money but won’t give a penny to Ashia because what would a goat do with money? At the most chew it. But enough about goats, I guess I’ve talked a lot about them and it’d anyway be exactly 1000 words when I say, challenge completed.

The Girl I Saw

Under the pleasant sun that shone like gold

And in rusty breezes of winter I behold;

A sight so magnificent and yet so calm

A sight of you, in a different realm.


Oh how you looked

When your hair shone,

How utterly beautiful

In a world of your own.


And yet you were more

Beyond what met the eye;

Something vast and starry,

Just like the night sky.


I tried to look

And indeed I saw

The fire you withheld

Which could lead glaciers to thaw.


And I saw you also

Like a morning in spring,

Lively yet silent

Joys which could bring.


And the air of seriousness

Which halted about you

Also whispered to me

She is dauntless, just so you knew.


And the very feminine essence of you

When caught my hold,

A lover’s passion rose in me

And grew a thousand-fold.


And in your lady like aura

I as well saw a girl

Who could carry herself in grace

But also dance and twist and twirl.


And at one moment, still in your world

You smiled

And Isha there is nothing better I have seen

So original, so natural and yet so very wild.


And through all this, I could feel you

Like I felt the sun in my face,

And it felt so good

So much like I was in the right place.


That day as I saw you sitting on that rock with your feet in the water,

In my heart I knew I was more than smitten,

And I knew also, whether you’re the turbulent water whether you’re that still rock

I’ll always love you, it’s written.

Why is The Sedition Charge in JNU Justifiable and Necessary?

I’m not a Hindu extremist, which means apart from not asking my children to not celebrate the Valentine’s Day because it isn’t fit for our culture’, I won’t ever be one of the many enthusiasts equipped with a napkin who would wipe the ass of any political party driven by Hinduism every time it takes a dump. Having said that, I would now assert that I am a nationalist. It is likely to confuse you a bit because a major percentage of India’s young writers and thinkers seem driven by a belief in the fact that supporting any cause that is against the government or protests against its actions and demands justice will eventually make them look politically sound and more importantly, pro-human rights, which in turn has made them write in a manner that has merged the picture of an Indian nationalist and a Hindu extremist completely and which has since then reflected this merged picture as that of a ‘Hindu Nationalist.’ However these two entities are entirely exclusive of each other and therefore when I say I’m a nationalist, I want you to read it without any prefix.

Since Kanhaiya Kumar, the president of the JNU Students Union was charged and arrested for anti-nationalist activities that mainly included protesting against the prosecution of Afzal Guru, a lot has happened in Delhi and a lot of people have raised their voices against it. The orientation of these voices is in many directions but primarily, while some are protesting because the motive behind his protest was accurate, some others who may not agree with that particular idea are protesting because it is against democracy and damages a person’s freedom of speech. I must agree that the argument here point on. If a government arrests a particular person for voicing his opinion, it sure is a damaging act to both – the democracy and the person’s freedom of speech. However in a situation like this, where the temerity of the speech goes on rising just because the democracy is lenient and allows it to rise, and goes beyond a certain level where it can become a reason to provoke anarchy, I wonder if freedom of speech still remains a right or does it become a privilege that has been misused? As a writer and a person who finds freedom of speech a basic right, it hurts me to call any kind of freedom a privilege but in cases as such, it becomes essential and just the right thing to do.

When a person is charged for a terrorist activity which precisely happens to be a violent attack on the nation’s parliament and after an imprisonment of 12 years – a time span in which no evidence of his complete innocence is found or collected in his defence, I believe he can rightly be declared as an enemy of the nation. And any enemy of the nation who tries to thwart the peace of its people rightly deserves a death penalty. I don’t think anyone would want to conflict with this idea. And further, that is what exactly happened in the case of Afzal Guru. Many Muslim Kashmiris believe that he was a hero, a martyr. The intensity of their words honestly keeps me from calling him a villain because I respect their opinions, however I won’t hesitate to say that Afzal Guru was an antagonist. In that respect, he was rightly sentenced to die for that would safeguard the conscience of the nation and I don’t think anyone would disagree with the fact that no individual is at any point of time, greater than the nation. That’s my stance about Afzal Guru’s death.

Now, when we come to think of the arrest of Kanhaiya Kumar, the president of the JNU Students’ Union, for protesting against this very death penalty of Afzal Guru, I would repeat and ask you, how much of his protest looks like an act under freedom and how much of it looks like the misuse of a privilege? While reading about this incident in the newspapers, I came across a statement by Kanhaiya Kumar’s father in which he had asserted that his son wasn’t an anti-nationalist, but only a leftist. It was funny because the term leftist covers a wide segment of ideologies and as much as it represents communists, it also as much represents anarchists and Kanhaiya Kumar’s protest indeed seemed to be fuelled with some kind of anarchic motives, if it wasn’t for just instant popularity. And that exactly is the biggest tragedy of any democracy. Due to the wide freedom it imparts, a democracy knowingly and sometimes even helplessly, boosts speeches and expressions that are a threat to its own subjects. In such cases I wonder if democracy should continue playing by its rules or not. Sometimes, to crush anarchy, a democracy requires to be reckless, restricting and even suppressive. And if that is going to safeguard and guarantee peace and order, as a nationalist, I believe that is the exact thing a democracy should do in such times – not because it is right, but because it is necessary.

“Why Don’t Clothes Die?”

Kids ask all kinds of amusing questions. And although I don’t have any, unlike others who would begin the sentence with ‘Although I don’t have any,’ and end it with ‘I love kids and spend as much time as I can with them’, I would end it with, ‘I don’t spend my time with any either.’ Kids are too stupid to understand my humour and anyone who is too stupid to understand my humour is fucking bad company.

So yes, kids ask all kinds of amusing questions and had a kid asked me the question in the title, I’d have laughed it off and called him stupid or cute which would have relied entirely on whether is mother was hot or not. However, the most amusing part is that the question in the title wasn’t really a kid’s query. It was Isha’s.

A few days ago, we were discussing about what clothes should we pack for a holiday.

“I don’t have anything to wear”, she frowned after pulling out her whole closet.

“What?” I asked, because for one thing I knew there were at least sixteen dresses of one kind and thirteen of some other kind, and myriad tops and a lot of implausible stuff that looked too odd to fit around a human body but she said it did.

Perhaps she didn’t understand the fact that my “What?” was rhetorical. So she repeated, “I don’t have a fucking thing to wear!” then very sadly, in an almost-morbidly-fascinating Billy Holiday voice, she added, “Why don’t clothes die?”

“W-haat?” I asked again.

Just a few days prior to this incident, she had once asked me why isn’t my father a drug lord. Her logic was that, if he was a drug lord she would have then married me and got drugs on the house. Although her obsession with murders, drugs and other criminal activities isn’t surpirsing for me anymore, this type of question was fucking weird.

“Yeah, think of it! What if clothes could have died and given birth to new ones?” she said.

I like being witty in such situations and although you can’t be something just because you like it in the same manner I can’t be William Shatner although I’d fucking love to be him, I still asked in a witty tone, “Wouldn’t that require your clothes to have sex between themselves?”

Perhaps I wasn’t really witty after all because she then said, “Why do you have to think of sex all the time?! I meant what if the clothes died and like a Phoenix rises from its own ashes, they rose as new ones?”


I have a powerful imagination. This is how I saw it in my head.

“What then?” I really couldn’t understand what the fuck was the whole point of it.

“I will murder my clothes then! So they’ll die and give birth to new ones and before we go on this holiday, I’ll have new ones!” she exclaimed.

That was creepy as fuck, so before it could any creepier, I said, “Isha listen, go shopping.”

After she had bought ten tonnes of clothes, I said, “Hey listen, the whole Phoenix thing is a myth, you know that right? And so when you said that thing about murdering your clothes, that wasn’t really valid either, right?”

So then she snapped, “For God’s sake I was kidding, you fucking asshole.”

Thoughts From The Road

Have you ever been on long journeys in rickety, almost melancholy buses?

Amongst sleepy men and loud-mouthed women and crying babies who together make your peace wane?

And when the bus shoots through pitch blackness in the dry, wintry night, have you sat wide awake while your fellow passengers are asleep in their shallow worlds, content with what little they have achieved?

And have you then envied the sad souls for having sought peace in that very sadness?

On such a night, has your heart skipped a beat because of its young ambitions? Ambitions that can be thwarted by the monotonous machinery of life all about you and ambitions that seem too surreal when you sniff the odour of your fellow passengers and look at their sleepy, worn-out faces?

Have you thought of their struggles and in some corner of your heart, felt anxious about having to face those? And has you lonesome life, deprived of love made you feel weak and hollow?

And has it all then faded the color of your plans and have you closed your eyes to let go and find some sleep amidst the snoring men? And within your closed eyes, have you had visions and believed that you might afterall just be a replica of the younger days of the person beside you or the one sitting behind you, a faceless, nameless entity traveling to and fro between the same two places to achieve the balance of life, in funny hopes of seeking peace in the sad, shallow anthill-world of worn-out shoes and crumpled plastic bags and shapeless blackened nails?

Has that broken your heart?

And have you then gulped and stiffened your lips and felt something move in your chest? And has that made you hopeful again? Has that mended your heart in its own, rough manner and have you then just rested your head against the window, looking at the lamp-posts in a distance and counting the super-fast cars that shoot by with their large headlights? And have you then prepared yourself for the distance that you have to cover through the long, solitary night?

Have you?

Incestuous Love

Passion and fall

Conquers all

For cupid plays

In the most amusing ways.

Once upon a time in a land

That hath more gold than sand,

A beautiful pair of twins was born

Fairer than any other from Casterly Rock till Dorne.

And although beauty seldom comes without a curse,

What may possibly befall those with a full purse?

But when fate is defied, up rise the sins

And so they did with these beautiful twins.

And yet what sin may be darker than the one for a cunt?

For it can wage wars and set men on each others’ hunt.

So it befell the Lions of gold

When Cersei’s breasts Jaime behold.

A playful touch warm and nice

Made Jaime desire and indulge in vice.

And what began as a touch in jest

Led Cersei too, to plunge in incest.

Thence she always lied,

Naked and hungry by Jaime’s side.

And in return of her lust

Jaime had to her, his heart thrust.

Years passed by and she married a king,

And also took another lover – a casual fling.

And he, he was taken hostage in another land

From where he returned in rags and a mutilated hand.

But in all this time he never touched another skin

For his sin was black but conscience, clean.

And soon she too, confessed of her incestuous crime

But saved his skin, thus standing the test of time.

Despite being a sin, their love was pure

Of the rarest form, one that would endure.

And so what began in the womb

Would end, but only in the tomb.

If you liked this, read a poem on Cersei’s Cunt here. And about the Hound here.