Author: shivrajadhav221

What Do You Do Living Alone?

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

So, I’ve been living alone since a couple of months now. I know it’s not a thing of novelty for ones and twos who cannot get into relationships and have to endure living alone because there’s no other way God would let them have it, but for fives like me who are borderline unfuckable but still score chicks once in a while, living alone can be fun. And it is probably because I am so vocal about how much fun I have living alone that many people ask me, “So what do you do living alone?” While half of those interrogators are genuinely interested in it, the other half are clearly in disbelief that I, this guy whose life is just an elongated series of unfortunate events, can have fun. Well, to be honest, it’s only the ladies that ask me that because all the other men know that alone time equals shagging with the left hand because it takes longer to get off and since I am right-handed, it feels like someone is giving me a handjob. It’s fun. Truly.

But let’s begin from the beginning. There can be many connotations of the term ‘living alone’. So, while for some it means having outlived their spouse and staying in that old rickety apartment with four feral cats, for some others like me, it means renting the same rickety apartment post the death of that guy and fucking a lot in all parts of the house and just doing everything the older guy couldn’t do. So, in that sense, I am living alone now.

For most of the part, it has been good. You see, I am not the kind of person who really likes people. I mean I do like people but it’s all always to the extremes, if I like you, I might as well want to fuck you. If I don’t, I probably dislike you. There’s no middle ground really. That also goes on to say I dislike most of my family because despite beholding Jaime Lannister in great respect, I haven’t gone on to fuck any of my kith and kin, nor do I plan to. Because all of them are ugly fucks and being born in such a family, it only reinforces my belief in the fact that lotuses only bloom when they’re in mud. But that isn’t the point here. Point is, living alone has been fun because the only visitors I get are the people I like, and they visit only on the days I want them to visit.It’s just me in my house. The sheer joy of not having to discuss Hindu cows and their edibility with roommates is inexplainable. The absence of such shitty conversations from my life has been giving me more time to do the productive stuff, like doing the laundry on a Tuesday night! This directly translates to not having to do anything on the weekend, and that feeling is, as has been agreed upon by every working person ever, unparalleled.

Another thing that I have been receiving in abundance lately is the time and opportunity to think. I mean, when you don’t have a TV, or anything to put your dick in, you’re pretty much constrained in terms of killing time. Then what else can you do? Think. No, don’t think about the answer smartpants. The answer is ‘think’. I have thought about a lot of things, mostly myself, in these couple of months and here’s a brief list of my findings:

  1. I need to workout more.
  2. The time taken to finish a shit is directly proportional to how interesting the memes are.
  3. I can save a TON of money with just some simple changes in my lifestyle. Like eating at someone else’s place.

I have implemented at least one of these things in my life and now, my colleague’s kid hates me for going to their place every day and finishing all his chocolate. But people are going to hate you when you begin getting better, so I have learnt not giving a shit about it. And that’s mostly it. Well, of course there is the occasional boredom of not wanting to do anything and wishing you had someone you could talk to or go out with, and it sucks. But those days go as quickly as they come and I am grateful for those days too because getting bored alone is much better than getting bored together with someone you can’t fuck. Like a roommate. Or your mom, unless your name is the same as some ROM burner.

And when I say I have fun living alone, this is exactly what I mean. I live just as I used to but now I have added more value to it. I really wish I was a motivational writer with a book on the subject because this is the exact point where I would have gotten to say, buy my new bestseller superdoofus book “The Complete Guide to Living Alone: Less Faps and More Naps” today! But since I do not have anything of the sort yet, I’ll now stop.

Cats, Religion and Three Interesting Facts About Me

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

You know how much I dislike cats. If you don’t, you either don’t know me or you are the one who likes cats and I’m the one tryna get into your pants. There’s no other way anyone in my social radius of three rings of people doesn’t know that I dislike the eight-nippled freaks. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: they’re animals, Shivraj. First of all, any fucking organism that diplomatically makes you their slave is not ‘just an animal’. You know who is just an animal? Pandas. They just eat and sleep and shit and fuck. And they’re Chinese. All boxes ticked. Cats were secret Gods of Egypt for all we know. Then there came a time when, under the pretense of taking back their jobs of staying indoors from the dogs, they elected an orange cat and it all went downhill from there. On the other hand, we all know where dogs are today. So you do you, sombrero.

Anyway, so despite having the complete knowledge of how I do not like cats and mind you, I am saying ‘do not like’ because hate is a strong word I keep reserved for Sindhis (nothing personal, they just smell like oily hair because that’s what their bodies are fundamentally made of). So yes, despite knowing how much I dislike cats, one of my colleagues, who is slowly progressing towards my first, inner-social ring of people who know me very well (based on the fact that a few days ago, she said, “You’re such an asshole. I feel like I don’t know you at all.”), asked me to cat-sit for her while she was out of station. I said yes because it meant a good bed, a huge TV, at least four different types of whiskies and a functional fan—everything that my apartment lacks.

When I arrived at her apartment with my girlfriend (a term I use to dearly address my right hand), my colleague was already gone and the cat was sitting on the dining table licking forks. There was unmistakable hatred in her eyes for me. It was a loveless marriage from moment one and I knew it and bestiality enthusiasts hear this out, we did not want to fuck each other and we did not. Now, fuck off. So anyway, I did not give a flying fuck about the fork-licking because I was going to order a pizza anyway and FYI, if you eat pizzas with forks, God arranges a special forky-penis gangbang for you in hell. It’s known.

So then, I proceeded to drink and munch on my pizza through the evening and let the cat be. It was about a couple of hours later that the cat did something totally unexpected. It jumped on my duvet and purred. Now here’s the second thing about me—I am a love slut. If you don’t know that, you either don’t know me or you still haven’t gotten in my pants to see how clingy I am after sex. So anyway, the moment the cat did that, I was a mush and I awww-ed and petted her. Now here’s the thing about cats I learnt in this single encounter: if you pet them, they don’t just get petted; they change their positions to indicate where they want to get petted. Not the exact same thing but it’s the equivalent of when you’re a five and fucking a two, she asks you if you’d bang her in the shower. No honey, it’s dark in here and I can’t see your face so I can at least pretend that I humped and came to a pillow. Not the same thing, people, but the cat was doing the cat-equivalent of just that. Now, since I am a love slut, I did it. I fucking petted the cat the way she wanted me to and hoped none of my “We Dislike Cats and Hate Sindhis” group members would find this out.

Now, after about seven minutes of petting, which was two long because one, it didn’t involve me getting an orgasm and my penis was utterly confused as to why would I use my hand for seven minutes if there’s no outcome, and two, I orgasm in three and a half minutes always and this activity was twice the time and therefore exhausting. I got up to wash my hands before eating the pizza again and no, that’s not because there’s some punishment in hell for eating a pizza with unclean hands. That’s because my mom raised me decently! So, I am gone to wash hands and when I come back, what do I see? The cat was fucking a eating a slice of my bacon pizza! Bacon pizza!!

Now, if you know me well, you know that I’m a harmless, non-violent person. I wouldn’t, for the love of God, ever hurt an ant (my childhood was in sharp contrast to this though, fucken stomped the shit out of them). But I say hurtful shit. So basically a little bitch trapped in a man’s body. And so, I said to the cat, “I hope your mom lived in a dominant Muslim household and is ashamed of your actions.” Then, I let her finish the slice. Now, as are my two important characteristics, I was disliking the cat passionately and spewing vile words at her but then, she jumped on the couch, offered me her paw as a sign of truce and looked at me with hopes.

cat

Here’s a potato-quality picture of the iconic moment when the cat offered me her paw

So, people, as you know, I am a love slut. I accepted the offer and tried petting her again. That’s when she scratched my hand and tried to put her fangs in my open palm. Needless to say, I had to sleep on the couch while she got the bedroom.

But that isn’t why you shouldn’t bring religion in a fight, dumbfucks. You shouldn’t bring religion in a fight because religion is a concept designed to trigger the fuck out of you and every time you bring it up to piss someone off, the scammers who created religions become a little more successful.

Tawang

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

The sad town glows

for one last time of the day;

and I wonder what do these people think

 

of us, of our evenings, of our cities

that glow from dusk till dawn

of places where the lights never sink.

 

The hotel owners and rice makers

will soon prepare for bed

at such early evening hours

 

Would they be cozy and content?

I imagine

Or do they secretly lust after the bright urban towers?

 

The kids of this town know how to sell their thenthuk

or carve up a yak

or sell local liquor cans for a barrel’s worth

‘

But in the freezing cold of the mountains,

are they really happy doing this?

Or do they yearn the plains with a scorched earth?

 

I feel funny for a moment

Am I wondering too much

about these people and the handful things they’ve got?

 

Or does it make sense?

I believe it’s all too little; they may not be content

and I believe it because just in two days, I am not.

Futile Mumbai Dreams

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

I could be an engineer

and smear my hands

in the happy evening grease.

And take you to the Marine

to sit like all those thousand couples

to feel the Arabian breeze.

We could dream of a home

in the match-box flats

in Mumbai’s monstrous heart.

And that could be my story;

of a man wise enough

who chose the stable life over his art.

But baby, I am a poet

and since my pockets have holes

I can’t give you that for which you so badly long.

I promise to love you fiercely, though,

so much that it breaks my heart

and then, I will write you a lamented song.

March Blues

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

It’s a long, forlorn March night

of the sweet victories that stop the tears awhile, before more tears of another kind, the feeble ones, make way in our lives.

The coffee shop is sad, the crowd is flat and the lights are dimming like

the lights of a borough’s diner sixty years ago that I constantly imagine.

Looking at the coffee, breathing in the smoky haze, I wonder if this will be one of those moments where I feel accomplished

for doing nothing but sitting in a short, shabby chair for thirty minutes straight with my book and tissues and pen and jotting down the incomprehensible madness in my mind, bottomless madness coming from the bottom, as my lighthouse liked it.

The woman thinks everything might soon fall apart. But isn’t that one of the many things women think?

They want the world for us, the selfless way while also wanting the world for themselves that doesn’t collide.

The world is a strange place, your world, my world, his world, her world, the black world, the cunning world.

Everything happens to everyone here, but the times are never quite right and you watch wagons of promise shoot past by

Gently enticing you to hop on, knowing that you won’t have the heart to refuse the entire station that sits unexplored behind your back.

The knack is to take a quick glance and an exhausting stride and never stop for if you choose thirst-quenching, comforting juices

Your thirst of the real kind will never be quenched.

The knack is to drink all you can, without actually stopping to drink.

“Why Can’t You Trek Holding My Hand?”

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

Funny, innit? But this isn’t about how it sounds funny because you can’t write funnily about something that is already funny, which in turn, is because then it is obvious that you are utilizing a situation that has already made n number of people laugh to make n + n number of people laugh but because it is obvious and can be seen as clear as the day provided that you don’t stay in the smog infested Delhi, people end up calling you cringe worthy, which is in no way synonymous to funny. So then, what is this about? Last month, Isha forced me to go trekking. I was in no mood to spend my weekend seeing a bunch of fucking rocks but she insisted. One thing about me is, if you insist me enough for something, I most probably end up doing it and so, I went.

Now I don’t know how do you guys trek as couples but I don’t think trekking is a couples’ thing unless both of you belong to the same sex. Or if the guy is a twat who wants to sing Hindi songs while climbing down dangerous peaks. Girls can do that because it’s their thing; they want to look around and feel nice about walking out in the sun for once in their lives instead of clicking dog filter selfies in their washrooms. And what do guys wanna do on treks? Guys want to be ahead of the other guys and be the first ones to reach the top of the rocks to eventually realize that there’s no glory in this. And so, that’s what Isha and I did, respectively. She sang songs and laughed and enjoyed the hike with the others in the group while I became Tensing Norgay of the group.

isha prabalgad

Isha posing for a photograph on the top of the most dangerous peak in Maharashtra like it is made out of LEGO. 

Towards the end of the ascend, Isha seemed pissed so I asked her what had happened and she said I hadn’t been around with her the entire time of the hike, which made her feel annoyed. She then said, “Now, hold my hand on the way back.” I said okay but it was the kind of okay I had said to my dad when he had asked me to stop watching porn nine years ago – the ‘not so serious’ kind of okay. So I began jumping rocks during the ascend and really enjoyed it, which was the whole point of the trek but when Isha arrived at the base camp with the rest of the party half an hour later, she was livid. There were angry words, feet stomping (not recommended when you’re climbing down a fucking peak but Isha is a rebel) and there were tears too. Isha’s tears scare the shit out of me because she cries like she is the most innocent woman on the face of the earth and also makes reasonable arguments while crying. When this happens in public, other guys very easily think that this damsel is stuck with this evil, bearded guy and that they should play the savior prince on the white horse and although no one has punched me yet, they all look at me like I am a criminal. Since I obviously didn’t want all of those things to happen, I asked her to stop crying and tell me what had happened. Wrongest move ever. It made her cry more and she then said, “Why can’t you trek holding my hand?”

me prabal

Random moment when I was trying to comprehend Isha’s question. 

And I really wanted to say, “Why can’t I trek holding your hand? Why can’t Abhishek Bachchan win an Oscar? Because all of it is fucking impossible baby!” (for the record, Isha thinks Abhishek Bachchan is a good actor). But I controlled my urge to say any of that and did the unreasonable thing that any smart man would do despite knowing it is unreasonable – I offered her my hand to walk down the last small hill at the end of the trek. She refused angrily and inside five minutes, fell flat on her ass and hurt her knee and I didn’t really know if I was to say, “See? That’s what happens when you don’t listen to me!” or “Sorry, all of this is my fault.” But my experience of being with her for two years coaxed me to choose the latter and I did so but that didn’t make much difference and we went home tired and grumpy. Me tired, Isha grumpy.

Now, to repent for this sin of not holding her hand while trekking, she wants me to go trekking with her every month of the this year and hold her hand through it. That’s the entire story. There’s no happy ending. The moral is, if your girlfriend asks you to go trekking with her, be a man and tell her the real number of cigarettes you smoke in a day and face her wrath for that because, and I say this out of experience, it is a much better than having to hold her hand during a trek.

Discontent

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

Isn’t it sad, isn’t it scary

How we’re all, in our beds, so weary?

 

That marriage makes you anxious

and that pendant makes you sad,

But you cannot justify it

because that is the pendant you never wished you had.

 

You want to covet all that you can see;

you want to covet another’s dream

Despite yours having the ocean

and theirs only a stream.

 

Of course, dreams you are allowed to share but only with one

for two’s passion, you can be proud

But when you’re the third,

three is only a crowd.

Don’t Want

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

Don’t want your harrowed eye-sockets

Don’t want no stuffed pockets

Don’t want that all ‘hey look at me’

Don’t want what you want me to be

Don’t want battered dreams

Don’t want motel-room screams

Don’t want twenty years

Don’t want happy tears

Don’t want life in a veil

Don’t want what you can so easily steal

Don’t want restaurant shows

Don’t want pointless rows

Don’t want to cope

Don’t want the life-saving dope

Don’t want fragility that you’ll mend

Don’t want the postcard love you send

Don’t want to wear a bitch-face

Don’t wanna pretend running the lost race

Don’t want to prove it to you

Don’t want to get validated by a few

Don’t want to tell you won’t fall

Don’t want nothing to do when you walk tall

Don’t want the visions on the hand

Don’t want your castles in the sand

Don’t want Christmas sweaters to smell

Don’t want to stand listening when you yell

Don’t want the false promise of a better dawn

Don’t want anything that makes me yawn

Don’t want you to fear

For I am not falling, I am right here

Don’t want you to think I will run

No, I am not searching for more fun

I only don’t want you to come and take

My solitary moments, of which the most I make

Let me be as I let you be

And we’ll live together happily.

The Sidekick

Posted on by shivrajadhav221

Can the hero become the writer?

No he cannot, brooding boy

For the hero has to play his part. He has to be the hero. He can act and do and go.

The writer is the sidekick – the one who observes, who sits in cars in April nights, waiting for the hero, waiting for him to drive them out of oblivion.

He tells the hero that the bay is clear, that there is no danger, Ameya, and you can walk out, winning the mission, jumping the roof in the ecstasy of your heroic being.

The sidekick is the one who tells the tale, making men gleam in sheer joy in hotel parking lots.

He is the one who cherishes the past, reminiscing stories and incidents that happened, when the hero and the folks wish to reminisce. He is omnipotent. Present everywhere, recording every move, putting his crude equations of right and wrong and good and bad to test.

He evaluates. He understands. He improvises.

He filters the necessary, letting the dark matter of insignificance wash down the drain.

He walks when he is drawn to walk by the irresistible aura of his best friend, the hero.

He smiles and shakes his head and bends down on the coffee table to write what he understands – to justify the hero’s deeds, to justify his absolute, entire being.

‘He sings and is known through centuries with different names – a bard, a poet and a playwright and a writer.

He is questioned for the obscurity of the hero while the hero sits and listens in silence.

He is the absolute proof of what happened there and it is his word that the listener chooses to have.

For he may not be the hero, and may never have the mettle to be one,

But without a sidekick, every hero ever, would be left unsung.