Brooding Over Coffee

Here I am at the coffee shop again, sipping my cappuccino, smoking a pack, sitting quietly, writing on tissue papers, observing the huge mound of flesh and mind that surrounds me.

I sit quietly here, listening to the stories of these people. They talk about a thousand generic, boring things, wrapped in glossy words, and I don’t think they realize that. In their attempts to impress each other, they fail to see that their hearts are empty and there is no real weight to what they’re saying; they’re just words. It is like that dancing couple in the small, spherical glass, looking at each other eternally, seemingly in love, but in its truest essence, only glassy, only brittle. And it hurts to see all these beautiful women with their big brown heads feeling content in their talks of gyms and pubs and the patterned urban lifestyle that has slaved them. Slaved them enough to be thinking about it and talking about it always, and the confidence they draw from such things; but isn’t that what we’re fundamentally made of? We’re made of piss and shit and our aim is seeking what saves us. We want to be saved. Saved from what we have done to ourselves and what we are doing to ourselves, and in this quest, we choose to take the path that is the most beaten.

We walk on what has already been walked on. Newer paths scare us. We are afraid of not ending up anywhere. So we go where our neighbor goes, and in union, mock the one who refuses to join the bandwagon, and when I look at the bloody hundreds of them, colliding me as they walk in this madness towards zeroness, I just feel the lack of a companion, and brood and weep, and then walk on.


Does He Die?

Isha asked that. Well practically everyone dies at some point unless you are a jellyfish, you heartless lucky fuck. And since everyone does, the answer to that question should be a yes regardless of whom the pronoun refers to. So I wouldn’t mind, if while walking on the streets, Isha points out random strangers to me and asks me if they’re going to die. I’d confirm their deaths, because death is the ultimate truth.

What I mind, however, is the fact that this question generally comes when we’re watching a movie. Any random motherfucking movie. Last Friday, she tried to make me sit through an animated movie despite knowing well that I hate animated movies. Unless they’re featured on PornHub. But anyway, forty minutes into this movie about a girl and some machinery in her head which was bigger than most industries, it crashed and wouldn’t play an further and I hope Isha takes that as a lesson on what happens when you try to push a movie down someone’s throat when they are really not ‘into it’.

So since she tried showing me her favorite movie, I decided to make her watch Pulp Fiction the next day because it is my favourite. And it is not like Isha ‘wasn’t into it’. She loves crime. At the very opening scene, she was like, “Wow they are so smart, they’re robbing a restaurant”, and went on about it for a couple of minutes but I did not mind that. However, soon as she saw Vince and Jules loading their guns, she had the same question for every new character on the screen: Does he die?

So just to tackle the question and let her enjoy the movie, I told her that Brett doesn’t die. You would think, hey that’s a smart move man, win-win. But nope. When Brett actually died, I had to face the conversation which other boyfriends generally face when they cheat in the relationship and begin seeing someone else and get caught . It began with: “Why did you lie? You could have just told me.” So then, to avoid such further situations, I told her already that Vince would die, on which I got an “Oh no! He seemed nice! Why did they kill him? When is that scene coming?”

At this point I was pretty pissed so I just sort of gave up and asked her to watch the movie on her terms. This resulted in eighty six re-runs of the scene where Vince stabs Mia Wallace’s heart. I even caught Isha enacting the stabbing motion while looking at Vincent Vega do it. So thanks, I am never going to overdose on cocaine in all my fucking life. Once the movie was over, I asked her whose acting she liked the best and I shit you not, she said, “That guy in the shop who chains the big fat man and the Die Hard guy.” Yep, Maynard.  On asking why his acting was the best, she said that she thought his expressions were very real and convincing when he stood looking at the cop anally raping the fat black man.

Also, a couple of days later, I asked if she wanted to watch The Truman Show and told her the plot beforehand. She watched the whole movie quietly sure, but when it was over, she said, “I would have enjoyed it more had you not told me everything already.” Sigh.


Because I love her. Uma Thurman, I mean. Also, Isha. Of course. This is getting confusing.

What It Is Like To Stay in Koregaon Park?

If metaphysical activities were considered equivalents of physical activities, it would mean two things:

  1. Jesus was real.
  2. I have gotten more blowjobs in the last month than all of you put together.

This assertion is based on the fact that since I have shifted to Koregaon Park, I have found an immense change in the way people perceive my habitat. When I was in Baner, people used to look at me in sympathy like I was living in some old-age home (which is true because Baner is full of 68-year-old Brahmin women with scornful looks who stab you with their elbows on the footpath and believe that if there is anything purer and more chaste than them, it is their own version two hours later when they’re leaving the Bhajan-hall). Back then, I felt sad about myself because I thought I was missing out on things that people do in ‘all those happening places’. Then somehow, after house hunting for four months and getting my testicles touched in inappropriate manners by men twice, I finally found a decent place in Koregaon Park. One of the perks of staying in this place is that we have two refrigerators here, of which one is not working. So I am planning to buy a fake human head from Amazon (honestly, a real one would also do but I hate having to deal with rotting cartilage), and put it in the non-working fridge and whenever someone comes over whom I dislike (generally, all people who do not pay the rent of the place), I can point at the non-working fridge and tell them to ‘make themselves home, open the fridge and chug a beer maybe’. I’d love to see how that works.

But anyway, the subject of interest today, is people sucking my phallus in a metaphysical manner. It generally happens over conversations, which go like this:

Them: So where do you stay?

Me: Koregaon Park.

Them: Oh, where in Koregaon Park? (At this point they’re really hoping that I either stay in Keshav Nagar or Mundhwa, which are adjoining areas made for people who want to stay in Koregaon Park but haven’t gotten their testicles touched, thus getting disqualified).

Me: North Main Road.

Them: *Proceed to virtually fall on their knees and open their mouths*

I don’t get this obsession. One of my friends has told me that since I live in the place he has always wanted to live in, he is going to occupy my living room free of cost because one time, five years ago, he had let me use his father’s office for making joints, most of which he had smoked. In eternal dread, I still await the day when he comes with his six bags of meth. On another occasion, a friend said, “Wah wah wah wah wah, KP! Awesome!”

Like bitch what’s awesome, I am paying 1800 bucks for a normal fucking gas cylinder and 3000 bucks to a woman who ‘claims’ that she cleans my house.

My office colleagues told me that I would get laid more frequently than ever, since I now stay in Koregaon Park. This is how that conversation went:

Them: You’re going to get laid!

Me: How?

Them: You stay in Koregaon Park man!

Me: How is that relevant to me scoring chicks?

Them (excitement intensified at this point): You stay in KP maaaaan!

Me: But I am just going to go to work and then go home. Wouldn’t try to socialize with anyone, so no chance. Is there any other way I can possibly get laid? Nope.

Them (on the verge of hysteria): You stay in KP duuuuuuuudeeeeee!!

To all such people who have metaphysically choked on my dick (I like to repeat that because I have never gotten a real blowjob, bear with me please), I want to say a few things:

  • It isn’t Las Vegas.
  • No, girls don’t pick you up from the streets because you happen to be a male born in the homo sapiens species.
  • Most of the area is occupied by Rajasthani grocery store owners whose looks would never give you a boner.
  • The only time I felt some sexual energy on the street was when I accidentally opened Google Chrome in my phone to see a porn video in progress.
  • Yes, that stuff about homosexual men roaming around with unleashed libido is true. They’re everywhere, I once got touched and I won’t stop talking about it until the end of time.

This was the eighth  search result when I Googled for images of ‘metaphysical blowjobs’. Not sure what this means.

Roommate Diaries: My Chronicles With a Dead Body, a Gay God and Clogged Bathrooms

I’ve never really stayed with a roommate. So, last Sunday, when I finally moved in a place that has two cats, two flat-mates and one dead body lying on the couch in the living room (no kidding, I have pictures), I knew it was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. The experience so far, has been nothing short of awesful (which means it had the potential to be awesome, but it became awful) all along and so, I thought of sharing it with you because no one else in interested in listening to my shit anyway.


On the very first day, my roommate said, “I hope you don’t mind it, but I kind of like to sleep half-naked.”

“What?” I asked.

I mean even I like to pat my testicles before sleeping, and you can have any fantasies including licking a goat’s butthole you Welsh fuck, but hey, isn’t that something to be done privately? When you can afford a room without a roommate?

“I sleep half-naked every night. I hope that isn’t a problem”, he repeated.

Now here, we sleep on a double bed, because that’s what the landlord has given us. And I have never slept on the same bed with a half-naked body unless there were boobs attached to it. Of course it is a problem!

So I tried to protest by making a face, but he looked at me with so much conviction, let’s just say, I have since slept on the same bed with a half-naked body that doesn’t have any boobs on it.


No, not the pubic ones. Although I did suspect that for a while because hey, what other kind of hair clog the bathroom drain-hole when you’re not sharing it with a girl? This was more of a mystery because my roommate is almost bald. His hair is like the Spartans. They are persistent and wouldn’t perish, but they’re only 300. I’ll tell you about it some other time though.

So anyway, these hair kept clogging the drain and one day, when I found that their existence was making it difficult for me to get the soapy water and other white liquids (hint: reaaaaaallllyy white) down the drain, I shouted in irritation like a complete bitch. Turns out the hair belonged to the dead body in the hall. It could also bathe and shed hair.

But since you can’t wake the dead unless you’re a fucking God or something, I did not venture asking it. Although I once tried to poke it with a stick, but there was a cat in his bed which growled at me, so I kind of gave up.

Weird Shampoo

So I was bathing the other day (isn’t it uncanny how most of the things happen in the bathroom?), and with a face full of soapy foam, I tried grabbing the shampoo bottle. Since this wasn’t exactly a task that would require metahuman skills and agility, I managed to grab it easily. However, when I put it on my head, it smelled kind of different. It was nice, to be honest, but felt a little feminine. So I washed my head off in the joy of having used someone else’s product and decided to buy it for myself as well. When I finally saw the bottle though, I learnt that it smelled feminine and different because it wasn’t a fucking shampoo at all. It was a fucking vaginal gel that the old tenant’s girlfriend had left behind.

So what did I do? Let’s just say, my hair smell the same way every time I take a shower since. It’s a nice smell, told ya.

Bedsheet Shopping

So the other day, my roommate asked me if I wanted to go bedsheet shopping with him because the ones in our room were old (the landlord is a fucking asshole). Now I don’t know how would your girlfriend perceive it, but if Isha knew that I was going bedsheet shopping with someone else, she would probably hang me upside down, skin me alive, and then kill me by making me asphyxiate on the smoke of the bedsheets burning beneath me. I pictured that and immediately refused the prospect. But that resulted in my roommate making faces.

“We need to buy new bedsheets”, he said with a duckface.

It scared the shit out of me because I am commitment phobic when it comes to people of the same sex as me, and it has just been three days when this guy is trying to establish something like ‘we’. Not that I could do much even if he force-established it, because he is a 6-feet tall, kind of bald, big-bearded guy. I am a mere average human.

So I told this problem to a colleague the next day in office and she got me bedsheets from her home. So far the gay-god seems satisfied with the offering of the bedsheets. But if something else comes up, I’ll keep you posted.

Also, as a bonus for reading this article till the end, here is the picture of the dead body in the living room.

WhatsApp Image 2017-05-18 at 8.06.02 PM

Do I Look Like A Slut?

No, I’m not a 23-year-old woman trying to tell you how someone on the road looked at me inappropriately, so if you’re a Feminazi, go fuck yourself. If you’re not, go fuck yourself regardless because masturbation, my friend, is good way to keep you libido in control and avoid touching some random guy’s testicles, which by the way also happens to be our subject today. In hindsight, “Are My Testicles Worth Touching?” can also be a good title, but most of you haven’t been lucky enough to see my nutsack and wouldn’t be able to answer that so let’s stick to ‘Do I Look Like a Slut?’

This question arose because of a rather funny situation that I was caught in. I have been house-hunting since a couple of months. Last week was no different. I had been to Koregaon Park to look at a flat that I found through a broker. So this broker told me to wait near a medical shop from where he would pick me up and show me the place. So, I obliged and while I was standing there, sure enough a guy came and asked me to hop on his bike. And I did. Wrongest fucking move ever. If I knew that he asked me to hop on his bike in the anticipation that I would let him hop on my dick later, I would have hid my penis in a mountain far, far away with eight curses on anyone who would so much as even think about climbing that mountain to eventually climb on my phallus. But since I didn’t know it, I hopped on that bike and he drove me (trying to avoid the word ‘rode’ here for obvious reasons) to some fucked up shady road and I was wondering where the place is when he literally put his hand behind and touched my fucking balls. Now I am homophobic to be honest, but in all my phobia, I still thought this was an accident, shit happens man, But then, he literally fondled my left testicle and I swear I’ll keep feeling dirty about it until I wash both my balls with the holiest waters of Ganga. So anyway, I am thinking ‘what the fuck’, when my broker calls me and says, “Hey man, I am at the medical store. Where are you?” I still thank my forefathers for all the good deeds they did, the power of which compelled the guy to stop the bike when I asked him to stop and saved my penis from going in the wrong mouth covered with facial hair.

I was obviously freaked out. But if there was a more prominent feeling, it was embarrassment. I was embarrassed that someone took me for a gay hooker. I mean, at least acknowledge my XY chromosomes and consider me a straight hooker, if not a hooker at all.

So anyway, I called Isha and told her all about it and asked her f I looked like a gay hooker. She laughed and her exact words were: “You stand a little bit like a woman, so I wouldn’t be surprised.” Believe me when I say this, your girlfriend thinking there’s nothing wrong with people mistaking you for a gay slut is the worst thing that can happen to you, unless you’re actually a gay slut. In that case, you’re lucky. And your balls are unholy.

Honestly, I don’t think I look like a slut because I dress full, if not well, I don’t wear gaudy lipsticks and I don’t show my bust, because on that front, I cannot even compete Sonam Kapoor. If you know me personally, and if you’re not Isha, you’d vouch for this. I know this because I’ve been a cunt, a dick, an asshole and all the other sexual organs you can think of, but I have never acted like a whore. So it is beyond me why a random penis-lover would want to pick me up as a replacement to his electronic dildo. I don’t know who you are, but it doesn’t matter, tell me if you think I look like slut. Here’s the sexiest picture of mine.

This is from the time Isha asked me to look sexy

Actually you know what, don’t answer that.

Why Don’t You Write?

“Why don’t you write?” is one question people ask me too often.

However, it is not the most-frequent question that I am asked. That one would be “Why is your nose broken?”

Honestly, I would love answering the latter than the former, because my nose broke in a definite accident and since it is a true story, I don’t have to alter the facts while narrating the incident. The question about writing can, however, be a bit tricky because there are numerous reasons why I am not able to write and so, if I tell two different reasons to the same person on two different occasions, which by the way also underlines what nosy pricks I deal with who keep asking me the same question more than once, they’re like, “No! Last time you said you’re not writing because the job takes too much of your energy. How can you now possibly say that it’s your girlfriend?”

Talking about my girlfriend, if I was in the Marvel universe and also half-witted, I would have been Captain America and my girlfriend would have been my shield, because that’s how it works in this universe too. I hide behind her every time I see that I am in an awkward situation. Like giving her the phone after saying “Happy birthday” to someone because I don’t like the awkward pause that follows. This is just an example. My girlfriend helps me in grave situations too, like helping me open the ketchup sachets when we go to KFC, thereby preventing my possible projection as a pussy in the view of other KFC customers and employees. If you’re a Marvel fan, you’re probably still wondering why I used the word half-witted to mention my existence in the Marvel universe. The reason, dear Avenger, is that if I had brains, I would rather blow them out than living with them in the Marvel universe, which also goes on to say, I hate Marvel (except Deadpool because I have a cool Deadpool t-shirt) and if you’re a Marvel fan, you’re not welcome on this blog, unless you’re a super hot woman. Then that’s okay.

Now that all the non-attractive Marvel fans are gone, let me tell you more about how it annoys me when people ask me why don’t I write? I mean, it’s not like I don’t want to. All of my time back at my apartment is equally divided between trying to write and lying naked on the bed looking at the ceiling while potentially avoiding going on my room-mates side of the bed because he also sleeps half-naked and I don’t want that indirect contact between our bodies, because that would be gay. And while lying like that too, I keep thinking about writing. So when, someone says that I am not taking enough efforts, I wonder if somewhere, I am going wrong.

The other day, my office colleague Priyanka said, “If you don’t know what to write about, why don’t you write about how you don’t know what to write about?” (in all honesty, this isn’t verbatim because I don’t see her as someone who would be able to construct a sentence as complex as that, unless she is high on LSD and her mind has expanded, which is again, something I don’t see happening). Writing about how I cannot write is the bitchiest thing I could do, but I didn’t say that in her face because it would have been rude, plus the conversation happened in the office pantry where she was making me tea. Wouldn’t want to lose that. Another time, a girl I met in a wedding and whom I barely knew, asked me why wasn’t I writing these days, after I had just told a friend about how I was not writing these days and she just sort of happened to be standing in a circle with us, holding her drink because she had no one else to talk to. If the lonely bitch wanted to get in my pants, that was the stupidest line she could use because that night, she did not get in my pants. Actually no one has ever, which makes me wonder if I am ungettable or unfuckable?

Back to the writing problem though, it’s not like I am not trying. I probably only need to keep my eyes open and use everything that happens to me as a resource. Because there will be plenty of subjects to write about. There’s literally a million things that happen to me every day. I probably just need to figure out what is writable, and then have the guts to put it up here. I began writing this just to vent, but it kind of makes me feel good now.

I also realize that if writing about people asking me why I don’t write has made me write so much, I can write about other stuff too, right? So stay tuned. Or don’t. That’s just a shitty radio-line I felt like using. Ignore it.


So we had been to Mandu. If your Hindi is good and you’re a poet at heart, you cannot resist the temptation of saying “Toh mai kya karu gandu?” after reading the first line. I know this because I couldn’t resist that temptation either. If you observe, you’ll see that apart from being an irrelevant addition to an article which seems to be about a place of some importance that I visited, the Hindi expression has also been arranged to send across a very clever message about how I am a poet at heart. I don’t have to say it and yet, you know it. That, dear reader, is exactly how I suck my own dick most of the times – cleverly. But because we are not here to talk about clever methods that can be employed by one to achieve self-pleasure, let us stick to Mandu.

So, we had been to Mandu. I know you probably don’t give a fuck to where I had been unless it is either the third base and you’re a porn-literature addict or it is your property with a yellow board that says “Trespassers will be shot”, and you’re an American weeping over what the nation has brought itself into but have secretly voted Trump so that you don’t have to part with your Smith & Wesson. In all other cases, I assume you’re least interested about where I had been. But you must understand that this is my blog and when I seem to be running out of ideas, I decide to churn some really useless shit. You have to oblige with it and settle for what’s served on the platter. In this case, Mandu.

Before we get any further though, let me share something that just struck me while writing. It is amazing how you just want to use some phrase but the idea in that phrase leads you into thinking something completely different, away from the topic. See how, in the last paragraph, I said ‘you have to settle for what’s served on the platter’? Doesn’t that mean that I am, or for that matter any blogger, or for that matter any writer even, is the literary equivalent of an owner of a gastronomical restaurant serving only one type of, self-decided cuisine every day? This also leads me to ask a more substantial question which may sound like total bullshit but is actually relative if you think about it – can even remotely successful writers run special-menu restaurants successfully? I am asking this because Isha wants to open a restaurant like that someday.  She once said to me, “We’ll decide our own daily menu and people can eat it or fuck off.” which, I must say, is quite a singular way of serving food. Although I appreciate her for being so straightforward with the restaurant’s menu, the fact that she is an Indori at heart worries me because Indoris are stupid poha-jalebi fucks and therefore, although people would love having different special cuisines at our specialized restaurant every day, I wonder how many days are they going to tolerate the poha-jalebi special because after all this time of staying together, sometimes when I look at the breakfast, I wish I had a choice at least remotely close to what she is going to offer to our future restaurant customers because then, I swear I would fuck myself off to Jupiter (everyone keeps fucking off to Mars, Moon and the non-existent Pluto and I am therefore very certain that there are some Indoris there too , thus this planet) where it would be practically impossible to find a poha-senv-jalebi stall.

But wait, that isn’t even the point. Point is, we had been to Mandu. I don’t blame you if you don’t know Mandu because it is like calling a person named Antoinette ‘Tony’. Who the fuck is going to deduce that? Mandu is actually Mandavgadh (phonetically accurate spelling). And it isn’t anything like Disney World – another reason why your inability to recognize the place wouldn’t surprise me. Anyone staying outside Madhya Pradesh is not going to give a flying fuck to a fortress town built in as early as the 6th century. Except my mom. She’s a history buff. And you. If you’re a history buff. There are many such historical sites in India and it is a pity that they generally go unnoticed for some of them display spectacular architecture and hold quite some historical significance. I have always been keen on finding such places and visiting them to figure out what our great forefather have left for us to preserve and celebrate. It was this very keenness of mine that led me to plan a trip to Mandu.

So we went to Mandu. That’s about it. There’s nothing to tell because it isn’t like I am Indiana Jones and Isha is Lara Croft, inviting trouble at every single fucking historic place we go to. Nothing happened. We went with a few of Isha’s friends and roamed around and had fun. So what’s this article about? In the second paragraph itself, I told you that I am going to churn some really useless shit. Further, both the first and the second paragraph begin and end with almost the same fucking lines. Yeah, okay go and check it. That should have given you some idea. But if you have stuck with me as long as this point, you might as well read a couple more lines because we are now done with this anyway. Funny how I went all out in this article talking about pretty darn bizarre stuff but you stuck all along. You also deserve a virtual hug for that, dear reader. I love you.

And just so that you know the whole Mandu thing isn’t a hoax, here is a photo of Isha from Queen Roopmati’s bedchamber’s door-step.


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Don’t ask me what she’s doing. I couldn’t answer the question that day when some other tourists asked me about it either.