•December 15, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Another post in which I start out blanker than a 1st standard kid put inside a board exam. Stuff of horror. *shudder* On that note, did you ever have those dreams? Where you dreamt you were in a test, and realized you know nothing about the subject in question, and you had to clear it? #ScaryDreamsForChildren


I guess I’m just going to keep writing till something fires up inside me and I discourse a torrential litany of literary genius.


Yours truly is just recovering from a hard kick in the ass, brought to you by his own subconscious. There’s only a certain period of time that you can sit in your house wearing your boxers, eating a large tub of ice-cream and watching PS I Love You for the 28th time (I’m not talking about me, I swear) till something snaps. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again – intelligent people have it hard. No, I’m not being an arrogant sonofabitch, it’s just that I can’t troll through life grinning like a goofy dog thinking that everything is hunky-dory, and when life delivers me a swift one right up the gonads, I can’t seem to crumble down and blame fate, destiny, God, luck or any one of those seductive demons that you pray to at night.  Over, and over again, whenever I’ve wanted something, the Universe plonks it somewhere close to me, and urges me to grab it. If I can. It’s an inside joke the two of us have going, where it knows that I don’t appreciate anything that it throws in my lap. I appreciate your sense of humor. You sadistic bitch. You sadistic, smart, smart bitch, you. Touché. Tanay 0 – 1 You. Fine. We’ll play it your way, then. You’ve thrown the gage, and me, being the Knight in Shining Armor, how dare I not bend, pick it up, look you in the eye, smile, and dance the dance? Our battles have always been epic, this much is for sure, a graceful, dangerous dance, where you stand to lose nothing, and I stand to gain everything. You are my Mr Miyagi, no matter how much your strikes hurt, or how much I hate you after the wincing blow to my ribcage, I learn from you, and respect you more, each time. How ironic is this? You are the Dragon, guarding my Prize, and yet, nothing would make you happier than your own defeat, so I can claim my worth.


For those people who struggle to understand obscure language, here’s the message – what you want is just within reach of you. The only one who’s stopping you from getting what you want is YOU, and anything else you tell yourself is a LIE, and your opinion is irrelevant.  If you think I’m wrong, then you are an idiot, and thus again, at the risk of sounding repetitious, your opinion is irrelevant.



The challenge is accepted. You’ve set the stage, and forgotten to give me the directions to the fucking theater, as always. No matter. I’ll find my way. As always.




[Fucking Fool]

•November 10, 2011 • 3 Comments

The time is ripe. To write another blog. I really wish I could tell you all what prompted this one. But I won’t.

Logic is a fickle bitch. Logic is the whore on the much-too-bright, tastefully decorated red-light area. Standing next to you, dressed in her voluptuous best, the sexy lingerie, with the red stockings, with the garters so tantalizingly waiting for a casual brush from your fingers, to make everything come undone, including you. So surely, she beckons you, whispering in your ear that everything is going to be alright, she’s going to take care of you, she’s done it before and you’re safe with her.


Emotion is another whore.


Emotion is the policewoman in the much-too-tight blue uniform. The subtle make-up, the lipstick not too much overdone, the tied-up hair, conveying power, but at the same time, not compromising Femininity. The sharply ironed shirt, the crisp crunching of her long leather boots, the surety with which she walks through the street, as if she owned everything in it.


Which she does.


The face of the sexy siren next to you falls. Her expression crumbles. From a creature of beauty, exuding confidence and sexuality, she becomes a shadow of her former self. Suddenly it looks like she’s aged about 10 years. In her eyes, you see the reflection of the new, intimidating reality that has just walked into the streets that she’s dominated for so many years. The Whore is scared now. A rather unappealing quality if I may so so myself. She’s backing up a few steps now. Stumbling, in her all too tall heels that get caught between the gaps of the old stones on the road. Abandoning all pretences, the Whore that I so lovingly called Logic is running now. Into the decrepit old house behind, her sanctuary for all these years. You hear the sharp click of the lock as you see that, for you, right now, in YOUR reality, her existence is meaningless.


Crunch. Crunch.

The sharp tacking of Emotion’s boots on the stone road. The rustling, coming closer. A soft smell seductively tantalizing your olfactory system – the perfume she’s wearing is immaculate. Right before you feel the pain on your arm, as she twists you around, forcing you to the ground. The clacking of something metallic, the feel of cold steel on your wrist, and then on your other wrist, the handcuffs firmly, but painfully, making sure you’re not going anywhere but down.




Emotion just made you her bitch.



[A quick 'Fuck You' to the Metallica haters on my timeline]

•October 28, 2011 • 2 Comments

Oh hi you gaiz. I know you’re the coolest cats around. Probably you’ve got so much technical death metal blasting into your ears at any given point of time in your life, that anything less brutal than Cannibal Corpse’s I CUM BLOOD makes the testosterone in your blood system scream GAY GAY GAY! Or you like spending your days listening to Meshuggah-esque bands with a calculator, and predicting the next polyrhythm and simultaneously jerking yourself to pleasure when you DO manage to headbang to one of their songs.


But here’s the thing. Talking shit about the biggest and the most accomplished heavy metal band in the world is only making you sound like the major fucking douchebag that you are. I think it’s about time you acknowledge the fact that all Metallica band members have accomplished more than you ever will during their time than you will in probably 3,447 lifetimes. And all guitarists who talk shit about Hammett – an enormous Fuck You to you too. The day you co-write an iconic album like Master of Puppets, come on Facebook/Twitter and share your sarcastic, pseudo-elitistic comments on Facebook. Meanwhile, clamp the fuck up and learn to respect.


I’m going to be one of those people who’ve followed The Four Horsemen from the first album off, and I’m damn sure I’ll be following them till the time they decide to call it a day and throw away their instruments.


And this is a special note to all them people who’re scoffing at fans who’re going to the concert just for Nothing Else Matters. Boy, me and thousands of other heavy metal veterans are going to get lumps in our throats when we hear the first 6 notes on the guitar. Yes, the very same “Oh haha Em-open string arpeggio GAY GAY GAY Hammett” notes. We simply recognize NEM as the brilliant piece of MUSIC that it is – not how heavy/technical/difficult it has to be. The same with Master of Puppets, Fight Fire with Fire, or heck, even Unforgiven III. If you’re constantly out there in gigs judging a song by it’s complexity or how hard it is to play, then you went wrong somewhere down the line, son.


And for the people who’ve only heard Nothing Else Matters and are just going for the one song? They’re going to get exposed to the monster that Metallica is, learn something and probably grow as far as their taste in music is concerned.


Which is more than I can say for some of you haters.

[The Pandora Mental Fog]

•October 25, 2011 • 1 Comment

It’s really late in the night. I think writing late at night should be banned for writers in general. But some people have told me 3 am Tanay is eloquent, so here’s the acid test.


Through this thick haze of mental fog, all I feel like saying is Crappy Diwali! Jesus, guys. Instead of setting fire to tiny explosive sticks, why don’t you go home and get laid instead? It’ll be better for your neighbours. *cough cough ME*

Finally I get to see Metallica live! Couldn’t have dreamed I would, when I was a tot (well, relatively) and thought the Nothing Else Matters solo was tough shit. Haha. I remember loading that solo onto a Guitar Pro track, slowing it down by like 56000% so I could learn it. And an interesting observation here – I distinctly remember thinking this at one point of time when I was, in all the sheer frustration of not being able to nail the solo, in between cursing my guitar, my fingers and the cruel guitar gods hampering me from going onto a stage and brandishing my guitar in awesome, sonic glory. The thought that went a little bit like this: “Man! If I ever manage to play this properly, I’d be the master of guitar! I would be brilliant if I could accomplish *just* this one solo!”


Nuh-uh, little Tanay. You see, a reward mechanism is a delicately complex thing. I remember reading somewhere, “Man, as a species, survives because of misery and dissatisfaction.” The Universe is always tending to collapse into chaos. I had a heated discussion with one of my friends about this. The hypothesis is thus: In an Edenified world, where you had everything you could possibly want, and so did your fellow companions, would the world tend towards happiness, creation, positivity and enlightenment? Or would it only be a matter of time before the seeds of discontent, dissatisfaction, jealousy or dislike creep in? The Pandora box paradox. Much as it amuses me to think of myself as a curious little girl in a skirt, I believe that I am Pandora. So are you, so is the person you’re dating, and so is the creepy lady who watches me through my window as I change my shirt when I come back from work. We all want to look inside the giant ornate box, just because everybody tells us not to. I am the programmer who was always seduced by the ‘goto’ statement, because all my teachers categorically told me never to use it.


The headache is really pounding into my skull now. As dissatisfactory as this blog post is content wise – compare it to the fleeting moment when your girl comes close to you, wearing nothing but her bra, flashes you a teasing smile, puts one finger, ever so slowly, under one of the straps, and slides it off her shoulder, grinning still, like a Cheshire cat, the devil herself, and then, giggling, leaps up off the bed and bounds into the bathroom. In the same way, I’m sure you’ll be able to deal with your literary blue balls for another week.


In the meanwhile, I’m going to go cover up and draw the fucking curtains before this lady stares herself to death.




[Lion King]

•September 19, 2011 • 10 Comments

Time to write a blog once again. It was really tough to decide what to write upon this time. Too much creative negativity on my blog, one of my friends told me. Maybe she’s right. All I know is, that blogging was a good idea. Personal ego boosts because of the compliments on the writing aside, it’s a release on a way more personal level. I didn’t publicize the previous blog entry, Catharsis, because of obvious reasons, and there’s a chance I may delete it, and just keep it in my personal archives, never to be seen again. Not just because people may be able to link this to real life, but also since it is extremely personal, and nobody has a right to go this deep inside my personality without giving me an orgasm or two. So, I’ll waxing cabbalistic now from time to time, leaving some things for you guys to figure out.


It’s funny that I’m typing this out at work right now. I’ve developed a bad (?) habit of coming to work a little early and finishing off the day’s work in the first 2 hours. Oh wait. Did I say a day’s work? It could also be a week’s work. Menial, non-intellectually stimulating work at it’s very finest. It’s great pinky- and index finger exercise, you know. The pinky on Ctrl key and the index finger doing an elaborate dance, like a maiden who’s freshly discovered her beauty and flits between two lovers – the C key, and the V key.

Ctrl+C, Ctrl+V, lather, rinse, repeat. These guys could have employed me in class 8th, and I’d have been brilliant at it. I’ve come to terms with it. For one, it gives me a great deal of free time, and allows me to engage in other finer arts, like sneaking Tweets under my boss’ nose, listening to music all day long, and quickly switching tabs on Internet Explorer (Yeah.) whenever someone important walks by. And it’s lifted a major load off my mind that I’d be a wage slave, slogging away to earn a meager salary. I reframed that. Now, I’m futzing around in a comfortable office all day, working on my ‘Things to do before I’m 30’ list, and getting paid 25 grand a month for it. Free money wahoo!


Robert Green mentions in his book, 48 Laws of Power a simple, yet very hard-to-implement rule: “Never make the lion insecure” – or at least, something to that effect. If we were to talk in this analogy, the lion of my pack, from the day I moved into the pride, knows that I will bang his sexy lioness, kill his cubs, and eventually tear his throat out in a roaring match of alpha brutality at its finest. And now the lion is insecure. An insecure lion is an unhappy lion. And I’m facing the music everyday. I’ve been singled out and picked on. My colleague advises, “Keep your nose clean, your head down, pretend to work, and agree with everything the lion says. Kabhi kabhi thodi bahut chaatni padti hai.”


Unfortunately he doesn’t know that I’m not here to play their petty games. One day, when I establish my own pride, the best decision this particular panthera leo should be – approaching me, head down, tail between legs, proffering his subservience and his submission.


Also. I’m going to start 2 new blogs soon: One dealing exclusively with the heavy metal music that I listen to, with reviews and recommendations. The other one will be a little more on the humorous side. One of the things on my ‘Before 30’ list is to become a standup comedian and give a good number of shows – so the other blog will cater exclusively to this alignment of mine. Heck, I got enough time. And if you bastards try to heckle me on stage, I will throw the fucking mic in your face.


You think that’s funny?


[Why I Don't Do Drugs]

•August 7, 2011 • 4 Comments



It’d be easy.

One sniff, snort, jab, inhale away, pleasure lies like a fleeting queen, you couldn’t find her on your way, so you went out of your way. To her special place. The mythical land, which strangers told you about, full of hopes, promises and experiences.

And it can’t be easier. Dirt cheap, readily available. Catapult yourself, for a while, to another reality, free yourself from the shackles of mortal solitude for a while, till reality comes crashing down upon you like a tidal wave, devised by your own hand. Hear the sharp crackle of your joint when you inhale, feel it go down to your lungs. The sharp burning sensation of your trachea protesting the influx of so many foreign chemicals right into your pulmonary lifesource, every inch of evolutionary resistance. But the brain knows. Ah. It’s all good. In a while my dear friend, it says, there will be no more resistance, no more cause to worry. Float along and you will See the answer.For the next couple of hours, at least.


And then do it again.


And again.





Every human being gets off on something. Be it drugs, pain, attention, 4chan, big tits, food, or the Australian wallaby. Everybody needs their fix.


Thankfully I found my own when I was in nursery.

I remember it clear as yesterday. Me, in all my 5 year old glory. Her, a childhood memory, all her imperfection and flaws polished and buffed by time and affection, making her the most beautiful woman that I remember. Yes. In all her 5 year old glory. Her holding my hand, and whispering something in my ear. Me grinning from ear to ear. Shyly, we look into each other’s eyes, and since it is taboo, and we want to know how it feels, our lips meet in a fleeting frozen moment in time.

And for the first time in my life, I feel alive, body tingling with electricity, more complete in ways that I feel even now. The surge of serotonin and dopamine surging through my system, sending it into overdose, and creating a need that till now, borders on insanity.

The elusive quest for searching out your counterpart in another soul, of creating a connection, and enjoy as you both submit to each other, completely and utterly, intertwining your essence with hers, until you lie spent with your two uttermost, primeval, evolutionary needs satisfied – Survival, and Replication. The caveman is happy. The caveman knows his genes will go on. The dopamine release is going into overdrive now. And it’s setting a dangerous precedent. Will it ever be enough? Will this fire consume me inside itself? Do I even give a fuck?

My proverbial fix.

My favorite addiction.



My downfall.



[Cubicle Rat]

•July 10, 2011 • 9 Comments

I am one lazy motherfucker.

After all the crazy hectic shit that’s happened over the past couple of months, I’ve been wondering if I was ever going to blog or not. But Facebook and Twitter keep my ego sated by letting out tiny bits of information about myself (y’know, just for the people who keep tabs) and watching the comments and likes pour in, but this is long overdue. So okay, a rant, just as you please.

I recently had the fortune of stepping into the office that I’m going to work in for the next couple of years. Now since a colleague of mine keeps issuing dire warnings about consequences of ranting about your employers on social media, I’m going to keep it nice and anonymous. Irrevernt? Yes. Stupid? You bet your ass not. Survival of the smoothest baby.

Now, I’ve worked in offices before. Yeah. But I had a chill environment where people knew each other and backslapped you while walking past your cabin, and put little sticky notes under the sensors of your mouse and watched you wave your mouse suspiciously wondering why it wasn’t working. But this, it’s obvious, is all passe.

As I stepped into the ‘WING’, the feeling that I got was of impending doom. Was it because of the deliberately chirpy wallpaper? Or the just-too-much artificial-natural lighting in the place? Or the motivational posters on the walls?

Or was it because of the fact that I saw hundreds of people, working away, typing furiously at keyboards, trying to catch their next deadline?

Why was it then, that I felt like rushing over to people, grabbing them by the collars, and screaming into their fucking faces: WHY CHOOSE THIS? And these people were old! Not crazy old. Old enough to probably have married, and had kids, and worst, to have decided that this is the way they’re going to let their life play out.

The scariest part was, I was going to join them. For a while. Or, at least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Afraid my nightmare is going to come true. The slog-dream. The sweat shop. The rat race. Except the rats evolved. They’re now sitting in cubicles, drawing paychecks, and reporting to the alpha rat.

But in the end, just a fucking rat.

When we were kids, and our annoying relatives asked that same question, “What do you want be when you grow up?” (Which, in retrospect, is superbly retarded – we did not hold degrees in Prophecy, or Philosophy) – what did you answer? Musician? Actor? Poet? Environmentalist? Cheetah-chaser?

How many of us said, “Oh, nothing much. I’m going to spend my next 18,000 days on Planet Earth, conforming to society, never outstepping bounds, do what my peers think is fine, listen to my parents, choose a mainstream course that oh, I dunno, a BILLION other kids in my generation are following, fuck around in college, wind up in a mediocre job banging away at a keyboard, answering a hundred unimportant mails a day, waiting for a promotion like a goooood doggy, saving up enough money to *hopefully* one day, in the twilight years of my life, afford myself a little amount of luxury and die like the little bitch that I am.”

Yet, this is what 90% of us will do.

Do you feel better now, cubicle rat?

I am quoting this (not my own, too profound to be so), and these are words to live by:

In 5 billion years the sun will burn out and nothing you did will matter. Feel better?

Life will perish, and all your memory wiped out, and you’re going to die with yourself. Your last thoughts will not be thoughts, but emotions. You choose. Will you choose satisfaction or dissatisfaction?

Meanwhile, I’m going to go find someone who’s going to hire a kid that has an inexplicable desire for chasing cheetahs.


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