Your Asda Smart Price toothpaste doesn’t leave a “feeling of freshness” in your mouth. You glance over its packaging. “Made in Croatia”. You remind yourself not to be a cheapskate when shopping. The shower has three temperature settings: ‘Antarctic ice-cold’, ‘Meh’, and ‘Boiled And Transported Straight From Hell™’. You like long, hot showers. The last (hot water) setting can scald your skin off. Just long enough to slather on and rinse off shower gel will have to do for now.

You eat Coco Pops for breakfast with orange squash because you’re out of milk. Grab an apple on the way out.

Every day is a rush to Fratton train station. Your bike’s rear wheel is misaligned. Every day you need to twist the brakes to be able to cycle. You can’t be bothered taking it for (free) servicing at Halfords.

It’s the same people at the station every day. The Chinese girl who always gets a cup of coffee brought to her by her boyfriend. Middle-aged guy in leather jacket with a Raleigh bike. The girl with purple hair with blonde highlights. Two hoodied dudes who seem to work as stage technicians – they got on 8.37 to Brighton. “8.42 Southwest Trains service to Southampton Central”, pipes in the public address system. You check-in to Foursquare. It’s the same train every day to work.

It’s the same order every day on train in the bicycle compartment. Big bike. Small bike. Lovely lady with lovely bike with pink tassles and a basket at the front – she’ll get off at Cosham. That’s the way it has to be. Every once in a while, a newcomer shows up and a murmur swells up through our three’s-a-crowd gaggle.

You scan through The Guardian on your phone. You sneak a peek at the tabloid being read by guy sitting in front of you. “Monkey Touches Katy Perry’s Boobs”. You sit back, safe in the knowledge that British tabloid journalism is keeping the world at large well-informed.

You starting eating your apple at 8.57 so that it gives you enough time to dispose it off in next coach’s litter bin, in time for the 9.09 stop at Swanwick. Everyone gets off in the same order, every day. Guy Who Takes Taxi To Work Every Day walks out and gets into a taxi. Surprise surprise. The taxi company made a mistake today and the driver doesn’t seem to have a booking. It’s all sorted out in 30 seconds though.

You don’t drink coffee or tea at work. Your colleagues still ask you out of courtesy, every day, every time they go to fetch tea or coffee – knowing the answer will be a “No, thank you though!” Be an agent of chaos. Upset the established order. Introduce a little anarchy. Throw in a pop culture reference when you talk about it. Say “Yes” to coffee one day instead.

You go to the same shop for lunch each day. You introduce a little anarchy by ordering your sandwich with BBQ sauce instead of mint mayo. The Sandwich Maker enjoys this break from the routine too; he compliments you for making your choice ‘different’ every day. Up there, Eris sheds a tear.

It’s the same train every day back home. “6.11 Southwest Trains service to Portsmouth Harbour”, announces the public address system. This commute is slightly more interesting because the guy with a Raleigh bike is not always there.

You pop in a microwave meal. Pierce lid a few times, set to high for 5 minutes, stir, set to high for 3 minutes, stand for 1 minute. You cannot introduce a little anarchy because that is The Way. You watch The Simpsons while eating dinner.

You sit outside, in the backyard. Your hands are numb from cold after doing the dishes. There’s that really fat cat – sometimes black, sometimes ginger – sniffing your bike locked to the clothesline. There are birds. Seagulls? Albatrosses? You have wondered often, searched often. You don’t know the answer. Not yet. Not for sure.

You watch an episode of The Killing on your laptop. Or Beaver Falls. You tune in to radio on Spotify. Little Bad Girl. (You consider skipping but let it be.) Gold Cobra by Limp Bizkit. Creedence Clearwater Revival. New Divide. (You wonder when a fat Japanese farmer replaced Joe Hahn.) (s)AINT by Marilyn Manson. Vem Vet by Lisa Ekdahl. (You set down the vin rouge.) Mic Check by Rage Against The Machine. The Man Who Can’t Be Moved by The Script.

You contemplate smashing your laptop. You can certainly afford to replace it.

One fag. Two fags. You want to buy a typewriter, if only to fill a sheet with “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy” over and over on sheet of heavy paper. You plan to throw in another pop culture reference. Three fags. You feel synapses lighting up that you didn’t know could be active. Yes, you can write something now.

You head back to your room. You have so much to say. To write. But one funny YouTube video before that surely won’t hurt?

You fall asleep.

6.51am. You wake up…

***

FUCK. THAT. SHIT.

***

I mentioned in an earlier post that I’m not a big fan of poetry. Especially free verse. Yes, there are certain exceptions but on the whole I’d rather be thrown out of a spaceship with no chance of rescue than be read poetry to. Somehow, poets have this superiority complex over ‘heathens’ who write prose. So to get my point across to such so-called poets writing free verse, here’s a poem written by me:

Lemme discuss this new trend in poetry
called ‘free verse’, which I detest.
If you’ve studied English literature
you’d have noticed some poems,
which have no set rhyme scheme.
Oh, the agony I suffer
whenever I come across such atrocities.
Forced I was, to read such shit
when I was in school.
Oh, the joy I feel
now I know that I no longer have to do that.
When done properly,
free verse can be quite readable.
Alas! More often than not it’s just a tool
for people who can’t write poetry
to save their life.
Write a few sentences,
somewhere midway in the poem
throw in a few hoity-toity words -
‘sepulchural’, ‘guttural’, or maybe even ‘jiggery-pokery’
- hit the enter key a few times,
and voila!
And if you don’t ‘get’
what is going on in this post
- why, it’s an attempt at parody of course!
Great respect for rhyming poems I have
none for free verse I do;
next time you come across such a ‘poem’
tear away the page, you should.
This poem, by the way,
was my first – and last.

Sitting here wasted and wounded
At this old piano
Trying hard to capture
The moment this morning I don’t know
‘Cause a bottle of vodka
Is still lodged in my head
And some blond gave me nightmares
I think that she’s still in my bed
As I dream about movies
They won’t make of me when I’m dead

With an ironclad fist I wake up and
French kiss the morning
While some marching band keeps
It’s own beat in my head
While we’re talking
About all of the things that I long to believe
About love, the truth and
What you mean to me
And the truth is baby you’re all that I need

I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses
For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails
I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is
And lay you down on bed of roses

Well I’m so far away
That each step that I take is on my way home
A king’s ransom in dimes I’d give each night
Just to see through this payphone
Still I run out of time
Or it’s hard to get through
Till the bird on the wire flies me back to you
I’ll just close my eyes and whisper
Baby blind love is true

I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses
For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails
I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is
And lay you down on bed of roses

Well this hotel bar’s hangover whiskey’s gone dry
The barkeeper’s wig’s crooked
And she’s giving me the eye
I might have said yeah
But I laughed so hard I think I died

Now as you close your eyes
Know I’ll be thinking about you
While my mistress she calls me
To stand in her spotlight again
Tonight I won’t be alone
But you know that don’t
Mean I’m not lonely I’ve got nothing to prove
For it’s you that I’d die to defend

I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses
For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails
I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is
And lay you down on bed of roses

I wanna lay you down in a bed of roses
For tonight I’ll sleep on a bed of nails
I wanna be just as close as your Holy Ghost is
And lay you down on bed of roses

To certain hypocrites,
There I tried to be “normal”. Happy now? Plus this was short and you don’t need an IQ above 18 to understand it.

***

Heavily influenced by Jonathan Nolan’s ‘Memento Mori‘.

***

He woke up with a start. Dreaming in color and Dolby surround sound was yet to become a habit.

***

Bhaskar had never expected much-from himself or his family or his friends. He knew he had the brains. He knew he didn’t have the memory.

Admiral Bhaskar Kishore knew he wouldn’t remain Admiral for long. He trusted no one at the Vridhachala Lal Research Centre (VLRC). Not even himself.

Brain mapping was a new development- to VLRC and to the world. Even to Colonel Bhaskar Kishore, its inventor. He had the brain to invent it, but not the memory to recall it.

It was supposed to be a cure for him-by storing his every thought and emotion on a computer, Wing Commander Kishore hoped to lead a life-crippled, but not hopeless.

***

This was his big chance. For Jai Arora, the Master’s call was the break he was looking for. He now had the means to breach VLRC’s impregnable encryption algorithms to access the huge vaults of human brains.

In just seven short years, the technology had garnered much acclaim for VLRC and its head, Ali Abbas. The database had grown manifold and every hacker worth his ‘honor’ was after it.

Jai was going to beat them all to the booty. He would be famous and rich. He would be everything everyone ever wanted to be.

***

He woke up with a start. Dreaming in color and Dolby surround sound was fast becoming a habit. Bhaskar looked at himself in the mirror, stroking a stubble that wasn’t there. He didn’t remember getting up half an hour earlier to shave. Again.

He found his way to his kitchen. He wasn’t sure how much coffee he usually put, so he put seven sachets, like always. He took a sip, and like always, poured the rest down the drain.

The gurgling noise, like always, stirred up a memory. Something to do with a brain. With some research gone wrong. With an innocent man getting fired. And that was it.

He found himself in his bedroom. He saw a damp patch on his bed. Perhaps he had wet it. Again. He lay down and cried himself to sleep.

Seven years is a long time, especially if you are Bhaskar Kishore. But, even time can’t erase memories. Especially, if there aren’t too many of them.

***

“…Indians and India can not be trusted. Their judiciary is broken and investigations take an eternity. We MUST act.”

Kevin Vaughan wheezed to a stop. For an asthmatic, he was very active.

His superior nodded. He too was beginning to see the folly in trusting India.

Somebody had wreaked havoc with the brain vault at VLRC. The Queen’s most intimate emotions and thoughts now lay bare before the world.

Messing with the Queen was akin to messing with all Britons. And, humility was one characteristic the Yard had never been known to display.

***

“We must take some action. The British will squeeze us to bankruptcy if we don’t.”

Ali Abbas looked around. A stony silence emanated from his Board of Directors.

“Bhaskar Kishore is turning into a liability by the day. We frankly don’t want a person who can just remember his name. Barely. I don’t care about his brains. We are in India, for Christ’s sake. A hundred minds are out there, clamoring to take his spot. So, from tomorrow on, he doesn’t get reminded what to do. Period.”

Ali Abbas was happy. Technically, Bhaskar wasn’t a scapegoat. He was behind the technology, and he would face the axe.

But, no one knew. To the world, Ali was behind the technology and Bhaskar was an errant scientist. Everyone would know this as the truth. Everyone except one person. A person who’d wake up the next day and put seven sachets of coffee into his mug. He would know, but he wouldn’t realize.

***

I remember everything. You will not be wronged. WE, we will not be wronged. Our plan is perfect. No one can stop us. Just keep your other presences inside you. A little longer. Just a bit longer. I can guide us there. Have patience. Have faith. Have courage. We shall not lose. We can not lose. We are nearly there. Just a bit longer…

***

Vidya Kishore couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her husband was behind the whole memory vault fiasco. She tried ringing him up, but his phone had been disconnected.

The family had been torn apart. She was here, with their children. And he was there. Only VLRC and he knew where. If this was a set up, VLRC wouldn’t tell her where he was. And, he wouldn’t remember-about his family or where he was.

She would be strong, for their children. Someday, Bhaskar would come back. She’d wait.

***

He woke up with a start. Dreaming in color and Dolby surround sound was already a habit.

He got up. He was wet through and through. The sound of water gurgling down the drain set off a series of memories.

He cried himself to sleep.

A bus pulled up, its wipers beating furiously. A tourist got down and snapped a pic. A beggar sleeping outside Harrod’s wasn’t a sight you saw everyday.

Unknown to him, the beggar didn’t even know he was outside Harrod’s. Or even outside India. His memory had started failing him often nowadays. Quite often.

***

“Mrs. Kishore, we found him. In London.”

***

Jai Arora looked on from a window as two foreigners took down his servant. He rushed out to confront them. He had hardly reached the drawing room of his Sainik Farms bungalow, when a pair of hands ignominiously assaulted him and another strapped on handcuffs.

The Yard had finally caught up with him. He’d tell them everything. Everything he ever knew about the Master. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a crummy jail cell, away from his new-found wealth. He would cooperate.

***

We are there. The final phase has been set into motion. We will get our revenge soon. Very soon. It’s just a matter of days now. After fourteen years, what are a few more days? Be patient. Do not spoil anything.

“No please stop. Enough. Please…”

I can’t stop. WE can’t stop. Not now. Not when we are so close.

“Please. Be quiet. I don’t want anymore of it.”

It’s not that easy. I can’t be quiet. If I’m quiet, you are quiet too. I, I am your mind, Bhaskar.

***

Their Melford Close house shook to the opening of ‘The Eye of the Tiger‘. Margaret Vaughan looked on, with a knowing smile, as her husband went about his birthday ritual. He celebrated his one free day of the year, dancing around the house in his pyjamas, ripping open his birthday gifts with childish zeal.

She heard the phone ringing. Letting her husband answer it wouldn’t have been such a good idea.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Mrs Vaughan? Tell Kevin we found him.”

Work. He wouldn’t be pleased.

***

Bhaskar had never seen so many people before. Ever, in his life. Or, so he thought. What confused him most was the fact that most of them wore the same type of clothes, complete with the same funny hat.

He stared around in disbelief. He had never seen so many people before. Ever, in his life. Somebody called out a name. He instinctively turned around. He saw someone familiar. A women. She set off a series of memories.

His mind was in a tizzy. He wanted coffee. He looked around for his kitchen. He just saw people. He had never seen so many people before. Ever, in his life.

Just then, a grim faced man walked up to him. He flashed a card with Kevin Vaughan written on it and a head which looked decidedly familiar.

“The Yard will take him from here,” said Kevin, thanking the Metropolitan Police officer.

The officer nodded and helped load Bhaskar into the car.

“Good day,” he muttered to Vaughan.

Ya right.

***

Psychiatrist’s Report (Excerpt)

I am of the opinion that Mr Bhaskar Kishore be treated with leniency. His mental condition isn’t quite normal. His mind has taken control of his body. It’s compelling him to act in a way his soul wouldn’t let him. But, being a slave of his mind, he truly can’t help it. A case of the mind being stronger than the soul. His mind used him to give the Indian hacker the access codes to the VLRC vaults. It wasn’t him. He doesn’t even know about it.

What has brought about this condition is hard to say. A past trauma like unrequited love, or unaccredited success. Or, a genetic mutation, or something entirely different. A full diagnosis is beyond me and thus, I just advice caution while dealing with the subject. Maybe, institutionalization would help, or maybe, it won’t…

I, Me, Myself

I looked at them.
They glared back.
I chewed on a straw of hay
- They did too.
A hawk called out
In distant Rhodesia.
An old man,
On his patio,
Strummed some Spanish.
The sand was hot,
The cacti pukey green.
I took out my gun
- Theirs already gleamed in the sun.
Someone fired.
Eh…or was it a knock?
I spat out
My toothbrush fragments.
Spat the paste.
(Oh!
What a waste!)
I spend too much time
I there
- The loo,
With my three best friends
- I, Me, Myself.

What I like about Rach’s poems is that it he keeps you guessing – you start reading a poem and then you think ‘Ah, usual mushy / emotional stuff…’ and your eyes just scan through to the end, which is a killer line. And then, you read the whole thing again and notice how he cleverly manages to to fool the reader, and how well HIS interpretation also turns out to be true! I love this stuff…but again, being Rach he gets bored of things – leaves projects half-way etc etc. Sigh.

Maybe,
It was just my eyes.
Or maybe,
It WAS you.
Maybe,
It’s that thing you do.
Everytime I
You see,
Something stirs
Inside me.
Maybe,
It’s that thing you do.
I remember
That first time
- When we met.
I looked at you,
Forgot about the rest.
Maybe,
You did
That thing you do.
How can I explain it?
Why do I have
Eyes only for you?
Maybe,
It’s that thing you do.
Just tell me!
I’ve had enough.
Just tell me,
How do you do
That thing you do?
Just tell me!
Enough suspense,
HOW DO YOU
WRIGGLE YOUR FREAKING NOSE???

Not many people know the meaning of Love.
I didn’t too.
- That was before
I met you.
You taught me the meaning of Life.
You taught me the meaning of everything.
You taught me the difference
Between Love and Lust,
You are divine!!
You have beauty.
You have everything
I could ever want.
You petite little thing,
I love you!!
I love you,
My little dictionary…

Andy was still stressed out, after having not being able to telepathetically contact Pony the Gray. He desperately needed consultants; after all, that was the way they did things in Holy Wood. Andy tried to contact Vivian, another expert in the field of moving pictures, but even his telepathetic lines were closed. Vivian had recently shifted to Shypod from Dipsville, because he had lost his musical thingamajig while working on a motion picture for King Viktor the Miserly.

Alas, the Shakespeareans, after their immensely applauded success with the analytical engine, were deceived by King Viktor the Miserly and were forced to pay the monthly taxes. The unprepared fools were struck down by this ruling and they had to scrounge for each penny.