A Sitcom without a Laughter Track

The mongrel gets startled and barks at me. And I get startled by that and think back. Then I remember all that I had been thinking previously.

Went to the Medicine shop to get meds for my grandma. One called Vitazyme and one Indian Ayuverdic medicine called Lavanbhaskar. Both are for curing gastronomic ailments. There is a cute girl at the medicine shop standing next to me.

Looking at the shopkeeper, I tell no one in particular “Ek Vitazyme aur ek kayam churna de dijiye. (please give me on Vitazyme and one kayam churna)” Kayam churn is a laxative. I don’t look at the girl but I can feel her laughing at me. I mean I don’t look too old. I mean I am considered attractive (I think), but then the bar of attractiveness isn’t exactly set very high by Indian men (is there are pot belly?) . However at 27, I feel that I am quite possibly not an adolescent and should be able to figure out how to have conversations. The point being that I should not stand out in these conversations in which my identity is not meaningful.

The best analogy is that if there was a crime show and a cop came to the shop with a picture of me, then the shopkeep shouldn’t be able to remember me! I was just one of the many many customers that haunt his shop day in and day out, for filling whose orders he’d not even need to look at the customer’s face.

Yet here I am. I realise the error and do that patented Basit weird mumbo-jumbo “Ah that was not the name, hmm, I think it was Lavanbhaskar! Yes that was it, Lavanbhaskar, please give me a lavanbhaskar”. And then after some time, he fills my order (I have to remind him once more though). He gives me a pack of the Lavanbhaskar. Its a low quality plastic packaging. Its curved face is compressed so that instead of a cylinder, it has  a parabolic profile. And I tell them that I don’t want to buy this. Well its alright, its just compressed. Might have gotten hit during the transportation. Well, blimey, would a mechanical engineering grad student ever be able to figure that out? Well, I said to him, yeah but there is a chance of leakage, so I would rather not take this (on the subject of anonymity – we are as far away from anonymity as Gilgamesh was from immortality).

They say back, well if there was leakage, it would expand. And I feel stupid (well I guess that is why I am a graduate student right? I am an invertebrate after all!). I guess it depends on the pressure inside and the pressure outside. I guess, the pressure inside is always less than the pressure outside the container when packing? But that feels somewhat stupid (considering how chips are packed). But there are many cases and I am not a good enough student (that is to say, I am not sure enough of my convictions) to see my argument through.

I guess this is the point where people get adamant of their beliefs and fight it out. Russell said, “I would never die for my beliefs, for I might be wrong”. Russell was a gutless coward. Russell was also wrong. The whole reason I wanted to return the meds, I could feel my mom’s expression from here. Its not disappointment, its more like my parents have me on an intensive internship where they want me to graduate into adulthood so they can marry me off and get rid of that headache, well its not really a headache. Watching your parents arrange your match is like watching your parents date (other parents). And its even more nauseating, because you are the one being dated(datee?) by proxy.

If I did have to marry, would have I fucked up as badly as I did? In the end some amount of traditional growth is necessary. Driving a car is about how much you can project your masculinity without actually whipping it out. At least in India. When you are merging into traffic or a car/bike overtakes you, or stops in the middle of the goddamn road. When two people try to cut off each other, its about how much the owners value their lives vs how much they want to intimidate the other (somewhat like Salman Khan’s train stunt in the movie Kick, which is not a good movie btw). The week that I spent in Singapore was so peaceful. Traffic lights that work. People who cross only when the traffic lights indicate that. Cars that stop at for pedestrians. Indians, these goddamn Indians go to Singapore and get manners! They get so very cultured and I wonder where is that culture when they are back home? Came back from that trip and saw a guy jump a traffic light in Delhi (and almost die in the process) – thank god this is the India that I know and hate.

And then, I didn’t take the medicines. I thought, I cannot take these medicines, because I don’t want to have to bear the facial expression of my mom. Then, I thought I’d just buy it from the other store. Went to the other store. There was just one bottle. It was compressed in the exact same manner. I guess this is what is called destiny?

With the medicines in hand I start back, head bowed, walking the solitary trudge on the long way back home.

Actually mom was pretty pleased, because I bought all these medicines and fruits. My grandma started praying for my long life and good health. It shouldn’t feel nice, but it does.

In Conclusion

I AM NOT SCHIZOPHRENIC!!! (I am just weird(bipolar))

I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I have been meaning to write this out for ages (well months since I found out). I went to NIMHANS B’lore and the doctor suggested to me that my psychotic episodes could be just that – a side effect of all the druggy behaviors. Please don’t do drugs he said – and I won’t and I don’t.

I was on a combination of mood stabilizers and antidepressants and when he said that I felt so stupid I could have kicked myself! Of course, this was a mistake of the Doctor @ Patna (and I wonder what other fuck ups he does in the name of treatment (but I wonder if he is worth saving – after all he does “cure” some people)), but I felt that I should have known that one has a stabilizing effect and the other has an anti depressing effect so they sort of act opposite – chaotically in fact (all my brain chemicals in a soup yew!), making my thought patterns unstable and making me emotionally vulnerable, well more vulnerable than is usual for me.

One must be in control.

To talk to others is to relinquish that control,

to get superimposed and decoherent,

Lately I feel like I can tell,

the conversations are long over before the first words even fell.

People talk to argue and express their disagreement with justified righteous indignance,

Superlative higher orders of logic proffered in deference,


All a conversation is, or ever was or shall ever will be,

is the emotion – a raw, naked and untamed curiosity.

Devoid of words and meanings it shall ever be.


Words are just punctuation marks for the emotions that they summon.

More than 250 million global events are now in the cloud for anyone to analyze

Originally posted on Gigaom:

Georgetown University researcher Kalev Leetaru has spent years building the Global Database of Events, Languages, and Tones. It now contains data on more than 250 million events dating back to 1979 and updated daily, with 58 different fields apiece, across 300 categories. Leetaru uses it to produce a daily report analyzing global stability. He and others have used it to figure out whether the kidnapping of 200 Nigerian girls was a predictable event and watch Crimea turn into a hotspot of activity leading up to ex-Ukrainian Viktor Yanukovych’s ouster and Russia’s subsequent invasion.

“The idea of GDELT is how do we create a catalog, essentially, of everything that’s going on across the planet, each day,” Leetaru explained in a recent interview.

And now all of it is available in the cloud, for free, for anybody to analyze as they desire. Leetaru has partnered with Google, where he has been hosting GDELT for the past…

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The Love Song of Imagination – XV

Dear Wife, if I may sing,

The sense of you is arousing,

The touch of you is rousing.

In your embrace, I feel like a King.


Our dance, a sensuous carousel,

My tensing thoughts that you unravel.


Murky hidden and ancient, by the emotion crystallizes,

The invitation writ on your lips it recognizes,

My true name, the essence of me – the aggrandizer,

Of your wishes a mere slave, built for your pleasure.


The yearning that emanates from our navels,

though our armor might be stronger than Havel’s,

the ardour of our amore hottens and it melts,

joined by the moisture, like strands entwined as felt.

tied together by ropes made of sighs and breaths,

the climax and culmination, a petite death.

of our eventual end, its a rehearsal,

this conclusion is necessary for the universes’ entropic reversal.


Heaven is just Earth without entropy,

The only rhyming word I know is canopy.

Is that a fault of the language or mine,

Would you roll your eyes if I rhymed that with mime?


Thank God for my poetic license,

my pathetic grammar would otherwise make no sense.

My rhyme is not better than an emo teen,

These verses been screaming in my head since I was sixteen.


I sometimes dream of taking on a rap gangsta,

If I tried that, I would fo’ shizzle get busta.

Black and blue,  Black and blue bruised be my eyes,

Get low, get low and get low would they scream, those guys.


Even then I know no cause for surprise,

Not found in a thrift shop now, ain’t I no prize.

See my aura as high as the Heaven its rise,

If they can’t see the pattern, are they really so wise?


I can also invent words as I requize,

Though probably never can I make them realize,

Still then I am the kind, I take infinite tries,

Just graph the choice space, independent of its size.


Economics, they misinterpret as the study of behavior,

Information imbalance explains the patterns of capitals and futures,

For everything they invoke the Ockham’s Razor,

Mine has more finesse, it snipes the Obvious away from the Complex.


Since they can’t accept it, they call it Chaos,

it is but an accessorised pathos.

That is but a game of words,

Experimental error is an observation of God.


But at least they are rational and sane,

With the other group I don’t even want to be friends.

God for them is tantamount to ignorance,

Faith a crutch, reality a deniable hindrance.


All they worship is their craven lust,

only in their madness their only trust.

Horrified they are by their private shames,

So they act like zombies without brains.


Their abuse of women breaks my heart,

The thought of a them, repulsive as a puss filled wart.

They crave and covet that which is not their own,

I await their audience with His throne.


To see them quake and quiver on Judgement Day,

I enjoy that thought, in my delicate way.

Still that seems so far away,

For an end to the Confusion I pray.


Oh Allah, if I may,

instead of a flood, suggest a targeted spray,

of acid most vile and cosmic ray,

the soundtrack composed by Link Wray.

The Love Song of Imagination – XIV

I am a scholar of no renown,
Yet I know something that simply cannot be wrong.
Love is a War for our mutual pleasure,
That must be played with utmost leisure.

Then this, my Wife is the prelude, the warmup exercise,
Imagine the verses I recite, when deep I gaze into your bashful eyes.

When we are alone, no soul in sight,
When it is dark and you close your eyes,
To feel your heartbeat with my lips,
To be caressed by your soft fingertips,
To feel you tremble oh so close,
If you then moaned, the dead shall rise.

The moisture that dews on your lips unseen,
The aroma of which animates my dreams,
Sweeter than honey, headier than wine,
Dear Wife, that pleasure shall certainly be mine.

For the moment I can only reflect,
Devoid of your care I will die of neglect.
I am living my life, quite certain that you will reject.

The fear of it keeps me awake at night,
I offer prayers to ward of the fright,
The only thing that scares me is not being right.

Well that’s not all true, no not quite,
I fear I make for a hideous sight,
That you might find me a lecherous creature,
The struggle with my Nafs my defining feature.

In my struggle, I am scared of coming up short,
I hope before that my pulse does stop.
I don’t know O Wife, how to present my nature,
I wish I had decided to live like Jack Reacher.

In a manner of speaking I am anonymous,
In certain circles, I am quite famous,
Surely I am a better cook than a mouse,
I feel I’ll make a brilliant spouse.

I have just been so terribly alone,
Devoid of sobriety and left on my own,
I have more in common with fictional creations,
On them have I relied for all my education.

I cannot say something and mean something else,
In fiction, such a plot always fails.

I cannot gauge unstated assumptions,
Nor rely on me to use banal conjunctions.

A conversation for me is a sacred act,
In initiation, I am often scared to act.

I’m not the kind, to lose my mind,
I never shout though I sometimes whine,
I always keep an erect spine,
Though I am pliant to the will of those who are mine.

To have someone to call my own,
Feels as unreal as manna from heaven,
I still feel like I have always known,
You & I shall forever be one.

The Love Song of Imagination – XIII

I am but a scholar of no renown,
I have lived unheard & unreckoned,
Gladly have I lived unloved,
And gladly I would have died unmourned.

This verse is but a child’s play,
I write when instead I should pray,
You have saved me from going astray.

For deeply I sigh in Love’s tender embrace,
Dear Wife, as I remember your loving caress.
As I seek to feel your love in your tender kiss,
Those gently parted lips I so cherish.

And woebegone was I, confused and wrong,
The light of Deen almost extinguished and gone.
With a heavy heart I declared myself an atheist,
As I couldn’t prove that God does exist.

Allah, to whom we supplicate with all our emotion,
The only one worthy of our loving devotion,
What need hath He of a banal existence?
To such thoughts I shall forever proffer my resistance.

He who made us from a mere clot of blood,
He who destroyed the unworthy in a cataclysmic flood,
He on whose wish parted the majestic Nile,
The hearts that turned from Him are indeed most vile.

He who is the Creator of perceptual differences,
His Book isn’t just an Encyclopaedia of references,
He blesses us with our hearts and souls,
And twice blessed are we, with our lovers to behold.

An eye for beauty, a voice for song,
And patience, for when the wait is oh so long.
My Dear Wife, apple of my eye,
With thine help, I shall open the doors long forgotten by,

Men and Djinns of all colours,
Sing for the union of separated lovers,

For love is our shared inheritance,
Adam and Eve’s reward for their repentance.

When together we come as one,
And separated we long for none
Other than us to feed our hungry hearts,
And soothe the fire that makes the tiniest aches smart.

There’s more to life than shuffling of cards,
That cannot be understood without a lover’s heart,
There is a subtle Mathematics to our religion,
Everyone is born a Muslim, but most die heathen.