He lay back on the bed, his big belly protruding rather vulgarly into the space around him, looking outside the window at the garbage dump nearby. He wished the window had shades so he could avoid looking at the scene outside but rains had covered the glass with fog and it was getting thicker and denser by the minute. He let out another cloud of chemical smoke from his mouth and let his large body stretch and relax. A lot had happened in the life of the towns’ richest businessman in the last few months and he had managed to remain in the news quite frequently.

On the floor sat Rosy (what a cliché name, he always thought), the Eunuch hooker to whom the room belonged, she sat there reading a children’s book about alphabets though she was about 25 herself (Rosy preferred the female pronoun. Being a male meant less business). He was one of the few who actually knew where she lived, he was a frequent customer after all ,and one who did not want to be seen anywhere around the Red Light District.

‘You shouldn’t be sitting with a children’s book, it’s a turn off.’ He said with evident displeasure in his voice.

‘I am all but trying to learn how to read.’

He chuckled. ‘And what do you plan to read?’

‘Rene Descartes to begin with, maybe some Baruch Spinoza and some Voltaire as well. But they are the first ones to come to mind, I have a lot of other works on my wish list as well.’

He was dumbfounded. ‘What does any of that mean anything to you?’

‘It means a lot to all of us.’

‘Why should their thoughts mean anything to a lowly street whore?’

‘Ah, it is simply a matter of interest.’

He chuckled again. ‘And what interested you in them?’

‘A man. He would come here very often, the only other person who knew where I live.’

‘He came here to talk about that?’

‘He came here to talk about a lot of things. You see he was a man full of doubts, and this was his safe space.’

‘Quite a place he chose.’

‘I went to him first, to meet him when I first came to this area.’ She continued, ignoring him, ’I was going through hell and the brothel business was a nightmare. I felt disgraceful, dirty, and imprisoned. But I remember what he said to me after listening calmly to my grievances, words nobody had ever uttered before ‘you live and work in an island where you’re not bound by the chains of morality or expectations, you have the privilege to see the true side of humans on a daily basis, the side nobody reveals in public. You might be confined by your physical environment but you are truly free in thought and in word. Nothing you ever say or think will be blasphemous or judged. You are the symbol of depravity and that in itself means liberation. In thought and in word you are the freest soul.’’

‘That’s an interesting way to look at things’ he remarked.

‘Yes.’ Rosy said. ‘He asked me for my address and I at once gave it to him. He would come here very often and talk to me about the doubts that his life brought to his mind. Grave existential thoughts, the kind of doubts that might have had him removed from society and incurred the wrath of people.’

‘What? Why would that happen?’

‘He was a priest.’

He stared back with widened eyes.

‘Stuck in the wrong profession’ Rosy continued. ‘He had read Nietzsche and Voltaire and Spinoza and knew at once what he should have realized a long time ago. ‘A brothel might be a moral graveyard’ he would say, ‘but religion is an intellectual one.’ He lamented over the fact that people came to him to solve the riddles that troubled them, but his was a troubled soul that never could decide if it could continue living the way it did.’

‘That’s horrible.’

‘Indeed. He would talk to me about a lot of things, about society and its people. He was an intelligent man. He would come to share his feelings, never once did he even touch me. He spoke of you once, too.’

‘What did he say?’ He asked, sitting upright in a matter of seconds.

‘He told me about your recent marriage, that you had married the woman you had been cheating on your first wife with. He predicted the new marriage would fail as well, and as luck would have it, that’s when you started coming here.’ She smiled.

‘Ho…how did know that?’ He asked with a frown.

‘’What do you think makes the mistress so appealing?’ he asked me once and upon my admittance of ignorance he said ‘it’s the fact that she is the forbidden fruit. It is only desirable when it is sinful, the moment the wife is gone and the mistress is yours legally and morally, the pleasure disappears as well.’ When I told him you had started visiting me he had said ‘let’s hope he isn’t foolish enough to marry you as well’’

‘Does he still come here?’ He asked after a few moments of silence.

‘He died two weeks ago…’

‘What happened?’

‘…I was present at his funeral, but I left as soon as people started pouring in.’ she continued.

‘I don’t think anyone would have known you.’

‘I still remember the last time he came here’ again, ignoring him completely, ‘I had told him about all the pondering I had done over his words, about my life and my state of liberation. ‘Good’ he had said ‘contemplation is the beginning of any intellectual journey and also what keeps it alive’. I had remarked how glad I was that God made me this way because I wasn’t confined by gender roles either. He gave me a weak smile, but then his face turned grave and serious and for the first time I noticed how old he had become. ‘I don’t think God cares.’ He had said. And then he left, forever.’




On Writing: Introspection And Catharsis

August 2015.
It was exactly a year ago when I had seriously considered meeting a therapist. A month away from turning 18, I was the cliché emotional mess of an average teenager who loved to believe that he was a special snow flake. I was drowned in self-pity and struggling in a sea of insecurities like every other teenager. I still had the courage to believe there was some amount of special in me but much too often doubts would creep up about my own self-worth. I never really met a therapist but found a medium to lay bare my raw emotions.
I have always suffered from a terribly low self-esteem. I have had many friends over times that have been kind enough to hear me out and let me vent myself out to them. But my inconsistent self-esteem has made sure that all my friendships based on trust and affection has been broken. You know you suffer from really low self-esteem when you think nervously about whether your friend is interested in hearing you out or when you feel apologetic about writing yet another post about depression. Your mind is constantly saying to you “What makes you think they’re even interested?”. Writing allows me to break free from the shackles of low self-esteem and showcase my true inner self without the constant pecking from my brain about not being good enough. When I read articles and poems written by me, I always feel it is me exploring my flaws and gaining a therapeutic release from them.
Since childhood if there is one thing about my life that I would like to change it is the fact that I have never been able to unleash myself. I have always felt like a wild animal tied to a chain and every time I try to escape, the leash tightens around my neck. I have suffered too long from this suffocation. I have had too many moments of suppressed anger. I have had too many internal battles trying to decide whether I should give in to a crowd that I am a complete stranger to, or shoot my middle finger to the sky and be the rebel I have always dreamt of being.
Writing gives me that canvas I so long for to let out the bottled up shit inside me. It is supreme catharsis for me. It’s where I am the king and the lone warrior fighting imaginary battles that I regret not having fought, it’s where the bloodlust takes over and I reveal the beast of carnage that has always resided in me. Writing gives me the freedom to not care about damaging any reputation. It opens the gateway to my dream world, where I live as I please with no expectations, or the baggage of guilt, of misunderstanding and disappointments. It’s the world where I no longer have to prove myself as being ‘up-to-the-standards’ of monkeys who have no significance whatsoever in my life. Heck, it’s the world where stupidity is condemned and hypocrites are slaughtered.
As a child I always preferred to play by myself. I loved being alone and played my own little games, I would fantasize I were a king or an actor of a film or a singer in a huge concert. As an adult, writing gives me the license to be what I want to be. I, as a writer, am a creator and puppeteer of whatever I wish to create. It might be a gothic king or a dark warlord; I play the master and not a mediocre student with subdued flamboyance. The game is mine and I rule this playground.
I have always wished to be exiled from this world and spend a day alone, by myself and left with my own thoughts. I would love to sit and contemplate and jot down my thoughts no matter how dark, vulgar or disturbing they turn out to be. Without having realised it, I believe writing has gotten me close to fulfilling that fantasy because when I sit to write a poem or an essay I lose myself into my own mental space and my physical being becomes irrelevant. It is a meditation of sorts, or maybe a spiritual journey but it is not guided by norms created by stupid conformists. I float silently in that mental space, surrounded by an infinite dreamy visuals and the peace I have always longed for.


I was standing near my room

Early morning, looking for you

We had had a fight the previous night

I wanted to say sorry to you

It was still your fault

But now it just seemed too trivial

There were people in the hallway

Standing in groups and talking

In a mumbled buzz

It was 3 am

And my head was swirling

I just wanted to find you

Hold you and take you back with me

So I took off from the hotel

There were people in groups everywhere

I didn’t approach them

You were the only thing on my mind

Finally I reached the beach

More people here, more groups

And a louder buzz

My head began to ache

There was panic in my heart

I paced to the shore still pretty drowsy

That’s when I saw you

Lying on the beach

People all around you

They pulled the white cloth off your face

You had the same clothes you wore last night

Someone said

‘So sad, wonder why she did it’

‘Someone heard her quarreling last night’

I collapsed with a thousand thoughts swirling in my head

Wishing all this were a dream

A bad dream on a beautiful beach

Monsoon Of My Mind

The mammoth clouds
Come pounding down
They’re like my depression
Dark as charcoal
Dense and opaque
They disallow me
From admiring
The vast universe beyond
The birds sense the incoming storm
They are like the positive thoughts
That try their best
To fly undeterred
But the winds of emotion
Keep pushing them off trajectory
There’s a constant fear that lingers
That the heavens will tear open
And the acidic rain will pour down
Obstructing everything alive
I just remain a silent helpless spectator


About me 

And who exactly am I?

I am the embarrassment you feel

When you wave at someone in public

And they just walk off ignoring you

I am the panic you feel

When you suffer the falling sensation

While sleeping

I am the fear in your mind

When you were alone in the dark

As a child and thought you heard strange noises

I am your every nightmare ever

And the feeling you wake up with 

After having one

I am the helplessness you feel

In the face of tragedy 

The regrets of your life

When you know you could have changed things

But nothing can be done now

I am the moments of anger

That erupt out of suppressed rebellion 

I am the knock on your door

When you’re in your room

Watching porn

I am your pain

Your anxiety and your insecurity

The itch on your back

That you can’t scratch

I am your lust

Animalistic yet repressed

I am your broken dream

I am immense

I am nothing

I am Girish