Rejection Phobia - A Typical Male Syndrome

Blind dates, long distance affairs, telephonic relations, pen friends, childhood crushes and a typical male behind them all! Everyone is unique, every man is different. Yet, the fear of rejection always lurks like an inevitable shadow around an urban man. So, let’s find out more about this typical male syndrome.

Ex Girlfriends, Ghosts and That Secret Potion of Desire

Sweet melodies of yesteryears often soothe his soul. Confused past, hazy memoirs and long drives in his father’s old gypsy illuminates his apartment. The shadows of his ex girlfriends keep haunting him. Those larger than life greeting cards, those soft toys, those bracelets, those watches, those letters are locked inside his closet. Time changes, feelings evolve, old friends reunites. The air never remains the same.

How to Tweet Like Jim Morrison

Microblogging! The new addition to the content hungry universe is making everyone bit crazy. Some people are investing hefty sum of money to gain followers, some folks tweeting extra sensible quotes, some individuals trying to be little humorous, the celebrities gaining millions of followers overnight and some people are still dazed. They retweet, copy paste some old quotations, sometimes news and views and most of the times they just keep gazing at the time line without having any words to write.

Bedroom Story - What Indian Women Want In Bed?

Indian women are flawless, intelligent and wild in bed. They know the art of taming a wild stallion, they knows the magic of weaving a satisfying tale. Everyone is unique and every girl has their priorities.

Winter Loneliness - Why Loneliness is Ecstatic?

The music of David Gilmour (On an Island) is creating a dreamlike ambience; the loner is busy writing his chronicle in his studio apartment, he is capturing the ecstasy of being lonely in an overcrowded city. He is mutely inhaling the drifting joy and the lingering silence, he is growing from within, he is catching the stars, and he is alive…

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Monday, December 27, 2010

Writing While Travelling…


He could see meadows, unending sky and a beautiful Indian countryside. The chaos is slowly disappearing; it’s turning into some sweet symphony. The sugarcane farms, golden green earth around are utterly captivating. People lazing in front of their houses, birds singing atop hillside and the winter sun delightfully caress the rustic panorama. That’s how life starts outside a chaotic urban sky. There’s no red lights, no Costa Coffee, no hot dogs, no diet coke, there so much space around. He could see some small kids rushing to their schools in some blue and white uniform, he could see some young girls cycling with joy, he is capturing every moment, and he is vehemently scribbling pages while travelling.


Sunday, December 19, 2010

Brandmile - Bad Fashion Days!





Fashion is you, it’s your mask and you need to pamper it to accentuate the beauty within you. You have to wear the right kind of clothes to make yourself presentable. Dress to kill is the new dictum and you are not an exception.

Bad fashion! Yeah, sometimes cult attire looks obnoxious, occasionally traditional outfit looks jazzy and many a time the conventional dresses looks enormously breezy. The idea of bad fashion is somewhat crazy for people who follow trend strictly.

Detailing for Fashion freaks is as important as black coffee for writers. Tiny mistakes or a misprint in a tee may create paranoia. A brand conscious guy would never buy duplicate stuffs with the same name. They could easily spot the difference by seeing the underdeveloped logo.

But, wearing a branded outfit or a designer garment doesn’t prove your fashion sense. Sometimes, even fashion gurus do blunder. We all face bad fashion days. We all have to go through this! That’s the only fact.

Understanding the occasion, place and people around you is extremely important before you make yourself a fool amid lots of smart guys. I think age do play a pivotal role for preventing such mistakes. A young guy would hardly care about all these gaffes. He would definitely wear his favourite stuff. Bad fashion days differ from person to person. We sometimes dress according to our inner signals. Hence, we unconsciously commit blunder. We look horribly different. We may not realise the fact at that moment but after scanning through all those pictures taken during an erstwhile event makes us uncomfortable. We hate to go through those images. We sulk in disgust. 


Well! I had many fashion disasters in my life. My carefree hairstyle and my extra urban outfits looked pathetically disgusting during an event meant for only professionals. Yeah! Those big guys - corporate honchos, I somehow managed to skip the very affair after a brief look at the audience. It was not for me. I hate to look professional, I always appreciated people who dress casually even during a big event. That’s somewhat crazy but my dressing sense allows me to appreciate people who look exceptionally urban. I like people who look simple yet extraordinarily hot even in their bad fashion days…









Saturday, December 18, 2010

The Rise of the Other World…





Time stands at rest, the window of his heart is wounded by the thundering wind. The illusion is so beautiful; the reality is full of cruel people. Everyday news about diplomacy and hypocrisy makes him run, run away from the blue earth. The floating people in his dreams smile while the reality curses him, kicks him and throws him to some used dust bin.


He closes his eyes to dream, to see the greenery, to see the humming metaphors of love, solitude and desire. The everyday chaos makes him so very dead. The symphony is somewhat missing, the snakes and cockroaches are ruling entire blue earth. The floating people in his dreams often praises the attire he wears, the thunder and lightening makes him frail when he opens his eyes.

 The dungeons get deeper, the caves become harmful, and the surrealism keeps his dreams alive.  He sees magic in every artist’s eyes; he sees drama in his life. The half ruined apartment where he dwells no more exude the sonata of that old piano, the bicycle in the old garage stand rusted quivering in the solitary sunshine. Ugly faces, young visage and those never seen faces keeps lingering, he tries to join those broken wings, the angel must be thinking about him but he couldn’t feel her feelings, he couldn’t move around in his dreams.

The world is a beautiful place where human beings are not so lonely but there are some people who still live under that deep illusion of extreme imagination. The owls and the beetles never disturb their own sweet melancholy. They are born to see the other side; the gratifying midnight never abandons them…




Image Credit: Digitalart


Monday, December 13, 2010

Urban Philosophy - The Truth!





Messy hair, old trench coat, geeky specs and a burning cigarette – he walks with a lady, he creates vivid thoughts and try to implement them in his life.

She walks with an attitude, wears anything that’s comfortable, hardly cares about anybody, she loves her own imaginary world.

Lonely yet crowded, unhappy still full of glee, deserted yet not down, she extracts the beauty of life from the metaphors and the freezing tide.

He keeps inhaling knowledge, he just get inside every damn thing, tries to experiment and finally comes out with a weird idea!

He blabbers absurd thoughts, quite meaningless for the outer world, he fills his heart with the uniquesness, and he never stops praying the cult gods.

She writes long mails, she tries every word to make it apt; she eventually caresses the receiver with her soothing words.

He plays guitar, sings well, he is surrounded by damsels; he creates music, finally sinks without trace in an urban garage.

He runs for life, he runs for his ex, he runs more than Forrest Gump; he reaches the highway just to get a glimpse of his shadow, loses his shoes, walks barefooted, meets the nothingness, and finally embraces life.

She is happy without a reason, she has everybody, she must be happy, she might be that fair lady, and she may not be the one.

There’s something inside his mind, something inside his heart and something inside his existence. He finds no one to accompany, takes nobody in. He is just moving towards something that he hardly knows.

She is searching, she is calculating the price of that very beautiful diamond casket, she isn’t satiated, and she is restless.

His heart is like rock, feels nothing for anyone, he is friend to his shadow, he is shrewd and lives in paranoia. 


He is for all, loves to appreciate every good thing, and dreams about her, he is still craving, still not able to find the definition of perfect harmony.


Urban Philosophies are quite hard to interpret, harder to decipher, impossible to read, meaningless to come with a conclusion. There are no rules, there’s only a desire for more…




 Image Credit: caleartworks, vi.sualize


Sunday, December 12, 2010

A Whimsical Journey Through 2010






2010 flew away, many new relations created, many friends added, many stories written, some got married, some got separated, some kept wondering and some had a very tough time! Now we are waiting for another year, another time, another life, and another sunshine. Every year is special, every year some new things happen to our lives. It could be a newborn child, it could be a reunion with a long lost friend, it could be a small achievement, and it could a bigger honour. Every year we take a roller coaster ride. The year started with a whimper and ended with the bang. We have seen tragedies, rise and innovation. We have seen good movies and some ugly movies, we have had fights, we have had love, and we have had bliss.



Slowly the summer breeze transformed into winter symphony, the autumn evolved into spring. The year gave us sorrow, some pain, some love and some reality check. We had our times of introspection, we had our time for retrospection, and we had our time for rejuvenation. The shadow of recession faded into oblivion, new jobs were created, the movement started. Predictions by Paul came true and the biggest soccer trophy was taken by Spain. Christopher Nolan’s Inception made everybody think about dream within a dream within a dream, Polanski’s Ghostwriter was grungy yet beautiful and The Social Network was simply great. The year kept moving, we kept moving. We have seen the rise of shining stars like Lady Gaga, Justin Bieber and Mark Zuckerberg. 




We cried when the Chilean miners came out, we praised Google when they gave a memorable tribute to J.D Salinger. Technology is becoming an art and art is conveyed through technology at large. 




Every year is different, every time we step into a New Year, we renew ourselves with newer dreams, newer boundaries, whether we achieve or not, we just keep moving…


Friday, December 10, 2010

The Cab Driver and the Lady in Red






It was a young Friday day night, the street was all empty, the night was half asleep but the wolves were on their prowl. The cab driver was half drunk but he wasn’t all done. He was driving slowly looking for someone. The winter breeze was frustrating for him. He was restlessly wandering for something that night. He was unable to find anyone to satiate his burning desire; he was shouting at every dog, he was howling with a sadistic pain.

Suddenly a shadow appears and optimism touches his hackneyed face. What’s she doing at the middle of this gory night? The cab driver thinks for a while. He ignores the shadow and drives away. He drinks another bottle of Rum and sings atop of his voice. The desperation was killing him from inside. He wasn’t hallucinating, he was not in the middle of some kind of fantasy, and he was amid real world, amid cops, amid street dogs and snakes.

What’s this? The shadow of the lady was still troubling him, he wasn’t able to divert his attention from the fleeting red skirt, he was all awake yet so very in a dreamlike atmosphere. He drives fast to cross the bridge but fails to cross it. The bridge keeps moving away from him. The shadow of the lady became alive and it appears just in front of his car. He looses control, strikes the bridge and dies…The story of the cab driver ends here. He fails to recover from his sin but the shadow of the lady is still living near that never-ending bridge, still punishing the wrong doers.

It was a young Friday day night, the street was all empty, the night was half asleep but the wolves were on their prowl….

(Fiction)

Image Credit: ridelust



Thursday, December 09, 2010

Drugs and Prayers…





Take it easy! The smokes touching her face may annoy her, not you. She is whining and cursing you but you are still resolute. Your eyes have deep black cleavages; your snake skin is utterly disturbing. Take it easy my friend, you are just very normal.  Stop the very non-sense, push the illusion, embrace the fact that you are living on this planet. The metaphysics, the philosophies, the Victorian poetry isn’t your tea cup, you should rather kiss feet of Baba Bholenath. Your taste is different but your likings are bit same of an idiot in disguise. You talk about paradox but you are unable to feel the state of your paradox. 

Writing about anything may be your forte but scribbling madness and polluting the World Wide Web isn’t just expected. The drugs that you take not only generate hallucinations but also create illusions for the people around. Utter non-sense. Do you think alcoholic and drug addicts are sane? They just talk non-sense. Drugs and prayers can never go hand in hand as the silence and chaos are poles apart. Do you think you can achieve bliss by praying? Yes! Pray without drugs, lust, impurity, bad intention in your mind etc. Ridiculous! Human beings aren’t so pure that’s why they are human. Prayers soothe your consciousness. You pray when you are extremely sad, afraid or happy. The need for a prayer only arises when there is a crisis. A drug addict goes to a rehabilitation center and prays a lot. He wears white pure clothes and discusses poetry with the nurses. He finally comes out and changes the world. 

Drugs and prayers are same. Again a Paradox! There’s no difference between a priest and a drug addict. Both of them have same future – they die. One releases and the other catches it. If you are happy and satiated with yourself, you have no right to curse and give pain. Let others live with their superstitions, who are you to interfere and preach. Finally the drug addict and the priest moves away and the very sane common man comes into picture. The madness disappears but a sense of chaos appears. The world is so confused and we aren’t an exception. If Drugs and Prayers are metaphors for the good and the bad then what shall be the metaphor for the ugliness that’s creating this entire nuisance? Don’t think as we all know, there’s always a silver lining that kills all the germs for neutralizing our lives and our dreams…


The road isn’t flowery but there’s always a happy destination…







Monday, December 06, 2010

The Indian Escapist





Beautiful sunshine, sunny night, no metaphors, that’s the only reality of life – you have everything here, nothing there. You are no more a prisoner, no nightmares, no tears, no imperfections; you are the king in the whole galaxy because you know the art to escape, you are the Indian escapist.

You kick pain with ease, you fly like a quirky prose, and you are somewhere up there. Your eyes have the ability to provide sunshine. You are the best; you are the Indian whimsical man. Your smile may look decayed and hackneyed to the outer world, you may be treated like a rat, you are just fine, and you are nothing less than the emperor of my dreams. Your image may not be found in someone’s wallet but your picture is embedded everywhere near the greenery.

Practicality is boring; it’s the era of magic realism where pragmatism and materialism takes a backseat. You may not have money to survive but you have a lustrous soul inside. Fast cars, rich people, good food, posh living rooms. You have everything that money can’t buy. You may sleep in the pavement, but your dreams reaches far above the silky sky. 

The paranoia gives you strength to survive, your dreams pushes you to cross the deep blue sea, reality is just nothing for you, you are far above everything, your tears are gems, your existence may not be visible to others but your shadow is just very attractive to anyone who knows the meaning of life. You may keep smiling in your pain, but your heart is never devoid of love. The guitar strings, the drumbeats and those sweet symphonies of nightingale praise you every time. You are the great Indian escapist with a soul that thinks faster than light. You are the reality; you are the only one who has the ability to walk away with a smile from every damn thing…

Image credit: dustskin


Saturday, December 04, 2010

The Sleep Writing Story






It is half morn and half night between that silence and the hustle. He is trying to scribble a bit to fill his insomniac diaries. The moon is away and the sun is missing, he is just in a mood of sleep writing. The subconscious is becoming active while the alertness is all gone. The grammar and the voice has taken a backseat, the chronicler is busy capturing those fleeting glimpses of a restless night. He is writing with his half closed eyes.

Writing is just like an old wine that seduces a chronicler. He is always hunting for reason, for a cause to express something or just nothing in his own special ways. Have you ever tried to write in your sleep? If not, try once and I bet you will feel better. Your eyes may not support your fingers but your mind would definitely encourage your thoughts to capture the faint light and symphonies of a beautiful half night. 


Have you ever scribbled your dreams? This is weird again because only some fanatics may do so but there’s nothing wrong in trying once. The process of writing even while you aren’t highly alert may create whimsical pieces. The flow of words may entangle you next day with some really difficult questions. You are destined to feel those unusual dewdrops next morning. Sleep writing may not promote sense but it definitely captures that moment between your sleep and reality wisely…





Wednesday, December 01, 2010

The Beginning of a Psychedelic Life





Dark fiction, capricious smile, profound loneliness and a glimpse of that beautiful dream adds magic to your life. You begin to praise the never-ending sea. You try to dive with the mermaids, you love to dance with the fallen angels, and you are so very tired of the normal life. Nothing amuses you, you look extremely dull, and your heart craves for something that you hardly know. You love to get drenched in that solitary sadness. You are reduced to a half-breed moron. The thorns near the roses attracts you, the madness tempts you, you try to run away whenever you get a chance, you fail to make a welcoming presence in the crowd. 

When these things keep happening to your everyday life, you seek to jump to another world. You try hard to feel better but the darkness within never permits you to smile. The thunder and lightening within your galaxy crawls like vermin throughout. The hallucinations increase, the insanity becomes your passion; you then try to feel bright colours, praise absurdity. There’s no love, no lust. There’s only a torturing void. You hate to talk; you begin to love the silence which makes you comfortable. 

You fly with your shadow, smile in your sadness, and feel goosebumps at your own state, you enjoy the psychedelic life. The smokes dance around you, the music of Floyd and Jim uplifts paranoia. Suddenly, there are droplets from heaven, you take the jewels in your hands, see yourself and throw them away without any appraisal. You hate to see the face in those droplets. The wind blows hard, the trees crackle, owls weep and the buzzing beetles seduce you insanely. You close your eyes, feel the growing music inside your soul and move slowly towards the enchanting realism…


Image Credit: Paulvincenti