Sirocco

I hopped off the bus at Betelguese, hoping perhaps for a hot cup of coffee and some stellar company. Two dizzying years zipping around the Milky Way on the Quark Express left me with a deep-seated urge to feel the earth - any earth - under my feet and the burning desire to get the taste of space trucking meals from off of my taste buds. The man panhandling on the corner outside the busport grinned his crazy grin - the one that promises his undivided attention until you pay him to stop looking at you, stop creeping you out, stop pretending like he knows where you hid the body. You know the body that I'm talking about. The one in your closet only its a skeleton now, hidden and shameful and giving off a miasmic odour that you're scared will surround you until the day you're a skeleton in someone else's little pandora's box. The stench of doubt. You can travel the galaxy and stare stars in the face until the gamma radiation turns your pineal gland into an elastic leg g

The inky blue of a deep dream of ocean depths and inhabited perhaps, by the same tentacled life swimming in and out of the beams of the weak lights that are our lives, our hopes and our regrets. I look at the night sky and sigh at the sight of the infinity that defies my reach and my understanding. It's the infinity that I swim through in the depths of my inky blue dream.

How how how do you say what I've locked away? Make me smile when it's been a while since I let go and replayed the one that went astray. I feel alive I'm still alive Your song plays in my veins I hit rewind and it begins again and in my head that life, that rage, that happy happy pain it's on again. It's in your voice. It's in your song. It's in the way you play It makes me scream along. Don't stop singing keep this world ringing to the sound of your voice.

I'm not going to waste my breath and dwell on how truly and myopically stupid ToI's 'Aman ki Asha' is. And how it's going to be just a venue for pseuds to sip wine and share kakori kebabs, while admiring each other's pashmina shawls and over-sized bindis . Ooh and clunky silver jewellery. To truly appreciate the complete idiocy of this whole 'initiative', let's imagine that the ToI had addressed their open letter to Mr. Girhotra, father of the late Ruchika G. You know, the one who was driven to suicide by the Rathore fellow. The following piece is a parody of what was on ToI's front page, and has been (re)written by user sanjaychoudhary at forums.bharat-rakshak.com . Love Rathore Feels odd to you -- Ruchika's father -- to see those two words side by side doesn’t it? Hatred and a desire for revenge somehow sit more comfortably in your mind when you think of him and what he did. Words that you’ve been fed in daily doses over the last 19 years.