THE MAN WITH THE THIRD EYE

In the mythological world, Lord Shiva is supposed to have a third eye. But down here on earth, there is a new force who boasts of having the same.

Meet the eyeborg. Meet Neil Harbisson.

Neil was born with achromatopsia, a condition that only allowed him to see in black and white. This monochromatic world seemed fine in his childhood, but later society started encroaching on him. At a time where the world was booming with the likes of Pink Floyd, Bluetooth and Green Peace, Neil was sinking deep in his black sea

Who are Adam Mantandon, Peter Keese and Matias Lizana?

These are the brains behind the brain of Neil Harbisson. Thanks to these individuals Neil started hearing and perceiving colour in sound frequencies. From developing a head mounted colour sensor to fit the technology in a chip, these geniuses aided Neil in becoming a Cyborg – an evolved being. So much so that Neil’s eyeborg can now perceive more colours than the human eye.

When a superhero discovers his superpowers, he realizes he can do wonders. Our superhero was no different. Let me take you through all the extraordinary things Neil has achieved and wants to achieve in his lifetime.

“It doesn’t matter if you’re black or white”

Perhaps the greatest gift Neil has passed on to the human race is the eradication of racial discrimination. According to him, all human beings are a shade of orange. Some light, some dark, but all orange. No one is black or white anymore. As the telecom company once said, “The future’s bright. The future’s Orange”.

Meet the happy side of ‘face the music’

See the different shades of orange. Say hello to your own face. Taking colour to the next level, Neil’s been making music, using colours depicted on one’s face. He also jokes around by saying now your face can give you your own ringtone. In this world of personalization, nothing gets more personal than this.

The colour of the season is F Major

Yes, you read that right. Neil dresses to sound good. And synchronizes his fashion sense to his mood. He even suggests wearing Requiem by Mozart to a funeral saying, “It may look colourful, but will sound sad”. His novel take on fashion will soon be replicated in a fashion collection in Barcelona. Now that sure does sound sweet, doesn’t it?

Every city has its own hues

According to Neil, no city is grey; cities too have their own colour. In a first-of-its-kind perspective, Neil brings a new palette to the cityscapes. With London washed in Gold and Red, Lisbon dons a light yellow and Turquoise. Madrid dazzles in is Amber Terracotta while our Mumbai swims in Celeste Blue. With this refreshing take on cities, you can’t just go and paint the town red anymore.

CYBORGISM – The DIY Model

Like every great idea, Neil’s too is open to all. Using the Do It Yourself approach, Neil is ready to extend his cybernetic technology to anyone who wishes to develop their senses further. Making the software free for all, he guides people to make their own cybernetic equipment. The only difference between other DIY sites and his is that he is taking a disadvantage and turning it into an advantage that supersedes even humans.

Cyborg Foundation – The future sits here

In 2010, Neil started the Cyborg Foundation to help others in need. And the inventions so far have been nothing less than extraordinary. Like one cybernetic attachment, earrings, help detect movement with vibrations. In another, a miniature camera inside a finger can detect colour or take pictures. But possibly the greatest innovation his foundation is working on is happening at Ecuador.

Ecuador – Where no one turns a blind eye

The cyborg foundation is developing an electronic eye for the blind communities. With this tool, blind people can hear words instead of colour, thereby eradicating the need to convert them into brail. With this cybernetic revolution, the blind people of Ecuador will finally see the light of day.

Neil Harbisson – The ambassador of tomorrow

Neil

Neil Harbisson is wearing the future on his sleeve. This man with innate humour is turning the page of human beings with his cyborgism. He believes that we can reverse the nature of our senses, where instead of losing its lustre, our senses can develop even further, making us look forward to growing old. His story needs to be told and retold. This is me just playing my part. Because every great idea must be shared.

This is an entry for The Idea Caravan contest on IndiBlogger by Franklin Templeton Investments who partnered the TEDxGateway Mumbai in December 2012.

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Comic Relief: Based on the life of Venkat Ananth

Great philosophers tried to warn us. Woodstock tricked us into a culture of free love. As the wheel was turning, the horror that was going to be slapped on our ears was slowly growing. Convergence, one world, joint ventures, oh, the world tried to make up for its mistake, but they failed. Political parties waved its flag of regionalism, but the globalized society would not hear a word. From fail, this effort was epic fail.

The dreaded day arrived. The world met the coloured, globalized, secular, whatever fuck you wanna call it, inglorious accent of Venkat Ananth. It happened to me day before yesterday. Mr. Annoying met Mr. Accent and both dove into the depths of this man and dished out a concoction that was heady, but not in a good way.

He was alright before. Bearable without an accent. Hiding under the alias of Gajesh or Gajju, this harmless creature came across as an innocent lost boy. When we should have acted, we followed the great Ramiz Raja’s words and ‘commiserated’. And how we regret that. We’d seen glimpses of what we would face in the future, but never did we imagine that it would sock us in the face, the way it did.

Let me tell you a bit about the epitome of identity crisis, our beloved Venkat Ananth. He is a Tamilian raised in a Mahrashtrian dominated Thane. A die-hard cricket fan who favours Sri lanka over India. And this has nothing to do with his colour. (See, not racial). We still don’t know the reason behind his fascination. To commoners, it comes across as he’s the guy who loves being different. Loves the underdog. Or rather always supports the second favourite. Which should translate to him being a fan of Liverpool or Arsenal when it comes to football. It’s just a logical way to look at it. But he supports Manchester United with a nationalistic pride you won’t find in an Indian cricket fanatic. When I said epitome of identity crisis, I was backing it with facts. I won’t get into the London chapter of his life as I was privileged not to know it. But with great sadness and amusement I bring to you an ongoing chapter of his life or as I call it a fun evening.

I had heard tales about his latest quest to find himself. Some found it annoying. Others found it amusing. And as the man walked in wearing his glasses over his head and greeted us, I burst out laughing. It was like you’ve been bombarded by books of ‘man walks into the bar’ jokes. A Tamilian from Thane had picked up a Haryanvi accent. As he kept on vomiting horrible hindi on our plates, where every sentence was rounded and lingered, he was becoming Yo Yo Honey Singh. “Kya kehriyaih? Gurgaonavan mein? Kabhi milyon hume. Oh yaar, samjha kar.  Oh Saket-uh”. Behen had become Bainnuh. All this with a put on accent and traces of a nasal South Indian accent. Within this projectile vomit, the tamilian with a Haryanvi accent added a Marathi touch with “Vaapra nahi hai”. Somewhere deep down, we knew he was special.

All jokes aside, the frustrating part is when this man speaks in English, he is just fine. And when he is not ranting over something stupid, the man has a brain too. We spoke for an hour. From Agassi to Nadal to Barca to stadiums of hate.  From Bhogle and his writing styles to the dreaded IPL. We spoke of journalism and commercialization and how both will juice the sport for its benefit. We spoke of passions and professionalism and the undercurrent we need to live by for the monies. The man is a voracious reader, a very good writer, but most importantly a good man!

Don’t know if he chooses to humour people or gets humoured in the bargain. While his incessant banter about inane things may fuck your brains over, his accent will always provide a comic relief.

Happy birthday brother. Drop the fucking accent.

Curfew or Bandh

Friday, 12th March, 1993. Bombay was under attack. 13 explosions that shook the city. Within this communal rage, as religion was tearing the city apart, humanity was bringing many of them together. In such a state of terror, people were stepping out of their houses to lend a helping hand, to give shelter, to provide food. And give blood instead of taking it.

Wednesday, 26th November, 2008. The crown of the city was burning. Taj had been encroached into and imploded with bombs. Mumbai, now, was not hiding under its blanket, but rather doing what it does best under adversity, come together. Help was offered, lives were lost, but the popularly termed “indomitable spirit” kept the city running.

Take the train blasts, the floods and any other real calamity and you’d see this city come out of its comforts, fight, help and survive. Without a drop of fear rolling down its forehead.

And now let’s see at the idiotic side of the city. Funny too. Purely because of how they react. Bruised, battered and torn, the spirited Mumbaikars shine through. But when the Wolf cries, they start shitting bricks.

While the collateral damage of the bomb blasts can be scaled in numbers, the collateral damage that these National Bandhs create in terms of fear is immeasurable. These bandhs have a legacy. Be it national or state specific. Strangely, I hardly remember the reasons behind these bandhs. The one-off I remember is that of a rumour of Bal Thackerey being arrested. Ego battles are often fought under the pretense of ‘sensitive issues’. For Kolkata, if there’s not a bandh at regular intervals, it starts feeling abnormal. It’s a culturally entrenched habit now. Coming back to these bandhs in question.

For some reason, they always pelt stones at the state transport buses. Irrespective what the reason for the bandh is these buses have to face the music. I pity the bus driver. The government shows balls by keeping the transport running, but the driver’s balls are always in his mouth when it comes to such things. His ‘What the hell have I done’ query always gets stoned. Trains are largely unaffected. Autos and cabs can also continue to ply. Even people can travel.

Take today, 31st May 2012, for instance. Today’s reason behind the bandh is to protest against the hike in fuel prices. Yes, the prices are rising, and something must be done about it. But shooting in the dark is not going to hit bull’s eye. Cabs and auto run on CNG now. So do these buses. The trains have no connection with the hike. Most of the people who travel with these modes of transport don’t own a vehicle. Most of them. Yet everyone involved in this Maslow’s world lives in fear. What for? And in fear of what? Before I left home the news channels were talking about the partial impact of the Bandh. And buses as usual had become breaking news, in every sense of the word. While some channels called it violence and showed glimpses of the buses, other channels were making a documentary on these buses. None of the passengers or drivers were injured. Yet, a dramatic turn of events. Fear was in stage 1 right now. Twitter on the other hand was advertising the joy of driving and riding in the empty streets of the city. That was irony making a guest appearance.

As I stepped out, I saw the Bombay of 80s. Unpopulated. Deserted. Calm. Yes, these were glimpses of romance the city one had. Two crows were catching up in the middle of the road. I guess they were tired of flying, because they chose to walk. In many ways, that too, was a rare sight. Then taking the situation at hand, a Western Classic starting running in front of my eyes. Soon, curfew scenes made their way in as well. Cops stationed at every corner. Eerie silence singing dark melody with the winds.

And then the panic calls began.  There is unrest near office. Next call – No cabs. Next call – They’ve started shutting offices. Next call – Beta, turn around, it’s scary out there. Next call – They’ve shut one of our offices, might shut the main office as well. Next call – I’ve asked a colleague to go back, you should go back too.

After all that chaos, I took a deep breath. I said; hold on a minute, what’s the reason again, PROTEST AGAINST RISING FUEL PRICES. At that point sanity came and slapped me in the face, it asked me to stop being stupid. I obliged and looked at this as one the shortest adventures, the only pseudo curfew experience I’ll ever have in this city. Because the city has proven time and again, when it’s under attack, it unites as a brutal force, but when it comes to fake alarms, it panics. So, I hailed an auto and went to the nearest cab stand. A cool cab greeted me with looks of uncertainty. Not cool at all. The 12 minute drive towards office began with nervous looks and a watchful eye. He spoke of fears and poverty and the government. Nothing new there, I said. And as we hit the highway, the skeptic stepped out and the driver stepped back in. He spoke of the pleasures of driving. Said 15 years back he could drive like this. As we cut into a by lane, the skeptic was back in the driver’s seat. Dropping me much before my destination, he took a U-turn and returned to living in fear.

As I reached office, I saw my junior walk in all smiling. She comes from a different city by the way. “I took the bus today. 1st time in Mumbai. It was so comfortable. Only 5 bucks.” It was heartening to see a bandh infested city welcoming a new tenant with open arms. This time irony had walked into office.

While India is holed up under the excuse of Bandh, Americans will be stepping out to witness the Manhattanhenge. Eternal sunshine and the spotless mind.

Here’s to the unsung heroes

When you were born, you were asked to become a doctor or an engineer. But the world was thinking different. Doing different. You did not want to stay behind now, did you? So, you jumped onto the band wagon. To do something different. While the journey was right, the destination was still clueless. You took pleasure in the ‘journey is important’ philosophy and walked along. You saw many stumble upon their passions along the way and saw them achieve greatness. Lost souls found a purpose and they drifted towards their dream. You, on the other hand, had reached the end of the journey and you were still as clueless. Writers painted words. Painters wrote stories. Artists brought the good life on their canvas. Inspired and burning with envy you gave these wings a shot. Unfortunately, you did not fly. Rather you fell flat on your face. You took comfort in the fact that no one was watching. You dusted off the creative dirt and marched along the familiar path. You were accompanied by many such incompetent fools. Parental pressure, peer pressure and lack of self-confidence pushed you to knock on the doors of MBA. Some of you went to lesser known universities in The United Kingdom, while most of you filled up benches in the never before heard colleges of the city. The IIMS and IITS were out of your reach, or as you put it, not your cup of tea. So, your cutting chai generation barely passed through with flying colours.

Your childhood flashed in front of your eyes. The need to unbelong starting poking you in the rear. “Be different. Do different. Something. Anything”. These words starting haunting you. A wise man would have learnt from his mistakes. But you’d heard stories about being foolish and being stupid. So blindfolded you bent over into the world of advertising. You dreamt of changing markets. Leveraging brands. Digging deep into consumer insights. And using such jargons. But then, you met the other side of your world. One that you wanted to be a part of. One where your lack of talent betrayed you. You met the creative team.

You were welcomed with abuses. Sarcasm was darted at you under the garb of conversation. Respect was a word no longer found in your dictionary. As you walked of, you could hear mocking laughter behind you. Yet, you persevered. You bent over. You tried to bring intelligence to the table with your inputs, only to realize it was better to keep your mouth shut. Insults were hailed at you. Incompetence became your middle name. You got tea for the creative. Sometimes beer. You always got food, yet they treated you worse than a maid. Your clients thought you were good for nothing. They called you a pushover. They walked over you. Trampled your ego. And you started questioning your existence. You started questioning the MBA. You thought the world was going to end. And just then, you saw a glimmer of hope. A silver lining. Your belief in God was reinstated. After all these years, you had a dream. One that you could work towards. One that you could be proud of. Your children would hear these stories. And they would tell their children the same. Tales of honour. Of Valour. Of bravery. Of how you had lived a dream. When the odds were stacked against you, you beat them. Handsomely. In style. You started dreaming of that day. The day when you will win an EFFIE. Ha ha ha ha. Chut.

Chicken Soup for the Soul (Unpublished)

Purple Haze

Sanjay was in his early 30s. Pursuing his dreams of being an artist. His dedication to bodybuilding met equal passion. His passion often created envy. And within the family, pride. Parents pushed him. He pushed himself. His destiny lay in his own brushes. With every stroke, he was inching closer to his dream. Secretly, he was as driven towards bodybuilding. His idol strangely was Ali. But boxing never fascinated him. It was just the man.

Behind closed doors, a man was creating masterpieces. Portraits. Abstract pieces. Mood pieces. Moving pieces. His art was not waiting for the world; rather it was the other way round. Behind a mirror, the same man was working for an approval – from himself. A body he would proudly deem fit. He knew his family would never approve of his body building. Fortunately, he had one supporter, his sister – Riya.

Riya was in her bright 20s. Standing tall at 5 8” and much taller if we take her intellect in consideration. Literature was her passion. She topping the class was not a shock to anyone. But her brilliance never created envy. She flocked many admirers. Some came for her beauty; others came for the brains too. Even a Smart Alec was often dumbfounded. But she had a golden heart. One that would heal sorrow. And spread happiness. Her company was infectious, her smile just a part of that personality. She never needed a mirror, because for the world, she was one.

She loved Sanjay to bits. His works and quirks made him. And Riya would do it all to see him excel. When the world had turned its back to his bodybuilding, she stood there like a wall, beside the ring, fighting his battle. She lied. She cheated. She missed classes. Whenever he needed her, she was there. No questions asked, no complaints made. He was working extra hours. More on his body than his paintings. He often feigned an art class to work out harder. Maybe it was just the male ego ruling his body. Maybe it was more. He never gave it a second thought. Very soon, he was getting the finest body in the gymnasium.

Riya’s talent needed more space. She was about to fly to New York to pursue her Masters. Sanjay was about to set up his first exhibition, where he was going to display all his work. Their parents were one of the proudest few around. Both their kids were making a name for themselves. Life could not have been more perfect.

It was the day of the exhibition. A day before Riya left for New York. But today, all eyes were on Sanjay. The exhibition was scheduled for the late evening. Sanjay was supposed to go and set it up in the morning itself. This was his chance. His opportunity to announce to the world. He left for the venue, but a sudden urge to workout gripped his mind. By now, the body was ruling over the mind. Within that numb confirmation, he diverted his car to the gymnasium.

That was 14th of February, 1989. His brilliance had got more than its share of envied eyes. Jesus was caught.

3 steel rods. One backbone. 3 unequal pieces. One knife. Those great hands – gone.

One oil can. One matchstick. All of his paintings. Ash.

His family disowned him for taking up bodybuilding. Riya cancelled her trip. Cancelled her marriage.22 years later, Sanjay lives with Riya. He can no longer paint. He takes home lectures on art though.

Riya – she wakes up, cleans and bathes Sanjay. Goes to the city university, teaches English to primary students. She returns and cooks. Then feeds him. Watches Sanjay take the class. Cooks dinner. Feeds him again. Puts him to sleep. Everyday.

And cries. Every night.

 

Thousand lives of Lazarus and the modern day Messiah

When one loses someone close, one breaks down and loses faith in life. You can either hide under grief or change life around. This is the story of Deepak Deshpande. True to his name, he brought light to many lives.

After years of hard work, small jobs and in-between jobs, Deepak landed himself in the servitude of people in one of the biggest hospitals of the city. For over two decades, as the General Manager, he strived to make hospitalization more human. Accessible to all. And in extension, affordable to all. High charging doctors dropped their prices in special cases, he set-up medical camps in villages to educate people, and within those four walls of the hospital, a big bang theory was born.

But in the summer of 1999, everything changed.

His son, Dinesh, was 17. On the verge of a bright future, he was all set to conquer the world. Being a skilled artist and extremely intelligent, his aptitude was ready to take him places. He too, like his dad had a tendency to help people. Always giving in nature, he sacrificed his personal joy many a time to make others smile. He would often accompany his dad in the hospitals, giving candy to the patients. One day, he was going for a picnic with his friends.

The Ghats at Malshej were steep and narrow. The car tyres skid along the oils. The valley acted like a death labyrinth, sucking all life. The car disappeared into oblivion, only to burst into flames later. And then stunned silence took over for months.

The family was broken between unanswered questions and his absence. It took everyone by surprise. A shock that left one of the heartiest families in sadness. Life dragged along, years passed by, but the family continued to live in denial. Deepak and his son shared a very close relationship. Deepak used to share stories of people. Often sad after a long day at work, Dinesh’s smile would change his day. He had been saving for his son’s future. To give him the good life, watch him bloom into a successful career. The loving father had dreams for his son. Even the son had dreams for his dad. “He was planning a huge family gathering for my 50th birthday”, said the poignant father. And within a matter of seconds, it was all over.

Tears had refused to trickle down. Sleep wasn’t ready to visit him. Smiles, they had taken a rather dry form. But within those simmering pangs of sadness, Deepak Deshpande grew stronger. And to the contrary, warmer. He had to fight with himself, a job to do, a family to support and save lives. As many as he could. Being a senior figure at the hospital and the family, he could not break down. People looked up to him. He was their role model. Their leader. And in every sense of the word, a Messiah.

The man braced the occasion. While times were tough, he kept going. And he did it with a smile. His welcoming and humble nature won over many hearts. He dealt with people in power with the same humility as he would deal with a common man. And through his outlook, he was bridging the rich-poor divide. His drive to reach out to the needy was getting stronger by the day. The first seeds of his dream were sown, when he opened small hospital and medical research centre just outside the city. On the outskirts of Mumbai, where advanced hospitalization was neither accessible nor affordable, Mr. Deshpande paved a way for a better future. A small set-up but a first step towards what he set out to do. Now, he is busy working on Dinesh Super Speciality Hospital – A facility with international standards, where even a common man will feel at home.

When spoken to, Deepak Deshpande summed up his dream in this one line, “My son lost one life. But now he will give many, countless lifelines.”

When one loses someone close, one breaks down and loses faith in life. You can hide under grief or like Mr. Deshpande, change life around.

When Mumbaikars came under the weather

September was supposed to bring in joy. A joy many happily know as Ganesh Chaturthi. As the Lord took his seat on the 1st, Mumbai pulled its hand brake. While the battle for supremacy between rain and sun was waging on, the commoners faced a triple blow from the erratic weather, the infamous traffic jam and monsoon viral. And the immersions of the great Lord were yet to come.  Even with the lord being present, thousands were still looking for a blessing.

Every year, I go to my uncle’s place for Ganesh Chaturthi. Traditionally, my family houses the Lord for 1 ½ days. And within this short space of time, I not only have to devote my time to my family but also close friends who house the Lord for the same time. Within this chaos, I have managed to maintain a balance for over 15 years now. Never missing the evening aarti at my place nor missing a visit at my friends’.

But this year, all of that changed. A 45 minute journey turned into 2 hour 10 minute journey, resulting in me missing the aarti for the first time. When the traffic had its share of fun, it tagged the rains, saying “Tag, you’re it”. My family of 20 sat in 4 cars and headed for the Visarjan (immersion). While we were looking forward to it, the rain smirked at us, telling us he had other plans. As rain played havoc, it was nearly impossible to get out of the car, and then the parking woes were welcoming us with open arms. Being in a small car, we found a parking spot and then ran back to the main car where the Lord was. TOO LATE. The lord was gone. The rains hi-fived each other. The traffic let out a wicked grin.

As days passed, I read about Mumbaikars coming under the weather. Through smses, status messages on Facebook, Twitter feeds, the erratic weather was consuming many a soul. While one part of the city was blazing under the sun, another part was drenched in the rains. As outside food brought in pathogens, the water and air played catalyst to Mumbai’s fever. And the fever was refusing to come down. A close friend of mine was hospitalized. After checking on her, I was on my way home and the city unleashed its wrath on me that evening.

Bright sunshine followed by thunderous rains and traffic for over two hours. And it was the 5th day of immersion. As the vehicle dragged its feet like the seconds hand of a clock, what the eyes witnessed were an act of shame. While the excitement, fervour and mad dance was acceptable, staring down a woman like an object of desire, whistling and passing cheap comments under the influence of alcohol or otherwise is not. And by no means is holy. Such rascals demean the lord, the society and the community. Ghaati by definition means those from the Ghaats, but by adding characteristics of such nature, that definition too has somewhat been soiled. Anyways, after that chaotic journey my body had lost the battle, and the Mumbai fever had won.

Bedridden, all visits to major Mandals were stalled. Sorry news of many others falling sick continued to flock in. The weather continued to lash its fury. The traffic only promised to infuriate more. As many Mumbaikars hurled abuses, grunted under their breath, fought the battle of conscience with the Lord’s immersion adding to the traffic, Mumbai turned into Joker’s Gotham. It laughed down on our faces and poked us with a “Why So Serious?”

Trap / Drill

Black and white traps the slumdog

Colour traps the millionaire

Bokeh traps the flower

And its close-up traps the bloom

Sepia traps fine old age

Treatment does not make it vintage

Wines are always trapped in red

Parties are always trapped in dread

Portraits trap the personality

Landscapes trap the vision

Presets trap your imagination

Lenses trap your skill

A camera traps your memory

And in short, that’s the drill.

The Writer’s Curse

It’s our boon. It’s our curse. The pages will turn. The words will flow. The smiles will be plastered. It’s something all great people do. Even in a cinematic representation, you would find yourself spellbound. Take Richard Linklater, Wong Kar Wai, Sofia Coppola, and Gaspar Noe amongst others.

What am I talking about?

IRONIES AND THEIR CHARMS

I often indulge in the same, and for me too, like others the romance overhauls. The writer weaves magic, often leaving the reader, stunned. The reader meets the same ideology from different eyes, and more often than not negates his reservations with an affirming smile. A fellow writer quoted Haruki Murakami and the love for irony was evident. I guess that’s what we do. Indulge into a world that is created by self or someone who just switched a few words/roles and found a new meaning. And believe it or not, it is profound. Let me quote Murakami and you’d get an idea: “I dream. Sometimes I think that’s the only right thing to do.”

 

That spurred me to write this:

Being Human

In a world of billion, he was walking alone. As the dusk was trying his best to stop the night to enter, his mind was playing catalyst to what was happening. Tonight his life would change. These few hours were all he had.

He thought about people who came along, would now have to be left behind. Of all, he would most miss his dog. But this was inevitable.

The forest was approaching. He took a deep breath and continued walking. He could feel the ghosts of the past running alongside. They were calling him back. “We forgave you. Don’t leave us”, they echoed. He could sense horned angels flying towards him, just to close his ears.

He stopped near the river for some water. He looked at his self. The animal they called him. Maybe it was a curse. He never thought so. He was the master of nights. Many nights. A savior. A so-called lover. A fighter. THE MAN.

He wished he had loved someone. Maybe he still can. But never in a way had he wanted. He had missed his chance.

He had begun his climb over the mountain. In reality, it was walking down on a glorious past. With every step forward, a part of him was leaving, breath after breath. He wished he could control this. He was fuming by now. All hope was lost when he reached the top. He held his head high. The night arose.

It was his first full moon night.

A fetish soaked in wine

She sat there with her deep voice and her glass of wine. The hair – tied in a single braid. The eyes – covered with thick rimmed glasses. What I describe may have the illusion of class, but frankly it’s not. It’s more of a sleaze. A look that cried, “Squeeze me please”. As she dabbled in discussions, beyond the deep voice quality, my mind was somewhere else. She was more like an Indian version of Faye Valentine. And I don’t mean the way she looks, but rather the way she ‘looks’. So, when my acrobatic mind, my itching hand and my mouth got into a conference, the final resounding desire was a spank. And when this desire was shared with a rather adventurous woman sitting alongside, she scanned the object of desire and gave it a thought before nodding. And added that she would rather be spanked by her. So, within a beautiful image in my head, crept in another one. Here’s a toast to the most beautiful living beings on earth. Happy Women’s Day.

The Elusive Factor

Also known as the ‘x’ factor, we are talking about the women who give you mixed vibes. And these women have their days. Some days cute and desirable in a very different way. Yes, the desires too vary from a coffee conversation to wine and what follows after.  And then there are days when even a glimpse towards her takes an effort, and when you do, you just look at someone who understands this and emphatically nod, “naah”.

If we go in the subset of the same, you shall also spot aged eyes every now and then, that my friends is a very comforting ‘sight’. Yes, I’m a writer and that too in advertising. But I haven’t written “ Small issue. Big issue. One tissue.”. anyways, let me not digress. Coming back to the women. While I talk about these sad eyes, there is also this sadness that is so fucking beautiful. You feel like making love to the woman, and not out of pity, but love, yes, it does birth at weird places and times. But this maybe a writer thing, don’t think if all will relate to this.

The smile. Now, there are universal smiles, the private smiles, the not-knowing smiles and the flirtatious smiles. And then there is one, which sometimes is a mesh of all these or something completely different. And this smile can drive you mad, because it lingers.

The hair. Wear it differently and we take notice. We are old school at times and also neo-modern if you want us to be. A braid would do. Red streaks would do. Blonde won’t do. You play with it and we notice.

The walk. Off late I have been witnessing the mannequin walk, the latina walk, the obedient student walk, the look-at-ma-a** walk. And sometimes a simple, yet noticeable walk catches the eye.

And yes, a woman who smokes. The associations are mind boggling.

Ok, enough. Bah.