A wave

Today. I want to discuss about music. Again. I want to know what music leaves you with. Think of your favorite song and your favorite place. Imagine being present in that place listening to your favorite song. If that doesn't make you feel blissful, then you are listening to the wrong music. If you are as old as 18 and you aren't feeling blissful about this scenario then you need a new perspective. There is good music out there. Melodic metal or plain violin progressions. It is there. That music will make you want to live. Live longer and live better. You don't need to own a loft in a NYC downtown. All you need is good music. Bad music leaves a bad affect on your mind. Like how bad coffee you get at cheap gas stations leaves a depressing taste in your mouth. Even cough syrup tastes better than that shit right? That's exactly how bad music makes your mind. Life is too short to listen to bad music.

Even a ukulele can make you feel good when hit on the right notes. An idea can only be useful when it hits you at the right time in the right place. I still don't know what is that feeling I have when I listen to good music. It is the same kind of feeling when I was in love for the first time. Gives me the comfort I can only find in my friends' company. Just sitting back and relaxingly sipping beer. Its so awesome.


When I listen to really long guitar solos and/or any other instrumentals, slow waves uprise in my heart. Isn't that how good music is? Pt. Ravi Shankar's sitar and Dave Mustaine's guitar. Forget the tempo, remember the feeling. Isn't it like sitting in the sand and watching the waves? The high pitched notes and the bends and the hammers. They just are like the rising and falling of waves. Let me go grab my drink while Russia on Ice keeps playing on my laptop.

Ok, that took a while. Now its Santana's Oye Como Va bouncing off the walls in my room. God awesome 2.1 Altec Lansings.

So how are you all doing? All good in your pathetic lives? Oh no? Ah... Money issues huh? Darling, we all have them. Actually I don't. Cause I am awesome. No seriously, I am awesome.


Some bass hitting me hard, making me want to jam. So I am jamming. What the fuck are you upto again?

Echoes of the psyche

Questions. The back of my mind, if not playing a song, is asking questions. They haven't stopped from the past couple years. I can give you a few questions as examples but that would be too mediocre. Really normal Hindu youth too exposed to the western culture questions. Ya know, the guy who has Christianity all figured out but has no clue what his religion is about? That guy, exemplifies me. At times, when I am listening to music or when I am pissing after holding it for a really really long time, it almost feels like God exists. But when I do stuff I really dislike, like waking up too early in the morning to go to work, I feel like God has unjustified my life's purposes. Screw you, guy-reading-this, I don't give a rat's ass of what your religious beliefs are but I can tell you this if there is any religion that is more fortifying in nature and is the most liberal, it is Hinduism. Of course Led Zeppelin is an immediate second.

LED ZEPP liberates me! It makes my soul fly. It is pure MUSIC. Food for my weary soul and an inspiration for my body polluted by the 22nd Century's consumerism. A friend who sticks by me during tough times, answers my calls in any case, a true and trustworthy friend. A real bro. Not one of those fake bastards who you cannot connect with. I turn to LZ whenever I need some inspiration and a fire on my bum when I need to run in situations I am only allowed to walk.

God, if any, bless this holy band of soul-emancipation and pure mind-fuck. And please don't mind but I am going to scar this beautiful body you gifted me with my fav. English Rock Band's lead guitarist's sigil.

Oh that doesn't mean Amit Trivedi is any less in my eyes but I need this inked on my left shouder. I could as well get Pink Floyd on there but I didn't want any part of my body to read a black scar that says "Pink". Too homo, don't you think so?

Dear Homie, my sweet Hyderabadi.

This post starts on the streets of Hyderabad. On the uneven and unpleasant yet unimaginably inspiring streets of Hyderabad. It might not be the city of melting pot of cultures. It might not be the city that never sleeps. It might neither be the city of angels and sweetheart, it definitely is not drug capital of the world.

But it is my Home, homie.
The land of the most awesome Biryani.


For me, no day started without my mom's tea and no day ended without calling my friends and planning for the next day.


And when I wake up early on some chilled morning, I notice people wearing monkey-caps and shawls and walking or cycling their way to work. I see bouts of smog relaxingly settling in dense tree areas. The beautiful yellow morning sun, chasing out the cold twilight and starting the day or others. At sunsets, when I drive alongside Shaikpet Nala, I see the reflection of strip of houses in Filmnagar that lie above the small hill in such stillness, that I wonder why no painter had laid his eyes on that beautiful pond(Of course he'd have to have his nostrils blocked to catch the beauty of it on a portrait).

So one fine day, on a Telangana-bandh in late december, while my beautiful brothers and sisters were fighting for the promised land and facing opposition of the highest order both politically and financially, I gave up my plans of hitting Hard Rock Cafe with Jay, Kalli, Tripathi and instead went to Moon Rock Cafe right in the middle of Tolichowki.

Amidst awful lot of traffic, I squeeze myself, turn into narrow lanes where cyclists and motorists perform circus tricks to reach their everyday destinations and find myself in an Irani cafe. I sit down at a booth with a top-side cracked wooden table and you don't say, it stank. I order for a cuppa tea and while wondering where the fuck I should rest my elbows on the sticky table I step on something slippery. I look below the table to find some spilled tea. Swearing under my breath, I lift my head.

You would totally buy it if I told you I had fatter chances of running into the devil Himself because I happened to run into the most unexpected man to be there at that point of time. There he was, standing and staring firmly into his cell phone while profusely hitting its keyboard with both his thumbs. He did put on some weight, and his locks were longer than ever. I am not exaggerating it if I told you I thought I caught a glimpse of the hair in his nose. I sit there in total awe, while the waiter gets me my short-awaited tea with an extra cup. I jerk in excitement and call for the man I was staring at.

"Lapaki"

He wasn't paying attention. So I scream this time.

"Lapakaaaaaayeee"

The horror he held in his face at that moment totally made my short vacation in Hyderabad all the more worthy, when he heard someone take out his name with that kind of verve and vigour shook the daylights out of that guy. He knew there was only person who could shout his embarrassing name out loud and add music to it in public like that. It was like a reflex. The moment when he waited at the bus stop in Mehdipatnam besides Rythu Bazaar where we often met, with his hair tightly pressed to his skull that stank of the rotten coconut oil he applied the week before, flashed before his eyes so hardly that it almost slapped him out of the deep conversation he was having via the sms on his phone.

He flashed a broad smile at me and we shook hands like men do when they agree for a ceasefire on disputed lands.

"How are you Lapaksss..? You seem to have put on a lot of weight"

"My dear Shaikpet Shiva, you aren't the same anyway. You look more charming now. I am actually wondering why I ever didn't like you, in that sense"

"Hehe.. thanks. Wait! What?"

"Er.. Nothing.. nothing... I need some chai man, its been a stressful morning."

"Sure"

I asked him to accompany me and join my broken table for some hi-tea and he pleasantly agreed. No matter all the differences we ever had, on who was hotter - Ruqsana Begum of the Tum to tahere Pardesi fame or Pakeezah of pichuk pichuk picchamma fame. His drool always inundated when I took Paakezah's name and I liked pulling his leg. But apart from all that, I was thoroughly enjoying his company and I guess it was on our third order of an Irani Chai that he was telling me how he hated the bandhs and everything in the city, how it was disturbing his daily chores(working at Satyam Technologies).

Then I asked Lapaki to stop by at my place for some lunch. He was more than willing to. In fact he was waiting for me to ask him that. I think he drooled a bit as soon as I said 'lunch'. So we got back to my place and as all of you know, Lapaki is quite infamous to say the most awkward usher-in line. I ask him to shut up till he checks into my room and not say more than a HI to my mother. So he walks in, completely forgets what I had told him 30 seconds ago and yells at the top of his voice, "Dude you got some beer? It is so hot outside...", and walks towards the fridge and I am dumbstruck, wide-eyed staring at the fridge. He opens the fridge digs through the food and turns back to look at me with a distorted face. Before he could show any dissatisfaction about the lack of my hosting abilities in atleast stocking up a pack of beers in the refrigerator, he notices my mother standing with her hands folded and giving him a look of disgust. He says "Hi" and walks straight into my room. I follow him and the close the door behind me.

"Dood WTF was that?", I scream.

"Hey I am living a bachelor life I just got used to looking up my friends rooms and their fridges for some beer", he retorts.

"I don't know what she is going to say about all that now."

"Don't worry dude just tell her it was some stupid joke"

"And what makes you think she will buy that from me?"

"Ok try telling her that it was some scene from Seinfeld I was trying to enact. I was trying to act like Kramer. Or that weird guy from That 70's Show"

"I don't watch that show."

"That 70's Show dude. Not That Show".

"o_O"

"What???"

"Lapaki just sit your butt right over there and don't move or don't touch anything. Just sit. While I risk my life by going out there in front of my mom and getting you some, I mean a lot, of food."

"Ok."

"Are we clear on you not moving form your chair part?"

"Yep"

So I get out of my room trying to move slowly towards the kitchen all the while knowing my mom might pound on me any moment and grill me with questions about the beer incident.

I reached the dining table and in pin drop silence, I tried to serve some food in two plates and take it inside. Suddenly, something was smelling like it was on fire. My mom was in her room and the door was closed. So I filled the two plates with whatever food was on the table and started jogging towards my room and just before I jumped into my room and closed the door behind me, I was pretty sure I heard my mom's door open. I put the plates on my table and was bolting the door from the inside but I took a moment before I identified where the bolt was because my visibility was hindered with all that smoke.

Wait. Why is there smoke in my bedroom!?!?!

I turned back and was shocked to see my not-so-dear friend Lapaki had his two legs stretched across the coffee table in front of him and his left hand was holding his phone into which he was staring but what really sent shock waves through my spine was his right hand which held a burning cigarette and the smoke had filled up my room. Any moment now, my mom could walk in asking us if we needed anything. Even if I shouted I didn't need anything she would come inside to serve us with some water.


At that moment I gave Lapaki the look that I am sure shriveled his testicles. In the fear of getting himself r*ped in the back, he stood up in an instant and was looking out for something to put out the cigarette. He noticed a flower vase and he grabbed it and pointed it down and jerked off the flowers out of it but there was no water in it. He was looking at me in disbelief and I stared at him with 'testicle shriveling' look and this continued for five seconds or so when my mom knocked on our door.

Now the testicle shriveling was within me, and it was some kind of a mexican stand off with mom behind the door and me and Lapaki arch enemies (from now), were searching desperately to put out the cigarette. My mom knocks again. A bit harder. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I switch on my ceiling fan, in full swing mode and snatch Lapaki's cigg and put it out in the cup of sambhar I picked up from the dining table and then grab some magazines and start waving them with both hands around the room and kick Lapaki on the ass in that lameguy-imitates-Michael-Jackson of a dance and ask him to do the same. And he tries to do the same. Lapaki had the worst gestures in the world.

At that fraction of a second, his face was as distorted as a rotten banana skin thrown in a garbage 5 years old. And his swinging of the magazines reminded me of Archimedes shouting "Eureka, Eureka!!" and running naked on the streets of Syracuse.


After a five minute adventure in my bedroom while "The Ecstasy of Gold" was playing in the background, I opened the door. My mom seemed to have gotten over the beer incident and smiling, comes inside to give us some kheer. And some remote stink catches her nose and the look of disgust transfers right into her face. She throws the two cups on the coffee table and walks right out.

Lapaki leaps on to the coffee table and consumes the kheer like a lion consumes the blood of a spotted buck. After he finishes it, he goes to the mirror and takes my comb and presses it against his oily hair and throws it away after use.

The next scene is too obscene and cannot be described on this blog. All I can say that the look that Lapaki had, had paid off on him. I am never ever bringing that bugger back to my place again.

Thanks to him, my mom thinks I smoke and drink beer in the mid afternoons (When I don't even start till late in the evening).

Before Lapaki was kicked out of my house Lapaki did give me 5 free couple passes to a top notch New Year party and half-off coupons for Hard Rock Cafe-Hyderabad. God save the silver linings.




Dedicated to all my friends in Hyd. Especially to the one who was in that auto with me when I clicked that pic.

Such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous

I write. It emancipates the shit outta me. It gives me rope to the other world. The world where I live freely. Emancipating the shit outta the souls that love to read what I write.

Lately, I haven't been writing. It indicates -> I can't write.

Hrithik Roshan, Deve Gouda, Hank Moody and the likes have experienced shit very close to what I am feeling right now. Lack of creative genius.


I can tell you where I've been, what I've been doing, what I've learnt and what I've got close to. But no man does anything till he feels he's been challenged. Yours truly just was. Times are hard. They get harder in anticipation of separation of beautiful and illuminating company of fellow humans. I've realized its got nothing to do with not blogging.

Been there, wrecked that:

I wreck. I distort the beautiful sounds of an acoustic guitar so badly, it turns into instant death metal and yes you can EAT mys hit. Fry mys hit, boil it, add salt and water to it. It still stays death. M-E-T-A-L. Ringin' my head.

Jumping from the 5th fret on the 3rd string to the 12th fret on the 1st string I'd like to say FUCK Y-O-U!


Not such a great post to start blogging again but whatever. I'm done polishing my writing in bulk to put it up on the web cause too many posts are stuck in the pipeline because of that. SO.

Piece of news: going for a vacation to India for two months. Plan to blog a lot from there, as usual.

From the totalitarian desk of a...

"You get my messages General?", like speaking across the line of intermittent midwifery, the rider talks to his homie.

"Aye."

"Marquee ye Jolly Rogers".

Shaking vigorously, the pair ride along vast fields of uninhabited land. Reminding each other of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Not so often, when they'd stop for re-fueling, they'd treat themselves to a nice hot cup of French Vanilla with extra sugar and cream. And on its sweetness, they'd mull till they'd cross another 500 mi or so. Many a time, they didn't know why they treated themselves to a coffee made of synthetic flavors, manufactured by machines not cleaned for half a year and more or less, it'd anyway leave a bad taste in their mouth. When he asked his ride, his ride told him it was because sipping coffee together was a way of reminiscing on the fact that maybe the world condemns the shit out of them, but they had each other.

"What is life?"
The rider would ask his ride, as if two post-renaissance philosophers would infuse in a random casual discussion, every late afternoon, under the almond tree while sipping on Jasmine tea.

"Life, as opposed to death, is a force that allows you to live. Living, my friend is an independent thought. When an individual doesn't define his life, the living is nothing but living. When he does define it, he calls it religion. But an individual's living is defined by how much love or hate he has brought upon himself. Thereby, acknowledging what he stands for. Thus eventually, defining life."

The ride continued,

Such Wonderland I dream of.

There hasn't been much activity here. Not many archives I would look forward for. Let's face it, I'm dormant. Writers' block or not I'm not blogging. I'm tweeting more than I'm writing. Which in itself is pretty fucked up. I'm no shitting.


I just got fucked up British Airways, there unauthorized ticket sales have lifted my spirits to unconquerable heights at the same time, pushing me into an abyss. I'm fucked. Totally.

If you're still here, hanging on to hope, expecting some fucking action, please head straight to www.deruntermensch.blogspot.com


If this guy doesn't write some fucking Nietzsche some day, I'll die of shame. Read it if twitter or facebook is not an extension of your fucking life.

Its just Rock n Roll to me

A warm wonderful welcome to a day that is going to turn out untoward anyway. A happy little kid's smile fighting against a family of negative thoughts. Some espresso to keep you awake on the long morning ride, some for the same reason on your way back home after dusk. Some phone calls, some texts and some mails. Some lines from popular movies, some faces flashing before your eyes, vast evening skies merging into one another with different shades of red and blue, straight roads, right angled turns, deer crossings, javelina road kills, rabbit eyes shining in the dark, ranches on both sides of the roads, stable price of gas, very welcoming gas station clerks, White Mocha with extra whipped cream, sunlight hanging around till 10 in the night, almost negligible light pollution and one man who doesn't give a damn about what the world thinks but loves the shit outta you(I am talking abt the bro. No pun).

Funny, how a depressing eon of life can be held up against with just some elements that yield a glitter of hope in you.

I've learned some stuff. I always knew what was worth dying for. Now, I know what is worth living for. That is great progress I'd say.

Fighting light, in the dungeons on hot summer afternoons, darkness is always looked down upon. At times of darkness, when heavens are so far away in the best of your dreams, a moonlit sky boils the shit outta your survival instincts. The traces of fragrance from the body left over the talisman found en route to station of peace. Amrutanjan smeared, masala tea server should be the happiest.

The notes composed, crescendos indicating the uprising of a wave, again on a full moonlit night, make you sit there on top of that wave traveling along the sea shore drowning the son of a bitch surfer risking his beautiful life on a Sunday afternoon. KaaruKOOnda? I like the way it pronounced my last nime.

Muscle cars, clean streets, straight roads, gas stations selling beer, vast dry lands with bright yellow grass spread till the point of reach of your eyes, flights touching the skylines with empty rooms. Wine tasting on the patios, India calling, summer hitting. Wasting weekends and 4th of Julys, when the whole country is celebrating their freedom, I gaze at the fireworks and search under grass carpets for emancipation. I grope around for traces that angels leave when they realize they need a break from their pathetic job of soaking up floating confessions and saving the ass of reckless drunk drivers from the cops. Moping around instead of playing at concerts all over the world on a peace tour?

If there is life beyond 2012, 2021 maybe, I don't want to be where I am right now. Nor do I want to be at a place where I was for 21 years. I'd want to travel. Performing, singing possibly, being a part of a band with no specific genre. Taking everyone listening to me on a high, buzz their souls, then slowly give them a rope out of this world, making them say, "This, is MUSIC". Wearing All Stars and putting the pedal to the metal, while my kickass lead guitarist bends the shit outta his Vintage Gibson and the percussionist couldn't enjoy himself any more. I want to be there. Right about there. Acknowledging the friends and audience alike, strumming like madmen and unequivocal about hate, religion and life and death being just a part of vicious cycle. Then when no one is looking, pass on the live videos to Tarantino for editing then putting it up on youtube passing the message on to part of those music lovers who couldn't join us at that moment. And at that point when I kick that mortality bucket amidst the grace of that higher human being and join lost souls in search of transformation, posthumously on earth though - Get a tombstone, engraved "Memento Mori" and beckon 1000s of flowers of all colors. Those exotic fragrant flowers that bud from the gardens of the rich to those blades of wild grass that tear-out of the carpets of soil in the slums of big cities.

Life well survived, death well won.


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u2 - Magnificent

I hate this fucking world. I hate this fucking world.
The world hates me right back and I hate this fucking world.
My skin is burning hot. My skin is burning hot.
This life is full of taking shit I hate this fucking life.
I have to paraphrase
All the pain inside
Then I have to type on this motherfucking comp.
I hate this fucking comp. I hate this fucking comp.
There is something more than this comp that I hate and its this fucking world.
I hate the rotten socks. Which adorn the hallway of my room.
I also hate the garbage bag which is always fucking full.
I hate the fucking tenet, which lives inside my head
which tells me I deserve no more than a piece of shit.
I hate this fucking head which is full of chem imbalance.
I hate it so bad that I want to scrape my skull.
I hate the bitch who gave me hand. I hate her stupid fucked up curls and I hate her fucking accent.
I hate my fucking prof. I hate my fate. I hate this life. SHIVA HATES YOU ALL!

I pretend to be a poet. I pretend to be a rockstar. Inside my head God makes me believe I am actually worth a shit. I think I want to puke. In this early morning rebuke. I hate you.

Rollin' on a Mothership, bottleneck

Summer Breeze, comes to you

The sea never colors you blue

there ain't no much talk

in the crowd, about the man for the job

it ain't makin' no sense on the ship

searchin’ for rum, desperately running from the cold

the storm, damaged the mast

the sailors, livin’ in the past

shakin’ so nervously, the ship swinging side by side

sinkin’ in its own rhythm, livin’ with an old system

tryin’ to keep a tone, managing some skulls and some bones

makin’ the sea merrier, creating a wave, subtler

the transsexual is overboard, ahoy!

Better than earnin’ a penny, servin’ in an Irish Pub

Shamrock, Watchmen, Manhattan and the likes

Of the state, through the gates,

Here the air traffic is worse than an in Ameerpet

Made In India drainage covers, adornin’ the Wall Street

Across the Brooklyn Bridge

Evolving into an unsunny misty day

Or every other Saturday

Ball and bat

Hit the good cat

Bad dog, cookin’ up a new pot

Pickin’ out all the seeds

The way ya’ll treat the beads

Stickin’ in an old song

Life long, ting tong.

Stuck in Transit - 2

The following is purely fictional. Was trying my hand at satire.

"Desperately trying to peek into the future, I realise... But I'm still stuck in transit!"

I always presume, that I'm done with stupid unintended symapthy-seeking blog posts where I crib about my daily life which grinds the emotions outta me. But trust me, I am not. I cannot stop. Maybe because I think this blog decreases the burden on me. Because it helps me out with a lot of things. For starters, it makes my mind clear. 

Its been 6 months since I've landed in America. The same amount of time I've been seeking a permanent accomodation. The same amount of time, I've been searching for a source of income. Almost the same amount of time, I've been waiting to stick my heart out on the walls of  'my room'. Which right now, looks like a distant dream. Speaking of dreams, a night hasn't passed without me waking up atleast once. Not for peeing. Sleeping bags are overcrowded with bugs of the size of Sri Lanka. The worst part about Hurricanes is that apart from all the damage they create, they never kill a darned bug!

No memories from back home. Except for the occasional snapshot of Captain Lee flashing before my eyes, whenever I need to get myself away from everyone. The lazy drizzle outside, with spine chilling winds, beckons me more than the rooms scattered with food that was thrown on the carpet before the 1st world war even began. The same food that was declared a leftover, which adorned the dust bin 5 weeks ago. The smell of burning tobacco is more soothing than the stink from the very room I sleep in. Well, look at the bright side - I atleast have a place to sleep at. Or wait, what am I complaining about? When I went to Mississippi, I slept on a bed! For two consecutive nights! OMG. Now that, is what I call awesome!

Show me the job! Because the last time I checked, being a money grubbing parasite was not a pitstop on the road to redemption. But its not like I am Donald Trump! Or wait, because I am not Ronald McDonald.

Hey, I am not alone in this. I've got a bunch of people here who are neck deep in this shit themselves. The only difference between them and me is, no no no, not the job, NOT THE JOB! I have a blog to crib, they don't. 

Its not like I want to go to NYC. Its because I trust I'd be a tad bit happier being with someone who knows exactly what I was and can estimate what I can turn out to be. Or maybe VA. But thats just where I loose it. Too damn confused. Will I go? Won't I go? Will I stay or not? I've got an asshole back in Florida. But he's too busy playing with the goddamn Zippo I gifted him on his birthday. So, that is totally out of question.

'Life is weary', that phrase is so darn an understatement. 

I don't expect anyone to understand this post. Nor do I want anyone to read it. Maybe this was supposed to go in my diary. But my goddamn diary is misplaced you son of a bitch! Where the fuck should I search for it? Which god forsaken room? Don't come to me with. "Everything will be alright". Because if there is anyone in this world who knows it'll be alright, its me! And also don't send me messages on facebook acting like its my fault! Because its not! The conscience is a big looser. Only loosers talk about Karma! 

Karma is not 'someone dumps you = you repent', its 'someone dumps you = they repent'. Screw it! Once this shit is over, I am gonna post more merrier stuff. More Santa Claus threw an 8GB iPod in my Christmas sock. More Marilyn Monroe kissed me under the mistletoe. More the flying deer wagon was issued a speeding ticket by the most honest Texas State Trooper. More Santa throwing shoes at George Bush upon a client's wish after what happened at the White House some days back. Or maybe some fantasy shit like Mumbai Police catching the terrorists behind the Mumbai Massacre. And the Indian judiciary actually punishing them. Oh wait, even if I have to post, don't I need a keyboard, a monitor, a working CPU and some electric supply for that? Of course, a shuffle between 5 rooms at 5 different times should give me enough to brood over political satires or racism and post it on my blog. Piece of cake.

At this point of time, if there is anything more soothing than ni'coke'tine then its the little thumbnail of Wolverine saying 'Cerveza' to a bartender in Mexico that is my current display picture on one of the social networking websites. 

JUDGE MEASSHOLES!

AMEN.