Tag Archives: literature

First sentence of my Debut Untitled Novel

The cheap brothels, the rich rag-pickers, the intellectual lunatics, the clean-nosed bankers, the poison-spewing journalists, the intrusive housewives, the headless kings of third grade casinos, the skinny spine-less musicians, the weird beard artists, the innocent tit-suckers, the stubborn insurance executives, the wasted junkies of kashmere gate, the dismantled car-mechanics of old-delhi, the money-minded illiterate school teachers, the over-zealous con-men, the cute-faced scamsters, the off-springs of ambitious politicians, the fake historians of non-existing destroyed history, the evil NGO workers, the teenage nymphets of khan market, the mad readers of trash literature, the soggy newspaper columnists, the grounded acrobats, the enthusiasts of love, the naive fitness instructors, the juicy models from fashion streets, the psychopath poets, the uninhabited security guards… I wanted to kill them all.




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Why/How Cormac McCarthy’s – The Road – scared me

If you have read the book..let me help you reach the level of disgust which you have, I bet, not yet achieved.

Do you remember the scene where this Man and his Son are hidden in the bushes and they see three men and one pregnant woman passing by…and some moments later they find out that what they were trying to cook was their own infant baby? Do you remember that??

Well, I only remember those things from the book which kind of scared me so badly that I could not eat anything for exact three days. Yes, when I thought about those people who had no choice but to eat their own new born infant, I kind of leaked one or two tears from my psychological eyes.


Yes.. when I asked from my inner self that if that kind of thing can actually happen or if there is any possibility of that kind of thing happening.. I got a reverberated answer with millions of ‘YES’ess’.

What MORALITY are we talking about ha??

I know that when you will have nothing to eat, you will eat your own soul, those body parts can not fill your stomach by the way…and the best part is, we all know that.

I had this dream once..I was walking in this crazy park, there was no one around..I was all alone.. all I could see was…bones..some belonged to humans…some belonged to birds or animals..I could not tell…but that whole park was filled with bones…so there was greenery all around and on the grass-bed..there were bones..I kept on walking and walking and walking…I was wearing my brown gum boots…I remember that I was wearing my favorite shoes..they were made of rough leather and they somehow made me feel powerful..made my every single step on that grass, powerful..So….I kept on walking…I kept on crushing those bones..they were mixed bones…bones of humans and birds and animals and everything..decayed…I could hear the sound, the crackle..I don’t remember what I was doing there, or if I was going somewhere..all I remember was that that I kept on walking for a very long time.. after sometime, when I got tired, I stopped..I got hungry and thirsty..I started licking and eating those bones..they were hard and dry but still I tried to suck and bite them.. and that is when I woke up.

This book called ‘The Road’ is not talking about some post-apocalyptic scenario.. this book is talking about our very own sweet-looking Present…and when I say ‘present’, I don’t mean the gift..I mean the TENSE…yes stay tensed because if you try to go deep in the meaning, the meaning is capable to suck you in.

So that brings us/me to this golden question of Why am I trying to exaggerate the horrors of this book?..well, I have got my very own personal reasons..You want to know?.. of course…okay.. here we go..

The conversations in this book between the father and the son are brisk and emotion-less..You can not call them Dialogues, they are just necessities.

Imagine.. that you have no extra words, all you can talk about is if you are hungry or sleepy or thirsty or not..Imagine how the world would look like when we have no extra things to talk about..the conversations will be like – “Hey, I am hungry”..”Oh good, eat”

Okay I am not worried about the limitations of the words, if you ask me I am not even worried about the vocabulary that much..I am worried about the death of the desire to share things with each other..I agree that I hate ‘people’ but that is a very personal thing, I like sharing thoughts or words or emotions or expressions but..this book tells you that you will be living in this world where if you share anything you will loose your life..that is amazing, isn’t it?

You should not have any thoughts..only good things which you can feel should be there in your imagination..they could never be real.

When I was reading this book, I stumbled on those pages where the Man and the Son, accidently lands up in this house where they find out that there are so many naked people trapped in this haven..they somehow manage to escape that place but..what was the fate of those people? what happened to them later?? noone knows..they were powerless and poor and naked and starving.. they became dinner of the powerful people for all I can imagine..

See, cannibalism is not a thing which is disturbing me here, I am talking about the degradation and the decomposition of your so called structure of the society.

That Man and his Son, they are trying to reach on this beach where the sea water is black and the path is dangerous..the Man thinks that there is hope there, later he dies, ofcourse, but why he pursued that journey..nobody knows..

The son is the personification of some angel from heaven..he can’t see the bad things, he cries when he fails in helping someone..he has got problems with accepting the harsh realities of the times he is living in..

The Man or the Father knows that he cannot escape the reality, he has got recurring dreams of things which he always desired or his mental consciousness..but deep down he knows that whatever he does..he is bound to fail and die…he knows that he can only protect his son till his death but he is scared of whatever might happen with his son when he dies..he is scared that people might sodomize or eat his son..since there are almost no women left in this post-apocalyptic world. He teaches his son to shoot himself in the mouth.

I thought of living for few hours in this world and when I was walking on that road.. I got caught, twice, and people ate my fingers and toes and ears and nose..I could not stop them..they were so hungry and they were about to die..I felt that I somehow did ‘GOOD’..but what is GOOD or BAD in that world?? and that is the exact problem which we are facing now…I am confused..what is good now?? or what is bad?? If I am bothering someone for someone else’s good…is that bad? or if someone is bothering me..is that bad??

You can twist and twirl the meaning of the good or the bad..you just have to mould it in a manner that it will come off as GOOD FOR YOU kind of thing..The Road projects that..that book shows you the emptiness of the world where we are trying to live in..it can disturb anyone for atleast two days and three nights ..and when you forget about the book and its world..you will know that you can never forget what all was there in the book..After reading the book, all I can say is..May God Rehabilitate Humankind!




A (dot)

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Birthday on the Wheelchair

 I could see five faces, all lost, all of them resembled those walls which have been torn down.

All of them had sockets for eyes, black sockets, dark and hollow but shy and a little bit malevolent.

Heads were swaying in a scared-pendulum-ly fashion. They took extra seconds in coming back to the normal center position.

I could feel the bubbles in me reaching up-till my neck, bubbles of some feeling which was looking for some emergency exit inside me.

I closed my eyes and tried to look for words, I was fool enough to trust the words.

I started making some parable in my liver, tried to keep up with the train of the mental thought, which was a little bit slower than this train, in which I was in.

I closed my eyes to add some dramatic effects, from outside I am sure I was looking handsome with that abject face.

Eyes closed, lips pursed, disheveled hair, three vertical lines on my forehead danced and I filled my lungs with extra air.

My concentration got broken when I heard nervous giggles from two girls, they were standing five feet away from me.

They were not there when I had closed my eyes, now they were there.

One girl seemed like a Norwegian, broad shoulders, burnt light brown shoulder-length hair, sore lips, life-less eyes.

The other one seemed like an Indian girl, an Indian who had never lived in India , crew cut hair, pierced ears and almost-no lips.

They were looking in each other’s eyes while talking, they were in love with each other.

I tried to over-hear their conversation which kind of scared me.

They were discussing about some unknown breed of Penguins in the Northern Antarctic region, who could fly with their flaps, thrice as big as normal penguins and ate humans.

Pseudo-Indian said that her Professor’s brother used to work for some people who went to make a documentary on this breed.

And those penguins ate the whole shooting crew, they didn’t even leave their bones.

Those penguins , they claimed, had the potential to eat whole of the human race.

At that very moment I realized what I wanted to do.

In my head, I had written one poem which I wanted to recite to them.

I didn’t know them, of course, but still I wanted them to hear my poem which was about green bubbles.

But their love for each other made me jealous and I changed my decision.

Their love was contagious, I just wanted to look at them talking to each other, I got enamored.

They were holding each other’s hands and I could see their thumbs rubbing the back of the hand.

I was touched by their uncorrupted love and I felt like crying in front of them.

It was so pure that I couldn’t look away and I forgot about my poem.

They got off on some station whose name I didn’t want to know, that idea didn’t amuse me much.

Love in pure form was shining like a stain-less steel knife on that station.

The glow of it pinched my eyes and I closed my eyes again.

I had not forgotten that it was my birthday and I was going to some place where I had planned a drunken gathering.

I had invited some people whom I really didn’t know and I was already getting late but I still wanted someone to hear my poem.

I got off on a random station and I started walking in the street full of hazy fog.

I tasted fog from my eyes and it was sweet; unlike sugar, more like honey.

I saw an old man waiting for someone on the street, he was in his tweed jacket and he was sitting on his wheelchair.

I stood on the opposite side of the road and waited for the same thing which he was waiting for.

I had a paperback book of some dark short stories and I started reading them in the dark.

After nine minutes, a car full of old people arrived and that old man got off from his wheelchair  and hopped inside the car, leaving his wheelchair on the side-walk.

His wheelchair was shining like a newly bought aluminium bicycle, it reminded me of my first bike which got stolen from outside my school.

I sidled up to the  wheelchair and sat on it.

After sitting on it, I started moving the tyres and I felt good.

I must have driven the wheelchair for almost sixty minutes when I started feeling tired and bored.

I didn’t want to walk or run so I waved my hand for lift from an ugly purple car.

Some newly married couple was in it and the wifey was on the driving seat, she was pissed drunk.

The hubby held my hand from his window and we covered some seven kilometer distance like that.

Me, sitting on my birthday gift wheelchair, zooming away to glory, holding some random married guy’s hand.

On the way he told me about his younger brother’s story who was specially challenged.

His brother had a disability where he couldn’t stand or walk on his feet in winters.

And somehow his family had to shift to a city where it was cold through out the year.

He told me that his brother looked exactly like me, except I was bald and his brother had long red hair.

He told me that his brother committed suicide. He ate a lot of marmalade which had rat poison in it, which actually didn’t kill him but after eating it he tripped over and slipped in his bathroom and knocked his head on the toilet seat.

They dropped me off to the place where all the people were drinking alcohol and the occasion was my birthday.

I invited the couple but the wifey was sleepy and they told me that they didn’t fancy me that much.

I waved them goodbye, they reminded me of my parents but they were almost my age.

Before climbing the stairs I folded the wheelchair and started reciting my poem to it.

When I was through I realized that the Wheelchair started moving and it made some kind of metallic sound.

I took it as critical appreciation and round of applause and bowed.

I left the wheelchair there on the sidewalk and climbed up the stairs.



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Q & A with an Egotistical writer.. A.


When did you first know that you wanted to write?


It‘s a long story, when I was in high school, a friend of mine wanted me to write his application for sick-leave, I wrote it and he got expelled from school because I made a lot of grammatical errors and it contained a lot of cuss words too. Later he beat me up and that day I seriously thought about ‘writing’ as a career option after pizza delivery boy.


So you mean you went home that day and wrote your first short story?


No.. No.. That day I went home and ate a lot of food and did hulla hoop with my papa.


When did you write your first short story then?


 I am sorry, no personal questions please, I mean I can tell you that I have never written a short story, according to me what you all call ‘short stories’, should be called ‘novels’ but that’s altogether a different subject of discussion but I am not going to tell you that… Okay I can’t keep secrets, I wrote my first short story when I was in my late teens in my first asylum.


Did your parents read books?


No my parents were in scrap business so they never read books, they dumped them like corpses. And I remember we used to make bonfires of books and we had so many books sometimes my mother used to put books in dishes whenever we were out of chicken.


You painted in your teens. What did you paint?


Yeah I used to paint a lot of things but mostly I used to paint pictures of garbage bins, they attracted me a lot. That smell of garbage bins was so hypnotic that I used to stand inside the garbage bin and then paint the other garbage bin. That was the reason all my paintings contained that beautiful foul smell. Later I felt that painting was making me eclectic so I burned all my paintings and fed the ashes to the street dogs and five days later all the dogs died, not because of my paintings ashes but the food I had fed them the night before.


At what age did you become a writer? Was it a surprise to you?


I think I was 25 and suddenly I heard a girl screaming down the window, she was crying ‘writer writer’. It was a big surprise because I was not expecting her to be fully dressed, I knew that she was an active member of the ‘nudist’s welfare society’ but still she was fully dressed, it was a big surprise. But I think yeah that was the age.


What attracted you to writing?


Here let me quote Italo Calvino, he said “The satirist is prevented by repulsion from gaining a better knowledge of the world he is attracted to, yet he is forced by attraction to concern himself with the world that repels him” Umm….I am sorry I don’t get what he tried saying with that quote, I am attracted to writing because it’s nice to do something while sitting, I mean it’s least taxing and I can eat, listen to music and still I can say that I am doing something constructive, I love being pretentious.


Your first book, The disgusting wart and miraculous start, was a collection of stories and a novella. Why haven’t you returned to the short-story form?


Nobody read that book, I remember even my editor, after paying a big sum of money, couldn’t read that book, the publisher who published that book had to bear a big loss and he died because of a shocking heart attack. All the publishers then ganged-up on me and threatened me to stop writing but I negotiated and told them that I will only write novels, no more short-stories.


How tied are your books to the time in which you wrote them?


They were never tied to anything, what does your question mean, who made you an interviewer? My books are free and they can be placed in any era. That’s my speciality, I write something and it depends on readers to decide my setting of my books. My books have never had plots or genres or characters, they should be considered immoral dialogues on the hypocrisy of social inequities. I am sure that you also have not read a single book of mine. Do you even know about the premise of my next book which I have just decided, let me tell you it’s about a writer and a dumb interviewer interviewing him in this dark grey walled room, then at the end of the interview the writer kills the interviewer and cooks him with soy sauce and ate him with mustard and tomato ketchup and a little bit of cheese as well.


Where..Where does.. the comedy.. in your work come from?


I think your voice is breaking, come again..


Where does the comedy in your work come from?


I think all the comedy which oozes out of my spunk has something to do with my genes. My parents were very funny. They were this funny that they ate my youngest brother because he had red hair and he looked the oddest one out among us, me and my seven other siblings. So what they did was, they first shaved his head and made a rope out of his long red hair and painted his whole body with yellow paint and then they hanged him on the mango tree till he took his last breath. He looked like a big mango on that mango tree. We all laughed, including Roooshame (my youngest brother) and later my mom made Rooshame curry which was delicious. And my granddad was also very funny, he used to play football with severed heads of his factory workers. I am telling you my whole family is a big comedy.


Do you have sympathy for the characters you create?


Sympathy is very expensive and I am a cheap writer, I am only sympathetic to things which are more powerful than me and something which I create can never be powerful enough to destroy me and if you count on stupid probabilities, trust me I will be the first person to destroy the creatures from my works. Writing in itself is sadistic, I am fascinated with the immense fictional power writing embodies. So in all my books, characters die the worst death and face the worst tortures which one can imagine in the worst nightmare.


How did you make the shift from reading voraciously to thinking that you could do this yourself?


Writing for me is a reflex action, born out of avid reading, a kind of metaphorical fist-fight where first my competitor cuts my limp hands and gives me a pair of strong hands, then starts punching me till the time I start using those borrowed strong hands on him. And plus I have been in and out of asylums a lot and that’s only  because whenever I read a lot I have to take admission in some asylum then in few days I write and then I kick out every consumed word from my system and spew on the torn pages of my new book and then I come out of the asylum for some days to read.


How did you discover your own voice? Did it happen gradually?


You only discover what you never had. Next question you dumbfool.


How do you write when you’re under the influence (substance influence to be precise)?


I only get sober when I am under the so-called influence which you are talking about. I am dangerous when I am my normal self, that’s the time I am able to write easily with a smooth flow.


Who are the philosophers that matter to you? In many of your reviews you mention Nietzsche.


I only mentioned Nietzsche because he said cool things which never made any real sense, atleast to me they didn’t, I don’t like philosophers, they all are a drag, they waste a lot of time in thinking senseless things which might be useful in some other world. They are harmful as well because they sometime reform societies. Infact, if you ask me all the novelists are liars and fools, they try to imitate the thoughts of poets and philosophers.


It makes you sound arrogant to call novelists liars and fools.


Arrogant, hell yeah, but I like liars and fools they make me feel that I am an undisputed genius.


To this day, you have no friends who are writers, why?


I hate writers, that’s why. They all are lazy and pretentious and polished. I am crass and crude.


Do you have any friends?


Another stupid question from you, well to your surprise all my pens and chairs and lamps are my friends. We are constantly in touch with each other. We exchange literary notes and help each other but we are very critical of each other’s life styles but still we get along fine


When do you write?


Generally I write only on public holidays and universally accepted festivals but I really love writing on funerals.


Do you prepare for a book before you begin writing it—or do you just plunge in?


A book is not a breakfast, I start writing and it takes shape by itself. It’s all there in my head, plus I hate narrative structural forms so I just start writing and finish when I start writing another book.


If there’s no strong visual image, where do you begin?


Which school did you go to, who told you that strong visual images are prerequisites? I am sad that people have so many misconceptions about writing.


You mentioned being addicted to the “dangers and pleasures” of writing a novel. What are they, exactly?


Dangers – I hate it when what I write happens to me the same evening.

Pleasure – when I have written about bald fat girls with big upper lip is the protagonist of the novel and she bumps into me in the bar and tells me that she loves the way my novel is treating her.


Your ten books have been published,  but you had never won a single prize? What motivates you?


I never write to win. I told you I just write because it gives me an excuse to spend some time amongst the so-called-normal society people. I am always de-motivated for everything.


Is there no one you show your work to when it’s in progress?


I sometimes feed the crumbs of pages to cockroaches and ants, if I find them dead the next morning, I carry on with my work, otherwise I change the tone of my narrative structure.


Is there also a sense of not wanting to explain your books, in the way a dream loses its power when it comes under analysis?


Have you ever asked this question to Van Gogh? Or Kafka? My work is like quick-sand, the moment you will try to dig your finger in it, you will lose your toe.


Did you think about giving up writing since all the publishers….


I will give up only when everyone starts reading whatever I have written.

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