Status Quo

So many mistakes, so little time left: Perhaps none at all. So much effort of such little consequence. Waking hours are spent in a restless tumble in the sheets. The time for sleep is a lethargic monotone of alcohol, cigarettes and denial. Mary Jane may have made things worse, but she could have numbed the pain of watching myself swirl down the drain of 20 years of accomplishment. Expectation, and the cowardice to challenge it are a pair of deadly bedfellows.

There are options. There are always options. But none that I would be proud to take. Not that the ones I have done have served me any better. I was not ready. I still am not. Give me back the last 5 years. But it is not yours to give, nor am I worthy of receiving it again.

Jack of all, master of none. Unharnessable potential. Ignorance, inertia, procrastination. Useless.

For you that made it, I smile. For you that didnt, I embrace. For you that arent quite sure, I wish you well. For you that is me, I wish you naught. You failed me, as I failed you.

What will save me? What will take me away? For now I have my alcohol, cigarettes and denial.

Sexual Sprocket

Let me open you up and slip inside.

Let me caress every curve, the soft bits...and the hard.
Let me turn you on; make you quiver.
Let me take you around the world overnight.
Sometimes slow and soft; sometimes hard and fast.
Until you're falling apart; then I'll take you home.
Let me put you under the sheets, let me tuck you in.
Let me, let me, let me, let me...let me drive you tonight.
My lumbering, purple Chevy Impala.

Note to self : Epitaph

Alcohol brings out the best and the worst in people, along
with a spattering of elusive chunks.

-Ashwin Benjamin (1984 - 2016)

Sexual Chocolate

if we were just mixed in the same vat at the chocolate factory
who knows what all would have happened behind the aluminum foil
just the two of us
innocent little milky bars
in the dark and dank box
all alone and yet we have each other
two bars
one plain
and one with nuts

one day, daylight will crack through our cardboard prison,
our tin foil heaven
and we will be parted
our emancipator and executioner will be allergic to my peanuty essence
and i will be 'spared'
oh the shame of the word!
for i will see you grasped from my gooey grip
into the jaws of a gastrointestinal fate...

my shock won't let me bear witness to lying at the bottom of a dust bin
the street sign looming over
silhouetted against the azure satin above
bearing the names, Nixon and Vine
for my life ended a few minutes before
when our chocolaty tendrils were twained apart
i don't feel the fire breathing ants eating me from without
for my within is already naught
all i feel is black

fin

shamelessly rehashed from a chat conversation without the permission of other parties involved.

Gastric Pentameter

In a recent interview with the Nubile Virgins Society:

you're the high brow intellectual big-word using writer that no one understands

In response:

the sky is blue,
toilet paper is meant for doo doo,
i like beef stoo

Take that you elitist big-wigs. I fart in your general direction.

NB: I have recently been informed by the aforementioned society that this is, in fact, a Haiku and not Pentameter as the title suggests. Guess what... I still fart in your general direction. In fact, I'm going to find me some coleslaw right now.

Snips, snails and puppy dog tails.

Little boys' room at the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport

I guess my recipe for cabbage and beans in radish-hummus has gained popularity sooner than expected. Or maybe Dallas was paid a visit by a certain Omani bovine.

Storks on strike, FedEx moves in

This was stuck on the underside of the lid of a laundry basket I picked up at a garage sale. I'm sure there are bigger issues to deal with than just the risk of suffocation. What about sorting out those over-protective motherly cravings that drive you to shut your kid in a box in the first place. Why don't you build a nest, put him in it and sit on him with your post-natal fatass while you're at it?

Oh, and about the sticker placement...what, you want them to actually place the baby inside the box, and when they're on the verge of putting the lid on, they see it and go, "damn". Honestly, if your demographic includes baby-boxing-boneheads, then put the sticker on the outside. Hell, get a midget (not a baby, that would just be wrong) to pop out of the box after shipping and stick it to their damn faces.

Really Ripped Abs

And I thought AXE ads were aimed at the untouched crotches of horny teens around the world, but this definitely takes the cake, the candles and the scantily clad bunny-chick crouched inside. Consumerism at its finest.

Tumbleweed

"Where are you from?"

In the endless line of insightful replies, quick-witted retorts and ingenious comebacks, this is the one question I never knew how to answer. And yet its usually the second question anyone ever asks me. Of course, I respond. A few mumbled words, usually selected to either allay any further questions on the subject, or to form as much rapport as possible with my interrogator. Chennai, Kerala, Trivandrum, Saudi Arabia and, on occasion, Scotland.

I'm proud of the places I've lived during my inconsequential existence, but it invariably brings up questions of my identity. Being able to associate yourself with a place is in no way necessary to lead a fulfilling life, but its like having a favorite stuffed toy. You dont need one, but if someone asks, or in those moments of nostalgia, its always nice to have an answer or image in your head. It is one of those primordial psychological anchors you can always return to when life hands you a turd sandwich.

In order to explain why, exactly, I feel the way I do, we need to dissect the question at the start of this post. What do you mean, or want to find out when you ask someone where they're from. A question I have asked many times with either unsatisfactory responses, or answers with insufficient correlation to a non-existent mean.

• "The place where you were born": This is by far my favorite response. I was born in Aberdeen, Scotland. And yet, if I went around telling everyone that I'm a highlander, I probably would have ended up with more bruises than Nicole Kidman after a night of rumpy-pumpy in the sack with yours-truly. In fact, I actually had a couple of people walk away from me when I tried my luck with it. Probably because they thought I was ashamed of my Indian blood and wanted to disassociate myself from the idea of being one. But other people's reactions apart, I honestly can't lay claim to a kilt and an indecipherable accent because I was only there for a year. And all things considered, it probably is the least important year as far as forming a locale-related identity is concerned.
• "The place where you grew up": Abha, Saudi Arabia. Apart from the possibility of afore-mentioned violent response, there is the recently developed chance of screams of "terrorist" from the more bigoted bunch. As far as genetic blueprints are concerned, I definitely have a better chance of passing off as a misogynistic oil tycoon than a blue-faced , sword-wielding, cheek-flashing, super-patriot. Hell, I may even look more Arabian than Indian. Bushy eyebrows, hooked noses and evergreen facial hair aside, I couldn't be less associated with the kingdom. I was either surrounded by the stereotypical Indian-in-the-Middle-East families or my American teachers and classmates. My claim to Saudi culture goes as far as being able to differentiate Saudi and Afghani pita bread and to count to six in Arabic along side the obligatory swear word.
  
• "The place you lived the longest": This is definitely the least watertight argument. Until a few years ago, that remained the dusty dunes. And then one morning, I wake up to be a curd-rice popping 'Madrasi' (courtesy NP). Where 'periya veeda' (veedu, veeta? Don't get me started on spelling, as if anyone really gave a squat) doesn't mean a supersized joint, (whowuddathunk!?) and if you offer a girl to come over for a 'pool' party, you'll probably end up with David, Karapakkam Don, on your doorstep in the middle of the night, telling you to say vanakkam to his little friend.
• "You're from Kerala, moné", "Umm, why?", "Because your grandparents are from there", * sigh * "What's for dinner?": So my grandparents are from two different places in Kerala, so following your infallible logic, which one is it? Neither, you're from Trivandrum...and before you ask why, it's because thats where they live. Great, at least now I got my roots down to a street name and a house number. An icon to my entire existence, boils down to a place I've hardly been more than 6 months, cumulatively, in my life. Bravo, mother.
• "Shut up and sit down, you're from India you ungrateful fart": The less said, the better.

To belong.