Bullet for my Valentine - Part II

Arpita a moment later realized that she had done a classic faux pas. But it was too late to mend things now. Awkward silence pervaded the usually jovial room . Mercifully, her phone rang . It was her boyfriend, he had come to pick her up. Avoiding eye contact with Arfa, she swiftly slipped out of the room.

Though such remarks were not new to her and she had developed a thick skin to them. But when they came from a person who had known her and her entire family for years, she just felt hollow. Hollowness is a stage, dear reader, when one moves beyond anger and sadness. 

She seemed lost. Staring blankly into her teacup which though still warm, now seemed to embody the coldness of Arpita's behavior. Perhaps Arfa thought that the tea leaves would answer the questions that Arpita had left unanswered. The questions that were simultaneously buzzing in the heads of many other Muslim students. Where did , We the people, go wrong? How and more importantly who had spread this poison in their minds.

She started to doubt even her memory.  Was the standing ovation that Ashfaq(Arfa's elder brother) and Aseem(Arpita's elder brother) Bhaiya got, a product of her fertile imagination, or the entire village really did celebrate their 200 run partnership ? Were those sunny afternoons real ? when she and Arpita used to leisurely lie down in Arfa's floral gardens and Arpita would swoon over the nazms that Ashfaq bhaiya would recite in his baritone voice. Just then the image became real, she could vividly see and hear in her mind her brother explaining Faiz to them. She could even pull off the entire nazm from the threads of her memory-

हम  कि  ठहरे  अजनबी   इतनी   मदारातों   के  बाद

फिर  बनेंगे आशना  कितनी  मुलाकातों  के  बाद

(We stand estranged, after so many hospitalities.

How many meetings will it take for us to get acquainted again.)

Her eyes became wet again. No! Faiz cannot be unreal. Her brother, his voice cannot be unreal.

Maybe what happened a few minutes ago was unreal. But sadly she could not seek solace in this phantasm. Ammi's phone call jolted her back to reality. She toughened up. She cannot be a sissy in front of her. It would amount to validating all that she and her brother had fought against. The orthodoxy of customs, the prejudices against 'the other'. NO !, She will never let her brother down. Wiping the warm tears, with the sleeves of her gifted dress, In the process smudging kohl over her red swollen cheeks. But she did not care, for the imminent issue was to ensure that Ammi did not panic.

After the salutary greetings, Ammi started to curse the godforsaken day she allowed her to go to Dehradun. Ammi narrated how other girls from Moradabad are returning and suggested so should she. Arfa's mother was a Kashmiri, she fell in love with Arfa's to-be-father who was a tourist visiting the fabled Shalimar gardens. This love story was not palatable to either of the families. Kashmiris did not want to give their daughter to non-Kashmiris, Barelvis had also betrothed their son to somebody. But what can mere mortals do when the spring of love has decided its direction. The couple eloped and eventually settled in Moradabad. The relationship between the two families never became warm, but somehow they forged a modus vivendi. Thus Arfa was as much a Kashmiri as Priyanka Gandhi is an Italian. Sorry, I digressed, but anyways now we know that the rebellious nature of Arfa and Ashfaq was genetic.

Arfa's mother was visibly distressed. She had seen the decade of the eighties and nineties in Kashmir. She knew what evil forms distrust and hatred can take. Like all mothers, she only wished well for her child.

Go to Chacha's house near ISBT and do not wear your hijab in public, Chacha ji would host you till the situation gets resolved, we have talked to him. This was the Frostian bargain that Arfa had stuck with her mother in lieu of not withdrawing her from college. However, there was another clause that Arfa's mother had discreetly introduced - Pay the maximum that you can to the 'bharatkeveer' portal and post this on all your social media accounts. Also, share posts that display solidarity with the Indian martyrs and the Indian state.

Arfa was confused. She would have done the above regardless of her mother's advice. Why is it that her mother is being so specific ?. Would Arpita's mother be doling out the same advice to her, she wondered. Thinking of Arpita, made her suddenly realize that it was already a quarter to five in the evening, and her own valentine day is ruined. Ankit was Arfa's first crush and eventual boyfriend. He was soft-spoken, non-impulsive, understanding. In short, everything that Arfa was not. There were more than twenty miscall from Ankit, while Arfa was talking to her Ammi. After hanging up Ammi, she immediately called back Ankit to apologize.

But what followed was something that she had not even imagined in her wildest dreams. He charged her of double dating. That she was busy with her Ammi was considered a plain lie by Ankit. Then came the worst form of character assassination, he cussed everything from her family to her religion, from her city to her graduation subject. His last words were- Bloody Traitor.

Arfa decided that she would not donate.

-To be continued.

Bullet for my Valentine - Part I

14 February  की सुबह थी । अरफ़ा और अर्पिता  चेह-चाचा रहीं थी । उस बंद पंछी की तरह जिसके अचानक खुला आसमान मिल गया हो । हो भी क्यों ना ?! । पिंजरा जो तोड़ा था उन्होंने - रूढ़िवादी और दकियानूसी सोच का । और ऊपर से सर्दियों की छुट्टी ख़तम होने के इतने रोज़ बाद जो वो आये थे अपने इस देहरादून के कॉलेज में । दोनों  का  ताल्लुख  मोरादाबाद  के एक  छोटे  से  कसबे  से  था, विद्यालयी  शिक्षा  दोनों  ने ही सरकारी  स्कूल  में  हासिल  की  थी । अर्पिता  की  पिता  एक  इमान्दार  सरकारी  मुलाज़िम  थे  इसलिए  अपनी  लड़की  को  कान्वेंट  में  न   पढ़ा  सके। तो  अरफ़ा   के    वालिद , हाफिज  साहेब  की  मज़ार  के  बहार  फूलों  का  छोटा  व्यवसाय  करते  थे ,जो  थोड़ा  बहुत भी  कमाते  थे  वो  बेगम  के शुगर  की  इलाज  में  चला  जाता था । 

अब  जैसा  की  अक्सर  यौवन  में  होता  है , गर्म  खून प्रायः   समाज  की  बेड़ियों  को  पिघलाने  का  भरसक  प्रयास  करता  है । इन  युवतियों  नें  भी  कुछ  ऐसा  ही  किया  था । सड़कछाप  मजनुओं , गायब  सरकारी  अध्यापकों  , तंज  कसने  वाले  रिश्तेदारों  की  बाधा  पार  करके बारहवीं पास की थी इन्होने । पर  एक  बाधा  नहीं  पार  कर  सकी वे , "entrance exam"  की  बाधा । शायद  इसलिए  कि  और समस्याओं   से  झूझते -झूझते  वे   पहले  ही  और  अभ्यर्थियों  से  पीछे  हो  गयीं  थी , और  ऊपर  से  अनारक्षित । या  शायद  इसलिए  कि  उन्होंने  खवाब  ही   नहीं  देखा  उतना  बड़ा । कुवें  का  मेंढक  कहाँ  ही   जानता  है , सावन  कि  रिमझिम  में  टर -टर  करने  का  आनंद ,उससे  तो  बस  दम  घोटने  वाली स्याह  दीवारों  से  ही  निजात  चाइये ।

But the girls did get their "Apna Time Aaega" moment. When their respective brothers, much to the exasperation of their families, decided to support their further education. Thanks to patriarchy(witty ?! :P), Arfa got fashion designing and Arpita got a Nursing course. The fact that they initially had wanted mechanical and civil engineering did not cause much heartburn. नंगा  नहायेगा  क्या  और  निचोड़े  गए  क्या ?

किशोरावस्था  और  नग्न -अवस्था  का  वैसे  भी  चोली  दमन  का  साथ  है । देहरादून  में  दाखिला  लेने  की  बाद   दोनों  कुमारियों  को  पहली  बार  "अपने  आप" को  जानने  का  मौका  मिला । उन्हें  यह  अहसास  हुआ  कि  उनके  अंदर  सिर्फ  एक  बेटी   और  एक  बेहेन  का  किरदार  ही  नहीं  अपितु  एक  भाग्यश्री  का  भी  वास  है ।

फिर  क्या  था , जैसे  महकते   पुष्प  की  गंद  भवरों के समूह  को  अपनी  ओर  खींचती  है , और  पवन  के  वेग  में  कुमुदिनी जैसे  इठलाती  है  । उसी  तरह , देहरादून  की  फ़िज़ा  उनके  यौवन  की  महक  से  पटी सी  लगती  थी । शनैः शनैः , उन्हें  वो  भ्रमर मिल  गया  जिसे  वो  अपने  पराग -कण  के  योग्य  समझती  थी ।

 14 February  वो  दिन  है  जब  युगलों  की  मोहबत्त  अपने  पुरे  शबाब  पर  रहती  है । हमारी  कहानी के  ये  दो  किरदार  भी  कहाँ  पीछे  रहने  वाले  थे । PG  के  कमरे  में  बैठे  RedFM के  गाने  सुनते  हुए  वो  दोनों  nail paint के  उपयुक्त  रंग  को  लेकर  गहरी  मंत्रणा  कर  रहीं  थी । पोषाक  तो  उनके  भवरों   नें  gift  कर   ही  दी  थी , शाम  को  EVOC Entertainment की  DJ party  में  entry का  जुगाड़  भी  हो  ही  गया  था ।"O Ladki ,Aakh maare !" की  धुन  पर   ठुमके  लगाने  की  प्रैक्टिस  उन्होंने  अपने  पुरे  सेमेस्टर  में  किये  गए  प्रश्नो  से  ज्यादा  बार  कर  ली  थी । इसलिए  जैसे  ही  FM पर  यह  गाना  बजा , दोनों  का  शरीर  एकाएक  सुनियोजोइत  तरीके  से  थिरकने  लगा ।

नृत्य की थकान से उबरने की लिए दोनों बिस्तर पर आलू की बोरी के सामान गिरी , पलभर बाद ही दोनों खी खी कर खीसें पोरने लगीं । 

मानो  अपनी  चुलबुलता  पर  कोई  नवजात  खुद  ही  आत्म-मुग्ध  हो  रहा हो ।

12 बज  चुके  थे , 4 बजे  तक  उन्हें  अपने  गंतव्य  पर  पहुंचना  था । समय  की  अल्पता  का  ज्ञान , मनुज  की  कार्य  गति  और  दक्षता  को  सानुपातिक  रूप  से  बड़ा  देता  है  । Nail paint लग  गया  था, Maybelline का  मस्कारा  और  Gucci की सैंडल बाहर निकल  गए  थे ।ये बात और है कि ये दोनों ही First Copy थे । पर  सबसे  चुनौतीपूर्ण  कार्य  अभी  बाकि  था -Waxing। अरफ़ा  को  waxing पसंद  नहीं  थी । मूलतः  इसलिए  कि  अर्पिता  को  waxing करने  का  सही  ढंग  नहीं  आता  था ,जिसकी  वजह  से  अरफ़ा  को  हर  बार  बहुत  कष्ट  से  गुजरना  पड़ता  था  । दूसरा  इसलिए  भी  कि  उससे  "Abaya"  और  "Hijab " पहनना   अच्छा  लगता  था , जिसमे  वैसे  भी  वो  दुनिया  को  उसकी  waxing के  दौरान  दिखाई  गयी सहनशीलता   का  प्रमाण  नहीं  दिखा  सकती । पर  आज  कुछ  खास  था । आज  तो  वे  दोनों  Brazilian Waxing की  बारे  में  भी  विचार कर रहे थे ।

अन्ततः  जैसा कि आज सब जगह हो रहा  है, Logic and reason gave way to passions and emotions ।

अरफ़ा  नें  अपने  आप  को  अर्पिता  के   सिपुर्द कर  दिया । Her desire for external confirmation of her beauty perhaps gave her the will to overpower her fear of pain। जैसे  जैसे  गरम  मोम कि  परत  अरफ़ा  के  बदन  पर  फैली  और  फिर  उतरी  ,उसके  चहरे   की  भाव  -भंगिमाएं  भी  बदलती  रही ।।मन - ही -मन  बुदबुदा  रही  थी  शायद , सुंदरता  का   ये  क्या  पैमाना  है  ?!। इस हिसाब  से  तो  मोरिनि  ज्यादा  खूबसूरत  होनी  चाइये  एक  मोर  से ।इस  तरह  के  विचार  और   FM पे  मधुर  गीत  ही  इस  दर्द  से  डूबते  हुए  का  सहारा  थे । पर नियति  भी  बहुत  निष्ठुर  होती  है , जब  अपनी  पर  आती  है  तो  तिनका  तक  छीन  लेती  है ।

गाने  थम  गए  और उसकी जगह  एक  भारी ,गंभीर  आवाज़  नें  ले  ली  , FM से  खबर  सुनाई  दी  कि  Pulwama  में  आतंकियों  नें  सबसे   बड़ी  वारदात  को  अंजाम  दिया  है , 40 CRPF के  सिपाही  हमले  में  शहीद  हो  चुके  हैं ।

अर्पिता  नें  जोर  से  मोम  कि   परत  नोचते  हुए  ,बिना  चेहरे  पर  शिकन  लाये  बोला , ये  साले  सारे  मुल्ले  ऐसे  ही  होते  हैं , जिस  थाली  में  खाते  हैं  उसी  में  छेद  करते  हैं । सब  porkistan ही  चले  जाओ  ना  !

अरफ़ा  करहाई  , उसकी  आंखे  नम  थी ,पता  नहीं  उससे  किस  चीज़  से  ज्यादा  दर्द  हुआ  था  waxing से  या  अपनी  सहेली  के  शब्द बाण  से ।

-To be continued.

Purpose of Life

                         

    "Meri zindagi ka ek-kahi maksad hei. Badla !!"

                                                                                                                             - Sardar Khan(Gangs of Wasseypur)

This, seemingly just, catharsis had an unexpected effect on me. It shrugged me from my dogmatic slumber and forced me to ponder over some of the most fundamental and yet most overlooked questions of our lives.

Should the thirst for vengeance or of other negative emotions be the driving force of one’s life?

 If not, then what should be the raison d’etre of one’s existence? 

Is it necessary to have a purpose in life in the first place?

 Was our birth just result of a mechanical process of reproduction, an inconsequential cog in the cycle of genetic evolution? 

To look for answers would mean keeping aside all our established opinions, attitudes, standards of morality and starting afresh into the unknown waters.

About 200,000 years ago homo sapiens started evolving in a hostile environment. In a surrounding where other organisms were bigger and more ferocious. The challenge to our ancestor’s was to survive through another dark and dreary night. Existence itself seems to be the purpose of their lives. It’s saddening to see that today in spite of no imminent danger to life people commit suicides on trivial issues showing utter disregard to our ancestral value of survival.

Animals also seem to live with the purpose of survival. Is then to exist itself be the reason to be born. By this logic even the so called non-living things serve the purpose of life by existing.

 Is there, and more importantly, should there be any difference between a modern man’s and animal’s purpose of existence? 

Are we just condemned to live?

 The differentiating factor between an animal and a man is the power to reason. Thus mere surviving might not be the optimum use of this facility. 

Then, it seems to realize and actualize one’s power to think and reason should be the purpose of life. The whole superstructure of modern education is built on this belief. This idea has also strengthened the survival of humans by providing higher life expectancy, better medical care etc. But this untrammeled triumph of reason has produced some unsavory effects.

Apart from the usage of man’s rational ability in production of weapons of mass destruction, creating havocs for environment there is another sinister side of this multifaceted ability. It has made man more self-centric, this has led to growth of unhealthy competition, jealousy, vengeance etc. Should then actualization of reason be the purpose of life?

Theists say that reason isn’t intrinsic to man, rather it is a gift from God to help man realize the Omnipotent. The purpose of life they say is to realize the supernatural entity. Mother Teresa realized this purpose via serving the lepers in streets of Kolkata. Ram Krishna Paramhans used to say that service to mankind is service to God. But it does not absolve religion of the fact that there are certain lumpen elements in them who do certain things to realize a certain God. Wars fought in the name of religion, self-inflicted pain, child and animal sacrifice are some grave violations which cast clouds of doubt on the horizons of theistic logic. Is then the realization of God/supernatural entity be the purpose of life?

There can be a contradictory view also which discards other worldliness and focuses on here and now. This view lays a high premium on an individual’s life. Worth of life is to be measured not in the years lived, but the life lived in those years.  Majority of us today subscribe to one or the other variant of this line of thinking.  

Its grossest form would be giving up the reigns of mental control over the bodily senses and succumbing to all ephemeral desires. Since there is no afterlife, the purpose of life should be enjoying this life to the fullest. Eat, Drink and be Merry for you may die tomorrow. Although this seems very attractive, but after some deliberation we realize that actually it turns a man into a slave of his cravings. Also to provide the same amount of joy, progressively more and more amount of the input (food, sex, wine etc.) is required. Ultimately the inputs themselves would turn into scare resources initiating wars over their appropriation. So, should Eating, Drinking and being Merry be the purpose of life?

There is a more nuanced approach also, since mankind has existed continuously for the past 200,000 years and is unlikely to perish anytime soon ; shouldn’t a man who lives for less than a 100 years look for means which can somehow elongate his existence. The quest for immortality, the desire to be remembered for posterity, has fueled many hearts; manifesting itself in myriad ways.

Alexander tried conquering the world in ancient times. Vasco da Gama sailed into the unknown seas during the medieval era. Edmund Hilary in modern times scaled the world’s highest peak. The thread of striving for undying glory binds these seemingly unrelated personalities. But these very steps towards glory also led to millions being massacred by Alexander, naked plundering of India’s riches and the loss of lives while attempting to scale the Everest. Should then achieving glory be the purpose of life?

From Socrates drinking the cup of hemlock to Martin Luther King Jr. taking a bullet on his chest. There have always been people who have immortalized themselves by serving humanity at large and giving up their life in due course of service. These men lived their lives to uphold certain ideals they believed in. But in the same breath I must also add that there have been zealots like Hitler who ruined the world by their ruthless ideals .With ISIS also flashing an ideological batch; I must ask- Should the purpose of life be upholding certain ideals? 

There are, at least to my limited mind, no concrete or unconditional answers to any of the questions raised. Whether Sardar Khan is right in seeking revenge or not, I am not sure, my hunch would be as good as yours. But the thing to note here is that regardless of not having absolute answers these questions have been independently and repeatedly asked across time and space. From Ashoka to Alberto Camus, all men worth their salt, have presented their opinions on them.

Thus it’s incumbent upon us to ask these questions which are the very life and breath of our existence and to realize the fact that maybe the purpose of life is to have a life of purpose.

I was really on the back seat ;)

31st December was definitely not going to be a memorable day, I was desperately lonely in the company of strangers. Standing in a motley queue impatiently waiting to get a Tatkal, my ticket to the paradise, they call Pantnagar. But you can't enjoy Nirvana without having to face the trials and tribulations of Justin Bieber(He's hot) and Rebecca Black(She's cool)(please lock them up together and save us from misery ) ; and so the Tatkal window closed and along with it the possibility of me having a peaceful passage to paradise.

With the possibility of Nirvana negated, I decided to settle for RHCP( 'Red Hot Chili Peppers' for the uninitiated ). I took out my phone, enabled the Wi-Fi in a hope to catch some free data packets courtesy the Indian Railways and a few gullible passengers with open hotspots but to no avail( Yes, I am that miser :P ; can even give a traditional baniya a run for his money ;)  ). Saddened, I grudgingly switched on my data pack. Went to the Uttarakhand Transport Corporations website to book a Volvo ticket reluctantly ready to shell out a bomb. Filled in the details and moved to the internet banking and shoot !!!!!

"You have reached your data limit"

Popped up the ominous warning.

I cussed Kayden Kross and Sasha Grey under my breath. I had 69 Mb till yesterday evening.

And there went off the Volvo plans with RHCP bidding adieus.

Now only Greenday could be a saviour. I rushed to the ISBT in a desperate attempt to secure a seat via the brick and mortar counter but 21 guns blazed on me when the last ticket for the immediately next Volvo bus leisurely ramp walked, swaying  from side to side neatly tucked into the back pocket of a well-endowed woman.

There were two choices now either wait for the next Deluxe/Volvo or hop on to an already half-filled rickety roadways bus which promised to leave in the next 10 minutes. The Spartan inside me won over the Hedonist.

On being sloshed into the bus with a deluge of prospective passengers  from the hind door, I was not fast enough to occupy the prime seats or pushy enough to get one by ubiquitous Indian adjustment trick.

There were 3 rows each having an official capacity of 3. Out of these 9, I stood a chance at 4, which were also diminishing at a rate faster than Rahul Gandhi's political prospects.

 But out of the 3 rows, my  heart was immediately set on the one farthest away.

It had 2 occupants , the window seat was occupied by a fair lass and adjacent to him sat a guy whose features I am unable to recollect, but he must have been awesome to have such a fine companion, if he was not then God has been cruel to my tribe of 'single ready to mingle' perpetual bachelors.

 I went to them and politely asked the guy with my eyes glued at the girl trying to get even a minuscule fraction of an eye contact ,"Dude, May I ?" not even now looking at either the seat or the guy.

 "It's taken bro ."

Came the curt reply, his voice must have been laced with contempt and haughtiness but my brain failed to analyze this, it was busy feasting on the probably imaginary melodious sound of the chiming of her ear pendant.

 I was jolted out of my reverie, by a not so gentle tapping on my shoulder, I read it as a celestial cue - *बेटा, तुमसे ना हो पाएगा ||*. Forget eye contact, the girl had not even noticed my presence and I had thought maybe not bathing for the past 2 weeks straight might draw some eyeballs even though with grimaced faces.

*प्यार मोहोबत धोखा है, कुर्सी घेरले मौका है ||* and thus spake the inner sagacious voice.

 I heeded it immediately and lunged for the next row. This one had 2 vacant seats, the sole occupant was a spectacled guy with a smile pasted on his face which seemed evergreen. His hairs were parted from the middle with a generous helping of Dabur Amla Hair oil or so it smelled. His brown Nike sweatshirt revolted against his नाडा वाला सफैद पिजामा, to un-compliment this all he wore brown leather boots carrying a mail satchel bag.

The reason of my longer than usual glance was the thick, bulky and hardcover book which he was reading with orgasmic interest until I broke his flow.

 "Kafka on the shore" the title proclaimed. The word Kafka was enough for me to shun the pull of having a seat. The least I wanted was an intimate experience of having an intellectual masturbation on my face under full public glare additionally while I was contemplating these thoughts a man had already claimed one of the seats and had reserved the other for his better half  by placing her handkerchief in her stead.

I finally got the row which was nearest to my erstwhile entry point. It had an old couple, their toothless smile was an indication that they were fine with me occupying the third seat. Passing a thankful smile, I took the seat.

But the wheels of the bus were not ready to budge so easily, not without testing my patience at least. The conductors' 10 minutes were far from over. It seemed his clock moved at a pace akin to Dravid's' strike rate. The idle time at hand combined with the Kafka guy on my front seat and the love-smitten couple on his front drifted my thoughts into a direction where you wonder about your worthless wasted life. An engineer who perhaps knew more engineering before entering the hallowed portals of college. You start believing in your head that yours is the most hopeless case and to put red hot chili pepper on your wounds you get reinforcing signals from the surroundings. You don't know engineering and have no idea where your career is heading  and you meet IIT-D grads discussing microprocessors and machines and whining at Intel's' lowly 7 digit package in the same breadth. You feel morose about not having that chiseled body, that razor-sharp jawline, that alpha male smile, those rock solid abs and there parades off a Greek god  in front of you completely making you believe that you are a lesser man. To add a cherry to the pie, you see the most winsome girl walking with her palm cupped into the palm of the most unattractive guy, her head resting on his feeble shoulders and you are left alone with your palm consoling yourself. Right from your branch to your best friends, you force yourself to believe that all the choices you made, turned out to be wrong.  Life is vicious and the Supreme is a sadist you reach your Sherlockian conclusion.

Mercifully the engine rumbled, liberating me from the mental guilt torture. The wheels started to roll and so did my head, trying to discern my position in this mini universe.

The guy who was accompanying the ravishing girl with that musical ear pendant stood up. Offered his seat to a lady who had a 5-6-year-old boy with her, an immaculate gentleman the guy was. Surely the girl had made the right decision. How first impressions are so deceiving.

But the story had just begun. The lady without a second thought obliged the offer. Give them what little you have and they will take the rest too. She demanded the girl to vacant the window seat brandishing the vomit warning in her face. She reluctantly moved dragging herself to the adjacent seat. The kid occupied the other . I was wondering where was the person who had ruined my chances of sitting at the coveted seat which the kid has owned so effortlessly.

It took me a while to realize "It's taken bro." was a sham. Not only was there no taker of that seat but the guy himself was not going to travel. It was all done to get the girl female journey mates and a peaceful voyage. I was sure now even my face reeked of unbridled desperation. I looked out of the window in disgust and there stood the guy waving a bye to her, his other hand giving a thumbs up. The thumb must surely have been for me.

The bus thankfully moved out of ISBT leaving the sinister guy behind. 

The fly-posters caught my attention which have been generously pasted on every possible place inside the bus.

बाबा कबीर शाह बंगाल वाले ( 7579*****3 )

अनबन, करा-कराया, वशीकरण, नौकरी में रुकावट ,आक्टिंग व मॉडेलिंग में काम ना मिलना इत्यादि समस्याओं का 12 घंटे के अंदर घर बैठे फोन पर समाधान |

 परिणाम ना मिलने पर पैसे वापिस !!

नोट : प्यार में धोखा खाए प्रेमी / प्रेमिका एक बार अवश्य मिलें |

[ if any troubled soul needs the number, drop me a message or mail :P ]

Astounded by the Guerilla marketing and such precise product placement, I was sure you do not need an MBA to be a marketer. Acting and modelling were indicators that the market was surely expanding. I was wondering how would he be able to conjure up something as tangible as a Job or a modelling/acting contract and whether with some more loosening of the purse strings would he be able to give an assignment with Nolan, a name in all likeliness, he would not have heard. I couldn't help escape a grin when I mused would he be having a panacea for persistent bachelors.

Meanwhile, the old couple on my adjacent seat had fallen into a noiseless slumber. The old lady had put her head in the man's lap and he was caressing her head when he had fallen asleep. They were at peace, it seemed nothing in the world worried them. They had built their own universe, the cosmos filled by their selfless love, their two souls, the only shining stars. Travelling in Roadways for an 8 hour journey at that age, obviously they were not very rich. But shame on my definition of richness , the term failed to capture their limitless wealth. Extrapolating from their present visages, they must not have been THE COUPLE during their prime. No girl would have swooned on seeing the man neither would have many heads turned for a second look at the girl. But that was immaterial to them, Whoever advised us that the aim of life is to leave a mark on the world did not know that we can create our own worlds. The worlds which would remain long after its creators are gone, existing in words such as these, in the souls of those for whom they created the world. 

"कंडक्टर अंकल मेरे तीन रुपिये तो दे दो ", the croaky voice of our Kafka snapped me out. This was the third time he was asking the condutor albeit quiet impatiently and loudly this time.

"दे दूँगा छोरे, कछे में डालके थोड़ी ना ले जौंगा !!!" retorted the visibly vexed conductor who was having a tough time dealing with some of the unruly standing passengers.

The bus had completed half of its journey, after a brief hiatus at "हिल्टन भोजनालय - बेस्ट शाकाहारी खाना "  the journey resumed. I thanked my stars for stopping me from entering purportedly Paris Hilton's hotel. Not only the standing passengers having lost their patience have captured the seats of passengers who have got down to eat but also those who have eaten were now having an upset stomach which was accompanied by the most melodious farts which could make even Beethoven hang his head in shame. If fart is so near, can smell be far behind ?

And behold you could smell the most exotic salts, the heady concoction made me dizzy.

Cacophony reigned, as passengers started quibbling over seats. The seat next to our beautiful lass was now occupied by an obese man whose farts were the most fierce additionally he also had the most foul burps. She had to adjust the kid too, as his mother was in a fit of nausea. Puking every now and then. I terribly wanted to see the expressions on her Lakme lit, Maybelline marked face but I had to save my ass resting place too. Then something happened which completed my reinvigoration in canons of divine justice which has started with the girls misery. Perhaps I  have become a sadist myself.

The kid was looking visibly upset seeing his mother in a lamentable state, he closed his eyes,  I am now sure he had communicated telepathically with बाबा कबीर शाह बंगाल वाले  who were sitting cross legged on the advertisement right in front of his seat.

His mother's nausea subsided immediately.

I took out my pen and noted Babaji's number with new found reverence.

But at the end, I think even Babaji can't turn the fact that the world is a zero sum game.

It seemed the mothers nausea was transferred to his child. Having no time to get to the window, the child puked all over our beautiful girl. A ear bursting shriek escaped from the girls throat followed by two cheek warming slaps on the poor kids face. A commotion followed. But the damage had been done. Karma is a bitch after all. I sadistic smile curved my lips.

The girl was still wiping herself, when the bus stopped at a stop which the conductor has warned us, was a den of pickpockets. I put my wallet in my Jacket's inside pocket as the door opened.  At least 10 beings swamped in from the back door only. But fortuitously there was not even a scope of getting a fourth person adjusted in my row thanks to my size.

Strangely, the Kafka guy was all by himself. He had closed his 'Kafka on the shores' presumably he tanked before reaching the shores. Naturally somebody asked him to slide into the corner window seat. "Can't you see the seat's condition" he ejaculated. I tried to look at what he was alluding to and there I saw the cause of his misery. The seat was full of vomit which has flown from the innocuously open window delivered straight from the gut of the kid's mother, courtesy 'हिल्टन भोजनालय' . The quizzer shrugged and walked away.

But as The Dark Knight had reminded us so eloquently that the night is darkest just before the dawn. The sun on our Kafka's miserable  journey was about to rise. Oblivious to my trained eyes, a seductive maiden has surreptitiously  crawled her way through the crowd completely bypassing my radar and now she was walking to our Kafka's seat .

"खाली है ?" she said pointing to the window chair.

Kafka chided on the teenager ,the other occupant of his row, "देख नही रहे हो लड़की खड़ी है और तुम मज़े से पैर फैलाए बैठे हो !", his voice carried a stern moral authority. The teenager strangely drank the humiliation and instead of having a banter got up.

 "आप बैईठये |"   said Kafka looking directly into the eyes of the maiden offering the newly vacated seat as the vanquished teenager looked on. " अरे नही नही , तुम बैठो बच्चे " she said, I will take the window seat, ignorant of the seat's condition. " मैं बच्चा नहीं हूँ आंटी !! " fumed the teenager with an extra emphasis on the last word,  "और मेरा स्टॉप आ गया है " he said as he hopped off the bus.

The red faced maiden gave a disapproving look and commented "आज कल के बच्चे भी ना !" ; regaining her composure as she sat. In the meantime a burly man having a flowing beard came to them and said in a deep baritone voice,"भाईजान ज़रा अंदर होना | ". Kafka had sized up the man, "भाईजान आप अंदर चलें जाए" ,said Kafka with an extra polite voice. The burly guy seemed puzzled, he made his way to the window seat only to be greeted with pukish liquid. "पहले नही बता सकता था !! " thundered the giant. Kafka in a matter of factly way stated,"भाईजान जब आधी जनता खड़ी है और एक सीट खाली है, तो मेने सोचा आप समझ जाएँगे |". I couldn't see the man's reaction as I was enchanted by the maiden's smile which has surfaced realizing Kafka's trickery. Our Kafka has scored his first point. The bearded man shrugged his shoulders as he walked off hopelessly to look for another place to sit.

"अभी देता हूँ हाँ, तुम्हारे तीन रूपीए बेटा |" came a feeble voice from the other end of the bus. The conductor has started  doling out the balance amount to the passengers. "कोई बात नही अंकल, कोई जल्दी नही है | आप आराम से दे दीजिएगा | " was the so un-Kafkan reply from Kafka. Although his voice must have drowned out in the brouhaha which has started with the dole out. I am sure if the counductor would have heard those inaudible words, he would have been nonplussed,holding his head in sheer disbelief.

Our maiden has taken out her phone, as ठरकी as this writer is, I could not help peeping from the backseat, the notches between adjacent seats gave me just enough leeway to steal glances hopefully without being caught.The old couple was still imbued in their own world.

The maiden must have been around 25-26, fair as milk, no blemishes, no tan marks on any visible part of her body. She wore her shining hairs long and loose. The lavender cologne was a welcome respite from the surrounding farts, sweat and vomit.  Her pink pouty lips seamlessly melted into the most effortless smile. Her voice was deep, sultry and sonorous.

She was checking her FB, my interest heightened, hoping to catch her name and thus get a lifetime access. Once done with all the notifications, she moved to her profile pictures, intermittently looking expectantly at our Kafka, who I was sure, was faking reading the book he has long ditched. Alas, even he couldn't control his excitement, he put the book down and took out his MotoG with a back cover which read :

Things I hate :

1.Lists

2.Phone cases

3.Irony

I was really happy that I did not spend the last 6 hours sitting next to an intellectual, narcissist man.  He started fiddling with his phone, his eyes furiously moving from his mobile screen to hers. He rotated his head round his shoulders as if it had got stiffened and he wanted some relief, but I knew he wanted to feast his eyes. The girl, I think knowingly, allowed him to. He indulged literally for a full minute in the eye feast. His testosterone level now must have shot up to the depths unfathomed for now he did a chutzpah which belittled the one by Haider to the level which is only achieved when Akash Chopra starts giving cricketing advice to A.B.Devillers with shameless poise and panache.

He had, a little while ago, too opened his FB and WhatsApp, zooming in both times on his name and number. But not getting the desired responses. He thought these were too sublime signals.

He opened a text editor on his phone, I think it was Evernote, and started typing.

And then as they say, history was made.

The girl was also now giving longer than usual glances on his phone.

" The man is  Kafka ( I have his real name and number too :P ), chief mentor at TIME ……" It was followed by the most insane level of English and Vocabulary which seemed gibberish to mortals like me. But I could sense that he was telling her about his awesomeness. The girl was now hooked on to his 4.5 inch.

A call interrupted his self-narration of his personal awesomeness. It was in all likelihood a student anxious about the impending CAT result asking for backup options and GRE. Now our Kafka is such a stud that he converts every problem into a possibility where he can show his awesomeness and so started the exercise of elucidation in an accent which even Priyanka Chopra salutes. He barfed the complete Barron's word list, I could sympathize with the student on other end. The call cut abruptly, or so he thought, the phone did not ring again.

He sneaked another look at the girl ; his body language similar to an  Everest conqueror  or which Neil Armstrong must have had when he set foot on the moon. The girl blushed. Our Kafka is on a roll.

Motivated, he set out more boldly for these uncharted territories (at least for me ). 

Was it his satisfaction with his display of intellectualism and prowess in language or the fear that the girl might get down at the next stop or the fear that whatever he has written might have gone over her head or merely his desperation. I do not know.

But now he started typing in Hinglish.

" Meine aaj tak itni khoobsurat ladki nahi dekhi…..(followed by some clichéd Peans about her beauty that I don't remember )   …. Mujhe aaj tak bahut ladkiyon ne approach kiya lekin meine kisi ko yes nahi kaha (* slow claps *)…Mujhe unke liye kabhi aisi feeling nahi aayi jaisi tumhare liye aa ri hein (* Bhai vo feel tujhe hi ni bus mein har dusre insaan ko aa ri hei, courtesy- हिल्टन भोजनालय  *)…….mera number 9758****63 hei (* dude you have already given that -_-*).

He stopped.

I think he wanted a signal to continue also he must have realized the grave risk that he had taken. One shout out from the girl and I was sure he would be beaten black and blue by the passengers who were just looking for a place to vent out their frustration with this dilapidated bus. He turned his head, the girl was typing something. The burly bearded guy was now sitting in the adjacent row, his eyes met with our Kafka's. I fantasized the giant punching Kafka all over, tearing his clothes, pulling his hair. I laughed at the vividness of my imagination, but perhaps the laugh was a little too loud. The girl and Kafka turned their head towards me, collided mid-way, again blushes, this time from both sides.

Both of them quickly erased whatever they have typed.

The bus stopped, the maiden was readying to get up.

Kafka's heart came to his mouth. Would I ever see her  again ?, would she have saved my number ? And a zillion other questions flooded his mind.

He did not even knew her name.

Of love I do not know much but infatuation seems a huge driving force. It can make you conquer mountains, dive deep into the unknown depths, do things that you never imagined you could do. Or is this the power of love ? The boundary between the two is blurry to me. Maybe it’s the same for everyone else too.  Maybe you can never tell when your infatuation has turned into love or you have fallen out of love into infatuation.

The maiden turned to Kafka to say something, which was going to be, perhaps or perhaps not, there last conversation.

" Haldwani" said Kafka.

"अच्छा, ओके !

मुझे यहीं उतरना है |

Bye

सीट के लिए, Thank You " These were here parting words.

Kafka somehow managed a smile on his face and bid farewell.

The girl stepped out of the bus.

 Kafka's eyes drifted swiftly to and fro from his FB request tab to the girl walking away until only her silhouette was visible.

The conductor signaled the driver to move. By now the bus was half empty, the old couple too have deboarded along with the maiden and a major chunk of passengers. I stretched myself after being cramped for so long.

The bus had stopped wobbling, the potholes had vanished. We bid goodbye to Uttar Pradesh .

The conductor came to Kafka,"अर्रे छोरे, तेरे रूपए देना तो मैं भूल ही गया, ऐ पकड़ अपने तीन रुपए ! ". Kafka mindlessly took the coins and shoved them in his pocket, still lost in his (or perhaps her) thoughts.

"Arrey BC !!!!!!!! "

"G**D Mar Gayi !!"

And thus followed  an incessant  rant of  quite  imaginative expletives.

The cuss words were emanating from the holy mouth of our super awesome Kafka who was frantically searching for something.

Till now I had heard people like Mira and Kabir created hymns for their lover. It was interesting to see Kafka throwing curses at our maiden.

It took me some time to contemplate what had transpired.

Our cute, innocent maiden had effortlessly robbed Kafka of his purse.

I guffawed. Everybody turned their head towards me, but now I was on a laughing spree.

Kafka's face had turned red, of anger or of shame, I do not know.

In defence of the rapists !!

Statutory Warning:

This post contains ideas that some readers might find disturbing.Readers discretion is advised.There is little offensive material in this post apart from a deceiving disclaimer and a  hazy heading.And as they both have done the damage they were intended to do,you are past them now.

I write this post not for the sake of taking an contrarian stand to popular opinion but to let the world know that there is something fundamentally wrong in our notion of justice.This post is not written from a moral high ground which is so effortlessly espoused in the cyber world neither is it a plea for the rapists cause.This is to show that It is not the rapists who have failed the idea of India,it is India who has failed them.

The mind wanders into a mode of scathing introspection when the heads of men hang low collectively in shame whenever incidents of rape are reported.In moments like these it pinches to be a man.This pinch awakens us to a horrendous question. Doesn't that monster live inside us all in some unrevealed corners of our heart , fed unconsciously by us ?? 

In our world where objectification of women has become so rampant from the elitist sexist jokes at the AIB roast to the Bhojpuri 'Kamariya gore laba lab,lalipop lage lu'. The slums where these rapists survive(I daresay live,it is a luxury) have a higher rate of item songs being blared through cheap speakers than the rate of rapes happenig in India ,the argument appears hollow that the not so subtle lyrics and not so sober videos would not have affected an individuals thought process.The media projects a world which is startlingly different from their their mundane slums.It creates an artificial demand for commodities(including women,in case it slipped your mind) which are out of their reach.This compounds with their miserable lives and creates a hornets nest of unfulfilled desires.

Juveniles who should have stayed in their native villages are coerced into getting employed not because their parents don't love them but because they do not have the 'resources' to show their love.Thus a child who should have been studying in a school in Bihar,is dumped into the squalors of Ravi Das camp.The mind which should have been thinking of protons and Plassey is forced to find ways of tricking passengers into a bus. 

Each day is a battle of existence full of uncertainties.Whether they would find work or not ?.Whether the constable would be kind enough to allow him to continue his street vending ?.Whether the local MLA would finally start PDS or not ?.The disarrayed mind looks towards drugs and alcohol as a relief from his pitiable life which is full inferiority complex and low self-esteem.It is not amusing that most rapists are habitual alcohol and drug users.With no opportunity in sight for redemption,their normal moral restraints disappear,their aggressive fantasies become intimately intermingled with sexual lust which then ultimately takes the shape of brutal rape.

No one can ever justify an act of rape.But aren't we equally culpable if not more ?.We can passionately bargain with a fruit seller and feel like we have conquered the world even if we bring down the price by inconsequential amount but we never have the gumption to ask for even a discount at a Nike store.We can be avid fans of Steve Jobs and Soichiro Hondas workmanship but can't we just have a speck of  respect for the work of a bus mechanic ??

The Tihar Chronicles

Normally I do not dabble with the perilous genre of college romance letting this cash cow graze lazily in the meadows of  Grapevine and  Rupa Publications where they are milked to the hilt by anyone and everyone who wants to become an overnight famed author(ANY DEGREE from a REPUTED institute and above average looks would not hurt your chances).

I, being devoid of both, have been content writing about the other trivial pursuits of life.But a moment comes,which comes,but comes rarely in life(Now please don't Come to/on me !! ;) :p) when the leashed lovelorn heart longs for freedom.Freedom from the shackles of past.Freedom from the pain of those evergreen wounds which were brazenly inflicted in the battle of love.A battle in which you were bruised,battered and betrayed, but still wanted to loose, to win the war.A yearning to start everything afresh,an inclination to give things a second chance. I quench this longing by letting my nimble fingers play with QWERTY expelling the catharsis, assuming this blather would make sense to someone,somewhere reading this post.

In today's street smart,dogs eat dogs world it is equally likely to find emotional fools who are adamant about their notion of love.Those simpletons who still believe Love has the power to cleanse the most malignant of hearts.The dichotomy is indeed tantalizing ;) .

What would you do if you knew the sudden affection being bestowed upon you by someone whom you passionately admired ,ready to take on the world without a second thought if they wanted,is not because they had a sudden change of heart but because they want to bleed you again for some worldly interest ?

I would play on .Ready to tread those roads again which had more thorns than rose petals.Ready to be fooled and exploited just to live those few precious moments where time and space ceases to exist,where words become redundant,where one feels nearest to God.Call it an avid Bollywood fans fantasy or an incorrigible lovers outburst .It doesn't matter.

This heart finds solace, hoping against all hopes, that its unadulterated adoration might induce some true feelings for him in its better half. Also there is a bleak chance,it might be real this time and love is all about playing against odds.

I don't know whether Coelho was right or not when he said When you want something,all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it.But in my case his proposition seems to have failed miserably.The Universe has remained a passive apathetic bystander intimidating me with its vastness ,jeering me, forcing me to doubt the magnanimity and selflessness of my so called unconditional love.Perhaps it might not be unconditional after all.

Perhaps life was never meant to be perfect.Perhaps the Universe wants us to cling on to those precious moments,making them too few and too far in between.Perhaps the fault may have been in me,perhaps things were meant to be, the way they are.Perhaps these walls of Tihar Jail have made me crazy.But now, it doesn't even matter. 

PS: This DOES NOT reflect my present state of mind.Please DO NOT extrapolate to real life persons. It would be a futile exercise.

Happy Reading :D ,

Dhanyawad  !!

Requiem for a Dream !

"I was dead sure, I had been sober" was the last thing that I was able to recall.So it definitely cannot be delirium.  

Noticing the dazzling display of fireworks in the pitch dark wintry  night along with the  calm flow of a river carrying flowers,diyas et al flowing besides me amidst the intermittent din of  conch shells from afar made me wonder if I was really in Pantnagar or Benares ??? 

" I was celebrating Diwali "

 A faint recollection dawned upon me.

 "Yes surely how can I forget those idiosyncratic acts of shooting rockets, throwing crackers and yelling ourselves hoarse in front of the houses of some of our " special friends ;) " and absconding immediately ".

"But where are my pals who were my partners in the above crime ?" 

Came an afterthought.

Contemplating my thoughts and trying to find my way out of this paradox. I looked towards the river for inspiration. Unlike men (sometimes the fairer sex too :p), nature did not disappoint me.I saw the wavy,reddish yellow reflection of a bonfire in the river. I instinctively started briskly walking towards the bonfire presuming it to be torched by my friends. 

 The betel leaves and the half chewed Paans strewn all along the river bank proved beyond reasonable doubt that I was indeed in one of the Ghats of Varanasi.

"How did I end up here ??" 

This question was consuming 100% of my heads CPU usage.But I was unable to troubleshoot or  do an end task operation and log out of this eerie experience.

Panting I reached the fringes of my destination ; from there I could distinctly discern the bonfire and its ambience in the moonless night . Sheer terror and horror ran through my veins when I realized it was not a bonfire but a funeral pyre !!. The humans around it were not my friends but Aghoris, a dreaded,esoteric tribe. People who are feared and revered simultaneously.

Running away was the reflex reaction to this extraordinary external stimuli. But this knee jerk reaction was tamed by the inquisitiveness of human mind. So, reluctantly my feet plodded the path towards those four men. The men were completely nude having ash rubbed throughout their body making it even impossible to judge the colour of their skin leave alone identifying their faces.Holding a trident in one hand and a human skull in other,they really looked fearsome .Their matted hairs dancing freely as they fervently  ranted something in English while running around the fire. 

Wait...English ?? !!!

For a second it made me believe that I have gone nuts.But the English words "It is bliss" laced in thick Israeli accent thumped my eardrums again.The tallest among them noticed my presence and stared at me. He then mumbled something to his mates and suddenly at lights pace the four of them surrounded me.Although I felt cowed down, I could not help noticing their crimson red eyes as if they have not slept for years and have been stoned since eternity.They smeared some ash on my face and poured liquor on my head. I was too stupefied to react. Minutes later,I had gauged the gravity of the situation.I was about to be offered as an offering to Sh..Shm..something having absolutely zilch interest of mine,so I did not pay any heed to the name.The most important thing in the universe for me at that very moment was that I was about to die.I vigorously tried to free myself from their grip but it was a futile attempt, they were monstrously powerful.I cursed myself for returning back. I finally realised why curiosity killed the cat.They finally started ripping off my clothes and pouring liquor all over my body.With the last piece of cloth removed from my body ended all the hopes of survival and I accepted my gruesome fate.They for the last time chanted a mantra and threw me into that funeral pyre anticipating my cooked human meat which they could relish.

Miraculously the fire extinguished !!!

Finding myself on earth and not in heaven or hell made me jump in ecstasy.Seeing this unfortunate turn of events the four Aghoris became visibly angry and ran towards me with their tridents.But just before the tip of their trident was about to kiss my chest, they stopped.There were a series of incessant curses and abuses being rained on them in the worst and choicest Hindi words. The source of them was a towering, more than 7 ft tall, Aghori standing right behind me.The sight of this giant Aghori scared the pack of four and they left me unharmed.

"Bloody thrill seeking hippies !!! They are disgrace !! Bringing a bad name to the whole cult !!"

The giant Aghori said, still using the choicest and finest of curses that the Hindi vocabulary has to offer. 

I was still scanning through the length and breadth of the Aghori trying to establish his measurements when in a flash he shrunk himself to a normal size.I was petrified.I did not know how to proceed: here is a man who saved my life by the skin of my teeth but in the same vein he himself is a part of this cult and at least it appears does supernatural things.He saved me the trouble of initiating a conversation.

"Who are You ?? 

Why are you roaming in Manikarnika Ghat on Kartik Amavasya ??

If you are here to shoot videos and make money then f***k off !! "

He again started  using his choicest Hindi words.

I pacified him by earnestly telling him my credentials and told him that even I don't know how or why I am here. Being fully nude the question of carrying a camera did not arise.

He gazed at my face for a while then turned his attention to my heat seeking moisture missile stationed near the juncture of thighs and quipped I expected someone more manly.

I could not have the privilege of feeling offended.I smiled sheepishly my teeth chattering due to the icy winds.Seeing my deplorable condition the Aghori blew a kiss to the extinguished funeral pyre and viola the fire reignited. I felt better, The Aghori lit a joint, took a deep drag and puffed through his nostrils conjuring the OM symbol in thin air with the smoke.

"We consider everything holy and embrace it. Aghora literally means non-terrifying.It seeks to negate all that is ghora (terrifying) in life.The ghora encompasses all those experiences that most people find intolerable, for almost everyone is as ready to enjoy life's pleasures as they are to avoid misery. Most spiritual advisers admonish their devotees to shy away from the ghora, but aghoris (practitioners of Aghora) embrace the ghora fervidly, for what most terrifies an aghori is the prospect of becoming mired in duality. Aghoris go so far into the ghora that the ghora becomes tolerable to them; diving deeply into darkness, an aghori finally surfaces into light. No means to awakening is too disgusting or frightening for an aghori, for Aghora is the Path of the Shadow of Death, the path that forcibly separates an individual from attachment to every ordinary self-descriptor. People condemn Aghora's outwardly repugnant practices because they cannot see beneath their ritual skin. If they could but peep into an aghori's heart they would find there an ache for Reality so fierce that no means could be too extreme to achieve it. This ache drives the divine fury, the passionately unrestrained non-attachment to absolutely everything, that is Aghora's hallmark. Aghoris earn their illumination by incinerating themselves moment by moment in their own internal fires, laughingly consuming any substance and performing any activity that might further enkindle their awareness."

Thus he spoke after taking another drag.

"Boy, you are too young to understand the difference. You just watch us eating meat, smoking weed and doing things you people classify as "creepy stuff". What you don't see is the subtle and mysterious connection between things. We use human skull, blood, and bones in our rituals because that remind us of our human body. How many times a day you think of this fact that you are dying at this very moment ? You worldly people just think of life as you were never going to die and so these words like "death" and "bones" freak you out. Isn't there any difference between an Aghori smoking weed and a naive young guy taking drugs in a nightclub? For you there's no difference because you give importance to matter (weed, drugs). While actually the difference is in the experiences and the intentions. I don't smoke weed for pleasure. I don't wear clothes, I don't have a penny, I don't keep any worldly relations with anyone, I've renounced almost everything. All for what? To smoke weed and get pleasure out of it? Pleasure is a meaningless thing for me. Pleasure is for worldly people. My senses don't seek pleasure any more. I smoke weed because it just helps me concentrating my mind and accomplishing extreme yogic practices, which otherwise would be difficult for me to do."

Finally he ended his exposition.

I kowtowed the Aghori for his eruditon and for saving me from those imposters.

I felt something gooey on my head.It was slimy and had a strong stench.

He had excreted on my head !! 

 "Bom Shankar !" He bellowed.

It was a very unusual blessing to say the least.

I guess this is what they call "Holy SHIT !! "

Thankfully it was not shit but my friends gentle patting to wake me up and a cue that the boring and banal CBSH lecture was over !!!