Silence of the underworld

Disclaimer: A little gross. So don't read if you don't want to. And, i just love writing gross stuff so don't add comments like 'Dude what happened to you?' or 'Dude you alright?' in response to this.

It came in a hurry. It always did. That moment of realization of one's imminent death always comes in a hurry. It is like the sharp prick of a needle being injected into the soft insides of the thigh. Rapid, and quickly transforming, from a friendly little pinch into a horrifying steel-boring-into-me pain. It then spreads across causing momentary paralysis.

I stood like a deer, caught, not between the headlights, but rather between the cold death like grip of the fender impact and inertia, feeling its head snap and plaster itself onto the windshield. I felt like i was watching through the decapitated head in to the cob-webbed windscreen at the horrified driver's face as he swerves the truck through the adjacent railing and crashes into the chasm below

I felt the cold of the mindnight river hit me as i drowned, gasping for breath as murderously frigid water filled my lungs like a water balloon, choking me into a breathlessly mad slow-motion struggle. I settle down into the sandy dark bottom, belly up, like the millions of fishes that had settled there before me, for centuries. I lie at the bottom hidden away and filed under the miscellaneous department of deep water mysteries for eternity.

I feel the sand over my face. I feel the vermin and the un-evolved monsters of the underground crawl over me as they cover me up with earth. The world is gradually darkening as i suffocate yet again and try to flail my limbs to no avail. The last memory is that of hard exoskeletons and slimy skin rubbing all over my body and the million tingles of hairy shart feet crawling over me. I sleep with the utmost, deepest horror a man can sleep with. Somewhere out there someone will say 'Rest in peace'. I scream at the inaneness of that statement, my voice not rising above the silence of the underworld.

Let's get this done with

"So what do we do now?", Vimal asked. He looked positively harassed.

Given it was far from his general state of being, i wondered if i should take a moment to just enjoy him being harassed.

"Dude! Tell me!", his voice was more urgent.

"Hmmm…Let me think". What was there to think. There was only one thing to do and we both knew it. Neither of us wanted to say it out loud.

"Should we..?", he asked. His voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Maybe…", mine matched octaves.

At this point he gave a huge sigh. Like he was breathing in the world, one last time. The sighs of all the anxious young men of this world. Heck! The sighs of all anxious humans of the world. With that one sigh he looked like he had aged a decade.

"Alright. Lets do this!", he said.

"Really?", i asked. Someone in the back of my mind, a goofy but evil joker was laughing out loud.

"Dude! Come on. Lets just get this done with. Then there would be nothing to worry about"

He had a point. The damn bastard had a point.

"But there must be a way out", I was clinging on to a straw. I knew it. He knew it.

Yet, in the tradition of all young men too scared to do something he asked,

"What?"

I responded like a pro. "I don't know. But there must definitely be a way out. Or at least an alternative"

Vimal gave me a look that i thought only my math teacher had reserved for me.

"I am going to do it. Are you in or not?", he asked me with finality.

"Nope", i said and he kicked me.

"Alright lets take a deep breath. We don't want to look nervous. And you are physically fit? No injuries or sprains?"

"Nope. I am fine. When shit hits the fan i can get out", i said. I was absolutely sure that when shit hit the fan we would get sprayed like teenage girls on spring break but why state unpleasant facts that we both knew.

"Ready?", he asked.

"Yes sir!", i said and made a mock salute.

Vimal rolled his eyes.

Then we did what we had planned to do.

And then we were done with it.

There

Think beautiful shoreline by a turquoise beach. Think mountain top with a sprawling green valley. Think middle of the jungle where its securely dark and closed.

It could be anywhere. But it is not here. That's the key. Here is bad. Not here is good.

There.

Its not really inhabited, There.

Expect if you consider wild iguanas, crabs and snails or even the odd deer habitation. There is no incessant chatter there. Expect if you consider the constant rustle of leaves and twigs in the wind chatter. There is no hate and ill-will there. Expect if you think the ant-eater has a deep rooted hatred for the ants. There are no crazies there. The woodpecker that works on the timber outside goes occasionally berserk but thats pretty much it. They dont judge you there. Live and let live. Die and let die. Simple really.

They've got no rules There. Unlike here. They dont want you to smile and laugh or get angry just because the society demands it from you. They have no society.

They couldn't have been more social.

There is a long way away. There is hard to get to.

But, is there even a There?

The kingdom of pink goo

I want to type today. Just start typing and stop only when i no longer need to. Its an urge. An itch. Like Edgar Freemantle in Duma key. Only, here the itch is on a phantom area inside me and it will subside only when i type. The words just have to come out. They are crying out for release from the cold recesses of my brain. I wonder if that is a valid phrase at all - cold recesses. I wonder how the inside of my brain feels like. I know someone who lives there. Thought.

Imagine Thought. Thought is a wizened old man. He has to be. It could be a wizened old lady, too. I dont want to sound sexist when i am not. There are moments when i am but this isnt one of them. Thought could be anybody. Man, woman, trans-sexual. But, for lucidity's sake lets use him and not a politically correct literary speedbump like him/her. I could have used her too. But i just chose to use him.

So, Thought. He is sitting in his creaking chair moving forward and back, rocking gently. Yes, he has a creaking chair. But why does it creak?, you ask. Well, he is old, isnt he? Old is an understatement. He is ancient. He was there even before i gave a place for him in my brain. He was there even before man gave a place for him in his brain. In fact, he was there even before the dinosaurs wondered what the flaming hot thing was that was hurtling toward them. He was there before life. He was floating in the vacuum watching the big bang happen. Then he dived in.

But right now, he is in my brain. I gave him a creaking chair there and he is sitting in it. All comfy. He is surrounded by a soft pink and grey walls that seem to fold over each other. This is his home. One of his several millions. My brain. I wonder if he should feel claustrophobic about his home. Layers and layers of folded insulation around him with rarely a chance to get out. I wonder if he should be going reeking mad sitting in there. Thought.

But it is he who wonders too isnt it. For he is thought. He thinks about himself and wonders if he might go reeking mad. But he assures himself that he wouldnt. He has things to do around there. He visits this vast land he calls his home. He explores. Each day he finds something new and assimilates it. He becomes stronger. Some days he is focussed when he knows what he is looking for and finds it. Some days, he just idles around. He waits for something to turn up. Something always turns up in that kingdom of pink goo. Still other days, he is just frenzied. He wants to find something but doesnt know what he is looking for.

I know him only vaguely. He is a shape shifter. An illusionist. He looks strong and clear one day while hazy and weak the other. Its a love hate relationship. Thought. That beatiful magician.

He sometimes whispers his secrets over to me. They are funny, scary, exciting, ecstatic, pleasurable and even weird. But when he whispers them over i am happy. I try and pen it down. He wants me to. But there are times when is a enraged. He screams at the top of his voice. I feel the insides of my brain shiver in the tremor of his anger. He fills me with hatred and rage. He becomes evil.

Thought.

5 reasons why I look forward to the 2010 F1 season...

5. Tank full of fuel....

While i am skeptical about what the no re-fuelling rule would do to race starts, it is definitely a game changer and while the teams try and adapt to it, we will see variability in performance, race starts, strategies which will shuffle up the leaders and create exciting races.

At least Ferrari wouldnt have to worry about this...

4. The cars look so damn deadly....

I am not a big fan of the shark fins but I have to admit the cars this season look other worldly and i mean in a good way. I'll let the pictures talk...

3. That darn German is back.....

F1 without schumi is like having a full meals without sambhar. Love him, hate him, support him, loathe him, hysterically scream for him, hysterically scream against him but F1 without him frankly feels a little bland. What would we do without seeing him do this...

or this...

or even this.... :)

Welcome back Michael...

2. Imagine a corner....

According to me, there are only 3 world champions in the current grid (what more in god's name does Button have to do, you ask?) and that is Alonso, Hamilton and of course, Schumi. But, by god! what quality! If ever there were 3 ruthless, super-talented, no-holds-barred racers at different stages of their careers wanting as much as ever, if not more, to beat each other and prove a point, it is here.

With the history these three guys have with each other (agree, not much between Hamilton and Schumi), imagine them fighting for a first corner and predict an outcome at your own peril....

1. Alonso in a Ferrari...and is probably going to win it....

I'd dig the season if nothing else happens but more and more of this...

0. To conclude...

You must be thankful to be born in the same era as Sachin. You are insanely lucky to be able to witness Roger Federrer in action. But i have a feeling that this F1 season might just blow it all away....