I don't think I was a very nice child

It's getting better all the time. (Can't get no worse.)

Shock and Awe

Evil Baby Sister has a blog. O_o

What has the world come to?

nirobichchhino

I shan't say it's a more intense feeling, or conversation because the point is that it's not

but the endless days and endless chances of sitting talking discussing doing nothing gossiping analysing teasing consuming cups and cups of milk sugar liquor tea of sausages and sandwiches and almond and brownie tea-shakes and the twenty buck scarves on street sides and striped and spotted and scribbled-on ties and the berets in tiny shops and the silver pendants and the knock-off shoes and the random movie watching and the constant movie trashing and talking of comics and comical people and coming back home to tea and squabbling with the folks and languishing glances and knowing smiles and the dark shadows on the stone steps where we sat talking aimlessly and needlessly and the conversations carried down the stairs and through the room and across the streets over coffe and cigarettes and the headaches and the heartaches of other people and the tight smiles and easy informalities and my old hatreds and loves and mild dislikes

and the bangla on every tongue and the shared knowledge of bangalitto, of shared truths and shared pasts

is all, all going away, and the sentimentality of it all is trite, is ridiculous, but two weeks is too little time in which to say goodbye to twenty years, no matter for how short a time.

results are out.

beh.

blogsprouting

there is a new blog. gods know who will read it. ah well.

it is here.

blame cheshire cat, gods know i do. (i lie, i lie, i love you, you know it.)

you can never go back home

or to school, as the case might be. It will seem familiar and taunt you with missing teachers, absent mentors, red-tape complications, and unfamiliar, screaming juniors. It will suck and you will decide to never return, and then realise you made that promise the last time you visited.

However, since you will, like as not, end up stuffing your face with pan-fried momos, life is not all bad.

Especially if friends treat you to KFC ice-cream, and you realise a book you want is available for an extremely reasonable sum.

hyderabad blues

in 25 days.

tick-tock

jude

It is unfair to be made to feel out-of-place/superfluous/unwanted in a place you love, which you've proven yourself integrally a part of, which it would hurt you to leave.

But it is, perhaps, a reminder of the fact that it hasn't been all good, even when you're all brimming with nostalgia and bedecked with rose-tinted glasses/binoculars/telescopes/magnifying-glasses/what-have-you.

Yes, you still love the people you loved one/two/three/five years ago; it still feels amazing to be remembered.

Thirty-wo 'I'm' texts need not be from teeth.

Sophi. mashimas attempting to flirt is creepy as hell.

Bawal chai, bawal dao.

Aristotle was a blind man/scientist who invented the periodic table/Greek all-rounder.

Memento Mori

Belly and breasts
And thighs spread around
Cunt, want-wet and clamped
Around your flesh in my flesh
Red from your teeth in my flesh
Clamped down and suckling:
This is how we come together
In hollow darkness, switched off,
And the gaps of clothes rearranged.

I have your marks still,
Crescent moons of blood pale
Against my surging flesh
As your flesh pale against mine
Dark as the bruises purpling
Beneath your hands on my flesh:
This is how I remember you
In blood beneath and on my skin
In enfleshed traceries of ownership.

498-A

My torso is a drum

Reverberating under your closed fist and open hand

My back the mat

You wipe your feet on, careless, forceful.

And my breast the pillow

On which you rest your head and try your teeth.

You have taken and turned me

From human

Into furniture/instrument/tool.

You have dissected me,

Separated me into my component parts.

Tossed away every superficial thing,

Save(d) only the bare essentials.

The hands that bring you food.

The mouth that brings you love.

The throat on which you test the tenacity of your grip.