Anarchy , my Love.

It is almost sacred , when
every symbol in this world which stands
for freedom , for love
For strength , or for the mighty God above,

All come together, personified , into
an allegory of divinity and darkness alike,
clothed in your skin and bones
Who stands for my ideas , and I believe in hers
And looking at her face, I feel bold
Like the child who's looking at the candle
amid the treacherous darkness in his room
Whose eyes are fixated upon the yellow flame
which dances softly
Like his young hearted hopes.

The City Painted Me Crimson

“Don’t mind the heart if it cries or laments – it is an idiot. Your mind is what makes you do the right thing. Proclaim your freedom! Proclaim your liberation!” 
This is me. Bright red to scarlet , and then violet. Violent violet. These colours make me stronger. 
The acrid tang in my mouth – it is new. I bathed in the darkest of fluids , and I anointed myself as my own God. My mind , my body , everything in me is owned by my God. Everything. 
His sticky flesh was all over me. It carried a rancid smell , with the unmistakable emanation of the stench of semen. The nectar of life. 
The poison which drives men wild. 
PART I 
I was a woman. Strong in all mental senses but had that timid girl still living in me. I loved God , and I loved good, and I had hatred for the evil in the world. 
I lived in Delhi , but never saw or experienced the whole of it. I never came to know about the dark ‘belly’ of the city.The central part of the city is clean and it is much more like a European metropolis , with imperial British administrative buildings , and high class hotels and clubs and parks. I work in a library near the Central Secretariat. I loved the workplace and surroundings. The south is full of educational institutes and shopping complexes, and that’s my favourite hangout place, and that is where I live. 
I loved the Metro. Full of people , but still , a silent loneliness accompanies me. It might sound queer , but when I am inside the train , I feel like writing. Every other emotion mixes up with philosophy. Metro transforms me into a poet. I take my tab out and scribble whatever comes to my mind. On a similar day , I was sitting and writing. It was 8 in the night, and I had to attend the Literary Seminar in C.P. I was writing on weakness. My weakness. My timidity. About my superficial strength and the vulnerable part hidden inside. About the things of which I am afraid.. 
A Metro notification popped up…with an eerie silence. 
“The next station , is Shadipur. Doors will open-” 
I was aghast. There was nobody in the Metro. Nobody. I just ran out and stepped on the platform , which was totally silent. It was dark , and the normally sweaty weather turned cold. Hastily swiping my card over the check- counter, I ran out of the station. 
Metro stations used be so warm , and welcoming. Lots of people , noise and odours. Here it was no less than a graveyard. The CCTVs looked like big eyes. Eyes always scared the hell out of me, since I was a toddler. My mother’s small mirrors , which were hung on the wall of our ancestral home , looked like big eyes. Eyes have that power to intimidate a person. 
It was dull outside , with the streetlights flickering. It looked like a 1980’s mafia movie scene. I scurried towards an auto. 
“Bhayya , Rajiv Chowk station chod do” 
“ Haan ji madam , 70 rupey” 
I had no time to bargain or argue , so I just slipped into the seat and said “chalo”. The seminar was very, very important for me. I checked my mobile. Three missed calls and a message from Rishabh , a fellow writer, and my husband. “Rekha , where d hell r u? Cme here evn if it costs ur lyf!” 
The very moment I took my eyes off the mobile I felt a thrust. A punch on my nose – bridge. All went red , eventually faded into black. 
Rishabh’s message flashed through my eyes again. 

PART II 

Am I kidnapped? What is happening? Am I unconscious? It felt really miserable anyway. It looked like I was in a van. My nose felt blocked , and my head hurt like anything. I wanted to cry. I was about to open my mouth. 
I was slapped in response. Lights went out again. But I still felt a weight pressing against me , and something…someone was groping me. It felt uneasy , and very irritating. “WHAT IS HAPPENING?” I asked myself. 
“Who do you think you are? Katrina? I’ll show you what a real man is-“ 
I opened my eyes as soon as I heard this. I saw the autorikshaw driver in front of me, covered in blood , probably mine. Oh god. Him? 
“Mmph! Gmph! “ was all that I could manage. He tore my top away and dug his nails deep into my flesh. 
The pain was immense. I got a wind of what was happening. 
He bit me, bit the nape of my neck, and pinched my breasts. I was helpless. I cried my throat out , but the sounds were muffled. I was chained. The most dreaded is happening with me. “I am scared. Help me out! Help me someone!” He saw the saline tears flowing , and gave me a grin. He started to kiss me wherever he bit. That evil grin was accompanied by a dark stare. That scared me. Like the eyes of a demon ,his eyes made me weak. My limbs went numb , and I was giving myself away to the torture. 
He threw me away in the backseat and then held my nose with a cloth. All disappeared again. 

“My God. This cannot happen to me. Why me? What have I done?” This was responded with haunting voices in the back of my head. 

“Come on , I won’t be surprised if one fine day you disappear – your clothes are the reason” 
“Carry on! Hang out with more men , then maybe fuck each one of them!? Rekha , you and your ‘liberal’ behaviour will drag you into Hell – God will never have a place for sluts like you” 
Oh. So I am the culprit. 
“Am I the wrong one to embrace freedom? What is wrong with my attire? I know about myself ; I know how to look. I know about social norms. Then tell me what is wrong? You talk as if I am an advertisement for molestation and rape. Why do you say “don’t get raped” when you must preach “don’t rape” to the entire masculine section in the society? Am I still at fault? I am not. 
I am a victim to injustice , and the crime cannot be justified. Step in my shoes , and you’ll say the same. I need to get out of here. But I am helpless, helpless. The walls are closing in. All hope is go-“ 
I felt a spasm in my womanhood. 
“NO. No , no , no.” 
He tried to violate me. 
Scenes from the past, the happy past , flowed like a river. Those times when Rishabh gently kissed me all over, and his naughty bites sent shivers down my spine . All those times in his arms , kissing his bare chest. This wasn’t the same. 
The sabotage on my body should stop. “Nobody can touch me except whom I want to. I am not supposed to be a slave. The rope let loose. In a sudden fit of anger and energy , I punched him in the face. I got up as fast as I can, and took up the toolbox , which had knives instead of screwdrivers. Good for me. I was blinded with rage. He leapt upon me , and I responded with a stab. 
Another stab. And then another . I stabbed his heart , and it bled open, and I stabbed his abdomen. “Never again will you touch me, I’ll send you impotent to Hell!” I continued the onslaught. 
My fit of rage came to an end. I was somewhere with a completely torn , dead corpse. I was covered in his blood. The eerie silence came up again. One of his eyes rolled up. But it didn’t scare me now. I became my God. I took my revenge. I fell unconscious again. 
I just killed a pig. All those stabs weren’t for me , I realised. They were for the women. For those who asked for justice against such a heinous sin. And for their families. Forgive me God , I have no right to take someone’s life, but no one can scar me for life either. 

I am going to die in the next few minutes. The ropes which bonded my hands will now strangle me. I am a sinner , but every sinner has her, or his own story. And the bars of prison cannot enslave it.

What is it with Punjabi Music?

I live in Delhi, and a fairly large part of it is inhabited by Punjabis, which is fine by me, given that they are friendly people who gave the world Chhole Bhature and Paneer Tikka. Of course, sometimes I do come across bulky dudes wearing tight T-shirts with 'Punjabis are Born Cool' written between their nipple imprints, but I choose to ignore that. Given my skinny frame, I don't think I have much of a choice anyway. Apart from tight tees and heavy bikes, there's one more thing that theses Panjus love- Music. Give them some alcohol and they can even dance on the noise of a tractor. Although I do admit that punjabi music is all nice and catchy, but it sure is overrated. I mean the sheer amount of Honey Singhs and Sukhbirs that play in a wedding is over-whelming. Though I have mostly heard the popular tracks, but I have noticed some quirks in Punjabi songs and artists-

They Copy the West - I know, even hindi artists copy the west; in fact even hollywood has started to take inspiration from bollywood. I consider it as peacefully co-existing until the point when a certain guy decides to name himself 'Yo Yo Honey Singh'. I'm serious, the most popular guy in Punjabi music has a 'Yo Yo' in his name...and probably in his hand, given his state of mind. Then there is J-star who wears big rapper hats, loose clothes, fake blingy jewelry. It's like Lil Wayne suddenly became white and decided to roam on tractors shouting ' Balle Balle'.
And the image of fat Surdies with black beards and sunglasses trying to rap is , to say the least, repulsive.

'Yo Yo Honey Singh, a second before turning into the hulk'

Gucci and Prada- They are obsessed with them. Eg- "Badi shopping ho rhi ae, kade Gucci kade Prada" "Kaali teri Gucci te Prada tera laal". It doesn't matter that their pronunciation of Prada is 'Paraadha' .It doesn't matter that the clothes they wear are fake Gucccis bought from Palika. People listening  are just amazed at how Gucci is pronounced as Gucchi despite of not having an 'h' - an indicator of the brand being high class.

Cars and Bikes- Punjabi's love for cars is well known. Rich brats in Delhi can be easily spotted running their Audis and BMWs on the road and sometimes over people lying on the footpath. So obviously, the video of a Punjabi song has to have a Ducati or a Bullet . Even if it's a sad song, there has to be a scene of the singer mourning while siting outside his car. And if cars in music videos is not enough, then you have a full song dedicated to a car- 'Amplifier' by Imran Khan. The song is about how the guy uses his gaddi to lure the chick and claims to be her amplifier, while she is his woofer.Strange thing to be no?

Sheran di kaum Punjabi - As much as I respect the Sikhs for their contribution in the army, I am sick of every fat Panju rapper claiming to be a tiger. It's like these people feel it's their duty to inform the world of their coolness. You know what? Let the world decide. It's one thing to be proud of your culture and it's totally another thing to constantly rub it in the face of other people.

Though there are more things I'd like to say but the number of people who have Honey Singh as their DPs on Facebook scare me.

PS- I wrote this post while listening to Sukhbir's Taare Gin Gin Yaad Me Teri. All time classic.

A New Beginning

He slipped into the auto-rickshaw and sat in the middle, occupying the whole seat. As he turned his back, he noticed a poster of Salman Khan on the auto,smiling at him and showing off his huge biceps. He looked at his scrawny arms; compared to Salman, he looked convincingly anorexic. He took away his gaze from the poster and noticed the autowallah, who was grinning stupidly and was humming along with a B-grade bhojpuri song. He felt disgusted, how could the guy be so happy when he drives a shitty auto? He then looked at his mark sheet, which he was holding in his hand. Going by his extremely low marks, he wondered if he would become an autowallah too.

He had just collected his mark sheet had barely managed to pass. His future was officially and effectively ruined now. All his hopes of having a high salaried job, a pretty wife, a nice house, a big car were crushed . Now, he would just be a regular middle class guy with a mediocre salary, an irritating boss and a demanding wife. He would probably also have a second hand scooter, which would require half an hour of furious kicking to get started. He figured that he would spend the rest of his life cribbing about the prices of rice, wheat, sugar and petrol; while wearing the tag of the 'helpless common man'. Yup, his life was pretty much screwed. 

While he was lost in his thoughts of convincing himself of his despicability, his phone rang. He picked up; it was his friend asking him to come at his place to celebrate.  A strong feeling of rage took over him and he shouted ‘Why do you want me to celebrate with you! I have other important things to do than sharing a lousy meal with you! Dubara call mat kar diyo!” He hung up and shouted on the autowallah to drive faster and lose the grin.
He reached his home in five minutes.

"How much?" he asked while fetching the 100 only  rupee note he had in his pocket.



"No Sir, Its Ok, I am not charging anything" Autowallah said, showing his paan- stained teeth.



"What? Are you happy for Salman’s latest hit or what?" The carefree amusement on the autowallah’s face got on his nerves. Had he been a little stronger, he would have probably slapped him.

"I have just got a good news Sir, and right now I feel like celebrating, so I will not charge anything, I would think I had spent these 100 bucks on a party."  Autowallah elaborated his wild party idea. 

"But why, what happened?" He asked him thinking he must have had another child, may be his 6th or 7th.

"I passed my 12th board exam today sahab" Auto wala said proudly, showing even bigger teeth.

"Aren't you a little too old for that?"  He said with a mean look on his face.

"Yes I am, but this was the only way for me. I had financial problems when I was a child, but I wanted to learn. So, I took evening classes and after failing for three consecutive years , I finally passed today. ." Autowallah looked like a guy straight from fairytales, it all seemed so surreal. 


He stared into the autowallah's eyes, taking in what he just heard.  His lips automatically curved into a smile. He took out his phone, dialed a number and said- 

‘’Hey, I am sorry for shouting at you earlier. Do you mind if  I  come over?”