Saturday, August 30

Fleeting Happiness

All of us find happiness, at a visceral stage of life. We seek out the motes of happiness - whatever the definition - and make it ours for a fleeting moment, and that gives us coal and steam to chug ahead, a steampunk contraption on its way to eventual hydraulic breakdown until that regular maintenance chap comes by, steals another vague impression of happiness - again, definition is immaterial - and fixes you up, but just.
My definition of happiness is as fleeting as the moment itself, but it finds some use when it is required most; when the wheels and gears and rotors and pistons are on the verge of breakdown and the maintenance guy has been slacking off on his job. From an umbrella that opens up into a newspaper to the room stinking of cigarettes and alcohol from the night before, and the day ahead, everything moulds itself into a tool to recompose yourself - to put on that helmet of alacrity and charge ahead like there is an army that needs to be defeated in waves, and you are the Hero, the Chosen One, the Messiah.
You are Player One.
If an index of happiness were to be prepared over the years, I do not know when there was that slight shift in preferences in my brain when smaller pieces of happiness were superseded by the overarching plot of the pointlessness of it all. It is not desperation that speaks but an undercurrent of being jaded - of seeing a minuscule portion of life in all its glory and extrapolating it to everything else with astonishing accuracy. In this exercise to balance everything out, keep everything ordered, make the outside as clean as the inside was unclean, the happinesses and the sadnesses were evened out with the extrapolations of "oh you know, it's not really that bad, is it?" and so on. It had not occurred to me that in my eagerness to please Temperance, I was slowly killing a vital part of me - of where I connected the thoughts and feelings into writing. In my haste to treat all writing that did not have a story as "angsty stuff", I had been taking a scalpel to the brain tissue.
But a string of recent events have restored some lives and added a couple of red hearts to the top right hand corner of my life, as I see it. Keeping a journal, getting an unexpected offer, a long night of excellent conversations and the subsequent morning full of a year's worth of catching up. While the hellos and goodbyes stirred up the well of feeling as a force worth its weight in rhodium, there was that subtle need and cry for being whole again.
We do try to find solace in our little lies.

Tuesday, April 8

Soma Dreams Part 1

A little something I wrote on a whim. Alarond has the rest of the story up on his own blog. Finally something that the two of us accomplished after... 8 years of knowing each other.

It’s 3AM and time for the third dose. The faint aroma of black cigarettes cloud over the entire room; ReligionMan and PoshGirl have been buying too much of that shit. It screws with his perception as everything in the room glows and ripples with the comedown. The smoke slithers away from the bed, the only other piece of furniture in the room and some of it still leaks from the broken steel tumblers that they were all using for the good time meeting and dose one. The breeze from outside rips into his fingers as the window swings open. There is a little too much of SO2 in the air today, but anything beats the fucking blacks.

“Dose 3, dose 3, where are you dose 3” K hums to the tune of the latest earworm. The music is relatively flaky, as most earworms do, and everyone sings it automatically around him. It’s either that, or face more of this shit every morning. The tepid bassline from inorganic speakers are blasting around outside his flat too, raking experience points for the number of people it has infected. Hefty marketing budget no doubt, and also a huge target group in his colony. Kept the costs down for rent so that some are leftover for the soma. Soma 3X, named after the famed little drug from an old book.
"Today is the day, dose 3". Tiny vial was hidden beneath the chocolate wrappers containing some chocolate, the actual printed book he always wanted to read but never got down to, some bills, some ATM receipts, some cards, another tumbler - this one clean - and another reader he had 'found' in the lobby of his office. Getting to the dose would take some time for K, especially since he was coming down from dose 2. There was really no time for internal reflection as the manual recommended; the hallucinations on dose 1 were way too much fun. It was like being plugged in, but with an as-yet unprogrammed OS. Everyone was having a good time chasing their versions of unicorns and one-eyed devils that plunged into the sea in a neverending mess of trust-falls and laughter. Dose 2 was a failure so dose 3 was his only hope. Only hope until the next paycheck and a trip to Kalighat. The calendar was in a miserable shape after last weekend's little mishap but it still told him enough to make him flomp into the bed without much of a fuss.
'Fuck dose 3. Day after plans follow:-
1. Work
2. Check bank account
3. If salary credited, continue work until off time
4. If salary not credited, bite tongue and activate chill out procedures for one more day
5. Go to Kalighat
6. Get material
7. Make doses
8. Sell and dose
9. Get that fucking dose 3 right
yeah get it right.'
It's day after tomorrow and K and his lawyer-friend A are out of breath. The temple's dome is glowing in the lovely shade of post-dawn auspice, it's always //insert auspicious hour here// when devotees from Kansas to Io touch the reconstructed feet of Kali to receive blessings, and maybe a chance to flirt with the priestesses who had taken over the temple some decades ago. Twenty odd advertisements for agarbattis, kumkums, the hackers of Kudghat, the old mime academy nearby, sundry transport services and condoms float around the dome in a slow game of freechess where nobody dies and the game is pointless. K reaches for the dome entrance nearby - it's colour a shade of post-twilight lust. The lurch that accompanies the dome-change is, as always, nauseating and cumbersome for the guy.
The auction house clamours for attention and A points to his dimly glowing watch, flashes his greedy smile and leaves K alone to mangle his way into the busy street towards the shaman. The line in front of the shaman-house was mercifully short. He took his number from the reception computer, idly people-watched and listened to yesteryears' classic EDM. The last junkie came out and he sauntered in with the slip of paper. Prescription as he called it.
The shaman was undeniably Indian, possibly Bengali. His accent was way too thick and too Bong to be anything else. Normal conversation was impossible thanks to the put-on mix of tribal tongue corrupted by Bengali influences, but K had done this a few billion times in the past year to automate it out.
"Haan ji, one kilo more of the powder."
"No, no, the usual rate. How are you today?"
"Thank you. You have healed me more than any other psychotherapist I have met."
The money changes hands as the generously endowed priestess (definitely from the temple) flashes him a smile and gives him the powder and her hand to kiss. K plants a firm kiss with the devoted lips of a friendzoned lover and walks away with some afterglow in his eyes.
A joins him with the pick of the day and some refill chemicals and they take the old metro to the crypt in Kudghat.
স্টোরেজ 2A / 1 আপনাকে স্বাগত>>
KRPT भंडारण 2A / 1 आप का स्वागत>>
KRPT சேமிப்பு 2A / 1 உங்களை வரவேற்கிறது>>
The maudlin lights cast a warm glow over K and A. A twitches his whiskers as he turns up the opacity of his glasses - almost instantaneously as the rickshaw pulls up near the storage area. There is some bickering over the fare before the rickshaw driver hollers some insignificant word of offense and keeps the change.
K chuckles as he opens the shutters to see their chemicals making a warm and yellow puddle in the northwestern corner of the room, right under the fridge. A immediately checks his phone for messages from the security system.
"Nope. We've been busted, I think." he flicks it shut.
"Who *was* this place registered under, again?"
"Some Roy Chowdhury or something, I don't remember. Poor guy." he says it with scant emotion.
"Fuck we should have insured this place."
"I can still make some. Need a kitchen, though."
The kitchen at Dithi's house needs some rearranging. K removes the cigarette stubs and the stray cockrach before arranging his chemicals in a neat and precise order. The fridge had to be brought from the living room till here by the three of them but it would help in step 11. It would be some time before dose 1 and 2 are ready and dose 3 is being frozen.
Some time later, the three were transported to planet A, K and Dithi respectively. The spaceship was flying smoothly around their subconscious' inner depths when the univse seemed to be struck by an universequake.
Two 'versequ-
Cluster quakes?
"Open the door, it's the police." (and subsequently the version of the same in Bengali, Hindi, Tamil and Mandarin)
As if on cue, K takes his next dose and gets up – a thundering titan in his world – to open the gates of Valhalla.  Hehe

Friday, September 2

Of rocks and time capsules.

It is quite mellowing to see that a large chunk of the posts prior to this one begin with the idea or the sentence that goes like so: "I should post here more often."
However, with the highs and lows of college life tugging at the hands of my life-o-clock, I believe that is a futile goal to look forward to. Instead, I will turn to the old times of '04-'08 (perfect times they were not, to be honest, but they were damn near close to good) and muse on my pointless outbursts both poetic and prosaic on these hallowed... HTMLs.
Perhaps it does me some good indeed to return to these pages, for I fear a cycle that ended sometime ago will begin anew in a few more days. Perhaps it is unjust to find solace in the arms of someone whom I have never invited to my house for a cup of coffee (what is the procedure to invite a bunch of code hosted online for a cup of coffee at your house? Surely, there is a connection here to Java, am I right?), yet I believe that Fealdamar is the rock. Perhaps not a Casterly one, but definitely a grounded boulder favoured by donkeys and ogres alike!
For all I know, as the road leads through many woods and lands unknown, this little corner of the internet shall remain mine and will be a camp where I can rest and recover my strength over bread, butter and a bit of ink.
Dear Fealdamar, you are a rock, you are a stone.

Monday, October 18

OH LOOK 6 years old!

If LD hadn't told me, I would've forgotten all about it.
Happy Birthday Fealdamar! :D
And that's that - making up for a huge number of unposted posts.

Friday, May 14

A Villanelle of Lost Times

I believe my talents faded away yesteryear.
With coded lines and an electronic wave-
It’s been far too long since I wrote, I fear.

Looking back on amber trees that stood austere,
Carven words and mellow sounds are what I crave.
I believe my talents faded away yesteryear.

Tin can sounds with gimmicks filled my ear-
Thus they pushed my Words away, though they didn’t deprave
It’s been far too long since I wrote, I fear.

A medium with restriction quite queer
Enlisted my skills as an apologetic knave
I believe my talents faded away yesteryear.

Dastardly yet courageous, a newfound premier-
Became my master, and for a while I, its slave
It’s been far too long since I wrote, I fear.

‘Twill be a while before I sit down to revere
And force my belief to sit down and behave
I believe my talents faded away yesteryear.
It’s been far too long since I wrote, I fear.

Sunday, April 11

Two Decades

That is the amount of my existence on this planet. Twenty times it has gone around Sol with me sitting on top with a wide CheshireCatGrin on my face. There have been times when the grin was not present, but it mostly existed and for a time things were nice.

It has been a worthwhile time – existing and working around it. I made some plans back when I was nimbly nineteen about this year – and for the most part it had been quite a likeable year. It had its ups and downs but it had a great many moments I cherish now and would like to get back to them again and again no matter what the circumstances.

I completed two of Something Else when I was nineteen. I achieved two out of four things that I had thought about to fulfill my materialistic existence. I started earning and am quite proud of it (why shouldn’t I?)

So it is indeed with hope, (Hope!) that I embark on this Journey,
As Sojourner and Compatriot
And many more titles will be bestowed
As I leave the portals of teenage and into a New Dawn.

And if you guessed the games some of the words are from, you get to see cookies! Happy Birthday to me!

Monday, March 15

Hello wishmaster

Wishes are like dishes. They need doing.

Once you get over that horrid sentence that has been playing over my head, might I remind you that this place holds memories of mine that no other genuine collective offline does? For the most part, I have chronicled mostly everything (and some nothings) here and even with its infrequent updates Fealdamar will not go down anytime soon.

But don’t take my word for it.


College, that immovable spire of civilization after a long and dusty cattle trail, is about as green and yellow as it ever was. Forgive me if my words are colour-deficit, but work and study and work and gaming have taken my descriptive prowess completely off me – at least where fictional descriptions are concerned. Make me describe a living person that I dislike a lot (or conversely like a lot), however I can prattle on to no end. Take for instance...OHNOES

Twitter has become my new office while the [\refer to shameless plug below/] has become my penthouse. I believe I speak like a broken record – yet everytime I try to write something the only thing I repeat are what I do for the most part, and where I do what I do for the most part, mostly. It is sad that most of my writing skills have been taken over by a hunger for success – something I might regret later on.

And this is pretty much why this blog is still awake and functioning, sending bytes of data to the poor wary Wanderer, or the occasional spider, who walks into these portals.

And I’m a believer of this impromptu haiku

Work for money spent
Write for beautiful feeling
can survive.