Perfect Human

The world dominated by the perfect human scares me. Imagine looking at all the fashion magazines and seeing the Dolce Gabbana clad models- perfect in their waist size, hair length, height, hair style, eye makeup and clothes; and then looking at yourself. You, clad in the old pajamas with pimples over your face; possibly above the golden weight, already feel way beneath the freckle less beauties. You have an inferiority complex and start to starve yourself. After a year of forcing yourself to vomit out every meal you have eaten and matting yourself with mac makeup, you might achieve that golden weight. But to what cost? A failing digestive system and a draught stricken body that will fall down at the slightest blow of air?

Now place yourself in a world of the perfect human- one that did not have to starve itself to look good. One that has it in their gene. One engineered to beat the highest specie on the food chain- itself. The Homo sapiens would have perfected its flaws and become invincible. The parents just need go window shopping- choose the hair color and the waist size along with the gene that makes your IQ above that of Einstein’s’. How would you- the mere ‘natural born’ who has a fit of cough and cold every other day that makes you slow in performance and bed ridden even when you don’t wish for it- then feel among the almost Gods?

I, for one, would declare myself a hermit and go reside in the deepest jungle with the lesser adequate species for company, all the while living in the fear of seeing a human. Such a world would come. I am sure it would. But does that make it fair or does that make it just another form of evolution?

Let’s start from the beginning- the world as we know it now (with the primates) only came into being after five ice ages- all of which annihilated life forms. Now in a future where we manipulate nature (another name for chance- chance for the kind of genes you inherit), we would be stopping evolution. My limited knowledge of genetics teaches me that mutations (another kind of chance) are not all bad.

For example, a nucleotide combinations- ATTTGCC- that is otherwise non-coding (also called intergenic region in DNA) and seemingly useless to us may become a new combination of nucleotides- say ATCTGCC- in the child which has had a natural birth. This new combination might code for a gene that continues the evolutionary process. In my little mind, I want this gene to make our eyes go the full 180 degree in opposite directions just to increase our spectrum of vision. Call it wishful thinking; but I call it evolution.

In the world of which we talk (the one in which making a baby is equivalent to making a custom made outfit) this would not be possible. We would already be perfect. But doesn’t perfection differ from person to person and from circumstance to circumstance? Today a perfect life for me is when I can sleep 9 hours a day. Tomorrow my perfect life might entail not sleeping at all.

So in such a world what happens to choice? How is it any different from Lenin’s communist Russia or Hitler’s Nazi Germany? Having said that, it is safe to conclude that our world 500 years hence will be bereft of choice and will hinder evolution.

Now think of what would happen to the spiritual realm. There would certainly be no God. Though an agnostic myself, the fear of the Supreme Being does prevent people from committing a lot of heinous actions. For that, I am grateful to the abstraction that is God. In this society of perfection, the fear would not exist and what happens when everybody becomes God? It’s a one word answer- bloodshed and revolution.

The funny thing about perfection is that although it is advisable to chase after it, it can never be achieved. It would be like a dog chasing its own tail. Does that mean we stop genetic research? No, we don’t. We are doomed to create a society of the perfect human, only to be wiped out of this Earth by that very idea. What has to be, will be!


Drugs and blanks

Blank, blank, blank…

I am blank. My mind is blank. Just as blank as it can get.

Nexito plus was the medicine.  The good doctor told me last night that I was not all that mad. Though I did have a few screws loose but the equipment was still holding on, somehow.

Mood stabilizers- they are called. Small pink medicines which taste sweet and stick to your teeth. The absorption period is just ten minutes. Taking it is easy but the sleep after that- that is the confusing part, Not the cluster B personality type lecture that I was given yesterday.

She asked me to listen to music- said it’ll keep the thoughts and sleep away. Hence I turned to Jackson for help. I wondered what Billy Jean had to do to get a spot in the star’s musical career. Was she the scrawny girl in the garage with the three older brothers who went to church every Sunday after a night of cocaine snorting? Or was she the good girl in her pink bedroom whose bent head just wanted to be in some fat good boy’s arms?

Now playing on the music application is Eric Clapton’s cocaine. I had seen him snorting once. My drugs actually started with him; he was my first drug. He fixed us a bong shot. “you gotta try a hit…it’ll change your life forever,” he had told me.

And it had. Everything was new; all passionate and toxic. He filled me up like the smoke from the tobacco. It exhilarated and burnt the lung. Yet it was welcome. It was wanted. It was desired. That day I learnt that the devil is nothing but our desire.

Fast forward to a few years. He is back and so is his energy and zeal. I distance myself; don’t engage in the drug. But what when the drug is in your blood? When disaster is a food for your soul. What do you do then?

Do you starve yourself or do you gorge down on the spread before you like the hungry carnivore that you are?

The last fight

Feminism had been talked about in almost all domains of her life. If one claimed to be from this century, one had to be aware of the term and all that went with it. Since play school, kids were taught the theory and by the time they reached middle school, they were expected to know how to treat the other sex fairly. However, the country she belonged to had a different story altogether. The theory was taught but the practical was skipped.

She belonged to the modern world and was an extrovert on most occasions. This trait gave her the access to the homes and private lives of people from her race. After a lot of consideration, she observed on a social media site that: In India, men love feminism only till before marriage (in most cases).

She had been prepared for outbursts from the other sex and even had her retorts ready. No sooner than she had put up this status, comments began to flood in. To her delight, most people seemed to agree with her but as in any story, there had to be a villain.

Our villain was an obnoxiously rude male who seemed to be very offended by this statement. He began his argument with a string of profanity stating that women were the culprits and pretended to be victims of a patriarchal setup. They had brought the tags of ‘delicate darlings’, ‘favourite rape victims’, ‘weaker sex’, etc. on themselves. Our man was quite a poetic soul. He went on to say that women were like the beautiful pitcher plants that trapped unsuspecting insects in its web of lies and deceit.

‘He must have had terrible relationships with the women in his life,’ she thought. By the time she could reply to his argument, another comment had come in from the same soul. This one, however, had a calmer tone and stated the example of an article in ‘Business Insider’ where Naina Lal Kidwai (the country head of HSBC) spoke about how feminism had empowered women and went on to sing praises of her husband’s support.

‘Well, all of that is good but how much of India consists of CEOs and CFOs. These folks to whom you refer have enough money to get their household chores done by others. But what of the rest of the county? How many husbands help their working wives at home,’ she asked.

The answer to this took time to come. After about two hours of waiting for a reply, our genius man stated the example of a ‘real life couple in a Bengali locality where the wife controlled the husband.’ ‘Ah, my friend. That is not feminism, that is oppression,’ she replied. Then she went on to explain how the word was not about one sex dominating the other but equality between the two and so on.

The person in question now had nothing more to say. He ended his argument with a private message to her saying—I hate women. That, for you reader, is what feminism leads to in our country.

The girl who worked in a bar

“I dropped out of a college, changed my stream, started over and worked in a bar.”

-Words I need to say in order to repel people or to get them to judge me. The aunty in the bus with her kid on her side becomes the cat on high alert. Her ears perk up and her hands cover her daughter’s ears. But she can’t contain herself. She has to go on and ask me; or atleast try to figure out why a girl from a ‘good family’ worked in a bar or dropped two years.

“Umm…but beta why?”

None of the explanations I give satisfy her. In her mind, I have already failed in more exams than I can count, got rusticated for rowdy behaviour and conducted myself in a shameful manner (slutty too).

“But all those men in the bar…was it safe?”

She might as well have asked me how many times I was raped or did something that would elicit the response ‘shame shame’ from her friend group.

The uncle I tell these words to looks at me like I am a piece of meat. Suddenly the wisdom in his eyes is replaced by lust. He is licking his lips mentally. Yum!

What I am doing now doesn’t matter. What matters is what I did. And what I did defines who I am right?

The girls my age run away from me. They have their morality to protect. Their mothers would disapprove. The guy I give my resume to is confused. A 8.0 gpa and then a dropout. Why?

Choice is not something I am allowed to have.

A girl from a good family cannot work in a bar because ‘those places are dangerous for women…’ As if only men drink. And a woman doesn’t have a voice, lest hands and legs.

Our girls should be kept in parda at home; should not have relationships of any kind before marriage; should not go out of home after 5 pm; should not have opinions; should not disobey- says the regime.

Marriage is the only solution for women. Once married, they are the property of their husbands and the slaves to their children. Marital rape is normal. There is consent of course- hey lady, you signed a social contract. Remember always,- the regime continues.

Why blame the regime. My gynecologist told me to not have premarital sex. ‘It can lead to all sorts of problems,’ she said with a wink.

Let’s not come to sexuality. I don’t have one. I can’t have one. The only desire I am permitted to have is that of wanting a kid. Where do kids come from? The angel plants it in my belly. In my case, the angel is my husband offcourse.

I am not allowed to be a single mother. “Shame shame,” Pammy aunty says.

Now our union minister has said surrogacy is not an option for homosexuls, single mothers and partners in a live in.

There goes my chances. After all, who will marry me? I am the girl who worked in a bar remember?

Damn I am doomed. And I am so bloody happy being doomed!

Promises to the world

I solemnly swear to make this minuscule space on the internet, that I claim as mine, a place of refuge for my thoughts and a way of letting all my pent up emotions out. This space will contain magic of all sorts and will not be subjected to morality, ethics or any other masochistic nonsense. It is dedicated to free thought and action.

I am a storyteller and this is how i choose to tell my stories- with pomp and circumstance. My stories will be told through free verse, prose and poetry. It will contain art and through these mediums of expression, I wish to create an imaginary world where thoughts are free and the mind has the strength to take actions in accordance to those very thoughts.

I will challenge tradition, rant when i want and most of all, be honest in the way i think and write. I will show all aspects of the human mind and revel in its complexities. Furthermore, I will take the side of those who are voiceless and less powerful. I promise to not be scared of authority and to ask questions where I deem necessary.

I will be my own master and this space invites all those who wish for a better world and are ready to work towards it. Oh and, I guarantee the reader absurdity for absurdity leads to laughter and a healthy life. My blog will feature crooked men, the girl who looked like a guy, pedestrians, exiled writers and pot bellied artists.

Movie reviews, color of ice cream, beef steaks, depression, LGBT rights, women issues, political jibberish, dreams, etc are my best friends.

So, let the absurdity begin!

Batman vs. Superman

Today I am angry.
Angry at history, angry at geography, angry at science, angry at God, angry at language and most of all angry at myself. The west created our modern day terrorist clad in a burqa or in facial hair. Anyone who wears the hijab or has Ali/Muhammad and the likes of it to his name; anyone who carries the kirpan; anyone who wears a skull cap or anyone who comes across as anti-social is a terrorist as deemed by our Lords. Yet we wash their feet and accept every lie they ever told us.
Then the mind thinks: who is they and who is us? Is there any distinction really? Pammi aunty might seem Indian- punjabi with high moral ethics. But our epitome of the Bharatiya nari with her sari clad in the right places, paying respect to the national anthem and getting covered with goosebumps once India wins a match against Pakistan, goes to Bangalore and says to the bus conductor “sorry I don’t speak South Indian.”
George sitting in California is a huge fan of the Indian culture. For him India is about Shahrukh Khan and chai and Bollywood and a landscape that looks like Punjab. If George went to university, he would know that the Kashmir issue is a lot like Israel and Palestine- nothing to do about it really; just nod your head and pretend you understand, then after two minutes of silence get back to your game. Sea Hawks is winning. When I talk to George, I am enraged. But then again, what do I (I, who considers myself a well-travelled Indian) know about Mizoram. For me, north east is just north east. If I visited Assam, I know what Arunachal looks like. Can’t blame poor old George for that, can I?
I feel angry when my Muslim friend gets stopped at the airport for surprise checks and I am left to go. I blame the government. I blame the country’s media. Hell I even curse Arnab Goswami in my head for a while. But then again, I can’t deny that when I see three men sporting beards and skullcaps, mostly keeping to themselves, in my flight across the aisle, I feel the chills. I don’t sleep in that flight, always vigilant about where their hands are going and adrenaline pumping just in case of a hijack. Who am I to blame the security guards?
Speaking of Arnab Goswami, as much as I curse him in my head, the first thing I see in my evening news is his ever entertaining show. ‘It has a comic value’, I say to myself. He and Chetan Bhagat are leading the new India- the new generation equipped with IPhone imported from the states, reciting feminist verses and talking about freedom.
Hey now, don’t get me wrong: I care. I do. After all Virat Kohli is God and well he is such a Ram for protecting his Sita. Purity is written all over him. So what if a plane got hijacked and a capital got bombed. It’s not within our country, is it? Let us just watch ‘A Wednesday’, recite the Aam Aadmi speech and feel good about ourselves.
‘We, the mango people, solemnly pledge that we will, to the best of our abilities, protect our own turf the best we can (that means at most dropping into some protests and screaming till our voice gets shrill and then getting back home and catching the first show of Kapoor and Sons) and if we feel too generous, we might just talk about the turf wars elsewhere.’
Donald Trump might win the elections- now I am scared. But what the hell? I have Modi to protect my ass. Another Batman verses Superman. India is a rising star waiting to burn bright. Anyway, I will be an American citizen within the next few years. Let’s hope Trump can hold on to his horses till then. He should let me into the promised land and then feel free to close the floodgates behind me.
Reservation, freedom, sexuality, feminism, terrorism, communalism, communism, fascism, media-ism and all the other isms in the world- believe me I care, I swear on my Beetle I do.
Who am I? I am the hypocritical human. I am the other half of every self-righteous me. I am the Hades to my Zeus. I am the Yin to my Yang. I am the balance of the universe. I am just me. And I am angry to be me. But hey the universe…gotta pay my respect to its wishes right? So I’ll just go drink another scotch and call it a night.
A very hypocrite night to all of you!

The Human Dilemma

To love is easy

To live with- difficult


To the man who loved me:


It is easy to love me

And equally hard to live with me.

No, it’s not prejudice of any kind;

I just need my space and time.

I fall from a height

And love from a distance.

The routine of human existence

Interests me not;

I would much rather have

One night in a year

to cherish the memory

for the rest 364 days.

I would want to hear of your achievements then

And tell you mine.

No, let’s not hold the past too tight,

I’d much rather sail in a boat to the future.

Let us be the wave that meets the sand

once every few years;

Let us be the bird that romances the hill

every winter and then flies west for summer;

Let you and me be us

but only in our minds.


To the girl who loves me:

You know you are difficult

As am I.

We both are cut from the same cloth;

We both wear the same unaltered pride

On our skin.

We both are the cats who come together

Just for a meal.

We both understand each other

Like twins read their mind.

Do I love you more?

Do I love you less?

Do I love you at all?

You are an everyday dilemma;

You are something I am not sure about,

Yet I am dead sure about.

You are the wave, much like me;

You are the bird, again like me;

You are in my every day;

The only problem is the future.


The boat is still just wood.