dated: 16/02/2009

Hi. My name is Jason. Jason Bond. I was born yesterday. Funny that I already have a Facebook profile, right? Yeah, I think so too. But I was told (not very long, that’s cause I was born just yesterday) that this is the world. I don’t have a passport, birth certificate, social security number, resident card or any of that crap. My sole identity is my Facebook account. Do I have friends? Oh no, not yet, I’m just a day old. My only friends are Mr and Mrs Bond (I haven’t met them, they seem to be in my “friends” list on Facebook). I talked to them today (using Facebook chat). They taught me how to make more friends. It’s really simple. I just need to “add” them. If they wanna be friends with me, they will accept my “friendship”. 

There’s nothing that I have. Just this thing which allows me to access something called facebook.com (they said it’s a website. I asked them what a website was. They said Facebook was a website. They also said that back in the day, there were other websites, billions of them. But they gradually became extinct. Facebook killed them all. So now Facebook is a website and a website is Facebook). 

I’m gonna make some friends now. There’s more I can do here on Facebook than just make friends. It says here that I can upload pics. But I dunno what pics I should upload. What if I just don’t wanna upload pics? (these questions are all answered by the Facebook bot, wow, he sure as hell must be a smart guy). “No, you have to upload pics. It’s a rule that every on Facebook follows. Since everyone who is on Facebook follows it, it means that EVERYONE uploads pics.” Is there anyone who doesnt’s upload pics? “No, everyone is on Facebook. There is no one who is not on Facebook. Facebook is the universe and therefore everyone uploads pics.” 

Ok, so now I gotta take pics and then upload them so that I can be a law-abiding Facebook citizen. Ummm, let me see. There, that thing over there, which I take a crap in, I’ll take a pic of that. Done. I’ve uploaded it. Oh wait, the bot is telling me I have to upload more pics. Now what pics should I upload? My diapers. Yeah, my diapers are important to me, so I’ll take pics of my diapers. There, I’ve uploaded them too. 

The bot is telling me that this is not enough. Apart from uploading pics, I have to do other things too. I gotta “talk” to my friends. Wait, what do you mean by “talk”? The bot tells me that I can “talk” by writing stuff on my friends’ “walls”. Ok. Done, I just wrote something on this guy’s “wall.” But why do they call it “wall”? That big concrete thing over there, isn’t that a wall? 

There’s these noises that I can make. No, not the ones that I make when I fart or take a crap. These noises that emanate from my mouth. Can my “friends” make these noises too (no, not the fart noises, I’m pretty sure they can make those)? Wouldn’t it be simpler to communicate by making these noises? I mean, hey, there must be a reason I can make these noises. I even seem to have weirdass outgrowths on the sides of my head that seem to pick up these noises. Yes, there’s surely a purpose to be fulfilled by making these noises. But what purpose? The bot says that making these noises that come outta my mouth is an exercise in stupidity and there is no purpose fulfilled by it.

No, writing on walls is not all that I gotta do. I also gotta write “notes”. What do I write about? The bot tells me not to worry. I’m gonna get “tagged” in someone’s “note” and then that I gotta read that “note” to learn how to write a “note.” Oh lookie, someone’s tagged me. This “note” calls itself “100 things”. There are questions here, about a hundred questions. I gotta copy these questions and answer them and publish it as a note. Can I swap this and do something else? “No” says the bot. “This is law. You are not above the law. Get your ass down to doing this note. NOW!!!!” 

Hey, I’m bored now. I just finished that note (not a very interesting thing to do). I wanna entertain myself. “Worry not” says the bot. “You can play some games to entertain yourself”. How do I play games? There’s that old dusty pic of this bunch of guys on the wall (the real wall, the one that’s made of bricks and shit, not the one on facebook). They look happy. I think they are entertaining themselves by kicking that round thing around. Seems interesting. Can I play that game? “Yes, you can. Just search for an “application” called “football” in the Facebook search bar, and add it and then use your keyboard to run and kick that round thing around” says the bot. No, Mr Bot, can I actually kick that round thing around? The bot says, “You most certainly cannot. It’s blasphemous. If you wanna entertain yourself, use these “applications”. Here’s a link, this will take you someplace that lists all the entertainment “applications”.”

I’m getting annoyed now. No, this is not what I wanna do. THIS IS MADNESS!!!! GET ME OUTTA HERE!!!!

dated: 31/10/2008

Like a feather in the breeze
I’m floating in mid-air
Mind and body at ease
Where am I? I’m still not aware

Now I’m going higher
Away from the calm sea below
Am I’m still going higher
But where exactly? I really don’t know

Now everything around looks white and grey
I must be in the clouds
Which probably is real far away
From the sea below which the clouds now shroud

Am I in paradise?
But then I must be dead
How did I meet my demise
If I really am dead?

I seem to be alone here
Is someone watching me?
But who is this spying seer
Who I cannot see?

Fuck! My head hurts
Maybe it’s because I’m so confused
Show me your face you fucking pervert
And help me outta this state bemused

Shit! I’m falling down now
Back to the sea below
Gravity suddenly seems to have remembered somehow
That I’m not a feather or a flake of snow

Fuck you gravity!
I don’t wanna come down
Below to the deep blue sea
For I fear I may drown

But I’m still falling
Down towards the sea
Gravity doesn’t seem to be listening
To my desperate plea

I close my eyes
As I try to stop my descension
Through the turbulent skies
Towards an equally turbulent ocean

Ouch! My body fucking aches
I must’ve hit the water
I open my eyes to find myself lying awake
On the bed which was once my daughter’s

I’ve returned to the real world
This is where I dwell
But I hate this world
My life here is hell

Once upon a time
I was a happy man
Leading a life sublime
Until my tryst with heroin began

I remember the first time
I tried it with a friend
Back then, I was in my prime
A young man trying to follow the latest trend

It was a great feeling
Of euphoria and of joy
That was the beginning
Of an addiction that would destroy

The crystalline white powder
Became my life
My refuge and shelter
Essential for me to survive

It originated in Afghan poppy fields
And found its way to my veins
Travelling thousands of miles through smugglers and peddlers
All the way to my brain

Soon, I lost my job and my family
Money and whatever I had
My wife and daughter hated me
Because of an addiction that had driven me mad

I loved them
My daughter and my wife
But my addiction condemned
Them to leave me and my life

I tried kicking the habit
But life without smack was hellish
I would writhe in pain if I didn’t have a hit
Just like sans water a fish

I survived each dose
But needed another to survive in turn
Heroin made life less painful and morose
But now it’s something impossible for me to spurn

I sold everything
To fuel my addiction
And now I’m left with nothing
Except for a life of affliction

There’s no way outta this hell
It’s too late to go back
My only escape
Is another dose of smack.

dated: 12/08/2008

Dear Readers

Yesterday, every Indian had a reason to feel proud. Abhinav Bindra won the gold medal in the 10m Air Rifle event at the Olympics and thus became the first Indian to have won an individual Olympic gold medal and the first gold since 1980 (which had been won for hockey).

But isnt it amusing, how a country of a billion until now never managed to win a single Olympic gold or hasnt won a gold since 1980? Its a shameful truth that we as Indians have to face. India had won only four individual medals, none of them gold, since sending their first team to the Summer Games in 1928. Whereas South Korea, a country with a population of about 4% of that of India, and about 30 times smaller, has already won 12 medals at the 2008 Games alone (5 golds, 6 silvers, 1 bronze).

Bindra is being hailed as the country’s most eligible bachelor at the moment. But a few weeks after the end of the Games, and India will forever forget him and his exploits. Who remembers Rajyavardhan Singh Rathore, India’s lone medal winner (silver) in the 2004 Games in Athens? And the eligible bachelors  list will once again be topped by MS Dhoni.

I feel sad to say that most of the sporting talent in our country is ignored in favour of the gentlemen playing the more glamourous game of cricket. I, like all my countrymen, love cricket, but I feel we should give more importance to other sports as well. The Aussies play loads of games, and they are the best at most of them! If the Aussies can be the best at so many sports with a population of just 21,370,000 , we Indians surely can be a better with our population of a billion plus.

The following obituary was inspired by something I saw on the MTV tickr yesterday. It paints a sad but true picture of the situation of the so very talented yet ignored sportspersons in our country.

IN FOND MEMORY OF ABHINAV WINNING AN OLYMPIC GOLD MEDAL (11/08/08-12/08/08)

*Even though Abhinav is the first Indian to have won an individual Olympic gold, the media will give Sania Mirza’s skirts and track pants more airtime and space.

*No girl will put up posters of Abhinav on their walls or have a pics of him as their wallpaper or screensaver.

*No one will recognize Abhinav on an Indian street.

*His signature will never become an autograph.

*So what if Abhinav won an Olympic gold, Rohit Sharma will still make more money.

*No one will ever come to iSuperstar and say they want to become Abhinav Bindra.

*Bigg Boss will never invite him to the Bigg Boss villa.

*Abhinav will become an officer on Khatron Ke Khiladi at best. Or Ram Gopal Varma may approach him for a gangster film (and he probably wont pay him for it!). He cant hope for more than that.

*The Abhinav Bindra fanclub on Facebook has just 611 members. And how many Indians are there on Facebook? Certainly a whole lot more than 611.

*Harman Baweja will still be more well known that Abhinav.

*Abhinav will never be able to have KOFFEE WITH KARAN.

*Rakhi Sawant will never feature Abhinav on THE RAKHI SAWANT SHOW.

*Asha Bhosle may call Brett Lee to India to do another album, but she certainly would never consider to have anything to do with Abhinav.

*The Indian media would consider Ishmeet’s death a bigger loss than that of Abhinav and would certainly give Ishmeet more airtime than Abhinav.

*People will be able to recognize Sachin Tendulkar’s kid and would know all about him, but would probably not even be able to recall Abhinav’s name properly.

*Reebok will never sign Abhinav or would never start a signature Abhinav line of sportswear.

*Any videos of Abhinav (on youtube) in his winning moment  will never even come close to having the same number of views or hits as the video of Mika kissing Rakhi Sawant or Kareena and Shahid’s kiss.

It is indeed sad that Abhinav will probably never become a face that Indians all over the world would recognize (atleast unless we change the way we treat our sportspersons). I am proud of you Abhinav. India is fortunate to have great men and women like you. If we continue to disregard these talented citizens, it wont be long before our sportspersons, like our IT geniuses, get brain drained and we lose them to countries that actually value their talent.

Yours Ludicrously

Lucky

dated: 03/08/2009

A poem I wrote, based on a dream I once had.

Once Upon a Stormy Night

A rainy night
A deserted street
No one in sight
In the dark retreat.

The distant rumbling thunder
The croaking crickets
The only sounds that sundered
The rain’s monotonous racket.

Suddenly, a movement in the distance
A cat’s purr
An owl’s hooting askance
All at the same instance occurred.

Gradual illumination of the dark street
By a pair of emerging headlights
Like a phantom covering a regular beat
Impervious to the stormy night.

A car announced its arrival
With a screeching halt
The owl hooted its disapproval
As a man stepped out onto the asphalt.

This stout man, who was expensively dressed
And wore shoes of patented leather
Swore out loudly in disgust and detest
As he realized his apparel would be ruined by the weather.

He saw a figure emerge out of the darkness
Steadily walking towards him
The owl, surprised by the new arrival’s abruptness
Hooted again loudly in an expression of its whim.

He seemed appropriately dressed for the weather
As if he had been waiting
In a large trench coat and boots of water resistant leather
In anticipation of this meeting.

The stout man cried out
“Sir, a flat has crippled my car
Please do help me out
You’re my only hope, the nearest help is much too far”.

The other man replied,
“Yes, I will help you
But let there be no lies
I shot at your tire and caused the flat that you now wish to subdue”.

The stout man
As his puzzled expression showed
Did not seem to understand
That he would not go further down the road.

The trench coated man added
“Someone has signed your death warrant
And hired me to execute the deed
At this chosen place, in this torrent”.

And then, he drew a Beretta semi automatic handgun
Fired two shots in quick succession
And the job was done
With a professional killer’s precision.

The man fell down, lifeless
Blood oozing out of his forehead
He lay there, hapless
On the dark stretch of blacktop: his deathbed.

The owl hooted, much louder this time
The only witness to this perfect crime.
The assassin turned away from the bloody mess
And disappeared into the darkness.

A poem I’d written sometime at the beginning of 2008, about the Sicilian Mafia (yes, I admire the Mafia men). Very Godfather inspired. Read on……….

Emerging on the horizon,
As if from distant lands,
Of the “Earth Shaker” Poseidon,
The Sicilian firebrands.

Nerves of steel,
Their glance makes one feel,
The sharp pierce of their gaze,
And their determined craze.

Furious determination smouldering in their handsome eyes,
Revealing for injustice their clear despise.
Omerta is their only law.
Complemented by their courage which in the face of the greatest danger doesn’t thaw.

The feel of their presence,
So strong in its essence,
Felt even by the blind,
Who though cannot see, but still feel it unrefined.

Their nonconformist yet attractive appearance,
Catches many an eye,
And so does their garb in perfect coherence,
To their imperative honour that they place so high.

Donning their elegant Borsalino fedoras,
They earn the admiration of all the Signors and Signoras.
Personal vanity among their most vital characteristics,
Their apparel is best described artistic.

The fervent determination,
The hunger for honour and admiration,
This particular aberrance,
Becomes the very cause of their existence.

These indomitable outlaws,
Like renditions of God Himself,
Seek to establish kingdoms without flaws,
Where they administer the justice themselves.

The pejorative title of “Mafia” bestowed upon them,
So feared, that the utterance of the very word requires a hem,
These men are often misjudged,
As despicable criminals and thugs.

Their sole purpose the deliverance of justice,
Justice denied to the Sicilians by vile judges with decisions prejudiced,
And authorities corrupt and incompetent,
That possess moralities best described acaulescent.

Committed to their administration of justice,
Theirs is a very fair practice,
Often misjudged as nefarious,
But in reality, fair and congruous.

Many may consider their lives a waste,
That end in welters of blood and bullets.
But for such danger these men have a taste,
For their lives are the equivalents of a game of Russian roulette.

I salute these men for their gallantry,
And tribute them with this humble piece of poetry.
For they are the true salt of the earth of the land of Italy,
The angry young men of Sicily.

Yours Ludicrously
Lucky

dated: 30/06/2008

Been doin a lot of reading lately (this village that im currently stranded in doesnt have 2 many modern forms of entertainment). Read Godfather again. Everytime I read it, always feels like the first time. Everytime I read it, theres something new to learn. Everytime I read it, Im bowled over by the impressive character of Don Vito Corleone. Grand, wise, intellectual, benevolent yet ruthless, rich yet humble, flamboyant yet understated, simple yet elegant. Essential characteristics of the man.

But theres always this sense of deja vu, knowing such a man in books, not just Godfather, loads of them. 

Its common to many well known plots, and many of my favorites. Godfather, Harry Potter, Shantaram, I could cite many examples. However amazing the stories, but it still seems cliched. Theres always the presence of the wise old man, whose like a guiding star to the protagonist or central character of the plot and this wise old man always himself has a major role in the story. So lets name this common character “Wise Old Man”. And usually the protagonist is something like a protege to this Wise Old Man. And oh yeah, Wise Old Man is always a know it all (those types annoy me, but strangely I like Wise Old Man in these books).

The Wise Old Man is always portrayed to be wise, rich, intellectually superior, famous, powerful and old. Wise Old Man’s childhood/youth is always scarred by many mishaps and misfortunes, making him seem like one to be sympathised with.Wise old man is also usually orphaned at a very young age. Yet against all the odds that he’s faced with, Wise Old Man being determined overcomes hardships and losses and failures and bad guys and grows up to become a great powerful man, one to be reckoned with. And Wise Old man is usually killed by his foes, and his death is avenged by Mr Protagonist of the story. If ur not smart enuf 2 yet figure out well known characters, Im talkin about characters such as Don Corleone from Godfather, Dumbledore from Harry Potter, Abdel Khader Khan from Shantaram, etc.

What amazes me is the fact that despite the presence of the Wise Old Man who is so fuckin cliched, the author usually ends up writing a great book, one that is hailed by critics and the public and myself alike. 

So is this some kind of secret ingredient towards writing a great book? Yea, it seems easy, we have our leading man named Mr Protagonist and all the other characters. Throw in Wise Old Man, make his a not-so-happy, not-so-well-known and quaint past, and his rise to power a magnificent one. There, now that the guiding stereotype is ready, the story’s gonna be a great one. Is that the mindset adopted by greats like Mario Puzo, JK Rowling, GD Roberts for writing such mind blowing plots? These authors are considered Gods in the writers/authors universes and echelons, but this stereotypical and cliched character who they all have to necessarily throw into their stories makes them seem less incredible and more mortal kinda.

Amazing books, but now that I think of it, they all lack originality when it comes to the portrayal of this Wise Old guiding star Man. Makes me wonder, how the hell is it that these brilliant authors lack the creativity so as to not be able to make a good story without the presence of the Wise Old Man? Does nearly every good plot necessarily need him for the story to be a success?

Its like a common weakness to these authors. Makes me feel good and bad. Good cause it goes to show that they lack a little bit of creativity somewhere and that is a weakness and weaknesses make them (the authors) seem like mortals. And bad cause Im bored of reading about the chronicles of the Wise Old Man over and over again in different forms.

Yours Ludicrously
Lucky