Sunday, December 25, 2005

Truth Be Told

I'm lost. I am alone. I need a beer. I need a coffee. I need conversation. I need self-esteem. I need a clue. I need sex. I need somewhere to go. I need to think. I need... something.

I'm ok by the way.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Tell-Tale Heart

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

The boy sat on his bed in the dark of a eerie silent summer night. He slowly opened the leather bound tome, knowing what macabre tales of horror and melancholy lay in them. He wanted to be thrilled, to be haunted, to be... alive. The pages fluttered gently in the still air, the boy's heart skipped a beat. He skimmed through the pages wondering which tale he should choose. Running his fingers absently along the spine of the book, his eyes suddenly caught something that was perfect for the night. A tale, of a tell-tale heart...

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

As he read these lines, they seemed to take him or rather possess him in a certain way. Instantly he was carted away into a time when lamps lit the night and the wood of a door creaked. Where things still went bump in the night. The boy began to read the lines out aloud, to nobody in particular. He felt as if it was him telling the sordid tale... the tale of man who didn't know madness from sanity. The man who heard heaven and hell and lived to tell the tale until that one old man entered his life.

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about
midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

The boy's voice grew louder and bolder. Like an actor but also like a man who's very soul had been saturated with a madness that had consumed him. Sanity was no longer an option. In his mind's eye all he could see was that repulsive vulture eye and how the hatred filled the boy in his room. He retched and grunted as he read on louder and louder consuming and narrating the story at the same time. The old man was the one thing that was his end, he spoke on with nothing but the words on the yellow paper to guide him, slowly becoming more and more animated with each word. Telling the world, how he wanted to kill the old man and why it was wise of him to go about it as he had so far. He felt a deep soulful pain at the thought of speaking to the old man every morning. "Such a creature shouldnt be allowed to breathe." He said to himself as his his throat gulped to keep himself from regurgitating in sheer disgust. "I won't, I won't, I can't... I can't allow his eye to look at me any more... I CAN'T!!!!"

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern.

The boy smiled with mad glee... The old man feared him. He was in mortal terror and he the boy--- who had never before done anything that even resembled madness ever in his life--- had put that old man in that dreadful condition. "Yes, yes... he is afraid... he is so very afraid. Go on old man, feel the fear, for you are the reason for my madness. You and your vulture eye." And in all this anger he began to breathe hard. The words which were loud and confident until now suddenly became a stuttering shudder... he breathed the story into the room in quick gasps, the anger was consuming him. He wanted the old man to die of sheer fear... he shook from side to side as he uttered each word, telling others about his tale of madness. And as he did so a solitary tear trickled down the side of his face. The kind of tear that is so charged with anger that one doesn't even notice it. He knew it was soon going to be time... the time to...

So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour!

His eye... his disgusting dull blue eye... The boy shivered with a madness that he couldnt understand and slowly he began to hear that thumping.... resonating in every fiber of his being. The summer night was as still as can be and not a soul stirred that night, but the boy, so moved by the writers words, rocking back and forth in the self-consuming madness, heard the drum, he heard the distant drumming of the clock, enveloped in cotton. The boy began to panic, he sneaked peeks at the door every other instant, growing fearful, anxious, scared... insane. "The drumming... oh! the drumming of
his heart!" He muttered feverishly in his sub-conscious mind as his fingers shivered over the black lines.
"The neighbours they'll hear me... they'll see my madness and they wont understand, they won't understand, they can't understand... no wait I have to... I have to do something." He looked around in panic, jerking his head from his left to his right and back to the worn page, reading each word as mortal fear consumed him... The neighbours...

With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

The boy lunged forward with his bare fists and began pounding the air, the bed, the cotton from the pillows spewed forth generously as he finished the old man off... the drumming... it had to stop... it HAD to! He kept swallowing hard and looking at nothing in particular as a glazed look fell over his eyes, veiled in madness he had to finish what he had started. He can't let that heart beat any longer, the eye, the madness.. it has to stop. All of it, it has to stop. And then... abruptly... it did. The beating was no more. Sweat slowly dripped from his brow as he looked at the remains and breathed hard, the madness.. it was over. The eye... it was no more. Now he had to be shrewd. He had to do something about the old man...

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!

Yes, yes... the boy at thought of everything. Meticulously he cut open the body of the old man. Each arm, each leg slowly sliced and dismembered all the while maintaining an engineered precision, after all he was wise. There was no reason to fear he had been like a predator. Quiet, efficient and deadly. It was all over now. He giggled like a dizzy school-girl as the night hummed on. "I did it... that eye... Its no longer alive.. I , me, I did it!" He shook with a gleaming mad delight. HE was the genius. HE made the kill and HE would now deposit the body without so much as a whiff of a scuffle.

When I had made an end of these labors, it was
four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

Ha! What could those stupid men know. The boy was the wise one. He was the one who so exquisitely executed the plan of finishing the old man. And he was the one who had so brilliantly deposited his body. The neighbour listening in was just pure co-incidence. They had no reason to suspect any foul play whatsoever. The men in uniform could be lead anywhere. Why he would even lead them to the very spot of the body. What could they possibly know. After all, he wasn't MAD... of course he wasnt.... but...the drumming... no... wait.... the drumming.... it can't be... he swallowed again and began to sweat, wait... no... how could it be. He spoke quicker... no no no... they can't... it can't. How? How? HOW?!

I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

The panicked... he lied....ran, he screamed...and then he dove into the pillow and pulled out the beating heart... Crying hysterically he collapsed into his own lap in deep sobs. "How could they not hear? how could they mock me like that... am I mad? I must be mad... here here I won't lie any longer. I'm not as wise as I think... take this tell teale heart! I confess to my insanity... I confess." Slowly his sobbing ceased. The spinning world, came back into his view. The tears dried up. He look around and smiled. And then.... we pulled up the blanket and went to bed.

Thank you Mr.Poe for a great bedtime story.

For those of your who haven't read "Tell-tale heart" by Edgar Allen Poe, I recommend you read the original draft for I have taken a couple of liberties by editing the story. I couldnt possibly have done it any justice and I apologize in advance for the liberties I've taken. This post is just meant as a thank you to a man that has taught me and so many others what true emotion in writing is. Thank you again Mr.Poe.

Sunday, December 18, 2005


Easy rock n' roll music spewed forth fluidly in the background. The lighting was sombre, the mood undeniable. She was dressed in cotton and denim, roughly cut, almost as if it had been half torn off her in the heat of the moment. Her skin visible through the intentional rips in the fabric was like porcelain. It had a very sensual flow to it, a radiating almost trembling flow that was both enticing and intimidating at the same time. Her hair was windswept and dark and casually flitted across her perfectly sculpted breasts. Slim and athletic at the same time her body seemed only to be an extension of her eyes, soulful and fiery at the same time. She moved with a slow purpose, her movements accorded a relaxed certainty to her intentions.

He watched her across the room, approaching him. He stood his ground, tilting his head in a manner that likened him to a predator and clenched his jaw. A glimmer of a smile slid across his face and sweat slowly trickled down his chiseled chest. He wore pair of worn denim jeans and nothing else. His long hair matted with sweat was disheveled, almost taunting. He watched her with his steel grey eyes without even blinking once.

The heat in the room almost hummed in their ears as the atmosphere tensed. Almost as if the room was slowly holding its breath in anticipation. The music in the background moved, relaxed and free, rhythmic, a deliberate contradiction to the scene that was filled with electricity. They touched. His hands firmly on her hips and her fingernails gently scraped across his chest. They closed their eyes and their open lips fluidly melted together. They breathed hard. They tasted each others sweat. He slowly ran his lips across her nape and gently nibbled on her ears. Their hips slowly rocked together and her toes curled as she turned her neck seductively and breathed his name...

Damn Mick Jagger and Co. can make a music video!

Shall We Dance?

My dad has given me a lot. That's probably a no-brainer. But I'd like to share some of the finer things that the man has shown me over the years.

There's this one club in Mangalore, the town I live in, which to put it very mildy, is something else. Quaintly named 'Mangalore Club'. It was set up by the British in the mid 1850's and has a very colonial feel to it. Very old world with its cane and teak furniture, its library with a few dusty tomes which have quietly eroded over time and its opulent and impeccable snooker table. But the real charm of the club lies in its location. Perched so calmly on the edge of the Nethravathi river, it overlooks its pristine waters with quiet dignity.

The view is stunning and leaves me at a loss for adjectives everytime I have the privilege of experiencing it. At night the moon serenly glistens over the waters of the relaxed river. And the rail bridge over the water is the icing on the cake. The trains passing over the river at night make for a sight that is quite out of the ordinary. Under the shroud of a quiet saturday night, the train looks like a string of pearls gliding effortlessly over a veil of shining velvet. It is, Magic.

Its rooftop balcony is a place that has long held an invaluable spot in my Mills and Boon-esque fantasy of the "perfect proposal". A candlit proposal here with nothing but some light jazz (Django Reinhardt style) and the distant hum of the passing locomotive to give me some courage and rhythm was what my 16 year old self fantasized about when I first fell in love.

It's also special for so many other reasons, my most memorable father-son conversations have taken place in this delightful place, the most striking one being the one in which my dad bought me a beer for the first time. In a comic digression to this so far formal and descriptive post, I'd like to quote the incident.

Dad: So done playing snooker?

Me: Yup, played three frames, sick of it for now. What're you upto?

Dad: The usual. (now calling for the waiter) One UB pint.

Me: (Looking around a bit confused) You don't drink beer dad, where's my kebab btw?

Dad: It's on its way.

(The beer approaches, my dad waves the waiter towards me, the waiter places the pint *nicely chilled one* in front of me)

Me: (Now just plain shocked, jaw-dropping and everything) Huh?

Dad: Do you take me for an idiot?

Me: *sipping my beer, WITH MY DAD!* (subconciously) Dad you rock!

Following this incident me and my dad have had a good few beers together and each time the conversation has been something that I'd remember for the rest for my life. And when it comes to talking to someone who's seen as much of life as my dad, well, let's just say you can't get better advice.

Now, back to why I'm writing this post. Tonight there was a very cute wedding reception that took place at the club and we'd gone there just for a drink together. But after a pint I decided to see what all the music was about and wandered on to the balcony.

It was a lovely night tonight, the weather was absolutely perfect, the cool evening wind that slid along the wide balcony made it perfect for a stroll. The moment I stepped out, I felt light and airy, content with the world in general. I ambled on until I could see the reception party below me on the outdoor moonlit dance floor. They had a live band playing and the party seemed to look, well, happy.

They had couples dancing on the floor and two of them were particularly good. I stood there watching the men twirl the very pretty girls around, all of them smiling and laughing and generally having a great time. I watched them dance to 60's pop music for quite a while and as they danced, I felt a slight twinge. I'd never learnt how to dance. In my quest to become one of the engineering elite, I'd never learnt how to ask a lady to dance. I know it's not tragic or anything. Heck I know that I did what I had to. I did the straight up mature thing and studied my butt off. This is by no means a post of desperation or complaint. And this is defintely not a post of regret.

It's just that this kid would like to dance with a pretty girl.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

The Tag

The tag virus has infected me... for further refernces, contact Camphor

7 things that I plan to do
Rediscover Mangalore.
Find myself.
Make others smile.
Rule the universe.
Live life... yes, just live.

7 things that I can do:
Eat like there's no tomorrow.
Do a great "Gay guy" imitation... for further references, ask pierre.
Imagine I'm in free form flight.
Drive a car really really fast and do those funky powerslides.

7 things that I can't do:
Create music like Floyd did.... But then again who can?
Stop time.
Watch Ekta Kapoor serials for more than 4 nano seconds.
Dance...Well I could, but it would probably pose a problem to world peace.
Abstract math.
Fly. Not the marijuana powered shit, I meant the real thing.
Play chess to save my life... what a fucked up boring game!

7 Words I use most Often:
Bhen C&^%
Putits. Yes as in put+its... IIT lingo for do something... I know we're sad.
Worrsht. A corruption of worst.

7 blogs(untagged ones) that I wish to tag:
Damn... Fuck it... I tag anyone who reads this. Balls to all of you, for bothering with this scourge of the internet.

© New Blogger Templates | Webtalks