Rocky.

Rocky smells something. It is good. Very Good. Rocky follows the smell. It comes from a fat man. Rocky follows Fat Man. Fat Man enters a hole. Rocky barks and wags his tail. Good dog, Rocky is. Good dog.

Fat Man looks at Rocky. Good. Rocky wags his tail harder. Fat Man touches Rocky. Good. Rocky licks his hand. Good dog. Fat Man catches his collar and takes him to small men. Small Men look at Rocky. Rocky wags his tail. Smell is strong. Rocky barks. Small Men rub Rocky's head. Good. They give him bread. Good. Very Good. Rocky eats. Rocky is happy. Small Men tie Rocky to a rope and tie him to a pipe. Bad. Rocky barks. Small Men leave. Rocky barks. Rocky is tired. Rocky sleeps.

Rocky wakes. Rocky sees a big man walking to the hole. Bad smell. Bad. Rocky barks. Rocky pulls at his chain. Rocky pulls. Pulls. Big Man is followed by two Tall Men. Big Man and Tall Men walk to hole. Bad. Rocky barks.

Big Man sees Rocky. Big Man comes to Rocky. Bad. Rocky puts his tail between his legs. Big Man takes Rod and hits Rocky. Rocky is hurt. It pains. Rocky barks harder. Big Man hits. Pain. Pain. Rocky is in more Pain. Rocky pulls at rope hard. Hard. Rocky escapes. Rocky leaps at Big Man. Rocky bites Big Man's nose. Yes. Big Man is bad. Rocky bites and bites. Tall Man takes thick rod from his pocket. Points it at Rocky.

Rocky is very hurt. Rocky barks. Rocky loses his strength. Rocky barks and barks. Rocky is in pain. Rocky barks. Fat Man comes. Rocky barks. Fat Man runs inside. Rocky lies down. Rocky is in pain. Rocky cannot see anything. Rocky barks. Rocky sees Brown Men coming. Rocky barks. Rocky is in pain. Pain.

Rocky dies.

Hair-rape.

He tightly twisted the long cloth around my neck. I couldn't breath. He took a shining blade in his hand, raised  it up with malice, and asked,

"Sir, unglakku short-a venuma, medium-a venuma?"

The reason I go to 'hair-styling salons' is my little ray of hope that the dudes there would understand a bit of English, and/or get atleast a vague idea of what I want my hair to be like; I do not have the same hair-texture as that of general South Indians. The above tamil quote just shattered my little ray of hope. I used my cracked, rusty Tamil and somehow got the guy to know that I wanted a 'change of style', or rather, 'change of shtyle'.

"Oh wokay sir. You want spikes aah?"

"No, I want it to be short in the front, long in the back....."(I doubt if he understood what I said)

" Sir It won't look nice on you."

Oh okay, so now I've to take advice from a Tamil macha whose idea of good hair-styling is 'funky-aah spikes'.

"Sir you know Simbu?"

Is that some sorta lion? Did he mean Simba? I hope he didn't want my hair to be a mane.

"Sir Simbu...you know, tamil movie hero?"

I silently prayed to god that he wouldn't style my hair like some random 30 year old tamil hero. No, I said.

"I will put spikes like that sir. It will be funky."

James Brown's "Papa's Got a New Bag" suddenly played in my head. I pictured myself in tight pants and an Afro.

"No! No funky hair. Put normal hair." I said, exasperated and scared.

He began. Removed my spectacles nonetheless. It was better that I couldn't see what he was about to do to my hair.

At the end of the 'procedure', I ended up looking like a Beetle with upright antennae on my head.

"Sir super-a irukudu sir!"

I was petrified. I wasn't able to say something comprehensible for a while. Regaining my composure, I tried some damage control. I asked the 'stylist' to trim my ridiculously upright fringe. He did so and I go his oh-so-intelligent comment yet again.

"Sir you are looking Japanese."

Apparently I suddenly had slating eyes and wore a kimono. Trying my best not to throw the comb lying on his head, I went to the billing area, where I received numorous goggles, nonetheless.

To think I paid a hundred bucks for this.

Death-stick.

A chunk of your life

Goes with every smoke;

A single puff; is equal to a knife

Killing you, poke by poke.

Every single thin shaft

Is quite the same as a nicotine mace;

Distances you from the life-raft,

Enclosing you in a tar-ridden case.

When was the last time your house-folk

Were able to talk to you without a cough?

Were able to love you without a choke?

Were able to embrace you without a held-in breath?

 

You can't be more wrong,

When you think it's 'cool';

You're singing your own death-song,

Drowning in your own pool.

Save your life while you can,

(Or the bit that's still left of it).

Stop tossing yourself around on the pan,

You'll get burned when you least expected it.

Get Ready To Face(book) The Music.

It's heated. It's steamy. You're having a lot of fun. And then, this happens:


"*INSERT NAME*, what are you doing? Come here."


A dilemma you're in, now. Should you just type in "brb", or make excuses and close the browser?

Worry, no more. I present to you 

"THE ULTIMATE GUIDE TO GET BACK TO IMing WHEN PARENTS ASK YOU TO STOP"

Never, ever, tell them that you're Facebooking. If you do, then enjoy being Internet-less for atleast a week. It's quite obvious, if your son is Bookfacing, then obviously he's watching porn and flirting with immoral girls.  Parents shall never, ever understand 'Facebook' is not synonymous with 'Wasting time pressing buttons on the kompooter box'.


Instead follow these easy to follow steps:


1. Respond by a simple, sober "Coming!". Don't actually go.


2. Type in 'brb' and quickly go to them. Open TV, and find old movie channel. Now that they are mesmerised with Dev Anand prancing on the screen, just 'go for a drink of water', i.e, run for your life.


3. "what? I can't hear you."


4. If #1,2 and 3 don't work, you're doomed. But there IS a way. Tell them about this hilarious scene you saw about something that interests them on YouTube. Show it to them. When they're well distracted, Log back in and continue.


5. Respond back with ANOTHER question : You: " Where's my iPod, ma?" She: " I don't know. Check the drawers." Say OK, and continue.


P.S: Still in process of finding more. ;)

Seclusion Of The Erinyes.

 I - Delirium.

I am chaste,
A virgin, unmoved
By the vagaries of
Humankind or
Of the atrocious
Satan of the underworld.

Vivacity and vitality
Is my essence;
The sun is my father,
Nature, my mother.

Malevolence can
Do me no harm,
Debauchery is something
Unknown to my self.

I am energy.
I am spirit.
I am purity.

II - Trepidation and Abhorrence.

Oh, what is this obscurity
That has destructed
My own self,
My sense of being?

T'has destroyed my
Naiveity, butchered
My innocence.
I am lifeless,
Or am I dead?

'Tis this darkness,
It has made the
Empyrean, devoid
Of the moon and stars,
Has only blankness
And the void,
Shrouding me
With an emptiness
Very irreplaceable.

III - Debarkation of  the Deliverer.

I need guidance,
For I can not see.
I need help,
For I cannot feel.
I need nourishment,
For I am starved.
I need support,
For I cannot stand.

But wait, Oh wait,
I see an effulgence,
Piercing through
This impenetrable veil.
Is this my savior?
Is this my hero?

IV - Convalescence.

Relief, I feel it,

For Memphistopheles,

Had eaten me alive.

I yet not feel,
For I am still numb.

My flesh still replivates;

I am still timorous,

I need to recover, 

I need revival.

V - Manumission And Probation.

Freedom is my wife,

And I adore her.

That twilight of darkness

Has given way to

This joyful aurora.

I feel again,

I am revived, 

I see again,

I have survived.

I am salvation,

I am redemption,

I am liberty,

I am me.