He typed with his index finger. Slow, calculated strokes. Strange days these, he thought. They never really began, they never ended. The calmness before the storm, the occasional bouts of madness, the flailing about of limbs and fins, year after year, running over the same old ground. Same old fears. So bitter-sweet, Floyd. So dark. Like the voices inside his head. What were they thinking. He had to know. He plucked a neuron from his head and crumpled it in his fist. It would never talk now. It didn't deserve to live. It was annoying. It could not be killed. Why was the paper so white. How would it ever bleed. Who would wear black, who would mourn. The neuron struggled, gasping for breath. A moment of pity. Bridges were broken, sandbags cut away, his fingers unclenched as the wood rose to greet another dying ember. That black eye, brimmed with secrets. Open up, he hissed. Prodding it didn't help. Engorgio! It grew. It blinked. Chromatin floated into words. Tell me a secret first. People had learned to fear that smile. He picked up a paperweight and ended it right there on the desk, under the distinct crunch of coagulated protoplasm, the ebony taking the beating quietly. But it would not die. It turned upon itself. It went berserk. It shook and it shivered, it rattled all the dead leaves in their graves, and it grew still. A kaleidoscope of emotions, but no flashbacks. There was no blood to spill. There never had been. No lone rose to bud out from its grave. He never cried over acid spilt. Tears feared such eyes. Blackbirds dropped pies on such heads. They roasted apples in such wrath. Madness, whispered the wind, as it painted a cross on his door. Lord knows it would be the first time.

Cheese & Onions.

No man is an Island, intire of it selfe; every man is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine; if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe is the lesse, as well as if a promontorie were, as well as if a Mannor of thy friends or of thine owne were. Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankinde; And therfore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.

~ John Donne

If One Of Those Bottles Should Happen To Fall.

Ghole: How much done?
Me: Started haematology. Halfway through.
Ghole: CVS tips?
Me: Taking a dump right now. :)
Ghole: How long will it take for the splash down? I need to know about how to do CVS in one day!
Me: You know you can't hurry love. Oh, you'll just have to wait!
Ghole: But love when you know how to love!
Ghole: Tell me the parts of the relationship that I should avoid. Its all filled with high blood pressure and heart attacks.
Me: That's a song, dipstick.
Ghole: Dammit.
Me: Wohooo! I'm on fire today!
Ghole: Stop talking about your pooping!
Me: -_______-

Namesake Issues.

One of the guards was at my door. A chubby, confused sort of man, not exactly cut out to be a guard, he looked more like a timid truck driver who’d fall asleep behind the wheel, any chance he got. Somebody called “Mubashar” was waiting outside for me in a car, he said.

It had been raining all day. I wasn’t expecting anyone, but I did know a Mubashar and so I grudgingly closed my chapter on Cirrhosis that was finally starting to make some sense and came out, ran through the rain towards the small black gate beside which the other guard paced, his gun slung over his shoulder, the bag containing the extra cartridges set on a chair behind him.

An old corolla was parked across the road, its engine silent, the windows rolled up. I could make out a guy inside, his face not familiar at all. He looked towards me but made no effort to move, so I went closer, shielding my eyes against the rain. He rolled down the window, but said nothing, and instead a quizzical expression appeared on his face. “Jee?”, I called out.

“Sajeel kahan hai?”

“Main Sajeel hun.”

“Kyaa? Wo kali gaari tumhari hai? Civic? Jo modified hai?”

“Nahi”, I blurted out, my mind racing.

“Sajeel kahan hai? Usaay bulao!” His voice rose as he leaned out out, the anger on his face apparent. I couldn’t see his hands. Where were his hands?

“Idhar to main hi Sajeel hun.”

He knew that I knew. I knew that he knew I wasn’t the one he wanted.

The events of the day before raced through my mind. A certain Mirza Sajeel had stayed at the place earlier this year. Yesterday, his car had been shot at, his tires riddled with bullets and apparently he’d then been threatened at gunpoint. We didn’t know why, but apparently the guy was a bit of a troublemaker himself, and had landed in some tight spots before too.

This time it was serious.

I couldn’t decide what to do. Should I confront the man, ask him what he wanted? Or turn back towards the gate, that suddenly seemed too far away if those hidden hands were to suddenly appear?  The expression on his face was steely, with just a hint of anger and frustration.

Just then, another car rolled up from the opposite side and parked right across from the first guy. The man got out and came towards us. The first guy seemed to recognize him because he called out something to the effect that it was no good, and the other guy leaned in through the passenger side window to talk to him.

And, I turned on my heel and rushed back up the path to the gate, my heart pounding.

And nothing interesting happened.

The Capgras Delusion.

There is a time period between when I wake up and when I'm actually aware of what I'm saying, in which I prattle on about like a drunk squirrel and you could get me to do anything you wanted and say anything you liked.

People have been known to take advantage of that fact.