The mind is a muddle of Zinfandel.
Unlike Coleridge however, no rhymes pour forth. I become an extension of the furniture I am wedged in.
So, I can’t tell you about my crush who kissed the neighbourhood clown behind the closed doors of an electricity control room just to let me down, even as the sign outside claimed, ‘Danger: 440 Volts’.
I can’t tell you about the man who sat in a high office either, who filthily sidled up to me, promising dream assignments in London and Paris. Having virtually spent my life in the misty greens and downs of English Literature, I almost felt homesick. But, hey, I was man enough! I burst him where it hurt most. The krait, in turn, let loose an army of snakelets on me, planted in strategic places. I kept paying through my nasal orifice for three long years for being straight. And here I am, supposed to be tolerant of gays!
Like a trained chimpanzee, I swipe my thumb on the gorilla-glass topped fascia of my mobile phone. I dig deeper into my nemesis, the Internet. I manage to decipher a few more blogs and punch comments with auto-complete, aka shoot-in-the-dark, on. I leave crazy footprints behind which don’t make any sense whatsoever. My imprints could mean anything to the startled reader: I may be a new age Aristotle, or I may be a differently-abled moron who has picked his language at a Learn-English-in-15-Days outfit.
Long before many things, the letter ‘f’ in English stood for a frog, or a flag, before it got known better for the famous four-lettered word, the anchor force of verbal life. It has, however, come to represent an eight-lettered word now that can be as scandalous as the original act, if not more. That is correct, I do mean the Facebook. I fish out the ‘f’ icon then and depress it which depresses me further with an intensity that irks me. I get vicious and leave wicked comments behind but I retrace my steps and erase the stink in an afterthought. I don’t want to commit a virtuo-social hara-kiri. Not yet.
I check the statistics of my own weblog. The line that denotes traffic is lying prostrate as a Naga on the banks of Ganges. What riles me more, it is naked too!
And barely a minute back I’d wandered at blogs bustling with visitors that milled for space while the authors bespoke of remorseless, treacherous, lecherous leaders who watch pornographic films bang in the middle of assembly sessions; or sighed at the audacity of a Delhi boy who inherited his mother’s voluptuous shaved Punjabi bosom; or regaled the exploits of an Italian empress and her cooing-flattering band of puppets; or mocked at the statues of a Dalit Queen who is her own Shahjahan.