Soul Stripping on the Net

  Monday broke upon Tushar like hail. Tasks, directives and e-mails continued to burst upon his phone like the relentless wrath of a Biblical God. “Fuck” he groaned. Shouldn’t have had that last peg.   Rather that entire quarter. Fuck. I shouldn’t have gone at all. Which girl is impressed by ceaseless drinking? Moreover why was I trying to impress her of all the people. She’s already dating someone! The number of unread messages on his team’s Whatsapp group kept on increasing. The notification sound oblivious to the fact that he could not remember if he was an ass towards the group, the host, or her. Uff. His head hurt. Fuck Party Smart. Should have had Pudin Hara. Who the hell is at the door right now? He almost shouted at himself before collapsing into a vertical position. Nakoy ga. Kiti vela sangu sakali nako yet jau! Slamming the door on her face made him feel guilty every time. But he had to get ready. There was still time to reach the office before the client call....

  It has been a while since I did some creative writing. The last time I wrote under the influence of the -OH functional group I discovered parts of my psyche even I was unaware of. On professional advice, I am not supposed to make it public. But then after such an elaborate prologue, there is always the question of if I am forcing this piece out. Different professionals advice artists to keep producing. Who knows when a conundrum might turn out to be a corundum?   The current recipe involves mixing two whiskies and the “Surviving Mars” playlist from Cities:Skylines. Both of these are independently must tries (in the former, MaQintosh), and their combination is pretty peaceful.   ***   So if I have given up to the fact that this is a forced piece of writing, should I even care about the quality? That is an interesting question actually. To what extent and in what circumstances is one allowed to “get done with it”, especially an artist, when one has giv...

  You could hear the dry biscuits being chomped by weary old teeth. Without uttering a word, the chomping teeth tried to form a smile. One hand held onto the hard, artificially sweetened, dry, gnawed biscuit. Crumbs breaking off to the asynchronous rattling of the bus window.   The biscuit stole all the moisture form the tongue, throat, lips. It seemed that the entire wrinkled visage had shrinked in that moment, no tear flowed. Eyes, invisible through first the thick foggy glasses, and then the unclean double window stared, still trying to smile.   An empty hand, propped by pinocchio joints rose up, fingers outstretched, rocking like a grandfather clock. As the bus lurched forward, the biscuit fell. The teeth stopped.   He would savour the last taste of Home as he left for the old-age house.