From what I’ve gathered through the grapevine, he’s now a madman with a theological bend; a disenchanted raging lunatic who incessantly posts confessionals on Facebook. His black and white borderline obsession with God crippled him and now emotionally nomadic he clamors for a like just like a beggar harassing some passerby for change, and once one of his statuses gets one he deletes his account, only to return, months later. His statuses are dark and twisted (or so I’ve heard). He’s apparently so far gone that even if God stretched some cherubic arm out to wrench him out of the pit of depravity he’s stuck in, he wouldn’t succeed. It must be those shady pills he was apparently on in college. Antispasmodics and antihistamines. Trust me, that shit screws you up. It baptizes you in some murky river of self-loathing and soon you’ve lost all optimistic shades of consciousness. You become cryptic and self-indulgent; given to introspection about introspection; talking with a slur and eating with a drool. He messaged me yesterday; said, ‘Hey man. I haven’t seen you since school. Let’s meet and catch up.’ Apprehension passed through me like a dagger making its way slowly upwards through the intestines, rib-cage, and throat. Painful fucking fear. It’s only natural, isn’t it? The guy’s bloody Bipolar or something. He might just stab me in a fit of mania. I’ve heard stories of these loons picking up guns and thinking God’s appointed them to kill people. Crazy, deranged shit. So, I did the right thing that any perfectly functioning, normal man would do and didn’t respond. I still wonder how he got my number though. Technology is frightening in this postmodern world. I have these Luddite tendencies. I’m not on Facebook for that very reason. But I wrestle with my need for Instagram. I have a thousand followers there. I just can’t let go of them can I?

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

My beloved Bhakts, militant Brahmins, fanatics, and Saffron-robed prophets, we are gathered here to address a disturbing issue that’s skewing the democratic equilibrium. It’s a malodor like the smell of piss emanating from beneath a DO NOT URINATE sign. We’ve decided to call it political melancholia. It’s something so repugnant and tasteless, so vile and loathsome like a deformed rat fetus with shit all over it. It’s making the masses moody and spreading like gangrene. It’s altering the ambiance from one of bhajans and bells to one of seedy pubs where skimpily clad women prostitute their virtues and men their gallantry. It’s changing the vision of Hindustan of our chai wallah Emperor who took the throne though he was once nothing; slowly moving up the ranks with dedication and drive; making sure justice prevailed in Gujarat and even forsaking his wife for the True Cause into something these tossing condoms in college dustbins sickulars strongly desire just like their animalistic lust for each other. A few days ago we saw an Italian prince hug our Emperor, and fall at his feet, and it was disgusting, to say the least. That very act was the epitome of political melancholia. This is the golden age of transformation and evolution, and these cultural heretics and misfits seek to dampen our spirits.

But no my friends, we will rejoice! We will rejoice because our Emperor visits foreign land after foreign land dressed fashionably using the money of the middle class and the poor because he seeks their welfare. What if tomorrow some deranged leader of a country in the middle of nowhere decides to attack us? And isn’t it only fair that lowly subjects pay their taxes? We will rejoice because our warriors lynch beef-eaters and cow-smugglers. These pagans hinder the nation’s sanctification with their gluttonous meat-lust and apostasy. We will rejoice because our Emperor cares so much about his subjects that he’s placed a system of tenderly monitoring them in place called Aadhar. Now devoid of privacy, they should know that the chai wallah is watching them and considers himself one of them. Just like emperors of old disguised themselves to know more about the people, our Emperor who is also an embodiment of Lord Vishnu and a true Bodhisattva disguises his policies under the umbrella of financial reform. But left-wing dogs do not appreciate his compassion and reciprocate it with seething hatred. We will rejoice because our national, patriotic champion on the news channel The Republic parades the True Cause with embellishment and he does it with such flair and gusto; exposing the corrupt 2G, 3G, 4G and 5G scams of the putrefying congress and conducts post-autopsies to determine the real cause of the death of the sweet, loving 50 crore wife of a crude, ill-spoken, murderous, barbaric Congressman. We will rejoice because we have a Baba who plans on manufacturing traditional jeans, unlike the buttock-hugging abominations from the west that the women who ask for rape wear. We will rejoice because we have a Guru who defends the secularism of yoga by explaining the expansion of solar energy in the solar plexus. We will rejoice because we pay our politicians to join the True Cause even though they’re carted off to resorts and kept there to prevent ‘defection’ by the mutineers. Ha! They can try, and even if some of us like poor Yeddyurappa broke down and wept because he breathes for the True Cause, they’ll never dethrone the monarch. Heil Chai Wallah! Heil Emperor! Heil Lord of the True Cause!

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

You’re probably in some debased, grimy decrepit dope hole now, shooting yourself with cheap heroin. I can hear you sing Candlebox’s Cover Me or Far Behind, the words meaning everything to you, the tears in your eyes a bittersweet embodiment of both unemployment by choice and the depths of freedom that the conformists will never plumb, and the raw, exposed, piss soaked reality that comes with it. But you did things your way, and I admire you for it. I look at the wife and the kid and want to walk away from it all: my frivolous, monotonous desk job, coming home to the same walls with the same beige paint and the same faces contorted with the same fucking angst. My old bastard, the farmer, spoke aloud what I don’t have the guts to say. He’d visit coffee shops from time to time when he wasn’t beating the old woman and listen in on people’s conversations and get some cheap voyeuristic thrill out of it. He fantasized about leading their stories when he drank his cheap rum. You remember when we beat the shit out of the old man, don’t you? Left hand, right hand, low blow. Fuck! He stopped touching the old lady after that. He was scared when I’d show up with you, and remember when we’d smoke that old pipe, that relic you’d gotten somewhere? You’d always get things somewhere, and I remember cooking that shit with you, allowing it to simmer and dry, and then placing it in the pipe-bowl and vaporizing it with that other relic, the lamp before taking a hit. Weed didn’t do it for us, eh? Damn, that shit was something else. You were with that girl Samantha then and just drifting in the breeze, and I guess I was too.

There was an epicurean thrill to it all, and now all I know is a former hedonist’s lament. I’m listening to Sea Dragon by Covet now. They’re a post/progressive instrumental band like Scale the Summit, and I don’t know if you know anything about the genre. I secretly listen to them on my iPhone when the wife’s not around. She’s a bore; eternally seeking for something she isn’t even sure of. Yeah, they’re tons of folks like that in this neatly painted façade we call society. I guess I’ve become one too. Fucking settling down with a fucking ‘life’ as they’d call it. Fuck them, man. I’d rather shoot shit with you even though I haven’t seen you in like a decade. You asked me to come with you on that spiritual journey to help find ourselves – just disappear and find a new crowd – but I was tired of the dope and the women then. I thought it was you just rambling. But time has this way of ticking backward just when you think you’ve reached the chimera they call equilibrium. I’m sick of the kid and his needs, and I guess he senses it somewhere deep. He knows deep down that I resent everything and cannot reciprocate even a child’s love. I can see it in his enigmatic expression. He’s a weird kid though. I just hope he doesn’t take after his mother. God! That woman’s thirst for some Seraphic gift or celestial love or whatever is insatiable. She has no idea what she wants, or maybe she does, but I’m too immersed in thinking about what I want that I pay her no heed. I know marriages die this way, but I’m tired man. I’d rather do peyote and spend time with Native Americans and find another tribe and just let time blot me out of the memories of my family, friends and colleagues.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

In response to The Literati Mafia’s Music Monday’s prompt

So, we’re a bunch of classy, elitist men discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt; the rich browns and the gentle beiges in a classy lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism. ‘I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,’ I say, my voice sounding classy, flavored with an exquisite, rich, deep-as-marrow Baritone. The conversation drifts to right-wing American conservatism, which we endorse because we regret the sexual revolution with a modernist’s melancholia. ‘A generation of parasitic sybarites,’ I say, adjusting my Roberto Cavalli tie with a gentle, smooth motion. The Mini Caviar Parfaits have arrived, and as we indulge we discuss Bergman with great panache. ‘Persona is a work of Jungian excellence. Leaving behind an alter and those still unplumbed existential questions it posits have left an impression like a Rorschach blot on the deepest traces of my consciousness. I understand exploring sexuality, but we must do it like Bergman with an avant-garde Delphic flair,’ I say and then belch. I excuse myself immediately and rush to the bathroom. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I just had to! Fuck!’ I scream and ignore that small inner voice that says, ‘At least it wasn’t a boisterous fart.’ ‘Fuck! It’s like reading Helen Steiner Rice to an audience looking for the rich symbolism of Eliot,’ I whine. And then I pull out my mobile phone and text my dealer. ‘I need you to hook this old bastard up,’ I text him and wait. In minutes I’m sent a group sex video on WhatsApp. I head to the urinal and relieve myself, and return to the table and sit down. ‘I apologize for the inconvenience gentlemen,’ I say and then boisterously fart.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia

I’m just a lonely shit, and all I do is smoke, get fat, drink cheap, sediment-ridden wine, take my antidepressants, drink my cough syrup and trip on a downer now and then. I live in a lonely shitty apartment in an overcrowded neighborhood where the traffic flits around like mosquitoes, where people have lives and jobs and pay the rent and fuck. I mooch off my parents and make demands, and then write pop-existential rants. Women don’t give me a second glance anymore because my paunch is repulsive. I go, unshaven, unkempt and with uneven hair to the cheap, shitty little cigarette shop and buy a pack of Marlboro every day. I then binge drink energy drinks and coffee and when a rush of mania overwhelms like a fierce gale (allow me to use a slightly archaic, poetic term) and destroys my ramshackle consciousness and I’m left with the subconscious detritus that cyber-junkies and video game connoisseurs who play RPGs like they’re eating caviar have, I write and write and write some more. Just give me my pills – red, blue, white, and I’ll exist in my shitty space devoid of the sun, moon, stars and the rain. Just give me my booze and alter my consciousness; make me fucking hazy; make me fucking lazy; make everything fucking hazy; make everything fucking lazy. Go on then, give up on me. I’m a Bipolar freak after all with a mind sharp with lunacy like a Tungsten needle. Go on then, throw me in the void without saying goodbye because greetings are overrated like cheesy Hallmark Cards. Go on then, beat me because I can’t fight. I’ll just cower like a kitten trapped by a bunch of Alsatians. I can’t scratch, claw or bite. So, go on then, stereotype me and say I threw away my existence, and take pleasure as your words cut right through wine-soaked reverie and I’m no longer walking rosy boulevards, but clawing my way up the seven stages of Hell. Go on then, finish what you started. I gave up on everything, and I’ll just kneel waiting for your shitty sword to do its shitty job.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia 

The beef-eating Sadhus, Sundar and Bundar were lynched. – Anonymous

Anonymous’s crisp, concise, lucid, pragmatic style is like petrichor after the boisterous farting of the neo-jazz postmodern novels. No harsh, discordant trombones, no horrisonant screeching trumpets playing that sharp C. The beef-eating Sadhus is just a to the point, in your face micro-novel. – The Guardian

Anonymous’s trial by fire, exploration of culture in saying too little is exactly what this generation of wordy obscure, abstract expression needs. A micro-novel that’s thoroughly objective and birthed in a rough womb of diatribes against meat politics and the sharp rise of nationalism trying to subdue the little voices of the voiceless. Well, the beef-eating Sadhus doesn’t enter this world whispering or sobbing. It screams. A must read – The Huffington Post

Am I the only one who noticed the humor? Sure, they were beef-eating Sadhus, but the lynching is where Anonymous strikes his darkly comical, scythe slash. Anonymous uses his sinister wit to compare lynching with aggressive masturbation. The same ruthlessness and blood spilled. This micro-novel is a tour-de-force in its exploration of modern sexuality. The sexual revolution is here to stay brothers and sisters. Yes, VR porn definitely gives us a sharper sense of perception and enhances the erotic eye’s vantage point, but Anonymous does it here in 9 words. A micro-novel that sets post-sexuality in motion. A magnum opus. A monumental achievement. – The Wire

Raw and uncompromising with a bleaker nihilistic undercurrent. This micro-novel gives no room for closure or hope. Move over Bukowski, and please take a note, Mr. McCarthy. This is the second wave of unadulterated nihilism without Camus’ absurdist ideologies. It places you there, and then we’re done. It’s a gunshot to the head. 9 words giving you a sharp dose of reality. – The Verve

I don’t have a problem letting my kids read this masterpiece. The beef-eating Sadhus might explore sensuality and violent, torture fetishes but people forget that the shallow semantic is also intricate. An all protein meal never works. Eat your veggies kiddies – The Culture

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia

My nonchalant non-mourners,

We’re gathered here not to mourn this corpse now entombed in this black coffin. She’s called purpose, and she led many-a-romantic astray with her asinine delusions of Autumn, which led to Keatsian odes to an inconsequential season where leaves fall, and mud-caked boots crush them. She led many existentialists astray while they fell prey like rotting meat to vultures to Kierkegaardian panaches of absolute grounding in an enigmatic, absolute sovereign. They preached with flair about Abraham reaching abstract faith, but in using that very term ‘abstract’ they lost themselves to vague, petty obscurantisms. She led many-a-tragic comic astray by placing them on a pendulum swinging like a rapid cycling Bipolar Mood swing between epiphany and catastrophe. They cackled while the fire crackled and scuttled like crabs over a need for an esoteric doctrine of vivacious gnosis when the bulbs dimmed and finally shattered. Then they wailed and mourned putting mongrels to shame. She led many-a-clergyman astray by self-deluded prophesies of raptures, or raptures of ecstasy in the seventh heaven where seraphs and cherubim serenade a Yahweh who’s long forgotten us. These men were so enamored and seduced by her magnetism that they stood with spines straight like a ramrod and spat while they gave the masses their puritanical opium. They did not spare the rod because they feared abandoning her, which is why we have drug-addicts, misfits, and lecherous pornographers who are the sons of fire and brimstone. She led many-a-drifter astray casting him in a womb of existential throes and then delivered him, a stillborn. Thus, emotionally castrated the wanderer became a voyeuristic eunuch and in turn – consumed by a mad bloodlust – a pervert, given to coprophilia and absurd, bizarre notions of violent BDSM without substance. So, we bury her without a chant, a litany or a dirge, and we can finally say in cold blood that man is free.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia