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)

I’m walking straight to the abyss on a road of scintillating Asphalt like peeled off skin, the nude red tendon exposed.

The road isn’t without its share of cavities like small cigarette wounds and craters like gangrenous putrefactions with ichor.

Briars and thorn bushes surround the road on both sides smelling of human piss and animal discharge. Kopi Luwak anyone?

The azure skies of redemption soon close in on themselves and the spotty crescent peaks like Daniel’s little horn – The Antichrist.

The seals break, the trumpets blare, and the Lamb – the Tiger doses me with bowls and bowls of wrath and judgment.

Locusts with human faces and sharp teeth that Abaddon releases bite into my flesh and though I pray, ‘Forgive me or at least let me die!’ there is no reprieve.

So, I endure, the ground shaking, the road breaking and my bones crushing, metatarsus splintering, an Alien foot, or a claw.

I limp, weary and jaded, knowing there is no god for sorrow, just one for sin which I’m unable to repent of because the guard locked the doors of my ‘own iron prison’ and I remember the progressing Pilgrim asking why.

Somewhere, someplace in the foulness of Babylonian hedonism, a man, a cyborg that blasphemes and a white-robed Satan’s prophet declare themselves gods for sorrow. But I don’t wear their mark or the seal of the Sovereign. Who am I? Trapped between darkness and light. A dichotomy between hate and love exists within. I’m split, having a rough stony eye that judges and objurgates and a soft brown irised one that tries reaching out and loving and caring for the people who matter.

The seventh stage of the abyss is reserved just for me – below Judas; the fire doesn’t quench, and the worm gnaws while the angels impale the traitorous expressionists and Ginsbergian ignus all in the omniscience, omnipotence, and omnipresence of ‘Justice’.

The trumpet blares again, and I fall face first, my two front teeth chipped off. I yank the remaining part out with a nutcracker, and the red gush twistedly invigorates me. ‘I must prepare,’ I say to myself with a lopsided grin, the words a mush of syllables.

I crawl, the red spittle coating the road – the smog a grainy eye gouge – searching for half-smoked cigarettes. I find one and struggle with the matches before finally lighting it. I inhale, the filter bloody. ‘Well I’m still fucking here,’ I say to myself and exhale and crawl into a fetal position.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Go on then, march to the rhythm of the persecuted – howling, wailing, enduring, persevering. Prisons & concentration camps; imagined post-rapture AntiChrists & Babylon the whore; death penalties which are ‘just’ & fire & brimstone, post-apocalyptic perorations.

Washer the condemner, Driscoll the porno-vision new age Messiah, McArthur the indoctrinated drone living in the stone age, Tim Keller the conservative Woody Allen wannabe, Sproul the old dead fart spewing connections to secularism, subtly mentoring the Calvinistic parade with dogmatic vendetta, Piper the hyper-Calvinism on 15 cans of red bull, hate your enemies, come but He’ll reject you, emotionalist, Friel the TV clown, setting up lecterns in colleges & rambling like a crack whore & every other fuck regardless if they’re wearing the Mars Hill tattoo and ripped jeans, smoking ganja or if they’re wearing suits with trophy wives & nine children. All the same, all the fucking same.

Go on then, march to the rhythm of the ‘elect’ and then post a rant saying God isn’t partial. Use that word a thousand times in a thousand different contexts to try to justify the same thing a thousand times.

Go on then, march to the rhythm of the martyrs & still land in hell with the other Calvinists & Coptic Christians burning like that heartless, machismo bastard Conway puts it.

Go on then, defend your faith & God. But let me ask you this: if God is absolute & creation finite then there exists a metaphysical evil which only Sovereign grace bridges. So why not give grace to everyone? Why cause Lucifer’s fall by taking away his grace, so the poor sod had no other direction but to try to become his own absolute good & then punish him for that? Why cause Adam’s fall by doing the same, so the poor bugger thinks, I shall be like the gods & then condemn an entire race?

Genocides & children put to the sword,
blood & wrath,
disease & decay,
the cross & the hate.

Go on then, raise me up for your wrath but until the end I’ll say, you don’t deserve to be God.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

Originally published on The Literati Mafia 

Intemperate old bastard, when will you learn that life isn’t about Aristotelian lectures you claim cannot be read, or Platonic spelunking into absolute realms of absolute forms?

You borrow my lines and deceitfully craft a cento, making it seem like I’m on par with Eliot and the greats, but it’s that I dream more than you ever farmed that irritates, infuriates and grates you.

Self-indulgent old bastard, you mask your jealousy with a Bauta of utilitarianism and try flaunting esoteric wisdom, donning it like a parka – a defense mechanism to tame this young lion. When will you learn? Oh, when will you learn that you’ll never subdue me?

Forty years spent in a rectory wearing a chastity belt, and now you’ll fuck anything at your age, you say. Who asked you to make the choice of not chasing the locomotives, smoking marijuana and living with desire shaping will?

Cryptic old bastard, when will you learn? You thought that obeying God and adhering to some legalistic Papal code is faith and flagellated yourself and literally mortified your flesh. Now look, like Luther shook his head, you do – only it’s too late because of heart conditions and pills for heart conditions.

Life is a simple prayer from the heart because God detests the litany like Charles Spurgeon put it (only differently). Your penance and tithes mean nothing and perhaps you’ll learn at last you arrogant old-bastard that prayers involve kindness, compassion and helping others get a hold of their lives unlike your selfish partner and you who live just for yourselves.

© 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