I Am The Maitreya

Let me find my mojo, and I will be back after few days.

I remember reading Stephen Hawkins’s ‘A Brief History of Time’ and Carl Sagan’s ‘Cosmos’ a colorful book on universe, when I was in middle school. It’s not that I understood much of the physics in those books, but was enough to awaken the roaches in my head to scurry around to feed my insatiable hunger about stars and universe, in general about the unknowns. I had infinite questions like: What was before the Big Bang? Are there any civilizations besides ours? What are the boundaries of universe? How many universes are there? Why did time travel forward? And, a lot more. 

I would go on my rooftop at night, and stare at the sky for hours, as if the answers lie somewhere in the dark void. I would shine my torch light, and blink it, with my own Morse code, hoping that after a few centuries or millenniums, someone would get that message from the past. (For non science folks, it takes eight minutes for the Sun’s light to reach us, so what you see in the sky for the Sun is actually eight minutes late image.) I would make vain attempts to look at the sky through my feeble binoculars to see beyond those stars, but I have to admit those binoculars were strong enough to spot craters on the moon on full moon nights.

Neighbors with young daughters despised me, they thought I were a peeping tom with torch light and binoculars, on my rooftop at night. But, I confess, I would try my luck occasionally at their windows too, when you are teens, women are as mysterious as the objects in the sky.

As I grew older, those never resting, scurrying vermin in my head gradually got senile too, they grew along with me. Now, they are completely dead. And, I wonder, what killed them? Are realities of life so harsh that it completely annihilates those adolescent imaginations and fantasies that turn into creativity? We get so tied up with life that its seriousness and gravity pulls the entire universe smaller and smaller, eventually diminishes within us.

Now, there is no reason for me, whatsoever, to look up in the sky anymore. These days, only time I look at the sky is, when it rains, if it were not for rain, I would completely forget there is a vertical dimension to the otherwise flat world.

It entirely makes me believe, it’s no rain; it’s the tears– heaven weeps on our destitute of what we have become. And, it pours more; just to remind us cruelly, of life, as in the form of pesticide, that debilitate those roaches, eventually killing them. I guess the death of roaches is inevitable as we grow old.

Such a selfish whining over the dead roaches in my head, in fact I should be happy to have a luxury to adobe them over my adolescent period. I cringe at the thought of other young kids in every nook and cranny of
Nepal and elsewhere, who don’t have the same opportunities I had, to read Hawkins and Sagan, in rhetorical sense.  

 From left to right: Beethoven, Picasso, Jane Austin and Jackie Chan in making

It’s sad that the roaches in their stomach never got to get into their heads; hunger in stomach feeds on curiosity of mind, leaving one devoid of any itch for any kind of knowledge. Vastness of poverty overwhelms the vastness of universe, turning itself into one, infested with black holes to suck you in, and shred you into pieces between the cogs and wheels of poverty. Sad, we have lost many Einsteins, many Mozarts and many Hemingways to those ruthless wheels of destitute.

Let their misery shed a light on the opportunity that I am blessed with, I will try to look often into the sky, rain or no rain.

Rated R, sexual content, read at your own discretion. Children below eighteen need parental consent.

‘Pussy Galore’, yes, that’s the name of the sinister antagonist in the James Bond movie—Goldfinger, she is a rehabilitated lesbian, turns into heterosexual by Bond’s irresistible charm, astray nuclear warheads or incorrigible women, Bond’s Martini charm can fix them— an alter ego of English men, otherwise who come no better than lanky Prince Charles.

I am not a big fan of Bond movies, but this was playing on TV the other day, so I said, I might as well warm my couch. And, the name ‘Pussy Galore’ caught my attention as if, ‘whisky galore’ or ‘tulip galore’– galore as in abundance that too pussy. That’s quite a name for female, and if that name happens to belong to someone stunningly beautiful as she was, that would be quite toxic, the sudden gush of testosterone to your brain, might clog the oxygen supply, asphyxiating you to insanity. Just imagine, a beautiful lady walks up to you in the party, and stretches her hand out to you, and says, ‘I am Pussy, Pussy Galore, and you’re?’ The usual—Jack, Tom, Mohan, Suman wouldn’t stand a chance. You have to come up something as magnificent as that one—‘Hi, I’m Dick Magnificent, or I’m Lingeshor Mahadev.’

I have been asked, what’s your ultimate sexual fantasy? Quite, an awkward question, unless your girl friend asks you. Let me dispense the word of wisdom here, to my brethrens. Just because she asks you, don’t be foolish and tell her all about it. Believe me, that’s the end of your sex life, charming, cute little lovey dovey guy would instantly turn into a pervert. Tone your fantasy down, if your ultimate wish list measures ten on the scale just let her know up to level three. Don’t get too adventurous even before the journey begins, and yours silly prancing would catch you at wrong footing, and might end up not getting anywhere. If you play your cards right, you might get lucky and she might give you level two.

Why this crazy babble? Talk about ranting. This entire preamble was for, if someone were to ask me about my ultimate sexual fantasy, I would say I would like my girl friend’s name to be ‘Pussy Galore’. Not much to ask for I guess. Is it?

I think, our own pop culture should try a hand at empowering women too—by baptizing them with screen names like ‘Jwalanta Yoni, Prachanda Yoni,’ I can imagine how, our righteous Nepali men would cringe at that. Now, my country men, do not get back home after such movies, and ask your wives to impersonate those celluloid Yonis, at your great dismay, you will find yourself cooking your own food for rest of your life, wife will not return from Maike. And, you will remember my premonition– Golay told you so.

                                                      My saitan at work

God! What a useless crappy entry, I think; I can write my own Vagina Monologue. Khali dimag, saitan ka ghar.

Today, I saw a couple kissing in a public place, average looking people, not so young, may be around 30s. Though, it were them kissing, I was happy, couldn’t help but smile, and even stopped for a while to look at them. It was such a beautiful sight to see– people in love.

I don’t know why people get this infantile notion of Unconditional Love, conditioned with overtly melodramatic romanticism—Romeo and Juliette, Hir aur Ranja, Laila aur Majnu, where one has to fight against the arrays of shit (in rhetorical sense), most of the time losing their lives—an epitome of Unconditional Love.

Love is meant to be simple, moment you tag an expectation to it, it loses its shine. Unconditional is condition in itself, which puts you under pressure, and turns the magic into an obligatory platitude. Love becomes duty.

Everybody wants their love to be like assemblage of collages—beautiful design as a whole, but, I don’t care about its beauty, which ought to manifest itself at the end, as if flowers were to descend from the heaven, as in ‘baharo phul barsawo, mera mehaboob ayaa hai, mera mehaboob ayaa hai.’

I want to find beauty in every collage in my fabric, flowers and thorns alike. After all, life is a patch work of all these events, some memorable some not, some happy some sad, as a result, it’s a tapestry of life– beautiful and ugly at the same time. What’s so great in finding beauty in already beautiful? What’s truly beautiful is: an ability to find beauty in ugliness of failures. 

                                   aaja baby! mai tujhe chumma de du!

And your Dickenian– great expectations from relationship preclude you from finding those magic in failures, thus you stop venturing out, and the flip side is: waiting for the perfect one, and to accentuate your misery in otherwise bland life of yours, you might miss the opportunities to gather some unforgettable moments form the imperfect ones too.

Wow! I amaze myself sometimes, to find myself all mushy mushy, I suppose, females dig it, the sensitive side of otherwise macho guys. But, I guess I am overdoing it, almost putting my machoness at peril. Now, it reads like some corny passage from teens’ sensation Mills and Boons series.

But, I can’t help it, all suns and moons are aligned in such a way, that it forced me to put this entry here. Me seeing a couple kissing, and my old ex dropping an email to say that she is doing great. Jealous me, wants to find her miserable, but reasonable me is delighted to know that she is doing great, after all she was a beautiful collage in my tapestry, and I am ever grateful to her for making my life all this richer.

Thank you!

P.S: That ‘thank you’ was for my ex, not to the readers, but thanks to the readers as well for reading this garbage.