I Am The Maitreya

Like any potent medicine comes with an expiration date, I guess, so is the case with my blogging, at that my blogging wasn’t in any way potent in whatever sense that may be. I have found ranting without any objective and goals is pretty hard to keep up, there comes a time when you exhaust your rant, right now I am empty. I don’t have anything to say on anything.  On hindsight, I should have started my blogging to fight for the poor and trodden ones, or may be to save Nepal from whomever. That way it would have kept me on my toe, rather conscientious bite on my ass, if I slack many would die or sleep hungry and cold would keep me going. Alas! I am a selfish bastard, I rant and whine about my petty things.   But, I leave that to other Nepali bloggers, with more conscience, and with better moral compass. Sorry, dudes, my shoulders are already too full to share that burden of grieving Nepal in general grieving mankind. I am no Atlas. Please, find someone else.  It beats me, what’s with Nepali youths/bloggers and politics? Why such an affection towards politics? 80% of the Nepali blogs in the net are filled with rundown commentaries/analysis of Nepali politics, and most of them are alarmists. Some are fearful of Maoists, some are fearful about democrats, some are fearful about monarchy, and others are fearful about India. In short everyone is in fear. Don’t even talk about extent of their worry. Everyone is more worried than the next guy for the country, as if since they have started blogging they have turned gray from worry. How sad, they have mistaken their scribe with serious journalism. There is something called ACCOUNTABILITY, not just a killer word for scrabble, but does mean something serious. Worst of the bunch is, urbanites English speaking youths—expatriates or natives, polluting the internet with sound bytes (rather word bytes). If anyone were to gauge for patriotism, everyone would get Gorkha Dashin Bahu for shout fest. At times, their jingoism is nauseating; most of who profess undying love for motherland form offshore are not going to go back to Nepal unless they are tied to the keel of the boat and pushed through
Atlantic or Pacific. And those that are in Nepal, if presented with right opportunity, they would run out of country bare feet. Albeit, belonging to the most privileged group of the society, but always feel they have been oppressed/cheated/lied. How funny, most of us belong to the parents that oil the same machinery, no matter which one.   For urbanites, Kathmandu is Nepal. When 13,000 people died somewhere else Kathmandu Basi were mostly oblivious thus happy until the Maoist brought the war to their doors. When us, the English speaking people had to rub our shoulders in the gullies of Kathmandu with Maoists, over night we became oppressed. Wa re wa, Kathmandu Basi, where were you for last ten years? Conscience and moral duty of civil society my ass.   Ah! I don’t know how to conclude this write up, since I am not politically astute, I guess, I have wasted my time writing this particular piece. I have realized, I shouldn’t have tried writing it, since I have put some words together, I might as well post it.

When I can’t write them, I eat them has been my mantra with HOLY MOTHER COW. Had our education system have a little sense of not torturing young minds with incessant essays on Cows as assignment, I would have been a lot more compassionate to those bovines. It’s an age old vendetta. Heartless me; who keeps a beef with cow.No quadruped like cow reminds me of how pathetic and wretched academic career I had during my middle school, always flunking in English and Nepali, because every freaking exam would have an essay on Cow. (Cow wasn’t the sole reason of my flunking, but sure is the main culprit) I guess, that age old academic trauma have turned my interest of cow into gastronomy. HOLY MOTHER OF COW you might be many things for many people, but for me you are no more than a STEAK. Yummm!Did I trample on someone’s belief, have I been insensitive? Well take this: screw you. You have your prerogative of believing anything you want, but do not impose that on me. What if I were to come with hypothesis of my POTATO GOD? Excerpt from Potato Puran, which was excavated form the foothill of Mt. Kailash in Tibet. Translated in English reads this: 

Potato is not a mere vegetable; it’s in fact a fruit of loin of God himself, inseminated into the womb of our Holy Mother Earth. It’s a divine vegetable culminated from the holy union of divines—God and Mother Earth. In seven days, God created everything from Heaven to Earth, in the eighth day, God decreed Adam to create Eve and Potato. Potato Puran doesn’t say anything about the order of creation, Eve first or Potato first; holy wisdom says it was Eve, since Adam couldn’t have fucked Potato. Look what has become of us, just because that stupid woman chose an apple over a potato. Adam took his rib out and created Eve, and he took one of his testicles (yes, he had three) and created Potato. Hence it’s scripturally proved that Potato is indeed a seed of loin of God himself. God said, ‘Lo and Behold! Potato is food of life, eat from my loin.’ True to his word, mighty Potato is ubiquitous in every nook and cranny, in all shapes and sizes to sustain life, looks like God’s been little frivolous with his seed, and the Russians went a step further making Vodka out of it, sub-continent only had a wit to put it in Samosa. When God got disgusted with his creation, and decided to punish them, his wrath came as an Irish Potato Famine. Something like Rhrisi Vishwamitra’s cornucopias Kamdhenu Gai. Further more, according to Potato Puran, only way to ascend to the heaven is through the sacs of Potato stacked on top of each other making a divine ladder to the heaven, each rung equates to your good deeds. Thou who lack worship/reverence towards Omniscient Omnipresent Potato shall have Thy sacs cut short to heaven, and Thy shall be in limbo for eternity. God forewarns. Father, Son and Holy Ghost—Holy Trinity plus Potato, that’s all there is.àhence my beliefàhence my faithàthus my religionàPotato The Unisex God 

Now back to being myself– stupid and resuming my rant. Here I go again. Buckle up, and be ready for my moronic ride.Was I to get seriously offended that you don’t show enough reverence to my Potato God, just because I happen to believe my hypothesis as my faith thus my religion?  And to impose my faith unto others, what do I do? I make a law that decrees every individual should have respectful conduct (whatever the fuck that means) towards Holy Potato, in failure to comply—incarceration for 12 years. Wouldn’t it be great to share the same cell with Kripa Bhoteni (who is jailed for killing a Holy Cow) as for your part for tossing a Holy Potato out of window? Go figure! If stupidity were to prevail, then there shouldn’t be discrimination among one stupidity over the other. Equity is the best virtue in the eyes of God, hence Cow and Potato are equally HOLY. But most/some of you might argue, but she killed a cow– a mother, a holy creature, it’s against the law of the land. But, my dear friends, that law is reflection of YOUR faith. What part of fucking Bhoteni you would not understand that she doesn’t fall into your belief system?If you claim to be a pluralistic society, don’t shove YOUR FUCKING VALUE SYSTEM down everyone’s throat. Unless you want Potato cult to come around, and shove those Holy Potatoes up your orifices, all of them. Be happy, they didn’t choose Holy Squash (isskus) with all those spikes, would have been mighty hard on your –where sun never shines.In retrospect, even a Pasupatinath’s monkey, a Jawalakhel ko Valu (not a whore, I meant a bear in the Zoo, the bear I saw in that zoo when I was a kid must have died long ago out of depression), or any stray dog in KTM would have made an interesting topic for essay writing in middle school more than a fucking cow, all these animals have more character and attitude, something to write on. Holy cow my ass! How can a kid write more than a paragraph on the animal which does nothing but stands in one place for days chewing fodder? Talk about lack of imagination of our education institution. I have a hunch they still ask the contestants to write an essay on Cow in Nepali Civil Servant exam. Otherwise, why couldn’t anyone else make it, other than those wearing Dhaka Topi. Conspiracy of secret society of bovine worshiper—Nepali Masons. When asked to think analytically, we stand in one place for days, and chew on our brain. Training, I guess. That’s why I would rather chew on BEEF burger than my brain. Revenge is best served when garnished with jalapeño and layer of cheese at McDonald, or a Gai Kabab at some Arabic restaurant with humus.  

Mad Cow disease, it’s not that cow got it; it’s us who got it.

Sex is the consolation you have when you can’t have love.                                                ——————–Gabriel Garcia Marquez in Memories of My Melancholy Whores

I believe; story is only as grand as the story teller. And, no one can beat the Maestro at that.

I recommend everyone read it, sheds a different perspective on our geriatrics—father, uncles, grandfathers. And possibly yourself down the road.  

I guess, I have early case of senile dementia on its own discrete ways, I am getting senile, and I am getting demented, put together ‘Senile Dementia.’ There I go. These days, nothing gets done, I started this book—Vernon God Little about a month back, and I am still in page 26. It’s not that I read first 26 pages in the first day, and I picked the book after a month and started reading where I left off. In fact, I have been reading that freaking book every night to my bed. Then I realized, I read the same page in different nights. I don’t know where is my freaking book mark? I lost it while moving, and I always forget to buy one, while I am at the book store hence—senile dementia. Senile: always forgetful, always running to restroom (loose prostrate gland, I guess, wasn’t I supposed to get that when I get really really old), demented: always testy, always ready to spew out curse words at anyone anytime. But in retrospect, I guzzle almost a gallon of coffee at my work in eight hours, I guess, that makes me run to the restroom often and always cranky, there is a layer of soot of caffeine in my veins. Only consolation and reassurance that I haven’t got senile is: I am always horny, well can’t say anything about demented, I guess that’s become my personality. Where was I? See! I proved my point, I have an attention deficiency. I can’t remember what I said (wrote) a few minutes ago. Ok, let me read my first paragraph. Oh! Yes! About ‘Vernon God Little,’ very interesting book, albeit my sincere effort I have just reached first 26 pages. Then, last night I realized, I am reading from page 15 again. It was a kind of déjà vu (two years of French class in my high school and the only freaking word I can remember, along with how to curse, and some human anatomies) feeling, my sublime sense told me; I have already read that page, I checked if I had put a mark by nipping the edge of the page (remeber I don’t have a bookmark, lost it), then I realized I had 16 of those nippings out of 26 pages, last one being the page 26^th. Then, I jumped to page 26, trouble, I had no recollection of any characters–friends, mom, local sheriff, moms friends and whole sleuth of characters, they were popping out in every paragraph with the protagonist—Vernon. I said, ‘shit,’ after a month I managed to read first 26 pages, if I were to start it again, I would never finish it.  So, right now, I am of two minds, should I continue the book? If yes, from the beginning or page 26? Or, should I buy an audio version of the book? That way, I don’t have to keep track of pages (I know I am never going to remember to buy a bookmark), and not strain my eyes too. It can work as a lullaby too. Let me do some serious contemplation before I get back to that book.  This evening, I was at the book store (no, I didn’t remember to buy a bookmark this time too), and I was going through the shelves. Guess what I came across? How many of you remember a guy name ‘Dale Carnegie’ and his book called ‘How to make friends and influence people,’ or some shit like that. If you ever thought, your PR is awful, and you needed to improve it, the mantra was Dale Carnegie then when I was a teen, and I thought, wow, this guy is the ultimate guru of PR.  In retrospect, the book was full of clichés, and some half ass supposed to be inspiring stories of personal transformation of some great American figures, I can’t remember if all were Americans, but pretty much sure all were pale asses white people.  All these fucking, self help, inspiring gurus should be burnt alive for their pretension and dishonesty. Beginning with that nautanki dhoti—Deepak Chopra following with Oprah, and that fucking bald dick with a Texan ascent—Dr. Phill.  ‘How to make friends and influence people,’ I don’t understand, why do you need to make friend of everyone that you meet in life. Some people are dick, and loathing them gives a purpose to your existence. For god sake, why do I need to influence anybody else for what? To begin with I haven’t been able to influence myself.  Fucking quacks.