Losing it

“I wouldn’t be surprised,

In the middle of the night, to

Find Vinay watching me in my room. I’d just say

“Go home Vinay, it’s creepy.””

And she laughed loudly at me, then repeated it

To everyone around me.

We are… were friends, I tried many times to be


And not creepy.

“You’re so touchy!”

Yes, yes I’m touchy.

Because when you stand there mocking me,

Or joking about me or saying something to get a reaction from me and think

It’s “damn funny”

You are pushing me,

From the top, of my self-esteem, into a dark pit of anxiety.

I’m scared, if I stop being touchy

Then you’ll think, it’s okay to punch me;

Then I’ll be in high school again

Getting beaten up by the boys around me.

And I’ll be losing it.

I’m scared to go to high School reunions,

‘Cos my bully’s might want to throw a punch.

Or break my face,

Just for old time’s sake.

But I still met one, he convinced me

That maybe we could be friends, again

Like we used to be.

I met him in his car, we had a nice chat

And then he asked me

To blow him and I started crying.

I was losing it,

Every step into adulthood,

I forget who I am and end up in

My very own hell, inside my head.

Ano Hana

Ano Hana is an eleven episode anime series about a group of six children in some small town of Japan. Three girls and boys formed a group called the super peace buster (TSPB) and had a secret hideout on a mountain top that they built by themselves. The series is a very simple and even a little clichéd with both the narrative and plot. But the twelve episodes manage to engage viewers and leave you in tears and it’s moving enough to not worry about being called a sissy.

The lead is a gamer boy who stopped going to school after the first week, Jinta. He starts to hallucinate and sees a childhood friend Menma who’s dead. The eleven episodes are around TSPB and the various complications their relationships had which only made them grow further apart. They do manage to reach out to each other and the unresolved conflicts raise and manages to hurt everyone. In the second episode they play a fake Pokémon fame on Gameboys and the game is called Nokemon.

From Google Search

The love triangle turned into a rectangle and then a hexagon and finally octagon before it unravelled into the mess it was, for the world to see. The dead Menma was a sweet heart who was loved by Jinta and Yukiatsu the boy who is equivalent to the lead but never good enough. The other two girls liked these two boys, while Anjou was jealous of Menma and popularity while Tsuruko was aware of the complication and was better balnced of the emotions she exhibited.

From Google Search

The characters are simple, relatable and in eleven episodes the series manages to get the viewer to cry as it ends. The simplicity and delightful background score is engaging and form fitting while keeping the viewer interested and curious. The series feels slow but the end of each episode increases the craving for the next. The ending provides closure which seems like a rare and arbitrary  in an era where continuing or closure isn’t a free choice or anyway to end something. Even if they say it’s closure, sometimes it doesn’t feel that way.

Trying and trying

The entrance exam was appealing and for the first time in my life, I had nothing horrible to say about an exam. That made me want to get in to the course even more. There was this girl at the exam, big eyes and red lipstick. Her laughter sounded like wind chimes and the boy with her, I hoped was her brother; even tried to find resemblance in their appearance. I got home pretty early that day, probably the earliest I got home for the next three years; the wait for the results of the entrance test was excruciatingly painful that evening. It was 6pm. The BlogSpot which would post the results was being refreshed on my phone every two minutes. I waited. It was 6:30, my names wasn’t on the list. It was 6:34 and I almost cried; for the next ten minutes, I was lost, life didn’t make sense. I had no future prospects, and I’d already given up on Engineering. My parents were worried about important things like how difficult it would be to find a good bride for me, I roll my eyes as I type it. Christ University had kept my results on a waiting list and that didn’t sound promising.

I was texting a friend who was in the course, a big boy with a three page resume. Then my phone vibrated, it was an SMS from a Prof Arul Mani saying I’d made it through the entrance exam. And tomorrow was the interview, my heart made a leap. I was in the second group of interviewees. I met 3 respectable looking men who were going to be interviewing me. I had a long practiced response to questions about my writing and reading habits. It was a question I was sure was coming and my HOD of English from Jain told me to not overdo it. “Say you write when you read something interesting or when something catch’s your attention or interest.” I did realise it was true, but not as frequent as it sounded.


© Vinay, 2016

School had always made me feel like writing was a punishment and reading was pleasurable. And it was even better when my parents disapproved it. I started reading things secretly, under the sheets with a pen torch like Harry Potter. The interview ended and they told me to go prepare for things that are a part of the course and I’d gotten in. I got through all the formalities and payed my college fees on the last day prescribed just 10minutes before the bank closed and I was Josephite. A week later someone called asking why I didn’t pay my fees yet; I freaked, but it was mix up and I was still in.

This was the beginning of the new reading and writing life I wanted and hoped, would be what sets future for a life where I’d be rich, famous and happy. Sadly three years later I won’t be any of it, but I’d be satisfied and leaning towards a future where that happiness thing might just happen.

Like expected, I was on over-enthu cutlet like most people in my class and on the first day of class I ended up sitting next to the girl with big eyes. She was funny, smart, mature and prettier close up. She laughed like a phone ring tone. We were in the same tutorial group and would chill once every week as we waited for our tutor. But once it was confirmed that she wasn’t available, I didn’t pursue. Weeks turned to months and the semester grew into an academic year, by then I met more women and also started writing like a mother-fucker. My writing showed improvement that made me proud and my tutor said, there’s more that can be achieved and that will always be true.

The year had managed to not kill my dark soul and there was still hope for a re-awakening and getting back to the light. But the next two years had things in store for me that only an Indian song could capture and could also manage to tell how much I died. The first year was painful, stressful, over-whelming and consuming but all of this only turned into things I could write about. There was so much to read, the course introduced me to Joseph Brodsky, Mario Vargas Llosa, Marjane Satrapi and so many other poets, writers, foreign films (and film makers), bands and texts; I was overwhelmed but not saturated and took everything it could offer. My reading grew a taste for graphic novels and comics; I saw everything in new light and the world was a whole new place that I never knew existed around me and in every corner that I’d been walking around for my entire life.


© Vinay, 2016

Towards the end of the first year I met a girl who lived across the city, she might as well have lived in Hyderabad because that felt closer. There were sparks and then there weren’t. Then there were fireworks and then the explosions got out of control; life was spiralling out of control. But then I met a blue eyed girl who made me smile, who was funny, smart, and strong and could easily beat the shit out of me. She was here for a month, I knew but I let her become so much more than that, and when she left to go back to the land seven seas away, I was overwhelmed. It was more than her, it was how she made me feel. I felt loved, warm, happy, and that I could never feel sad again when she was around or running her hand through my hair. And we constantly sought an escape from prying eyes and ears to a quiet moment, life was adventurous.

Then she was gone and then I discovered disinterest, my writing increased because there was so much to write about. It kept my writing at good length and I had so much to say, almost every day for a long time. But my reading started taking a hit and reached to the basic of minimum class requirements and then done. I had so much to say, it turned into whining, but that helped purge out all things I held onto. The second year was a roller coaster, the girl from far away drove me crazy and managed to break me. Then I met a boy, it was nice. He was nice, but he was also scary and made me realise how he was no different from the girl from far away. Then the girl took a back seat, the boy and I were doing everything together, every day, week and month.

The friendship grew stronger and when I realised it was more, he’d already decided it was over and in the wind. It was crazy, violent and noisy, before we knew it the year had come to an end. I was fighting with him as much I used to talk to him and that too, ended. I still see him around, we don’t talk and after the confrontation where he yelled at me and ran, things were never the same again. And in all the confusion the second year was done and I was interning at the ladies finger magazine. The writing demands were constant enough to keep me and my mind occupied. I loved it, there was never any time for feeling sorry or to sit and do nothing.


© Vinay, 2016

Third year started and I’ve been waiting to leave. I didn’t want to come back, it was weird and uncomfortable. But I could leave for good and with a degree if I just put up with another year and that’s what it has been and probably will be. An attempt in shutting my eyes to let everything fly so I could run, jump and leave the minute it all stops, but it just doesn’t seem to want to halt. In this process of shutting eyes I’ve manged to not read or write and I’m using completion and assignment as an excuse to write, write and write more than required because that is all I seem to be able to write. But writing now is painful, not the constipation kind of pain but pain where every part of the body and mind is sad and just wants to fall off and stay in bed and never come back.

Last day

The hall was quieter than a graveyard and over seventy five students were scribbling in Kannada (the language I was scribbling in), Hindi, French and others I can’t remember or spell. Well, not everybody was scribbling, some were counting invisible flies, number of bulbs, fans and windows in the hall. It was an exam hall in the basement of my five storey school building, painted in red blood from the outside and the dark, musty basement. The basement mimicked an Indian version of a dungeon, where creepy things, shady things, illegal things or just things could happen or happened, if I were to believe some not very reliable sources.

I was on zombie mode, due to the sleep deprivation and caffeine running in my blood. I finished the paper like a boss, even though I had dozed off for ten minutes but walked out fully awake to party on 31st March, 2010. I just finished the last of my 10th standard ICSE board exam & now I wanted to have a great start to my summer.

I exchanged socially obligatory greetings with all those faces that I’ll never ever have to see again (wasn’t that lucky) and walked to the parking to find a few others sitting on my bike. A south Indian movie scene was brewing, my girlfriend had a fan club. They’d recently found out that we were doing the dirty dance and wanted to threaten me to stop seeing her, talking to her and some such things. I tried to listen but I couldn’t, so I said have an amazing day and life ahead, now go away. They were obviously offended and were trying to start a fight, they pulled in for a short meeting and while that happened one of them said “go”. I was more than happy to leave, and like a kid on sugar rush I left, a little shaken but mostly excited for a brilliant evening. I went home and changed got a ride back to school from my mum, because that was where the group had planned to meet and start the afternoon.

Today I don’t have a bully, school uniform, parties to go to, a social life, a girlfriend or so I like to believe.

I don’t think I ever told the girlfriend or anybody about this incident, because the rest of that day was a bunch of nice adjectives. So the  Telugu film parking scene didn’t seem important enough. But the last day was the only highlight that entire summer. I can’t remember anything that happened, except things like my first breakup and breaking away from the group. I did do a lot of things, but sadly I don’t remember any and it’s sadder that I haven’t really made an attempt to remember or record. After my first semester I made an attempt, to record my daily events. I may end up buying or making (because that sounds better) a personal diary to put down things, because it seems like the time to do it.

In the last year of college, no such thing happened but instead the blog happened, it’s a record of my writing, time and the last two years.

Bunking, Kabali and Chai

I’ve never been successfully in bunking a day of college or class. In thirteen years of School education I’ve won 100% attendance prizes so often that I gave up on collecting them. In the two years of Pre-University Course (PUC) my attendance has been  an all-time academic life low. 75% in the first year and 68% in the second,  bunked them because of the student the three student associations, the cultural, commerce and science forums, which were academic-ish and allowed me to claim attendance for them. I hated the one year I spent in engineering and yet I  had nearly 100% attendance, so there is no saving me.

Then I joined EJP, classes were so fucking wonderful, I loved sitting for all the lectures, discussions and conversations we’d have and bunking didn’t even cross my mind. Every time classes got intense there’d be a psychology class with Sister Dr Judy, which was an hour to turn off and to recover from the intensity of  the Optional English classes. Sister Judy is an awful teacher, a nice person, but awful teacher. She couldn’t teach to save her own life and she was also the head of the department that had  one other teacher.

These conversations of my non-existent bunking life  started floating in my head because I’ve almost never bunked college to go watch a movie, except once in PUC just two or three weeks before my final year classes were coming to an end. I don’t even remember the movie because it was four years ago. I was commissioned to write about my experience of watching Rajinikanth’s latest film Kabhali, with a Rajinikanth fan association, so I picked the earliest first day show at 6 am, in any theatre I could.

After the movie, I went around to two other theatres that were screening the film and spoke to the audience to get a better perspective and the film’s impact on the audience. I was disappointed with the lukewarm reaction people showed outside the theatre because the screaming and shouting during the film screening was  crazy and infectious. It was so energetic at 6 am, I too started  screaming and would have whistled if I knew.

During the interval I got out of my seat to say hello to my cousins who were at two other corners because we weren’t able to get seats to sit together but movie over watching togethet. This is my second morning show at Lakshmi theatre in S G palya (Tavarekere) and during both these shows munching egg-puff during the interval and sipping some fake mango wannabe juice from glass bottles is a ritual I want to start. I’m going to watch as many morning shows as I can, because missing classes won’t be a problem, I’ve hardly ever had any attendance problem and then there is also the matter of me still having 98% attendance. My attendance has been 98% in first year and 95% in second year. So I don’t think I’d even worry about attendance problems, because for me to have attendance problem is like  the Simpsons not being funny, so impossible. As I thought and typed the previous line I held on to the wooden table of Chai chowk so tightly I might have  broken it.

I had to wait for over an hour before I got to sit my favourite table, I drank two or three ginger teas and  read Lolita, while waiting. I think the habit of using initials that my teachers and people involved with my English department is from Nabokov but this is just a wild, wild guess.

There was this super noisy  pair of boys in my second favourite table and they were discussing watching movies as students and now making them. “I’ve easily spent over twenty thousand rupees on movies because I’d be at the movies every Tuesday during my first and second year of degree” and the noisy one kept nodding. The noisy one was snapped his fingers and went “oye, oye” at the polite waiters who always smile at me, to order two lemon chai. More friends of theirs came in and the others left and I’m sure they weren’t drunk, just high. So fucking high, everybody in chowk knew what they were talking about. The less noisy one kept talking about films, script writing and needing a video editors for his film.

I lost track of that conversation when this odd couple sat in front of me and started vehemently talking about something in a language I know, but couldn’t remember shit but just the intensity of their conversation and how she shot dirty looks at me regularly.

I got my first favourite table, finally and I sat there for half hour nearly. The ballet teacher had to start class, so our conversation ended and I decided to start writing. Two or maybe three people have changed from the bench in front of me. The two men in front of me, in unkempt beards and weird haircuts started talking about travelling and brought up “thadiyandamol” a mountain trek I  completed on my own when I was 12/13 years old. Just discovered chikmagalur is 260kms from Bangalore and that these men were planning a one day trip. I’ve passive smoked enough for today, before my headache gets a strong and lasting headache I shall leave. The lights were just switched on at Chowk and I’m going to shut the laptop and head home, after I pay thirty-six rupees for my ginger tea.

Image Source: Kabali FB page

Boys are mean

Lohith was the biggest boy in eighth standard at Cambridge Public School. There was a boy in ‘A’ section who was taller than Lohith but not bigger, and he was in the Hindi group so he didn’t matter because he wasn’t a local. The students from the Kannada group didn’t like them very much at least not till Hindi and Kannada students were shuffled in to two sections from sixth standard. The intra-class politics until then were based on the second language (Hindi or Kannada only) but once they were shuffled these politics became more reduced and lurked only in the dark places.

Lohith came up to me at when I was packing my bag to head home after the bell for the end of the day had rung. He asked me to go to the washroom with him. I wasn’t part of the two major groups then and was always bullied by the Kannada group (my second language was Kannada too) Lohith had always been polite and nice to me; so I didn’t think too much about it, and to have the biggest guy on my side meant less or no more bullying. Also most class secrets were discussed in the washrooms in small groups.

I remember talking, teasing, and annoying Anita that day, because I found out she had a crush on her neighbour and this was an excuse to tease her and to dawdle around her. I had just learnt to make a tie knot from Anita and that was when her friend Preethi had spilt the beans, on purpose. She spoke me through the procedure of making the knot, started by overlapping the tie and drew the longer end inside while holding the short end out to make a loop. I made a few schoolboy attempts to flirt, she chided and asked me to pay attention and I said well if only I was “Rahul”.

She turned pink and then red and smacked me on the arm and told me to pay attention to tying the tie and I did, now I had to tie it on my own. Anita watched me closely and I said Rahul probably does it better because the teacher had special interests towards him. She was never the girl to walk away when someone annoyed her, instead she was always the one to smack me and I had to run to dodge her hits.

Lohith and I walked to the boys’ washroom that was fourteen steps from section ‘B’ and eight steps from section ‘A’ in the building right next to it. We walked into the badly lit, unhygienic, and smelly bathroom to find Preethum standing there waiting for us. The light from the ventilators illuminated the loo just enough to walk around and see and right then it looked like a space for filmy fight scene. I asked why we were all gathered here and Lohith went towards the door to keep a watch and Preethum grabbed me by my tie and slapped me. My school badge hanging to my collar loosely by the safety pin went out flying and landed in to the Indian style commode on my left.


“Don’t talk to Anita. Don’t make fun of her. Don’t annoy her.”

He pushed me against one of the walls again and then dragged me back and pushed me on to the floor. He walked out of the bathroom, and I watched how he still looked like a “smart” boy in his ironed khaki pants and white shirt, with the maroon and navy blue striped tie and a house badge on the collar of his white shirt; his shoes were still clean, just a few droplets of water on it. I was on the bathroom floor, with a wet bottom, scuffled white shirt, ugly tie knot, missing badge, and shoes that had been stepped on. Lohith walked me back to class and made sure I left because they didn’t want me telling on them and Preethum had threatened to beat me up again if I did and also that it would be insulting be for me to repeat the story and then no girl would want me.

Cry, but why?

The perfect place and time to cry is under my helmet while riding my scooter to college or back home. I don’t have to worry about being overheard, don’t have to worry about wiping my tears and mostly I don’t have to be conscious about myself or my body.
This was the third time I cried while riding, the first time was when I was heading home from college. I was sick, had a headache, felt weak, nauseous, and was in pain that made me cry all the way home, a forty five minutes to an hour long drive. That was a bad day, and the second time I have almost no recollection of except being stared at by strangers and the ass hole who I cried over.

I also cried while watching big hero six, Baymax was the trigger that turned the waterworks on and didn’t stop till I was exhausted and out breath. There are a lotta movies that made me sad, upset and all that jazz, but big hero six is the only one that made me cry.

My crying is usually triggered by all the things that remind me of my brothers’ death, a special teachers deaath, when I feel out of control, when I hate my life, self, body and remember that I’m a failure, can’t do anything right and all of that starts weighing on me and I break. But usually happens not more than once a month and often skips months and repeats in others to make up for the loss.
These are things I’ve accepted to be a part of growing up and adulting. What bothers me is that school didn’t have to be so. If bullies saw me cry everyday for three years because of all the shit they put me through, how do you not feel remorse? How can you be okay with yourself for being the trauma of someone else’s pain?
I want to know, teach me to be okay with it. Maybe then I wouldn’t ever want to cut, kill, or physically harm myself.

Why do I hate these bullies so much? I’ve made my peace with it but a shady kind, so sometimes they just end up pissing me off. They piss me off because all I remember about fourth (4th) to seventh (7th) standard or grad of school is crying, being made of fun, being called names, told I should have been a girl because I make such a terrible guy. Then once I was cornered in the washroom, slapped and accused of stealing, making up mean or rude things. These are the things that still bother about the people from school and what made me cry then, now I cry because of all the demons I’ve let in through the fucking front door.

‘ I ‘

I was 21: Cribbed about being older than most of my classmates, when I realised I was only one who cared, I was almost 22. Now I sing Taylor Swift’s 22 to myself and say it’s all going to be okay.

I was 20: I’d dropped out of college, got out of a job and felt useless for a while, but only till I moved on. ReStarted college, because of the many bad choices I now have more insecurities to deal with everyday than before.

I was 19: Stuck in an engineering college, trying to convince myself that I don’t hate the college or the course.

I was 18: I failed my exams took up supplementary exams to clear that and move ahead.
I woke up at 3am, cold sweat, racing heart beat, and fear..

I was 17: School still haunts, only a year since I got out. I’m the only guy without a single friend from school, because it’s easy to hate me.

I was 16: Out of school soon, girlfriend cheats and doesn’t want to acknowledged it was ever a relationship. Silly stuff, bullies try to beat me up, again.

I was just another emo, lonely, kid who was bullied and throw a bunch of clichéd family memories, scaring experiences, deaths, learning memories and more random clichéd ROM-com key words.


This is one of the most significant experience that shaped me.

“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.”

Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

Words can make, or break people, hearts, dreams, and lives. You can create a world where smile don’t carry baggage, tears are shed from joy, and the only fights would over what to eat for dinner, or set it all on fire by walking away from it. Kids are promised this magical world, where adults are happy, jobs are satisfying, love is tangible, and friends are easy, and so on. But there is always this one teacher in school, who’d have said something, or quoted someone, that would have had a colossal impression, or leaves one thinking.

Are you happy living like just any another Tom, Dick, or Harry? Do you want to someone in an ocean of somebodies? Or that your heart, mind, and soul yearn for…” said my English teacher from school. Or at least this what I remembers from one of her talks in class. It’s been six or seven years since this happened, and over two years since she passed away.

She was a fairly tall woman, a half Tamil-ian and Mallu, who grew up in Mumbai. She had a very captivating smile, and when she laughed it echoed through and spread smiles like witchcraft or magic. The most striking thing about her was the big red bindi on her forehead and the sports shoes she paired with her cotton salwar. The first time I saw her was when she would come by the school to pick up or drop off her daughter and son, and she’d waiting by the gate talking to another Mallu aunty and laughing heartily. Her voice was pleasant with a grainy nature to it and sounded like it was meant to be amplified and heard on speakers, making her the default MC at all the school events.

I first spoke to her when she took up the Librarian’s job at the school. Her office/ the Library was a little room in the spooky house. The school rented a house that shared a compound wall with us; broke that wall, dumped everything there, including the teachers to renovate the auditorium and start the construction of the new building to accommodate the increasing students.

The broken compound still carried battle scars, but it had opened up enough to allow movement between the school campus, and the spooky house. There was a lot of place in front of the house, and the school got a little shack set up that sold junk food to the students, which was where everybody hung out, it was the ‘cool place’. So this was also where all the students waited for her to walk by so they could strike a conversation with her.

Most of the books are lost, destroyed, or missing and that cupboard has the ones I salvaged a few from looking around the storage” she told me, pointing at the little wooden doors to a shelved cabinet on the pale green wall. I was probably the happiest boy, in that miserable school that day. Amongst the sports instructor bullying kids, or bullies making lives miserable, or teachers who felt soap bars were more important than a kid tripping and falling flat on his face, this books seemed like a whole new world. She probably noticed the desperate look in my eyes, “You can borrow one book, when you return that pick the next one” she said, looking at me from her chair next reading a book or correcting papers, I’m not too sure. This was the beginning of my reading life and that’s the beginning of love affair with words.

She left the school six years ago, it was scandalous and raised a lot eyes, ears and noses too because in my school, the teachers loved their noses where they didn’t belong. A lot of things were said about it, mean, nasty things and I saw the true face of a lot of people I respected, and god were they ugly; uglier than the backside of a burnt animal. The respect I had for these people evaporated. The teachers didn’t dare talk about her or even take her name, ignored the fact that she ever existed. And we finished our last year in school, at the graduation ceremony all the -four- speeches made by the students were proof read thrice, by three different teachers, and all of us were subtly warned to not talk about her, or even mention her or the bunch of other teachers who left after her. But she (The English teacher) also made sure to be scarce from the students, avoided us like the plague, because the school did trouble students who were in touch with her. In the end I didn’t get to know the real her.

In my head there was another version of her that lived, just like in the movie Ratatouille where Gusteau lived in the rats head. It started off because I couldn’t talk to her, I’d imagine myself asking her something and what she’d probably say from the two or the conversations with her and all the things she’s said in class were the reference material.

Random guy

It’s still not complete, pretty bad form. It’s the first draft and I hope to write more and give the story a better shape.

Hands, fingers, nails, and a lot of blood, nothing made sense. I dropped to the floor, my skinny butt hurt from the crash but my face didn’t twitch. I stared at the lifeless body –at least what was left- of once a very pretty girl with a beautiful mouth and lovely lips; aesthetically she’s prettier now. This was four years ago, and even today the rush feels just as good.


The original Pokémon theme song shouted out of the phone, “I want to be the very best, that no one ever was…” and he dips his hands in the bucket and wipes his hands dry before picking up the phone. It was his mother, “Yes mum, I did eat and will be heading out for a walk in the evening. Okay, I’m busy now will call you at the usual time. Bye mum, ya I will… BYE.”

Picked up the carving knife, to carve out the flesh and meat of her bones because it was time to get rid of the body. I made sure there was no evidence that she and I were here right now, after 13 bodies and counting and they still don’t have a single clue. I know what I’m doing right, and it’ll stay that way at least for now, I will want the attention and take all the due credit my work deserves in the end, but just not right now.

The boning knife was wearing out will have to go to the guy next ‘Shakti Super market’ but the store guy did want some liver kababs after our last conversation when he was sharpening the chef’s knife. This is one beautiful liver, well that’s sorted. The bones can be melted, will pack the flesh, muscles and skin in the respective bags. I will drop the meat bags off with the zoo meat supplies and they will not suspect and feed the meat I steal to the dogs outside the butcher’s store. Her hair goes to cancer donation, like the others. Her head and the rest will land up at the bottom of a brick furnace and cleared before they get there, the usual. I’m washing down the blood and her clothes going to be donated after washing and cleaning and the shoes each one in a random part of the city, that will reach the garbage pile.

The landfill was a beautiful place to burn the bodies, till the city had too much waste and now had their butt’s people there all day and night. But that did help discover the over-night burning brick kilns and I guess it’s time to find a new spot for the burning. Sneaking bodies into the electric crematorium still sounds brilliant, but to get the night guard job there I need those fake papers which are still not ready.

I’m done cleaning at least, time to enjoy my joint and I think I’ve heard enough Pandit Ravi Shankar, it’s time to let the Rock star M S Subbalakshmi kick some ass.


In the Staffroom of the XYZ International School

“Isn’t he that quiet English teacher, who helped us with the exam organising that day. He was polite, not too creepy, and always playing Pokémon on his phone or smelling flowers in the reception?” asked Shardha, a high school science teacher.

“Yes, but the police say he confessed and has a list of names of all his victims and given them a diary detailed with how each one was killed and disposed” said Lavanya, the History teacher.


In one of the XYZ School classroom

“But he was always talking about things with passion and said our country is sexist and made so much sense! He couldn’t have killed, tell me he’s been set up” said a sobbing random teenager.

“He is awesome, but like we don’t know anything and shouldn’t be so hasty in judging people” said the other random teenager.