...Shut up, Ashy. Just get in the car

 I decided to talk a bit about the trip I'm taking next week. I will be travelling for pleasure after ten years and I'll be going to Bangalore (Bengaluru?). I'm sitting in a boiling hot room, listening to the fan struggle to keep it cool and sweating as I write this post about how I feel about all this. This is a trip of many firsts.

This is the first trip without my father for example as he passed away. I should say this is the first trip without my parents for more accuracy. This is also an impulse trip. I planned it over a WhatsApp conversation in exactly five hours. I want to give a huge shoutout to my friend Megs for the discount coupon she shared that allowed me to slash the flight fare by 15%. This is also the first trip where I'm not going to Bangalore for work or for a doctor's consult or for a stopover. This is going to be a trip about hanging out, food and books. The trip will also see me take buses as opposed to cabs in Bangalore because this time the company is not footing my travel bill.

I pause here to take a sip of litchi juice and check the text that just came in. The packet of glassware I had sent down for my friends who live there has reached and that's a really good thing. I crane my neck back and remind myself for the umpteenth time that I need to get the CDs that I dug up packed up as Rico wants them. I cannot speak more of them as they're a surprise for her. As for Puro, I'm looking forward to where he takes me for breakfast.

I'm told that Bangalore apparently has great coffee places and I have not been able to see those ever so when I meet with the members of Chuck and Berty's Song a Day, the coffee place will see itself nicely photographed. I will also be on the lookout for a bag of coffee in Malleshwaram which is close to where I am staying anyway. This of course gets me thinking about the giant book list I have made and how a conversation with my younger brother Rahul last night led us both to conclude the clear and present danger of me loose in a book store. Rahul also pointed out that there would be a high possibility that I tell the list to go fuck itself and actually pick whatever strikes my fancy when I am exploring the mile high shelves and narrow gullies of Blossoms or wandering around Bookworm.

The last first I can think of is the meetup with all these wonderful people whom I've only known in WhatsApp groups and over discussions on Google Meet and I want to give a huge shout out to my dear friend, Gayathri without whom none of this would have happened to begin with. Gayathri blew into my life in 2021 and in exactly a few months she became a very important part of my life. I'm now going to meet the others she calls friends, my friends by induction and I am very overwhelmed.

I am not someone who is used to kindness being shown to him. When Megs heard that I would be coming, the sheer happiness of her texts and calls, her taking the initiative to create a WhatsApp group for better coordination and her sheer bubbly enthusiasm or Puro's silent presence and his whole entire - "Macha, what about grabbing some dosa?" and of course Rico quietly lurking in the group chats and saying, "Come on down. I met you in a book club so naturally I know that you're gonna lose it in a bookstore". It is these little gestures that tell me that this trip will be one for the books indeed.

And bang on cue, here comes a text from someone in Bangalore. I guess I'll shut up and get in the car now! 

The Bilge Master

Art Needs to Make Me Feel

 What is it about corny lines? “The girl looked so good she gave eyesight to the blind”? I chuckled. Then I looked it up. The song is playing now and it’s not too bad. Geometrically, a line is something that is infinite, stretching in both directions. That’s what I like about lines. There are some iconic ones like “It was a bright, cold day in April and the clocks were striking thirteen” or something along the lines of “You may have gone to Cambridge, but I am an honorary graduate of Starfleet Academy.” Another one that happens to have popped in my head is “Hello Jim. Who died and made you Batman?”

There’s so many different ways to combine words to express what we want to say. People do it all the time, even when words were not a thing. I have found that human beings love to talk, to express. They are ambitious that way and they have voices. Even when in the prehistoric age, humanity made cave paintings did they not?

So what happens when Artificial Intelligence is used to put words together and make up a story? What happens when that story becomes acknowledged with an award? Is it scary? Is Skynet more real now? It’s always said that “Truth is stranger than fiction” after all.

I was participating in a group discussion about this award winning AI written story and actual writers who have written books were all calling it slop. I read the story myself. I found it so ridiculous. None of the sentences made sense, but even then I learnt something. I learnt a different meaning for the word kink and how to use it to imply that meaning when used in the context of hair. Naturally, a human being and not a Google search led me there, sat me down and explained it to me.

In season one of the medical drama The Pitt, there is a scene where a child who is very sick with measles is being denied access to a lumbar puncture by a helicopter parent who puts more faith in a Google Search than the actual resident doctor who puts their medical experience to work and tells both the parents that unless they act, their son could die. The helicopter parent refuses to relent and I don’t want to talk further about this as it will take away from a good moment in the episode.

The world today is a small place, because of the technology that humans have at their disposal. I can log on to anything at any given time and have my fun or spend a good few hours. Video has truly killed the radio star and some of these things are here to stay. Despite many warning about the effects they have on the attention span, children find themselves addicted to reels on social media platforms and grown  men with years of experience try to replace humans work and talent with the good old artificial.

But I was glad that quite a few of us in that group decided to have a good laugh about the story and I managed to learn something about a word, a human created word by reading that story

It taught me that the danger is not the technology itself, but the use of the technology. Funnily enough, I find myself reminded of a line from Terry Pratchett’s beautiful story Men at Arms. “Gonnes don’t kill people, people kill people”. So, while I acknowledge that it is easy now to just type a couple of things into a program and create, there will always be someone else who sits down with a piece of paper and a pen, far away from the reach of artificial and actually writes what he feels.

After all, art needs to make you feel. This AI story failed to do that. But all these corny lines have made me feel so much.

And with that, I take your leave, because I have a comic to read!

The Bilge Master

 

I Dream In Phosphorescence

 Here's a little something nobody tells you about dreams. Dreams come true. The funny thing is that sometimes the dream takes a little time to come true and that's why I beleive that patience is called a virtue. 

As a child, I had a lot of dreams. Some of those dreams saw me astride a dragon, soaring off into the sunset. Others saw me walking on a brightly lit stage - strobe lights and roaring crowds hanging on to my every word while camera flash bulbs went off and dazzled me, forcing me to blink. Other dreams saw me driving down miles of open road, the wind a roar outside the car and Bon Jovi crooning Bed of Roses on the car stereo.

I am no longer a child. My eyes have become a bit grave. My face shows stubble. There are bags under my eyes sometimes and my dreams are now like acid trips and make me wake up screaming. I cannot sleep in a dark room any more, however miniscule; a light source has to be there. I have a therapist now and a martial arts teacher. I cook my own food and drink a lot of coffee, sometimes laced with alcohol.

That popular song starts playing in my head sometimes 

"Her dreams went out the door, when she turned 24". As did mine. I dream in phosphorescence now. I dream of fantasy worlds and of meeting an orangutan in a library. I dream of endless alleys littered with books that are available for cheap. I dream of tender stewed chicken which is to be relished with a nice piece of naan. I dream of being who I am with people I care about - joking with them, reading the books they give me, playing the games they make me a part of. I dream of going on walks with them and their dogs and of sharing what makes me sad with them.

The thing is, I've changed. I'm not a child anymore. My dreams have changed as well. It's almost a disease with me - I can never stop dreaming. A house littered with books and the smell of good food. A room of my own which has art made by my friend on the wall. I dreamt of all this and I dreamt of more things too. I never noticed some of those dreams coming true. I never realised when a dream became something I was living, when it became a truth. 

So, continue dreaming and stay a while. Let that dream become a truth Let me remind you of the horseman in Robert Frost's poem who stood by the woods, watched the snow fall in them and then acknowledged their beauty but also the fact that he had miles to go before he could sleep. Why do you think we dream the most when we sleep? Could the horseman have a desire to dream? Robert Frost seems to think that his horseman had a dream that he wanted to turn into a truth.

"Dream on, dream on, dream on

Dream until your dream comes true" 

I must admit that my life is kind and in many ways driven by the dreams I dared to dream as a child. My life may not be much, but it is mine. It is fuelled by many dreams and many truths.

The Bilge Master 

How I Cooked Myself Out of It

My flat is being renovated and the place is a god awful mess with a metric ton of dust on everything. The dust has caused me to develop a mild cough and sore throat and the only passing that Pippa would be doing would be passing away. Even killing time has lost its charm and I find myself ready to bolt out of doors, screaming for my (dead) parents every now and then. I'm told that this is my body reacting to the noise, supplemented by the heat and the chaos of yells, slams on marble, the kind of cuss words that make me feel like sailors are golden tongued and of course dirt everywhere. I also want to have a chat with the sun because what the fuck is this temperature of 38 degrees which feels like 42 degrees? 

Now, let me be clear. I should have expected some of this. I am neurodivergent, I am now learning, one typo at a time, that what that means is that this is a sort of natural state from which my nervous system craves respite almost on a constant need basis and since I am now a part of the body that hosts this nervous system, of course it means I need to be the one to calm it down. So, since running out of the house screaming for my dead parents is not on the table, I needed a solution. 

My solution was to cook. Just cook.

Over the course of the past four days, there has been some action in the Mobius Kitchen and now at the end of April, I find that the provisions have proven most useful. I've cooked fish and eggs and more eggs and some chicken as well. I've combined stuff like soya sauce with honey and pizza issue oregano to make a blend for chicken which a friend called Sammit told me would go really well with a pizza as well. I've obeyed the recipe for a cooler shared by a friend over Instagram. This friend by the way is also an Earth Genasi like Mobius Worblehat! There has been the lesson of the fact that turmeric is the game changer in fish curries and the equally important lesson that eggs if left too long in hot oil tend to explode and then you have yolk everywhere.

Don't get me wrong, I still want to run away screaming for my dead parents but at least I can do it on a full stomach now. I suppose that now that I am the only one keeping score of how I'm staying and what my body is asking of me, sometimes I need to bend the rules and sometimes I need to heat oil, add masala and temper temper away the blues.

Shout out to all my friends who are a part of this journey with me and my trusty cooking pot who has seen me concoct many things.

The Bilge Master 

What Nobody Tells You About Being ND

 “And you can have it all

My empire of dirt”

 That sense of blankness when you’re about to write something important (at least to you), is a terrifying part of my writing process, or so I’ve found as I’ve paid more and more attention to how I write and what I write. So, here I go with a cup of tea and a lotus biscoff biscuit in my hand, making a typo like a pro to tell you all, I will tell you all…yeah, Eliot beat me to this one.

It is an often repeated saying that there’s a first time for everything and anyone who happens to follow me on Instagram knows that last weekend was spent at the Apeejay Kolkata Litfest, a gala event with lots of insights and thought provoking conversations; not to mention travel on buses and in cabs, selfies and group pictures and a controversial plate of fried rice which was served to us in jail.

So now that we have gone to prison for our vices and guilty pleasures about literature (for we are as much what we read as we are what we wear), let’s take a look at how I feel on the Monday after the AKLF. Put simply, I feel like a herd of elephants in the seventeen stone category (minimum) did the mamba on my spine.

I was glam itself for the past three days – good clothes, ties, blazers, excellent watches and lots and lots of smiles . Bertie Wooster would have modeled his article on “What the Well Dressed Man is Wearing” on me (assuming of course that Bertie Wooster was a real person).

But that brings me to something else, am I real? I ask this because I went from an outgoing and adrenaline crazed junkie listening to luminaries talk literature, psychology and book covers to a man in his dad’s clothes, sipping tea and doing whatever this is so quickly. My WhatsApp is full of chatter about the event, but my phone is on silent and my head hurts and I’m so twitchy that the sound of the doorbell is making me jump out of my skin.

 I sort of zoned out a second and had to read from the beginning to get back some sort of bearing of what it is that I was writing. Apparently, there’s another event coming up soon but I’m pretty sure that I won’t be able to attend it because this event has set my social batteries to a point from where its just work and books for a minimum of two weeks and no skipping workouts (especially leg day) for a straight week.

I don’t even have the energy to try and make this article a little less chaotic. I feel like I’m birthing a little trickster demon using the pixilated ink as a substitute for blood and keystrokes instead of chalk to draw Aldebrand’s Pentacle (tell me you’ve read Johnathan Stroud without telling me you’ve read Johnathan Stroud).

I suppose that now that the trickster demon has appeared, its time for my last trick.

This is what nobody tells you about being neurodivergent, not even the internet. Typically, before this aspect of my psyche took hold and assured me it was here to stay, I would be able to attend such weekend long events or have 15  hour days without balking. In college, I would be the most unhinged party animal and for the longest time in corporate, I drank the equivalent of a small plantation’s produce of coffee to function. I now realize that these were the small signs that nobody indicated that such blatant disregard for my physical and mental well being was tomfoolery.

So I guess, this is now me and my overstimulated, plump arse against the events I want to attend and the cooldown periods attending said events will have!

 

*JUMP* Doorbell!

 

The Bilge Master

The Hope I Have for Poor Ebeneezer (Christmas Babble)

 There’s something quiet about Boogie Street tonight. Macy’s is run down and it seems as if that death sentence from the blues is in effect. The printing presses of the world went off to write about the comedian who died in New York after all and that left us with some hope that someone will do some good.

Meanwhile in Sin City, someone put the chairs on the table as a dame called Nancy caught a bus to Ohio and now that its cold and empty, I looked among the debris for that lead on the succubus. I found only a box of rouge.

Winter has set in now in some parts of the world and the specters are getting ready to pay a certain Ebeneezer a call.

I take off the cowl, slip into the prepared face and I wonder if enough time has been spent preparing for this. A small snap of my fingers brings the djinn forth and I ask it to gather the elves’ artifacts together. Without warning it slips past me onto the sixth plane and Mists off into the distance, a reindeer looking to find other mates to pull cargo.

I walk to the edge of the rug and shrug on the red and white. People associate me with winter, with the Yuletide and with cake and meat and ale.

 I associate myself with cocoa and gingerbread and a large mistletoe plant which has an infestation of Grinch traps.

My quest for the succubus leads me to an alley where a boy lost his parents and became a legend that the criminals of a fictional city fear. I also remembered reading the story of a doomed planet and two survivors, one of whom is a reporter by day and leaps tall buildings at night.

And maybe this little rant that a man sitting in front of a terminal with fae lights strung up around him doesn’t mean too much factually, or the ring on his finger will as of yet take some time to reassure him he will be safe; but then again maybe this man and his stories about the stories he read about me and about Boogie Street and the man who laughs are where my succubus has gone to hide.

So maybe I should pick out the old book of tales where this ancient holiday was first named and remember the first thought that brought me gamboling into this world.

I smile as I put on the red and white and the djinn returns with my vehicle in tow. I hope poor Ebeneezer doesn’t feel too low tonight.

Off I go!

The Bilge Master

Sixty Ton Angels Gliding

“A sixty ton angel falls to the earth

A pile of old metal, a radiant blur”

Although this was not the first song I heard from the record In Absentia, it was one of the tracks whose imagery stayed with me for some time.

That was a time I don’t want to go back to. But life has a funny way of taking turns that lead you somewhere, just not here.

7^th November 2025, Aquatica, Kolkata. Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun is playing softly on speakers as a music thirsty crowd slowly starts swelling around me. Steven Wilson is in town and at 7:30PM, he is going to perform less than 20 feet away from where I am standing. I’m wearing a t shirt my friend drew for me and he’s standing next to me chatting with my elder brother from another mother whose t shirt says it all. A strip of cloth on my wrist reads “Overview Tour 2025. Diamond.” I am miles away, in the mind of a confused and hurting 20 year old, whose mother has just hit him again and whose father isn’t there to stop her (he never was). I recall listening to Steven Wilson then. The year was 2015. Hand. Cannot. Erase. had just come out and somehow Ancestral and Regret #9 made so much sense to me back then, because here was a man who understood. Apparently, in half an hour that man was going to be in front of me, spectacles and long hair and guitar in hand. Was I ready? I did not know. Was I scared? No. I was not 20 anymore. I had grown beyond that, and I wanted to come and see the man who was there for me and to just enjoy myself.

The Kolkata concert was a masterclass in sound and VFX. It also boasted a fantastic setlist with songs like King Ghost, Lazarus and (of course) The Raven That Refused to Sing as the closing song.

Kolkata has become a different sort of place to be these days. One of the friends who came with us started headbanging when Staircase was being played. He was a bit skeptical about how much he would enjoy the concert, but in the end…there was a moment when something in his eyes shifted.

Behind me, a friend I hadn’t seen for a long time suddenly passed his beer can to me and kept saying, “Do send me the photos” and of course I will. To my right was a group that burst into tears at the end of Pariah and when Luminol came on, I cast a backward glance to see a mini moshpit.

When it was over, the crowd started to slowly dissipate. In a daze, I ambled off a bit and I wondered…these songs that helped me when I was sick came back to me 11 years later and I could enjoy them, film some of them and I could see the concert through to its end. I was going to be fine. I’d come a long way. It was nice to know.

A sixty ton angel glided over Kolkata yesterday night.

Thank you, Steven Wilson 

The Bilge Master