Third Person Expanded Timesense

You know how it feels? I'm sure you do. All of us do at some point or the other. You must've and I will now. You how what feels? Go ahead ask me that. You know how it feels to be beaten up by a gang of thugs? Not exactly thugs but people who're say unreasonably violent for a cause that may or may not concern them but may make it their concern if provided generous compensation in units of the lowest common denominator? Not exactly units, but may be tens, or hundreds or thousands.

There it comes, you see it don't you? Don't tell me you can't fucking see that hockey stick being swung at you? It's about to hit your right eyebrow and miss your eye by an inch.

There you go. You went and got yourself hit. Is it blue yet? Oh! It's a cut! it's bleeding. Why and how do you get yourself in such a situation? There it comes, there comes a chain swinging right at your elbow. Damn! They ruined your fucking shirt! Why do they use bicycle chains for hitting people and that too without cleaning the fucking grease off it?!

By the time this will be over, I doubt I will be able to stand on my feet. But it's interesting you know, it's very interesting to see yourself being beaten up from the third person point of view. How did I achieve that? I spent three years at a monastery in the Himalayas, learning the art of meditation from the Buddhist monks. They taught me how the soul is not a part of the body and can leave the body whenever it wishes to. The important part being making it wish to. In the beginning it felt like I was showing the dog a bone and shouting, "Fetch!" But strangely enough, the master came to me and said, "Your soul is not a dog, your body is." I learnt a strange truth but that made me learn something new. My soul was the bone. I had to make sure that I toss my soul so far that my dog doesn't feel motivated enough to go catch it. Eastern philosophies are filled with such strange analogies. You can't find the right one that suits you, you can go ahead and make your own - no one will figure out the difference.

Not the fucking balls! Ouch! That must've hurt! They kicked you in the balls! Shit! I can see your cringe, I can see your curl up in pain! Look out for those leather boots! I can hear you howl as your hands are bamboozled, your senses have lost their touch, their enigmatic touch that god placed upon them to make the right choice. Your senses have reached a point of status contention - testicles or intestine?

Now the interesting part about floating out of your body and watching every action from the third person point of view - is like you're watching a movie in 3D! No matter how hard you try, you CAN'T help Chhota Chetan, he has to DIE! Or if you were born after 1995 then he has to be turned into a bat and stay camoulflaged in Urmilla's leather bosom. Hmmm, the word bosom brings a strange thought in my head -

Oww those fucking faggots! They pounded your back with a stump, the blunt end! They might as well dig the sharper end into your neck and kill you for once!

Coming back to our conversation - the word bosom brings a strange thought to my conscious mind. Her lovely curvaceous bosom! That's what landed me here, right outside my body, watching how easy it is to land into the hospital. And I always wondered why do those doctors and nurses keep running like they've got a hundred people dying. It's because there REALLY are a hundred people dying. There are things you have to know about me still - about how I got floating around a place like this and watching my dog being beaten up like this. Those things mostly involve one or more of the seven sins performed regularly as a ritual or at least a fix. So this one evening, I'm drinking at the bar. There's this one thing about alcohol that I learnt from the arabs is that alcohol made from dates is special - it has aphrodisiac powers. One glass of date wine equals at least two or three onions crushed and juiced well into a glass, very potent. Then that evening they made me prove that with personal experience. Later they told me that they fooled me only to prove that your head is the biggest aphrodisiac. I still didn't believe that bit. I still believed you need some kind of intoxicant to believe that. So there I was mainlining tequila and after seven shots - I knew that it wasn't tequila but it was date wine. Now, I was the invincible phallus!

A boot is about to stamp your thigh flat. You twitch and he misses. You bitch! Don't twitch! If you twitch he comes back again with more force. The next time you don't twitch but this time he's jumping high in the air with both feet about to hit your thighs. Holy fucking shit! That must've hurt. I can almost hear your bones crack. You know when you pull down your trousers later at night you will see dirty boot marks turning greenish blue there. You can hate them in peace then - as of now, no matter how much you hate them it doesn't make a difference. So you might as well love them - trust me it doesn't hurt as much.

"It doesn't hurt as much when you steal from someone you love a lot."
"What makes you say that?" I asked him, "I think exactly otherwise."
"How many times you've stolen from someone you love?"
"Never."
"So what do you base your claims on?"
"Hmm, ok."
"Tell me, whom do you love the most?"
"That woman from the bar who stopped me from impersonating the phallus."
"Good."
We went-a-stealing from her. This dialogue I just had was with a thief who has said to have gotten his talents from the thieves of the past when people still were sensitive and their senses were really sharp. He is a genetic thief technically otherwise he's just a man standing in the corner who you don't realise will eat your bread but steal the remaining jam in the bottle too. So well we went-a-stealing and it proved to me that when you love someone as much - it doesn't take much effort to steal from them. Your basic assumption is that since you love them so much, their stuff is yours anyways, where as people you hate so much - you're always afraid they might catch you - mental state weakens and you're a weak thief. I learnt this from him. I do the delivery very well, don't I?

Motthherfuckker! They're carrying a knuckle duster too! Your days are numbered my friend. Now before a fist runs into you, close your eyes and imagine - a flying stainless steel semi-flying saucer and then there's a good chance that you'll be see on Mars. That is providing Scotty still mans the flight. Soon enough your nose will be broken, bleeding, one tape won't work. There are chances that you will carry half your nose in an icebox to the hospital to get it stitched back again. The best part would be if they find you after the stitches are done with and you're getting cured. Imagine them plucking each stitch out minus anaesthesia. Imagination doesn't require you to pay taxes.

Well later that evening I met Scotty. He'd been roaming around in search of a specimen and I just about knew the right one. So I take Scotty in his flying saucer right above Kshitij's house. "You see that fat fuck sitting and eating there, Scotty?" Holy Fuck I know you don't understand my words. So I had to talk through thoughts to Kshitij and Kshitij didn't know - when, what and how something hit him! So out of pure envy, I make him see the flying saucer. Kshitij is that woman's boyfriend.

On first, second and third thoughts, stay that way - once the pain's gone I'll be back. Without the soul there can be no pain. I learnt this at this hutment in the middle of the jungle. In the whole hutment there were men and women moving in ascetic clothes. And there in the middle - I saw a saint sitting in all serenity, "Sir, I want knowledge." The only way to get food is to talk about what they like, it's more like you can't scream Chelsea in a ManU club. Else you don't even get the happy hour discount. The saint taught me that the key problem in life is pain and pain vanishes with the soul. It's the soul which spreads the senses and emotions and not our bodies.

You're having fun. You can't even feel what they're doing to you. They might as well sodomise you. Suddenly, completely enraged this man comes running with a knife in his hands and stabs your stomach. Then pulls it out making that weird sound like lots of small squirts. Then pushes it again, the out again. He then continues stabbing you, on and off till he's sure that you're innards are ready to be served as hot keema soon. Don't forget the onions. That's when I realise something! Shit! I have nowhere to go but one place. I am dead. The soul has no place to go. I meditate to try and get out of my soul - assuming the soul is another body for another soul.

Well after making sure Scotty and Kshitij had some good time together, I let him out and he's been smiling eversince. I was proud of my shit! I was, I really was. And I thought it would be all dramatic to see my soul escape my wounds but now there were too many for one to escape - they made a soul-shredder out of my body.

I'm about to die and you want a last few words? How shameless! But still it's fine - I like this publicity, even if I'm dying or dead. After a few years my samadhi will be used as a set to shoot either the graveyard scenes of a movie or probably a complete horror movie - Ramsay Bros present, "Daravni Kabr" So here're famous last words: "Those things I said about the monastery, the saint, the thiefprince, the scotty and his saucer - all figments of my imagination, my great publicity stunt, my path to the news! But looks like I didn't make it. It's a plain case of attention seeking disorder who died disorderly seeking attention!"

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