Living a Lie

The muck was pungent. Nausea wasn’t even close to what he felt as he plodded through the thick ooze of everything not clean. The smell, the sight, the sound of his boots squishing through the filthy unknowns, the feel of the filth rubbing against his boots; to say that his senses had been overpowered a long time ago would be an understatement.

He didn’t expect to see this up here. From down below, the world above looked to be a place where the heaps and mounds of trash didn’t exist. A place where navigating through the gullies and valleys, taking tenfold longer routes to remain clean was not the only option. How wrong had he been.

It was worse over here. There were no visible heaps or mounds or dumps of the filth. There was an ever oozing slurry of the trash, everywhere. And the ones here residing on top, were happily filling their bellies with the filth spread everywhere. It smelt, it stank, it revolted him in every possible way, but he couldn’t fathom how the ones on top could consume what was basically worse than fecal matter.

All of them had reached here from the steep, pristine steps where even a splatter of filth wasn’t tolerated. But up here? They were guzzling up the oozing slurry to grow and bound ahead. The ones about to sink, he understood. They were barely afloat amidst the scum, and consuming the filth was their only option. But those who were comfortably above it, they also willingly chose to take a deep dive into the filth, and emerge out ahead of all.

It was disgusting, nauseating, and worst of all, disappointing. He himself had fed scraps to a few who were about to sink. But those at the top end, they consumed this filth just to pat themselves on the back. It was pitiful. It was sad.

He tightened his thigh-high boots, squared his shoulder and plodded on. Taking pride and comfort in the fact that even he was the last one among them all, he didn’t eat shit. He was his own person. However little it mattered in the real world, that was something which no one could take away from him. That was something his entire self was built upon.

He was not a lie.

Our CR

If I ask you to name a person who never stops smiling, which face will be the first in your mind? I don’t know for sure, but most of us will name him- the CR.

Honestly, the only time I’ve seen him not smiling is… I don’t even remember a single such occasion. (I doubt any of us remembers any such event) Being scolded by the teachers, being shouted at by us, being roasted publicly, messing up in front of everyone, or all those things for which he gets to hear a lot of codswallop; there is not a single time when that smile fades off his face.

To make things clear, I’m not here to talk about his smile. It just came to me that Friday will be most probably the last class for us, together. And for these two semesters, We’ve become dependent upon him for a lot of things. Whether it be taking assignments to main campus, or to argue with teachers on our behalf, or telling a teacher on his/her face that we don’t understand a single bit of what they teach. He has carried out all these duties without even being asked. The first one to take a stand, the first one to volunteer, that’s him. He’s the one who takes all our crap and stands there, smiling.

Enough of the buttering. Ask your other friends how their CR’s are, and you’ll probably find out what this particular CR does for the class is explicitly outstanding. ‘Class Representative‘ is a term that befits him. He is the person who actually does represent the class of 607.

The point of writing all this? For those of you who bothered to read this much, this is my way of doing things. I’m not a ‘social person’ as they go. Interacting is not my forte. I don’t know whether he’ll be the CR for my class next semester or not. But I certainly do hope for it. This is just my way of thanking him for Representing us as a class.

Thank You Praveen.


PS. May you find a girlfriend very soon!


Diary of the First Knight

Just wanted to jot down something from the void. Yup, it just feels like a void, empty; like all the feelings, emotions, worries, troubles are on a different plane of existence and I have no idea how to feel them. It’s like playing an open world RPG from the time I was a kid. I get to do whatever I wish without a slightest care about what is going to be the result. It’s like living through a haze. A haze that gradually seperates me from what’s real and what’s not.

I act childish. I know that. I try to be as immature as I can because I am afraid what I’d do if the mature me comes out, as it does several times. I look at others and feel pity for how insigkificant their minds are. It makes me feel like an abnormality. I don’t know why I am ahle to overlook all the different facades a person puts on, and get to the real, week thing hiding behind them. It can be said the summit of being arrogant. 

All the times a person gives in to the different kinds of emotion inside, I feel pity for them. For how how week they are. It might mean that I am a monster who doesn’t feel. I just… can’t comorehend the idea of living without thinking. And whenever I think, I have complete control over what I do. That’s why when others fail to rrstrain themselves and give into the boiling cauldron of foolishness I just… I am just forced to think what is wrong with me.

Am I too mature? Do I think too much? Have I become emotionless? Or is it simply my arrogance speaking? I would dearly like to believe the last one. But I know it’s not true.

I know I am evil. I am the worst kind that exists. Not because I am negative. It is because I simply don’t feel. This makes me try harder and harder to fight myself. I keep on acting like a child. Makng trouble for me and others. Making people laugh. Giving them something to laugh at. If I can’t feel it, I try to make others feel the way I can’t. 
I don’t know what I blabbered right now. But that’s just what I am.

From the diary of The First Knight. 

 This is an excerpt from Akshat’s personal journal, dating back to the early days of the Elemental Wars. People use to say he spread life wherever he went. This just proves that he made others have what he couldn’t have. 

I am a Zombie, or am I? 

What is Maturity? I mean, what does it mean to be Mature?  How can one decide the extent to which one’s emotional, mental and social traits are experienced enough to be called Mature? 

Well, let us do one simple task. Close your eyes, remember the last time you had a fight with someone. Remember the reason for which you fought. Now, ask yourself one question, could it have been different if you didn’t act the way you acted? Keep the answer to yourself.

The Maturity of any person is said to be found out under stress. Personally, I think it isn’t maturity that shows itself during periods of stress. It’s tolerance. . It sure does form a part of one’s overall Maturity, but that’s not all there is to it.

The best way to find out soneone’s maturity is to observe how much time of their day do they spend happy. It’s quite simple, If someone can stay happy all the time, then it means that they are Mature enough to conquer the obstacles put in their life. The more a person is happy, the greater is the depth of that happines, greater the person is Mature.

Now, Shoving all the philosophical crap aside, pick a fight with someone. If you get angry and flame up in a fit of heat & rage, then it is most likely that you are far away from being mature.

These things apply to only ‘normal’ human beings. I don’t have the luxury to feel anger or sorrow. When I shout at someone, I know exactly what should I do and what are the consequences of each word I say. I have to force myself to act against the analytical reports that my brain recieves with each word coming out of my mouth. When I hear a bad news, it pains me. But my mind instantaneously starts planning a way around the event that has caused me sorrow. I don’t fret, don’t argue, don’t whine and don’t cry (unless I go against my own mind to forcefully do so). 

I am not capble of feeling human emotions as well as others do. Perhaps I am a cripple, perhaps it’s my imagination, but the words like ‘heartless’ and ‘emotionless’ are made for me, I think.

It makes me good at dealing with sentiments because I can analyse them as good as anyone out there, perhaps better, from outside the loop. I don’t get involved, I don’t hate, I don’t crave, I don’t love, I don’t fret, I just get bored.

That also is a kind of maturity. I am a loudmouth and I shamelessly say that I am much more Mature than any person my age. 
But what does this article has to do with it? It’s simply an outlet for me. All the crappy sentiments I can’t feel, I let it out here. Perhaps I am a Zombie, perhaps I am  not a whole human. Looks like I can’t find out the truth until I die and rise again, can I?   😉

Why do I write?

That’s the first question I’ve ever heard from everyone whom I told that I write. I am a Mechanical Engineering student, and my attempts at going all out at writing have caused me a lot of trouble. (Still causing) According to people, since I have chosen to be an engineering student, I must spend my pastime in stuff like fixing bikes or setting up pulley systems. A lot of them look at me from top to bottom and ask “Huh, another Chetan Bhagat wannabe? Kid, get a little serious in your life. Don’t throw your time away like that.”

That’s the average response I get from people. At first I tried to show people what I’d written. They’d take a look at the pages, toss it aside and tell me to “Go Study”. No matter how hard I tried I was unable to convince people that I like writing as much as I like engineering. These are the times where technology and literature are considered to be mutually exclusive. So like other failed writers without an audience, I decided to quit.

Don’t tell me that was weak of me. I dare you to go for JEE and do creative writing at the same time. It isn’t possible. I had quit writing but there was a big gap in my time. Imagine a big patch of scabs on your arm with ants crawling all over it. That’s how the itch to write feels. I had urges, I had emotional highs and lows, and I had nightmares about engineering. Then one day, MIRACLE! I read about blogging somewhere and gave it a try.

It was perfect. Know I had the chance to show off my writing, my imagination, my creativity to all who care and who don’t. But, among all these things, I still haven’t come to my point. Why do I write?

That is a lot personal for me. Everyone has some sort of emotional outlet built in their system. Some people have boyfriends/girlfriends, few have friends, few have family and few let their emotions rot inside them. For me, writing is the expressway through which I clear out all excessive emotions present inside me. It works like an overflow system in a water tank and helps in balancing my inner turmoil out.

That’s why I write. I know my writing isn’t superb or excellent. Yet I compare myself with the best of them. Because I have the will, need and passion to write


Sneak peek into the Last Army

Let me give you a sneak peek into the Last Army.

Man is hollow,
Life is a shell,
Don’t you dare say,
that All is Well.

-the Prophet Joshua

3017, The arrival

Joshua was hiding beneath the rubble. He was holding his breath, body tensed for the moment they discover him. It was his ill luck to fall asleep in a basement while foraging. Fires from the last battle were still hot when he had risked himself to get a fortune of weapons and armor; and now he was trapped. It was one of the bigger battles he had seen in his 473 years. A god and a very dillapilated group of defenders had assembled to waylay a contingent of foot, to find themselves trapped within two flanks of cavalry. The battle was short & brutal. Not even a single one of the defenders had been able to escape. And when they killed the god, even a mere mortal like him had been able to feel it from miles away & he had immediately departed to arrive at the massacre scene as soon as possible.

But a box full of canned food had found its way into hia hands and he didn’t try to save for later. So he ate and ate, and finally settled into the basement to sleep. But when he woke up, he discovered that an even larger army of darklings was camped over him, and the basement was right beneath the command centre.

He heard the footsteps recede as a voice called out. “All clear. Bring him in.” Joshua sagged with relief at these words and thanked the gods; if any of them was left.

He stiffened at the sound of more feet and a raspy voice called out “Good Evening, lord. I see that you have….” The voice was interrupted with a bang of flesh on wood. A heavy male voice called out “Don’t try my patience, slave. Tell me why have you abandoned your post, and begone.” His words were followed by silence and Joshua heard someone shuffle. “As you wish, Lord. Their army is divided into 6 legions and the fourth is about to appear in the mortal realm within the hour, at exactly where we are. I took the liberty of making them believe that no more than 5000 darklings are stationed here. They will find a surprise when they arri…” This time the voice was interrupted by a swish, a thud, a swish, bang and a groan. Then silence.

Seconds passed by. Then the heavy male voice called out, with a definite hint of fear. “W-who a-are you? ” A swish and a thunk sounded and a voice called out. “I am Akshat, scout of the 47th legion.” It paused then continued “Remember this Joshua,” Joshua became still as a rock. “We are thousands, and when you will look at what happened up here, do not forget that I was only one. Hope is not yet lost. the Last Army survives” Then there were sounds of receding footsteps. How had that person known Joshua was beneath the floor? And what had he done to the others? Joshua was just thinking about creeping out for a look when he saw & heard; rather felt the biggest explosion he had seen in his life. Of pure Golden light, it made the earth shake like a thresher and Joshua thought of only one thing before the rubble hit him on his head. Akshat was not someone to mess with.

Stories about the prophet had many beginings. Most of them are quite close to the truth. The Prophet Joshua emmerged from the ground with blood smeared on his face and saw around him in every direction he could see – heaps and heaps of dead bodies; darkling bodies. He remembered even then, “The Last Army survives.”

The Legacy of Kalki Vol. 1 – The Last Army

The Last Army

Hello to all the readers of the great world of Science Fiction & Fantasy. I have a good news to share and I am (almost) sure you are going to like it as well.

When the current, fully edited draft of The Legacy of Kalki crossed the (holy) mammoth number of 500000 words, I decided to split it among a few volumes. The initial plan was to publish 3 volumes with each relating to 4 parts of Kalki’s soul. But now I plan on releasing 3 volumes with 3 parts of Kalki’s soul in each and 3 short novellas which would narrate the other 3 parts from a different person’s POV (Yet to be disclosed).

I am planning to bring in the novellas between the major volumes with a parallel timeline (A brilliant suggestion by one of my beta readers) & to give them away for free to whoever will buy the previous volume.

The Last Army

Coming to title of my first volume, I can give you all a sneak peek into the story.

The Mortal Realm has become a battlefield for the Gods & pawns of Chaos while the Earth crawls with horrendous creatures born of true evil. Mankind is on the verge of World War 3 and humans are simple “cannon fodder” for the superior powers busy in their war. Everyone awaits the good guys to make things right but they have vanished without a trace and everything seems lost…

Lost in the ashes,
In a world that dies,
From the depths of the blue,
The first of them rise.

Doomed to be dead,
Everyone of them thrives,
Facing annihilation,
The Last Army arrives.