Haiku - 1st February 2011

No, I tell myself. 

Time is on my side. Not me.

The fight continues.

.

 

Inferno 2011

So, for those who haven't heard, Bhayanak Maut will be playing at the Inferno Metal Festival in April. We will be playing on April 21st thursday, at the John Dee club and will be sharing the stage with Infernal war, Harm, Nidingr, and none other than Voivod. AND, we will also get to watch Soilent Green, Atheist, Immortal, Today is the day, Malevolent Creation, Napalm Death, and wait for it, Meshuggah FOR THE FOURTH FUCKING TIME!

We'll be flying with our favourite glutton, Anupam roy who will be doing sound for us. The feeling is overwhelming, and i think it will sink in only after we board that flight. We are also working on a few other arrangements, which i cannot disclose at this point.
Thank you, for making this happen. Really. These guys have worked very hard for the last 7 years, and and they fucking deserve it.
More on Inferno and Norwegian salmon later.

Check out the line-up and schedule here

Haiku - 21st January 2011

Dairy Milk Silk Ads.

Like AXE Choco Man cum shots.

You spit or swallow?

 

Haiku for Sunneith - 19th January 2011

Sunny days are here.

Peace and love all wrapped in smiles.

Balance is achieved.

Mid-week

It's that time again.

In between days of the week.

Repetitive, eh?

Y

Yeah, so i though i'll write a little something that's a little short of personal, about what it is for me to be part of the band. Considering the place i am at the moment, emotionally, this is cathartic in a way. I don't really like sharing my personal life with anyone except for a few good friends and the band. I don't want to be best friends with everyone; but it's just that i want to bring this out when i think i am feeling it. Yeah.

Every person in the band holds a special standing for me sentimentally. I've known, and shared the stage with Aditya for almost 7 years now. There's something that's very strong and resilient about him. I don't know any guitar player that can match his skillset and his taste for music. When it comes to a creative call, i CANNOT trust anyone more than him. Vinay is a rock. You can stand by the man, knowing that shit is going to be done right. And i can't even begin to say how much of an inspiration he is to me as a vocalist; and more so as a Boss, a professional, a Son, a Friend, a band mate, a human being. Rahul, when around is an aura of joyful reassurance. If i am to think about all the happy, fun, ridiculous, times in the band, Ragul comes to mind. When he is around, there's not a minute of boredom. Or silence for that matter :-).

So yeah.

Lullaby - Marker on Canvas

Demonstealer

Why i respect Sahil Makhija

He minds his own business

He is a fantastic frontman

He is an even better businessman

He has done more for the Indian rock and metal scene than anyone else

His perseverance is legend

He knows his weaknesses and works on them

He is not afraid to accept failure

He will not fuck you over if it is in his control.

New paintings. I is excite!

Spent a small fortune on canvas boards this past weekend.

1. An A3 size board for a friend's office cubicle. Think I'll create a spider + spider web + fireflies. Will use permanent markers.

2. 10 1' x 1' 'square' boards. Will continue with the coloured shapes that I used for Kamal's paintings and Sunneith's painting.

3. 9 1' x .75' 'rectangle' boards. Will use these to create shapes that are inspired by the new lyrical material that I'm working with.

I have uploaded pictures of the 4 pieces I created for my good friends Kamal & Andrea and the one piece I created for Sunneith.

I will also share the new pieces as soon as they are complete.

A haiku - a reaction :

People like the art.

It makes them laugh. Even smile.

I feel so calm now.

Sunneith - This is him.

The Elements - Paintings for Kamal & Andrea

WIND

WATER

FIRE

EARTH

Lyrics 2

For those into writing. Just wanted to bring in something about how we, I atleast like writing lyrics. With Amidst the chaos, there was little thought behind the song lyrics, concept if you may; but most of it was coming up with words to fit the meter.

I write like most of you do. I do not like putting in long words, or trying to sound intelligent. I don't write the most "deep" lyrics in the world. I cannot. It's just there - the way it is. Sans spellcheck. For the first draft atleast.I don't like to think too much.

Vinay, is Vinay. I CANNOT write like the man. NO ONE can. Even when i wasn't a part of the band, i'd be in awe of the stuff he wrote. Lines as simple as

I accept what i am

OR
Oh, how quiet everything can be when it's me against your word

OR
Stitches will rip if i crawl outside

AND my favorite
We meet in a room of emptiness
Another chance that i possessed
I gave into my invented fears
A wretched lie of love and tears


Read those lines again. They simple, yet they hit you like a fucking size 12 steel boot to the chest. Fuck.

I take two ways into writing for a song.

A. I lay the song before me and come up with lines to fit the meter.
This is the easiest and fastest way out. But then the words don't mean much. Emotionally speaking.

B. I write the words, without thinking about the song / riff, and then place the words in.
This takes a shit load of time. But it makes me happy by the end of it; knowing that what i've written means something to me.

It's like-

Y.M.I (Amidst the Chaos)
Taking the consequences the little-known hunger
Thrust through amenities of a lost freedom
Resurrected through the torture - a shadow unknown
Sink in to justify - Justify.
Prosthetic healing
Fingers are still inspite of agony
deflated lungs pursue with aggaravation
splinters in nails dig deeper delegating you

OR

Dear [Name] (Bhayanak Maut)

Get a grip on yourself / Let go!
These letters preserved will be your end
Another page is folded
The ink it fades, but the line it holds
Why won't it read, what I want to put before your eyes
Why won't these thoughts take form? Why won't these thoughts take…?

I can bet my left nut that you got nothing from the words to Y.M.I. That's exactly what i mean. Y.M.I, i wrote about Grendizer getting tortured. I lay the song and put the words where they fit.

Dear name, i wrote parts for before i put the song ahead. Then Vinay came in with his parts and we added and removed bits, wrote it together to make it what it is today.


I am just saying it is much more fun to write first and put them in a meter later.

Lyrics

A lot of you guys ask us about the lyrics to the songs. Well here you go. I've posted lyrics to the Metastasis EP.


For the first time since i joined the band, I and Vinay wrote together (Metastasis). I went over to his place and i've never had so much fun writing. There was a whole lot of laughing. Half the parts in the songs are dead serious, while the other half, we just let go and came up with what we thought were inside jokes, or whatever. Doesn't matter anyway. Have fun.

CHAKNA FOR CHURCH


SIP OF WINE / SWALLOW HARD/ GUILTY GOD / CHAKNA TIME

FRESH FROM THE FARM. FLESH.
CRADLE YOU IN MY ARMS.
RUN. BLOOD. RUN.

HERD OF MEN. HEARD OF SIN.
(CONGREGATION OF THE CATTLE KING)

MUTTERING. ON BENDED KNEE.
(IS THIS HOW IT'S MEANT TO BE)

I HAVE NO FACE. YET YOU CONFESS.
YOU HAVE NO FAITH. LET'S NOT DIGRESS.

YOU! REPENT!
NOW WASH THAT SHROUD OF TURIN A!!

MY! CONSENT!
THIS SWINE TASTES LIKE URINE

EAT YOUR GOD / BLOOD AND WHINE / SUNDAY MORN / PRINGLES TIME
BREATH IN DEEP / FORCE YOURSELF / GULP IT DOWN / ONE MORE TIME

ARE YOU READY TO ACCEPT MY BUM - UNION ?

IN THESE EYES SEE LIES.


DEAR [NAME]



If I could free myself - - -
From this guilt - - - (I'd like to tear you)

To squeeze every ounce of life.
Would be such a thrill --- (waiting so long)

Wipe that smile. Crush your dreams.
I'm ready to take your life --- (Are you ready to die?)

These shards they just won't....

Get a grip on yourself / Let go!
These letters preserved will be your end
Another page is folded
The ink it fades, but the line it holds

Why won't it read?
What I want to put before your eyes
Why won't these thoughts take form?
Why won't these thoughts take…?

I’ve made my bones, over these years
I've kept my promise, in a box
Bereft of joy and innocence
I am the only thing I've got
Reflections of the one i am
Mirrored across the other side
Look in these eyes, they tell no lies
I take your name…..

Solace!
I stand before you guilt in hand
Depending!
I've called upon your name

How much is more?
This lie is not real
This statement - a fucking paradox
You don't buy it
You never have

gripping it
fighting it,
free of all deception.

holding on
to what you have
let - it - go
let - it - flow

gripping / fighting / free of deception
You're holding on.. too

I’ve made my bones, over the years
I've kept my promise, in a box
Bereft of joy and innocence
I am the only thing I've got
Reflections of the one i am
Mirrored across the other side
Look in these eyes, they tell no lies
I take your... name

Open wide...Pica appetite
Open wide.. This crushing surprise

Re-assurance is - - two open palms
Sodomy is just - - my tightly closed fist

Re-assurance is - - two open palms
Sodomy is just - - my tightly closed fist fuck

I have freed myself - - -
From this guilt - - -
Squeezed every ounce of life.
Was such a thrill
Wiped that smile. Crushed your dreams.
I have taken your life
Your name is now mine!



CONFUCIUS

Throne!
Alone
Cold

Thrown!
Away
Mourn

To fill it up again
We don’t need a martyr
To fill it up again


-------------------------------

Warm deceit.

Warm seed. Warm the seat.

You will . Yes, you will.

Remain!

You will. Yes, you will.

-------------------------------

Be – fore –you
:: Wear the crown just like your maker.

Take – Charge
:: Sit down. Point – your – fin - ger

Leave – your – seed
:: Spray - it - out

Be – hind
-------------------------------

Don’t - it - get - so – hard
To – make

Another fear. Admit that you were never ready.

Force - your – self - inside
That - head

Im – pris – oned. Now don’t drop your soap.

-------------------------------

Sink your feet

Sin free. Born a freak.

They will never see.

Will you?!

You will. Yes, you will.

-------------------------------

You – wish – you
:: Grew a six pack like your maker.

Take – Alms
:: Beg now thrust your arm - out

Your - third - arm
:: Bends - to - the - right

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA

-------------------------------

I BRING YOU EGGS. I BRING YOU MILK. YOU PAY ME.
I TAKE YOUR WIFE. YOU TAKE MY BIKE. WE’RE TRADING.
YOU SUCK MY COCK. I BLESS YOU SON. IT’S HOLY.

-------------------------------

Don’t - it - get - so – hard
Bet – ween

When the father drops his pants and pops your cherry

Forced - his – way - inside
Your - bed

Drink up now. No fas - ting.

-------------------------------

My father
In bed
Hold me closer

Your cross it dangles on your chest
You @#$%^&*

I will. Nev – er.
Play hide and seek with you.

Because. I know.
Your snake will find its hole.

-------------------------------

I BRING YOU HOME. A PIZZA. YOU DON’T TIP.
YOU SCRATCH YOUR CROTCH. YOU SHAKE HER HAND. SHE’S PREGNANT.

YOU GO TO SLEEP. YOU WAKE UP. YOU’RE DROOLING.
THOSE NEW SHEETS. ARE RUINED. FUCK YOU.

YOU GO TO CHURCH. THE PRIEST WINKS. YOU’RE SWEATING.
HALF THE GUYS IN SHILLONG ARE WETTING.

WE’RE OUTTA LINES. WE MAKE FUN OF POM-POM.
POM POM POM POM POM POM…..

-------------------------------

H

Hello, Assholes
So I've been away for a while. I lost someone really close to me last month. Been trying to distract myself with a whole lot of other shit.

The boys took a small break. Everyone's been either working, getting drunk, high, or killing clowns. I have been doing all four. Plus Lemur pedicures. What? Fuck you, pedicures are manly if you give them to a raving rabid beast.

We rehearse sometime this weekend. Cannot wait to get into the jam room. The Doctor and Baba have been working on this bastard of a new song, hopefully we can play it for you guys soon. Everything else is going great. Me and Vinay, both have surprise projects running on the sidelines. More on that later.

You guys be good, now. Remember, when in doubt - Missionary.

Sunneith

EDIT - Oh, and you guys should totally check out Vinay's paintings. That shit is dark. And awesome.

I’m in awe of Metalwikileaks. If I had to write an article for them, then this is it.

Khiladi guitarist and ace ciggie-bummer, Ashu has a lousy Christmas!

7:00 am. 25^th December 2010. Ashu wakes up to an unusual feeling around his toes and ankles. Even though he was wearing socks, (to shelter his extremities from the absolutely frigid 4-day long Mumbai winter) a cold, plastic-like, scratchy sensation inside them could only mean one thing – Santa Claus had stuffed his stockings during the night. In gay circles, Santa Claus and stuffing a stocking (in the same sentence) would mean that shit-loads on anal lube had been procured for a night of festivities and fudge-packing. Furthermore, “Joy to the world, the king has come” would also mean exactly what it means in non-gay circles.

But we digress. On further inspection of his stuffed socks, Ashu was shocked to find a full carton of cigarettes! Yup. One full carton. Of cigarettes. Unlit.

That’s when Ashu knew that Santa was an asshole. Said Ashu when questioned about why he felt cheated/ sore/lost : “What’s the point of having a cigarette if it’s not been bummed off someone? (Note: Ashu’s ace ciggie-bumming moves have taken years of patience, training and extreme loss of trust amongst his friends)

Our correspondent spoke to Santa earlier this morning and asked him for a comment. Said the grand old man of the North : Fuck this shit. I just wanted to make Christmas easy for Ashu’s remaining friends. I’ve been getting letters written in blood from these kids in Mumbai asking me to stuff Ashu’s stockings, bags, underwear and even his guitar case with enough smokes to last till next Christmas. I was just being myself. I was being a “Cigarette” Santa, if you get my drift. (Note: No, Santa, we don’t. And puns suck donkey balls)

Haiku 4th January 2011

All people are things.

Yes, indeed, they are but things.

Don’t pay attention.

Short Story - Malignant - 30th December 2010

The sun looked malignant. Tortured. Evil. What amazed him was that this sun was in a painting.
Oil, done on canvas. 8x6.

A tiny board placed a few inches away from the left border of the canvas said:

‘On the last day’

Oil on Canvas.

2005

It looked pure, almost real. It spoke to him. Something in his gut moved. He hadn’t eaten that morning and his mind was taken away from the painting for a moment, to his mother’s house, to a sun-drenched kitchen. The warm, sweet, tasty aroma of waffles and coffee filled his memory. He realized that he had stopped breathing for a while. ‘Fabulous’, he thought. He took a deep breath and came in just a little closer to see the details on the sun. It was absolutely brilliant. The artist had used a single brush stroke to create that angry ball of fire. ‘Genius’ was his next thought. A smile escaped his lips.

When Amar woke up that morning, he found himself nuzzled inside a sleeping bag, in a small grey lifeless cubicle. He had spent Saturday night in the office – overseeing some last-minute artworks.
‘Shit, I need some coffee’ was the first thought that came to his head. It was almost 10 am as he stepped out into a dreary Sunday morning. April mornings in Bombay weren’t usually this grey. He worked at a design hot shop that had its office in The Great Western Building, just opposite Lion’s Gate in Southern Bombay’s Colaba district. Seeped in history, Colaba was the perfect place for a lover of colonial architecture to spend Sunday mornings like this. He stretched as he walked past the downed shutters of all the restaurants and shops that lined the street. He was on his way to a small Irani joint that served steaming hot cups of ‘chai’ – he could do without the coffee. The ‘chai’ was even better when complimented by a plate of warm buns smeared with butter.

It was the sun that caught Amar’s eye as he passed the J.J. Art Gallery. An angry, restless sun printed on a large poster that was pinned on the notice board. The text under the sun said:

“A little bit of me: A collection of paintings by Sai Tanmay”

Today only

10:00 am – 4:00pm

He couldn’t help but stare at the poster. ‘Maybe I’ll have a quick peek’, was the thought Amar had as he bounded up the stairs.

He took a step to the left of the painting and realized that the wall turned inward towards a large room that had a table, 3 chairs and 2 small stools. The room was empty but for a man who sat on the other side of the table on a large, cushioned, tall chair. The man must have been in his early forties; the hard features on his face gave away his age. His hair was long and jet black, rich looking and was swept back into a ponytail that curled from the back of his head onto his right shoulder. The man had his eyes closed. His hands were clasped in a prayer like pose just in front of his face. He was leaning back onto the chair, and even though his eyes were closed, he looked like he knew exactly what was happening around him. Amar continued to stare at his face – he was now aware that something was drawing him into the room, towards the table, towards the man. It was something that he couldn’t explain; a force that wasn’t external. He felt it deep inside his gut.

He took a step forward into the room. It was probably the only thing he’d regret for the rest of his short life.

The artist opened his eyes slowly. Amar felt the hair on his arms stand. His stomach made a small sound. He smiled – a slight stretch of the lips, like a respectful smile one would make towards an elderly. A smile that said, “I don’t know who you are, but I just want to say Hello.”

The smile was returned– that’s the first thing that attracted Amar to the man. It was an unusual, charming smile that he saw through the artist’s folded hands. The hands unclasped and the artist leaned forward and offered his well-manicured right hand to Amar..

Amar stood where he was for a split-second longer than he wanted. It was like his muscles didn’t want to move. And he was forcing them to. Little did he realize that it was his intuition, the most basic trait that animals use to survive, that was holding him back. It was this unspoken communication that could have saved Amar’s life on that Sunday morning.

His body started to move forward, his hand stretched out, he took 3 steps towards the man and said, “Amar”.

“Sai. Sai Tanmay” was the reply. They shook hands. Sai’s grip wasn’t hard, in fact it felt friendly.

“Have a seat”, said Sai as he motioned to the empty stool in front of the table.

Amar had a look at the empty stool before he sat down. Something on the stool caught his eye, but he dismissed it before he sat down.

“The sun”, said Amar. “It’s simply brilliant. I can’t seem to take my eyes off it.”

Sai smiled. “Thank you. It’s my favourite piece too”. He pushed a piece of paper toward Amar. Slightly larger than a postcard, this piece of hard card paper had a brighter version of ‘On the last day’ on one side and thumbnails of 4 other paintings on the reverse. Amar held it close to his face. He looked up at Sai for a split second and noticed him seated in his original position. The only change was his eyes - they were now open, black but tinged with a dark, almost unseen red. It was a warm gaze; one that didn’t burn.

Amar felt a hint of intimidation, but he wanted to start a conversation. He noticed “A little bit of me: A collection of paintings by Sai Tanmay” printed under the 4 thumbnails. Without looking up, he asked, “Why are you calling this collection A little bit of me”?

Sai took a deep breath and moved forward in his chair towards Amar. “To answer that, I think I’ll have to give you a short lesson in history. Centuries ago, only the most dedicated professionals - or those with money and time to spare in abundance - used oil paints.”

“Until the nineteenth century, if you wanted to develop your own oil paint, you had to mix them your own. This, of course, meant acquiring the basic pigments and then laboriously grinding them down to a powder, before mixing them with oils.” As he spoke his hands came together fluidly to form the action of a mortar and pestle.

“Incidentally, that’s why, even today, colours with names like umber, ultramarine and ochre are still used, as are terms like ‘earth colors’. They were and are still made from natural products found in the ground. It was only about 150 years ago that oil paints became available in tubes, for the first time making it feasible for the keen amateur to indulge himself or herself in this wonderful pastime.”

“Now I”, Sai took a pause here, “have always mixed my own paints. Ever since I’d started painting.”

He took a deep breath and continued. “Almost 40 years ago.”

As he let go of that deep breath, his body moved back into the chair and his hands moved gracefully to the armrests. “But this collection is special. Really special.”

Amar was now sitting with a straight back. Something inside him tensed up. He felt his teeth clench and a sick, churning feeling started to form in his stomach.

Sai leaned forward again and dropped his hands onto his lap.

“You see”, he said….”Every painting has a little bit of me in it – my spit, my urine, my feces, my hair, my blood….each one of them is me……”

“What about On the last day?” said Amar. “What does that have?”

Sai bought his hands back to his face, clasped them once more, closed his eyes and said, “My brain tumour”.

Haiku 29th December 2010

It was this morning.

Released my heart in the sea.

Waves, like tears, are red.