"Eyy, how's that radio thing of yours coming along?"
"Oh that. Let's just say that in the hierarchy of *insert radio station name here*, I am pretty much the Pluto."
"Baby! You got outed?"
"Then, I am the asteroid that won't be named until 3400 AD."
"'Cos that's when the Martians will first mate on that asteroid and then destroy it, 'cos it was all too hard? I don't know?"
"I wonder what Martian sperm looks like."
"Oh those Martians. They will reproduce by Sporing."
"Ah, interesting. But what of infidelity then? Paternity issues? Family structure? Those light blue eyes that popped out of nowhere?"
"Mars, will be a free society."
"Meaning open sex?"
"Yes, sex will be had, of course. But the spore-sperm - it will arise from the pineal gland and float upward and fertilize random Martian female engaged in sitting."
"Oh, the seed from the seat of the soul. Shiva's third eye. Shiva, whose symbol is a phallus. The lingam. A little too obvious, but then it's you."
"But why the female only? On Mars, why can't the male bear children?"
"Oh some things can't be changed."
"But there is the gender pattern intact; male, female, sex, sperm la dee da."
"Who said Mars would be boring? I didn't."
"So, random spore comes and hits random woman, and there would be baby Martian?"
"Exactly. And it travels real fast. Shoot, and you are pregnant"
"But you would have to be constantly naked for that to happen?"
"Oh yeah, a crucial thing. Mars will be a nudist society."
"Wait. Did the Martians evolve from Britney Spears and the Malayalees?"
"That, is a palpable possibility."
"But, if it's a nudist society, would pornography be an industry on Mars?"
"Touche. And shit! I don't understand why so much money is being spent on those Martian expeditions then."
"Say what is the point to space exploration anyway? I mean, you don't go looking for an identical sand grain on Kovalam beach anyway, no?"
"It's a deep-seated philosophical question, involving the human psyche's need for reassurance that they are not alone, so that it does not mind-bedwet."
"Baby, are you okay?"
"I ate the canteen Idlis"
"I know. Times, they are a changing."
"No sweetie, you still suck at science fiction."
"But you collect stool and urine of random strangers."
"And you sweetheart, live in a village."
"Amma, this rice is RED"
"And this is plain rice I speak of. You do sense some problem, no?"
"Oh, like that-a?"
"Some Mantra-akshate rice got mixed ya"
"I am not eating. Throw maadi"
"Yow! Friday it is. I am not throwing Lakshmi-symbolic rice and all. And it is prasaada. Press it to eyes, say Krishnaarpanamastu and eat off. Red, white, what difference?"
"Mo! What you are doing kidding-a?"
"Shett it I say. What you want me to make? Those pidja-type thingsa?"
"Maa, this is vermillion. It will give me Minamata Disease, and cause my death, you know? Mi-Na-Ma-Ta!"
"Ree, I told you. He is talking about Meenu and Maata (Fish and Blackmagic). We've lost him, haven't we?"
"You have to over-react, no?"
"Really, all our tredishuns and cushtoms and culchur and habbas and haridinas and shaastra and maDi and mylige and aal that. We are The Last Of The Brahmins."
"Okay ma, I will eat. Just don't start the Brahminism Gaan With The Wind speech."
"You little chipmunk with muLL-handi (porcupine) hair, how much you speak! That too, now you are living in a village. You will not even get this red rice there!"
Yes, I live in a village.
Even beans smell like chicken and pork.
And everybody eats chicken and pork.
I don't eat chicken and pork.
The company I am forced into, it sucks.
Then again, any company extracted from the college populace would suck anyway.
But the village gives ample opportunity for "writing". It's all stored in the head. But the need to type it out to people has died. I do not know why.
For now, I have nothing left to say. Besides maybe,