Vito

Giovanni : " Who killed whom ? "
Raoul : " Vito killed Fanucci . "
Giovanni : " I don't believe it , must be some other black- hand's work , they are pinning the
the blame on poor Vito. "
Raoul : "Maybe , Vito is so quiet. "


Vito is not quiet , I know him , he talks to himself inside his head. He shouts quietly.
I can see beyond those glassy eyes . His brain is bathed in red , the colour of a gruesome death.

Did you know that Vito is a butcher by proffession? Nobody knows that, not even his wife . He butchers people with his eyes , cuts them up in his mind till they scream for mercy. He only stops when they grovel and call him 'Godfather'.

Vito is a conscientous worker and axes everyone who comes his way , including his children.
He hacks people and uses the pieces as bait , to attract more people.

Michael , his son , hacks people too. But he does it for his father. Vito on the other hand , does it for himself.

I know that he doesn't look like a butcher. But that turns out to be his strength. He doesn't have to hunt for prey, they come to him on their own.
That's why I choose to avoid him , I think he is dangerous , he reminds me of myself. It scares me that I can peer inside his mind , we have a lot in common.

He represents my dark side , an evil which I choose to supress. A Satan who makes me cry.

Night

Why is the mundane so terrifying ?

The grumpy, grotesque creatures of the unreal realm , get together for a jamboree every night.
Incidentally they always choose my brain to party in.

While I try my best to ingest the contents of the OG11 in front of me , they ramble on and on about the latest happenings in the grinch's palace. I am sure they mean no harm, that they are completely oblivious to my earnest efforts to keep them at a respectful distance , so that i can keep a straight face and make a career in the real world.
But the din ! It's impossible to concentrate.

While i look out of my window towards the creek yonder, I feel weightless. My mind snaps off it's moorings and floats into the grinch's palace. I am swamped by the swimming staircases and the swinging lamps and surrounded by gregarious and garrulous imps. Some of them notice me but they dont really care , and i feel like i dont exist.
Some tension builds up inside me , they may be naughty and numerous but they are dimunitive , filthy little creatures , and i must assert , for I am the mortal amongst these mere immortals. My ego swells and turns red hot like an iron rod about to burst into a liquid explosion. I yell and i spin , and suddenly I am standing on the dome of the palace with the wind in my hair.
I have turned into Howard Roark.
I feel my orange hair and the high hairline with my calloused hands. My eyes gleam and i am staring again at the creek through my window , the orange hair is still there but it is blurring . Suddenly , orange seems to be the colour of my book , the OG11. My hair is not orange, it is black.

I look into the book and lose myself into the questions given in it , for the real world beckons.

dust

This is a grimy city , full of greasy dust and smoky winds. The dust is everywhere , in the train, on the roads, in the food and if you look carefully you can see it floating around in the water , the water you are supposed to drink.
If you live here long enough , your face shrivels up and you resemble those incredibly old Japanese people they show on TV Nippon.

Mumbai is said to be the 'city of dreams' , but ironically one never gets the time to dream here , not on the dusty pillows and the dirty beds in the doleful suburbs , which we call home . Where we wearily trudge back every night and rest our dreary selves.