Recent Posts
Bihari Pyscho
UjO87a
No.84
I wake up at 5:00 A.M. sharp, feeling the crisp northern air kiss my face. The ceiling fan whirs above me, the rhythmic hum a soundtrack to my awakening. My mattress is firm, just the way I like it—any softer, and the body decays. I sit up, exhale slowly, and feel the weight of the morning settle into my bones. Another day in this cursed nation. Another day in this beautiful nation.
I step out, feeling the earth beneath my bare feet. Raw. Elemental. The sky is still bruised with traces of dawn. My lota—a sturdy steel relic of hygiene and tradition—gleams in my hand. I trek toward the woods, breathing in the petrichor of damp soil and cow dung. Nature. Organic. Zero-waste sanitation. My foot brushes against a discarded Kurkure wrapper. A reminder that the civilization I belong to is in a state of rapid entropy.
I squat. A primal stance. The position aligns my chakras, ensuring maximum evacuation efficiency. Westerners wouldn’t understand. They sit on cold porcelain thrones, straining their colons, detached from the land, from tradition. Pathetic.
Once done, I cleanse myself with the cool, biting water. The lota is an instrument of purity, a humble yet sophisticated counter to the Western obsession with dry, abrasive paper. I feel clean, spiritually and physically. I am not like them.
Back at my residence, I begin my skincare routine. I splash my face with icy water from my balti—direct from the borewell, untouched by municipal incompetence. My magga distributes it evenly, a baptism of sorts. I don’t use chemical-laden Western products. Instead, I rub my skin with Multani mitti, allowing it to absorb excess oil, drawing out impurities. I let it sit, feeling the mask tighten around my face like the pressures of existence itself.
I rinse it off, the water cascading down my chest in rivulets, a fleeting moment of indulgence before the day’s obligations begin. I dry myself with a coarse gamcha, exfoliating the last remnants of sleep from my body. Every action is deliberate. Every ritual has purpose.
Now, the real work begins. Bharatchan.
I log onto /kama/. Primitive desires must be sated before intellectual pursuits commence. A quick, clinical release. No emotions. No distractions. Just dopamine and clarity.
Refreshed, I navigate to /b/. The Blackpill. The unfiltered truth. I post about the demographic decline, geopolitical decay, the inevitability of collapse. No one will listen. No one ever does. But I do it anyway.
I glance at the clock. Majdoori awaits. The daily grind. The eternal cycle of labor and survival.
I take a deep breath. The mask is on. The day begins.
F4uDKy
No.85
>>84(OP)
Kino
pDPU4s
No.86
achha hai. writer ho?
!0zbT1tN/vCjhnWJ
1mVWFr
No.87
There is an idea of a Arun Desai, some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me—only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours, maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there.
I wake up at 5:30 AM, always. The ceiling fan is on at full speed, but I don’t sweat—I don’t allow myself to. I lie still for a few moments, listening to the distant sound of vegetable vendors setting up their carts outside. I don’t sleep with an alarm. Discipline wakes me up, not some cheap Chinese-made clock from Dharwad market.
I push aside the chadar neatly and get out of bed, walking straight to the bathroom. My flat is in one of those new high-rises near Gokul Road, minimalistic, expensive, well-maintained. I live alone. Of course, I do.
In the bathroom, I examine myself in the mirror. My skin is clear, smooth. No pimples, no dark circles. Perfection requires effort. I wash my face with a sandalwood-based cleanser—none of that harsh synthetic stuff they sell to desperate engineering students. This one is pure, handpicked from a small shop in Sirsi. Then, I apply a turmeric and honey mask. Yes, I use traditional skincare. I’m not some bevarsi bachelor who only uses Lifebuoy soap for everything.
While the mask sets, I drink half a liter of warm water with a squeeze of lemon. Hydration is key. My father used to drink only tea in the morning—his skin looked like an old leather wallet by the time he was forty-five. I refuse to let that happen to me.
After 10 minutes, I wash off the mask, pat my face dry with a soft cotton towel (not some rough polyester nonsense), and apply a lightweight moisturizer. Then, sunscreen—SPF 50. Hubli sun is over brootal
Next is my workout. I don’t go to these pathetic gyms filled with macha gym bros wearing torn muscle tees and yelling after every rep. I work out alone. Today is Monday, which means a mix of Surya Namaskars, bodyweight training, and a 20K cycling around Unkal Lake. I leave my flat at exactly 6:15 AM, black Nike Airforce 1s on my Scott Subcross 50
The ride is peaceful. Few people are out—mostly old uncles walking and talking about cricket.The morning air is crisp, carrying the scent of fresh jolad rotti being made in some nearby house. I focus on my breathing. Perfect control.
Back home by 7 AM. I wipe off the sweat, take a cold shower, and shampoo my hair with coconut-based cleanser. I don’t use Axe or any of that artificial garbage. I step out, dry off, and dress. A crisp, well-ironed cotton shirt—usually white or pastel. Dark trousers. And a Raymond black suit. I never wear flashy brands, only understated, well-fitted clothes. A Titan Edge watch on my wrist. Elegant, sophisticated.
Breakfast is simple but nutritious. One plate of dosa with fresh coconut chutney and a strong, perfectly brewed filter coffee. No sugar. Only black bitterness.
At 8 AM, I sit in my living room, skimming through The Hindu, circling stock updates, reading political columns. I know the world is rotting. Corruption, mediocrity, endless stupidity. But I don’t care. I just
By 8:30 AM, I’m ready to leave. As I step out of my apartment, I glance at my reflection in the mirror. Perfect. I adjust my cufflinks, check my watch, and smile—but only slightly. There is no real Arun Desai. Only an idea.
aNtJth
No.131
Kek
3PLby9
No.132
>>84(OP)
>My lota—a sturdy steel relic of hygiene and tradition—gleams in my hand
kekekek
I never understood why dehatjeets don't dig up the group where they shit and cover it with soil when done? Like I am sure the smell wouldn't be a problem if you plan ahead of the spots you are gonna shit at. Shitting outside might not have been a prablem if there weren't so many people doing the same thang. once again, a perfectly healthy activity, getting shat down cause it is lundia and crores of people will copy you making it annoying
7yS36e
No.195
Never let this die
