The Beginning

On the night of 7th November, 2015 a time traveller, a failed poet and an astronaut were abducted from three different corners of planet Earth by an Unidentified Flying Object.

On the dawn of the next day, a killer whale was found dumped on the International Space Station with a strange creature trapped inside its mouth.

The creature was a hominoid with three heads. It was what remained of the the cosmonaut, the poet and the era-hopper.

It was decided by the station’s gravity-deprived occupants that the fused creature would be called Orka — a distortion of the common English name for the species of the whale inside whom this creature was found.

It was sent back to Earth, expecting that it would give precious clues to an unknown alien civilization.

This site is the chronicle of their narratives and the record of the huge disappointment of some naive scientists who were beguiled by the promise of three heads and an alien experiment which was abandoned out of boredom.


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The Poetry of Aliens

When the aliens came to take me, I was lying between two parallel lines, entrapped between the folds of my city.
Two railroads went like two fingers, squeezing the earth like skin, and it wrinkled into little hills and valleys.
I dreamt as a I slept in one of these valleys and I saw a swarm of flies chase a tiger right into the head of a train and its skull cracked open on the bloody tracks.

I woke up with sweat on my ass and a shiver – – two horns signalled from opposite ends and the gurgle of metal wheels made the ground dance. I looked back and the lines expanded into infinity and in the front they collapsed into a tiny point (the narrow future ahead);
They seemed to say:

“Here comes the hope of collusion, the present as a harmony between the past and future. But the illusion of eyes hide the reality of the world which has always been parallel. The lines don’t meet – – except in your head.”

Stupid imagination of the poet is broken by the shriek of two trains running past each other. The rhythm of metal friction wakes me up, breaking the lines of poetry (what a relief).

If you ever listen closely, trains have music to them with beginnings middles and ends, crescendo and harmony, starting with thunder and ending with whispers.
However when the whispers of both the trains should have ended, screams refused to complete the music.

A mob followed the train on the left. Men, women and children with sticks and swords. I felt my heart beat in my mouth. For a moment it seemed that the train would be free, but then a boy threw a bomb on the last bogey and the train was set in fire.

Instantly the mob swarmed around the defeated vehicle and the passengers were pulled out and the massacre started.

The train on the left also screeched to a halt and troops of men marched out with guns. After that it started to rain, thousands of pellets showered on flesh and human beings started to melt.
Left became right and right became left (no longer divided into victim and victimizer).

The pellets refused to obey anyone and they became a tornado of circling flies, and I no longer could see anything.
Now instead of the train, the ground started to run, from back to front into the horizon and the point so narrow (collapsing).

It was then that I realized that it was an alien invasion. No perhaps not. Perhaps they came to save me. What can I say? I remember nothing. Memory is the failure of poetry and the failure of memory is where poetry begins.

When I came back to Earth, I searched all the newspapers of that day – – there were so many similar incidents that it seemed like these events were gathered in the folds between the tracks and I was made to relive them all at once. Jews killling Muslims, muslims killing Christians, Hindus killing muslims, retaliation and retribution, each group claiming to be the hand of justice and the massacre of innocents. Cycles of idiocy and the swarm grows.

The self proclaimed saviours of the world, the wise who are blind and the pundits without knowledge, have given their verdict in unison – – a rarity in the world of ego clashes and academic politics.

Enmity is the product of difference they say. We need to unite, under the banner of sameness, under the flag of uniformity (impossible, imagined and enforced through violence) and peace will last for eternity.

But difference is a fact not a piece of propaganda. And it is the mind which cannot accept this Truth, the people who don’t want it to exist and the world which is built on illusions of standardization who are responsible for the genocide of the Human species.

Uniformity is not unity and there is a universe which exists in this gap, in their difference.

In the end, I realized that the people who killed and the people who called for peace were both just faceless, nameless part of the same mob – – the swarm of flies pushing the world to the train of wreck.
It is the difference between us which prevents us from being just another insect in the swarm of insanity.

Perhaps this was all I could take away from them. The strangers who maybe knew more about us than any of us could.

Am I making sense?

Gods Were Dead In Mohenjodaro


In history, every breath moulds a mountain and a whisper can stir the sea. But, sometimes the winds of memory can bury a whole civilization underneath the sands of time.

On the 7th of November when the aliens came to get me, I was visiting a metropolis which defeated amnesia only a century ago.

Erupting out of the fertile earth, the city renamed as Mohenjodaro lay beneath my feet. Squares, grids, drains and order sculpted with bricks and mortar. The crown jewel of Indus Valley contradicted the fundamental characteristics of urban life in the Indian subcontinent — squalor, chaos and houses growing like fungi. There was another major thing missing from the great ancestor of the subcontinent — temples.

The city was found in the 1920s through excavations led by a mix of Indians and British Orientalists. Since then, the people of the subcontinent have tried hard to defile it into something which it refuses to be.

The civilization had an elaborate writing system which its supposed descendants did not inherit. Thus, the city which was once populated by talking multitudes was now rendered dumb — a silent receptacle for the fantasies of Historians.

A religion was invented for the non-religious. They named it proto-hinduism. Since no temple could be found in the 620 acres large site of the city, wild conjectures about temples on carts and worship of nature were made without proof. priestking1They found an ornate and beautiful statue of a man and named him ‘Priest-King’ even though no conventional evidence of any religion or monarchy was ever found. shiva_pashupatiA seal with a horned man was unearthed surrounded by a rhino, a bull, an elephant, a tiger and two deers. They named him Pashupati — the lord of animals — a form of Shiva, despite the fact that no contemporary depiction exists of the god with horns on his head. Since the historians were clueless about the real name of the city, they named it Mohenjodaro — the ‘Mound of Mohan’ or Krishna. Who cares if such a deity never existed in those times or would not exist after centuries of the disappearance of the Indus civilization?

Mohenjodaro has been made into a cheap farce of religion.

The truth is, when other civilizations were building massive monuments, temples, palaces and obelisks the people of the Indus were building Great Baths and Granaries. When people elsewhere were living in Slums and plagues, the people of this city were mastering the flow of its water and the shape of its cities. The urban planning and the drainage system built eons ago rivals any current metropolis which we label as ‘Developed’.

When wars were being fought by divine kings in the name of non-existent gods, the people of ‘Mohenjodaro’ focused on what really mattered. The sites of its remains speak of only one ideology — that of order and hygiene. All other religions were irrelevant to its people.

When the aliens visited me that day, I travelled back through the sands of time and beheld the exact moment when the great city ceased to live. Gigantic houses were barren. The Great Bath lay empty. Only a single bright light hovered over the horizon and I knew a thousand people were looking at me.

The next thin I remember was being inside the whale on the space station, merged with two other heads.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Who do you think were those aliens?”

“I don’t think they were aliens at all. It seems daft when I say it, but I believe that they were in fact the citizens of Mohenjodaro.”