Kaustubh Dudhane > Recent Status Updates

Memory was malleable, especially when soaked in alcohol and fear.

The remaining crowd perked up like vultures scenting fresh meat. They loved Kon, but they loved watching friends hurt each other more.

Here, hope died choking on sweet smoke and bitter booze while men cheered. The floors were pre-sticky with yesterday's violence, the corners pre-darkened with a thousand nights of sin, everything pre-corrupted for efficiency.

I’m concerned my demonic possession isn’t running to schedule, isn’t a shareable issue.

Something about her smile made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I’ve met nasty people – and downright bad ones. Childhood bullies. Drug dealers. Strict teachers. That estate agent who still sends me his newsletter, no matter where I am in the world. But this woman’s eyes pulled me into a void from which the darkness stared back.

“You still haven’t told me what you need to go to Maracanda for.”
“It’s private.”
“You can tell me if it’s—”
“It’s not my doodle. It’s…my sinuses.”
My doodle had played a significant part in my demon story. It’s where all my good sense had been when I accidentally broke the fabric of reality and allowed the New Dark’s harbinger to slip into our world. I’ve since sworn to leave my doodle out of all major life decision

People stop thinking about you the moment they turn a corner. In a stranger’s memories, you’re a fart in the wind. Unpleasant but quick to disperse. The only ones that matter are your friends.

Her father had taught her that, routing greater numbers of brigands simply by having a couple of warriors approach the flanks of the enemy, blowing their horns and making as much noise as they could, while he charged in from the front.

All veteran warriors knew, when their hands and feet grew clumsy and their weapons heavy, to heed their body’s message – those who didn’t would die when they might otherwise have survived to fight again.

Rage erupted inside her, its burning need for vengeance welcomed, so long as she was its master, not its slave.

Glory doesn’t keep you warm at night. Glory does not regrow severed limbs and heal broken bones. Seeking glory only gets those around you killed, and even if you survived to bask in it, I promise you would come to regret that sacrifice.

The regent’s dog, Brutus, sat at attention beneath a hanging haunch of beef, ever hopeful for somebody to drop something he could steal and scoff down. The kitchen was his favourite place in the entire palace, for obvious reasons.

“So what if you are afraid of the dark?” she said. “I promise you, boy, you should be far more afraid of me and that assassin out there than any evil spirit.”

Briar scowled at the lazy little stinker, entirely envious of his morning nap. He cracked an eyelid and grinned in that particularly smug way animals do when they know they are winning at the game of life.

Logan had always thought hell would have fire and brimstone, but it turned out hell was a town hall meeting sandwiched between the woman he had been trying to forget since this morning and one of his nosy best friends.

Ah. The small talk. Unlike the laws of physics, the laws that govern small talk are constant everywhere in the universe.

Unlike the Ramsays, who spent money on the music and the masks and the character actors - when they found willing ones among the better-known men and women - Bhakri spent on posters. They were classier, even if the films were rubbish. 😂

Only in India, one imagines, would makers of horror films spend more money on the music than on most other things.

As we have noted before, one of the things about the Ramsay films is that they almost had good supporting actors.

Don't do a horror film unless you're the monster!

You couldn't have a Ramsay film that was meant for children. That would've been insulting. One: it would've meant that it wasn't scary enough. Two: it would've meant that there was no sexual content or at least prurient content. Then who would have been the audience?

You might never have watched a Ramsay film, but you know of them all the same; at least once in your life, somewhere, sometime, the word 'Ramsay' is likely to have cropped up. Maybe around a haunted house, ord during a somewhat bizzare situation, or, if you're unkind, when you see truly unattractive face.

Age was so unfair to women.  Not to men, only to women.

Men need to whisper secrets, Lady.  That's what makes them different from us—they need to share secrets, but we women only reveal them to gain an advantage.  With a little silver and a ready ear and I have both— it's all so easy.  Yes.  Men need to share secrets.  That's why we're superior to them and they'll always be in our power.

"Terrible, isn't it, not being able to trust anyone."

"Oh, no, Anjin-san, so sorry," she answered. "That's just one of life's most important rules—no more, no less."

And then, when their whole world fell to pieces and they were on their knees slitting their bellies or cutting their throats, or cast out into the freezing world, they would tear their topknots or rend their clothes and bewail their karma, blaming gods or kami or luck or their lords or husbands or vassals—anything or anyone—but never themselves.

Perhaps that is why we love life so much, Anjin-san.  You see, we have to.  Death is part of our air and sea and earth.  You should know, Anjin-san, in this Land of Tears, death is our heritage.

The Chinese understood the art of negotiation, of compromise and concession and reward.  But the Japanese were pride-filled and when a man's pride was injured—any Japanese, not necessarily just samurai—then death was a small price to repay the insult.

The Taikō had loved power.  And he had loved gold for the power it gave over men. 

The scavengers of London were great herds of swine that were driven through the main thoroughfares nightly.  Mostly the rats and the packs of wild dogs and cats and fires did the cleansing of London.  And the flies.

But Osaka was so different.  How do they do it?