Even the bitterest of skeptics and cynics would have to concede that our country runs a full-fledged democracy and that people do have quite a say in what’s going on. Even if we are screwing up the country, at least we will have the satisfaction of doing it in our own royal way. There are a lot of people ranting that we are miserable because we have funny outdated laws and say we should model our laws on more successful countries. It would be fare to say that it may not always work out. For instance, Hong Kong permits a woman to kill an adulterous husband; only if she does so with her bare hands. Switzerland law says that it is illegal to flush a toilet after 10 p.m or recite poetry while skiing down a mountain. And in relevant ironic sense, South Korea has a law which says that a policeman taking a bribe should report it to his higher authorities. This and a lot more has led me to believe that other countries are no angels themselves. Some of them are doing better, but it’s alright, we are not doing too bad ourselves. Which is why, it lead me to wonder how the recent headline grabber Anna Hazare would have fared had he fought for his cause elsewhere.
If it happened in Pakistan, fasting wouldn’t be as melodramatic an anti-establishment gesture, mostly because the establishment itself is fasting in the month of August. In the case of Pakistan, ironically the establishment itself seems to be anti-establishment. It would probably take Anna days to figure out which side he’s on and which side he’s protesting against.
If it happened in the Netherlands, a lot of people would gather in its capital, Amsterdam to voice out against the government. Some time into the protest and every one would realize that the parliament is actually located in Hague. A tour of the city and Anna would figure how hard it is to change the law, especially when it doesn’t exist.
If it happened in America, corporations would be the first to notice that a large mass of people have aggregated upon a common area, and the advertisers would be the first to arrive to convince people to spend money they don't have on stuff that they don't need. McDonald's would have a stall at every corner, even if it was a circular ground. In a matter of time, the fashion people would arrive and have Anna sticking his underwear out his low-waists and twitter would start referring to him as that 'dude who lost 8 kilos in 12 days'. Before you know it, the fasting ground has become a carnival and the papers would have managed to get a snap of a drunk-out-of-his-mind Anna in a Latex suit enjoying a 69 position with a dubious looking woman. Of course in the mean time, America would have waged war against Libya in a bid to eradicate corruption.
If it happened in Libya, American soldiers would carpet bomb over Anna’s rally, as part of their ongoing corruption eradication process.
If it happened in Somalia, the government and the people together would be fasting against the pirates. Well, in their case, it would hold true that if you don’t have food to eat; the smartest thing to do is fast.
If it happened in China, the newspapers would report the following day, that peaceful negotiations had occurred between Anna and the government, and that corruption was eradicated from the face of China. Nobody would notice that the lions in the zoo behind the parliament are expressing discontent because their meal is 74 years stale.
If it happened in France, where people strike because their neighbour’s wife has put on a few kilos, Anna would start a fast, and someone else would start a fast against Anna’s fast. Anna would be forced to fast against this fast, and strike three. He’s out!
If it happened in Italy, it might work well for Anna, because he’s not particularly known to be a good speaker. This works for him because Italians communicate like mutes using hand gestures. In any case, the ‘Prime Meenisthera, is busya having the sexa with the meessthressa’.
If it happened in Zimbabwe, Anna would be promised that black money worth a billion dollars would be brought back. They of course, would mean Zimbabwean dollars.
If it happened in Lebanon, the government would immediately resign and Anna would be declared the of head the country. The people who resigned would then take it up upon them to continue Anna’s protest. Anna would then have to resign.And so on..
If it happens in Russia, the government would wait for winter to set in, and Anna, learning from Germany’s bad history in the region would have to go back home on his own accord.
If it happens in Iraq, Anna’s fast would soon trigger a civil war. But erudite scholars would be the first one to confess that a civil war is an improvement over existing conditions.
We on the other hand, have taken the luxury to convince ourselves that putting the politician behind bars will solve all our problems. It would be well advised to remember that although democracy is a government of the people, by the people and for the people, Oscar Wilde put it well by saying it may also be a bludgeoning of the people, by the people and for the people.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
All about Humour
To analyze what is funny about a cat's repeated failed attempts to eat a loveable wily mouse is tantamount to finding out what cyanide tastes like; both end up killing the purpose. That the classic cat and mouse would probably invoke laughs among a 6 year old gunman in Somalia and the 70 year old obese American he holds under the gun alike is a testament to its broad quality of humour. Humour has probably existed across all times, more so during times that were bleak and grim, than when they were hale and hearty. It therefore seems plausible that the torrid times of bubonic plague stemmed an array of the now popular 'doctor' jokes. That contrary to maxims, laughter wasn't the best medicine is a different story. The times of yore have also managed to deliver some solid mass jokes, published widely under names like the Bible, Gita and the Koran.
Come modern times, and nothing yet is funnier than humour. At least, by definition. It certainly is more personal these days, and returning an insult by someone you detest with a kickass comeback will certainly give you greater pleasure than hammering his head multiple times against an unbreakable wall. Comebacks, although spontaneous, actually mask long hours of practice spent in abusing insults at friends in friendly gesture. Witty insults is a skill, and when delivered with a genteel yet caustic disposition will be met with cries of both, "Nice one' and 'You son of a bitch', both of which are to be treated as complements to a comeback well handed out. Unfortunately, comebacks flash to most people only a good forty five minutes after the insult.
Then there’s college humour, a time when one learns to make and take humour more than the course at hand. Humour in college takes its nastiest, most unfettered form, where even pushing an old woman off the stairs would pass off as funny, and would probably be funnier if she lands on the floor biting her tongue. In the outside world, humour becomes heavily discreet; especially at the office and telling your manager 'I can't believe I was late for work tomorrow' will only invite a long face and even longer hours. Puns and jabs are suddenly met with glares and frowns.
To make pun, fun and jest, one just needs to acclimatize and find context and timing. For example, jokes about armpits and transvestite sex invoke the most laughs among Mallus. In case such humour is to be used elsewhere, a simple change in enunciation can do wonders, pronounce the words armbitz and tranzveztite in typical Mallu fashion instead when delivering the joke, thus subverting the disgust away from you onto the Mallu sect.
One more trick to making good humour is keeping your praises in check. Praising a celebrity could cause unforeseeable damage to humour potential. A case in mind, when Dhoni won the world cup, anyone who voiced out euphorically in applause will regret that he has lost some serious potential for humour in current times. An ardent follower of Amy Winehouse will never be able make puns such as 'They don't serve spirits in the afterlife' and will feel having lost out on good humour material.
In most cases, a joke begins to lose its humour with time and relevance. The exceptions to this are very rare, and those ones are pure Gold. For example, if you’re 20 and a heavily intoxicated friend, slips on a banana peel and falls face down into a dustbin, you'd probably be in splits laughing. But gold would be when you turn 60 and watch a video of this happening. Humour probably escalates and transcends if it also makes you reminisce.
A great easy access to a huge repository of humour is a nation's politics. America is probably currently hurting in this regard. The humorists reveled when Bush was in charge. A simple stating of Bush facts was enough to get a decent share of laughs. Then Obama took over, he was smart, himself witty and most hazardously a black. And it became tricky for Americans to jest about the top man in the office, simply because black humour is faux pas. It seems plausible that people across the country, not publically, but in cohorts are having a crack or two on their first Black President.
Death is a tempting mistress to churn humour from but may be fatal to the purpose. Attempting puns is a cheaper, easier way to conjure humour, similar to my attempt in the previous sentence. But when you pun, make sure you never explicitly mention you made a pun, like I did in the previous sentence. To maneuver yourself out of a series of bad jokes, making jokes about your previous sentence is an admittance of surrender. Ok. I raise my white flag.
In case of a conundrum of a desperate need of humour and nothing to work with, fret not and look not too far. If you haven't realized the source of you as a subject of humour, you suffer from a serious lack of sense of humour. Allow yourself all the liberties, downgrade you, the protagonist in all possible angles, and a few laughs are a cake walk. Picture yourself as a short, stocky, bald, unemployed, bisexual, perverted man, and you have the entire world of jokes at your disposal. If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, allow yourself the pleasure of seeing the person you're taking to as fat,sloppy and perverted and make merry mockery.
Charlie Chaplin once said that all he needed to make comedy was a park, a policeman and a pretty girl. Humour exists almost everywhere, good humour does not. A sense of humour is even more tenuously so. I'd like to think that if one learns to find humour in traffic, weight and office, rarely will you have a day without mirth and laughter. A crowning achievement to an illustrious life of humour would probably be if at your funeral, somebody in their eulogy says "I'll miss that funny son of a gun".
Come modern times, and nothing yet is funnier than humour. At least, by definition. It certainly is more personal these days, and returning an insult by someone you detest with a kickass comeback will certainly give you greater pleasure than hammering his head multiple times against an unbreakable wall. Comebacks, although spontaneous, actually mask long hours of practice spent in abusing insults at friends in friendly gesture. Witty insults is a skill, and when delivered with a genteel yet caustic disposition will be met with cries of both, "Nice one' and 'You son of a bitch', both of which are to be treated as complements to a comeback well handed out. Unfortunately, comebacks flash to most people only a good forty five minutes after the insult.
Then there’s college humour, a time when one learns to make and take humour more than the course at hand. Humour in college takes its nastiest, most unfettered form, where even pushing an old woman off the stairs would pass off as funny, and would probably be funnier if she lands on the floor biting her tongue. In the outside world, humour becomes heavily discreet; especially at the office and telling your manager 'I can't believe I was late for work tomorrow' will only invite a long face and even longer hours. Puns and jabs are suddenly met with glares and frowns.
To make pun, fun and jest, one just needs to acclimatize and find context and timing. For example, jokes about armpits and transvestite sex invoke the most laughs among Mallus. In case such humour is to be used elsewhere, a simple change in enunciation can do wonders, pronounce the words armbitz and tranzveztite in typical Mallu fashion instead when delivering the joke, thus subverting the disgust away from you onto the Mallu sect.
One more trick to making good humour is keeping your praises in check. Praising a celebrity could cause unforeseeable damage to humour potential. A case in mind, when Dhoni won the world cup, anyone who voiced out euphorically in applause will regret that he has lost some serious potential for humour in current times. An ardent follower of Amy Winehouse will never be able make puns such as 'They don't serve spirits in the afterlife' and will feel having lost out on good humour material.
In most cases, a joke begins to lose its humour with time and relevance. The exceptions to this are very rare, and those ones are pure Gold. For example, if you’re 20 and a heavily intoxicated friend, slips on a banana peel and falls face down into a dustbin, you'd probably be in splits laughing. But gold would be when you turn 60 and watch a video of this happening. Humour probably escalates and transcends if it also makes you reminisce.
A great easy access to a huge repository of humour is a nation's politics. America is probably currently hurting in this regard. The humorists reveled when Bush was in charge. A simple stating of Bush facts was enough to get a decent share of laughs. Then Obama took over, he was smart, himself witty and most hazardously a black. And it became tricky for Americans to jest about the top man in the office, simply because black humour is faux pas. It seems plausible that people across the country, not publically, but in cohorts are having a crack or two on their first Black President.
Death is a tempting mistress to churn humour from but may be fatal to the purpose. Attempting puns is a cheaper, easier way to conjure humour, similar to my attempt in the previous sentence. But when you pun, make sure you never explicitly mention you made a pun, like I did in the previous sentence. To maneuver yourself out of a series of bad jokes, making jokes about your previous sentence is an admittance of surrender. Ok. I raise my white flag.
In case of a conundrum of a desperate need of humour and nothing to work with, fret not and look not too far. If you haven't realized the source of you as a subject of humour, you suffer from a serious lack of sense of humour. Allow yourself all the liberties, downgrade you, the protagonist in all possible angles, and a few laughs are a cake walk. Picture yourself as a short, stocky, bald, unemployed, bisexual, perverted man, and you have the entire world of jokes at your disposal. If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, allow yourself the pleasure of seeing the person you're taking to as fat,sloppy and perverted and make merry mockery.
Charlie Chaplin once said that all he needed to make comedy was a park, a policeman and a pretty girl. Humour exists almost everywhere, good humour does not. A sense of humour is even more tenuously so. I'd like to think that if one learns to find humour in traffic, weight and office, rarely will you have a day without mirth and laughter. A crowning achievement to an illustrious life of humour would probably be if at your funeral, somebody in their eulogy says "I'll miss that funny son of a gun".
Monday, May 9, 2011
Homecoming
The bartender had pulled up the ‘Closed’ signs, hastily emptied the ash trays and grudgingly began mopping the counter table, being more convincing in his efforts when he encountered those annoying besmirched hardened rim marks. These familiar routines sent out a billow of people through the exits, leaving the ones who had swilled and the ones who were established regulars at the bar. He looked across to find ARAVIND staring at his glass pensively, and one look at the empty bottle and the full glass drove home the fact that a long night was to ensue.
“Trouble with the lady, boss?” the bartender asked, whilst drying the glasses
“Nah. A jeweler could help me out, not a bartender if that was the case” quipped Aravind.
“I think a lawyer would cost you less than a jeweler” he said, repressing a chuckle.
He looked at the clock and let out a gasped sigh. He looked back at Aravind and asked in a more sincere tone this time “Surely you’ve got something on your mind. And almost nothing in your hand” he said, pouring some more of the poison in the empty glass.
Aravind didn’t protest. He started in his usual forthcoming nature “It’s probably my age is doing a number on me, but these days I keep wondering whatever happened to a few people back in India that I’ve not met for over 2 decades now, like my first outside-family acquaintance in kindergarten, or the high school bully, the one whom I did my assignments with, the one who first convinced me drinking was no sin..”
“Believe me you sometimes don’t want to know. I wonder which one is harder to digest; a friend’s success or a friend’s failure” said the bartender, almost as if he was the supreme authority in these matters.
“But you got these people around you, Gary. You don’t see them every day, but they’re here and there and around at weddings and funerals; in the casket sometimes maybe, but they’re there. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely” said Aravind clearly talking to Gary, the friend more than Gary, the bartender.
“At least you enjoy your Friday nights and your Saturday dinners. Surely, I have more on my mind on a Friday than the President” said Gary, still not out of his bartender clothes or shoes.
“Yeah. So you let the wagon slip on Monday mornings as opposed to Friday nights” said Aravind as if it was a bout of realization.
He went on. “Anyway, I know everybody says this, but when I was growing up, it was a funny time. Kids everywhere else wanted to be firefighters and astronauts and what not. But, I grew up in a time; when we wanted to be scientists and cricketers, cause one our parents told us was glorious, the other we knew it was.”
“You thought being a scientist was glorious?” he said and it took a moment for Aravind to comprehend the jest. Americans found cricket amusing.
His memory and emotions were livid. He wasn’t stopping. “There’s a funny story from childhood. When I was 5 or 6, I think, I liked to eat mud. Once I swallowed a few melon seeds inside, and my mother told me that if I swallowed any soil and had water, a tree would grow within me. I believed her instantly and never really unbeleived the story till I was 14 I think.
“I found out about Santa when I was 10. That’s almost stupid. Believe me, 20 years on and I still can’t differentiate if one is drunk or just stupid” he said, in nonchalant banter, a little bluntly.
Being a bartender had taught Gary to be a good listener. But with Aravind, he spoke without restraint. He said “You know, childhood for me wasn’t great. My mother died early, and for 10 years I got beaten up for not doing my home work and I hated school. Adolescence was painful, and one day sitting at the bar counter, when a self-made casual recipe of vodka, whiskey and ginger went well with the others sitting alongside, I had decided that I was at the wrong side of the counter table.”
Aravind gave a smile and nodded his head. “It wasn’t like that for us at all. I actually don’t know who, how and when it was decided that this is how my career would go, but it was all too natural. I don’t think even at a subconscious level I was having second thoughts. I had no choice, and frankly I didn’t need choices then. ”
Aravind now began extrapolating it to a bigger picture. He said “But you know, on the other hand, people there were so diversely opinionated and sometimes catastrophically passionate that almost no building could be built, no law passed, no book written and no woman kissed without a word of protest.”
“Oh yeah. The last one is quite famous. I am familiar with India’s antagonism to sex” said Gary.
Aravind protested. “No way Indians hate it. You can’t hate it and still be producing in billions. It is strange though that explicit sex would be on display in most of our temples while the movies would face severe rebuke. It’s just one of our taboos”
Gary began drawing conclusions. “You know I’ve always thought a country’s progress can be judged by the quality of its pornography and the average tip a drink fetches in the country, and on both counts I’m proud to be an American.”
“I think it should be measured by how bad the bartender jokes are, and America’s doing no good.” He said, hoping it was a reasonable comeback.
He went on. “But really, I think a good measure would be how civil a country’s middle class are, how unassuming the rich are, and how hopeful the poor are. And the country I grew up in, I can’t be sure really. Because it’s so strange that on one hand we serve food so generously, and on the other hand we are such miser and lousy tippers; on one hand we are disgusted with corruption and bribery, on the other hand we are the first to resort to it.”
“We have a God for cleanliness, but our streets and consciences are similarly filthy. Money is not believed to be a virtue, but the first thing everybody does at a wedding is counting jewellery pieces on the bride. Smoking and drinking are portrayed as a sin, but India is the largest consumer of whisky and cigarettes.”
“Every place has this kind of thing. It’s not unusual” said Gary.
“No. It is quite unusual. For example, here in the US they slow down when the traffic light turns yellow, but in India, we accelerate. In every matter, you’ll find that there is no right or wrong. There are just shades of grey.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought haven’t you?” he asked, not in a mood for jests.
“Everything that you hear about India is true. And almost all the time, the opposite is also true. And yes. I have given this some thought. I miss those days. Some of those old memories are beginning to get to me like the time in college when someone was dared to come in a superman costume and when the professor stood appalled, the guy actually spent ten minutes convincing him that the garments re-ordering was a genuine slip-up”
This got Gary thinking. He had to ask this “Boss. Are you actually considering moving back or something? Or is this is just a phase, where you go on a vacation and realize that home is good enough just for a vacation?”
Aravind had his answer ready “No. I think this is the real deal. I think the country that you like is the country that frustrates you the most. America doesn’t frustrate me. India does. It frustrates me that we haven’t won the Cricket world Cup since 2011, it frustrates me that corruption is everywhere, it frustrates me that the roads are bad and the population is reaching 1.7 billion now. And I’d like to bicker, complain and rant about it, like most Indians do. Yes, I am considering going back.”
“Just out of curiosity, why did you ever leave India?”
“I was 25. The thought of living in a land where a plumber takes his family for a vacation to Europe and where the Governor of the biggest state was the Terminator fascinated me”
“Trouble with the lady, boss?” the bartender asked, whilst drying the glasses
“Nah. A jeweler could help me out, not a bartender if that was the case” quipped Aravind.
“I think a lawyer would cost you less than a jeweler” he said, repressing a chuckle.
He looked at the clock and let out a gasped sigh. He looked back at Aravind and asked in a more sincere tone this time “Surely you’ve got something on your mind. And almost nothing in your hand” he said, pouring some more of the poison in the empty glass.
Aravind didn’t protest. He started in his usual forthcoming nature “It’s probably my age is doing a number on me, but these days I keep wondering whatever happened to a few people back in India that I’ve not met for over 2 decades now, like my first outside-family acquaintance in kindergarten, or the high school bully, the one whom I did my assignments with, the one who first convinced me drinking was no sin..”
“Believe me you sometimes don’t want to know. I wonder which one is harder to digest; a friend’s success or a friend’s failure” said the bartender, almost as if he was the supreme authority in these matters.
“But you got these people around you, Gary. You don’t see them every day, but they’re here and there and around at weddings and funerals; in the casket sometimes maybe, but they’re there. There’s a difference between being alone and being lonely” said Aravind clearly talking to Gary, the friend more than Gary, the bartender.
“At least you enjoy your Friday nights and your Saturday dinners. Surely, I have more on my mind on a Friday than the President” said Gary, still not out of his bartender clothes or shoes.
“Yeah. So you let the wagon slip on Monday mornings as opposed to Friday nights” said Aravind as if it was a bout of realization.
He went on. “Anyway, I know everybody says this, but when I was growing up, it was a funny time. Kids everywhere else wanted to be firefighters and astronauts and what not. But, I grew up in a time; when we wanted to be scientists and cricketers, cause one our parents told us was glorious, the other we knew it was.”
“You thought being a scientist was glorious?” he said and it took a moment for Aravind to comprehend the jest. Americans found cricket amusing.
His memory and emotions were livid. He wasn’t stopping. “There’s a funny story from childhood. When I was 5 or 6, I think, I liked to eat mud. Once I swallowed a few melon seeds inside, and my mother told me that if I swallowed any soil and had water, a tree would grow within me. I believed her instantly and never really unbeleived the story till I was 14 I think.
“I found out about Santa when I was 10. That’s almost stupid. Believe me, 20 years on and I still can’t differentiate if one is drunk or just stupid” he said, in nonchalant banter, a little bluntly.
Being a bartender had taught Gary to be a good listener. But with Aravind, he spoke without restraint. He said “You know, childhood for me wasn’t great. My mother died early, and for 10 years I got beaten up for not doing my home work and I hated school. Adolescence was painful, and one day sitting at the bar counter, when a self-made casual recipe of vodka, whiskey and ginger went well with the others sitting alongside, I had decided that I was at the wrong side of the counter table.”
Aravind gave a smile and nodded his head. “It wasn’t like that for us at all. I actually don’t know who, how and when it was decided that this is how my career would go, but it was all too natural. I don’t think even at a subconscious level I was having second thoughts. I had no choice, and frankly I didn’t need choices then. ”
Aravind now began extrapolating it to a bigger picture. He said “But you know, on the other hand, people there were so diversely opinionated and sometimes catastrophically passionate that almost no building could be built, no law passed, no book written and no woman kissed without a word of protest.”
“Oh yeah. The last one is quite famous. I am familiar with India’s antagonism to sex” said Gary.
Aravind protested. “No way Indians hate it. You can’t hate it and still be producing in billions. It is strange though that explicit sex would be on display in most of our temples while the movies would face severe rebuke. It’s just one of our taboos”
Gary began drawing conclusions. “You know I’ve always thought a country’s progress can be judged by the quality of its pornography and the average tip a drink fetches in the country, and on both counts I’m proud to be an American.”
“I think it should be measured by how bad the bartender jokes are, and America’s doing no good.” He said, hoping it was a reasonable comeback.
He went on. “But really, I think a good measure would be how civil a country’s middle class are, how unassuming the rich are, and how hopeful the poor are. And the country I grew up in, I can’t be sure really. Because it’s so strange that on one hand we serve food so generously, and on the other hand we are such miser and lousy tippers; on one hand we are disgusted with corruption and bribery, on the other hand we are the first to resort to it.”
“We have a God for cleanliness, but our streets and consciences are similarly filthy. Money is not believed to be a virtue, but the first thing everybody does at a wedding is counting jewellery pieces on the bride. Smoking and drinking are portrayed as a sin, but India is the largest consumer of whisky and cigarettes.”
“Every place has this kind of thing. It’s not unusual” said Gary.
“No. It is quite unusual. For example, here in the US they slow down when the traffic light turns yellow, but in India, we accelerate. In every matter, you’ll find that there is no right or wrong. There are just shades of grey.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought haven’t you?” he asked, not in a mood for jests.
“Everything that you hear about India is true. And almost all the time, the opposite is also true. And yes. I have given this some thought. I miss those days. Some of those old memories are beginning to get to me like the time in college when someone was dared to come in a superman costume and when the professor stood appalled, the guy actually spent ten minutes convincing him that the garments re-ordering was a genuine slip-up”
This got Gary thinking. He had to ask this “Boss. Are you actually considering moving back or something? Or is this is just a phase, where you go on a vacation and realize that home is good enough just for a vacation?”
Aravind had his answer ready “No. I think this is the real deal. I think the country that you like is the country that frustrates you the most. America doesn’t frustrate me. India does. It frustrates me that we haven’t won the Cricket world Cup since 2011, it frustrates me that corruption is everywhere, it frustrates me that the roads are bad and the population is reaching 1.7 billion now. And I’d like to bicker, complain and rant about it, like most Indians do. Yes, I am considering going back.”
“Just out of curiosity, why did you ever leave India?”
“I was 25. The thought of living in a land where a plumber takes his family for a vacation to Europe and where the Governor of the biggest state was the Terminator fascinated me”
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Conversations
Much had changed within the confines of their almamater; the ATMs now had vexing swarming queues, the open free spaces had given way to fancy accretions and the cigarette shop owners had lost faith and understandably stopped loaning cigarettes to the college students. But to those four sitting at the table, the traditional college spirit was as intact as the transgressional college spirits. And true to traditions on that Wednesday night, they were there again.
That shoddy place where they served cheap and quick alcohol had been their answer to quite a few questions. But, so often, they didn’t even need a question. This process had become more of a ritual, a familiar one at that. The guy with the flared nostrils folded up his legs on the dilapidated plastic chair, confirming the waiter’s prediction that they were not one to leave early. He looked across the table to find the guy with the bulged forehead swiveling and swinging, the vodka being the leading cause of it. He lit a cigarette, fumbled with the matches and eventually burst out laughing at himself, at his drunken stupidity. He suddenly straightened his face, looked into the cigarette flame with enthusiastic profundity and corked “Few more days magans and it will all be over. It’ll be a distant past, an occasional reminisce.” The alcohol had begun to kick in. “It's hard to imagine life outside those walls” he said pointing towards the college premises behind him, grudgingly turning his head along. The last time he spoke of the walls, he was cursing them, shouting out to the world how much those walls had ‘raped his life’. The guy with the flared nostrils grinned because he found it funny how alcohol tended to make people either hate something or love something passionately, albeit differently each time. But unlike the last time, he found slight empathy in what he was saying.
“Eh. Someone beat him up dude. He’ll start with all his emotional shit again” retorted the guy with the twisted lip, clearly showing his lack of amusement. Others found it funny how he always said ‘someone beat him up’; never ‘I’ll beat you up’.
“No, No. Really. I’ll miss this place. The beach. The blocks. The beers. This bar. Good memories” came Bulged forehead’s reply. The alcohol was speaking now, which had a mind of its own.
Twisted lip swilled the Vodka left in his glass, because he figured this as the only way to find his way into the conversation. He knew he was generous and better-natured after he went past the first four drinks. He had decided to skip the third, went from the second straight to the fourth.
“Yes. Fine Memories” said the guy with the thick eyebrows. He wasn’t a big fan of talking while under the influence. He stayed the most sober and staid when they went drinking.
“My memories of this bar are vague and hazy and I’m grateful for that” quipped in Twisted lip, as he refilled his glass and raised it haltingly.
“Haha. Yes. Good times. Cheers” said Thick eyebrows, immediately relating to what he had to say.
“Yeah. But everything good has to end. It will only remind me how much life after college will suck. I mean you’d look at a few pics of the department later, which today, you’ll find absolutely detestable, and you’ll realize how naively wrong you were. That the department wasn’t all bad” said Flared nostrils. He always maintained how his department was an abomination and a big regret in his life and how he should have gone with a different branch choice. But he had managed to hide it from the others that if he could turn back time somehow, he’d still choose the same branch.
Thick eyebrows got into the conversation. “ You know, if you’d just get down to balancing what we’ve done for the college and what the college has done for us, I’m guessing it’d be a lop sided affair. If you’d just list out the things you got from coming here, you’d know what I’m talking about.”
“Well. Its 11 pm on a Wednesday, and I can see my rum bottle half empty; In fact I can see 2 of such bottles, although I’m aware there’s just one. Anyway, I think the college deserves a standing ovation for this kind of freedom” said Bulged forehead.
“Correction. The bottle is half full, not half empty. One more thing the college deserves credit for I think. But yes. Freedom. Granted” said Flared nostrils.
Bulged forehead had a point to make. “It made us realize so many people are smarter than us…”
“It made us realize so many people are dumber than us” quipped in Twisted lip.
Thick eyebrows added to the list. “When I came to college, I’d wonder how I’ll adjust to life in a hostel. Today, I wonder how I’ll survive life outside.”
“The importance of water, I think. It’s taught me to check the water tap before I settle down to business. In fact, it’s a habit I’m most addicted to. And I’m addicted to quite a few, you know” said Flared nostrils with a sheepish grin, and nodding along, because he thought it was funny.
Bulged forehead realized that this was an honest perspective on what he had gained from the college. He added “And on a serious note, the fact that a want to do something, to achieve something, be it winning in sport, trying to do 400ml Vodka, getting an AA, managing a DD, organizing an event, screwing an event, getting a girlfriend, or even writing a blog post are all possible with a hint of flair and a great deal of enthusiasm and passion. I think the college certainly had some role to play in this.”
Each knew that they’d worked a part of their ass off to come to this college, and that it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park. They came to this college wide-eyed, with a will to conquer the world, with overwhelming expectations. But, as they went along in college, they struggled to comprehend the significance of what they were doing, and how conquering the world is harder than they thought it was. But as they went along and reached the fag end, the haze had started to clear steadily, and they started to develop a certain gratitude for the time spent in college. They started to believe that these four years had caused some sort of a morph, some sort of a quiet revolution, something that they hoped would hold them in good stead later. How, that would happen, they were not sure. That it will happen, they were sure. Fumed by the alcohol as much by the raw adolescent energy, they got back that feeling of the want to conquer the world.
Thick eyebrows added with a malicious look “And although not very significant, a job and a B.Tech degree.”
“Yes. We are who we are because of our college. Cheers to a wonderful four years well spent. Unfortunately, life will never be the same again.”
“Cheers”
“Cheers”
“Cheers”
That shoddy place where they served cheap and quick alcohol had been their answer to quite a few questions. But, so often, they didn’t even need a question. This process had become more of a ritual, a familiar one at that. The guy with the flared nostrils folded up his legs on the dilapidated plastic chair, confirming the waiter’s prediction that they were not one to leave early. He looked across the table to find the guy with the bulged forehead swiveling and swinging, the vodka being the leading cause of it. He lit a cigarette, fumbled with the matches and eventually burst out laughing at himself, at his drunken stupidity. He suddenly straightened his face, looked into the cigarette flame with enthusiastic profundity and corked “Few more days magans and it will all be over. It’ll be a distant past, an occasional reminisce.” The alcohol had begun to kick in. “It's hard to imagine life outside those walls” he said pointing towards the college premises behind him, grudgingly turning his head along. The last time he spoke of the walls, he was cursing them, shouting out to the world how much those walls had ‘raped his life’. The guy with the flared nostrils grinned because he found it funny how alcohol tended to make people either hate something or love something passionately, albeit differently each time. But unlike the last time, he found slight empathy in what he was saying.
“Eh. Someone beat him up dude. He’ll start with all his emotional shit again” retorted the guy with the twisted lip, clearly showing his lack of amusement. Others found it funny how he always said ‘someone beat him up’; never ‘I’ll beat you up’.
“No, No. Really. I’ll miss this place. The beach. The blocks. The beers. This bar. Good memories” came Bulged forehead’s reply. The alcohol was speaking now, which had a mind of its own.
Twisted lip swilled the Vodka left in his glass, because he figured this as the only way to find his way into the conversation. He knew he was generous and better-natured after he went past the first four drinks. He had decided to skip the third, went from the second straight to the fourth.
“Yes. Fine Memories” said the guy with the thick eyebrows. He wasn’t a big fan of talking while under the influence. He stayed the most sober and staid when they went drinking.
“My memories of this bar are vague and hazy and I’m grateful for that” quipped in Twisted lip, as he refilled his glass and raised it haltingly.
“Haha. Yes. Good times. Cheers” said Thick eyebrows, immediately relating to what he had to say.
“Yeah. But everything good has to end. It will only remind me how much life after college will suck. I mean you’d look at a few pics of the department later, which today, you’ll find absolutely detestable, and you’ll realize how naively wrong you were. That the department wasn’t all bad” said Flared nostrils. He always maintained how his department was an abomination and a big regret in his life and how he should have gone with a different branch choice. But he had managed to hide it from the others that if he could turn back time somehow, he’d still choose the same branch.
Thick eyebrows got into the conversation. “ You know, if you’d just get down to balancing what we’ve done for the college and what the college has done for us, I’m guessing it’d be a lop sided affair. If you’d just list out the things you got from coming here, you’d know what I’m talking about.”
“Well. Its 11 pm on a Wednesday, and I can see my rum bottle half empty; In fact I can see 2 of such bottles, although I’m aware there’s just one. Anyway, I think the college deserves a standing ovation for this kind of freedom” said Bulged forehead.
“Correction. The bottle is half full, not half empty. One more thing the college deserves credit for I think. But yes. Freedom. Granted” said Flared nostrils.
Bulged forehead had a point to make. “It made us realize so many people are smarter than us…”
“It made us realize so many people are dumber than us” quipped in Twisted lip.
Thick eyebrows added to the list. “When I came to college, I’d wonder how I’ll adjust to life in a hostel. Today, I wonder how I’ll survive life outside.”
“The importance of water, I think. It’s taught me to check the water tap before I settle down to business. In fact, it’s a habit I’m most addicted to. And I’m addicted to quite a few, you know” said Flared nostrils with a sheepish grin, and nodding along, because he thought it was funny.
Bulged forehead realized that this was an honest perspective on what he had gained from the college. He added “And on a serious note, the fact that a want to do something, to achieve something, be it winning in sport, trying to do 400ml Vodka, getting an AA, managing a DD, organizing an event, screwing an event, getting a girlfriend, or even writing a blog post are all possible with a hint of flair and a great deal of enthusiasm and passion. I think the college certainly had some role to play in this.”
Each knew that they’d worked a part of their ass off to come to this college, and that it certainly wasn’t a walk in the park. They came to this college wide-eyed, with a will to conquer the world, with overwhelming expectations. But, as they went along in college, they struggled to comprehend the significance of what they were doing, and how conquering the world is harder than they thought it was. But as they went along and reached the fag end, the haze had started to clear steadily, and they started to develop a certain gratitude for the time spent in college. They started to believe that these four years had caused some sort of a morph, some sort of a quiet revolution, something that they hoped would hold them in good stead later. How, that would happen, they were not sure. That it will happen, they were sure. Fumed by the alcohol as much by the raw adolescent energy, they got back that feeling of the want to conquer the world.
Thick eyebrows added with a malicious look “And although not very significant, a job and a B.Tech degree.”
“Yes. We are who we are because of our college. Cheers to a wonderful four years well spent. Unfortunately, life will never be the same again.”
“Cheers”
“Cheers”
“Cheers”
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Murder,mystery and mayhem
He stirred his whisky, almost nonchalantly, even as his well-rounded face seemed to be drawn in overwhelming deep thought. 19 years of Pat Noyce’s extravagant career at the Los Angeles Police Dept. had the thick skinned stickler, seen a wide assortment of cases; some obtuse, few brilliant, others rudimentary, while some simply dumb-founding, and yet such queerness of tragic events that had transpired that eventful night had succeeded in baffling his trained eye.
He sipped onto his whisky, lit a cigarette and tried to gather his distorted overworked mind. On the16th of April,1954 Pat had arrived upon the investigation scene almost at the crack of dawn, and found the lifeless body of Arnold Saget, a slim jaded looking man in his early 20s, with a bullet pierced through his heart. Eerily, the body was found on a safety net hanging outside the window of the 8th floor of that very building. The safety net was installed to protect some building workers, which Pat discovered, that none in the building were aware of, including Arnold. Pat found a seemingly authentic suicide note undersigned by Arnold outlining his despondency, and aloofness to life. It was apparent to Pat from acute observation of the crime scene that Arnold had attempted suicide by jumping off the tenth floor. As soon as he jumped, even as he was crossing the 9th floor, he was shot at, and he landed on the safety net on the 8th floor. Further investigations revealed that at the time of Arnold’s death, an old couple was fiercely involved in a squabble on the 9th floor. When Pat entered the couple’s house, the old man fell to his knees and beseeched pardon. Weeping uncontrollably, he admitted to having shot at Arnold, accidentally. He also revealed that Arnold was his only son.
Upon questioning the neighbourhood, Pat found out that the old couple often fought, seldom resulting in the elder man threatening to shoot his wife with his gun. The elderly man sounded earnest when he told Pat that he actually never loaded his gun, that he merely used it to threaten his wife, and used hollow threats to stifle her. He never meant to shoot his wife nor his son, Arnold. It was an inopportune accident, one that the old man solemnly regretted. Pat had found him convincing in his version of the story, and sincere in his penitence. Experience had taught Pat much.
He was groping with his pocket looking for another cigarette, when he heard a slight knock on his door. Pat saw the wall clock that hung over his dinner table 1:26. It must be Sergeant Morgan, conjectures Pat. He opened the door.
“Ah.Good evening Sergeant. Surprised to find you at this infelicitous hour. I hope its good news that you bring.” said Pat, as he closed the door behind Sergeant Morgan.
“Care for a cigarette?” asked Pat.
“Thank you, but I’m good, sir. I found another witness to the Arnold Saget murder. A one Mr. Dave Hanson, the owner of a licensed gun shop on the east side. The 125 mm gun used by the elderly man was bought at this Mr. Hanson’s shop. He confirms that the old man never purchased bullets from him, at least not recently.” said Morgan eagerly, with a noticeable keenness in his voice.
“Ah. I’d figured it out. I have a feeling someone else has a hand in planting these bullets in that gun. Someone very…. “
Sgt. Morgan interrupted “Oh, yes sir. A few days earlier, a lean looking pensive man had dropped in at the gun shop, wanting to buy six 125 mm bullets. Needless to say, Hanson was surprised, considering how outdated the 125 mm gun is. Perhaps this man has something to do with this murder.”
“Could you find anything else about this man and his whereabouts?” quizzed Pat.
“No sir. We’re doing the best we can.” quipped the sergeant
“Okay. This case gets all the more entangled. Help run me down on this one, will you? First a man tries to commit suicide by jumping off a building. Midway through the fall he is shot. He lands on a shelter built by construction workers, which he was not aware of. The person who shoots him is his very own father. He never realized the gun had bullets and accidentally shot his son, who was in the process of dying anyway, but wouldn’t have died, because of the shelter. Something’s amiss. I still can’t figure out what’s going on?”
The sergeant added “This other guy buys bullets from a gun shop and is most probably the one who loaded the gun.”
“Indeed strange. I guess this man who bought the bullets will have a big part to play in this murder. I guess it’s pretty safe to say this mystery man who bought the bullets at the gun shop is indirectly responsible for Arnold’s murder.”
“I guess so.”
2 minutes of silence followed. Both men submerged in thought.
“Sir, I’ll take your leave now. I’ll keep you posted on any further news.” said Morgan .and bid good night
The next morning, Pat was greeted at the office doorstep by an invigorated Sgt. Morgan
“Good morning Sir. I’ve got some startling information. This morning we got the gun shop owner Mr. Hanson to help describe the man who bought the bullets. We got a rough sketch of him. The results are quite mind-boggling.”
The sergeant went on.” I questioned the entire neighbourhood again. The mystery finally seems to be coming to a conclusion, yet the coincidences seem thrilling to say the least. Arnold and his mother were apparently never on good terms with each other. She had cut-off all financial support to him, making him utterly despondent. He was vexed, beyond reasonable limits. He was so flustered; he would even dare to kill his mother. He failed at that, he also never managed to put bread on his table. So he decided to give up his life.”
Pat’s eyes lit up.” Okay. So who was the man who bought the bullets and ended up responsible for Arnold’s death?” he asked the sergeant/
The sergeant promptly replied almost half expecting the question. “There lies the irony sir. It was Arnold who bought the bullets and loaded it in his father’s gun hoping he would shoot his mother accidentally some day. Uncannily, he ended up murdering himself while committing suicide. How about that for coincidence, sir?”
“Ah! Murderer and the victim, both the same. Fascinating!”
He sipped onto his whisky, lit a cigarette and tried to gather his distorted overworked mind. On the16th of April,1954 Pat had arrived upon the investigation scene almost at the crack of dawn, and found the lifeless body of Arnold Saget, a slim jaded looking man in his early 20s, with a bullet pierced through his heart. Eerily, the body was found on a safety net hanging outside the window of the 8th floor of that very building. The safety net was installed to protect some building workers, which Pat discovered, that none in the building were aware of, including Arnold. Pat found a seemingly authentic suicide note undersigned by Arnold outlining his despondency, and aloofness to life. It was apparent to Pat from acute observation of the crime scene that Arnold had attempted suicide by jumping off the tenth floor. As soon as he jumped, even as he was crossing the 9th floor, he was shot at, and he landed on the safety net on the 8th floor. Further investigations revealed that at the time of Arnold’s death, an old couple was fiercely involved in a squabble on the 9th floor. When Pat entered the couple’s house, the old man fell to his knees and beseeched pardon. Weeping uncontrollably, he admitted to having shot at Arnold, accidentally. He also revealed that Arnold was his only son.
Upon questioning the neighbourhood, Pat found out that the old couple often fought, seldom resulting in the elder man threatening to shoot his wife with his gun. The elderly man sounded earnest when he told Pat that he actually never loaded his gun, that he merely used it to threaten his wife, and used hollow threats to stifle her. He never meant to shoot his wife nor his son, Arnold. It was an inopportune accident, one that the old man solemnly regretted. Pat had found him convincing in his version of the story, and sincere in his penitence. Experience had taught Pat much.
He was groping with his pocket looking for another cigarette, when he heard a slight knock on his door. Pat saw the wall clock that hung over his dinner table 1:26. It must be Sergeant Morgan, conjectures Pat. He opened the door.
“Ah.Good evening Sergeant. Surprised to find you at this infelicitous hour. I hope its good news that you bring.” said Pat, as he closed the door behind Sergeant Morgan.
“Care for a cigarette?” asked Pat.
“Thank you, but I’m good, sir. I found another witness to the Arnold Saget murder. A one Mr. Dave Hanson, the owner of a licensed gun shop on the east side. The 125 mm gun used by the elderly man was bought at this Mr. Hanson’s shop. He confirms that the old man never purchased bullets from him, at least not recently.” said Morgan eagerly, with a noticeable keenness in his voice.
“Ah. I’d figured it out. I have a feeling someone else has a hand in planting these bullets in that gun. Someone very…. “
Sgt. Morgan interrupted “Oh, yes sir. A few days earlier, a lean looking pensive man had dropped in at the gun shop, wanting to buy six 125 mm bullets. Needless to say, Hanson was surprised, considering how outdated the 125 mm gun is. Perhaps this man has something to do with this murder.”
“Could you find anything else about this man and his whereabouts?” quizzed Pat.
“No sir. We’re doing the best we can.” quipped the sergeant
“Okay. This case gets all the more entangled. Help run me down on this one, will you? First a man tries to commit suicide by jumping off a building. Midway through the fall he is shot. He lands on a shelter built by construction workers, which he was not aware of. The person who shoots him is his very own father. He never realized the gun had bullets and accidentally shot his son, who was in the process of dying anyway, but wouldn’t have died, because of the shelter. Something’s amiss. I still can’t figure out what’s going on?”
The sergeant added “This other guy buys bullets from a gun shop and is most probably the one who loaded the gun.”
“Indeed strange. I guess this man who bought the bullets will have a big part to play in this murder. I guess it’s pretty safe to say this mystery man who bought the bullets at the gun shop is indirectly responsible for Arnold’s murder.”
“I guess so.”
2 minutes of silence followed. Both men submerged in thought.
“Sir, I’ll take your leave now. I’ll keep you posted on any further news.” said Morgan .and bid good night
The next morning, Pat was greeted at the office doorstep by an invigorated Sgt. Morgan
“Good morning Sir. I’ve got some startling information. This morning we got the gun shop owner Mr. Hanson to help describe the man who bought the bullets. We got a rough sketch of him. The results are quite mind-boggling.”
The sergeant went on.” I questioned the entire neighbourhood again. The mystery finally seems to be coming to a conclusion, yet the coincidences seem thrilling to say the least. Arnold and his mother were apparently never on good terms with each other. She had cut-off all financial support to him, making him utterly despondent. He was vexed, beyond reasonable limits. He was so flustered; he would even dare to kill his mother. He failed at that, he also never managed to put bread on his table. So he decided to give up his life.”
Pat’s eyes lit up.” Okay. So who was the man who bought the bullets and ended up responsible for Arnold’s death?” he asked the sergeant/
The sergeant promptly replied almost half expecting the question. “There lies the irony sir. It was Arnold who bought the bullets and loaded it in his father’s gun hoping he would shoot his mother accidentally some day. Uncannily, he ended up murdering himself while committing suicide. How about that for coincidence, sir?”
“Ah! Murderer and the victim, both the same. Fascinating!”
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Parody of life
"Cheers" they said amidst voluptuous rattled roars, and the 2 most jaded men in the room gulped the vodka in a manner only they understood,straight to the throat. They gazed into each others eyes;their inner despondency masked by an outward presumptuous exterior. The vodka was inordinately outstanding, unblended and unscathed. Pure like a virgin, they thought. But incidentally, and tragically,they both knew,it might have been their last drink.
At the age of 17, Bob Marlo had decided that no dainty office job could do justice to his burning desire to live free-spiritedly. He had even done 6 months time for stealing a car and assaulting a cop. He made no friends, lived in a tacky attic in the suburbs, and had slept with 42 women in two years. He always loved to show off the scars on his forehead which was the result of an ill-fated mountain climbing expedition.
Kris Mantle was raised in a sophisticated and fastidious wealthy family who dreamt of raising a lawyer, and rub shoulders with the who's who of society. What they were not aware of,was the rebellion spirit that Kris possessed, a tinge of infamy daredevilry and a load of fire. Few days after he had turned 17, he brought home a guest for dinner, Katherine,and announced his love for her at the dinner table. His family vehemently deplored of it.So, he ran away from home and spent the night in communion with his fiance, and basking in his new found freedom. 4 months later, they were separated, with little remorse.
Everyone in the bar burst into deafening cheers. Both had apparently survived. There were 12 more shots of vodka on the dilapidated table. One of them contained 2 ml of Botalinium,one of the deadliest poisons known. The rules were simple. Each takes a shot. One spills his guts. The other walks away with 500 grand. If someone backs out midway, the other gets all of it.
Bob lit a cigarette.He made headway for small talk.
"You look like a decent man who's got a family waiting. Serves them right, eh?"
"Na, I killed them 10 years ago" said Kris, lighting a cigarette.Everyone applauded.
"The first one's the hardest. You get past the first shot, you begin to think 'maybe you can fool death'. You won't even have time to realise that you were wrong."
People started causing a raucous. They demanded another shot.
Bob raised his glass "May the best man win". Both shot vodka and vouched for the others death.Both stayed alive.Everyone cheered.Bob and Kris looked like nervous wrecks.4 more to go.The crowd was quietened.
"What you said is bullshit. The best man may not win. That's the beauty of the whole deal."said Bob with conviction.
"No. That's what you think. The best man wins everywhere. Luck is for the faint-hearted." Kris retorted.
Bob replied "No. Lucky is when the lesser man wins. But you only hope for the better man to win.Because everyone wants vindication and justice. We want it fair and square, for the world to work like an algorithm. I'm glad it does not work that way. One of the reasons you and me are seated face to face today is the lack of justice."
"Perhaps..So you think you can handle 1 more shot?" Kris asked hoping for a no for an answer.
Both raised their glasses.
"And yes. May the best man win."
Both shot. They looked at each other. They were panting, gasping for breath. Kris looked
into Bob's eyes and saw how lucky Bob felt to be alive. He felt the same.
"Lucky to be alive, eh? 2 more to go. You wanna go on?" asked Kris.
Bob sensed fear in Kris. He sensed a lot of uncertainty and a feeling of pessimism.He felt superior.Bob had always believed that laws of nature operate on how you perceive and negotiate what life offers you. He had believed that confidence inspires nature to conspire for you. And now,he sensed cynicism and pessimism in Kris. He had sniffed it. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of invincibility.
"This just feels like poker, ain't it? You flinch, you're out." said Bob.
" You don't have your brains on the table at the end of it in poker, do you? And no bluffing either. But the chances of dying or staying alive remain a constant, no matter what. It is simply your fate.Your charm and wits are of no value."
"You decide your fate, brother. I know I'm walking out with half a million. And you'll see how it is done. I'm in for the next shot." announced Bob.
Kris couldn't undermine his fear of death. His whole life, flashed before his eyes. An innate feeling of an irrevocable loss seemed to hit him in his face. He pondered upon all of his sins and pleasures. He felt like a dying man. He looked up at Bob. He looked at a man with half a million dollars.
He despairingly said " I'm in."
Bob looked up at Kris and showed inexplicable surprise. He thought he had him. Not to be. He was certain the odds were for him. He was not giving up.
"Say your prayers my friend. This place ain't big enough for the both of us."
"Cheers" they said in unison. One feebly, the other almost nonchalantly.
They shot.Kris felt extremely dizzy. His whole world revolved around him like typhoon had ruptured him.Immediately Kris's inner self felt a burning desire to live, not to let probability take a chance to decide on his life. He felt like he had more to offer to his and others' life. He spit out the vodka and in abrupt and pathetic coughs yelled out " You win, my friend. I'm out."
But,as soon as he looked up, he saw Bob Marley collapse to the floor, in pain, moaning, squealing,spilling his guts out. Bob fell on the stack of cash on the table, and enjoyed his 20 seconds of wealth, and let one melancholic cry of despair and gave in.
Kris never really regretted his decision. He was not rich, but he didn't go out of that bar not being taught a lesson or two in life.Bob himself had an algorithm to life, which stated that there was no algorithm. Every man thinks that he has algorithm to life figured out. They're always flawed. Some, like Kris realise that. Others like Bob, figure it out in the last 30 seconds of their life. 47 years later on his deathbed, Kris was to remember this fateful night and grimaced at the parody of life.
At the age of 17, Bob Marlo had decided that no dainty office job could do justice to his burning desire to live free-spiritedly. He had even done 6 months time for stealing a car and assaulting a cop. He made no friends, lived in a tacky attic in the suburbs, and had slept with 42 women in two years. He always loved to show off the scars on his forehead which was the result of an ill-fated mountain climbing expedition.
Kris Mantle was raised in a sophisticated and fastidious wealthy family who dreamt of raising a lawyer, and rub shoulders with the who's who of society. What they were not aware of,was the rebellion spirit that Kris possessed, a tinge of infamy daredevilry and a load of fire. Few days after he had turned 17, he brought home a guest for dinner, Katherine,and announced his love for her at the dinner table. His family vehemently deplored of it.So, he ran away from home and spent the night in communion with his fiance, and basking in his new found freedom. 4 months later, they were separated, with little remorse.
Everyone in the bar burst into deafening cheers. Both had apparently survived. There were 12 more shots of vodka on the dilapidated table. One of them contained 2 ml of Botalinium,one of the deadliest poisons known. The rules were simple. Each takes a shot. One spills his guts. The other walks away with 500 grand. If someone backs out midway, the other gets all of it.
Bob lit a cigarette.He made headway for small talk.
"You look like a decent man who's got a family waiting. Serves them right, eh?"
"Na, I killed them 10 years ago" said Kris, lighting a cigarette.Everyone applauded.
"The first one's the hardest. You get past the first shot, you begin to think 'maybe you can fool death'. You won't even have time to realise that you were wrong."
People started causing a raucous. They demanded another shot.
Bob raised his glass "May the best man win". Both shot vodka and vouched for the others death.Both stayed alive.Everyone cheered.Bob and Kris looked like nervous wrecks.4 more to go.The crowd was quietened.
"What you said is bullshit. The best man may not win. That's the beauty of the whole deal."said Bob with conviction.
"No. That's what you think. The best man wins everywhere. Luck is for the faint-hearted." Kris retorted.
Bob replied "No. Lucky is when the lesser man wins. But you only hope for the better man to win.Because everyone wants vindication and justice. We want it fair and square, for the world to work like an algorithm. I'm glad it does not work that way. One of the reasons you and me are seated face to face today is the lack of justice."
"Perhaps..So you think you can handle 1 more shot?" Kris asked hoping for a no for an answer.
Both raised their glasses.
"And yes. May the best man win."
Both shot. They looked at each other. They were panting, gasping for breath. Kris looked
into Bob's eyes and saw how lucky Bob felt to be alive. He felt the same.
"Lucky to be alive, eh? 2 more to go. You wanna go on?" asked Kris.
Bob sensed fear in Kris. He sensed a lot of uncertainty and a feeling of pessimism.He felt superior.Bob had always believed that laws of nature operate on how you perceive and negotiate what life offers you. He had believed that confidence inspires nature to conspire for you. And now,he sensed cynicism and pessimism in Kris. He had sniffed it. He was filled with an overwhelming sense of invincibility.
"This just feels like poker, ain't it? You flinch, you're out." said Bob.
" You don't have your brains on the table at the end of it in poker, do you? And no bluffing either. But the chances of dying or staying alive remain a constant, no matter what. It is simply your fate.Your charm and wits are of no value."
"You decide your fate, brother. I know I'm walking out with half a million. And you'll see how it is done. I'm in for the next shot." announced Bob.
Kris couldn't undermine his fear of death. His whole life, flashed before his eyes. An innate feeling of an irrevocable loss seemed to hit him in his face. He pondered upon all of his sins and pleasures. He felt like a dying man. He looked up at Bob. He looked at a man with half a million dollars.
He despairingly said " I'm in."
Bob looked up at Kris and showed inexplicable surprise. He thought he had him. Not to be. He was certain the odds were for him. He was not giving up.
"Say your prayers my friend. This place ain't big enough for the both of us."
"Cheers" they said in unison. One feebly, the other almost nonchalantly.
They shot.Kris felt extremely dizzy. His whole world revolved around him like typhoon had ruptured him.Immediately Kris's inner self felt a burning desire to live, not to let probability take a chance to decide on his life. He felt like he had more to offer to his and others' life. He spit out the vodka and in abrupt and pathetic coughs yelled out " You win, my friend. I'm out."
But,as soon as he looked up, he saw Bob Marley collapse to the floor, in pain, moaning, squealing,spilling his guts out. Bob fell on the stack of cash on the table, and enjoyed his 20 seconds of wealth, and let one melancholic cry of despair and gave in.
Kris never really regretted his decision. He was not rich, but he didn't go out of that bar not being taught a lesson or two in life.Bob himself had an algorithm to life, which stated that there was no algorithm. Every man thinks that he has algorithm to life figured out. They're always flawed. Some, like Kris realise that. Others like Bob, figure it out in the last 30 seconds of their life. 47 years later on his deathbed, Kris was to remember this fateful night and grimaced at the parody of life.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
His beloved audience
He had been an agonistic as long as he could remember, and despite his wife’s cajoling,even a visit to the temple across the road from his double-storeyed bungalow had remained a far-fetched thought. But today he stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. Life had presented its dreadful flipside, and ironically he was standing at the same temple across the road from his bungalow, but he was too perplexed to notice the irony.
Anil Yashwant had always cherished his 4 years at his alma-mater IIM-A, and the people at the new office of IBM in Vila Parle were only too keen to have him on board. People who had known him were not surprised to find him effortlessly climb up the ranks in his office, given the extravagant flair he had exhibited at his job. To vindicate his prodigal-like talent,he started a company of his own, that had scripted a stupendous success story in an outlandish fashion. The Deccan Herald wanted to showcase his imminent arrival at the worldstage and had commissioned Nivedita Gupta, a pretty vibrant journalist for a Page 6 interview. The interview had lasted for more than 7 hours, and a year later Nivedita and Anil had committed to each other 7 lives of holy matrimony in a succinct ceremony comprising of close family and friends. They had 2 beautiful kids together, and his miniature company had skyrocketed to scale new heights, proclaimed by many as the next big thing in the
markets. Life, it seemed, couldn't have been haler and heartier. But catastrophe was to befall Anil, for a storm wistfully always follows a calm. His company hadn't been faring well, and share prices had plummeted following the Internet bubble burst all over the world. On the 19th of Dec 2001, an emergency Board meeting was called for, which had concluded in a callous yet decisive vote to file for bankruptcy. His dear company, built from years of scrupulous pain-staking effort had collapsed right before his own eyes.Anil was distraught, but always managed to take heart in the fact
that atleast he had his health and and a caring family. On the 21st of February, 2 days before his son's 19 birthday, he received a call informing him that the Air Deccan flight from Delhi to Mumbai had killed all 78 on board, of which Nivedita, his wife; Aarushi, his 16 yr old daughter, and Rajdeep, his 19 yr old son were an infelicitous part of. It had left him agonizingly stunned for he now had nothing in life to claim as his own.
Anil was unable to bear this melancholic irrevocable loss, of wealth and life, of mind and soul, of kith and kin. He was inconsolable, drowned in overwhelming grief, aloof of life. He took to alcohol, severely wasting himself, abusing his body with drugs. He tried to find answers, he didn't know where to seek them. He was lost immersed in the nothingness of this universe sucked into it and dumped away. He craved for love, for pity, for affection. Lying remorsefully in his once lavish apartment, he remembered his mother's unconditional love, his wife's undying devotion, his children's affection and his dog's faithfulness. His dogged spirit had turned docile, meek. A once proud man now stood felled self-effacingly submissive.
His well-wishers had suggested him to several renowned psychologists, leading doctors and various ludicrous ways to overcome his resentment to life. All had miserably failed. He remembered his wife dearly, the conversations he had with her. She had trusted God so much. But he had failed her. He had cheated her trust, he thought. He had been an agnostic, almost an atheist all his life, and now he had brimming anger at God, an existence he hadn't believed in.
So he headed for the temple his wife had always visited, and stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. He was once again filled with simmering anger, and inconsolably wept bitterly like a lost warrior. And at once, fell to his knees as if in acceptance of His existence, not because he had realized God was omnipresent, but because he hoped he would be. He made a prayer, not because he wanted it answered, but because he simply wanted to pray,to confide his emotion within. All these years he had always beleived that a prayer was a sign of weakness, when a man demanded something from God because he had'nt been able to achieve himself. He now realised how woefully wrong he was. He realised, that a prayer was very personal, very subjective to each individual. Some confided, some confessed, some questioned, some bargained, and some argued. Each one was right in his own way. Facing the sanctum-sanctorum of the temple, he realised God's existence was immaterial, but he knew there was a higher force operating, a watchful eye that was always omnipresent. He at once felt a burden off his chest, felt consoled, like a crying baby is when its mother embraces it.And for a moment, the physical world did not matter to him, and the maelstrom in his own inner world was sanctified, by a divine feeling.
Anil Yashwant had always cherished his 4 years at his alma-mater IIM-A, and the people at the new office of IBM in Vila Parle were only too keen to have him on board. People who had known him were not surprised to find him effortlessly climb up the ranks in his office, given the extravagant flair he had exhibited at his job. To vindicate his prodigal-like talent,he started a company of his own, that had scripted a stupendous success story in an outlandish fashion. The Deccan Herald wanted to showcase his imminent arrival at the worldstage and had commissioned Nivedita Gupta, a pretty vibrant journalist for a Page 6 interview. The interview had lasted for more than 7 hours, and a year later Nivedita and Anil had committed to each other 7 lives of holy matrimony in a succinct ceremony comprising of close family and friends. They had 2 beautiful kids together, and his miniature company had skyrocketed to scale new heights, proclaimed by many as the next big thing in the
markets. Life, it seemed, couldn't have been haler and heartier. But catastrophe was to befall Anil, for a storm wistfully always follows a calm. His company hadn't been faring well, and share prices had plummeted following the Internet bubble burst all over the world. On the 19th of Dec 2001, an emergency Board meeting was called for, which had concluded in a callous yet decisive vote to file for bankruptcy. His dear company, built from years of scrupulous pain-staking effort had collapsed right before his own eyes.Anil was distraught, but always managed to take heart in the fact
that atleast he had his health and and a caring family. On the 21st of February, 2 days before his son's 19 birthday, he received a call informing him that the Air Deccan flight from Delhi to Mumbai had killed all 78 on board, of which Nivedita, his wife; Aarushi, his 16 yr old daughter, and Rajdeep, his 19 yr old son were an infelicitous part of. It had left him agonizingly stunned for he now had nothing in life to claim as his own.
Anil was unable to bear this melancholic irrevocable loss, of wealth and life, of mind and soul, of kith and kin. He was inconsolable, drowned in overwhelming grief, aloof of life. He took to alcohol, severely wasting himself, abusing his body with drugs. He tried to find answers, he didn't know where to seek them. He was lost immersed in the nothingness of this universe sucked into it and dumped away. He craved for love, for pity, for affection. Lying remorsefully in his once lavish apartment, he remembered his mother's unconditional love, his wife's undying devotion, his children's affection and his dog's faithfulness. His dogged spirit had turned docile, meek. A once proud man now stood felled self-effacingly submissive.
His well-wishers had suggested him to several renowned psychologists, leading doctors and various ludicrous ways to overcome his resentment to life. All had miserably failed. He remembered his wife dearly, the conversations he had with her. She had trusted God so much. But he had failed her. He had cheated her trust, he thought. He had been an agnostic, almost an atheist all his life, and now he had brimming anger at God, an existence he hadn't believed in.
So he headed for the temple his wife had always visited, and stood dispiritedly with clasped hands tearfully staring at the gold studded statue of Ram. He was once again filled with simmering anger, and inconsolably wept bitterly like a lost warrior. And at once, fell to his knees as if in acceptance of His existence, not because he had realized God was omnipresent, but because he hoped he would be. He made a prayer, not because he wanted it answered, but because he simply wanted to pray,to confide his emotion within. All these years he had always beleived that a prayer was a sign of weakness, when a man demanded something from God because he had'nt been able to achieve himself. He now realised how woefully wrong he was. He realised, that a prayer was very personal, very subjective to each individual. Some confided, some confessed, some questioned, some bargained, and some argued. Each one was right in his own way. Facing the sanctum-sanctorum of the temple, he realised God's existence was immaterial, but he knew there was a higher force operating, a watchful eye that was always omnipresent. He at once felt a burden off his chest, felt consoled, like a crying baby is when its mother embraces it.And for a moment, the physical world did not matter to him, and the maelstrom in his own inner world was sanctified, by a divine feeling.
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