Collection of Shri's feeds

“Why do you hate the rains so much?”

She was sitting near the window, cradling a cup of steaming, hot coffee, with her legs pulled up. He was sitting up on the bed, papers strewn all around him. She had a mischievous twinkle in her eyes – hard to resist.

“I don’t hate them. I just…” He groped for the correct word – ‘detest’? ‘loathe’? Too strong. ‘dislike’? Too safe. ‘avoid’? Too open. “… don’t like them!” Perfect.

“What’s not to like? Rains are good. Rains wash away everything – from dirt stains, to heart pains.”

“That’s good. Send that one to the Readers’ Digest. They’ll lap it up.”

“Are you mocking me?” He thought he detected a flash of irritation.

“Me? Mock you?” He threw up both hands in mock-horror. She found it endearing. “The mere thought!”

“Oh yes, you are!” the mischievous twinkle was back. Before he knew it, she pounced on the nearest sheaf of papers, picked them up and ran out of the room, yelling to him, “They are yours, if you can catch me!”

“No! Wait! Not those!”

But she was already out of the room. He grinned, got up, and ran after her. She bounded down the stairs like a cat. She reached the bottom, turned and held the papers high – as if mocking him.

“Gimme those!”

“Shhh! You’ll wake up the baby!”

“Oh sorry! Gimme those!” This time it was a whisper.

Sh whispered back, “They are yours if you can catch me!”

A suave smile appeared on his face. “You know, you don’t stand a chance,” he said.

“Prove it.”

The mischievous twinkle had thrown down the gauntlet. He sighed, smiled and started down the stairs. “Wait for me!” he yelled after her, but she had already disappeared outside. “Watch out,” he cautioned, “Those stones are wet!”

All he heard was a thud. All he saw was blood.

They were the last words she ever heard.

Rains wash away everything…

“Dad, do you hate the rains because of what happened to Mom?”

She had caught him by surprise.

“Don’t hate the rains, dad. Rains are good. Rains wash away everything – from dirt stains to heart pains.” she said.

And he smiled.

He still hated the rain, though.

*****
Finally. A complete story.

“Rains are good. Rains wash away everything – from dirt stains, to heart pains,” she said. And he smiled.

She had this knack of coming up with such gems every now and then.

One time she’d said, “I think there’s no free will. We always have a reason for everything we do, right?” He nodded a yes. “That means everything we do fulfills a definite purpose, right?” He nodded a yes, again. “If everything has a purpose, and everything we do is intended to fulfill that purpose, it implies that everything is pre-destined and free will has no part to play in it!”

Seven seconds later, he smiled and nodded.

The rain beat a staccato rhythm on the tin roof.

“Pitter-patter rain drops, pitter-patter rain drops…”

She hummed away to no one in particular. He was trying to concentrate on his book.

“Falling on the ground, lying on the floor…”

He turned a page and adjusted his glasses.

“Makes the place untidy, makes the place untidy…”

He stopped reading, and turned to her.

“I know. But don’t you love the effect?”

He smiled and went back to his book.

Why are rainy nights almost always dark?

The room was as dark as the night itself – which wasn’t saying much considering the fact that the power supply in the area had been interrupted. And they hadn’t still found the candles.

“Got ‘em! Did you find the matches?”

“Yeah! Over here!”

“Phew! I must remember to keep these candles somewhere I can find them. Wouldn’t want to gothrough all this again the next time this happens!”

“Don’t worry, it won’t!” He gingerly climbed down the stairs, one step at a time. “I just called the power company and they said this was a rare occurence. One of those once-in-a-lifetime kinds.” His eyes had adjusted themselves to the dark by now. “They also assured me that this wasn’t likely to happen again!” He could make out her silhouette in the dark. “Here you go – the matches!” She looked beautiful.

“Come on baby, light my fire!” She giggled and struck the match.

There’s something magical about a pitch-dark night.

Firstly, when the lights go out, all the sounds of the world seem to go out with them. Everything seems to go perfectly quiet, and you suddenly begin to hear sounds you never believed, existed. As an added bonus, time seems to slow down, too.

And you begin to see, hear, sense, and perceive everything to the smallest of detail – like the lighting of a match.

First, the spark – when the head makes contact with the abrasive surface. Then, a tiny ball of fire accompanied by a sound that could only be described as pure, controlled aggression. And finally, the flame – undulating with every tiny movement of air that feeded its existence.

He always believed that the match-stick was the greatest invention known to humankind. It captured humankind’s greatest discovery – fire – and allowed it to be used at will.

Just as it had done now.

She began lighting the candles, one by one. Each candle that was lit revealed a little more of her radiant smile. And with each candle that was lit, he fell a little more in love, until -

“Don’t light that last one!” he said.

“Why?”

“Save it for later,” he said simply.

“Good idea!” She said and she turned to put the last candle away.

If she’d lit that last candle…

He sighed and looked out the window. It was still pitch-dark.

*****
To Be Concluded.

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Can a Hindi Film win an Oscar?

No. I am not talking about the Foreign Language category. I am talking about the Best Film category – the category in which Slumdog Millionaire won the Oscar Award this year.

How? Read on till the end.

The Eligibility criteria for a film to be nominated for the Oscars are clearly laid out on this page. A first glance at the page reveals something very interesting.

Nowhere does it mention that the film has to be in the English language!

In fact, Paragraph 8 clearly states:
“Motion pictures from all countries shall be eligible for the annual awards listed in Rule One Paragraph 3, as long as they satisfy the requirements of the other applicable rules, and contain English-language subtitles if released in a foreign language.”

That’s not all! There’s more!

Paragraph 2 of Rule 2 might cause a few problems actually. Condensed down to the basics it means:

“A film, that runs for more than 40 minutes, is eligible for an entry to the Oscar Nominations as long as it runs in a commercial theater in the Los Angeles county for at least seven days and is properly advertised before-hand.”

So what’s stopping us?

Rule 3, more or less.

The essence of Rule 3 is that, the Los Angeles run must happen between the 1st of January to the 31st of December in a specific year and no other theatrical runs are allowed – competitive or otherwise. And this is where it gets kinda complicated. Here’s Paragraph 3 of Rule 3, verbatim:

A picture first theatrically exhibited outside the U.S. prior to the Los Angeles qualifying run shall be eligible for submission provided the prior exhibition takes place in a commercial motion picture theater after January 1, 2007, with the following further conditions:

1. the film may not be exhibited publicly in any nontheatrical form for a 90-day period following the commencement of its initial theatrical engagement, and
2. after the 90-day period, the film may play in nontheatrical forms provided they are outside the U.S. (No film that is shown inside the U.S. in any nontheatrical form prior to its qualifying Los Angeles run shall be eligible for Academy Awards.)

Kinda confusing, isn’t it? But, this is what I make of it in the Indian context. Correct me if I am wrong:

If a full-length Indian feature film, (properly subtitled) were to theatrically release in India this year, and next year, release exclusively in the Los Angeles County (after proper advertisement and marketing) on a commercial theater run for a period of at least 7 days and no other theatrical engagement for the total period of 90 days, then the film qualifies for an entry to the Oscars!

So, technically, if an Indian film made in 2009 – say Dev.D – were to release exclusively in the Los Angeles county this year – ensuring that no other theatrical runs happen anywhere else during that exhibition period – Dev.D could, might, possibly, maybe, qualify to win an Oscar!

With big bucks like Warner Brothers, Walt Disney, etc entering the Indian market, has the American Dream suddenly become achievable?

He stood out among the crowd. He was alone.

The other kids are having a field day in the park. They run, scream, yell, fall, bawl, and are picked up and soothed by their parents.

He simply stands alone on one side and looks at them with a wan smile on his face.

And then the announcements are made. Like clockwork, the rest of the kids assume their favorite positions. They open their dainty little satchels and lay out their pens, pencils, sketch-pens, paint bottle, paint-tubes - all the tools of the trade…

He doesn’t have anything…

Some of (relatively) richer-ones have drawing-boards. Those who don’t, sneak a look at the others with a gleam in their eyes. Now they know what they want for their birthday…

He probably doesn’t know when he was born…

To avoid their clothes getting soiled, the parents have arranged for old newspapers for their little kids to sit on. (Or is it to avoid the trouble of washing them again & again? I don’t really know…)

His clothes have cleaned the windshields of innumerable cars that regularly stop at the junction.

The competition starts. The kids works away at their drawings furiously. They race against time to put their thoughts on the paper.

Scrawl. Erase. Scrawl. Erase.

He looks at the sky. There’s a dreamy look in his eyes.

The judges are walking around. They point to this & that, him & her. They search the talent they are looking for. They find a few possibilities. Nothing definite, yet.

One of them spots him.

“Would you like to paint, too?”

His is shaken out of his reverie. Confused, he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Yes.”

“Come.” The judge says.

The judge borrows a paper from one of the kids. A pencil from another. Some newspaper from a parent. He sits the kid down. Another kid offers to share his colors, on his own.

He is confused, “But what shall I paint?”

“Anything.” The judge smiles and walks away.

He puts pencil to the paper and starts…

*****
This is a completely true story. On the 24th of January, 200-odd kids had descended on to Sambhaji Park (in Pune) for our event titled, “Paint My India.” The judges for the event were local Art Teachers and the Chief Guest for the occasion was Mr. Prabhakar Wadekar, of “Chintoo” fame.

He was the one who spotted Akshay and invited him to paint along with the other kids.

I am glad I met him.

The other kids are having a field day in the park. They run, scream, yell, fall, bawl, and are picked up and soothed by their parents.

He simply stands alone on one side and looks at them with a wan smile on his face.

And then the announcements are made. Like clockwork, the rest of the kids assume their favorite positions. They open their dainty little satchels and lay out their pens, pencils, sketch-pens, paint bottle, paint-tubes – all the tools of the trade…

He doesn’t have anything…

Some of (relatively) richer-ones have drawing-boards. Those who don’t, sneak a look at the others with a gleam in their eyes. Now they know what they want for their birthday…

He probably doesn’t know when he was born…

To avoid their clothes getting soiled, the parents have arranged for old newspapers for their little kids to sit on. (Or is it to avoid the trouble of washing them again & again? I don’t really know…)

His clothes have cleaned the windshields of innumerable cars that regularly stop at the junction.

The competition starts. The kids works away at their drawings furiously. They race against time to put their thoughts on the paper.

Scrawl. Erase. Scrawl. Erase.

He looks at the sky. There’s a dreamy look in his eyes.

The judges are walking around. They point to this & that, him & her. They search the talent they are looking for. They find a few possibilities. Nothing definite, yet.

One of them spots him.

“Would you like to paint, too?”

His is shaken out of his reverie. Confused, he says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Yes.”

“Come.” The judge says.

The judge borrows a paper from one of the kids. A pencil from another. Some newspaper from a parent. He sits the kid down. Another kid offers to share his colors, on his own.

He is confused, “But what shall I paint?”

“Anything.” The judge smiles and walks away.

He puts pencil to the paper and starts…

*****
This is a completely true story. On the 24th of January, 200-odd kids had descended on to Sambhaji Park (in Pune) for our event titled, “Paint My India.” The judges for the event were local Art Teachers and the Chief Guest for the occasion was Mr. Prabhakar Wadekar, of “Chintoo” fame.

He was the one who spotted Akshay and invited him to paint along with the other kids.

I am glad I met him.

The story so far:
Aw, what the heck! Read it up!
****
I saw a sly smile on my face.

(This confusion of pronouns is really getting to me now.)

“What makes you think there’s only one of us??”
“What? Look, there’s only one…”

And then it struck me.

“You mean - ”
The sly smile again.
“But - ”
The sly smile widened a little.
“Look - ”
The sly smile was now a grin.
“Oh, wipe that silly grin off your face!!”
The grin disappeared. Literally.
“I didn’t mean that!! Get it back. GET IT BACK!!”

The grin came back. Literally.

“But how?”
“Let’s just say we’ve evolved a little longer than you have.”
That was news. If there are super-evolved sentient beings who can change appearances - and do it on a whim - then, it meant…

“No. We don’t.”
“Wha- How? Did you -”
“No, we can’t read minds, yet.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. And then the processing yielded the obvious question.

“Yet? You mean…”
“Well, we can read faces. As much as you can. Basic mentalics, you know…”
“Oh.”

There was a silence. I wouldn’t call it uncomfortable, because one of me was still smiling. And it wasn’t me. I (the real me) did not know how to break it.

‘What the heck,’ I said to myself (the inner self, not the outer DNA-replicating-impostor, please) ‘let me try, anyway.”

I cleared my throat.

“So let me get this right. You are super-evolved sentient beings who can replicate whatever basic building blocks of life, simply by coming into contact with them. And yet, you accost me in this dark alley like a thug and scare the wits out of me. May I ask this simple question: What do you want from us?”

“Us?”

“I meant humanity. I think I speak for all humanity. You wouldn’t be able to understand us if we spoke all at once anyway.”

“Well, nothing.”

Nothing? NOTHING?? All this scaring, and displaying of power, and DNA-based replication capability for nothing?

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“But you must want something! World Peace! Galactic War! Inter-planetary Trade! Something!”

“Well, we carry our world with us, and we’re at peace. So that takes World Peace out. The next Galactic war isn’t due until a while - strike that, too. And inter-planetary trade - we don’t need it. We derive our energy from the Parent-star. You guys don’t seem to be using yours, anyway.”

“Yeah, we’re still trying to figure that one out.”
“It’s quite simple, really. You see-”
“I SAID, WE’RE TRYING!!”
“Okay!”

Silence.

How do you sustain conversation with (a) super-evolved sentient being/s with instant-replication capability and a desire for nothing? Simple answer: You can’t. Elaborate answer: You try, but you still can’t.

“Okay, if you want nothing, I might as well leave. No point in me hanging around, right? Toodle-doo, pip-pip!” And I started to move.

“Wait!”
“What?”
“Don’t you want anything?”
“Me? I want world peace - can you give me that?”
The other me opened my mouth to answer.
“No wait. Wrong choice of question. Discard that.”
The open mouth quickly closed shut.
“You can give me anything?”
“Well, almost anything.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Free?”
“Well…”
“Ah, I knew it!! There had to be a price!! Everything has a price! There’s no such thing as a free lunch!”
“Actually…”
“Name your price! I won’t disclose what I want until you name your price! NAME IT!!”
“We’ve already taken. We’re here to give.”
“Huh? What? How? When?”
“You needn’t worry about that. You’ll never even notice what we’ve taken. Clearly, you didn’t notice it when was there…”

I was puzzled by that intriguing statement, but I was also exhilarated by the choices made available by that statement. I had the power to make a decision that was usually the honor of the privileged few.

“Wait a second, why do I get to make the choice? Shouldn’t you be talking to someone else? Someone in power? Like the President, maybe? Or Hugh Hefner?”

“No.”

“Just ‘No’? No further explanations?”

“No.”

So that meant I also had to be responsible with my choices. Damn!

“Okay, can you give me some time?”
“Is that what you want?”
“NO! NO! I meant, I want to think before I make my choice!”
“Oh, okay!”

Phew. Close call.

I quickly formed a list of what I needed the most. A sweet girlfriend, a secure job, a fat pay-cheque, a cozy home, and a great retiring pension. Kinda selfish, ain’t it? It suddenly hit me that whatever I would ask for, would leave a long-lasting impression on - not just me, but - the entire of mankind. Like, the huge-leap-and-not-small-step kind of an impression. I would have to be R-E-A-L careful…

World Peace, then? Nope. Too abstract.
Scientific Progress? Can’t hand it on a platter…
Smarter Politicians? Erm…
Upgraded Sensibilities? Eradication of Poverty? Peaceful International Relations? Humanitarian Beliefs? Utopia? Asking for one of them meant forgoing the others.

A whirlwind of thoughts buzzed through my head. I couldn’t settle on anything. Each option seemed equally favorable, and all options seemed equally necessary.

It didn’t help that I was standing in front of my favorite Pizza place. I could easily have asked for an order of my favorite pizza with my favorite toppings - and gotten it.

And, then it struck me - clear as day. It had to be THE choice.

I simply looked at me. Basic mentalics did the rest.

I (the-impostor-me) looked puzzled at first and then I (the-impostor-me) smiled.

“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I guess…”

“Well, that is indeed unique. But if that is your choice, so be it,” the impostor-me said and smiled. I smiled in return. And, with that, the impostor-me vanished. Disintegrated. Disappeared, in a puff of smoke.

I could see the sign on the door of my favorite Pizza place. The sign that had helped me save the world.

The sign that simply said:

“Thank you! Visit again!”

*******
Ta-Da!! I FINISHED IT!!

I know it’s not good at all. I have been out of touch, I guess…

Thanks for being patient.

The story so far:
Aw, what the heck! Read it up!
****
I saw a sly smile on my face.

(This confusion of pronouns is really getting to me now.)

“What makes you think there’s only one of us??”
“What? Look, there’s only one…”

And then it struck me.

“You mean – ”
The sly smile again.
“But – ”
The sly smile widened a little.
“Look – ”
The sly smile was now a grin.
“Oh, wipe that silly grin off your face!!”
The grin disappeared. Literally.
“I didn’t mean that!! Get it back. GET IT BACK!!”

The grin came back. Literally.

“But how?”
“Let’s just say we’ve evolved a little longer than you have.”
That was news. If there are super-evolved sentient beings who can change appearances – and do it on a whim – then, it meant…

“No. We don’t.”
“Wha- How? Did you -”
“No, we can’t read minds, yet.”

I heaved a sigh of relief. And then the processing yielded the obvious question.

“Yet? You mean…”
“Well, we can read faces. As much as you can. Basic mentalics, you know…”
“Oh.”

There was a silence. I wouldn’t call it uncomfortable, because one of me was still smiling. And it wasn’t me. I (the real me) did not know how to break it.

‘What the heck,’ I said to myself (the inner self, not the outer DNA-replicating-impostor, please) ‘let me try, anyway.”

I cleared my throat.

“So let me get this right. You are super-evolved sentient beings who can replicate whatever basic building blocks of life, simply by coming into contact with them. And yet, you accost me in this dark alley like a thug and scare the wits out of me. May I ask this simple question: What do you want from us?”

“Us?”

“I meant humanity. I think I speak for all humanity. You wouldn’t be able to understand us if we spoke all at once anyway.”

“Well, nothing.”

Nothing? NOTHING?? All this scaring, and displaying of power, and DNA-based replication capability for nothing?

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“But you must want something! World Peace! Galactic War! Inter-planetary Trade! Something!”

“Well, we carry our world with us, and we’re at peace. So that takes World Peace out. The next Galactic war isn’t due until a while – strike that, too. And inter-planetary trade – we don’t need it. We derive our energy from the Parent-star. You guys don’t seem to be using yours, anyway.”

“Yeah, we’re still trying to figure that one out.”
“It’s quite simple, really. You see-”
“I SAID, WE’RE TRYING!!”
“Okay!”

Silence.

How do you sustain conversation with (a) super-evolved sentient being/s with instant-replication capability and a desire for nothing? Simple answer: You can’t. Elaborate answer: You try, but you still can’t.

“Okay, if you want nothing, I might as well leave. No point in me hanging around, right? Toodle-doo, pip-pip!” And I started to move.

“Wait!”
“What?”
“Don’t you want anything?”
“Me? I want world peace – can you give me that?”
The other me opened my mouth to answer.
“No wait. Wrong choice of question. Discard that.”
The open mouth quickly closed shut.
“You can give me anything?”
“Well, almost anything.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Free?”
“Well…”
“Ah, I knew it!! There had to be a price!! Everything has a price! There’s no such thing as a free lunch!”
“Actually…”
“Name your price! I won’t disclose what I want until you name your price! NAME IT!!”
“We’ve already taken. We’re here to give.”
“Huh? What? How? When?”
“You needn’t worry about that. You’ll never even notice what we’ve taken. Clearly, you didn’t notice it when was there…”

I was puzzled by that intriguing statement, but I was also exhilarated by the choices made available by that statement. I had the power to make a decision that was usually the honor of the privileged few.

“Wait a second, why do I get to make the choice? Shouldn’t you be talking to someone else? Someone in power? Like the President, maybe? Or Hugh Hefner?”

“No.”

“Just ‘No’? No further explanations?”

“No.”

So that meant I also had to be responsible with my choices. Damn!

“Okay, can you give me some time?”
“Is that what you want?”
“NO! NO! I meant, I want to think before I make my choice!”
“Oh, okay!”

Phew. Close call.

I quickly formed a list of what I needed the most. A sweet girlfriend, a secure job, a fat pay-cheque, a cozy home, and a great retiring pension. Kinda selfish, ain’t it? It suddenly hit me that whatever I would ask for, would leave a long-lasting impression on – not just me, but – the entire of mankind. Like, the huge-leap-and-not-small-step kind of an impression. I would have to be R-E-A-L careful…

World Peace, then? Nope. Too abstract.
Scientific Progress? Can’t hand it on a platter…
Smarter Politicians? Erm…
Upgraded Sensibilities? Eradication of Poverty? Peaceful International Relations? Humanitarian Beliefs? Utopia? Asking for one of them meant forgoing the others.

A whirlwind of thoughts buzzed through my head. I couldn’t settle on anything. Each option seemed equally favorable, and all options seemed equally necessary.

It didn’t help that I was standing in front of my favorite Pizza place. I could easily have asked for an order of my favorite pizza with my favorite toppings – and gotten it.

And, then it struck me – clear as day. It had to be THE choice.

I simply looked at me. Basic mentalics did the rest.

I (the-impostor-me) looked puzzled at first and then I (the-impostor-me) smiled.

“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I guess…”

“Well, that is indeed unique. But if that is your choice, so be it,” the impostor-me said and smiled. I smiled in return. And, with that, the impostor-me vanished. Disintegrated. Disappeared, in a puff of smoke.

I could see the sign on the door of my favorite Pizza place. The sign that had helped me save the world.

The sign that simply said:

“Thank you! Visit again!”

*******
Ta-Da!! I FINISHED IT!!

I know it’s not good at all. I have been out of touch, I guess…

Thanks for being patient.

The Story So Far:
I am returning home from work and encounter disembodied humanoid voices. When I ask them (boldly) to appear in front of me, they do. And I scream.

*****

It was me.

No, no. I mean I was standing here and then I was standing there. And I hadn’t even moved. Which meant there were two of me. Here was me and then another me.

Puzzled, confounded, confused, and all the synonyms lent themselves to immediate reference. But none found their way to provide the adequate and corresponding exercise to the tongue. And that was indeed novel for me.

And then I spoke.

Actually the other me spoke.

“Please don’t freak out. This is the best we can do. You are the only subject we have encountered so far. We can only replicate your DNA.”

DNA? Replicate? I did the puzzled-and-its-synonyms act all over again.

“Yes, your DNA.You see, we don’t have a shape of our own. We utilize the basic building block of any sentient being and construct a parallel model based on that building block - which in your case we analyzed and found it to be De-Oxy Ribo-nucleic Acid or DNA. In fact, we are forced to admit, we are a little surprised and confused.”

I (the real me) realized that keeping my mouth shut was actually working.

So I continued to do that.

“Actually, we did not anticipate to create an identical model. We just assumed that there would be mutations automatically. But, it seems that your building blocks are coded quite specifically. Hence we can retain our mental abilities, but we must conform to whatever physical aspects YOUR building blocks dictate.”

Things were getting clearer. I knew I had to take a stand and I had to do it fast.

“Alright, genetics class over. Could you please go back to being humanoids or whatever it was that you were? I am not exactly comfortable with the status-quo, you know?”

I could see puzzlement on my face - I mean - my clone’s face.

(Yeah, what else do I call that thing??)

“But, I thought you wanted to see what we looked like!”

“Hey, humanoid - or whatever it is that you are - we know one thing for sure. You don’t look like me. You CAN’T look like me. Period. I am me, and I am unique.”

“Interesting. You have an ego!”

“Yeah, I also have a fist. And I also have this sudden itch to punch myself squarely in the face and see myself while I do that. And something tells me you will be an unwilling participant…”

“We detect violence and anger.”

“Yeah. And you’ll detect lots of blood too, if you don’t stop the nonsense. Especially the usage of the first person plural! I mean, I know you are from another planet and all, but I don’t see more than one of you. So, use I, not we!!”

I saw a sly smile on my face.

(To Be Concluded)

*****
Yeah, time to finish it off. Am pretty much sure of what the end should be, but I’m waiting to see if I can think of something better.

And I did want to post this earlier, but chose not to do so. (Sorry Navneet…)

Mumbai 26/11 shook me. Quite badly, I must add…

Peace y’all…

PS: The Pune microsite of Radio Mirchi has launched. I write a li’l more regularly (thanks to a corporate dictat) on that blog of mine. But it’s also a lot more pretentious, truth be told.

Beware! You have been warned!

Check it out: http://www.radiomirchi.com

The Story So Far:
I am returning home from work and encounter disembodied humanoid voices. When I ask them (boldly) to appear in front of me, they do. And I scream.

*****

It was me.

No, no. I mean I was standing here and then I was standing there. And I hadn’t even moved. Which meant there were two of me. Here was me and then another me.

Puzzled, confounded, confused, and all the synonyms lent themselves to immediate reference. But none found their way to provide the adequate and corresponding exercise to the tongue. And that was indeed novel for me.

And then I spoke.

Actually the other me spoke.

“Please don’t freak out. This is the best we can do. You are the only subject we have encountered so far. We can only replicate your DNA.”

DNA? Replicate? I did the puzzled-and-its-synonyms act all over again.

“Yes, your DNA.You see, we don’t have a shape of our own. We utilize the basic building block of any sentient being and construct a parallel model based on that building block – which in your case we analyzed and found it to be De-Oxy Ribo-nucleic Acid or DNA. In fact, we are forced to admit, we are a little surprised and confused.”

I (the real me) realized that keeping my mouth shut was actually working.

So I continued to do that.

“Actually, we did not anticipate to create an identical model. We just assumed that there would be mutations automatically. But, it seems that your building blocks are coded quite specifically. Hence we can retain our mental abilities, but we must conform to whatever physical aspects YOUR building blocks dictate.”

Things were getting clearer. I knew I had to take a stand and I had to do it fast.

“Alright, genetics class over. Could you please go back to being humanoids or whatever it was that you were? I am not exactly comfortable with the status-quo, you know?”

I could see puzzlement on my face – I mean – my clone’s face.

(Yeah, what else do I call that thing??)

“But, I thought you wanted to see what we looked like!”

“Hey, humanoid – or whatever it is that you are – we know one thing for sure. You don’t look like me. You CAN’T look like me. Period. I am me, and I am unique.”

“Interesting. You have an ego!”

“Yeah, I also have a fist. And I also have this sudden itch to punch myself squarely in the face and see myself while I do that. And something tells me you will be an unwilling participant…”

“We detect violence and anger.”

“Yeah. And you’ll detect lots of blood too, if you don’t stop the nonsense. Especially the usage of the first person plural! I mean, I know you are from another planet and all, but I don’t see more than one of you. So, use I, not we!!”

I saw a sly smile on my face.

(To Be Concluded)

*****
Yeah, time to finish it off. Am pretty much sure of what the end should be, but I’m waiting to see if I can think of something better.

And I did want to post this earlier, but chose not to do so. (Sorry Navneet…)

Mumbai 26/11 shook me. Quite badly, I must add…

Peace y’all…

PS: The Pune microsite of Radio Mirchi has launched. I write a li’l more regularly (thanks to a corporate dictat) on that blog of mine. But it’s also a lot more pretentious, truth be told.

Beware! You have been warned!

Check it out: http://www.radiomirchi.com

The story so far:
On my way back home, I encounter disembodied voices. Takes me a while to actually figure out they are disembodied. But when I do, I freak out. The story continues…
*****
Very slowly, I started to back out, throwing occasional glances all around, trying to ascertain if the voice-without-a-body was just that, or if it had other surprises in store, hidden away somewhere.

I must have hardly taken a few steps, when I heard the same wheezy, “Excuse me?”

“Yes?” I noticed that my voice came out an octave higher, what was commonly called a squeak.

“We detect fear. Are you a-fear?”

“Afraid. The word is afraid,” my TA instincts took over, “And the answer is yes. I don’t talk to disembodied voices everyday, you know!!”

“No, no! You have gotten us all wrong. We are not dis-whatever-ied. We are humanoid voices!”

“Humanoid?”

This seemed somewhat familiar - thanks to all the sci-fi novels I’d devoured. And familiar territory always helps calm jangled nerves. I silently thanked all the Asimovs and Clarkes for being there.

“Yes. We possess shape-shifting capabilities. We look and sound very human. You will never recognise the difference.”

“Well, in that case, how about giving me a demonstration?”

“Demonstration? How is that?”

“No, you don’t have to appeal for a wicket. Just come out of the shadows and say a simple ‘Hi’ or whatever it is that you Humanoids say by way of civilized greeting.”

“Greeting?”

“Yeah, greeting! You know the random things you say when you meet someone for the first time??”

“Oh those! But we did greet you the first time, in the exact Earth custom of the humans, didn’t we?”

“You did??”

“Yes we did! We said ‘Excuse me!’ like all the other Earthlings!”

Earthlings? EARTHLINGS?? That meant…

“Listen! What do you mean by Earthlings? What planet are you from? And why don’t you show yourself, whoever or whatever you are??”

The entire exercise was getting a little frustrating. Also, the realization had dawned upon me, that the direction the entire exercise was taking, any attempts at channel-surfing the telly and that cup of hot coffee would have to wait another day. And that exactly, was what was frustrating about the entire exercise.

“Well, we can’t tell you where we are from. But we can show ourselves, provided you promise NOT to - how do you say it - free-caught?”

“FREAK OUT, you mean.” TA instincts again. “Yeah, I promise.”

Before we continue to the exciting part that follows, I must mention that this silly habit of mine, of going ahead and promising has landed me in trouble many a time. And I am not referring only to the more aesthetic samples of the female species. I mean the whole concept of saying the stupid phrase, in general.

Just as I did in the paragraph earlier to the explanation.

I wasn’t really ready for what I saw.

In my defense, I’d say, no one could have anticipated what I saw, let alone prepared for it.. And though I had been amply fore-warned, the scream that left my throat could easily have earned me one of the top 3 spots on the list of THE Ten Scariest Blood-Curdling Screams of All Time.
*****
To Be Concluded.
—–
No. Honest. I have had enough of not finishing stories. So I am gonna CONCLUDE this one with the next post.

Missed ya, all!

“Yes?” I noticed that my voice came out an octave higher, what was commonly called a squeak.

“We detect fear. Are you a-fear?”

“Afraid. The word is afraid,” my TA instincts took over, “And the answer is yes. I don’t talk to disembodied voices everyday, you know!!”

“No, no! You have gotten us all wrong. We are not dis-whatever-ied. We are humanoid voices!”

“Humanoid?”

This seemed somewhat familiar – thanks to all the sci-fi novels I’d devoured. And familiar territory always helps calm jangled nerves. I silently thanked all the Asimovs and Clarkes for being there.

“Yes. We possess shape-shifting capabilities. We look and sound very human. You will never recognise the difference.”

“Well, in that case, how about giving me a demonstration?”

“Demonstration? How is that?”

“No, you don’t have to appeal for a wicket. Just come out of the shadows and say a simple ‘Hi’ or whatever it is that you Humanoids say by way of civilized greeting.”

“Greeting?”

“Yeah, greeting! You know the random things you say when you meet someone for the first time??”

“Oh those! But we did greet you the first time, in the exact Earth custom of the humans, didn’t we?”

“You did??”

“Yes we did! We said ‘Excuse me!’ like all the other Earthlings!”

Earthlings? EARTHLINGS?? That meant…

“Listen! What do you mean by Earthlings? What planet are you from? And why don’t you show yourself, whoever or whatever you are??”

The entire exercise was getting a little frustrating. Also, the realization had dawned upon me, that the direction the entire exercise was taking, any attempts at channel-surfing the telly and that cup of hot coffee would have to wait another day. And that exactly, was what was frustrating about the entire exercise.

“Well, we can’t tell you where we are from. But we can show ourselves, provided you promise NOT to – how do you say it – free-caught?”

“FREAK OUT, you mean.” TA instincts again. “Yeah, I promise.”

Before we continue to the exciting part that follows, I must mention that this silly habit of mine, of going ahead and promising has landed me in trouble many a time. And I am not referring only to the more aesthetic samples of the female species. I mean the whole concept of saying the stupid phrase, in general.

Just as I did in the paragraph earlier to the explanation.

I wasn’t really ready for what I saw.

In my defense, I’d say, no one could have anticipated what I saw, let alone prepared for it.. And though I had been amply fore-warned, the scream that left my throat could easily have earned me one of the top 3 spots on the list of THE Ten Scariest Blood-Curdling Screams of All Time.
*****
To Be Concluded.
—–
No. Honest. I have had enough of not finishing stories. So I am gonna CONCLUDE this one with the next post.

Missed ya, all!

Did I tell you about the time when I saved the world?

No, really. I did.

It happened like this.

I was on my way home after a long day’s work. And I was really looking forward to some R & R, mindless channel surfing on the telly coupled with a hot cup of coffee and jelly-filled cream biscuits…

Along the way I was cogitating - thinking, that is - about the problem I had left half-solved on my lab desk.

The solution to it was just around the proverbial corner. Except, the proverbial corner was not in proverbial sight, far as the proverbial eye could see.

Too many proverbial what-have-yous spoiling the proverbial whats-it-called.

Engrossed in my thoughts thus, I was traversing my daily route, almost robotically, when I heard a wheezy, “Excuse me?”

I stopped to see who it was that the voice addressed.

Oddly, there was no one around. That meant only one thing - I was the one being addressed. And if I was the only person in that place, then the voice that was addressing me must be devoid of a body to go with it.

Certain paranormal and supernatural entities immediately lent themselves to reason. However, the brain decided to do a little more of the Sherlock exercise before jumping to finalities.

The part of the city I had reached in my perambulations was what one would call partially deserted. Partially, because it was architecturally bestowed, but the architectural efforts had never seem a human complement.

As I stood there pondering about my next move, I heard the same wheezy voice, and the same words, “Excuse me?”

Thoroughly confused, I said the first words that came to my mind, “Yes? How may I help you?”

That is what a Teaching Assistant’s job does to you.

“Erm, thank you for your kind assistance. You see, we are slightly lost…”

A weird thought crossed my mind. Talking to voices was exactly like teaching in a classroom full of sleeping students. They are there, but not THERE.

“Oh, ok! Go straight down the road, take the second left and the first right at the traffic signal, you’ll reach the Train station. Hard to miss.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you, but that’s where we just came from.”

“Ooops sorry, kinda jumped the gun!” I said grinning away to no one in particular.

No one in particular.

No one in…

No one.

That’s when the thought actually hit me in its entirety.

“Hey, wait a minute! Who am I talking to?”

Silence.

“Hello? Are you there?”

Silence.

I could have sworn a voice just spoke to me and said that they were slightly lost.

THEY??!!

Beads of sweat were beginning to form on my forehead, as the gravity of the situation came crashing down on me.

Very slowly, I started to back out, throwing occasional glances all around, trying to ascertain if the voice-without-a-body was just that, or if it had other surprises in store, hidden away somewhere.

I must have hardly taken a few steps, when I heard the same wheezy, “Excuse me?”

To be continued…

*****

I know you hate those three words by now. But I LOVE them…

*Evil Grin*

Did I tell you about the time when I saved the world?

No, really. I did.

It happened like this.

I was on my way home after a long day’s work. And I was really looking forward to some R & R, mindless channel surfing on the telly coupled with a hot cup of coffee and jelly-filled cream biscuits…

Along the way I was cogitating – thinking, that is – about the problem I had left half-solved on my lab desk.

The solution to it was just around the proverbial corner. Except, the proverbial corner was not in proverbial sight, far as the proverbial eye could see.

Too many proverbial what-have-yous spoiling the proverbial whats-it-called.

Engrossed in my thoughts thus, I was traversing my daily route, almost robotically, when I heard a wheezy, “Excuse me?”

I stopped to see who it was that the voice addressed.

Oddly, there was no one around. That meant only one thing – I was the one being addressed. And if I was the only person in that place, then the voice that was addressing me must be devoid of a body to go with it.

Certain paranormal and supernatural entities immediately lent themselves to reason. However, the brain decided to do a little more of the Sherlock exercise before jumping to finalities.

The part of the city I had reached in my perambulations was what one would call partially deserted. Partially, because it was architecturally bestowed, but the architectural efforts had never seem a human complement.

As I stood there pondering about my next move, I heard the same wheezy voice, and the same words, “Excuse me?”

Thoroughly confused, I said the first words that came to my mind, “Yes? How may I help you?”

That is what a Teaching Assistant’s job does to you.

“Erm, thank you for your kind assistance. You see, we are slightly lost…”

A weird thought crossed my mind. Talking to voices was exactly like teaching in a classroom full of sleeping students. They are there, but not THERE.

“Oh, ok! Go straight down the road, take the second left and the first right at the traffic signal, you’ll reach the Train station. Hard to miss.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind of you, but that’s where we just came from.”

“Ooops sorry, kinda jumped the gun!” I said grinning away to no one in particular.

No one in particular.

No one in…

No one.

That’s when the thought actually hit me in its entirety.

“Hey, wait a minute! Who am I talking to?”

Silence.

“Hello? Are you there?”

Silence.

I could have sworn a voice just spoke to me and said that they were slightly lost.

THEY??!!

Beads of sweat were beginning to form on my forehead, as the gravity of the situation came crashing down on me.

Very slowly, I started to back out, throwing occasional glances all around, trying to ascertain if the voice-without-a-body was just that, or if it had other surprises in store, hidden away somewhere.

I must have hardly taken a few steps, when I heard the same wheezy, “Excuse me?”

To be continued…

*****

I know you hate those three words by now. But I LOVE them…

*Evil Grin*

Back after a long hiatus. Hi.

Too many things to say. Too lazy to say them all.

The most memorable birthday of my life and no pictures, whatsoever. Imagine that…

Disturbing images and worrisome thoughts.

We know what films are releasing this weekend, but we don’t know the headlines of yesterday’s newspaper.

Hungry for news, and thirsty for information. No retention, please, we’re Indian.

Babies born. Babies dead. Babies born again.

One murder per page sells so many copies. How many murders before you can sell them all?

Everybody knows what’s wrong with the world. Nobody knows what’s wrong with everybody.

They all get their 15 minutes of fame - Standing, sitting, lying down… How far does one go?

Push it to the limit. And then pull it back just a little. Call it breathing space.

The young ones learn to fly. They fall down and die. We light candles.

Assumption. Accusation. Action. Acquittal. The new cycle of life?

Music is a recourse, not a discourse.

Roads. Rages. Road-rages.

Itching for a brawl. Macho-ism? Masochism?

Curiosity. Voyeurism. Call it what you want. What’s the difference, anyway?

Yearning for Green. Searching for Peace.

Searching for Green. Yearning for Peace.

Friends. Online. Offline. Invisible. Network. Community. Scrap. Thread. Notify. Wall.

Too many things to say. Too lazy to say them all…

Or am I?

Back after a long hiatus. Hi.

Too many things to say. Too lazy to say them all.

The most memorable birthday of my life and no pictures, whatsoever. Imagine that…

Disturbing images and worrisome thoughts.

We know what films are releasing this weekend, but we don’t know the headlines of yesterday’s newspaper.

Hungry for news, and thirsty for information. No retention, please, we’re Indian.

Babies born. Babies dead. Babies born again.

One murder per page sells so many copies. How many murders before you can sell them all?

Everybody knows what’s wrong with the world. Nobody knows what’s wrong with everybody.

They all get their 15 minutes of fame – Standing, sitting, lying down… How far does one go?

Push it to the limit. And then pull it back just a little. Call it breathing space.

The young ones learn to fly. They fall down and die. We light candles.

Assumption. Accusation. Action. Acquittal. The new cycle of life?

Music is a recourse, not a discourse.

Roads. Rages. Road-rages.

Itching for a brawl. Macho-ism? Masochism?

Curiosity. Voyeurism. Call it what you want. What’s the difference, anyway?

Yearning for Green. Searching for Peace.

Searching for Green. Yearning for Peace.

Friends. Online. Offline. Invisible. Network. Community. Scrap. Thread. Notify. Wall.

Too many things to say. Too lazy to say them all…

Or am I?

I have been kinda busy.

Hmm. Not quite the way to start. But does keep the reader guessing. Sure, let’s keep it. No wait, let’s modify that a little.

I have been terribly busy.

Yeah, give yourself that importance. You self-centered pompous freak!

I have been tied up with certain things that take most of my time.

Right. And the whole world is out fishing. C’mon!! The truth can’t be so bad.

I have been quite lazy these last few weeks. So lazy, I have found it difficult to do the one thing I love the most – write.

A tad too much, eh? What the heck. Let’s just give it to them plain and simple.

Being an RJ is like… like…

Now, where is a good simile when you want one??

…like practicing for a big game? Nah, too sporty!
…like shopping for matching shoes? Nope! Too shoppy!
…like trying to eat a vadapav and a burger? Nay, too sloppy…
…like eating and burping at the same time? Ewww, disgusting!!
…like wearing a Tie on a T-Shirt?? Huh?? WHAT??
…like playing Base-ket-ball

Yeah, that kinda fits.

Being an RJ is like playing Base-ket-ball. Too many rules, too few players, and no idea of who’s doing what. But somehow, at the end of a play, you gotta earn points. Brownie points. And I don’t even like Brownies.

Yeah, that’s a good start. Fits like a glove.

An RJ, depending on whether s/he’s on contract or payroll, puts in around 4-9 hours of work each day.

Scratch that. Sounds like an article for Radio & Music.

I start my day pretty late…

Scratch that, too.

I work hard for my show, and harder after it ends.

Better.

I work hard for my show. And even harder after it ends. Every moment I spend on air has to be crafted to perfection and embellished with the right amount of garnish and adequate spice, and yet, not leave a bad taste in the mouth.

Hey, this one beats the Base-ket-ball simile hands down.

And that leaves me little or no time to spend for myself.

Yeah, straight on!! No chance to block the jab. Just knock ‘em out!

Worse, it has now taken me more than a month to upload this post.

That’s right!! Make them feel sorry for you. Let them have pity on you. Not sympathy, P-I-T-Y, pity. Sympathy is for dogs and cats.

Makes you wonder, is it all worth?

Good! Sow the seed of doubt. Let them feel guilty for having pestered you.

Well yeah! RJ-ing is fun. You get to be a celebrity without having to worry about NOT having a private life. You see, nobody knows you. You are just another person, lost in the sea of humanity. Just another face.

Cute. A sneak peek into the life of a pseudo-celebrity. Pummel on!!

And when people do recognize you, it’s a different high altogether!

Okay, that’s enough. Stop gloating.

But, you do have to adhere to strict timings. You have to live by the minutes and the seconds. Those who have spent an entire life-time watching train time-tables like a hawk (read: Residents of a metropolitan suburbia) would understand this perspective.

The only difference – as I see it – there are no trains on the RJ-ing track. Only stations – Radio Stations.

Guess what, good similes do appear when you get into the groove!!

The schedules on these stations – Radio Stations – are tighter than the trains of Suburbia. There are no delays. Every thing has to – and does – run on time.

Beware of overkill.

So, adhering to such time-tables gets kinda hectic and tiresome, even if you have to do it religiously for only a short span – say, four hours a day.

Slip it in. Quietly. They will never know when this hits them.

Imagine having to watch a clock and a pressure gauge simultaneously, answer calls, make witty speeches, interact, watch out for treacherous software, pesky interruptions, listen to rants, pacify superiors, and yet keep a smile on your face.

That’s right. Rub it in.

Sounds like a regular day at the office, eh? Yeah, it does…

WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!! That is suicide!!

Now try doing all of the above when 20 lakh people are watching every move you make. Or rather, listening to every breath you take.

Brilliant!! I eat my words!!

Yeah, that’s what I do for a living. Fun, no?

Short, crisp and concise. Killer finish!! You will have them eating out of your hands!! You ARE a ROCKSTAR!!! Long live the King!!

*****

Yup! I have finally lost it.

Hmm. Not quite the way to start. But does keep the reader guessing. Sure, let’s keep it. No wait, let’s modify that a little.

I have been terribly busy.

Yeah, give yourself that importance. You self-centered pompous freak!

I have been tied up with certain things that take most of my time.

Right. And the whole world is out fishing. C’mon!! The truth can’t be so bad.

I have been quite lazy these last few weeks. So lazy, I have found it difficult to do the one thing I love the most – write.

A tad too much, eh? What the heck. Let’s just give it to them plain and simple.

Being an RJ is like… like…

Now, where is a good simile when you want one??

…like practicing for a big game? Nah, too sporty!
…like shopping for matching shoes? Nope! Too shoppy!
…like trying to eat a vadapav and a burger? Nay, too sloppy…
…like eating and burping at the same time? Ewww, disgusting!!
…like wearing a Tie on a T-Shirt?? Huh?? WHAT??
…like playing Base-ket-ball

Yeah, that kinda fits.

Being an RJ is like playing Base-ket-ball. Too many rules, too few players, and no idea of who’s doing what. But somehow, at the end of a play, you gotta earn points. Brownie points. And I don’t even like Brownies.

Yeah, that’s a good start. Fits like a glove.

An RJ, depending on whether s/he’s on contract or payroll, puts in around 4-9 hours of work each day.

Scratch that. Sounds like an article for Radio & Music.

I start my day pretty late…

Scratch that, too.

I work hard for my show, and harder after it ends.

Better.

I work hard for my show. And even harder after it ends. Every moment I spend on air has to be crafted to perfection and embellished with the right amount of garnish and adequate spice, and yet, not leave a bad taste in the mouth.

Hey, this one beats the Base-ket-ball simile hands down.

And that leaves me little or no time to spend for myself.

Yeah, straight on!! No chance to block the jab. Just knock ‘em out!

Worse, it has now taken me more than a month to upload this post.

That’s right!! Make them feel sorry for you. Let them have pity on you. Not sympathy, P-I-T-Y, pity. Sympathy is for dogs and cats.

Makes you wonder, is it all worth?

Good! Sow the seed of doubt. Let them feel guilty for having pestered you.

Well yeah! RJ-ing is fun. You get to be a celebrity without having to worry about NOT having a private life. You see, nobody knows you. You are just another person, lost in the sea of humanity. Just another face.

Cute. A sneak peek into the life of a pseudo-celebrity. Pummel on!!

And when people do recognize you, it’s a different high altogether!

Okay, that’s enough. Stop gloating.

But, you do have to adhere to strict timings. You have to live by the minutes and the seconds. Those who have spent an entire life-time watching train time-tables like a hawk (read: Residents of a metropolitan suburbia) would understand this perspective.

The only difference – as I see it – there are no trains on the RJ-ing track. Only stations – Radio Stations.

Guess what, good similes do appear when you get into the groove!!

The schedules on these stations – Radio Stations – are tighter than the trains of Suburbia. There are no delays. Every thing has to – and does – run on time.

Beware of overkill.

So, adhering to such time-tables gets kinda hectic and tiresome, even if you have to do it religiously for only a short span – say, four hours a day.

Slip it in. Quietly. They will never know when this hits them.

Imagine having to watch a clock and a pressure gauge simultaneously, answer calls, make witty speeches, interact, watch out for treacherous software, pesky interruptions, listen to rants, pacify superiors, and yet keep a smile on your face.

That’s right. Rub it in.

Sounds like a regular day at the office, eh? Yeah, it does…

WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!! That is suicide!!

Now try doing all of the above when 20 lakh people are watching every move you make. Or rather, listening to every breath you take.

Brilliant!! I eat my words!!

Yeah, that’s what I do for a living. Fun, no?

Short, crisp and concise. Killer finish!! You will have them eating out of your hands!! You ARE a ROCKSTAR!!! Long live the King!!

*****

Yup! I have finally lost it.

Just when you think all the doors are closed.

Just when you think life has unloaded its supply of lemons on you.

Just when you think it couldn’t get worse.

Just when you think fate has dealt you all the wrong cards.

Just when you think there is no hope for the world.

Just when you think life has been impartially unfair to you.

Just when nothing more could go wrong.

Just when you are beginning to lose faith in everything – you, your fate, your destiny, your family, your friends, the people around you, the world – there comes a moment.

A jiffy of existence that manages to turn everything upside down.

Lose hope. Gain hope. Despair. Repair. Suspicion. Trust. Believe. Criticize. Ridicule. Support. Agree. Disagree. Confusion. Clarity. Perspective. The bigger picture. Understanding. Misunderstanding. Error. Correction. Sinister. Simple. Diabolical. Divine. Ring out the old. Ring in the new.

A year ends. A year beckons.

People live. People die. People are reborn. Or are they?

Perspectives change. We lose the old one, gain a new one. Change the perspective to suit you, or change yourself to suit the perspective. Or get a totally new one.

When one loses hope, someone else gains it. Does hope also follow a law of conservation? What was it that someone said, “Hope is eternal,” right?

Do we have free will? If we have free-will, is there destiny?

Does fate deal a raw hand to everyone, now and then? Are people entitled to large or smaller shares? Is it based on a system of points decided by karma? Or is it random? What is random? How can we be sure the Universe is not plotting the course of events?

Perfectly normal paranoia, as Slartibartfast/Zaphod would say.

If paranoia is abnormal, why does everyone have it? If everyone has it, why isn’t it normal? What is normal? Is it conscious or sub-conscious? Does consciousness stem from a series of synaptic impulses? Or does it go beyond that?

I don’t know what exactly I wanted to say. I just wanted to say something.

So I said it.

*******

I hate to end it on this sour note. So I’ll just copy-paste this line from the movie Crash (2004)

“It’s the sense of touch.”

“What?”

“Any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people. People bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other just so we can feel something.”

Just when you think all the doors are closed.

Just when you think life has unloaded its supply of lemons on you.

Just when you think it couldn’t get worse.

Just when you think fate has dealt you all the wrong cards.

Just when you think there is no hope for the world.

Just when you think life has been impartially unfair to you.

Just when nothing more could go wrong.

Just when you are beginning to lose faith in everything – you, your fate, your destiny, your family, your friends, the people around you, the world – there comes a moment.

A jiffy of existence that manages to turn everything upside down.

Lose hope. Gain hope. Despair. Repair. Suspicion. Trust. Believe. Criticize. Ridicule. Support. Agree. Disagree. Confusion. Clarity. Perspective. The bigger picture. Understanding. Misunderstanding. Error. Correction. Sinister. Simple. Diabolical. Divine. Ring out the old. Ring in the new.

A year ends. A year beckons.

People live. People die. People are reborn. Or are they?

Perspectives change. We lose the old one, gain a new one. Change the perspective to suit you, or change yourself to suit the perspective. Or get a totally new one.

When one loses hope, someone else gains it. Does hope also follow a law of conservation? What was it that someone said, “Hope is eternal,” right?

Do we have free will? If we have free-will, is there destiny?

Does fate deal a raw hand to everyone, now and then? Are people entitled to large or smaller shares? Is it based on a system of points decided by karma? Or is it random? What is random? How can we be sure the Universe is not plotting the course of events?

Perfectly normal paranoia, as Slartibartfast/Zaphod would say.

If paranoia is abnormal, why does everyone have it? If everyone has it, why isn’t it normal? What is normal? Is it conscious or sub-conscious? Does consciousness stem from a series of synaptic impulses? Or does it go beyond that?

I don’t know what exactly I wanted to say. I just wanted to say something.

So I said it.

*******

I hate to end it on this sour note. So I’ll just copy-paste this line from the movie Crash (2004)

“It’s the sense of touch.”

“What?”

“Any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people. People bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We’re always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much that we crash into each other just so we can feel something.”