The Outsider

The notion of space as identity is not new. Cultural identity, more than anything else, is signified by one’s sense of space and the kind of that space available at one’s location of habitation. However, as the amount of space available is reduced, there are two consequences: we end up sharing space with someone else or partake of someone else’s space, and our association with the space changes to reflect the loss or gain of space.

For instance, having a small room to myself can impart a sense of coziness, and give rise to a definite topology of privacy and freedom. I know where my computer is, where my window is, where my bed is, how I need to position myself to be most comfortable whilst using any of them. Most of all, however, I am familiar with the spatial resources I can use and how.

In this regard, spaces are like words of a language. If a person is feeling a particular emotion but does not know the word that encapsulates the idea of that emotion, then the sentiment’s articulation is impossible. Without articulation, understanding remains incomplete. Similarly, without access to a certain kind of space, the actions encapsulated by the utilization of that space remain non-existent.

Overall, such arguments are applicable directly to physical locations. Visiting a spacious coffee shop evokes a sense of peace and placidity: I can have my coffee in silence, perhaps in accompaniment with light conversation with a friend if he’s present, and I can think with the promise of limited interruptions. Now, assume that one such spacious coffee shop has 20 visitors at a particular point, and then reduce the amount of space available by about half. Suddenly, the sense of placidity is lost, but that’s obvious because space-sharing can only mean the loss of individual freedom.

At the same time, each person becomes more aware of the other’s actions and posture: what he’s doing and what she’s saying matter more because of the probability that we’ll have to partake of the consequences. As the amount of “personal” space that is available is pushed to zero – i.e., if the room is crowded – then the probability of partaking in consequences approaches its degenerate form: the enforcement of participation. Now, I have to do what the guy next to me is doing. If he’s dancing, I dance; if he’s singing, I sing; if he’s drinking, I drink.

As a two-person system, this makes no sense, but in a room full of people, behaviours become immediately transferrable. And if someone remains in a position to subsidize one behaviour more than the rest, then that someone comes into a position to sponsor (and sustain) addiction.

If such an establishment becomes an active part of a certain way of life – and also fosters a sense of community – then it acts like a hub of social networking. The evolution into a hub happens quickly because of the way they operate: unlike advertisements, which are hinged upon the effectiveness of their influence on perceptions, the hubs are in a position to actively modify those perceptions according to some other need. By facilitating behavioural transactions, space-sharing becomes more tolerable because, for one, I’m influenced by the guy next to me and therefore make him more willing to share his space, and for another, I influence him in return and in the process acclimatize myself to his company.

By extension, the more a space gets crowded, the more moral looseness (in a conservative sense) becomes practicable. However, at the same time, the refusal to participate in the activities engendered by such a space leaves one out of the larger loop of things. Extant behavioural patterns become lost to the outsider, leaving him socially awkward and engaging with a significantly different way of life, the significance having arisen out of the persistence of the older/unmodified way of life.

The sons of conspiracy

When I was speaking with Z earlier this evening, she mentioned a conspiracy she claimed to have heard from a friend of hers. What follows is entirely a description of what I've heard of it, and my reflections where stated.

During World War II, with the assurance of Aryan supremacy, Adolf Hitler should have had no trouble recruiting soldiers, given that many of them were those who had lost their jobs and lebensraum ("living space") because of an "economic invasion" by the Jews.

Despite these drives, there was apparently a brothel-that-wasn't-a-brothel somewhere in Germany where supremacist men and women prostituted their bodies for a strange cause: to birth children who would be brought up as Übermensch (from the Nietzschean philosophical concept of a "super-human") to serve the cause of the Third Reich. These children would be conditioned to believe that Hitler's word and beliefs were final and definitive, and to become warrior-mages (a notion borrowed from World of Warcraft).

The curious speculation doesn't end there but goes on to assert that such children were indeed present in the ranks of the army, and that they faced considerable ridicule because none of them knew who their fathers were. In other words, they were conceived in an environment of deliberate invalidity, stripped off their identities soon after birth, and turned into armed proselytizers. They were the walking bits of Nazi Germany.

[caption id="attachment_21607" align="aligncenter" width="512" caption=""We are... legion?""][/caption]

Although this theory was refuted by a historian that Z had spoken to, it doesn't hurt to conjecture the possibilities such a plot presents for historical fiction. The best book I have read in that regard - a book that captured properly the tension, fear and rage in Europe in the 1940s - is The Odessa File by Frederick Forsyth: at its centre is a Nazi-hunting reporter attempting to track down a former SS concentration-camp commander. That's a choice of plot that makes the book simpler to write.

What of the sons of conspiracy? Were they willful participants or lost souls who moved with the current they were inadvertently generating? I - for what my opinion counts - believe that the initiative that created them could not have been organized by the government: Hitler was too principled a eugenicist to resort to prostitution. At the same time, it is not entirely implausible that a misguided fanatical cult could have perpetrated such a scheme.

Someone could write a good story about it... perhaps with a neo-noir narrative that is courageous enough to satirize the war so the comedians living the foolishness of 1941-Germany can be laughed at.

Prospect theory, locating the mind and biggest betrayals: Setting the mood for 2012

Three books are lined up for reading this January, books by Kahneman, Eagleman and Beevor.



Absolute v. relative happiness

'Thinking, Fast and Slow' by Nobel Economics laureate Daniel Kahneman I chose purely because of his work in prospect theory, rather his work in laying the basis of prospect theory. For too long, mathematical models have been constructed to determine the set of optimal choices that a human will make given a set of fixed assets and personal preferences. On the other hand, those made in real life are quite deviant from theory.

According to expected utility theory, one such 'ideal' model, choices are broken down as betting preferences made in the face of uncertain outcomes, or gambles. Next, each choice is depicted as a function of the payout, the probabilities of occurrence of each event, how important the event is to other people (it's "utility"), and the behavioural pattern of the chooser in the face of uncertainty (risk aversion).

According to Kahneman's theory, the process of prospecting is broken down into two stages. In the first editing stage, the outcomes of each experiment are ordered according to a set of guidelines set out speculatively. As part of the same process, the preference of each outcome is gauged according to a reference point and ordered accordingly. To this point, the theory is spot-on, and it is in the following evaluation phase that computation comes in and makes me uneasy.

[caption id="attachment_21151" align="aligncenter" width="259" caption="Daniel Bernoulli, one of the uber-smart Bernoullis, conceived the expected utility theory in 1738."][/caption]

I can recall no computations that I've made, consciously or no, while deciding which laptop to buy or what move to make in a game of chess apart from asking myself "what will hurt more?". Fortunately, prospect theory carefully asserts that losses hurt more than gains feel good, whereas in the expected utility theory, the reference point is scalar and doesn't provide a parameter to judge for how much losses hurt.

Kahneman's book, I feel, is a good place to begin when thinking about how a behavioural economist's conception of a problem affects the characterization of the problem and the subsequent solutions that present themselves. Another reward is the understanding of utility as a reference-based entity: think Sheldon Cooper's example in The Big Bang Theory.

Is freewill real?

Next in line is David Eagleman's 'Incognito: The Secret Lives of the Brain'. Eagleman is a neuroscientist with the Baylor College of Medicine, Texas, and is reputed in the fields of synesthesia, time perception and the emerging field of neurolaw. Neurolaw draws on cognitive psychology, criminology and philosophy to assess the interaction between jurisprudence and neuroscience.

[caption id="attachment_21152" align="aligncenter" width="529" caption="Synesthesia is the phenomenon whereby the stimulation of one cognitive pathway in the brain leads to the automatic stimulation of another pathway. Depicted above is an example of colour-graphemic synesthesia, where the visual input of letters and their shapes provokes the perception of an inherent colour as well."][/caption]

However, I picked his book for just three reasons: he's young, Ed Yong recommended his book, and his experimental methodology when attempting to understand time perception in high-adrenaline situations. They each translate to progressive-mindedness and an easily established non-adherence to old-school techniques and concepts, Ed Yong recommended his book, and a practical approach when it comes to satiating his curiosity.

In keeping with what I was looking for in Kahneman's book, I'm going to read the book keeping in mind my questions about freewill: whether we really have it or if it's just an illusion of choices created by a brain that already has some idea about the outcome (just the way it knew what the choices were going to be because it put them together based on years of experiences).

[caption id="attachment_21153" align="aligncenter" width="520" caption="The HAL 9000 computer, from '2001: A Space Odyssey', holds a special place in the minds of geeks because it was and is one of the most prominent AIs that, seeking to secure a greater interest, subverts mankind. Will a cylon seek to do the same?"][/caption]

The good thing about getting closer to the future and, better yet, the technological singularity is that we're more likely to work in the direction of man-machine unification - or at least I'd like to think so. To clarify, I'm a skeptic of such an idea, but I am hopeful; if anything, we'll always be 10 years away from realizing such a tech-intense marriage.

At the same time, such ambitions keep us working on understanding how we piece together different bits of information to generate an image of reality that we can meaningfully interact with. In fact, in the words of Eagleman himself, "[my long-range goals are] to understand how neural signals processed by different brain regions come together for a temporally unified picture of the world."

The battle that was the beginning of the end

The last book is the one I'm most eager to read: 'Stalingrad: The Fateful Siege 1942-1943' by Antony Beevor is a humanist take on the siege of Stalingrad during World War II that resulted in the loss of 1.9 million lives, making it one of the bloodiest conflicts in human history.

[caption id="attachment_21154" align="aligncenter" width="360" caption="A building in Stalingrad in ruins in the aftermath of the battle that liberated the city"][/caption]

Being a longstanding World War II enthusiast (and hoping it comes across as an academic pursuit more than anything else), Beevor's work is a gem because it brings together the strategies, regions, power shifts, resources, rewards and losses, and the people of Germany, eastern Europe, Finland, Russia, northern China and Japan into one vast but unrelenting study of conflict and fate.

I came across the book when I was sifting through Amazon's recommendations after I'd taken a look at Kennan's biography (written by National Humanities Medal recipient John Lewis Gaddis). There's one thing I always look for in a war chronicle: I want the historian to have presented every fact in the capacity of cause, effect or parallel, and then present his conclusions of their various relationships. I'd like to think the reader of a chronicle is a historian, too, and should be given the opportunity to interpret as he or she so chooses to.

And Beevor has done just that - that is, if the first chapter is anything to go by. The siege of Stalingrad is a decisive turning-point in World War II, and a good understanding of the battles and smaller conflicts it encompassed presents a nigh miniaturized of the entire War itself. The siege and comeback marked the rise of Soviet nationalism, Stalin's invasion of Europe, and Hitler's downfall as a result of his stupidest mistake: the transgression of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, and the subsequent birth of a 'judeo-bolshevik conspiracy'.

[caption id="attachment_21155" align="aligncenter" width="370" caption="Molotov signs the Pact on August 23, 1939, in the presence of Joachim von Ribbentrop and Josef Stalin (standing behind him)."][/caption]

But all that's history, and it makes for good reading. For now, I'm going to let my enthusiasm for the subject and Beevor's industry guide me into the book so that I can gauge the other, in this case less-prioritized, aspects of book-reading on the way. Starting with a 4 on 5, let's see how much Beevor improves or reduces the impact of raw facts.

Flight of the magus

In the beginning, there was a Universe, lush and abundant, a paradise inhabited by the opportunities of boundaries and ragged pathways and winds that blew this way and that without giving pause, a world where a man could understand wakefulness and fatigue both, satisfaction and deprivation both, because it was a world that put his will to the test again and again. With the assistance of a memory that moved forward whilst its head remained turned to the past all the time, men knew where they did fall and where they did sprint under the light of dispassionate stars, and within the strange bounds of disappointment and elation men understood who they were, as if they had looked into mirrors and seen faces, as if they knew what the world knew of them.

A time came when the world began to fade, when the ground was no longer what those who still walked upon it had known it to be, when lay dust was picked up by the raging winds and whipped into the skies above, when ultimately the moon was red and bleeding. Trees began to be stripped off their leaves and rivers flowed far from their courses, gouging valleys and gorges out of the world's floor, and before long, mountains lay prostrate on the ground, flattened into a dismal stretch of boulders and soil that bore no resemblance whatsoever to the ugliness they had boasted of before. Men were beginning to lose direction, walking in search of what they knew was dying and dying in their presence and yet, both knowing and unknowing what lay beyond the horizons once guarded by an old face of nature: they strayed into unknown territories that contained no borders, no sense of progress but the moon and the sun that traversed the skies for ever and on.

The unwillingness to embrace fatigue against the threat of permanent change, the hopelessness that consumed victory each time they looked behind their shoulders to a world they knew had once been, men kept walking. It was akin to toil, nay, it was toil itself, but the memory of the world's knowledge moved them into newer lands. The Universe was closing in around them, bringing them closer and closer to their brothers; they constantly found themselves in each other's company whether they turned north toward the cold or south toward the warmth. And when hope and will began to walk together, to take measure of the treacherous plains stretching before all their eyes, they were one in murdering an identity that had once existed, that had once known walls. Where did the walls go? Who pulled them down? Why did the world have to fade at all?

The answers lay in the hidden memories of their feet, beneath their leathery, distance-worn soles, in the pedestrian muscularity of their shins and knees, which could still recall the thousands upon thousands of miles that had been tread: the world had changed to change man with it, and significantly yet, had changed because it knew the face of man thoroughly and withdrew its restraints and laws, its pervading sense of order, to a womb within itself, so they may gestate their until the day came when man would be lost again, so that the face he had befriended would fade and recall the Universe to its original duty, to a preternatural body that would nature nature. It was a cycle that lasted for days one time and centuries on another, but the cycle moved through space, time and the mind, where everything else took proper shape.

Almost forgotten between these two entities, perpetually depressed under the burden of their strange purposes, lay a span of time incredibly short and hungry, as if a fold that had been fighting a tenuous battle against whatever held it there, be it hope, be it will, or be it a memory of ice. What lay there, so, was a monster, a beast brought to lay dormant until a moment was upon some chosen ones by an expedient force from history, burgeoning with power and, therefore, open intentions toward dissonance, it resounded like echoes from the future, seeping into the present through impudent doubts. Some called it the Oldness, others the First Form, the aging skein of the first mountain that man had clomb, impugned within its soul the first evening they had spent together, man and nature, loss and possession, light and shadow, a memory upon which was founded a necessary darkness that sought to steal faces.

There was no way it could resurface and survive; its place was within the earth whence it had first come, and it had returned, awaiting the return of a friend, so that, once more, they may know the embrace of the earth.

Questions on micropolitical subjectivism & frameworks

First off, bounded rationality: this concept I came across in another form in computational linguistics. In the late 19th century, Benjamin Whorf and Edward Sapir put forth their eponymous hypothesis that “the difference in the significance of languages is the difference in the significance of the perceptions of its speakers.” In '57, Chomsky came up with universal grammar: all languages are accompanied by psychological nativism and a poverty of the stimulus.

These rules struck at the heart of the empiricist position of language acquisition. So, by being born with preset capabilities, are we also beset by preset deficiencies that limit the scope of our successes? Here, we come to bounded rationalism as an immediate consequence of the existence of a universal grammar - and perhaps also to Nietzsche's 'Amor fati'. But this is a purely psychosocial argument.

Secondly, structuralism and rationalist theory: here, mathematics avails a solution I've been fond of in the past—John Nash's game theory. Herbert Simon's three steps to arrive at a decision are identification of alternatives, consequences of alternatives, and evaluation of relevance of consequences. All three are modeled on the necessity of a stable system, the condition that finite variables exist, and the condition that only a finite number of consequences are possible. In that case,

1. Does the macropolitical structure transform into a metastructure when it comes to assessing the symbolism of a micropolitical reality?


2. What does that entail?


3. If it doesn't, then is the new mediator subjectivism?


4. In that case, is the purpose of subjectivist knowledge to reconcile the self-reflexive identity against the backdrop of a macropolitical entity?


5. Or, is subjective knowledge purely a micropolitical issue?

This, I think, leads to Carnap's question: can ontological questions have objective answers? Here, as an engineer, I'm reminded of metaphysical naturalism as well.

Finally, the question I find most pressing is whether or not it is necessary for us to adopt a framework - a structuralist tool - in the context of which we view this world. For example, consider the statement "The sun rises in the east after it has set in the west." This means that an eastern sunrise follows a western sunset, ergo there's east and west and there's a sun. All these answers are within the framework of the statement.

However, a question like "Is there really a sun?" prompts us to question the validity of the framework itself, thereby asking us to step outside and evaluate it. Now, how do we evaluate it?

Questions on micropolitical subjectivism & frameworks

First off, bounded rationality: this concept I came across in another form in computational linguistics. In the late 19th century, Benjamin Whorf and Edward Sapir put forth their eponymous hypothesis that “the difference in the significance of languages is the difference in the significance of the perceptions of its speakers.” In '57, Chomsky came up with universal grammar: all languages are accompanied by psychological nativism and a poverty of the stimulus.

These rules struck at the heart of the empiricist position of language acquisition. So, by being born with preset capabilities, are we also beset by preset deficiencies that limit the scope of our successes? Here, we come to bounded rationalism as an immediate consequence of the existence of a universal grammar - and perhaps also to Nietzsche's 'Amor fati'. But this is a purely psychosocial argument.

Secondly, structuralism and rationalist theory: here, mathematics avails a solution I've been fond of in the past—John Nash's game theory. Herbert Simon's three steps to arrive at a decision are identification of alternatives, consequences of alternatives, and evaluation of relevance of consequences. All three are modeled on the necessity of a stable system, the condition that finite variables exist, and the condition that only a finite number of consequences are possible. In that case,

1. Does the macropolitical structure transform into a metastructure when it comes to assessing the symbolism of a micropolitical reality?


2. What does that entail?


3. If it doesn't, then is the new mediator subjectivism?


4. In that case, is the purpose of subjectivist knowledge to reconcile the self-reflexive identity against the backdrop of a macropolitical entity?


5. Or, is subjective knowledge purely a micropolitical issue?

This, I think, leads to Carnap's question: can ontological questions have objective answers? Here, as an engineer, I'm reminded of metaphysical naturalism as well.

Finally, the question I find most pressing is whether or not it is necessary for us to adopt a framework - a structuralist tool - in the context of which we view this world. For example, consider the statement "The sun rises in the east after it has set in the west." This means that an eastern sunrise follows a western sunset, ergo there's east and west and there's a sun. All these answers are within the framework of the statement.

However, a question like "Is there really a sun?" prompts us to question the validity of the framework itself, thereby asking us to step outside and evaluate it. Now, how do we evaluate it?

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.