The common tragedy

I have never been able to fathom poetry. Not because it's unensnarable—which it annoyingly is—but because it never seems to touch upon that all-encompassing nerve of human endeavour supposedly running through our blood, transcending cultures and time and space. Is there a common trouble that we all share? Is there a common tragedy that is not death that we all quietly await that so many claim is described by poetry?

I, for one, think that that thread of shared memory is lost, forever leaving the feeble grasp of our comprehension. In fact, I believe that there is more to be shared, more to be found that will speak to the mind's innermost voices, in a lonely moment of self-doubting. Away from a larger freedom, a "shared freedom", we now reside in a larger prison, an invisible cell that assumes various shapes and sizes.

Sometimes, it’s in your throat, blocking your words from surfacing. Sometimes, it has your skull in a death-grip, suffocating all thoughts. Sometimes, it holds your feet to the ground and keeps you from flying, or sticks your fingers in your ears and never lets you hear what you might want to hear. Sometimes, it’s a cock in a cunt, a blade against your nerves, a catch on your side, a tapeworm in your intestines, or that cold sensation that kills wet dreams.

Today, now, this moment, the smallest of freedoms, the freedoms that belong to us alone, are what everyone shares, what everyone experiences. It's simply an individuation of an idea, rather a belief, and the truth of that admission—peppered as it is with much doubt—makes us hold on more tightly to it. And as much as we partake of that individuation, like little gluons that emit gluons, we inspire more to pop into existence.

Within the confines of each small freedom, we live in worlds of our own fashioning. Poetry is, to me, the voice of those worlds. It is the resultant voice, counter-resolved into one expression of will and intention and sensation, that cannot, in turn, be broken down into one man or one woman, but only into whole histories that have bred them. Poetry is, to me, no longer a contiguous spectrum of pandered hormones or a conflict-indulged struggle, but an admission of self-doubt.

The site of grey

“And how many have you truly loved?” she asked.

One. I definitely loved one. “None.” The lie was for other reasons, reasons irrelevant to T’s cause. I have become lonelier over the last few weeks, writing as a matter of duty, reading as a matter of choice, and revisiting my engineering courses as a matter of staying occupied. I don’t know what I feel about this ennui apart from the fact that it scares me. And when I’m scared, I retreat further into a microcosm I invent for myself. It is not a fantastic invention as much as it is a bland one. “Windows Vista is not user-friendly. I like it like that.”

On the first day at ACJ, it struck me that I was no longer the writer in/from an engineering college; I was a writer in a place filled with writers, and I was intimidated by everyone I met, accomplished as they were. I don’t think I have the time for love now. It’s not that I can’t give, it’s that I don’t know if I can. I could date, I tell T. Dating is the worst thing to eliminate loneliness, she replies, and I understand why. It consumes time, it isolates me even further.

What do I do? There is a contradicting loneliness I feel during most hours that goes against my reluctance to date anyone. Could I court anyone and feel good about it? A bland option.

I need an identity, D says. I agree. When things with R ended, I felt I had no identity outside of that relationship. I still love R, but it’s something I’m getting over inch after painful inch. The only thing about me that is still “me” is my writing. Do I need to change the way I write? Perhaps. My writing can be overtly intellectual at times, which is fine because I write to concern other intellectuals (although I myself am not one).

I’ve always felt and known that good writing must excite the senses… that it must make the reader feel what I’m feeling, see what I’m seeing, taste what I’m tasting. There should be more than a sense of wonderment, there should be a sense of awe. Good writing mustn’t exclude the reader; on the contrary, it must reach out and envelope the reader in its arms. There is a reader in the intellectual as well, but one whom I cannot see.

“Intellectuals love Dostoevsky” – I know T does – “because his understanding of the human psyche is unparalleled, and that makes him brilliant.” My understanding of the human psyche isn’t. All I know about it is that it’s twisted, dank and corrupt, and I think that’s beautiful. I believe that people should stop denying that beauty, stop trying to cloak it. That is why I can’t write about hope or joy. I’m not afraid of them, just that I find them to be sporadic interjections into the human condition that will soon leave its facade.

There is no darkness without light. Agreed, but the site of my beauty lies elsewhere. The vibrancy seen by D in colours is the vibrancy I see occupying every shade between black and white, occupying black and white themselves. I don’t limit myself from feeling them. Instead of seeing red, I see a grey that is #7299152. Instead of seeing blue, I see a grey that is #4A525A. However, D is right: I see only grey. I neither see the red nor the blue. But do D and T see my greys?

The site of grey

“And how many have you truly loved?” she asked.

One. I definitely loved one. “None.” The lie was for other reasons, reasons irrelevant to T’s cause. I have become lonelier over the last few weeks, writing as a matter of duty, reading as a matter of choice, and revisiting my engineering courses as a matter of staying occupied. I don’t know what I feel about this ennui apart from the fact that it scares me. And when I’m scared, I retreat further into a microcosm I invent for myself. It is not a fantastic invention as much as it is a bland one. “Windows Vista is not user-friendly. I like it like that.”

On the first day at ACJ, it struck me that I was no longer the writer in/from an engineering college; I was a writer in a place filled with writers, and I was intimidated by everyone I met, accomplished as they were. I don’t think I have the time for love now. It’s not that I can’t give, it’s that I don’t know if I can. I could date, I tell T. Dating is the worst thing to eliminate loneliness, she replies, and I understand why. It consumes time, it isolates me even further.

What do I do? There is a contradicting loneliness I feel during most hours that goes against my reluctance to date anyone. Could I court anyone and feel good about it? A bland option.

I need an identity, D says. I agree. When things with R ended, I felt I had no identity outside of that relationship. I still love R, but it’s something I’m getting over inch after painful inch. The only thing about me that is still “me” is my writing. Do I need to change the way I write? Perhaps. My writing can be overtly intellectual at times, which is fine because I write to concern other intellectuals (although I myself am not one).

I’ve always felt and known that good writing must excite the senses… that it must make the reader feel what I’m feeling, see what I’m seeing, taste what I’m tasting. There should be more than a sense of wonderment, there should be a sense of awe. Good writing mustn’t exclude the reader; on the contrary, it must reach out and envelope the reader in its arms. There is a reader in the intellectual as well, but one whom I cannot see.

“Intellectuals love Dostoevsky” – I know T does – “because his understanding of the human psyche is unparalleled, and that makes him brilliant.” My understanding of the human psyche isn’t. All I know about it is that it’s twisted, dank and corrupt, and I think that’s beautiful. I believe that people should stop denying that beauty, stop trying to cloak it. That is why I can’t write about hope or joy. I’m not afraid of them, just that I find them to be sporadic interjections into the human condition that will soon leave its facade.

There is no darkness without light. Agreed, but the site of my beauty lies elsewhere. The vibrancy seen by D in colours is the vibrancy I see occupying every shade between black and white, occupying black and white themselves. I don’t limit myself from feeling them. Instead of seeing red, I see a grey that is #7299152. Instead of seeing blue, I see a grey that is #4A525A. However, D is right: I see only grey. I neither see the red nor the blue. But do D and T see my greys?

Losing my religion

"Good morning, sir. I'm XYZ, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm PQR, am from Bangalore and am in the TV stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm ABC. I'm a Catholic priest, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

Why was the bit about being a Catholic priest necessary? What's the need to advertise religion as part of an introduction that didn't until that point include it? To purchase favours in the form of special treatment? To remind the listener of the pseudo-necessity to recognize religion as being pertinent in a classroom? To make the listener aware of one's virtues and goals and how or she must be considerate toward them because it's a matter of faith? Fine, cast aside religion; did the person intend to include the status of his priesthood as a matter of declaring one's profession? I don't think so and here's why: 'Language and style' 101 - "I must disclose at the outset that I'm a Catholic priest." What's "at the outset"? An indication that someone might be interested in what he did? Yes, I was intrigued by the priest in my classroom. Thing is, I wonder why he couldn't be a priest in my class.

Losing my religion

"Good morning, sir. I'm XYZ, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm PQR, am from Bangalore and am in the TV stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm ABC. I'm a Catholic priest, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

Why was the bit about being a Catholic priest necessary? What's the need to advertise religion as part of an introduction that didn't until that point include it? To purchase favours in the form of special treatment? To remind the listener of the pseudo-necessity to recognize religion as being pertinent in a classroom? To make the listener aware of one's virtues and goals and how or she must be considerate toward them because it's a matter of faith? Fine, cast aside religion; did the person intend to include the status of his priesthood as a matter of declaring one's profession? I don't think so and here's why: 'Language and style' 101 - "I must disclose at the outset that I'm a Catholic priest." What's "at the outset"? An indication that someone might be interested in what he did? Yes, I was intrigued by the priest in my classroom. Thing is, I wonder why he couldn't be a priest in my class.

Reflections on mad intellectualism

The following are half-formed reflections on a lecture on the history of the Indian media delivered by V. Krishna Ananth at the Asian College of Journalism on the 24th day of July, 2011.

--

Capitalist endeavourism

Capitalism is each man to himself according to the opportunities available to him, his access to them and the quantity of his investment. While constantly derided as the single biggest opposition to the progress of the marginalized, and the politically and economically deprived, only the endeavourism encouraged by capitalism is capable of batch and mass production – not just of goods but also of ideas, of opportunities and resources. Without such goods, services and commodities, aspirations become meaningless and, for another, a decline in the consumptive power of the people causes a decline in the strength of the economic system ruling the nation.

About a certain “stratum”, it becomes meaningless to discourage capitalist endeavourism and instead prescribe retardation in the accumulation of personal wealth just so the weakest link in the social system is well-fed.

Beyond that same “stratum” lies the prima facie failure of the government to make opportunities equally available and equally accessible to the public. The only instance in which capitalist endeavourism becomes detrimental to any nationalist cause is when the availability of an opportunity to produce a service or commodity is tied in with an (unethical) alteration of persisting social and/or economic contracts, i.e., abuse.

At that juncture, it becomes the sole responsibility of the capitalist endeavourist (henceforth abbreviated as C.E.) to abide by the laws set forth by the government and not transgress into illegal territory. At the same time, when the government has not achieved the complete delocalization of opportunities and yet still attempts to persecute those CEs that have not abided by the law (whilst in pursuit of their individual business goals), then it is unfair of the government to expect any growth if it refuses to share the moral responsibility for such a failure.

Sola fide

In any scenario, would it be fair to say that the law is “stupid”? For example, is it fair to permit clinical depression as a defence during the process of judicial review against an accusation of culpable homicide (amounting to murder)? The law exists to prevent accidents. Period. Beyond that, to contend that the law in question must not ever allow for the admission of an unreasonable argument is unreasonable in itself: such a contention only addresses individual issues of disagreement.

"Anyone who breaks one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

Matthew 5:20

Let’s cast aside “God” for a moment and address a pervasive insistence on righteousness. When ruled by a democratically elected state, apart from those duties laid down constitutionally, how does a judiciary address the subject of duteousness? Is it condemnable that a citizen of the state chooses to flout solely-ethically mandated rules simply because the law of the land dictates no punishments against them? If yes: why?

Just as the law allows for interpretations in cases wherein the statement of the law does not address any mitigating circumstances, the law disallows interpretations that result in an extra-constitutional allotment of powers. Where then does extra-constitutional duteousness arise from? Yes, the individual does constitute the state, and yes, it would seem that any requirements of the state must only and will always be met by the individual, but do there exist needs for the state beyond the directives laid down constitutionally? What does it mean to be “righteous as a matter of duty” in such an environment, controlled and non-anarchic as it is?

Disestablishment and its goals

There isn’t much to be said on this topic beyond a question: what is the goal of disestablishmentarianism? Perhaps a few more lectures focusing on the necessity of neutrality in journalism – provoked as they were by cynicism more than driven as they should have been by cynosure – will lay out for me the importance of being a cynic. However, at no point of time does disestablishment constitute an agreeable proposition under any circumstances.

--

Note: these points of view are mine alone.

Reflections on mad intellectualism

The following are half-formed reflections on a lecture on the history of the Indian media delivered by V. Krishna Ananth at the Asian College of Journalism on the 24th day of July, 2011.

--

Capitalist endeavourism

Capitalism is each man to himself according to the opportunities available to him, his access to them and the quantity of his investment. While constantly derided as the single biggest opposition to the progress of the marginalized, and the politically and economically deprived, only the endeavourism encouraged by capitalism is capable of batch and mass production – not just of goods but also of ideas, of opportunities and resources. Without such goods, services and commodities, aspirations become meaningless and, for another, a decline in the consumptive power of the people causes a decline in the strength of the economic system ruling the nation.

About a certain “stratum”, it becomes meaningless to discourage capitalist endeavourism and instead prescribe retardation in the accumulation of personal wealth just so the weakest link in the social system is well-fed.

Beyond that same “stratum” lies the prima facie failure of the government to make opportunities equally available and equally accessible to the public. The only instance in which capitalist endeavourism becomes detrimental to any nationalist cause is when the availability of an opportunity to produce a service or commodity is tied in with an (unethical) alteration of persisting social and/or economic contracts, i.e., abuse.

At that juncture, it becomes the sole responsibility of the capitalist endeavourist (henceforth abbreviated as C.E.) to abide by the laws set forth by the government and not transgress into illegal territory. At the same time, when the government has not achieved the complete delocalization of opportunities and yet still attempts to persecute those CEs that have not abided by the law (whilst in pursuit of their individual business goals), then it is unfair of the government to expect any growth if it refuses to share the moral responsibility for such a failure.

Sola fide

In any scenario, would it be fair to say that the law is “stupid”? For example, is it fair to permit clinical depression as a defence during the process of judicial review against an accusation of culpable homicide (amounting to murder)? The law exists to prevent accidents. Period. Beyond that, to contend that the law in question must not ever allow for the admission of an unreasonable argument is unreasonable in itself: such a contention only addresses individual issues of disagreement.

"Anyone who breaks one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven."

Matthew 5:20

Let’s cast aside “God” for a moment and address a pervasive insistence on righteousness. When ruled by a democratically elected state, apart from those duties laid down constitutionally, how does a judiciary address the subject of duteousness? Is it condemnable that a citizen of the state chooses to flout solely-ethically mandated rules simply because the law of the land dictates no punishments against them? If yes: why?

Just as the law allows for interpretations in cases wherein the statement of the law does not address any mitigating circumstances, the law disallows interpretations that result in an extra-constitutional allotment of powers. Where then does extra-constitutional duteousness arise from? Yes, the individual does constitute the state, and yes, it would seem that any requirements of the state must only and will always be met by the individual, but do there exist needs for the state beyond the directives laid down constitutionally? What does it mean to be “righteous as a matter of duty” in such an environment, controlled and non-anarchic as it is?

Disestablishment and its goals

There isn’t much to be said on this topic beyond a question: what is the goal of disestablishmentarianism? Perhaps a few more lectures focusing on the necessity of neutrality in journalism – provoked as they were by cynicism more than driven as they should have been by cynosure – will lay out for me the importance of being a cynic. However, at no point of time does disestablishment constitute an agreeable proposition under any circumstances.

--

Note: these points of view are mine alone.

Writers and whores

The Latin word ‘prostituta’ is the etymological root of the word ‘prostitute’; the former is in turn a composition of ‘pro’ (forward) and ‘statuere’ (to cause, to effect). Therefore, the literal translation of the composition would be “to place forward”, “to proffer”.

That being said, I will now assume the liberty to dissociate the word from its meaning in order to elaborate on its other domains of applicability. By virtue of being the world’s oldest profession, the coinage of said label for the practice calls into question the very nature of prostitution owing to the seeming semantic incongruence.

For instance, the offering of sexual services in return for monetary compensation hardly deserves the vague conference of such a term that has acquired any connotations in a non-autotelic manner.

In that case, a simpler recourse could be suggested that the word be replaced with one more, in a manner of speaking, “meaningful”. However, that is not the purpose of this discourse.

Now, consider the nature of these sexual services in whose regard the aforementioned connotations exist.

If not for the indignity associated with trading such commodities, the essential transfer is quite similar to one governed by literature by way of the writing and reading of books.

Let me rephrase, rather paraphrase, the question: what is the difference between two trades, one of which allows for the performance of sexual activities in return for money, while the other allows for the exhibition of literary skills in return for money?

Further, if congruence can be established, within the bounds of reason, between the performance of sexual services and the exhibition of literary skills, would the congruence imply that authorship and prostitution are congruent, too?

First off, it is important to address the purpose of a sexual service, namely gratification.

This gratification may be for the purpose of satiating an opinion that a reward is necessary in order to appease a growing sense of disorientation on a “hard day‘s night”.

In other words, the sexual gratification awarded by a sex worker becomes the reward for some work performed, the representation of which, in this context, is the money paid to avail that gratification.

At other times, sexual services may be procured as an occupation of relief, with the same, rather similar, contractual mechanics.

Similarly, what is the “kind” of gratification received from, say, reading a good book? It must be noted that only if the contractual mechanics are different from those of the procurement of a sexual service will the gratification received from engaging in a sexual activity differ from the gratification received by reading a book. However, such an argument excludes a purely “qualitative” contention, which will be addressed later.

The effects of reading a good book can be summarized by an important aesthetic dimension the act of reading proffers: by the employment of a language that may or may not represent (through references) the material world, literary texts provide an impression that the reader is wrapped in one that touches him or her in the lightest possible ways, making him or her feel a part of the world, of its objects, and of its bodies.

In keeping with the truism that artistic expression is a collateral of man’s search for meaning, it can be concluded that the creation of an artistic product is a form of declaration, one that establishes some (although fixed) meaning in the eyes of the artist, and the subscription of which is established by a person who conforms to that system and character of thought, the conclusion of which is the proof of its semantic validity.

Therefore, the procurement of a book, a journal, or any product whose contents include something of literary value, represents a gratification received by the purchase through the validation of certain doubts expressed by him or her.

In such a case, is not the writer prostituting his or her skills for money?

How is this trade not congruent with that of prostitution?

In furtherance of this discussion, if a defence is put forth that establishes incongruence of the contracts by calling to attention that our bodies are all that we “enter this world” with (akin to the definition of a system in the context of thermodynamic analysis), and that prostitutes (in the modern connotation of the term) debase the dignity of the same institution that is the source of a state’s constitution as well as definition, I would point out that the same body is also the source of our literary skills, and in corroboration of this position, I would nominate the contributions of Noam Chomsky and, more recently, Steven Pinker.

Thus, in conclusion of this discussion: a reasonable parallelism exists between the creation of literature and the performance of sexual services while, surprisingly, there exists an incongruence of perspectives, especially in the jurisprudential domain (if a constructivist approach is given prominence).

Writers and whores

The Latin word ‘prostituta’ is the etymological root of the word ‘prostitute’; the former is in turn a composition of ‘pro’ (forward) and ‘statuere’ (to cause, to effect). Therefore, the literal translation of the composition would be “to place forward”, “to proffer”.

That being said, I will now assume the liberty to dissociate the word from its meaning in order to elaborate on its other domains of applicability. By virtue of being the world’s oldest profession, the coinage of said label for the practice calls into question the very nature of prostitution owing to the seeming semantic incongruence.

For instance, the offering of sexual services in return for monetary compensation hardly deserves the vague conference of such a term that has acquired any connotations in a non-autotelic manner.

In that case, a simpler recourse could be suggested that the word be replaced with one more, in a manner of speaking, “meaningful”. However, that is not the purpose of this discourse.

Now, consider the nature of these sexual services in whose regard the aforementioned connotations exist.

If not for the indignity associated with trading such commodities, the essential transfer is quite similar to one governed by literature by way of the writing and reading of books.

Let me rephrase, rather paraphrase, the question: what is the difference between two trades, one of which allows for the performance of sexual activities in return for money, while the other allows for the exhibition of literary skills in return for money?

Further, if congruence can be established, within the bounds of reason, between the performance of sexual services and the exhibition of literary skills, would the congruence imply that authorship and prostitution are congruent, too?

First off, it is important to address the purpose of a sexual service, namely gratification.

This gratification may be for the purpose of satiating an opinion that a reward is necessary in order to appease a growing sense of disorientation on a “hard day‘s night”.

In other words, the sexual gratification awarded by a sex worker becomes the reward for some work performed, the representation of which, in this context, is the money paid to avail that gratification.

At other times, sexual services may be procured as an occupation of relief, with the same, rather similar, contractual mechanics.

Similarly, what is the “kind” of gratification received from, say, reading a good book? It must be noted that only if the contractual mechanics are different from those of the procurement of a sexual service will the gratification received from engaging in a sexual activity differ from the gratification received by reading a book. However, such an argument excludes a purely “qualitative” contention, which will be addressed later.

The effects of reading a good book can be summarized by an important aesthetic dimension the act of reading proffers: by the employment of a language that may or may not represent (through references) the material world, literary texts provide an impression that the reader is wrapped in one that touches him or her in the lightest possible ways, making him or her feel a part of the world, of its objects, and of its bodies.

In keeping with the truism that artistic expression is a collateral of man’s search for meaning, it can be concluded that the creation of an artistic product is a form of declaration, one that establishes some (although fixed) meaning in the eyes of the artist, and the subscription of which is established by a person who conforms to that system and character of thought, the conclusion of which is the proof of its semantic validity.

Therefore, the procurement of a book, a journal, or any product whose contents include something of literary value, represents a gratification received by the purchase through the validation of certain doubts expressed by him or her.

In such a case, is not the writer prostituting his or her skills for money?

How is this trade not congruent with that of prostitution?

In furtherance of this discussion, if a defence is put forth that establishes incongruence of the contracts by calling to attention that our bodies are all that we “enter this world” with (akin to the definition of a system in the context of thermodynamic analysis), and that prostitutes (in the modern connotation of the term) debase the dignity of the same institution that is the source of a state’s constitution as well as definition, I would point out that the same body is also the source of our literary skills, and in corroboration of this position, I would nominate the contributions of Noam Chomsky and, more recently, Steven Pinker.

Thus, in conclusion of this discussion: a reasonable parallelism exists between the creation of literature and the performance of sexual services while, surprisingly, there exists an incongruence of perspectives, especially in the jurisprudential domain (if a constructivist approach is given prominence).

A political peephole

The one-eyed man is king in the kingdom of the blind. But do the blind men know there is a one-eyed man amongst them? Because if they do, distrust is going to simmer in their ranks and the blind men will make preparations to be united against the visioned. What if the blind men aren't aware of the presence of the one-eyed man? There you have it: a democracy.

A political peephole

The one-eyed man is king in the kingdom of the blind. But do the blind men know there is a one-eyed man amongst them? Because if they do, distrust is going to simmer in their ranks and the blind men will make preparations to be united against the visioned. What if the blind men aren't aware of the presence of the one-eyed man? There you have it: a democracy.

The spontaneously combustible love of her children

If you drove down one of the semi-prominent streets in the city's largest shopping area tonight, you'd come across a restaurant of some fame bedecked with vines of wires with red and yellow bulbs glowing on them. Aquaria is its name, but larger than the board that declares that is one that declares "50th Wedding Anniversary!", and yes, with a real and provocatively slanted exclamation mark.

Of course, three hours still remain for the dinner party to commence but the womenfolk are already busy getting the proportions of mascara and ugliness right on their faces. I must be careful, I tell myself, as I wait patiently before everyone has departed to the venue so I can ready myself in peace and silence. With one hand reaching out for coffee and the other fending off a cousin's head curiously close to my laptop to see what's keeping her brother busy, I spend my evening all the while dully astonished by how the plasticity had slipped everyone's mind... or perhaps their determination in keeping it from conquering the festive mood.

A few weeks ago, my mother and my sister returned from somewhere in South America after my father had finally been transferred to a city in India with the company he worked for. Since I was temporarily lodged with my maternal grandparents before I went off to college, they joined us, and suddenly, we were nine people in a 2 BHK: grandpa, grandma, an uncle, an aunt, their two kids, and me and my mum and my sister. Not a day had passed when summer decided to join us as well.

Barely 10 days before the occasion, my grandma received a phone call from one of her cousins, a cousin who'd been thrown a surprise party by her son for her 40th wedding anniversary. As soon as the call ended, there was an awkward silence in the house. Everyone knew paati was a bit of a tempestuous gossip-monger, and as soon as her sour joy would turn into envy, a rant would follow. And it did, and it did. In fact, on second thought, it wasn't a rant as much as it was a lecture on the duties of children towards their gossiping parents, it was a lecture on how siblings existed only so the traditional rat race could be inherited from one generation to another. Thatha (grandpa), a silent man as ever, only grunted. For the much more important occasion of his turning 80, he'd called us fools to try and celebrate anything.

As afternoon turned to evening, and evening turned to night, the presence of paati's voice faded but her eyes seemed to bore into us the expectations that burned in her soul. My uncle did the smarter thing and decided to meet her halfway: he bought dinner instead of having her cook and, as we expected, she wasn't one to be cowed down this time. Grudgingly enough, my mum and my aunt decided to throw a dinner party in her honour and invite her closest relatives, about 20 of them.

Soon, phone numbers were being looked up, the family tree was being drawn up, the menu was being pieced together, and family politics were being called into question. The cousin who'd started it all, of course, was invited first. As commitment to the initiative mounted day after day, so also did the scale and scope of the investiture: everyday paati called up a distant brother or a sister, the list of invitees was modified; everyday paati expressed discontentment with an arrangement, the restaurant was duly notified; everyday paati seemed intriguingly contented, we trod more carefully around the house.

Soon, all that had happened lost every mark of the grudge we bore against the matriarch for "forcing" us to spend Rs. 20,000 on nothings because the tables had turned enough: the guilt, now, was oozing out of our every action and inaction. We were now all condemnable proselytes of a righteous cause, and this was our chance to erase clean the chargesheet.

Behold! The day was come. It rained cats and dogs outside as I readied myself. My diminutive shadow of an uncle - albeit being a celebrated social worker - waited outside on his bike: may be that the rain was expected to cleanse his lack of affection, in paati's eyes he would now be the knight who rode in the rain.

I joined him a few minutes later and by the time we made it to Aquaria, the umbrella hadn't done anything against the wind-blown rain soaking our pricey garbs. More than 50 people had shown up and the street was lined with cars; the police was there, perhaps suspecting the presence of mafioso; the word had spread enough to have relatives call in to congratulate from exotic places like Vijayawada and Bangalore. Finally, the piece de resistance: paati booming on the mike about what such a happy occasion this was, the spontaneous love of her children and grandchildren embracing her like a warm hug after all these wonderful years.

A story

11.26

Dialing...

"Hello?"

Hey!

"Hey!"

What're you doing?

"I'm outside with-"

Oh, OK! We'll talk later!

"Yeah, sure!"

Bye!

"Bye!"

12.24

Dialing...

"You don't have enough credit-"

12.31

Dialing...

"The person you are calling has not responded. Please try-"

14.10

Picking...

Hello?

"Hey buddy! What's up!"

Hey man... how's it going?

"Awesome! Listen, me and C planning a trek. You wanna come?"

When's it?

"Tonight. We're thinking of catching the 8 o'clock bus and-"

Not tonight, sorry. Have some work.

"Saturday night?"

Dad's coming online, some work to do with the bank, something.

"Oh, OK! Next time then!"

Yeah man, sorry. Call-

"Bye!"

14.33

Dialing...

"The person you are calling has-"

15.04

Signing in...

"L. is online."

Laptop?

L: "Nt yet happened."

Damn. :(

L: "Yeah. I'm fucked."

Sleepover at S.'s place and finish the assignment?

And then tell me about the pillowfight?

L: "Heh. She lives all the way across town!"

Fine. P.?

L: "Uh. No."

K.?

L: "Oh wow."

"Hahhahahahhaha its K.!"

:D

What doing?

L: "Painting."

"Ur sheldon from big bang theory."

I'm Sheldon?!

That guy's stiff, a creature of habit and annoying!

I'm not annoying!

L: "You're stiff. Creature of habit. A know it all. ALL."

Sheldon Cooper is annoying and unforgiving. I am neither!

And he's not interested in sex. He's NOT interested- THAT'S ANTI-ME!

L: "Okay :P"

":P"

"Okay. And that."

The place here's a huge bungalow with no curfew and careless watchman.

L: "Fancy :P"

"Ur outside? Not with family?"

No, any studying requires the hostel experience.

Can't study for nuts from home - even this.

It's going to be crazy!

L: ":)"

"Did you make friends?"

This chick

L: "Really??"

Yeah!

But she's off FB for a while.

L: "Ahaan"

You are no longer signed in to send or receive messages.

15.55

"Hello?"

Sir, I'm calling from the south-

"Yes, sir, we're sorry sir. It's an area-wide cut, sir, there's a fire in the grid."

When will-

"In about 4 hours, sir."

16.16

Opening...

Yes?

"Sir, delivery from Amazon?"

Oh, yes!

"Sign here... and here."

Thanks!

"Thank you, sir!"

18.01

Dialing...

"The person you are-"

19.29

Wireless network... connected.

19.31

Signing in...

"L. is offline"

Hey! You there? Sorry, there was a power cut. I'll catchya soon, have a nice evening!

19.44

Coming.

"Good evening, sir! Delivery from Dumpling Queen!"

Oh yeah, how much is it?

"A round... 60, sir."

Keep the change.

"Thank you, sir! Enjoy your dinner!"

Yeah.

20.34

Dialing...

"Hello?"

Hey!

"Hey!"

What're you doing?

"I'm on my way!"

Oh, when'll you be here?

"In a coupla minutes, max. How's it going there... you OK?"

Yeah... I'm fine. Just missing you.

"I miss you, too."

Couldn't you blow off the late night shift?

"Aww! Look at you!"

I'm serious!

"You know I can't do that! Plus, it's Saturday... you know how busy the streets get!"

Yeah, yeah, OK. Get here faster.

"Yeah, I'm almost there."

OK.

23.15

"It's getting late."

Hmm...

"I'll talk to you tomorrow!"

I hate you.

"Me too! G'night!"

Yeah, whatever.

07.14

Picking...

Hmm... who's this?

"Hey!"

Yeah?

"It's me! You just woke up?!"

Yeah...

"Please tell me you've the script ready!"

Yeah... almost-

"Almost?! What's almost?!"

Gimme an hour.

"Are you sure? Because if you haven't finished it, you should tell me now."

No, no, one hour. You'll have it.

"OK, I trust you. Don't lemme down, man."

Hmm.

07.19

Somewhere in the south of the great City, curled up within layers of poverty, rebellion, filth and convivial skulduggery, in a building dotting the ramshackle landscape of the miserable shores, a young man strode up and down upon an old carpet, one of the few things of value in his otherwise poor excuse of a residence. At this juncture, the reader may not be surprised to discover upon my utterance that he was a writer - he still is - and took away from the denial of luxury the luxury of denial, a self-imposed lesson on the art of inspiration, coveting lovers and dodging them, befriending strangers and salvaging himself from the hubris of his own madness. Right then, as the first droplets of rain struck the glass in the windows, he called a young woman he was attempting now to love, and she spoke: "I'm outside with-" Goodbye, he screamed! Despair! On the philanthropy of despair it seemed he would feed first...

08.03

Picking...

"You done?"

What if I'm not?

"Man! I trusted-"

Relax! I'm done.

"Hmm... what's it called?"

The Art... of Inspiration! You like it?

"I think I do... I do, I do."

Why Quentin Tarantino is wrong

(This article involves a prelude that I insist you read.)

It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,

"You can't write poetry on a computer."

I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).

Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.

Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.

Why Quentin Tarantino is wrong

(This article involves a prelude that I insist you read.)

It's important to understand that technology does not, and will not for a long time to come, replace emotional expression and emotional honesty, and that's where I think the great Quentin Tarantino could be wrong. He once famously stated that,

"You can't write poetry on a computer."

I appreciate his loyalty to the ideals of romanticism but, looking at it axiomatically, he chose to say "computer" and not anything else (although don't ask me what "anything else" could be). What does a computer do to effectively reduce the "poeticness" of a poem? What is it about an electronically supplied numerical input and an electromagnetically generated visual output that is beaten by a leaky fountain pen and paper that crumbles at the lightest touch-or should I say that it is a matter of individual investment and computers limit that when they shouldn't? I don't agree. If anything, typewriters and computers make it easier to compose real poetry: poetry that is completely independent of its medium, poetry that finds it rational to reflect only the literary prowess and emotional content of the individual (objective) and not his/her association with the oldest form of literary communication (subjective).

Poetry, you see, is an abstraction just like beauty and justice are, and if Tarantino thinks he can't find them in a computer or only on a piece of paper, then it's also unfortunately obvious that his films are a product of iconoclastic ideals and the chance of the occasion that I was to be born in 1988, and that doesn't happen often.

Our individual attitude towards technology does not change the way technology itself behaves; it only changes how much we think it can do for us when we take to it-and this applies even to the tech that is constantly being upgraded and modified to satiate different needs. Similarly, poetry that requires a "non-computer" to be realized is not poetry but what we think is poetry: it is subjective interpretation, one that fails in the face of the slightest opposition, and therefore cannot withstand the test of time.

When Kap Fynncraft woke up on Tuesday morning.

When Kap Fynncraft woke up on Tuesday morning, neither he nor anyone else knew that it would be different from any of the previous days. He walked to the bathroom, washed his face, brushed his teeth, had a bath, brewed some coffee, toasted some bread, boiled an egg, breakfasted, dressed up and locked the front door behind him. When he reached the last rung of the ladder he had to climb down, he seemed as if he forgot something, and climbed all the way back up. Wedged in the window grill above the first rung was a folded-up white sheet: the newspaper. He stuck it in his mouth and climbed back down. Adjusting his cap, he stood at the bus stop. It was 07.40.

As always, Chip Ramirez stood to his left, and as always, Ark Eiwen stood to Chip's left. They had nothing in particular to speak about, but a decade-old habit of waiting at the bus stop for 10 minutes in each other's presence made the silence anything but discomfiting. At 07.42 precisely, The Man In The Green Helmet would ride by on his scooter. A minute later, The Two Men With Their Briefcases would open the store on the other side of the street. Just as they reordered everything inside the shop and turned the sign to "Open", a red bus could be seen driving up and down the mounding road on the horizon. At 07.50, Kap, Chip and Ark boarded it.

The bus ride to the factory took precisely four minutes everyday because the amount of traffic between 07.50 and 07.54 was the same on any given day. In fact, the amount of traffic at any point of time was the same on any given day. In fact, nothing else about the city had changed in the last 10 years. As he rode the bus to the factory, he also knew nothing would ever change either because the smoke rising from the smelting factory a few miles in the northeast was always of the same hue, density and emotion. Sometimes, he'd look at it and wonder. Sometimes, he wouldn't look any way at all but the paper. Sometimes, he thought what it would be like to jump out of the bus onto the pavement and shatter his head. The telltale jerk brought him out of his reverie on that Tuesday morning, and a minute later, he alighted.

It was winter. The westward wind was strong and cold, unrelenting against his thin woollen shawl. He drew it tighter around himself, although it had never been of any help. But he'd had nothing else to complain about all year, and something like this was all that he had to keep himself from thinking of different ways to kill himself. He signed elaborately in the register, and as always the clerk looked up at him queerly. Before he went to his seat near the drill, he looked at the calendar. It was March 17, 2144. The celebrations were exactly a week away. Exactly 10 years ago, on March 24, 2134, the country officially declared it had nothing significant left to achieve. The standard of living was appreciable, nobody was poor, no wars seemed possible, diplomatic relations presented no challenges, research output had been steadied, diseases had been eradicated, consumption was regulated, the surplus was sold at fixed rates, the weather was shielded against, and state-sponsored festivals provided distraction from the melancholy.

Kap Fynncraft had been a journalist. When The Threshold was breached, he was reporting a story on a woman giving birth to quadruplets at the capital's government hospital. A few days later, he had been promoted to sub-editorship with the newspaper. A week later, there was nothing to go by except a repeated declaration of the government's accomplishments. A month later, the paper had shut down and he was forced to find work in one of the factories. A year later, in 2135, his wife died when she slipped on the ladder outside his door. He had tried to instigate a revolt in the factory: when they asked him what the problem was, he had said something about wages. The next day, he was arrested by the police. A few days later, he was forced to admit there was nothing he could do about it, and when he did admit it, he was released. When he went back to work,  he found they'd also increased his wages. When he tried to look intimidating, they reminded him of his wife. "This is for you to spend as you wish, Mr. Fynncraft. We've a feeling you loved your wife very much."

At 16.00, he lined up near Gate 2. The queue for the bus was two labourers long, and he joined it as he always did as the third man. At 16.06, the bus started on its six-minute journey. On that Tuesday, it took more than an hour: just as they passed the Presidential Boulevard, they were stopped behind a few other buses, some cars, many cyclists, and what looked like an upside-down truck, its underside charred and smoking. Kap Fynncraft, somehow, had sunk back into a reverie. He would be home late today, dinner would be late, he'd have to eat as he watched the game tonight. He smiled. Maybe he'd annoy that old woman downstairs by walking around at 22.00. Maybe he'd miss the bus in the morning and hitch a ride. Maybe-

Before he knew it, the bus was on its way again. He could no longer see the plumes of smoke on the southwest, the inky blue of the late-evening sky had swallowed it in its entirety. The streetlamps were lighting themselves one by one, as if they knew Kap Fynncraft was coming, as if they knew he'd want to alight and, somehow, not want to break his head on the pavement on a night that involved a postponed dinner and an angry old woman. A moist film of water had condensed on the windows of the bus, and he waited by the door lest he missed his stop. Under the bright white glare of the streetlights, he could see the patterned tiling on the pavement whip by in the oblong shadow of the vehicle. He knew they were somewhere near his house, he remembered the hexagonal patterns from a terrible day when he had reached the bus stop early one morning and had decided to look down.

Black, white, black, white, black, white, black... the lines between the colours trapped his eyes, and he could feel himself moving through the Universe one coloured tile at a time.

House of fools

The carpenter was come, with his bag of tools slung with the utmost nonchalance over his shoulders as an attestation of his experience with his chosen profession, and as with any man the description of whose lodgings involves "asbestos" and "sheet" in the same sentence, even the slightest creaking hinges caught his immediate attention for repair and, consequently, due payment. Fortunately for him, my grandfather was a miser—the fortunes bedecked in the old man's meticulous and acrimonious use of the rubbish that gathers around one's person when one's life has been a scrupulous summa of barely-sufficient incomes and barely-sufficient living spaces.

While the two retreated to a dark corner of the room to harvest further agreement commensurate with maximizing their respective gains, while even as I pondered on the nuisances of new shelves that would pay no consideration whatsoever to my procerity, my grandmother had come silently to the conclusion that any assistance with the proceedings was sure to purchase a moment's concern from her otherwise-reprehensive husband. Appropriately, she now stood inspecting the blueprint of a dismantled chair, contemplating in all probability the size of a screw that would be necessary to join the seat with its legs; it must be said that she still had a long way to go if the way she held the hammer was anything to go by—let it only be said that if she were to hammer a nail, the hammer would be lodged in her wrist.

Torn between preventing the old woman from killing herself and the old man from killing the building, I sat up just as the scream of an iron-tipped drill came industriously to life against decade-old concrete; just as an unfortunate nail was put in place; and braved myself to face this house of fools.

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.

Microcosm of blasphemies

Smoke and Nebula have met once! I've come to believe that all smoke and all nebulae have some depth-any amount of depth that is some-and of Smoke's depth, I'm intrigued. He is rich, he is happily settled, perhaps happily joined, too-however small the chance of that may be-and has the one Cloud from that one meeting. Whenever we converse, he reveals not much; he is quick to crack a joke, he is quick to sprout in laughter, he is quick to philanthropy, and his demeanour only tells me he gives away so that he may receive in return the right to condescension. Agreed, altruism is a false virtue; nevertheless, Smoke is, by the looks of it, plastic: the veritable subject of any inquisition on the foibles of human nature, a true man-not the manly man, but the one who has known damage and, thereafter, recovered to completion, a true man.