Waved On

There I was, feeling thoroughly pleased with myself. Strolling down Jor Bagh Road, listening to Glitch Mob on my newly-gifted pair of Sennheisers, off to learn Français. The next moment I put all of that together and felt, I don’t know, thoroughly bourgeois. Maybe JSB‘s admonitions got to me.

A moment later a guy walking in front of me dropped his pen from his jeans-pocket, which also hung precariously on his waistline. I paused for a second, wondering whether to alert him about his loss or to feel self-righteous about his carelessness. Another man walking beside me did neither. He stooped and picked up the pen from the muddy ground, tapped the guy on his shoulder and handed it back, receiving his thanks and a smile. I envy normal people who act fruitfully instead of deliberating and redeliberating without purpose.

I walked ahead and then focused all my energy into NOT thinking, just enjoying the electronic beats and the surprisingly good weather. I crossed the bus stop in front of Vader’s house, and for the nth time cursed him heartily for being lucky enough to live there. A school bus pulled up beside me, and out of the corner of my eye I noted it was some dashblank secondary school. One of the girls at the back of the bus, sitting at a window seat, suddenly waved in my direction. I was confused, because it has often happened that people  wave in my general direction and when I wave back, I realise they were waving at someone behind me, and I stalk off in embarrassment (these instances include people I know). But of course the Unwritten Book of Etiquette says it’s rude to check behind you before responding to someone’s wave. Catch-22 ‘s are surprisingly easy to find. So I stopped for a second and looked directly at her, in which time she had lowered her hand and had a ghost of a smile on her face. Then I decided to chuck the Book and all its sequels on ‘Ego’ and ‘What They Might Think’. I smiled broadly, waved at her and walked ahead. I did not look back, choosing to assume it was a friendly sign from one human being to another, one of those rare things that adults never do to other random adults, fearing suspicion, prejudice and whatnot, and I’m sad to say quite rightly. It comes only from gleeful school children hanging their heads out of buses, waving at random passers-by, who are sometimes eager to wave back knowing that they will probably never see each other again.

P.S. – Have I mentioned how I would really appreciate it if someone created an Exhaustion-Measuring Device for seating in the Metro? In that case I would not feel resentful of people sitting in front of me, and plus we could also do away with the reservation system which puts non-old, non-woman people like me at the bottom of the list.

Published in: on April 15, 2012 at 6:47 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The Curse

Sounds are heard of battles fought
A baby cries and runs on the road
A potential documentary is being shot
 
A man sits quietly in his abode
A document in front of him lies
His mind seems to bear a great load
 
Heedless of the harbinger baby’s cries
He examines the sheets up close
Hoping to discredit his eyes
 
But the fact stares at his nose
There can be no doubt
Before him lies his own prose
 
As the inferno rages without
He reads again the author’s name
‘Tis not him. ‘Plagiarism!’ he shouts
 
This work shot quickly to fame
Titled ‘Dark Days and Gloomy Looks’
From a blogpost full of deadly refrain
 
Stolen and published by a cunning crook
Who thought he’d fatten his purloined purse
Off an unknown blogger’s gobbledygook 
 
Little did the crook know of the curse
That on all the writer’s posts was dense
(Hatred against copycats he did nurse)
 
The spell of doom was full of bad rational sense
The clauses were complex, but said just one thing
Plagiarised posts would come alive with vengeance!
 
Woe behold the death-bells as they ring
All the prose was vague and spoke doom!
All unoriginal horrors from hell did spring
 
A host of enslaving ghosts haunted every room
Uninspired vampires flaunted stifling fangs
 Politically correct zombies spread the gloom
 
But then the man who was wronged felt pangs
of guilt as one such creature strolled in
And for reading an offensive work our P did hang.  
 
 
Published in: on January 19, 2012 at 7:29 pm  Leave a Comment  
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A Case of Misplaced Suspicion

You know how the UN, the government, hippies, movie stars and feel-good ads keep telling us that we should all trust each other, be nice and friendly and that the world is basically just a big gloop of sugarpie? Well it’s not very convincing. Why? Because the Delhi Metro knows the truth, and blares it out to us every bloody day.

I was coming back from college, on my usual monotonous route from Vishwavidyalaya to Rajiv Chowk, with my good friend Darth Vader (name changed, but not the personality). It was one of those once-in-a-red-sun days, when you find a seat after you’ve steeled yourself to stand firm, or rather hang like a chimpanzee grabbing handlebars with both hands. Now Vader was telling me some of the nice things about the world, including but not limited to some scenes from the movie Cannibal Holocaust. As I sat with my shoulders hunched under the onslaught of socially normative conversation, I only looked up when I caught a very peculiar smell, and realised Kashmere Gate station had passed. We were surrounded by a jostling crowd of people who I think, have a mutual agreement to board the yellow line at some auspicious moments between 3 and 5 PM. But I was used to that, and the peculiar fragrance that fragged my nostrils. What caught my attention, though were two people standing in front of me. They were dressed impeccably in a white kurta-pyjama and taqiyas on their heads. They were carrying travel bags, so I assumed they would get down at New Delhi or Chandni Chowk station. Now when I see orthodox Muslims, I am usually at a loss to find the appropriate reaction. One part of my upbringing urges me to be extra-nice to them, because of all the anti-hate propaganda I’ve been fed. Another part tells me to ignore them, because I’ve been told our problems come from being too appeasing towards certain sections of society. Long story short, it is impossible to act naturally towards them, because we’ve never had drills in school about such things. As I sat there thinking of an appropriate facial expression, the object of my deliberation did something I least expected. He set his bag down and made a motion to enquire whether he could keep it under my seat. A few seconds before my mind caught up with the situation, there was a bag lying innocuously under my seat. And then I heard the announcement, “Please check under your seat before taking your seat in the Delhi Metro. Any unidentified or suspicious articles like Briefcase, Bag, Toy, Thermos or Transistor could be bomb.”

I gave a long side-glance at Vader, who, to my utter lack of surprise was chuckling quietly. He had guessed what was causing my immediate distress. For a guy who spent a lot of his time envisioning post-apocalyptic scenarios and how the world would be better off without humans, it was probably of little concern to him that he might actually be sitting beside a bomb. As for me, the ‘bombee’ (at great risk of sounding like a helpless doe) I was trying desperately to be reasonable. Inner Voice No. 1 said, why would a terrorist dress up like a muslim? It would be too suspicious considering there were cameras everywhere. Unless, interjected Inner Voice 2, he knew that a terrorist wouldn’t normally wear traditional clothes, and therefore applying the rules of reverse psychology, he chose to be inconspicuous by being very deliberately conspicuous. All this had passed through my head in little more than a second, and I was still nowhere close to resolving my problem. What if I asked the guy to remove his bag? It would probably look very un-secular. What if I got up and asked him to sit down instead? Since I had rejected two previous candidates for my seat who looked a bit old, this action of giving up a seat for a well-built young man would probably seem over-biased. While my instincts for self-preservation were warring with my instincts for socio-political correctness, Chawri Bazar station arrived.

“Aunty aiye baithiye please” I exclaimed as I nearly jumped from my seat, spotting a rather frail aunty who had just boarded the train. Vader was forced to get up as well, although the smirk remained. I observed the potential bomber and the new bombee closely for the next 2 stations, from a safe distance. That was probably because my conscience wasn’t completely hacked to death as yet. To my relief, ‘the bomber’ removed his bag from under the seat and deboarded along with his partner at Rajiv Chowk. I mentally slapped myself for being a Nazi, said goodbye to Vader, who was still struggling to keep a straight face, and proceeded to board the blue line.

Yes, you know what happened next. The ‘bombers’ boarded the same coach as I did.

The Fountain of Youth

He was walking on one of those  decrepit sidewalks that were usually found beside the well-maintained walkalators right next to the main road, unused by the general public who preferred their ground to aid them in reaching their destination faster, because the few seconds they saved gave them a sense of satisfaction and time-management. He thought that was largely hypocritical because they all spent a few hours in the Arcadiums near their workplaces anyway. And they all looked the same. Not the same in their looks, exactly, but they were all nearly the same age, with perfect physical proportions. They were all… in the prime of youth. That was it. Not a single soul on that street was old or infirm or even middle-aged. In a century that had been hailed as the Age of Individuality, why was every face so generic? The answer lay in every major pharmaceutical’s hands. The key to immortality, the greatest obsession of mankind, had finally been found. The gene that caused aging in humans after reaching physical maturity had been isolated, and an easy suppression and reversal process had been implemented for the happy consumers, in the form of the drug Yuvenix.

But of course, there was a price. Always a price, he thought and smiled wryly.Those who could afford to buy the pills, and keep buying them, were immortal. The people who could not afford it would die of old age. An ingenious way of reducing the rich-poor divide, another thought said. In one way, youth was just as addictive as heroin or cocaine. And the fear of dying became that much more potent when a man knew it could be avoided forever. In short, everyone was hooked. He was one of the few people who could afford Yuvenix, but chose to stay away. And why? There was so much to see in the world, surely extending his life by a few years was worth it? He could choose to die whenever he wished by simply stopping his intake of the drug. He could go back to his love, who had left him a few years ago because of his refusal to buy Yuvenix. Then he remembered why he had refused. She had begged him to take the drug, having already reversed her looks to her twenties. She had pleaded that they could relive the early days of their marriage, enjoy their youth again and forever. “We can correct all the mistakes we’ve made, we won’t be the same foolish kids we were back then!”. He had frozen in shock, thinking of how wrong it was for people to be given a second chance at the lives they had willfully spent. He turned stone-faced then, flatly refusing to have anything to do with it. “Senile old fool!” she had screamed when she left the house. He gave a bitter laugh at the thought that the drug was in a way responsible for ruining the last years of his marriage.

Suddenly he heard footsteps coming from further up along the footpath. Surprised, he looked up to see a woman who appeared to be shuffling slowly along the cracked stone slabs. As she came closer, he observed her wrinkled, withered face and a tight bun of thinning white hair behind her head. She looked even older than he was. There were soft lines around her eyes and lips that showed she smiled a lot. Even now, while she walked towards him with an intent gaze upon his face, it appeared she would burst into a smile any moment. He took the opportunity to seat himself on a creaking bench whose paint had peeled off eons ago. The lady quietly sat down beside him. They were silent for a while, attracting curious and often disdainful glances from passers-by.

Finally the woman turned her head towards him and smiled. He tilted his head towards her and without thinking, smiled apologetically. He immediately felt odd about it. Why was he apologetic, when he had committed no crime? But the lady shook her head, and he knew she was saying it was not his fault. Then she spoke, “You are not to blame. And yet you are. A family is tainted for a crime committed by one black sheep. You stereotype a community for the vices of a few people. An organism is to blame for the negative attributes of its species. As part of the species, you are at fault.” He thought he knew what the crime was, but still prepared himself to ask this question. As though reading his thoughts, the woman gave a lopsided smile. “You already know what I’m talking about, since you’ve been speculating it for quite some time now.” Shocked, he opened his mouth to protest, but was unable to form any words. She raised one gnarled finger to silence him, and continued, “You always knew that there is a balance to everything. Did your species think that the laws that govern the universe were no longer applicable to you, simply because you had the gift of seeking knowledge. Surely the several millenia of observations should have awakened you to the fundamental principle of all existence?!” She looked exasperated and almost… angry. “There are always consequences, no matter how slightly you tip the scales.  And this” she waved her hand at the pacing crowd,”has gone far beyond that. I am afraid this world will indeed end in fire for your kind.”

Struggling with his tongue, he finally gasped, “But there must be something!… What did I do?! What can we do? Surely you don’t mean…” And then it dawned upon him that the lady had been using the term ‘you’ and ‘your species’…as if she wasn’t part of it. He found himself unable to do much except notice how his spine seemed to be freezing, and his heart was thrumming desperately against his chest. The phantasm just sighed. “No, there is nothing. I only came here because you are one of the innocent ones. I have come to spare you the pain of witnessing.” Very slowly, she smiled sadly at him before caressing his forehead lightly with her fingertips.

His body was found a few hours later by a police patrol, without any identification on his person. The body was incinerated the next week without ceremony, as no one came to claim the deceased who, by his looks, must have been rather poorly off.

A week later, governments all over the world reported thousands of unexplained deaths of non-yuvenized populations. The general response was one of inaction, since in most countries non-Yuvenized people were socially marginalised.In less than a month, there was a general acknowledgement of the fact that every human on Earth was Yuvenized. A year later, news spread of a man who committed suicide by lying face down on a highway. His family reported that earlier that day he had burnt his entire hand without any apparent pain. Further investigation revealed that the man’s behaviour had been increasingly eccentric in the past few months. His family had complained that he had been spending millions of credit on entertainment modules and behaving increasingly savagely, deliberately eliciting violent reactions from people. His psychiatric report showed a rapid mental deterioration, from acute depression to total numbness, resulting in dementia. Within a week, several incidents were reported of rampages by people showing similar symptoms. In the ensuing panic, it was speculated that the virus that had wiped out non-Yuvenized populations might be mutating into a virus that was destroying neurotransmitters. Other philosophers attributed it to isolated cases of psychological disorders caused by realisation of one’s own immortality. While the subject was being intensely debated, the isolated incidents kept growing, causing mass hysteria which in turn led to accelerated deterioration of the psychological conditions in affected regions.

The last human record was written 342 days later on a wall, by a mutilated woman crying incessantly. It was followed by a deafening metallic screech, and silence.

P.S. I have not seen the movie ‘In Time’, nor borrowed any ideas from it. I was thinking about this a full month before that (as people have told me) insipid movie came out. :|

Published in: on November 15, 2011 at 8:47 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Pace

I keep running, walking, limping, crawling ahead
Always forward, without thinking where or why.
In the world I inhabit, the aim is simple.
To always move forward without pause or break
Till your bones break or your mind snaps.
 
It’s not as though we don’t want to rest.
But there’s always a whip cracking behind us.
It grows louder and bolder as I grow older,
It even has the audacity to lash my parent’s backs.
It is in perennial fear of this whip and its malevolent bearer
That everyone and everything must run forward.
Few have the strength to glance back, even for a second.
What do they see, I wonder, envious and yet not so.
I believe they see pain; people who’ve fallen behind
Whipped mercilessly, even to death.
 
But I think they see something else too,
Something wonderful beyond the fog of pain.
Why else would they continue to look back
With an unfathomable light in their eyes
Risking the wrath of the whip should they falter?
 
I observe and make note of the others too, carefully
The ones who keep moving doggedly ahead
Always at the edges of the whip’s caressing tips
Neither slow enough to fall, nor fast enough to outrun it all.
They never dare look back, never stop for a second
After a while they stop thinking, feeling altogether
Numbed by fear, they keep staggering ahead
I do not doubt that they would kill to keep moving.
 
I’m but a child, learning to run, learning to keep pace
People keep telling me to hurry up, not deliberate
Easy for them, they learnt to crush their calling long ago.
But I pick up my pace as I realise, no matter what I choose
I too, must always keep moving ahead, or perish.
Published in: on October 16, 2011 at 9:42 pm  Comments (4)  
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To (not a parody of ‘If’)

To write a verse in the blogging den,

What purpose serves a fountain pen?

To die, awake and die again

I must be in undead heaven.

To wear kaleidoscopic glasses

And drown in illusory marshes.

To be saved by the tolling bell

Or set off alarms and be sent to prison hell.

To be a fiery trailblazer

And set fire to a napping stargazer.

To summon the devil with an empty mind

Or fill it with all the useless facts one can find.

To be a bright candle in the dark

And spook couples romancing in the park.

To fight with your back to the wall

Which collapses to reveal the sets of Total Recall.

To live each moment as if it were the last

Would  fret forever, or request the Reaper to come fast?

To be or not to be?

Go back in time and ask Will for free.

To live to see this strange world end

You’ll see theism becoming a last-ditch trend

What’s more, you’ll be dead, my friend.

Published in: on August 20, 2011 at 6:17 pm  Leave a Comment  
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