The Curse
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. :|
Pace
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.
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.
Shutting shop at Diagon Alley
The Harry Potter series will come to an official end this Friday, two days from now, with the release of the 2nd half of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. With all the pages being created on FaceBook featuring phrases and terms from the HP books, I can’t help but reflect upon how I too, have grown up reading Potter. I first began to distance myself from Harry Potter after the 5th book, The Order of The Phoenix, which I considered unnecessarily stretched, melodramatic and full of parallel stories which could have been done away with. In short, I thought Rowling had fallen prey to greed, and was trying to maximize her profits by filling a good plot with rubbish on all sides. I was thoroughly put off after reading the 6th book, which I finished in a record time of 4 hours because I kept skipping pages which were replete with the same stuff that had irritated me in the 5th book. Although it was a thinner book, it had an even weaker plot, which was saved from disgrace only by the Snape intrigue and the death of Dumbledore.
After that, I did not even bother watching the movies based on the 5th and 6th books, as I had been warned by trusted sources that they were not worth the time or money. This strengthened my belief that the series would eventually lose steam if it did not end soon. But I could not lie to myself when I realised that flipping through the meandering story-line of The Order of The Phoenix was my favourite past-time, and that too for well over a year. Therefore, when the Deathly Hallows book was released, I immediately downloaded the e-book to judge for myself whether it was worth buying. I was pleasantly surprised to find a neat, fast-paced, thrilling, and nostalgia-inducing text-ride within. In my personal opinion, it was a fitting end that did justice to the legacy of Potter’s world, which despite a few potholes on the road, managed to surge past the finish line.
Although I fervently denied having any attachment towards the world of HP after reading The Lord of The Rings, I now realise they are completely different worlds, and it is not a sin to have feelings for both. So today I got down to thinking what the secret ingredient in Harry Potter is, that makes it so very unique and close to heart. The foremost reason that comes to my mind is the nature of the world itself. It exists as a world behind our world, separated only by a veil of magic and secrecy. Second is the simplicity of the language, and the focused yet flowing third-person narrative, that allows us to experience the world of wizardry while floating above bespectacled eyes, without ever realising that it isn’t us who’ve been selected in Gryffindor. Moreover, as the characters matured in years through the series, so did the language and the plot. It progressively focused more on the workings of wizard society, and the darkness inherent even within that world. The novels also wove more fabric into the relationships between the protagonists, which further helped us in identifying ourselves within the minds and actions of the characters. It is amazing how a world that’s wrapped in magic can give so much thought to racism and discrimination. I need not remind you, reader, that the entire backdrop of the series is based on a certain Tom Riddle and his Ku Klux Klan’s hatred of Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. And the discrimination against centaurs was what cost Riddle’s faction their victory (the surprise ‘arrow storm’ at the end caught them off-guard). Although I resented the word ‘elves’ being associated with small gangly creatures subservient to humans, I still liked the way they were made invulnerable to the ‘wizard laws’ that governed and limited the use of magic. And it was in fact one of these creatures, Dobby, who sacrificed himself to save our three heroes. So no hard feelings, Rowling. The High Elves forgive the House-Elves.
So yes, I will be waiting to watch the last movie in the theater, but only because it signifies the visual end of Potter’s journey. The world of witchcraft and wizardry will live on forever. When a car starts beeping after a sudden rush of air beside it, I will think of the Knight Bus. When I hear a ‘pop’ behind me, a house-elf was just making sure I was safe. When I feel a sudden chill through my bones, it was Nick I just passed through. If the chill does not leave, and I begin to feel depressed and hopeless, I will summon every happy memory I ever had and run as fast as I can. After all what is this world, but what our imagination makes of it?
