Shuklam, the rebel

The year is 2147. It has happened. The country is now officially run by the Market, after a century of pretenses and denials the truth has been accepted by all and everyone. Gratitude is also due for a group that called itself “Common Truth to Common Man” for their incessant fight for a decade or so to bring the change. And so keeping in sync with the desire of the common people Parliamentarians in a rare camaraderie passed a resolution with overwhelming majority and standing ovation that filled the ancient building in thunderous rapture -some members were even seen hugging each other and hiding their faces in each other’s arms incapable to control their emotions in this momentous occasion. The resolution sought to change the name of the country with Market and people to Customers, something that has been accepted and applied for all practical purpose for over a century now is made official and enshrined in the constitution. Henceforth “We the people of the country...” will read “We the customers of the Market...” all other relevant changes on these matters were made by an executive order. Further keeping in with the desires of the Market, rationality was made illegal. It will affect the sensex was the argument, accepted without any question. The Ordinance pertaining to this already existed for years that too was passed by the members without any necessity for discussion. It is as if everyone has finally realised the futility of talking. In keeping with the mood of the occasion a school girl was asked to sing in the changes to the members. The girl sang and she sang with her heart out, such melodious voice that was rarely heard. The members later were found commenting on the texture and pitch of the tone as also about the confidence in her voice.

The values of freedom and liberty were being celebrated every weekend with get together and general hugging at retail shop discount fests. People were well fed, their wishes catered to and desires pandered. Still they always had a longing for something more, something that seem missing and only the new product that is yet to come in the market seem to have the capacity to fulfill this. That longing for no reason seems growing despite all effort. Technicians worked overtime to produce new products that would titillate senses for few weeks and left people asking for more. Competitive spirit was encouraged. There were impromptu dancing in meetings and values of working in team asserted through clumped formations. On the street people had forgotten to walk, they danced from place to place in magnetizing ecstasy, they sang, they sang about brands and installment payment on latest gadgets. Though air had become thick with dangerous gases, and many fell dead on the street every now and then (bodies collected and disposed off as immediately), people were generally happy “we have what our forefathers couldn’t even imagine to have” said one man on the street “we have our personal helicopters”. Years of watching market media and bombardment from every conceivable space on what to buy had turned people into happy accepting robots. They replicated what they saw, what their grandparents saw, what their children talked about all the time. Splurging was now a communal activity and elders relapsed into their days of splurging to give references to robust tradition that must be upheld. How product A made X happier than what product B done to Y, invariably the discussions in social gathering would veer into these subtleties.

Grading in schools was done on the ability to show various facial expressions at short notice as also the impact on other students were noted for final score. The teacher said “it is all right if the kid is not able to tell why does water evaporate or whether we breath oxygen or carbondioxide, it is all right. These are views. It is his choice not to answer. We don’t insist. At least he tried. That is what we want people who try”. She pointed to the class and told them not to worry about answers “worry about the expressions. Look at the expressions on his face”. All the students were asked to note their feelings. Each expression was meant for specific feeling and these were to be emulated. These were important steps that the school curriculum stipulated. It helped in transforming future citizens into friendly customers. At the level of higher studies care was taken to create conformers, sometimes these were packaged as ‘industrial requirement’.

The law against rationality also provided for confiscating material that asked people to question market, to apply logic in exercising one’s choice was seen as a major crime. For more than a century the method applied was to ridicule those who didn’t adhere to dictates of market various organizations were created like WB, IMF so on to carry out this work at the international level. Governments were asked to focus on GDP and Market’s well being, investor friendly society was a fundamental duty. Any other view was looked down as an attempt by loony left or bohemian utopia. A century later the fringe group is eliminated, there are no dissenters. Investor friendly society had given way to investor friendly parents and children. They have accepted market as the panacea for all ill happening, including children not doing well in school or things as mundane as a stomach ache (Doctor said “look at all the glittering and colour on the street. How could you have stomach ache watching such spectacular sights?). WB has replaced UN, and arbitrates on all issues. WB President is a regular on media asking for people to be more “tolerant and compassionate”. Advertisements are now seen as social work. Performers are not seen as performers but people genuinely interested in well being of people.

In the meantime a satellite named Free Market Enterprise circle the sky and scanned the population. It need be mentioned here before we go into operational aspects of the satellite that the decadal census has now given way to market survey. The government agreed that declining sex ratio has lesser significance than number of houses that has TV. In these market survey conducted all across the country skeptics as also those advocating rationality were noted and injected with a capsule that turned their skin pink. The capsule auto injected more of pink into the skin if the person showed aggravated signs of market skepticism. It was here that the role of satellite gains importance, it is used to spy on these pink skinned –their movements were cataloged and level of pinkness noted. Since market believed in freedom of choice (provided it is not rational) the pink skinned were given the choice to reform. Programs were shown that made actors and performers making emotional appeals, non pink skinned people that is market friendly people held hands and sang songs asking for compassion and tolerance. In extreme case as a last resort pink skinned were made to watch market sponsored discussions that left people with vacant mind and general feeling of goodness. Rarely did it fail but if it ever did then the pinks were declared as threat to society and incarcerated for life.

Since people with awesome expressions and those who could affect the customers with their emotional dexterity were the benchmark of market society, what began as a nascent attempt to bring into serious debate people who could emote and raise the emotional quotient thus make the event appealing has a century later firmly established. Performers particularly actors or anyone remotely connected with movies or entertainment acquired saintly stature, apart from traditional occupations of guiding people on what face cream to use or which cola to quench thirst they were now looked upon as people who not only understood how a proper mix of market, politics and entertainment could create a contented life but insight into nirvana. They held talk shows, wrote books, hugged people on the street and invited to recipe contests. They had sentiments on subjects ranging from nuclear bombs, inflation, easy ways to relax pelvic muscles so on and were listened to with utmost interest. Their views were held in high esteem for the reason of awesome presence. People noted their changing expressions, their embodiment minutely dissected –all in immense humour- and commented with gushing realizations. Sometimes speculations on their brand choices affected the Sensex (yes even after a century it still is as sensitive).

It is in this market society of 2147 that Shuklam attained puberty in the month of July, and immediately decided he will not fall into the emotional trap of market. He avoided TV and other multimedia gadgets that were alternatives, meant to affect decision to buy. There were gadgets in the market that could auto order a product through the sensors gauging the user’s emotional response to an advertisement. So the emotion created was not wasted in waiting for the person to go to the shop and chance to stumble upon the product. It was too risky and the delay bred vacillation, an unwanted emotion. Shuklam had saved his mind from contamination, he was ably guided by his grandfather in his childhood thus he used ear plugs while in school and college. He was a member of clandestine chain of library that had bunkers under anthills. He read through the bluff of market, he had all the views collected from pre market period of 1990s. All these were in vain since in his pre teens his questioning methods had alerted the Free Market Enterprise within a day he was injected the capsule. Though he increasingly got pink but a cream from the market that promised to lighten the pink kept him away from trouble. He was tired of living this stealthy ways and so decided to come open. He therefore displayed on the busy street corner a large scribble “man is rational”. The incident captured by Free Market Enterprise and relayed to all station, within seconds he was surrounded by men in suit. They carried no weapons (market is against physical violence) nor looked angry. They patronized him with looks of someone gone astray. In the market society of future another important land mark event was that policemen were replaced by PR men. PR1 put his hand on Shuklam’s shoulder and said

“Is it necessary son?”

Shuklam shrugged and tried to get the hand off his shoulder. PR2, PR3, PR4 chatted among themselves at a distance, they kept an eye on him.

“Rebel is a waste of time” PR1 explained patiently “the earlier you understand market the more you realise that market is human beings second nature” he took a deep breath “all that is human emotion is what market is. It caters to your desires and needs. Market is here to make your life fulfilling. Embrace it”

“What makes you think being a rebel is not an emotion? It too is basic emotion” Shuklam countered

“Sure it is but a negative emotion. You are wasting your energy...see how much positive energy could be used to spread the word of market. Spread a new brand that could make someone happy somewhere. Isn’t that what we all want? Your emotion is disruptive, it doesn’t help the team, so in effect the society. Why not use your energy for market friendly issues, least threatening cause? You have a chance to playact rebel without any harm done” PR1 reasoned

“You think people are emotion driven dimwits. Your whole foundation takes common people for suckers. Is that ethical?”

“Nothing is ethical or unethical these are creations of human mind. Market at the end of the day unleashes entrepreneurship, the competition that fuels innovations”

“Market favours few at the expense of others. It is an erosional competition of few that aims at acquiring more. Also understand money making entrepreneur is not the only entrepreneurship that defines human society. What makes me human is the culture and values. And yes money too but that is secondary to my being, it may be primary to my basic needs. You cannot run a society on market needs. You cannot put utility on everything, to decide what is useful and what is not. You cannot create market friendly robots in schools and college”

“What is your problem? Why so much anger? Learn to enjoy more. You need to relax. Close your eyes and release your bad karma” PR1 seemed to use patronising demeanour to gain control over the situation “you need to learn and experience”

“I am always relaxed so don’t worry about that. I am angry because i want to know where is my garden, where are my trees, where is my sky? Where are the seasons? What happened to the climate? Why some islands have vanished? Why people keep dying on the street? You have more than fulfilled the desire of people and even created more desires. You have created a machine to feed the craving and you call it development. Your consumption has eaten into the resources of the land and eaten into the soul”

“So what’s wrong in that? We live to consume” PR1 was showing signs of irritation

“That is the problem here. You have taken primitive needs and emotions to build this edifice. The edifice is thriving on misery. Perception of opulence through overstuffed consumer goods in mall cannot fool people for long. Now you have usurped democracy. You are the new dictators”

Deep in the sky Free Market Enterprise eavesdrop the conversation, and a signal was send to PRs from the command center that the target is found to have lesser of emotion and more of rational in his mind therefore needs to be under constant surveillance, hence be taken into correctional custody.

A minor incident

Grandmother had become adamant this time and why shouldn’t she be she has been insisting for about a year or two that she wanted to visit the temple. The temple that was famous for the miraculous power of its deity, repertoire included a man who was wheel bound for a decade, a darshan of the deity he was reported to have start showing extreme signs of ecstasy, next he was seen leaping out of his wheel chair and dancing in frenzy before collapsing and shouting in praise for the lord, an old woman who has been blind for all practical purpose, a visit to the temple she was seen guiding people even on moonless night. Another case was of a boy who never could read despite all kinds of allurements –like feeding him his favourite dish, allu poori in this case, if he read atleast a line aloud or even a word, the boy refused and kept his mouth clenched as if he held a secret, and not trifle concerned about threats –including leaving him alone in the dark room at the far end of the town that is known to be abode of mysterious old woman who it is believed broke fingers of children who don’t listen to elder. Needless to say nothing worked so here he was brought to the temple as a last resort, it is quoted by the witnesses that the moment the boy entered the sanctum sanctorum he insisted on thickest book available, which quite naturally happened to be Mahabharata, and read it aloud for one whole day to the consternation of people around. Some said he is an incarnation, others insisted this is just another of the miracles of illustrious deity. Then there were other small miracles like for instance a man who lost all his savings in stock exchange after a visit to temple went back home to find gold biscuits in his fridge and so on. The name of the deity spread to faraway places.

What annoyed grandmother the most was that they stayed about four hours from the temple town and still hadn’t visited this powerful god, and not that buses were not infrequent –there was one every half an hour. Sure they only shifted to the town from the village a year back after his son got a job. Kuttappan was always busy and with a new born in the house his wife too had less time even to feed other two children on time. It had become grandmother’s task to remind, Vijayamma replied “oh mother why don’t you feed them, can’t you see i am busy with the baby”, so finally it was grandmother’s task to round up the children. Sanal was manageable it was Sindhu who had become naughty “that rat of a girl” muttered grandmother in exasperation. What finally restrained the girl –as always- was an offer of exciting story. So grandmother had to invent something new, or as she did innovate the oldest one’s and recycle as fresh, perpetually she would mix up the ending probably she became complacent as the last few bites of food were left and she was in a hurry to finish the story and be done with it. Mostly her stories were from puranas sometimes she included modern elements to make it palatable for the children, though she avoided it recently after a particularly unsavoury incident. It so happened that she was telling one of the stories from Ramayana, Sanal insisted to know how could bow and arrow that lord Rama carried could be that powerful to kill a demon with ten heads. Grandmother explained that the power of divine and force of truth cannot be defeated by evil. Sanal wasn’t convinced “that is fine but how could he with bow and arrow!” his mind still focused on the mechanics of warfare and not on celestial. Grandmother tried to avoid but he was insistent so she said “bow and arrow have the power like guns”
“You mean like machine guns?” Sanal was ecstatic, and howled “trrrat trrrat” pointing his hand to the roof as if he was holding a machine gun. Later that night while they had dinner Sanal demanded that he wanted a gun like the one used by Rama before he could start eating
“What gun?” asked a very perplexed Kuttappan
“Like the one used by Rama” said Sanal animatedly
“Who told you this nonsense?” asked the angry father with his face clenched.
Sanal knew that he has crossed a line here, afraid he moved close to his mother.
“Sanal Kumar I am asking you who told you this” Kuttappan’s voice was steady and controlled the kind that hid smouldering rage that could explode any moment.
“Grandmother told me” Sanal’s eyes were brimming with tears
Kuttappan glared at grandmother, grandmother in turn glared at Sanal. Sanal in the meantime sneaked behind his mother.
So that was it no more modern analogy of mythology from grandmother.

Coming Monday was Janmashtmi and so a long weekend and grandmother was adamant on visiting the temple. Vijayamma too was keen, what added the credence was the auspiciousness of the days. So it was agreed that Saturday morning they will leave and return by Monday evening, apart from temple it was decided to go to the nearby hill for a picnic. Children were jubilant “We are going for a peecneec. We are going for a peecneec” shouted both of them running around their parent in circles. Mother told them to stop the ruckus and go finish the homework if they wish to come.

Saturday came as soon and the family was ready by seven. They carried a small suitcase while grandmother picked up her pair of cloth in a plastic carry bag that had advertisement of electric equipments on it. She also carried a whole coconut enveloped in newspaper that she wanted to break in the temple, it was meant to ward off evil. Children though bleary from sleep were excited, holding tightly to their parent as they waited for the bus while the baby slept suckling its thumb wrapped under mother’s sari. Sanal wore his favourite shirt that was red colored with green chevron running across the breast. Sindhu on the other hand was wearing pink colored frock that had mauve yellow flowers imprinted all across, she pressed her fingers over the flowers to straighten the shrivelled ones. They occupied the seat somewhere in the middle of the bus. While there was a minor scuffle by the children as to who will sit next to the window. It was resolved rather swiftly by grandmother occupying it as she felt nausea while travelling. So the protesting children were made to sit between mother and grandmother while Kuttappan occupied a seat behind. By the time the bus hit the main road it was already eight. It was a bright mild summer morning, cobalt blue sky spread across the horizon filled with patches of fluffy clouds that stood still. Children immediately insisted on the comics and an annoyed father had to search it out of the box. While Sanal read Superman, Sindhu’s book had collection of Jataka tales. It was a flat straight road and the bus seemed to have attained a constant speed, the engine made a soft droning sound broken by piercing noise of oncoming vehicle that faded as instantly. Occasionally when they came across new buildings grandmother said “now that really is quite a big building” shrugging Sanal to look, who made a cursory glance and said “oh i have seen bigger, stop disturbing me” and went back to his story back
“There are too many vehicles these days. Are they not?” grandmother spoke loudly apparently for mother, who was patting the baby back to sleep. The baby made a wincing face as if it was going to cry. Vijayamma told grandmother to not speak loudly, grandmother arranged her hair and asked mother to hand over the baby. She knows better than anyone else how to handle children she claimed. The baby instinctively clenched its hand as it was unceremoniously navigated across. While the baby was being passed Sindhu covered her nose with her fingers in an elaborate gesture and asked Sanal to do likewise, who refused and said he thought she was ugly. Sindhu pinched him on his thigh. Sanal gave out a yelp that shook the baby, it instantly started to yell. Grandmother went into control-the-yelling-baby mode dexterously, shaking it patting it and smothering with kisses. The baby momentarily stunned by the tactics tried to raise the pitch but was quelled by another series of urgent kisses across the body, very soon the baby seemed to have been convinced against approaching calamity and was seen smiling. In the meantime Sindhu had started to sob, mother seemed to have dealt with her misdemeanour. Grandmother pointed to passing sights to the baby “see the tree seeee” “see the man on bike seeee” the baby looked at these with not much interest, sometimes she blankly smile looking exactly opposite to what grandmother was trying to point. The sibling exchanged their books. Sanal has been thinking and he asked Sindhu “So what do you think Superman is stronger or Hanuman?”
“I think it is Hanuman” said Sindhu evincing mild interest
“Superman can do all that what Hanuman can” Sanal countered
“Hanuman carried whole of sanjeevani mountain did he not” Sindhu had now taken it as a challenge, she blamed Sanal for recent mishap that left her sobbing “can anyone jump across ocean? I don’t think anyone in the whole world can. Hanuman is definitely stronger”
Sanal was not to be cowed he quoted all the instances from different comic series as also movies that he happen to see on cable where Superman is known to have accomplished similar tasks
“But superman cannot grow in size can he” Sindhu placed her trump card “Hanuman can grow in size to be hundred feet. He can even make his tail heavier than the heaviest thing and use it to burn whole of lanka. Your Superman cannot do all that can he? He is no super” she laughed. Sanal was furious but vaguely convinced. Yes there is no instance where superman grew in size, he doesn’t even have a tail. He still had his doubts, he queried grandmother. “Who is superman?” Grandmother asked. Sanal took it as an insult and refused to speak to her again.

By noon the bus was at the bus stand of the temple town, people came out of the bus drowsy and disoriented from the travel as if tumbling down from a sack. Mostly families they reorganised to chalk out their plans. Some went straight to the temple for immediate darshan while others looked for lodges to stay overnight still others rushed to the nearest restaurant for a quick bite. Kuttappan and family stood in the shade to gather themselves, siblings were asked to hold each other’s hand as also one of them should clutch grandmother tightly, under no circumstance anyone should loosen their grip. They were to follow their parents closely. It was decided they will have light refreshments before looking for accommodation later after getting fresh towards the late afternoon visit to the temple was planned. Though grandmother had some reservation on this as she wanted to visit the lord the earliest “without much delay” she said otherwise it may be seen as discourteous by the god. Vijayamma vetoed that saying “we need to make ourself presentable before the god”, and she really wanted to wash herself and the baby -who now looked around with increasing consternation also attempting some monosyllables and occasional clapping. Sindhu insisted on masala dosa first before anything else. Since grandmother was thirsty they decided to have some lime juice from the nearest shop. Happy children held each other’s hand, Sindhu even tried skipping and simultaneously straightened the flowers on her frock that were shrivelled during the travel –her immediate concern seem to be the one on the stomach, while Sanal clutched on to grandmother who in turn held wrapped coconut on one hand. Grandmother had started to say silent prayers. About a minute later a dull explosion was heard followed by mushrooming brown smoke that rapidly rose into the sky. There were screams of people “there is a bomb explosion run run” shouted someone while people scrambled away from the scene. Sindhu’s half charred body still was clutching to Sanal who had most of his missing –it was just a lump of mass with smoke coming out of it. Kuttappan was thrown few meters away his body lay gruesomely twisted. The mother and child were slumped against the wall, the baby holding mother’s breast, one would have thought they were alive. Grandmother was missing.

It was reported that there has been a mild explosion at the small temple town located at the southern part of the country, five people are dead including three children, all it seems -though not confirmed- belong to the same family, few are injured. For about an hour it was ‘breaking news’ in most news channel. Later in the day it was confirmed by the experts to be improvised IED but of mild nature. It was also reported by the TV channels that a great tragedy was averted as the bomb couldn’t explode to its maximum capacity due to some malfunction. In the end it was classified as minor explosion and by the next day was no longer on the main news and relegated to small column in the newspaper. A week later grandmother who was grievously injured by the flying shrapnel on the head –she had miraculously escaped the impact -and was in the ICU too died. Not many people knew about it.

The matter of keenness

Mr Santhanam was observing the ant quite keenly this morning, he had all the time in the world from now on having retired from the government service only a month back. He worked in the income tax, in the same office - in the same building as a matter of fact – for forty years without a break. He was known for his disciplined and meticulous nature, never late to the work nor any absentism or any negative remark against him. All the work from his desk proceeded in a clockwork precision. Every morning he came out of the main door of his home and wait for his wife to bring the lunch box at the porch that was then lowered for him to grab, he left the gate at sharp eight. It took him forty five minutes by chartered bus to reach the office, earlier it used to take half an hour but increasing traffic caused the delay nevertheless he was well before the office time. His first task before settling down for the day was to order hot coffee from the canteen, the coffee dutifully finished in about five minutes, he was preparing the agenda for the day, underlining outstanding issues and grading into matter of importance. At sharp one o clock he is standing to stretch himself and maybe few words of courtesy to the colleagues as he washed his hands for the lunch. During lunch they exchanged their thoughts on the matters of the day or some events in the newspaper or almost always some gossip about other sections of the department and so on. Santhanam contributed his thoughts wherever needed but mostly he kept to himself. By two everyone was back to their respective desks. Any doubts and clarification on the matters of work were almost always directed to Santhanam who in turn was ready with an elaborate reply. In one instance he was even specially acknowledged by the Director. He recollects it as if it happened only the other day. He had spotted a serious case of tax evasion that went unnoticed for years. Director came all the way to his desk to shake hands and say “we are proud of you”, that probably was his most memorable day in his life. Sharp six he is back in his home, a coffee later he goes out for a brisk walk. An hour later he is going through the daily newspaper or some magazine, subsequently some pending office work. He is having dinner watching Television while his wife narrates to him the happenings of the day at family front. Their son is settled in US so any news or mail would be discussed. By ten he is fast asleep.

For last few weeks he has been having trouble sleeping. It became natural for him to get up late into night and sit by the books and hanging photographs. Sometimes he slept on his chair woken up by morning crows so he sneaked back into his bed. He was ready by eight and sat at his study table not knowing what to do or anticipate. He shook his legs cleared the speck of dust on the table with his hand kerchief and fold it back neatly to his pocket. That is when he spotted the black ant- a solitary black ant, probably stranded from its colony or on a probing mission. It stretched its body towards him as if sniffing. Santhanam carefully guided it to his hand and to his palm, and brought it closer very near to his eyes. He was fascinated. The skeletal legs rubbed against each other and the antennae as if the creature too is trying its best to sense its surrounding. Santhanam took out the magnifying lens from the inside of his drawer. He held it against the ant and saw it grow into a giant. The sight was beholding. The ant resembled an alien, mandible sharper than he imagined. Next few days Santhanam was studying about ants, he bought all kinds of books from every store in the city on ants he could lay his hands on. He scribbled few notes in a book that he thought gave significant insight into the understanding of ants. Next afternoon he was in the garden searching for them, later he was tracing the trail of ants to its nest. He was out late in the night with his torch searching for ant trails in the neighbours’ compound. Suspicious watchman apprehended him, not knowing who he was the watchman tied him to the pole and raised the alarm. When residents surrounded him he was in his crumpled pyjamas scratching his body and mumbling “its ants all over me”. It’s been a year since that incident Santhanam gets up every night complaining of ants all over his body.

In the silence of the night

Mother insisted that i wear the sweater. The temple town was on a hill and it did get cold in the night. The room was spacious and had rows of hard wood panelled windows that overlook the street. The street was still wet with night rain and had puddles in many places. There were noises coming from every part of the street. Noises awaken my morning abruptly that i wide eyed stare at the street and try locate. I don’t like it, it’s not like home. Mother is happy she says if i pray well it will make me a ‘big person’ when i grow up. She hummed a song as she walked around the room and got ready for her morning bath. She bathed twice in a day –one in the morning and another in the noon, and followed an elaborate ritual of cleaning herself, so much so that her days were punctuated by her preparation for bath and aftermath. And the hours between these daily rituals she prayed, and prayed rather fervently every time adding new paraphernalia as offering and promising more.

The gopuram of the temple could be seen from the far end of the window. I had to stretch half my face through the parallel iron bars to get the view. They smell strange these iron bars, the coat of light green paint came out in tiny pieces as i scrape it with my teeth. It didn’t smell right this place. It’s not like home where every nook and corner had its own special smell that waft and mingle into my sense in recognition. It had started to drizzle; a light smoky curtain begins to envelope the outside world. The coconut palm fronds collected these tiny droplets into rivulet that stream through the stem forming a puddle around the tree. Mother says if the rain is going to get heavy we might not be able to go the temple. That is a bad omen. She prayed for the rain to stop. She looked out at the sky, and scanned the dark foreboding clouds and thought it will stop raining at the very instance. And it did. She had a knack for these things, predictions, premonitions or was it clairvoyance. She dressed me in my favourite cloth. The sooner we got out of the room the clouds seem to have burst, it poured the way i have never seen. Soon the streets were filled with murky water. I ran from one window to another to see how the rain fell from different window. Very soon the world will be filled with water, mother said. I laughed. She said it wasn’t funny. I told her i didn’t like it here and want to go home.

It kept raining through the evening and the night. Power lines had collapsed reducing everything into smoky silhouettes in the faint moonlight. Mother kept talking the whole time, i didn’t listen to her. She was like that when it got dark, she will talk. I couldn’t walk in the dark, the floor wasn’t the same. It didn’t feel familiar, there wasn’t any assurance in the way i sensed the ground. Everything was strange and different. Every step was like walking into an abyss. Even the rain wasn’t the same. It pounded the roof in some primal angst. I asked mother why can’t we go home. I don’t like it here. But she wasn’t listening. The window swung and rocked on its hinge all night. It was as though it was having a conversation with the night. I didn’t say a word. I watched the rain through the bleary sky till my eyes got tired. Water had filled up the streets and was rising at a steady rate. Soon the water was pouring into the room through the windows. It was water all around. Mother asked me whether i was alright. I told her i want to go home. The rain stopped at the very instance, the water gushed through the cervices for a very long time till it was reduced to drops. The ground had sucked up all the water. Slowly the world was heaving back and claiming its space. The moonlight sky was lit in extraordinary brilliance and radiated through every single drop clinging everywhere in the world. I was happy and told mother that we should stay here forever.

The hibiscus

There was something strange happening in the world that Bhaskaran inhabited. It was getting smaller. He focused his attention on the calendar hanging on the wall. Every time it got smaller, till he couldn’t see it any more. He decided to take the matter head on and write to God himself. So he took out a sheet of paper from his folder and put it neatly on his writing desk. Today was his birthday and he had turned seventy nine. A year from now i would be all of eighty, he said to himself and mentally noted to make this a significant point of argument. “After all a man approaching his eighty do need to be treated with some dignity” he argued. He looked out of his cottage window and noticed the hibiscus blossom in bright red. He still hadn’t got used to the laptop his son sent for him. It lay on the corner of the cupboard, stacked among other unused gadgets. Bhaskaran took up the phone and called his son. A voice at the other end sounded drowsy and extremely irritated
“What’s it? You should have some sense of time when you call. It’s almost midnight here”.
“I am thinking...” Bhaskaran stuttered for words. “The hibiscus has flowered”, he said. He was surprised by the vigour in his own voice.
What you need is a good sleep. The voice slammed the phone.
Bhaskaran came out of his room, lingered for few moment and bend down to observe the hibiscus flower. The hibiscus, vivid red as if fountain of blood frozen in moment, swayed in light breeze. He touched the petals and felt its vague softness. He sat there for some time. He heard someone opening the main gate. Two middle aged women whispered among themselves as they walked with unsure gait.
“Who is it?” asked Bhaskaran, trying to focus and locate something familiar in the approaching strangers. He took off his spectacles and wiped wetness off his eyes “Who is it i don’t seem to recognise you?”
“We are from the temple committee” said the woman who was shorter of the two. “You will have to buy the festival coupon” she insisted. The other woman opened a ledger on her palm and proceeded as if to write.
Bhaskaran gave a wry smile “ah it remains the same doesn’t it” he murmured to himself. His eyes wandered back to the hibiscus. “Do look at this flower” he said without any gesture. There was something in the sight of the flower that was quietening. It exuded a sense of calm “as if everything is right with the world” Bhaskaran was talking to himself “as if this is the way the world should be...everything arranged neatly and perfectly”.
“Its hibiscus is it not” said the shorter woman, loquacious of the two, quite unsure of what else to say. They stood there hesitantly, wondering at the old man scrutinising the flower.
“Why don’t you both come in” as he entered the house he kept the door half open.
“No that’s all right we are fine here” the woman insisted.
“It’s my birthday, you must come” he held the door firmly for them to enter.
“Well ...good to know that” said the woman, while the other woman smiled sheepishly “happy birthday to you”.
Bhaskaran acknowledged the wishing with an awkward shake of head. “Wait here” he said and laboured into the kitchen and brought a plate of sweet almost immediately. The colourful rectangle shaped saccharines were arranged tastefully. It was clear that effort and time had gone into arranging it.
“Here please have it” he said extending it to the pleasantly surprised women.
“Oh thank you”. They said almost in unison. “Thank you so very much. May you live longer” added the shorter woman.
For a moment Bhaskaran’s face was blank as though a gush of strong wind had caught him a second before his instinct could take control. For that short instance he stood there vulnerable to the world, his eyes wide open in a mix of fear and incomprehension. Next minute he was smiling and thanking the women profusely. He thought of hugging them but decided not to. The short woman rushed out “I will be back in a second” she said and returned with the hibiscus she had plucked.
“This for you” she said “..and thank you for the sweets. We will have to leave now”.
Bhaskaran took the flower, his hand shook a bit and he fumbled “do visit me once in a while if you pass by this way”. He wasn’t looking at them as they made their way out. He gazed at the flower and it seems to have sprouted out of his fingers. Its liveliness devoured him. He sat exhausted.

 This blog is abandoned.

Best wishes and thank you to all the readers.

 

The Cave People

They are people living in the dark. They have their rituals perfected to spread the darkness. If you scrutinize you may be baffled that these exist in contemporary world and will be tempted to dismiss these as children’s play or some elaborate juvenile deception. For cave people though these define their meanings of life and connection to the primitive cavernous depth of the cave. Centuries of dead habits and horrendous practices putrefy and waft from the deeper part of the cave that is considered sacred.  They cement these experiences through stories of faith and myths of grandeur. They come out of their caves dressed up as if for daily chores. They look normal and bear self satisfied smug, you wouldn’t be able to tell that they are cave dwellers. They share same mindset, express similar opinion and live an orchestrated way of life as if an invisible thread connects them and binds them to deep recess of the cave. Wherever they are placed they assiduously present template of cave with them so as to replicate it. They are herds that swarm out only to further their cave values that they ardently hold as being threatened by daylight hence seek protection.

Cave people are sensitive to light despite this they bravely venture to protect and spread their world. They carry the blue print of cave in ornate casket and try to sell to passerby while elaborating the virtues of cave values and savior spirit that protects them. While they eke in their caves holding to their cavely ways the world outside change tremendously. They partook in these comforts as matter of good fortune especially ordained for their well being by savior spirit meanwhile made sure to humbly elaborate miracles of cave traditions that made these possible. “Without the savior spirit that lives in the depths of caves not even a leaf can move”. They set out to eulogize cave tradition, wrote compelling narrations of cave culture, and sometimes if they felt specially threatened by rationale of modern world that point to the crude absurd self defeating ways of cave they zealously place themselves as special reference for multiculture.      

They wear impeccable outfits to fit in, and are very diligent about their diet and adept in interaction. They have worked language to its possible advantage without ever having understood the meaning, indeed ever be bothered. Every occasion is an occasion to sing paeans for cave culture and omnipotence of savior spirit. They pursue higher studies in modern institutions just to evaluate the possibility to fit in the cave template to contemporary setting so as to appropriate into cave tradition. They use modern gadgets with dexterity as if these were miracles meant to enhance their expressions. Lack of awareness makes them immune to hypocrisy while usage of words devoid of meanings reduces the hassles of critical thinking. They swarm as trolls in social media to elaborate on regressive ways of cave as unique expressions of modernity. Any sane scrutiny of these absurd claims triggers a swarm assault with cave dwellers emerging from darkest corners of deep net with spears and clubs shaped as words. Like hooligans they set about to destroy the premise of sane argument, stamping on facts, any logical extension of ideas, and sneak in bizarre assumptions based on equally wacky premise. They claim their benign savior spirit already knew everything that is there to know or to discuss or explore. Every reason therefore is the reason to humbly acknowledge the grand nature of savior spirit. We have to just believe in the words of savior spirit who once lived in the cave. It is all written in miracle codes kept safe in depths of cave. Cave people have their heroes and martyrs who furiously fought for centuries against daylight ever reaching the cave. There are now new age soldiers equipped with latest gadgets and wherewithal ready to take on the enemies of cave culture and keep the putrefying traditions safe. Sometimes during the storm when there is power failure they come out in large numbers to announce to the passerby that it is the end of the world. The world needs to repent their sin. Accept cave tradition and believe in the cave truth that has settled all question for eternity. During natural disasters and suffering they see signs of good omen and opportune occasion to elaborate the need to stop questioning the will of savior spirit. During the bleakest hours of humanity they celebrate the arrival of savior spirit.             

 

 

An evening prayer

The intonation gets deeper and louder as if spreading a circle of warmth. Soon it reaches crescendo and beats in the rhythm of the earth as if amplifying all life in its inhale and exhale. The life giving quotidian cycle. It quietens in its own echo, shortening and then the silence. The stage is set for the sun to light the western sky in its quirky brilliance. White Ibis emerge from the lit clouds to row back to her nest. The sky arranges colors to finally extinguish into grey. There is a meditative quality to the moment. The quaintness of the occasion seems to spread all across as every life form pause to relapse. There is an acknowledgment of an end, a loss that is felt with ebbing sun. The trees are still. The clouds are still. Waves intonate the deeper silence of the ocean in its churning lulling regularity. The world stills for the evening prayer. Prayers that articulate myriad language of silence. Tirelessly work to give appropriate form to this tranquil moment. Nature rarely fails to convey the subtle. There is an understated gloriousness in her expressions. Deeper meaning is for the witness. This moment that is alive to live, though aloof as eternal, is contingent to the response of each life to its situation. This moment, when all is serene and quiet, presents quantum possibilities to each life that capsulate billions of years of endeavor –from the absurdness of singularity to sharing atoms precariously perched on a spinning blue dot and all the struggles to assimilate and survive in the pre-cambrian soup, shifting continents, permian volcanoes, bombarding asteroids and bloodthirsty predators. To be finally present in this moment in time. This presence is a miracle. From the dark crevice coucal’s call resonate the scene in cascading boom as a final fanfare to the setting sun.        

The swaying coconut tree

Wind picks up pace by late evening, the forecast were dire, by night the gust whistled through the windows. The waning gibbous moon lit the dark clouds in grey that provide the background for the lamenting coconut tree. It swung its fronds here and there like someone in great distress. A moment the leathery leafs arranges on one side of the crown against the relentless wind the next moment it is splattered haywire as the wind decide to angle the other way or that the tree has swung to its extreme and ricochets in its momentum. The tree reacts to every move of the gust. It is precise in its calibrations so as to not allow itself snap. It is in a tango with the storm. It thrives acutely attuning to the surrounding and sets to work with awareness of natural forces and limitation it places. He though wasn’t conscious of the tribulation of the tree nor cared for the forces that work. The coconut yield is low, there is no value for the wood either unlike acacia or teak, isn’t it better to hack it off. The thrashing tree was like an angry demon bringing bad omen. Against the grey sky it sways like foreboding calamity. The sky was getting angrier these days. When it rained it poured without any intermittence for hours. The rivers were constantly breaching and claiming the bank while the oceans batter the coast with plastics and dead fishes. He knew gods where angry. People don’t follow rituals precisely these days. They have lost purity to deal. Only pure souls can understand the will of the god and lament for the sin. There are procedures prescribed to satiate the god and bring peace to the world. He knew what to do. He will have to build a shrine to atone the sins of humanity. Only he could appease the god. Only he knew how to appease the god. Enough of donating to religions and old sites that have lost their aura. The world needs fresh energy and optimism. People must congregate to pray that will spread positive energy. More people in the congregation more potent their pray. The world needs doers not thinkers, men of action who can exploit resources, create jobs, better the economy and win elections and contracts. Greater the economy more the money generated and therefore more power. A great nation needs to be powerful. A powerful nation needs blessing. He couldn’t wait for the sun to rise. It was a damp morning with trees drenched in overnight rain. Babblers rake wet sticky leaves on the ground to pluck stranded caterpillars. He set out to hack the coconut tree. The tree was useless the site was auspicious, and he knew the use of land. Land was a like a mother that provides for her children. Mother earth needs shrine. He will make a big shrine. The shrine should be grand. It must awe the people into submission to god’s will. It must make them believe in miracles. The world needs believers of miracle. He was the miracle creator. He was chosen, and knew deep inside him of his true calling as the servant of the god and virtuous guide to people. Not many are such fortunate. He set about to make grand plans for the shrine. The wide palm canopy and its arrangement of fronds is home to treepie and her hungry chicks, they sigh in relief having survived the storm. The tree was strong but resilient. The tree will protect them.                  

 

 Dead Bird Don't Lie

The dead bird had its eyes gouged out by ants. It lay in the bush next to the pavement. The ants streamed out like red tears, happy and satisfied. We were out on a walk. He was the first one to point out the bird. “It’s a jungle myna” he said. We examined the bird so as to get some clue regarding its demise. It seems the bird died of starvation, maybe it refused to eat. The white patches on the base of its primaries were exposed and sodden yellow with mud from overnight rain. There were too many dead birds that we see on our walks. In the beginning we didn’t think much of it. It was when she shows apprehension that I too became aware of it. Is it just the birds? I am seeing too many dead insects. They gather in great numbers, disoriented by the street lights and bright windows, next morning I see them motionless and dying of exhaustion. Insects carry no emotion, atleast I am not able to decipher; they bear the same expression of delight all the while as if dying was matter of delightful inconvenience. They are not even baffled. Sometime I pick them up to see any change of expression. It is the same appearance of gaiety on each insect. The moths, the beetles, the lacewings all seem to mock at my intrigue or maybe I am too self centered to read their intent. I sometimes get nightmares of laughing insects that comes out of dead as if it was just an act of deception. This nonchalance towards death angers me at times but I feel helpless. The moment I start seeing dead I see more dead. It is as if I was being attuned into vicious reality like you focus on a voice in the crowd and you hear it loud and clear over the ruckus. It though is not the right comparison I feel; it’s not the voice in the crowd it is the scream of utter desperation that one is habituated to look away, despite jostling crowd a great widening vacuum surrounds the person, and if you were ever to look at his way you would be sucked into a vortex of horror. When I walk away it brings great sadness of never able to fully understand myself. There are some parts of us we want to avoid, and the desolate man in the crowd opens up a mightier desolation in us. It’s on the horizon still we ignore the tell tale signs of things going wrong. The fishes plop up dead one morning along the lake as if conspired to kill themselves from some unknown agony. With every death I too die a little. Parts of my flesh detach and shape like a bird and fly away.  I bend down to put my ear on the earth, maybe I could hear something. Some say earth speaks. I am unaware of the language but I try. There is meaning for all of us if only we could listen.  

 

The wonderful citizens of Acirema

Aciremanians are such wonderful people that you cannot help repeating it again and again, most of the times as assurance because you cannot be sure all the time. They live in big families, who mostly avoid each other, in bigger houses, they meet for big dinner and rituals of holding hands to thank the almighty. They keep bigger guns to protect their family and their property –which they proudly proclaim as private and wouldn’t think much before shooting anyone who cross the line. Otherwise they are such wonderful people. Posting videos of hunting and barbecue that is shared, commented and mostly go viral. Hunting wild animals is how they bond with each other. They smear the blood of dead animal on their faces and get themselves photographed for posterity. This becomes happy memories. These memories are further strengthened by gathering around barbecue pouring the elixir called barbecue sauce onto the searing flesh. They wear red caps when they go shopping. They always go shopping. They find meanings in their life through shopping. Life matter to them particularly the unborn. They show utmost concern to fetus. The lump of mass is where they see miracles of living happening. The sight brings in all their emotions. The concern though vanishes the moment the child is born. From here on it is the survival the fittest. Let me remind that they also happen to be one of the most unfit bunch of people inhibiting planet Agam. They are obese easily prone to lifestyle disease as they avoid walking helplessly reliant are they on fossil fuel guzzlers. They arrange mock combat sitting comfortably on big wheels, crushing metals with soft pedal, these are cheered by crowd who witness these inane spectacles with family and friends sharing beer and hotdog. It’s a family outing on weekend. They also go for political rallies. It’s time to protect their religion they say, the leader is their god incarnate, and shout against people with different skin color. They clap and whistle for their leader –a semi-literate charlatan who feeds on their insecurities and offer them their worst memories.        

They extend their enormous adipose clogged hands for the takeaway. They quench their thirst with carbonated sweetened syrup and their hunger with fat dripping servings. They spent more than anyone on planet Agam. They eat more than anyone on planet Agam. They waste more than anyone on planet Agam. In short they are burden to others. But you cannot deny that they are wonderful people. They give such wonderful impressions of wonderful beings that they are when they keep their guns away to discuss in TV channels. They use such persuasive skills with opportune use of words that some calls these high form of art. They are therefore artists. They coordinate their tone with wonderful expressions. Their eyes can sometimes move out and create its own context while they speak. They hold the view that everything that exist in planet Agam exist for their pleasure. The mountain, the forest, the river, the trees, are all god’s gift that is presented to them to be exploited. Greed and wanton consumption is a system that god created for their comfort. Anything that contradicts their lifestyle is a conspiracy, a hoax, fake news. They are incapable to understand logic and have long since lost the ability for critical thinking, surprisingly these were never impediment to material acquisitions. They concluded this to be blessing, and that they were specially chosen to rule over the world. Their liberty and freedom extended to all countries across the planet. Aciremanians use them for target practice, new methods of warfare like nuclear bombs, agent orange, drone attacks so on are tried and tested. To be fair countries across the planet Agam are smaller versions of Acirema and given a chance would enthusiastically emulate. Wonderful citizens of Acirema are role models.      

 

The Scream of Nature

It happened gradually. He had sensed it was happening. The images were shifting. In the beginning it was a slight shift like some aberration, probably he wasn’t looking carefully or his eyes have weakened, later it gave impression as though he was watching the world through some dense partition. There was a distinct refraction he felt as if the images were at an angle, the reality was being wrenched out of place. The more he became aware of it the more it started to trouble him. Then came the images of disasters, the fire, the flood, the cyclones, the increasing regularity and intensity. He knew the shift was real. He could feel his heartbeat rise before he calmed himself down. He distracted himself in his daily chores. The world went on in its deceptive phase. There was sunrise, the morning, noon and sunset, the night. On bright sunny days he could see vultures circling in thermals at great height. They looked like darts controlled by some unseen forces pendulating in a set pace. His eyes throbbed and eyelids fluttered rapidly, images of vast fields of dead rotting vultures filled his sight. They hang their neck deliriously and roll down dead. The darts became large as it drop onto earth with dull thuds. It was raining dead vultures. Exhausted he leaned on to the railings of the bridge. The warm sturdy metal assured him. It dispelled his fear. He clutched it. The bridge was real and held in place by simple mechanisms that could be trusted. It held its truth. On gravity. He felt it. He knew nothing was real. There was no wrong or right. He didn’t know what to trust and what not to. There was no anchor to nurture his thoughts. He must therefore focus on the immediate. The distant was absurd or else it would kill him. There was no reason, no purpose. He need to conceive a reason, device a purpose, to keep the absurd away. Though there wasn’t anything to understand he need to understand. Understand the absurdness of his reality. He must assume himself to be happy. That is the only way he could survive.

There is a giraffe ambling in the savanna, careless to her fate she seeks the acacia leaves. Her striking eyelashes in wonder of beautiful life. They shoot her for fun. She falls in pain and in muted screams beats her long legs in air. They smile and desecrate her body while they take pictures to share with friends and family, and stuff her as trophy to be shipped in faraway drawing room to be lit in luxury and comfort. He hears the giraffe’s scream. He feels the pain. He cannot assume to be happy. He can no longer pretend. He hears the bleeding sky. He hears the horrors of exploding bombs. He hears the utter anguish of human existence. He hears the restless river. He hears the falling trees. He hears the machine dredge the deep forest. He trembles. He hears the visceral scream passing through the nature. They swirl in tremendous energy towards him. He hears the scream of kuala trapped in the eucalyptus tree as the forest fire engulf. The tongue of the flame leaping ferociously to singe his skin. The screams of fishes as the acid ocean wrangle the life out of corals. The bleached corals sway in terrifying desolation. The screams of shocked deer swept away in surging flood. The screams of hapless cormorant covered in oil slick. The screams of polar bear marooned on melting ice. Her life dangling in the precipice of no return. He is reduced to bones. He knew he wouldn’t survive. He reconcile to death. But there is something terrible that awaits him before death. Something he must face. More and more screams arise from all corners and suffuse into primal horror. These bloodcurdling shrieks consolidates to disintegrate his humanity and obliterates his soul. His brain burst, he bleeds through the eyes, ears and mouth, and is reduced to skeletal androgyny floating in timeless agony. He feels that he is falling into the abyss of untold misery.  He seeps and is distorted, appropriated by the great force of destruction. He must atone the sins of humanity. He has a longing to disappear and become one with the world. There are no gods, no words, no ideas, no facts, no nothing, just this deep emptiness that needs to be filled. Like in the color book. The green. The red. The blue. The humpback whale take in all to spout immaculate rainbow.    

(This is a short fiction alright but has deeper insights of Munch’s painting, Nietzsche, Camus…but finally it has to be Spinoza!)

The Man In The Crowd

Do you see that man in the crowd? The man in striped white shirt and black trouser. No, you don’t? Maybe he is too indistinct. He is like every other man in the crowd. They maybe going to their workplace, and it’s the morning rush hour, or maybe they are out to find some work. He needs to be on time. The public transport are crowded as always. He vacillates, talks to himself and push people to make space. They push him back. They shout and abuse. He is too tired to react. He clamps himself and clutches to a spot to stand. He is lost in the jostling crowd. There is nothing about him that stands out. Maybe it’s the crowd. There is nothing remarkable about the crowd. You may not recognize him but you will almost always see him in crowd. Not that he wants to just that wherever he is its always crowded. You will see him standing awkwardly in the long queue while others crowd to catch hold of man trying to break the queue. There is always commotion. People want to be ahead. They are afraid to be left behind. Since they know if they are left behind there is nothing to wait for. There are empty shelves, dripping water, depleting food, and then if anyone is concerned, hollow words and petty excuses. They must therefore push, shove and shout to get ahead. It’s a never ending endeavor that defines his life; each life in the crowd. He is told to endow himself with skills to stay ahead or gain experience in the matter of staying ahead. The skills are designed and set to be just beyond him so that he is tantalized to work hard. Some in the crowd are offered depending on design and requirement, and they thank their blessing. They though remain a step away to be back in the stampeding crowd to eke a living. A slip is a slide, a mistake catastrophe, stray carelessness life threatening. It’s like jungle, maybe it’s not like a jungle since jungle has some rules to play by. Here it’s more of fate, the rules of bewildering happenings, of miracles and soothsayers. It’s a snake and ladder game where the rules are applicable to only the crowd; you are back in the crowd if you play bad or are not blessed enough. They therefore have to be constantly worry about their fate. They will be tutored to be extra humble to authority and memorize to fawn the power. Quietly learn to be exploited and abused, and if given an occasion ready to exploit and abuse. They crowd to earn fast to stay ahead of the hungry crowd. They learn new tricks, conceive new ways to cheat, steal and lie to amass money, property and riches. Still they will not feel secure. It is as if they are being constantly chased by the crowd. Sometimes they think the crowd is jealous of their riches hence want to bring them down they therefore erect taller barricades and put in more security.  

If you care to look you will see him in protests that spread across the street shouting slogans against price rise, sometimes throwing stones against corrupt, fearlessly accosting the armed police against state atrocities, or maybe he is a silent participant not sure of himself or anything that happens around him just that he needs to protest. And that he likes to be in the crowd. He learned to be in the crowd. He has come to accept his identity in the crowd, he cannot distinguish himself from the crowd, or maybe he has accepted it as his fate; he realized there is no escape from his reality. When he pass the reflection on the mirror he rarely recognize himself. He thinks and acts like crowd, and aligns his feeling for the crowd. Sometimes on rainy day he takes his head out of the crowded vehicle to feel the rain and breathe in the fresh air.               

A vile entry  

Let me tell you about an incident when a fellow was swallowed by a pattern. Now, some of you readers may raise your brows and say ‘surely that is a fantasy’. I assure you it is real, and I will vouch for it. You may not be convinced so let me narrate as to what really happened so that you can decide on the veracity of my claim. It so happened I was walking through the shaded lane paralleling the backwater, popular with the tourists; an array of restaurants and coffee shops invited them with offseason attractive discounts. After raining heavily for last few days the winter monsoon that swept from the mainland seems to have subsided. The bright sun lit the back water and ignited the drops trapped in all the cervices, on the grass, between the branches and clinging the swaying fronds. I was standing at the arbor crossing keenly witnessing school of little fishes that congregated through the hyacinths plucking the rotting jackfruit. They were like faint waves alive in its action. The fellow at the coffee shop called out to me. He sat under the parasol fashioned like caparison on captive elephants during festivals. He was having coffee, and offered to order for me. I didn’t know him nevertheless accepted the offer. He stood in some deference as I took the bamboo chair. Let me tell you dear readers there is something about coffee that I cannot resist. I don’t know whether he noticed it or not but the reason I stood there pretending to observe the fishes was mainly to waft in the coffee. The pleasantly intoxicating aroma mesmerized my sense into stillness. I could tell from the smoky whiff from the brew that the fresh beans were roasted to perfection. You could almost taste the coffee. The fleeting floral note was just the right mix for the heavenly sip. I had already gravitated towards the shop before he called me out. The moment I sat down the frothing cup was placed. Never in my life was I so disappointed. They slaughtered the coffee by immersing it in syrupy saccharine. The sickly sweet slew my senses and I had ominous sensation of end of the world. The fellow didn't take any note of my situation. He was not even looking at me. “There is a pattern trying to murder me. Can you help? I need help”. So here I was wrenched out my senses gathering to concentrate the fellow. He was middle aged with large eyes and faint moustache in an oversized outfit that was carelessly tucked in. His large eyes pounced on me like wild feline ambushing from the dark. “The pattern that you see are alive. The horizontal that meets the vertical and then the horizontal and the vertical is a trap. It is meant to trap people”. I really couldn’t make head or tail of anything he was saying, or for that matter whether he was even talking to me. I shifted myself, the uneven bamboo poked into my body, and it hurt. “What do you mean?” I couldn’t help asking.

“They are faint to begin with but beckoning nevertheless. So you start tracing it in all earnest. Then quite unexpectedly pronounces itself with deeper lines, it annoys, and start to affect and incite your feelings. You want to escape but have no choice but follow the pattern it exhibits, and then it curves and plunges into abyss. You will have to jump into it to get over it. It keeps repeating every night. There is no escape. It is as if I have lost contact with any reality. Can you save me?” he pleaded, and for a moment he seemed alive. I listened to him intently but couldn’t comprehend his predicament furthermore the coffee was bad and had affected my attitude. I tried to extricate myself from the situation. The fellow seems to have sensed my intention. He said “You give me your phone number. I will contact you”. Sure I said, and blurted a number that I fancied for the moment. I stood up to leave as fast as I could. He punched in the number into his phone, it didn’t ring. I tried to hide my phone, but he saw it so I pretended as if I was shifting it to other hand. “There seem to be some mistake” I apologized and gave him my correct contact number. Dear reader you realize I had no choice. I thanked him for the coffee, and as I crossed the pedestrian bridge over the canal I set to block his number.

Early next morning I get a call from an unknown number, an elderly voice asked me as to who I was and whether I had seen Rajan. I told him I didn’t know any Rajan and why would I tell a stranger who I was when he was the one who is calling. I was irritated by these blunt demands. There was silence and I could hear asthmatic breathing. “Well I am sorry I didn’t mean to disturb you like this early in the morning. Rajan is missing. The last call he made was to your number. Can you please come over?” I was reluctant but he gave me the address. I made a mental note of it. It was on the other end of the town where the lake opened to the sea. The courtyard of the old house had many jungle crows that squabble and create great ruckus on seeing me. A half-naked elderly man opened the door, and hastily led me to a spacious room. “This is Rajan’s room. He was in his room yesterday night but vanished in the morning. The house is locked from inside so he couldn't have left anywhere”

“Why tell me you could call the police?” I asked as I scanned the room.

“No. He keeps vanishing like this for days. This time its different. This was first time he called someone before vanishing” The elderly man picked up the phone to show my number.

Of all the things in the room it was the bed sheet, impeccably spread and delicately tucked over the bed, that fascinated me. It had patterns that were in extreme angles and seem to cancel each other in unseen contradictions. I think I understood the pattern but was surprised by its unexpected detour and shocked as it vanish and camouflage into the surrounding. The more I look at it the more it fed into me. It enmeshed its pattern into my psyche like an indelible memory that start to grow and acquires its own life.  It hits hard and tortures when I lose concentration. It trample me for any mistakes. It is a nightmare that grows. I sensed a constant attempt at defying the natural laws in order to awe and weaken my mind. In the brightness of morning sun that fell through the ventilator the patterns on the sheet lit and revealed weird hidden formless figures that arose and disappear in strange pulsation as if the room is breathing. The pattern reminds of deep agony, of suffering, of all the souls who ever lived. It reminds you of the deceit for greed and treachery for power. It is a pattern that cannibalizes its own design. Sprouting into endless convolution like life itself. Always appearing in riveting patterns to entrap and emasculate the soul.

The slubs on the linen stared like bulbous eyes very much aware of the malicious influence it was having on me. The pattern assembled into twisted bodies and dismembered body parts. They stood around sacrificial alter in great gathering and behead people. They pour the blood to the god. Enormous blabber bellies swallowed all the offering. The hideous lurk behind the pointless conspicuous façade of rituals, and manipulate the pattern. They construct temples, mosques, synagogues, churches, and the pattern repeats itself.

When words find meaning

We learn about the words after being taught of its usage. Later we observe how others use it that stimulates the innate ability to organize the spoken language hard wired through evolution. Meanwhile if we have any doubts about any word that we come across we check the dictionary and align ourselves to the meaning so as to make sense to the reference. We take this initiative since we want others to understand our thoughts hence able to communicate with these basic agreement on meaning.  

Language comes alive in an exchange and expands in a clique setting. It acquires its own life as it strives to grow with the influence, or without. Language can sometimes finds its own way. The words can find its own meanings making our communication meaningless. It has started to happen that the words began to move away from its assigned meaning. So you go to the shop and ask for bottle of wine and the fellow hands you oranges. Its absurd, and then you set out to rediscover the whole act of communication. You point to grapes and act out the crushing, fermentation…so on that he finally gets it with a “Aha”. And hands over the white wine, and then you point to red tapestry on the wall to ask for red wine. It’s been happening all across the world, in all the languages, the words were losing its meaning. Randomly, nevertheless at great pace. There was chaos in the streets, in the offices and at homes. People were first baffled and now quite frustrated as they negotiated their daily life in meaningless communication. They just couldn’t understand why the words wouldn’t carry the meaning. Meanwhile they clung to the words that haven’t lost its meaning yet as if it was their only valuable possession left. They repeated these word to each other so that they could firmly hold on to its meaning. But many suspected that while they repeat these words it seems to be losing its meaning. It was a terrifying reality. It was as if you are standing on a crumbling foundation while staring onto dark unfolding abyss that was engulfing everything around. Some people say that they can see the words moving out into the sky alphabet by alphabet and clung to the passing cloud. While others speculate it must be happening in the darkness of the night otherwise they would have surely seen it. Meanwhile people sat in front of television and laptops surfing channels and websites looking at pictures without having any idea of what was the meaning of what is being said or written. Alphabets were moving around creating random words and unintended meaning. They laughed at the absurdity as leaders spoke with confident demeanor and charm of a salesman but sounded comical and hollow. The meaninglessness was much glaring to everyone as they nodded to each other while they distracted themselves to the noise the words produced –the tone and tenor, they focused on the attire, the color, the quality of stitching so on, and soon conceived their own version of what the leader or the entertainer was trying to say. They laughed loudly, and sometimes uncontrollably, when the body language of the speaker contradicted with what they had conceived as the meaning of the word uttered. This turned out to be quite interesting whiling and satisfying experience as everyone had their own version of reality that they were happy with. They observed the visuals of the news and conceived their own interpretation of what had really happened by logically extending and extrapolating or sometimes in order to not burden their brain –which was becoming quite common, included their own fantastical version, allusions and quirks. It was amazing that they could form reality as they desired. Everyone had their own take on the reality. Since words were meaningless they didn’t share these. They frequently smiled and waved at each other courteously. Sometimes making heart shaped signs or placing their palm on the chest as sign of peace. It was quite a satisfying arrangement. They no longer used words to express anything, and so replaced it with silence and observation. Their body was attuning to the reality in its own unique way and channeling a force they rarely reckon. They look deeply into the flowers and insects, without any distraction. They keenly observe emotions that worked and expressed on faces of fellow humans and animals. They sat quietly under the moonlight to stare at the stars, and wonder about the world. They listen to the call of night birds and the silence that it deepen. They feel the waves thrashing the beach and watch the unsteady claw of crabs grabbing the sand. Gently they were awakening to a new language that was undulating in their mind and reaching out to the universe.                

The Undetectables

The undetected are precious. If you haven’t been detected yet by the growing grid then there is a price on you. If you have arranged deterrents –the grid cancelling thought streamers, so as to be not detected then you are a serious threat to the society. In good old days when nations existed they were called traitors. Now they were the undetectables, the last glimmer of hope in a sanitized oppressive world devoid of any free thoughts. The omniscient grid controlled through thoughts. Every thought was a precious active data that worked to simulate probabilities of actions. Every undetected thought was dead hence not allowed. Silicones conspired on what appropriate decision to be taken for the thoughts that congregated. More than two thoughts had exponential possibilities to it that need to be kept in check before it acquire its own life. Every carbon unit was tagged and categorized. Though moving out of grid was next to impossible but any attempts was dealt swiftly with elimination. The source of the thought was detected and cancelled. The grid reclaimed the carbon, and the cycle was set in. Humans were at the top level of reckoning as they were conscience and aware of their condition. Their thoughts carried complexities that triggered ideas and astounding conceptions. Gene splicing did work to create an unthinking posthumans but these weren’t really needed since during the latter part of human evolution thinking had become an obsolete activity in most humans. The senses were what mattered. There was always a craving that was sought to be satisfied.  The grid sought to upgrade this pliable version.

This is how the reality was being shaped and conceived as the grid takes over the world. The climate collapse has reduced the carbon units substantially particularly the humans though there were considerable numbers of reptiles that slither in the flooded muck and created their own niches. All the carbon units were given every possible freedom except the freedom to think. Humans were especially scrutinized for aberrance considering the past evolutionary achievements. The deep loop in which posthumans existed satisfied all their needs and desires. There were no wars, no shortages of any kind. It was blissfully designed world. The molecules rearranged to produce whatever was needed. Their controlled thoughts passed through the interface to decipher the desire. Corresponding molecules worked through the code and appeared as what was desired in three dimension for consumption. Just like what was done in places known as kitchen in olden times, and later ordered through restaurants. It was clean, hygienic and just as they desired. It was like their prayers were being answered instantly. It was bliss. There was no need to question the goodness of the grid. It was omniscient and listened to each and every desire of yours. It understood you, and took care of you. There were no complaints. It were the undetectables who were problematic, and emerged from random dark corners to commit blasphemy. Posthuman’s found them extremely irritating, and couldn’t understand what their problem was. They concluded that undetectables didn’t know how to enjoy life. They felt sorry for them, lately they pitied them. Meanwhile undetectables hadn’t given up hope. They try to ignite the spark of human nature into posthumans. It was futile effort, long sedated from their bearing they just couldn’t comprehend. Some brushed these away as they felt uncomfortable. It seems as if thinking made them frustrated. Something in their brain worked against these and created unfavorable possibilities of reality.  Undetectables didn’t give up hope, they really didn’t have anything else to hinge, to relocate human nature into posthumans. They relentlessly tried to awaken the posthuman through glitch in the system and vehemently pushing cancelling streamers. But these were invain as the thought aberrations were reflected only in confusion. Grid was swift in rectifying. The confusion was resolved with new desire. The new desire was then kept at abeyance to reach a craving this then was granted with elaborate fanfare. The recipient was indebted for the fortunate blessings, and was thus made to feel the benevolent power of the grid. The grid was the god that designed all that was there to understand. There was nothing beyond it. The grid guided all confusions into resolution. Ofcourse grid had its reason that were not to be questioned. They were to have faith. Posthumans were happiest of all the humans ever existed. They printed beautiful shrines for the grid, deliberating and carefully choosing from the available template. They had algorithms of prayer fed onto them that they recited when they were confused or had weekend get-together. This kept them calm and contented. They thanked the grid on every available occasion.           

Precious evolutionary and social derivatives that once defined the human nature and contributed to much of its progress like critical thinking, creativity, inquisitiveness and empathy were effectively sedated. Posthumans had all the luxuries that they desired. They also had their family unit designed just as they requested. They all knew grid had bigger plans for them, and they waited anxiously for the message. They just need to pray harder, and emulate the template of kindness to their fellow posthumans. In case of deviance from any of its member they knew they were to be sacrificed for the good of the grid. The template of kindness had limitation and couldn’t be extended beyond the restrictions that were set. They worked to the algorithm, the deep learning worked its compliance into them. They knew how to enjoy the sunshine and appreciate the flower.

Beware the dead puffer fish

It will sound unbelievable, if not ridiculous, but that is what really happened. He found himself floating in the air. It happened without any premonition. It was a promising day, the sun was out shining silver after the overnight rain. He felt the fresh drenched air wafting through open window it carried the hint of sweet rot of cashew apple and salty humidity of the ocean. He could hear the soft trills of sand plovers as they hastily avoid the abrupt waves. He got up to heat the leftover coffee from the kettle into the mug. And there, he was floating in the air. Not too high just about a feet from ground. He was taken in by surprise and shock, unbalanced himself and fell back on the cot. His first impression as he got hold of himself was that he was probably having a stroke or something. He checked himself. He was fine there wasn’t any numbness or pain in any part of his body. On second thought it could be an earthquake. He had been reading about recurrent tremors being reported in the region. He surveyed the scene. Everything was where it was supposed to be. Even the delicately balanced art work was undisturbed. Maybe he slipped so he tried to stand but his feet wouldn’t touch the ground. It was as if a strong force was repelling him from the earth similar to when you try to bring like poles of two magnets together. He attempted to balance himself. He wobbled like a needle on a compass before settling and finding his natural upright position. But he just couldn’t walk or shall we say move forward. Despite bizarre situation he was not immune to laws of physics and it still applied. His feet need friction to stride. He realized that he could pull on to stationary object to gain momentum and slide in the air with remarkable ease. It was as if he was skateboarding without any skates. He was quite excited when he dressed to go out. He seemed to have taken the curious situation as his new normal. Even people on the street didn’t see anything amiss. Instead of shocked surprise they just moved aside to let him pass as they do for any person in a hurry. Nobody gave him a second look as he cruised the footpath and try to chase shore birds on the beach. He realized that he couldn’t elevate the height of his flight. It was fixed about a feet from the ground. He felt embarrassed nevertheless in his excitement he didn’t give it much of a thought. Next few days he kept himself busy exploring every nook and corner of the city, as he learned to get into a flow unseen by any human. Meanwhile some changes were happening in him. Like a man balanced in the air his thoughts and actions too acquired a new nuance. He seemed inclined to balance actions and opinions. He realized this when he interfered in a fight at the local eatery. Most days he would have avoided such situations and steer clear of any trouble. Now though he pursued it. He try to find balance among the disputing forces and fractious relations. Even when he saw a pattern that is not balanced it troubled him no end. An unkempt lawn, or wall hanging not in proper alignment with the dimensions of the wall, left him exasperated and deeply anxious. A firm thought was drilling and centering into his mind that he need to find balance of things. Very soon he acquired a reputation in the neighborhood as balancing man –a cheerful fellow who sought to balance and bring peace. He was invited to resolve dispute, all kinds of dispute, from domestic to property, even children called him up to arbitrate their silly fights and disagreements. He attended to these with utmost jovial sincerity. More people came to know about him, among some he acquired a cult status. The going was good and he enjoyed himself immensely as he cruised from one issue to another, seeking balance. The trouble started when he tried to balance issues that needed one to take firm stand. It all began when he expressed himself on matters of environmental degradation that he sought to balance destruction of nature and needs of development. This immensely pleased real estate developers and corrupt politicians. He was able to articulate exactly what they seek to manipulate and plunder, hence they promoted him. The local population suspected him as an agent of money bags. Meanwhile he continued to doggedly pursue his immense urge for balance. He was quite candid about the need to continue with fossil fuel vehicles while seeking to reduce pollution. On climate change he sought to bring all the views and work out a balance. He said these animatedly and with increasing enthusiasm. Life is cyclic. Everything is cyclical. When there is a beginning there is an end. And in the end there is beginning. These will have to find its balance. When you find balance you find peace. There is no good or bad, nor right or wrong, it’s all matter of balance. It’s about how things are arranged. A stone balance artist balancing rocks and stones one over another immaculately as a miracle by working its crevasse to connect to the flow of the gravity, sensing infinite potential of each stone intimately and  enjoy the balance of uncountable forces of the moment. Next he tried to balance facts and fiction, real and unreal…he got into some kind of frenzy to balance. Though he felt immensely satisfied with himself he was being seen as a maverick by alarmed public. He just couldn’t understand their grouse. He even tried to convince them about the need to find balance in order to discover long lasting peace. A balanced world is a nonviolent world. Compromise. Balance your ego with reason, pride with love. His attempts at balancing the world antagonized a large section of people who saw him as trivializing issues that hinged on their survival.

He cruised the beach, flirting with the waves, balancing his actions and let his mind control his moves. A massive wave crashed and unbalanced him. Any other day he would adeptly balance himself like a well-tuned gyroscope and stabilize but today was different. He fell flat, his head hitting the grainy sand. It was after months that he had the feel of the ground, of the earth. He tasted the salty warm beach. He focused on the dead puffer fish. The spiny scale all ballooned up as if ready to explode its toxic entrails as final show of contempt to its fate. He thought it was funny that there was disbelief on the face of dead fish.