Sunday, 29 April 2012

God spelled backwards is doG

The big question he is trying to answer today is this - did dog come before god? The word, that is. If that is the case, then surely the evil aliens induced this prank in some vulnerable human to spell it backward and assign the resultant word to what the Oxford dictionary calls 'the creator and ruler of the universe and source of all moral authority; the supreme being'.

However, if god came before dog, spiritually and linguistically, why was dog named so? Does the dog hold the key to understanding and who knows, even reaching god? Y strongly feels that when he dies right at the edge of the Mayan calendar, he will see one of the dogs he made run around the neighborhood with firecrackers tied to his tail, appear with a halo around the tail. All the animal lovers will go to heaven, all the dog bashers will burn in hell.

The prophecY has it henceforth - worship your gods and goddesses, but don't forget your dogs and bitches. Wait a second. Bitch spelled backwards is no goddess. So forget the bitches. God is male. And Y spelled backwards is Y - thankfully there are no hidden meanings here.

Saturday, 28 April 2012

Causa proxima non remota spectatur...

A diversity of violent actions perpetrated by people who are aware that the odds they will return alive are close to zero.

This is how they define suicide attacks. This is why he is such an admirer of the deadly and the dead bomber. In his opinion he epitomizes the essence of conviction. His is the selfless act. In annihilation he seeks salvation. Fed up of the world, assigning to himself a pseudo cause, with supreme disdain for everything ordinary, the bomber sets himself ablaze.

Y doesn't for a moment support the motive behind or the result of the bombing. He too is saddened by the wails and cries of the bereaved families of the deceased. But he wonders which training and development program in the corporates of this world can match the results of such a training for destruction program? He closes his eyes and minces his teeth when the doctor draws his blood for a medical test. He can't believe there exist people in this world whose hands don't tremble when they pull the plug on their lives.

Death awaits all mortals. And there are no immortals, so death basically awaits all. While the fearful like him try to indulge in the world to distract themselves from the causa finalis, there are a handful who romanticize death. The immediate cause is death. The immediate effect is death.

But the lovers of liquidation must be careful about the means of extermination. He is told that there are too many Chinese bombs being bought by the terrorists to save costs as the double dip recession approaches. Imagine a suicide bomber who shouts his battlecry and pulls out the pin of his bomb in slow motion while the spectators stand numb, but the bomb doesn't go off. Then the people catch hold of him and stone him to death. Then, what if the bomb fails and people run away too. He will have to hang his head in shame and go back to his tribe and technicians as a suicide bomber who came back alive. The children of his brethren will taunt him, 'look ma...suicide uncle is alive'.

Damn, there are risks involved in this act too. There is nothing safe anymore in this world. And they can't even rehearse for this, for how can anyone practice dying!

Tough profession, this dying and doing one.

Sunday, 22 April 2012

The revolution got auctioned honey

Does it happen to you - the blurring of vision, the dimming of light, the silencing of noise, the turning of people sitting next to you into cartoons? It happens to him frequently, especially in formal settings. He first tries to absorb the seriousness of the occasion, he fails. He wonders if the other participants are actually as enthusiastic about the trivia or are they only pretending. Surely they are pretending. So he pretends too. For sometime. Then he realizes others pretend better, so relatively he is still not performing as well as he should. But then all his life he has been pretending - convinced that one mediocre act will lead to a lesser mediocre act ad infinitum. So he can pretend to himself but not to others? Then what good is this practice of pretense anyway? Slowly he slips into his own world - the one of which he is the greatest revolutionary - muffling the meeting.

In his private world, he is running out of time. Even in the public world everyone is running out of time - but the fact that noone knows the total time allotted makes it fashionable to waste years living the prescribed life. The wishes of the individual surrenders to the whims of the common. Not so in his world. There the progress of the planet depends on the individual acts of defiance. The negative forces unleashed by the evil aliens try to force the men into subjugation, but the men resent. They are ably led by our hero - the savior of the world - who moves from fort to fort with a clenched fist and a shiny sword. In the decisive war, he takes time out from his tours to personally slaughter a myriad evil aliens. He, at his punitive best, also beheads a few feeble minded humans, who surrendered to the demands of the aliens, embracing with alacrity the mundane life. As the supreme commander of the revolution to save the individual from extinction, he allows every soldier to fight in his own instinctive way. The aliens, by some evil trick, replenish their population. They try to lure the weak-willed into submission by offering them something which they had never heard of before - jobs. The aliens hope that jobs will keep the humans so occupied they will never have the time to think about the revolution. Much to the disappointment of the savior of the world, there are many takers for jobs. Little do they know that the jobs have been created to cast a spell on them - the moment they get their hands on a job, they will only want to preserve it and grow it. The hero wants to stay away from any job lest it may lead him astray the path of revolution. How to deal with this phenomenon of jobs which alienates his comrades from him? Should he also get into a job to take others out of it?

'So do you want to retain your job or not?', the leader of the revolution is extracted out of his private world by this question. 'You don't seem to be interested in this meeting at all.'

'Ofcourse I want this job Sir, I was only thinking about the negative impact that our entry into this new market may have on our bottom line in the short run. However, I think, on an average and in the long run, the impact will be positive'.

Wednesday, 18 April 2012

Partial disasters

As he sat stunned by the spectacular sights of semi-trucks being twisted and tossed across the skies of Texas, he could not help but grieve on the partiality of the natural disasters. The developed countries get such spectacular forms of disaster, while the developing countries get the boring kinds - floods, droughts, heat waves, cold waves et al. Why can't the poor people and their vehicles be embraced by a powerful tornado? Even if they die playing in the twister, atleast their family members will get to tell the posterity with supreme pride, 'your grandfather died fighting a tornado'. So much better than 'your grandfather was found floating on the flood waters' or 'your grandfather died of a heat stroke'.

So he sat there, infront of the TV set, hoping that there is a tornado in his town soon, twisting, twirling, tossing trees and trucks alike.

Tuesday, 17 April 2012

One life. Do More.

This quote caught his attention in the gym a few days back. And it has been haunting him ever since. That he is reading a book which relates to a similar theme doesn't help either. He is beginning to believe that like the protagonist of 'The Stranger', when the moment approaches, he will also be concluding, 'everything happened to me...I never acted myself'. He is not exactly a failure in the world, considering that he has managed to make the best out of all the opportunities he got. But that's the issue with his existence - he didn't create opportunities, just grabbed a few which came his way. He seeks refuge in music, vents out his anger in the gym, runs his lungs out sometimes. He tries to convince himself that good men bad men, great men small men, successful men failed men, they all die. Everything reduces to nothing. Being to becoming to nothing - this is how we move in life - towards death.
But then, once in a while, he comes across such powerful statements which jolt him out of his cocoon of futility. O yes, he isnt doing more. He isnt even doing the bare minimum. He can do more. He can do so much more. He had illusions of becoming the greatest man to have ever walked on earth. Can he now reclaim the lost territory of his childhood dreams?

Or will he only write about it?