Wednesday, 23 May 2012

Rage, rage...

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light
- Dylan Thomas

It is widely believed that when Y was born, he had his fists clenched, as if he was ready to punch the first face he saw. Instead of crying like other mediocre infants do, he had a look of unqualified contempt on his face, like he was terribly dissatisfied with the world he had been sent to. In a fit of rage, baby Y scratched the face of the first nurse he could get hold of. Its been years since he arrived on this planet, but the rage doesn't leave him. He keeps wanting to bludgeon to death any of the many people he hates.

Not that rage is all bad. The internet talks about the positive effects of this habit.

'Rage can sometimes lead to a state of mind where the individual experiencing it believes, and often is capable of doing things that may normally seem physically impossible (angry guys lift heavier weights in the gym). Those experiencing rage usually feel the effects of high adrenaline levels in the body. This increase in adrenal output raises the physical strength and endurance levels of the person and sharpens their senses, while dulling the sensation of pain. Temporal perspective is also affected: people in a rage have described experiencing events in slow-motion (so next time you are watching a cricket match live and you want to savor its every moment, please get yourself really pissed). An explanation of this "time dilation" effect is that instead of actually slowing our perception of time, high levels of adrenaline increase our ability to recall specific minutiae of an event after it occurs (be violently angry when you are preparing for your exam - you will be able to recall every word of what you read). Since humans gauge time based on the amount of things they can remember, high-adrenaline events such as those experienced during periods of rage seem to unfold more slowly.'

More research reveals that Y is most probably a practitioner of narcissistic rage.

'Narcissistic rage is a reaction to narcissistic injury, a perceived threat to a narcissist’s self-esteem or self-worth. It occurs on a continuum from instances of aloofness, and expression of mild irritation or annoyance, to serious outbursts, including violent attacks. It has also been suggested that narcissists have two layers of rage. The first layer of rage can be thought of as a constant anger (towards someone else), and the second layer being a self-aimed wrath.'

As narcissistic people are dependent on other people to boost their self-esteem, any challenge, negative remark or disagreement from other people can be considered to be criticism, rejection and mockery. They take it as a personal assault and lash out at the person who provoked them. This can cause physical as well as psychological harm to the other person. One can only imagine what lies in store for those who dare to dislike this blog!

With such rockstaresque side-effects, it makes fashionable sense to be a narcissist.

So go ahead...rage.

Tuesday, 22 May 2012

Stayin' alive

Feel the city breaking,
And everybody shaking,
Stayin' alive, stayin' alive.
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive,
Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive...


He sang Stayin' Alive, one of Y's favorites,  all his life - but he is dead now. And he will stay dead. So what was the point in staying alive? Why preach something you can't practice! Nobody's getting out of life alive. The glass is half empty and it's leaking too.

Na, na, na, na, you can't stay alive, stay alive...


Bee Gees singer Robin Gibb: Oxfordshire residents pay tribute

Robin Gibb with microphone Robin Gibb pictured at charity event he held at his home

Oxfordshire residents have paid tribute to Bee Gees singer Robin Gibb who died at his home in Thame.

Gibb, who passed away after battling cancer, was famous for hits including Stayin' Alive and Night Fever.

Broadcaster Bob Harris said: "In addition to the talent and fame and everything else we know, underneath it all he was such a good-hearted person.

"He was genuinely warm and caring and not at all affected by the phenomenal success."

Gibb formed the Bee Gees with his brothers Barry and Maurice in 1958 and the group were among the biggest-selling of all time with hits spanning five decades.

Sunday, 20 May 2012

DustY is the road to god

It was tough to attract the attention of the preacher. Dustman had named him Greatman. Surrounded by his devotees all the time, the great man was the dispensing machine of happiness and peace. It was rumored that the mere sight of him cured cancers, relieved pains and caused rains. Dustman hated him, for Greatman epitomized all that was wrong with this world. He took advantage of the feeble mindedness of the average human being. One devotee would wash his feet; others would drink the water that rinsed him. He had made it mandatory for all of them to donate one-tenth of their income as a tithe. A small price indeed, for eternal bliss! Those who couldn’t attend his session in person had the benefit of worshipping him through the television screen. His spiritual programs were being broadcast daily on all the leading channels.  The housewives would light incense sticks and sit like praying mantes when he spoke the wise words. It was widely believed that his blessings took the form of electromagnetic waves, which could be captured by the cameras and disseminated for wider absorption by the television screens.

Not that Dustman needed a reason to kill anyone. But the preacher deserved to die on many counts. He was breeding superstition, that TV friendly chameleon. He was celebrated and respected, while Dustman was not. And worst of all, he was making those miserable people feel satisfied with their mediocre lives by offering them the concept of god and goodwill. Dustman wanted to educate him on the concept of aliens and annihilation.

In one of the congregations, Dustman asked a child to pass on a note to Greatman. It read, ‘I have sinned all my life and amassed wealth. Diagnosed with a fatal disease, I am scared about rotting in hell after death. So I seek reparation, and this I will do by putting my entire wealth at your holy feet.  I don’t want you to make me live – I only want you to pray that I am not sent to hell. I will be surrendering my riches, which can feed an entire province, at room number 111 of Yilton Hotel, one mile down this street. If it is possible for me to ask this, please come alone. I want this charity to be secret – a divine contract between the preacher and the follower.

Dustman did not believe this will work. Greedy though he was, Greatman did not look foolish enough to fall for this. Nevertheless, Dustman booked room number 111 in the name of one of the disciples whose ID card he stole from the gathering. And he waited there patiently. He had identified patience as the most desirable trait of any serial killer. He revised the plan to send the preacher to the alien spaceship. The day passed by without anyone bothering him for anything. Though he had put on a fake moustache and worn a wig, he was careful not to be seen by too many people there.

He had just started to sleep when the doorbell rang. He quickly put on a suit and checked his suitcase, which housed his killing kit. To his pleasant surprise, Greatman too was careful enough not to look like himself. ‘I had to come here unseen to escape the attention of my followers here’, he said. ‘Thank you greedy bastard – now I don’t have to worry about how to take you out unnoticed’, Dustman thought.

‘So where is the money son?’

‘It is kept safely in the form of gold bars, in my old house – just 5 miles from here. The box is so heavy I couldn’t lift it alone. I know your time is precious, but can you please come with me and relieve me of the burden I have carried all my life?’ Dustman made sure he sounded tired and diseased when he spoke.

‘I can spare half an hour to save a soul. God has given me enough time to do good work.’

‘The aliens have given me enough time to do some really bad work’, Dustman wanted to tell him.

So they both went to the abandoned house which belonged to no one in particular. It was supposed to be a haunted mansion – the abode to beasts and ghosts. There were no ghosts in the neighborhood. But now it had a beast and a human. Dustman had kept a coffin in one of the corners of the largest room.

‘There is your box Sir’, he said. And he wasn’t wrong because very soon Greatman’s body will belong to that coffin box.

‘Why would you keep your gold in that coffin?’

‘So that no one ever dares to open it – this is the safest place I could get’

Greatman, afraid of the ambience, wanted to take the gold and run back to his comfortable hermitage.  So he bent down to ascertain the weight of gold he needed to carry back. His nervous system suddenly became depressed and he fell down unconscious. Dustman had used the perfect dose of chloroform – large enough to paralyze him and small enough to not cause a cardiac arrest.

Greatman woke up admiring the long defunct ceiling fan of that room. He could not move from where he was – not because of chloroform – he had been tied in that position by the soon-to-be serial killer.

Then he started cursing. ‘If you don’t let me go, god will destroy you’. Dustman smiled at him.

Cursing turned into pleading. ‘Please let me go and I will give you half my wealth’. Dustman nodded his head in refusal.

Pleading turned into crying.

Crying led to more crying.

‘Do you really believe in god?’ asked Dustman.

Greatman stopped sobbing. May be Dustman was only trying to see how firm is his belief. ‘Of course I do. I have seen god.’

‘So he will protect you from me – for I am evil and proudly so.’ Dustman dragged a dagger out of the killing kit. ‘Let us try this hypothesis then – I will put this dagger into your chest but you will not bleed. God will save you somehow. A lightning will strike me as soon as I raise my hand now’

 ‘No…please noooo. I will die. Please don’t do it. I will accept whatever you want me to. There is no god. You are right. Now please don’t kill me.’

‘Who said that I wanted you to not believe in god?’

‘Then what is that you want? Do you believe in god?’

‘I believe in the evil aliens. In fact I represent them on earth.’

‘Well then I believe in aliens too. I will worship them from now. I will make my followers worship them too.’

‘You have a problem here. The aliens are not appeased by devotion. They actually don’t give a damn.’

‘You can never get away by killing me, why don’t you understand?’

‘I have chosen you because I want to be noticed, please understand.’

‘What difference does it make whether you kill me or anyone else? You only need to kill. Let me go, I will help you find many people you can kill.’

‘No thanks. I am a freelancer serial killer – not much into networking.  And about the difference part…well, the difference between killing someone else and killing you is like the difference between awesome and fucking awesome. No more questions please.’

Dustman then pulled the dagger high and pushed it deep into the chest of the preacher. He did not try to muffle the scream – there were no houses in the vicinity and it was anyway rumored that people heard weird screams from that haunted mansion all the time. He then tore open his chest and filled it with the dust, fistfuls of which he had diligently dug from the garden. He sat down there with the dead Greatman and admired his work.

The road to god is full of dust’, he whispered in his ears.

The body was found two days later. One newspaper carried the headline – Dusty Killer slaughters the spiritual leader. Very soon everyone, including the police started calling him Dusty. Dustman did not like that name – it had no impact. It was like calling Spiderman Spidey, Batman Batty and Ironman Irony. What an irony!

But Dusty had arrived. He killed three more people in the next three months, but no one of them as well known as Greatman. He made sure that the police got the required clues to link all the killings to him. He had learned this in his corporate job – take credit for what you do. He also had provoked a few copycat killings. Someone killed someone else and filled the body with ash. But he fell down unconscious by the side of the dead body. So thankfully, there was no Ashman as a competition.

In search of more popularity, Dusty now wanted to kill a politician and an actor – the two breeds he hated the most. So he decided in favor of an actor turned politician.

Tuesday, 8 May 2012

Enter Dustman

It takes three to be a serial killer. Even children know this now, after the success of so many TV serials about serial killers. He had already got two. He was finding it tough to decide on who deserved the most to be his third.

He was not your typical copycat serial killer aspirant, for he was killing with a motive. He wasn’t trying to fast-track apocalypse. On his to-kill list were all those who had got more from their lives than they should have. And those who had managed to upset him in some way. A firm believer in the law of averages, he was sure he was only doing nature’s work by attempting to restore the ‘balance’ unnaturally. Nature has memory and it doesn’t forgive. A rare occurrence usually happens, given enough time. And if it doesn’t happen, he will make it happen. Very soon someone will come to know this.
He was also considering if he should leave a signature or do a ghoulish ritual after every kill. Every serial killer is supposed to seek recognition for his work. May be he should perfect a dance of destruction with vigorous, violent movements. But then what good is a dancer without an audience? For some time he pondered over the possibility of subjecting his victim to the visual treat of his violent dance before killing him. The dance would be so violent he would beg to be killed rather than being made to watch the brisk moves of the sadistic dancer. Or maybe he could write a Y on the nearest wall with the blood of the deserving departed. Nah, this was very ordinary – he wanted something creative. Just when he was about to give up on giving himself a ritual, a speck of dust hit his eye. He got his ritual. He would tear open the chest of the dead and fill it with dust. The media will hail him as the Dustman. Dust thou art, to dust returnest…

Having finalized the ritual, he again scanned his list. He had made sure both the genders and all the age groups had equal representation in his list. Not because he was a champion of gender equality. Just that he didn’t want the media to conclude that he was either gay or impotent or a victim of child molestation. Serial killers are always stereotyped by the media. But the Dustman won’t fit the pattern.  

There were many worthy of being chosen. But a few stood out – his first boss, his second boss, his third boss, his current boss – but it would establish a direct motive – and in any case, everyone wants to kill his boss – so this would have been ordinary. The bosses will live, for a while. Then there was this always-happy employee-of-every-quarter. This joker was inspired by the collective wisdom of all the self help books of this world. With a perpetual smile on his face, he went on doing the same thing every day without getting frustrated. His happiness was frustrating and fake. But his life was so miserable death would be a gift to him. And the Dustman was not in his charitable mood.
After burning midnight oil for two successive nights, he finally decides on his blessed victim, the one whose blood will anoint a serial killer. He will not shoot the messenger. He will cut the messenger of God to pieces…

Saturday, 5 May 2012

The centipede effect

The centipede was happy quite
Until a toad in fun
Said, 'Pray, which leg comes after which?'
This raised her mind to such a pitch
She lay distracted in a ditch
Considering how to run.

                                                 (from 'The Centipede's Dilemma')

The centipede was happily walking until the toad dragged her outside her body. For the first time in her life, she looked at her complex constitution in complete trepidation.

Of late, have you ever spent a day observing yourself from outside? The centipede story is only a fable, for only human beings possess the ability to observe themselves as distinct from the rest of the nature. But would we want to observe ourselves going through a regular day?

 If you are an average human being, then this is how you will follow yourself through the day - you get up at the same time every morning, give or take fifteen minutes; you finish your breakfast in a flash and then take off for your office. You get stuck in three traffic jams while rushing for office and you curse all those who dare to get out of the jams ahead of you. Surely you deserve to reach your workplace sooner than others. You arrive at your office and take your rightful place in your designated cubicle or cabin, depending on the number of years you have spent doing the same thing. And now you are ready to do the same thing for one more day. You laugh ten times at the ten jokes shared by your boss. You nod your head in complete appreciation of the strategic plan that has been shared with you. Then its time for your favorite activity of the day - lunch. You check out the menu of the canteen yet again and order the same sandwich. You eat with the same set of people. You ogle at the same female, who, you would like to think, always takes up a seat from where she can let you admire her. Over lunch you discuss the movies you watched during the weekend or plan to watch during the coming holidays. You reveal with great pride how you drove to this nice place, along with a group of adventurous friends, to catch a glimpse of the awesome sunset standing atop the amazing hillock. To your surpise, all others have been there too and they let you know that even the sunrise there is equally breathtaking. After the lunch, you demonstrate to your colleagues what a team player you are, by offering your unsolicited advice on how they should impress the boss. You then send a few emails in a row, thereby getting done with your deliverables for the day. Now you want to exit the workplace as soon as you can. But not before your fiercest rival leaves. Damn the man; he just hangs around to wave the boss goodbye when he leaves. You will never stoop down to such dirty tricks. From your moral high ground, you pity such talentless sycophants. Thankfully he leaves in an hour. So you leave too. Right before leaving you send that one email you had drafted right after lunch to your boss. It acts like a time stamp on your exit. So you are out of your office, and now on the way back you listen to DJ Frustration on the radio. Can anyone believe it, you again get stuck in three jams on the way back! We will not get into what happens after you reach home and before you sleep. We will assume that like your every act during the day, even this will be extraordinary.

If you indeed watch yourself like this, will it affect your regular day? Will you still be able to do the same thing, expecting different results? The centipede effect suggests that being too analytical can be a distraction to what comes naturally. What comes naturally to you? Whatever it is, don't analyze it. The centipede could not walk. You will not be able to work. Or live.

Tuesday, 1 May 2012

Bastardization of creativity...

She was trying to sketch the perfect horse. She was so bad at sketching she ended up drawing an imperfect donkey, the left half of which was thinner than the right half. A connoisseur par excellence bought it for a million bucks. To him it appeared to capture the world as it stands - imperfect, without any sense or symmetry. To Y it still seemed like the donkey gone wrong. But then, with a post graduate diploma in pyrotechnics, Y can be forgiven for demonstrating destructivity with complete disdain.

It seems to Y that creativity is the most abundant of the aliens' gifts to mankind. He feels that if he were to tell you 'Wow you are so creative', your reponse will be 'How could you possibly know?!'. There is no escaping the creators - they are saying Hieeee in place of Hi, taking photographs of the greenest grass in every garden, reviewing the works of other creators, adding animation to power point presentations, and making elliptical patterns  out of pissing. He predicts that being uncreative will also become creative because very few people can manage to be like that. With so many people thinking 'outside the box' all the time in all the companies, very soon noone will need the box.

With so much creativity in this world, Y wonders why is there any destruction at all.

What a creative post, this one!