NYC

What could one say about Tim? One might call him a hard worker, perseverant in his tasks and dedicated to his profession. One might describe Tim as a curt and, by extension, reticent individual. One could say a number of things about Tim, a plethora of words to describe the man. One could, of course, stop referring to oneself as ‘one’ and speak with simplicity. Sounds like something Tim would say; he has little tolerance for such verbosity.

The problem here is, sadly, there are very few people who can claim to know Tim well enough to provide a thorough or, at the very least, not inaccurate description of his character. People who frequently interact with the man, scarce as they are, report a singular oddity regarding him – he appears to have no friends.

While the majority of the debate regarding that statement may be on the suggestion of glaring hyperbole – that having “no” friends is far-fetched and unrealistic for a man of Tim’s stature, the scrutiny of my own is focused upon the word “have”, and I can assure you that the statement is as accurate as a sleep-deprived, mentally disturbed, heavily intoxicated, amateur rifle-shooting walrus aiming at a half-eaten burrito situated on the opposite hemisphere is not.

To put it succinctly, Tim has no friends. That is not to say it had always been so.

The evening air was brisk, much as was the pace of the man who emerged into it. Tim took fleeting glimpses at his right and left, paused for a moment, and repeated the action. The usual act that follows this would be crossing the street, but Tim hurried on straight, for he had no intention of being followed. Places had to be reached, arrangements had to be made and secrecy was of utmost importance. Perfection was the absolute minimum.

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The Council was as silent as a 1930’s film, and was filled with people who seemed to have grown up in that era. A look composed in varying degrees of skepticism, disapproval, and worry lay splattered across the face of each member of the Council. Year after Year, they assign this task to someone, someone capable of getting things done, and it is carried out in the traditional manner, no variations. These were old people, proud of the routine efficiency they governed this process with, and resented even the mildest notion of change. Intuition, powerful and compelling, suggested to them that this time, things would be different. For the first time in their seemingly infinite lifetimes, the future seemed uncertain.

.

Armed with a glass of wine, Tim stood on the balcony overlooking the delirious swarm of people buzzing beneath. A glance upwards at the stelliferous sky evoked an outburst of emotion from the habitually stoic man. One of those stars; I know you’re one of them, Steve. This is for you. Everything’s ready, this plan will soon bear fruit. The gloom dispelled, replaced by a slight snicker. Tim prided himself on his rather fitting choice of words right there.

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A generic woman in the crowd was generally excited about the extravagant, yet meaningless celebration that was due to take place, much as it did Year after Year. She screamed and bubbled with the same enthusiasm as the rest of the mob, held off to catch a quick peek at her watch – still three minutes to go – and then returned to the boisterous cacophony of which she was but an insignificant speck. All was as normal as it always was.

.

The Council was starting to get jittery. Two minutes to go for something that happened every Year. Had they messed up this time? Picked the wrong person? No matter, it was out of their hands now. Their doubts were irrelevant. They turned their eyes to the mammoth television screen and watched the giant, stationary ball. Any time now.

.

Tim glared at a star with utmost disgust. Cancer, Tim hated it. It wasn’t the star sign of Steve’s death, but it was the cause of it. Maybe, if the doctors had caught it a little earlier, he might have had a fighting chance. Tim knew, however, that there was no way that could have happened. Steve took his adages far more seriously than his medicines.

He took a little sip of wine and another look at the outside world; the gargantuan sphere had begun its descent and the screens around began the countdown.

.

The generic woman...I cannot be sure it is the same woman, so indistinguishable are they all, so I shall rephrase.

A generic woman, possibly the same one but probably another, one in a synchronised wave of voices, intoned the familiar chant, “N-Y-C! N-Y-C!” in a fond display of passion for her city, which celebrates the phenomenon Year after Year, and with a voice of feverish excitement.

.

Quite of the opposite nature were the spirits in the other NYC – the New Year’s Council, where a multitude of wizened old blokes with bated breath simultaneously exhaled, not out of relief, but a lung capacity diminished over their innumerable Years. And in those Years, the people they had tasked with the duty of ushering in the New Year had done their task with a comfortable simplicity, throwing up no surprises. Year followed Year and order was maintained in a world which, in most other spheres, had degenerated into chaos. In a few seconds, their established order would meet the same fate.

.

As the ball was inches from the ground and a New Year was mere seconds from birth, a wave of memories flooded over Tim, plunging him into reminiscence. One incident in particular dominated over his thoughts – the time when Steve explained why he refused to go for his annual checkups.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away, Tim,” Steve edified, “and I’ve got apples around me all the time. Nothing’s happening to me.”

Oh, but it did, Steve, it did. Something happened.

Tim took another long sip of his beverage. This is for you, my friend.

.

The countdown reached zero, humanity rejoiced, and the monitors, the screens about Times Square lit up with a hearty congratulatory message. Almost instantly, there was a collective hush. The council gasped as they stared at the words. Tim smiled.

“GOODBYE, 2015. HAPPY NEW YEAR 2015S!”

Precipitation

When does this city ever stop?

Granted, there are occasions when the general raucous bustling characteristic of this city dwindles to a mere murmur, but these are reserved for certain marked durations. Noontime of the Agni Natchathiram, perhaps, or Lloyds Road at two in the A.M. – these are hours of a distinct absence of any notable activity.

For the more hardcore Madras dwellers, however, the heat is no obstacle to the periodic duties of ingrained routine. Fourteen year-olds reserve their region of the Corporation ground at three and the wizened Mamis march on to Mylapore for their daily pilgrimage like clockwork, paying no heed to the scorching sun.

A broad generalisation would be the claim that, by and large, the weather bears no effect on the lives of this city’s inhabitants.

That generalisation is about as broad as it is wrong.

As I write this, I stand on the balcony of my home, fortunately situated two levels above the ground, and one and a half levels above the water, casting a disdainful eye upon the world that lies, in stark contrast to the bone-dry look it sported merely three days ago, submerged in a distasteful concoction of rainwater and sludge. As a form of seasoning, perhaps, lies the garnishing provided by an eclectic assortment of items – a twig, a leaf, the odd plastic bag, an unfinished bottle of 7Up. Four slippers, each without its partner, wander aimlessly on the surface of the mix. All four of them are left footed.

Four travellers in this rain have naked left feet.

A deluge of a kind this habitually parched city has never experienced, let alone imagined, has rendered it bruised, battered, nearly broken, gasping for a breath of air and praying for relief.

My gaze wanders about the area on display from my vantage point and gently rests on an unusual spot. A man doggedly manoeuvres a makeshift raft along the waterlogged road, making his way from the train station to the bus stop. Hopefully, he is heading home. Hopefully, he will make it. Not all of us are fortunate.

At least now there is a dim glimpse of cloud-filtered sunlight. Soon it will be dark – a pitch black darkness the like of which returns us to a more natural, more primitive time and place. The state of the city due to the rain resembles the condition of people in the relative comfort of their homes – powerless.

The rain is letting up, the sun is slowly sinking. A night is about to fall. The dawn may bring more rains and suffering, or it may bring relief. Looking at the ripples caused by the raindrops on the twenty-four inch deep pool of stagnant water, it is impossible to deny that there is a powerful, supreme beauty to it all. Fortunate I am indeed to observe beauty where countless others find only destruction, grief and loss.

This city has been clamouring for water for ages. Its prayers have been answered. Too bad it isn’t equipped to handle its gift.

A crow steals across the night sky, probably perturbed by the rain, but resilient nonetheless. It is armed by the quintessential Madras spirit, strengthening it, enabling it to weather the weather.

The rain has stopped for the nonce. The bird soars. 

Pepper

I extracted a little piece from the archives. Dated 25th February, 2014. Enjoy.

On reading about the latest atrocities in Indian Parliament, namely the Pepper Spray Fiasco, I cannot help but feel that a change in the system is required. Of course, changes cannot be implemented if the current system itself is not fully understood. It is to aid the reader in comprehending the existing system that I am adding this note. 

Note: India is a representative democracy. This, in essence, means that we, the people, select some other people to sit in Parliament and get us what we want and need. Simple enough.

Unfortunately, some of these individuals seem to have a case of selective hearing, for when they were instructed, in politician school, which they no doubt attended, to inculcate within themselves the habit of "peppering their speeches with ideas designed to convince the authorities", they gleefully decided to disregard words 2 through 8, leaving them with a simple and elegant plan of action, ideally suited to yield results - "pepper the authorities."

This whole incident, in my opinion, is startling on two counts. The first is the stark disregard these people seem to have for the sanctity of the processes involved in the democratic system, one firmly based on discussion and debate, with no room for violent expressions of opinion. The second, and slightly more disturbing, I'm afraid, is the blatant wastage of pepper. 

A change is definitely in the offing. What can be done, you ask? Do not fret, for I have an answer. 

We need representation. 

Do not be misled - this is not the same mechanism that exists already. It is a new process, and one that will revolutionize governance. The mechanics of this process are very straightforward. Allow me to lay down the steps in a neat, numbered list. 

1. Select a person who wants something done.
2. Get this person to prepare a speech on this 'something' they want to get done.
3. Produce this person in front of the authorities and allow him to make his presentation.

A side note: Step 3 has been performed, even in the old system, on various occasions, presumably in times when pepper was a scarce commodity, albeit with very little success. It is to change this that I introduce the radical Step Four.

4. Produce this person in front of the authorities and allow him to make his presentation.

You are probably thinking that this is step 3, again. Congratulations, you are absolutely right. 

This Step, the Step you have just read, Step Four, is the Step of Representation - presenting again. 

Step Four can be repeated until the result is achieved, and maybe even a couple more times for emphasis. At any rate, the task is fulfilled and the requirements are satisfied. 

Funny how things come around full circle, isn't it, when you realize that this incessant repetition is, in fact, merely another version of peppering?

Gravity

Some of us might feel that, on seeing a lizard perched on the ceiling, that we are witnessing a gravity-defying act. I suppose even lizards sometimes have doubts regarding this feat of theirs. This supposition of mine was validated by this one lizard, which, on a mission to thoroughly understand the physical concept it was violating, decided to enter a physics class.

Having affected an entry into the classroom through the window, this resourceful reptile proceeded to select a suitable site to sit and study the subject. After much deliberation (like our Parliament), it decided (unlike our Parliament) on a premier vantage point – the head of a girl rapt in attention, mind firmly fixed on physical forces, which just so happened to be the topic of instruction.

One cannot, at this juncture, find fault with the decision of our protagonist, the lizard, for the rationale behind it is, naturally, quite rational. Expecting knowledge to flow from a region of higher concentration to one of lesser value, the lizard’s choice of headquarters (pun entirely intended) seems more than a little justified.

Naturally, as has come to be expected by members of the reptilia, its intentions were gravely misunderstood. Pandemonium ensued in the classroom with students, teacher and lab attendant alike employing novel techniques to extricate the knowledge-seeking reptile from the combed, neatly-parted folds of the girl’s hair. Eventually, by means of a metal scale, the lab attendant’s innate skill, the Work Energy Theorem, and an ample dose of luck, the lizard was displaced from the head of the student and deposited on the tree whence it came, none the wiser despite all its efforts in attaining enlightenment.

Reliable sources inform me of the dimensions of the lizard, comparing it to those of that holy book known to all science students, S. L. Arora’s New Simplified Physics. Truly, a creature resembling such a magnificent literary work must have been capable of grasping the rudimentary aspects of the theory of gravity. Alas! All the miserable creature was able to grasp were a few strands of hair which, being of negligible value from a scientific standpoint, would not be of much use in securing the education the lizard had so eagerly craved.

It is somewhat disappointing to see such enthusiasm and passion for the subject go in vain, for it is my opinion that this lizard, if provided with the means and requisite encouragement, could easily have topped the class in the examinations, overtaking its competitors, mere humans. In this incident I see a distinct prejudice, an unhealthy one, which must be eliminated at the very earliest.

Thinking

Having performed a great deal of soul-searching and introspection, I have made a decision as to what I wish to do with my life. The path I am to embark upon in this lifelong journey of life has been determined with uncertainty so miniscule it would make old Heisenberg cringe.

I am going to become a thinker.

I must admit, I am fascinated by those renowned thinkers. Their philosophies, their theories, and scholarly revelations are truly marvellous. However, what I respect even more than these accomplishments of theirs is their title – “Thinker”.

Now, I looked up “thinker” in the dictionary, and the benevolent tome yielded this result.

“A person who thinks, as in a specified way or manner.”

Well, that’s absolutely brilliant! I have thought, and a thinker I have become.

As a thinker, I can tell what you are thinking. You’re thinking, “It’s not that easy, it can’t be. If it was, I’d be a thinker too, just for thinking this.” Well, fellow thinker, you make as convincing an argument as I. Sadly, our mutual dreams must now be crushed owing to the second and more apt definition the lexicon displayed.

“A person who has a well-developed faculty for thinking, as a philosopher, theorist, or scholar.”

Devastating it must be to have that faint glimmer of hope of transcending into immortality as a thinker definitively snatched away by a definition.

Nonetheless, I shall put this gloom behind me – I suggest you do too – and together, we shall resume our contemplation upon the subject of those eminent thinkers.

The aspect of these individuals I find most incredibly interesting to contemplate upon is their daily routine. Arising from his bed, after rejuvenating, through sleep, the gray matter which, most definitely, would have been heavily stressed through the rigorous contemplation of the day gone by, the philosopher brushes his teeth, and heads over to the breakfast table, no doubt, for ‘tis known to all that this meal is the most important one of the day. Of course, the entire day must be filled with hours of thought punctuated by lunch, snacks, tea, dinner, supper, dessert, and possibly a midnight raid as well.

With a profession such as thinking, one would expect the thinker to have a rather short commute, possibly a brisk walk to the nearest shady tree, beneath which they install (settle) themselves and get their noggins cracking.

It is abundantly clear that the spot beneath the tree is the most commonly preferred location for thinkers to get to their work. The proof of this is that old bloke, Isaac Newton, who received a rather nasty bop on the head from that fateful apple, the apple his shady, trusted tree pelted down at him.

The well-known version of this story claims that Isaac came up with the concept of gravity once the apple descended upon his cranium. The truth, however, is that old Newton, hungry after all the thinking, took a bite of the fallen apple, and was immediately flooded with a steady, streamlined series of profound and enlightening thoughts. The look on his face was not one exuding joy and contentment, but one of thorough concentration and gravity.

A Eureka moment, one of great import this was, and one that resulted in three revolutionary outcomes.

The first, and probably least important, was the concept of a force by virtue of which terrestrial bodies tend to fall towards the centre of the earth.

The second one was the Apple logo.

The third one, the one that will stand the test of time, having become a commonplace expression in the English language, the one that undoubtedly catalysed the entire process and resulted in these outcomes (yes, this outcome caused the three outcomes.  Recursion is lovely, isn’t it?), the phrase that came into origin as a means of homage towards this remarkable happening, the phrase, “Food for thought.”

Does thinking of this make me a thinker? Think about it. 

Impossibility

I'm sorry, but it cannot be true. 

It simply cannot. 

There is not even a remote possibility that this could have happened at any point of time, in any sphere or realm of reality or imagination. 

I am speaking of one of those terrible tragedies that befell mankind. The widespread chaos and disorder, the panic among the populace, and the tragic outcomes, sadly, were all true. 

I do not deny that it occurred. That it did, surely, and I say that with all certainty I can muster. 

However, the problem is that it could not have happened. 

It is inconceivable for it to have taken place. This delicate situation poses a risk to the very fundamental and basic concepts of probability theory. Determining the odds of an event occurring are simply of no use when something as dashedly absurd as this, an event with a probability of nil, or even slightly below, takes place. Even more so when you realise that it was not a single isolated incident, a mere blip in space-time that resulted in an insignificant anomaly, but instead a full-fledged, wide-ranging, large-scale pandemic that shook the earth and drove fear through the hearts of men. 

It was highly improbable, near impossible, some would say. And the sheer ridiculousness of life, the universe, and everything made it one of the most certain things to ever have happened, simply because it was so impossible. 

For there is absolutely no way to contradict, even slightly, that the H1N1 virus broke out and raged across the world. 

It was not anticipated at all, by anyone. In this age of technology and modern medicine, who could possibly predict that a completely new illness would spontaneously manifest itself and pose a threat to the whole of civilization?

The idea that such a catastrophe would ever befall the human race was so worthless to contemplate that a direct question on the matter was met with a reply oozing with sarcasm and disdain. 

When an expert, Y. N. Ori, was asked if there was even a minute possibility that a worldwide pandemic could break out, he, in his mirth, answered, "When pigs fly."

This commonplace expression, as we all know, is a means of stating that an event is absolutely impossible and cannot ever take place. 

However, this is exactly what I have a problem with. It does not logically follow. 

If pigs flying is impossible, how can you possibly say that swine flu?

Spin

The world was spinning. The calm, periodic revolutions of his surroundings left him in a state of bliss and joy.

His face oozed of serenity, of tranquillity, and his heart was buzzing with a happiness he had never before experienced, akin to that of a toddler having his first taste of that delicious confection known to man as ice cream.

He knew, with a level of certainty that he simply could not justify, that it was his surroundings that were in motion, and he was at rest. This led to a further deduction – that the universe was revolving around him.

And then he felt tired. Being a part of the universe is quite alright, but having the whole lot of it spinning about him just didn’t fly. He felt a burden on his shoulders, as if everything he did, everything he thought, everything he almost thought would somehow influence the things spinning about him, which was, of course, everything.

Everything he did would matter. Everything he did would affect everything. In a few instants, he went from a meaningless, insignificant blip in the universe to the single most important being in existence. It was another hitherto unexperienced feeling, a feeling of power. A feeling of being able to control everything, everywhere. A feeling that lifted the morose burden off his shoulders and replaced it with a stamp of authority and command. He was invincible.

And then he felt something. It trickled down, although he was not quite sure which way down was. He glanced at his tiny shoulders. There was neither burden nor authority upon them, but an intriguing white powder. Being of a contemplative mind, he got down to work and started contemplating.

The facts he had were limited, but sufficient. He was the one in control of everything, and all he willed would take place. That was a fact. He had not willed the mysterious powder. Another fact. It was only logical to conclude that this was an anomaly brought about by the realignment and reconfiguration of the universe to prepare itself to obey its master’s commands. Obviously.

Taking pride in his logical consistency and the ease with which he solved this seemingly challenging, but rather childish puzzle, he resumed revelling in his glory and superiority. 

That’s when the water came.

From all directions, at every possible angle, it poured on him, around him. Taking an almost cylindrical shape, it encircled him, and then lashed out at him. He willed the tide to stop, but it showed no mercy. Torrents of water slapped him, rattled him, wrenched him hither and thither.

He was a fixed entity no longer. The metaphorical castles of his glory he had built in the metaphorical sand were washed away by the swift, brutal force of the vengeful liquid. He had no more control over the rising level of water than a frightened squirrel would over a hungry squirrel-eating animal.

The water rose up to a daunting height, as if to consume him once and for all. And it began to descend upon him.

He was helpless, helpless as a bug stuck inside a washing machine.

He was.