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. 

A Tale of Understanding and Submission

He stopped at the foot of the stairs and looked up. The stairwell seemed dark and endless, stretching far into the unimaginable beyond.

He was undaunted, for he was smart. And using his intellect, he proceeded to zero in upon a plan of action to counter this darkness.

He switched on the light.

Feeling somewhat relieved, he looked up again. But this time he received a jarring shock. At the top of the stairs, casting a shadow over the twenty-two steps, stood a dominating woman.

His teacher.

And then it all came back to him. How, four months ago, his teacher had announced a story-writing assignment. How he had prolonged the deadline with all kinds of excuses, ranging from blaming his fictitious dog to having it burned to a crisp by a sudden convenient flash of lightning.

She had bought his excuses and gave him an additional week’s time, every time.

But now she was here, at his house! The absurdity of the situation appalled him.

Slowly, however, he began to understand. This was inevitable, for, when standing under someone, one can’t help but understand.

And he realised that he had no choice this time, for the deadline had been reached. The twenty-second step was the line, and there she stood, blocking the path into his house.

Thus having transcended into a sphere of realisation, he proceeded to ascend the steps. He put his right foot forward, hoping it was the right thing to do.

And going up two steps at a time, he reached the twenty-first step. Standing there, under her nose, feeling the power of her steely gaze upon him, he realised that this was it.

He drew a paper from his pocket, a crumpled, miserable-looking sheet. He stared at it for a moment, and then he sneezed.

For it was a tissue paper.

And then he took out another paper, an actual paper, and handed it in, thus submitting, not only to the will of the teacher, but the assignment as well.

For the story he had handed in was the one you have just finished reading. 

IN ATTENTION

I'm sitting in class.

It's been a long time since I sat in a classroom and actually had to pay attention. Sadly, I now have to.

* * *

I have tried paying attention. 

It is unbelievably difficult. 

If there is any paying to be involved here, I ought to be on the receiving end. 

* * *

This is it. I have had an epiphany in the middle of a computer science lecture. I now know all I need to 

I have learned that the sole purpose of this hour of class is to sleep. 

Question not the validity of this conclusion, for I have spent several deeply engrossing and inattentive minutes in attaining this realization. 

I realize that such statements are generally frowned upon and not paid much heed, or indeed, any heed at all. In light of this popular opinion, certain facts shall be laid out, enabling the reader to reach an independent conclusion. 

The Pause

Most great speakers, in the course of delivering an address, use the pause as a tool, generally to drive home a poignant point. 

While in my experience I have seen some speakers use the pause rather excessively, my latest encounter with the pause has disturbed my understanding of the word "excessive".

A sample of the speech is as follows. 

The pen *                                                   PAUSE                                                                  * drive has a *                                                   PAUSE                                                                  *  storage of *                                                   PAUSE                                                                  * ### megabytes *                                                   PAUSE                                                                  *  and asdfkhwueron

I sincerely apologize for having been unable to record the entirety of the sentence, owing to a sudden attack of pause-induced sleep. 

 The Look-Around

Yet another common tactic of experienced speakers, the look-around refers to the motion of the speaker's eyes, focusing on different locations in the audience. 

While this is generally used for the speaker to, in a psychological manner, bond with the members of the audience through establishing eye contact, it feels almost certain to me that my lecturer was merely counting the number of students lying comatose, and estimating the duration until she, too, could follow suit. 

                                   

I find no words to describe this phenomenon. It would be disrespectful to call it "spewing rubbish", insufficient to deem it "blabbering", offensive to call it "meaningless drivel", and merely childish to refer to it as "googlefrump".

That final word makes about as much sense as the following sentence. 

"People say that C is a C"

I shall now provide you with a poignant pause to mull over my contention.

You agree with me, don't you?

* * *

Wishful, Washful Thinking

WISHFUL, WASHFUL THINKING

Well, I'm in college now. It's been just a little over a week, but it feels like a long, long time. 

That's not to say that it's been boring, for if there is one thing that college has not been, it would not be absolutely inaccurate to describe it as having been boring. 

The fundamental problem here is that a majority of this time has been spent in the washroom. Time spent not, as one would ordinarily expect, in washing oneself, but rather in the process of doing one's laundry. 

Laundry is one of those chores that, for the first seventeen years of my life, did not even remotely classify as a chore, owing to the invention of that appliance known as a washing machine, a device that I have now come to revere with an astonishing level of respect. 

Sadly, I have now come to learn that the washing machine is not, in fact, an essential contraption, and that there does exist an alternate mechanism for getting used clothes transformed into a reusable state. By hand. 

Now this is an awful lot of work, so in the interests of humanity, I shall proceed to highlight the intricate series of steps in the process of laundering. 

Step one is severe rationalization, wherein one performs a scrutionus examination of each and every article of clothing with the help of that useful organ known as the nose, in order to determine whether or not the particular garment under consideration can be employed for "just one more time" - a euphemism for "until some coffee spills on it". 

Step two is denial, wherein one desperately tries to eliminate clothes from the "to-wash" pile for a second, and generally unsuccessful, time. 

Step three is acceptance, wherein one plunges into depression on being confronted with a mountain of dirty garments which would, if it had a mouth, scream and plead for mercy and deliverance from the sweat and grime slowly altering the very fabric of its existence. Pun intended. 

Step four is where we finally come to the actual washing - a painstaking, repulsive and particularly aggravating process during the course of which the washer loses his mind and eventually, his willingness to live. 

Step five is my personal favourite, wherein one emerges from the washroom triumphant, with a wide grin plastering the face that, until very recently, had upon it a look implying suicidal tendencies, 

God, things would be so much simpler with a washing machine, wouldn't they?

Tribute

What follows is my speech, delivered at the year-end farewell at school. Edited, of course. The original is too long and too boring. I wonder how everyone managed to stay awake while I delivered it.

It's pretty weird, standing up here. Three years ago I definitely wouldn't have even thought of speaking in front of so many people.

Speaking of, er, public speaking reminds me of one of my favourite quotes of all-time, courtesy Jerry Seinfeld. According to a study, the fear of public speaking is the most common in people. The second is death. Now that really doesn't make sense, does it? Because THAT means that, at a funeral, most people would be better off in the casket than doing the eulogy.

Well, I'm standing here, claiming that my talent is speaking. Truth be told, I don't think that I would have thought that I could speak if not for this school. Our school.

Wow! It feels really good to say that. Our school. It also feels quite weird for me to say that, because this is the last time I can claim a school to be mine. 

And I've made quite a lot of such claims. Vidya Mandir is, in fact, my tenth school. That's right. Ten. And the funny thing is, when I look back, I realise that I have studied in schools for all kinds of time intervals - all the way from three years to three weeks. Yeah, one school did have that honour. They had me for just three weeks. And all I have to show for that little stint is an entire shelf of notebooks they dumped on me when I joined. Seriously. There's a huge pile of pink notebooks they gave me. It's very annoying.

What's also pretty annoying is having to leave. Actually, it's more than annoying - it's heartbreaking, depressing, and makes me feel pretty awful inside. And having to do it nine times before this isn't an advantage in any way. It actually makes it worse, knowing that I've spent such a short time here.

Three years ago, I walked into this school. As always when joining a new school, I was nervous. So nervous that I walked right with my good friend into his classroom. Which was the wrong one, by the way. I sat down and, almost immediately, the bell rang and everybody left for assembly. That felt really awkward.

I'm saying this because I think a lot has changed since that day. New friends, new teachers. All of them - no, sorry - all of YOU, I want to thank. And there's not enough I can say that will, er, be enough. I did think about thanking all of you for five minutes, but I guessed that at the end of it all, you guys would thank me profusely when I walk off stage.

Unfortunately, I have a lot to regret. It's been too short a journey - almost like a visit. Three years is nowhere near enough time to get to know all of you. It's caused hasty judgments, harsh words, and a general feeling of unpleasantness. And now, to put it in more familiar words, "I don't know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve."

It's okay - I still haven't figured out whether it's a compliment or an insult. And if you know, shut up and let others think for themselves.

At any rate, it's confusing. And I was this confused when writing this speech. Because emotions and feelings like this are just too difficult to put on paper. And even when some words were written on the page....suffice it to say that tears smudge ink.

Anyways, the speech has been written and I'm here, taking this opportunity to speak for the last time in the school that helped me speak for the first time. If I hadn't been here, in this school, I wouldn't be here, on this stage.

I saw this is an opportunity to thank all of you. I know I've said this before, but I simply have to say it again, simply because you all mean so much to me.

I also saw this as an opportunity to share the experience of leaving school. Leaving teachers, leaving friends. I've left quite a lot of them behind, most recent of which were my sixth-grade companions. And in my mind, they remained as sixth-grade kids (except the teachers, of course), nothing more; almost like characters from a half-remembered dream.

But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that friends don't leave. And if you want to find them, you can. The best part is, it happened to me. A few days back, I joined Twitter. And those sixth-grade kids I was talking about, they were there too (although no longer sixth graders, of course). It's great to see how much they've changed, and greater still to see that they remember me.

And that created a feeling that gives me the conviction that, until we so decide it, our friends will not leave us. Nobody's going away, and we're all going to stay in touch.

Well, to be honest, I don't have a proper ending for this speech. But I think that's okay. Because I see today not as an ending, but a new beginning.

Okay, I know that that is a cliche. But let's face it, Ravi Shastri uses them all the time and he's still around, isn't he? Cliches work, I guess.

And with that, I believe I have come to the end of what, I hope, was not a cliched speech.

Thank you. Very much.

Time

Time moves. A fairly obvious statement, I know.

The thing is, sometimes it is the most obvious of things that goes unnoticed. As is mentioned in Edgar Allen Poe's short story, "The Purloined Letter", "the intellect suffers to pass unnoticed those considerations which are too obtrusively and too palpably self-evident." This is, of course, an 1800-s way of saying what I said in the first line of the paragraph. The only difference is that his writing is deemed literature and immortalized for decades to come, while mine, eventually, will be termed garbage, and be dumped in the nearest trash bin.

Keeping such sombre thoughts aside, I shall now move on to even more sombre thoughts, such as the passing of time - an idea, I hope, which will help you to pass the time.

Quite a bit of time has passed. A majority of it was school-time. And that's over now.

School.

Honestly, I never expected it to end. Well, I knew it would, at some time, but I sincerely hoped it would somehow be delayed. A convenient month of, say, a dinosaur infestation in the school could've extended my tenure there by quite a while. Alas! One never finds dinosaurs exactly when one needs them. They're ancient history.

And now, so is school. Ancient history.

Going off to college tomorrow and being about to start a fresh, new adventure urges me to give a fitting tribute to the one just concluded. A tribute to what has been, undoubtedly, a terrific time.

His friend didn't know. That was the problem.

He didn't know, but that was obvious. Otherwise, he never would've asked his friend in the first place. 

But he did ask, and the friend didn't know. 

And so, out of the multitude that stood, sat, and shook around him, he singled out one person and looked him right in the eye. Me. 

Moving close to me, his face close to, but at a respectable distance from mine own, eyes still firmly fixed, he opened his mouth. And the voice, a nice voice, as one would expect to correspondingly belong to a nice man, uttered these words:

"Bitch. Bitch, stop."

One who is sitting around and minding his own business does not generally expected to be confronted by profanity. Not in any ordinary circumstances, and most definitely not from an absolute stranger, one upon whom one's eyes have never set.  

It was thus, with a mortified look upon my face, that I gazed into the eyes of this co-passenger, situated merely inches from me, and moving back and forth in tandem with the haphazard motion generally associated with the movement of any bus motoring about the streets of Madras. 

Words escaped me, for all I could think about was the peculiar (if peculiar can be adequately used to describe it) behaviour of this individual. Lost thus in deep contemplation, I had neglected to notice that the soul in front of me was waiting for a response, one which I was in no position to deliver. 

This is one instance that the kindness of human beings, ironic as it may seem, is brought out. Not by this abusive man in front of me, mind you, but by the gentleman seated to my right. 

This good Samaritan, possibly unacquainted with English, was more than acquainted with common sense, and so, very adroitly, informed the other man that he need wait for another twenty minutes at most. 

For after all, this person who was seemingly the very epitome of rudeness, had merely been inquiring as to when the beach stop would be reached.

Of Beginnings, Blogs, and Borrowing

                "Beginning" begins with "B".

                So does "blog".

                Isn't it merely fitting, then, that my first post in this blog begins with "B"?

                May-be. May-be not.

                It's not like I have a passion for the letter "B". In fact, I can think of several unpleasant things that begin with "B", most of which will probably be used, now or in the near future, to describe this blog.

                Bad.

                Boring.

                Bitter.

                Barmy.

                Blech!

                Bah!

                And it will most probably end with "Bang!", when someone shoots me for writing all this nonsense.

                But on the bright side, the letter "B" affords some positive ideas as well.

                Brilliant!

                Bravo!

                "Bahut Badiya"! (There exists within me a tiny glimmer of hope that someone, someday, will use these words to portray the qualities of this blog. The odds of this actually occurring, unfortunately, are comparable to those of Ramiz Raja actually making sense on commentary - nil point nil)

                But I digress. Welcome to The Imaginary Blog.

                I did initially plan to write a monograph on what you should expect from this blog. But some bloke stole my idea and wrote it already.

              However, as it is, in fact, my idea, I think I can use his words here as well - not copying, merely "borrowing" his words, just as he "borrowed" my idea.

                Thus, in the words of Jerome K. Jerome (the idea's mine - don't forget!),

One or two friends to whom I showed these papers in MS., having observed that they were not half bad, and some of my relations having promised to buy the book if it ever came out, I feel I have no right to longer delay its issue. But for this, as one may say, public demand, I perhaps should not have ventured to offer these mere "idle thoughts" of mine as mental food for the English-speaking peoples of the earth. What readers ask nowadays in a book is that it should improve, instruct, and elevate. This book wouldn't elevate a cow. I cannot conscientiously recommend it for any useful purposes whatever. All I can suggest is that when you get tired of reading "the best hundred books," you may take this up for half an hour. It will be a change. (Excerpted from "Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow")

                Oh, I might have neglected to mention that he wrote it 200 hundred years ago. But that doesn't mean anything, does it?