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.

.

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.

.

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. 

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?