To Stand Away

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A multitude of rabbits surround the huge sighing banyan tree and prepare to resume training again. There is no time for large pauses. Life is too short to be cute aimlessly.

The rabbits live to achieve only one ambition- defeating the tortoises.

In this forest called as Mercy, there is no room for late bloomers. Start early or go home.
Every rabbit born is an addition to the probability for victory which rarely comes.

Tortoises have been known to have intelligence that puts the owls to shame and speed that barely surpasses a crawling baby rabbit, yet they always win the Final Showdown.

The rabbits never stop and think about the long term benefits of winning the race. It's just a tradition that keeps going on. The tortoises have no idea about how the race is run. They created an epidemic by winning the first and a system was created.

I am one of those clueless rabbits.

I want to run a race that already had my name registered when I was born. Only because my forefathers were defeated in such a race. Money matters more to me than applicability of what I'm doing. But sometimes popularity is lesser a priority to me than the satisfaction of being right.

I belong to the generation that is being pinned down by a system that is too slow for the modern world, too simplistic for the intricacies involved with the people following the herd and too old to judge the substance in an person challenging the methods of the world.

Only if we'd woken up at the right time.
The point worth noting is, even if the generation has to get out of the ultimate Rabbit-ambition, it has to have a plan. A well-defined aim to pull it out of the common mundane routine and set it apart. To make it the one group of rabbits that runs away from Mercy and attempts to make their own destiny (even if killed in a road accident later!).

We need to fix ourselves and abandon the rabbit coat. Only then will we realize what was lacking. Until we do that, the only thing we'll know perfectly is that we don't know everything.

The Wake-up Siren

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I had my first Ambulance ride today.
I only had time to notice that I had I wasn't alone in the chamber because the instant that can thing took flight, I was knocked out.

Upon my recovery I quickly made an inventory search of the van. I dragged open all the drawers with awesome difficulty and realized that the vacant First-Aid drawer had said it true. There was no First-Aid kit in the van!

In a near panic attack I clutched the handle that comes installed above the windows in every normal car. A split second later, to my utmost horror, I observed that there was no handle. I had a broken tube-light to my share instead.

The Ambulance has to fly, it's the policy. Hence I conferred that the only holy trick I could perform to keep myself intact was to lie flat down on the bench.
Enter the guy with a broken ankle!

His victimized leg had already invaded the comfort of the bench. I gave up trying to stay safe. And then the other guy tried making a short chat which ended in an unsatisfied grunt (from him) on hearing about my ailment.

At once my ego took over and I stepped into Barrack Obama's shoes as I gazed down upon my Ambulance mate. He must assume Mitt Romney's authority. I am in no good posture to win the Election. I have failed America. But Mitt Romney is more pathetic! So I have no fair competition. Hence, the country must succumb to my incapability.

From the core of Fear Files!

Contaminated they are both, but one is better than the other. But when there are more able politicians, why is America still (it never does, but let's assume for the sake of argument!) suffering?
Because talent is never enough?

The University I study in works on the same principle.
Talent is not deficient, but fools are neither.
And this is Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki  as a rustic would zinger.

I don't wish to make this longer, but imagine how well represented India would be if Pranab Mukherjee resigned and A P J Kalam took over again. How many countries do you think have a scientist as a President!
Oh, by the way, I am feeling better now.

The Towel-Wrapped Chic

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Note: Chic is not Chick. Chic means style, and Chick means, I don't have to tell you that! So be prepared to look at the world as a giant chic of fresh innovation covered with a towel. If you want to visualize the chick instead, she enters very late in the story!

At five minutes to 7 he jogged out of his room for the dinner, picking up his sweater and the mobile phone in a hurried haze. In five long strides he had reached both the start of the descend of the staircase and the pinnacle of the blood rush that had been due.

With a precarious step down the staircase his heart registered a seizure and the blackout prepared to instal in his eyes.
Blood rush has always been funny. And orgasmic (to him).

He calculated that he had 7-8 seconds to spare, and thus started the furious chain-of-thoughts game.
He thought he felt like Arvind Kejriwal, who is taking a new step by not-introducing the name of his new party,  but confirming the news that he is, in fact, entering the promenade of lupine personalities commonly called as the spoiled ramp of politics.

Whether he succeeds in inculcating the means, he believes in, in his new colleagues can be left to the argued fourth dimension of physics- time.
Hey, isn't there another such mettle craving news grabber who has taken a bold step recently? 

Aah yes, Priyanka Chopra. Jhilmil famed dudette who calls for clear recognition for her 'In My City' single. Wonder if she'll be the next Britney Spears or Katie Melua!
Unfortunately, yep you guessed it, only time will tell.

And he was rewarded. In shoes.
Which reminds of the novel by the exact name by Jeffrey Archer. Long live the prolific author, but his new attempt at churning out five novels in five year, capping a tour across the world isn't going to work.
The best part you ask? We don't need time for this to be figured out!

Uh oh, 9 seconds of the precious life to be wasted in blackout were not worthless after all!
He took a leap of faith for the last two steps but as the nebulous cloud of confidence in the Almighty cleared, he saw that the last two steps were actually four.

He'd read once that Flying is actually hurtling towards the ground while achieving the skills of missing it (ground). He was a good misser of stuff, like missing scoring in surprise tests or missing girlfriend's bickering on looking at a hot chick passing by, but alas! try as hard he may, he couldn't miss the ground.

He hugged the marble floor in a bizarre position with his right feet bending below him at a suspicious angle. He got up, dusted himself and the tickle crept up through his feet.

He'd had sprained his ankle. He hopped around the dark empty road, sending quick prayers to the same Almighty to surpass the pain and noticed an amazing amount of skin peering at him through a room.
It was a girl, wrapped only in a thin towel, freshly bathed, looking out of her window at his Charlie Chaplin moves!

He paused in his maneuvers and reciprocated her gaze, and it seemed to jolt some message in the girl because she flew her hand across the room and snapped the window shut.
Being an incredible misser as he was, he immediately started missing the scenic glory of an amazing amount of skin, but all was confiscated from him in another instant.

It struck him that she might have taken him to be a peeping tom, hopping desperately to get a glimpse of her avatar. A pole was standing nearby, waiting for the chagrin to invade him, but it didn't come, and the pole was lost of the chance to have been nudged by the soft mound of his skull.

His ankle was miraculously cured and he could walk again. Time took an examination yet again, and he passed. The girl didn't though, but he couldn't care less.

He didn't realize that the world around him was playing the same game as the innocent girl. The world is curious and freshly bathed towel-wrapped, but the intention with which we look at it spoils the oncoming change and we are shut out by the expected revolution yet again.

He shrugged off the feeling of shame and popped the second end of the earphones in his canals, of which the other end was inserted in his mobile phone, traversing through Priyanka Chopra's teenage-like voice and flipped open his keypad to type a post on India Against Corruption's Facebook page begging for a hint of the Kejriwal party's name.

The road was empty and he didn't stumble.

Sole Soul?

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I want to paint a picture for you.

Remember the old Charlie Chaplin movies? The black and white stuttering images exposing art in quick successions to compose a motion picture. Everyone knows how complicated video recording was back in those days. And that effort and the style of low frame rate action is what might have made the comedian so famous.

Now suppose you are in such a world, in such a scenario where there the word color hasn't been invented yet. How boring would life be!
Or not!

You might not appreciate the forced change because you know what lacks. You have a clear visual difference of what was and what is, and you wish to be back to where you belonged. It is not absolutely absurd that a person doesn't like his surroundings because he has experienced better. But what if you were born in that world? Would you feel the same way then?

The real question in this situation is, now that you know the difference, would you be willing to broaden your black and white version's scope of thinking?
Perhaps, yes.

Let's come back to our plaintive world. Here, do you know what's lacking?
However hard that heart is impulsing us to assume denial, we know that we are devoid of the knowledge of what's lacking.
On the other hand, even if we accept the fact that our knowledge is only finite, we are unable to observe the subtle hints dropped by agents around us trying to fill the gaps.

People are uncountable. Let's assume them infinite.
And it means that infinite individuals have tried conferring that to you!

Every person has his own tale. Every person talks about an another world.
Every person has their own version in the another world (as according to them).
These warnings, indications they rant about incessantly are their beliefs. They're their religion. Their cult. Their creed. Their destination. Their mythologies that we prefer not to respect.

If we really try to look at this from a seriously broader scope, everyone might be correct and everyone might be wrong. There are infinite possibilities and this exercise only teaches you to respect all of them.

Another way to look at this is that those souls want to believe in something that is out of this world. Something unreal, or real (which makes us unreal in turn!). And this new point of view opens many amazing doors for thought expansion, which I'm too tired to take part in right now (apologies!).

Consider this as my effort to get back after a (very) long pause from the blogging realm! I've made a pact with a friend and I hope it carries!

The world sees a small action
when it looks at me.
I see a magnificent agenda
when I look back at the world.


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There is never a wrong conclusion. Right?

The illusion we all suffer from is equivocality of a statement. Our philosphy would tell us one thing to conform to, but our peers would contradict.
Do we obliterate the social pillars then? Or do we ignore the inner voice? Or do we do both or none and risk destructing ourselves?

The answers to the questions must be calculated effectively though derisively because even though the appearance of integrity must be concomitant as with the social norms, we have to soliloquize sometimes.

Loneliness is not always bitter.


Raise Your Glass

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Adam sat up suddenly. He was scared.

He squinted his eyes against the bright sunlight entering his room until he felt a hand on his belly. He traced it down to a naked girl sleeping beside him.
Last night he was Voldemort himself. Kyle must be with the other girl.
Adam felt sick about using his cancer to attract the two girls. But he was dying, he deserved this decency from the world.

He had never smoked. Never had fought anyone. Never had broken a heart. Where did all of this decency bring him to?
Death. It depressed him. Not that death wasn't inevitable, it was just too early.

He got out of the bed and slipped out the door quietly. He had a chemotherapy session the following evening.
How convenient it must be for the employed section of the population to keep going to work everyday pulling bright new ideas out of their perfectly normal heads and impressing the rest of the unemployed section.

He took a cool bottle out of the refrigerator and filled his empty glass. He thought of water as a healing fluid.
What did they call it? Immortality!
Funny concept.

He went out in the hall to check on Kyle.
Television was on. He was sitting naked on the couch. And there was the girl.
Kyle noticed him looking and mouthed promptly, 'I fucked her'.
Adam gave him the brightest smile he could manage. His bald face set with a stubborn sadness gave it away but Kyle wasn't as good an observant.

Adam turned away. It was a few days away.
He had a fifty percent chance of staying alive.
He had a fifty percent chance of never being Adam again.
He was scared.

Strings on Flesh

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The puppeteer is bent over his small stage, his small little world of parallel reality, working on two pieces with sober dexterity. A man walks by and drops two fat coins in the stereo case set beside his knees but the artist doesn't realize. The donor assumes that he did, but is acting against to make himself seem more immersed in his show. The truth is, Craig isn't even sitting there for money. He doesn't need it. Not that he's inherited a generous sum of gold from his forefathers; he never cared about money.

He'd been watching the man, though.

Craig has always been watching people. Out of the corner of his eyes, while appearing to be focused on the two pieces hanging on by his fingers, he's been watching them.

The real people busy in a false dilemma walking on the shore separating truth from lies.

Truth they don't want to dive into. They like watching it disappear and come back up again pulled by a magnificent power. They love toying with the idea of drowning in truth.

And lies that they don't want to go back to. Lies so amazing, so apparent. So homely. And the shore.

He lives in these people. In so many people at once. In the lady crying for her love walking by his left fingers and in the man pining for her in his right fingers. He doesn't flick the strings to move them. He feels himself moving first, then acts upon the feeling and makes the puppet move.

The man wants to walk. Craig remembers how a crying man was walking the other day. Smelling of alcohol and sex, the man was suddenly in love with his wife waiting for him at home. He was so guilty and so purely full of love. Probably all under the influence of alcohol, but Craig was watching.

The man on Craig's stage imitated the same. The exact same helpless walk. The lady walked towards the separation that stood adamant between her and her man. Craig watched the wall, he wailed with full hands, cried for the man on the other side. Then Craig was the man, he walked to the wall, he raised one finger and touched it.

The lady exploded with love and lust. They transcended the air of helplessness and gracefully swung back and forth dreamily.

The man loved her, he rocked her back and forth and the lady did so herself. Their rocking synchronous with each other, making love. On the puppet stage, with a wall in between, the lady puppet and the man puppet were having sex.

One harsh blow flung Craig off his feet. He landed in a pile of garbage and stole a look at a young girl looking at his puppets, staring transfixed at the stage, and her angry father pulling her off. It must have been he who had hit Craig. Craig looked at his hands, they were cut at places with the strings that had come off the puppets.

He felt so wrong. He still didn't understand his puppets, how could he have expected to identify the real people!

Chocolate Tail

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Life is what we make of it. And all the little unmeasurable caprices trailing behind.

Parallel universes (if we believe in them, that is) contain many of our mistakes, lying unmeasurable between the awkward range of conspicuous to clandestine. There are endless possible ways a day can start or end if we come to think about it. What if we apply the same reasoning algorithm to the life's ever so unpredictable future?

One mistake and everyone knows. And sometimes we have to care.
The answer would be the same, endless possible ways a life can start or end.

To excogitate one formula to take decisions that least affect one's life in a harmful manner would be improbable. I realize that harmfulness can be defined in endless ways itself, depending heavily on the person at hand's understanding of his path.

Imagine a situation where the options in the person's hand are expressly working towards the same goal of refining the person but only one interests him. He'd have no doubt ever about his choice.

It does not prove one clever to state that everyone loves the ice-cream filled wafer cone's chocolate tail. But what's important is that we shan't probably never forget the enticing ice-cream part itself.