The little click broke the placid monotony of the night's silence, and a tiny fire came forth flickering, her flames swaying and dancing to elude my damp breeze, while etching around it a canvas of colour against the background of moonlit silhouettes. Seated on my haunches, my back against the brick wall, I turned skywards at the vast emptiness that stretched above me, in search of drops of brightness against the backdrop a dying blue, while I fished through my pocket. There was economy in the sky, with barely a fistful of stars displaying their existence. Still fumbling through my pocket, I found my precious. I extracted the little roll of paper, and placing it between my clenched teeth, bent forward to dip it in the orange ballerina, watching her sway to avoid me, to refuse me. Hard to get, that's how I loved it. The trifle lasted a few seconds before we made contact; the tip charred, a lovely amber forming as I dragged. I felt the smoke caress my throat, my eyes shut involuntarily and my body go numb with that ecstasy indescribable. It took a few seconds to let go and my fingers removed the precious from my body, while I leaned back and exhaled like a man without a care in this world. Well, almost none. A deep weight burdened my chest, one I must carry to my grave. Literally. A tumor in my lungs, to be precise, probably the reason for my quietus.
Why do I still smoke, you ask? Why do we assume, that the cold and rational life of the proudly bleak is the only true journey? Why do we believe the path of the obsessively compassionate who have wronged to be any less? Ah..... I wish I could say this honestly, but it is far from true. Mea culpa.  In this harrowing journey that is fast approaching conclusion, I need some manner of pleasure, and none other known to me was commensurate. I was also told that it would hasten this process, a coup de grâce of sorts......My pleasure, my euthanasia, my precious.
*cough*
Turning back to the stars to relieve the burning in my chest, I stared long and hard at those little balls of fire in the distance. My intuition had always led me to believe that these celestial lamps were little more than they seemed to be. Truth was, they were not. The more I learnt about this universe, the further it deviated from the path of intuition. She was supposed to be infinite and yet growing, immutably impermanent. Immutable impermanence, or any other oxymoron by which it is known, is the one characteristic property of hers. When I asked what existed outside the universe, to picture her continual expansion in my mind, I was told there was nothing. Nothing. Not vacuum, nothing. The concept of something sans boundaries is baffling, but even more is the idea of this object expanding.
The mere enormity of these musings makes space the most potent reminder of our unimportance, a blatant message conveying the extent of our cosmic insignificance in the midst of this magic that surrounded us, this magic we call our universe. Billion year old bags of seawater, and yet with ego. Who do we live for, when we go back home to the sea, land and air? Do we not know our petty selves will never matter? The universe in all its indifferent randomness could not care any less about any being’s delight or woe, and there is no all-pervasive Grace. Perhaps that sounds desolate, but there is no reason whatsoever anything should get 'better' if better is objective at all. The universe is not sewn on the threads of good and bad, and does not dance to the leitmotif of reason. There is no heaven or hell, literal or poetic, no angelic benevolence or devilish malevolence. There is just being. And to this being, the universe is merely a silent spectator, whose purpose is in no way altered by the being itself; if such a grand purpose does even exist.
I yawned, and took another drag, and all my problems melted away, again, albeit for a few seconds. Nature has this way with us, this way of leading us through flights of euphoria with no effort whatsoever.
I realised, then, that in spite of the indifferent attitude of the universe, its entire magical repertoire would be entirely wasted without us. There, seated on my terrace, I felt like a significant being. You see, all the brilliance of the universe would be lost in time without conscious organisms, and their consciousness of consciousness; if the concept of time even existed without humans. Time after all, is little more than the a way to describe chronology, spacing between events, one of our many convenances.
At that moment, the people below began yelling. Life goes on. For all these people, for whom life rests on its everyday grease, for whom the frivolity of wealth and temporal fame in the face of a Cosmic Nothing really matter. It just grieved me, the manner in which they were consumed with the petty matters of consequence that are of consequence because they believe it to be. With the curtains of life too far beyond the horizon to be visible, they spent their time engrossed in matters of triviality, and none but mere survival mattered anymore. What of happiness, joy? It is unfortunate, how none of us can ever experience another person’s consciousness. All of us, in our societies, our civilizations, all with the subliminal belief that consciousness is invariant, when this is as far from truth as possible. You see, all they would need is a couple of hours spent with the belief that they too were fast approaching their deaths, their final re-unification with sea, land and air; and they too would value what little they had through new eyes.
I took another drag, waiting for the city lights to go out, for the world to fall asleep and for darkness to consume all. As the euphoria gradually melted away, I realised that it was not just the happiness that I would miss. It wasn't just the joy, it wasn't just about ecstasy and exaltation. It was every single inch of being alive. I would miss the pain of failure, the frustration of matters trivial, the heartache of betrayal, all of it. Who said life was too short for us to waste time being sad? The primal satisfaction, the raw brilliance of feeling was worth it. I felt disappointed, desolated and tried to soak in it, drown in the feeling.
I felt dizzy, like I would pass out; so intense was the feeling. My chest hurt, the palms of my hand began to sweat; I felt the end near, like a man standing on the cliff of a mountain, the one place from which he could see all the beauty, and yet never touch it again; while the inertia took him over.

Alea Jacta Est

My neck itched. The kind from a mosquito bite… yes, that was what it was. It surprised me. I thought my isolation was air tight, complete. I felt the creature suckle on the nape of my neck, as I turned towards the grilled and blackened windows, and tried to peer out of them. My neck continued to itch. The realization that my solitude was compromised aroused me. Nothing so irksome had ever induced such a pleasure, I was sure. Oh, Life. Curious little ……… thing, shall we say? How it is impossible to be detached from it.  What was it? That magical little spark; that abstract ….. immortal, incorporeal essence in each one of us. Where did the difference arise, where does the distinction between inanimate and those tiny organisms go blurry, where do consciousness and reason start to present themselves, what was this ……. thing? So many questions.  It was like my grandfather would tell me, when he found me crying because we couldn't afford toys like the other children, the ones who were waited upon, head to foot; – “Be thankful for what you have. It is God's gift” .I had life. I was probably never thankful enough. Squinting hard to see if I could observe anything beyond the bleak, painful blackness, I felt the depth of the words, as they cut through me like rusted daggers. Tis’ a great curse, the untouchable enchantment that exists in understanding it in its entirety.

We need nobody to ask us to be good humans, least of all the noose. Has it no value in itself? A question you probably think I should have asked myself ages ago. Nevertheless, you know not my motives, nor my milieu. You know nothing of any of it. Do not judge me. Moreover, in a world where everything is a transaction, it's not the worst idea to take the time to forgive and be forgiven. Of course, you would say that I am nobody to speak of these morals, a freak, a depraved monster, right out of the lowest dregs of society. And I would agree with you. Remember however, that I was born just as human as you. I am what I have been made. By society, if you will. Not every one of us is born with a silver spoon. Some of us have nothing. Some of us have not even basic choices in life. And no education to make them, even if we had them. Our sentiments trodden upon, our tragedies unseen, our pain untouched by solidarity; in short, a life of untold agony, and a death with no glory. Yes, that was what awaited each and every one of us. We wanted to stand upon our own feet and look fair and square at the world, its good, its bad, its beauties, and its ugliness; see the world as it is and be not afraid of it. We wanted to conquer the world with the little we had and not merely be slavishly subdued by the terror that comes from it. We just didn't know how. You must understand though, that my objective is not to justify the atrocities committed by every criminal.  Yes, I committed a heinous crime; yes, I am a sick human being; and yes, I deserve rigorous punishment. But death? What of redemption? Can anyone be so inhuman, that they are beyond redemption? And who are you to take away something you barely comprehend?

I scratched myself against a metallic protrusion behind me, my chains creaking as I twisted.  The mosquito had left. It felt like the last drop of life just evaporated out of this little chamber of mine. Just as it brings transient pleasure, life takes it away, it disappoints you. You'd wish that time and the pain of failure would cleanse and harden the mind, like the summer sun scorches and shines granite by death until the last lichen is withered and the last moss gone, and there is happiness in hopelessness. But the universe is unkind- ever so often it will sprinkle the fog on the stone steps and a new, fetid green will grow- a new mold, a new cycle of painful, ephemeral life.

The vehicle came to a sudden halt. The doors were flung open, and I was dragged out into a yard. The sole occupants of this miserable piece of earth were two men. Two men more different in appearance, I have never seen. The fearsome, masked executor, and the frail old man with The Holy Book, generated mixed emotions in me. Two verses of The Holy Book were read to me, as I was walked up to the platform. The noose fell around my shoulders, and I was asked if I wanted any last words. Did I want last words?! I had more than a few words in mind. However, swallowing them in entirety, I chose to simply smile at the old man, or rather chuckle with whatever little was left in me, to tell him that I had not lost, that they were wrong to hang me, that I still had a chance to be a redeemed soul, and that I still wouldn't do anything about it, because that’s who I was trying to be, a Gentleman, even if it meant losing my petty life. Probably sweetest of sour grapes. 

_________________________________________________________________________________

In 'An essay concerning Human understanding', John Locke suggested that the humans capability for understanding is like his eye. What he was trying to convey, I forget. The comparison, put in appropriate context, was probably accurate, and given Locke's unbelievable capability to put in lucid words, that which is apparent to all, and yet hidden; the comparison probably conveyed one of the inherent truths of life.

Yet, splendidly out of context, as my memory would have it; it seemed remarkably silly. Almost laughably so. Staring out the little rectangular window, its glass tinted, my eyes betrayed my smile to the clouds below, who seemed to be in a land of nirvana, what with all the floating and fluffiness. 

The way I see it, understanding and vision (in this out-of-context sense) have little to do with each other. Understanding is a very unique, and variable sense of perception, if it can even be considered as such. Vision and the other sensory perceptions, however imperfect, are constant. They are imperfect in the sense that while we may not perceive the entire truth, we all perceive the same falsehood (ignoring impairments). For instance, you and I would both see that white cloud for what it is. A white cloud. God alone knows what it would be like, if the human eye could perceive all wavelengths of light, or what things would sound like, if we could perceive all wavelengths of sound, the fundamental truth. The thing is, they are perfectly functional. They bring us to a common denominator. The white cloud. It is then our dear friend, understanding, with a little help from his minion, imagination, that makes me see it as a turtle, and another person see it as a . . . bald eagle, for instance.

We gained speed, and the turtle sped away into the distance, as I looked down below upon the sprawling landscape. The height confers a sense of detachment. Not in the Vedic sense, no. For some reason, I just felt detached from my species. I would wonder why that happened, later, when I sit down to write this. I guess the height makes you realize the insignificance of those little specks of buildings, those minute fields our civilization, and our pride, in some grander scheme of things that you feel yourself to be a part of.

Funny species, the homo sapiens. It has always been assumed amidst human society, that all their developement is derived from their capability to understand, their advanced thinking skills, and that it is therefore the pinnacle of evolution. I grant the former, but I still am not convinced about the latter. A beautiful concept, evolution is; simplistic, intuitive, and extremely accurate. It reminded me of bioethicist Paul Wolpe's  talk on evolution, and specifically the part about the three phases of evolution observed until date.

According to him, the first wave of evolution is what is thought of as Darwinian evolution. Species lived in particular ecological niches and particular environment, and the pressures of those environments selected which changes, through random mutation in species, were going to be preserved. Then human beings stepped out of the Darwinian flow of evolutionary history and created the second great wave of evolution, which was when they changed the environment in which they evolved. Ecological niches were altered by creating civilization. And that has been the second great -- couple 100,000 years, 150,000 years -- flow of evolution. By changing the environment, there were new pressures on human bodies to evolve. Whether it was through settling down in agricultural communities, all the way through modern machinery, humans have changed evolution. Now they're entering a third great wave of evolutionary history, which has been called many things: "intentional evolution," "evolution by design" -- very different than intelligent design -- whereby they are actually now intentionally designing and altering the physiological forms that inhabit our planet, through biological engineering. These aside, I think there is even a fourth wave, if you will, that coexists with the third wave. With the improvement in medicine and healthcare facilities, in today's world, humans have neither reason to evolve, nor a niche to evolve into. Any evolution that occurs today, in humans, is purely economical, or political, never biological. I  And where did all these requisite capabilities come from? Our understanding, or at least that of a few brilliant, pioneering scientists. So, I'd like to believe that we've curbed evolution. Or are we all that we can be, anyway?

Cutting through my increasingly random rant, the radio crackled on, and the monotonous drawl of the air-hostess filled the cabin. We began to descend, and I felt at one with the crowd, the civilization, once again. It was a 'Bootstrap' Bill Turner moment, if you know what I mean. The countenance despondent, while accepting its fate, with chanting in the background, 'Part of the ship, part of the crew!', to convince the victim that there was no escape. Escape from what, anyway? From being human? Immediately, I found myself thinking about Calvin and Hobbes. In particular, the strip where Calvin, looking down at the base of a chopped tree, observes, 'Sometimes I think the surest sign that intelligent life exists elsewhere in the universe is that none of it has tried to contact us'.  Why this was happening, I didn't know. This sudden disappointment in being a human was surprising, and as I pondered over it, I seemed to be hitting a dead end. Staring at my face in the media player screen in front of me, I realized something else. Locke popped up again, along with his seemingly quixotic comparison. Vision lets us perceive everything around us, but never ourselves, at least not without an external aid. Human understanding, is almost the precise opposite. If humans truly understand anything, it is themselves. If at all. It is never the next person. A human can be fully aware of his shortcomings, his difficulties, and yet ignore identical symptoms in the very next person. Smiling blankly at the air hostess, who, based on her gesturing, clearly seemed to want me to do something, I tried to return to what I was thinking. Her persistence got through finally, and I started to wear my seat belt, or something like that. Whatever it was, it was distracting enough to tear me away from that bizarre loop of thought, and bring me back to my senses.

The entire train of thought was random, crazy even. I guess what I was trying to say, is that our thinking skills, and understanding capability are probably overrated.

And that's just my understanding of it.

That thou art

12.30 AM
Sleep evaded me. I had been tossing in bed for nearly an hour, before I sat up, reluctantly accepting the inherent futility in trying to force my somnambulist brain to go to sleep. Staring out the window, I fixed my distant gaze on the sole source of light in the horizon, a lamp post. Yours truly being in a mood for personification, it resembled a young boy, head hung low, standing all alone on the pavement of a unused road, scratching his head, with nought but the night sky for company. Solitary company, I chuckled to myself, taking unusual pleasure in the oxymoron. Scanning the room to see if I had awoken anybody, I returned my gaze to this lamp post. On second thoughts, he seemed more like an old man. A wise geriatric, ruminating on the days of yore. True, that made more sense. I could almost see him crack a tiny smile, in the reflection below, the smile of a man at peace with oneself. My imagination was running riot, and sleep was round the corner, I thought.

I was wrong. The 'smile' I had seen, was simply the shadow of a bike. It awoke dramatically, its headlamps illuminating the pot-holed road ahead of it, before it sailed away into the night, relinquishing to the scene the semblance of tranquility that it had temporarily distorted. A black bruiser of a machine, it was mounted by a strapping bloke. Having caught not more than a fleeting glimpse, I could barely discern his features. Where was he going at this time of the day? And why? As it always has, irresistible urge to understand something completely unrelated to me, placed me under a vice like grip. Inextricably intrigued, my mind began to hypothesise, weaving around this sole instance, a tale of pain, herculean effort and dramatic retribution. That tale is for another day. The poor chap was probably just returning home. Still, at this ungodly hour?

Ungodly hour. Why was it called that?  Admittedly, it was dark, an attribute not associated with the God, but it was tranquil. Beautifully so. The breathtaking silence would fill the air, and an indifference would be adopted. An indifference to despondence, misery and every other of those earthly problems, those which would seem inconceivably insignificant against the background of the never-ending skies. I knew not, at that moment, if this earth on which I stood was the core of the universe or if it was but a speck of dust lost in eternity. I knew not and I couldn't care less. For I knew that happiness was possible to me on earth. The night sky told me so, dispelling memories of those earthly mishaps, and filling my soul with hope. It was, in my opinion, far from ungodly. What was ungodly, anyway?

The lamp post flickered momentarily, distracting me. I sat erect, waiting with bated breath, for something to happen. Nothing did. Probably just a voltage fluctuation. Where was I? . . . Yes, ungodly.

What was God? This entirely variable humanoid/formless force, with unimaginable power, good intentions and a fetish for creation; seems at first, to any rational thinker, product of the imagination of leaders of primordial society, created solely for the purpose of maintaining peace and harmony in society. It was in my opinion, like religion in that respect, but entirely different in all others. You see, God works through faith and fear, whereas religion binds one man to another using a cultural fabric, which when slowly woven around a society, creates a similar sense of harmony. A certain somebody had once said, 'God and religion have as much to do with one another as the common man and the democratic government. People just believe that they influence one another'. I digress. Returning to god. It's like a friend of mine once ranted. "If God exists, he/she/it is objective truth, beyond any freedom of opinion. If each religion's understanding of God outside of the usual 'good' attributes, is necessarily at odds with the other religions, someone has clearly got it wrong, haven't they? Of course there is the possibility that everyone has it wrong. . . . . but that is a different story."

At that moment the street lamp died, and simultaneously the fan above me crept towards inactivity. It was a power blackout. Not accustomed to sleeping without the ceiling fan, I accepted sleeplessness as my fate for the night. I considered getting a glass of water, but laziness trumped boredom, as I sat transfixed, my gaze slowly scanning the nothingness that lay before for an object to look at. The search was pointless, the darkness seemed impenetrable and overwhelming. The whole world around me was sound asleep. I? I was awake, sweaty and frustrated.

The thought of people around me led me to a new avenue. For all the diversity that existed in the homo sapiens, for all the differences from culture to culture, this belief in the existence of a higher power seemed to be a constant. Every society, from the isolated island dwellers, to the random boiling pot in the Manhattan, has seen belief in God, at some stage or the other. Of course, there were, and have always been people who circumvented this belief and questioned the entire process, from a rational standpoint. Them apart, everybody has believed in god. And this, for me was odd. Odd, because, I've never seen any other animal engage in some seemingly senseless behavior to appease a higher power. So odd, that it led me to consider this belief in god being archetypal in humans. If so, why was it that way? Dear reader, at this point I shall assume that you, much like myself, have no qualms with Charles Darwin's theory of evolution. Having to say that is silly, but I've come to learn that certain sects refute this scientifically proven fact.

The moon reappeared from behind the veil of clouds, and the darkness was overcome. It is commonly accepted, that it is our unmatched intelligence that has distinguished our species from all others. Yet, my mind drifted to Christopher Nolan's Joker, and Heath Ledger's brilliant portrayal of the same. Resonating in my head at that point, were his thoughts on civilized people. The powerful delivery, with all that quirky brilliance, on human morals. "Their morals, their code . . . It's a bad joke. Dropped at the first sign of trouble. When the chips are down, . .  these civilized people? They'll eat each other" For somebody who hasn't seen the clip, the previous sentence is utterly meaningless. If you've watched it, you'll know what I mean.

This was where Darwin came into the picture. What I mean is, maybe, in spite of all our intelligence, we would have gone extinct years ago, due to various forms of infighting. Maybe, our belief in a larger power was the only thing that kept us alive. Maybe, this was the adaptation that ensured survival. Maybe, the concept wasn't created by the intellectuals of our society to ensure peace and harmony. Maybe, it just existed within us, for the same purpose. Maybe, and this more unlikely than the rest, I was falling asleep after all.

1.15 AM
I think I heard the fan start working again. Thank you, god.
_________________________________________________________________________________

St. Patrick's hospital bore a glum look as the night set in. The Dublin sky was dark, the dull yellow light pouring out of the few rooms whose occupants were still awake. On the second floor, to the right of the atrium, were one of these rooms. The Dermot Walsh ward was its name. The ward was nearly empty, but for a few beds with patients, and the nurse in the corner. Most of the occupants were asleep, the remaining pandiculating, some awaiting their medicines. A middle aged man paced across the ward. Fidgety, unshaven, and of an anxious countenance, he shuffled from end to end, muttering under his breath. More shuffling followed, and after a few minutes of indecision, he approached the nurse's table. 'What is it, Dr. McMurdoch?' she inquired, observing him to gauge the course of action. 'It's hopeless, the wee girl, she'll no' listen! How can you break something like this to anybody?' he whimpered, burrowing his face in his palms. The nurse winced, her's a foregone conclusion. 'You should get some rest, Doctor, so.' she suggested, the gentle Cork lilt showing in her proud Irish voice. 'No, no, she's my daughter, my wee girl. Och, you wouldn't understand! I can't just watch this happen to her, let me at least try once more, by God!' he begged, as if asking for her permission. The nurse stared out of the window, silently pondering the preoccupations of the doctor's unyielding mind. When she turned back, Seamus L. McMurdoch had proceeded towards the last bed in the ward, shuffling in his trademark fashion, firm in resolve.

'Miriam, look here. There's a good lass. Miriam, look at me, by God. I need you to listen to me carefully, so I do. Sweetheart, the accident that happened last month? Cormac died in the crash, aye. No, no, he's not standing next to you, bugger it. No, himself here, he's a hallucination, darling.' he knelt down. 'Young lady, you listen to me now, and listen sharply, aye? The trauma has triggered what we call schizophrenia. No, I'm not pulling one, by god, you have to trust me! Cormac isn't real, you're just . . .' he stopped, not knowing what to say. Watching her struggle to come to terms with what he had to say, for almost the tenth time now, he paused a minute to see if the message reached her. It was not believable, for who in their right mind would believe that a large part of their life was spent on something that simply didn't exist? The pause extended, and he decided that for a change, he would hear her out, instead of talking the whole while. She clearly had a lot to say.

Her questions intrigued him, and he found himself contemplating on them involuntarily. There was some logic to what she said. What was real, what was imaginary? It seemed blindingly obvious. Things that everybody could experience were real, the rest were imaginary, at least in the physical world. However, like she had said, it wasn't just the physical world that mattered. Everywhere else, the boundaries between one and the next were blurred, obscure. 

More disturbing however, was her question asking him why she ought to choose the real over the imaginary. It was true, the 'real world' gave her a hard time. The first mention of a mental illness and people avoid you like the plague, even though mental illnesses were never contagious. None of her relatives who came to visit even spoke to her. Even upon his insistence, they would stare distantly and murmur their hellos, before leaving. It would make him boil, but there was little he could do about it. He himself had stopped taking patients and spent nearly all day with her, but that didn't undo what other people did, it didn't make the outside world any better. On the other hand, her Cormac would stand by her all day, holding her hand. Her choice was almost natural. It just pained him to think that his daughter would probably never get to live a normal life anymore. Then again, what was normal anyway?

Further argument was pointless; both internal, or with her; so he squatted on the floor, and stared emptily at the ceiling. All was not lost, though. At least she was happy. Yes, that was the most important after all. Cormac or reality, he was fine as long as she was not unhappy, he thought, as he slowly drifted off to sleep against the metal leg of the hospital bed. He awoke sharply a half hour later, hearing the door creak open. He turned and smiled at the nurse who had come in to take over for the rest of the night. She returned his smile. He hadn't seen this girl before, must have been new.

Edna, a young girl of twenty one, smiled back at the strange man leaning against the bed. She looked at the senior nurse inquiringly, who in turn chuckled at her. 'You see, himself here is Dr. McMurdoch. Grand man, rare breed, don't make many like him no more. His wee girl died in a car accident last month, along with her boyfriend, and the trauma induced the schizo. Not one person can break it to him, so. Believes that he has to stay here all day to take care of the lass. The rest are just lovely, you'll be fine. Away off with you now, so.' she nodded reassuringly before picking up her handbag and leaving.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Can't get a good title. Duh. Help, if possible. Thanks! :-p

A pseudo savant's soliloquy

I was walking home the other day, ambling through the streets of Mylapore. It was dusk, pleasant, and slightly gusty, with an idyllic charm, one of those days when the mind wandered tangentially on any subject at the drop of a hat, rendering the thinker philosophically inclined. The greater questions bothered the mind on days like those. Why does the universe exist? Handiwork of a god, pure science, or shades of grey?  There was an inherent thrill to it, ruminating on the questions of life. It seems to be a natural human tendency. The road was mostly silent, with a but a few voices abound, and the rare engine that motored by. I continued walking, flanked by silhouettes of buildings on either sides, and arrived at a crossroads. Simultaneously, the street lamp came alive, spluttering in protest against its workload, and moulded from me a shadow in the puddle of yellow light behind that lay below me. I flipped out my phone and surfed through facebook.

It struck yours truly then.Inspired by the post of a friend of mine*, I realized that there was a third, and much more convincing theory that could be used to answer the conundrum. It was a eureka moment, but I kept my clothes on, turned into the park, and with a look of idiotic happiness pasted across my face (I think), I continued my musings in those verdant surroundings. 'Are you OK?' a passer by gestured. 'Its nothing' I nodded back.

You see, countless creeds, mythologies, ideas, and religions rose to answer questions regarding the ultimate purpose. All of these can be classified into two distinct schools of thought, religion and science. Before I get to the third, lets consider the aforementioned lines of thought.

Religions have answered the questions comprehensively, albeit with philosophies, gospel and myths that are accepted more because they cannot be proven wrong, than otherwise. In some sense therefore, religion doesn't really solve the problem. Instead, to me, it seemed more like the only answer the leader/philosopher of an primordial society could come up with when questioned on the same (not having an answer would result in anarchy, or at least loss of power, think of it from his point of view). It also enforced discipline, and pushed society in the right direction, so it was win-win for the person in question. Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to hurt anybody's sentiments here. Religion is a way of creating a peaceful, coexisting society, it is good for us human beings. It just doesn't explain the universe.

Science tries hard, but in an attempt to stay honest, repeatedly disproves itself, and hasn't yet come up with a comprehensive answer. That is not to say that science is entirely logical either. For instance, one of the basic ideas of the string theory says that the entire universe is but a hologram. The holographic principle suggests that what we all experience daily, may just be information on a surface located at the farthest reaches of our cosmos (whatever that means) and goes on to say that free will is but an illusion. Something along the lines of "All world is but a stage, and we are merely the players"? Very Shakespearean, thank you, but it still leaves one asking; "Whereforth art thou, universe?" Moreover, at a much more basic level, science can be considered to be a poor explanation of the universe. This is because, we assume that it is acceptable to consider certain things as axiomatic. Our whole scientific system is highly arbitrary, and it is suited to explain our observations. What we observe, not what the universe necessarily is. Its like the case of the goldfish in the bowl (from A Brief History of time, Stephen Hawking) In a certain city, people were not allowed to keep their goldfish in a curved bowl, as it apparently impaired the fish's sense of the world around it. The goldfish would have never realized this impairment. To date, there is no evidence that there is no such circumstance that is impairing our observation (while it is not acceptable to say that something is right because it can't be proven wrong, in this situation I think we can safely assume it on the basis of Murphy's law). So, it can be argued that we are simply explaining our observations with all these extravagant theories. Still, science is an excellent tool for our us to improve our lifestyles with, because our lifestyles are dependent only on what we observe, and not what actually exists in said object's place.  It just doesn't explain the universe.

Should these schools of thought really be blamed for not answering a question that need not even have an answer? What if, the answer was NOTHING? Just nothing, nada, nihility?

Reason and Purpose are human constructs, unlike the universe, which may not exist for a reason or purpose. Simply because our wretched intelligence would refuse to grasp a concept like ultimate randomness, it doesn't mean that the universe, at a basal level can't be random and causeless. Right?

Koheleth, the obscure author of Ecclesiastes had suggested something along these lines, sometime between 450 BC and 180 BC. He proclaimed that everything was meaningless, and that everything we did was inherently hevel, or futile. While his thought process seems unnecessarily pessimistic, there seems to be some truth in it. After all, what does anything mean? We ascribe meanings based on a protocol, again developed by us, even if variable. So what if everything is, after all, meaningless? Is meaningless synonymous with bad? 

Again, as with science, the meanings we ascribe to objects and biochemical reactions that cause emotions, are not useless. They influence lifestyle, and shape society almost completely. Its just that, in the big picture, in an attempt to 'explain' the universe, they are of little or no value.

All that bloodshed, wars and heated arguments, simply because for millennia now our species has been so preoccupied with the answer, that we have subconsciously refused to pause and ask if the question might have been silly. True, the question was intoxicating, and for many a human being, it was a distraction from his own painful world, a distant thought to marvel at. Not knowing the answer was the beauty of it, for once he knew the answer, he would have to return to his arduous reality. It was, and is an understandable personal pass-time, but never an acceptable reason for feuds and wars. It is remarkably silly, don't you think, to bicker over something so arbitrary and random, and then kill one another over theories? The causality, when traced backwards, results in this: Our lack of personal satisfaction triggered wars. Obviously, that is an extreme exaggeration, but even the implication that it was a contributing factor is sobering. Like Bertrand Russell once suggested in his book, The Conquest of Happiness; 'To discover a system for the avoidance of war is a vital need; but no such system has a chance whilst men are so unhappy that mutual extermination seems less dreadful than the endurance of light of the day'. 

As I approached my abode, it seemed to make more and more sense, much like the stars that were coming out of hiding in the soon-to-be night sky. Humans have been known to do things like this since time immemorial. Again, Mr. Russell came to mind; 'Animals are happy so long as they have health and enough to eat. Human beings, one feels, ought to be, but..... are not.'

Smiling idiotically, I approached the gates of my home and it hit me. It hit me like lightning. It was all just an epiphany gone wrong. You see, nothing is the wrong answer. The right answer is 42, as a wise man once said. Don't ask me how. It just is.

It was just one of those days. One of those glum, dark, woefully silent days. Meh.
_________________________________________________________________________________

* Thank you, Vishruth Venkat, if you ever read this.

The Master of Puppets

'Bloody Americans' Joaquin thought, as he crept out of the front door, switched on the porch light, and settled back on the wooden steps. It was probably the last squad of US army trucks for the evening. In a matter of a minute, the two-storeyed building regained normality. Joaquin could hear the beds creak again, as his mother and the other womenfolk pleasured their clients, and could smell the cigarette smoke waft out of the back room, where his brother and the other older boys discussed their routes, as he fiddled with the used condoms that had been left out to dry in the porch. It was an battered building, in the middle of nowhere, Nuevo León. Not a very pleasant place for a young boy like Joaquin, dystopian almost.

'Where was Carlos?' he wondered, searching the surrounding desert from where he sat. Carlos was his best friend. A year older than him, Carlos had already started working a route. Working a route was the local slang for delivering drugs. It was a dangerous job, but the only real chance at money for the boys and men in that part of the world. While there was no money in working a route itself, a promotion to a higher post was the dream of every boy in town. It was a tough life, messenger boys were hired in enormous numbers, paid almost nothing, and were made to compete for extremely limited jobs at the higher levels. It was like a sport, or an film industry. Everybody aspired to be up there. Few made it, very few in the case of drug cartels. Drug cartels grappled for control of regions, and the messenger boys of rival outfits would be regularly brutalized. Also, the US army fired indiscriminately at anything to do with drugs, and again, it was the messenger boys who faced the immediate risk. 'Bloody Americans' he muttered under his breath, hoping that his friend was not hurt, or worse still, dead, as he continued to play with the now inelastic condom. Deep down in his mind, however, he knew that Carlos wouldn't be hurt. He knew how to handle himself well, did Carlos.
In his world, the Americans were responsible for every bit of his misery, every inch of the Kafkaesque surroundings he lived in. Ockham's razor told him so. To start with, they were the reason a drug business existed, they were the largest consumers. They were the reason beasts like Felix Gallardo had been created. 'No demand, no supply, right?' uncle Juan would ask rhetorically, whenever the subject came up. His brother, Cesar, would shove a needle up his own hand and grunt his agreement. The market was so huge, that cartels would destroy competitors through any means possible, even if it meant cooperating with the US army. Spies in the messengers network would give away one gang's location to the US army, and the cartel would be torn to pieces. In the process, the other cartels would gain control of the region in its entirety. The market was also indirectly the reason why many locals had taken to crack themselves.
Joaquin knew that he could not fall into the same habits as those around him. He knew, that he was better than them all, that he would find his way out of this mess. He just didn't know how, yet. Still, he had already accomplished much more than most of the other locals. Along with Carlos, he had learnt basic English with the help of a tattered book that he had found in the old school building. They would spend nights trying to make sense of the script, with the help of Joaquin's uncle Juan, who knew some English from his days in Texas.
Just then, he heard a small sound to his left, and turned to see Carlos pedaling towards him in the distance.Carlos, or Carl as he asked everybody to call him, was the coolest person Joaquin knew. He was the only person in their group to kiss a girl, and the first to smoke a cigarette. In spite of that, he was smart enough to keep his distance from drugs, making him Joaquin's role model. In fact, the way he saw it, Carlos didn't do cool things, things Carlos did were cool. '¿Cuál está encima de perro?' he yelled from where he sat, inquiring about his day. 'I have news, Joe' came the reply, as Carlos hurriedly jumped off his cycle, and ran towards the porch even as it crashed into the unused post box . Even in an apocalypse, Carlos would refuse to speak anything but English. It was a style statement, and it served him well, so well that Joaquin would spend nights dreaming of an alternate universe in which he spoke English as fluently as Carlos.'What is it, why are you running, ¿Qué ha pasado?' Joaquin stammered and relapsed into the vernacular.
'They might . . . legalize drugs in America' Carl said, fumbling a little at legalize. Joaquin smirked when Carlos stammered and was shoved hard. 'You don't even know what that means, you dumb burro.' Joaquin, realizing from Carlos' tone that it was a serious matter, stopped smiling and looked at Carlos apologetically, 'Okay. What does that mean?' 'Its what your mother said, when she was under me yesterday' came the sharp reply, and Joaquin hurled himself at Carlos. They were back on their feet in under a minute, everything the same, although much sandier than they were when they went down.

'It means that Americans can buy crack without going to jail' Carlos said earnestly, staring at Joe to see if he understood. Joaquin nodded, as though in perfect comprehension, although it made little sense to him. How did fewer Americans suffering in jails help them? They deserved to suffer. 'It means we don't have to sneak it past the border. Some company will take over the business, and all the gangs will die. We will be free!' Carlos explained, as though he could read Joe's mind. 'Vamos a ser libres!' he translated, to drive home the message. 'Vamos a ser libres?' Joaquin asked, his eyes full of hope.It sounded perfect to Joaquin. Yes, crack was not good for people, but it kept them happy. The few Americans who died of it would be happy, high. Not like the Mexicans dying of real, painful bullet wounds. Also, he knew from experience that the number of consumers would reduce if it was . . . . legalized. His brother Cesar and his friends only stuck those previously used needles up their already inflamed veins, only because mother told him not to, and that it was bad.

'Lets tell uncle Juan about it' Joaquin said, trying to look as nonchalant as possible, as he hurried inside, switching off the porch light, just in case.They climbed up to the upper floor, and found uncle Juan in his room.'What is it now, Joaquin?' bellowed an irate uncle Juan. Joaquin was supposed to stay outside, and listen for sounds of trucks. His absence from his post usually warranted an earful from uncle Juan, but this was different. They were going to be free.

'Where did you hear that?' uncle Juan asked, clearly skeptical, once he heard the entire story. It had never even occurred to Joe that Carl could have been wrong. Uncle Juan was a smart man. However, if this was false, they had to return to their horrible lives. Was there no respite, no gods? 'Dora Fernandez' replied Carl confidently, cutting through Joaquin's train of thought, smirking like a cat that had solved the ball of yarn. 'I see' said uncle Juan, his forehead wrinkling with thought. How did Carl do it? Dora Fernandez was the beauty of the town. She was the daughter of Sergio Fernandez, the regional controller of the cartel. The man was a legend, one of the rare few who had gone on from being a messenger boy. Joaquin had heard people talk about how he had worked three routes simultaneously as a teenager. He was now a corpulent middle aged man, without half his front teeth. Being the regional controller had its perks. He owned nearly half the town, and was the only reliable source of information from the outside world. Joaquin felt the hope swell again, like those balloons he had dreamt of playing with as a child. 'It still doesn't make sense to me' uncle Juan frowned, pricking a hole in Joe's balloon. 'Why would the Americans do it? They don't gain .... shush.' he said, signalling both of them to keep quiet. Joaquin pricked his ears, and realized what it was all about.  US army trucks! If they made it past the blind curve, before the lights were shut off, they would stop to see what was happening. In other words, everybody would be killed. And he, Joaquin, would be the reason. He stood rooted to the spot, his muscles failing him, and his brain shutting down, even as he heard Carlos yell 'They're coming!' and jump for the main switchboard. In one feline motion, Carlos had pulled the main switch down, shutting off the building's electricity supply. It was pitch dark, and deathly silent.

The rumbling of the engine grew louder. Luckily, it didn't stop, and simply purred on until it could no longer be heard.

They were safe.

Joaquin felt himself regaining control over his muscles. He was about to switch the lights back on, when ... *SLAP*, he felt uncle Juan's bony hands across his cheek. 'Estúpido bastard. Do you want us all killed?' he heard uncle Juan's distant voice say, as the tears welled up in his eyes. He turned down, as if to pick up something. He could not let Carlos see that he was crying. Damn it all.

Bloody Americans.
________________________________________________________________________________

Its terribly vulgar, I know. Sorry. I'm not changing it, though, as the intention is just to portray what I imagine to be the ground reality there. Oh, and its a first! I came up with a name myself. Still, its weird, naming it after something Metallica created. Thanks for reading! :p

Bessie beach, Objectivism, and other things.

With roaring winds, accompanied by salty sprays of water, tame waves, a beautifully blue horizon, golden sands that seem to run forever, interrupted only by the equally never ending litter and a few stalls selling roasted peanuts; and Davy Jones' locker, Bessie beach is paradise on earth for a relaxed midsummer afternoon in Chennai, as I found out a week ago. Never mind the Chennai heat, the winds and a heady conversation are more than enough to keep one occupied. Of course, there's more to it than that, but a more detailed account would render this post too racy for certain age groups.

Like I was saying, I was there a week ago, with a couple of friends, stuffing used (and littered) quarter bottles with SOS messages dated to the late 18th century, and suicide notes from spurned lovers', and putting them out to sea (if you ever find one of those, let me know). Conversation moved in ebbs and flows, much like an inebriated serpent, from school gossip, to how shallow and absurd it was to go somewhere just to take photos of oneself, to Ayn Rand. Ayn Rand. Why she came up remains a mystery to my painfully inadequate memory. Still, Alisa Zinov'yevna Rosenbaum. Immediately, I found myself reminiscing about a younger me, a time roughly two years ago. And for a change, it was not 'Ach, what a fool I was'. To date, The Fountainhead is not just one of my favourite works, it is also in some ways, an achievement. An achievement, because I found the ideas too absurd to grasp when I started out, and because I wanted to emulate Howard Roark by the time I was done,  albeit for a short period of time. An achievement, because the Rand demanded a certain intensity from her reader. I remember to date, how I would have to read and re-read certain sections of heady prose before grasping the underlying essence. In some ways, it was like an intense, yet pleasurable form of labour.

Rand had a way with her words. She was the kind of author who, in my opinion, could sell just about any theory to her reader. In my case, I found objectivism laughably silly when I started out. It was unrealistic, Roark's approach towards life, it didn't seem humanly possible. The same could be said of Toohey's cold, calculating mind, and his Machiavellian nature. Could humans really be so single minded, and ignore in their entirety, all those little, beautiful things that make this roller-coaster ride we call life? And yet, as I read on, I found myself increasingly convinced about the plausibility of the same. Simultaneously, I found myself more open to her theories. The idea of Atlas shrugging just about drove the message home. Such was her capability. Around the same time, I started reading about Marxism. In its own way, it seemed to make sense as well (at least at first). Yet, the two philosophies sat diametrically opposite one another. As J.K Rowling had once said of Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, it seemed to be a case of 'Neither can live, while the other survives'. On the one hand, coercing the prime movers to 'self sacrifice' would cause the destruction of a society, for beyond a stage, Atlas would have to shrug, and on the other hand exploitation of the masses by a dominant class would result in anarchy. Both ideas seemed to be the perfect recipe for disaster, at least in the eyes of its bete noir.

However, Rand and Marx seemed to be working with different assumptions. That which was axiomatic to one, seemed absurd to the other. While similar, the groups of people addressed in the two theories, were not identical. For instance, Rand spoke of prime movers, while Marx spoke of the dominant class. Obviously, all prime movers are a part of the dominant class, but the converse is not true, especially given the kind of nepotism displayed by homo-sapiens. Rand spoke of men who, in terms of Jungian archetypes had a Self and a Persona that were indistinguishable, men who made decisions solely based on their ideals, men with will power enough to move mountains. Marx, on the other hand, just spoke of people who wielded power, monetary or otherwise. Yet, in Rand's view, members of the dominant class who were not prime movers, would eventually fall out of the dominant class. Similarly, she also felt that the concept of masses didn't really exist, except in the minds of the second-handers. Those who were mentally strong enough, would make it to the top, regardless of circumstances, for in terms of self actualization, they had everything and more. It was evolution, plain and simple as science to her. Evolution though, is not an overnight process. It is in this interim time period that Marx's theory of  exploitation becomes relevant, however reservedly (I'm anti-Marxist, sue me*). So in some sense, neither survives while the other lives. Instead, the two achieve resonance. When I had come to this conclusion, it had never occurred to me that Rand could be wrong, in any way. Like I said, such was her ability. However, disillusionment began to set in. Malcolm Gladwell had written his second book, 'Outliers', and I had turned my undivided attention to it. It was a book about success stories (no, not a self-help book!), a fascinating read, although admittedly not his best. It had analysed in great depth, the stories of the rise of many people Rand would describe as prime movers. Gladwell had taken the stories of people like Bill Gates and the like,  and had proven conclusively that luck, simple old serendipity, had a great deal to do with these people's successes. Admittedly, they had worked very hard to start with, but they also got lucky, and that was the reason they were where they were, Gladwell showed the world. It doesn't make sense for me to explain what he already did, so if you haven't already read the book, try this: Outliers.

In such situations, is it possible to solve all conflicts of the mind with a uniform protocol, or philosophy? Also, for some reason, debates involving Marxism and Objectivism make one completely forget, that humans are still capable of doing each other favours without being coerced, and that not every single member of the so called dominant class is out to exploit the masses. And lastly, as Ayn Rand herself once asked; Who is John Galt?

________________________________________________________________________________
*Why am I anti-Marxist? Tough to explain, but this helps - Remember Danilov from 'Enemy at the gates'? His disillusionment in his dying breaths; "Man will always be man, there is no new man. We've tried so hard to create a society that was equal, where there'd be no reason to envy your neighbor, but there is always something to envy. A smile, a friendship, something you have not, and wish to appropriate, In this world, even the Soviet one, there will always be rich and poor. Rich in gifts, poor in gifts. Rich in love, poor in love."

It was a bad day at the office. Most days were, for public office bearers in India. He still had one press conference to attend, if he remembered correctly. 'Shuklaji, whats left on today's schedule?'

'Press conference about Verma Committee report, sir. Madamji also called.' answered the man in the front seat of the car, juggling two phones and a black file, as he turned back to bark at the driver.

Prakash Awasthi was exhausted, but knew that he couldn't skip the press conference. He wiped his brow as he checked his blackberry for messages. Yes, his wife had called. What did she want now?

'Aarthi has not returned yet, please pick her up on the way home' he read aloud, squinting at his phone. "Okay, okay, I will. Phew, I just need some time' he said aloud, to no one in particular.

The Verma Committee report. The Verma Committee report was constituted to recommend amendments to the Criminal Law so as to provide for quicker trial and enhanced punishment for criminals accused of committing sexual assault against women. It was a tricky affair; sexual molestation in India. It had been happening since, well, forever. Ever since the Nirbhaya case, it had assumed tremendous importance in Indian politics. Nirbhaya was the nom de guerre of the victim of a horrific case of sexual assault. The girl was battling for her life in a hospital in New Delhi, even as he scribbled down key issues to address at the conference.

The reasons it was a tricky affair were aplenty. For one, there had always been discrimination based on sex in his country. In backward regions, daughters would be sold by their own fathers. Upon collecting the remuneration, they would cry 'Rape!’ for the added publicity. It was a sick and dirty rut, one most Indians in urban settings and upper echelons would be incapable of even imagining. For another, justice had always been a dish served cold in India. Many victims of other crimes would jump on to the rape bandwagon to get media attention, and have justice delivered faster.

Awasthi was the new face of Indian politics. At the relatively young age of 44, the suave economist had been branded as one of the most influential men in the country and was particularly loved for his incorruptible nature. He was received by warm applause as he entered the hall. Half an hour later, he had completed his speech. 'I'll be willing to answer your questions now' he completed, and walked to Shukla, to get a sip of water.

The question was about death sentences. He was tired of explaining this, repeatedly. He began, in a manner almost avuncular 'Ladies and gentlemen, if the punishment for those convicted of rape was death, you would never hear of rape in India again. No, it would still happen. You just wouldn't hear of it anymore. Bodies will be disposed with greater care; evidence will be destroyed much more efficiently. You see, the beasts responsible for these crimes, they don't think like you and me. Otherwise, they wouldn't commit these crimes, to start with. To them, death sentences don't act as deterrents. The law would fail to reduce the frequency of the crime, and would serve no purpose, whatsoever. You do realize that the only thing it will do is further endanger the victim.' he finished, hoping for the subject to be changed. He had gone over this in his mind over and over again, and had never really felt right about it. He knew that the decision was sound, pragmatic even, but had a bad feeling about it. 'You are not expected to legislate based on these little feelings, damn it' he thought to himself. Yet, he knew fully well that the feeling was just a logical thought he was simply not letting himself articulate fully. Decisions about death sentences were difficult. Did anybody really deserve death? His was a predilection towards life and redemption. However, he knew that that question had very little to do with their decision to not punish rapists with death. Like he had said previously, those beasts would simply become more efficient, and there would be nothing anybody could do about it. It disgusted him, the knowledge that the police force was so desperately helpless against these criminals.

'And what of the victim's family?' came the sharp retort, yanking him out of his ruminations.

'Our condolences are with them, sir, but in no circumstance can we legislate based on the victim's emotions, never. Are there any other questions?'.

'Just when will rape cease to happen in India? After all, isn't that the long term goal of the government?' he heard a squeaky voice yell from across the room.

'Reducing the frequency of a crime to absolute zero is not possible, but I catch your drift. There is no easy answer to this particular question. You see, the problem is, many of us seem to think of rape as a disease. Frankly, I think it is more a symptom than a disease. A symptom of a sick, backward society. The best we can do in our current predicament is control the crime. As of now, we only have deterrents in place to check the crime. These are not weapons potent enough to destroy the Lernaen hydra that is rape. Changes in the mentality of people, and education at the grassroots, these are the measures that will eventually make a difference. We must continue to bide our time, for. . . . .yes?' he turned to see Shukla handing him his phone with a sense of urgency. What now? he wondered as he checked the caller id. 'Commissioner Talwar? The last time that man had featured on caller list of his personal phone, it had been about the 26/11. Not a good sign' he cursed observing how the day was going from bad to worse, as he held the phone up to his ear.

To say that there was a marked change in his body language, would have been an understatement. The confident man from a minute ago had been reduced to a distraught mess.

'I will kill them all. Every last one of the bastards responsible.' he bawled, forgetting his etiquette and surroundings. Dropping the phone, he swooned, muttering under his breath.

His daughter had been raped.

________________________________________________________________________

Yes, I know it is not realistic, and that there is no chance that a person like her was roaming the city without a body guard. It is just an attempt to show that there is more than one side to this coin. As always, I couldn't come up with a title myself. Help please. Thanks. :-D

Why did these things happen to him?

The piece below is 100% fiction, and is not intended to hurt anybody's sentiments.

Why did these things happen to him? the boy wondered, half awake.

'Wake up, Sathya!' yelled a hoarse voice from a distance. 'Its 9.30 already'. It was Annan, his elder brother. Sathya had been dreading that moment for a whole week. It was the 23rd of January, the day Annan was to be transferred along with the rest of the elite sniper team further south.Annan was his only living relation. He was his hero and his best friend as well. In fact, Annan had practically raised Sathya after their mother died while delivering Sathya.

Annan, at the age of 17, had the physique of a Greek god, and knew the region like the back of his hand. The adults in the camp called him an excellent strategist, whatever that meant. That, and his excellent skills with guns had brought him close to the leader of their camp. It was the only reason why Sathya had been able to enjoy luxuries like sleeping in until 9.30 instead of crawling in a trench with all the other 9 year-old boys, learning to handle a rifle.

He woke up irritably, and walked towards the stream, to begin his morning chores. The stream had always disgusted him. It was not a clear stream of water, but an ugly garbage dump that also acted as a breeding ground for mosquitoes. In fact, he hated everything about his surroundings. They had no electricity, no clean water, no sanitary facilities, no doctors for medical attention. Those were luxuries for them. The mentality of the adults in his camp too annoyed him. 'We must fight unto our death, dear boy. One day, the Eelam will be liberated', they would say. 'For whom?' he wondered. If things continued the way they were, both armies would be decimated completely before the Liberation, leaving nobody to live in the Eelam. That is, if the malarial mosquitoes and unhygienic conditions didn't kill them first.

Having brushed his teeth and defecated, he returned to his tent, to find Annan completing his packing. He had so many questions in his mind. Would Annan return? If so, when would he return? Who would take care of him when Annan was not around?. Annan too, seemed to be anxious, as was obvious from his body language. 'Sathya, promise me that you will behave responsibly when I'm away' said Annan in a firm yet loving voice, like a father going away on a business trip. Sathya nodded, his voice lost amongst his fears.

Annan then turned back to his bag, and rummaged for a while before producing a gun from it. It was an battered SIG-Pro semiautomatic pistol. 'This belonged to our father', said Annan 'use it to protect yourself if necessary'. Sathya stared at the little device for a whole minute, before extending his hand to touch it gingerly, even as Annan continued to tell him how to use it. Sathya wasn't paying attention. He didn't care anymore. Annan was going away. That was all that mattered. Annan then hugged him and left, and Sathya bit his tongue to ensure that Annan didn't know he was crying.

Later that evening, Sathya roamed the camp with a heavy heart, with no purpose, stopping from time to time to give his feet some rest. The clouds above hung low, and were as dark as any he had seen. He knew that it would rain soon, and that he would be safer in his tent, but stayed out in an act of defiance. He then reached the central clearing of the camp. The boys were usually trained by the veterans in the clearing. He watched from a distance as 50 skinny boys squatted on the floor, rapt in attention, as one of the teachers told them how to handle rifles. He wondered where the weapons came from. Clearly, they were smuggling it from somewhere, but if somebody wanted to help them, why didn't they just bring in their army and win the war for them? 'War is not all that simple' his brother had laughed, when Sathya had asked him.

He had heard about the protests in India. He had heard the elders discuss how Sri Lankans were not allowed to play cricket in some parts of India. 'What purpose does that serve?' wondered the irate boy. The Sri Lankans could play all the cricket they wanted as long they gave the elders the measly bit of land they demanded, and allowed them to live in peace. He also wondered, albeit secretly, whether their demand was justified. After all, they were all humans. Why couldn't they just live together? So they had different languages, and different cultures. Would it really kill them to live together? Having been born into the war, he knew nothing of what happened before it.Yet, it was his conviction, that whatever the situation was at that point of time, it was definitely not worse than the current one. 'Always aim for the forehead, it kills instantaneously and saves you ammunition.' he heard the teacher ramble on. An instant death. He wondered if that was a luxury he could ever afford. His death, he imagined, would be a painful one, in the tent reserved for the wounded in the camp, like all the others. If only he could die right away. He had nothing to live for anyway. Even Annan had left. It struck him then. It was perfect, he had a life he wanted to end, and a gun to end it.

He ran as hard as he could, oblivious of the rain and the stones beneath his feet, and burst into his tent. The gun lay there, on the makeshift table they owned. He walked up to it cautiously, picked it up and ran again. He would run deep into the woods where nobody would go, so that his body wouldn't be found. He knew that if Annan returned and learnt of his death, it would break his heart. It was better for him to think that Sathya was lost, or better still, abducted by the Sri Lankans. After 5 minutes of running, he stopped. Pointing the gun carefully at the middle of his forehead, he steadied himself, 'On the count of three, pull the trigger'.

1...2...3....

*Click*.

Of course it wasn't loaded. Annan was not a fool. The misery had to continue.

Why did these things happen to him?

________________________________________________________________________________

Again, I need a name for the story. Any ideas?

Fellas, Don't be jealous.

It was a bleak evening. 014 was in room 365, Alson resort, under a Serbian alias, Marko Yvonevic. He didn't know why, his controllers never told him the political motivation behind his assassinations.

Dressed in a loose pair of jeans and a white turtleneck that barely hid his paunch, he bore no resemblance to his fictional counterpart. 'Bond, James Bond . . . What an amateur', he chuckled to himself as he thought about Agent 007. His job was to be inconspicuous, and the muscular frame that belonged to Sean Connery would be least helpful towards that end.

In spite of that, he had always envied 007. His was the perfect life, what with the cars, gadgets and girls. 014? He drove a beat-up Chevy, had only a 0.9mm Magnum, and as far as girls went, his wife had been informed that he died in a plane crash the day he was recruited. His was a thankless job. He knew that his seniors would have no qualms about putting him down if his position was ever compromised.

The despondent train of thought was broken when he heard a knock on the door, followed by 'Room service', in a high pitched Serbian accent. Dinner, he smiled to himself, as he walked up to the closet and marked an 'X' on the table next to it. It was the only spot in the room that was not under the surveillance of the CCTV cameras. 'Come in' he said aloud, even as he heard a trolley roll in. The waiter, walked in smartly, surveyed the room, laid out the dinner table, turned to walk out, and 'accidentally' left a brown parcel behind, on the X. 014 was impressed. the young man had distinguished himself well, by following protocol perfectly. He then ate his dinner, a simple British fare, before reluctantly unwrapping the parcel.

In it he knew, lay concealed the identity of his next victim and details of the plan of action for him to follow. The name of the next victim, was . . . well, unimportant. The plan was simple enough. 014 had to draw him out of the way in a long game of golf, when a brief distraction would be created to take the bodyguard out of the equation. 014 would then have to smother the man with a chloroform laced handkerchief, and leave the body in the woods nearby, for it to be discarded. Lastly, obviously he had to make himself scarce.

'What did this poor soul do?' wondered the man, rumoured to be a heartless assassin amongst his colleagues, staring at the target's photograph. In spite of having killed 13 men in the past in such stealth missions, having to kill one more random person tore him apart. He would invariably spend most of his time before the kill thinking about the victim, the pleasures and pressures of his/her life, and whether or not it was right for him to take away the gift of life. That he would always reason with himself that this kill would save many other innocents, and that he would execute it perfectly anyway was another matter. 'There are no such things as battle hardened men' he argued with his prefrontal cortex, as he crawled into bed. 'Some of us unfortunate bastards just survive too long for our own good'.

The sound of a phone ringing woke him up in the morning. 'хвала' he answered, thanking the receptionist for the wakeup call in fluent yet groggy Serbian and went about his morning chores.

Six hours later, he was at the last hole of the course. The plan was going perfectly, and the distraction was due in a minute. 014 lined up for a putt, as his new friend watched on. It would have been a birdie, given his expertise. It had been a tricky hole. With woods on both sides, it took a classy drive to find the clearing in the middle. At that moment precisely, they heard a mini explosion to his right. The bodyguard scampered off to secure the perimeter, glad to have a few minutes' respite from watching two grown man knock little white balls around a large meadow. The target turned back from the distraction, his smug face indicating the confidence he has in his bodyguard, surprised to notice that his friend had dropped his club and was holding a wet kerchief instead. A couple of seconds later, 014 dragged the lifeless body to the woods on his left.

The job complete, 014 slithered away, feeling his way through the woods on all fours. His spotter must have completed the communication by then. 014 had never been spotter in all his life, and only knew what he read about them in his textbooks when he was being trained. 'The spotter is the backup agent on any job. His/her main objective is to ensure that the mission is carried out successfully, and to provide the controllers with regular inputs. If the main agent on a mission double crosses the team, it is the spotter's duty to eliminate him/her, and complete said mission' he recalled, as he crawled. A few moments later, he heard a twig break. The implication was obvious. His spotter was in his midst! Technically, the spotter was the only barrier between John Dawes and his freedom. If killed, he could escape, or as he thought of it, retire, without his controllers knowing. He lay still for a minute, listening for sounds that would give away the position of the man. There were plenty. Clearly an amateur, the spotter had completely betrayed his position to Dawes. Dawes realised that the man was a few metres ahead of him with his back to John. Dawes crept up with the silence characteristic of a Rolls Royce drive., and prepared to smother the agent, who crouched behind a tree, extremely proud of the professionalism with which he had completed his first mission. Dawes looked at the boy, and realised that it was the waiter from the previous night. The familiar heartache that always struck him before he made his kill, paralyzed him for a whole second. Dawes then bent over, tapped the boy's shoulder and whispered, 'Don't give away your position so easily boy, you're better than that', before hurrying away. The boy turned to see his hero crawl away and turned red with a combination of awe and embarrassment.

A few hours later, a nondescript Chevy was seen driving past the national border. Its driver was no longer a human. He was just a number, again. 014.

__________________________________________________________________________________

If you're still reading this, thanks. Its my first attempt at writing a story, so let me know what you think of it. The title is from the song 'Man for all seasons - Robbie Williams' (Opening credits of Johnny English)