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.
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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.
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* 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.
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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?

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*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."