chromosome wars

Survival of the fittest by Charles Darwin to Survival of the Sickest by Saliva, the world has its own set of philosophers theorising every experience. The war is always on. Winner gets it all and the loser standing small. The ugly truth of the world is everybody is a loser. Nobody wins here. Everything is temporary. Victory in the larger picture is just an illusion. Everybody live to die. Thats the whole motha***kin point about this world. We all think we are making sense of about how we came and what is the world is all about. It is such a waste of time to go behind the thought, how is it gonna help knowing how we came. The answer is so elusive and irrelevant that by the time the answer is found, verified and verified again, we would as well be wiped off the face of the earth. Some others are trying to invent something everyday. Everything that we will ever need is already invented. As a consequence of all these chromosonal action, accident, evolution, sugar-free diets etc.. etc...we have evolved into a depressed bunch of buffoons. The aliens would be laughing at our diseased. Today more are diseased by their imagination than they are by aids. Imagine how lame a species we could turn out to be. At least aids is a consequence of some action. Our mentally depressed, have developed this virus out of nowhere. Times of I**ia said yesterday that India is the most depressed country as per its recent survey. Of course the ruddy survey took place in a city, The rural people are ignorant and also ignorant about the fact that they are ignorant and therefore are a content lot. We urbanites in India are ignorant, and damn! we know we are ignorant. Every farcical masquerading moron is ignorant in this place. Some prove their superiority by displaying attributes that are not commonly possessed. Some are not even arrogant about it, and behave that way as-a-matter-of-fact-ly. I am so doomed by such "great" people around me. They seem to be flawless, but they are equally ignorant. They foster envy in the mortals around them, some mortals around them imitate and blindly become the same not knowing what exactly went thru the superior minds of these other-worldly creatures. Slowly I feel this world is being possessed by these "better capable" on one side and the "depressed-suicidal-losers" on the other side. The problem is that I dont know what evolution I have been thru, Cos I find myself exactly on the centre of the continuum. Tipping the scale slightly towards the loser end.

Bonne Musique

Music can be understood by everybody. A two year old kid can hum a tune along, without knowing what scale it is in or how many notes exist or the timing in which it is played. All the kid needs to know is that it sounds good and he can enjoy and jump around while it is played. Music is more or less the same for most of them who do not indulge themselves into the deeper intricacies. At least that is how I saw music. Later you start to appreciate the lyrics and the meaning attached to them. There were so many times that I was hearing a particular track for the nth time in the wee hours and wondering what would have gone thru the mind of the songwriter to have inspired him / her to write something like this. Other times I like the tracks that show some courage and are filthy at the outset. They do have meanings behind them. Some represent deep resentment, some others intense hatred while some other are for the departed and the desolate. There are happy songs too, but to me they dont appeal mostly, they end up being just short of a disco track. Every genre has its audience. Some songs take you into a trance that is enjoyable, some make you cry and some you can relate to. These songs and their lyrics start to make in a lot of sense. They become a sort of a companion. I communicate in a sort of strange way with music. It is not a one way communication.  While the songwriter, composer and the musician speak in their own unique ways, I reciprocate with my thoughts and feelings. It intensifies my emotions. It captures the fleeting and eluding thoughts, crystalises them and gives it a form that I can recognise. A good song makes me think, makes me imagine. It is not complete but it is also not incomplete. It leaves me content and hungry at the same time. One such song is Californication. It stirs something within me, mostly the riff that is played by Frusciante and Flea creates a melody so resonant and smooth. Its like weed, just a bit warmer and short lived. Then the lyrics play with my mind, keeps me guessing all the while. I wonder whether there was any thought behind the lyrics or it was plain scribbling. But then I construct some meaning into it. It makes sense and again it doesn't. It confuses me and then I say what the hell, Kiedis' voice makes sense, it would make sense even if it was greek.

I sit and wonder that how non-corporeal, how intangible, how physically disconnected the efforts of these musicians are to the eventual master-piece that is produced. I cannot define what would have exactly gone into making it, what learning would have led to creation of something so celestial. But something definitely does. A musician would have to keep so much faith in the self and other teammates, the efforts put in. It is far more courageous than it seems. Malcolm Gladwell says- put in 10000 hrs = genius. Success stories do inspire awe, do lead us to dream, to believe something so unquantifiable, unpredictible and uncontrollable is possible. Someone else has done it, so can I.

 All this said & done, what about the failures. We don't hear about those who tried, worked hard and failed. We would never what wrong did they do. Only then we could may be quantify what right the winners did. Well I believe it would all boil down to luck. Being at the right place at the right time. You can only increase your probability by doin it all the time, so that when the right time arrives, you are doin it.

There is a beautiful maths in music. Music has only 12 notes. All the music that has ever been created in this world is within the realm these 12 notes.

Since the beginning of music and so far, there has been so much creation, so much exploring, discovering but I wonder how come there are no two songs that match note by note. Unless the intention was to reproduce it note by note.

The maths makes it impossible in fact. Every note is like a word. Just like a combination of words make up a statement, combination of notes put together makes a line. And similar to the statements becoming paras,

these lines become a song. At every step there are 12 choices for the composer. suppose there are 12 notes in a particular line. The possible permutations would be 12!. The whole thing to repeat itself would be next to impossible. To make it further impossible, there are octaves, half notes etc etc... 

The beauty of music is unending. The further you travel on the path of discovering music, the wider the path gets. The ear opens up, you hear more things in the same song you listened to before. You recognise patterns of song and connect to another, you see how beautifully the words form a sentence and paragraphs, and how beautifully the whole thing is stitched together to become a larger, more coherent and succint it gets.

It is fortunate that we are born in a time where information is so easily available. We can find explanations to the unanswered phenomena. We are fortunate to be a part of a civilisation, a race, a species that can produce, appreciate, communicate music. We can savour the music in its finest sense and enjoy its wildness at the extremes. It is something that inspires, reveals and creates a feeling that is inexplicable. It caters to the tastes of extreme sensibilities. Everyone loves music in some form or the other. It is the inevitable part of the life. 

When all this is splurting out of the brain, I realise, it is an important part of life but not an essential part of life.

We can live without music. Just that the music enhances the experience of living. In this dull, mundane rut of a life, it sparks some fire and sets the ambience for a smoother sailing. God bless the musicians.

Cordially screwed

I was hanging by the tree when a snake hissed to me,

It said there are crocs in the stream below,

I thought I would jump onto the bank,

Just then I saw a Lion roaring.

I thought to myself "I am cordially screwed"


That. Yeah that is the phase of my current life.

Posthumous existence

 

Mira was mired by myriad problems of marriage. She had this inferiority spiralled by her husband's ability to microscopically dissect each mistake, magnify it and present it in the glorified platter of guilt. He eventually had the right to show off his magnanimity also. She bought it most of the times. She thought that it was she who was wired wrong way. She lost her confidence completely. She compared her early life to her present life. She thought to herself sometimes " ignorance was bliss". With knowledge of her weakness' and her disabilities she had couched into the fear of failure. What failure she would wonder. But the fear existed. It surfaced in every action. She became defensive and as a result offensive. The fear resulted in more errors, more depression and more errors. Her interiors started to defy everything that was supposed to be done. Even basic functional activities became too much of efforts.

She drooped lower into the oblivion, giving more fodder for her husband to feed on, to digest and to spit it all out on her miserable ego. She lost all desire to improve. It was comfortable down there. It justified her inaction and her unwillingness to do what is supposed to be done. She rebelled against her ownself. She became self destructive. The thought of comfortably numb passed and she could no more bear the state she had reached. In addition to the insult the injury was always added by the husband. A perfect recipe for suicide. She began plotting for her suicide. She researched for a painless way. There were none. Even if there were., they were inaccessible. So she resorted to traditional ways. One night when she became despondent, she wanted to hang herself. She saw a hook on the wall. As she made up her mind, she started sobbing profusely, All the good things in her life came to her. She thought that there is no reason to continue and extend the miserableness.

Every act of human did not seem germane to her.She thought that the cycle of life is illogical and it is high

time she ended the misery.She found nothing in the house she could hang herself with. So she took the thick cables of the cable tv connection and overlapped them four times to make it strong enough to sustain weight. She made the deadly loop that would tighten around her neck. By this time she was nervous and frenetic. She took the chair of appropriate height and climbed up to tie the lose end to the hook. She tied the wires in the hook. She put her head inside the loop. She fastened it for one last assurance. She didnt want to face her family if she failed in this.She was ready . The tears had dried. The sense of freedom was dawning, the hopelesness was gone. She yearned for this sensation for so long.

Just then the phone rang and she slipped. She cursed.But She managed to get her hands on the wire, and get her feet back on the chair. She undid the loop, got down the chair and picked up the phone. It was her husband. She confessed she was committing suicide. He went crazy and started crying. He loved her madly. He just could not know what was wrong with his wife.

He had problems. He thought she was disinterested, unconcerned and displayed lackadaisical behaviour in the relationship. His experiences over the period made his actions bitter, which represented his feelings. He was insecure, unaware, unsure and suffering too. He pleaded. She promised that she would not do any such thing in the future.
Things werent normal. This time she planned for an innovative way. She bought a very sharpened butcher knife. She stored a lot of ice. As she gathered ice, she put it in a bucket.She put her hands into the bucket. While she did this, she drank a glass of undiluted whiskey. After about half an hour she could not feel her hands. She picked the knife. 

She slowly made a deep gush in her wrist where the hand begins. Then she cut the wrist at a 45 degreed angle from the previous cut. Then to top it she cut the wrist horizontally up to her arms, till the place she could not feel the pain. Then to make sure she put her head inside a plastic cover and tied it with rubber bands.

In her note she said

" 

As the end approaches,

I light the fire,

To my own pyre

As the Dreams are broken

I am denied of my last desire

As I am about to die

I wonder why?

I burn anyway

Its just another day

I smile as I go.

The fuck you reap what you sow."

 

Social Monotony Part I

Writing monotonous blogs

Social Monotony part II

Dinakar was a 42 year old post-man. He lived in a small room which was almost inconspicuously hidden in the corner of the street between two tall buildings somewhere in the maze of Bombay. He had no friends. He had no family. Parents died when he was young. He lived off the meager salary he earned. He need not save for anything as he had not married and had no off-springs. He could not marry because his speech faculty was not fully developed to get himself married.

Each day he woke up exactly at 6’o clock. He got water for himself. There was no bathroom actually. He took bath in the open backyard (junkyard rather). He used the common dormitory toilet of the adjacent building. Nobody even noticed him. He used it from time immemorial and therefore it was as if he had a preemptive right on it. He was ready by 7:30. He cooked his breakfast. Bread and Omlet was his everyday breakfast. He was lean and hunched. He left for his office at 8:22 and reach the local station by 8:33. His train was at 8:37. He caught is local train and reached the destination station at 9:04 or 9:05. He then took a bus for his office. He reached his office by 9:25 everyday. He then did his regular work of picking up all the mails from all departments of the office and put it in the post box. His work was to post letters. So if anybody had a letter to be posted, they would ring the operator and ask for dianakar. He would get up and go immediately and post the letter. Several times in a day he would go to the post office. Sometimes he would return and leave immediately. He had his lunch in the temple nearby. They gave rice and sambar everyday. He would be in the office until the last officer left, and follow the same routine to get back home. He always reached home between 8:20 and 8:25. After reaching home he cooked his dinner. It was roti curry for 6 days. On Sundays he cooked fish curry. On Sundays he did cleaning, washing and ironing. Remaining time on Sunday he brooded about the sleep problem.

He lived on for another 18 years. One day when he slept he dint wake up. He was sixty. He did not come to office. The operator said ‘ Dinakar bhau elat nahi” (Dinakar brother has not come today). Everybody wondered how many leaves does this old fellow takes. Actually he had not taken leave for a single day in 40 years. When he did not come third day, the work was incomplete. As nobody knew where he lived, they hired another twenty year old boy who had just came to Mumbai to make a living. He was searching for a room. He ended up in the lil street and knocked on the door where the dinakar lived. He smelled the stench of the rotting dead body and informed neighbours. They disregarded it by saying that nobody stayed there. But when they smelled it for themselves they believed. The Municipality workers did the remaining job. The body of Dinakar was thrown into a near by river that joined into the sea. The young boy started staying in Dinakar’s house and he lived a similar lifestyle as Dinakar did.

The firm where he worked, officials still called the operator and asked for Dinakar. He became Dinakar as nobody else observed that Dianakar was replaced by somebody else. In fact nobody ever saw Dinakar closely. So Prabhakar became Dinakar. Prabhakar bought his grocery from the same place. He bathe at the same place and used the same toilet. Nobody missed Dinakar. Nobody shed a tear in his rememberance. He was gone like he had come. There were no memories. 

Me

Normal as anybody,
dreams of success
laziness in bones
and every cell,
Frustrated of lack of achievements,
yet no urge to do any further
Have the faith yet,
may be ignorance too,
Desolate as can be,
Who you lookin at is me

My mind speaks sometimes

We all know that we are doing just time pass in this world. Why we take things so seriously then. I remember Jokers words , Why so serious?. He had a point.

Rhapsody

Music to my ears, yes music to my ears were her voice,

It was not my responsibillty but it was my choice;

Everything she said was so so senseless sometimes,

But it always made sense to me,

thats why i named dis a rhapsody,

we had our differences,

yet she respected mine,

this ego is a bitch,

we treat it divine,

n feed it religiously,

not knowin its not self esteem,

we all fake until we cant undo it,

its all so confusing to intrerpret,

to harmonise the mind n heart,

I cant take this shit,

and therefore i quit

Social Monotony Part III the 3rd

In a couple of weeks the book was published. The initial period was dull.
The book found favour with the critics.sales also increased with time.
He saw his success, finally. 
After a decade, he felt complete and happy. 
His success, however small, meant a lot to him.


He was planning how he would face his son. He could not 
remember, when was the last time he felt so excited. He was walking
up and down the house. He made up his mind and was about to 
leave the house to search for his son.As he opened the door.
 He saw his wife and son, standing there. 
He could not believe his luck. Lucy said nothing. 
She gave a letter, and said she will be back in the evening to pick up
Chris. 


The letter read , 
" I knew that I was being the obstacle to your success. I always 
had faith that you had the courage to get back up and 
fight the pain. I knew that with me around, you would never get
out of your slump.I wish all the luck to you. I have moved on
and have no business coming back. I decided to walk away.
I dont want to give any false hopes. I will never return back 
to your life. I trust that you can take good care of Christopher.
I will be fine.
 Goodbye".


He felt somewhere, that what she said was true. He was unable 
to cry.
He was emotionally distant with pain. He was stronger.
He felt responsible for his kid. He knew it would not be easy. 
But he was Ready!




Sales were picking pace. He had an interview scheduled with
the press the next evening. The first question was:


Your book " Poker is no joke" clearly shows your command 
on the matter. However, your modest existence does not 
reveal that you have used any of the theories successfully
 yourself:-

Wayne replied :- Success comes at a price.

                           My price was "failure".

Social Monotony Part III the 2nd

As days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into years, Wayne was earning a bit and losing more. He was at home most of the times. Selena was not interested in Wayne anymore. She was living just for Christopher. Wayne had lost all his savings. He was now eating into Selena's savings. Selena was working hard, but it was not sufficient. One morning, when Wayne was still asleep, Selena left all with Christopher, with a small note behind " Take care of your self" with some money left behind in the drawer. Being a writer himself, he thought that the note was more a taunt than any concern. He very well knew that he could not take care of himself, without earning some money. He had quit smoking for Selena. With Selena gone, he started again. This time heavier than ever. With all his addictions or rather dependencies, he had to earn something. He started searching for a job. First thing he realised that he had become really unfit. He used to always climb stairs two at a time. Now he crawled his way up and ended up panting at the end of the first floor. He was just 33. He felt a pain in the chest, almost hoping it to be an heart attack. He also started getting suicidal thoughts. Sometimes, acting on it in the wake of desperation. With no ounce of purpose and no one to live for, he had gone from being a bright jolly kid to a complete failed adult. He felt he didnt belong. He wondered who would have guessed it. The job scene was also bad, as anybody doing a background check knew that he had no concrete job for long. Whatever he had before was also not impressive. He failed in all aspects of his life. He had no desire, no motivation or will power to turn back things.

He was comfortable being low. It justified his impulsive behaviour. It justified his downfall, his inability to handle a relationship, to raise a child. He almost even blamed Selena for being so cruel and critical of him. He broke down. He stayed in his room for hours during the day. Walked on the streets in the night reminiscing the golden childhood and teenage life. He missed being happy all the time. The enthusiasm, the life without expectation, anxiousness. He thought with whatever damaged faculties he possessed. He thought he could get it back. But the question was how. His first step was to get back in good health. He could not get up early in the morning. So he hit the road in the night. He began running at eleven in the night. The roads were relatively empty. Even the patrol guards got familiar with him. He got in shape within a month. He was still living off the scraps he was left with.

He started writing again. He wrote in the nights after the jog. He felt that his creativity was best after 12 in the night. He sometimes wrote till three in the morning. He had no money left even for his ink and paper. His quitting alcohol and smoking helped him sustain a bit longer. He put up his personal things for sale. Whatever he kept for sale, was almost sold immediately. Even the most unnecessary articles. He wondered, whether the tides were turning. He had enough money for food and stationery. He felt he was onto something. He even stopped searching for jobs. He felt it made him feel negative.  He visited several libraries, researched for hours. In six months he was nearing the end of this book. He started visiting publishing companies with his draft. He managed to land with an interview with an upcoming publishing house. It was known for its repertoire of offbeat authors. The interview was scheduled at early morning. He could not sleep all night. As a result he was fatigued. But, he managed, with his increased stamina. He was expecting to fail initially. But, he had decided to endure and resolved not to give up in any case. He had given up on everything, including himself. He went to the interview, with all the courage and conviction he could mutter. he was still emotionally brittle. He knew he had to handle himself delicately. He therefore, went with no expectation.

As he entered the room, the person was reading something very carefully, not bothering to reply to the greetings of Wayne. After half an hour of waiting. Wayne interfered and asked if he could show his draft, He did not reply. After another fifteen minutes of shuffling through pages, he asked , "So you are Mr. Wayne". It sounded so odd to hear his name after more than eight months. Wayne said, impatiently "lets get to the point". He added, "I have the draft of the book, that I want to get published. I feel your publishing house would be the most suitable for the topic I have written on". " Every statistic, theory , statement, instance is a result of months of research. I have derived something of my own. I believe it will help professionals,amateurs, enthusiasts and even a common reader."

The publishing guy did not seem to buy the claims of Wayne. He read through the first few pages and was immediately interested. He did not show his interest facially though. He asked Wayne to leave the draft with him. He said he will get back to him in some days.Somehow, Wayne felt negative about the whole affair. He went back, thinking it was not as bad as he thought, yet he was disappointed for no particular reason.

The publishing house never got back.

He tried several others, but each time he knocked a door, he found dead ends. He was giving up all hopes of a redemption. He was down and out again. Controlling all impulses from letting him break down again. He started staying indoors again. Out of money and any will power to fight. He cursed his luck for not affording him one chance to get back to life. He was losing his weight and his mind. He seldom left his home. He sold all the things that were not very important. Except for Christophers cap. He thought he should get back to meet his son. But, he remembered the promise that he would not meet Christopher, until he was capable of standing on his own legs.

Three weeks of utter desperation and hopelessness.

He received a call one morning. One of the publishing houses was willing to publish his book. The terms were however heavily lopsided in favour of the publishing house. The royalty was almost non-existent. But he was going to be paid something upfront. An amount he had not seen in a long time. Sufficient for him to begin a new life. He signed up for it.