How the world lives, mystifies many. We all know how we ourselves live - we know what we do, what we like to do, what we have to do, and what we set out to do, and what we actually do. But how often do we know what others do? Will it be similar to what we ourselves do? Or will there be any basis for comparison at all? Maybe that is why we have devised many ways and means to find this information out. Ways to seek out, whether innocuously or armed with a motive, the lives and routines of others we are interested in - or maybe it is not actually the people or conduits with which these lifestyles are manifested we are interested in, but the curiosity and wonder at which we hope to see ourselves perhaps partaking in similar activities, that excite this desire to know more. We hope to see ourselves in their shoes, or maybe, taking the position of a bystander, satiating an inner voyeuristic yearning. But one thing is sure, the search for this acutely acute awareness of what is going on around us will not only continue, but intensify, and increasingly so.
And that is why you are here.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Words of Wrinkly Wisdom #1
However young a duckling is, it still manages to recognise the inherent good in people. Upon hatching, it adopts the first being it sees as its parent. Its first impressions of any living creature are always rose-tinted. No matter how bad or evil they are.
.
.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Every Last Saturday Of The Month
It is eight in the morning and I am up. I glance out the window and feel the neighbourhood come to life. Car engines start up and purr, and then disappear down the street. Mixed smells of bacon and toast waft and mingle with the subtle tint of dew, a smell so supernatural, and yet so humble. The faint breeze picks up yet other passengers of soft, downy white, travelling from house to house, riding on the warmth emanating from each family.
Yes, it is an ordinary suburb on Wednesday morning; close enough to taste the freedom the weekends bring, yet far enough to escape the blues come every Monday morning. The school bus arrives promptly. The daffodils bloom punctually. And every last Saturday of the month, all the residents meet for a communal barbecue in the middle of the road, bringing with them their own little contributions. It is rare enough to be tolerated, ritualistic enough to be predictable, but frequent enough to keep all of us familiar with each other.
At the cookout we bring plenty of food, and enough interesting tidbits of life, just so the conversations do not go stale. We read up on how the economy is doing, and on the trendiest novels, hoping to find a common ground where we can all tread on with ease, and go "Ah yes, and did you know that-". We find out more about the latest in education, so that we can discuss our children's progress and suss out the situation of each child, and when behind closed doors, we pity, sympathise, laugh at or envy them. And wish that our children were either better or the same. Either that, or we tell our children that they are very lucky.
The barbecue does not escape politics either. Culinary skills are compared, among both men and women. Who brought the biggest rack of lamb? Mr. Oaktham never forgets to bring and brandish a bottle of expensive wine, the kind that cannot be bought in stores. I pride myself on the hors d'oeuvres I prepare, and each time I have to do so, I think long and hard on what to prepare; it needs to please them all. Once, Mrs. Vanson brought the same dish as Mrs. Hart - we ended up not having potato salad at all since then. Each dish will be eaten from. Each dish is never completely finished. At the end of the meal, compliments are obliged to go around the table. We are polite, no matter what.
And after all the conversations have died down, we clean up the area and go back home with our crockery in hand. Then we dread the next last Saturday of the month.
It is eight in the morning and I am up. I glance out the window and feel the neighbourhood come to life. Car engines start up and purr, and then disappear down the street. Mixed smells of bacon and toast waft and mingle with the subtle tint of dew, a smell so supernatural, and yet so humble. The faint breeze picks up yet other passengers of soft, downy white, travelling from house to house, riding on the warmth emanating from each family. But it catches yet another scent, a scent that while masked, stings like acrid acid and attempts to upset the fragile balance of relationships within this ordinary suburb.
Yes, it is an ordinary suburb on Wednesday morning; close enough to taste the freedom the weekends bring, yet far enough to escape the blues come every Monday morning. The school bus arrives promptly. The daffodils bloom punctually. And every last Saturday of the month, all the residents meet for a communal barbecue in the middle of the road, bringing with them their own little contributions. It is rare enough to be tolerated, ritualistic enough to be predictable, but frequent enough to keep all of us familiar with each other.
At the cookout we bring plenty of food, and enough interesting tidbits of life, just so the conversations do not go stale. We read up on how the economy is doing, and on the trendiest novels, hoping to find a common ground where we can all tread on with ease, and go "Ah yes, and did you know that-". We find out more about the latest in education, so that we can discuss our children's progress and suss out the situation of each child, and when behind closed doors, we pity, sympathise, laugh at or envy them. And wish that our children were either better or the same. Either that, or we tell our children that they are very lucky.
The barbecue does not escape politics either. Culinary skills are compared, among both men and women. Who brought the biggest rack of lamb? Mr. Oaktham never forgets to bring and brandish a bottle of expensive wine, the kind that cannot be bought in stores. I pride myself on the hors d'oeuvres I prepare, and each time I have to do so, I think long and hard on what to prepare; it needs to please them all. Once, Mrs. Vanson brought the same dish as Mrs. Hart - we ended up not having potato salad at all since then. Each dish will be eaten from. Each dish is never completely finished. At the end of the meal, compliments are obliged to go around the table. We are polite, no matter what.
And after all the conversations have died down, we clean up the area and go back home with our crockery in hand. Then we dread the next last Saturday of the month.
It is eight in the morning and I am up. I glance out the window and feel the neighbourhood come to life. Car engines start up and purr, and then disappear down the street. Mixed smells of bacon and toast waft and mingle with the subtle tint of dew, a smell so supernatural, and yet so humble. The faint breeze picks up yet other passengers of soft, downy white, travelling from house to house, riding on the warmth emanating from each family. But it catches yet another scent, a scent that while masked, stings like acrid acid and attempts to upset the fragile balance of relationships within this ordinary suburb.
It is the scent of humans.
.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Refugees
They were moving from basement to basement. As searchlights illuminated the night sky, turning over imaginary stones, looking for those who did not comply, there was hurried movement down below. The air outside was thick with fog, filled with the stench of seared flesh, but it did not matter – it had been so for the past two months. Unearthly wails and screams punctuated the stifling atmosphere, and the rising groans of society chorused in throbbing harmony, but no one would listen. Chaotic anarchy and pandemonium was the new order. The Organisation had taken over.
***
***
.
Inside, a meeting was being held. Solitary lights lined the ceiling in regimented rows, piercing the dark, chasing it away from a large table filled with charts and coffee cups. A lone voice droned on, while harsh whispers sliced the dry air. Planning their next move, second-guessing their adversaries. The Board of Directors was restless after a long day of sabotage, subterfuge, and strategy. The master plan was brilliant – it had been, for the past two months. It would work, but it had been demanding. Only time would tell of its success, and their victory. They were waiting for it.
***
Fe Guere finally found a safe spot not yet occupied by others, in the alleyway that meandered between the Gulf Tower and the Amerigo Building. Shivering from both the gnawing cold and fear after running away from the Guards, he finally could rest, and think. The Janitors would not bother checking here, he reasoned. Being ground personnel of the Organisation, the Janitors were responsible for “cleaning up the dirt of society”, as they called it, “dirt” being those who refused to acknowledge the Articles of Incorporation, the new constitution of the regime. But most of them disliked this very duty, a Job that they did not wish to undertake. It was considered unbecoming.
***
Fe Guere finally found a safe spot not yet occupied by others, in the alleyway that meandered between the Gulf Tower and the Amerigo Building. Shivering from both the gnawing cold and fear after running away from the Guards, he finally could rest, and think. The Janitors would not bother checking here, he reasoned. Being ground personnel of the Organisation, the Janitors were responsible for “cleaning up the dirt of society”, as they called it, “dirt” being those who refused to acknowledge the Articles of Incorporation, the new constitution of the regime. But most of them disliked this very duty, a Job that they did not wish to undertake. It was considered unbecoming.
.
But he was wrong. The Janitors did sweep the area, inspecting the dank corners, scrutinising behind trashcans. They found him cowering beneath a pile of garbage bags. After a brief scuffle with three of them, he was rendered unconscious, and dragged into a van.
.
Outside the alley, many others were being abducted as well. Either that, or killed when they refused to obey orders. These Janitors did not clean. They dirtied their hands.
***
Tomeo fidgeted in his seat, fiddling with a piece of leather that hung limply from the handle. “Perhaps it was the result of a quarrel turned physical,” he thought, considering the possibilities of how it was torn. After all, it was already becoming a verbal brawl in the meeting room after the meeting proper, and the tension in the air was oppressive. Darla spat viciously at the presenter, one of the new ones that came in last week. She condemned his fieldwork; they were “entirely off the bloody mark”, apparently.
“We should be targeting the children, not the adults! They are the ones we are aiming for eventually. Redo it, immediately!”
The tone of binding authority was not lost on the intern, as he fumbled with his folder before scrambling out of the room, away from the crushing atmosphere Tomeo still had to face. Time continued to crawl as other Directors began to take up Darla’s mantle, taking turns to butcher ideas and slaughter creativity. He needed some fresh air now.
***
He woke up in a room, stifling and humid. “At least I’m not feeling cold now,” he thought scornfully. Taking stock of the situation, he realised he was tied and bound with cord in an empty, dark room. He presumed it was a basement or an underground facility; there were no windows, and the room reeked of mildew. It somewhat comforted him though, as he reminisced the smell of clothes that had not been sunned long enough, the smell of damp socks that had tracked mud and pond scum after a long summer day of fun.
He remembered how the earlier days of freedom had been taken for granted; now he would give anything to savour the taste of liberty. All the ideals that his once proud country stood for now lay in the miserable dust of the past. Groaning at the thoughts of the glorious past, he compared them to the wretched present, and shuddered at his contemplation of the future. He dared think no more. He did not want to think at all. It was too horrible, too vile. It wracked him with imagined pains, which were all too real for him.
He then began willing himself to sleep, singing the lullabies that once comforted babies, that now comforted him. It seemed the most practical thing to do. For the dreamscape seemed the finest reality one could subscribe to – the rest of the world was a nightmare. That was the only thing he was sure of now.
***
It was easy to forget the dangers of over-simplification in life. Things looked more attractive when they were simple and uncomplicated. Divergence, disparity, and variation were unattractive in a society that craved compliance. Soon, the removal of all exception and anomaly became the standard operating procedure, no matter how arbitrary the practice was. The value of ideas that seemed to be simpler and easier to comprehend replaced the value of ideas that were not easily appreciated by the average person, even though they may be of greater academic value or accuracy. It was about coming to a consensus on a social level, deciding the communal consciousness of the society on certain issues. Critical thinking, individual viewpoints, differing perspectives – none of these were part of the equation. The resulting dearth in individual opinion, and the consequential loss of diversity in society was starkly evident, though there was no indication of concern over this. The communal consciousness strongly disapproved of such actions, of such concern. People were following a way of life in which they were subconsciously being told what to do these days.
But Tomeo knew better. He judiously avoided the conditioning that had already infiltrated the inner echelons of society, that had pervaded and attached to the minds of the more impressionable and acquiescent among them. Even at his senior ranking, many fellows had been inducted into the realm of the apathetic. The devious politicking that troubled him daily was but the way they had been insidiously wired to behave, a condition that had been slowly developed, like a horrid potion brewing. Machiavelli would have been ashamed of himself.
***
The world seemed to shake violently, just before it stopped abruptly. As his face left the ground, Fe Guere tasted blood in his mouth, a taste he had gotten used to. He woke up from the casual but tight slaps on his jaw, each slap landing harder than the last one. After a while, they stopped hitting him. They began instead to accuse him of crimes he could not possibly have committed, demanding for his confessions. None came. After they listed a string of offences, of treason, of being a social nuisance, somehow, by some way or another, he passed out again.
***
His duties as part of the Board of Directors were about to end today. They had begun their exercise of removing those who did not give in, those who did not give up. He, along with a few others, had been handpicked by the Chairman, a man who seemed more like a despotic tyrant, with the help of the Advisors, the true puppet masters. But Tomeo knew the real reason for this firing exercise.
The master plan had not worked out. Time did not tell of its success after all. There was no victory. But many were still waiting for it.
The prestigious organisation had failed, for once. They still had their plotting instincts with them, though. Pick out those who did not listen, and blame them for it, they opined. The shareholders would believe it, that the situation was under control. Nothing would happen to the organisation, they sermonised.
Ever since he joined them, society and work seemed to meld together, creating the confused entity called life (as he knew it) that he had drudged through. He did not notice the warm sunshine, the romantic lights by the pier. He had not yet started the family he always wanted to have. Now, at least he would have the chance to do all these.
He no longer had to be a refugee each time he went back home, before going back out to work – and into the battlefield – the next day. It felt weird, but he managed to stare up at the towering building as he left its doors for the final time. He looked back down, walked through the alley, and out into the park. And for the first time in his life, he congratulated himself on a job well done.
***
It felt like scores of bullets piercing his arm, each one driving through with agonising force, immediately yanking him away from a land where his family was still alive, where he was still able to drive them down to the candy store by the maple tree to get their daily fix of taffy, and where the wife would never fail to nag good-naturedly at the kids for buying too much candy.
Awakening to the excruciating pain however, he saw no blood; instead, it was the mere prodding of a finger near his shoulder. They probably had drugged him with something that exponentially increased the sensitivity of his nerve endings, amplifying any discomfort. Even the slightest draught seemed to chafe his skin.
.
***
Tomeo fidgeted in his seat, fiddling with a piece of leather that hung limply from the handle. “Perhaps it was the result of a quarrel turned physical,” he thought, considering the possibilities of how it was torn. After all, it was already becoming a verbal brawl in the meeting room after the meeting proper, and the tension in the air was oppressive. Darla spat viciously at the presenter, one of the new ones that came in last week. She condemned his fieldwork; they were “entirely off the bloody mark”, apparently.
“We should be targeting the children, not the adults! They are the ones we are aiming for eventually. Redo it, immediately!”
The tone of binding authority was not lost on the intern, as he fumbled with his folder before scrambling out of the room, away from the crushing atmosphere Tomeo still had to face. Time continued to crawl as other Directors began to take up Darla’s mantle, taking turns to butcher ideas and slaughter creativity. He needed some fresh air now.
***
He woke up in a room, stifling and humid. “At least I’m not feeling cold now,” he thought scornfully. Taking stock of the situation, he realised he was tied and bound with cord in an empty, dark room. He presumed it was a basement or an underground facility; there were no windows, and the room reeked of mildew. It somewhat comforted him though, as he reminisced the smell of clothes that had not been sunned long enough, the smell of damp socks that had tracked mud and pond scum after a long summer day of fun.
He remembered how the earlier days of freedom had been taken for granted; now he would give anything to savour the taste of liberty. All the ideals that his once proud country stood for now lay in the miserable dust of the past. Groaning at the thoughts of the glorious past, he compared them to the wretched present, and shuddered at his contemplation of the future. He dared think no more. He did not want to think at all. It was too horrible, too vile. It wracked him with imagined pains, which were all too real for him.
He then began willing himself to sleep, singing the lullabies that once comforted babies, that now comforted him. It seemed the most practical thing to do. For the dreamscape seemed the finest reality one could subscribe to – the rest of the world was a nightmare. That was the only thing he was sure of now.
***
It was easy to forget the dangers of over-simplification in life. Things looked more attractive when they were simple and uncomplicated. Divergence, disparity, and variation were unattractive in a society that craved compliance. Soon, the removal of all exception and anomaly became the standard operating procedure, no matter how arbitrary the practice was. The value of ideas that seemed to be simpler and easier to comprehend replaced the value of ideas that were not easily appreciated by the average person, even though they may be of greater academic value or accuracy. It was about coming to a consensus on a social level, deciding the communal consciousness of the society on certain issues. Critical thinking, individual viewpoints, differing perspectives – none of these were part of the equation. The resulting dearth in individual opinion, and the consequential loss of diversity in society was starkly evident, though there was no indication of concern over this. The communal consciousness strongly disapproved of such actions, of such concern. People were following a way of life in which they were subconsciously being told what to do these days.
But Tomeo knew better. He judiously avoided the conditioning that had already infiltrated the inner echelons of society, that had pervaded and attached to the minds of the more impressionable and acquiescent among them. Even at his senior ranking, many fellows had been inducted into the realm of the apathetic. The devious politicking that troubled him daily was but the way they had been insidiously wired to behave, a condition that had been slowly developed, like a horrid potion brewing. Machiavelli would have been ashamed of himself.
***
The world seemed to shake violently, just before it stopped abruptly. As his face left the ground, Fe Guere tasted blood in his mouth, a taste he had gotten used to. He woke up from the casual but tight slaps on his jaw, each slap landing harder than the last one. After a while, they stopped hitting him. They began instead to accuse him of crimes he could not possibly have committed, demanding for his confessions. None came. After they listed a string of offences, of treason, of being a social nuisance, somehow, by some way or another, he passed out again.
***
His duties as part of the Board of Directors were about to end today. They had begun their exercise of removing those who did not give in, those who did not give up. He, along with a few others, had been handpicked by the Chairman, a man who seemed more like a despotic tyrant, with the help of the Advisors, the true puppet masters. But Tomeo knew the real reason for this firing exercise.
The master plan had not worked out. Time did not tell of its success after all. There was no victory. But many were still waiting for it.
The prestigious organisation had failed, for once. They still had their plotting instincts with them, though. Pick out those who did not listen, and blame them for it, they opined. The shareholders would believe it, that the situation was under control. Nothing would happen to the organisation, they sermonised.
Ever since he joined them, society and work seemed to meld together, creating the confused entity called life (as he knew it) that he had drudged through. He did not notice the warm sunshine, the romantic lights by the pier. He had not yet started the family he always wanted to have. Now, at least he would have the chance to do all these.
He no longer had to be a refugee each time he went back home, before going back out to work – and into the battlefield – the next day. It felt weird, but he managed to stare up at the towering building as he left its doors for the final time. He looked back down, walked through the alley, and out into the park. And for the first time in his life, he congratulated himself on a job well done.
***
It felt like scores of bullets piercing his arm, each one driving through with agonising force, immediately yanking him away from a land where his family was still alive, where he was still able to drive them down to the candy store by the maple tree to get their daily fix of taffy, and where the wife would never fail to nag good-naturedly at the kids for buying too much candy.
Awakening to the excruciating pain however, he saw no blood; instead, it was the mere prodding of a finger near his shoulder. They probably had drugged him with something that exponentially increased the sensitivity of his nerve endings, amplifying any discomfort. Even the slightest draught seemed to chafe his skin.
.
A draught. He had been moved. No longer was he in the enclosed basement. Somehow, he could not remember all that had happened before, the many cycles of sleep deprivation he had been experiencing at their hands. It all seemed a little hazy now, as if someone or something had gently rubbed away the edges of his memory. He looked up, and a face gradually came into focus. First the mouth, then the nose, and then the eyes. It was the kindest face he had seen in two months. No, it was the kindest face he had ever seen.
He had found his ultimate refuge. He was finally home free.
.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Believe It Or Not
The dark, stormy nights in those stories are a load of bull. Those people know nothing at all, writing as if they knew how terrifying being in that situation would be. Flashes of lightning don't even come close. No one can comprehend the night that fell so sweetly, that night when the sun's rays painfully wrinkled themselves into oblivion, and darkness fell ever so heavily on the wretched land. The land breathed fitfully with every passing minute, as if in the throes of death. Nature seemed to wilt along with it, with a searing breath that seemed to burn its vessels. And the torture of the land was to continue. With that night, there was never any light again.
***
.
A man looked up from his novel, feeling the clammy wind heat up his cheeks. He muttered, and began to drag an overcoat over his frail frame. Shuffling wearily towards the balcony outside his room, he saw it. A blood-red expanse filled the overhanging space where the sky once was. Wispy clouds of green floated as if in a trance, not knowing where the hot wind would blow them. The moon was absent, and so were the stars. It wasn't quite dark, yet it was. A soft rumbling was heard, and in the distance, he saw the fierce dancing of orange streaks of lightning behind a red curtain. The makings of some strange storm, on this strange night.
.
***
.
An old couple were rudely disturbed by the urgent barking of their dog. It was hard enough listening to the radio with their poor hearing . But to them, the barking seemed more like the braying of a dying donkey. Strange, the old man thought, and creaked his way downstairs to calm it down. It was painful, the rheumatism must be acting up, he thought. Cursing the weather, he peered from the stairs, to locate Patty. But there was no Patty, and there was no downstairs. Murky water flooded the entire ground level of their beach villa. Sea foam clung on to the sides of the furniture that were still above water. He finally made out the vague silhouette of the dog bobbing up and down in those waters, trying to get itself up onto the antique cabinet that held all their china. The waters swelled every so often, threatening to swallow Patty. He breathed heavily, frowning a frown of frustration, shock, and despair. Oh no, their china.
.
***
.
Mrini wondered where all the river water had gone to. Part of her daily morning routine, she and a few other women would fetch water from the river for the tribe, a chore that would take two hours each day. But now, all that was left was a muddy stream; that would not do. She, being the chieftain's daughter, led the group downstream to where the water collected into a lake. The trek downhill was treacherous, but for the survival of the tribe, it had to be made. The pitchers were to be left with those who stayed behind, while three women followed her down. It took them nearly an hour, but they finally made it. But it had been a trip made in vain. Dead fish, even kinds that she had never seen before, adorned the shores of the lake, floating upside down as if in a parade of morbid fashion. The dour stench that the brownish waters produced hurt their nostrils and stung their eyes. Mrini wondered how they would be able to survive that day.
.
***
.
"Okay. It's alright, it's alright, we're just g'na lift you up one by one. It's alright, don't cry, just hold on tight to this rope here, it's very safe. See? There, you'll be fine, believe me, everything's g'na be alright okay?" He flashed a smile at her, a smile that conveyed anxiety yet reassured, a smile that tried its best to help and to comfort. They were standing on top of the roof of a house, with three other children and two worried parents; their house. Tom pulled on the rope thrice, and the signal saw the six-year-old girl ascending upwards to safety. He looked around. The sea had swallowed up the sidewalks, roads, cars and lawns, and soon, the houses would be next. All of the residents had already climbed up to their rooftops, waiting to be rescued. They looked like people on little boats, huddled together as if they were in some imaginary storm. But it wasn't raining at all. Everything looked calm and peaceful, but for the people. Tom understood why, and knew that the rescue team had to be quicker, for all their sakes.
.
***
.
Tom woke up. What a nightmare it had been for him. His job had enough occupational hazards, and now this. Shrugging off the chills that came along with it, he quickly tugged the covers over him. He needed to be up again in about two more hours. Duty calls.
.
The frail man woke up. He had fell asleep at his reading again. He made a mental note to himself to stop reading those books with doomsday scenarios. The world was bad enough, he sighed a thought, looking at the paper losses scribbled on a smart leather notebook beside him.
.
The old man woke up. He quickly hobbled along the porch and back into the house. Ah, the china was still there. Patty? Where's Patty? Ah, there you are. Good girl. These afternoon naps gave him weird dreams.
.
Mrini woke up. In her humble abode, she stared up at the browned ceiling. Visions as vivid as this do not come along that often, she thought to herself. In the morning, she knew she must consult the village elders about this. Perhaps it was a sign.
.
Perhaps.
.
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