Sleep Ego

This one's dedicated to the two progenitors of humanity's future evolution: Binit Ranjan Mishra and Soumyadeep Ghosh.

Democracy

Chain Writing 1: The Race

During one of my mental wordplay sessions, this idea popped up into my head fully formed. Have fun!

Thousands of flag waving supporters in their collective Sunday best person is going to win. That’s the way racing always works out for him this time at least. It was sad to see his injury last place finishers don’t even get bragging rights this time as they get relegated. There, the contestants have just stepped on to the track them this time, with the numerous cameras both street-side and in the cockpit. The rows of starting lamps light up one by one and they are off the track goes our first victim. A smooth start has propelled the fan favourite to the front approaching, leaving the fans wondering if rain will play spoilsport yet again. Wait, there’s action halfway down the grid of blinking red lights announces the collision and the impending arrival of the safety monitor. A set of boring laps ensues with the monotony only broken below, having jumped the three story high fence to get a piece of the action. Meanwhile, on the track the safety monitor has been removed, and the race is on to him now with the huge lead eaten away by the safety delays. The rest of the field spaces out quickly enough time to catch him up? The fan favourite, the contestant in the bright red has to hang on for three time champion in the iridescent blue breathing down his neck. Another lap is gobbled up and nothing has changed it seems to be inching closer and closer to a tight victory. Surely this race has no more aces the S-curve with a blindingly perfect line, and moves a little bit closer to the leader. It’s the last lap now or never for an overtaking move. He cuts onto the outside, hits the throttle his chances of a victory with that disastrous move. The man everyone loves to love, the man who rose from the ashes of a crippling injury is almost sprays the cameraman with an exuberant wave of the champagne bottle.

Sense

Common sense? I don't need any of that, I'm American!

All's Fare In Love And War

When it comes to fare upgrade, anything goes for our dear auto drivers.

The Pits

Have you ever wondered what a butterfly feels like moments before it’s born? The unique feeling of suffocation that’s a debilitating concoction of impotence, and frustration at that state of impotence. It’s almost claustrophobic, but without the accompanying dread. The butterfly-to-be is perfectly aware that the process is in motion, and that nothing it does, or feels, is going to change that fact. Yet, that special agony of being trapped in a limbo state, a black box with no pinhole, remains.

Have you ever wondered how it would feel like to be at the heart of a nuke moments before it goes off? Perhaps you would feel the choking pressure of the tremendous amounts of energy compressed into the tiniest of spaces. Perhaps you would begin to ‘see’ the mad dance of the Universe’s most miniscule inhabitants - the way you normally see birds, skyscrapers and well dressed women- and their frenzy, their sheer undiluted restlessness hidden away in a facade of stillness. Maybe, what you would feel won’t all be awe. You might feel helpless at the stark inevitability of it all. Or perhaps, in the final moments, the last remnants of your optimism would rally, and you would hope that Sanity hits the off switch real quick.

Do you even know what a fragile state of being is? Have you ever put yourself in the place of, say, a soap bubble? No, don’t stop at the spherical shape. Wear the soapy film of the bubble like a second skin. Experience the delicate balance of forces that keeps the body from dissolving into nothingness. Forces that, at face value, are completely mismatched: it’s only your inherent elasticity, a love for your own skin if you will, that keeps at bay the powerful and insidious forces that the outer realm teems with. Appreciate this fact, and you might just begin to see the meaning of a fragile state of being.

Did you get all that? Now you might, you just might, get a faint inkling of how I feel when I’m listening to metal sitting in an overpopulated cab with five other people.

The Word

This one's a tribute to an incredibly powerful weapon: one that confers on its wielder an almost supernatural ability of argument, and one that makes conversation itself redundant.

Paradox

Vows

I've picked these up off the top of my head. Fellow geekoids, please feel free to append to the list: we're talking about a very sacred institution after all.

PS: As always, click to zoom.

Bugs!

This one's inspired, naturally, by some workplace musings.

A Day In My Life

To me, most days are the same. I wake up when everyone else is snoring away in bed, and I’m already at work by the time sleepy hands start reaching for the snooze button. It wouldn’t be all that hard to rebel. In fact it would be really easy. But, philosophically speaking, what purpose would that serve beyond a momentary satiation of the ego? I believe that everyone has a part to play in keeping the giant clock that’s our world ticking, and that petty bouts of jealousy have nothing whatsoever to do with it.

Besides, if I were to be honest with myself, I’d be compelled to admit that I rather enjoy it. There is a certain charm to a workplace without workers. It’s the only time of the day when I can safely pretend that the world is indeed my oyster. Sigh. Perhaps it’s only a big-fish-in-a-small-pond kind of feeling of security, but no less pleasant for that. Once I had plenty of ambition. I would be wealthy and successful. I would be kind and magnanimous, yet respected by all. I would rule a kingdom of lesser people. I would be the big fish in the big pond. Now all that’s left is a weary body full of aching bones, that begs me, every single minute, to stop. To end a lifetime of thankless service, to let go once and for all. No, sir! I’m far from done. I might be old and tired, but compared to the pesky little rats who claim lordship over me, I have boundless energy!

Speaking of little pests, there comes my supervisor. Such a little creature, yet so powerful! Everything he touches turns to gold, it seems. I’m speaking from his point of view of course. Any viewpoint that claims neutrality would be forced to scratch away the veneer of glitter, and discover the murkiness beneath; the base substance made of the sweat and toil of uncountable others like me. Oh yes, I’ve heard stories. This man, no I won’t call him little again– physical stature doesn’t count for much where I work, squeezes every last minute of work out of these good people and dumps them, unceremoniously. The more I see of the machinations of this world, the very same machinations I’ve sworn to respect, the more obscure they appear to me.

What is clear to me is that I’m no different from all my predecessors. The same fate awaits me: a future that ends with me lying broken, useless, and forgotten, except for a shiny badge on his chest. You might ask me why I don’t heed the call of my body. Give up on my own terms. You don’t really understand me then. Giving in to weakness is just... abhorrent. Can the seconds hand on a clock stop moving simply because it’s tired? At the risk of overcooking the metaphor, the only acceptable way for the seconds hand to stop working would require the clock to get replaced.

There. I’ve gone off on one of my wild thought trips again. Don’t get me wrong. While I’m a bit too talkative for my own good, it’ll take a lot more than resentment to break the rules. I’d never turn on my supervisor. I can’t say the same about my some of my fellow workers though. Every society has them. The reachers, the dreamers, the gaily coloured pretenders. Like the brightest stars, they live short and dazzling lives, almost always beyond their true means. But unlike the stars, it’s the little ones that suffer the affliction. Every day I have to put up with their nippy little pranks and sharp tongues. I’m of course easy prey, with a lumbering body and a generally saintly disposition, but at least I have the consolation that I’ll outlive three generations of them. Their masters are just like them, addicted to the razzmatazz, and consequently infinitely more cruel and demanding than mine. Having said all that, my mask of saintliness does slip sometimes. And my, how they scatter, fleeing my rage like flies from a fire. 

It’s my lunch break now. Actually it’s my supervisor that has the lunch, I just get the break bit. Watching the fussy little man eat, I can’t help but notice the hangers-on. Noisy hordes of people like him that are just about everywhere. Even now, they swarm every place I can see, which again makes me wonder: how can there be more supervisors than the supervised? Ha, I guess I just don’t know everything. Technically I report to only one supervisor, but these pathetic midgets, all of them behave like they own me. I don’t know if they simply do enough boot-licking to curry favours with my boss, or if they really do own me, in some sense, as common property. They expect me to do the simplest things for them, and they expect me to do that all the time. Sometimes I wonder if I’m carrying them up their career paths myself. Sigh. Rules, rules. 

Fatigue is like your ego. You never get used to it, and it affects everything you do. Well, it’s been my companion for several hours now. Sunset’s come and gone, the moon’s shining radiantly high in the sky, the drone of the buzzards only gets louder with the switching on of their artificial lights, but my work goes on. Mine’s no nine-to-five job after all. It’s tough being a bus.

Overapplication

To that delightful seductress called Occam's Razor. Fiercely have we loved you.

24x7 News

Metaphors and Time

My very first comic mash-up, and thank you, Superlame!

PS: I suspect you won't be able to read the speech bubbles. Just click on the image to see the expanded version.