Another one for Musings.
The contestants looked like modern day variants of Roman gladiators. Instead of helmets, they wore headphones. These headphones were so large that they actually lived up to their name; they covered a lot more than the ears. Special glasses enveloped their eyes (did they ever have any?). These glasses were coated with a special material that allowed them to stare at their screens for long periods without blinking. Their noses were, of course, blocked with suitable smell inhibitors. After all, even the slightest distraction won’t do. The Romans had their swords, and the contestants had their fingers. And didn’t they just take good care of them! Every participant worth his salt donned a pair of Sooth gloves; these gloves were ‘scientifically’ designed to keep your fingers supple. In a matter of life or death like this one, appearance and expense take second place. It was the annual Type Fest.
Rahul had never, even in his wildest fantasies, imagined that spending fifteen hours a day on the Internet would one day make him the richest Indian in the world. He could vividly recall the tongue lashings he received everyday from assorted members of his family… “Rahul, do you think chatting with your friends in Australia will get you a job?” “Rahul, when will you ever outgrow your stupid social networks?” He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile, and basked in momentary self-congratulation. It had started off with a job at a temp agency. His parents, in an effort to rid him of chronic indolence, had pushed him into looking for them. (Maybe, he observed idly, this was one place where he could give them some credit.) The temp agency had asked him for a typing test, and he only acquiesced when they said it was mandatory. He clocked an average of 120 words per minute, far more than anything they had ever seen. The agency thought he faked the test, and promptly rejected his application. This failure really turned out to be a stepping stone for Rahul. Infused with a newfound sense of purpose, he walked into the offices of the Indian Association of Professional Typists and demanded a post. He got one. Here’s where the capricious woman called Fate played her hand. He could have spent the rest of his life as a typist, respected and content, but not really going anywhere. Instead, he decided to participate in a then obscure contest called the Type Fest.
Today people routinely quote statistics comparing the popularity of the Type Fest to the Olympics. And yet, it’s impossible to put your finger on what really transformed it from a geek gala to the world’s biggest computing spectacle. Rahul tried to tune out debilitating thoughts about the number of spectators watching his every move, and looked around the room warily. Although the computers in the room formed a relatively compact circle, the room was so dimly lit that he could barely see the form of the contestants sitting beside him. He wondered if that was to stop contestants from looking around and making clown faces at others. A shrill whine pierced the artificially generated silence and a pleasant female voice reverberated through the headphones. It asked them to get ready for round one, which was based on standard English words. Rahul put on his Sooth gloves.
He tried to keep calm, but he couldn’t. He seemed acutely aware of every single keystroke. Why was the darn ‘p’ so hard to reach? He tried not to reflect on the errors; his brain stubbornly counted five missed ‘p’s. Another shrill whine announced the end of the round, and glowing text on the screen informed him that he’d averaged 110 words per minute. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t all that bad, but his persistently obdurate brain reminded him that his best had been 145. Further introspection was cut short by yet another shrill whine. He wondered if his brain was being addled by that siren. He wondered again if that was a bad thing after all, not being able to think. “Round 2 will have complete English sentences with punctuation”, announced the voice politely. Rahul observed that the voice made no mention of any of the contestants’ scores.
The condition imaginatively called the typists’ block seemed to have completely possessed him. Try as he might, he could not hit the ‘p’s. To his dismay, even the ‘g’s seemed to have turned against him. The only consolation was that his long experience with emoticons and chatting meant that he was just as comfortable with punctuation marks, as he was with plain text. Another long five minutes later, more glowing text informed him that he’d averaged 123 words per minute. This time the voice also announced that Person X, of Romania was in the lead, with an average word output of 140 words per minute. His fingers suddenly felt like they were made of lead.
The next round was a random letters round. Some of his typists’ block had presently gone away, dispelled by the calm which comes with the knowledge of certain defeat. He scored 130 words per minute. The female voice dutifully announced that Person Y, of Australia (the irony!) was now in the lead with an average of 133 words per minute. The voice also added, with an sympathetic change in intonation, that the next one would be the last round. The last round would be different from all the others. This time, the words (standard English once again) would not be displayed on the screen, but spoken out loud, and played over the headphones. If a contestant failed to keep up, he’d have no option but to drop a word or two. This round really surprised Rahul; he hadn’t seen anything like it in the numerous test runs he’d participated in. He looked around to try and gauge the reactions of his fellow participants. To his immense surprise, he noticed that he could see the bespectacled girl in the seat beside him perfectly, and that the girl was making a clown face at him.
With bravado born out of embarrassment, he decided that he would play this round with his eyes shut. He wouldn’t look down even if his brain screamed at him that he’d just hit a wrong key. The final round commenced presently. Rahul screwed his eyes tightly shut, as a voice (was this one deliberately designed to be soporific?) started the chant. His fingers flew over the keys blindly; a secondary voice shouted itself hoarse asking to stop the inanity. He opened his eyes.
Hope is by definition irrational. Rahul, had wished for a miracle, and it hadn’t happened. The screen said ‘133 words per minute” and resolutely refused to buckle under his stare. The pleasant voice went through the formalities; it thanked them for their participation and hoped that they’d enjoyed their stay. He started to drift, and was swiftly brought to full awareness as he heard his name being called out.
“… and Rahul, with a superb last round performance steals the Type Fest Trophy by one word point. Congratulations, Rahul!”
The screen slowly transformed to show his last round score. “165 words per minute.” He turned around, and promptly made a clown face.
The contestants looked like modern day variants of Roman gladiators. Instead of helmets, they wore headphones. These headphones were so large that they actually lived up to their name; they covered a lot more than the ears. Special glasses enveloped their eyes (did they ever have any?). These glasses were coated with a special material that allowed them to stare at their screens for long periods without blinking. Their noses were, of course, blocked with suitable smell inhibitors. After all, even the slightest distraction won’t do. The Romans had their swords, and the contestants had their fingers. And didn’t they just take good care of them! Every participant worth his salt donned a pair of Sooth gloves; these gloves were ‘scientifically’ designed to keep your fingers supple. In a matter of life or death like this one, appearance and expense take second place. It was the annual Type Fest.
Rahul had never, even in his wildest fantasies, imagined that spending fifteen hours a day on the Internet would one day make him the richest Indian in the world. He could vividly recall the tongue lashings he received everyday from assorted members of his family… “Rahul, do you think chatting with your friends in Australia will get you a job?” “Rahul, when will you ever outgrow your stupid social networks?” He allowed himself a self-satisfied smile, and basked in momentary self-congratulation. It had started off with a job at a temp agency. His parents, in an effort to rid him of chronic indolence, had pushed him into looking for them. (Maybe, he observed idly, this was one place where he could give them some credit.) The temp agency had asked him for a typing test, and he only acquiesced when they said it was mandatory. He clocked an average of 120 words per minute, far more than anything they had ever seen. The agency thought he faked the test, and promptly rejected his application. This failure really turned out to be a stepping stone for Rahul. Infused with a newfound sense of purpose, he walked into the offices of the Indian Association of Professional Typists and demanded a post. He got one. Here’s where the capricious woman called Fate played her hand. He could have spent the rest of his life as a typist, respected and content, but not really going anywhere. Instead, he decided to participate in a then obscure contest called the Type Fest.
Today people routinely quote statistics comparing the popularity of the Type Fest to the Olympics. And yet, it’s impossible to put your finger on what really transformed it from a geek gala to the world’s biggest computing spectacle. Rahul tried to tune out debilitating thoughts about the number of spectators watching his every move, and looked around the room warily. Although the computers in the room formed a relatively compact circle, the room was so dimly lit that he could barely see the form of the contestants sitting beside him. He wondered if that was to stop contestants from looking around and making clown faces at others. A shrill whine pierced the artificially generated silence and a pleasant female voice reverberated through the headphones. It asked them to get ready for round one, which was based on standard English words. Rahul put on his Sooth gloves.
He tried to keep calm, but he couldn’t. He seemed acutely aware of every single keystroke. Why was the darn ‘p’ so hard to reach? He tried not to reflect on the errors; his brain stubbornly counted five missed ‘p’s. Another shrill whine announced the end of the round, and glowing text on the screen informed him that he’d averaged 110 words per minute. He tried to convince himself that it wasn’t all that bad, but his persistently obdurate brain reminded him that his best had been 145. Further introspection was cut short by yet another shrill whine. He wondered if his brain was being addled by that siren. He wondered again if that was a bad thing after all, not being able to think. “Round 2 will have complete English sentences with punctuation”, announced the voice politely. Rahul observed that the voice made no mention of any of the contestants’ scores.
The condition imaginatively called the typists’ block seemed to have completely possessed him. Try as he might, he could not hit the ‘p’s. To his dismay, even the ‘g’s seemed to have turned against him. The only consolation was that his long experience with emoticons and chatting meant that he was just as comfortable with punctuation marks, as he was with plain text. Another long five minutes later, more glowing text informed him that he’d averaged 123 words per minute. This time the voice also announced that Person X, of Romania was in the lead, with an average word output of 140 words per minute. His fingers suddenly felt like they were made of lead.
The next round was a random letters round. Some of his typists’ block had presently gone away, dispelled by the calm which comes with the knowledge of certain defeat. He scored 130 words per minute. The female voice dutifully announced that Person Y, of Australia (the irony!) was now in the lead with an average of 133 words per minute. The voice also added, with an sympathetic change in intonation, that the next one would be the last round. The last round would be different from all the others. This time, the words (standard English once again) would not be displayed on the screen, but spoken out loud, and played over the headphones. If a contestant failed to keep up, he’d have no option but to drop a word or two. This round really surprised Rahul; he hadn’t seen anything like it in the numerous test runs he’d participated in. He looked around to try and gauge the reactions of his fellow participants. To his immense surprise, he noticed that he could see the bespectacled girl in the seat beside him perfectly, and that the girl was making a clown face at him.
With bravado born out of embarrassment, he decided that he would play this round with his eyes shut. He wouldn’t look down even if his brain screamed at him that he’d just hit a wrong key. The final round commenced presently. Rahul screwed his eyes tightly shut, as a voice (was this one deliberately designed to be soporific?) started the chant. His fingers flew over the keys blindly; a secondary voice shouted itself hoarse asking to stop the inanity. He opened his eyes.
Hope is by definition irrational. Rahul, had wished for a miracle, and it hadn’t happened. The screen said ‘133 words per minute” and resolutely refused to buckle under his stare. The pleasant voice went through the formalities; it thanked them for their participation and hoped that they’d enjoyed their stay. He started to drift, and was swiftly brought to full awareness as he heard his name being called out.
“… and Rahul, with a superb last round performance steals the Type Fest Trophy by one word point. Congratulations, Rahul!”
The screen slowly transformed to show his last round score. “165 words per minute.” He turned around, and promptly made a clown face.
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