Quora response: on the (in)finiteness of all mathematical knowledge

[I came across this vital question on quora short while back. The question is as follows: "Given an infinite amount of time and an infinite lifespan, will a person be able to discover all of mathematics? Why?" I found the question to be highly complex, and enjoyed very much the framing of the answer. The answer is almost essay-length, which is why I feel it is appropriate to commit it to this page. And yes, here's the link.]

I find this one of the most complex questions that I have seen so far on quora (and it hasn't been long). Before I begin framing an answer, let me make the following disclaimers:

A) Its going to be lengthy and read like a whole lot of gibberish,
B) I may not reach a conclusion,
C) I am not a mathematician - I did study mathematics in college as part of  computer science degree course, but that's about it.
D) And no, I am not stoned and haven't been smoking anything :D

I think the answer to your question may not even be mathematical - rather, it would probably be biological, or philosophical, or even metaphysical? The answer may not be about the infiniteness of the number theory or such like, either, because once you know how to generate the next and the previous number for any given number, you've probably figured it all out already. Also, if you have proved that something cannot be solved, then one way of looking at it would suggest that you have exhausted all information about it already. Rather, it is about the definition of knowledge and our perception.

At present, anyone digging popular science seriously might know that certain familiar Euclidian concepts of geometry are no longer valid ever since General Relativity came to be. Instead, Euclidian comes off as a special case of the more complicated Reimannian Geometry, which is supposed to paint a truer picture of our universe. Take, for example, the intuitive understanding of the straightness of a straight line. With General Relative declaring the fabric of space as being curved, you cannot picture your straight line to continue in its path all the way to infinity without bending. You might use your imagination to make a hole in the space fabric and push the line through the whole, but it will be meaningless and incorrect, because you cannot imagine the other side of the space fabric, because it has absolutely no meaning. It's calls for a major shift in the thought framework.

Similar with all knowledge, even. I am inclined to think all knowledge is not discovered, but rather invented. What defines a thing as a mathematical law is how interesting you perceive it to be. For example, a formula to find out the n-th even number is an interesting piece of knowledge, as is the proof that the system of even numbers is infinite. Discovering the individual even numbers, say, the 18,015th even number, or the 120,109,752th or each even number in between may not be mathematically interesting at all. There may be no inherent and absolute property attached to a question in each category; rather, it is our perception that introduces the necessary distinction.

To answer your question: whether a person with an infinite lifespan and infinite time may discover all of mathematics, the fast and loose answer would be yes, because it would seem that the mind is not infinitely powerful, and not with an infinite memory. There is only a finite amount of stuff that he would be able to classify as 'mathematically interesting'. It is like asking, can a computer with a finite amount of RAM but an infinite amount of secondary storage run an infinite number of programs concurrently without swapping any out (no it cannot!)? So, as our knowledge grows, the number of independent parameters needed to ask new questions that would grow so large that they would no longer fit the mind in one go. So, we would cease to ask new questions and when we have no more questions, that will be the end of all knowledge (I am assuming we can say we have 'discovered' all of mathematics when we have no further question about anything mathematical). 

But, it's not that simple. Some of the key things to consider are:
a) Does greater mathematical knowledge seem to imply knowing more unrelated things or less? For example, in physics, more knowledge could possibly mean less independent things to know. Like, at one time light, matter and electricity would have been perceived as three different things altogether, then someone comes across and discovers numerous subatomic particles and then we immediately eliminate them as mutually independent things. Then we stumble upon quarks, and they show us how subatomic particles are not 'fundamental', and then finally, we now discover strings, which is even more fundamental to a quark! It does seem like the growth of knowledge in physics is essentially a contraction, and might even have a visible end? It may not be the same for math, though, and more knowledge could well mean a genuine expansion of knowledge. Let us hope for some enlightenment here :)

b) Given a set of mathematically interesting (and possibly unrelated?) pieces of information, is it possible to always derive from them another mathematically interesting question? I have no idea how to go about proving this :D but I am going to give it a try someday. If the answer is no, then it might well mean that the end is once more in sight (limited by the finiteness of our own mind).

One other interesting question (or corollary) that crops up here is whether it is possible to measure the capacity of one's own mind. I feel it is somewhat akin to trying to paint the floor of a room without stepping outside of the room and yet not treading wet paint - it cannot be done! However, that doesn't mean that you cannot discover the boundaries of someone else's mind. Maybe then you could discover all of mathematical knowledge for that person (it should vary between people) ahead of said person in a finite time!

P.s. I realize my answer is a response to some inner narcissistic craving, and as such things go, full of holes. In which case, I would very much appreciate should someone set me on the right path :)

Yours sincerely,
Jude

Book Review - The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand

Ok, let us for a moment cast aside all debates about the pros and cons of capitalism over communism and whatnot. We know now that there are complete jerks in both schools of thought, and the whole debate is like trying to choose broccoli over aubergine (my kindest apologies to people who like both, or either. As far as I know, I never saw it that way). Rather, what I wish to talk about is the dangers of believing in a sudden inspiration, treating it as if it were a revelation from the realm beyond, just because it is somewhat beautiful, or incomprehensible, or both.

As always, I would like to illustrate this with a very personal experience. See, I am a depression amateur - seriously, I nominate upon me this new profession - I needn't explain or understand what it means, but I do believe it is a great idea (because I love it, and because if you criticize it, it hurts only up to a certain depth, and then it stops). So, one of these days I come up with this idea that depression is the result of a disruption in your humiliation balance. I think it is a good theory, it tells us why people who are at the pinnacle of success or at the very nadir of self-abasement are often most depressed: because, they have either too much or too little of it. Also, like Freud's theories (and most religions), it has the advantage of being formulated using vaguely defined terms, so it can never be disproved - merely adapted!

But then, one night as I was moderately drunk, I decided to top myself, and came up with a plan - that my current theory would be that depression is withdrawal symptom to the addiction to humiliation. If I understood only tiny bits of my former theory, I was entirely clueless about this one. More to the point, even in my alcohol-induced psychosis, I was sure that I was not quite there. But heck, it was beautiful, and I was high, so I posted a question about it on yahoo answers, and was immediately and methodically torn apart by a retired GP.

I think Ayn Rand underwent something of this sort while writing The Fountainhead. Her idea was beautiful, of course, that the people who need to depend on other people to provide meaning to their existence and endow them with 'prestige' are the inferior second-handers, and those that need only their ego to survive (and not the company of humans) are the really superior kind of people. She goes on to demonstrate how true selfishness is not a sin but rather a virtue and an ideal that can never really be achieved, which is rather sensible and picturesque, as such things go. Her theory lends support to the idea that the ego is not really a bad thing. But then, she makes a mess of it when she goes judgmental and preachy as hell. Now, take the case of Roark. Ok, Roark is completely oblivious to the opinions of the people surrounding him. So far, so good. But even Roark needs something. The difference is that while the grubby second-handers need people, Roark needs to feel his power over nature. So, he has to build things to assert that, or break mountains and stuff because, apparently, that is what presses his buttons. What's so good, or different about that? The true egotists would people who would not need to borrow anything from their surroundings for their survival! And yes, Roark also happens to need 'Murica, too.

But we forget that Howard Roark was beyond reproach, in that what he created was the next best thing to perfection. And, so were apparently Gail Wynand, Steven Mallory, Ellsworth Toohey, or Dominic Francon – they were the unparalleled champions at whatever they did, and so it was really easy for them to believe in themselves. What happens to those who are not good at anything, but refuse to be taken in by the second-handers? Ayn Rand conveniently keeps her writing off such topics. Also, is it just me, or is her hatred of women who are less fortunate in matters of physical beauty almost pathological?

Despite what I write, and despite its being bloated, predictable, and lacking a plot (a plot and plotting are not one and the same), I did enjoy her book in parts. I thought the manner in which Peter Keating gain ascendency over his colleagues was brilliant, as was the conversation between Peter Keating and Toohey towards the end of the Novel. The ‘Gallant Gallstone’ was a very clever invention (even though she knew that and made no pretense of hiding it). Also, I found her style to be very unlike anything I read, but that may be because I have not read that many books. I will now try to demonstrate her style more clearly with this tiny fragment of conversation (of my own invention):

The all-to-perfect objectivitist: But, what is it with you? I am sick of the same old stuff that man has been feasting upon for ages now. Wherever I go, it is just ice-cream, and coke, and the inevitable burger-patty. I mean, that was okay for people who would prefer to succumb to a heart attack rather than to boredom, but now we have facebook, goddammit!

Grubby second-hander: But what should we do about it?

TATPO: I think there’s a food for every individual, just as there is an individual to every food. Do you think you could understand that? I think the best thing that you could eat would be whole bananas fried in avocado oil. But, instead of allowing me to marvel at the sight of it, you would only stuff yourself with more chocolate, and pizza, and rocky-mountain oysters.

GSH: Oh, it’s perfectly all right. (Patting the protuberance in his midsection) In fact, I always crap everything out the very next morning.

TATPO: (Placing a sun-kissed hand upon his taut, masculine abdomen) with me, however, things go down only to a certain depth, and then they stop.

(A temporary lull in the conversation as each character tries to avoid the sideways glance of the other.)

GSH:  I get it, I suppose. But then, I suppose we all ought to like oranges.

TATPO: Once, when I was in Florida, I flew an F-16 over an orchard of orange trees and systematically destroyed each orange with a shot from a missile bearing a unique Paulo Coehlo quote, while simultaneously pleasuring myself with a fifteenth-century broomstick.

GSH: Good grief! Whatever would you do that for?

TATPO: To think I took you for someone who understood. But, let us not talk of this anymore, shall we,  and pass me that piece of toast and that jar of marmalade, would you?

(Greedy toast-munching follows.)

GSH: (with his mouth full) what do you think of my marmalade?

TATPO: (also with his mouth full) I do not think of your marmalade. 

All of this sounds horrendous, I know, but when you read the first few pages of the book that have been written in a similar vein, and realize that there are around 680 more to go, curiosity gets the better of you and you end up reading all of it. And, after you have done that and realized how you wasted away the greater part of a lifetime, there is nothing much left apart from rating it a nondescript 3 and quietly slipping away to your grave.

I think I like Catherine Hasley the best. I believe she realized very early on what a rotten propaganda-pushing gimmick it all was. Which is why, she quit the scene before the first quarter of the novel was up, and returned only for very brief episodes to express her contempt for the people she was burdened with.

Book review - Many lives, many masters by Dr. Brian L. Weiss

I cannot quite put into words my utter detestation for the book, it's author, and all or most of mankind! Given to skepticism all my life I was always weary of any mention of this book. I would always argue that since this book has been around for a good long time and since we are yet to discover all that much compelling evidence about reincarnation, there's probably a snag somewhere. Which is why until recently I never thought about actually reading it. 

Let me first tell you what caused me to overcome my inhibition. Someone very close to me is suffering from a bad bout of depression. One I was talking with her about the kind of psychiatrist she visits, she said that what she really needs is a session with Dr. Brian Weiss, that only he had the power to cure her. She has a masters in math, so I allow myself to be taken in. I immediately download the book on my kindle (it only costs about $2), get me a packet of chips, and set my teeth to it. 

Let me stress here - I approached the book with a totally open mind. In fact, since none of us could afford a session with Dr. Weiss even if we sold a kidney apiece, I was very keen to actually learn something from it, so that maybe I could actually use it on her to good effect. I was suitably impressed when Dr. Weiss opened the narrative with his brilliant curriculum vitae and what a strong scientific mind he has. And I have nothing against the whole idea of reincarnation either. In fact, whenever I happen to find a show on it on the discovery channel or some such place, I would make sure to watch it. 

When he began to describe in some detail he hypnotised Catherine for the first time, I was immediately fascinated and copied the entire thing in a note for reference. It was the 1853 BC thing that killed it for me. Why, Dr. Weiss? Had you merely said AD, maybe I would have been disenchanted a wee bit later. But you really couldn't wait, could you, glutton that you are? And then, as soon as the session ends, you immediately feel the need to inform the readers that you find that ape-shit baloney completely believable, even though you are the oh-so-scientific!

I am understandably shaken, but I decide to wait for the scientific explanation that would soon follow. So, I bite the bullet (or gulp down two beers) and resume with the book. But, after reading some twenty more pages of it, it seems that it goes only one way - downhill. Just when Catherine starts to choke as she recalls her throat being slit in a boat by none other than her current abusive boyfriend, I decide that enough is enough and that it will never get any more scientific than an episode of Monty Python. 

That night, I was so livid that I barely remember what I did. I faintly recollect having plonked my kindle down hard on the cheap coir mattress that is my bed and wishing Dr. Weiss' immediate demise and reincarnation with his face glued to his butt. But then, next morning when I regained my composure, I began to wonder - what wrong did Dr. Weiss really do? Or, if a fault had been committed, who exactly was the perpetrator of it? Is Dr. Weiss a scientific man? Yes, and I couldn't agree more. Is Dr. Weiss a good psychiatrist? He's an excellent one! He knows exactly what people want, and he gives it them by the truckloads. When he starts to talk about Catherine, he knows that his readers are immediately going to start judging her, so he wastes no time in telling us how beautiful Catherine is. And then, since he knows that not everyone is taken in by mere good looks alone, he at once jumps to how Catherine is abused in the hands of her own father, which is now getting a little old, really. But then, a better construct for garnering sympathy has seldom been engineered, and he is certain that he has the rapt attention of everyone present. 

From here follows a tale so bizarre as to put a pot-headed hippie to shame. Some stories are straight, some circular, and still others, elaborately ornate. This one is shaped somewhat like a Klein bottle. I did not stick around for the greater part of it, but I do believe that for once Twilight is a better love story! Even the end is pure genius - when it comes to squeezing out the tears from your hapless readers there is nothing more potent than the murdered child - the child of the tormented female protagonist of unearthly beauty. Dr. Weiss could count his dollars even before the whole of his plot hatched!

And yet, as I write this scathing review, I feel that something is not quite right. And that feeling of inadequacy comes from the mention of the 1853 BC. If he wished his readers to seriously believe what he wrote, why did he feel compelled to make such a blatant and obvious fib about something so unrelated to the rest of the story? If Catherine heard the dates in the wind, surely the wind would know better than to stick to the Georgian calendar? Or the utter nonsensical notion that someone in 1853 BC would know that the year as 1853 BC (for chirssake)! My best guess is that this is Dr. Weiss' plea for absolution. He is telling his readers - look, this here is absolute horsecrap, and if you choose to believe in it, so much the worse for you. For whatever that happens to you henceforth, the entire liability is yours, not mine! I actually respect Dr. Weiss for this honest admission of guilt, and this is why I struggle to find fault with him. 

Then who is to blame? Why, mankind, of course! Right now, it's more fashionable than ever before to turn atheist all of a sudden. When people look at the less developed nations and the religious extremism and mania that ties them, they are shocked and disgusted. This piece of fiction here just gives a perfect insight into how the whole thing works - why men and women ever since civilisation happened have found it easier to believe in bearded beings of the sky, ten armed goddesses, or men giving birth to women out their ribs than the most obvious piece of common sense. Or why somebody like Hitler can dupe an entire nation into killing 6 million for no good reason. People always find it so much easier when their is somebody to think their thoughts out for them, and nothing beats the sheer comfort of knowing that whatever mistakes you made, or howsoever bad your life turned out to be is the result of forces beyond your control. 

In a way, I owe a lot to this book. Having been an atheist most of my life, I have often been bothered by doubts such as what if it's all true what they say about god and religion, or can so many people all throughout history be wrong? This book reinstates my confidence in what I stand for, the right to thwart the attempts at deceit by other people an organisations, since this book is one of the best depiction of the way these powers work. And no, it does absolutely nothing to dissipate my interest in reincarnation, and once I finish posting this I will search for afterlife and rebirth on YouTube and binge-watch anything and everything remotely relevant. 

Yours sincerely,

Jude

Depression theory - first post

[At the start, this paced out like one of my writing without pausing games, but in the end I did stall momentarily here and there. Still, this piece is very much legit.]

Writing without pausing – that's the name of the game, isn't it? Well, for one, compared to then, I type much faster – what with the job that I do (I am a software engineer) – now I get so much lesser time to think. Te good part- well, since I did not write a single blog for so long, I make a lot of mistakes.

So, let me see, what was I thinking of a short while back? Inebriation, like, of course, that has to be it! And yes, depression. This one theory that I chanced upon while sober, and now I cannot seem to let it go. The theory, briefly, is this – that depression is the withdrawal symptom of the addiction to humiliation, and/or degradation. I think there is a difference, but when I write that I also think what I mean is that there is actually no difference – go figure!

We are addicted to humiliation, isn't it? It is that simple. Now, let me tell you, before you start doubting me and making snide remarks about all of this, I am really a connoisseur on depression, Fact is, my mother, my aunt, so many uncles that I cannot keep count, are a prey to this debilitating, and all consuming disease. As far as my own depression goes, it is really exceedingly simple – it is not depression at all, but a mild form of psychosis, with a dash of neurosis thrown in. And it is funny, that although I frequently talk aloud with myself, I am not schizophrenic. I am very much positive that it isn't so, because all the voices that go on inside my head (and yes, quite ceaseless) are very much my own.

But, onward with my theory – stand aside my own depression, may it never bar the way – the addiction to the degradation of self. It is really funny – and it is also one of the darkest aspects of our own selves, os I am pretty darn sure that should anybody chance to read this, they will not admit to any of these in their own miserable selves. Do you have that one constant, nagging dream - a wakeful dream, not one that disturbs the configurations of your sleep – that you are doing something that you really, really hate to do? Somebody told me that that is OCD, but I am pretty much sure that, just like homosexuality, we all have just a little bit of it in all of us. For me it is hair on the bathroom floor – that simple! Hair, for God's sake! I cannot quite tell you how much I abhor hair on the bathroom floor. I never, practically never, enter a bathroom barefooted. Rubber soles beneath my skin – that is my poison (after one has quit smoking – the one great habit (no matter what Freud claims to the otherwise) – what else is there, anyway?). And, funny thing is, so long as you have hair, on some or any part of your body, at some point, it is going to manifest itself atop the cover on your drain. So, I have these horrid, vivid daytime dreams that I have hair – and, that wet, horrid, bathroom floor hair – in no other place more sacred than my holy mouth!

Speak of torture! Now, I ask myself – why do I have these dreams so very recurrent (I think we better cease to call these dreams – maybe, thoughts? Certainly not fantasies!)? It feeds my degradation addiction. It is practically the only thing that keeps me from collapsing altogether. It is my little safety valve, and I am proud that it is no more sinister than this.

This is what I am speaking of. Depression sufferers, did you ever notice this? Your depression, almost always, and no matter what you might believe, has a very earthly trigger. Of course, you might argue that the trigger itself is of no consequence, and just about anything in its place ranging from the death of a cat to global warming could have pushed you on your way upon the highway to hell with equal or greater urgency, and yet it does seem that your depression also always needs to find a humble, worldly fire to feed it. And again, just about noone I met with depression has a depression in the middle of a crisis. It might be the adrenaline thing, or whatever chemical mash up that works (as I said, I am a software engineer), but severe depression (the ones that occur in fits and spasms and seem to make marvellous contortions at the expense of your sanity) always occurs 'after' the completion of a personal crisis or tragedy. It may be a very recently concluded episode, or one from your very remote past that has left an indelible imprint upon your subconscious (does that even exist?), but it is 'always' past tense.

So, my question is (and a horrible asker that I am) – is it possible to get addicted to degradation? And is depression merely a manifestation of the withdrawal symptoms of the addiction to degradation? Withdrawal symptoms can be awful – I would know since I evolved from three quarters of a pack a day smoker to a non-smoker in the course of a single day – and the only thing that keeps me from starting on it again is that I do not wish to drag me through that ordeal a second time – what if all our current treatment of depression has taken off on the wrong foot absolutely? I believe current treatment of depression attempts to raise the serotonin and endorphin levels of a person and is designed to make that person 'happier'. Instead, what if we actually did the reverse – make the person realize what a terrible crisis it is that they are going through and what horrid shadows their current persona is when compared to their cheerful, unadulterated past? I believe that wen a patient of acute depression is telling you how morbid his or her life has become, the person does not actually need your help in making it better. What that person needs, instead, is your concurrence – that you 'believe' that their humiliation is very real and their degradation absolute. That would, then, feed their inner Narcissus, and possibly and somewhat inadvertently steer them on the road to recovery.

Yours sincerely,

Jude

Old Man

There's a man I knew somewhere:
You'd think he's gone - He'd still be there!
Waving arms at all who care
To hear a merry lore.

He'd stroll up and down - about a mile
Mumbling rhymes all the while
Or smile at you a crooked smile;
Yet I knew his heart was pure.

But soon he'd wish he'd rather be
Alone - away from companee;
For all that in him e'er they'd see
Would be a toothless bore.

Yours sincerely
Jude

Sleep not yet

Sleep not yet, my endless sorrow -
My mind lies bitter and cold.
Prolong thy sweet burning yet awhile
For I am not yet old.

Say, what good youth may be
When youth cannot be free?
My kindled soul inflames my husk
But chills the heart in me.

Take all thy merriment yonder now
And leave me here in pain;
Gently numb my senses til'
None but memories remain.

Yours sincerely
Jude

Nightflight to Venus

[A repeat of the game I mentioned in my last post. The wordlist was different, though - Flight, moonlight, away, promise, self]

The stars are only

As far as they seem to be

Tell me, would you and I

Not reach them if we aspire?

So much talk, we must board a flight

And promise every self

Not to utter a word

Till our feet are firmly ground

And our hearts fly

Away in the moonlight

And should your honesty shine

And say, the moon is purple,

Well what is it to you,

Its still beautiful, you see

And our feet are ground

The way they should be

And should relativity fail

And not carry us to,

All I know is that

I'd be 'lone without you

So hurry up darlin'

And make this a sweet honeymoon

Live every moment like

You're not alone.

Sincerely yours

Jude

Snakes on my mind

[Wrote using the 4 words - long, intertwine, melancholy and gay, as part of a gag. Not my6 best effort, but here it goes.]

Sitting by the brook I saw

In a corner if my mind

Serpents, playing in the sun

Their bodies intertwined.

Their speckled forms knew no bounds

Their motions gay and bold

The wind whispered in my ears

Things from times untold

Tales of the past are long and wide

Oft with a melancholy turn.

Our bruised thoughts go writhing while

In a golden blaze they burn.

Yours sincerely

Jude

Hurt your eyes

Nobody told me,

This simplistic afternoon,

Some cantankerous old man,

Humming a lone, sad tune,

What it should feel like

Sitting all alone.

Watching the sidewalk drying

When the rain is gone.

And now the bluebirds sing

What the rain left unsaid

I watch the sunshine spraying

All over my bed

I know that you'd be lonely

Should the bluebirds have left

While I'm sitting here only

Hoping you catch my drift.

Now the sunshine's all gone

And the day is through

And all I'd be hoping is that

The moon shines bright on you

And should it hurt your eyes, lover

And make you feel blue

Close your eyes, think of me, lover

And the pain that I go through.

Yours sincerely

Jude

The Dinner (A story)

Some things in nature are empirical. Consider men, for example. They were all the same. They all wanted to have their cake - indeed, fight like starving mongrels over it, and in the end they never would have the good sense to eat it. In all probability, they didn’t know how. All they ever wanted was to bury it in the ground till the time it turned to compost. As she sat on the plush seat sipping her claret, she took the liberty of bringing her hands close to her face and sniff at the wrists for one fraction of a second. She relaxed to the cool cascade of confidence rushing from her head to the soles of her feet. The Donna Karan perfume had been a good choice.

“You think the Bartlets will be here by 9?” She asked without averting her gaze from the pearls on the woman sitting next to them. It was rather picturesque, since she had dark eyes and a rather ostentatious hair-do. Again, her attention turned to her own hands which were small, white and delicate, with almost disproportionately long fingers. Glancing at the other’s meaty hands with their painted fingernails, she triumphantly concluded that she would not need a string of pearls for many years to come. A shadow of a smile played around the corners of her mouth.

“Per-aps”, was all the reply her husband could muster. He sat on the other side of the small table set for four. He was approaching middle age, and his hair was allowed to grow a good way down his brow in the defense of his increasing baldness. Apart from that, he looked clean enough, with smooth-shaven cheeks and a clean, white shirt underneath his dinner jacket. Older than the former by about a decade and a half, he might have been rather good looking once but had allowed his body to be ravaged by the seven deadly sins liberally enough, as a result of which he was given to corpulence. His cheeks glowed in the light from the chandeliers like a baby’s buttocks. From time to time, he glanced anxiously at his watch, or took out a napkin from his pocket and mopped his brow.

She placed both her hands on the table, and bent forward, her eyes glowing with the light of youth. “Don’t you think that that picture there is adorable? I could spend the whole summer lying naked on that stack of hay, eating nothing but tangerines!” She had lovely, even teeth.

He hadn’t seen the picture yet, as he would have to turn a full one hundred and eighty degrees to see it. Should he risk looking at it? His curiosity had been piqued. After all, what had he to lose anyway? He could always take a look, scowl, and may be upbraid her for having such perverted thoughts. Yet, something held him back. So, instead, he grunted something inarticulate and started feigning an ache of the neck and the shoulders, and to relieve himself of it, he did the most fantastic contortions, all the time trying to look at the picture without actually seeming to do so. At last, he gave up, realizing that he had already been caught in the act by his wife who was smiling innocently and pretending to be enthralled by the picture whilst her lips whistled a merry tune, ever so softly. Chagrined, he called to the passing waiter and ordered a second scotch for himself, indignantly refusing the offer of a spot of soda as the waiter handed it to him, preferring only ice.

After a while, he had emptied his glass and proceeded to light a cigar. His nicotine-stained fingers fumbled as he tried to light a matchstick. She watched him struggle for the greater part of twenty seconds, and then she fished out a silver lighter from her handbag and cupped her hands over it as she held it out to him. Still, she did not light one for herself.

Punctual to a T, the Bartlets arrived. Mary wore a black strapless gown with a stole made of imitation fur casually thrown across her shoulders. Despite her thirty-five or so years, she had a nice body and a brilliant smile. She was a real-estate agent and her looks went not a little way in giving her the power and respect she received from all her clientele. In her spare time, she was a PETA activist and a campaigner for the poor, suffering children in Uganda. Brad was a corporate lawyer, and played basketball. She couldn’t help noticing how becoming the dusky blue suit was that he wore was over his perfectly chiseled body.

“Hello Clarice, hello Brad.” And there were greetings all around. In a moment Brad had cast aside all his melancholy and was beaming as he shook hands with Don. Then he enthusiastically strode forward to kiss Mary. She merely closed her eyes as she steeled herself to the inevitable. Like all fat men, his kiss was a profusion of wetness. Don also kissed Clarice, and the latter accepted it gracefully enough, smiling all the while as they took their seats. If Don had moved his lips away from her cheek in the general direction of her throat, one could hardly tell whether she noticed. When the men had done with them, the two women embraced warmly and each in her turn complimented the other on how well she had turned out.

“And how’s the baby,” Clarice began as soon as they had sat down.

“Oh he’s such a darling,” the other crooned. “You know it was only last Tuesday that he said his first words – Mamma, he says to me when I pick him up straight after coming home from work. I was so delighted I didn’t know what to do. And the cute little rascal, understanding perfectly well what a priceless piece of goods he was, kept saying that same word over and over again. When Don came home, he thought I’d been sick my face was so red with joy.”

“That’s right,” Don rejoined. “Mary just adores the baby. You know, this morning, I wake up to sounds of “get up, sweetheart. Would you like me to spank you?” when I open my eyes to realize that all the while she’s talking to the baby. Makes me wanna be a kid again.” He smiled rather mischievously as he said this, and the wrinkles that formed at the corners of his eyes were undeniably handsome. Mary gave him a playful clout on his shoulder and the latter tried to have his revenge with a kiss. Clarice smiled sweetly, and a trifle wearily.

Brad took advantage of the clamour to take in an eyeful of Mary’s wide, supple shoulders and her ample breasts. There was something intoxicating about the smoothness of her arms and her rich, sonorous laugh. True, Clarice was a beauty of sorts, but she was rather lacking in meat. This was uncharted territory, full of treasures, and his mouth watered at the thought of what he might find there given the chance. With extreme power of will he extricated himself as if from a bottomless pit and his eyes met those of Clarice. For a brief moment, he fancied that she winked. He’d expected to find anger in that gaze, but instead, those eyes seemed to egg him on in his pursuit. This made him nervous, since he was a man with a very limited capacity of thought and used to live his life based on a rigid set of convictions that were practically non-existent. To ease his mind, he ordered a bottle of champagne.

“Ah, champagne,” Mary twittered. “You know, Brad, I am not supposed to drink that. Alcohol never did me any good ‘cause I get high so easily. The last time I got drunk, I insisted on doing a kind of solo burlesque at the parking lot with everyone staring, and all it took was three marguerites.”

This greatly pleased Brad and he himself insisted on filling up her glass. He filled it to the brim and made her take the first sip, with the glass still in his hand. “Well, if you insist. But, I don’t like it.” She made a comic face and claimed the glass to herself.

“So, Brad, how’s work?” Don ventured.

“Work’s a bitch,” he replied. “No matter how great the quarterly figures turn out to be, the paycheck’s still the same.” Brad made a good deal of money as vice-president to a prominent investment banking firm in the country. He lived in a posh locale, owned two cars, a swimming pool, and a penthouse. Rumour was that his unparalleled abilities as management were not a little abetted by the fact that an uncle from his mother’s side of the family was a member of the board of directors. The other rumour was that the money was the sole reason why Clarice chose to marry him in the first place.

So, the champagne was drunk. Clarice daintily sipped from her glass and held it perfectly at the stem, with the little finger pointing outwards. Both Brad and Mary finished their first glass greedily and immediately went for a refill. Mary started off holding the glass nearly as perfectly as Clarice, but halfway through her second, she lost interest and wrapped her fingers around the top as if it were a coffee mug. Don, on the other hand ordered a whisky for himself and drank it slowly, pausing for the ice to melt. Everybody seemed cheerful. Even the mild-mannered Clarice had let her hair down and told them a funny story from college when they’d been on a camping trip and someone had stolen all their clothes as they bathed in the river. Everyone roared with laughter and Mary went into conniptions. A second bottle of champagne was ordered. Then, Dan narrated one of his own, of the time when he worked pro-bono for a ninety-two year old veteran of the First World War. The joke was that grandpa was accused of rape by his twenty-nine year old nurse in search of some easy money, and the case was won by simple medical report in which it was proven beyond doubt the accused was thoroughly incapable of any of the villainous acts he was charged with. Again, everybody seemed to think it was funny and the result was very much as before. Food was brought in, and Don challenged the obese Brad to a steak eating contest. Brad accepted gleefully, and the two ladies were very much fascinated by what they saw, but feigned disgust as the two men tore huge chunks of pink meat and filled their mouths with it. But even before he was through with his first steak, Don declared he was full, and promised to foot the entire bill as a penalty. Brad, who took the challenge much more seriously, was delighted and ordered a second steak just to stamp his authority. Don laughed cheerfully and lit a cigarette. He then stood up and did a parody of a bow he’d seen in an historical movie of the Elizabethan times as a tribute to Brad, and both women were very much tickled by it. Mary laughed so hard that the tears came.

Halfway through her meal, Clarice asked to be excused. As she got up, Don caught a glimpse of her flimsy shoulder blade and a whiff of her perfume made its way up his nostrils. He shifted uneasily in his seat. Clarice disappeared behind a curtain. On the other side of it were two doors facing each other, one marked with a man symbol and the other with a lady symbol. But, she chose neither. Instead, she leaned against the wall with one arm gently resting on her belly, and lighting a cigarette, waited.

Precisely three minutes later, Don asked to be excused as well. By then, Mary was very drunk, and she and Brad exchanged little confidences and giggled like a pair of school kids. Like Clarice, he too made straight for the curtains, and once he was behind it, immediately wrapped his arms round the slim waist of Clarice and started kissing her neck fervently. She did not close her eyes immediately. Don had his back to the drapes, and from her vantage point she could see just about enough through a tiny gap in the curtains to know exactly what was going on at her table. She could see Mary and Brad, very much tipsy, laughing, Brad reaching forward, the slight rustle of the tablecloth with Brad sliding his hand up Mary’s thigh, Mary jumping up as if electrocuted, Brad’s immediate recoil, Mary standing tall and looking like an Amazon, Brad’s fervent apology, and finally, Mary stumbling her way towards the door leaving Brad sitting all alone with his head on the table. The elegant woman in the pearls adjacent to them turned to see what was going on. At this point, she stopped looking and aligned Don’s mouth over her own. She then allowed herself to be enveloped by the smell of Don’s expensive aftershave as the cigarette slipped from between her fingers.

Five minutes later, the two of them made their way back to their table. By now, they felt so confident that they didn’t even bother to return separately. Brad was sitting on his chair looking very pale, and Mary was still standing at the doorway, smoking. The sounds of the chairs as Don and Clarice took their seats made her turn. She made her way back to the table in a straight line, twice knocking against the other tables but apologizing not once, and said, “Don, we have to leave. NOW!” Before he could protest, Mary was already picking up their stuff and gathering up her imitation fur stole around her. As Don walked past Clarice, he winked, but Clarice remained immobile, as though the man she had been kissing a minute ago with so much passion were now a total stranger.

With the Bartlets gone, the two of them once again found themselves all alone at the table. Brad looked as if he’d seen a ghost. He was sweating profusely and had unbuttoned his collar. It seemed to Clarice that in a single evening he’d aged a decade. He looked like a man who’d just lost everything he owned, so many times over. Meanwhile, she herself looked very much at ease and lit another cigarette as she sat opposite him with her eyes lowered.

They sat this way in utter silence for around ten minutes or so. During that time, Clarice once again turned her attention to the picture on the wall that had earlier caught her eye, and she had her mouth slightly open. The light from the chandeliers above fell on her beautiful chestnut hair and lent her an ethereal glow. As he saw her sitting there through the film of mist created by all that cigarette smoke, she seemed to him at once the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He cursed himself for forgetting that so often.

“I was thinking,” he began. But the words got caught in his throat as she turned to face him and smiled. It caused the same sensation of hollowness in his stomach as during a plane taking off. “I was thinking,” he began again. She smiled again, as if for encouragement. “Its been a long time, Clarice, that we’ve been on a vacation, you know, just the two of us. Clayton has just returned from a week in the Bahamas, and he tells me of this really nice hotel where you have all this authentic food and the view is great, too. I was thinking, maybe next month, after the Goldwyn deal is signed.”

“That’s a lovely idea, Brad,” she said. He could see her pupils dilate.

“And I was also thinking,” he continued, somewhat calmer now. “Next week its your birthday. Do you have, like,” here he struggled to find the right words. “Is there something you really, really wish you could have?”

She laughed, and pondered over this for almost a minute. When she opened her mouth once again, she sounded as though she knew exactly what she wanted. “I’d like you to buy me a pearl necklace,” she said simply.

Yours sincerely,

Jude

Poetry

[Here's the piece of poetry I promised in my last post - written at a time when I felt really, really poetic. Hence, the topic. At that time (i.e. 1999, aged 13), I felt it was a very novel idea to write a piece of poetry on poetry (I was young, you see) - hence the topic!]

One day I asked me -

"What is the topic on which you'd write?"

"Is that a problem," answered I,

"Where there is a flower or a birds cry -

"A rising sun, some shady trees:

"A flock of geese, or some sea breeze?"

One day I asked me -

"How good would you write?"

"It'd be good," answered I,

"As good as good as can be;

"Yet I know not it'd satisfy you or not

"But I'm sure it'd satisfy me."

One day I asked me -

"How long would you write?"

"I do not know," answered I,

"And yet I write, and write, and write.

"And write I will till the last breath -

"But then, what is life, and what is death?"

Yours sincerely

Jude

Emphatically Random - First post

I have seen it so many times, this page. Yet, why am i always scared of it? What is it that pulls me back? i cannot say for certain. i could, as a matter of fact publish anything here, for there are no visitors. I could reveal my darkest secrets and yet sleep sound at night, for noone would know. I wonder why exactly google affords to keep this page up. Its perfectly useless, to say the least. I mean, its not that people do not appreciate what I write - far from it. I have one maddeningly beautiful girl who's made one of my minute and a half pieces of poetry her status message on gtalk. Ain't that something? I could live my life for that glory, indeed. For in this way I am not exactly paying my respects to the girl in question, but to the creator supereme, without whom i am supposedly devastated. This is what I simply cannot understand. What is His role in terms of me? He must be so supremely clever that it is impossible for us to fathom his thoughts. I mean if you are a software engineer like i am, and working on a particular layer of a piece of code, how on earth or heavens could you understand what goes on in a layer abstracted from you? Now, abstraction is one of my words. It just about defines life, to say the least. I mean, there are stuff that keep you happy, and you're proud to have knowledge of such stuff and share it accross your circle of friends and acquaintances. Then, there are stuff you needn't know, too. I mean, I love the Sherlock Holmes-ian approach to the workings of the human mind - the mind is an attic - but people forget that it does not have elastic walls, or something to that effect! Now, I sometimes feel the need to know, do people die of complicated thoughts? Can people collapse simply because some thought or idea they have triggers off other thoughts, that in turn trigger even more, all recursively, i assure you, and then die in what we lowly software engineers term a 'stack overflow error'? I do not know, but sometimes i do believe that that is possible.

Its like this idea that I sometimes have - this whole idea that is highly redundant in all the short stories I have written till now, that the being is not contained in the dimensions of the body - incidentally, did any of you notice that? I wonder exactly what a good, robust idea is made up of. Is it terms of materialisation, then? I do hope not - for in that case, its toodles to Jesus, Buddha, and the whole lot. I wonder, would they feel sorry, or ashamed to see us the way we are now? I sincerely hope not, for then it would cast that shadow of doubt over their intelligence that I do not simply like.

I cannot stop today, not just yet. I have let the pen do the talking, or rather the keypad, for I am quite as techno-savvy as all the rest. So, I am waiting simply, for the storm to pass. The uploading bit is just an addiction. nothing more. I mean, I wouldn'y want people to catch me red-handed as this. I, too have principles and a face, not a very bad one at that - to save.

There, you have it! A straight confession from the bowels of a narcissist. I wonder, how come the ancient world did not lay a greater stress on the importance of the bowels. For me, I strictly feel that the bowels rule the human emotion. i mean, i am simply so happy on the days my bowels are happy! What would you? And yet, they continue to write about the heart! I assure you, if I see a beautiful member of the oppositte sex around, I rarely feel anything of the heart - its more of a churning of the bowels - and its logical to. For its the bowels that are closer to the 'heart' of the matter and not the heart. But, there is also the head. I wish I'd read more into biology - that way I could have understood why exactly the brain is considered the centre of our intelligence. Maybe because you get a splitting headache after concentrating on something very hard! And yet, I maintain - that intelligence is a distributed thing. There is a great deal of it in the brain; but, there must be some part of it in so many other places, too. Maybe quite a bit of it outside our body. Who was it who said that we only use around five percent of our brains at a time? If that rings true, there's still a lot left to imagination and idle speculation.

Incidentally, i have been reading since last night, and but for the solid nine hours or so of sleep that I managed to catch up on, it being a weekend and all, I have been reading something all day long and my eyes are burning as if from onions. So, its goodbye for now. I am publishing a very old poem I wrote many many years ago, in that golden age when I was thirteen. I hope you have the bowels to enjoy!

The Other Side Of Nothing At All

[Written exactly in a minute and a half]

Nature - lonely, violent, stupid:

Can't seem to get in to

Where I am this absurd night;

And weird noises it does make

Pattering little tippity-taps on the

Windowpane of love; Oh, how I miss

You of all people should have

Been here to see the night through.

Tomorrow I'll be gone, and

So will the sun shine on

Me and you - as drifted apart

We stand on the threshold to the

Afterlife; We hold no clue

As to what stops us from

Jumping straight through to the

Other side of nothing at all.

Yours sincerely

Jude

The ballad of you and I

When I met you 'neath skies of blue
And nature all aglow,
The bluebirds sang, the church bells rang
And time did cease to flow.

Then spring came by to you and I -
Your perfume filled the air;
Some silent song kept ringing on
Like the answer to a prayer.

Now you were gone one summer morn' -
The skies had paused to weep;
My soul did sigh a lullaby
And put my heart to sleep.

I walked alone, still holding on
To dreams that were denied.
Some pretty dame without a name
Did nurse my broken pride.

But you came back - all out of luck;
I'd had my sweet revenge.
We'd lost our youth, forgot the truth
That we could never change.

So I spun about and walked right out -
You never turned your gaze.
In our heart of hearts, we knew our parts
But the play had left the stage.

Now we are old - Let it be told
I can't deny the pain.
But if you're there, Lord I swear
I'd live it all again.

Yours sincerely
Jude

In the night

The lights are low, the curtains down -

The day is set to close.

Quiet, as the scurrying mouse

Comes a moonbeam on tiptoes.

The wind is high, the night so clear -

The plants are all aglow.

With minds at ease and hearts at rest

Their heads swing to and fro.

There I sit and hum some tune;

My eyes are opened wide.

And dream a dream of carefree youth,

And the joy that is denied.

Yours sincerely

Jude

Fallen hast thou

Fallen hast thou, my faithful friend -

Thy bountiful heart laden with grief;

Seeketh thou what thy mind knoweth not -

Mine eyes, oh, a river they weep!

Answered? Nay, thy mendicant prayers

Knoweth no reason nor rhyme.

Thy gold, thy silver, all thy pride

Lay a-beggin' in the grime.

No more thou kisseth the summer moon

Nor the silvery waters below!

Behold, the lonely bluebirds shed

Blue teardrops in the snow.

Whither art thou, my angel bright?

The silent hills implore;

The tide is gone, the breeze is low -

This ship canst sail no more.

Fallen hast thou my faithful friend -

Thy tales them children hear

And for all the joy it bringeth them

T'is more than I canst bear.

Yours sincerely

Jude

The Day of The Black Balloon

[On the 29th of October a fest had been organized where I was undergoing my on job training. In that I won the first prize in short story writing. The motive was to write a story based on the following three keywords - road, balloon, and newspaper. The allotted time was half an hour. But all that I got was 20 minutes because chronically with me, a pen is never to be found when you most need one. But anyway, all's well that ends well and all that. This is what I had come up with in that short span of time. I have tried to reproduce it verbatim as far as possible, but some inadvertent discrepancies must have crept in. Oh, and you had to write the whole thing on only the two sides of an A4 sized paper. I'd never written a short story that short before. ]

Larry would always remember it as the day of the black balloon. Not that the balloon itself was black or anything, in fact it was of the brightest shade of red he’d ever seen. Rather, it signified the color of the cloud that now loomed over Larry’s life ever since that fateful evening with Samantha.

Larry and Samantha had been spending their evenings strolling down the village roads ever since the two names had been placed together in a single sentence. On that particular evening, Samantha was telling Larry all about the party her aunt had thrown in their garden the day before (to which of course, Larry had not been invited). She’d got to the part where Mrs. Miller had accidentally spilt some black pudding over Mrs. Peabody’s bodice when she all of a sudden stopped in the middle of the road as if struck by lightning. Larry followed her gaze but all he could see was a small child holding on to a string from which was suspended a red balloon.

“What happened?” Larry asked. She did not answer. He asked again, louder than before – “What’s wrong with you?”

“Oh, nothing,” was all she said as she turned her gaze downwards. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“But something’s the matter, Sammy. Tell me.” He’d grabbed her by the upper part of her naked arm as he said this and could feel the heat rising.

“Why on earth are you so insensitive? You see that child there; see that’s beauty, poetry, sublime. But you, you’d never see any of it. All you men are interested in only that one thing. You’re such a pig.”

Later, he confessed that it was the pig bit that had hurt the most. “But I’m sensitive, too,” he protested. “Tell me, didn’t I risk my neck trying to save your kitten when it climbed up that tree?”

For a moment it looked as if she did understand. Her gaze turned moist and she looked at him intently. But the very next second, he made his second mistake for that evening. “Just because I don’t go all potty over every human-ling in diapers does not make me insensitive!”

That did it. She turned on her heels saying, “I have to go. My aunt needs to take her medicine,” and stomped her way back to her aunt’s place. He did go to her place once or twice after that but a week later he was told that she was off to the city to look for work.

It happened a year later while he was sitting at the local tavern. He’d already had a few more beers than what would have been enough to lay him out cold but he’d held his ground. All of a sudden his gaze fell on a small article in the newspaper. The headline went – “Penguins perishing in Antarctica. Scientists fear they may be extinct in the next twenty years.” As soon as he read it, he collapsed on the floor blubbering like a baby. The kindly old gentleman on the stool beside him tried to help him up. Soon a small crowd had gathered. “I’m sensitive, too, you know,” he kept saying to each of them, “See, I cried for the penguins. Come on Sammy, I dare you to be quite as sensitive as that!”

Yours sincerely

Jude

The Alley Cat (A story)

He wasn’t like the rest of them – different somehow. He was one of the ‘slower’ kids. Therefore, at age forty-two, his knowledge of arithmetic was limited to adding up the little coins he got for pocket money from his seventy year old mother who lived off the meager pension that she received courtesy her late army-man husband who ran out of luck all of a sudden up on the front one fine summer day, some forty years ago. Geography, he knew no further than what street he lived on; and he probably had no idea even what chemistry was – in every sense of the word! So, as you might expect, the poor kid had few other kids for company. All the other kids grew up, you see, and he just couldn’t keep up with them. So, while they became doctors, lawyers or bankers and honeymooned with their wives in Tahiti, he still wore those ridiculous shorts and tweed jacket, and sturdy school shoes (over socks). Well, it wasn’t always that way – thirty-five years ago, his mother baked the finest cookies in the entire neighbourhood. So, every evening kids flocked in at their place for free goodies. Of course, they never played with him or anything, I mean, you couldn’t really play soccer with someone who couldn’t count the number of players on his own team! So, at school, they amused themselves by putting slugs down his back and watching him squirm or kicking him in the shins. He always thought of complaining to his mother about it, but he never could remember it all the way home. Then, one day, the headmistress saw it and immediately called his mother up for an interview. So, she came with her hair in a bun and heard her out. They advised her to put him in a special school “for his own good” where he’d get “that li’l extra care that he needs”. She sat through it all with a stony eye and a pursed lip, her hands folded neatly on her lap and her back straight as a ramrod. He, meanwhile, was quite happy making tiny ripples with his finger in the fishbowl on the headmistress’s desk. When the interview was finally over, she said nary a word but merely shook the headmistress’s clammy hand gravely and then taking the kid gently by the scuff, stormed out the door in short, quick steps and never once turned back till they were inside their home and with the door safely locked.

The following month, she did enroll him in a special school, though. This special school turned out to be a lot smaller than his previous school, but the kids weren’t quite as mean, and he didn’t have too bad a time. But after three years, on finding that her son hadn’t learnt a whit more than the delicate art of making paper planes and how to whistle, she decided to keep him off school for good, what with the high inflation rate and all. It was then that she also got a job washing dishes and running odd jobs at the local fast food joint. Of the money she made therein, she spent not a penny even though her clothes were dangerously thin from wear and they hadn’t had a decent pot of coffee in that house for over half a decade. She stashed it all away neatly in a jar within a cupboard in the kitchen so that when she was no longer there, the kid needn’t have to starve or suffer the indignity of an ‘institution’. Between 8 a.m. and 7:30 pm, you could always find her there in her customary white apron with ketchup stains all over wiping grease off the tables or cleaning up the mess made by some clumsy waitress trying to carry six plates of chop suey all at once.

Every morning, he’d get up at six-thirty, brush his teeth, and take a hot bath (even in the month of June). She would meanwhile finish up her chores around the house which included tidying up the beds and doing the odd laundry. Then, he’d get dressed in his shirt and shorts and have his hair combed out and oiled by his mother, following which, she’d help him tie his shoelaces (a tricky affair that, not one he had mastered yet) and the pair of them would slip hand in hand out onto the open streets. On reaching the fast food joint, the mother would enter through the front door first leaving the kid to wait at the back. She’d then head straight to the kitchen, where by a tacit agreement with the cook with whom they were both on friendly terms, she’d smuggle out to him some breakfast consisting of buttered toast, eggs and a glass of chocolate milk to wash it all down. He’d have his breakfast out there on the steps very slowly and with great relish, taking care not to spill any of the milk onto his shirt. Then, about an hour later his mother would come out to collect the plates. This routine would seldom vary. Then his mother would tell him to go and play all by himself and bury herself back in the bowels of the eatery.

His playpen comprised entirely off a dark, stinking alley behind the joint littered with innumerable trash cans and the refuse from the kitchen. Here, he spent the happiest part of his day. This alley – it was like a tiny ecosystem in itself. There were all kinds of creatures here, and each one a friend. For the kid, he wouldn’t hurt a fly; and quite literally, too for the place was abuzz with flies and yet he never would swat a single one even though they constantly kept buzzing in and out his ears. Once when he was twenty, he had seen a fat, ugly man rush out the kitchen backdoor at breakneck speed with a stick in his hand. Preceding him was a small mouse that scurried along the alley floor as fast as its little legs would carry it. The mouse was doing pretty well, actually – twice the man had swung and twice the mouse had stepped away at the very last second so that the stick landed inches away from its puny body on the hard flagstones below. It was, I think, the momentary hesitation that did it. Till then, the lane had been a straight one, and all the mouse had had to do was run along a single direction looking neither right nor left. But all of a sudden, the lane bifurcated into two, each at 180 degrees to the other. So, for a fraction of a second the mouse stopped, deciding which way to go. It was the very opportunity the man was looking for. Steadying himself, he raised his stick high in the air and taking aim, swung. This time, he did not miss. A screech very much like hard fingernails against a blackboard was drowned by the sound of stick hitting against hard ground. He struck three more times for good measure, but he needn’t have, for its insignificant rodent soul was already far beyond the realms of the neighbourhood. He then turned on his heels and disappeared back whither he came from, whistling ‘What a wonderful World’ through his teeth. All this time, the kid just sat there on the street mute with fear, but as soon as the man had left, he rushed to the spot where the dead mouse lay. Slowly, quietly, he knelt down and picking up the body, blood and all, stuffed it in his pants’ pocket.

Later that night, when they had reached home and locked the door, his mother complained of the horrible stench that was following them round. He did not reply. She made him take off his jacket and searched it thoroughly. Then, finding nothing she ran her hand along the sides of his shorts, whereupon she felt a bump. Diving into his pocket, she felt something soft and fuzzy, and when she fished out the thing and looked at it, she nearly fainted from the shock. Angry beyond words, she raised her arm as if to strike him. But the kid, already a head taller than her, neither flinched nor ran, but merely looked straight into her eyes and said - “maybe, it is a mother too.” Since then, she had never once raised her voice against him, and only to be fair to the kid, he had not provided her with much of an opportunity either.

So, the days had gone by, and with each new day he had made new friends in that alley or lost someone dear. Human friends, he had none, for few people ventured into that part of the town because of the smell and the dirt, except perhaps to dump more trash. But still, some people did come – dark, shifty looking men speaking in whispers who always seemed to smoke cigars and who had endless stuff to pass into each others’ pockets. Once, he had seen a short, bald man and a tall guy in a hat walk in together. The two of them seemed to be exchanging some rather heated words when all of a sudden this tall guy fished out a gun from his pocket and promptly shot the other in the chest. He then threw the gun down and disappeared over the wall, all smooth as silk. A few minutes later his mother had come running out to him looking very white and finding a shawl in her handbag, had wrapped it around his shoulders even though the weather was quite warm. Then there had been the sirens and the men in uniform going round with a notebook asking everybody questions. All that was very exciting, but he was happy most of all that his mother had got off work early.

Then, around a year ago, some new kids moved into the neighborhood. These were real mean kids between the ages ten and thirteen who had their hair in spikes and jeans hacked apart with a penknife so that they reached only halfway down their shins. They liked to burn away their daddies’ filthy money on clothes, skateboards and food till their obese bellies were quite ready to burst. They always went around town all together, skateboards and bats in hand, screaming or throwing stones at the dogs or the occasional old lady they met. This particular fast food joint was a special favourite with them. They used to come here almost everyday and kicked up such a ruckus shouting at the waitresses and throwing food all over the place that his mother’s weary joints ached from crouching for long periods over the floor in order to clean up all that mess after they were gone.

Then, one day, one of them had dared another to go behind the eatery, since he had heard from some other kid that a ghost lived there. The other had taken him up on his challenge and had lead the way around the building on tiptoes, while everyone else followed in a close body a foot behind him. It was there they first saw him, with an empty Coca Cola bottle in one hand and a small metal pipe in the other, striking the two together and making weird music. They were very much alarmed at the sight but as they started to run, he saw them too, and letting go of the bottle, he started to get up. Scared all the more, the kid up front picked up a banana peel from a nearby trash can and flung it at him. Immediately, he flopped back on the ground and curled up in a fetal position with his head between his knees and his back towards them. This broke the ice like no other and each boy in his turn picked up something from his surroundings and hurled it at him with all his might, laughing like crazy all the while. Some of these things were quite hard and he screamed when they hit him, but this only made them laugh harder. Hearing all that noise, his mother rushed out the kitchen and arming herself with a saucepan which she brandished malevolently, somehow managed to drive the kids away.

This recurred on numerous occasions as the days went by. Each time his mother had to rush out to him, and each time she somehow did manage to drive them away despite her seventy years. But these kids had found their best toy yet and they were in no mood to back down. So, they simply looked for an opportunity when his mother wouldn’t be there. And this opportunity came one autumn eve, when the manager sent her out to inquire down at the local departmental store why their supply of flour hadn’t arrived as scheduled. They watched her go out the front door and as soon as the coast was clear, slipped out the back. He was trying to make friends with a kitten by tempting it with a piece of meat he’d found among the pile of refuse. He had succeeded in drawing the kitten at an arm’s reach. As soon as he saw them, the piece of meat dropped from his fingers and his jaw fell open. One small, cross-eyed kid with freckles boldly stepped forward and kicked hard at the kitten, sending it flying through the air. He lunged forward to protect it. They were very much amused at this. Another came forward and kicked him in the stomach, making him bend double from the agony. He screamed.

“Scream all you want,” someone said. ‘Your mama ain’t home to save your ass this time.” And they all laughed.

Then a tall boy with a baseball bat stepped forward. “Hey freak, ever played baseball? Ya know what a strike out is? Here, let me show you.” And taking a huge bat lift, he swung hard catching him on the shins and sending him into conniptions from the pain. Together, they kicked him, scratched him and beat him almost everywhere. Nobody heard his cries for help. He was a retard and his mother was a charwoman; so, even if anyone did hear, they probably chose to ignore it.

At last, when the others had spent themselves, the biggest boy majestically strode forward, and grabbing him by the collar, punched him in the eye with all his might. As the fist made contact, a huge flash of light blinded him and his head dropped down on the ground, apparently quite lifeless. This made them feel a little ill at ease.

“Geez, I hope we haven’t killed the guy,” someone said from behind. Another nudged him with his foot, but there was no response. They looked wide eyed into each others’ faces. “Let’s scram before somebody gets here.” And they ran like so many rats in various directions across the alleyways.

Cats are marvelous creatures. They can fall from great heights or get bitten in half by dogs and yet continue to survive as if nothing happened. When they had kicked the kitten away, it immediately picked itself up and hid itself behind the trash cans. From its vantage point, it could see the whole scene play itself out. So, it merely waited for the crowd to disperse. As soon as the boys were gone, he ambled across to the kid and began eating off the fallen piece of meat. In the process, it brushed against his face. He opened his eyes and saw the cat. It looked a little blurred around the edges. He extended an arm and touched it. The cat turned around but did not go away. This gave him a little more courage and with some effort, he managed to sit up. He propped himself up against the trash can and began stroking the cat with one hand. As if to reciprocate, the cat also climbed into his lap and fell asleep.

Two hours later, his mother had completed her chores for the day and went out the back to fetch her kid. She found him in that same position propped up against the cans with a kitten in his lap. She knew something wasn’t right. She walked up to him and gently touched his shoulder. He started to shake all over. Slowly, she raised his head up and then saw the black eye and the blood under his nose. She winced slightly. However, she had had her share of pain and had long ago resigned herself to the fact that it was to be no bed of roses for her kid either. With infinite patience, she managed to coax him into an upright position. Taking out a bottle of water from her handbag, she wet a corner of her handkerchief, and with one hand started to clean his wounds with it as he gazed away from her. Meanwhile, her other hand travelled over the back of her own neck, and as she felt the withered flesh beneath, she all of a sudden remembered that she, too had been young once –all pink and white and beautiful. A thought occurred to her. Diving into her handbag, she checked how much money she had.

“Hey kid, want an ice cream?” And all of a sudden, from behind that veil of coagulated blood a smile broke out.

“With cherries?”

“Sure, anything you like – chocolate, pineapple, vanilla, anything! And you could even get an extra scoop if you promise to be good.”

“Ooh, I’d like that!” he said almost ecstatically and grinning very widely now. Mother and son strolled down the shady lane as his fingers interlaced with hers. He was telling her all about the cat.

Yours sincerely

Jude

Lost (A story)

“All right, here we are. Now, be a good boy and stay put inside the car. Mommy’s got work to do, sweetheart, so sorry to make you wait. Oh, and keep an eye on your sister – don’t you let her blow the horn or kick up a ruckus, now.” Kissing the pair of them hurriedly without actually touching her lips, she walked briskly away from the car with her back towards it, turning round momentarily at the door to pass her right hand significantly across her throat and simultaneously click her tongue to convey the exact repercussions of not following her injunctions to the full.

He was a seven year old boy with a scar just above his right eyebrow from a fall he’d suffered two years ago trying to mount the neighbours’ fence with the sole motive of pilfering apples from their tree. Had his chin been a touch stronger or his eyes narrower, he’d have paid dearly half the times he was condoned for some mischief he caused. She was just four-and-a-half and had the appearance of a moist beetroot with a jetpack. Together, they were the greatest inspiration behind the drive in the field of natural science to come up with more effective contraceptives.

As soon as she was out of sight, he started banging his head on the dashboard in mock chagrin. Discovering on the seventh strike that it actually hurt, he abruptly ceased doing it and diverted his attention towards his sister. She was sitting on the back seat dribbling from the corner of her mouth, her forefinger stuck up her nose and her eyes reflecting the fleecy clouds above.

“Cut it out”, he said as he roughly yanked her hand away from her nose. She stared at him vacantly and open mouthed for some time, her brow creased, but then turned her head and once more her finger embarked on the treasure hunt up her olfactory tract. “Stop that! You’re freaking me out.” This time he gave her such a violent jerk that she damn near fell off her seat. The quivering pout and glistening eyes made him realize the gravity of his sin and he hurriedly clambered up the back of the seat to effectively gag her sister with his palm before the impending wail.

“Don’t cry, Gaby,” he said to her, somewhat nervously as he looked around to look for a diversion. “Ah, what luck! Mum forgot the key inside the car. Cheer up, kiddo. This is our lucky break.” Checking for any signs of being observed and finding none, he picked up the key and placing it within the lock, turned it. A mechanical click followed. He tried the handle and to his great delight, the door swung open.

“We’re free, Gaby, free!” He hauled his bewildered sister up the back of the seat and the pair of them set foot upon the brave, new world outside. And lo! The sky turned bluer and the buildings shot up higher right before their very eyes! There were a lot of people on the sidewalk at that time of the day; like so many ants – moving linearly and without apparent motive. Twice they had to scamper out of the way to avoid being trampled upon.

Right across the street was a gigantic toy store. He pointed it out to her. It got her, it did. She smiled, and her entire face lit up. She looked so much better when she did that, he thought. “I want a pony,” she said simply. “We’ll get whatever you want, but hurry up. We must return before mum gets back,” he said as he took her by the hand and the two of them rushed across the street.

The moment they entered, it felt like the other side of the looking glass. He’d never seen anything like this. Tyrannosauruses in smocks belted out classic Christmas tunes to the entire Bear family from Goldilocks. A choo-choo train chugged around doomed for all eternity to the life of a circular track. A skeleton nodded its head significantly at anyone who dared to touch it. Rocking horses rocked invitingly from their pedestals. He-man brandished his sword menacingly at Catwoman who threatened to cut him short with her razor-sharp claws. Time itself seemed to stop as he watched from a dream. He turned his head so much that his neck hurt. Towards the left was a wooden staircase leading to the upstairs section that promised toys for the ‘older’ boys. He climbed it like a zombie.

Upstairs, the first thing he saw was the greatest collection of balls in the universe. There were baseballs, tennis balls, footballs, golf balls, bowling balls, and multicoloured, multipurpose balls of gigantic proportions. Then there were the roller skates – quads, inlines, skateboards, scooters – you name it! And bicycles – mouthwateringly red. He approached one and tried the handle. “This would make a swell thing to go around on, eh Gaby?” No answer. He turned around; no Gaby in sight. He turned right, then left, and then swiveled round in 360 degrees. Still no Gaby! The wonders that surrounded him only a moment ago suddenly turned to ashes. He called out to her. He let go of the bike and dashed down the staircase. Skeleton, tyrannosaurus, rocking horse – balls, skates, bicycles; back to rocking horse, tyrannosaurus, skeleton. He ran up and down the wooden staircase around four or five times. At last he dropped down on his kness from sheer exhaustion. Then the realization that he’d truly lost Gaby hit him, right in the pit of the stomach. He drew his breath in sharply. What was he to do now? He closed his eyes and let his head rest on his knee in sheer despair. He raised his head again to come face to face with the skeleton grinning fiercely from its corner. It brought back thoughts of his mother. He’d be slaughtered. She’d especially mentioned that he had to look after his sister while she was away. And now he’d lost her!

“Get a grip on yourself,” he told himself. “Panicking will get you nowhere.” He must think – use his head. “I bet she is within this store somewhere”, he thought, for any other possibility was simply too scary to imagine. He looked around. There were tons of stuff in there making for a million odd hiding places. So, he must be methodical. Gaby, he said, was even smaller than the retriever next door. So she’d probably fit within an amazingly small volume. He resolved then and there that he’d leave no stone unturned, even turn the store inside out if necessary.

Start from the door, he told himself. And he did. He looked everywhere – behind the bears, under the rocking horse, on the shelves, in the trash can, beneath Catwoman’s cape, under He-man’s legs, and even lifted up a corner of the carpet to peer underneath. But Gaby remained as elusive as before. “Mustn’t-lose-hope,” he cried, mouthing each word painfully as he clawed his face in desperation. His eyes itched so hard from the dust he’d encountered that he wanted to gouge them out. Well, if she ain’t downstairs, it figures she’s somewhere upstairs, he thought. So he once again mounted the stairs. Upstairs, it was pretty much the same story. Once again, he did all he could – looked under the balls, above the balls, behind the bicycles, beneath the skateboards, and behind the curtains. Still no sign of Gaby! He felt goosebumps all over. Maybe aliens came in and abducted her! But, knowing Gaby, they’d probably have returned her by now. No, she must be in the toy store. But, the problem was that the toy store consisted only of upstairs and downstairs, and she was to be found in neither, unless of course – the stairs! That must be it! He jumped up and dashed down the stairs. There, in a dark, putrid corner under the staircase was her own little Gaby, smiling and sucking her thumb with great satisfaction. Being inclined to discipline her at the slightest occasion, he would have given her a smacking for sucking her thumb (even though he himself was not above it when greatly agitated), but not this time! Instead, all he did was pick her up and kiss her about a billion times all over her happy face, startling her considerably. But his happiness was short-lived, for with a start he realized that by now his mother was probably all over the street looking for them, in hysterics.

“Wait here,” he told her. “I’ll go outside and check first if mum’s there.” He pushed open the swing doors and peered outside. Then he saw her. She saw him, too. She looked like Godzilla on an adrenaline over-secretion. She dragged some subliminal thing behind her.

“There you are, you little rascal. I hope you’ve had your fun at last, young man,” she said between clenched teeth. It was hard work talking to that marvelous chin in that tone, but she was determined to see it through to the end this time. “Never once did you think about me, not even your little sister. The poor thing got so scared on being left alone that she ran back straight to my office, crying so hard that nothing would induce her to stop. ” He did not understand. He looked down and to his utter amazement realized that the ‘subliminal thing’ was actually Gaby herself, very much alive and well, except for a bit of red about the eyes. He whirled around, and sure enough, standing behind him was Gaby, too. As his mother approached him, she too came creeping up from behind until she was standing at his side. It was then his mother saw her. “What on earth –” was all she managed to say before almost biting her tongue in half and passing out on the hot sidewalk. The two Gabys simultaneously let out an earth-shattering wail. He made no attempt to shut his ears to the sound.

He had searched well – very well, in fact, perhaps only too well, so well that he’d found her even when she wasn’t there!

Yours sincerely

Jude