Meaning of life, and all that hogwash

They say you get time to reflect on life and its meaning only while you're waiting for a torrent to download, or while in the shower, or while staring into the night sky finishing off that half dozenth peg of Blenders Pride. Okay, even then you mostly think of sex. But sometimes, the other 10% of the time, you do think about life, the universe, and other such big big stuff.

It's during times like these when a little dude inside your head tries to make small talk with you.

"Mama, the weather's nice no? Cool breeze and all."

Heh, yeah it is, but it's gonna become hot again tomorrow anyway... Wassup?

"Nothing ra...just wanted to catch up. It's been a while na."

Whatsyourpointbaap.

"What do you think the meaning of life is bro?"

*raised eyebrows* Baane ekkindi ra neeku! :D

"Dude...we're having this conversation tonight. You can't just escape like this all the time!"

What are you, my girlfriend?? Stop threatening me... Let me just fill my glass again. You want more?

"Dude pls."

Cheers!

"Mama suno toh..."

That's that. We successfully dodge the question and resume our routine like an automaton. Tragedy averted. Or that's what we think.

Here's the deal: humans as a species have always wondered, if only fleetingly, about their place on earth. We're here - okay, fine. But why? What does the universe expect of us that it has put us in this great comedy of (t)errors? Did it give us intelligence so that we can invent the internet to look at pictures of cats and LOL? Or so that we can argue in Youtube comments about who the shittiest actor of the lot is?

Or wait, maybe the universe doesn't care at all. Maybe it created us by accident and said, "Oh shit. Alright, umm...look, live out your lives in peace. Aaaaanndd...try not to disturb others, OK? Gotta go now - I have expansion plans. Kthxbai."

The universe is our heartless mom who never came back to check if we're okay.

See, we are but specks of dust in cosmic sand, and our petty lives and imaginary problems are nothing in the grand scheme of things. We are matter that doesn't matter. We just eat, shit, fuck, reproduce, and make the produce repeat the exercise, and then we die. You and everyone you've ever known will be addressed as "late", sooner or later. There is no meaning to our lives.

All of this might sound really negative and depressing. Like there's no fuckin' point in living out whatever is left of this dreadful existence. Are we doomed?

Nope, there is hope. Cuz we can create meaning even if there is no pre-written one. We can define our own purpose, like many amazing men and women did before us. And find reasons to live and laugh and drink and be merry, among other things. This might be the most hippie thing that might come out from my mouth(or from my keyboard, rather): Love life, and life will love you back. Try sharing that love with fellow humans and pups too. It's all good.

And it's time we stopped looking for light at the end of the tunnel. Because it's in our flaming hearts. :)


PS 1: There's a very profound quote by renowned cosmologist and awesomescience thinker Carl Sagan about our lives and the planet we call home (you can listen to it here). I strongly recommend reading his work to gain a new perspective on things.

PS 2: Try listening to that little dude(or dudette) inside once in a while. They might actually be the best friend you've always ignored.

PS 3: The Man City - Barca game is about to begin, so I should stop writing any more PSs. Until later then!

Building from Scratch.

When I was a kid, I saw a movie called Top Gun on Star Movies. And immediately fell in love with it. Even though every part of the dialogue except "Roger that, Captain!" flew right over my head (Haha. Punz.), every single thing about it appeared super cool. Tom Cruise and his aviators, the stylish dogfights...and most importantly, the kickass aircraft.

Kids around me wanted to be regular boring things like policemen and teachers once they grew up. But then I had decided what I wanted to become.

A fuckin' fighter pilot.

Fire away missiles from my F-22 into enemies while "Danger Zone" plays in the background, and then fly through the falling bits of metal and flames with panache. Land the beast and alight from it, while a gorgeous damsel comes running to me (yes, on the runway) in ultra slow motion. I'd hold her tightly, take my aviators off and say something cool like, "Am I late for the movie date, honey?". Then she would throw her head back and laugh.

That's it. I'm gonna be a fighter pilot and flying-kick all the bad guys' arses... Now where do I have to sign? 

Except I didn't get to sign anywhere except in friends' slam books(in which I still wrote Fighter Pilot in the Ambition blank).

Apparently it turned out you didn't always get what you wanted. Life is unpredictable, you see, much like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates. (But hey, I want at least Bournville if not Ferrero Rocher, okay? Not Aasa toffee.)

A few years passed, and it dawned on me that it takes a lot of dedication and hard work to become a pilot. But there was another way, an easier one(or so I thought) to be close to those flying machines. Aeronautical Engineering. 

Though I love technology a lot and wanted to do something in those 4 years, I despised my college and the whole education system in general (3 Idiots days, those were). Slowly, acads took a backseat and I began doing everything else except study. And though I had some really good experiences, I came out of B. Tech with fading colors. Heh.

Now after a stint in content writing(yep), I'm back to square one. All I have is a wealth of experiences that taught me it's okay to fail. That wounds aren't permanent, and that their scars will make you a tough dawg. Wiser and weather-beaten, I begin again...to explore and discover what there is. And what is to come.

Gotta put a dent in the universe. Or at least a few scratches. There's really no point, or else.

And I'm juuust beginning to sharpen my claws.

P.S: I had this aviation pin-up girl as my wallpaper until recently when my mum saw it and gave me a disgusted look. Another case of parents killing our childhood dreams. :/

La Roja Cometh.

The barrel was still hot. Ssshhhittt. Vapors came out of it. She should have guessed.

Movies never depict all these practicalities, do they? Man, it hurt. She picked the P220 carefully and put it in the empty holster that she carried, just in case.

She checked his pulse. Check. Dead. It's crazy how a guy who wanted to kill you, without even knowing your name, your mission, absolutely nothing a while ago, lied lifelessly in a puddle of blood and sewerage. But that's life, she thought. Or Death.

There must be two more pulses to be checked now, tops.

And the alley was fucking damp. Damp as in dripping wet.

She hopped over the little puddles, ever so slightly. Silent and swift. Just like a Ninja. All the training surely helped.

The gun inside the holster was still giving her a warm breath. Like that inside a hot cockpit on a sunny day.

Ah, I can't wait to get this shit done and go back. I hate this stupid pla...

Gunshots lit up the darkness. Staccato fire. She dodged them and slid beneath a nearby car. A 69 Ford Mustang. It must be the Prince's. He had a fancy for such vintage shizz.

Two pairs of feet emerged from the shadows. They were moving in different directions now, looking for La Roja. Looking for her.

She nimbly took out the P220, checked the magazine, unlocked it and took aim. Your objective is always to take down the target, not to kill him: lessons from her days training with the Falcons flashed in her mind. She shot one left leg and one right. Belonging to two guys. 

They were down. Bodies on the floor, squealing in pain. She got up, dusted her leather jacket and moved towards them. She could see their eyes, begging her to spare them. Remember, your objective is to take down the target, not to... 

Ah, fuck it! She fired at the foreheads.

Boom, headshot!, she thought. I'm definitely going to hell, whatever or wherever that is.

Suddenly, her satellite phone buzzed.

"Yes? I guess I'm done here. I'm coming back. Moreover, this place stinks like hell "

"Oh yes, you can get back, Miss A. We have some news for you."

How she despised that name! And how she hated that old bugger. Still, she couldn't say anything. He was her boss, after all.

''What news? Did the OtherSide respond?"

"No, we haven't gotten anything from there yet. But we have found The X-ecutioner."

"What?? Are you sure??"

"Yes. Please return ASAP. We have much to discuss."

The line got cut. 

But this is impossible!! They found him in Hyderabad, of all places?!

The call just happened. She wasn't hallucinating, definitely.

Agent Ayesha, a.k.a La Roja (The Red One) never could have imagined her partner would turn out to be a complete disaster of a guy.

Butterflies and Hurricanes

Butterflies. Of various colors and patterns. Flying around in an elastic bag filled with gastric juices. Don't they die of all the gas?

He sat in the lobby of the IT Services company that takes projects mainly from the US of A. He looked around and scanned his surroundings. The walls, the employees. They seemed to have been white-washed recently.  He could still smell the paint. And what was the other smell now? Body odor, his own. He'd forgotten to use the new Axe 'cause he was in such a hurry, in such a rush.

Rush. Adrenaline. Panic.

Don't panic, man. It's just another interview. You've taken so many before. Chill. Relax.

Sweat has a strange way of  making one feel queasy and uncomfortable, therefore worsening the situation from bad to pathetic. His butt made sure it left its imprints on the expensive leather sofa.

Focus, man. Don't let fear grip you. Listen carefully... It's not the end of the world if you don't get the job. But you gotta focus, alright? No, stop looking at the girl. Listen to me. You gotta...

"Mr. Arjun Kothuri, you're next.", announced the assistant in high stilettos.

It's like being woken up rudely from a nightmare, and you don't even remember any of it. You don't remember the reason for your fear; what you really fear is the unknown.

With his heart pounding out of his mouth, he stepped gingerly into the plush office. Three men were seated behind a large mahogany table, all of them looking particularly serious. "Take a seat, Mr. Arjun", one man with a shiny bald pate said.

He sat down, praying that he would survive this ordeal and go home alright.

The three men began to size him up, passing silent judgments and exchanging glances. Nothing is as intimidating as the mysterious calmness of interviewers.

"Tell us about yourself", a graying beard began. Arjun's head began to swim.

Speak up, man! It's just a damned interview. In the grand scheme of things, it does not matter whether you get the job.  The result is not in your hands. Just give it your best, your hundred percent.

My brain's just gone into Krishna-mode, Arjun thought to himself.

"No, no... I think we ought to tell him why he was called here for, in the first place.", the third man, probably the youngest of the lot, said, interrupting the train of thoughts. It went and crashed in the countryside.

The bald head nodded.

"Mr. Arjun Kothuri, you are required for a highly confidential intergalactic mission. Your mission objectives will be made clear to you once you sign this agreement."

"Wait. Inter-what??"

"An intergalactic mission. You are not supposed to disclose the details to anyone in your life, should you choose to accept this offer."

Arjun was back in his thoughts, looking up at the sky near a sea somewhere. A high tide rose. It became bigger as it approached, and then consumed him with inconsummate ease. He was wearing his best watch. Hoped it was water-resistant.

Is this some kind of a joke? How on earth did my life turn into a science fiction thriller from a hopeless tragedy?

"Are you there, Mr. Arjun? Your signature is required here, here and here.", the man with the shiny bald pate said.

The gray beard smiled, almost to himself.

Welcome to the party. 

The Age of Cool

Picture this in your head: You are standing in front of the mirror, adoring how your new white shirt fits you perfectly. Suddenly, your visage morphs into a new you. Into an older you, I mean. Your face has visible wrinkles, the hair is half grey, and you sport a paunch protruding from the new white shirt. You get the picture right? Congratulations. Now imagine you're having a conversation with your older self.

"Hey, wassup?"

"Ah, don't ask. Office work all the time."

"Oh. Cool."

"What, son?"

"Err...nothing. Hey, you do seem a bit old, and...weary."

"Heh. Do I?"

Come back from the nightmare. You have enough troubles already. Go listen to some Akon now. And pretend to be cool, while you can.

We generally associate ourselves with some peer groups in our circles which we think are hipper than the others. Let's accept it; we all have had instances of trying-to-fit-in, and still have. The chick who comes in your college bus was wearing chic footwear, and how can you NOT have a pair?? The neighborhood stud has bought himself a fab R15; what the heck do your mum and dad mean when they say "You don't need a motorbike now"?? Parents are totally uncool. Would we end up like them someday? Would 'hip' change from something we are described as, to something we put our hands on while shouting at our kids? Geez. We are so freakin' cool now, aren't we? 

Look at Cool as a marketing strategy. Cool sells, no matter what. When Steve Jobs died, he left behind a legacy of Cool. People adore the Iphone because it's cool. You wrote 'R.I.P Steve!' on your Facebook Wall because : it was cool to do so, even if you previously had no idea who this guy was. Steve got it bang on. So did Mark Zuckerberg. They now have the whole world using their cool products, however inherently flawed those products may be. Mr. Apple Cool might at this moment be laughing all the way to the bank in Heaven, with a design for another device in mind.

Cool can also be seen as a make-up to hide our scars. We are all flawed too, just like the products we mindlessly consume. You can be good at nothing and have practically no talent at all, but can still be considered uber-chic if you hang out with a certain selection of friends, frequent certain happening pubs, listen to a particular kind of music that does not have a meaning. Who cares? We don't give a bloody damn as long as we're gaped at with awe by everyone. All style, no substance...but we still have the tashan babe!

So you have it in the open, staring you in the face. Forget the Information Age, or the Digital Age. Or whatever. This is The Age of Cool. And we aren't getting old anytime soon. We have Pond’s Age Miracle for that, don't we? Yeah. Cool shirt, by the way. 

Alive in the Mind Cemetery

"Throughout human history, as our species has faced the frightening,
terrorizing fact that we do not know who we are, or where we are going in
this ocean of chaos, it has been the authorities, the political, the
religious, the educational authorities who attempted to comfort us by
giving us order, rules, regulations, informing, forming in our minds their
view of reality. To think for yourself you must question authority and
learn how to put yourself in a state of vulnerable, open-mindedness;
chaotic, confused vulnerability to inform yourself.

Think for yourself.
Question authority."
- Timothy Leary, American Psychologist.
(Lines reproduced in the song 'Third Eye(INTRO)' by Tool)


A student feels something is seriously wrong with the education system. He dreams of a school where free thought is encouraged. A place where he can really learn without being  ridiculed, laughed at, forced to twist himself in such a way that he is no longer himself, but just another sheep that bleats with the herd. He gets frustrated, angry at all of those who have snatched his freedom from him. The teachers say he needs help. His parents agree. A leading doctor is paid a visit.
"Teen angst. No reason to worry."
Money is shelled out. The rebel dies. A new sheep is born.


Conformity
(kənˈfɔːməti)
n. pl. con·form·i·ties

1. Similarity in form or character; agreement.

2. Action or behavior in correspondence with socially accepted standards, conventions, rules, or laws.

Robots do not have brains to think for themselves. They need to be fed commands. Need to be told what to do. Without the commands, they're as good as dead. We're not robots. Or sheep. Or elevators with glowing buttons. We're humans. You need not do an uninteresting course just because your parents told you to. You need not vote for a popular candidate in the elections because everyone you know is voting for him. You need not conform. Period. No, I'm not a neo-nietzchean here to keep rambling on about individualism bullshit.
But look around yourself.
Think. Ask questions.
Because that is what differentiates metal from human skin.


It's time we dedroidified ourselves.

Playback Time!!!

"I can't see a thing in the video! I can't hear a sound on the radio! In stereo, in the static age!!"

Green Day is blaring into my ears while I hear some other yells to. My mum's. She's threatening to sue me against criminal charges of room untidiness for the (n-1)th time.


"Abhi, I'm coming there... What the hell are you doing??"

*Comes inside*


"Oh...still listening to that jhaang jhaang, are we?"

Though my headphones aren't those Bose Noise Cancellation type, I pretend I can't hear anything else except Billie's guttural screaming amidst blaring guitars and high-decibel drums.



"Abhi!! Last time I'm saying this!"

Okay madam, you win.. I know my nth time has come...

"Amma, no jhaang jhaang bang bang. It has a name. Rock music"

"Nonsense is nonsense, whatever the name... Clean up the room in 15 minutes, there would be some guests"

Phooey... "Alright.."



Dhan-Te-Nan!!
Room cleaned up! I mean...all the garbage is hidden in very unlikely places. Very. So what do I do now? I contemplate telling my mum I have this ever-so-important work that wouldn't happen without my presence. But as with every mother in the universe (Ok, at least on earth. Dunno much about aliens' maternal traits), son playing a respecting, and respectable, host is one of the prime things in her household constitution (which, by the way, is to be treated with even more respect). My legs are tied! I can't go anywhere!!

Fuming loud enough for her to notice, I switch on my PC and start downloading random music. Yaah, I do download free (p..p..pirated, that is) music. If I had to buy all my collection, I'd have to rob the World Bank.

Now while those tracks get downloaded, I wanna talk to you guys about something. The current music scene. There's so much 100% concentrated bullcrap out there that finding some sensible stuff is close to finding fat in an FTV model's diet.

Let's begin with Hip Hop. I can remember a few modern rappers...Eminem, Kanye West, Snoop Dogg, Li'l Wayne, Akon, 50 Cent...yeah that's about it. For more names, ask any twelve year old in your neighborhood. He'd give you a disgusted look and say, "Yo dunn noe dem?? Dey er kewwl buddyyy!!!". Hip Hop actually originated as an anti-establishment genre in the late '70s and the early '80s,mainly by the black section in America's slums, who were looked down upon. They used it as a weapon to fight for their basic human rights in the white-dominated society. But is that the case now? All that the above mentioned rappers ever rap, or rather crap, about is "banging hoes and bitches". And that is "kewl" to most of the world's population. This makes these "homies" celebrities overnight, even though they have zilch talent...and their capitalistic record companies get bloody rich by producing shit. Wonderful, ain't it?

Next is the 'pink pop' trend. Don't get what I'm talking about? Watch Disney Channel everyday. You'll come across a bunch of teenagers calling themselves hip rockstars, though what they make hardly qualifies as music...leave alone rock. All their meaningless tracks sound awfully same. The Jonas Jokers, Banana Montana...you name them! What they're promoting is a fake culture that 'inspires' kids to be bland, shallow, artificial and to live fancy, starry starry lives. I had got so fed up with all this shit, and its effect on the music culture, that it felt really good when my favorite activist band Rage Against The Machine got UK Christmas No.1 last year, beating reality show X-Factor's winner Joe McElderry by a major difference. Poor Simon Cowell, the producer behind this X-Factor popstar manufacture, sulked like a five year old robbed of his prized lollipop when his 'product' lost the race. In Tom Morello's (the lead guitarist of RATM) words, "It's a victory over bland pop mediocrity". The track which brought them, and true music fans around the globe, this victory is a song that's as old as me now...'Killing in the Name', a brutal funk metal delight that talks about the ill-treatment meted out to soldiers in the U.S. Army. Now that's what you call REAL music.

By saying this, I don't mean Rock and Metal are superior genres or political and activist lyrics alone make meaningful stuff. Whatever the genre, the artists should be talented enough to reinvent themselves creatively, giving birth to innovative songs...and thoughtful enough to write about things that really matter and truly make a difference.
This, and this alone, qualifies as music. Nothing else does.

So plug in guys...it's playback time!!!