A Malt et Falchion

The softening...

2007-04-12T09:40:00.000-07:00

Waerjak had that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The one authors of bad prose describe as butterflies flying in synchronisation to a badly played Rachmoninoff. He was planning his next course of action. He had been planning it for the last five minutes, without moving a muscle. A bird passed overhead as he stood staring into the distance. A fly buzzed noisily around his head, before taking a well deserved break on the top of his shoulder. Waerjak blinked.

As Waerjak gazed at the silent trees, dreaming up possible enemies under the menacing glades, a single drop of sweat eased its way out of the pores of Waerjak's skin on his forehead. It trickled like a melting glacier down to his eyebrows where it met other intrepid droplets just like it. They were all apparently going on a picnic along the same direction. The drop of sweat decided to commandeer them all and make off with them down its adventurous journey. Steering this way and that, the drop began to sing at the top of its voice, an octave higher than the others could touch:

O, the land is full of trees, boy,
And the sea is full of peas.
Men are full of knees, boy,
And the sky is filled with geese.

O, but I am going alone, boy,
To come down this mountain side;
To venture alone is slow, boy,
And so...
And so I must abide... I must slide... until the fountain died, bride

Waerjak stood oblivious to the merry song of his perspiration. It was all he could do to think in the burning heat. He was thinking of the battle tactics of the gnolls - not as happy as hyenas under a full moon, but they came close.

Waerjak's hands twitched. He longed to get away from here, but he had his duty to perform, duty that grew heavier and heavier as he brought more of the barbarian tribes into his fold. Once again, as in all times of pain, Waerjak remembered Tarnum. "Pain is only an indicator to the body and mind, Waerjak. It signals that you are hurt, that you are ill or tired. However, there are times when you must release the thoughts holding you to the present or the mundane. Focus. Remember your duty - duty that his heavier than a mountain, Waerjak. Death is only a release from that duty - death is for the faint hearted. To be able to live and risk all you hold dear for your cause requires far greater courage, far greater Will. And remember, Will is Everything!"

Waerjak's legs felt like butter, the last hour of the five hour wait was the most stressful yet. The waiting... he didn't like waiting, though he was taught how to do so many a time by Tarnum. "The way of nature is to wait, my boy. Even when things rush at the pace of a cataract, nature is holding her breath. The world is contantly breathing sighs of relief after months, minutes, seconds of waiting and then gearing itself up in anticipation again. That is the way of all things. Hence, wait for the moment. The deer will come and you will have your hunt. That is the nature of traps as well."

Waerjak barely had time to shake himself from his reverie when the gnolls attacked, leaping out of the trees, howling their battle cries as a sacrifice to the god of Silence. Waerjak turned to face his first foe, but his leg was trapped in the quicksand he had mired himself in. Waerjak had that sinking feeling all over again. The gnoll raised its axe to deal a death blow, when the first arrow came whistling out of the trees. Before the gnolls knew what was happening, they found themselves bristling with arrows and skewered by throwing spears. The barbarians leaped down from the branches of the surrounding trees to attack the remaining gnolls while Waerjak looked around grimly at the battle scene. He would do what it takes to ensure that the Barbarian nation survived.

"...And the tortoise looked up at the sun and said, 'Rein in your chariot, O Lord, and shower us with light' and the sun replied, 'Wait for your turn, little one, as I fly against the night, for duty holds the elements as fast as it does mortal beings. Awake and build homes, fly and kill, but rush not while nature turns the ancient wheel.' The tortoise looked down at the earth and waited."

-Tarnum

The Agony and Ecstacy - or lack of it thereof

2007-03-07T22:15:00.000-08:00

Somethings will never change. I remain a ripoff. I decide to think up a grand Title to this article and end up combining the name of a book with the name of a post by a close friend. However, I console myself with the fact that it is not me writing this, but one of the 10,633 bloody chimps, gorillas and other primates that are clackity clacking away at those 10,633 typewriters in front of them. Mental note: I've got to try to get myself a discount on that last set of typewriters; and the bananas.

So, as I was saying, my dear Storm; I may call you Storm, mayn't I? I must say, Adas sounds a little too pansy; even if you do say it in a way that it sounds all capitals. ADAS indeed. So, coming back to what I was saying, I was remarking on the way my life has gone completely topsy turvy. I once considered myself a radical in search for a deserving cause. I would rant and rave, wax eloquent when not required and generally behave in a prosaic manner. This is actually better than behaving in a poetic manner owing to the fact that one can write prose but not live it.

And then, I joint my job. Not my current job, you understand, which is absolutely wonderful. I mean, I love the Banshee, after all, I started it. But before that, in the quagmire of the business world, in the desolate desert after the wafts of wizardry, in the tiramisu, no, not quite tiramisu of, um, tyranny, I found myself bordering, dare I say it, on the edges even, on the cliff face, in the heart, of mediocrity. Oh the shame of it! What is that you say? Stop whining? O pish posh? How I exagerrate? Why I never.

Let me tell you how it began, then, my dear unbeliever and may I struck by lightning if ever a word of what I speak is untrue. Ouch. Very funny. My funny bone is NOT a lightning rod, dear chap. Where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Ah yes, the point of this whole conversation is that I am now a mediocrity. I was so engrossed in my work when I did join, that I forgot the finer things in life. I forgot what it was to laugh at myself, to step back enjoy the flowers that one sees on the peripheries of vision and wisdom and choose to neglect, I forgot to chase girls, that commodity, commodity did I say? I meant jewel, that was gifted to man by the gods above. Ah yes, the time I could have had, my dear chap; I do believe, I've used dear thrice in this one paragraph. And I threw it all away, all to become a mediocrity.

What was that chap's name again? Sal something. I remember what he said sitting in his wheelchair. Mediocrities of the world! I absolve you, I absolve you, I absolve you.

The Knight spoke, "Oh shut up!"

But it snowed

2007-02-15T06:23:00.000-08:00

Lollipops and ice candy always remind me of him. He used to sit there eating both of them with absolute joy on his face. It cracked my heart. I wonder if that was the reason I took him. Not to enjoy his beauty or enjoy his company when I saw fit. I don't even think it was to see his sister cry. I rather like to think I was testing myself and see whether the one of ice was really so cold-hearted as to make winters weep. I think I was wrong. I heard it break. I hear it now.

Imagine a castle. Imagine it well, with topless towers soaring, not in straight lines, but in spirals carved out of matchless white stone. Imagine white stone, not ivory. I hate wizards. Imagine ramps and walkways of the same white stone, with parapets of blue. Doorways of heavy dark wood, flagged to left and right by statues of snow lions. Imagine windows made of etched ice, etched not with nitre or vitriol but with bands of hot iron. Imagine, also then, the steam that hissed out of the ice when it was so cruelly branded by the cold artisan. Now imagine, in the recesses of your mind a platform on the slopes of a misty mountain. Fill it with snow. A storm rages, a snow storm with thunder in the background and lightning shards in the fore. Fill it with hail and a cross wind, fill it with cliches. Imagine the castle on the platform. Lower your finger and push it to the edge. Imagine a woman, head held high walking to this castle. Imagine blue eyes. Imagine a frosty stare, for that is what you will receive. Imagine a smile curling downwards. Imagine.

But I was talking of him. I remember him telling me how there were people who entered one's life, turned it upside down and then left without a trace. He told me of a time he met a friend in the Academy. He wished to be a wizard then hurling lightning bolts into space. I was a wizard once. And he talked then about how these people enter one's life and have an electrifying effect for the time they spend with one. And then, these people leave, and one doesn't feel regret or sadness or hurt. One just remembers them occassionaly, smiles and hums Pachelbel's Canon. And one remembers the scene from the Moving Picture the alchemists play at times, what was it called again- My Sassy Girl? Then he went speechless. He couldn't explain what he wanted to say. I could see it on his face, though. I understood.

Imagine jet black hair falling like a frozen cataract from the top of an oval face. Imagine white stilletos. Imagine them at the bottom of wax like legs. Imagine the legs walking in the middle of the storm to the door of the castle. Imagine them stopping as if the owner of the legs made a decision in mid-step. Imagine them turning away from the castle and walking to the edge of the cliff. Imagine a pale yellow moon rising in the distance. Imagine a length of time as the storm spends all its rage and finds itself short. Imagine again that smile.

I remembered another. Then I remembered again Storm and his belief in grandeur. I remembered what he used to say. Imagine.

Blinding sweet, O great god Pan!

The sun on the hill forgot to die,

And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly

Came back to dream on the river.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

A night at the Malt

2006-12-20T03:19:00.000-08:00

Sing me a song, O Augra,
Of the sun and the stars and the sky,
Of summer haze, of forests ablaze,
Of love birds on the rye.

Sing me a song, O Augra,
Of the moon and the owls and the night,
Of darkest snow, of frozen flow,
Of love dying like candle light.

- unnamed children's poem
Diogenes, contemporary of A.D.A.S Knight,
from the latter's memoirs, A Malt et Falchion

I was sitting at my usual table at the Malt. Dirty, garrish and wearing the unkempt look of a beggar who's just had his bath at the sea port, the Malt was just my kind of place. The waitresses were buxom, the clientele were genteel, except when they had had a whiff of the alcohol and scrunchy sounds underfeet as the above mentioned buxom waitresses and gentlemen stepped on unsuspecting roaches. The Malt was also the place I came to listen to Ralf exercising his fingers. He called it Playing the Piano. No one was going to ask him to play anything ever again. He was lucky that a customer hadn't blackjacked him yet or that a wharf rat hadn't bitten his neck with cold steel. Ah well, passion makes up for talent, I suppose. What's left of us if there is no will, I always ask. Where would the Lightbringer have been without his infinite Will? Still up in heaven, eh?

How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, Lord of the Morning?

-Quotable Quote by Isiah, who mixed up the King of Babylon for the Morningstar, Venus, alluding to him bringing light to the earth. Finally responsible for the impression that some idiot had left heaven post creation and had decided to set up shop, preying on humanity.

I began to think hard about my growing disillusionment with life. My workplace isn't the most cheerful of places. Plagued with the despair of a thousand screaming souls, the miasma creeps upon you from behind, like the shadow of a vampire on a wall, looming large over the poor, jet black spectre of the unsuspecting victim. I could almost feel it's bite upon my neck. However, I had come to the Malt to get away from it all. Fortified with the strongest liquor, I hoped to forget,for, in the forgetting, I wished to forge new resolutions. I'm a sucker for bad poetry and all it's tardy tricks.

I wonder, though, when it began- this feeling that it matters not. I remember the passion with which I had thought I would complete my grand quest, this search for this bloody Falchion and all the power or peace of mind or what not that goes with it. And now, I find myself surrounded by this squallor of... of minds so tainted by the lust for power and performance that they forget balance and harmony, while in the midst of this battle lies my well-being and my sanity.

I met a girl as fair as summer,
With the sunshine in her hair.
I stared into her deep green eyes,
And called her ______ Fair.

I met a girl as cold as winter,
With the moonlight in her hair.
Her cool eyes shown as ebony,
When...

-Song often hear at the Cafe Malt,
Originally sung by Ralf as he played his Piano,
he himself copying parts from some book he had read.

Ah well, the night was growing late and I wasn't as old as I used to be. The young need to sleep more than the six cold hours the dying lay awake on their bed. I thought on the fact that Diogenes wasn't here with his Banshee wailing as he always was. I knew I was growing into a rut. But what was I to do? It was so much better to think that I was just a meek pawn being forced into the game by larger forces. However, as someone said, there was the one day to look forward to, when I would exercise my ultimate freedom- the freedom to leave. Until then, though, I console myself - So it goes.

... I turned back she wasn't there.

*All songs and quotes in the post are actually bastardisations of originals. Atleast a name or line is lifted from somewhere. Augra, for instance, comes from an old game called the Dark Crystal, made way back in 1988 or 1990. It was then made into a movie. I think the first line comes from the manual that came along with the game. The second quote, of course, is attributed to Isaiah. The first two lines of the third song are from A song of Ice and Fire by GRR Martin. I hope these acknowledgements are enough to prevent me getting sued, especially by God.

Barbarous dreams

2006-10-28T05:41:00.001-07:00

I stood in trepidation before the sand coloured tent. The last few months had consisted of many tests- tests that I was able to undertake and withstand only owing to the years of training under Tarnum. However, this was to be the most fearsome test of them all, not one of physical strength nor of endurance or skill, but a test of a man's inner heart. I brushed aside the flap of the tent and nervously stepped in. Xirjaa was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the tent. In front of him, was a small fire merrily burning in the gloom of the tent. Xirjaa was the oldest living male in the Rakashi tribe, to become their lord and master, I would have to prove myself to him.

Though most of the Barbarians had left their old and weak behind while passing through the portals to this new world, some Barbarian tribes still have raconteurs in their midst; these old frail men have a greater purpose than civilised man mey understand. These old wizened horde the tribe's stories in the massive caverns of their mind. They know the history of the tribe and carry with them the current happenings of the members as well. However, they also recount tales that the more cynical call fables- these are tales of Tiger, Hyena and the other animals; how the world came to be when it was still whole, how the dragon broke its shell and escaped from its prison of calcium; these and much more.

I still remember the tales Tarnum used to tell me of the days of yore; I once stopped him mid-way asking him what use these tales were to me. He replied with that characteristic twinkle in his eye and the gravity of eons in his voice, "Stories have a life of their own, Waerjak. They start off as little babies in the mind of the teller, who nourishes them while they grow inside the womb of their creator. Finally, when the time is ripe he tells them to his friends and their friends. The story leaves its parent and travels the world from teller's mouth to listener's ear who then becomes the teller himself. As it does, the story morphs and takes on new and fascinating forms in the each person's head. He adds to it his own personality and touch. The story is his now, his adopted child- fed with food that his culture eats, taught new table manners, dressed in silk instead of hide. Sit down and listen to a friend speak the next time we head back to the village, Waerjak. Sooner or later, he is going to tell you a story; it is going to be his own little story about himself or it might be an old chestnut you've heard before. Don't disturb him, Waerjak. Let him tell it in his own time, in his own way and you will learn the heart of the man. We are all telling stories all the time Waerjak; they belong to us, in many ways they are us. And somewhere, we are just a story in an old man's head..."

As I stood looking at Xirjaa he tore some leaves from some stems he was carrying, and threw the dried leaves into the fire. Smoke billowed immediately from the flickering flames and spread through the whole room. I gagged at the horrible smell and coughed once, twice. Xirjaa just looked at me the whole time and gestured to me to sit by his side. As I did, I saw that the old man's eyes had glazed over. He asked me to close my eyes and put his hand on my head. That was when the dreams, or what I thought were the dreams, took over.

I was a little boy standing by a babbling brook. A scorpion stood by the bank scratching its chetinous scalp with its massive tail. A frog lay sunbathing on a lily pad stuck in the middle of the brook as the water bubbled passed it. The scorpion called out, its voice sounding like wound being ripped open with a blunt sword. "Allow me passage over the water!" the scorpion cried, "And I will show you a place where you can eat all the flies in the world"

The frog croaked "How do I know that you won't sting me as I carry you across the water, or place you on the other side?"

"You have my word," pleaded the scorpion, "besides, if I sting you, how will I get back to my family the on my return trip?"

And so, the frog leapt onto the bank and allowed the scorpion onto its back. As it swam across, the scorpion turned around once and plunged its tail into the back of the frog. "Why?" the frog screamed as it went under the water. The scorpion looked startled as it began to drown. "Why?" I heard a voice behind me. I turned around to face Xarjii. I thought for a while. "It was its nature."

I saw the Snow Queen sitting opposite a knight. They were playing chess. The knight mounted an attack on the king's flank, pounding away at it with all the pieces he had, sacrifing minor piece, for pawn, major piece for minor, all to break open the defenses to the castled king. While he was at it, the Snow Queen calmly lifted a pawn from the other side of the board and placed it before her king. The knight stared into her eyes and said nothing. "Why do they play?" asked Xarjii. "It is their nature."

I saw a man sitting on a grand throne. Thousand men stood before him. Thousand warriors from a thousand different tribes called out his name. They banged the side of their shields with their swords, they clanged their axes together, the name became a chant. As the chant reached a crescendo, the man bowed down before the men and shouted out words of thanks. This time, I didn't wait for the question. "It is my nature."

What's WOT, What?

2006-09-23T13:23:00.000-07:00

Ten years have past since that fateful day which turned my life around. Ten years since that quiz in the Daly Memorial Hall, standing on Nruputhunga Road in Bangalore, where all good KQA quizzes took place, where my good friend Sidu Ponappa, or Panchyloppuly (quite a mouthful) as he is dearly called, showed me this blue covered book of eight hundred or so pages. A book so blue, that the sky paled in comparison; a book with a cover of a fine lady on a white horse off to Banbury Cross, perhaps; next to the lady’s horse was a stern warrior on a dark steed followed by a train of people on lesser horses against a pale moon. Ten years; ten summers, Wordworth would say, with the length of ten long winters.

Raised as I was in a world of myth and legend, pouring since my childhood over the intricacies of the Mahabharata and the Ramayana, I was drawn to what old Panchylopuly had to say about the book. It was a book on fantasy, he informed me, called The Eye of the World; first of a series of books by an author called Robert Jordan. The book was supposedly about a band of adventurers and how they were sucked into having to fend for their lives and rescue the world. I was all of twelve years old and saw, in my mind’s eye, great knights fending off dragons while rescuing damsels in distress with really long hair a la Rapunzel and Arthur. I took the book from him and began reading. The first chapter gripped me by throat and dragged my tired eyes at one in the morning (which is late enough for a working man and a nightmare for a boy thinking of the witching hour) through a series of around ten thousand pages.

Ten years and eleven books later, I find it hard to think of my life without the Wheel of Time and fantasy in general. How can I forget the times I went out to bat while playing inter-school cricket psyching myself up with the dying words of Manatheren? Carai an Caldazar, Carai an Elisande, al Elisande, Fear holds no place in my heart, al Elisande. How many times have I called Her, Mashiara? And would I ever forget how she reacted when I told her what it meant? How could I forget Marwaha and me fighting our Jedi battles and then discussing that Jordan’s descriptions of sword fighting go far beyond that of the Jedis’; wondering how Heron wading in the Rushes actually looked; whether the swordsman actually held the sword with one arm or both when delivering the blow?

And yet, the Wheel of time goes much beyond mere words or swordfighting. If I am a romantic now, thinking always in the rather contrasting world of black and white, I would attribute the same to my excessive reading of fantasy novels. The Wheel of time shaped a lot of my morals and ethics. It taught me about heroes and heroic deeds, that everyone has a hero in us who is willing to fight for what he or she believes in. it showed me how a person could choose his or path based solely on ideology, with little consideration for the consequences of ones actions. It reiterated, wittingly or not, the world of karma that we live in, that cause has effect; that the world is so much more beautiful; that our own mundane lives have meaning; that immortality comes through passion, through love, through grandeur.

And that, as GRR Martin comments in his site, is the essence of fantasy. If I may be allowed to paraphrase him, fantasy is black and white, while other fiction (and possible NOT our world) is filled with confused shades of grey. Though I may be repeating myself to those who know me, grey is not a colour, it’s a mixing of two beautiful extremes, grey is for the lazy, for the ones who aren’t sure enough to make that decision, who do not wish to bear Atlas’ burden on their shoulders for choosing. Fantasy is about gold and silver while the rest is about tarnished bronze. Fantasy is about mulled wine with an aroma of exotic spices while the rest is nothing but stinking vodka. My world is fantastic; it is filled with fantastic people, with fantastic situations, with ethics and choices and so much more. It might be absurd at times, but it is grand nevertheless. My world is populated with Zelazny’s Sam, with Martin’s Tyrion and Snow and Danny, with Rincewind and Corporal Carrot and the Great God Om. And all because my world was first filled by Lews Therin, by Mat, Rand, Ishamael. An Moiraine.

Moiraine. Weep for Moiraine, my brethren, for she represents you and me. That part in us that would die for our cause. That shows us what passion might be, that gives meaning to our life and work. That shows us that duty is heavier than a mountain and that death is lighter than a feather.

Weep for Manetheren and its fall. Weep for the Aiel’s loss. Weep for what was and is and what might be, world without end. World and time without end. Weep.

My little post is unable of course to capture all that I have learnt. All because of that winter’s Sunday in Daly Memorial, where a friend showed me what our world is. Taishar Malkier, Taishar RJ. May the Dragon ride again on the winds of time. Thank you for colouring my world.

Waerjak the Barbarian

2006-09-03T02:15:00.000-07:00

I first got introduced to the saga that is Might and Magic when I was in the 7th standard, when I first played HOMM 2. I remember with glee when the Hermit and I quoted together that memorable line from the tavern "A Black Dragon can take on a Titan anyday of the week!" More recently, my old friend Sid (who, in fact, introduced me to the series) brought back memories when he shared with me one of the Goldberg Variations, which was an inspiration for Rob King's haunting Barbarian and Wizard themes in HOMM2. King went on to much greater musical pinnacles in HOMM3 and HOMM4. How can I share with you the almost religious ecstacy that one felt when listening to the Castle theme in part 3, or the abyss of insanity one felt under the feet when lost in the meandering Asylum music, that, through some classic interweaving of music was alternatively the closest and furthest thing from the tranquil Nature music? However, 3DO folded up and the latest HOMM project might or might not be what was once sheer magic. Nevertheless, HOMM, like a lot of other games and fantasy series, shaped my meagre life and so, in my own humble way, I offer this piece of fan fiction as those thoughts of mine which, I consider are closest to that great Barbarian King, Waerjak...

"I know you don't understand it now, Waerjak, but someday you will. Yes we are Barbarians. Yes, we are born warriors. But a warrior is not just a killer. He's a protector! You must have respect for life, and an even greater respect for your ability to take it. Otherwise, you're just a murderer." Tarnum was much more than a father to me; ever since he had found me in an ark of reeds in this strange world, he acted as mother, mentor, friend, drinking partner all rolled into one. He had trained me in the art of battle and my bloodthirst often took on his form, often so different from our fellow Barbarians. While they hacked away at dead lumps of meat that were once attached to the lusty bodies of warriors, Tarnum would often say a prayer for the dead and walk away from battle, his arms firmly by his side, singing dirges in a voice that would make camels cry.

"The rules of the world were different once, Waerjak;" Tarnum would often say, "before the portals opened and brought us to this runied fragment of this shell of a world. There were great Wizards searching for secrets greater than the fabled philosopher's stone; secrets that were tangible, that were not all talk and smoke. There were Knights of honour too then; all that remains now is a mockery of that great order- that and a fool who calls himself ADAS Knight and thinks he can stick to some strange morality of his own while compromising his soul for the most frivolous of businesses. But let us leave ADAS for another time, Waerjak; let me teach you how to cook a kangaroo rat without burning the moisture out of the hard flesh..."

The strange world that we found ourselves in after the Fall, had its own rules. Might was right, in this world, though, when you actually thought about it, it was no different from the old in that respect... except, of course, when you factored in Magic. Tarnum always told me that there was magic in the old world as well, though they called it Science then. I never understood much of either, though Tarnum would chide me that being a Barbarian with the muscles of a mule, didn't mean that I had to think like an ass as well; and so I would sit with him each night, as he added his strange powders to the fire to make the meat taste better or to create fragrances that that haunted the senses, to learn what I could about the world and about greater knowledge.

He once commented on the philosophy of politics in the old world and how it compared with what we, Barbarians, followed now. "You see, Waerjak, the rules on how to lead a life were framed a long time ago by people who didn't quite know how lead it themselves. These are no sacrosanct. No Ancestor has actually whispered in a magus' ear. The whole thing consists of a lot of half truths and educated guesses. And so, Waerjak, never take anyone too seriously, not even me; not even you. However, the ancients were so caught up with the fact that they should be following a Philosophy, that they gave many names to various aspects of their lives. There were some who believed, in essence, that the individual came first- that the tribe would be sacrificed, if it came to it, to protect the smallest right of this self-same individual.

"There were others who said that society came first- and that the role of the microcosm was to serve the macrocosm. They gave these terms fancy names and thought themselves clever. Still others provided a commentary on life, claiming, in their conceit, that the Maker created it just for them while the commentators sitting in the opposition claimed that the whole thing was just too absurd and that every one of us had better give up and die, right then and there." Tarnum paused to light his homemade cigar. He paused on his horse and looked up at the moon. "The point I'm trying to make is simple, Waerjak. When a Barbarian lives his life, his choices are his own. He is responsible for feeding himself, for fending for his mate and children and to worship his Ancestors. However, there are times when the Tribe needs his help and when he needs the help of the Tribe- and that is when the measure of a man, or a Barbarian is observed. You may call the message what you will, but our people need someone to explain to them that they need each other to help, to care for and to heal, while remembering their own identities and honour.

"And this is where we failed before. In our mad rush for the gold in the war between the Kreegans and the Gryphonhearts, we forgot our honour, our Ancestors, our tribe. Someone should teach them, Waerjak; our we'll find ourselves eaten like scattered grains of rices polished off by pigeons."

He was silent for sometime then. I miss him.

A Memory

2006-06-28T09:35:00.000-07:00

The Knight stared out into space. He had been here for three long, tiring days filled with 36 watt smiles, cannibalizing meritocrats and a view he had not had in years - that of the sea. Ah the sea! It brought back memories of long ago, of an age long past. A memory not even his own, one that was so ingrained in the fabric of space and time that it was shared among a society of English speakers. It was that same memory that brought a song to ADAS Knight's lips, a song he had never heard sung. A song whose unfamiliar lyrics didn't quite remain indelible in his mind but a song that he knew the harmony and rhythm of so well that a parade of goosebumps rose on his forearms as he hummed it to himself; a song of longing - a memory.

Ah Elbereth Gilthoniel
O telemeth ena miriel
O seleneth anariel
Elbereth, Ah Elbereth

We still remember
We who dwell
In this far land of woven trees
Thy starlight on the Western Seas

He wondered what the faces behind the facades actually wished, a hope for clairvoyance that he had long abandoned when he entered the mortal plain. Wondered, he did, about the plans of mice and men that ganged oft agley and mention he made, a number of times, about the possibility of man, that social animal, that creature with the gift of gab, to be surrounding by a sea of smiling faces, to be wished well by an infinity of benevolent benefactors, to be fed sachcharrine (if that's the spelling) sweet words about money, power and that magical word, advancement and remain alone. And look, he did, at his friend and saw a hermit who like him was alone, but had found fulfilment and gratification in a screen and a board that clicked. What matter, the Knight wondered, if he found not the Falchion? The Knight stared back at the unruffled sea and a memory did arrive, a memory of a time locked up in another tower, attempting to impress others who showered their meaningless comments on him as well, who cared not a whit about him and who had been brought to judge. The hermit was with him there as well. Was it a quirk of fate that had brought them together all these years later? When two people who knew not a iota about the other would have to share the same room in the future? A memory.

And the Knight returned to his room and sat with a book. He imbibed his food, extending his many podia at the mashed potatoes and portions of peas, and with it the Knight wondered what it would be to have taken the other path. The path as meaningless as the one he was taking... the path of a Wizard. To have studied four years more at a foreign land developing spells that made not a word of sense to him, that brought not a spark of titillation to his mind, to have spent in devotion or prayer to a false god with Pratchettian fancy. It was then that the Knight remembered another creature that he had met from the time of his imprisonment in the asylum of the Wizards. A creature who had the same worries and self-doubts that nagged the Knight nocturnally. And from the depths of his nausea, from this Sartrean horror, from this pit with the pendulum hanging overhead, came a memory like the sliver of light that is fed by a feeble lantern hanging in distance. A butterfly from Pandora's box. From the depths of these catacombs came a tinkle, a memory of a tinkle, a memory of hope... a memory of light.

An Anklet for a Verse

2006-05-16T22:43:00.000-07:00

So I was taking this auto to the US embassy on Monday to meet my mom and sis (my sis wanting to get a visa for her kid and all that) and was on this nice wide road called Anna Salai in the past and Mount Road currently, when, what should I see, but, a statue of good ol' Kannagi (is this supposed to end with a question mark or a full stop?) ? I was just thinking about the story of Kannagi and Kovalan and found it very strange to observe my musings appear, as it were, in solid VRML 3D rendering. It isn't every day, after all, that one gets to manifest one's thought onto the physical plane. And as if to make the point doubly clear, that the Almighty wished me to write on this topic, she was brandishing her anklets above her head. A day later, Kannagi is in the news, this time because the someone wishes to restore her statue in some other place, today's news says the Marina. Well, if this doesn't clinch it then nothing will. So here goes...

The story of Kannagi is an old one in Tamil Literature and was written by some Prince sometime back. It goes like this, Kannagi is the daughter of a well off trader who dotes on his daughter very much and likes to give her expensive, lustrous, shiny objects. One such shiny object is her husband, Kovalan, who is also a rather prosperous trader. The couple hit it off rather well and the future looks nice and rosy. Dances around trees and long marathons towards each other on the beach await the love-struck couple. However, dark clouds gather on the horizon, for the mind of man, as ever, is fickle and filled with lust.

The virile Kovalan, decides that Kannagi just doesnt cut it and begins to, if you would excuse the IIT lingo, put its with a dancer Madhavi. After his brief affair, he loses all his money and comes back home, like the prodigal son, to Kannagi. She rallies behind him and all that, and gives him one of her anklets to assay, that they might sell it and start of anew (I like that word). So, Kovalan goes to this jeweller to ascertain the value of the anklet. The jeweller, who happens to be the king's jeweller as well, also happens to be a thief and stealing the queen's anklets, which look pretty much like Kannagi's accuses Kovalan of the larceny. Swift justice is dispensed by the oh-so-wise king and Kovalan's head is chopped off. Slash!!!

News reaches Kannagi how goes wild with grief. Now, here's the best part. She rushes to the king's court, anklet in hand and demands of the queen what the jewels inside were her anlets were. When the queen replies that they were pearls, Kannagi strikes the anklet in question, the one that the jeweller took from Kovalan, onto the ground. The anklets sunders into a thousand and one pieces and, lo and behold!! gems scatter like grains of sand onto the curious floor. The king clutches his chest in pain and dies of a heart attack. It's all rather dramatic, yes. Kannagi screams out a curse on the city, resulting in a fire destroying the whole place. The arson does not quench Kannagi's anger and, in anguish, she tears off her left breast, climbs a mountain outside the city and, well, dies.

Very nice. The story, incidentally, is called the Silapadhikaram, and as GS tells me, means verses on an anklet, or something of the sort. It's supposedly a very poetic work and all that. However, a couple of points really interested me in the story. The first, is that Madhavi, the waif that Kovalan hangs out with, is actually considered to be as chaste a woman as Kannagi. This seems to indicate that society was probably much more liberal then, than the middle class morality we're mired in.

Second is the point that some people now consider Kannagi to represent, not that chaste woman fighting for her rights and the good name (kinda like Indians ask "What's your good name?") of her husband, but a repressed woman of society who couldn't stand up to her husband when he went painting the town red with the other woman. However, Kannagi seems a liberated woman who could stand up pretty well, if you ask me. No one speaks about the fact that Draupadi had five husbands do they? And the fact that Arjuna had take a long trip when he witnessed Yudhishtra and Draupadi coddling in her room? These same persons would probably say that Draupadi was forced into it. Oh well.

However, the point that actually interests me, is this. Why the hell would people place precious gems and pearls inside an anklet. I mean, what's the damn point? If you want to wear stones, wear them on the outside where they can be seen, goddamit!!! Not hidden in some inner tube in some circlet you wear on your feet. And if it was for security reasons, then dig a pit in your house and hide it in there. I know women like to wear these gaudy symbols of wealth and prosperity, but i thought they were meant to be shown off, not hidden in an anklet of all places. I don't know, someone enlighten me if they can. The question has been bugging me ever since I read the story of Kannagi as a kid in the Amar Chitra Katha comics we all loved so much. Full stop.

Whinny when on Wine

2006-05-14T07:08:00.000-07:00

Something written last night after having that Italian wine from the Taj with Brokes and Crap. Very enjoyable, learning the nuances of drinking wine while seriously gulping down the stuff...

There is only one way to drink wine... steal a complimentary bottle from the Taj, get all mawkish and sentimental about the fact that you're leaving college (a day after a huge post about it), open the bottle with a scissors and push the cork in. Now you invite a friend over, play music from Casablanca, any other Sinatran dirge-like ditty, a little bit of Hazelwood, Richards and Armstrong and there you have it.

Next you go about savouring the wine by checking all the websites you know about wine tasting. If you don't know any website, that's ok too. Message Sparams and he'll give you some well worn tips.

Look: Look at the gradient at the tip of the meniscus and the colour of the wine. Lighter the red, older the wine, greater the gradient maturer (whatever, can't think of another term) the vintage.

Swirl: for whatever reason, but, if you're asked, it's to let the wine expose its bouquet and to evolve into and X-men character.

Smell: wince and screw you nose. Then say "That smelt fruity. The top node is apple, I think." Don't commit. Extremely important. Fruity is always safe though.

Taste: Finally. This is an extremely complex step and the least important. After all, you're not drinking to get drunk are you, you philistine?
1. Sweetness: Tasted on the tip of the tongue. Say anything.
2. Acidity: Tasted on the sides of the tongue. Say highly acidic if you answered not sweet to 1. or not acidic if you answered sweet to 1.
3. Tannin: Bitterness, tasted on the back of the tongue. If it tastes like tea, its Tannin.
4. Alcohol: Accounted for by the burning sensation you feel on the back of your throat. If it burns, it has a high alcohol content, hence Fruity and hence, from a hotter climate. Can't go wrong here.
5. Length: The amount of time the taste lingers after you've swallowed. Don't know the units of measurement though.
6. Body: If it feels good, say its full bodied, if weak, say its not so full bodied. Apparently, if the "legs" of the wine on the glass drop slowly after, swirling, it is full bodied.

If none of this makes sense to you, gulp down a mouthful and say what I say, "Good Shit!!"

Cows With Guns

2006-05-13T22:44:00.000-07:00

Just a quicky. There is this awesome song that I've been listening to over the last few months about the life of Cow Tse Tongue. It was created by a chap called Dana Lyons, who has, since then, collaborated with the likes of Jane Goodall on some book. Anyway, don's miss Cows with Guns. You might also want to check out the offical site of Dana Lyons. Here is the Cows with Guns story.

We will fight for Bovine Freedom
and Hold our large heads high;
We will run free with the Buffalo,
Or Dieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Amen!!!

Shots in the Dark

2006-05-13T04:56:00.000-07:00

It seems unfair, indeed confusing, to see the number of hits owing to one word in my post, Helmet. A blog that had a following of 3, including me and the afore mentioned person, suddenly gets atleast 8 hits in a day!!! I mean, what is this?? Why are you people stepping into my personal space all of a sudden? Go get a life!! This is between me and a man, a clown, a pastafarian even, Helmet.

To be entirely honest, I don't know Helmet all that well. However, we hit it off (asexually) when we were dumped in the same room in Oberoi Towers when attending the AB Scholarhip interviews in our first year. We both realised that we were a little, um to use a euphemism, disturbed, mentally that is. These fears were justified when we realised that we were both in love with the same game - Heroes of Might and Magic. One might ask, What in God's green earth is that?? Precisely. It's not every sane person in this world who goes about HOMM, as its called by its fan following. You need that little streak of masochism to actually sit in front of your computer (mine' s called Ol' Betsy btw) and play a turn-by-turn strategy game that takes ages to complete.

Next time we really meet is during the Mck interview. I was in one of my more ebullient moods, talking about the company which I've always proposed to start. It's called Fish And. Yes that's it, just Fish And. The more obtuse among you, my dear and suddenly thriving readers, must be racking your brains wondering what it all means. But Helmet see, he gets it, and shouts out, almost immediately, Chips. Oh well, if that doesn't make you running for your hanky to wipe away your tears, nothing will. Go ahead, my dear audience, cry your heart out at this tale of humanity that goes beyond our cynical and little selves, a tale of a genius, a country bumpkin, a person who only grows countrier the more you get to know him, the lovable, teasable-for-ever-more: Helmet!!!

As I was saying yesterday, we reached the banks of the Ganga without much incident. The only thing worth mentioning (since this is my blog after all) is that I had a sip of jaljeera and learnt about a game called Mafia. Apart from that I also realised that I knew a remarkable number of Hindi songs. How degrading!!! We arrived at Snow Leopard base camp, well into the night, around 10pm I think and were welcomed with garlands of marigold and a warm campfire. Without much ado, drinks were served. Wine bottles were opened, if I'm not mistaken, a Sula red - Cabernet Shiraz, followed by two Champagne bottles - popped open with froth and fizz by two birthday boys, one bday fictional at that. While I was on my second glass of alcohol, Mr. H as he so endearingly refers to himself, was on his 4th, or was it 5th. Ah well, who's counting.

A couple of minutes and a number of vodka and rum shots later, Helmet was trying, pretty verbosely and peremptorily, to prove that he wasn't drunk.
"Let me shpeeeak. Shut up. Lishen to me, I will prooof to you that I am not drunk!" he slobbered on with his finger wagging in our faces. "Let me state Fermat's last theorem:
x power n + y power n - z power n cannot be equal to 0 for n greater than or equal to 2!"
Well, I'm no math whizz but if you ask me, 8 squared and 6 squared make 10 squared and, thus, braving the winds and speaking up for the love of science and remarked as much.
"Shut up! Shut! I'm cleverer than you. What do you know" cried our boisterous and intrepid friend and went off looking for the next shot of vodka after repeating his own version of Fermat
again. After having scared off most of the people, Helmet sunk into his seat after a lot of coaxing from yours truly. There he was given some advice by a caring and friendly alum and sent to his tent.

Detour - my story: This is the first time I have had to take care of people when drunk. First Helmet and then another who goes by the name of ______ (ask me. I'll tell you. Or if you really want to know, I'll add it in the comments later). While the pandemonium surrounding Helmet finally died down, ____ decided to empty his innards onto the pristine shores of the Ganges. So doggy style, the two of us dug up some sand and ____ cleaned his gut, upwards of course. So, for all you people playing Ganga Panga the next day, who found something squishy on your feet, you know whom to blame (again, ask me. I'm just dying to tell).

Cut to 8am next morn. Everyone is awake or waking up to the Suprabatham of the instructor, who wishes to see all us landlubbers playing Ganga Panga like we cared for nothing else. Helmet's tent mates wake to find him nowhere in sight. While trying to get off their bed, the look down to find two feet stricking out from under one of their beds. They wake the possessor of these two left feet and throw him back onto his bed. Minutes later, another group of people find the same creature swaggering back and forth on his way, presumably, to the dry bogs. They soon find themselves mistaken. They find the amphora of alcohol lying on his stomach above some rocks in some bushes by the Ganga. The good samaritans carry him back to his tent on their shoulder. This is when they also discover something fishy in their own tent. There is human faeces lying just inside the tent. Whatever in God's name could that mean? Who in their right mind would actually strip down to their Bday clothes and defaecate in someone else's tent? And in the tent, by Toutatis???

Helmet finally wakes up around 12 to find his body aching all over. There are deep scratches on his arms, his back and some scars on his face, his glasses missing, his cell dead. He can't find a contact lens and thinks that its in the same eye as the one he knows he's wearing. Helmet begins to feel like an ostrich and wonders where he might find a hole big enough to bury his soaked head in. What if word gets round? he thinks. I can count on the discretion of my friends can't I? I mean, there was shit in some tent, for God's sake!!! Sure you can, Helmet, sure you can.

Moral of the story, folks. Taking a shot in the dark is all very good. But play too many guessing games and the gun's going to be pointed to your head - Russian Roulette style...

Everything must Go

2006-05-12T10:25:00.000-07:00

I was writing my famed post on Helmet in the evening but failed to complete it. It's sitting somewhere in some server on the infinite internet waiting to be printed. At 7 today we went for Chin's treat. Chin is a great friend of mine and that's an understatement. We've discussed over long hours everything from Science Fiction and Fantasy, our favourite topic incidentally, to Structure from Motion. We went to Zara's by the way and had a jolly good time. There was little to say, then, about Helmet after such a night. We returned to insti via Taramani gate.

I had actually thought that I would complete the post on Helmet on returning. However, the sepia hues on the leaves on my way back, the crickets chirping their lonesome messages into the night and the rains in Africa thought otherwise. And so, here I am, alone and palely loitering, as it were, writing about the futility of it all. At times like this, the only music one can listen to is Floyd, the sheer melancholy that one feels resonates with the music in ones ears. I had dreamed you had left my side.

Four years is a long time to have to chronicle in one post. However, one only gets the chance on occassions like this. At other times, the spirit is too proud to make inroads into one's own heart and reveal one's deepest feelings. And thus, one understands why Coleridge needed help to write his most visually stimulating passages, how he managed to touch cords deep inside which woke to his hidden music, though long dormant.

Drink, for we know not where we go or why,
Drink for the world ends with a sigh.

Or something like that says the Rubaiyat, and how true. There is only sadness as witnessed by his Lord Sepulchrave in that book of books Gormenghast. All that remains at the end of any venture is regret. Regret for things undone, regret for mercy unshown, regret for people not met. If there is one thing apart from the final chess game with Death that is sure, it is regret. It claws onto the heart of things like a bloodsucking leech, pumping out the plasma from the body till all that remains is a broken shell of a man that stood brave and tall. Regret is a nagging disease that eats away at the soul of things. And why, may I ask do I write of regret? What, indeed DO I regret?

And, here I lie stumped. For I can ill answer this question. I can find nothing that I regret except the fact that we must go. The fact that it shall all go, and go it shall, in a week's time. Be still my heart, the sailor cried. for I can hardly bear the tossing of the waves, much less the rocking of your arrhythmic beats. While I promise to complete the story on poor old Helmet, I cannot stop the action of my fingers on the keyboard. There are more things lost in friendship, my gentle readers, than all the riches in the world can buy. While we so proudly decide on careers of choice and how much money we wish to garner, we little realise how little of the world we actually possess. How little have we actually learnt in these four years in this hallowed portals, to use a cliche. How little we have fought for the knowledge that was to be shared with us, how little we have realised that the moment has arrived. This is the end of our trials and tribualations here. No one to question us on our decisions anymore, no more gradingm no more cups ans double u's, no more S's or A's, no more 12 o'clock quizzes. No more lively discussions in our wing. No more wondering where we are headed. No more 1 o'clock crying sessions after getting stinking drunk. No Nothing. We, or rather, I, leave in a week...

And that, my friends, is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering.
Though the sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

The lights were brighter, the grass was greener... Everything... must Go.

Take off

2006-05-11T10:00:00.000-07:00

The last month here at IIT has, quite definitely, been the toughest. It involved writing one of the toughest exams I have yet faced, it involved writing a 57 page BTP report in 13 days with a break of 5 days in the middle, it involved meeting some of the finest people I have seen in a while, it involved recovery of lost hope (I know this sounds rather cryptic, but more on it later) and, finally, it involved Helmet and what Kaka would call Souveneau (sic) Blanc. This week has also witnessed my return to my misbegotten blog, rather like the prodigal son. It is also the week when A.D.A.S. Knight was made a Cumunder. The last hour or so have been spent ruminating on the blog and whether to return to my rather prosaic attempts at sounding depths by self referential posts and by referring to myself, ahem, the Knight in third person. So, all said and done, let me welcome the out of work, jaded reader to this post on my trip to Eternal Bliss and the discovery of Helmet.

What with me never having flown before, never having sat, much less dreamed of sitting on a raft, never having talked to a girl (well, almost), never having had my cheeks pulled, etc etc, the trip was sure to be an eventful one. The whole trip was filled with only two emotions. One of wide eyed wonder and the other of abject terror. Let me start from the very beginning, the very best place to start, as the old song goes. We left Chennai at 1745 hours or something on some Airbus 300 or 320 or something. Our first thoughts, before the plane started, before we boarded, before we checked in, lamented the fact that we weren't travelling Kingfisher. These made up aunties can never match the well rounded calves, the stockinged knees, the rouged cheeks, the red skirts and the bunned up hair of the Kingfisher stewardesses (or are they air hostesses? I never get it right). So there we are on board a plane, which I just know obeys Murphy's law to the letter, see? The plane moves, those wings look awfully flimsy don't you think? I say to myself. Well, if the Wright brother could take off on papier mache and well, if my icon Howard Hughes can fly a sardine can, well then, SO CAN I. I shall boldly go and all that!

Wait, someone's talking on the intercom. Namaste, some captain is flying this plane, etc etc, please take moment now to locate the exits nearest your seat! What's that again? I mean, I'm not in a rush, I'm one of those people who always get on last and leave last. If the cabin should experience a drop in air pressure, oxygen masks will drop automatically, simply place the mask over your nose and mouth and breathe normally. Oh brother, if this is anything like Hamlet or George Carlin's pieces, this potential analyst is going to be controlling traffic at St. Peter's gates. Cut to the chase, the aircraft starts hurtling its passengerd down a grey runway and after coughing up a few fur balls decides to lift off like a goose. I feel 10G's of gravity acting on my 10Gs and promptly find myself wishing I had brought that bottle of homemade wine Kaka was telling me to take. However, the Icarian flight wasn't so bad afterall and, after hitting a pocket of air, which nearly left the passengers retching and clawing at their necks the flight crawled to a grinding halt at Indira Gandhi Intl. Airport.

Nothing much happened that night or the next day. We checked in at the taj, had a ball, met a lot of people and left by bus for the banks of the Ganga. And that was where Helmet decided to take over our lives. More on that, tomorrow.

While in the East...

2006-03-08T04:12:00.000-08:00

There are certain stories that are left half unsaid; Kubla Khan for instance. Was Kubla Khan better left unfinished, or was the genius of Coleridge as active in his waking hours? A difficult but important question; I have decided to circumvent the problem and leave this continuation to Malt Et Falchion incomplete. Perhaps it should be added to the Unfinished Tales section eh?

I could hear its heart beating like a motor pump. It began to slow down, while mine speeded up. Slowly inching towards each other from the distan ends of the spectrum till they synchronized in perfect rhythmic harmony. Lub dupp, lub dupp, it went. While it breathed the sweet airs outside the marshlands where magroves grow. Where wraiths roam the slimy waters, shadowy blue will o the wisps glowing in the darkening light, morpging into forms through homographies that echoed across planes.

I heard the music from its voice though I dared not turn. Our disparity continued across the sands of time and space/ it revolved around me from left to right. Facing me while its other side faced the rising yellow moon. Strangers, we finally faced each other’s sidelong glances. I could not see its face, it was hidden in the folds of its cloack, within the recesses that hide the sun from the eyes. The other wraiths turned to face the light. Beaming rays of moonshine came down, flashing light on faces that had not seen day nor night, one eyes that were blind to the beauty of colour, on ears that would not hear the melody of music, on noses that would not no Arabian perfume, on mouths that would never taste wine. The drums buzzed on faster than wounded bumblebees, while a wgnerian tune could be heard in the distance bellowing to the dins of ragnarok.

A respite. We close our eyes and are transported to a rocky landscape, a veritable desrt that stretched on towards the horizon. A mosaic of a texture of penrose tilings. A panorama of rocks sweeps across my vision. The music plays on and as I turn, a body is flung behind me like a sack of potatoes. I don my robe and scimitar, and turn…

A voice plays in my head, a loquacious, luscious voice full of promise. Croons it in my ear, Kill him and I promise you power over lands. An ancient hag screams Outwit him and I shall grant you knowledge and people. I husky voice hinted Grant him mercy and I shall grant you a woman. Was Paris in lust? Can we rewrite legends I think, Is it possible to race Agamemnon on his run again and again, while the world kept pace with the probabilistic calculations? Her face flashed in my mind. Careful. Brown streaked hair swept back from a fair face, cut to the shoulders. A fair brow, green, greys eyes, I remember not. A pointed nose, petulant red lips, high cheeks and a dimpled chin. With that axe, Eugene.

I scream while he provides the echo in the distance. Breathe my son. Behind this mask I grow weary, come again when I call. I glide my scimitar from my sash. The knight will not have my scimitar, for was it not changed a long time ago, into a falchion? Will we not rise again I ask, to defend the East when the twain meet? Will not the broken eggshell once join again as was predicted by The Poet when he died on Siddhartha’s shoulder?

It moves with constant periodicity. The dragon will return again to be covered by its shell, death and life in constant reversal, a phoenix living its life backwards.You need monocular vision to see infinity. I see near it now, an eye whose iris is black with a pupil blacker than pitch. It comes towards me growing more stylized and much like the eye of horus. The cymbals crash. The light of a sun glows behind that black pupil, it resolves into a cube- 1 4 9. a neuman machine of epic proportions.

He walks in shadow

2006-02-09T07:17:00.000-08:00

I wandered out into the open, cold as a naked babe lit under a moonless sky. It was the height of summer, the sun glowing like ice cut out of a pond. The coals burning around blacker than purest snow, while in the shade the cries of the dying man echoed the cry of the delivering ewe. I staggered on, the wound at my side was heavier than I could bear, no cross bore down upon one as such. I had to meet him and tell of what transpired here. I couldn’t carry this as well as the weight of my wound, my body. I was tired and thirsty, I can’t see too well, I couldn’t see too well. Unable to walk, to crawl, I slithered across the sand, like Lucifer, Lord of the Morning, Prince of the Dawn, Astral King. How art the mighty fallen from Heaven, Oh Isaiah!!

I wonder if I can make it before the Pit draws too near, for I can’t carry my secret anymore. Neither can I wait, for a grand build up only to be left with a sour taste of anti-climax, bars of Toblerone, eaten three at a time. Better Benadryl than Toblerone. The secret? There is no secret, only a realization, a question answered. A revelation, you ask? Alas, no!! the sense of anti-climax is still upon me and I dare not call it a revelation. I stagger on, in truth, with this work, with my mind, with the two appendages that aid me not in locomotion. My heart wilts under the pressure of pumping, my bladder distends under the weight of the excess fluids in my body, my throat is parched and my mouth tastes the sands of the beach. Have I bitten the dust finally?

The question digs at my ribs, begging to, nay, demanding to be asked, to be summoned unrequested, thrown at the face of those who dare turn their other cheek. To those who would not, could not, face the torment that one who stares ahead would face. It is the age old question that nags me, my tormenter, my Sophia (dare I say this in my state) calls out and I am unable to answer. Unfit am I to go, being a scientist my whole life, a wizard of the Apocryphal Academy, a Tesla of coils, an Edison of zero-watt bulbs, a Graham of telephone bells ringing in my head, I turn that way. My reflection is murky in the void. It glows like the rose of the sun, ever gloomier, black light radiating forward.

All these years, my mother told me to believe, but I couldn’t: I wished to purge my sins in the pools of rationality than in the fires of heaven; and why not, I would say to myself; my god is Pi, he is a good lord, immeasurable, unknowable, benevolent, he is the bender of lines, the infinite becomes finite in his hands. Irresistible himself, he is able to convert a line into that most perfect creature of two dimensional space- the circle. What cunning that was used to fashion a curl, could match my little Pi, that can fashion Kepler’s laws, that can define integrals, that can send hyperbolas into the depths of space.

How arrogant we are; in our failure, in our blindness we have asserted that there is no colour; because we could not smell, we ignored the aroma of the roses; in our deafness we said there was no music playing. We climbed out of our hole, looked around the garden and, finding empty, said to our other gopher friends that there were no humans. We spun into space in our toys and thought we had conquered Him, who would not give us wings to fly. In our pomposity, we called Him pompous; we decreed Him irrelevant and wrote Him off as a mathematical abstraction, one we could do without.

The atheist is as much a believer as the theist is, though; as the theist faces the conflict of self deception; the atheist forces a gun into this rationalistic mouth and holds himself hostage to science. At that last moment, there is the leap of faith into belief, either in nothingness or in the everlasting. The atheist is as much a believer as is the god-fearing theist. An honourable position for both; unlike that agnostic who refuses to make a stand, a low born, slimy character unable to have the self respect to choose.

How tough it is to believe; are stories propagated to fool us? Why the invisible hands of God; why the divine hoaxes played out again and again; if the truth is as simple as moon beams cooling in an icy pool then why can He not reveal himself in His light and darkness. A Rhlorrian fire burning forever at the poles, say, or a W. G. Grace chanting eulogies from a cloudless sky. I cannot; I wish to but am unable to convince my heart, my brain; a meaningless life lies ahead and behind for everybody and yet we struggle on, stagger on, on that lonely beach swallowing pebbles every few minutes till our throats are parched once again like sandpaper. I look down at the sea, the water is slick black and I find my murky reflection again. I turn skyward and rage at the heavens. I am a creature of despair and darkness.

An Editor out for...

2006-01-13T20:15:00.000-08:00

A late night as usual. The clacking goes on above me; one of these days this whole business is going to drive me insane. If I'm not inspecting the rows of workers, I'm usually standing behind my editorial staff trying to figure out the daily news. No one really knows whether we can bring out the daily news on time. Then the archiving begins, hoping against hope that we have the news for tomorrow, or the day after that, or maybe even for the next New Year. I only hope these palpitations in my heart decrease this year. The chill isn't good for me, the medicine man said. In any case, work is worship they always say, and even if I don't get to meet interesting people on the job, there is always the Cafe Malt. A veritable bordello, the Cafe Malt. Sirens scream outside jarring the ears, while red lights flash on the inside jarring the eyes. The waiters, of course, go about their business in the most prosaic manner until you begin to wax eloquent. With your purse, of course; gilded wallets are superior to glib tongues. The experience is enough to give one a doze of epilepsy if one isn't careful. But then, thats for the outsiders. For the regulars, there is a little nook on the inside, with good ol' Ralf playing softly on the piano, dim lights, the works.

This night of all nights, I needed to get to the Malt. After all it was my business to know things; and he had promised information. The Cafe Malt was always an interesting place on a Saturday night. A well-to-do editor like myself could go there with my papers and bore a hole through the sheafs in my search for truth without being disturbed the whole night. In wino veritas, a fine motto indeed, or should I say a vine motto; atleast one that I ascribe to. On the other hand, one could go there to spend the night savouring earthly delights. A malt in one hand, sitting chatting with the barkeep, Ozzo, listening to Ralf playing Eggret's Seventh on the piano, one can't imagine a more relaxing time anywhere on the Egg... or what's left of it. The nook isn't exactly a nook. It starts off as one and then distends into a large hollow and then keeps going on ad infinitum, and ad nauseum if one looks long enough when one is drunk on the drinks served there. On the walls hang paintings of upcoming artists. No fancy stuff, no modern art. That died out when the Egg cracked. Now all one remembers when one sees modern art is the shrieking of The Dragon during its birth. After all it was that fool, Ankhys who decided to merge art with reality.... less said about it the better. I feel nauseous wondering what would happen if It returned breathing Dragonfire. Not just dragonfire mind you, but Dragonfire.

The Malt is also where I met him; and where I first learnt of the Falchion. Little did I know then that it would turn my little world upside down all over again. I'd had enough of that with the cracking of the Egg, but no, he had to come into the picture. He used to come often enough to the Malt; usually with a bunch of his brothers of that strange Order. After the Cracking though, it appeared as if the Order of the Paperweight cracked as well. They had been waiting for the day a long time, and when it finally arrived and shook all the paperweights off the sheaf of papers on their desks, their narrow, twisted, dogmatic minds couldn't take the pressure, and cracked, if you'll pardon the expression.

However, A.D.A.S. Knight seemed to have somehow withstood the strain on his mental faculty by, I understand, strictly following his Order's stringent requirements, which mainly seemed to consist of attending as many orgies as possible. Stranger things have happened. After all, its not every day that I meet a man whose name is A Dark And Stormy Knight. In fact, I still haven't figured out what to call him. Does one call him Dark, or perhaps, Stormy? I'm quite familiar with him now, so do I dare call him Storm instead, or perhaps And, or even A? I've restrained myself from doing any of the above, as I have this deep resolution inside of me, that says to me everyday, "I will not have my head cut off by insane knights." That's the only New Year resolution I've ever managed to hang onto in my life, for dear life.

He was sitting in his usual place- a table for two near the toilet, sampling one of the many local wines that the Malt happened to stock. He would sit like a gargoyle on a particularly Gothic gable, one of those gargoyles that you imagine in your nightmares, the ones whose eyes open when the music reaches a crescendo. He slouched so much, it gave you a backache, till you realised that his back was straight as the proverbial arrow. Straighter, in fact; more like a butler serving on a royal yacht at a dinner party for his or her majesty's distinguished cousins. And yet, when you turned your head away, you felt he was playing tricks with your eyes and creeping off into another one of his slouches. I had met him at the at very place before; talking about this and that until he accidentally mentioned the Falchion. What a coincidence, I had thought then, to talk about the Falchion at the Malt. Every prophecy had mentioned a drink when the Falchion was mentioned, but to sit at a cafe called the Malt... does that count I wondered, or is just wishful thinking?

When he found out that I was the editor of the Daily Banshee, he wished to know more about the profession, how we got the news, how we managed to obtain scoops that we then ran into pages of useless print. Little did he know about the profession. Investigating news the old way was passe. We had better methods now. I, on the other hand, was hoping to glean some more grain from the chaff of useless data he was flooding me with. Somewhere in that, I knew, there had to be the Order's secrets of the Falchion. Whether he knew it consciously or not was rather irrelevant. What mattered was that he was a Knight of the Order, in fact, the only Knight of the Order... and what a knight. Shoot!!

"Ah Diogenes!!" he ejaculated when he saw me, "Come! do sit by my side!!" We chewed the old fat for a while. I remarked about the vapours that seemed to follow him everywhere. "You know how it is," he explained, "when you're cooped up in the office and by the government building all day long, you begin smelling like one of the vermin you're looking for. What's a knight to do nowadays? If it weren't for this prophecy about the Falchion, I tell you, I have a good mind to give up being an errant, and err on the side of being a Private Investigator. Ha Ha!! My little joke!! That always cracks me up, get it?? Errant and err on??" Yes, quite.

He finally asked me about the news business after the Cracking. "It's actually pretty simple. You've heard of the Borel-Cantelli lemma haven't you?" Of course he hadn't. "Well, it's pretty mathematical and half of it goes above my head as well. But, what is germane to us are its consequences: if you have an infinite number of monkeys typing away at keyboards for infinite time, one of them will type out the entire text of Hamlet... well, we decided to extend it with Rohit's corollary: you probably wouldn't have heard of him either; well, his corollary is pretty simple: if you have an infinite number of monkeys typing away, you're eventually going to get one that types out tomorrow's news. Not just that but one is going type out day after's news and so on. So in essence, you're actually predicting the future. Now, we've been capturing all sorts of monkeys, gorillas, orangutans, you name a simian, we've got it, and we've put all of them to typing out stuff. All our editors have to do in the end is to sift through the material, archive the one's that make sense, that is, the ones with the right syntax and such, and then search through the archives for potential candidates for the news."

"How do you know that it's the news until it happens?" Knight asked. "That's quite a simple problem actually. Newspapers contain stories about events that happened a few days back as well. We read the archives to see if anything corresponds to events that occured a couple of days ago. Of course, there will be multiple copies that correspond to this, but as the day rolls on, the number of potential candidates for the day's news become less and less. At the end of the day, we have all the newspapers that correspond to the events that occured until 12 o'clock. We then print the part that is common until 12 o'clcok. And begin the process again. Some of the more intellectual of the simians, like the chimps, have a very high success rate of not only typing sensible stuff, but also predicting the future correctly. Sometimes, though, we don't have a newspaper ready coz we neither have an infinite number of monkeys, nor do we have infinite time. Then, we hit the panic button, type out some trash like this and send it out. A job well done."

He was interested. He said that he would like to see the whole process some day, but had to rush now since he had to meet someone about some lady who smelt like limburger cheese. Before he left, I showed him a picture of our ace typist, Nym getting down to work. He gulped down the rest of his wine and ran out of their like there was a werewolf chasing him. A weird chap. He told me nothing about the Falchion. As I was saying at the beginning, we don't just print newspapers but also look through our archives for interesting articles that we print in our magazines. That's when I came across this article that described the day that I just had. This whole thing was written by Nym, five days ago. Including this. And this. Not bad for a chimp eh? Well, good bye and don't forget to read the Daily Banshee!!

Hippodromes for hypocrites Part 1

2006-01-07T20:39:00.000-08:00

It was another fast night at the Government block. The Government block, contrary to expectations, is where everyone thinks work moves the fastest. Pen screeches on paper, keyboards are scorched owing to friction, clerks face early retirement due to burn outs and kents, well, lets leave the Supermen for later eh? I moved in slo-mo. At every blink, people were moving over 50 metres. Aliasing. Blink fast enough and everything slows down. I start moving faster. The world comes back to normal. The Government block. Nothing moves.

No matter. Nothing happens anyway. When you are a knight, people keep thinking that you're life is exciting, that you actually do some work, that you have a million peasants under you whom you can allocate work yo, whom you can bully, boss over, push off cliffs, feed to the lions and what not. Not true. Little do people know that half the time, you are begging them to give you a fair share of the crops they have sown. Dammit, half the time the crops aren't even sown... and the damn harvest season is coming up soon. Three weeks from now.

So I left the Government Office and decided to ride up to the Clerk's Building. This is where they do all sorts of wizardry with math. Accounting, finances, complex numbers, imaginary profits, you name it, they do it. This is also where they like to store marks you may (or may not) have earned in courses that you do. I had been doing a course on Basic Wizardry at the Apocryphal Academy and wanted to know how I was faring. Don't we all. Alone as I am in my office looking at the clock tower at the other end of town, by leaning out my window as far as I can, tying a string to the back of my belt and the other end to the door knob, I sometimes wonder that if I become a wizard I might not be able to tell the time in an easier fashion. I also fear that someone would open the door someday while I am at my amusing pass time and send me, arms flailing and all, to my doom. There is this garbage can below my window, and out my door and in the room two doors away. There is garbage everywhere here. I wonder....

I digress. My memoirs get worse and worse. This isn't to say that it was bad in the first place. I was in the Clerk's Building trying to juggle a few grades around and, in general, make it appear that I was better at the dark arts of necromancy than I was (I did say that I was a dark and stormy knight if you remember) when my wandering eye happened to notice a D grade on the list. I daren't look up at the face of the gnome at the desk. She was sure to be all aglow, a nice little mocking smile on her face. "Changing the course because of interest, are you? A genuine student, eh? What was that again about not worrying about doing badly in courses? Not worried now either eh? Looks like you have a different definition of bad entirely. What were you fearing? An S?" Hmmm....

Cut to a day later when I went to see this wizard with my pal, another novice at wizardry, though he is far more committed to it than I am. He wasn't in his room, these wizards almost never are. They appear to work all day, and yet, when you need to see them, they vanish. It almost seems as if they know we're lurking around. Perhaps, they do know, perhaps they make it their business to know, perhaps they do that the whole day. That's why they're so busy. The bastards.

He finally came walking to his room. A walk of arrogance, swaying this way and that. Oh what a beautiful morning, oh what a wonderful day; I killed a novice, I murdered a fay. So he swaggers in, wonders aloud if we wanted to see little ol' him, and plops his mammoth backside onto this swiveling chair. It doesn't make a sound. It, too, has learnt to shut its trap in front, or behind, a wizard. When he learns what we're there for, he checks his notes, remarks that perhaps we deserve more for our knowledge but not so for our naivete. What with us telling him that we did our work together, when we should have been colluding with each other and trying to outwit him? Children, to have been honest when we should have been lying through our teeth. No wonder we deserved a D. Sheesh.

So what do we learn at the end, eh? Do we come out with any wizardry at all? Of course we do, but how many stay the course? Was the whole thing worth it, I ask myself sitting in the vapours of my office, with the wargs looking down on me as before, with the bloodsuckers getting their sweet nectar without paying their tax. "Why?" I shout, "What happens to the system?" I see a wizard sashaying down a green corridor. He scratches his itching chin, then the sole of his foot and his chin again. I'm better than you, son. I got a griffin service. Got a dozen merchants working my train. I'm sitting watching you at the Colosseum, son, and I like what I see. We want you to work for us kid, prevent you from going anywhere and we have ready labour. Can’t be beat.I went to San Fransisco, brother, and you can't. Why? Coz Hippodromes are for Hypocrites.

I was a dark and stormy knight

2006-01-07T20:38:00.000-08:00

I sat at my desk, with the rain pouring like blood from a Tarantino flick. The lousiest title I ever saw. What first words could be worse than this I thought. It would only get worse if I talked about a chick walking into the room. I decided to leave that part for later. It was a cold Sunday evening in hell, with depression looming over the desk like Damocles' sword. I was wondering what a good setting would be for blogs like this- self referrential? A tale within a tale? Car chases? How about a little fantasy thrown in for good measure? Should I be allowed to digress and rant about the world in general while silently screaming out my story? That's when I remembered this great game that I had played, based on Terry Pratchett novels. "A great guy," Jalan would say, "Knows how to write. Perhaps he even knows how to code. I wonder if he ever was a spy like the Winamp guy." That rhymes.

A desk. That would be a great start wouldn't it. It would have to be a desk. A nice oaken desk from a tree cut in the middle of the quad so that Bishop Berkeley would have fits over his existentialist angst. So would Pussy Verghese, for that matter, but that's a different story. Now, we need an office. A damp, dark room in a student's hostel would have to do, I suppose. Frozen rivers, molten mountains and all that. It would, also, have to be raining. Now, that's a must. Where would noirs be if there wasn't any rain, I asked myself. Finally, there came the texture of the story. What would the Maltese Falcon be, if it were in colour eh? So, my tale would be in black and white, with many a fine shade of grey (or gray) to interest the keener observers of the story. There would be none, I'm sure. I'm also quite sure that no one wishes to actually read. Everyone is just caught in this loop of reading each others blogs and linking it in theirs. I, on the other hand, have no idea how to do this. I'm told its rather easy, but ever since I realised I was getting old, I had absolutely no enthusiasm to put on a great show on a blog, for heaven's sake.

As I was saying, it was a cold Sunday evening in hell, when the door opened and she... no let's not bring that in yet. I'm more interested, at the moment, in setting the scene. So, on this cold Sunday evening, I was staring at a warg. Many may think that a warg is a frightening werewolf slobbering all over your face as it bites chunks out of your abdomen. Not quite. A warg, in this tale, is one of many spiders that inhabit the corners of my room. I pay the rent, they board for free. In exchange for this, they try to eat all the mosquitos and allow me to stare at them and make comments gratis. One may now hazard asking what I was doing in a damp, dark room on a cold Sunday evening in hell. Well, I was working. That was for sure. I work all the time. You could say that I'm unemployed. But you wouldn't; for then you'd hear a squelch, crack, angels flying about your head. My ma uses the rolling pin rather well.

Let me introduce myself. A hundred years ago, a band of people, who were also unemployed, decided to go about trying to right lefts, to wring wrongs and to act very pompous. Since they were health fanatics and disliked references to underwear, they refused to take up names like garters or stockings or any such animal. They wished to exalt the one thing that they had believed would change the very face of the earth. They were the Order of the Paperweight. Over the last hundred years, the Order has lost many members. Many lost sight of the original ideals and were forced to serve penances for life. Times are such that the order is now dying. Only one man now is able to weather the harsh discipline, luxury dinners, orgies and rain that the job throws up. I am the last of the Order. I am a dark and stormy knight.