The Big Red Button

It was right there. 5 feet away from her. The Big Crimson Button. She had finally found what mankind had been desiring for ages. More important than the Fountain of Youth, the Elixir of Life, Aladdin's Genie, Cibola and Alice's Wonderland. All her problems would be resolved, all she had to do was to press it. Millions of thoughts went through her head, her journey till now, why she had started off on this journey and how she had easily found it, while the others were still looking.

She thought of her life till now. About her lousy husband, her perpetually annoying children, her few friends, her lack of modernity, her old jewellery, her ugly lawn, her dented nose and so on. All of this would now change. She could have a better life. A new life.

Did she really want this, she thought. "But, even if it is worse, it can't be worse than this!" she heard her inner self say.

She pressed the Reboot Button.

And it started all over again. From the beginning.

A few years later :

It was right there. Some feet away from her. The Big Red Button. She had finally found what humans had been hunting for a few decades. More important than the Holy Grail, Treasure Island, Amber Room, Tutankhamen's Secret and The Gold Bug. All the problems she faced could now be solved, all she had to do was to press it. Lots of thoughts went through her head, her journey till now, why she had started off on this journey and how she had found it, while the others were still looking.

She thought of her life till now. About her lousy boyfriend, her perpetually antagonistic parents, her many friends, her choice of career, her car, her pet, her small breasts and so on. All of this would now change. She could have a better life. A new life.

Did she really want this, she thought. "But, even if it is worse, it can't be worse than this!" she heard her inner self say.

She pressed the Reboot Button.

And it started all over again. From the beginning.

A few years later :

It was right there. A little distance away, one she couldn't measure. The Big Button of some colour. She had finally found what people had been searching for a while. More important than the Elder Wand, Unicorns, Osama Bin Laden, Aliens and Kolaveri Di. All the problems others had created in her life could now be solved, all she had to do was to press it. A few thoughts went through her head, her journey till now, why she had started off on this journey and how she had finally found it, while the others were still lost, waiting for her guidance.

She thought of her life till now. About her lousy girlfriend, her dead parents, her frienemies, her job, her mobile phone, her nails, the excess baggage she carried with a life too meaningful and so on. All of this would now change. She could have a better life. A new life.

Did she really want this, she thought. "But, even if it is worse, it can't be worse than this!" she heard her inner self say.

She pressed the Reboot Button*

And it started all over again. From the beginning.

*Conditions Apply. You will have no memory of your past life, you will have no experiences to make your new life better than this one. And you might come here again. It's a risky job. We recommend you live this one through. That inner self you keep hearing, is the old wicked man in the background. He likes to fuck around with people's lives. No inner self talks like that. Most inner selves talk like this. direct and upfront. Can't help if you're too blind to see. I gave you eyes. 

-Love God.

Watch out for the Reboot Button. You don't know if you'll lead it any differently.

To Sleep. The One and Only Refuge from the Perceived Reality.

Song : I'm Looking Through You -- The Wallflowers

Peace.

To Pimp.

Song Dedication : Aazaadiyan from Udaan

He stared lifelessly at the burning pyre in front of him. It kept burning, the flames rising towards the heavens and he kept staring. It burnt the body of his brother but it couldn't burn the memories of the past.

He stood there crying, hoping all of this was not true. Thinking what if he had lived, what if they could do something more and what if he lived just one more day. But he was gone. And there was nothing he could do about it. He knew that, but sorrow is irrational. All he could do was stand there and think, and that's what he did do.

And finally the mass of wood and flesh was reduced to ashes. And that's what was left for him to stare at now. He saw it coming. It had to happen. God can't cause so much pain to one person. He had to liberate him from that pain. And spread the remaining bits to his loved ones. Disease kills. Depression kills.

He turned around to leave. He did not want to hug anyone. He did not want to talk to anyone. He just wanted his brother back. He looked up at the sky, hoping that there will be an answer. There was none. There are none. There is just one truth. People Always Leave.

He sat in his car and cried more. Moving on is not easy. But the only thing harder is holding on.

We need to be free. Free from bondage of the world. The person you love is there with your soul. Breathing and Living with you. Always. Infinity and Beyond. You just need to trust that and let everything go. It takes time.

I hope He is doing fine.

Aazaad.

The First Lecture

To Devna Soni. I will always be your Faccha.

The professor stared silently at the classroom door. Years earlier he had been on the other side of the door waiting for his first college lecture to start. Never did he realise, until now of course, that the feeling would be far weirder and worse than it was then. This was going to be embarrassing, he thought.

He opened the classroom doors and saw a group of nearly 70 students. All of them, all 70 of them, turned their heads into his direction. They placed themselves on their benches and everything was at peace. The professor gulped and walked towards the teachers table.

“Good Morning. I am Mr. X and I am going to teach you Microeconomics for this Semester,” he said.

Everyone in the first row wrote down his name and subject. Mr. X was still freaked out. He continued.

“You will find your syllabus in the brochure that you received at the time of your admission. It is largely the same course that you’ve studied in school, just in greater detail. Are there any questions?”

Not a soul in the classroom said anything. Mr. X’s hands and feet went cold. He feared this only, lack of matter in his opening lecture. But then suddenly something happened.

“In the circles of education, there is something called the Last Lecture. Every professor before his retirement is informed about his Last Lecture. In that final lecture, the teacher sums up his life, what he has learnt and conveys whatever he wishes to tell his students. It is like a dying man’s message. A final message that will alter their thinking or at least so is the aim.”

“But what has been extremely less talked about or perhaps never has been, is The First Lecture. Every teacher has a first class, and no one knows what to say. Everyone just ends up talking about the subject they teach and then to kill time, tell a class of over 50 to introduce themselves. What I think is that, the last lecture should in fact be the first. It is because the earlier you confuse young minds the better it is.”

“I might sound like a fool, but listen carefully. The older you get, the more adjusted your mind is to the world. And that is exactly what some people want—the continuation of status quo. But if you are exposed to various thoughts, to various life experiences and to varied teachings, it is then that you are confused, and it is only now that you make an informed choice. The ideal market is that of perfect competition”

He stopped and took a close look at the class. Some seemed interested, some seemed bored and the first row was still taking notes, as if this was going to be questioned on.

“What I have learnt and what I know of this Subject is what I am going to transfer to you. But I feel the duty of a teacher goes far beyond that. During my education, I have had many teachers. Definitely more than a 100. But there are only a few that I remember today. It is to those few that I feel truly indebted. And that is because they taught me how to live life. They told me about their mistakes, so that I don’t commit the same errors. And I am going to tell you those and my own mistakes, so that life is easier for you.”

Mr. X paused.

“However, there is a flip side to that. I may ask you to abstain in a certain situation, but if your consciousness asks for you to do something else, you trash my idea and go ahead with yours. Because that is what students should do. They should question. They should ask. They should fight with the teacher. And most importantly they should experiment. Experiment with new ways of doing things. This is the time of your life. Experiment. Just don’t run to the nearest bar and go drinking, because I told you to experiment new things.”

Laughter. At least they were listening if not comprehending. That acted as a compensation for Mr. X to continue.

“But there are teachers who will never want you to succeed. Because if you outrun them, you should be the teacher and not that ass who taught you. That is the distinction between a good teacher and a true teacher. A true one would always want you to outrun them, because there is nothing more pleasing than a student succeeding.”

“You must understand a teacher faces a hell lot of issues. A very important one of them is what to teach? It is so confusing to answer that. But if your own student outruns you, you at least have the satisfaction that whatever you had, you’ve taught him and that your job is now over. And that you have truly achieved the purpose of a teacher.”

The class smiled. 

“So listen to the advice that I give you. But also experiment with new things. Try out alternate methods of doing things. And eventually leave me behind. Outrun me, and make me the happiest teacher in the world. But in this entire process there is one thing you should never forget and that is Humility. Be humble. Always understand that there are people below you, but at some point, you were there too. So give them respect. And that there will always be people above you. You need to learn from them. So respect them too. Never let your talent take possession of you. Never.”

“I think that is enough for today. I want you all to go through the reading list which is also in the brochure. Oh, are there any questions?”

The class was silent. In the last row a boy thought to himself—Kitna bada Chu hain yeh.
The boy next to him thought---Kitna bada double Chu hain yeh.
The boy next to this one raised his hand.

“Yes,” said Mr X identifying the third boy.

“Sir, why did you decide to become a teacher?” he asked.

Mr. X smiled. He replied.

“Simply put, because I love to give.”

The third boy nodded. The girl sitting next to him thought—Kitna Gay hain.

The third boy thought---Kitna amazing hain.

“Any more questions?” asked Mr. X once again.

No one said anything.

“Well it was nice to meet you guys. See you around.”

Mr. X exited.

And the class was now officially confused.

The Writer's Den

I wrote the following piece for my internship at The Viewspaper. I don't know why I am publishing it, but I just like it. Hope you do too. And the names have chnaged from what they were kept originally for the "Greater Good." Here goes:

The Writer’s Den

He saw her. He was new in school but knew her from a long time. She had a captivating beauty, endless charm and an unusual power of attraction. He was on a mission. He had to protect her.


“And yes, I should work for Farhan Khan, because this sounds like the script of Main Hoon Na. Crap I will never be able to write this story,” said Dev to himself.


He had been working on it for days. It had been a week since he had received this assignment as a part of the internship program he was a part of. He tried every night before sleeping, but would end up with something he had already heard or seen before. Every question of originality reminded him of the article he had once read. With every failure, he used to wonder why he joined this internship. It was meant for writers, but it always asked him to write articles that filled the empty space on their website. Weird, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers. He didn’t know if he wanted to be a writer and maybe this could help.


He re-read what he had written. He wasn’t satisfied. There had to be something much better, more dazzling and more exquisite. He put his head down and stayed like that. He didn’t think, just laid there. Being a writer is difficult. Being a politician is difficult. Being anything you want is difficult.


He woke up. He had received an IM. It was from his best friend.

“Hey, you done with the story? I really want to read it,” said the IM by Aditi. A girl and a boy can be best friends. The only condition is, they should know when they are about to fall in love. Aditi was not only his best friend, but also his editor for the internship. She did both jobs well. She was a good critic and a great help. But he wanted more. He wanted an idea. A story.


He ignored the IM, so that he could ignore the pity that would come from the other end. He began typing again.


The world is flat. The world is crowded. And the world is now hot. Three adjectives that Friedman’s new book gives the world. But what was the world all about? What are we all about? What is the “point”“ of the world?”


“And yes, I should work with Paulo Coelho, because this sounds like a sermon. Crap I will never be able to write this story,” said Dev to himself, yet again.


He looked outside the window, trying to find some inspiration. He failed. Inspiration didn’t come with the darkness of the night or the twinkling of the stars, or for that matter, by just looking for it. It flows into the mind, like a river flows from the mountains to the plains, just naturally. It plays with the mind, like the river does along its course. And it spills its wonder when transcended from the mind onto paper, like a river, when it descends to form a waterfall. He longed for that moment.


Dev got up and stretched himself. He was determined to write this today. It was either now or never. Everyone in his house were asleep. Everything was quiet. All that played in the background was the new album of Coldplay, Viva La Vida. It was indeed “A long and dark December”. How did they get the inspiration to write such great songs? It’s difficult to be in a band, he thought. But being in his shoes was not easy either.


Aditi was always there for him. When he was gloomy and wanted a hug, when he was happy and wanted to give a hug, and when he was mood-less and just wanted to talk. She was fantastic. He could write a Sonnet for her; a Haiku praising her, or a limerick about their fun times, but the story just didn’t come.


I could be a poet, not necessarily a writer, he thought to himself. He saw Shakespeare’s Portrait in a photo frame that Aditi had gifted him. He felt small in front of him. Bard was a great man; Dev wanted to be greater. He wished that what he wrote would fly all across the world and bring the desired effect on everyone. He wanted his works to be the chariot of change, which would transform the world into Sion.


He wished he could say all this to someone. But who?

“Readers don’t like such stuff, but I don’t like what readers like,” he said to himself. If it was all so easy.


He remembered the time when his first story was published, when he received the first comment on his blog, when he kissed for the first time, and many other first times that brought an ear to ear smile on his face. But he had that memory very carefully placed in his memory; the time when he was happiest. The time when glory came after defeat, when he was victorious, when his savior had come. It was long back.


2nd grade: Post Office Assignment.

Every student was supposed to bring an inland letter, a post card and other post office crap to stick in a file. Dev did not bring anything. He had told his mother a night before, and it was fairly impossible to arrange for it. He kept sitting there, jobless, hoping someone would lend him an extra, if they had one.


Then came a knock on the door. It was his mother. She had everything he needed to stick in the shady file. Even an extra post card and 4 big, good quality drawing sheets, to speak in a 2nd grader’s language. He was happy. He was on cloud nine. He was elated. It was a rare moment. It was this memory that always gave him hope. Hope that his savior was around, that he would come out of all this and that he would deal with it, come what may.


And like the knock on the door, came another IM from Aditi. She knew him too well. His not replying, his mood; everything.


“Write about how you feel right now. Write about what you are thinking. Write your perspective of things. I am sure it’ll be different.”


And that clicked. He could write it. It was easy. And he began.


And that’s how all this began.


Before this story ends, one more time.


“And yes, I should work as a writer, because this sounds like a writer’s work. Crap! I will never be able to write a good story.”