An idle blog goes unnoticed. An active blog does too.
An apology is due to myself for not having articulated the multitudes of thought that have flown through my mind for a couple of months now. I'm not confident that I can explain why this has been the state of affairs, but I think deep down somewhere I do comprehend 'why'.
My previous posts have mourned the death of the 'thinker' in all ambitious Indian public school children owing to a certain phenomenon called board examinations. Such has invariably been the case with me. Now that I have single-handedly dug my own grave and danced around my own pyre, I might as well rise from the ashes. Here is where it is necessary for me to mention a tiny detail that shall in the due course of time play a great role in shaping my thought processes: a change in location. I am now a 'Stephanian'... (burning the midnight oil did in fact help!)
So, here's to a resolution to utilize my freedom (speech, expression and all that jazz) more frequently!
Yours truly,
me.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
Genesis
The night is like any other. The stars in the firmament loom high above, mischievous only in their twinkles. No ill-boding baseless prophecy will defy reason tonight. Our protagonist sits in his study, and yet we know not what it is that he studies every night thus. Day after day we find him in the same stance: scratching sheets of paper incessantly with a pencil that cries out for sharpening. He has a name for this pencil of his, one that often affords him a silent mocking laugh. It’s called ‘The Common Man.’
I speak of this night in particular, as do most humans, for a reason. [To say “for a reason” is undoubtedly paradoxical for it is this Reason that our hero sets out to slay with his blunt point.] On this date the man in his study made a significant contribution to the course of history…
Not owing to any unusual environmental impetus, his mind raced extraordinarily fast that fateful night. One could almost hear his pulse throb and feel the beads of perspiration trickling down his forehead. The fire warmed his blood to a temperature that screamed “Action!” One by one he filled sheaves of paper, and yet when he reread each sheet upon completion, he crumpled it and abandoned it to the wastepaper basket. His entire self was consumed by an idea. All that conflicted with it, all that was irrelevant for his purpose was insignificant. Abstraction, simplification and assumptions were the philosopher’s deadliest weapons. Anything short of perfection had to be consigned to flames.
Thus as the midnight oil burned, years of careful thought were dismissed with a guffaw. Facts were twisted to verify the desired hypothesis. He was almost there…This wasn’t the first time that something of this nature was conceived by one of the human race. Marx had done it, Mussolini had stumbled upon it (and yet his ‘it’ was always a tad ambiguous), Hitler, Mao-tse-tung, and Sartre-the list is only as long as the history of human conflict.
Just as it seemed that the wastepaper basket could no longer accommodate crumpled ideas, our sole character let out a contented sigh. The thing was done. He was no longer an ordinary man, he was a poet. The whirlpool of thoughts in his chaotic cerebrum had finally taken shape. It was an occasion of triumph: The birth of an ‘ism’.
I speak of this night in particular, as do most humans, for a reason. [To say “for a reason” is undoubtedly paradoxical for it is this Reason that our hero sets out to slay with his blunt point.] On this date the man in his study made a significant contribution to the course of history…
Not owing to any unusual environmental impetus, his mind raced extraordinarily fast that fateful night. One could almost hear his pulse throb and feel the beads of perspiration trickling down his forehead. The fire warmed his blood to a temperature that screamed “Action!” One by one he filled sheaves of paper, and yet when he reread each sheet upon completion, he crumpled it and abandoned it to the wastepaper basket. His entire self was consumed by an idea. All that conflicted with it, all that was irrelevant for his purpose was insignificant. Abstraction, simplification and assumptions were the philosopher’s deadliest weapons. Anything short of perfection had to be consigned to flames.
Thus as the midnight oil burned, years of careful thought were dismissed with a guffaw. Facts were twisted to verify the desired hypothesis. He was almost there…This wasn’t the first time that something of this nature was conceived by one of the human race. Marx had done it, Mussolini had stumbled upon it (and yet his ‘it’ was always a tad ambiguous), Hitler, Mao-tse-tung, and Sartre-the list is only as long as the history of human conflict.
Just as it seemed that the wastepaper basket could no longer accommodate crumpled ideas, our sole character let out a contented sigh. The thing was done. He was no longer an ordinary man, he was a poet. The whirlpool of thoughts in his chaotic cerebrum had finally taken shape. It was an occasion of triumph: The birth of an ‘ism’.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Woe betide the SC!
Hello there,
Its been ages since I last touched a keyboard to do anything productive-I don't believe the everyday "sup and all" counts under the same head. Perhaps I can scapegoat the blame on sheer laziness,to which I donot believe there can be an effective cure, or on the several thousand doses of rationality that my brain has been subjected to of late. Of course there is room for speculation as to whether our isc syllabi can be classified as rational, or there is a need to add an 'ir' as a prefix. I presume the batch of '09 will by and large subscribe to the latter view.
The other day I did attempt to write something on the lines of "Suspended animation, the essence of freedom pure..Every wing merges, to mesmerize the viewer" (I was watching a flock of birds skimming the surface of the creek that is but the width of a highway from our highrise building) Yet I was not in the least satisfied with the resultant attempt at poetry at the back of my Math register...I can't seem to collect my thoughts!
Maybe its the monotony of weather..a prolonged summer that keeps my brain waves in stagnation. Maybe its a lack of inspiration...or maybe my head is far too crammed with the thought of being 'bored' to accomodate anything else. Either way I have far exceeded my break for tea and must revert to the Simon Commission. I'm sorry, that shall be all until I'm free to think again. Whoever would have guessed that the council would succeed in curbing the fundamental freedom to reflect?!
Its been ages since I last touched a keyboard to do anything productive-I don't believe the everyday "sup and all" counts under the same head. Perhaps I can scapegoat the blame on sheer laziness,to which I donot believe there can be an effective cure, or on the several thousand doses of rationality that my brain has been subjected to of late. Of course there is room for speculation as to whether our isc syllabi can be classified as rational, or there is a need to add an 'ir' as a prefix. I presume the batch of '09 will by and large subscribe to the latter view.
The other day I did attempt to write something on the lines of "Suspended animation, the essence of freedom pure..Every wing merges, to mesmerize the viewer" (I was watching a flock of birds skimming the surface of the creek that is but the width of a highway from our highrise building) Yet I was not in the least satisfied with the resultant attempt at poetry at the back of my Math register...I can't seem to collect my thoughts!
Maybe its the monotony of weather..a prolonged summer that keeps my brain waves in stagnation. Maybe its a lack of inspiration...or maybe my head is far too crammed with the thought of being 'bored' to accomodate anything else. Either way I have far exceeded my break for tea and must revert to the Simon Commission. I'm sorry, that shall be all until I'm free to think again. Whoever would have guessed that the council would succeed in curbing the fundamental freedom to reflect?!
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