Blessed is he, whosoever is free

Biting down a shiver, riding a jarring road 

Alone in the cold comfort that darkness gave 

Under sheets of rain that lashed through the haze 

He embraced its pace and hit the throttle straight 

Speeding towards the nothingness ahead 

Filled with peace in pleasure and pain 

As man and machine merged, he bowed to the skies 

From where his presiding deities gazed 

Blessed is he, whosoever can be free

Moonlight

I have always failed to comprehend the popular conception of the ideal setting. Let me try to describe it by simply stating the facts, devoid of unnecessary decorative adjectives that normally tend to unfairly prejudice the average reader's mind; effectively presenting a nice, good looking, readymade opinion to him. A night sky, sprinkled with tiny stars and a full moon. A solitary bench under a solitary tree, a few feet away from the cliff. The only sound for miles around coming from the sea below.

So, I asked her, "What do you think it is?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"I mean, look at it. Around you, that is, why do they have to bring this up everywhere. The supposedly idyllic environment. Its been all over the movies and the stories, prose and poetries."
"Tch". She interjected, "Stop rhyming, you know I hate that."
"See. That's exactly what I'm saying. In this situation, you're supposed to be all romantic and fall for every silly and foolish thing I say. Here, even a suicidal threat, like jumping off this cliff is supposed to be romantic. At least, that's what we've been told. Instead, look at the truth. The absurdity of it all. You're irritated. I'm in one my against-everything moods and romance is the last thing we can think of; the stars, the sky and the sea are the last things I can appreciate. I mean, look at the moon. A plain white, circular disc. Couldn't it come in a more interesting shape or colour?"

I could see she wanted to scream. But, it was just too quiet to make a scene. So she grit her teeth and said, "Don't try to pin this on me as usual. I don't get irritated. You get me irritated. And stop all the lecturing, I can't stand it. And the only mood you have, is the against-everything mood."
"I'm trying to have a conversation here. Is that all you can say? What do you think?"

She blew up like a bottle of cheap perfume in a campfire. "I think you're just nuts. I think you're a little dysfunctional upstairs. And as for your opinion, I think the entire thought is pointless. Tell me something. Do you really think you're making a difference? Do you think you're a renegade? Do you think that's cool? What are you rebelling against? Everything and everyone? I'll tell you what I think. You rebel against nothing and no one. You don't even know what you're rebelling against. In fact, all you think and all you say is just a lot of hot air that looks decent but holds absolutely no value to what we, we as in me and every other living person might deem as life. Fine, so the only thoughts and opinions we have are what is driven into us by society, history and historians. We started the fire of lies and deceit and hypocrisy and now we're feeding it, fuelling it. Let us assume that all the great so called truths that you have been propogating all your life is indeed the absolute truth. But I want to know, what goddamned difference does it make?"

"But,..." I thought I should cut in here. If only for argument's sake.

And she went on, "Aren't you going to go to work tomorrow? Aren't you going to collaborate with other hypocritical mortals that live and breathe through a blindfold and a smokescreen? Aren't you going to smile at their dumbness, revel in their joys, work for their glories, go to their birthday parties and wish them for anniversaries of publicly perfect but privately failed marriages? Tell me, doesn't that make you a hypocrite? So, when your entire philosophy never comes to fruition and doesn't effect a change upon your own behaviour, what bleeding difference do you think it makes to me? Me, or to anyone else who nods to your umpteen monologues, or to anyone else who is blissfully ignorant of the absolute truths that you come up with time and again? And you know what, I've had enough of it all. I want to be happy, I want to be with someone who is happy. At the very least, I want to be with someone who can be happy."

And she took her car keys and marched off to her car. I thought of asking her if this means our dinner plans were cancelled, but I decided that it wasn't the smartest thing to do at the moment.
Well, I was pretty stunned. The girl spoke more in those five minutes than in the years during which I knew her. And I like it this way. I like it when people are subjected to extreme emotions; joy, desperation or anger. Those are the only times, they really speak their mind. Unless a person is below 4 years of age that is, and not yet naturally trained in the art of conditioned responses.

Anyway.... I was at 'But..'. But, I was going to say, the point I'm trying to make here is propaganda. Yes, the same propaganda used by various countries, Nazi Germany and the US: during world war II with the purpose of recruitment, increasing productivity, confidence and patriotism and preventing leakage of information. The US again: against the Taliban in Afghanistan, against Saddam Hussein in Iraq and now against the Al-Qaeda. By the Soviet Union, for Stalin and Lenin apart from other communist causes. By countries and businessmen, companies and godmen. Through pamphlets, posters and newspapers. Through the radio and the television. And most effectively, through your neighbour next door.

It hits me everytime I see my favourite-est president; not theirs or ours, but the world's own president, Bush Jr. give one of his most charismatic and eloquent appearances at a press conference. You know the speech, we've heard it all. We think about it, talk about it, we even dream about it. The content is etched forever in our minds and stirs the deepest, darkest fears in our hearts. That America is in danger. The war on terror. Terrorists bang out of hell are all over the United States trying to break their will, their courage, our courage, the world's courage. But we shall not yield, we shall be strong and show them that America's will, our will and the world's will cannot be broken. And so on and so forth. Of course, and a convenient God Bless America at the end of it all. Amen to that.

Herman Goering once mentioned (during the Nuremberg trials): "Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in any country." What hits me is fact and fiction. Hitler's Ministry of Propaganda and Orwell and his 1984's Ministry of Truth. What hits me is the perfect justification for a surprising victory in an election for a surprising candidate for president by a seemingly knowledgeable group of people.

But that's not a really ground breaking thought or philosophy you know. We all know it, it's been written about, it's been spoken about. Hell, it's even been studied. Movies have been made out of it. But that's all we see. The extreme example for the what-if question. What escapes us are all the ingenious, subtle touches that we ignore. Advertisements. Bikini clad women to sell automobiles and motorbikes when they can't ride and can barely drive. Anorexic models to sell designer wear. Let me not even get started on anorexia but would anyone even dream of putting the common, average, overweight, disfigured or even just not-figured man or woman on the ramp? The concept of beauty is the result of the biggest and longest propaganda of man. Why did snow white have to be snow white? Couldn't she have been coal black? If you stood in front of the mirror and asked the million dollar question, who's the fairest of them all, why does it have to show snow white? What does that mean, that she was like a snow-woman made out of sterilized cotton? Or an albino? Thankfully now, and especially thankfully for me, dusky is in, dark is in, even if it is thanks to some really cheesy Mills & Boons novels.

Not getting into pointless details, but all of society's opinion formed supposedly out of free will, be it on success, religion, god, caste, or even my above mentioned prejudice on women not being able to drive is part of an unnatural, vicious cycle of sub-conscious, in-built propaganda. One person's prejudice influencing ten of his friends and two of his children is enough for the spontaneous combustion of the phenomenon that ravages down generations; with each generation feeding the fire until it consumes society. Propaganda that fuels growing prejudice that in turn again fuels propaganda. Hand in hand, ensuring that people form forced opinions apparently, out of free will. Some opinions just went on ringing in our ears over the centuries, became embedded in our genetic make-up, subsequently becoming more than just opinion; a way of life, a fact, the truth.

You know, but she's right. She's always right. Tomorrow morning, I will go to work. To be successful. To someday, drive a sedan into a huge, horrific looking, distasteful bungalow. I will indulge in their hypocrisies, thereby accepting it myself. Revelations don't fill your stomach, they don't bring joy, they don't mean that you won't ride in the best of cars or superbikes. They don't mean that you won't ogle at slim, skimpily clad women on FTV or watch romantic movies with half an hour long dialogues between the protagonists sitting on a solitary bench under a solitary tree on a cliff, under a sky adorned by a full moon and twinkling stars. Revelations don't bring change, they bring peace. Everytime I indulge in any of the aforementioned, I know why I'm doing it. It maybe to satisfy social obligations, or to satisfy my very own cravings. But, I know why. In doing so, I may be hypocritical or I may be genuine. But I know. The knowledge that a country, an individual or the society may force an action upon me, but they cannot force an opinion. True freedom after all, lies within ourselves, in our minds. And that knowledge gives me my peace, for now.

I wish I could explain that to her. I wish she'd understand.

And so the mirror cracked....

That’s the one. That slimy, icky feeling. He got it every time he had to pick up a razor to shave. It’s sad, actually. When a man is 14, he can’t wait for a wee bit of facial hair to start popping their heads out. He can’t wait to lather the cream around the lower part of his face and use the razor like his father does. He can’t wait to be a man. At least feel like one as he tries to look majestic in front of the mirror. The majestic look of course, consists of merely a silly grin. He fails to see that a 14 year old boy who just shaved looks less like a man and more like a 14 year old girl. As the years go by, he begins to realize that shaving might just be a pain in the backside. His skin is rough and itchy. Worse, the stubble hurts his girlfriend and he soon finds out that a close shave and sex go hand in hand. If you don’t get one, you can’t get the other.

The man was in a fix. When a man has a hangover, he wakes up late. When he wakes up late, he just wants to get into a pair of trousers, run out of the damned house and reach office on time. The last thing he wants to do is pick up that razor and rip the bejesus off his face. Not a fix really, because he had already decided what he’s going to do. But, he was still in the process of deciding if he’s….decided.

So the man, in a moment of ingenuity, decided that it was time he became a little more assertive and a lot more decisive. He took out a coin and flipped it saying, HEADS!!. And tails it was. He looked around for a moment to make sure no one’s looking, and made up his mind, Best out of three. This was one of those rare times he wished he was married. These decision-making-thingies are just so much easier. Every question has a simple answer. And the answer always begins with a “Honey,…….?” For example, Which shirt should he wear? “Honey.........” Or for that matter, does he like tomato sauce? “Honey.........” Simple, very simple.

Outcome of the toss notwithstanding, the man thinks he shouldn’t weigh his decisions over a dumb coin and so he listens to his ‘wise inner self’, erases all thoughts of shaving and office and goes right back to sleep.

He woke up at six in the evening to that annoying ring tone on his mobile which meant he had kept a reminder. A little confused and surprised, he read the message. It said, “8.00pm: Dad leaves”. Cursing himself he sprang out of bed and started to get ready. He couldn’t believe that he had forgotten. His father had come over for the weekend to meet a relative. He didn’t want to make pointless conversation with his relatives, so he told his dad he’d come to drop him off at the station. Actually, he just wanted to party and make pointless conversation with strangers. A pang stung his heart when he thought about it but; Never mind, he thought, It’s only dad.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Suave, clean shaven, hair neatly combed and wearing his best suit. He wondered why there was this pressure to impress his own parents. Shouldn’t he? After all, he was an extremely successful investment banker. He should ‘look’ the part. But he hasn’t worn the suit to office and being an investment banker doesn’t impress anyone in office. Every one there is an extremely successful investment banker. It’s a hard job, he thought, I deserve to show off once in a while. But he realizes that he could have easily been happier in a ‘lesser’ job, there’s no way he can spend all he earns. But, there is that pressure to impress. To impress not just his parents or his friends. There is that pressure on his parents to impress their friends and relatives as well. Anyway, it feels nice when people look up at you, when they are impressed by you, he reasons. It’s a pity that it comes rarely, simply because every one at office and at those parties, every one inside of your personal and professional circuit is of the same league. And then it hits him. Like a hammer from heaven. He frowned as it dawned upon him that he studied hard in school, slogged his way through graduation in far away places, landed a great job and worked like a dog for sixteen hours a day, every day. In silence and loneliness, with sweat and for gold, he did all this, so that a few times a year, a few people that he might not know or care for, can be impressed.

I have a good life. I am in the upper class of society. Unfortunately, every class of society has a higher class of society, doesn’t it? Aarrgghh! The conscience is a prick. Oh yes, I most definitely am.

So, he got into the car and started driving down to the station.

The man didn’t like too many people and probably looked up to none. In the very convenient haze that a super-ego provides, he could see none superior, none greater, no flaw in himself and nothing lacking. In fact, there was very little he could see. He couldn’t see anyone above, below or around. All he saw was himself. In spite of being supremely self-centered, the one person he would have died for was his father.

You know, it’s weird really. Some of the people you love the most are the people that you hardly ever talk to, that you barely ever get to spend time with. Sometimes, that’s why you probably love them. Anyway, that is not the case here. He truly loved his dad. He never understood the concept of sacrifice and therefore, he doesn’t remember when he last helped anyone out and therefore, he doesn’t remember any of his friends ever helping him out. But, he remembers his dad. He remembers a father who in spite of a mediocre job, managed to give his son more than just the bare necessities, strived to give him luxuries. A father who never let him feel that sting. The one that the lack of green fabric in your wallet can give. A father who never frowned. For the one man who ever did anything for him without regret or worry and without receiving or expecting anything in return, he was ready to give his life.

Touchy, aren’t they? Humans that is. Sentimental fools, I think at times. Here is this guy who wouldn’t bother to look twice if he saw a man strapped onto the railway track or bother to wrinkle his trousers doing something about it. Unless of course, it was his father. Not any father who has sacrificed or any one else’s father who also has sacrificed, but only his father. The problem with them, I thought, was never sentiment or attachment. It was the callousness to someone else’s attachments or sentiments.

And this was the person he has spent the least time with in the last six years. He almost always avoided thinking about it. It hurt him, but he didn’t do anything about it. Strange again, you see. The man would die for his dad, but he will not pick up the phone and speak to him. God, he’s a walking, talking contradiction. The idiot does not realize that a phone call will probably make his dad happier than if he really died for him. Anyway, he did feel bad. He really did feel bad for his dad.

He parked his car and went to the platform. He looked up to see a big clock that read: 1930 hours. Half an hour of quality time, he thought. Through the swarm of people, he saw his old man on a bench, reading a newspaper, patient as ever. As he got closer, a strange calm filled him. With each step he took, a primitive peace rose within. He could not say if he was happy or if he was sad. He was not numb, but he could not say what he felt. At least this time, he would tell him. He would tell his dad how much he means to him. How bad he felt for him. Walking up to his father, he gave him a hug and sat down.

"How've you been, Dad?"
"Retired, but not yet tired.", he said, smiling as he realised it was a poor joke. "Seriously, I'm fine. My life hasn't changed much. This train keeps the same pace, stops only at the same old stations."
He shrugged as he felt even worse."But, how can you live like that Dad, doesn't it get monotonous?", he asked.
"Do you have an interesting life son? Do you keep doing new things everyday to keep you from getting bored?"
"Yes."
"Yeah, I know. I did that for sometime. Then I got bored of doing interesting things. Some ass said that change is the only constant. It's not only constant, it's bloody monotonous. You'll find out, don't worry.", his father said and ruffled his hair like he was a three year old. "Anyway, how's work at office?"
"It's getting hectic, but it's ok. They're paying me more as well.", he wasn't sure if he was informing or justifying. As he said this, he noticed that the train had begun to move. Realising there wasn't much time left he said, "Dad, I have to tell you something."
His father looked at his watch and turned to him, "No, I have to leave now. Listen to me. You don't know how bad I feel for you son."
The heavens opened, and hammers fell. I'm laughing but the man is being hit all over.

"You work night and day without direction or purpose.", he continued. "You earn, but you don't have anyone to spend it with. You aren't getting any younger, you know. You can't sleep around with strange women forever. Tell me, where do you think you're going with life? Look at me, son. I had a lovely wife and a beautiful child. I earned enough to keep them happy. I spent enough time at work and even more at home. I was never troubled, worried or harassed. I'm hitting seventy, looking forty and feeling twenty. Peace is all my life has been about." He got on to the train, stood at the door and said, "Do something about your life, darling. I feel really sad for you."

I'm rolling on the floor, laughing my ass off. The man didn't know what to say, he just stood there and watched as the train went past. Now, he felt numb. I don't know why he bothered to think like he did. It's weird, really. Man will only look from an angle from where he looks best. Perspective doesn't really mean you look at things in one way. It means you can't or you don't want to look at it in any other way. I don't know why he bothered to think at all. Men think. Hmmm...... I think that's where the problem lies.