The machines which made us

One day they rolled out a machine which we lapped up right away.  As the machine was opened up for masses, we heard every day of hundreds of them being discovered. And then there were thousands. Then the daily count rose to a lakh. It was exhilarating how we were changing overnight into a society that would be immune to the disease . During the days and the nights, we heard the gears and levers of the machine crack and rumble away gloriously and we did not mind the first few sleepless nights.

In the early days, some of us went there because we enjoyed the mere process of the machine, knowing fully well we would survive the test. We held our heads higher and felt a spirit well up inside us, the spirit of people who lead their societies out of an age of slumber. Instead of jeering at them, we had paternal sympathies and the most generous of us even offered a word or two of encouragement.We had to take everyone along , we knew.

But some of us did not agree with this approach. We wanted to impose discipline and punishment. We wanted to weed out them out, round them up, and castigate them. We wanted to herd everybody into the machine. We had grown used to its magical efficacy and it felt like a natural extension, of us, the authentic ones and we suffered from the monstrous urge to mangle them in order to exorcise the damned sins out of their sickened souls..

 However, the zest soon began to abate. We did  want to deny it. But that's how it was. Perhaps it was a sin to be called out. But there were days when we were tired of being so vindictive. And we couldn't help wonder if that was all there is to achieving our goal: making some people fail the test of a machine. There was no big deal it seemed, about being failing as long as you passed the machine.

And the machine was also creaking. At first, they dismissed those sounds.But it broke down one day.A stray gear piece was spat out, its tooth all worn out. It was tough to imagine this inanimate element combine with other tired and lifeless bits into  the grand operation deciding our fates. Then a rumour went about that the machine was losing the halo of authority and the sinners turned up for checking with a certain glee in their eyes rather than anxiety in their hearts. Who could say what the reason was?  Worse, they knew now how to pass the test of the machine and yet continue their sins.Maybe it was not so difficult to fool this mute and motley collection of axles and gears, pistons and valves.

And then there were others who turned up most earnestly at the machine with intentions so pure that you would pity them. They awaited their results as though the creaking machine was a senile oracle still capable of consequential judgments . Squatting mournfully in the antechambers like tired pilgrims. For these people, the machine had acquired a spirit that always transcended the reality of its decline. They gave us the heart to maintain the rickety existence till its end, which seemed near. We felt sorry for them when we should have been regretting our own flagging enthusiasm.

We longed for the days when we knew in our hearts that we were not sinners without the need for the machine. So then we got together one day and decided that the machine was to be shut down and kept respectfully in the museum of failure. Now behind the glass walls, it looks quite ornate really given how much we have moved beyond this species of machinery. At the very least, it looked like a work of art so enigmatic that divine authenticity behind its intent was destined to be celebrated irrespective of its success. And hence, we moved it out of the museum and right into the center of our capital: as a monument to our noble desires.

Of course, what happened over the generations is that its unmissable presence sparked recurrent nightmares in us of the same strange kind: that we would suddenly lose the earth beneath our feet because our hypocritical selves would be discovered and we would scamper like ghouls in the night wondering hopelessly what our sins were about in the first place!!

A Life and its Sounds

Existence contained within the apartment complex these days. Indoors all the while , enjoying the secure privacy of the allotted confines. But losing, every passing day,a grip over the sounds which belong to us. Is the shrill cooker whistling out from our kitchen? Aggressively sweeping our floors in the late afternoon,who? An assertive flushing in which toilet? Too many times, I have gotten up from work to trace these sounds to a source outside our flat. Yet I cannot help waking up with a start when I hear something tumble over and make an ominous din . None of these banal catastrophes turn out to be harmful. They happen elsewhere, in another home, and are of concern to someone else whose face I shall never see.

Why are all these sounds infiltrating? Given that our thick walls block out all television noise ?And with all windows and balconies grilled perfectly, who can complain that the building has not succeeded in the promised redistribution of the piece of space it set out to conquer? At night, I keep hearing what is perhaps an important machine that needs to keep thudding like the weak heart of a giant and kind monster. As this persistent disturbance lulls me to sleep, I am surprised how much I have accepted these stray sounds of shared existence . Almost as if they were my sounds. After all, don't we hear strange noises, the odd squelch or churn rising from the labyrinths inside our own body? Perhaps we should never disown what we merely can't comprehend.

Theatre of Distraction

Considering that I suffer from being hyper-distraction, I truly felt like absolving myself and blaming my neurons for it. What if my neurons were parasites who conspired to make me the way I am: distracted? Sometimes I think of my neurons as weapons that can alter reality. Sometimes I think of them my tired servants who I could pet and comfort. In any case, I feel distanced enough from them to look at the drama of distractions, as if they were actors, and I a spectator.

1. Distractions are like waste plastic lodged in the sea of the brain. They never leave you, they drag you down. They do nothing but eat you from within. Some day I will dredge them up in tons and throw them out.

2.Neurons just love firing themselves much as we like shaking our legs and cracking our knuckles.

3. Neurons do not feel complete without their signals interacting with one source of distraction:the mobile phone. The neurons of the phone want to keep up the resonance with the neurons of the brain.

4.Neurons and synapses: can firing synapses at such high speeds be ever controlled? Can we have free will? Are we not fundamentally distracted by the neuronal traffic from within?

5.Neurons fire and perhaps literally burn like any other forest fire. Raging within. Water needs to splashed on them . I need to go for a bath.

6. Neurons are perhaps moody people. They are meant for great things but are given to mood swings. Maybe they are themselves essentially distracted.

What will happen when the neurons are reined in? Will I be victorious? What will happen? Will I wake up and jump on to the stage to disrupt this drama? Before all of us disappear behind the curtain ?