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 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!!
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!!
No comments:
Post a Comment