SINGULARITY BLUES///

///Singularity-the term which signifies the existence of sentience on earth greater than

collective human intelligence. An event that is speculated to happen in the very near future.

‘Singularity Blues’ chronicles how four ordinary yet distinct persons relate to that possibility.

Images by: Susanth Alexander

Written by: Dhinoj Dings

1.

Affordability. That’s always the main plotline of our lives in the twenty first century, isn’t it?

I once took a creative writing course at the college, in an age which now seems as far away in

the past as the iron age would to the rest of the civilized world. We had a teacher- a pot bellied,

bald headed old man whose tone of speech always tread the line between a frog croaking and a

rattling breeze-who made it a point to spend at least 10 minutes of his daily session trying to

impress upon all the students- a motley crue of disparate individuals trying to find their true

voice in an urge for inner freedom and outer pride-the importance of the plotline in a story.

“I cannot overstate how significant the plot is to your story,” I could still hear him speak. “There

are those who say that it is the spine of a story-whether it be a novel, a play or a movie..but I

say that it’s far more than that. It’s the very breath of your work. Without a strong plot, you

have nothing but a dead body in your hands.”

Sometimes it was rather boring to hear him go on like that. It’s like he didn’t have anything

better to say.

But even the most bored amongst us conceded that the teacher did have a point. Partly

because what he said was kind of obvious- anyone who watches movies would know a story

that doesn’t go anywhere is no fun at all. Part of the reason why a largely young crowd would

accept the old man’s point of view was also because we could see it was a belief system with

him-the story as the religion and the plotline as its central deity.

Now, so many years after college and completely entrenched in the worries of life, I cannot in

all honestly say that I remember his teachings very well. The same holds true for the rest of the

teachers as well, of course.

But his reiterations about plotlines keep coming back to me.

Our lives have plotlines. And you can call it the spine, the muscles, the tendons, whatever..but

it’s imperative that you have a strong one. What was once obvious to me is not so anymore-I

tend to lose sight of the importance of my life’s plotline. Mostly because I intentionally want to

forget about it.

For it is affordability. One way or another, that’s what it always comes down to. Whether it be

loving your children or having the space to breathe some fresh air or the number of places you

see in your life and the extent to which your horizons expand-it’s all about affordability.

Some ten years back, I wouldn’t have said something like that. In fact, I would have protested

against anyone who dared to make such “crass” statements. Life is far more than just money

and the comforts it brings. It is more. Just don’t ask me what it is for in a deeply mystical sense,

it’s not something that can be explained, it must be experienced.

But ten years is a long time. Really long, sometimes. Don’t let people tell you otherwise. Stuff

like, “Life’s very short, so live it up,” doesn’t just cut it when it comes to actual living. I’m not

saying you shouldn’t live it up, if that’s what you want to, by all means go ahead. It could even

be the only good thing you could do with your life.

But that doesn’t mean life is short. Living it up to the summit will still leave you with plenty of

time to suffer. And each of those moments would leave a more indelible impression on your

mind than the ones from which you derived your pleasures. Long moments of agony. Getting

from one dark phase to the next only to find that the next stop too, no surprises here, is a dark

phase.

Long, really long.

My husband left me 5 years ago. My troubles started way before that. Two children and the

memory of a drunkard getting away with his lover. That’s the aftertaste, the unwanted guest

who stays behind even though you want him out and never be back again.

I used to write short stories. Even got a couple of them published in an online mag. But I gave it

up quite soon after getting married. The practice of writing used to be relaxing and I had hoped

would remain like that post-marriage too.

I saw writing as a way of putting reality in a particular order-one that makes sense emotionally

at least, if not logically. But post-marriage life turned out to be one without rhyme or reason.

Couldn’t make sense of it emotionally or rationally, not even when I approached a blank screen

with the cursor blinking in anticipation of a new word. Or better yet, a new story. In fact, trying

to write about my marital experience only pained me more. It was confronting the horror twice

over. And with the taking care of the kids part, it was all too much to do.

I know that sounds apologetic. But with the way I’ve been trying to raise my kids with my

simple job as an office secretary at a mid-size IT firm, I believe I’ve every right to sound

apologetic about some things.

Now that you know this much about me-Sumitra-a woman with an old fashioned name caught

in the consumerist conundrum of buy or perish, I guess you wouldn’t be surprised at the fact

that I like Sundays-the only day of the week I have a holiday. It’s when I can completely relax

with my kids. That is, after cooking the food and washing some clothes, of course.

There’s this one particular time in the afternoon on Sundays when both the kids would take a

siesta and I’d slip into a book or a magazine. Afternoon, post-lunch, may not be the best time to

read, not by conventional standards. For one thing your digestive process is using up a whole

lot of your blood, so your brain’s is not performing at its peak. Also, it’s usually rather too hot in

the afternoons for comfortable reading- even with the ceiling fan on. But for some reason I find

this strange combination of external heat and an internal coldness which is what half-slumber

is, a good mix for processing words. For one, since my brain’s not completely active at such

moments even if there are emotionally charged passages with the power to pull up images

from my memory hole, there’s a fair chance that I won’t register many of them. At least, not

completely.It’s a detached mood is what it is.

The setting sun, the sound of the birds in the morning-these are things that make you want to

give yourself up to life more. In a sense they can be considered as bondages, tying you up to

this madness called existence. But lazy afternoons, especially lazy Sunday afternoons, only

make you think I-don’t-care-about-the-world-the-world-can-go-to-hell. Under optimal

conditions you are not even sure if you really care about the idea of existence at all. A perfect

setup to make your getaway into a book.

But it wasn’t exactly an escapist book that I read this last Sunday. I mean, in a sense it was, but

not completely..

Let me clarify on that.

I don’t know when I began to take a serious interest in science. Well, maybe “serious” is too

grand a word, but I have no doubt that the interest is in earnest. The science section was never

really a part that I frequented in the library. Always hung around the aisles of fiction . If you

came looking for me in the library, then you should know that you have the best chances of

finding me sandwiched between Mary Shelly and W.G.Seibald(ok, not in the sense some might

be imagining) than hanging out with Charles Darwin or Steven Pinker. I don’t mean to say I was

completely immune to the charms of science- I guess when you read fiction a lot you end up

being interested in everything. But it used to be a hazy sort of interest, something I indulged in

half-heartedly as I knew there were many other things about which I was more passionate

about.

All that changed after my husband left me. In fact, for a few months after it(yes, I call it just it

sometimes) I didn’t read anything at all. Even contemplated giving up on reading entirely,

including the newspapers. After all, it’s using words that we articulate thoughts. And thoughts

are what hurt me the most.

But I couldn’t do away with reading as easily as I could with writing. For one, reading is more

passive than putting words on an empty paper or screen. For another, it allows me to listen to

other voices, to be able to know that in this wretched world there lives men and women other

than me-some even with happy lives.

But the power of words is such that you get hurt even when you empathize with a character or

a writer. In fact, facing pain is the prerequisite for empathy. And I guess it was this inevitable

discovery that made me gravitate(no pun intended) to science writings. For in science you ride

more on logic than emotions. And the empathy you have for fellow beings flows out in the form

of an speculative product than as a production of feelings.

Oh yes, I liked that. I liked that a lot.

I guess I have always had trouble resolving my own emotions. And that’s the primal emotion

that drives me to dream of a scientific innovation that’d free us all from the clutches of

emotions of all shades and colors.

For a lion share of humans in the world, it’d be a blessing that I am not a scientist. Otherwise,

who knows what I’d have invented? Some implant in your head and the next time you see your

totter you’d go, “Four limbs. Two eyes.Two ears. Check.”

But the edition of Popular Science that I read last Sunday, the drops of afternoon ebbing

towards the evening stream and with my son(the younger, 3 years old) on my right side with

his thumb stuck in his mouth and my daughter(4 years with the ferocity of a banshee when

she’s awake) lying next to him, both asleep, looking royal in their sleep.-an article in the

magazine made me dream even more about emotionlessness.

It was about singularity. A term I have heard somewhere before. But I had to read the

description given as a blurb above the article to remember what it actually implied. It referred

to the event whereby the artificial intelligence of the earth surpasses the collective human

intelligence.

The article, which said that this event would happen no later than 2030, possibly before that,

then went on to detail about post-human evolutionary possibilities. One of them is the

completely automated robot capable of thinking for itself, something that has been the dream

of science fiction for years. The article, written by some geeky guy with a ton loads of Phd and

who is a chair in a university(that sort of thing always makes me laugh) shed light on the chance

that the coming of the robots would be like humans passing the baton on to the better beings.

And that the evolutionary divide between the two species would be akin to the distance

between the ape and the human in the ladder of natural selection.

Though there were some theories about how humans can even control the robots-thereby

having ultra-intelligent slaves to do your bidding, I was more fascinated by the scenario in

which the robots roamed free. The masters of a new world.Devoid of emotions.Self-awareness,

yes. Crying and wailing, no.

I imagined what it’d be like to be one of them. To be alive and be completely detached from

whatever is going on around you. Being untouched by all events except in a very pragmatic,

decisive way(Even though the number of humans who claim this to be their life philosophy is

high we know very well that that’s never truly the case).

I wondered if they’d also make the same mistake as we did-turn everything into a game of

affordability. Life as an elaborate game of monopoly. Or will they be smart enough to build a

better world for themselves? I recently read somewhere that more than 80% of the world’s

wealth belongs to less than 1% of the human population..

Of course, with their amazing intelligence the AIs can be trusted to make better moves. Or so I

hope. They wouldn’t cry, neither would they create any situations that necessitate crying.

The afternoon slipped away like it never existed. My children woke up, one after the other.

They went out to play in the small front yard. I made some tea and we all had some biscuits

with it. My mother visited that evening. Life went on.

Only, for me, it wasn’t enough.

2.

I am afraid to sleep.

For how would I know if I am with you when I’m asleep?

I just… I just.. I’ve always been looking for you. And I did find you, not because of my inherent

merits but out of your unending benevolence. I come to the church and come away feeling like

an angel. Feeling all the more closer to you. At home I sing about your glory when I’m in the

kitchen, while in the garden and while taking a bath…. My husband sometimes jokes that I’m

crazily in love with you, says he even envies you.

You know Charlie is a good man. He too is devout, but he does have a point. I don’t let anyone

love you more than I do. And that includes my husband too.

When down with a fever, I know the medicine is just a proxy, a disguise worn by you. And when

calamity strikes the neighborhood in the way of a fire caught from a short circuit I realize that

all the helping hands, mine included, that reach out for the needy, are but yours.

Many are your glories. So many that if I were to dedicate the rest of my life to their recitation,

or indeed if a miracle child were born whose sole purpose is to keep recounting your wondrous

deeds from the first second of his life till when he draws his last breath at age 100, that would

only cover a single grain of sand in the endless beach of your divine glories.

And yet, and yet, I am helplessly drawn to praising you. For who wouldn’t when they see the

leaves of a tree fluttering in the wind, or the way in which a baby moves its limbs? These are all

miracles, astonishing worlds in themselves. Creation is your greatest accomplishment. And in it

you have placed windows to your soul. So that at least some of us may catch a glimpse of it .

And one glimpse is often enough to start a life-long relationship. A life-changing relationship.

For I know from my own experience that once I’ve seen your face, I have never looked at

anything the same way again. For wherever I look it’s your holy face I see.. Every surface, every

atom, every mystery, is suffused with your divine light. It’s as though we mortals are blind. Not

seeing it and walking around going in circles, searching for we have no idea what..

My bones ache with a weariness that is my greatest pleasure. For it’s from the seeking. I walk a

lot, Lord, for thy sake. I cannot follow you on your ascend to Golgotha, and neither can I assist

you with the cross, for I am just an old lady, fragile in her limbs but earnest in her heart. I walk

everyday, not just on Good Fridays, recounting in my mind your passion, the greatest gift that

mankind has ever had.

But mankind, what do they do?

Mankind.So fragile.And yet so arrogant. So proud, and yet fallen from the very beginning.

Sometimes it is hard to live in the same place as all these other humans. I am having trouble

especially with the new breed. The young ones that have the run of the world. Indeed, Lord, I

believe they are evil, many of them descended directly from the line of Satan. But I’m not

afraid, Lord, and neither is Charlie-for I tell him not to be-for I am sure everything only ever

proceeds according to your plan.

These children of mammon being in the world is also part of your grand plan for the future. A

future that makes us all throb in anticipation of your second coming. The skies would part and

we would be blessed with the true vision of heaven. And when these sons and daughters of

Satan set their eyes on thy divine form their pupils will get burned and from the unholy sockets

sprout crimson blood to wash your feet.

Charlie tells me to take it easy on these so-called ‘new-generation’ people. According to him

they aren’t really all that bad. You know how Charlie is, lord. You know he’s a softie and is

gullible in some ways, even though matured with age as he is. He thinks there’s something cute

about the way these young people spend an awful lot of time on their computers or mobile

phones. “Cute in an intelligent sort of way,” that’s what he says. And I don’t know what that

means and neither do I wish to.

The way I see it these children of the unholy don’t know their tails from their horns-so they

need some sort of device to be always at their disposal to tell them what’s what. They are

“hooked” by virtue of their own ignorance.

And how they hate us- the elderly population. No matter how hard I think I cannot conceive of

another word than “hate” to describe their general attitude to people like us. If there are no

rules in place to prevent them from murdering the likes of us I wouldn’t be sure if they wouldn’t

simply go ahead and do just that .

It’s not like we have done anything wrong to them. Most of us are parents who did their best to

bring up their children. But the children grow up to be individuals, separate from whatever that

their parents represented-in body or spirit o. And the worst part is that they have no idea about

what it means to be one in faith.

If only they could take the leap and believe. In the true God born in Bethlehem 2000 years ago,

way before all this information boom and the big glass-cased offices were put up for the sake of

I don’t know who. Then, the evil generation would have done something positive with their

lives, something more than just repeating the cycle of earn-do-earn-die. If only they could break

that cycle with something called ‘devotion’ how different everything would have been?

But they know not. For they aren’t fated to know. Their learning is academic, not universal. And

their ambitions always sky-high but never lofty enough.

The world is a treat for them. Something to enjoy. And the only thing they have to give back in

return, so they believe, is tax. They know nothing about your divine laws and the retribution

which awaits them at the end of their lives. They care not about the virtues of simplicity and

acknowledging the fear of God as the beginning of knowledge. I have a son, my only child, and

he is no different from the rest of his peers. The only reason why we still get along is because I

am his mother and he my son.

Please don’t think, my dear Lord, the light in my heart, that I am only generalizing. That I’m

citing a passing trend and blowing it out of proportion.

This is it. This is how things are. And with this evil generation at the helm of everything there’s

only one way that things are going to go. And that road most definitely doesn’t lead to heaven.

Take for instance this thing about building superhuman beings that the priest was speaking

about at the sermon yesterday. Apparently, they are thinking up these beings that’d surpass us

in intelligence by eons and would probably take over the world in not more than another

fifteen years. That’s not a lot of time.

Now why would they do something like that, you might wonder. Of course, you won’t because

you are the master of all and knows everything but I might as well go ahead and say it-it’s

because they are born so that they could bring the human civilization to an end. The

apocalypse. That’s your plan. Everyone thinks you’re just standing back doing nothing while this

generation keeps on buying cars and gadgets and drill a hole up there in the sky so that the sun

could beat down on us even more fiercely. So more of us could die of cancer.So that this green

world would approximate the hell that’s waiting for most.

But you are not just standing back doing nothing. You’re smiling, seeing your plan in action. And

the time is so very near, oh , yes, it’s near.

“Why would man want to create a being such as that?,” the parish priest asked the question in

his sermon. “When God can bring forth the most magical of beings from the very earth?...It’s

just vanity. Just imagine, brethren, the human race is in cut-throat competition with itself. Man

against man, son against father, woman against woman. Supposedly, a particular segment

called ‘consumers’ are the beneficiary of all this hectic competition. What we all fail to

remember is that everyone is in competition, no one is excluded. So, even when we benefit we

benefit for the sake of competing well. Competition has come to signify the mainstay of our

lives. ALL our lives.Which is not at all in line with what the good lord has taught us: virtues like

patience, simplicity, brotherly love and camaraderie. Competition brings all that down. Now,

I’m not saying that doing business is wrong, not by a long shot. But, I am saying that there’s

something wrong with the way business is done in this world. And that’s where the trouble is.

Competition only makes you come out with the most radical products, disregarding all

goodness. Because, at whatever cost you must stay ahead of your competition. And if bringing

super-humans out of the factory line is what it takes to do that, that’s what they’re going to do.

No point thinking otherwise, because thinking, in this institution, is limited to the confines of a

pie chart and flow diagrams. Never beyond. Imagine the folly in the situation, my dear

brethren, in which we are able to predict to a more than reasonable level of assurance the

expiry date of our own race. Which, as it turns out, is much closer than we have imagined.

‘Nonetheless, we must trust the Lord. If He wishes these things to come about, they will

happen. Otherwise, it doesn’t matter how much the representatives of the human race try for

it, it wouldn’t happen. As simple as that. The most important thing, though, that we as earnest

Christians must keep in our minds is that no matter the course of the future it’s only his true

devotees who come out as the inheritors of heaven in the end. Now let us pray..’

I can still hear the priest’s words as if he was standing right beside me whispering them into my

ears.

The scariest thought about what he said of the new beings? Well, it was not the annihilation of

the human civilization-that is a given. The final judgment is a reality that simply must come to

pass. What particularly sent the chills down my spine was the thought about them-the new

sentient beings that are to inherit the earth.

It would be a living hell to be one of them, I suppose. Because even if they are self-aware and

super-intelligent as they say they would be, it’s only us humans from all the species which God

has chosen to be his special ones. Made in his own image and shape. Adam and Eve were

representatives of the human race. Not any robotic race.

What that means is, even with their futuristic intelligence they will not be able to know him, for

only we are saved by the blood on the cross. Not robots.

To live a life not knowing you as the lord of everything, Jesus, is a living hell indeed. I’d venture

to say that’s the worst sort of punishment there is. Of course, the animals live such a life, but

they are more or less subservient to us. And those that aren’t so, the ones that still spend their

time in the wild-they amuse us when we see them in the television. So they all serve some

purpose for humans-entertaining us, providing us with food, doing tasks for us, guarding us…I

am sure you will give them their dues, for what they do for the highest species.

But these new beings about which the priest said-they are going to be hardly subservient to us,

if I heard things right. In fact they have the potential to rule over us. That means they will not

be able to gain merits like animals that serve us. They will simply be sentient beings without the

conception of God.

Of course, one might say that humans can program them to believe, but true belief is no result

of programming. Rather, it is a gift that comes from above. And to receive that gift one must

have a heart, a beating heart made of flesh. Made by the true God.

A robotic heart is crafted by human hands. Hands guided by thoughts that originate in brains

that probably carry as much evil thoughts in them as they could.

In the absence of a heart there is no divine grace. In the absence of grace, there is no mercy.

Without mercy these beings are just living dead. Isn’t that so, lord?

Ah, even now when I think about those creatures, leading a life without any chance of the

divine glory illuminating their hearts, existing without a chance of worship or constant

devotion.. It’s the highest horror. The priest said that these beings will be able to self-replicate.

That could mean that they have the potential to live forever.

Oh my Lord, now I know what that means..to live forever without knowing you, without

thinking or dreaming about you…you are bringing hell down on earth.

Everlasting glory to you-the one closest to every heart. Amen.

3.

I have always suspected that the theory of love being blind is wrong. Fake. Love is extremely

particular. If love were blind, people wouldn’t have to wait for years to fall in it. I say rather that

love is just about the only thing that is truly not blind in this world.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t mean it in any mystical sense. I ‘m only seventeen, so around

metaphysics is definitely not where I hang out . It’s just that ever since I saw Anu for the first

time-that was last summer- I’ve been having revelations(for need of a better word) about love.

To be honest I never thought I’d fall in love this early in my life. My parents’ were a love

marriage., but they met each other at a mutual friend’s wedding and by that time my father

was already 32. “I count myself lucky that a woman 6 years my junior could still fall in love with

a 32 year old guy” was something that father often said.

I have always thought that romance is a yucky thing to indulge in. In fact, I never expected me

to fall in love at all, at any point in my life. For there are way cooler things to do than hanging

out with a chick. Like playing the Xbox or driving a fast car once I get my license, or backpacking

with your friends. Our world is so full of choices that most of the time we don’t even know

whiat to choose. Given that why’d anyone go and pick the choice that isn’t really a choice at all-

a girl? That was the guiding logic of my life-until I met Anu.

She with the ponytail and the dimple on her cheek. She who smiled only rarely but when she

did you never forget it. Same goes true for her speaking, at least it did in the initial state of our

relationship when it was as hard to get a word out of her as it was to get a squeeze of paste out

of a spent toothpaste tube.

But , slowly she-and along with her, I –picked up the tempo of romance. Learning the art of

flirting in earnest can be quite gratifying, as it turned out. It not only lets you approach your

loved one in a more confident way, it also makes you see yourself in a different light. At first

you aren’t quite sure if you even want to see yourself in that particular light-yellowish, very

hazy. This resistance is very much true if you come with an inclination more for cg games and

lazy mornings than for romance, like I did. But, still, I know there are those who wouldn’t like

themselves in any light but this one. Now, where was I? Yeah, Anu!(Where else?:))

The thing with girls is since they don’t know what exactly they want they are never truly

satisfied, even when you give them the best you can. In terms of companionship, Valentine’s

gift or picking the call even if you were in the bath. What this means is that it can be particularly

strenuous at times to maintain a relationship. And if that makes me sound like a bloody

marriage counselor at the wrong side of 40, then please excuse me, but love does make you

mature fast. Maybe not as much as sorrow, but it does.

Right now, I ‘m going through one of those strenuous phases. Of course, the cardinal rule of

staying in love is that you should never let it be shown that you are under any type of pressure

when you are with her. That’d only make matters worse. You must, under all circumstances,

act as smart and cool as Jack Nicholson when he was at the height of his career, even though

you might be feeling like a Hollywood wannabe who fell by the wayside.

I am telling you this because I learned it by hard experience and I don’t wish anyone else

should go through the whole process themselves. Believe me, it’s rough weather like you never

anticipate. Sometimes you even wonder how come you’re still standing when the world has

obviously come to an end.

So, here I am, in my room, sitting in the dark, on my bed, hunched shoulders, chin on the palm

of my hand, thinking about what to do. Apparently, she thinks that I don’t give enough

attention to her anymore. Apparently, this idea of hers has got a lot to do with the fact that I

failed to call her last evening. The fact that my phone was dead last eve and I was out with my

parents(to buy my little sister a giant panda of all things!) didn’t come across as a trustworthy

report to her, apparently. She still maintains that I forgot to call her. Remained rooted in her

stand even after I sent her that MMS of my sister’s new panda doll.

No thoughts come to my mind. I mean, they do-but none of them very useful. One is about a

possible strategy that I can use in the next phase of the game I’m playing these days. Another is

about what lie to tell my parents so that I could have a Rs. 500 . So I can buy the new Call of

Duty(I’m 500 rs. short and I can give it to you in writing that if I tell my dad the real reason why I

want the money, he’d just laugh pointing his hand at me, as if I were a crazy person).

I feel exasperated. That’s another way of saying I’m going to sleep now. But wait, oh, I think I’m

having an idea now-about how I can make up with Anu. This is extremely impractical, but what

the hell, while I am lying down to sleep, and you’re already half-asleep by the time the back of

your head hits the pillow, you don’t care if the idea is as impractical as turning a mountain

upside down, if it has some entertainment value you would let the idea play around in your

head, partly because that way you get to go to sleep with a fun feeling, and also because at the

back of your mind you hope the idea would transmute into something useful, with the aid of

the ever awake subconscious.

My idea is inspired by the game I’m into currently. This didn’t really surprise me ‘cause it’s a

game I’ve quite liked and that’s not something I say a lot. The game is set in a futuristic world-

you might even say a post-apocalyptic world-where only a very few humans are left. But they

are the most powerful of all men and women and that’s part of the reason why they survived.

Their continued existence owed a lot to their ability to control the ‘Others’- Cyborgs with

superhuman intelligence. The ‘Master’s, as their owners called themselves, waged war using

the Others as the soldiers. The Masters simply watched from their consoles, protected by both

distance and the anonymity of their location, as their more intelligent minions fought for them,

so they could have more, even more land than they already have. The truly habitable regions of

the earth were limited in number and you had to pay a premium to own what remains . It’s just

that the premium happened to be wars, waged by completely man-made bodies and governed

by man.

The kick of the story is that a couple of the Masters now seek peace, the ravages of the

apocalypse has left a deep mark in their psyche. The rolling thunders and the raging volcanoes

and everything else of the kind that formed part of the cataclysm apparently reinstated their

brains to a position of sanity-that’s what the makers of the game would have you believe. And

even though I can see how that might be the hardest of all the beers in the shop to buy-evil

people rarely reform, come whatever- I am going with that plot given that the CG is awesome

and it’s simply amazing to be one of the good Masters and try to reinstate some sort of peace

back in a world that’s fragmented beyond recognition.

The best part of playing this epic POV game is that you get to feel what it’s like to be in control

of a being far more intelligent than you. Of course, by ‘control’ it’s not control in the

conventional sense. It’s sort of an intellectual dance that you play with your minion. You have

to give him enough space that he deserves or the dance is all going to be haywire. One thing

about the minions-you absolutely, positively do not want to piss them off. They are always just

one step away from realizing that they needn’t remain anyone’s slave . Part of your challenge

as the gamer is that you must keep the minions satisfied enough to keep them in your service

and free enough to let them know that you are lenient.

If they break free there’s only one possible outcome: they are going to take over and kill what’s

left of humanity.

But it’s a challenge that I love taking up. For the sheer sense of power. Which is deep-rooted in

us humans, I believe. And being in control of something immensely more powerful than you,

well that’s the ultimate kick.

And my impractical idea of resolving issues with Anu is based on this. I am thinking I should give

her one of those minions as a gift. Though Valentine’s Day is just past and Diwali is still too far

away, I think there’s still a good scope for a gift. Especially since I have an issue to resolve.

I’d give her all the necessary instructions to handle the minion. She should enjoy the awesome

power of being in control of something that good. Well, I do so wish my girlfriend could enjoy

the best of primal satisfactions, all thanks to good ol’ me

And as I slip into the deepest sleep, I am thinking, what else could a minion possibly be good

for?

4.

Blood.

And sand. Not to forget sand.

That’s the kind of opening that’d suit a spy thriller or a vengeance caper better than it would a

stand up comedy routine.

Well, you can never be sure but I have a feeling that’s so.

The thing with routines is that you can never really know what turn they are going to take next.

Or, let me rephrase it, the audience oughtn’t know what’s coming next if the routine is to be

successful. My name is Pranav Mukharjee. People call me Pranav Mukherjee and I have my own

show in one of the premier comedy channels in India. Plus, I get invited to huge parties and

events so big most people wouldn’t know they even existed.

Now, my wife and I sometimes ruminate about why it is that people inevitably run against

obstacles in life. At one point or another.In fact, at more than one point or another. It’s what

we are born to do, at least that’s the appearance. The positive people of the world-the yoga

teachers and cheerleaders and suchlike, they view these obstacles-problems- not as roadblocks

but as hurdles that one must jump over. And each hurdle that you overcome only makes you

stronger.

Now, I don’t have anything against that viewpoint, and as far as I know neither does my wife

even though she’s not a standup comedian and hence lacks the professional know-how to

realize that some view points of the world should be accepted and laughed over but never be

pondered.

But I do have some reservations about that view. Getting stronger is all good and well but when

I googled for stats related to athletes the other day I found that the athletes, including the ones

who jumped hurdles for a living, rarely outlived their bulky, exercise-devoid, slow moving rest

of the population.

So, why have these hurdles at all?

Of course, me and my wife ruminate over the point only when we are not fighting with each

other, this essentially means the time we get to do this is limited. So, I haven’t got to the point

where I could actually solve the riddle about why all the bloody hurdles but I know I’m on the

same boat as you, whoever you are. I also face shit, which we diplomatically term “challenges”.

Slip on shit and fall down and stand up again to get the accolade that goes by the name, “Oh,

there, he faced the challenge bravely” An epaulette that you get to wear, but only for a few

days since collective memory has only so much shelf-space-We all have our own shit to slip on,

dude!

Anyway, my latest “challenge” is something which I happened to be facing for the very first

time in my life. I’ve been writing stuff from a very early age. From the tender age of 5 if you can

believe it. No, I’m not kidding, I still have the scribbles from that age preserved, well-framed .

For reference and close inspection, you can call me any time at 89654328. You’ll see then with

what poetic fervor had I put down stuff life “Da bad fucka” and “Ma cool sluh” etc on paper.

Using bright red crayons. Ah, yes, even in that age I was one bad mothehfuckah!

Coming back to the point, I now find that the wisdom with which I perceived things including

those in my immediate surroundings has sort of vanished from my life. And the vanishing was

no gradual thing. It’s exactly a “one fine morning” thing.

One fine morning I woke up to find that my wellspring of wisdom, the driving force that kept

the wheels of my creativity going, has vanished completely.

Ever since I’ve started writing on a professional scale, or level, or whatever, I only write in my

study. Earlier, I could do it anywhere-in the coffee shop, at the dining table, in the garden, even

in the toilet while taking a dump. But once I became a celebrity and my picture started

appearing in the Sunday columns of the newspaper (a quaint old thing that’s still being used by

people for I don’t know why) I found that I needed the confines of the same four walls to cajole

my creative wordoodles out of their nest in my mind. I didn’t mind that transition. I liked my

study, for one. And for another, it really is true what they say-smaller rooms do make you

concentrate better.

I don’t remember who it was who said that-Van Gogh or Rembrandt or someone like that, but

he was damn right about the small room. In fact, a small room could be more reliable than your

wife in that the said room always succeeds in bringing the best,and only the best, out of you.

Don’t think that I’m being sexist, or worse, insensitive, for I know that the converse could be

true as well-A woman could be in a small room and feel the same way. A husband is only

another utility, she realizes there. A utility which she tries her best to anthropomorphize. The

result being a whole lot of weird men living in the planet looking like they are cloth hangers

disguised as men, for that’s how they feel inside.

Oh, my, now I did it, didn’t I? Now, I’m being sexist.

Now, you see that? How I can’t seem to be able to do what I want to do? How do you suppose I

can go on if I can’t do what I want to do? I wish for A and I end up with B, and when I have

promised someone A and I go to them with B, and I get trashed for that and the world becomes

messier, angrier, meaner than ever before, what am I supposed to do?

That’s exactly what’s happening with me these days. I cannot write a single line of comedy,

good or bad. Writing an entire routine seems like a pipe dream. I don’t know why this event has

come to pass. Writer’s block is not something I’d envisioned for myself.

There are those who say that it’s only if you have a writer’s block would you know that you are

a true writer. I say to all of those, screw you! I’ve been able to buy three apartments and a

share in a very successful hotel chain all because of my writing. I’d say that counts for more

than true. Why wouldn’t you?

So, what’s with this block-thing, I wonder? It’s been three days and whenever I sit down to

write my fingers knot together all by themselves. As if they are actually afraid to write. To see

for what words they’d have to act the conduit.

I try telling them that it’s only comedy, one joke after another that I’m gonna write, so why are

you getting all worked up about? And if you are so worried about the ultra-conservative

factions in Indian society that never fail to cause me trouble whenever I’m performing on a

stage, let me ask you, my lovely fingers, isn’t it kind of late to be worrying about such things?

I’m a bloody stand-up comedian, for crying out loud! It’s my livelihood to give offence to

people. And anyone who says they can perform a great routine without offending at least one

sensitive soul simply doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Slipping on shit. That’s what we do. I’ve a show coming up in three days, conducted by one of

my friends who’s very confident that I’d be able to turn out something good. As I was also

confident of-until this block-thingy popped up out of nowhere. My friend’s already advertised

that I’d be appearing on stage with some “brand new material.” In fact, I’m pitted as the main

attraction for the night- a gala opening of a show to display a few of his latest art acquisitions-

this one from Egypt during the time of pharaohs and their great undertakings.

My routine was supposed to be woven around the theme of pharaohs and more specifically,

their loincloths-that’s the brief that he gave me and even though I don’t know how that would

appeal to his audience, I was all game for it. as I know he is an astute businessman who rarely

misread his target audience. Allso, I was so sure I’d have a ton loads of fun taking jabs at the

pharaoh’s loincloth.

But all that looks in hindsight like a child’s dream of going to Disneyland in the morning only to

find upon waking that it’s only yet another ordinary school day in the land of the living created

by all the walking dead-called parents.

Words, why don’t you come to my aid?

I know what else I can do-I can get someone to ghost write for me. I know there are shitloads of

talented writers out there who would just give anything to see their words presented in front of

a live audience-never mind someone else would be getting all the credit for their work. In fact,

half my work table is taken up by piled up applications from all these talented people. But it’s

not something that I have ever done- getting someone else to write for me. I got into the

business because with my chubby looks and the voice that everyone-even my closest friends-

say is like “cheese trying to masquerade as a beef stake, which is damn funny” and also because

I want to make a career doing some writing. On my own.

But I can only give it one more day to see if this block will lift. If nothing happens tomorrow,

then I simply must get someone or the performance will go haywire. I also have to write some

material for the upcoming television show episode- a special episode to coincide with Diwali-

Haseephataka, that’s what they’re tagging it as. Not very creative, I know, but then television is

never really known for it’s pleasing levels of creativity. I guess if I am hiring someone after all,

I’ll give the guy(or gal) that other assignment too- a shot at national television. I can even get

someone to write free if that’s the stake I throw at them. Not that I intend to do anything like

that. The writers of the world must get paid just like anyone else.

But I still don’t like the idea of hiring someone to do the laundry, so to speak. Writing in any of

its form is exactly like doing laundry. You have some ideas, dirty as hell and not at all looking

like ideas which you must then clean up and with the aid of words make presentable to an

audience. It’s one laundry I want to do myself! And you just have to ask my wife to learn that

that’s not the kind of statement I make so easily.

That’s one reason why I’m writing this. In the hope that the exercise will help me clear my head

enough to unhinge the magic cork that’s blocking all the words. Let the flow begin, dammit!

My audience is waiting for me!

If I had an automaton of my own-a super intelligent robot that could write the pieces for me, I

just might have given the task over to him. There, I don’t suppose I’d have so much qualms as I

would with enlisting a mere human for the job. There, I would only be making my job more

efficient. Isn’t that what’s fundamental about all sorts of work these days, at least the sorts of

work which would help you pay the bills.

Think about it, you take any profession-right from accounting to cricket to construction- and

you see that none of them are left untouched by processes of automation with the aid of IT.

That’s done with no other aim but to improve efficiency. Why would a writer’s job be any

different. Only, I’m not talking here about handing over typing jobs to someone. There already

exists software for that. You can just dictate and the notes would be taken down for you though

I see techies on the net lamenting all the time about how ‘primitive’ these systems are and how

they consistently get many words wrong.

But that’s beside the point. What I’m talking about here is the kind of artificial intelligence

that’d take up the challenge of writing comedy routines that’d actually make people laugh.

Laugh until they cry, even.(oh, yes, on my best days, I’ve had that effect,andlemme

unashamedly tell you that seeing your audience react like that is one experience that brings

tears to my eyes). This kind of robot was envisioned by Asimov in one of his short stories-only,

there it was an artificial being that wrote short stories and not comedy routines.

But it’s practically the same thing and if someone like the old grandsire of science fiction ould

envision something like that, then you can be fairly certain such an event is possible. Maybe

even in the near future, but unfortunately, if that near future isn’t tomorrow or at least the day

after it won’t be of help for me So, in the absence of my super-robot, what next? I take a pause

to find that I am still only left with one alternative. To bring in another human writer. That

wouldn’t be making the process more efficient, I wouldn’t say that, and I believe no writer

worth his mettle would concede such a thing, not even to himself, especially not to himself.

Forget how good this hired hand could be. It just doesn’t work that way. If I bring in another,

it’d only be a temporary arrangement. Oh, yes, that’s exactly what it is.

Human psychology is a strange thing. Even a comedian’s psychology is filled with serious pitfalls

like this.

What can you do except keep slipping on shit every now and then.

And stand up again and walk on. As if nothing has really happened.

Oh, wait, just as I thought I was to stop this piece on that dark slip I now hear some knocking

inside my brain. As if someone or something wants the door of words to open in earnest. And I

can feel it, the flooding in of light, the opening of the door…no, that’s not the right order, but

you get my point. Words may look black on a white surface but when they come from your

inner core they are the whitest of light, the purest of dreams and the loftiest of ambitions that

you can think of.

Even though we use words to convey our emotions and imaginings, the best of them always

come from beyond. You cannot imagine up the right word. You can only dream it.

Now the words are coming to me. The knocking is still on. But the words..hey, wiat a minute,

why would the knocking be going on like this? The words are coming, right? Oh, shit, I now see

that it’s just my wife knocking on the door, calling me to breakfast . The light of words is just

the sun which must be on the first phase of its ascent now sending its rays into my room

through the open window.

And the sound of words that I heard was simply the sound of snickering done by all the people

in my mind who see how I slip again on shit, and fall like a fool.

Stand up, I say to myself. And I do, only to go for breakfast.

THE END