The Anarchist's Flaw

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 25; the Silver Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'When Journey Meant More Than Destination'.

To whoever may read this,

I do not know what it feels like to stand on the edge of a precipice, looking down at flames of chaos and knowing that I have been the cause. I do know what it feels like to look into the eyes of the man who would kill me and feel the cold end of a pistol on my forehead. I have a good feeling, as I sit here writing this, I will know soon enough.

I was born 28 years ago in April, 2050 to a normal middle class family with normal middle class aspirations. I, however, was always a rather strange child. At least that’s what everyone said about me. I had an IQ of over 200, which I came to know about several years later into my life. But no, that’s not what was queer about me. I’ve always had the strange ability of blacking out at the rarest of moments and catch a glimpse into what is to come. Something like what I’d read about the great Nostradamus. However, I only saw glimpses into my own future. When I was 12 and was graduating magna cum laude having majored in physics and neurology. It never appeared strange to as to why I had chosen those two rather disparate subjects. I was building towards a greater end. I might only say that it was something I had foreseen. I know it sounds unbelievable, but I was obsessed by my power and the possibilities of how far I could use it. I had seen my abilities and what I would be able to do with it. I also knew I could never change the future. What I saw would certainly come to pass.

By the age of 16, I was working at a university laboratory to research the fourth dimension. I was obsessed with wanting to translate the visual to the tangible. Amalgamate the three dimensions with the fourth, if I may say so. I had known for a long time that time travel would not be impossible. The technology had been there for some time. I just hadn’t come along sooner to do it.

It took me seven years. I made it. It was a helmet connected to three cylinders of liquid nitrogen. No ordinary helmet, of course. The inside of the helmet had needle like spokes, much like needles used in acupuncture and were meant to stimulate specific parts of my brain.This would result in specific circuit of neurons to be connected in my brain which would then create a rather abnormal charge. This charge was the reason of my visions, if you will, for the lack of a better word. I found a way to channel this spark and accelerate the particles involved in it. Einstein was wrong. But then, the 1940s was too early to talk about time travel. It was a simple matter of combining light particles with the charge produced in my brain and pass it through to a powerful computer. The computer would then generate a holographic image of what I was seeing. Only I wouldn’t just be seeing it anymore. It turned out that though my body stayed in the same time dimension, my mind travelled and when it landed to a point in another dimension of time, because of the automatic need for the feel of everything, it recreated my body there. So I never physically disappeared from the ‘present’. But I was able to interact with people from the future and later come to witness those very moments in the present. I was successful.

However, I never ventured into the past. Memories cannot be changed and in any case, it could have destroyed the space-time continuum and the way they are so intricately connected together would have been shred to pieces. I never gave it much thought At the time I was busy with my technology, America and China were preparing for war with each other. The whole world had taken sides. But no guns were being fired yet. It was like the calm before a great typhoon. I was 24 and rather arrogant. All I saw in the world was ineptitude and corruption. Ever since I was small, I had wanted to eradicate the world of the vermin that led us. They led us to the brink of destruction and it never seemed like they would stop. I wanted to bring about a new world order. A open world which thinks  and knows what it's doing. We would be a perfect human race. I used my device to see how this would be done. 

I could never control how far I would go into the future. I would only see important moments, when I was particularly excited or stimulated. Important moments in my life. I saw the great world war come to pass and I saw how I did it. I found that I would discover how to intrude into the online defence systems of each country and fire ballistic missiles to target any point on the globe. I found that I would discover how to keep anyone from realising this. China attacked America. America fought back. The UK and France hit Russia because they supported China. India fought China and Pakistan at the same time. There was fire burning everywhere. Every major city in the world was in flames. And laughable though it is, I was the sole reason it happened. Of course, there’s always the need for the catalyst. I simply brought about something inevitable. War was to happen anyway. I simply found the means to make sure it happened sooner and with surer results. 

Years ago, I saw all this and witnessed all this happening. I had a dream once. I dreamed that one day, as I looked down at the great city of New York from a high vantage point, I would hear loud footsteps behind the door to the stairwell behind me. A man would appear from there. He would put the muzzle of a gun to my head and looking into my eyes, would tell me that he’s from the future; that somehow, my time machine would take a man to the past as well and that this capability had been added to it only for the purpose for which he stood before me. He would then thank me for my work with the civilization and tell me that the future is bright and all that I had dreamed of has happened there; with one minor glitch. Apparently, I assume power after the world stops burning and I assume the people to be too stupid and rule over them. The openness I had dreamed about wouldn’t be there in the future. There would be no anarchy or evolution. Under my governance, the human race would be confined to the intellectuals; perfect and stay that way. It was not what I had really wanted. I would forget the importance to remain one of the many thousands and nothing more. Arrogance would take me. He told me I was the flaw in the equation. It may have been merely a dream. I couldn’t even see his hidden face. 

A few hours ago, I destroyed my machine. I cannot let myself be killed. I am too important and the world needs my guidance. I have brought about war and the world as everyone knew it has died. A rebirth is in order and I will be the carrier for my train of thought. I must not die. Now I stand here atop the new World Trade Centre fearfully waiting for an event that I hope will not occur. The great city of New York is burning. The lady has fallen; broken across her legs. What remains of her is blackened. I can hear loud footsteps on the the stairwell.

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“Finish the letter, old boy. The world needs to know what we have done for it. Yes, we. You and I are not too different. I’m just older. Finish it and transmit it into every major network that still remains. But we must die. I must not see the future beyond this point. Without me, or us, their will be anarchy. Finish it. Then we die today. The future I have created has to be different; a new journey for everyone, everyday. We are the flaw in the equation.”

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Leaves of My Life

Life sure knows how to think of the good old days when you’re working in a busy bustling metropolitan city with barely any time on your hands to just lie back on a freshly mowed lawn.

Being an army officer’s son, I’ve moved around rather frequently during my childhood. Sure, it does have its lows initially when the friend circle starts dwindling and replenishing every now and then but every new place and the new bonds made are something to be cherished. Of course, that never stopped my dear parents from making the occasional ‘extra’ trip every once in a while to some erstwhile unknown or rather well known place. Bless them! Vague memories still come to my mind, more so now, amidst the everyday wails of car horns an cursing people.

I remember a particularly amusing incident when my dad decided I should learn how to catch fish, maybe even make a sport out of it. So we went spooling with my mum in tow, bored because she knew neither would catch any and therefore ready with the box full of sandwiches. So by the Peacock Bay we sat in the Academy campus, the Khadakwasla dam looming nearby. Two grown people and an eight year old who held what looked like a long pole with loose wire all about it. After trying to stick the bait onto the hook and only managing to stick my finger into it every time, I borrowed my father’s line and tried as hard as I could to jerk it back and throw it into the still blue water. The first time, I let it too loose and it got stuck somewhere in a nearby tree. It took the joint effort of both of them to get it down. The second time, I entangled myself in it and the hook lodged itself somewhere nasty. I don’t quite remember where but it hurt. I do believe I gave up after that run. Numerous awful pinpricks (hook-pricks, rather) and some delicious sandwiches afterwards did not manage to give me a second wind and after seeing some peacocks looking bewildered, I remember going out with my pals cycling and myself a little more by diving straight into thorny hedges (I was still learning and rather disoriented!)

People who have seen the movie ‘Up’ would be able to recognize my next little anecdote. With my head always high up in clouds thinking the most unimaginable turns of events, I would wander out of our bungalow with a light saber in hand when my parents took me for their nightly walks. I was around the same age as when the fishing incident happened. It must have been a particularly strange part of my life, now that I think about it. I would leave my parents behind, run helter and skelter with a lighted light saber (for those who don’t know what it is, watch Star Wars), pretending I’m on a mission of some sort. I would then fearlessly walk into some vines and climb some large rocks which in my head, resembled wasted green mountains until I would remember my fear of snakes and my little ‘adventure’ in the ‘woods’ would be postponed. My father’s stories about his training and his work and my being a great fan of both Tom Sawyer and Luke Skywalker had egged me on too many such escapades!

Walking my labrador with my father when I was smaller than she was, trying to make her wear my shoes only to realise she had two more feet than I did must have evoked the thinking ability in me while I also listened to the Red Hot Chili Peppers and decided I would be a great musician someday. Shooting with a catapult at stray monkeys in the yard and then having them rage at a little army of boys, myself included, when the catapult turned into a pea shooter was less scary than it should have been, somehow. Ruining dad’s beloved garden and destroying more than a month of his hard work by playing football in the lawn probably shows that I’m not such a nature lover after all. Yet, after I discovered my love for writing and becoming rather passionate about it, I found myself writing poetry sitting on a jhoola on the porch.

Picking up fallen mangoes in the middle of torrential rain at nine and at five, memorizing the names of all the places I visited and all the gentle as well as savage rivers in Uttarakhand (then Uttar Pradesh) I saw for more than a month and then reeling it all off to everyone I could speak to probably make up only but a few noteworthy moments of my yet short life. Many years later, when my love for books had reached new heights, I was in Shillong not seeing the beauty around me but preferring to indulge myself in a think paper bound copy of ‘The Lord of the Rings’! I’ve seen nearly every tourist destination in India and some abroad and been to places most people aren’t allowed to see. I will always remember sitting all alone on a long sandy beach with many tiny red crabs a few paces away for company, thinking about the Moon and watching as the tide slowly crept inward. Snorkelling and diving with the fishes I hate to eat and gliding with a few watchful disdainful birds have only taught me one thing - to live and to value the force that gives it peace and possibly, some meaning since we cared enough to think about such and decided to call it culture.

Art and beauty and love and pain have always been the central part of my thoughts and my imagination. I have lived a very real life, tangibly full of the real human bonds that make us who we are. My love for books made me see everything in new and unique ways I possibly could not have but it was the real experiences with my parents and with the people I met everyday that taught me how to understand those books. Reading Ayn Rand’s ‘Atlas Shrugged’ in today’s world gone haywire, I can only think how people are moving towards her dystopic world instead of spending a little more time just living. I can only be glad I lived and learned as I did and because of all of that, I can now do it all in just a different manner; with a novel, a text editor, a guitar and several gigabytes of rock music. All that’s left now is to accomplish my dreams so I won’t go to the grave with disappointment in my heart. Well, since I know and keep learning how to see with my eyes both open and closed, I doubt I would be all too let down.

Life is just every next beautiful moment.

"We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing."
          - George Bernard Shaw

PS: This post has been written for the Indiblogger contest, 'The Kissan 100% Real Blogger Contest', sponsored by Kissan.

Black and White

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 24; the Twenty-Fourth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The theme for this month is BLACK AND WHITE.

February 21, 2002.

Holding the camera and looking straight into the eyes of the journalist had been the toughest part of the job yet. When he had been briefed three months ago, he knew he would have to be part of terrible deeds and he would have a lot of innocent blood on his hands. But he never though it would be something as high-strung as this. Filming a man who knew he was about to die in a short while was scary. At least he didn't have to do the job himself. No, the bosses wanted the glory. Thank goodness for that. A minute and a half into filming, Daniel Pearl's throat was slit and then with a calm that would put pristine lakes to shame, the commander took his right hand away and brought the great knife slashing through the dying journalist's neck.

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Too many years had gone by and Abdul Karim had risen in rank and power. Always on the move, he had evaded death many times. Too many times. There had been miscalculations by himself. There had been errors on the part of his leaders too. Too many years had he spent in exile. He remembered the time when growing up as a young boy in Afghanistan. The wars had not been enough. Since the Soviets left, he had waged many wars and fought multi-faceted enemies. The hardships he had gone through and those he had literally made his family endure was unbearable. They had been shot long ago. The vengeance is what coursed through his veins and made his decade long battle remain inviolable. He knew where his allegiance lay. Too many loved ones had died because of him. He himself had killed too many that others loved. No more.

“It's time. We do it on the date mentioned in the package. You know where I stand today. Mark this spot. He will be on top this time then. It's three stories high. You can watch it from a variety of angles. Don't miss again. I've had enough. ”

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After years of living in Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia, Sudan, the USA and the Philippines, he had died over and over and again. Envisioning deaths had taken their toll on him and he had become quite reckless. But lately, he had though of his mother who had been shot at point blank range. Whether they were for or because of his deeds did not matter. They said his mother was an informer and they killed her for good measure. No matter. They would all go down in flames. It was just a matter of time. A matter of twenty four more hours. He smiled to himself as he thought of the next day and impending doom. He slept like a baby.

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The day had passed. At night, everything was still. The night air was despondently hot. He was waiting, but not for long. Throughout the day he had thought of the means of his own death. It seemed ironic that it had been put off so long and that success meant his death. But maybe Allah would grant him his mother's lap again if he lived another day longer and no more. That's all he wanted. Peace.

The landing filled with the slightest crack of street light as the door opened. On the second floor, Abdul Karim lay quiet in bed, waiting. The soldiers started filing up. Operation Neptune Spear was in play. Then, like a blaze of lightning, they came from everywhere. A helicopter flew close overhead. The erstwhile leader ran down and Karim told him,

“There is now nowhere we can go. I just woke up. They've got us surrounded. Let's fight to our death. May Allah be proud of us when we go to heaven.”

Storming into the mansion, the US Navy SEALs pierced the darkness and shot like they knew every spot. Few bullets were wasted. The great leader was shot dead. A second later, so was he.

It was May 2^nd, 2011. Operation Neptune Spear had been successful.

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Abdul Karim was an unknown man captured in Manila in connection with planting a bomb under a bridge on which then President Clinton's motorcade was to pass in 1998. After torture and rigorous grilling by the CIA, he was shown satellite images of his family being shot by members of the Taliban soon after the US embassy bombings in Africa. The psychologist on their team said that she saw some good in him, that he was an ordinary man, not a Jihadi. He was requested to help in the hunt for Osama Bin Laden. After what seemed like an aeon, he nodded. In October 2001, he joined the Al-Qaeda as a soldier. It took him, the dark knight, nine years to reach a silent unacknowledged martyrdom.

PS. This is a purely fictitious account of a long and broiling history of terrorism and the war on terror. True events have been considered and the protagonist is a fictional character.

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Band of Metal

A spark like a fire.

The prismatic hues of a crazy diamond.

And the love of a heart.

Of a child forlorn and in need

Of a lover.

I am that man.

As I lie washed on the sands of the beaches.

A band of metal slips onto my finger.

The third finger for music.

As though put there by the ocean herself.

And the ocean dowses my pain with her salt.

Washes away my sorrows forever.

And as I give myself away to its loving warmth

And let myself be washed away in the tide

I know that

I have known a bond of love.

So special.

My spirit feels disjoint no more.

And I swim free into the depths of the unknown.

The eyes in which I see an uncharted ocean beckon.

And I fly to them with my heart set free.

Threshold of Liberation

Picture courtesy : DeviantArt

Frayed strings.

Broken blades of grass.

Shears open wide.

Dead eyes see stars.

Motor running.

The arms are lifted.

Destruction and death.

Fire ignominiously sprayed.

The lungs get bloated up.

And the heart stops breathing.

The eyes slit closed.

Noose left strung.

An unseen spectre.

Floating towards brightness.

The spirit deadened alive.

Opens bleeding eyes to the Sun's caress.

PS. This poem is loosely referenced to Bardo Thodol, better known as The Tibetan Book of the Dead. The essential theme of the book is about rebirth. 'Bardo Thodol' literally means 'Threshold of Liberation'.

To bring something new, the previous must be destroyed. There is no renewal without death.

This poem has been written for the OSI prompt, Renewal.

The Legacy of a Cross

It's time to take the chains off.
The mails of steel have been worn long.
The shield is now a burden and a
Helmet obstructs the eyes from a hundred strong throng.

The army clamours and chants.
A hoard of barbarians with their swords and scimitars.
A lone man on a stand facing his last minutes.
Knight under the axe reaching untimely for the stars.

Head held high, his steed carries his mission back home.
While he prepares for his light to be extinguished,
His work incomplete will be carried on by others.
The square red cross on his chest will be a legacy that remained.

Thoughts : The poem is loosely based on the Knights Templar and the Crusades of the Middle Ages. The Templar Knights were the most famous and skilled fighting unit as part of the early Crusades. The organization was created around 1129 AD, officialy endorsed by the Catholic Church and survived for nearly 200 years until disbanded by Pope Clement V in 1312 AD under pressure from King Philip IV of France after which they were executed by their native countries. It is said that the order still lives among us secretly.




PS. This poem is for Prompt 198 : Knight of One Single Impression.