Post-'Insane Logician' Annotation

The rebel is the one who experiences 'ennui' when he finds out the limitations of the existing system. What is worse is that the department of philosophy is closed to newer ways of thinking and newer systems of logic. This so called outlier realizes that the existing frameworks have led to a poverty of imagination among the authorities and society in general. They do not even know the essence of what 'everything' or 'nothing' is as a result language has become a useful tool to spread exploitation and confusion. 'Mad' is the rebel who points out the limitations of the three part syllogism. There can never be anybody. There can only be somebody, nobody and mad. Somebody is a respectable individual who follows instructions without asking illegitimate questions.He is more able to tolerate 'nobody' as nobody does not threaten him. This is why he laughs along with nobody after it is claimed that only nobody is perfect. Mad points out the hypocrisy in the argument and suggests that it would not matter if he admonishes nobody as nobody does not exist and he should rightly not retaliate as he has no value in life. Somebody makes it worse by calling the outlier mad as a result of his perception and mad admonishes somebody and not just anybody. Anybody does not exist as a result of the constraints of language. Reality and truth are not relevant. This rebel is the one who is trying to bring about a paradigm shift by contributing to his field. He gets rejected on account of being a path breaker. He is the misunderstood contributor; the terminal outlier.

Insane Logician

There is a well known joke about somebody, nobody and mad. I don't think it is just a joke.

Let me explain this through the following construct.

There are three types of people in this world:

1. Somebody
2. Nobody
3. Mad

'Mad' was seriously studying classical logic and innovating new syllogisms when the existing one became an obstacle to intellectual progress. Mad recognized this but the professors said that the existing systems are enough to understand everything. Furious he told two of his friends (''Nobody and 'Somebody') that the existing systems are not 'everything' as they don't explain 'nothing'.

Nobody said, 'The only statement that is correct is 'Nobody is perfect, I am nobody'. Both of them laughed hysterically.  Mad did not take that too kindly. He retorted, "As you are nobody I see nothing next to me and I am just going to beat you as I would be beating nobody." Somebody said, "You are mad and the person you are beating is nobody. I am the only one who is somebody."

Mad said, "Then I am going to beat somebody and not just anybody".


That's three part syllogism for you.

Are you mad, nobody or somebody?

Garfield’s Charitable Critic

Cartoons have in them embedded so much life, much more than what meets the eye. What about Garfield? Does he just belong to the animation world or is he a figment of the blessed lazy mind of the real world? Let’s face it. We feel the way Garfield does in times of distraught conclusions drawn from the undesirable experiences of our lives. We can’t be Garfield forever because of the flashes of hope and optimism that energize us into action. Optimism and pessimism are parts of the vicious circle that one is inclined to call life. So what is one to do when experience controls the traffic of mankind? You may simplify your predicament by saying that when you hit low you would take up reading Garfield comic strips to take refuge in cynicism. When you feel energized you can choose to be active. But Garfield will tell you, it’s not that simple. Garfield’s way of life is very difficult to imbibe because for one you need an extraordinary sense of humour that is cynically bent and you need to maintain your cynicism even in times that tempt the normal man into optimism. So you need to sleep not only when there is little hope but also when life is beautiful. It is what Garfield would call the approach of one-sided equanimity.
Having your food on the plate presents a problem for sure for Garfield will eat it. There is no uncertainty there. Not only will Garfield continue to put on weight, you will thank your lucky stars for losing yours. But Garfield will be quick to point out that you are starving and remind you that starving is a pain not worth the substitution. Solution to this menace could be to introduce another pet named Odie. You will begin to learn that being Jon is by far the easiest job on earth. Jokes apart the two pets are among the most lovable characters in comic literature. They will make you smile for a while so that you relax. Garfield will want to see you relax. You may be on the brink of finding the most penetrative answers to the most mind boggling questions but Garfield has no ear for them. Garfield is not seeking. You then learn from him that the end of seeking is the beginning of enlightenment. You cannot hopefully turn to Odie because his ears are deaf to all your phrases. He will simply duck and let your phrases blow above his head.
That Garfield would like Mornings better if they started later epitomizes a great irony. There is the natural in the irony for morning represents routine, rush and discipline and obviously some of us who do not fit in the established order at all too well will wish for it to start much later or to never start in the first place. This is ironic for if it were the case then mornings are not mornings. We would have to assign a different label. The wit Garfield employs very often is on these lines. He plays more with both linguistics and logic. It is this trait that makes Garfield unintentionally creative. Garfield has a non-verbal rapport with Jon and other friends around. Although it is non-verbal it makes for a solid union or relationship. The absurd pranks that he continues to play on the idiosyncrasies of Jon and others may be interpreted to be attempts to get the reader to spot the pitfalls of seriousness and the illusion of sincerity. Garfield may be sardonic but he is never too slow to track Jon’s psychology.
Garfield has no real hopes of Jon getting a date but it is as though he passes pessimistic remarks to get Jon to prove him wrong. Odie is not spared either but Garfield gets practical with Odie because Odie lacks sophisticated communication. All his jokes are action oriented without too much energy spent on sarcastic commentary of which he is the master, no doubt. Garfield gets stimulated by visuals and converts them into witty verbal enterprise, a rare trait at the cost of perennial inactivity. He does not face many situations but within the limited range of his exposure, he gets you digging at the lighter side of life which is incidentally the caustic side of it. The settings are simple and punch lines are quick without time to think in between lines and when he finishes what he has to think, you just begin to laugh or chuckle, so Garfield gives you no time for confrontation.
So when you feel lonely, low and disappointed with the way life is turning out for you, it would be a rewarding idea to have a pet like Garfield who reminds you that life is just too precious to be spent without sleeping. He is a different cat as you will observe, different from all other cats so life’s debacles are miniscule when compared to the pranks and antics of the one and only “Garfield”.

By Ajay Seshadri

The Man in a Shroud

One afternoon I passed by a station and heard someone call out my name from behind. It was an old acquaintance. I was surprised he recognized me. Instantly I remembered who he was. He had not changed in appearance. It was 8 years before when we studied together in a class. I do not wish to delve into the circumstances of our acquaintance. Strange to see how time had relieved the two of us from the strain of the pressures of the academic days of high school. He even gave me his visiting card and threw light on some radical choices he had made with respect to his career. Considering those times my memories of him were certainly contradicted to a large degree.

Years passed by and I did not see him afterwards.

I had been busy trying to discover if there was any inscription hidden in a monument. This occupied my time. Groping in the dark my passion remained ignited by the thrill of a possible breakthrough all the same. Much to my disappointment I did not find any inscription but as I left the hallway a coat fell on my shoes. I shuddered to think there was somebody else in the monument. I put aside the coat and left through the dark passage till I got out. The monument was indeed cut off from the rest of the world, remote in every sense of the word.

I thought that I had a reasonably good chance of finding the inscription which would have validated some of the claims made by a researcher of the name Ashok, who I happened to get acquainted with; the raison d etre for our acquaintance being we shared a common idea and I vouched for his singular preoccupation. The inscription was a document by a rationalist who wanted to prove that the monument belonged to a community “Vapas” who were forced to vacate it on grounds of being irreligious. This was hidden in the monument itself according to Ashok and the irony was that no one was able to find it till date.

The belief that the monument was the house of God would be mistaken but the rationalist was not able to prove it. Ashok wanted to take up this challenge and prove it. Till any evidence was found one way or the other, the monument would belong to no one. The name of the rationalist, I cannot reveal because he did not permit me or Ashok to do so. As to why this monument was believed to be 'the house of God' I shall explain herewith. 

In 2000 AD, when there were tragedies in many places, this monument provided shelter to scholars who lost debates. They were in hiding because they did not comply to a cruel condition of the debate they took part in. The condition was that if they were to lose the argument they would have to leave the town or they would have to jump into the river. These scholars knew that losing an argument is not tantamount to being wrong necessarily. The defeat may simply imply that they did not argue well. I tend to agree with this because articulation skills vary which by themselves have nothing to do with what is correct. You may lose an argument and still not be convinced by the other party. However, the scholars agreed to the terms which were preposterous. Subject to defeat incidentally, they were in trouble. The “Vapas” received them in their home which well resembled a dingy version of a palace. It was clean no doubt but it suffered from an acute lack of lighting. In their house they took shelter continuing to practice what they believed in. Later on the “Vapas” community tried to increase their number but their ways were not popular. There were some rulers who found them irreligious because they never prayed; they never worshipped any gods. They were quite docile and faded in number gradually. When the other natives no longer tolerated them despite their generosity, they left the country. A myth prevailed that there is a Vapa still living in the monument.

The scholars and refugees who gained freedom later on helped spread the name of the monument without making any reference to the Vapas. This was to express a token of their gratitude in silence. The monument was known as 'the house of God' as its origin was unknown. The rulers supposedly banished the last of the Vapas from the monument. Ashok wished to prove the bitter irony of the situation. It was their own house that they were forced to leave.

“It is alarming what research can reveal” Ashok said. “This is why people such as I are not allowed to have a voice.” A voice barred from being heard stifles the spirit that canvases its being with life. The researcher is an entitled grave digger as much as you and I. It is quite simply a matter of passion. The one who emerges from the sweet deceit of paradise runs away from a truth brushed aside as invalid on grounds of prejudice no more than a bird that attempts to fly away from its own shadow mistaking it for threat.

Just as I was having a long conversation with Ashok, we heard a loud noise outside our premises. It hurt the vocal chords more than I would like to have you believe. My friend who did not appear as perturbed followed me outside. A curfew prevailed and we did not feel an uneasy eagerness to find out the reasons for the same. We wished to head back. “Let us go back. It must be some needless commotion.” Before I could turn back, Ashok was distracted by his neighbour’s broken window. I chanced to see the day break when a lady in a shroud ran across the road past the scene into a vacant avenue beyond which she was seen no more. In wonder over the strange distraction that befell us my friend with renewed curiosity interrogated the constable in command over the commotion, “Sir, what happened?” He replied duty-bound, “Apparently, a sacred document has been stolen.” In matters such as these it would not be too much of a coincidence if our anxiety felt invited. For obvious reasons I pushed further, “what is this sacred document about?” Pat came the phlegmatic reply, “the inscription regarding the monument of the Vapas”.

“Could that lady who ran across the road have had anything to do with it?” I doubted. Ashok adjoined, “Do you remember where she was headed?”- “I could not see. It seemed like she was headed straight past the avenue but what was bizarre was that no one around noticed.” “This was more distracting”. “We need to get the inscription, Tunap.” “I am not quite sure if that lady had anything to do with it at all, if that is what you are suggesting.” “Of course not Ashok, it is hard to tell but ...”

Suspicion has its ways of reminding us of possibilities we cannot rule out. Suspicion indeed makes of a man a surgeon even if he desires to forgo paranoia for peace of mind. Peace good friend, once lost to suspicion can be recovered only by exhausting every possibility, however insignificant or trivial. To say the least, we were set out to do exactly that.

We parted with my words for the evening, “Let us break for now till tomorrow brings us a new road. The inscription is stolen and I shall make further enquiries. Till then do not let agitation mar your sleep.” Let me know of any inputs that you may get.”

I tried to unravel this mystery of the stolen inscription through an agent but without much help from luck. Late at night around 1.40 AM, I got a call from Ashok. “Tunap, I saw her.” –The same lady. – “Yes but I could not see her face.” “She left some cover in a drop box and left.”-“Ashok, how do you know if it was the same lady.” Tunap replied overdosed, “I just know. Come here at once. Do I have something to share with you! I cannot reveal further. Be here at once.” With these words he hung up. So much for suggestion!

I went to his place in disguise. The street was absolutely quiet. The deafening silence surrounding the avenue gave the night sky a visible air which when subject to detail stimulated the classic syn-esthetic effect akin to a parallel universe. I waited and waited. When my patience threw me a mirage, I retained just about enough sense to realize the illusion of my depleting consciousness. It was 2.15 AM. The door opened when behind it Ashok showed me inside. He turned on the lights in his study room and on doing that I could see an expression I do not remember having seen in my life. “I was at the counter. After a few minutes I found the drop box broken. Here is the cover with a letter.”

The letter read as follows:

It may seem surprising to you that I have observed your interest well before you even took notice of me. It is said that there are no coincidences particularly considering what familiarity can do to bring distant individuals to a common ground. You may not be aware, gentlemen but truth is never what it seems. The inscription that you have been searching for is with me. Meet me at the frill zone tomorrow at half past one. You will find me very easily.

I am,

The Man in a Shroud.

“It seems like it wasn’t a lady after all, does it Tunap”.  –“Not necessarily, it could also be a deliberate ploy to confuse us. In any case, it is the same person. We should meet this ‘man in the shroud’. We decided to leave for frill zone the next day as directed. Ashok rushed to the study room where he popped in Valium, one after another. Undoubtedly, he had spent sleepless nights. I left him to return in 8 hours; we left for the place and there we saw one sitting in the corner in a shroud. The person got up and secretly walked away. We followed him to a bar just next to the frill zone. It was hard to believe it was a man as his body was shapeless. The shoulders were not broad. There was no definition in the structure. He also walked with grace and did not take strides. We sat down, table for three. For a few minutes we were quiet waiting for him to break the silence which he eventually did. In a shrill voice he said, “I am not what you think I am. In no mood for introductions, I shall get to the point straightaway. During the Second World War the medical fraternity of the emergency units looked out for injured soldiers in the battlefield. They reached no man’s land and found this.” He took out a black and white photograph. We could make out a wounded person who neither looked like a soldier nor like a human being. 

“Strange...It looks like...” “- right?” adjoined our mysterious companion. “It is in fact a being from outer space, 4 light years away from the milky way galaxy.” We for one moment found it hard to believe him, as expected I suppose. We could not deny that the photograph was real with Ashok being adept at judgement. 

“Yes, it looks unusual, alright. Why are you showing this to us? What has this got to do with the inscription?” The man replied, “You won’t understand the text inscribed anyway. It is in Pali. You probably know that it was widely studied in the past. We Vapas continued to use it as a form of communication even after it became practically dead. You see, we adopted this language when we came to planet earth. We have been here for centuries. We don’t have any gender. I am the only surviving Vapa. This person you see in the photograph was what you humans would identify as my ‘stepfather’. I used to call him my master. The monument belongs to us. We built it out of the tools that we procured on our own. We gave shelter to the Buddhist scholars when they needed our help. They in turn taught us Pali and the ways of your world. We managed to get by with the help of their lessons. Being few in number, we faded away over time. My master was killed in World War 2 and I am the only one remaining.” We were completely struck in amazement and intrigue and we listened motionless. “I have spoken enough. I shall give you the inscription anyhow. With these words I shall take leave gentlemen.” The person handed out the inscription to Ashok and got up. “Wait!” cried Ashok bewildered by what he had heard but this being left saying, “there is no waiting for me.”

We took the photograph and the inscription and left the place without a clue as to what to believe in any more.

‘Another night, how am I going to get through this’ was the thought that preoccupied Ashok. Restless in bed, he turned from one position to another till he stood up and looked at the clock which indicated quarter past twelve. He would have to see the passage of time through yet again. He walked up to the windows and spread out the curtains to one side. He observed the night in all its glory, clueless. You would know this feeling, I am sure.

He shut his eyes gently. All of a sudden someone knocked from outside the window. He opened his eyes to see a young girl calling out to him, “Take me away from this world, sir”. Ashok astounded tried to open the window but the girl vanished before he could do so. He thought he was hallucinating and for all things out of the ordinary he had only one solution. He moved in jerks towards the cupboard, opened it and latched on to a container of valium. He swallowed two pills and went back to bed. Just when he was about to find his sleep, it was 5.00 am. ‘How merciless time is!’ Ashok received a call. “Who is it?”- “Raymond. Ashok is that you?”- “Yes”. –“Sorry to bother you so early in the morning. I just wanted to inform you that my aunt passed away yesterday. There is a funeral today. Do come and oh before I forget bring your friend , Tunap as well.” “Alright, we will come.” Replied Ashok curtly.

       

  

I observed all this and inquired as to who called. “It is Raymond. He has called us to attend a funeral.” We were there to observe the proceedings. There was stillness all around us. Everyone in the funeral looked down. There was a loss that filled the open sky. It called out to the heavens as though the clouds were summoned to make way for a lost soul. The stillness of the air precipitated the departure but very quickly the moment was disturbed as the coffin opened up from inside. Aghast we were terrified by what we saw. The dead body struggled its way from horizontality to verticality. I was certain it was our man in the shroud. Before any of us could do anything, he ran away. In utter shock some fainted, some ran away into their cars and drove off the scene. We sought to chase this man but we couldn’t keep pace with him. Ashok knew that he was headed towards the bridge and ran in a different direction to stop him from one end. I managed to trace him to the bridge. As I had calculated I was at one end of the bridge. The man was in the middle of the bridge and Ashok caught up to him from the other end. The man took out a torch. Ashok couldn’t come near for the light was too bright. He just yelled, “Stop, we are not going to hurt you. What were you doing in the place of Raymond’s aunt? Don’t run away. We will believe you.” 

The man in the shroud gradually uncovered his face. What we saw was not a human being but a creature that resembled the one in the photograph. We finally realized that this being helped suspend our disbelief without volition. I could not proceed as the torch emitted light towards me as well. It was almost like focussed sunlight sans pervasiveness. There was some music in the background and an object appeared in the sky resplendent with colours from whatever little I could make out. Like a shooting star this being disappeared leaving us unconscious.

Kentucky Hospital, Ward 301

Raymond and a detective were seen talking to a doctor.

Raymond:  I need to speak to the two men. Are they alright?

Doctor: I am afraid not so. You cannot speak to them as both are suffering from acute amnesia.

Pankaj (the detective): I believe they witnessed something extraordinary. Tunap had sent a message to me while the event was happening. I came to speak to the witnesses regarding that.

Doctor: What exactly did they witness?

Pankaj showed the doctor a black and white photograph.

He said: They spoke to the step son of this person. Does the person in this photograph resemble anyone or anything you have ever seen in this planet, doctor?

Doctor: Where is his step son? What is this all about?

Raymond: Wait...What is this creature?

Pankaj: If the two men do manage to recover doctor, please ask the researcher, Ashok to contact me immediately. I was told by somebody to return this photograph to him. He said he found it in the bridge when the two men fainted in shock. I like what I see. Please do the needful.

Doctor: Who gave this photograph to you?

Pankaj: A lady in a shroud.

The End

    

     

The Conversion of Loneliness

I took a battery with me but it was without charge. It reminded me of a man without spirit; a cold blooded wreck. The only reason most men live is to please other people with impressions. Once the impression dies out you are to face your self. Then you see yourself alone. The questions that you had buried come alive again. It was no doubt, comforting to think all the while that these buried questions would one day turn to dust to never return again. But hope alas has its disadvantages. To hope that the answers are in the future is to kill the present. The only thing that dies is your imagination. The questions remain buried all the same. They are alive to this day to disappoint you.

I feel the same whenever my brain goes weary and my faculties lose charge like the battery. I need ideas but where do I find them? The broad daylight does nothing to help but reminds me again and again the necessary evil of rut! Where do I find that stimulant when I am blinded by the sunshine that makes me see only motion without essence; quite simply a life without purpose. I may go to a library or a museum. Isolated by the dictates of monetary pressures I decide to make way only for the cold blooded pragmatist. What does this pragmatist do? He makes me turn into him and reminds me not to indulge the whims of a lonely intellect. The intellect, he says is seldom interested in immediate pleasures but longs for permanence, the end that dare not speak its name. 

He shows me the picture of what my intellect would make of me. At the outset, I could only see a broken man with a vicious smile as though he has discovered a treasure that has only some private meaning and is absolutely of no use to the external world. It appears to me that this man that my intellect would make of me deludes himself in his pursuits of isolated recreations and concludes that he has found a new meaning to his life. At this point the pragmatist and I have moved away; disconnecting me with everything around me, I see living in the shadows as a necessary evil but I do not even consider being a pragmatist as a shadow. It is far worse!

A man who sells his sense of purpose to a distorted version of civilization is undead, no more than a puppet without even the value of a shadow. He is not dead because he is alive and he is not real because he is not himself. Mistaking this pragmatist for an individual he decides to go about his life as a routine. This decision ends up being futile when he finds himself unable to give back to this society a value worshiped beyond reconciliation. If I find myself moving in this direction I can only survive as long as I am able to create this value for a reasonable length of time in the eyes of this society. If I want this standing in society where I am no longer an individual but yet another illusion then my intellect is jeopardized and its whims however grandiose remain to attack me.

I then see this dichotomy and this 'need for the other' can survive only on a material plane if my intellect succeeds in transporting me beyond the shadows into an infinite reality called 'permanence'. This 'need for the other' is no longer a substitute for permanence. I can experience this stimulation when I cease to look into the broad daylight. The 'kick of the shadows' forces the adversary, who in his attire of pragmatism, relinquishes permanence for monotony. This shadow reveals the real image in front and he looks completely different from what I have seen of myself. The message is 'I have found it'.

This lonely man was nothing but what only the pragmatist could see and that which I could never be.  

A Boy in the Attic

When there is a left over thought which for some reason is beyond the comprehension of the environment around it is reasonable an idea to leave behind a note. I did not know the objective of this practice till an old friend came to me narrating the following incident. He used a lot of strange diction which led me in the course of the narration to think that he had lost his coherence over time but eventually I could not ignore him.

I quote the following narration verbatim: 

The light is upstairs where a boy was said to have left behind his deepest regret. In this house where a toy wakes up beings from deep sleep there seems to be not a trace of any spirit of revival. Knocking on the doors in search of the lost boy, three men stand waiting for someone to open but for fifteen long minutes there is no sign of life. At last footsteps can be heard towards the door. The door opens and the sight of a confused elf with dim vision can be found. “Have you found him?” asks the man. “Not so. But we managed to find out that he has left behind a note. We came to see it. We just want to ensure..” “Don’t. You may come in and search. I have not heard of him leaving behind a note. Even if he did I doubt it would be intelligible.” interrupts the elf. The three men enter.

Tired of the long investigation they sit down and wonder where the boy could have gone. For some reason they did not start searching straightaway. The night outside is howling like a wolf in search of the hollow soul that could possibly reside in any being. The wind however does not do much to pacify the music of the moon light. They thought it wise to close the door and prevent undue visitors from entering their mind which is the very house they are in. They then think through the circumstances and question the confused man about this boy who suddenly disappeared. “He used to spend hours in the attic. I never knew what interested him so much there. I would return every evening when all would be quiet. I would call out ‘Rajan’ but there would be no reply. I would tend to assume that he is playing in a nearby garden. What kept him late is something I never bothered to understand. By the time I buried myself in some of the paperwork that I had carried along with me, it would be late night. I would hear some music. For many days I could not tell where that music came from. One night however I heard his voice.” One of the three men, Badhal asks “What kind of music was it?” –“It was, I think, the new age classical music largely instrumental.” “Please continue Mr...” “Never mind my name. This fellow called out for some water. I said go and get it yourself. He replied that he was repairing some idiotic toy of his.” “I got some water and placed it near his room. He would open the door and let his hand out, pick up the glass and close the door. I never got to see his face. Did you hear that, never!” “Why didn’t you open the door?” –“It is none of my business, Sir to open his door.” 

Badhal contemplated for quite some time. It seems like hours before the silence gets broken. “Let me examine the toy” he said. The second man concurs while the third does not respond.  The elf brings the toy and Badhal looks at it. Before he could grab it the elf drops the toy by accident and it breaks. There is a sudden power cut. It returns...not to worry, it returns. Badhal cannot see the two gentlemen along with him. He can only see the confusion. “Where have they gone?” He calls out their names. They do not respond. He goes towards the door. There is a power cut again and the elf starts shrieking. Badhal gets a panic attack. The power returns and the two gentlemen come downstairs. “The attic is locked. There is no sign of any note. I fear we are going nowhere.” Says the second gentleman and the third does not respond. The elf picks up the broken toy and says, “Once broken it can never be mended”. Badhal says, “I am afraid with no cooperation from you sir, we cannot find Rajan. Do you have the keys to unlock the attic?” –“I am afraid I have lost them. That fellow never would tell me where he leaves them. Once I found out they were under the cellar. I took them to open the crazy attic when he was not there. When I opened it out came smoke that got to my eyes and I fainted. I recovered but did not know what happened in the interval between lack of consciousness and eventual recovery. Was I taken to the hospital?- No idea.” “When I regained my memory the attic was locked. I said blast it and resumed my chores.”   

“What exactly were your chores?” asked Badhal, who is so distracted by the background events that he is not able to ask the right questions pertaining to the investigation. Badhal never really cared about logical questions. He believed that the foundation of the superstructure had to be shaken now and then by what appeared to be irrelevant questions. They would wake up the sleeping labourer by a fresh pool of thought which would prevent resorting to linear delusions of all sorts. What he did not notice in logic he more than made up for in his eccentric interrogations. The elf seemed too disturbed to notice this. 

The men decide to leave. “We have to get going now. Maybe tonight is not the right night.” The concept of a right night as you can see for investigation makes less sense to someone who would seek refuge in common sense under the hygienic assumption that common sense is common when in fact the phrase is a misnomer. “Wait” says the elf, “I have something to show you with respect to the attic which perturbs my imagination beyond articulation. I am quite sure it will do the same to you, although we belong to different worlds”.  They follow the being till they reach the attic. It is customary to wait for a while and reflect on circumstances such as these, for what is lost to the surroundings can never be retrieved by effort. Badhal and his company see the lock to find the dust not by any means reassuring. It seems like ages...centuries so to say judging by the rust of the lock and the cabinet. It is not overstating to say that Badhal is alarmed. “How old is this house?” asks Badhal but before he gets a reply there is a power cut. “Don’t you have an emergency light anywhere near by?” yells Badhal. The elf does not reply. The second gentlemen shrieks and then the power returns leaving Badhal and the third gentlemen shocked to see him dead. Before Badhal can do anything, the lock opens up on its own and a hand emerges holding a dagger dripping with blood.

It has been five years sir and no one has heard from Badhal and the other investigator. “Has the note been found” I asked. He replied, “Yes and it has been given to me but I was asked to not read it till I meet someone who I know for sure would keep this a secret.”

He opened the note. It was for some reason red and I wanted to ask him. He guessed as much that I did and replied, “It is believed to have been written by the boy in the attic.” “Let me read it.” He read it aloud, “I was a lad like any with a bright future and a sealed fate that was very becoming of my generation. But as I grew up gradually, I nursed a fond obsession with the supernatural that has not been explored by either Science or Religion. The reason for this sudden interest emerged from a study of some of the rarest collections of books in a library not too far from the playground that the reader may be familiar with.  Among these books, I found works by two writers whose names or origin I will not disclose in this note. Their subject matter deals with conversions of the brain never to be imitated by ‘the Centre for Artificial Intelligence’3 kilometres from the bay, as you would be familiar with. This is not all. They also delved into the transformation of energy where the eventual destination of matter is a star. This star is invoked by members of a secret society who are not human beings. For long the unsolved mystery as you know is regarding the existence of aliens in outer space. Have you actually ever thought about beings existing underground? You have been too consumed by events that are anthropocentric that you cannot see what lies underneath the eyes. Any mystery has become to you at best an intellectual luxury. Just when I was about to leave the library, someone grabbed me and locked me in what was for long believed to be an attic. This house that you may have heard about is not located above the ground but layers below the earth’s surface. No one can know but me. Yet you may drop in if you wish to see what I have become.” 

The reader stopped reading and showed the instruction to get ‘there’. We wanted to see this place and see what has happened to Badhal and the two investigators. We also wanted to see this lad who welcomes our visit. We reached a place that seemed quite normal. We followed the instructions further to be led to a house not to be found underground but very much on the earth’s surface.   When we entered, we were greeted by a strange being who looked different from anybody else I have seen. He did not speak a word but gave us a glass of rum which he asked us to dilute with water and some concocted essence. Then he led us up stairs. It seemed as though we were in a trance but not a hypnotic trance. Slowly I no longer saw my friend who carried the note. I no longer saw my friend who had accompanied me all this while. When I reached the top of the house led by this strange being, I suddenly realized I did not question him despite wanting to. It seemed as though I was stuck. I saw at last the attic with the lock of dust as described by my friend with his strange narrative. Then there was a power cut and the power returned after an hour only to fluctuate. However, despite the closed doors and windows there was a formidable breeze. The fluctuation rattled me as I saw three men holding an incandescent lamp next to the attic. The being that led me to the floor on top unlocked the attic and entered it. In rage burning with sudden bursts of fury I ran to the doors of the attic but before I could stop the doors from closing the three gentlemen switched off the incandescent lamp and all I could see was the lock closing automatically and gathering dust. Then it seemed as though fifty minutes had passed but when I saw the clock the lock opened up and a hand emerged. A voice uttered the words, “Give me the glass of rum that you prepared”.  I dropped the glass. But before I could run out off the house I became the fourth gentleman to hold an incandescent lamp to the hand that shall emerge.

The End

***

 

Appearance and Reality in Reading

Continuing on the topic of reading based on my earlier post, ‘Reading as a Search for Stimuli’; there are quite a number of aspects that I need to press upon. I stated that voracious readers do not appear to have a problem with reading books. What could be the rationale behind this? Consider the following circumstances:

1.      A child prefers to read as a means of coping with changes in situations in life. If reading helps mitigate stress caused by unpredictable situations then he pursues it seriously throughout his life.

2.      An adult as a child, gets access to content that makes him extremely curious about various subjects such as, Geography, History, Biology etc. He develops lasting interest in the way the ecosystem operates and through his fondness for learning reads voraciously and as an adult develops into a subject matter expert. The need to update keeps him reading with undying enthusiasm.

3.      A child thinks excessively and likes to listen to quotations and perspectives of various authors but cannot sustain attention while reading. He gets bored by the books prescribed to him by his parents and teachers. He is ahead of his age when it comes to interests. Later as an adult or in the process of growing up his interests get influenced by the new walks of life that he experiences and develops a wider interest and reads voraciously as a result of wanting to experience ‘vicarious thrill’.

4.      A child engages with some text randomly and develops a fascination for the written word and immerses himself in the world of books.

5.      Another child is quite bored with the external world that he finds himself growing in and finds books and stories a more engaging alternative.

Let us take these five circumstances and examine them. There may be a whole lot more but I believe at this stage that if we understand these five circumstances that I have enumerated we may be able to see significant light on why some readers do not have a problem at all in reading continuously and voraciously.  ‘Continuity’ in reading is closely linked to attention span. I may be interested in aerospace and I pick up a magazine on various studies on this subject. This alone is not enough to help me sustain attention while reading. I may find myself wanting to drop the magazine reasonably frequently. This does not indicate that I am not interested in the subject. It may indicate that the articles about aerospace have not been written in an engaging manner. Rather, they are pedantic. Some specialized knowledge may have been presumed by the magazine’s authors and editors. This is not all. Very often,   I have heard the theory that humour is important to sustain attention. But, this is again subjective. Not all readers respond to humour. I personally do not always respond to humour. If there are people like me then you may have some set of individuals who do not respond to humour either. Then, humour does not help in sustaining attention for all readers alike, does it?

It may be suggested that if I am not able to read continuously then I can interact with experts in the field and understand the subject a bit more closely. This can make a difference to my attention span. ‘Continuity in reading’ is not just about attention span but also about the desire to transport yourself to a different world. This ‘different world’ belongs to the book.  You cannot always transport yourself if you are trapped in the ’real world’ which is your objective world of direct sensory experience.

In the first circumstance, changes in circumstance can help a child to find refuge in reading much more easily than an adult. An adult does not have a choice but to be a part of the real world. However, if a child has this choice and  sees reading as a permanent means of warding off stress then he would grow up to find solace in it even as an adult. To him, reading becomes a matter of incentive.

 In the second circumstance, the reader who is well on his way to becoming a subject matter expert reads not usually for entertainment but for learning. Although his preference may be to read non-fiction books, he may find fiction a form to unravel insights and perspectives. He becomes a reader with a purpose, nevertheless a voracious reader.    

 In the third circumstance, the reader looks for stimulation which is probably why he starts reading a book only after examining its reviews. He listens to quotations, weighs the impact and is pulled towards the book like a magnet. This reader looks for obsession. This obsession is not exactly pathological. It indicates the need to get stimulated by text.

The fourth circumstance appears to be similar to the first. There is actually a difference. In the first there is an event which drives one to read. In the fourth circumstance, reading is a discovery and seems almost accidental, but it is a matter of discovery rather than anything else. Reading then becomes exploratory.

The fifth circumstance indicates that the external world lacks intellectual/poetic justice which is usually found in books. This reader looks precisely for poetic justice. All genres of books, even tragedies have an end and this end is achieved. If it is emotional or moral justice then it is poetic. If it is more cognitive then it is intellectual justice.

I have given some circumstances where individuals can develop into voracious readers. Even if they are not exhaustive, I think they provide sufficient ground for spotting the rationale behind why voracious readers sustain attention without deliberate effort. 

Saying, one has to develop reading habit is in practice only appearance and not reality.