Chris Srey Kant
Has Krish Srikanth become one among the "US Re-turneds?" Or is he working part time at a call center?
P.S : Was watching Chee-ka twist and roll his tongue at the Set-Max Studios, as the CSK thrashed the KKR at the IPL match yesterday. Missing his inimitable cheeky Chee-ka Chennai commenting ishtyle. :(
Everyone likes to be remembered. It is an assurance that one gets every now and then, that one might leave a mark on this earth, when its time to depart. Even infants that die at birth or embryos that get aborted tend to leave behind memories.
So many people come, and so many others go. Lives that touch, and get touched. Thoughts, deeds, words- spoken and unspoken. People born in different places; brought together for a certain period of time, by certain circumstances. Scattering again to get in touch with other folks.
Carrying with them memories: Impressions, Sounds, Visions, feelings.
A Brownian movement of humans. Although apparently not random.
Memories can straighten the ripples, and create a silken record. Or they can blow up minor skirmishes and obliterate the good times.
Some people try to consciously suppress memories. Others choose to live in them.
Publicity Stunt
The auto driver grew impatient. Too many traffic signals. And serpentine line of vehicles.
Bullying, pleading, honking, and with other driving acrobatics he made it from the tail to the head.
He turned back , as though to see how the ‘cushtomer’ took all his manic maneuvers.
Sensing, that the “cushtomer” was on the edge of her seat, brows arched, he reassured, “If I don’t do this madam, I would be forced to wait in the next red signal also. What is life without risks? ”.
With that undebatable rhetoric and a sheepish grin, he resumed his cursing of the cussed signal, now having relaxed the “cushtomer” ’s nerves.
Just then, an ambulance sped forward, getting an unfair lead over the auto, blaring its siren , with its red lights blinking.
Our Aristotle of the Auto rushed out on the road, and ran around the ambulance, jumping up and down and trying to peer inside.
Taken aback by his bizarre behaviour, the hapless Cushtomer called out to him.
“Crooks madam, this (name of a big hospital chain)
How will they do it? No they wont. They are the ones who get the free treatment from these big hospitals. The shameless cheats.”
The Cushtomer cared a damn for the signal, the big hospital cheats or the government.
Must get back home asap. To watch the citizen journalists scoop on CNN IBN.
I‘ve been reading quite some stuff on the looming recession woes, of late. Random browsing landed me on some article written during the dot com bust, which spoke of an alternate history, had 9/11 been just another date in the calendar.
Recession, vis-à-vis the phenomenon, the dynamics, and trends isn’t what I intend to discuss here. Recession as such presents a sand-castle washed-up-by-the-waves kind of scenario. A pretty but precarious bubble bursting painfully in slo mo.
What goes up must come down. What goes around must come around. The dust would eventually settle down. Whether it leaves a ghost town in its wake, or a lays the foundations of a new establishment is to be seen.
But an economic slowdown, presents a classic situation of the collective psyche grappling with a dream Vs reality conundrum.
Those who survive the ordeal would have to somehow insulate themselves against the crushing weight of reality.
Some lack the knowledge of the real situation. Ignorance is bliss. For them, life goes on, even if apocalypse is tomorrow.
Others are too late to realize, but yet manage to silence the small voice that reminds them of their failure. For them, life must and would go on, somehow. It is just a passing phase. Shrug it off.
Some others are the doomsday enthusiasts. They had ‘seen’ it coming. Even if ‘it’ goes away, they would still see some other ‘it’ coming.
All these people, although would live to see spring again, aren’t exactly “survivors” and neither are they the “fittest”. They just stay healthy enough to hop on the bandwagon.
The obvious survivors are the ones who had seen it coming in time, knew what to do to escape the blow and emerge unscathed. They could have been smart or wise or purely lucky. Let’s salute them and leave them alone with that. They are individual winners; don’t have to carry the burden of a village on their shoulders.
When struck by a bolt from the blue, the one to undergo the maximum pain is the one who has seen it coming, a fraction of a second before the blow. His instincts tell him that it is going to be painful. He understands its impact. But he may not have either the time or the faculty to react and protect himself. His knowledge is his doom.
Even among such people, some survive. The puritans among these realists perish. The ones that digress into a what-if world, atleast till times and tides change for the better, seem to hold through. It is this temporary but willful block of cognitive powers, that helps them see beyond their reality. Generations that would chronicle their lives might call it grit, determination or optimism. They pull themselves to work out a tomorrow, trudging amidst the ashes. They are blind to the pathetic present. Only a future that would be a resurrection of their past glory dominates their radar.
Even if they fail, and drop down dead, a smile would remain etched on their cadaver. The smile of the do-er. Also the smile of insanity.
