A Dream That Will Never Come True

I spent an ungodly amount of my early childhood and teenage years dreaming about becoming a medical doctor. I got hooked early on thinking about it throughout the days and months when I was watching one of the top television serials of the time: Lifeline on Doordarshan. This was the late nineteen-eighties.

That wonderful TV series, to a great extent, has changed the way I was thinking about myself as a person and what I should be doing to pursue something useful in life that goes all the way, in peace, to the retirement age, so to speak. The dreaming part is one thing but to have everything as per your dream – the practicality of it: regardless of whether it will work out as expected – is quite another.

As things stand now, I think I have a fairly good idea why I didn’t progress toward becoming what I had originally wanted to and I keep criticizing myself about it every day. Nevertheless, this hard fact of life had lain to rest a lot of 'angsty', emotional stuff that had once taken deep roots inside me to a clear resolution of sorts as I seem to have understood fully well that my dream will never come true, ever.

Despite that, something somehow remains, in trace quantities perhaps; and I am okay that while the reality was setting in, I wound up soothed from the weight of the unrequited dream even as I have discovered another dream en route to my adulthood. That’s why this opinion piece.

Hope, Wish, Fantasy….

Studying medical science perchance was not in my destiny’s good books, not a chance. Therefore, the story, so far as I could tell, would have dead-ended right at that point had it not been for the good, old-fashioned existential angst conjoined to the sentiment of my unrealized dream still wanting to keep me haunted like a boogeyman to this day and age. Now that the old dream had invariably turned into a cold distant memory of the past – all that remains now is a bittersweet aftertaste of it, however. Save for the feeling of butterflies in my stomach is still fresh.

Right Ho, Jeeves, but look at me, not even a typical tie-clad medical rep have I moved toward becoming! And I know how much this thing from way back has cost me personally.

As it happened, I shrank away from realizing my dream of getting into a med school after passing out from senior high (located on one of the most beautiful yet isolated outback regions of India's Air Force Stations). Why? Because, first off, I didn’t want to be in step by impatient step with the exhausting uprising of my school babalog’s predictably boring professional aspirations deserving nothing but the Zenith that’ll ensure a bright future and all, and, second off, what got my goat was actually their guffawing chutzpah about other peoples’ non-engineering, non-medical aspirations deserving the Nadir that’ll guarantee a cup of tea at the most!

Little did they know that they were treating their career-making goals as mere future investments to make a lot of money and, perhaps, to pay for a luxurious lifestyle? In contrast, my philosophy of life was, thankfully, not as stereotypical and sensation-seeking as theirs. I was more or less an acquiescent, persuadable, and an amenable smiling young teenager who is also a delighted risk-taker. While they were playing it safe by choosing a “respected” and a “tried and tested” calling like engineering, I looked the other way gratefully uninterested. Even after all their bragging, I don’t blame them for their, well, attitudinal problems towards next-gen non-conventional streams that were gradually coming into vogue. They did what they had a craving for doing: pursuing studies of their “choice,” that is. On the other hand, I did what I had a craving for doing: inhabiting a world where there are fewer Engineers but quality ones, that is. I sound surly but that’s an inescapable reality, you know.

Understandably, their fantasy of becoming an Engineer, no doubt, was coming true and goals too were getting accomplished, and why the hellfire not? When you know the job of how to make that final push to get over the line, success is yours. Surprisingly, even the buck-toothed chap I used to know once upon a time from my plus-two (senior high) school days did well for himself. Being a Bucky – this guy looked like a poor man’s Freddie Mercury, not of the Balsara stock but of the Sribathtub from the dusty hinterlands of ‘BIMARU states’ – was no hindrance for this gigantic long-limbed Goliath to win his khetibaadi (agribusiness) battles, apparently! But, regrettably, most of these ill-tempered class fellows of which this Bucky was, sort of, an inseparable gang member, all zealously milk-toothed they were, aspired either for ‘Engineering’ or ‘Medical’ degree or nothing as if no other career option ever existed in the pecking order! (What about trees, birds, woods, water, and Antarctic ice when we talk about human fools impacting our planet Earth?) Go figure.

As for me, well, the least said the better because, you know, I had to blink and squint and miss the bus of possible opportunities of making it to a medical school; yes, I still despised doing any of the oversaturated streams of the cuckolding engineering degree. Hence, neither did I become a doctor of humans nor of animals nor even of plants nor fowls. 

I, as though of some kind of contraband hemlock I had drunk, however, could merely manage and fumble to become a lifelong student of my first-loves: zoology and biology, without professionally becoming a Biologist or a Botanist or a Zoologist that is! How senseless of me. I know, I know, that’s life. But software engineering came much later.

By the way, talking about Bio- and Zoology, it is definitely conciliatory to know that the world is ours and where we come from, but definitely not so when you realize where we are going to go and where we are going instead. With all the Earth’s climatic change, global warming, rising temperatures, and animal and plant species extinction we see and hear but do nothing about, we, beyond any doubt, are going nowhere clean but straight to an unhygienic HELL to burn! However, that’s a different sorry-ass story of mankind’s need and greed we better not lecture about because it doesn’t go down well with anyone, barely ever did I think, least of all greedy Engineers, to resolutely do something to save our planet, our only home.

With a withering mother Earth, how could I become an Engineer? What will I engineer? In my humble viewpoint, I’d say Earth doesn’t need any Engineer, it needs Biology and Zoology. Migrate to Mars, O plundering Engineers of the world; that Red Planet most likely needs Engineers more than our Earth does! Go away there.

How about getting back to the point, on our beloved planet Earth? Without further ado, here we go...

While it is still a great thing for me to appreciate that terse “Ignorance is Bliss” proverb cannot (no longer, nope!) be used on me, I insist that it was not due to some ignorance concern that I did not pursue my dream of becoming a medical doctor. I had a fairly good arsenal of ambitions no doubt – and I credit none but my parents with instilling it in me, I think it was rather the scare of rigour (ragrapatti in Hindi) and the scary thought of grossing out my friends that this humble mimosa pudica (shy plant) of a person wouldn’t really be keen on, compared to others who grossed out each other (with pleasure!) for catching the infectious disease of success and achievement and put our planet on a perilous path of destruction. (That is just a perspective, nothing else). 

I think this kind of willful bad behaviour of grossing out friends to study your lessons inflicts too much irreparable damage on everyone. I for one could never tolerate or live with such a thing, and so I swiftly moved away from these foolish chaps and their scheme of things which surely will stand to fall afoul of what I term the principle of great unconditional friendship. Added to that laconic problem is the fact that the rat race doesn’t ever stop at the med school, it never stops there; it begins and ends never! Now, that was really too much for the scuttling teenager in me to handle.

Still, how can one just be ignorant of one’s own beloved dream of becoming a medical doctor never getting fulfilled? One cannot simply be as ignorant as not being able to realize one’s competency levels and long-term commitment constraints before proceeding any further on fulfilling the dream. So kindly don’t patch the term ignorance on me just to make yourself feel good. Oh gosh, that would be demeaning, a taboo I fear so so much to bring upon me.

Having felt all that I have felt up till now, I can sincerely say that for some people, Life cannot always be neat and tidy so that you've everything sorted at the end. I still like saying that I look to the Past to live fairly in the Present but, having said that, I don't necessarily have to look to the Future, do I? What is there in the future? Mars? That Red Planet to go to? Oh come on, Humankind, don't give me that science fiction poo again!

I’ll leave it at that. Too complicated to go in there. Phew!

By Arindam Moulick

Postscript: The above blog/essay is the first sequel (part 2) to the main essay titled "That Good, Old-Fashioned Existential Angst" published in November 2018 on my blog site. Do swing by here as soon as you can to read the next sequel in the series. More on this ‘dream’ theme in my next blog.

Click here to read the main essay titled "That Good Old-fashioned Existential Angst."

- This article under the same title has been published on the EzineArticles.com website. Click here to read it: https://ezinearticles.com/?A-Dream-That-Will-Never-Come-True&id=10042757

That Good, Old-Fashioned Existential Angst

Don’t mind. Lambasting or lampooning oneself is my innate specialty! And this essay, I dare to say, is one intimate, adventitious cock and bull confessional. Don’t take it too seriously, ever!

In the halcyon days of my youth, I was constantly under the spell of my personal considerations (at best nutty!), mind waves (wildly short-circuited!), and first impression polaroids (pitifully bleary!). I thought these were tried and true stuff and that using these apparently helpful constructs I could make my life – worthwhile and triumphantly interesting. But life, putting it jauntily, pulled a fast one on me.

Year on the year as life unspooled itself out, I understood to my belated surprise that I must have been way off the mark right from the very beginning. Added to that conundrum, the absence of empirical evidence and a shortage of role models in the past have only compounded my existential angst which was left plowing through the seemingly unplumbed depths of unworkable doodles and noodles so to speak. Today, regardless of what I feel about my own life, I still chase it and will continue to do so until the day I die. That’s the spirit, you say? I guess so. Then we are on the same page.

Perceptually speaking, my city-bred life has NOT turned out to be what I had thought it would; rather, it is all the more incredulously individualistic, singularly undramatic and straight line, and typically far less romantic now; is this happening for the first time post-marital ecstasy? You tell me, I have not an iota of an idea. On the other hand, we have Time that compulsorily takes its toll; it demands its pound of flesh and biding, and I’ve realized in the course of late years that being continually romantic at heart don’t leave adequate breathing space for enjoying serious creative pursuits, for example, reading, writing or romanticizing the past. So I eagerly volunteered to be intermittently sober romantic, not 24/7/365 days' romantic. I could totally be wrong on that thought process for all I know, however, that is the thing I presently am putting my stock in. An intermittent romantic? Whatever.

Let me know, could these thought processes essentially be a summation of strange reflections of what’s happening to me presently, and maybe on account of this affliction my life is going south? But by what unseen element, I need to know? Have I jumped forward in time and have prematurely become an old man on a mission as useless as to obfuscate my original romantic genealogy that people have always known me by and therefore this existential 'angsty' suffering that comes as a bittersweet consequence of that? That may be a legitimate surmising, yes. Regardless, I can’t articulate for sure if I am trying to masquerade as someone who is barely out of his playpen to try and engage attractive chicks in a pre-coitus revelry. Nah! I don’t think so. I am not up to that wicked diversion, never truly have. I now call myself an intermittent romantic, remember? No full-time ECAs (‘extracurricular activities’) for me, please. I am satirizing this whole thing up to see how laughable or how serious it can get.

Indeed, some time ago I was giving everyone a run for their money in the ‘Heights and Looks’ department and I am glad to flaunt that I still manage to give a good rabbit-race to them! I am hardly anyone given to tooting one’s own horn, but I entreat you to picture this: Women used to flatter me all the time that I am so classically tall and handsome, a slick dashing showstopper, that they think I have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself, girls screamed at me, sometimes people fall into walls looking at me, they clicked my photos, and literally complimented me from my aquiline nose to my nice toenails! I did enjoy their attention but it used to really become absolutely crazy to deal with all the fanatical attention I got. By golly, I loved acknowledging their compliments by forming words like “thank you, say it once more!” in my strawberry-like mouth and just go my way with a spring in my step, happy to have ARRIVED! Like many other things in life, beauty is scarce but my kind of pulchritudinous beauty doesn’t command a price. Take heart, my dear, I haven’t joked in years!

In today’s ‘like’-inciting world of Facekindle, Oblitteratti, or Junkedin, you can easily get caught up in the undertow of the ever-present revile of instant trolls and all such horrifying, self-destructive stuff intertwining the fantastical and the mundane, the bizarre and the dangerously mental, and so forth as if nothing is out of ordinary to worry about. Obviously then that it gets to be cruelly boring for old-school folks like me whose primary allegiance to love, serenity and happiness are somehow well-regarded by the same atrocious world which has, in the murky backdrop of race riots, fascism, and paranoiac feeling of doom and foreboding, turned out to be mad and furious and shows no sign of subsiding any time soon. That’s what life has become: totally toxic. Unfortunately, the days of invigorating happiness are altogether gone now – long live those days; the irony in all this overall retardation is that there’s no point in being adorably handsome anymore when you’ve got only bus fare to go back, not a BMW in a world that is simmering with protests and more violent protests of various hues. Basically, I am done fixing temperamental cats and everything with my sweet-smelling boy-scent pheromones. I may not be a George Clooney to say as much but I too am good-looking enough to not let anyone fool me and get away unscathed. I am still not done on the subject, yet I have to stop bulldozing along these lines. Now now, before you bash me up, read this: Elvis has left the building!

Life: Not for Pussies

This brings me to the fact why Life is not a fair stardom thing and why an awful amount of things like misfortune and twists of fate/destiny/kismet occur in a flash and nowadays why do I get to play the victim card to save my perfectly sandwiched buttocks from grinding in the roiling politics of Haves and Have-Nots. I wonder if this is what existential angst is all about, albeit it might be a natural response system to one’s imagined loss and suffering that never really abates or so we hope it will someday. I believe I ought not to jump into any uncharacteristic conclusions just now, so let me waffle on a little bit more while I am at it, carried away by a sandstorm of hasty feelings causing anxiety and vapid gravitas of this trivial, cathartic writing!!! The wind is still left in one's sails to go a little farther. So come away with me.

Well, I come from one of the southern regions of the Deccan Plateau of the peninsular India where huge boulders, unique rock formations, and rugged hills, slopes, and slants dot the laid-back city landscape which, according to me, often manages to signify heartbrokenness and technically being stalled and stuck between the rock and a hard place kinda thing. I am still young maybe, but I’ve been around, you see, to know such a furtive thing. Being 45 plus of age surely doesn’t seem to be a juvenile age bracket anymore, hence, I claim to know such things.

So chew this: After college, my life’s trajectory pointed towards the South. I wanted to quit eastwards but sadly that was not to be. Maybe, I was a little way off the mark right from the beginning and so in the mad rush of Life’s goings-on, I’d missed hitting the proverbial bull’s eye by the widest margin possible: of not doing something worthwhile in the direction of my medical dream getting realized. I, therefore, faltered at its altar, desperate to go further but was unable. Now for what reasons do I feel so much of an existential predicament/dread/crisis in this long-forgotten matter? It should die down eventually, no? That’s a big question and hence this blog to answer it satisfactorily and find closure. If data is the new oil, then I am after it. Little wonder then that I am into a knowledge-talent era of Information Technology (IT) and folks like me are summarily dismissed as “techies” or "geeks", talented or more talented or not in the slightest degree!

Medicine Isn't for Everybody

Through reading this article it may seem like I am trying hard to sell the idea that I have an “existential angst” that never leaves me, or maybe it is merely a time-pass muse, or maybe there’s actually a sense of purpose I want to talk about here. No dear, don’t try to hand me my kerchief yet. I may be emotional, but I am fine I assure you. Call it a herd mentality or confused mentality, I certainly did end up nursing one 'angsty' feeling that I am still frustratingly unhappy with not achieving what I thought I would when I was much younger, and now this helluva feeling of repentance I am trying to get rid of, either by hook or by crook but unable to, doesn’t die a natural death.

If truth be told, I had wanted to become a medical professional, say a specialist doctor (don’t roll your eyes yet!), but I didn’t realize that the notion or idea, though very vague I admit, I had so affectionately cared for long years had evaporated not long after I had graduated from college with science subjects to boot. I loved Zoology and Botany, but I could not develop enough willpower within me to tackle the rough and tumble of horrendous medical entrance exams. As I realize fully well now, simply ideating on becoming a doctor was one thing and actually becoming one was entirely another. Better late than never. How difficult was that for this numbskull to get that? Only it wasn’t! If only I knew how to solve this testy little puzzle of becoming a medical professional at least slightly in advance, then, I think, I could have changed my world from upright bottom to bottom upright or something to that effect. Yeah, if only I knew how to get off my sorry ass and do it the way it is meant to be done, I would have become the president of the United States twice over or become the crowned up Monarch of Great Britain ten times over. But no such luck, for I was trapped in the maze of the mundane but happy existence, and this happened in spite of being actively dreaming (actively thinking even) about living the life of a medic. Try not to toss rotten tomatoes at me yet. If you have fresh ones, however, you may try! Meanwhile, just bear with me on this one.

Some people say "Medicine isn't for everybody.” That may be true; unless if you can commit yourself to the stresses and strains of hard work, effort, determination, endless personal struggles, and a zillion other things that weigh down on your every waking day of your life, until attaining medical nirvana. As far as my fantasy of medicine as a career option was concerned, I think my goose was already cooked for no partaking when I confused ‘hobby’ thing with ‘career’ thing due to lack of awareness and of the decent lure of go-get-it passion on my part, I suppose. I don’t know where was I when God was distributing some grey matter (brains) to cozy individuals like the one from whose pen you are reading this free-flowing parody going front and center. Most likely I was bathing or taking an extended siesta under that excellent three-bladed beige-coloured dependable Orient fan, moored in the everglades of blissful contentment and ease of blissful ignominy of my bedroom.

And so I was tangled inside the regularly-churning Wheel of Time, this solitary dumbfounded soul wandered about in the ever-expanding galactic space of the Universe with no apparent gift (of the Magi?) for making near-future prophecies. One just couldn’t figure a way out of his own abyss. I thought my doofus days were over, but it isn’t yet as I have painfully figured out now, though all too belatedly. Now I know why I still feel like a tourist in my own locality!

By Arindam Moulick

Postscript: More on this 'dream' theme in my next blog. Do swing by here whenever you can, and I'll have it served for you, hot!

Note: The above essay is the first part (part 1) of a 14-part essay. The first in this series is titled "That Good Old-Fashioned Existential Angst." Click on the title to read it.

- This article under the same title has been published on the EzineArticles.com website. Click here to read it: https://ezinearticles.com/?That-Good,-Old-Fashioned-Existential-Angst&id=10032659

Wonderful Books, Marvellous Authors

Books Blog: Here are just a handful of books out of many I’ve read in the past year or so.

"The Narrow Road to the Deep North" by Richard Flanagan:

Australian author Richard Flanagan’s The Narrow Road to the Deep North is an ambitious account of his father’s POW status with the Japanese captors in World War II. Almost certainly, there is a blinding light of brilliance in the copious prose of the story. Amid WWII, in 1943, a group of Australian POW (prisoner of war) captives was captured by Japanese soldiers and made to labour away in the deep jungles of Java, to what purpose? To build the Thailand-Burma railroad or “Death Railway” from Bangkok to Rangoon slashing through the Burmese jungle. With no food or water for these dying captives, starvation and heinous diseases take over them completely.

Two characters particularly stand out and I kept thinking about them throughout my reading of the book: Amy, Ella, and especially, Darky Gardiner (author’s father) in terms of their emotional quotient to the entire heart-touching story. Darky Gardiner’s death in the jungle was impossible to believe and difficult to accept! The circumstances under which he dies shocked me. For the doctor, Dorrigo Evans, returning to Amy was a foregone conclusion, and Ella, goodness poor Ella!

The book reads like a long sonnet. The narrative is magnificent. It won the 2014 Booker. Very well-deserved though. But I have a hinge: “The Lives of Others” by Neel Mukherjee could have been the one to win the Booker Prize. Is it cheeky of me to suggest that? Nope. However, I do sympathize with the heartfelt story of the book “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” winning the Booker.

Neel Mukherjee's “The Lives of Others”:
I mean...sure... “The Narrow Road..." was a difficult book that took many years to write, yet I felt “The Lives of Others” was far better and more complex than constituting a literary epic like that, and is an intricate piece of narrative (it reads like a dream) than the one which was adjudged the winner. I thoroughly enjoyed reading both the books and that’s why I could shape my own safe supposition. Read these two special books to know what shining gems they are. They are truly marvellous works of contemporary English literature.

“Lisey's Story” by Stephen King:
I’ve recently wrapped up reading “Lisey's Story” and I had a great experience. A tomb of over 550 pages that I’d laboured through was definitely worth my time! I figured it would be a horror story that Mr. Stephen King is so famous for, but no, in a way it isn’t. Rather, it’s more of a psychological thriller that seems to haunt you till the end. 

For me, the supposed ‘action’ (minimalist though) starts at the 248th page (I noted it down), and from that point on it is unstoppable. Prior to that, however, it was a little tedious, I’m afraid, to wade through the first half of the novel. The first half of the story lacked action that I was anticipating but that’s okay, it didn’t always have to be like that; in fact, the book is about finding the epic subtle elements in unremarkable things in Lisey’s and her husband’s life and her sisters', that also includes Mr. King's staple: black humour. Epic is the word for it. I’d persevered and was rewarded with the brilliant second half with a fair bit of ‘action’ I was so craving for. It’s been like a goodbye to sleep when I was reading the better half of the novel. Over and above this I’ve just mentioned, I think I can tell you adoring the story was no problem, especially the kind of harrowing childhood experiences Scott or Scoot had really moved me. Writing is great, lucid, and typical King style.

“The Ice Twins” by S.K. Tremayne:

“The Ice Twins” by S.K. Tremayne is a super spine-chiller: an emotional psychological thrill-ride for sure. It is so well-written that I read the book quite obsessively.
Set on a tiny Scottish island, the story is about mistaken twin identities (of two identical twin sisters). One dies, another survives. I loved the depiction of a family broken apart by pain and grief on losing one of their loved ones. I give four big stars for the author’s storytelling virtuoso.

“Hungry as the Sea” by Wilbur Smith:

Just got done reading Wilbur Smith’s 1978 novel “Hungry as the Sea”. What is most special about Mr. Smith is that he is not just a great but a super extraordinary storyteller.

If you want to read a book that is replete with adventure, history, intrigue, revenge, and romance then you ought to read Wilbur Smith's books. He is one of my favourite authors. Apart from the riveting descriptions of storms, high seas, and search and rescue of ocean-going salvage tugs, Mr. Smith is exemplary in his writing about ships during storms; in fact, that’s the best part of the book. Of course, Africa is still his specialty and always will be but “Hungry as the Sea” is a good stand-alone adventure-thriller. I strongly recommend this book. A must-read.

“Warlock” by Wilbur Smith:
I have been reading “Warlock” since last month and have just finished reading it. Of late, I’ve been ravenously reading books and Wilbur Smith was high up on my reading list. Arguably, he is one of the greatest adventure writers of our time and it gladdens my heart to know that he is still at the height of his powers and means business. Reading this title was special for me.

In the days when I used to travel by trains a lot, I would see this book placed on the show-racks of AH Wheelers at the railway stations across the East Coast corridor of our country. On several occasions, I’d wanted to buy it but couldn’t. So I thought enough is enough. I bought it the other day and started reading it and boy! I was utterly flummoxed by the epic treatise. “Warlock” is a tome of over 500 pages depicting great African adventure - from the bygone era of Egyptian Pharaohs and adept Princesses. 

This is one genuinely adorable book that you’ll love reading in copious chunks. I have a hardback copy. Reading it was akin to the achievement of a personal milestone – a truly special feeling now that I've accomplished reading one of his, dare I say most critical works yet?

"Khullam Khulla: Uncensored" by Rishi Kapoor:

Yesteryears' heartthrob Rishi Kapoor's self-portrait, his autobiography "Khullam Khulla: Uncensored" was a pleasant read. 

I finished reading it in 4 days flat. That’s just about the time it took me to wrap up reading this highly recommended book. There are many candid anecdotes and personal insights shared here that I didn't know about, for instance, I did not know Nafiza Ali was offered the piece of Dimple Kapadia's in the film Bobby and so many others that will make you look back in nostalgia. The book is well-written, very engaging, and is a page-turner: a standout amongst the clutch of autobiographies that have come out of Bollywood recently. The book gets a conservative three and a half stars (heavily tilting on four) from me. Unputdownable.

"Bleachers" and "The Rooster Bar" by John Grisham:

Reading John Grisham is a yearly custom that I can never dispense with. One never passes up reading a John Grisham novel. I read many of his books and I still marvel at the fact that the way of his intense storytelling magic never blurs or sounds out of sync. I like his prose; his narrative style is superb. I genuinely venerate that feat of his. I have just finished reading "Bleachers" written by none other than the one and only legal thriller specialist John Grisham. Good on him.

I've just finished my yearly ritual reading John Grisham's latest legal thriller "The Rooster Bar". The story is about three legal school dropouts trying to con their way through the civil courts and making some easy money for a living. But the inventive trio gets stuck in other people's shady deals and the big-shot dupe-sters who have no gumption to bend the law for money. It doesn’t work that way for them all. Before long, they all get caught. It’s a good book but not a great one if you ask me. I enjoyed reading it very much for its effortless prose and Mr. Grisham is a master at telling a story like magic. I’m already looking forward to the next book by one of my favourite thriller writers: John Grisham. I heard that “The Reckoning” is going to hit the stands soon. I can’t wait to read the new book.

“Amma: Jayalalithaa's Journey from Movie Star to Political Queen" by Vaasanthi:

Avoiding all the controversial parts of the book “Amma: Jayalalithaa's Journey from Movie Star to Political Queen" delivers what we already know. At just 175 pages in total, the book is a marvel and it reads like a dream. 
Written by the Tamil novelist Vaasanthi, “Amma” is a gripping story of one of the most charismatic politicians and superwomen of India, former chief minister of Tamil Nadu Selvi Jayalalithaa (JJ in short). A must-read for those who want to quickly know about one of the most characteristic political leaders of the southern state of T.N. and indeed of India. I rejoiced reading this slim book, which is so engrossing that it becomes really tough to put the book down once you’ve started reading it. The book is a nice elucidation of effortless writing and simple storytelling that sings. Marvellous author, wonderful book.

"Last Days" by Adam Nevill:

"Last Days" by Adam Nevill is a fine horror novel. I like reading books about horror, the occult, and the paranormal; it keeps my horror goosebumps in spick-and-span condition! Although I get spooked very easily because I don’t have a short attention span, but I can't say I've had my fill of horror novels; no, I never will. 
I still remember reading "The Ritual" written by the same author; I was shocked and lost my normal life for days together!! The book Last Days is about an infamous cult that meets a bloody end in the desert of Arizona where they set up a shack and call it Temples of the Last Days. With bodily apparitions, fleeing members of the cult, ancient evil, and paranormal elements all intensified to a crescendo, the terror is at once sinister and diabolical that you can damn well feel it all. Nevill does it with an astonishing panache that’s very rare, a true hallmark of a mature author handling the genre of horror today. I’m thinking of Stephen King also in the same nervous breath. I think it is one of the top-notch horror books that have come out recently.

"They Lived With God: Life Stories of Some Devotees of Sri Ramakrishna" by Swami Chetanananda:

"They Lived With God: Life Stories of Some Devotees of Sri Ramakrishna" by Swami Chetanananda presents a unique picture of the Divine Incarnate Sri Ramakrishna and his intense spirituality from the eyes of his lay disciples who lived and served the great soul.

This wonderful book offers a glimpse of the life and times of 32 close disciples of Sri Ramakrishna's inner circle of devotees. Reading about their stories and experiences was an enriching experience that comes rarely by in this day and age of Kali-yuga. Those were the spiritual times. What we have these days is that there is no sense of devotion towards god or any godly subjects; instead, fake gods and ‘distant darshan’ shortcuts via satellite link rule the minds of their foolish followers. I wonder what a wonderful time these lay disciples must have had when Sri Ramakrishna, Sarada Maa, and Swami Vivekananda – the Holy Trio, were around in their midst. This book has the potential to change one’s life. It gives an inspiring first-person recount of those beautiful days gone forever.

Arundhati Roy's "The Ministry of Utmost Happiness”:

Arundhati Roy's truly marvellous new novel "The Ministry of Utmost Happiness" captures the microcosm of fringe communities living in the conflict zones of Kashmir and the outcasts in the city of Delhi living in the cemetery, a departure from her groundbreaking debut “The God of Small Things”. 
Whereas it's been 20 long years since her last Booker-winning work The God of Small Things came out in the late 1990s, her recent one is a worthy addition to the world of great literature, albeit with a slightly disjointed and lengthy diversion into political rants (which are insightfully portrayed) that doesn’t quite gel into the wholesome appeal of the novel. I absolutely love Ms. Roy’s immaculate prose. Anyhow, the book was well worth the wait; however, I just wish that we don't have to wait that long again before we have another such remarkable creation amidst us from her pen in the distant future. And this time, I’d entreat her to take us into Kerala once again as she did in her first novel I can never stop thinking about.

“Beyond Apu – 20 Favourite Film Roles of Soumitra Chatterjee” by Amitava Nag:

"Beyond Apu…” is one of those rare books (in English) to have come out recently. It really is strange that not many books have been written on one of India’s greatest actors the great Satyajit Ray protégé Soumitra Chatterjee. So this book is a welcome edition. The actor’s journey from the back of beyond in the Nadia district of Bengal to the great city of Calcutta to stepping into films with Satyajit Ray’s Apur Sansar is one hell of a story.

 Although we understand that the actor himself is not interested in penning his own autobiography (but why?), it makes me wonder why there’s not even a decent biographical account/book on one of Indian Cinema’s greatest artists coming from the land of culture and arts, Bengal. Beats me! Are there no specialized writers in India or in Calcutta to take up such a task of such great importance? Thanks a ton to the author of the book Amitava Nag and the publisher, we have at least a journal talking about Soumitra Chatterjee’s best films.

I enjoyed reading this exploration of the actor’s films and deep analyses very much. Through this book, we now know that Soumitra is also a poet, apart from being a playwright, a theatre director, and ultimately a versatile actor. His elocutionist and recitation gene is one of the much-talked-about talents in the Calcutta (now called Kolkata) society. I like the front cover with the collage of pictures, it’s very tastefully done. Thank you for the fascinating read and the unique insights into the mind of a diverse creative master at work. Now, I would want another book on Soumitra Chatterjee. Please!

"A Dark Matter" by Peter Straub:

Last week I swam through a deluge of boring tosh! I forced myself to read through "A Dark Matter" by Peter Straub in full. As a matter of personal policy, I always read the book completely back-to-back and I don’t ever abandon it midway or halfway. The point here is that the book is mere flotsam of a story that simply doesn't stay afloat! Full of hokey-pokey stuff that doesn't make any sense. Suggestive references of a credible story don’t make their presence felt; instead what we get is a long whine that yips and yaws and yawns. My advice: stay away from it. Just do. I think I would go ahead and try one of his earlier works “Ghost Story”. A Dark Matter may not be good enough but Ghost Story might be. I’ve heard that it is a good novel but I’ll have to find out if it really is what they say it is. Only time will tell.

Note: All of the above were posted elsewhere as personal messages. Now they've been collected here in my blog with additional wordings to share my utter delight in reading them. Just keeping the records straight!

By Arindam Moulick

Pix Courtesy: Except for the snapshots of the books "The Lives of Others," "The Ice Twins," "Hungry as the Sea,"  "Beyond Apu - 20 Favourite Roles of Soumitra Chatterjee," and "Bleachers" which have been taken from the Internet, all others are courtesy of my personal collection.

- This article under the same title has been published on the EzineArticles.com website. Click here to read it: https://ezinearticles.com/?Wonderful-Books,-Marvelous-Authors&id=10049192

Portrait of a Conspiracy Theorist Extraordinaire

His ‘Retractable Claw’ theory is actually serious! Read on to know why.

Forgive me, for I am about to break rank writing this unusual essay about an ex-colleague who is now a friend. Knowing this is just a blog I am unmindful of my choice of words in writing this slow-burn longish descriptive essay you are about to read. So please don’t drop this on your foot. No big deal here. Take care of yourself.

To begin with, the ‘start from scratch all over again’ slogan comes from the well-stocked stables of a good-hearted conspiracy theorist who believes in the expert application of his knife-edge ‘Retractable Claw’ to all problems, imaginary or real, he faces. (What is it you’re saying? What claw?) Okay Okay, I shall clarify right away.

So here I go: The ‘start from scratch all over again’ motto is really a rap-on-the-knuckles personal approach or reproach towards redressing your mistakes and inexcusable oversights, as it were. Be that as it may, the million-dollar question is: Is it really feasible for anyone in this world to ‘start from scratch’ again? What does this motto assume to mean? It implies that the job that was not done the right way the first time around could possibly be done the right way if you started again from scratch? It might be possible to do that, who knows if one is given a second chance. Now that’s something of a total rarity because often there’s no confirmatory second chance in life as my friend is majorly experienced in that area – a second chance to make appropriate reparations or reverse some past mix-ups.

This intellectual conspiracy theorizer needs a second chance at living his life a little differently: the one which is far removed from the first misspent one. So is it possible for him to get another chance at renewing his life with good tidings? It was not entirely his fault though that the role of his karma or fate or destiny has never worked predictably in his favour. How might he be helped he wants to know? Can his dysfunctional family help their own family member that is he? Who can help him then? God the merciful? People of the world? Anyone? Jaggi Vasudev? Osho? Advaita Ashrama? Can he have an answer? Please?

The answer to the question of whether or not anyone can be given a second chance to relive his/her life is certainly not an easy nut to crack because the question potentially is something akin to solitude, a flaw, a congenital defect that often eats into your soul from inside out.

I’ve heard about this ‘start from scratch…’ slogan more often than not in the last few months than I ever did previously, thanks to my friends’ child-like enthusiasm about it. To be frank, I heard the slogan from him who I think has a ‘covert weapon’ of his own: a retractable claw of mass destruction! (‘Mass destruction’ is slightly over the top an explanation, but don’t mind it). But what can you infer from such a high-sounding presumptuous name? Your guess is as good as mine: What’s in a name. Well, sometimes it does matter, sometimes it doesn’t, depends on how you look at it. It simply infers that if you fail or flop with something in life you are expected to start the often dirty job of correcting your mistakes and this time you can fairly hope to get it right using the help of your ‘retractable claw’. Still, this can only be a hypothesis, which went on to – somewhat regrettably – work wonders on my friend’s mind’s psyche when the subject of ‘start from scratch all over again’ was first broached earlier this year, mostly by him, for I was just a mute spectator to all of that he claimed. Except that, as I soon found out, he wouldn’t “start from scratch,” never, that’s not his style he says but he likes operating his ‘retractable claw’ very much indeed. His is a blunt-force weapon that tunnels all the way through cauterizing all his life’s problems into piecemeal perspectives so that he can easily relate to each piece after piece. And in the hope of that thing happening, he can feel the ultimate orgasmic thrill for having to successfully tackle his life’s problems head-on. Short and sweet make up a treat. No doubt, he is a genre of his own.

And I can’t believe I was trying to invoke God to grant my friend a boon so that he could be able to resurrect his life with the second chance that he might have from Him! I am just kidding about the last part of what I’ve just said.

Coming Out for A Little Sun and Risotto

For all I know, he knows how to deal with his faults/mistakes in his own restless way and not feel guilty about anything in the likely event that they backfire on him. He opines that guilt of any kind wrecks the sweet anticipation of exhilaration and fulfilment. Consequences there will be, but gratification might be hard to come by so one has to grasp the chance whenever it comes and enjoy what it has to offer. That’s why he likes drinking in the pool of make-believe lovemaking. He likes it unplanned. Plans don’t work for him. He opines that unplanned errands are sweatier but definitely sweeter than the planned ones and therefore so much to look forward to; albeit every single of his hot-blooded pursuits remains unrequited and unwept over. Even so, he knows better. A hundred thousand sperms and he was the fastest to swim to the providential protectorate of the ovum! A born survivor he is.

You may ask how he knows better. Consider this: By using his ‘retractable claw’ as a cutting-edge druggy weapon to fix all his past and present mistakes and being able to put out of his mind in the increasingly fetid haze that ensues post its vigorous usage (not to mention its robust potency, oh never mind that!) on some imaginary damsel in no apparent distress, the indifferent world – he has seen and done it all. This part of his life is essentially a clever trick that is always up to his sleeve and he jolly well knows how to employ it effectively and efficiently, and whenever he feels like it! Ask him why he is so profusely fond of making such unreciprocated love? He doesn’t care why because, according to this genre-defying conspiracy mystic, “why” is a piece of terrible baggage that is best left unclaimed in the airport of life.

With the sole aim to unhinge his life’s main purpose which is to simply sustain and leave it dangling by the ‘retractable claw’ of his life, he’d once been put hard up against a wall of a terrible reprisal for his sense of prosperity and longevity, or life expectancy as we jokingly put it, getting affected. Call it as a vice or virtue, he sees everything conspiratorially, and by having a gifted paranoiac suspicious mind he can easily be known as a master of the culture that breeds conspiracy theories of the highest order. The other side of the proverbial coin of his personality is that he is as normal a single guy of virtues as you can get.

For example, according to one of his theories, World Wars I and II have served as critical turning points for economically advanced power-hungry nations of the world to create a market for mass consumption of food and other industry-produced goods among the world population and, therefore, converting socialist/communist countries into economically-interdependent capitalist ones (read free-trade, free-market blah, blah, blah) was, one thinks, not very difficult a narrative to get the hang of what he really means by saying what he says.

His stack of byzantine conspiracy speculation consists of these: Pearl Harbour attack was faked, meaning the United States knew about the attacks in advance and so wanted it to happen to enter World War II, the JFK assassination plot, Princess Diana’s assassination was actually carried out by British Intelligence agents at the monarchy’s behest (everyone knows this theory though); Watergate scandal, CIA was behind John Lennon’s killing, 9/11 attacks that brought the twin towers of WTC buildings down may have been carried out by controlled demolition and so forth.

Though these theories, if not all but most, may seem nonsense and are pretty much available online, his talent is rare, especially in espousing brave and provocative theories with such impassioned orally expressive analyses that’ll definitely nag you to ask necessary questions about the nature of the nation-states, especially of the so-called West and its immense political and economic power to alter the course of human history. Thus spake the expert Zarathustra.

One of the reasons why his social life is negligible has to be his ability to angling out ‘conspiracy’ in almost everything you see or read. He hardly ever was, for that matter, sociable by nature. He rarely ever smiles; he’s a little groggy maybe but never punch-drunk weepy about the way his life is treating him daily...his life reads like the hallowed pages of Charles Dickens novels “Oliver Twist” or “David Copperfield”. Having partaken dollops of inspirational readings from such all-time classics, my friend too plods along being cast-adrift alone in the wilderness of apparently endless time.

Be it politics, women, science, or anything under the sky he knows how to spin a conspiracy theory around these and undress them in the nude. He feels that Earth girls are easy (to get); if in case he thinks that he is from some laidback outer space managing to look like the exact copy of Jeff Goldblum!, just perish the thought. This unique human cannot differentiate the Gold from Blum while Jeff cuts cleanly away. Whether you agree with him or not is a different ruse altogether, but every conspiratorial angle of his sounds so unbelievably true and so-cool that you hardly ever will come into disagreement with the way he speaks about the issues concerning mankind today. That sums up his modus operandi and modus vivendi. Mind you, one is not talking about any half-baked cynical ideas that can be googled from the Net, but fully formed satirical ones that croon lexical tones of great conspiracy theories of his into anyone’s ears who’d be interested to hear them out and not feel faint. His is no foolish talk.

His Eternal Bachelorhood Plans

Look there and look deeply. There! There! Did you see that? His ‘retractable claw’ is right there but merely a suggestive notion of it exists now! The man has committed his mistakes (everybody does so who cares!) but fortunately, has recuperated from certain unwelcome consequences he had had to face – all because of what he was previously accustomed to believe in. Thanks to his male chauvinist ‘retractable claw’ ideology that had for more than once backfired on him with brute intensity, but coincidentally, it definitely did him well too. His bachelorhood self-survived. We’ll now see how.

The naked truth is he still has an unflinching truck with his own life: a vulnerable existence without a better-half is the toughest experience possible that a man can endure. When you’ve become a most eligible adult (MEA) to get married and went past the marriageable due date or expiry date or whatever it is called, without the company of a wife and in his case the absence of even parents and siblings, life portents hell, pure unmanageable hell. Ask married men, they know! Apparently, he is still surviving the fact that he’s not wanted in the arranged marriage market anymore, possibly because he is well past the marriageable age and girls, according to him, have stopped being keen on aged singles like him, due to reasons which are best known only to them. Possibly because of this reason alone why his, sort of, the last line of defence has come to be known as ‘retractable claw’ and using it the way he wants to. As things stand with him now, he still likes playing by its elegiac rules.

Even though he continues to have the ‘truck’ even today (and justifiably so), his sense of days and years sometimes seesaws between sanity and insanity. Being naturally restless on such a make-or-break issue, he sometimes laments about the way he lives his, sort of, miserable existence, but beyond that cold hard fact that rests on him lightly he’s able to shut his mind out from the subject of marriage and the potential flights of fancy one are troubled by when one has a female company for consummation, not to mention all other potential odd jobs it brings. These are his words, not mine.

His LinkedIn profile is expunged thanks to his contentious viewpoints, Facebook profile never existed and never will, and his Twitter doesn’t bleat (Tweet?) and his WhatsApp hardly makes any noise. Blogging, travelling and frugal living are the only escape routes from the persistent scratch in the tenderloins of monotony as is cranking out an article or two to instil representative forms of propriety within his being.

This kind of naturally befuddled mind-set doesn’t easily subside to proper clarity because it really does take a lot of time to undo one's past mistakes, and ‘start from scratch all over again’ slogan could not be his idea of having to redeem himself at the altar of his good conscience. Such is the life of this conflicting eternal bachelor; he may have his feet firmly on the ground but his head seems to be always in the clouds – always at loggerheads over his personal choice to remain a lifelong celibate and longing for a significant other. That doesn’t mean he is weak in character as being desirous for a spouse doesn’t make one. But, I think, it’s quite natural to be a little confused about oneself in the face of an insurmountable family problem he has been facing in the stark absence of good relatives, parents, and well-wishers in the community where he comes from. He forsook, a long time ago, the luxury of other people’s interest in his personal affairs; he said it was not worth it.

I can never know how it feels when one remains unmarried for life; maybe it feels pathologically wretched, unwanted, and universally lonely when there is no one to talk to and pour your heart out, with not even the loving presence of his parents or siblings in the house. Parents are dead and siblings live reclusively and separately. His destiny was unkind to him in ways that hardly can anyone comprehend as to what really went wrong with him during his growing up years back in his fabled hometown in the south. Equally, his life’s denial for a wife let alone kids, not even a sort of romantic companion to hobnob with, is a harsh reality that, to be frank, hardly ever appeases anyone who had found himself luckier in the jurisdiction of matrimony and its inherent prospects.

While correlation is not causation, it seems to me that the business of staying alive surely had turned out to be one unwelcome proposition for him. But he badgers on, regardless. By not having any type of companionship, he continues to remain perpetually pesky and restless as it must be psychologically very upsetting to live without anyone or anything to call home. And would you say conspiracy theories cannot germinate in the minds of such lonely folks on whom spinsterhood was more or less imposed upon and not because of their choice to remain single? Living in solitary conditions is akin to being almost on a daily basis totally unloved and uncared for and people like him sure can have the uncanny ability to conjure up excellent conspiracy theories, and one way or another, they’d get a kick out of the chance to assert their importance from their own angle of vision and understanding, which isn’t really typical of them. According to me, he is one good epitome (or casualty or victim) of the two big little things called hard luck and indifferent Destiny that have been stacked up against his share of good chances in the whole wide world. Even so, I can’t help thinking hard as to what really turned out badly with this apparently hard-on-luck guy back in the time when he was little and growing up amongst his kith and kin? Understandably, he likes faulting nobody at all for the plight he is in; really so conscientious of him to show some emotional deftness and understanding on certain things, especially of the kind of tough situation he grapples with each waking day of his life. Destiny had it written; but I can’t help but wonder in a pathetic way what it has written for him, ultimately. Only one can never know that.

Often times he becomes so totally distraught about the way things stand that even today, he is in his mid-40s, he still runs the risk of easily getting branded as a hopeless dupe… the one who is not of marriage material, maybe he is a commitment-phobe, and the idea of rearing a family could be anathema to such highly self-satisfied but all-knowing individuals who couldn’t care less for female company. By the same token, his ‘escapades to the stars’ or his ‘navel-gazing’ activity, however, reveals a different set of narrative: the outcome of which when it comes out in the open forces you to feel nothing but feel sorry for him. He does get deeply struck by the shock of loneliness the hard-core spinsters like him – as we lucky married ones presume in our own sweet terms – punishingly deserve. But things like this cannot easily be explained despite the best of intentions. So, obviously, bachelors like him know better than married men what loneliness is and what it can do to you. If truth be told, I think he hopes to do well for himself by turning a different corner: the kind of corner that essentially has the power to alter the course of his kind of humanity and his foreseeable future, to culminate into some kind of fruition that can serve him well given the lifelong reality of no one to care or feel for him. No, marriage is not on the cards, not even taking a chance at it. Like Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam and former PM of India Mr. Atal Behari Vajpayee, and Mr. Ratan Tata, he’s straightforwardly categorical about being allegiant to their alma mater ‘United Bachelors’ Syndicate’ for life. They never acquiesced to what my hermetic friend says the stigmata of impedimental liabilities that the institution of marriage carries.

This Monk Too Has Sold His Ferrari

One of the most important things that influenced him to see the reality is that his more-than-rigid, unbending way of life has pushed him hard to spare handsome money at the bank, on which he would deservedly sustain himself for life, as he revealed it to me once. With no apparent zeal to spend it recklessly or without giving a proper thought is completely absent in him, he is now in good stead. He dons a thinking cap when it comes to money matters. Most likely, it feels great for him to finally be free from certain burdens that sometimes life treats you wrong, so he’s prepared himself for any critical occasions that may rub him the wrong way.

Despite how passive, indifferent his life has been during all his growing up years, the sense of reality somehow dawned quite at an early stage on this perennially lonely man. In a world that can be heartless, savage, and cutthroat and all at the same time, especially to eternal bachelors like him who never would/could get into wedlock, he has repeatedly outshone very many of his peers suffering from the same ever-present bachelorhood pangs involving the complex depravity of the fulfilling cherries of female perspective or any legitimate offline relationship. They’re the rare living proof of angsty men who’d forever be without women. By being a born survivor of an earlier serene generation, he can be more than what meets the eye. His successes may have been few and far between, but his failures are equally good to ponder upon as they can serve as learning lessons to anyone who is curious about how failures serve as stepping stones towards success. In contrast, his peers have already been written off and doomed because they took failures to their hearts. These fellows con, steal and move about unseen to survive and live a toxic life of uselessness and blame other people’s successes for their own lack of proper attitudes. But not my friend.

Unable to acclimate to today’s widespread economic crises and propensities of the money-loving materialism that modern life every so often throws at him, he survives as good as a modern-day indigenous Monk would – a Dalai Lama of his generation, no less than that, and lives in enlightened nirvana far away from a childhood homestead where he once lived with his beloved mother, his crooked father and his helpless siblings who were all there together enjoined in a loving familial embrace. This monk too has sold his Ferrari, though quite a long time back, and came away almost empty-handed after his mother’s death.

Hazy Memory of a Long-Lost Childhood

This comrade of Leftist leanings, a recent friend, has oodles of natural intellect to steer himself away from any servile torments that life manhandles him with. He lives a long, lonely, and desolate existence without a spouse or a family to boot and has loads of heart-aching stories to tell about an earlier time he still misses so much. No juicy tell-alls, but mournful stories about longing and belonging to a once-beautiful homestead where his mother died leaving him unloved and unwanted by his father. After her unexpected demise, someone guardian-like within the family post-haste announces that one of his own beloved children should go away and never return, ever; others can stay in the house if they wish to else the main door is slightly ajar for anyone to take the hint.

Quite before the time when family matters came to such a pass, my tragic friend had already made up his mind to renounce all things that even remotely sounded like family. With his mother gone, his sister somehow married and got away and his brother remained estranged, unconcerned, and morally bankrupt, he became emotionally broke and utterly helpless. His stay-at-home brother wanted money and the house more than anything else. Their probably manic-depressive father never cared about anything as he was absolutely indifferent to his own family affairs until the day when his death intervened to ease matters a little bit for his three surviving children. There are some deep wounds that even Time won’t heal. My friend has plenty of them all over his scarred soul that perhaps will never get a chance at healing. In his case, tragically, Time has always been found sickeningly wanting and as far as its much-vaunted healing powers were concerned, it surely duped him. Sadly, what remains now with him is the bleak memory of a long-lost childhood when his mother was alive and things in the family were quite okay.

With parents dead and gone many years ago, he and his siblings are all this old-school 47-ish socialist sickle-and-hammer personage has as a family. Therefore, to call this something resembling a family albeit completely estranged from one another is a complicated issue in itself. His brother and sister are still emotionally divided in their narrow-minded selfish demands for family property and savings. Chances are they will remain alienated forever with no possible hope to reset back to those golden times and remembering those blissful memories of the long-lost upbeat childhood years. Now and then, an occasional friend or two drops by at his rented pad, but their presence offers very little to console him out of his almost lifelong affliction of loneliness, sibling rivalry issues, and his own private insatiable misery for love and being loved. Yet to survive like an upright man with all moral values intact, he looks up to no one in particular – no heroes, no saints, no icons, and not even role models for him – but only at the practical/sustainable succour of life and seldom the spiritual. Little wonder then that his first instinct is personal sustenance: food for the stomach, books for the mind, and a leased roof screaming above his head. Everything else is just secondary.

Furthermore, he regularly uses his professional Telescope to gaze at the stars and profusely indulges in some exciting Anthony Boudain-inspired bachelor cooking. Pursuits he very much likes doing for himself and his sorry-ass sympathetic acquaintances that come over to stuff themselves in their faces at his rented bachelor pad. He enjoys cooking very much, but doubly enjoys sharing his homemade broth too. He is lean and agile and does not have any shopping plans. Except with little carbon footprints here and there, he doesn’t even believe in taking too much space on this planet either.

Purely as a matter of habit though, the scourge of his adulthood, his ‘retractable claw’ that is snaps out every once in a while but quietly retracts; maybe his late-night licentiousness or day-time sojourns has long ceased to exist now. This pestering little botheration can be only a biologically engineered normal human 90-degree inclination he can’t resist the fleshly urge to have it used forthright and also get a chance to feel a little lighter as a result.

When all of a sudden he becomes carnally desirous of seeking an ultimate feeling of abandon (of the perfunctory motivations kind), it so happens that his self-control over such a libidinous undertaking depletes drastically, and as he finds himself giving up to the whims and fancies of his untamed claw clamouring for a boundless release - notwithstanding the complete absence of the aphrodisiacal Petticoat Lane, he hems and haws erratically... often dancing around in his spotless off-white mundu with the carefree abandon of lost youth in love!

He knows that he might run the risk of getting booby-trapped or get ensnared on a steely nail of his somewhat morally conscientious heart-wall before being put to some penalizing atonement task to cleanse his soul all over again, so he cools down. Ever since his last few experiences of forbidden exploits, the fear of indignity and guilt is now the key to prevent all his nonsensical stuff from happening. Fear is always the key. Fear of getting tangled in the mess of his own making that he cannot get out of has put paid to some of his overzealous advances recently. He didn’t succeed, for the nth time now. For fear that his carnally disappointed Anaconda-like ‘claw’ every so often summons up a brute mind of its own and performs a nasty trap-door trick or two on him and from which he can’t let himself get off the hook, is at least high up on his atonement list though. Better be, buddy.

By and by, one feels he knows better than what his last time’s perilous yearning had put paid to his sense of unearned freedom – one that soundly chastised him and brought him down on all fours being prayerful and despondent till thy kingdom come. As things stand now, he might fare better from such waywardness of his, but no pointless indulgences for him anymore, he assures me. “No worries on that one, mate,” he’d speak out laughingly, and between saying funny things and serious things he’d chortle away to himself. Make no mistake; he knows how to live life often on his own terms and all the possibilities entailed by simple, conscious, and happy existence.

Arguably, one of the world’s unsung conspiracy theorists now lives a charmed life in the company of his books on political psychology and ideology and self-help management journals of the Peter Drucker kind. Bachelor cooking is the order of the day, and with a sniffing throng of freeloaders in tow to partake of his homemade gravies and parathas, he is delightfully welcoming of them. Among the things that keep him company is a connected laptop (he succumbed to keyboard fetishism years ago) for writing like a true-blue conspiracist, bathroom singing till the heavens grumble and shower, hanging out with a pair of heavy-duty binoculars, and a gargantuan telescope set at an aroused angle for periodic navel-gazing purposes...err…actually to check out the dirty laundry that the sky has to offer! All this pretty much sums up his energetic thrum of life.

After selling his not much sought-after Ferrari, the monk is just being sagaciously worldly-wise, mortally alive and brimming with comic pizzazz, nothing more, and nothing less.

Life is treating him fairly stellar. He just hopes it lasts longer than it normally does. By self-adjusting to his share of rough patches and bumps here and there, he wants to bond with the best that life has to offer. A life that is pacifying, soothing, relaxing. Peace!

By Arindam Moulick

4846 words in all.

Alternative titles for the blog:

1.     A Conspiracy Theorist’s Narcissism Epidemic

2.     Guy, Interrupted

3.     The Story of a Conspiracy Theorist Extraordinaire

4.     Hail, Toast, and Cheers to a Conspiracy Theorist

(Written between July and August ‘18)