Here’s the link to my blog.
Hahaha!!! To all those of you who actually clicked on the embedded link, that was the mother of all fakes!!!
To those who just did a mouse-over to check the link, admit it, I’m still smarter.
And this is the biggie. My blog just referenced itself. Ergo, it is now intelligent!
To all those of you who claim to understand AI better than me, sucks to y’all; I (on behalf of my blog) refuse to admit any other point of view.
I think that’s the strongest indicator yet, of emerging intelligence. I’m loving it!!!
Muahahaha!!! *evil smirk*
Tired, bored and hungry, the fun of his little charade already palling, he stifled a yawn as the mass thronged, ever more frenzied, ever more gullible.
“Speak to us, Master, of Truth”, spoke a voice from amidst the mass. Silence descended as the crowd heaved a mental sigh of relief that someone had actually managed to come up with a question abstract enough to see out the rest of the Q&A session. Simultaneously unwilling to take on the considerable task of having to decipher an answer that was bound to be as cryptic as it would ultimately turn out to be generic and ordinary, the crowd reshuffled a little to reveal the questioner, his furrowed hair and miffed expression tangible evidence of all the homework done on the topic.
“This should be fun”, thought the Master.
“There is no such thing as Truth.” “Wheeee!!!!”, thought the crowd, “Loopholes where you least expect them!”
“Indeed, Truth is merely that which you would fashion in the image of your imagined collective guilt. Man doesn’t really want freedom; lifelong enslavement to the giddying idea of Freedom merely the most convenient of shackles. Your belief in the idea of Truth is a measure of your fear of true Freedom – true Freedom, not in the sense of lawlessness for that would be a parody, but in the sense of an inability to understand the concept of Thought. And the intensity of your quest for this Truth – a measure of how hard you believe you have fallen, of how far you are from that which you once loved in yourself.”
The atmosphere screamed embarrassed incomprehension as the crowd dispersed, sheepishly avoiding each others’ eyes, finally convinced that maybe some stones were best left unturned. Quaffing down beer and cracking mindless, filthy (and positively hilarious) jokes was a lot more fun than trying to be profound.
The Master shook out his bedding for the night, nip in the quiet air, twinkle in his eye. The fun in being a conman was suddenly back and conning was getting easier too. Or the crowds dumber.
He felt good. He felt true.
For everyone who read the title, sighed and went, “Corny”, or “Whatever”, or “D’oh”, or “Nooooo Kunte, how could you??? *cringe cringe*” or words to that effect, you would be well-advised to bear in mind that a. yes, there are more episodes in the pipeline so save your breath, I could have crammed it all into one humongously huge post instead. And b. I could have titled this post ‘Bangalored’ instead; which only goes to say that right when you thought you were neck-deep in the stuff, you can still have the carpet pulled out from under your feet and sink deeper in it. Assuming someone wouldn’t mind touching said carpet in the first place. But that’s neither here nor there. And this post isn’t really about smelly carpets. Far from it infact. Literally and metaphorically.
It’s a pleasant Sunday evening, the spectre of Monday’s reality is still getting its warpaint on in the greenroom and as the lights onstage go dimmer and dimmer, I’m trying to cross St. Mark’s Road, with my sights locked on Bowring Kulfi stall. And I decide that at this point in time there’s no place else I’d rather be. Of course, careful consideration of a statement as sweeping in scale as this one suggests two possibilities immediately – a. chatting up chicks over coffee would be a far-and-away winner, but let’s just stick to feasibilities here. With all due respect to St. Mark’s Road, it can’t really run anywhere, can it? And b. the other side of the road would be a delightful place to be just now, given that the blue bus bearing down on me right now has only been accelerating since the last traffic signal half-a-kilometer away. Anyway, here I am now, safe and sound on the opposite bank of this river of red and yellow streaks of light, and for some reason I want to try and make you see things as I see them. Of course, if you just remembered you left an experiment on the boil, now would be a polite time to make your exit.
In keeping with the mood I’m in, Kempegowda’s tower in Lalbagh seems a good place to start this tour. Once again, I’m 4 years old and traveling to the annual flower show, binoculars in tow. Why binoculars, you ask? No idea. Because I had them? And because they fit in admirably well with my mother’s philosophy : (loosely translated from Marathi) “Hands behind! Do we see with our hands?!” Lying on the back-seat all the way, the tops of the trees on Lalbagh West-gate Road the only things visible through the rear windshield of my parents’ car, at some point the ride would end. Step out, stretch your legs and look now at that monolith right in front, camouflaged by its sheer conspicuity. Untouched since the time the Deccan plateau was formed or thereabouts, some sign-board somewhere proudly claims. Sit down here, feel the warmth of the stone, feel the warmth of the sun on your face and think of the number of nights and days this very piece of stone by your feet has seen. Stand up now, let me move aside a bit, and look out upon the road we just got here by. Eyes half-closed so I only see the trees ahead, not the road below or the buildings and flyover above, time is just numbers on a calendar. Only till we’re a week away from pay-day of course. I can’t help but wonder if this is what the first soldier who got here saw, as he lay down one of the vertices of Bangalore city over 400 years ago. Did he try to look into the future? Or was he merely dusty and hungry, happy to do an honest day’s work? Or frustrated at the thanklessness of a mere soldier’s life?
Scramble down anyway and walk a bit and here we are at MTR; breakfast crowds ahead of us plonk themselves down on the first seats they see, as eager to partake of a slice of culture as a good South Indian meal. Or a serving of exotica, if you will. But this is my story, the clichés shall be my own, so allow me to whisk you away, you famished disembodied traveler, to CTR on Margosa Road, Malleshwaram. History minus it’s selfawareness. Like at so many contentedly-unheard-of places scattered all over the older areas of Bangalore and their more famous brethren – Veena stores in Malleshwaram, Vidyarthi Bhavan in Gandhinagar, SLV in Jayanagar – unhurried, complacent almost, and bound together by a common undercurrent of simplicity and a lack of faith in the idea of change for the sake of change.
Step inside firmly; no, not so carefully; elbow out the uncles and aunties; fear not, they’d love to do the same to you if they weren’t out of touch! And here we go, a free table! Look around you, take in the décor, or lack thereof. Notice the two uncles, old friends obviously, stopping over for a coffee on their way home from their morning walks. Their friendship as uneventful and unmindful of props from the past as this place’s lack of interest in making a big deal of it’s history only so as to make a case for it’s future, they’d go elsewhere for their coffee if they got a better deal or if it was closer. But for today there’s no such place and value reigns as they wipe their hands on little squares of yesterday’s newspaper and walk over to the cashier. Say that again? Why must I analyze everyone else’s life based on a 5-minute long shred of shared existences, you ask? It must be something to do with the need for reassurance I suppose, that such things can exist. I’d probably be outside right now living the real life with real people, rather than write about it, if I could accept Life as it were, moles and warts and all. But let’s not taint this reverie with sordid realities just yet, shall we?
Look at the cream-and-green walls, the plywood-and-vinyl benches, the window grille unchanged from the time of it’s opening for the wonderfully sound reason that it still does it’s job, the menu on the wall behind you, up there, exclusively in Kannada. May I recommend the beNNe masAla dose?
But tangibility is not for us armchair explorers today, analyze and over-analyze and classify and typify everything though I must, so move on we will. Another time, another place, like in the Dire Straits song. Though I’d love to listen to your views on Dosas washed down with honest filter-coffee sometime.
Some of the pictures of the partial solar eclipse that I took from the department. Do click on the images for larger versions.
“…You made your own law.
And I, for one, will let you live by it…”