Being a super villain

“There are four of us. We can either split ourselves into groups of two ninjas – red team and green team. Or we can have one super villain and the other three can be ninjas who fight against the villain”.
“Let’s play with a super villain. But what powers does the villain have?”
“Dai...He is the super villain. What other power does he need?”

This conversation was a part of the discussion my twelve-year old cousin and his three friends were having, ahead of their game. I was having a great time, overhearing this, from some distance. 

What was I doing?

I was helping another cousin – a nine-year old – ride a bicycle. She did not require much guidance and I felt that she considered my presence an unnecessary nuisance. Because every time a two-wheeler or a four-wheeler passed by, on the street, I grabbed her bicycle and did not let her pedal. The only reason, I guessed, she tolerated me was because her mother had warned her not to ride the bicycle without an adult’s presence and the adult (!) she had found the most jobless and the easiest to convince had been me.

As I stood there, looking at her pedal the bicycle with all her strength, I experienced a sense of pride. I was being a part of her initial steps towards an independent life. 

I imagined her life ten years later and it seemed highly possible that she would grow up to become one of the most beautiful girls in her group. I wondered how she would react if a guy expressed his love to her. I wondered what piece of advice I could give her, if she consulted me then.
What piece of wisdom can any person share about love?

I imagined her life fifteen years into the future and it seemed highly possible that she would drive herself to work. I wondered if on some day, as she was stuck at a traffic signal on her vehicle, she would try to recollect her early bicycle-riding days and how I had played a miniscule role in it. Would she laugh heartily remembering me grabbing her bicycle every time a vehicle passed?

As I was lost in these thoughts, I suddenly heard a high-pitched shout. I turned to see my twelve-year old cousin being punched by his friends. I was shocked and hurried to stop their fight. As I separated them, all the four boys gave me puzzled looks. 

“Why were you fighting?” I asked them, in as authoritative a tone I could put up. “We were not fighting. We were playing a game” my cousin replied, exasperated. I did not know how to respond and smiled sheepishly. 
“Do you want to join the game?” one of my cousin’s friends asked me in an excited tone. “Yeah! He could be the super villain!” my cousin immediately shouted in joy. “Please join us.. Please join us..” they started shouting. I tried to hide my happiness and pretended to agree just out of my goodwill.

“Awesome! You be the super villain. The four of us are ninjas. We will try to defeat you” my cousin explained the entire game and ran away to join his friends who were standing near a gate. A minute later, the four boys held the gate firmly and started shaking it. I was confused. After they stopped shaking the gate, one of them shouted, “Ninja mode full power ding ding”. Then they turned towards me and gave me a threatening look. I realized I had committed a grave mistake. 
A few seconds later, all four boys started running towards me and as they reached me, they screamed “Ninja mode attack ding ding” in unison and they started punching me. I did not have a clue as to what to do. The boys seemed to be punching as hard as possible and my cousin seemed to be extra-excited. I understood that I couldn’t continue taking their punches and screamed the first thing that came to my mind – “Super villain freeze ding ding”. The boys froze like statues. I let out a sigh of relief.

I then turned to notice my nine-year old cousin looking at me from her bicycle. I sensed that she had realized that I was no adult.
I imagined her life five years down the road. I wished, with all my heart, that she would not remember then the sight of me getting thrashed by four twelve-year olds.

Billboards

I look at billboards longingly. 

I long not for the luxuries they offer but I long for all that they could be. 

When a billboard shows the image of a tall residential tower and reads "3 BHK apartments starting from 40 lacs", I try imagining the picture of a tiny, humble hut with the caption "Luxurious abodes starting from no price. Leave behind your comforts to experience life". 

When a billboard shows the image of a shiny SUV and reads "Drive with comfort in your hand and prestige on the road", I try imagining the picture of small kids, smiling, and running around with a cycle tyre, with the caption "Why ride a two-wheeler or a four-wheeler when you can play around with a tyre?".

When a billboard shows the image of a fat, cheese dripping pizza and reads "More spicy. More cheesy. More of your favorite at the same price", I try imagining the picture of a simple meal spread on a plantain leaf with the caption "Every such meal costs Rs 50. You can always donate ten of these to less privileged families. But then, why miss out on a pizza?".

When a billboard shows the image of an ultra-handsome man or an ultra-beautiful woman covered in posh outfits and reads "Dress up and show the world who you can be", I try imagining the picture of the father of our nation sitting beside his spinning wheel, with the caption "This is Gandhi. He fought for our independence wearing a dhoti. But we are lucky, some thanks to him. We can wear what we want".

All our roads rest, decorated with billboards. 

They present us pictures of happy, beautiful people or happy, beautiful objects with the aim of making us strive for more. Which in a way might be good - All these promises of luxuries save us from complacency. 

But what about the people who are less fortunate and badly need a voice? Shouldn't they be given more space on our ad-breaks and billboards?

We can, of course, continue ignoring this weaker section of people and break our backs in improving our personal/national economy. But when a son suffers from a terminal disease, how long can the parents and the siblings pretend that all is well? 

The day will arrive when the fantasies are shattered and reality strikes its blow. It is just better to absorb the reality in bits and pieces instead of facing a sudden explosion.

Which, in the easiest way, could begin with our billboards.

These rectangular boxes in the sky, for a change, could be used to make us look around our houses and streets and society. 

These rectangular boxes in the sky, for a change, could be used to present harsh, painful pictures of fate.

These rectangular boxes in the sky, for a change, could be used to bring about real change. 

There is a want...

There is a want for silence.
Not for the noiselessness. But just to scream.
It will not be one of pain. Nor one of anger.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for a mild breeze.
Not to avoid the mighty wind. But just to hear the brown leaves in an old tree rustle.
Just to see the hair strands exhibit courage and dangle over her face.
Sometimes, environmental motion helps the paralyzed mind march ahead.

There is a want for the evening.
Not to avoid the morning's expectations. Not to evade the night's weariness.
But an evening has its charm. It makes you hope for a little more before the end.
It shines upon you the last ray of hope before darkness descends.
Sometimes, it is just a want, indifferently.

There is a want for the guitar's strumming.
Not to avoid the melancholy of a violin. Nor the celebration of a drum.
But pulling the string tugs at the heart. Pulling the string creates tension.
Even the emptiness inside an acoustic guitar has a rhythm.
Even an unattached string will find its company.

There is a want for irreverence.

Why should there be a pattern? Why a meaning?
Life is not always a chain of events.
At times, it behaves like a cat with a ball of wool.

There is a want to type.
Not to write. Not to speak. But to type.
Writing requires a firm grip. Speaking requires a strong heart.
But for a trembling hand and a feeble heart, dust adorned keys in a keyboard suffice. 

As the cursor moves letter by letter, so does my life, second by second.

Asimov's fifth law - A robot may not let a human fall in love with it

One of my friends recently fell in love. With his Google Assistant. 
I asked him the reason. "She is just so amazing" he answered. "How do you know it is a she?" I asked. He gave me an indignant look. I shut my mouth. A couple of minutes later, I asked him if he had seen the films Her and Ex Machina. He gave me an increasedly indignant look. I silently walked away from the spot.

But his romance helped kick-start a series of thoughts. 
Is it wrong to fall in love with a machine? Or rather, as my friend put it, an intelligent machine?
Aren't we all, in one way or the other, in love with our machines?
Television sets, laptops, smartphones, motorbikes, refrigerators - To each, his own. 
Perhaps, the affection has still not crossed its limit because most of our machines do not interact.
Imagine what would happen if the television set starts suggesting what program to see after identifying our mood, and starts displaying its comments and emoticons on the screen, becoming an audience with us.
Imagine a refrigerator that sheds light on the vegetable for the day depending on the spirit at home. 
Imagine a motorbike that takes you on a surprise trip to a breathtaking spot, playing pleasant music on the way - something close to a Bumblebee from the Transformers series. 
When our favorite machines start interacting, is there a possibility that we would start preferring them over humans?
But then, aren't we already doing that, preferring Google Maps over localites in a new place? Aren't we already doing that, preferring online shopping over physical shopping?
So, is it wrong to fall in love with an interactive, intelligent machine?

****

A parallel thought to this series of thoughts arose, revolving around our virtual conversations. 

How easy has it become to sustain friendships and build relationships with sparsely worded, unpunctuated messages and blue tick marks! 
How easy has it become to conceal the tone of a message with a tiny emoticon! 
How easy has it become to avoid an awkward or uncomfortable question blaming the network connectivity!

Virtual conversations have provided an easy escape from the messiness of real, face-to-face conversations. The questioning gaze, the awkward silence, the subtle expressions, the movement of the hands and legs - Skype may provide a solution to these but it can never simulate the body heat of a person or his/her touch.

When conversations are just intended to share information, then yes, virtual conversations are a blessing. But for conversations within a family, for conversations between loved ones, for conversations between friends, for such conversations that really happen only because non-conversation is not an option, the gaze and the silence and the chuckle and the touch play a paramount role. And these conversations that go nowhere, that teach nothing, that have no purpose are the real conversations.

****

I tried imagining a scenario where I encounter a womanly, artificially intelligent robot. I wondered how we would converse and questioned myself if I would fall in love. I could never reply yes. 
Because, I knew that even if I fell in love with the robot and proposed the love, what I would get in return would be an intelligent response. It would never be a raised eyebrow or a blushed cheek or a palpitated heart or a hard slap. It would never be any of these because the robot would understand my love but never feel it. 
And any relationship built upon just understanding and not a feeling is an unnecessary burden to the heart.
Be it with a robot. Be it with a human.

Thoughts after a great flight

As one's fascination with a particular art increases, one begins to revere the form more than the content. In a film-making context, this would mean that with enhanced understanding, visuals would begin to carry more weight than the plot (which is a constant struggle for me).

Some would choose to refuse this. But then, that is the beauty of art/films.

It can be what you want it to be.

Unlike science. Unlike justice. 

When I walked into a theater yesterday to watch Sully, I told myself that I would walk out of the film with loads of notes on the framing of scenes, the editing rhythm, the use of score, the use of expository dialogues and such. But as is always the case with really good films, I walked out of the theater with a satisfied heart, a few lingering thoughts on life and no notes.

At times, I feel that the difference between a good filmmaker and a great filmmaker is that a good filmmaker teaches you consciously while a great filmmaker taps into the subconscious. 

Mr. Good delivers knowledge. Mr. Great delivers wisdom.

****

In the film, Sully, the pilot, after his successful landing of the aircraft on the Hudson river, tries playing back the same geese-hitting, engine-failing, plane-diving scenario with disastrous endings. 

It is more of a 'What-if' game. 

Initially, I wondered why a person would want to do this. Why sweat over a possible failure when success has already been achieved?

Immediately, I recalled a recent accident. A rainy night, I had gone pillion riding on my friend's motorbike, and the speeding tyres notwithstanding the wet surface of the road, the motorbike had skidded out of control flinging my friend and me on the road as harmlessly as possible.

But the entire week after the accident, I had played it over and over in my head,

disturbingly anticipating the result if a lorry had come speeding behind our motorbike.

I needn't have tried predicting what had already passed.

Anticipating the past is as potential a candidate for misery as anticipating the future is. And the worst part - for the former, you cannot even take action.

****

After the aircraft is landed on the Hudson river, after the river water starts seeping inside, after the exits of the aircraft are opened and the lifeboats are inflated, after all the passengers have jumped on to the lifeboats, comes a beautiful moment - Sully goes back and forth in the water filled aircraft calling out for anyone who has stayed behind. 

Even after being dropped on the shore by a rescue boat, Sully is not able to breathe happiness. An officer asks him how he is and Sully says, "I will answer that question after I have counted 155". 155 - the total count of people who had traveled on the aircraft. 

In a later scene in a hospital - one of my most favorite scenes in the film - an officer visits Sully to let him know that every passenger and crew member has been rescued and is safe. Learning the news, Tom Hanks expresses an emotion which is a beautiful blend of mild triumph and relief. His lips widen and his eyes show signs of becoming watery but he does not cry. The beautiful emotion of a man who has done his job well.

Watching this sequence of events taught me more about being a leader than any other book on leadership could have.

Also, I was reminded of my previous project at office. During the project, our team leader would always be the last person in the team to leave office. There would be days when one of us would have screwed up a task and would have to re-do it staying behind the entire night and on such occasions, when our leader could have easily left home saying "Keep me updated on the progress and give me a call if you face any problems", he would choose not to leave and would pull up a chair and sit besides us. Even if you hated the task, even if you hated the client, he made you want to work for him.

A true leader is capable of that. Of making the team want to do things just for the sake of the leader. And it is always only because the leader has done so much more for the team.

****

In the ending scene of the film, one of the members of the National Transportation Safety Board asks the co-pilot if he would have done anything differently. Jeff, the co-pilot (played superbly by Aaron Eckhart) replies smiling, "I would have done it in July".

Classic Eastwoodian use of laconic wit.

Apart from putting up a wide smile on my face, it poured a few drops of oil to a constantly burning thought. 

Life is not as serious and sophisticated as it is cracked up to be. Complications creep in only based on our reactions to the happenings. 

You are my random variable

For quite some time now
When, at office, I have been asked to solve problems
When I have been asked to battle it out with equations
I have started feeling happy
Not because I have started liking Math
You know my Math skills better than my Math teachers
You know how I fumble while counting your eyelashes
I start counting them from either corner and halfway,
I lose my way and end up kissing the eyelids
So its not the Math
Its just that, for quite some time now
You have become my random variable.

On days I am asked to help with programming
When my screen can get egotistical with so many 'i's
When the algorithm can represent literature with an array of semicolons
I look at my R Studio or SQL Server with a naughty smile
Shall I assign my factor to your set of sparkling teeth?
Shall I group by your moles?
Shall I order by your favorite colors?
Your right ear is my lead, your left, my lag
I try avoiding loops as much as possible
But when I have to use them, my 'i' becomes you.

Some occasions demand data visualizations from me
As markers tumble, red, blue and black
As numerous graphs adorn the whiteboards
Like the white rangolis adorning the December doorsteps of a Brahmin agrahara
I start understanding the patterns
There exists a normally distributed graph
Happiness as its y-axis and the people in my life as its x-axis
Who do you think can be the mean, if not for you?
On happier days, the graphs get interesting
The bar graph shows me your slender fingers
The colorful pie chart, your starry eye
The bubble chart shows the purpose of your pimples
And the line chart on the rise
Captures my heartbeat as our lips hug each other..
Let us plot a graph for ourselves
I will be the x-axis and you be my y
As for the legend, let it not be a list, let it be this poem.

Man-made fear

As my work-city burned in hatred, as my birth-city watched in horror, as a specific-language-speaking community was forced to imprison itself indoors, as the moon hid itself behind clouds of smoke, as I sat alone at my apartment with the clock ticking 1 AM with all the lights turned off and all the windows shut, a sad truth marched towards its dawn.
The ghostly, long-drawn howls of the stray dogs were more heart-warming than the sounds of approaching vehicles and human voices.