Pig Out On Chicken Soup

"What a field day for the heat." quipped General Specific, smiling at the tattered newspaper. It was a pleasant day and the clouds hid the Sun. Platinum Blonde huddled under a blanket in one corner of the bus anxiously waiting for it to come out. She'd read somewhere that hot and sunny weather was a hindrance to the growth of the virus.

The rest of the occupants squeezed together in the remaining seats as far away as possible except for Baby Bitch who lay stretched out on an adjacent seat. If only she could push the windows open, she said to herself for the umpteenth time. She also scoffed at Platinum Blonde every time she groaned or sniffed. Baby Bitch, incidentally, had a headache too.

"Oh, stop it! It's rare enough for someone to contract swine flu in Pseudan and flying pigs fade into the background in comparison to falling death tolls!" ridiculed Baby Bitch realising that no one was really paying attention to her sharp, short and frequent dismissals of Platinum Blonde's symptoms. This time she struck gold as all eyes turned to Ambassador Boeing. Ambassador Boeing, who had been fairly loud with his views until some time back, seemed to have suddenly decided that he had been neglecting his right shoe and it deserved more attention.

"I'm sick!" wheezed Platinum Blonde unconvincingly. “I…” she continued before breaking off to sneeze into her palms. She wasn't really observing any of the listed precautions to prevent the spread of the disease or maybe she just wanted Baby Bitch to fall sick too. Her head did hurt and she was running a temperature with a sore throat. That could only mean one thing, right?

"Cheap flimsy masks which cut down the risk of contraction by no more than thirty percent at most, are the in thing." observed a dejected Director Ms. Leading as she caught sight of something in Platinum Blonde's fists. Platinum Blonde had just bought a revolting pink mask which looked like Aphrodite herself compared to some of the others she had bought earlier. Director Ms. Leading was actually thankful that she was down with whatever it was. That mask was a blunder if ever there was one excluding the Leaning Tower of Pisa. "If the pink one is Donald Trump's hairstyle then the green one's Boy George." she explained making her point clear.

"At the other end of the stupidity spectrum are these idiots who throw caution to the winds to avail festive discounts." added Captain Follow pointing at the pictures in the paper. These security chaps, ironically, felt very vulnerable. There was a picture of a crowd outside some mall and little kids dressed up in costumes and a human pyramid. If ever you’ve been shocked at finding out how many Poles are needed to change a light bulb you’d have a heart attack when you found out the number of Pseudanese it took to break a clay pot.

“Economics text books will leave no stone unturned in reminding you that people make trade-offs and that people are rational.” said Major Minor, enlightening Captain Follow. “The catch lies in that condition. It either makes it conveniently worded brilliance or crying-out-loud stupidity.” he continued. “If you ask me, I’d rather miss classes than risk contracting the virus myself.”

At this point Platinum Blonde interrupted proceedings with a loud wail with which she attempted to communicate that her knee was hurting. The wail was because of her remembering that it was another symptom. The pain wasn’t that bad, just a dull throb, but the wail was as exaggerated as an “India Shining” advert.

Dr. In T. House couldn’t take it anymore. “Oh, stop it!” he mimicked Baby Bitch without even turning around. “It isn’t that bad until tremors show up on your left hand.”

Baby Bitch, who’d dozed off while looking out of the window, woke up with a sharp intake of breath. It hurt. Her shoulders hurt too. But unlike Platinum Blonde’s terrified exclamations about how her left hand was trembling all she could come up with was a weak “I don’t feel so good”.

Heads turned again. An eerie silence gave way to murmurs. Seats were frantically changed. Dr. In T. House sighed and got up from his seat shaking his head. As he limped towards her he said something to Platinum Blonde. A puzzled and slightly embarrassed Platinum Blonde covered her face with that grotesque pink mask again as she slipped past.

Baby Bitch shut her eyes because her head hurt. The sore throat was irritating and hurt as much. Her shoulders felt heavy and hurt too. The quick examination that Dr. In T. House carried out left her feeling sorry for touchscreens.

She didn’t feel so good.

Man on the Moon

“Captain crash and the beauty queen from mars?” compared General Specific looking over the tattered newspaper into Quentin’s screen. It was a picture of The Eagle, the Apollo 11 lunar module and an artist’s imagination of the first manned mission to Mars.

“It’s been forty years since Neil Armstrong took the small step!” proclaimed Quentin in celebration, still facing the screen. “What a contest it was! Sputnik, Luna, Vostok, Voshkod, Soyuz, you name it! The Soviets won all the battles but the Yanks finally won the war! Yeah baby!” The others looked at Quentin’s back waiting for someone else to say something dumb after which Quentin could launch into his explanation.

"It's all geek to me." sighed Captain Specific.

“I think he’s talking about Ladies Wimbledon.” suggested Great Scot keeping his volume down.

"It's almost forty years since Woodstock. Led Zep I?" suggested Major Minor.

Suddenly the bus was abuzz. Everyone found Major Minor's thinking pattern more attractive and possibilities flew around like one of those dratted snitches. The air was thick with thoughts and clarity was going down. Vietnam? Give Peace a Chance? Monty Python? Sesame Street? Boeing 747's debut? Charles de Gaulle stepping down? Unix?

“No, the moon landing.” corrected Page Boy who couldn't take it anymore after someone suggested the first ATM. “And it was ‘a small step’, Neo! Armstrong didn’t realise that no one on Earth heard the ‘a’.” he corrected aloud. Despite all the time that had passed he still called Quentin by his online name. Everyone knew how they’d both met each other online and how there had been some misunderstandings. No one knew the exact nature of the problem though. When the pair discovered the truth it led to Quentin becoming a little weird about his online relationships about which no one knew anyway while Page Boy, on the other hand, immersed himself in his books and publicly aired his disapproval of the internet. There weren’t many things which did provoke him and it was a welcome sight to see he was human too.

Quentin held up a finger on his left hand as his right punched away at his numpad and then reached over for the ‘a’ and the ‘f’ before getting to the ‘k’ as he swiveled around in his chair taking off his headphones. It was an impressive performance and would have put a Hindu god to shame.

“Well,” he began, clearing his throat, “On the 4th of October 1957 the USSR launched Sputnik 1 beating the USA who joined later with the Explorer 1.”

The next few minutes were spent in a rapid run-through of the race to the moon. Names whizzed by like a Monday does not. “The first animal in space - Laika in the Sputnik 2, ’57.... first impact on the moon with Luna 2, ’59... Luna 3 picturing the dark side, ’59... Sputnik 5 bringing back Belka and Strelka in ’60... the first man in space, Yuri Gagarin, in the Vostok 1, ’61...”

“Kennedy declares that the Americans will reach the moon in a decade.” interrupted Page Boy.

“...the first spacewalk by..."

“Khrushchev backs off a bit.” interrupted Page Boy again.

"...Alexei Leonov in Voshkod 2, ’65...”

“Johnson continues what Kennedy started.” interrupted Page Boy again, irritated.

“...Luna 9 makes the first soft landing, ’66... AND the first men on the moon, ladies and gentlemen, Apollo 11, 21st July 1969!” announced Quentin. Page Boy returned to his window spot and became the learned statue that he generally was. Great Scot fiddled around with the brochure he’d been reading seriously the past couple of weeks. Baby Bitch looked on, eyebrow raised. Some nodded, half expecting a band to strike it and teary-eyed astronauts to materialise to receive the trophy from Platinum Blonde as they thanked everyone profusely. Others did not. That didn’t stop Quentin from going into how Mars was being planned and Vikings and pathfinders and phoenixes and what NASA was planning for humans and antimatter and polyethylene and the risk to astronauts and...

General Specific was still listening when his eyes caught sight of Quentin’s screensaver behind him and lost track of the man himself for a second. It looked cool, the sort of thing you could do with Flash or something, probably a trivial 15 minute affair for Quentin. This one sported a black background as an ideal screensaver should and had two hovering faces. One was easily recognisable and the other wasn’t hard to guess. The caption read, “He moonwalked. He moonwalked.”

(Image is property of Times Warner, I think. )

Padma and Eve and Adam and Jeev

"Touch me, baby, can’t you see that I’m not afraid.” said General Specific treating the tattered newspaper as if it was one of those colourful masks. Realising that didn’t quit sound so right, he shut up and sat down. He didn’t really care about being misinterpreted though, not having a girlfriend since quite some time was chalk to being gay’s cheese. There was something that the courts should fix and reservations be made about, he thought to himself, instead of quibbling over Varun Gandhi’s hate speeches, those were pretty obvious!

Sir Mam hummed to himself as he filed his nails, he had been victorious and his joy knew no bounds. He had been pleased and upbeat for over a month now. If he hadn’t been so occupied then he would have probably launched into a song and hugged General Specific. There were still some things left to be done but for now he could savour the battle.

“It is against the wishes of god! It’s against our traditions! It could cause an AIDS epidemic! I refuse to allow this to happen!” protested Holy Shit. “But criminalising it is unnecessary for they shall be answerable to God!” he concluded, failing to make a valid point as usual, yet indirectly explaining why the judiciary was a wholly unnecessary body unless you were an atheist victim. Reason number three million thirty seven something why religious figures shouldn’t be allowed to enter politics or anything else for that matter.

Page boy murmured something about Indian traditions which Captain Follow repeated for him. It seemed Lord Shiva bathed in the Yamuna and transformed into a milkmaid to dance the raas leela with Krishna.

“Lord Shiva dances the Nataraja scary dance thingy, right? He wanted to...? Teehee!” giggled Platinum Blonde. Holy Shit winced.

“Some of my best friends are gay.” chipped in Director Ms. Leading. It bore no relevance to the discussion at hand but she figured it was important somehow and everyone wanted to hear about it. The only thing It indicated, if anything at all, was how they were accepted despite their queerness. The entertainment industry isn’t fair but it was setting an example for a change.

“Homosexuality isn’t a disease. No correlation has been established between HIV-AIDS and sexual orientation.” said Dr. In T. House offering his medical opinion as if it were a telegram.

“But there’s this confusion about age limits too? Isn’t there?” joined Major Minor with a topic relevant to him. “Non-vaginal isn’t allowed until eighteen, two years after vaginal, although vaginal is allowed at even fifteen if she’s married without having eloped or getting kidnapped otherwise the minimum marriageable age is eighteen after which she’s allowed anything anyway,” he paused for breath, “Right?” The usage of technical wording helped cushion what could have been a very unsettling statement.

“So your large intestine needs another two years over your vagina to trust your judgement? And you aren’t allowed a taste of things to come until the same? And even when they’re allowed genitalia, booze must wait seven more years? And is attraction to animals a disease? How do you get a horse’s consent? Nonsense!” exclaimed Baby Bitch dismissing the whole thing and undoing all of Major Minor’s hard work.

Ambassador Boeing, on behalf of Premier Worst, had previously expressed views on how the fundamental rights bestowed by the constitution included equality first and foremost, on how its inclusiveness was one of its strengths, on the right to privacy and dignity and how section 377 somehow seemed to violate all of it. But today Premier Worst seemed to be acting like a mirror of sorts, faintly nodding in agreement with everyone and not asking Ambassador Boeing to say anything for him. He didn’t need to say anything because one hears what they want to and the people pleaser that he was he couldn’t bring himself to say anything for fear of a conflict of interests.

“There’s still some time before acceptance and inclusion, after all a ruling can only alter actions, not thoughts. Change needs time.” summed up Inner Shia.

No one else seemed to have anything to say after that either. They were probably just too flabbergasted at whatever parts of Baby Bitch they could comprehend. General Specific lay back listening to all that was going on. He didn’t much care about the LGBT section as such but he was happy to see that the system was evolving, that it wasn’t afraid of taking bold steps to ensure what was rightfully theirs. He was happy because Sir Mam, who was still doing his nails, had a choice to not have to justify himself to anyone.

Holy Shit maintained an uneasy silence.

(Image is of a product sold at LiveNation)

Behind the Curtain

“Don't question my authority or put me in the box.” said General Specific shaking his head as he folded the tattered newspaper. Holy Shit wasn’t too happy with his statement but by the time he came up with something to say the topic had become past tense.

“He’s cute!” exclaimed Platinum Blonde who had been stretching over to look at the newspaper and suddenly she jumped over next to General Specific. “They’re banning the bra in France!” she exclaimed, delighted, only to realise that it wasn’t the bra, it was the burkha.

“He’s banning the burkha!” proclaimed Holy Shiy, hearing opportunity knock. “It’s written in the Quran! This is outrageous!” he said, widening his eyes and raising his arms as if he was Rafiki holding Simba.

For all the theatrics, it was a disappointing performance. Everyone expected, for his sake, that he had a better argument. It was a little shocking that he didn’t, and still harder to believe that so many years of blind following had as weak an argument as “it’s written in a book”. Faith can get one through a lot of things but challenge it with something ordinary like rush hour traffic or Math lectures and it fails miserably.

“You can’t tell people what to wear!” said Platinum Blonde aghast. “And not the same for everyone! How can women be happy?” she posed her question. The thought process was obviously wrong but she unintentionally struck a point. If women had a right to speak and vote and drive then they jolly well had the right to wear whatever they wanted to while indulging in any of the above ‘sins’. In Islam, women’s rights came below men’s and for all practical purposes read “None of the above”.

“The Quran tells us to practice the hijab. We dress modestly so as to not attract attention towards ourselves. The women cover themselves from head to toe unless they’re with their husbands.” replied Holy Shit deliberately not mentioning the brothers and the sons and the fathers and non-desiring man servants.

“My god! Islam is more screwed up than the Catholic Church even! It’s a she-human, not Fort Knox! I can’t imagine how sexually frustrated men must be for the ladies to be exercising such precautions.” said Baby Bitch joining the debate.

“I can.” said Major Minor sympathetically, having just imagined a world where all women practiced Islam to the dot. “It’s probably a vicious cycle.” he joked, pleased with his logic.

A look from Free Radical was enough to shut him up for a second. His eyes radiated infra red. Free Radical had been particularly angry lately, what with his friends in Pakistan and Iran not doing very well. Major Minor decided to stare back but eventually gave up. He believed that if anyone could knock some sense into Free Radical, it would be Inner Shia, but he also knew that Inner Shia would never interfere. Free Radical should be behind bars.

“And for all your modesty claims, there’s no way a burkha doesn’t attract attention. In fact, it works the other way around now with people, especially policemen, paying more attention to burkhas and beards. Of course, you would argue that it’s anti-secular and then set fire to cars and smash windows.” added Captain Follow further piling it on against Holy Shit. He found it particularly annoying when the public decided to damage public property to express their dissatisfaction with anything. And by public he meant public and not just orthodox radicals.

“Just because I live in Pseudan doesn’t mean I have to embrace Pseudan’s customs. I have the freedom to carry on with my traditions and customs. Just because we have unusual customs that others don’t believe in doesn’t mean we’re anti-Pseudan. It doesn’t mean that you have a right to legislate over it either. Everyone has a right to religion and that is what secularism is all about.” replied Holy Shit, making sense for a change.

“A custom deserves to be shot down if it’s purpose isn’t being served, more so if it’s hurting. If you’ve come to Pseudan then it’s your responsibility to not make the Pseudanese uncomfortable by your traditions.” argued Ambassador Boeing making sense too. A highly unlikely day, this, one of those you could only have imagined seeing on the Heart of Gold.

“If you want to live with us you live our way. If you want to establish your own rules and system within an already established one then find some other place. Secularism is also about treating all religions as equal, everyone abides by a common set of rules. The sensibilities of the minorities are as prone to hurt as are the majority’s but neither deserves a cushion.” stated Inner Shia bringing some wisdom into the discussion. Everyone thought he was Muslim because of his name but he addressed Holy Shit, as a representative of the Muslims, as ‘you’.

“Of course, there are much more important things you should be thinking about like welfare and education, but it’s a start, symbolic maybe. I do believe that there’s a minor percentage out there which wants to wear a niqab, and it’s their right, but there’s a major chunk which wears it out of fear. Because others feel it’s their right to make them wear one. That shouldn’t be tolerated.” he added.

A pregnant pause followed.

“For all its vices, it has its uses too.” whispered Major Minor, aborting. He pointed at General Specific who was now fast asleep, his handkerchief rising and falling with his breath. He took it off his face and folded it up and kept it at his arm.

“Peace brother.”

(Image is National Geographic's April 2002 cover)

Sold!

"You can't always get what you want." remarked General Specific throwing down the tattered newspaper, annoyed. He hadn't been himself of late and when he did realise it he even felt a bit ashamed about it. The rest of the time he couldn't help it. No one was paying attention to him anyway except for Great Scot who looked up but maintained a diplomatic silence. Great Scot knew something that no one else knew, it wasn't dangerous nor was it scandalous which made it kind of uninteresting to the general public, but he hid it anyway.

Major Minor had meanwhile caught on to something. He had been smelling something fishy for the past fortnight but couldn't put his finger on it. Ordinarily, one wouldn’t want to poke things smelling of fish. It would have been an idle Englishman at the docks observing such an activity by a feline creature which led to the association between curiousity and cats. The part where it gets killed brings gruesome images to the mind.

But Major Minor knew that General Specific was referring to the, reportedly, more than 200mn pounds transfer budget and hoped that Great Scot wasn't on the decline and indeed had an ace up his sleeve. Desperate to know more he prodded Great Scot.

"Indeed. Ye listen to him for he be speaking the truth." said Great Scot cleverly going offroad.

"So what are you going to do about it?"

"Nothing much, buy a few from here and there."

"Tevez?"

Great Scot just nodded as a reply.

Was it an acknowledging nod? Was it an affirmative nod? It looked like one of those sad sympathetic nods one got at a funeral actually. Major Minor was still not satisfied, he hadn't learnt anything new.

“Ronaldo leaving isn't good, he was the unpredictable wild one. He didn't perform up to expectations very often and threw tantrums and wore flower hats and whatnot but on the pitch, irrespective of form, he was always a force to reckon with. If only the arrogant bastard wanted to stay. Rooney, the dependable old horse is the only other stalwart. Tevez wants to leave and Berbatov has so far only shown exceptional ball control and would be more useful on the training grounds behind the net or as half time entertainment. The likes of Nani, Welbeck and Macheda might just find the shoes a little too big to fill. Valencia? Ribery? Villa wanted to be his wife’s side if he played in Spain or by Torres’ if he played in England. Vucinic? Benzema? Silva?” Realizing that he had now started talking to himself Major Minor dropped it. Then he realized he had been talking to himself from the start. Was he was just thinking too much about it or were things actually looking shaky for United again? Could the thinking too much and talking to himself be a symptom of some deep psychological disorder in him? What if no one was able to diagnose it? Was he going crazy? Or was he just shit bored?

“Madrid on the other hand seem to never learn.” interrupted Captain Follow bringing Major Minors train of thought to an abrupt halt. “They screwed up the last time they tried the Galacticos show and we all know sequels always flop. And somehow they never seem to get tired of buying players United doesn’t want around. Beckham, Nistelrooy, Heinze… The Spanish are supposed to be the Inquisition Squad, not spoilt teenagers on a shopping spree.” he added, drawing an amused look from Great Scot who looked like he was enjoying it now.

“Where the hell are they getting the money from? Are they bailing out childishly splurgent sports clubs now too? What the hell is wrong with everyone?” exclaimed Baby Bitch making it appropriately clear that she disapproved. She didn’t care so much about the sport as she did about the money that exchanged hands though.

“We can’t invest more in olive oil, bull fighting is lame, tomato fighting more so, no more continents to discover, no more ancient civilizations to loot and plunder, all Picasso paintings sold, how about investing in costly Kickball players, hombre? Sí?” said Ambassador Boeing, in an awful Spanish accent, showing a rare flash of humour and pathetic sporting knowledge and still managing to sweep a valid point under the carpet.

“Well, AC Milan didn’t really win big last year and had a tight budget so it made sense for them to sell. As for the others, the boys at Inter be acting naive, Ibrahimovich is worth 80mn pounds to them maybe, not to others, Italian street peddlers trying to cheat a rich Spanish tourist, if ye ask me. Bayern Munich are German and have a history of being stubborn idiots. And speaking of nationalities, City has rich Arab owners traditionally good at starting religions and hate movements, not football teams. On top of which, Chelsea has a Russian owner traditionally good at pretty much nothing. Benitez is still around at Liverpool but then so are Torres and Gerrard. Half of Arsenal’s first line wouldn’t be allowed into a bar so it makes sense for them to not try and win anything until 2015. Valencia are doing the dumb thing by trying to sell their star player, it’s the money again I suppose. Real obviously is a severe case of obesity which could lead to heart problems which with their dysfunctional immune system is fatal. And Barcelona and Atletico Madrid, well…” rationalized Great Scot leaving it open. He tactfully avoided referring to United again.

Now that everyone had established that no one had a concrete point, the discussion petered off. Great Scot obviously wasn’t sharing whatever he knew leaving Major Minor with one more thing to think about, although they shared the feeling over Ronaldo. He was like a lot of other people they would miss, almost like Cantona all over again except for kicking fans and being French.

(Image originally from www.murphygoalposts.com)

Some Like it Warm

"When the music's over, turn off the lights." ordered General Specific placing the tattered newspaper over his now red eyes. It was directed towards Major Minor who was hooked onto whatever he had been hooked onto for the past few days. General Specific didn't mind the lights as such and he even liked the boy. However, he himself needed some sleep, he felt tired already and knew there were heavy days ahead which culminated in him being unnecessarily pissed.

"Good to see that someone cares." followed up Rev. Green. He tried to make it sound like he was talking to himself and did a pretty good impression of it except for the part where he was loud enough for the whole bus to hear it. It was something that he had been waiting to bring up since a long time. On this occasion, he mistook the "turn off the lights" to be in a different context and let it roll before he realised it. No way of taking it back now, he thought, hoping that someone would bite.

"Of course, we do!" snapped Director Ms. Leading, much to Rev. Green’s relief. He recalled how she had always involved herself in all the causes she could involve herself with. Say no to fur, vegetarianism, gay rights, ban the bulb, the death of drunken elephants, you name it. She was visibly anti ban-the-polybag though. Rev. Green thought she was an act but preferred a wannabe speaking about it over no one speaking about it at all.

"Why, the fact that fuel prices are rising again despite it being a very important electoral consideration is encouraging, even if for the wrong reasons. Car pooling, the eco-friendly Metro, CNG, the green Commonwealth games, they’re all signs that the government and the people are now paying attention to environmental issues." explained Director Ms. Leading.

“Naive." cut in Baby bitch, "I’m sure doing the good thing isn’t incentive enough. The wrong reasons are probably it. Anyway, these are just blissfully ignorant ambitious schemes,” she said, unconsciously nodding at Platinum Blonde to drive the point home, “like the National Action Plan for Climate Change, which is just a lot of gas. Control its release and you could run a bus on it.”

"The world is getting together at Bonn to trigger the metamorphosis. Everyone needs some time to understand the consequences of climate change and change shall inevitably happen. This is a huge step forward with the more fortunate nations leading the way. The world needs to cooperate to find a solution. Rival factions and selfish ends can only be a step backwards." began Ambassador Boeing, almost extempore. It was, politically, a wonderful performance, he didn't commit to anything, didn't disclose anything and didn't take a stance. Even Premier Worst couldn't hide his surprise. All he had done was change his position on the seat because his back hurt. At his age, he couldn't care less about the environment and his grandchildren. They, whoever they were, would have enough left after him to buy a spot on the first colony in Mars. Ambassador Boeing had also realised that he had goofed up and so he shutted up.

Factory Girl shifted her cigarette to her left hand and her weight to her right cheek to toss a can to Ambassador Boeing who faithfully handed it over to Premier Worst. This one was meant for him and not Jabba, she sighed with a roll of eyes and a puff of smoke.

"Look at ITC, they're carbon positive. Renewable energy is already a $7.5 bn industry and $20 tn is expected..." she broke off suddenly. A miserably conspicuous glance at Premier Worst was followed up by an equally miserable attempt to make it look like an attempt to light another cigarette.

"The GDP of Nepal is $12 bn." mumbled Ambassador Boeing, eyeing the can.

"You can't expect overnight changes." she continued as if nothing happened, "Solar plants need an incredible amount of investment and a lot of catchment area. Wind and Hydro are location specific. Tidal, geothermal aren't very practical. Nuclear is the only option" she stated, sticking to facts this time.

"Food, shelter and education are priority." soundbyted Premier Worst, attempting to sound enthusiastic.

"First they screw it up and then refuse to fix it or even accept it. All I see your more fortunate nations,” retorted Pvt. Public, air quoting, “doing now is trying to deflect the blame and get out easy and not help the less fortunate nations.” he air quoted again, “The industry, meanwhile, is facing problems in sticking to norms and is doing all this just because it looks like goodwill and could appeal to people. It's peer pressure and business opportunities more than genuine concern. What we need now aren’t discussions, we need action."

"What we need now aren’t discussions, we need a miracle." corrected Rev. Green. Holy Shit looked on in disgust.

"What we need now aren’t discussions, we need Captain Planet. He was so cool. Those five rings were superawesome!" squealed Platinum Blonde in glee.

General Specific lay squirming in his seat all this while. He had even tried the ear muffs and was soon running out of options. Counting sheep partially worked the last time he tried, so he gave it another shot. It succeeded to the point of reducing the ongoing discussion to a random chain of words.

"Bharat Nirman..."
"Ramesh Jairam’s afforestation..."
"Green batteries..."
"Jatropha..."
"Recylcling water..."
"Ozone Hole..."
"CFLs..."

A sudden burst of wisdom messed up his attempt. Was it seventeen eighty nine? Or nineteen eighty seven?

"Futility....arguments...urgency...materialism...modern civilization." It was Inner Shia alright. He would have loved to listen to him on any other day. Some of the smoke from Factory Girl was wafting over too. And just when things couldn't get worse Murphy decided to throw his weight around and got Major Minor air-guitaring to the song and getting carried away with the sound effects. For all the wisdom of the ancient, actions didn’t speak louder than words after all. "TAENANA TAENANA TAENANA TAENANA TWEAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNN" he broke out in a moment of ecstasy, effectively ending the discussion.

This could count as an addiction accepted General Specific happily as he stretched over to tap the boy on the knee, rubbing his bloodshot eyes with his free arm. Major Minor grinned sheepishly and held up two fingers, oblivious to the cries of "Go Maj!" which had erupted in the background. General Specific nodded in consent, he’d won it.

“To be a rock and not to roll" summed up the moment and deserved to be the last words of the night.

Too bad.

(Image modified from a poster of the movie, Son of the Mask)

Down is Up

"He may be a real contender for this position." commented General Specific putting down the tattered newspaper.

He got the sex wrong but no one cared enough to point it out. Even Sir Mam seemed content letting it pass. General Specific suspected the basis of his contentment was the march in June, the second pride parade in Delhi.

Premier Worst was, as always, pompously looking out of the window with greedy eyes but seemed aware enough to prod Ambassador Boeing in the ribs. "The country of Pseudan," he began, a tad flustered, and stopped. A poke and an irate grunt later he took another stab at it, "President Obama believes she is an inspiring woman who will make a great justice.”

"And his nominee believes that it is appropriate for a judge to consider their experiences as women and people of colour in their decision making." added a sullen Private Public.

Premier Worst had lost interest and Ambassador Boeing chose to not disclose his personal view. Silence followed until Platinum Blonde chose to break it with something that sounded like "Obam-ie has been, like, nominating people?"

Anju Bobby George would have been put to shame at Ambassador Boeing’s jump to explain. She was probably used to it by now. “President Obama, on Tuesday nominated federal appellate Judge Sonia Sotomayor to the US Supreme Court.”

A disappointed Platinum Blonde, out of courtesy maybe, chose to respond, “So she’s gonna be, like, one of those judge folk at the US Supreme Court who bang tables and wear black and uhm...you know, judge other folk?”

Ambassador Boeing went sixty to zero, flat.

“It’s a publicity gimmick nowadays. The success of anyone who isn’t everyone is something to write in the papers about. Help the helpless and then they start taking psychological advantages.” spat Baby Bitch. Major Minor hesitantly nodded, more in acknowledgement than in agreement.

“Immigrations laws were changed but the Mexicans and Indians taking over the hot dog industry and public transport didn't happen until quite some time after that.” offered Private Public as an argument after a thoughtful minute had passed.

“Margaret Thatcher became PM years after the British Suffragette and a blonde vice president would have been a bigger gimmick than a black president.” blurted Ambassador Boeing, obviously regretting it.

“And Beckham be kicking ball in Europe again only when England comes up with a senior citizens scheme making it mandatory.” added Great Scot. He hadn’t been his usual self since Wednesday’s G2 summit in Rome and it was good to see him back.

“Even the black, once the pin-up boys of oppression, didn't get the modern form of NBA until 1949. On the other hand, it hasn’t been long since Arjun Singh, ignoring the scientifically proven methods of using logic and statistics, came up with 49.5.” continued Major Minor from behind his locks. “And we already have eight more.” he added as an afterthought.

Holy Shit filled up his lungs and cleared his throat, but Inner Shia beat him to it. He was meditating a minute back and took everyone by surprise really, catching Holy Shit off guard too maybe.

“If it’s about being different and oppressed then look within, we have just elected a Sikh PM and have a Muslim vice president. A woman president is in office and 59 more were elected to the Lok Sabha. A Dalit lady is being appointed Speaker of the House while an Italian widow holds the strings. The young, fair and the not-so-naive-after-all-is-he Rahul Gandhi figures in the credits as the Messenger while the Ministry of Youth Affairs and Sports is headed by another Sikh who is seventy two years old. A twenty eight year old girl from Meghalaya managed to take oath in Hindi, some swore in the name of god and some others solemnly affirmed and still we rise. That, my children, is too complex to be a coincidence.”

His eyes twinkled maybe because he wasn’t much for religious propaganda. Holy Shit had, in the meantime, given up on his argument. Inner Shia was probably right anyway. He was also not finished.

“People using their minority ‘tag’ are innumerable. There isn’t one specific person as such that you could blame either. It is misused, I won’t say it isn’t, but think of those who really need it. It gives them another thing to look forward to, hope that things could change. Even false hope helps in the short run. Apart from that, giving something which you could do without isn’t as fulfilling as giving something that you can’t and that, children, reflects your sincerity. It is eventually up to you. How much are you willing to sacrifice for your brother?”

The others didn’t seem to have an opinion or were refraining from expressing it. It was food for thought which required chewing upon. There was literally a world of arguments out there. On both sides. What was missing was a conclusion and a measure of compassion didn’t seem to be an answer. Sir Mam wanted to raise that point that women could count as oppressed. Ambassador Boeing had plans of introducing the LTTE story and how the Tamils fared. Major Minor thought the Deccan Chargers were a good example of a genuine success story. Archies’ rumoured marriage to Veronica, thought Page Boy. Captain Follow considered mentioning North Korea and Pakistan’s nuclear arsenal. There was no end to it.

The lights were dimming. The driver drove on nonchalantly. It was a wonder how he stayed up all the time, for the bus never stopped. Premier Worst was already drooling and Platinum Blonde seemed to be nodding off too. General Specific was just getting comfortable and that was the moment Great Scot chose to bring the issue to life again. General Specific couldn’t help but smile.

“It was only last week that Sir Bobby was wondering when ye lads be getting yerself a national football team.”

It was going to be a long night.

(Image modified from the movie, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End)

Pilot

"Ten years on this road, my its took its toll." sighed General Specific putting down the tattered newspaper. It could have been twenty, it could have been two, they would still be lost. The bus seemed to be healthy as a horse, which wasn't very good for a bus, especially after being on the road since really really early morning on a bright bright sunny day, long long ago. Often it rattled and shook or went into a deep meditative silence as if contemplating its next course of action, the driver left at its mercy for once. But inevitably, it would let out a friendly reassuring purr. The strange part was that no one seemed to blame the driver for the literal lack of position on the issue. Nomads they were.

It was on old bus. No one remembered what it looked like on the outside and it didn't matter. The air conditioning seemed to be breaking down and the upholstery was losing its softness but no one looked a day older then when they had started. Atleast that's what they all thought. Only General Specific had a picture of himself from before. The tinted glasses let in a few, much-desired, rays of sunlight at spots, which felt good. But every now and then someone would wake up red and a heated discussion would ensue on whether it needed fixing.

They often passed other people and cars would often whiz by, even cities had been crossed. The old and wise Inner Shia exercised a powerful influence over the residents, he never preached religion and as a consequence would always make sense. No one had gotten off yet, and wouldn't have gotten off even if he wasn't around, everyone just liked listening to the mild old man. The longest experience anyone amongst them had had was life.

(0,0)

The Preramble

You are young and life is long and there is time to kill today.
Time is money without savings and credit cards. Here today, gone in three months.

Message in a bottle.
The pen is mightier than the sword but it takes much more than a pretty face to launch ships.
Walked out this morning, don't believe what I saw,
Hundred billion bottles washed up on the shore.

And don't try to dig what we all say.
Personal opinions with as much political correctness as Monica Lewinsky's lipstick are borne out of cold hard cynicism with optimism playing silver. Notice the missing complaint box.

She broke your throne, she cut your hair.
She gave you measles and brought despair. She's the root of all evil, Hallelujah. She isn't a chick. She could be. She could also be the Americans, a public displays of emotions, vague shit about last night or a contagious nine year old. She is something to avoid and shall receive the treatment.

I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together.
You could also be aloof, arrogant, insecure, socially awkward and soteriophobic but still be as miserable as an insurance salesman. Singing songs about it doesn't help.

You're still alive, she said.
All journeys begin with a single step. Or a push. Or a wet floor. Even a nagging wife. The vicious dog up the street. The vicious dog down the street. A loose lawn mower. The possibilities are endless if you sit down and think about it, but take heart for the step is bound to follow.

This is the end.
That was the beginning.