And now for something completely different...

A child was born on the fifteenth of October. This, however, is of no consequence to the rest of this story; just an interesting thought to keep in mind. I myself was born on the twenty-fifth of October. This too has no apparent consequence to the following story, though it could explain why I was the way I was. On the twenty-eighth of October, a star died. As strange as it might sound, this is of great importance to the story at hand.

However, to completely understand this, we must move back.
History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon.
err.. maybe a little further back?
Fire and plague to London come in the year of six and twenties three
No, no, not that either.. hmm lets try again..
...of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth
Oh dear, wrong country..
OOga! Knacrpt Ting! P!zack!
Err.. Where in the name of the devil was that?

Oh well, what the hell. See, the trick is that you don't exactly have to be *anywhere* to understand this. This, however, is deceptively simple for the fact of the matter is that you have to be *everywhere*. Now being everywhere isn't really that difficult, except that being everywhere isn't enough. You have to be at *every time*. This, needless to say, could prove quite a bugger, if you'll pardon my Klatchian.

Nevertheless, we shall forget about that for a while and make do with what we have right now. So, coming back to where we were, a star had just died. This particular star was quite big, and situated conveniently at the other end of the universe. He didn't look anything like Rock Hudson, though. He didn't look anything like Sylvester Stallone, either. Too many tentacles for a start. In fact, this particular star would have made Mick Jagger look like a very successful contender for the Intergalactic Good-Lookers competition thingie, held every ten Galactic years on the planet of Twozk. (In fact, in Twozkian, the contest itself was called Kling, but that seemed to lack a certain... well... zing to the name.)

Tentacles on any other planet would have been strange. For a start, they'd gone out of fashion a few Galactic decades ago. Anyway coming back to the point, the star - whose name was K!zparkla Ztinkspic, but who we shall call Bob for the sake of simplicity - was dead. And thus, he had to be buried.

Incidentally, this particular incident occurred, though in a different time-frame, roughly around the same time that Mussolini marched into and took over Italy. Do not, however, get too comfortable, because it was also the time that Maxentius was proclaimed the Roman Emperor, Tchaikovsky wrote some sort of Pathétique (no pun intended) Symphony No. 6 in B Minor... Just shows how time's not exactly straight but all squiggly.

Thus, Bob was given a typical - however, to show that some things never change around the universe, traditional in this case meant expensive - burial. Which basically meant that there would be a tiny rip in the space-time fabric and the body would be slipped into hyperspace. Problem is, this process sort of worked the same way a sewer did. You prayed and prayed and sent it off, but didn't really wonder where it was going. This, however, did not mean much for the star's planet. It didn't even mean much for the star. It did, however, mean a lot for a tiny blue-green planet situated at the suburbs of a rather crowded galaxy. It meant, and this is rather important, that that planet was about to die.

So as a result of this, the bipedal apes that called the planet their home looked up on the morning of the fifteenth of October and quite literally didn't know what hit them. An impartial observer a few light years away with an extremely high resolution telescope informed the rest of the galaxy that rip had materialised in the space-time continuum from which a small but highly accelerated body was shot out that was aimed directly at the centre of the planet. The result was a soft implosion as the body passed right through the planet, causing it to explode into millions of particles. The body was last seen hurtling into deep space.

The outcome of this event was that the boy who was born on that very day had a huge favour done for him, as he was saved a few decades of suffering. The galactic community mourned for a few weeks the death of the planet they had - with so much difficulty - kept themselves a secret from. However, the new asteroid belt formed where the planet used to be had greatly increased the desirability of the area which soon became a vacation spot and was advertised throughout the galaxy. And thus, at the end, everything seemed to work out for the best.

Weekends, beware: a rant of sorts...

Weekends, beware. Watch out behind you, you'll never know when they'll strike. They're out looking for weekends, see? Oh, you don't? Ah, sorry. I forget. Perhaps I should enlighten you on the reason for this warning? They (as in everybody who wants to make life miserable, including lawyers, bankers, income tax officials, people named Bob, Jimmy Page, Angus Young and most importantly, school authorities) are tracking down weekends mercilessly and cutting them down.

It's part of a large group of people, see? They've always hated weekends, ever since weekends were invented (incidentally - and totally unrelated - ever wondered *when* they were invented?). Probably due to some traumatic childhood experience that happened to them on a weekend at some part of their lives. Freud would have a field day on such as these.

It's the typical conspiracy theory: these people, led by a man named Bob (who, in another totally unrelated set of information has a dog named Timmy) plan to rid the workweek of such weekends. The plan has been a long standing one and numerous people along the centuries have tried to warn us of it. Notable people include Cassandra, Nostradamus - who is rumoured to have said to his wife "Buggre alle for a Larke. I amme sick of this workeweek. One ay dayye lik thif ennywone withe sense shoulde be enjoyinge themselfs instead ofe being cooped up withe thes soddinge plague victimse" - and my uncle Charlie (who, in yet another unrelated information note is happily serving time at the local psychiatric asylum.)

They function in subtle ways, and are more dangerous than ever now. They give you a few days of during the workweek and get you feeling all good and such, but this is just a pretext to destroy all weekends... Permanently. So the bottom line is this: Do all you can to protect weekends. If you find a weekend lost, lonely and afraid, take it home and hide it until the hullabaloo has died down (Don't worry, they don't eat too much and are real fun to have around. Very educational for the kids too, and if you don't have kids, well they'll probably arrange for a few to come your way soon enough).

An Answer:

Been doing some reading.... Must warn you though, I've found the answer to your 'why?' question.... The answer is sadly, 'because'.

First of all, it's important to understand how laws in Physics are handled. If a law if found to predict perfectly a particular phenomenon, and there is no other law to refute this law, then it is considered to be true. These are called Hypotheses, or something. So as long as they are not disproved, they remain to be the authority on matters. For example, if some bugger finds out that a certain amount of a gas always had the same number of molecules, then he can state a law, which remains true until some other bugger finds out that some gas does not obey this. When this happens, there are two alternatives

i) The second bugger could formulate his own law which would group the older law, as well as this gas which does not obey the older one, but obeys the new law.

ii) He could say that this particular gas was the only exception to the law.


Now let's take the old relative velocity business... Even you should be able to understand this:

Assume two cars moving in the same direction with speeds of 60m/s and 40m/s. The chap in the slower car would measure the speed of the faster car as (60-40) = 20m/s. So the new velocity (v) recorded would be velocity of one car(u) - velocity of other car (w).

Thus:
v = u - w;


Now assume two cars approaching each other at 50m/s. Thus, one is moving at +50m/s, while the other at -50m/s(since it is in the opposite direction). Here the recorded velocity would now be:

v = u - w;
v = 50 - (-50);
v = 100;

So for two cars approaching each other,
v = u+w;

This was all pretty ok, since no one found anything wrong with it. All the experiments that took place proved this, and so there was no need for an alternative theory. That is, until Einstein threw a spanner into the works. Einstein's theory of Special Relativity had some basic ideas. One of them was that the speed of light does not vary with the motion of the observer. This was quite a bugger for people to understand, especially if you draw a parallel between cars and such. Imagine a car that remained at the same speed irrespective of the speed you went at!

Einstein realised this, and thus had two options. Drop the theory of Special Relativity or try to change the idea of adding velocities. Now Special Relativity described some phenomena with such accuracy that it could not be wrong. Thus the only other option would be to change the idea of velocity addition, which is exactly what he did.

He changed the formula (v = u+w) to:

   
v   =   u  +  w
        1 + uw
            c2
  

Difficult to understand? Sorry, couldn't really make it simpler. :) What Einstein did to the formula was to add a denominator. c is the speed of light here. Now assume you are moving at a speed of w m/s, and watching light move at c m/s. The velocity of light as observed by you would be:

v   =   c  +  w
        1 + cw
            c2
  

which can be written as:

  
v   =   c  +  w
         1 + w
             c
  

But c is so large, that (w/c) becomes very close to zero, and (c+w) is very close to c.
Thus the formula will now be:

v   =  c
       1

or v = c.

Thus the velocity of light you observe, will remain to be c, according to Einstein's equation!


If you haven't understood this, lets look at another case. Assume you are now moving at the speed of light (a fact, incidentally that is impossible, but nevertheless for the sake of argument).

Now if you are both moving in the same direction, classical mechanics (i.e, the old simple formula) states that you should observe the speed of light as:

v = u-w;
v = c-c;
v = 0;

i.e, the speed of light would be zero, but Einstein's theory doesn't support this. So, now let's try with Einstein's equation.

v   =  u  +  w
       1 + uw
           c2
v   =  c  +  c
        1 + c2
            c2
v  =  2c = c
      2  

Thus, Einstein's equation proves his theory, and thus explains why light always has a constant speed, irrespective of the frame of reference.

Another thing to remember is that this is not universally accepted. Some people still imagine that Einstein got it all wrong. Nevertheless, it is used as people found it to be a good enough answer. All we need now to bugger it all up is some other wise-guy who finds out that light's speed isn't constant or something. :)

Here's another way of looking at it. Somehow I like this method better, because it gets rid of all the messy and slightly suspicious limits and such. Though the other way is a little more straightforward:

Imagine a body moving at a speed... any speed. Let's call this speed 'k'. Now, k can be expressed in terms of c like this:

k = x * c;

Where x is any number. Thus, if a body is moving at say 100m/s, then x will be

 
k =      100     
c     300000000  

Now according to the equation:

 
v   =  c  +  k
        1 + ck
            c2  

Thus

 v   =  c  +  xc            [ since k = xc ?]
       1 + xc*c
            c2  

Thus

  v = c+cx
      1+x  

Thus

 v = c(1+x) = c;
       1+x  

Which implies that whatever speed you're going at, the speed of light remains constant...

You can measure the speed of light. What you can't do is go faster than it (electrons however, can be accelerated to 99% the speed of light). However, the point this equation makes is that whatever your speed is, light will always appear to be travelling at c (approximately 300000000m/s).

A Love Story

It was a boring party. He disapproved of parties as a rule, because no matter how hard he tried he always found himself being pushed to a corner. It wasn't that he wasn't social. It was just that he couldn't stand it when the hostess' started bringing up soppy eyed rich girls to him. It was well known that Simon Delaware was a wealthy bachelor, and not many social gatherings were complete without his been introduced to some sinfully boring female with whom he would not be comfortable spending ten minutes, let alone eternity. He dreaded that he would ever inadvertently marry one of these females, and had decided earlier that one of their deaths would be sure to part them.

He sighed and pushed himself more into the corner, shaking his glass of wine gently. Ghastly stuff, he assumed. He for one had never tasted it. From what he'd seen of parties, people seldom drank it. It was at precisely this moment that he saw her. Much emphasis has been placed on the eyes locking from opposite corners of the room cliche, but it is not often that this happens. This however, was one of those occasional instances; those perfectly magical moments when a few seconds seemed to last for eternity as they looked at each other. Then, slowly she turned her head back to the group she had been chatting with. Simon picked himself up and dodging his hostess and her newest potential Mrs. Delaware, Simon weaved his way to the girl.

The introductions were relatively simple and fast. Mr. Delaware, Mrs. Katherine Herring - Kathy to her friends; Mrs. Herring, Mr. Simon Delaware - son of Herbert Delaware the famous millionaire. The title Mrs. has Simon numbed. Somehow, he'd never imagined that she could be *married*. Nevertheless, he continued talking, and it wasn't too long before they were pretty much alone. She seemed a lot more relaxed around him, for some reason. They talked about everything. From why she hated parties like this, to her husband. The latter topic was one he did not want to dwell on for too long, but he listened with rapt attention to every word she spoke. The remainder of the party seemed to get over far too soon for his liking.

He went home that night, but simply couldn't to sleep. He sat up thinking about her all night. He simply couldn't get over how unfair the entire situation was. They were perfect for each other; even she could see that. But she was older than him and worse, married. He thought about it for quite a long time, and decided that he wouldn't give up. If his parents had their way, he reasoned, they'd have him married to someone less animated that a statue and with slightly less appeal. To them, it would make no difference if he were to marry any one else of his choice or an older married woman.

They met each other quite frequently after that, much to his surprise. He started going to parties more often, and he could have sworn that she seemed to be searching around for him each time. From this, it was but a small step to meeting elsewhere: a coffee shop she'd heard of, perhaps. Or a rather pretty park that he'd found. He wondered through all these meetings what her husband might have thought of all this, and wistfully hoped that she had an unhappy marriage. One day, he asked her. They were quite happy (she said), though they had never got down to the question of children - him being very busy. But she was quite happy, apparently. He was disappointed, but not too put off. He was doggedly determined that he would get her, no matter what.

It went on for some time. Eventually, he could keep it in no longer and told her. Told her that she was perfect for him and that he would marry her and that he wouldn't care what people thought. He could see she was embarrassed, though more because (or so he hoped) she felt the same way. They still continued to meet, and from time to time he'd tip his heart and each time she'd withdraw. Eventually, the unthinkable happened: she agreed. The formalities were quite simple and quick to complete. The divorce and marriage were quite quiet, and apparently her husband didn't take it too hard.

Time started to move again, and sure enough they had a son. But as they were both occupied by the child she carried, disagreements had begun. It began with small things, then larger quarrels. She was always afraid that he'd leave her for a younger woman, and he was so worried about making her happy that he could never love. In a while, they just fell apart. It wasn't too hard, given the condition of their marriage. People would shake their heads and say how such marriages would never work and how they'd always known about it. They were just sorry for the boy, they said. The worst, however, was possibly got by the parents. Two disappointed believers, perhaps. Two players in a game; a game where negotiations and love songs are often mistaken for one and the same.

Now Simon and Kathy remain in contact. Let's just say it's for the child. Occasional disagreements in the meaning of a marriage contract, quarrels, but on the whole, conversations hardly worthwhile. But from time to time, he makes her laugh and she cooks him a meal or two.

What is the point of this story? What information, as it were, pertains? Perhaps the thought that life could be better is woven indelibly into our hearts and out brains.

Alone on an Island

He panted and gasped as he clambered up the nearest tree. The bear had been quite an unpleasant surprise and he could see it pacing about impatiently at the bottom of the tree. A tiny voice at the back of his head informed him that this was probably not a Grizzly, because Grizzlies would shake the tree until... He shook his head to stop thinking about it.

Landing on the island had been the result of a horrible mistake. He had been seasick, most of the time and had not left his cabin for the better part of the journey. Long sea voyages were not particularly his favourite. One night however, when he was feeling a little better, he had gone out to look at the water and had - quite embarrassingly - fallen off. His swimming lessons had finally paid off and he was lucky enough to reach the nearest piece of land. On retrospect, he doubted if anyone on the ship would miss him. Most of them probably didn't even know he existed.

He sighed and noticed that the bear had moved on to greener pastures. He gingerly climbed down, ready at every moment to rush back up again. It wasn't, though, that he was actually suffering. The island wasn't lacking in food, and he had found quite a lot of fruits and nuts and a few defenceless animals, so meals were definitely not a problem. It wasn't altogether dangerous, either, except for the odd bear and that unfortunate incident with the snake. Oh and of course, there was the time when he had nearly used those leaves of poison ivy to...

It was just that he felt so... out of place, here. He had never really been in such close proximity to trees, and that too in such... well.. abundance. The animals were another thing, too. They were.. well, wild, for one thing. The only sort he'd ever seen were at zoos and such, and even they seldom tried to have you as dinner.

He moved towards the beach, armed with a fishing net made of part of his shirt. He wasn't quite sure how to live this life, and had never really had any training apart from a few chapters of 'The Swiss Family Robinson'. He imagined that there must have been a course in college on 'How-to-live-in-a-deserted-pestilent-island', but he was too busy doing Accountancy at the time.
He could see the bear at a distance. He recognised it immediately, and it was the same bear that had been after his blood ever since he had landed on the wretched place. He thought to himself, not for the first time, that it looked a lot like Mr. Goole. Mr. Goole had been his client for quite some time, and whose rather eccentric ideas of the Revenue System had caused him quite a lot of trouble. he was certain that there were quite a few grey hairs on his head that had Mr. Goole's name on them. Come to think of it, almost all his clients had caused him some sort of trouble or the other. It suddenly struck him that life nowadays hadn't really been much different from when he was... well, civilised(for want of a better word). He rarely spoke to anyone and spent a large percentage of his time being attacked or running for cover.

What scared him most, though, was that he was beginning to enjoy it. All this running away and eating fruits and wild animals and such was strangely... invigorating. For the first time in his otherwise drab, wretched life, he really felt alive. But of course he wanted to go home. Of course.... He looked at the bear again. The resemblance was striking. He was just considering naming it Goole, when he saw the ship.

It was pretty close to the island. In fact, if anyone was looking out of the windows, they'd probably be able to.... before he knew what he was doing, he had leapt, crawled and run in the general direction of the nearest tree with the air of one who has had practice in such activities. He started, as it were, to think rationally. Well another ship was bound to come this way in another six months or so. And then he could go home... well... maybe.

An (incomplete) Poem

Wrote it long ago, and just found it out in an ancient book :)... Mind you, it doesn't have an ending.. Been thinking of completing it soon, but it'll take a while... Oh, and the 6th, 7th and 8th stanzas are sort of trials... Only one of them are supposed to be selected, I suppose... Anyway, don't laugh at it too much...

King Michael was a mighty king,
Mighty as kings could be.
But the fact that puzzled him,
Was the buzzing of a bumble bee.

"Chancellor!" The King called out,
After many a sleepless night,
While wondering how the ungainly thing,
Had managed to achieve flight.

The Chancellor was a well built man,
As well built as large men go,
And every time his stomach moved,
This only went to show.

"Chancellor!" The King called out,
This time with all his might.
And the Chancellor at last arrived,
Panting, at his side.

"The bumble bee!" The King did cry,
"What a curious thing it is.
While wise men say it may not fly,
The bumble bee just passes by!"

The Chancellor went far wide,
Questioning many a man.
The Grand Vizier stayed by his side,
As they crossed o'er sea and land.

They travelled o'er land and sea.
They reached many a distant land.
The travelled on and on until,
Much of their time had spanned.

'Twas in this quest of knowledge great,
The Vizier by his side,
The Chancellor with wisdom great,
Had travelled far and wide.

Till at last it was they met a man,
Of knowledge wide, in a distant land,
With so much wisdom in his head,
That it flowed out with every word he said.

A Rant

Civilisation is a rum thing, you know... If not for it, how do you think we'd be able to live with ourselves? Look at ants, for instance: not an ounce of consideration for the others of their kind; a slight sign of danger and they scamper. If the Three Musketeers had ever been made in Antville, the catch phrase would have been something like "All for one and each ant for itself". Sure, they build these huge mounds and such, but look at them as individuals... Not an ounce of individualism...

Now humans, well we're different... Individual lives are real important. I mean, at heart, what we really want to do is keep everyone happy (at least, everyone who counts... Not the ones who are too poor or dumb)... Sure, we occasionally pillage countries and such, taking everything from the natives and eventually killing them off (culturally, at least) .... But it's basic intention is good... I mean, the chaps back at home really enjoy themselves, and these poor buggers were suffering enough just being themselves.. We're doing them a favour, you know... I mean, if this isn't what Machiavelli was talking about, what is?

And then there's Christ... I absolutely hate people who don't like religion for that matter... They aren't really much better then all the sods who go around condemning the Bomb (Sure I condemn the Bomb too... why not get something a little bigger and one that doesn't leave so much to clean around later?). It's possibly the strongest weapon in our arsenal (Religion I mean, not the Bomb), and we're surrounded by daft buggers who have no idea how to tap it...

Now the chaps back in the 14th century had it all right... Sell them indulgences and stuff... (I mean, let's get something out of this God business)... Sell Christ in boxes and people would buy him (provided there was adequate marketing, of course). Constantine understood this: Take a perfectly pliable religion, add it to most of the customs that people were used to (No need to change everything), and voilà: something real palatable that everyone likes (with a dash of lemon)... And you'll be a great hero too (once you've killed off all the sods who think they're better and smarter than you, and say you're cheating, of course)...

Life's interesting... and you can't say it isn't... Sure you have to be rich and important and such to enjoy it, but hell, you have to be rich and important to matter. Of course the 'other' people are important: I mean, who'll cook our food and clean our sewers and do everything else in between the alimentary canal? Just thank God we aren't dumb insensitive animals... we're civilised, you know...

Song In The Moonlight

The night was dark, a large cloud had covered the sky, and the stillness of the wood surprised the musician. All he could hear were the crickets chirping at the distance, and the occasional bull-frog. The resulting aura was something that could have softened even the most sullen and ill tempered person. The musician, however, was not very moved by the seemingly heavenly scene around him. The air around him was of a man sick at heart. His stride, like his mood, was heavy and had a trace of sadness in them: he walked as man who had nowhere to go would. His mind, as you might have guessed, was elsewhere.

The musician was extremely well known. He was famed throughout the land for unforgettable tunes and lyrics that could put even the land's best poets to shame. He had hundreds eager to learn under him, and had just received the highest honour possible from the King himself. He was, as would be obvious by now, at the peak of his career. However he was also extremely ill at ease. If there was one man who was not satisfied with his work, it was himself. He looked down at the plaque he held in his hand: the token of the King and a sign of his success as a musician. Not for the first time that, he felt unworthy of it. His music, he mused, lacked something. However, try as he might, he could not put his finger on it and that irritated him.

Looking up, he noticed the cloud had passed by. He sighed and continued to walk through the wood. The journey was dark because of the overhanging trees but occasionally there would be a clearing and the moon would break out, and the diamond studded backdrop could be seen clearly.

After many sleepless nights, the musician had decided to visit the Zen Master. Renowned for his knowledge and wisdom, he was the final word in most people's troubles. The musician would have gone to him earlier, except the Master was also famed for his puzzling, sometimes cryptic, answers. However, without any further options, the troubled musician had decided to meet him. The Master had heard his story, and thought for a while in silence. Finally, he uttered the following words:

"I always remember the woods at night -
The fragrance of the jasmine flowers,
The simple cry of the nightingale."

The musician had left disappointed, the mystical koan doing nothing for the better to his mood. Finally, disgruntled with everything, the musician had decided to go for a walk in the wood. He sighed again as the trees fell back, letting a sudden flood of moonlight into yet another clearing. And it was then that he heard it. In one of the trees beside him, the nightingale began its tune. A simple plain cry, as the koan had said. The tune was not much compared to most the musician had written, but suddenly, he realised that in it, there was more worth that all his songs put together; for, realised the musician, in it was what his songs lacked.

The nightingale had no audience but the crickets and the frogs; far from the glamorous audience most daytime birds had, but yet it sang a song; a beautiful song; a song that did not care about its audience. The beauty in its song, the musician realised, was that it could be sung deep in the forest - in the moonlight, where no one could hear it - and still be beautiful.

The musician realised where he had gone wrong, and he realised that the song of the nightingale was far better than anything he could hope for. He looked down at the plaque again, shook his head, and grinned slowly. He knelt under the nightingale's tree and buried it there. Then, without a second glance, turned around and left. Behind him, the nightingale did not seem to be perturbed by the loss of its only fan; it continued singing far after the musician had left the wood.

And now for something completely different......

With summer looming menacingly around the corner, most of the animals in the woods have now retired to the comfort of their groves trying to, as the youth of today put it, 'beat the heat'. The deer however, are facing a different sort of heat. With the end of another financial year, they can be seen rushing around with their paperwork, indicating beyond doubt that it is Income Tax season. The hares and rats seem to be very popular now, as the former is good at multiplying and the latter at deducting. Any naturalist who cares for a walk in the forest would find it common to see a deer accompanied by rat and a hare, busy with their calculators. However, this is also a season where puns and other such tactless remarks could prove dangerous. A good example would be the sordid tale of Simon Pickering who on encounter one such trio in the wood remarked, quite distastefully, that they might try deducting the 'deerness' allowance. He apparently departed hurriedly, leaving his butterfly net, magnifying glass and body behind. They found it later to have been bitten, gored and trampled, about a week after the incident, or so the chaps down at Homicide say.

------*------

Another story circulating the suburbs of late is the tale of Michael J. Lenner. A student of the eleventh grade, Lenner had been humiliated by his fellow classmate and rival Jakob Lee. The details of the humiliation we will never know but reliable sources indicate it had something to do with a litre of maple syrup and a large number of ants. Anyway, Michael had apparently been up all night plotting suitable retaliation, and hatched upon what he believed was a foolproof plan. Posing as the plumber, Michael entered his rival's lavatory armed with a tin of Anabond. Apparently he then used up the entire tin on the commode seat. All would have gone well for Michael, except that he slipped just as he was finishing the job. Rumours are that his face was glued so badly to the seat that he has been sent abroad to have it removed surgically. Sadly for Lenner, the humiliation did not stop there. Apparently he had entered the wrong house in the first place, as he was not in the Lees' residence, but rather in the that of the Pilsburys', which leads us to believe that everything had worked out for the best in the end.


------*------

Why chicken comes in packets at supermarkets

Chicken: common domestic fowl: a domestic fowl, usually with brown or black feathers and a fleshy crest on its head.
Latin name: Gallus domesticus

(By the way, I have a habit of rambling on and on... If you get bored, just scroll down to the end and read the answer)

Why does chicken come packed at the supermarket? This has been a question that puzzled me for quite some time. To most of the people living in cities, I suppose the definition of a chicken would have been pretty useful. In fact, even though I live in a relatively remote place, I seem to have seen more dead chickens than live ones. (Yes, they do exist as something other than what you see packed in neat plastic covers. No they don't come from a chicken plant... despite that being hard to believe).

Now where was I? Ah yes, the chicken. Now the chicken's been a part of our lives for quite some time. In fact, the chappie who gave it the fancy Latin name probably knew of this and rightly named it Gallus domesticus, which if you haven't noticed already, means it's a domestic something. Frankly, I think chickens were placed on the planet for us to eat. I mean, can you just imagine the ridiculous things running about in the wild? They'd be extinct before you could say "salami". We're doing them a favour you know? Preserving the species and stuff.

But I digress... so the chicken has been part of our diet for quite a while, and though we're eaten it for years together, we haven't quite got tired of it yet. I doubt the chicken is very happy about this, but if the daft thing is too stupid to run away, it isn't our fault is it? I mean, those large seemingly difficult to open mesh cages and stuff are just for show. If a chicken was really determined, it would've managed to get out by itself. It's just nature.

I was walking past one of these chicken shops yesterday. You know, the cheap ones that do the chopping in front of you? And it looked so gruesome that I felt I'd never eat again. The poor things didn't know what hit them. They're put into these tiny cages and stacked so tightly that they can't move. Then they're taken and they're killed. I've been avoiding that shop ever since. It makes me want to puke.

So.. Why does chicken come packaged in supermarkets? The answer is pretty simple... It's so that people like me who can't stand much violence to animals can still eat the chicken and have a good time without a guilty conscience.

The Road Not Taken

Something pretty interesting happened this morning.... Defying all laws of probability, I got lost on my way to school. I happened to miss the bus that morning (the result of my watch being fifteen minutes slow), and decided to leg it. Incidentally, this is something that happens often, but today I was a bit later than usual.

I started walking, and eventually reached a part where the road split into two. Feeling a bit like Frost, I looked down both of 'em as far as I could... One was pretty dusty and I ran the risk of getting run over by sand-lorries. The other one (having perhaps the better claim) was pretty nice, though a bit narrow and one that I hadn't used many times... Anyway, needless to say, I continued down the nicer road...

Now I'm pretty hazy as to what happened after that because I was deeply engrossed in calculating how much coil a pick-up would require... Maybe I took a wrong turning, or maybe I just didn't turn at all... I began to notice, after a while, that the larger houses seemed to give way to smaller houses until I was surrounded by lots of small huts.

Needless to say I was a bit confused, not to say embarrassed. I seemed the only chap in sight wearing a shirt, and people seemed to be watching me in an odd way. I was just wondering if they'd tie me up and roast me when one of the chaps who was brushing his teeth asked me if I wanted to go anywhere in particular. Looking warily at him, I told him where I had to get to. He looked around and pointed towards what I thought was a dead end (which was actually a pile of garbage) and told me to go down that way and take a right. I climbed over and took a right and promptly found myself surrounded by high shrubs and in the sort of scenery you'd expect from Jurassic Park.

I looked over my options.: I could go back, but I risked being laughed at by the tooth-brusher... Or I could die here and/or get eaten by some remnant of the Jurassic age. Of the two, the latter seemed more attractive (seriously, you should have seen that guy.. nice enough chap, but still..). It was here that I noticed the drunk.

He was looking at me, and I had the feeling I had interrupted his up until then peaceful leak. Nevertheless, I asked him for directions. He pointed to a short wall that had hitherto gone unnoticed. He told me that all I had to do was climb over it and walk straight towards the two houses at the distance. His directions seemed sane, which was more than I could say for him.

I tentatively looked over the wall. It was short enough, and so I climbed across... Sadly it was only when I was at the top that I noticed that the other side was not as close to me as this was. Having no other alternative than to be laughed at by the drunk, I jumped down and suffered no (major) injuries. The field in front of me now was, and I'm not exaggerating, wet. I folded up my jeans to the knee and continued walking in the general direction of the road.

Now I don't suppose I would be asking for too much to hope that what looks like firm ground continue to be firm ground irrespective of if I'm on it or not. I do not believe I'm exaggerating when I say I was quite surprised when I suddenly found myself knee deep in a hole filled with water, where I imagined land.... Dunno how it happened. Probably got something to do with quantum. Cussing and muttering at all depressions of any sort, I climbed out and continued walking...

The rest of the journey was pretty boring. Turns out the drunk gave the best directions and I found myself a little distance away from the school... I was a bit late, but nobody noticed, so I don't suppose it mattered.

She said she wanted to go to the beach...

She said she wanted to go to the beach. I told her for the umpteenth time that it was a waste of time. She asked me why was I so against the beach, and I replied it was because of the sharks. She said I had nothing to worry about, since the sharks hadn't bitten anyone at the beach for years. I replied that that was precisely the point. I mean what's the use of going to the beach if you can't see a decent shark-goring-innocent-beach-goer scene? She told me she didn't know why she'd married me, and I reminded her that I was rich.

She told me that going to the beach would be a good way to spend the weekend. I told here there was nothing there that we couldn't get in our backyard. She told me, yes there was and where was I going to get a beach in our backyard? I told her I'd leave the hose running and take some sand from the kitty-litter and spray it around. She told that would be different. I asked her how. She replied that, for a start, there wouldn't be any salty air. I told her that I was willing to throw an entire bag of salt into the air. She told me to stop fooling around, and that the beach was a good place to enjoy oneself. I asked her but what of the sharks? She replied that there wouldn't be any of them around, and I told her that it wouldn't be much enjoyment without seeing anyone being eaten alive by sharks. She told me I was a perverted, sadistic man. I pointed out to her that her brother was a lawyer who'd be glad to handle a divorce.

She told me that the beach would be a good place to expose the kids to other people, and I told her I wasn't going to risk them seeing a man being eaten by a shark. She told me there wouldn't be any damn sharks in the beach and I replied ah, but then we aren't going, are we? She told me that the sand and the salty water would be good for my health. I replied that I hated it when the sand got into my underwear, and I wouldn't go near the water for all the gold in the world. She asked me why not, and I replied it's because of the sharks. She told me if I loved her, I'd take her to the beach.

So we're going to the beach now. But I've taken a pair of binoculars with me just in case. You never know when a shark could decide to eat some unsuspecting person. I could be lucky today.

Exercise

I was at my native village for the vacation, spending time at my grandparent's house. It was a change from the strict boarding school atmosphere and one that I welcomed. I hadn't been here for a long time, and only had hazy memories of my last visit, but it was amazing how everyone here knew who I was. I couldn't walk down the street without someone telling me how much I had grown or narrating some curious incident that happened the last time I was here.

Something that I had gotten used to in boarding school was beginning the day with an early morning jog. So it was only natural that I got up early the next morning, put on my tracks, t-shirt and jogging shoes, and stepped out of the house. Standing at the door I took a deep breath and looked around. In the cool light of the morning I could see the farmers getting on their cycles, ready to go to their fields.

Smiling to myself, I began jogging down the cart-track. Before long I heard a cycle bell behind me, and turned to see a farmer pedalling frantically after me. Confused, I stopped and turned around.

" Are chota sahib, where are you off to so early in the morning and in such a hurry?" He asked, looking concerned. "Here, take my cycle. You will get there faster if you use it."

It took me a bit of time to explain it to him. I don't think I'll ever forget the incredulous look he had on his face throughout the ordeal.

Banished From Eden

The hill looked beautiful from the distance, with the flowers covering it in a blanket of purple. I simply had to see what it was like up close and so I began to walk towards it. Up close, with the flowers completely covering it, it looked even more spectacular and the sight held me completely mesmerised. The sheer magnificence of the hill drove me to try to climb it.

Folding my dhoti, I began climbing. The branches of the plants and their flowers brushed against my bare chest. Nothing that I had ever seen was as beautiful than this.

Reaching the top I breathed a sigh and looked around me. For miles around all I could see was the purple of the flowers fading into the blue of the skies. To my left, however, I saw a strange sight: A man was kneeling by the flowers and plucking them one by one, looking at them and throwing them away, as he muttered under his breath. The man himself looked strange: He was wearing sahibs' clothes and looked totally out of place here.

Filled with curiosity, let down my dhoti and respectfully went up to him and asked him what he was doing.

With hardly a side-ward glance, the man simply replied "The perfect flower. It must be around here somewhere." He then took another and examining it closely, threw it away muttering something about the petals.

I stood and watched him for a while, thinking. Then I turned around and walked back down the hill disconsolately. I didn't bother to look around. I knew I'd never appreciate the flowers ever again. Behind me, the man continued to pick flower after flower.