Monday, February 02, 2009

Master Plan*

Don't worry. They're right where we want them. You see, man is the most irrational animal of all. He wanders lifelong in search for idle idols and mythical gods. He finds wonder in some things little and in all things grand. He would sell himself to proclaim the myth superior to himself and to all his fellowmen. He worships a rock, man-made. He decorates a belief, which came out of a mind just like his. He glorifies all the right things for all the wrong reasons.

So we found out, a very long time ago, how we could play with him. A sport, to begin with. So keen is his desperate struggle for survival, above all else and sense and thought and re-consideration. With the passage of time under a steadily growing pressure of push and shove and kick, he learns to acclimatise to wherever he is and however he is. Without a whimper. Well, maybe a whimper. But he doesn't know to shout or to stand. He co-operates, know what I mean?

And here we are, and suffering is a virtue.

Let me explain again. Take away his property; mortgage his house for him. Then drive him out, into a hovel. Come again to take his TV and his shoes. Fire him from his job and burn down the hovel. Do this slowly, spread over months and years and decades and a century. And he will not resist. He will take it in, and crouch down further. His back will bend and his gait will become a crippled shuffle. And those will be his good old days.

C'est la vie. Ob-la-di.

Give him back his life and his vases and his furniture and his bank account in small pathetic doses, in transparent Red Cross kits and emergency food packets. He will come to kiss your hand and clean your shoes. His eyes will not recognize you for who you really are, for they cannot look so high up anymore. Bent backs can only straighten so much. Your smooth, sympathetic hands are what he will see and commit to golden memory. New born children will bear your name, and also new born streets and new born libraries.

Like I said, they're right where we want them. The soul is dead. Begin Phase 2.

* being also The Tale of The Coming of Google Talk.


Rimi said...

Nishant, sometimes I worry about you. And sometimes I don't know whether I should worry or be grateful.

I think this is one of the latter.

Remus Lupin said...

How about a post on the pink chaddi/condom thing.

I'm dying to hear your shudh vaani on that