Of Faces and Colours. Of Friends and Foes. Of Perfection and Happiness.

I remember my first box of crayons. Not vividly maybe, but I remember a fair amount. The standard box of crayons available to us in pre-school, had around twelve colours. The rich kids had imported sets (yes, in pre-school) with around double the number, but I remember having my standard twelve. One of the things we’d attempt to keep within the lines of most often, was usually outlines of people’s faces. Now for a child, especially a child with only twelve colours at his disposal, this is a tricky task. I’d spend entire art classes, pondering over the appropriate colour choice for the particular individual staring up at me from my hexagonal table with a wide and decidedly creepy grin (what in the world was he so happy about anyway?). In the furrowed brows and puzzled faces of my friends around me, I found consolation. In the hapless sigh of our designated mentor, I sought help. Help that inevitably came once half the unnaturally round face had been coloured in with meticulous precision. Yesterday’s barbs were still fresh in my mind. “No Ma’am, the person I’m colouring does not have jaundice”. “No Ma’am, there is no particular reason I chose Yellow”. “I thought that was the closest possible choice Ma’am”. “No Ma’am, I’m not colour-blind (what’s a colour-blind? I didn’t dare ask.)”. I’d never forget how Brown Hair Girl had laughed, while I sat humiliated in my seat desperately waiting for the sweet liberating melody that would end this torture they liked to call “Class”. But today was another day and another face. I was determined to get it right. I would achieve the unthinkable. Today, I was going to figure out, once and for all, what the colour of a human being was. Those rich dolts could fiddle with their fancy sets all they wanted, but this was my day. Carpe diem baby!

I determinedly steered clear of Yellow. I scoffed at the girls cuing up beside Richie Rich (sigh, it starts that early) to borrow Pink 18. No more trying to mix Red and White for these future gold-digger sluts (I wish someone had taught me all this then). I cast a jealous loathing stare at Richie, and searched on for the colour of my skin.

Minutes later, Richie submitted his work. An approving smile and nod from Ma’am contorted my face in a way I didn’t quite like. For the second time that rainy morning, I felt not-good. I didn’t like being sad when it rained.

I liked Rain. I liked it a little more than Winter and definitely a lot more than Summer. I still hadn’t figured out this Autumn phenomenon Ma’am had mentioned, but I could bet I’d like Rain better than that too.

Minutes later, Richie’s best friend walked to Ma’am, completed work in hand, and brought me back to my hell-with-fluorescent-lighting. Another smile. Another nod. Another of Richie’s friends marched to Ma’am. Then another. Then another. Hmm, I think I see a pattern here. I’m five and a half years old, I’m not stupid!

Then Brown Hair Girl got up. Ha! Richie was so predictable. The whole class knew he liked her. No one was surprised that she was the first one to lay her hands on Pink 18. Haha, I was going to see Ma’am make that all too familiar disgusted pig-like face, and it was Brown Hair Girl and her Pink 18 face’s turn today. Victory was mine (in part atleast)!

But it never came. Ma’am smiled down at her as she graded the paper. Brown Hair Girl sank smugly back into her seat. My heart sank somewhere into an unknown abyss inside me. Word spread quickly in hushed whispers. An A+, a Smiley AND a Star! I always knew girls were marked better than boys but this was preposterous! I was going to get to the bottom of this.

I got up from my seat, and took a casual stroll around to Richie and Brown Hair’s table, the one closest to Ma’am. The wicked witch looked up from her diary and silently dared me to loiter any more. I wasn’t foolish enough to take her up on that. My surveillance had already borne fruit anyway. I contemplated the wonders of foreign technology and for the first time realized that convenience could be bought at a price. Skin 23. A crayon made specifically for the purpose of colouring skin (God promise). Sheer genius! I asked Extremely Fair Boy and Spectacled Boy, friends of mine, if they knew how we could get hold of a Skin 23. They were as clueless as I. Richie Richerson, we were sure, would never lend us his own.

We decided there was nothing we could do. We had spent all our time looking at others finish their work and now we had to finish quickly with whatever we had, or face the feisty fiend. We had to do the only thing we knew, improvise. “Yellow?”, Fair Boy whispered with a resigned grin. “Yellow”, I replied with uncertain conviction. Spectacled Boy blinked.

Later, all our work was hung up outside the class in the corridor for everyone to admire Miss Witch’s supreme teaching skills. Most of the faces bore Skin 23. They were hung topmost. Brown Hair Girl's perfectly-within-the-lines-face was right at the top, immediately followed by Richie's carelessly scribbled disaster. I could see why Skin 23 was so popular. These faces looked exactly like the English speaking people on Cartoon Network (well, apart from the Adams Family), but they didn't look quite like us. I couldn’t really understand Skin 23. The privileged faces beamed straight ahead, proud in their “Skin”-ness, all looking exactly the same, and very comfortable with the situation.

The lowest rungs were reserved for the rest of us. Fair Boy, Spectacled Boy and Me included. Fair Boy had taken Yellow today, I randomly picked Brown, and Blinky even mustered up the courage to borrow Black in his desperation. If we were going to get Bs, then we’d atleast have fun getting it, and have fun we did. Our faces were smiling up at us too. The rest of the class filed in to their tiffin-boxes, while the three of us stood there, proudly admiring our handiwork. All three of us agreed that our faces looked happier together than all the Skins combined. Call it sour grapes, or call it something else that maybe we hadn’t learnt about yet.

Going Cuckoo

Do bees have labour laws?

Would a parrot face a communication barrier if it were to fly to another country?

Do doves consider crows an inferior species?

Do members of H.E.R (Hens for Equal Rights) need to sensitize their counterparts at the S.I.R (Secretly Insecure Roosters) about their rightful place in the farm?

What happens if a migratory bird forgets to renew his/her passport?

Does the "Flying V" air service have its own security check?

Are ostriches considered disabled?

Was the last Dodo buried or cremated?

Do eagles exercise divine right over all their feathered friends?

Is life "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short" in the skies?


Free as a bird they say...

This Sentence Is False

Looking into my own eyes,
I can’t believe a thing.
The truth in them was dying but I,
Let the knell just ring.

Hanging from the edge of truth,
Nothing seemed amiss.
I realized I lost my grip
At the bottom of the abyss.

Didn’t listen when I was taught,
But now it’s getting clearer.
“Lie to the world if you wish to son,
But never lie to a mirror.”

Arm in arm with delusion,
Across the floor I waltz.
The music stops, I trip, it dawns,
“This sentence is false.”

O Mephistopheles!

I sold my soul to the devil once,
In return for a chance, a shot, a bunce.
I etched my eyes with Faustian dreams,
Oblivious to his perfidious schemes.

I wished to walk a thousand miles,
Climb up those stairs, walk down those aisles.
The rascal in his wily sport,
Turned me into a theatre escort.

Convinced there was no wound gold couldn’t mend,
I wished for wealth that would never end.
Readily the fiend obeyed my command,
And I had but a dime glued to my hand.

To beat him at his own little game,
I wished for the world to know my name.
The bastard made me the prince of crime,
The most hunted man of our time.

With each defeat my ego swelled,
Wanted all the power the heavens held.
Cause at will a billion scares,
The sole reason for foreign affairs.

He, he just smirked and with aplomb,
Turned me into an atomic bomb!

I sold my soul to the devil once,
In retrospect I was such a dunce.
I etched my eyes with Faustian dreams
Oblivious to his perfidious schemes.

The Preamble (as it should read).

We, the politicians of India, having solemnly resolved to constitute India into a quasi-sovereign, pseudo-socialist, comparatively secular, incompetently democratic, semi-republic and to secure to all its citizens: extortionate and leisurely justice; the illusion of liberty; superficial equality; and promote among them all, fraternity with poverty, misery n despair; in our constituent assembly, this twenty-sixth day of November, 1949, do hereby adopt enact and give to ourselves this grand placebo.

Here Goes...

Here goes nothing. Here goes everything. Chivalry is out of fashion. Being nice is not the nicest thing anymore. Mirrors are overrated. Faces are overrated. Fear is just a thought, a perspective, an excuse, a refuge. Sleep is not a state of the body, it’s a state of mind. Smiles are overrated, given more credit than due. They’re a subconscious projection of our portrait of ourselves. There is no such thing as a conscious natural smile. The ultimate masks. Blow. It's just powder. Blow in, blow out, blow up. No mail today, maybe tomorrow. Communication is a farce. A lifetime is too short to process even your own thoughts. Communication is inhibitive. Transfer ideas, not words. Hopscotch. Just Scotch. Trip, fall. Trip, rise. Time travel. Time, travel. Don’t time, just travel. Righteousness is subjective. Love is a myth. Popular propaganda. The most addictive, dangerous and most widely used and accepted mind-numbing drug. What I am is what I think I am. I think, therefore I am. Thoughts flow, therefore I flow. Thoughts change, and I change with my thoughts. But thoughts don’t do, therefore I don’t. Born alone, die alone. Live alone. The truth is a lie, there is none. Just ideas that sound good or bad to few or many people. What is success? No such thing exists. It is man made. What is failure if there is no success? No such thing exists. There is only survival. Not of the person. But of ideas. And survival is inevitable. And ideas are immortal.

Think. Question. Read between the lines.

Recently, a friend and I were discussing (to put it mildly) whether colleges should allow a smoking zone on campus so that those in love with the cancer stick could effectively exercise their freedoms while respecting the freedoms of others. Soon she told me I had no chance at convincing anyone "who mattered" to even consider implementing such an idea, because the "only support I could get was from college students, which was not good enough". This was my reply -

"College going students are the minds the system is training to run it in the future. Also, since the very presence of a system implies expected improvement, one implicitly credits said students with superior judgement, intelligence and capacity and sufficient and continuously improving experience to base said capabilities on. Discrediting their opinions reflects poorly on both you and the system. It is akin to calling the system a factory and us its androids. And since it is safe to say that the system has been around for long enough for its products to be running it now, the very presence of a system run by such electronic thought pales into insignificance. Don't listen to what they say. We are being manufactured. Nihilism -> Revolution -> Anarchy. Think. Question. Read between the lines."

To the best of my knowledge, the message is still lost on her. I just love the irony life keeps throwing at me.

Un-Holi

Ah, it's that time of the year again. Let us join in collective mindless pandemonium & be un-evolved to celebrate our evolved selves. Let us paint the town red because we happen to possess an extra variety of optical cells. Let us revel in the bliss that we have yet again proved to ourselves that we as a race are a fucking joke. Live it up people. Use all your greens and blues and reds and yellows and paint a picture of retardedness. Pass the bhang, dunk that pint-sized prick, grope that cute neighbour, spread the joy in a cloud of colour, flash that rainbow grin & wish one and all, A Happy Holi...

Pulp Diction

In our teens, skinny jeans,
Rock n’ rap, psychedelic crap.

Feigned grin, fitting in,
Friends to spare, friendship rare.

They taught, we forgot,
Final warning, every morning.

God damn, final exam,
Countless lies, to memorize.

Efforts in vain, try again,
Out of luck, what the fuck.

Silly fights, late nights,
Love in parts, broken hearts.

Rum in coke, cigarette smoke,
Drink n’ drive, still alive.

Computer screen, and caffeine,
Sleep deprived, we survived.

Sick of life, just grab a knife,
When in pain, Mary Jane.

Behind the veil, soul for sale,
Success story, memento mori.

Why?

Hello,

In this first post I want to answer and explain some of the questions that may be occurring to you.

One of the most simple questions is regarding the reasons for this blog. They are simple. I'm looking for a better outlet (for all kinds of crap) than a social networking site. Also, I don't want to force anything on anyone and thus with this blog, I can continue with my life and those who fancy spending their valuable time in the company of my words can do so at their own free will.

Why now? Simple again. This is more of an issue of vanity actually. I have been looking for a suitable name for a blog for quite some time now and this blog was created the day I thought of christening a blog "Cerebral Inertia".

Which brings us to the final question I can think of at the moment. What is "Cerebral Inertia"?
Your trusty Oxford English Dictionary will tell you this -

cerebral |səˈrēbrəl; ˈserəbrəl|
adjective
1 of the cerebrum of the brain : a cerebral hemorrhage | the cerebral cortex.
• intellectual rather than emotional or physical : photography is a cerebral process.

inertia |iˈnər sh ə|
noun
1 a tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged : the bureaucratic inertia of government.

From here, it wouldn't take a genius to put it together. A little thought though, will guide you deeper down the rabbit-hole. I feel that apart from the shameless indulgence in laziness of the highest order, inertia symbolises me in another aspect too. It describes my idiosyncrasy of staying on and mulling over subjects when I'm supposed to be moving on, and additionally, of thinking too far ahead instead of just giving something a rest. I feel thus, that Cerebral Inertia means over-activity (which, admittedly, is wasteful), instead of under-activity or even judicious activity.

I realise now, that this is turning into a tiresome rant, and so I'll leave you at that for now. For a lack of better words, I'll end with something I just thought of

"The reasons for love, the limits of liberty, the capacity of genius and the extent of ignorance were never meant to be measured."

Cheers,
Aayush.