Tender Homage to a Beautiful Soul

A reader of this blog points out that there's nothing in it about the life of the writer. The reader, who is evidently a trained practitioner of the scientific method, infers that the writer does not have a life. The reader is wrong, and the point of this post is to prove it. Proving people wrong is, after all, the purpose and chief pleasure of the writer's life.

Quite simply, I'll prove I have a life by paying tender homage to one of my close friends (note the plural), a bosom buddy dearer to me than life itself. Out of my inherent respect for people's privacy, I'll not directly name this thick chum, but merely call him Regis Rex The Sphinx, or Regis for short.

If I may digress a little, I invite the reader to marvel at the audacious genius of this pseudonym. It is merely a translation of my friend's original Brownese name to English. To get the original requires only two things : brown skin and a non-zero IQ. Each of these ingredients is available in plenty, but ne'er the twain shall meet. Ay, there's the rub, and the tantalizing trickery of the pseudonym. Not subtle but simple is the stroke of genius, but how fresh is its force, how rare its rawness!

Enough said about sociology, codes and genius. Let us proceed now with the tribute.

Regis, I've always said, is truly a friend in need, meaning that he always needs one to do something for him. He's one of those beautiful people who grow on one, just like an extra finger, or a pus-filled boil. When people first meet Regis, they think it's a coincidence. After the second meeting, they begin to suspect it's a mistake. The third time around, they are trying to decide between disaster and international conspiracy. The fourth meeting brings with it the resigned realization that this is the Finger of Heaven. After the fifth meeting, they stop thinking, but feel a vague, dull pain. Some sturdy souls live to the sixth time, but nobody quite knows what they feel since they're beyond speech. Noone has yet survived the seventh meeting.

To the naive (and lucky) reader who has never met Regis, this description seems a touch extreme. To edify this gentle reader, I should perhaps give more details. Here are recordings of what Regis tells people at various stages of a relationship that grows more alarming with each passing moment.

Meeting 1 : Hey, so nice to meet you, man. Please can you just give me a ride to Walmart?

Meeting 2 : Hey, give me a ride to Walmart. I might take a little time there. Why don't you review this paper for me while you're waiting?

Meeting 3 : Wazzup? Let's go to Walmart first on the way to lunch. By the way, tell me how to solve this N-dimensional optimization problem. Your research is similar, right? I need to write up a paper by tomorrow.

Meeting 4 : [Stage directions : Regis enters scratching his head. This denotes the "comfortable old friend" phase of the relationship, meaning Regis is growing comfortable and you're growing old.] Dei, vetti badu! Give me your car. I need to go to Walmart. Yeah, by the way, here are my notes on my research. I think it's an N-dimesional optimization problem. Why don't you state it clearly and solve it? Do it before I come back. I need it for my meeting today.

Meeting 5 : [Regis enters scratching, well, let's say 2.75 feet below his head.] Mayiru! Loser! Your tank was nearly empty last time. I just about made it back. You thought I'll fill gas? Kanjoos! Why do you hoard all your money? Anyway, give me your car and some money. I need to take my friend out to lunch. I need to publish more papers, man. I need ideas. Why don't you come up with some nice problem in network topology and solve it?

As I've earlier noted, minutes of meeting 6 are regrettably unavailable.

Let it not, from the above, be concluded that Regis is anything but admirable, and less than pleasant. No man rushes to another's help faster than Regis, as long, of course, that no loss of cash is involved. No man knows the loopholes in the law more thoroughly. No man has ever converted the annual India trip to an equally profitable business venture. No man has pimped cheap cellphones for more grad students. No man makes better coffee, or hands it out with greater love. No man laughs at himself more, or has greater reason to. (This post, for instance, was written at Regis' insistence.)

I've said this many a time, and I say it again: there's no man I'd rather become than Regis. He remains the only man I'm truly jealous of, for he's closer to salvation than anyone else I know. To Moksha, there are but two paths : one is to refine thought till it transcends the narrow confines of time, space and personality; the other is to screw thought and concentrate on cash. The Buddha took the first road, and Regis has taken the other.

Regis is that transcendent one-with-the-One, the All-Pervading Self, the realized soul, the Brahman. That misguided old fool Emerson read some RSS propaganda and went on and on about the virtues of the Brahman (Google : Emerson Brahma). If he'd been alive, he'd have let Brahman be and sung instead of Regis

They reckon ill who think me a wimp,
When me they mock, I steal their cash,
I am the drug dealer, and I the pimp,
And I'll find treasures in what you trash.

Regis, verily I say unto you : I'm your fan, admirer and devotee. I'm your follower in this world, and servant in the next. I'm the merest dust on your feet. I am prepared, nay eager, to give you my fondest devotion, my most fawning obeisance, my most prayerful veneration, my most unjudging reverence, my most unquestioning obedience.

But why, oh why, do you insist that I give you cash instead?

The Dirt About Sigmund, and Why Kids are OK After All!

The propaganda of Sigmund Freud and his cohorts has been tragically effective: Everyone these days believes kids are obsessed with sex. A New York Times survey reveals that fewer people than ever hold and pet their children, wary perhaps of the storied lustfulness of the little ones' subconscious minds. The moral standing of children, I'm afraid, is at an all time low.

Take, for instance, the last post on this blog. It was intended to illustrate one of my pet theories about human relationships. The point of writing it with children was not only to make the reader suspend harsh judgement, but also to take sex out of the picture, as much as possible. However, all three readers of this popular blog thought the damn thing was a love story. (They also thought I should stick to fart jokes, the damn barbarians!) Kids, it is assumed, are just too lewd to be just friends.

This perversion of the public opinion greatly saddens me. I confess I'm very fond of children, as long as they are other people's children. After much personal interaction with them, I've come to the conclusion that they are not evil monsters or lustful devils. No! Au contraire, they are general dudes, only a little cuter and a lot smellier.

Like all honest writers, I wish to elevate the public morals and fight false propaganda. To that end, I'll now relate the true story of old Sigmund's hypocrisy, his son's perceived peccadillos, and how the combination of the two led to the establishment of two schools of psycho-analysis and, more tragically, the untimely death of Sigmund Junior.

Sigmund, as is well known, had a chela called Jung. It is less well known that Sigmund had a son, and Jung had a daughter, and they were friendly. In fact, the two never had fights to the death with home-made hand grenades, and this, naturally, led to some suspicion about their normalcy. Rumours, unproved to this day, were heard that their mamma-pappa game involved more than just mock-cooking by Freud junior and TV-watching by the young Jungess. For a surprisingly long time, the vile whispers didn't reach the ears of the doting fathers. Many a time, Sigmund and Jung used to discuss the suspected debaucheries of other people's kids, smiling indulgently at their angelic offspring at play.

The idyll was rudely ruptured. On a fine spring morning, Sigmund had the following conversation with the missus. (Let not the story-teller be blamed for the silly lines that follow. They merely reproduce the flowery language that is common in psychoanalytic households.)

S :
Oh! Flower of the Far East!
On you my eyes daily feast!
Oh! stunning sultry Frau mine,
For you every moment I pine!
Oh! Lady lovely and luscious,
The passion of my Unconscious,
Star that doth my sky adorn,
How are your bowels this morn?

Mrs. S :
Oh! Handsome daadi!
My sweet sugar daddy!
Master of the Hidden Mind,
Whose equal none can find!
Emperor of the id and th' ego,
Smoothly did my motions go.
Oh! Hero whom I love a lot,
How was your session at the pot?

S : [anguished]
Out it flowed like a stream.
But wait, I had a strange dream.
Our son, heavenly little lad,
In my dream, was sex-mad.
My unconscious grows senile,
Our angel so unfairly to revile.

Mrs. S:
Oh, precious husband mine,
You drink too much wine.
It isn't a dream, for Chrissake,
You saw it while wide awake.
How can you fail to notice,
What a vile beast the boy is?
And why, oh why, did he pick,
That Jung's horny little chick?
If he had to be such a little pig,
Why not our neighbour Hedwig?

S:
I see! My damn unconscious,
Finding the truth too odious.
Through its usual sly scheming
Made me think I was dreaming.

Mrs. S:
You of all people fooled, honey!
If it weren't sad, it'd be funny.
Weren't you, dear, first to find,
Every baby has a filthy mind?

S:
About other children, I was sure.
But our boy, I thought was pure.
"Boys are beasts," I boldly said,
Thinking our boy was well-bred.

But surely, he isn't the one to blame.
The fool can barely spell his name.
Even if he had desire in his veins,
He just doesn't have the brains.
It's that girl's doing, thatI know.
She asked, and he couldn't say 'no'.
The vixen! Gotterdamerung! [note: Gotterdamerung = God-damn in Deutsch]
I will take this up with Jung.

So saying, Sigmund stormed right out of his house, and right into the Jung's. Now Jung had had a similar revelation from his Frau and was all aboil. An argument ensued that cannot be reproduced in this PG-rated blog. Finally, Freud walked out in a huff. Poor Jung had to find other means to relieve the pressure.

The two great minds worked furiously to rationalize this new, painful piece of information into their Map of the Mind. So it is that Sigmund proposed the superego, which essentially says, "My son's subconscious is a pig, but deeper down, he is a saint." Jung came up with the theory of the Collective Unconscious, which says, "My daughter is a sex maniac, but so, my friend, are you!"

It would have been tragic enough if it had ended here. But both men were closet Republicans, and couldn't take this slur on the family lying down.

Jung sent his daughter to Alabama, thinking she'll acquire Christian values by association. It was a mistake. They noticed that she was European, and had even looser morals than Bill Clinton. Naturally, they concluded she was the Devil. Her death by stoning, it is reported, was slow and painful.

Freud, hearing this, smiled to himself, and sent his son instead to Gujarat, India. Lack of morals, he reasoned, wasn't likely to be a problem there. It was a grevious miscalculation. The Gujaratis noted that the boy was white, and more virtuous even than their home-grown divinity, Lord Krishna. Naturally, they concluded he was a missionary, and burned him. Old timers in Ahmedabad still say that there is nothing quite like fried Freud to go with a well-aged pot of bhang.

An Estrangement

The girl cried. The boy, her best friend in the whole world, had refused to play with her. He was going to play with other boys. They called him a girlie wuss, and he was ashamed. He didn't like them, but he had to go play with them anyway. He felt like crying too, but her tears cheered him up. He felt powerful, like his father. "Don't be such a girl," he said, and ran away.

He had fun playing with the other boys that day, and came back home happy. He thought of the girl, and smiled. She was such a baby, making a fuss about this. Of course, he couldn't keep playing with her all the time, though he liked her more than anyone else, even more than his own brother. How small she looked, crying but trying to not show it. He'll make it up to her the next day. He'll let her wear his boy scout's cap. That'll make her happy. She looked very sweet when she laughed, almost as sweet as when she cried.

The girl cried for a while. She went to the park, and tried the swing. She couldn't go very high on it without him pushing her. She got down after a while, and went home miserable. Her baby brother came running towards her. She pushed him away. He cried. She pinched him. He cried a little more. Her mother came in and slapped her. She wanted to cry, but didn't. She just stared at her mother. Her mother slapped her again, took the baby and went in to cook. She waited till her mother left, and cried. She cried till her father came in to call her for dinner. He saw her, smiled and took her in his lap. She cried into his shoulder for five minutes. They went in for dinner, her mother gave her an extra sweet. She suddenly felt very happy. She slept between her parents that night, and made them both keep their hands on her.

The next day, the boy almost ran to school. Even so, he was late. He couldn't talk to her before the school assembly. He waited impatiently for the recess. When the bell rang, he sprang up to go to the girls's row, but she was already walking out with her next-seat neighbour. She was laughing. Suddenly he hated her. How silly she looks while laughing, he thought. All day, she avoided him, and all day he was miserable. That evening, it wasn't much fun playing with the boys. He misfielded thrice, and his teammates shouted at him to go back and play with girls, since that's all he was good for. He couldn't leave.

The girl had been miserable all day. She had expected him to follow her and talk to her. "He doesn't care!" she thought, "Well, he can please himself. I have my friends too." She played with her brother all evening. She thought he was very cute, even when he clawed her.

They didn't talk to each other for two months. Both were miserable.

The girl got out of it first. A new girl had moved into the next house. She went to the same class. They met each other shyly first, huddling close to each other's mothers. The ice soon thawed. They were thick friends, exchanging feathers and blue and pink hair bands.

The boy was learning to bike. He would often pass by the girl's house for no reason, frowning and looking ahead. He hoped she'd notice and talk to him, so that he could snub her. The girl did notice. She'd almost forgotten the fight. One day, she stopped him and introduced her new friend. "We're going to our singing lessons now. If you want, you can come and play with us tomorrow", she said.

The boy went home. He beat his brother. When his mother stopped him, he hit out at her. She stopped him easily, then just glared at him and took his brother away. When his father came, he was morose. His mother told his father he'd been wild all evening. He wished his father would beat him. His parents just talked softly, and left the room. He cried. He cried for himself. He cried because he was sad and she was not. He cried because she didn't care anymore.

From the next day, he played with the other boys every evening.

The girl sometimes came and talked to the boy. First, he wept bitterly every time after she left. Slowly, he stopped crying, and she stopped approaching him.

The girl and the boy avoided each other, but were polite whenever they had to talk. His father was transferred next year, and he moved out of town.

They go to college now. They don't remember each other.