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?