The story of a Life

When he was born, some said he was the product of love and the cynics called him the result of lust. But he knew he was merely the birth of two souls in one. Whatever you might think, or say, or even allow him to believe, he was created, given a form, and allowed to live. Creation has forever been a point of contempt for scientists and spiritualists alike. But he knew where he came from- thankful for his existence; and the mysteries of existence were not his concern, nor something he would ever learn or care for.

Unfortunate events, for no better words and lack of a genuine explanation, forced a new set of parent figures in his life. He wouldn’t really question why, for they nourished him. They provided him a life. Now creation and nourishment are two different things; yet life has no meaning without either. He obeyed their commands; forever he was indebted to their shaping him, his character and his being. He wouldn’t question their eccentricities. He would quell his mistrust and doubts; he reckoned that they were doing the right thing. If he questioned their intent, he would be questioning his self, his being and all that was him.

But time is a slave of no master. As he aged and the fleeting overseer took his guides, his masters, away from him, he was left alone, a destitute. Soon, it would be his time to go. His deteriorating health and a displeasure at losing the capabilities that he once prided, his youth, made him sick, irritable and annoying. It cannot be confirmed whether it was euthanasia or that he had no say in it, finally he was put to sleep. He was relieved from his misery, his life, or what was left of it, an existence that made less sense as each day passed. He was thankful for this too, for life had no meaning without death; he realized that creation and destruction go hand in hand. If the clueless scientists and spiritualists had to see eye to eye, even for a brief moment, it might be over this- the end.

His tombstone read out his name in bold and a eulogy paid as much respect to him as a dog’s life was worth. It didn’t talk about the parents that had given him birth, the society that had shaped his life or the benevolence that had provided him death. It spoke about his qualities, his traits, some probably exaggerated or even fabricated; nonetheless, it was one devoid of references to his creation, nourishment and destruction. It might have been a dog, the protagonist of this story, or any other creature for that matter. When his story will be told and retold, his life would probably be buried under rubble, just as he is now. But a question still lingers- was he who he was, by birth, by existence, or by death?

War Against The Machine

In a different time and maybe a different place, in a universe much like ours, the life of the people was much easier. They didn’t have to work; hardship had lost its meaning. Everything was a given and none was any poorer. Capitalism and communism were unheard of; they didn’t compete, nor did they strive.

As long as you could fill a form and wait a while, your requests were granted. Simplicity however, was not an attribute that they could relate to. Those forms were scrupulous and every base had to be covered. “How did things get done?” one may ask. Filling forms didn’t create magical gifts to sustain their need! It was a different universe, but the populace was much like ours, greedy. How was that sustained? Well, a few generations ago, the last of the wise men built the world of machines. Now the machines catered to all of the people’s needs; and their greed.

Along came a rebel, a man discontent with this world. He despised the meaningless lives his fellows were leading. He spoke up and was ridiculed; he was glad they still possessed such mortal emotions. But how long could they mock him? He had heard from the fables of a different universe. “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.”* These words were etched in his mind and he looked forward to the battle, the victory could wait.

Slowly but surely, he gathered support. Over years he transformed people, much like an evangelist. They believed him, he convinced them. He learnt the tricks and the trade through practice. He amassed a large following, hidden from the machines. He didn’t realize then, that the machines were merely servants and wouldn’t care for his visions of grandeur. The people were obviously clueless.

When the time was ripe, he gathered his troops. The eloquent speaker knew how to agitate and motivate his followers. “There is a tide in the affairs of Men”* he quoted. To thunderous applause and blind fury, he led his army to the old fort. A revolution of this scale needed planning. He summoned the wisest from his camp; well, truth be told, he summoned the first few men who were open to his idea. They spent days in the lair, planning every move and every step. There was no possibility left untouched.

The final decision was to set a chain of command. You cannot lead an army without ranks. He designated his followers as advisers and commanders. Every soldier and thinker was given a place in the grand scheme. Everyone was assigned tasks and responsibilities. There was no leeway and the men knew that. The gallant forces were now ready for his command.

The machine of war was now rearing for the war against the machine.

Epilogue:

The army returned victorious. They now had to decide the course of action. The machines were slaves anyway and forms were a set norm. So they decided not to change it. Maybe it wasn’t a different time after all, nor a different place or a different universe. Another wise man would join the ranks of the long forgotten shortly.

* Quotes by Mahatma Gandhi and Shakespeare (Julius Caesar) respectively.