3 and a 23

“It was always such a shame to read about these topics since then”, he made his statement for the first time this morning. He was reading the news on his mobile phone, as he loved reading, atleast for the sake of a show off. But he had gathered enough information about almost anything much enough to hold for five minutes in a debate.
“What?”, I added to the moment. “Curriculum and educational policies and syllabus.” 


 “I study engineering and you too. How illogical are their curriculum designs, to me in all ways and atlest to the two thirds, I suppose, counting to the thoughts and realisations, I add. Not just a few statements I am making to greet you a good morning, it is a need to speak, I think.”

 My smile followed by a silence made him continue…  “We are here to learn CS and what we are doing now is learning Physics, Chemistry, Mechanics and many other stuffs that will never ever add to the benefit in the life of a programmer. And I do not really think that some one learned CS will ever go for a Masters in Physics or Chemistry, and is it possible, I donot know. And the one and only answer that anyone has when asked about this foolish method of waisting time is, ‘You are leaning Computer Science and Engineering and not just CS’,and that inappropriate answer puts ends to the question and the students like us are forced to learn things which are not worth learning and the time spent for it. If this method of studying and teaching unwanted and hated, by students, are taken away from the curriculm design, it will be much enough to save almost one year of a student, isn’ it?” 


“Does it seem silly Mr Comment?” 

“No. But these words spoken are going to count to the nothing. Doubt?”

 “There was..”, he thought for a while and began, “a clock whose second hand moved once in three seconds and twenty three minutes. It was hosted in public in the great city of Wall Street. People saw it, there were criticizms, mokes, but the thing continued to be there as no one was strong enough and willing to take it off as they respected time. There were appreciators, who them appeared, describing and proclaming the great beauty of the newly developed pattern changing the existing grid. Not much time was counted for it to happen; the grid of practice and exercise was then adapted to the newly hosted time stamp, eventhough the biological clocks never stoped and the existance of closeness to the natural symmetry and the polygons framed by joining the dots continued to exist..”

 I broke the un-uderstood bluff, “Can you please..”

 “If a thing made so as to satisfying the desired form and function of another thing is relacing the existance of the original thing so as to bring out a new thing, as the business tricks and tac-tics used to say, can we call the second thing a good thing?”

 “Not clear..” 

“I can not make it. Sorry. Okay.. Suppose the University is following a pattern which teaches the students only the core subjects and its supporting subjects and the students can choose the topics in which they wish to specialise, how would that be.?” 

“Not possible, I would say.” 

“Then how is it possible in Cambridge University and in Oxford University? If it is possible there, why cannot it be made possible here? Questioning the current existing policies is found no use. We will just go on cursing the hated subjets and the un-interested topics and swallowing and vomiting them and going on till the time comes to meet the cores. That difference between the time stamps of the point when we began this journey and the other when we enter a stage where we begin to embrace the wished is a huge difference, divided by hundreds will be almost twelve months. If this is a case which all of us encounter, then why cannot we think bout a change? Why cannot that twelve months be made useful, when there are thousands existing in this million opportunity world?”

 I clapped, for I was a person who kept silence to the voices which I knew the world would never hear. But I asked, “Need a coffee? Today morning seems unpleasent!”

 “Nope. I need you not to call it a clock.”, he rubbed his nose. 

“Thank you.” 


Its just a matter of time

“Glad to see you three together”, I saw him texting. There was a bright expression of happiness, gratitude and pride rooted in the past, I saw, on his face. He looked at his phone, his fingures waved his face, his lips pushed in and cheeks out. A man controlled by memories.. His eyes turned to me. I lifted my eyebrows with a calm smile.

“They are my friends”, he came up with a photo. He looked at it. Danced his Adam’s Apple.

“We were always together, after we met, at our Higher Secondaries. Our lunch breakes never counted without everyone launghing, criticizing, wondering, teasing and mocking each other creating loops for future to roll back, recreate, endure and move to the next. Positiveness was always a fuel, understanding a bless and brotherhood a boon. Speeches, rhythms, boredome, problems we faced. But they never turned to be villains for comments and consolations were never weaker than worldly criticizms and despairs. Lackness and absence was never a matter for they were weaker than togetherness. ‘Wh’s had nothing to do for brains were never drained. Great, wonderful masterpiece got granted”, he paused pale.

“Where are they now?”, I broke the silence.

“Its all a matter of time”, he was good at answering in a manner which gave me enough words to get bored with. “I really fail to remember whom those words belong to. But he is great, may be bacause he lost himself in the past, lived with great passion and had a desire to be what he wanted to. Let it not bother me.”

“Why? You too have spells in the past?” I waited. The rhythm of night was then vivid. May be the depth of the partially understood emotions of his or the nostalgic paranoias of the past that made me listen to my heart beat. It is a magical rhythm that feeds me with time to travel and my body to hold my soul and to serve a presence to the ones who love me. The rest-less organ…

The silent screams of darkness, as I think I heard some, from the muted chords were more catching than the loud shouted audacities; they holded meanings, sentiments, the pain of bearing, loss and helplessness covered by a faint smile not to make the younger weep, anger, protest and revenge that they wish for deep inside to the tyrannies and powers that run the chariots beating the whip to the backbone of the silent. Senses they had, something that not everyone has. Something that can be even guessed only by the hearts that beat to the rhythm of silence; silence of being lost out of hope.

Her hands came close to me. A shivering hand, cuts announced her age, hold one in another and wide open. An age’s sufferings were painted on her face that was well decorated with hopelessness, but kind, fallen eyes with a focused lens on fixed hope. I remember my hands moving near her’s and that hot, thankful kiss it received. I sudden pulled my hand back. She with no much time for the same coordinates to spare, moved to the next.

“Why”, I annoyingly made it a little loud.

“Yes. I do”, my question was not a misplaced note of flat pitch to him. “Something that always mattered to me was difference. Difference from the rest in the parameters, as I loved to refer to them, may be of possessions or of love or whatever it is, magnitude was never nogotiable and avoidable. It made us break, it made things change, screams silent, oppressions weak, status blank and expressions null. Everything and anything depends on it and are characterised by haves and have nots and dos and do nots, something that can never be stopped for being the nature’s law and it loves symmetry in framing games for the puppets to play and to write tales with undefined and unbound pages to start them get numbered, to meet the ends for one day it should.”

“Your fait is your own decisions, I like to believe it so”, I suggested.

“Never do”

“Why? Reason it.”

“I cannot.”

Silent and simple. I was back to the silence and now I have my answer to my ‘why’ with me. The improperly placed resources and the never-matters-me anything phylosophy has changed the world to a beautiful numb to conscience and its calls, as he said.

I’m impressed

‚Äč”Ready?”, he asked with a challenging smile. We were sitting facing my PC fingures on game control keys. He was always intrested in gaming.

“Sure.”, me too. He was back home after a long time. He is still the same and what I cannot be completely certain is only about her.

Her name always distracted him. Misappropriated his pen, was puzzled with his phone, random knocked the table, his iris swept angles, he was sharp to spoken words and listened too, not once. I cannot call it a distraction to the full context, but it was some kind of psychological anxiety and stimuli which he was not able to hide completely, even after  his dedicated trials, which I came to know for he is a good friend of mine. 

“You are my inspiration”, those were some words forming a beautiful sentence, which I saw while he typed on his hand-set (I was good at guessing the keystrokes even looking from the back). I thought about it, a person who he never told me about turned to an inspiration! That was a good start to waste my holidays.

He was sometimes silent, sometimes naughty, sometimes mad, but he was always alert to be private, hiding his contexts and references. “It is my effort, eventhough not gonna succeed, to be out of the big data revolution, Friend mine”, he commented. Disappointing was he, to his mysterious manners of presenting a topic. But he is good, for me. 

“Differences!”, one day he intervened. He was psychologically unstable then.

“Yes?”, I never liked someone interrupting me during a movie.

“Differences matter”, he didn’t seem affected by my unwilling look, which was not usual from his side. “Say me something..please.”

Out of choice I began, “Matter..”

“Anything..please say something about anything..”

“How are you?”

“Not that kind. Change”, command was that.


“There was a girl”, he came up. “She was so beautiful, so sincere, so lovely, so good, so successful in routines, appeared to be all those. She had her own ways. It was during my primaries I saw her. Intelligent. Attractive. You know, that I was not so opened and social.”

“Yes. I do.”

“That was my problem. I didn’t even talked to her. I was studious and anxious and really worried about the mysterious and dramatic unfair plays of fait, for those days I believed in them. 

It was all about many differences. And what is difference actually? According to me, it is a change between two. May be numerical, otherwise psychological, sometimes polilitical, else economical or emotional. What domain than this is needed? Eh?”

His silence was little tough to hang out with and it was emitionally pralaysing; that was what I went through then.

“She is rich, wealthy, beautiful, attractive, have big beautiful circles and has a future well laid. And me? No. It is never a topic to negotiate for it cannot be since the plans and templates of funny mad time is never predictable and cannot be edited to compile back to a new stand-alone masterpiece decorated and platformed by deducated work and moral intimacy…

I tried to push some ways to get to her. My ways were never bad, I suppose. But it was a difficult task to make a bridge between distances uncertain and to deliver a poem of satisfaction and to fulfil something short term with my fearsome anxiety and immature manners. She is never close to me, friend mine…” he ended it with a disappointment. I still remember them clean because his words were strong enough to be imprinted.
I saw her today, looking on to the screen, shouting at the turns and drifts… she is really amazing as he told. She is real..

Bad morning

“Morning..good morning..”, he came in with an enthusiastic smile. I was on my bed. I greeted him back and I got up.

“Ah..wait. Hear this.” He stopped me and began exactly like the Police officer wrote down..

We were eight of us heading to the Governer’s house at the hill top. Yesterday, by 18:20 we had a breaking notification at the online public chat room. It was a link to a website having a half page 18 sized font text and a video followed by. 

“Hello World! Isaac Meltonhlm crime, u already might hav hrd of, is nw solvd by tis. It is th Govrnr of Null-Island who is Isaac Meltonhlm. To those who havn’t hrd of the crime: There ws a huge fund of abt 10 hundred transfered frm th treasury of th Island to an account referng to Mr. Meltonholm and an amount of 25 lakh missng too. On investigation by th agencies, th transfer ws found to be authenticated and verified. But none of th officials did th transfr frm the offic whch is justified by th 24*7 server screen footprints. Bt th systm logs has evidence of the transfr… Mystery!

Th only person who had access to the servers and office was the Governr aftr the Administrators. I chkd the all admin’s logs and personal systems. All clean. Here attachd is a pdf of those data. Again, the rest is our Governr. But the problm is that he ws abroad for three weeks before and one week aftr the incident. So what?”

There was a screen shot attached below it.

“This is the call logs of the Governr frm his Internatnl Num to his phone here in the Island at the Blue Hill Residence. 17 times the same call and on the same day of th attck. Makes th design clear?

Next, at th bank servr. The account of Isaac Meltonholm ws creatd jst th same day th transfer was done. All during th timespan of those 17 calls. Frm th communictn logs and the DNS, the locatn of th intruder was simple to find- Blue Hill.”

The video was all about him collecting thise traces. There was a brilliant question and an answer came on the chat room:

-How did you get these?

-I cracked.

By this time, I finished my brushing. I was lazy to those Police stories. But he wanted someone to talk to, just to hear not to listen.

We reached the Blue Hill Residence. A pretty white perfect square building. An isolated area. My colleague pulled open the door, something different from the normal ones. The handles were polished with dust, for no access for more than three months. It was dark inside, the power supply was freesed for there was no one here. It was a narrow space between two walls. Someone opened the door, again I noticed the difference: the doors opened in.

The lights came in. To the front was another door, to the left, an open space, it was a living room with two sofa sets perpendicular to each other and a glass table at the center. Few crumbled papers and a pen open. To the right was another door to a bed room. A bed to the front, a work desk and a shelf. It had an attached bathroom. Water was dripping from the shower. I moved back to the kitchen to the front of the living room. Two work areas, the electric chimney was beautifully arranged. The vessels didn’t seem to be much older to have used. There was another room right to the kitchen. Before I went up to there, there was a call from Tony. I walked back to the living room and he was coming from the kitchen. 

“There was someone here last day”, he commented. “Look..”, he pointed to the left of a sofa, “the dust over this region is almost null compared to the rest of space and it is pushed down too. Pretty due to a continuous weight placed on it, to our context, our hacker was sitting here. He used a pen and it was left open, but still ink on the nib is not dried yet”, he slowly rubbed the pen tip on his hand towel. “There were a few thing varying in weight placed on this table.”, he drew lines showing the margins of shades of dust. “Also..”, that was quick, ” the water found at the bottom of the the steel kettle. Means, our man was here till late night for the time now is 7.00. Lucky that we aren’t late.”

Wow..that was great. I was on to make a comment…

“Sir..got a USB adapter down here”, Mathews, my co-worker, said.

It was with a brilliant look Tony bought it and examined. “Fantastic. It narrows down things. So, now we are sure about it. This is usually used for extending the USB ports in cafes. For now, he used it to extend the net setter because there is no signal here in this room”, he examined his phone too. “So he was using Internet, justifying the statements of the cyber cell that those notifications uploaded was from this location and also the domain to which he hosted the website was booked from here. Perfect.”

“But how did he get in here?”, I asked.

“And he most probably was having a laptop placed here and a power backup here”, he said pointing to locations on the table without answering my question. “Ah.. thats is a question Sir..”

“That is not possible because the entrance to this domain is police checked and as per their report, no one got in. And who can evade those cameras..?”, questions came in. Why did he sit at the same table where there was no signal. Why didn’t he sit somewhere else?  But his statements were the most logical and they took the most of probability.

There was a loud sound, almost 13 minutes from the discussion, Tony kick moved the closet and flush broke. The current problem was solved, the way he entered is now clear for down the closet was an opening to a manhole.

I unfolded the newspaper. The headline announced the arest of Governer. I was not able to read to for he pulled it away from me. Now, he wanted me to listen. He made it little fast. No much details..

We went down to the manhole, walked..no much scope of evidence was down there. We reached Bellstreet. There were no biometrical traces we were able to find. Finally we called out for some known hackers, programmers and system security engineers in that area over a radius of 43Km. Eighteen appeared. Two were made to stay. They were peculiar. Investigated them. 

First one, name was Logan Andreson. Working as an ethical hacker. Six certifications in networking. No blacklists. Dear to parents and bosses. Living in Whitemall 41Km away from Bellstreet. Was attending a full day conference on the day of attack and reached home at 17.00 and left soon. Day before was off for him and was with the family, as his wife said. To the officers, he had a dirt filled black jacket and a dirty shoes found down the ware house. He possess two net setters, three SIM cards, three laptops, two USBs one booted with Tail’s OS and a wide list of VPNs downloaded. His logs were cleared and he made a software specially for it, as he said. He is fast rider and showed no trace of microexpressions, or being lied when being questioned.

The second one, his name was Rin Billson. A computer nerd and a social activist, as his friends reported. Be had been given penalties for cracking into college networks and cafes. His workspace was cyber space and is a freelancer graded five stars. Digital evudences were foujd for him travelling to Bill street and his SIM card using Internet was traced near the Hills. He had a pair gloves in his car, which was not found to be used ofte 

He paused. “What do you say?”, he asked. What should I say? “Who is that hacker?”, his question was now clear. But I was not clever.

She, he told about

Her handwriting was so beautiful. Each letter had it’s own boldness, elegance and I loved to look at them. A pen and a white space, even in a notice, was enough for her to begin. She would write and then look at it, enjoys it’s beauty, goes into a serious thought and ends with a small smile. Every of those sequential actions I remember.

It is so normal, universal and a must go reality that time moves foreward. Ages, days, hours, everything passes. My happiness on seeing those fonts kept on changing its demensions. My skin began to paint itself lines and so do she. Still, she wrote. But now there is a difference. As timestamps move, the interpretations made by my brain on those texts perplexed from simple happiness to pride, then to a feeling of belongingness, to love, to possessiveness, to responsibility to trust, to many other emotions for which I am weak in English to find words to substitute for and finally to a fear; a fear of death.

Wrong. Perfectly wrong. Its not fear. What I ment by that attribute was that heaviness which rushed up to my heart, which paralysed my brain, that emptyness I afford and that silence I thirst for, which usually comes as a result of the decomposition and execution of those stimuli on reading her writings.

Regards to Mr. John Wallis for his invention of the symbol of infinity. More than that, I loved the word itself. Time goes on, yes? Thousands lived, many live and will be living, in this infinite timeline of paradoxes and riddles framed by the world. Some leave behind their footprints, as great poets express and the world remembers them. Some people live a happy life, fulfill their dreams and walk away peacefully. Others live and leave behind nothing for their inner being to rejoice. This is not a framed painting. Its reality. Its all about life and how we are, a function of time bounded by trust and hope.

“Aehh.. We don’t even have a place to go.”, she said with a long out breath of disappointment and helplessness. Silence was my comment. It was not because I was a good listener, but because I feared that my vocal pitch would be in trouble, I was trying to be emotionally mule. Her complains were never complains, they were requests and remainders, not to me, but to God.

“He is your father..and he is only…”, I remember she saying, not exactly the same words. 

Father! Who is a father? A person who answer his child and understands him. ‘Understand’ has broad meanings, I realised. To that realisation, eventhough not right, how can God me my father? I do not know. But still, I need that trust in him to go on. I was speaking about that fear of death, I nearly forgot. And I also said that it was not fear, but it was an anxiety about future and the lack of courage to face a life of problems. What can that fear bring me? Nothing. It only takes. And what I have is only the present. If it is taken, then what do I have? Nothing except her and a tale of lost hope.

That writing. There was where I started, those descriptive, emotional statements which holded my attention as he said, “It was all same – my name”. He was my inspiration.