Saturday, January 18, 2025

Chaitravan Chronicles

The town of Chaitravan had always held its secrets close, like an old miser clutching a handful of gold coins. The locals had long since stopped trying to unravel the mysteries of Guilder Manor, that crumbling relic on the hill. It loomed over the town like a forgotten deity, its windows dark, its gates rusted shut. They said the last owner, one Edward Guilder, had vanished during a stormy night, leaving behind only whispers of a treasure no one had seen but everyone believed in.

Into this sleepy town came Ravi, a man who could sell a lie as if it were gospel truth. He rolled in on his battered motorcycle, the kind that growled more than it purred, and parked it outside the library with a casual confidence that didn’t quite match his threadbare jacket. He wasn’t there for books, not really. But Ravi knew that libraries held more than dusty tomes; they held people. And people—ah, people could be worked, nudged, and maneuvered into giving you exactly what you wanted.

Inside, the librarian, Meena, sat at her desk, the picture of quiet dignity in her neat cardigan and sensible shoes. She looked up as Ravi entered, her sharp eyes taking in his swagger, his too-relaxed grin. “Can I help you?” she asked, though she didn’t sound particularly eager to.

“I’m looking into local history,” Ravi said, letting his voice take on the air of someone who’d been places, seen things. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about this town.”

Meena raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Stories or legends?”

“Legends are stories, aren’t they?” he countered, flashing a grin that had gotten him out of more trouble than he cared to count. He leaned on the desk, lowering his voice. “I hear there’s treasure in this town. Guilder Manor, right?”

For a fraction of a second, her fingers froze on the page of the book she was holding. It was so brief that most wouldn’t have noticed. But Ravi wasn’t most. He saw it, and his grin widened.

Meena closed the book with deliberate calm, then stood and walked to a shelf, pulling out an old, rolled-up map. “This?” she asked, setting it on the desk. “Just a legend. Keeps the tourists entertained.”

Ravi unrolled the map, his eyes scanning the faded lines and cryptic notations. “Fascinating,” he murmured, though what he really thought was this is it.

What he didn’t know—what no one ever suspected—was that Meena wasn’t just some quiet librarian. She had spent years studying that map, deciphering its riddles, piecing together the clues. She had nearly solved it. And now, this stranger thought he could waltz in and take it? Oh, she’d play along. For now.

The game had begun.

It was later that evening, over a cup of steaming tea at the local stall, that a third player entered the fray. Rajesh, the town’s smooth-talking real estate agent, had always had a knack for overhearing the wrong conversations at the right time. He leaned against the counter, sipping his tea, pretending to scroll through his phone, while Ravi and Meena talked in low voices a few feet away.

“Treasure, eh?” Rajesh muttered to himself, his mind already racing. Debt had a way of sharpening a man’s instincts, and Rajesh was drowning in it. A treasure hunt was just the kind of gamble he needed.

By the time Ravi stepped out of the stall, Rajesh was waiting for him. “You’re looking for the Guilder treasure,” Rajesh said, his tone casual but his grin sharp.

Ravi’s eyes narrowed. “And what’s it to you?”

“I have the keys to the manor’s grounds,” Rajesh said, dangling them on his finger. “Let’s just say… I’m interested in a partnership.”

The next morning found the three of them gathered at Meena’s modest home, the map spread across her kitchen table. Ravi was all charm and confidence, Rajesh’s grin didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Meena—well, Meena sipped her tea with the air of someone watching a play unfold, knowing she was the one holding the script.

The plan was simple enough: they’d work together to solve the map’s riddles, find the treasure, and split it three ways. But if there was one thing true about Chaitravan’s newest treasure hunters, it was this: not one of them believed the others would play fair.

And so, the stage was set. Three players, one treasure, and a web of lies spun so tight that it was only a matter of time before it snapped.

The riddles on the map were maddeningly cryptic, as though old Edward Guilder had designed them with malice rather than mystery in mind. Meena’s finger hovered over a faded marking on the map—a peculiar symbol etched near the edges of the Guilder estate grounds. It resembled an hourglass but had an odd swirl where the sand should be.

“Time and tides reveal the way,” she murmured, reading the scrawled clue beside it.

Ravi, seated across from her, leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Sounds poetic,” he said with a smirk. “But I bet it’s simpler than that. Old men with treasure don’t overthink.”

Meena gave him a withering glance. “Says the man who didn’t even notice the hourglass until I pointed it out.”

Rajesh, leaning over the table, tapped the symbol with a calloused finger. “Hourglass. Tides. Maybe something to do with the riverbank. There’s a dried-up one near the estate, isn’t there?”

“That’s one possibility,” Meena said slowly, but her mind was already racing elsewhere. Ravi was watching her too closely, trying to gauge her thoughts. She sipped her tea, the liquid cool now but still offering her a moment’s cover. She wouldn’t reveal her theories too soon.

It was decided. They’d start with the riverbank that afternoon.

The riverbed near the Guilder estate was a graveyard of cracked earth and stubborn weeds, stretching out beneath the pale afternoon sun. The trio trudged along its length, the map in Meena’s hands, though Ravi made sure to walk just close enough to catch glimpses of it over her shoulder.

Rajesh, meanwhile, had his own priorities. His eyes scanned the terrain, not for symbols or clues, but for escape routes. It never hurt to be prepared.

“Here,” Meena said, stopping abruptly near a cluster of jagged rocks. She knelt and brushed away the dirt to reveal a faint carving on one of the stones—a small arrow pointing east.

“See? Told you it was simple,” Ravi quipped, but even he couldn’t hide the excitement creeping into his voice.

The arrow led them to an overgrown trail, and from there to the edge of the Guilder estate itself. The wrought iron gates stood before them, imposing and rusted, locked tight with a heavy chain.

Rajesh reached into his pocket and produced a set of keys, jangling them with a smug grin. “Told you I’d be useful.”

The lock creaked and groaned but gave way eventually, and the gate swung open with a loud screech. Beyond it, the grounds of the manor stretched out like a forgotten world—wild, tangled, and eerily silent.

They stepped inside, the atmosphere heavy with something unspoken. Meena clutched the map a little tighter. Ravi’s hand brushed against the hilt of the knife hidden in his jacket. Rajesh, for all his bravado, couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder every few minutes.

The path led them to the back of the estate, where an old well stood, its stones moss-covered and its rope long since rotted away. Above it, carved into the lintel, was another riddle:

“Where shadows fall and silence reigns, dig beneath the still remains.”

“What does that mean?” Rajesh asked, frowning.

“It means,” Meena said, “we dig.”

Ravi smirked. “You’re assuming this ‘remains’ nonsense is literal. Could be another trick.”

“Could be,” Meena replied, her tone as unreadable as her expression. “But then again, you’re free to sit here and theorize while the rest of us work.”

And work they did. Hours passed as they dug through the hard earth beneath the well’s shadow, the sun dipping lower in the sky. Sweat dripped down their faces, and tempers flared as exhaustion set in.

It was Rajesh who struck something first—a hollow thunk as his spade hit wood.

“Here!” he exclaimed, dropping to his knees to clear the dirt away. Ravi and Meena joined him, their movements frantic now. Together, they unearthed a wooden chest, its surface scarred and weathered but intact.

Ravi wasted no time, prying the chest open with his knife. Inside lay a strange assortment of items: gold coins, a few gemstones, and, at the very center, an artifact that seemed out of place—a small amulet, its surface etched with symbols that glimmered faintly even in the dim light.

“What is it?” Rajesh asked, his voice tinged with awe.

“A good payday,” Ravi said, reaching for the amulet. But before he could touch it, Meena’s hand shot out, stopping him.

“Wait,” she said, her eyes fixed on the artifact. “We don’t know what it is. Or what it does.”

Ravi laughed. “What it does? It’s an antique, not a bomb. Relax.”

But even as he spoke, something in the air seemed to shift—a subtle, almost imperceptible change, like the moment before a storm. None of them said anything, but each felt it.

Meena was the first to break the silence. “Let’s not do this here,” she said. “We need to divide this up properly.”

Ravi and Rajesh exchanged glances, both unwilling to be the first to back down. But eventually, they nodded. The chest was closed, and the three of them began the trek back to town, each lost in their own thoughts, each plotting their next move.

The game was no longer about finding the treasure. It was about keeping it. And in the quiet of the fading daylight, none of them noticed the faint glow emanating from the amulet inside the chest.

By the time they reached Meena’s house, the sun had sunk below the horizon, casting Chaitravan in its usual cloak of sleepy indifference. But inside Meena’s modest kitchen, the air buzzed with tension, crackling like an unspoken storm.

The chest sat on the table, its ancient wood gleaming faintly in the dim light of a single hanging bulb. Rajesh poured himself a glass of water, gulping it down as though it might drown his growing unease. Ravi leaned against the counter, his jacket still on, his eyes never leaving the chest. Meena, calm as ever, folded her hands on the table and said, “Before we do anything, let’s establish some ground rules.”

“Rules?” Ravi said, with a scoff that didn’t quite hide his impatience. “I thought the rule was simple: three ways, even split.”

Meena gave him a pointed look. “Trust isn’t exactly our strong suit, Ravi. Let’s keep this clean, or none of us gets out of this alive.”

Rajesh chuckled nervously. “You’re joking, right?”

Meena didn’t answer, and the silence was enough to make him squirm.

The first sign of trouble came when Ravi reached for the chest. “Let’s stop wasting time,” he said, flipping the latch open. “We’ll split it now and be done with it.”

But the moment he touched the amulet, he froze. For the briefest second, his hand lingered there, his eyes glazing over, as if he’d seen something no one else could. Then he jerked back, blinking hard.

“What happened?” Meena asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Ravi said quickly, too quickly. He flexed his fingers as though trying to shake off a lingering sensation. “It’s just… cold. That’s all.”

But Meena wasn’t convinced. She reached into her bag and pulled out a pair of gloves, slipping them on before picking up the amulet herself. The etchings on its surface seemed to pulse faintly in the light, a rhythm too subtle for words. For a moment, Meena felt the weight of something vast and incomprehensible pressing against her mind, like a door left ajar in a storm.

“What is it?” Rajesh asked, leaning forward, his curiosity overtaking his caution.

“It’s not just a trinket,” Meena said slowly, setting it back in the chest. Her voice was steady, but her hands trembled slightly. “This… this thing isn’t normal.”

Ravi laughed, though it sounded more like a bark. “Great. Now it’s cursed, is it? Next, you’ll tell me old Guilder’s ghost is watching us.”

“It’s not a ghost,” Meena said, her eyes narrowing. “But it’s something.”

Rajesh hesitated, his gaze darting between the chest and his companions. “Look, maybe we’re overthinking this. Let’s just divide everything now—coins, gems, and whatever that thing is. We’ll each take our share and go our separate ways.”

But Ravi wasn’t listening. His eyes had locked on the amulet again, drawn to it like a moth to flame. “You can keep the coins,” he said suddenly, his voice low and intent. “I want that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Meena snapped. “We split everything equally, or this deal’s off.”

“I’m serious,” Ravi said, stepping closer to the table. “I don’t care about the rest. Just give me the amulet.”

And there it was—the first crack in their fragile alliance.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” Meena said, her voice firm. “That thing’s affecting you, Ravi. I can see it.”

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking,” Ravi shot back, his tone turning sharp. “You’re just scared because you don’t know what it is.”

“I know enough to know it’s dangerous,” Meena said.

Rajesh, sensing the tension escalating, held up his hands. “Hey, hey, calm down, both of you. Let’s not lose our heads here.”

But it was too late. Ravi lunged for the chest, his hands closing around the amulet before Meena could stop him. The moment his fingers wrapped around it, the room seemed to shift. The air grew heavy, charged, as if the amulet itself were drawing energy from the very space around them.

And then—darkness.

For a brief, terrifying moment, everything disappeared: the room, the table, the chest, even the floor beneath their feet. All that remained was a void, vast and cold, swallowing them whole.

When the light returned, they were back in the kitchen, but something had changed. Ravi stood at the table, his breathing ragged, his eyes wide with something that wasn’t quite fear. Meena and Rajesh stared at him, their expressions a mix of confusion and dread.

“What just happened?” Rajesh whispered.

Ravi didn’t answer. He looked down at the amulet in his hand, and for the first time, there was no triumph in his eyes—only the shadow of something far darker.

Meena took a step back, her mind racing. The amulet wasn’t just dangerous. It was alive, in some way she couldn’t yet comprehend.

“This isn’t over,” she said, her voice trembling despite herself. “Not by a long shot.”

The uneasy truce between them had shattered. Now, it wasn’t just about the treasure—it was about survival. And as the night deepened, the game began to shift, each of them realizing that the stakes were far higher than they’d ever imagined.

The trio sat around Meena’s kitchen table, the air heavy with distrust and the weight of the amulet’s presence. The silence stretched, each of them locked in their own thoughts, plotting their next move.

“We need to divide this and be done with it,” Rajesh finally said, breaking the tension.

But before they could reach a consensus, Ravi suddenly snatched the amulet, a wild look in his eyes. “I have to get rid of it,” he muttered, backing away from the table. “This thing is cursed.”

Without another word, he bolted out of the house and jumped onto his motorcycle, revving the engine. Meena and Rajesh exchanged a glance, then hurried after him, jumping into Rajesh’s car. The chase was on.

Ravi sped through the winding streets of Chaitravan, the roar of his motorcycle echoing in the quiet night. He headed towards the old bridge over the river, his mind set on one thing: getting rid of the amulet once and for all.

Meena and Rajesh followed closely behind, their car’s headlights cutting through the darkness. “We have to stop him,” Meena said, her voice urgent. “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

They reached the bridge just as Ravi skidded to a stop, the motorcycle’s tires screeching on the pavement. He rushed to the edge, ready to throw the amulet into the raging waters below.

“Ravi, stop!” Rajesh shouted, leaping out of the car and running towards him.

A tussle ensued, the three of them grappling on the bridge, each trying to gain control of the amulet. They stumbled and fell, the amulet slipping from Ravi’s grasp and landing on the ground with a metallic clang.

In the dim moonlight, they found themselves in a standoff: Ravi squatting on one side, clutching the amulet tightly in his palm; Meena sitting on the other side, the chest held with both hands across her lap; and Rajesh next to her, clutching a few gold coins and jewels in both his palms.

The night seemed to stretch endlessly, the air thick with tension and the sound of the river rushing beneath them. Their eyes were locked in a silent battle, each refusing to back down.

As dawn broke, the first light of morning revealed a surreal scene on the bridge. An ambulance from the mental asylum arrived, the medics moving with practiced efficiency. They found Ravi clutching an old keychain, Meena holding a red brick, and Rajesh not willing to let go of the rough and dirty pebbles in his hands.

The medics exchanged puzzled glances but said nothing as they gently lifted the trio into the ambulance. The townspeople, waking up to another ordinary day, had no idea of the strange events that had unfolded during the night.

As the ambulance drove away, leaving the bridge and its secrets behind, the townspeople woke up to another normal day and went about their lives, unaware of the night's strange events. Chaitravan, bathed in the soft glow of dawn, held its secrets tight.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)


Saturday, November 30, 2024

The Unwritten Promise - Part 2 of 2

The idea of "writing our story" simplifies a deeply complex and layered process, and I think that's what makes this kind of discussion both fascinating and necessary.

If there's one truth we all realise and accept at one point or another, it's that life is far from a clean slate where we simply get to write what we want. For one, nothing in life is absolute. It all depends. There are several known and hidden factors on which everything else is in flux. Let's examine just a few.

Nature vs. Nurture

The tension between what we’re born with (our genetic makeup) and what we experience (our environment) shapes so much of who we are. Some of us might have natural aptitudes for certain things—an inherent knack for music, athleticism, or analytical thinking—but without the right environment to nurture those talents, they might never develop. Conversely, someone without an inherent gift might excel through sheer hard work and support. But what about those who are born into environments that don’t allow growth, or worse, suppress it?

I think this tension often creates the illusion that we’re less in control of our stories than we’d like to be. In truth, control is never total—it’s a spectrum. The extent to which we can shape our lives depends on the opportunities we’ve been given, our capacity to seize them, and sometimes sheer luck.


Predestination vs. Free Will

This debate is as old as philosophy itself, and there’s no clear answer. Are we the masters of our fate, or are we following a path already laid out for us? I tend to think it’s a mix of both. Some aspects of our lives—where we’re born, who our parents are, the economic and social conditions we inherit—are predestined. But within those constraints, there’s room to exercise free will.

The problem is that free will is often limited by circumstance. It’s easy to tell someone to “write their own story,” but if they’re facing systemic oppression, poverty, or deep psychological wounds from past experiences, their ability to “write” becomes constrained. Overcoming those barriers takes extraordinary effort, and not everyone succeeds.


The Influence of Early Experiences

Our childhood and adolescence are especially crucial because that’s when our identities are being shaped. Family, friends, education, and even random events contribute to the “default settings” we carry into adulthood. By the time we reach a point where we can consciously rewrite our narratives, we’re already working within the framework those early influences have built.

Some people are fortunate enough to grow up in environments that encourage independence and resilience. Others might spend their entire lives undoing the damage of an unstable or unsupportive upbringing. Can they rewrite their story? Sure, but it’s harder, and it often requires outside help—therapy, mentorship, or simply finding the right opportunity.


It All Depends!

Yes, it absolutely does. There’s no universal blueprint for human experience. What works for one person might not work for another. Some people thrive on structure; others rebel against it. Some find meaning in hard-won success; others are content to follow a path of least resistance.

The idea that “it all depends” can feel unsatisfying because we want clear answers. But I think that’s where the beauty of being human lies—in the contradictions, the unpredictability, and the endless variability of experience. It’s why no two people’s “books” are ever the same, even if they start from similar circumstances.

So Where Does This Leave Us?

Maybe the real message isn’t that everyone gets to write their story from scratch, but that we can all try to write at least something. Even if the opening chapters were written for us, even if the world edits as we go, there’s always a moment—a paragraph, a line—where we can take control, however fleeting it may be.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)


Wednesday, November 27, 2024

The Unwritten Promise * - Part 1 of 2

Every morning, life hands you a blank page. What will you write on it today?

The truth is, life doesn’t come pre-written. It’s not a finished book passed down to you with a fixed story, no matter what anyone tells you. Instead, it’s a collection of empty pages, and you’re holding the pen. Yet, so many of us hesitate. We copy what others have written, afraid that our own ink might smudge, that we’ll spill something imperfect and ruin the page.

But isn’t that the point of writing your own story? It’s yours. Messy, bold, scared—it doesn’t matter.

Think back to the first time you learned to ride a bicycle. You probably wobbled and fell. You probably scraped your knees more times than you care to count. But you didn’t stop trying. The thrill of riding free, even for a few seconds, outweighed every fall. Somewhere along the way, though, we forget that. We stop pedaling for the joy of it and start avoiding risks. We become so afraid of falling that we don’t even try to move forward.

The world is a vast library. And each of us is meant to contribute a unique book to its shelves. Some people write bold adventures. Others write quiet, contemplative poetry. But the tragedy isn’t in writing badly. The real tragedy is in leaving the pages blank because of fear.

So here’s the truth: nobody is coming to write your book for you. No teacher, no boss, no parent, no guide. You hold the pen. You choose the words. And it’s okay if it’s not perfect. It’s okay if you blot the page or scribble things out. What matters is that you write.

Start small. Start scared. Start with one honest sentence. But start.

Because every blank page isn’t emptiness. It’s possibility. And the younger you start filling those pages with your truth, the thicker and richer your book becomes. So, stop copying. Stop waiting. Start writing.

No one else can write the unwritten promise of your life.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)


* Please note that this is just one side of a debate. I shall soon post a refutation to this. Playing the devil's advocate with yourself helps you clear your mind.


Wednesday, November 20, 2024

The Unseen Audit of a Lifetime


The Unseen Audit of a Lifetime

It was a day like any other until it wasn’t. I had just settled into my favorite corner of existential inertia—armed with a cup of lukewarm tea and vague regret—when a soft cough shattered my solitude.

Looking up, I saw a figure seated opposite me, legs crossed with the casual authority of someone who belongs, despite never being invited.

“Who are you?” I asked, unsure whether I should be alarmed or flattered by the sudden company.

“I am the Auditor,” they said, producing a ledger that seemed to shimmer between parchment and pixels. “You may call me… well, Auditor will suffice.”

“An auditor? Of what? My taxes are clean, mind you, though admittedly, I might owe the universe some karmic interest.”

The Auditor gave a dry smile, flipping the pages of their ethereal tome. “Not your taxes. Your life. I’m here to review what could have been.”

“Oh, lovely,” I muttered. “A celestial auditor of ‘what-ifs.’ Next thing you’ll tell me you’re Chitragupta, the celestial accountant himself.”

The figure paused, as though weighing their words carefully. “No,” they said finally, “I’m not he. I’m me.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How enlightening. Do you moonlight as a poet, by any chance?”

“No, but you might have,” the Auditor replied, gesturing at the ledger. “See here? In 2004, you considered writing a collection of verses inspired by your morning commutes. You never did. One could argue the muses dodged a bullet, but still—a missed opportunity.”

I felt a twinge of embarrassment. “I wasn’t inspired enough. Buses don’t exactly scream poetry, you know.”

The Auditor tilted their head, a flicker of amusement crossing their otherwise inscrutable face. “True. Buses scream other things—horns, impatience, occasional obscenities. But inspiration isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s hidden in the rust of an old handle or the rhythm of a swaying strap.”

“That’s quite profound,” I said, grudgingly impressed. “You should consider becoming a motivational speaker. But I did publish a few the very next year in my blog."

The Auditor’s smile grew sharper. “Ah, yes. The Endless Chasm. The first 18 to see the light of the world. But for such a free and open platform, they didn't reach any farther than four people.”

“Well,” I said defensively, “wonder how you can blame me for that. I did everything I could.”

“Indeed,” they replied dryly, making a note. “Though, if you’d publicised it more vehemently, it might have led to a viral blog. But no matter. Let’s move on.”

And so, the review continued, the Auditor flipping through my life’s unfulfilled possibilities with a mixture of bureaucratic efficiency and unsettling wit.

Occasionally, they’d pause to offer commentary.
“2018: You thought about taking a calligraphy class but decided it was too much work. Pity. You could have mastered the skill that could later have put you in the limelight. Fame is a strange beast.”

"Well, I had taken the class," I defended myself. "My belief that I could be good at it had stemmed from the point that my handwriting in school used to be quite oriented toward it. But I had hardly handwritten anything since I had graduated in 1997. And that had taken a toll on my handwriting. By 2018, my fingers didn't quite obey my mind. I couldn't sign my cheque book accurately, let alone continue calligraphy classes at the rate they were charging."

“2020: That brief lockdown epiphany about starting a garden? Gone with the wind. Or rather, gone with Netflix.”

Now, this was equal parts humiliating and hilarious.

At one point, I leaned back and said, “You know, for someone who’s not Chitragupta, you sure seem to have a lot of opinions.”

The Auditor smiled again. “Opinions are free. It’s the what-ifs that cost you.”

“Opinions are free,” I said, leaning forward with a smirk. “That’s because they’re like a-holes—everybody has one.”

The Auditor raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Did you come up with that gem yourself, or did it tumble out of the collective cesspool of humanity’s wit?”

I feigned offense. “I’ll have you know, that’s a classic. Timeless, even.”

“Timeless, perhaps,” the Auditor said, brushing an invisible speck off their ledger. “But not entirely untrue. Although, in your case…” They trailed off, flipping to a page that seemed to glow faintly.

“What? What about my case?”

“Well,” they said, tapping the page, “you’ve had plenty of opinions. But for someone who thrives on the limelight and relishes the stage, you’ve spent an unusual amount of time waiting for opportunities to come to you instead of chasing them down.”

“That’s not true!” I protested.

“Oh, really? Shall we revisit September 22, 2010?”

“What happened on September 22, 2010?”

The Auditor adjusted their glasses, their gaze sharp yet oddly amused. “You came across a flyer for a storytelling slam. The theme? ‘Moments of Madness.’ You were excited, inspired even. But instead of signing up, you went home and spent the evening reading online reviews about whether the venue had good parking.”

I blinked. “Well… my friend was to drive me there, so then parking was important. I couldn't tell him to just park anywhere and expect—”

“Don’t bother,” the Auditor interrupted, snapping the ledger shut for dramatic effect. “The truth is, you talked yourself out of it. And now, here we are, a decade later, with ‘what-ifs’ hanging off you like cobwebs.”

I sighed, grudgingly conceding the point. “Fine. Maybe I’ve missed a few chances here and there. But it’s not like I’ve spent my life hiding under a rock.”

“True,” they admitted, opening the ledger again. “And that brings me to another missed moment. Chess.”

My ears perked up. “Chess?”

“Yes,” the Auditor said, scanning the page. “You’ve always wanted to take formal chess lessons, haven’t you? Sharpen your skills, learn the finer strategies, maybe even compete. But no, the local chess schools have an arbitrary rule: ‘Only kids allowed.’” They looked up, their expression half-sympathetic, half-teasing. “Imagine that—a mind ready to explore Sicilian defenses and Queen’s Gambits, turned away because it doesn’t fit the age bracket.”

“Now, hold on,” I said, feeling both seen and slightly irked. “That’s not exactly my fault. I wanted to join. It’s not like I chickened out.”

“Of course not,” the Auditor agreed, their tone uncharacteristically soft. “But here’s the thing: You could have started your own chess circle. Found a private coach. Played with friends. Yet the idea of bending the rules—or creating new ones—never crossed your mind. And so, the board remains empty.”

I fell silent, not entirely sure how to respond.

The Auditor smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to make you feel bad. Life’s greatest games are often played without a board. But chess… well, it could have been interesting.”

“Is this supposed to inspire me to go out and buy a chess clock?” I asked dryly.

“Not necessarily,” they replied, standing up. “It’s just something to think about.”

As they turned to leave, I called out, “Wait! Aren’t you going to tell me how I did? Pass or fail?”

They glanced over their shoulder, a faint smile playing on their lips. “Life isn’t pass or fail. It’s graded on a curve—and you’re the one holding the pen.”

And with that, they were gone, leaving me alone with my now cold tea, my existential inertia, and a sudden, irrepressible urge to visit the nearest chess academy and demand an adults-only class.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)




Sunday, November 17, 2024

Between the Tick and the Tock

The day began with an unusual silence. Much of what remained was rubbish, but for him, it was useful rubbish. There were no guarantees about what he would get out of this exercise. Perhaps nothing in the worst case. He was okay with that, as he knew there are hardly any guarantees in life. His main concerns were: a gnawing doubt about the nature of the peculiar silence; about how to express it; about what he should do if it tried to engulf his entire being.

The most difficult aspect he was grappling with was about how it had so naturally come to bear upon him that morning. It was there when he woke up, hung around as he brushed his teeth, stuck with him as he went through the morning chores, and remained comfortably nestled within his mind, so to speak, ever since. All the outwardly noise on one side, and his awkward silence on the other. And they seemed to balance each other.

Wherever did it come from, this weird silence? Had it a purpose? A motive? Had it a reason to acquire his mind that morning? Would something change? Had something changed? Was he slave to it? Was it his slave? He wanted to talk about it, but it had caught his tongue. After all, it was the eerie silence in itself.

It was formless. Like water. But it took any form when required. Also like water. The distant horn of the morning locomotive train: the silence bracketed it's ends. The constant ticking of the wall clock: the profound silence ruled the time between the tick and the tock. The shrill shriek of an ambulance siren on the road: enough to stop lively hearts into a grave silence. It was everywhere, from the bed to the toilet to the bathroom to the kitchen; to the unfolding of the yoga mat and to it's ultimate rolling away; to the calls and honks of the vegetable and fish vendors  on their regular morning rounds on bikes around residential apartments; to the angry shout of the bus conductor and the equally angry retort by the passenger. It took all forms, but remained untouched by them. It remained... Silent.

He took a deep breath in. Held it for two seconds. Let it out. Again. What was this? What was going on? Was the stress of life getting to him? Was he finally beginning to lose it? Or was it something else -- an answer to his prayers perhaps? He knew it was other than normal. But was it abnormal, subnormal, or supernormal? How would be know? Would he know? Did he want to know? What he badly wanted to know now was what he should do.

He stood in his tiny balcony, peering out at the world beyond the iron grill. The sun was almost overhead now, glaring down at the parked cars, the dusty road, and the occasional stragglers walking with deliberate slowness under the burden of heat. A crow sat on the edge of a streetlight, picking at something unidentifiable and no doubt unpleasant. Life, in its cacophonic, bustling way, continued. And yet, the silence within him persisted, untouched by the clamor of the city.

He leaned on the railing, his fingers gripping the cool iron bars. The questions came again, louder now. What was he supposed to do? His thoughts, usually chaotic and varied, were unusually sharp today, focused on this one enigma. The silence wasn’t just present—it was present with intent. He could feel its weight, its steady gaze. It was waiting for him to... respond? Engage? Surrender?

Something stirred in him, a flicker of something old and buried. A memory, not sharp, but vivid enough to draw him away from the present moment. A younger version of himself stood in a classroom, staring at a question paper. The final question had been unusual, one that required more than rote knowledge to answer. The teacher, a stern-faced man with a love for riddles, had said something then.

"Sometimes, the question isn’t there to be answered. It’s there to make you think. To make you pause. To make you... listen."

He shook his head. Listen to what? There was nothing but the silence. And then it hit him.

He wasn’t listening to the silence. He was trying to fight it, analyze it, assign it a purpose. But what if... what if it didn’t need one? What if it was simply there, waiting for him to step back and let it be?

He stood straighter, suddenly more alert. Closing his eyes, he let the world fade away. He didn’t try to name the silence or break it. He let it sink in, filling the cracks in his thoughts, wrapping itself around the doubts and worries that usually clamored for space. And in that moment, he realized something startling. The silence wasn’t an intruder. It was his.

For years, he had drowned it out—through work, through distractions, through the noise of a life that demanded constant action and validation. But now, it had crept back in, uninvited but not unwelcome. And it had a message, one he could hear clearly now.

"You’ve been running. Stop. Stay. Be."

It was the simplest thing, yet the hardest thing. He opened his eyes, a strange calm settling over him. The silence hadn’t disappeared—it was still there, as steady as the breath moving through his lungs. But now, it was no longer an enemy. It was a companion.

He smiled faintly. It wasn’t a resolution, not entirely. The questions still lingered, and he knew they would return. But for the first time, he felt equipped to face them—not with answers, but with acceptance.

The day unfolded as days do, indifferent to personal revelations. But something had changed within him. And as he sat down with his tea that evening, watching the same crow hop on the same streetlight, he realized he wasn’t afraid of the silence anymore.

It was his.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)



Monday, November 11, 2024

The Forest in Every Seed

I cannot call it when I see it,
For the seed is beyond my ken;
Every time I call it, all you see are
Hundreds of leaves and my pen.
---

Quite frankly, that's about the crux of what I want to present today. Whether I'll make sense or not remains to be seen. Trying to put words to something as subtle as a seed—the potential, not yet realized, the idea not yet shaped—is like trying to capture the whole of a forest by sketching a single leaf. The more I try to explain it, to give shape and form to what is, by nature, formless potential, the more the words sprout and stretch, reaching for something vast, complex. Each sentence I write seems to demand a root system of its own, branching off into meanings that multiply and deepen, growing beyond my control.

It’s as though every time I try to hand you the seed, what you grasp is a sprawling woodland: trees fully grown, leaves fluttering in the breeze, shadows cast on the forest floor. The richness and expanse of this imagined landscape seem to stand in for the seed itself, masking that quiet, still potential I had meant to share.

In truth, the power of a seed lies in its silence, its humility. It doesn't shout to the world, “I will be an oak!” or “Here stands a forest-in-waiting!” No, the seed simply is. It holds its possibilities tightly, quietly, so quietly that words can barely trace its shape. And yet, in attempting to describe it, I feel like I’m dragging the whole forest into view, pulling down branch after branch, obscuring the very thing I wished to reveal.

I appreciate that simplicity is the most complex idea to grasp, because it defeats the intellect, and we need the intellect to grasp ideas. But it is only simplicity that truly matters, from which everything else—including the intellect—is born.

Perhaps that is the irony of expression—each time I name the seed, it blooms in the mind of the reader, and soon enough, there’s a wilderness where there was once only a thought, a tiny spark, a quiet kernel of potential. Consequently when I want to show you the seed, all you see are the rustling leaves and my silent pen.

-- Pradeep K (Prady)


Sunday, November 10, 2024

We Used to Wear Clothes; Now We Wear AI

For several decades, life had been simple: we dressed up, threw on clothes, and stepped out the door. Our only concern then used to be the weather. Now, here we are, wrapped in something that’s not quite fabric but seems to cling to us just the same—something woven with data and machine code, tighter than the coziest sweater. We’ve stopped just wearing clothes; now, we’re wearing AI.

This invisible “outfit” fits snugger than we might like, doesn’t it? It picks our playlists, finishes our sentences, and nudges us about our next meeting before we’ve even started our coffee. Some days, it feels like having a very keen assistant—and on others, a nosy aunt who won’t let us forget our step count or calorie intake.

And just like with any fashion, some folks wear it differently. You see them scrolling confidently, every choice fine-tuned by an algorithm that seems to know them better than they know themselves. They’ve got AI like a custom-tailored suit, all smooth lines and perfect fits. Then there are those of us in “one-size-fits-all” AI, shuffling around with suggestions that don’t quite fit, feeling a bit overstuffed as it yanks us toward online deals we didn’t ask for.

But here’s the funny thing: no matter how it’s dressed up, AI can’t quite mimic us. Sure, it can help us choose a movie or suggest a new restaurant, but can it remind us of that time we laughed so hard when milk came out of our nose?

As we continue strapping on our AI each day like the newest accessory, maybe it’s worth remembering that no machine can mimic the spark of choosing the unexpected. AI might be brilliant at spotting trends, but it doesn’t know what it feels like to break them. It hasn’t yet mastered the magic of being delightfully, imperfectly human.

I don't wear AI, but if I did, it would never be without that most essential layer—the one that lets me be my unpredictable, overly sentimental, occasionally clumsy self.

— Pradeep K (Prady)