The H-Factor

There is a part of me which would like to believe that we can compartmentalize features about ourselves in little cubby holes of "good" and "bad". However, recent events have lead to the outright debunking of this theory.

A few days ago, I met a guy. Mid-twenties, fairly nice-looking, good-humoured, sociable not to forget adventurous and a wildlife enthusiast. And he was a chain smoker. Now, you normally wouldn't think something like smoking would have any positive effect on a person's image, but it completely did. Somehow, I can't quite describe why, the fact that he smoked made him human. It made him less of a mythical being and more of a real person, telling me about how he once hid in a bushel for an hour just to get a photograph of an elephant with its calf. (Oh right, did I mention he's also a professional wildlife photographer?) . And he smokes. But it was that imperfection that made him a perfect version of himself. It was is human factor.

This factor doesn't necessarily have to be positive or negative. It just has to humanize you. It could be anything from the most serious girl you know having a crush on Chad Michael Murray to a dare-devil martial arts expert having a 2 1/2 year old son.

Look beyond the common misnomer of right and wrong and find your H-factor.

Joey and Christine

"Joe?Are you alright?You look a little pale.." said Christine with genuine concern. "What?No, I'm fine. How's your cob salad?" "It's a cob salad. It's the one dish which stays the same whether you're in Leeds or the West bloody end!Now tell me what's the matter with you. You've been acting strangely ever since you got here." Joey placed the bendable plastic spoon on the rim of the plate. Even a passer by would have been able to see that Joey's mind was clearly not at peace. Christine sat patiently waiting for an explanation from her best friend. Her blue eyes sparkled ever so slightly in the mid afternoon sun which betrayed the existence of frustrated tears.

Joey knew that now was the time. It was actually too late. This conversation should have happened long ago. But such technicalities couldn't be considered at the moment. "Christine" said Joey purposefully, "I'm in love with you. I have been for almost a year now and I didn't know how to tell you. But here I am, laying my heart out."

Birds sang carelessly, children pranced around chalked lines and plump mothers chattered about Betty Fynn's botched nose job. It all seemed quite realistic. But then why was Christine trying so hard to wake herself up? "I...I..." "You don't have to say anything." "I have to go." "What? Now?! Christine please stay. I don't want to leave it like this." Christine looked up briefly and in a hushed tone whispered "I'm sorry." And with that, she stumbled out of her chair and walked away, quickening her pace with every step.

A red rubber ball bounced lightly and landed next to Joey's foot. "Excuse me ma'am?Could I have my ball please?" said a timid voice that seemed to bounce towards her as fast as the ball had done only a moment ago. She handed him the ball, all the while her gaze transfixed on the shrinking image of her one true love.

People.

Have you ever been sitting at a restaurant and just observed the people around you? It's an excellent pass time!Provided you don't get caught.

I was at one of these heavily decadent lunches, with the city's famous, the creme de la creme of high society (Yes, I was wondering why I was there as well.) My parents had dragged me to this affair because I couldn't possibly want to stay home and watch My Best Friend's Wedding for the fifth time. According to them anyway. Being thoroughly bored, I began to observe the guests and attempt to analyse them. I shall not use the real names of the individuals, for reasons of anonymity of course. And the fact that I don't know their real names.

Here goes.


"Two tables down Mum. The one with the brat. On the left. Your other left!" I whispered trying to direct my mother's attention to a group of people. "Nikki stop prodding my shoulder!" scolded my mother, as she turned back to the person with whom she was conversing. I walked over to a vacant chair, still holding what appeared to be my third glass of coke. So far this party was as interesting as mouldy bread. Until now. I sat down, looking over at the table I had been watching earlier. Two men, of a substantial build, were exchanging a polite word every ten minutes, probably to avoid an awkward silence. One of them, wearing a deafeningly loud hula shirt and cargo pants, took majestic swigs from his pint as he swayed slightly to the beat of the music. The other man, a dead ringer for Robert Downey Jr, sat placidly looking quite disinterested. I try not to stereotype people, but this guy looked like he could rattle of the life history of Jean Paul Satre including his golf handicap (No I don't know who Jean Paul Satre is either but he seemed like someone Mr.Downey II would know about)


Of the two women, the slightly more statuesque one was sipping an extremely tropical looking drink and looking quite pleased with life. Her short blond pixie cut coupled a turquoise halter dress, oddly made her look older than she probably was.


The other woman seemed more calm but in a harassed way. Her mousy brown curls fell gently over her forehead as she carefully sipped a glass of white wine. She looked like she had no reason to exchange pleasantries with anyone other than herself. Her gaze was transfixed on a tiny being. Swinging around the leg of the table, giggling all the way, her fairy like mane seemed to twirl right along with her. She stopped for a moment to catch her breathe and give her mother a quick peck on the hand, then heartlessly forgot the world around her once more.
I looked at the woman. There was something about her. Her emotion was silent. Hidden from even her companions who were engaged in banter including her in it every now and again.


By now my aunt had strolled over to where I was perched, obviously a little giggly from the excess of vodka. "Is it possible for someone to be happy but at the same time not be happy?" I asked but even as I said it, I was quite sure she wouldn't get it. I barely got it. To my disbelief, my aunt looked at my subject of observation and said "She's not happy. But she's not unhappy about it." And with those few words, I saw the young lady in a new light.

Shoot, who knew vodka could make you smarter.

? (Judge me why don't you)

Truth? What Truth? There's no such thing. There's me, there's you and there are lies which include me and you. The fact that you think that there actually exists something which can clarify or redeem the world just proves that you are a goat (that's the semi truth). Do you honestly think that there is this universal verisimilitude that will explain away all your doubts, your fears, your insecurities. You've also just proved that denial is not just a river in Egypt.
I don't understand people who go out in search of this non-existent entity, like their lives will somehow be enriched by finding it. Except there's nothing to find. Because there's nothing there.

Why did we lose so many in the Mumbai attacks?

Why is nothing being done to help young girls who are needlessly being harassed?

Why must religion always be an underlying thought (or blatant means of discrimination for some)?

Why did Varun have to die?

So many questions. So few answers. Anyone know the truth?

No. Because it's not there. It's never been there. It's an unattainable force which impregnates our hearts with emotion (patriotism..anger..frustration..grief..) but always leaves us wanting more.
But wait. The "truth" isn't infinite. Believe it or not, there's more. There's life. There's sunny days. There's war and creation. There's hot coffee with biscuits. There are those days when you just want to sleep and those where the world seems to be conspiring against you. There's Coming back to life and Strawberry Fields forever. There's me. There's you. There can be an us. And that's what is real. That, my friend, is the ultimate truth. Or better yet, the ultimate lie. Because lies exist. Lies don't keep you running. Lies are, what they are.
No more, no less.

Melanie and Cassandra

On June 29th, 1986, Argentina beat West Germany in the FIFA world cup and Melanie told Cassandra that she was going to die. Not that she knew how or why or when, but she knew that Cassandra did not have long to live. It was only after Melanie was promoted to a swanky new office on the 17th floor, did the temptation become apparent and quite unbearable. Sipping tea, Melanie sat on the one and a half foot ledge, swinging her legs back and forth. It reminded her of Cassandra and how they used to sit on the swing together. Melanie was well aware of Cassandra’s love of life, but she also knew that the call of wings was too great to be ignored. She drained her tea to the dregs and stood up, stumbling a little in her Jimmy Choos. “Blast.” She said aloud, “Maybe I should have worn better shoes”, but even as the words came out, they sounded obsolete.

Cassandra nearly fainted when she opened her eyes, but caught onto the window rail to stop herself from hurtling down those 17 floors. “Melanie! Don’t do this!” cried Cassandra, “Please Melanie, I’m not ready!” “I’m sorry Cassandra. It’s the only way to be free.” The last thing Melanie remembered was the feeling of the wind rushing past, and the sound of Cassandra’s scream in her head.

3..2..1..boom.

"Waiter, could you bring us some wa.."


Bang.Bang Bang.Just like that.


At 9.18 p.m on the November 26Th, several areas of Mumbai experienced terror attacks including the Taj hotel, the Oberoi Trident,Nariman house and Chhatrapati Shivaji terminus. It seems almost surreal. Like something out of a movie or a particularly bad dream. But the reality of it is, is that all this is happening.More than a hundred innocent people have died in this incident and the numbers rose every hour. A number people were held hostage at the hotels not counting the guests locked up in their hotel rooms.I read the numbers,I saw the bomb blasts,I heard the gun shots.But nothing prepared me for this image: At about 5.30 p.m on the 27th of November, a man wearing a white shirt was waving and screaming for help from a window at the Oberoi Trident. This man, with no contact to the outside world, had been stuck in that room for almost twenty-four hours. 998 kilometers away, I shivered.
It was a unbelievable and horrifying sight. To even imagine the state of that person and the other hostages was too much to bear. And remember, we're nearly a thousand kilometers away.

Boom.Boom.Boom.

A group calling themselves the Deccan Mujahideen have taken responsibility for this attack. They entered these two grand landmarks of Mumbai and fired indiscriminately upon front office and kitchen staff as well as guests.
What reason could they possibly have to inflict such terror?And is any reason good enough?

Mary and John

John smoothed out whatever hair he had remaining with his slightly sweaty hand. He straightened his tie and rearranged the flowers in his hand. He might have been old and balding but he still knew how to impress a girl. Or at least he thought so.

John opened the door quietly in case Mary was asleep and stealthily, he walked into her apartment. Suddenly, John caught a whiff of a familiar yet unfamiliar odour. "What is that?",he thought to himself, "oregano?sage?basil?". He moved towards the kitchen, ready to envelope Mary in an enormous bear hug. Girls like that. Or at least he thought so. But there was no one there. "That's strange" said John aloud. He was about to pick up his cell phone to call Mary, when he heard a rhythmic creaking coming from the direction of Mary's bedroom. Someone was there. And it wasn't Mary. Or at least he thought so. Within a few seconds, the entire scene played out in his head. He was going to barge into the room, tackle the intruder, sweep Mary up in his arms and she would whisper softly into his ear "My hero". With a fleeting smile of overconfidence he did in fact barge into Mary's room. Unfortunately, John's dream sequence ended right there.

As the door swung open, an overpowering stench choked him. He gasped for breath as he tried to see though the pungent fog. The smoke slowly thinned out and only a few feet in front of him, he saw Mary and another man. They were moaning and giggling simultaneously. They were so preoccupied and clearly high that they did not even notice his sudden and unwanted presence in the room. John felt sick, partly from the smell and weed and partly from the sight before him. Fury surged through his body as he watched a strange hand explore the convex plane of Mary's back. He had an intense urge to pry them apart, knock out the intruder,take Mary in this arms and say "She's mine".

But he didn't. Instead, he went home, kissed his wife who was pleasantly surprised that he was home so early, changed into his pyjamas and went to bed.

Or at least that's what he should have done.

But John didn't go home that night. In fact, he didn't go home for a few nights after that as well. He was quite sure that he was going to use the gun he had just purchased to kill the other man. He even anticipated a few minor repercussions but he would settle that somehow.However, John did not anticipate how difficult it is to actually aim and fire a revolver. If you're not careful, you may even miss your target and hit something else. Or in John's case, someone else.

John's funeral was held the next day. The priest gave a beautiful sermon about how John needed to be closer to God, which is why he took his own life so tragically. "It is unfortunate that a young woman had to come in the way of John's calling," said the priest, "But we do not question the ways of the Lord". His poor wife Madge wept bitterly onto the shoulder of John's brother Frank, who held her close to him. He whispered softly into her ear and traced his hand down her back.