The Tendencies Of Promoting Flux

I have never appropriately appreciated the strength of stereotype. Hair deliberately longer than the prescribed, consciously unkempt stubble hinting at traces of the artist’s beard, an extremely misused pair of denims, a kurta with the sleeves loosely wound around elbows, and for purposes serving more function than fashion, sneakers salvaged from a cousin. To have then been questioned by a policeman (at the end of his tiring beat, I assumed) was at once thwarting and therapeutic, in equal measures humiliating and healing.

Mind, not that I can always manage to appear terrorising, my demeanour does require the occasional policing; and only because everybody else does, mostly, appreciate stereotype. The sudden interrogation was a blessing in (very bad) disguise – at least someone’s doing the job. That sudden interrogation also managed to convincingly scandalise me, because I wasn’t ever expecting to be at the other end of. But then, would you have? (which, is only rhetoric, and just so that you wouldn’t have to bother with a retort, I hope).

Chai, I suppose, might have a lot to do with stereotype. I believe I could have been sitting in the bistro across the road, sipping on scandalously expensive coffee (try their espresso) as I occasionally do; that I happened to be at the other end, beneath only a sheet of flimsy tarpaulin about barely covering the chaiwallah’s confines, gulping instead on ridiculously cheap tea, may even be why I was then approached for, let’s say, a quick interview.

But please, don’t allow me to define consensus, I suppose you deserve to decide yourself; who then, would you rather believe? Who, if you had to so suppose, is more likely to be a terror-monger (horribly underrated word, by the way) in clandestine? That connoisseur of caffeine savouring a cuppa and biscotti at some café, or that pedestrian (offence intended, but of course) who just ordered a cutting and glucose biscuits at the roadside joint?

There is, however (expecting stereotype shall adequately provide you with answers to the mildly melodramatic questions as aforementioned) a new breed of terrorists on the prowl. The most recent spate of attacks (and you can’t tell when that might have been, should be several days, months and years ago; but could be when you finished reading that last line) reveal that terrorists no longer subscribe to stereotype.

That their ends remain customarily inhuman (for the sheer sake of understatement), while their means graduate continually to newer heights (I would have mentioned depths within the parenthesis, to astound the readers with my utterly insensitive deployment of humour) (but, I decide not to, for the same reasons) of unparalleled depravity (their means, I mean) is how these terrorists can manage to refute stereotype.

I am of the opinion that terror has comfortably and unreasonably adapted to technological and social advances cultivated until the last twenty years, but recently, in our millennium. Young men (and, sometimes, women) are recruited by scouts and agents in the employ of militant organisations (available for nearly every country of this small, small world) often disguised as educational institutions, residential complexes, and recreational camps.

These unassuming students are then mindfucked (do pardon my French, I wish there were another word to describe what actually happens to them, something like a brainwash with potentially toxic detergents; see what I mean? That there really is not another phrase even barely as adequate as mindfucked), trained in several forms of martial and armed combat, prepared for every scenario possible, and then, they’re just mindfucked some more.

These young men (and sometimes, women) are not special, they’re not stupid (generally), they’re certainly not stable, but what bothers me (figuratively of course, is there any other sense that would have made sense?) is, that a purposefully increasing number of them are students, admitted to and sourced from public schools and reasonable colleges. Often, but not always, their (socially acceptable) educations continue during, or sometimes after that other, um, more career specific tutoring. These people, are educated people.

They can manage conversations in the English language (the Queen’s and the President’s, depending on which side of the Atlantic you’re at), they do dress about normally, without attracting unnecessary attention to the benefit of stereotype (normal, again, being specific to the environment they are from, and are then entrusted to) and they would blend in with just about any sort of crowd (the devil, I’ve been told, lies in the details) at absolutely any place with a reasonable number of (mostly) innocent civilians to then target.

But if you aren’t utterly intrigued, and possibly even shaking in your pants (or skirts, with all due respect) then I must admit, I have yet to try harder. These are the people who shall probably be seated right across your table at that restaurant, they may be clinging onto the same handrail as you are (irrespective of the route your buses and metros take), they shall be watching the same movies at your favourite multiplex (that relatively cheaper morning matinee, perhaps, I know I would). They can be anywhere, and everywhere.

They will have their meals, reach their destinations, watch that critically acclaimed drama (not sequentially though, these were just case studies, well, somewhat) and then, they will calmly pull out any from an available assortment of assault rifles and shoot pieces of lead that travel through the air at a velocity fast enough to puncture people (um, yes, that’s the generally accepted metaphor for ballistic violence). Just make sure that you tip the waiter, because he should be very hurt, soon enough, trying to protect the cute chef.

But if you aren’t utterly intrigued, and possibly even shaking in your pants (the skirts will have to wait, this being only slightly more important than a harmlessly misogynistic joke) (oh well, or skirts, with all due respect) then I must admit, you have yet to try harder. The only reason why stereotype can trample over sense is because they’re mutually exclusive. Like the sides of a coin (an excellent analogy, and time-tested, just like a well-worn coin) You may either outrightly encourage stereotype, or you can choose to rely on sense.

The new terrorist has already adapted to this principle, but far more convincingly than we ever might. If we have to look for troublemakers hiding behind only a particular costume, he’s changed his outlook completely. If we look for people who would seem out of place, he’s made sure he isn’t. If broken sentences struggling with vernacular do give him away, his recently acquired grasp of several internationally accepted accents couldn’t. And with sexist humour apart, if we’re still only looking for him, she won’t even need to hide.

Stereotypes need to change. What was unaccepted, or unexpected, maybe unprecedented, would gradually and eventually be the otherwise. We, howsoever, are still struggling with axioms which should have in every but the most ineffective scenario been replaced about several generations ago. We, yet, still revel in the most ineffective scenario.

Unkempt tresses, and a faint beard, and khadi for the kurta, and denims, and sneakers can not make terrorists. Which, is precisely why the interrogation had to happen. Vigilance, is about an only and most effective measure we could afford to adopt, not the cosy comforts of stereotype. Or does the accent not betray but my truest intentions to you?

By:

Sarthak Prakash

That Parallels Never Do

She was smoking a cigarette furtively; and only because she was more than occasionally glancing around she seemed to be waiting for someone, but in actuality, she was waiting for something instead; and only because waiting is awfully boring to be done all alone, is why nothing but a few hurried drags would even barely relieve her of the dullness.

He was smoking a loosely-wrapped joint, rolled in haste, falling apart along the seam. He might have been waiting, he might have been not; there was not anyone and there was not anything that required his immediate concern; none and nothing, but those few shreds of mildly influenced tobacco simpering and smouldering such between his fingertips.

She looked around, yet again, and she caught his eye - he had been hoping she might, and he was glad she did. He smiled meekly, not wanting to outrightly suggest the possibilities frolicking behind his eyes, and she smiled back, faintly aware that his smile held far more promise than he might have wanted to reveal.

He flicks the stub in a manner he thought was unusually nonchalant; and he finds that she was staring at him with so much more than just casual interest. She smiled, and he gladly reciprocated with a faint nod of his head, hoping whatever and whosoever she might have been waiting for such, may just take about forever.

She was reasonably assured that they had previously once chanced upon each other, she can’t remember when.

He suddenly realised that they might just have shared a very similar encounter before, he can’t remember where.

She usually would never find herself at such amusing odds, and never before so curiously excited either. They might have only smiled at each other, but she was suddenly bursting with many other memories, mirthful and melancholic in equal measures.

Where, she so wonders, had they met before, if at all, and would they meet again, to share more than just these smiles of promise?

He generally refused to involve himself in any sense of unfamiliarity, and they may have never before even smiled at each other, and so he was gradually working his way through twenty years of faces, trying to find a reference, expecting recollection.

When, he thought of, did they meet before, if at all, and would they meet again, to glance at with more than just twinkling eyes?

The bus screeched to a halt, she climbed in, and something makes him follow. He found a seat near the far-end, and somehow, she couldn’t find another but right next to him. They smiled, she was about to ask him when, but he did instead.

The bus gently rolled into the stop, he climbed in because he was sure she would, and she already had. He looked for two empty seats, sat down, and finds himself beside her. They smiled, and he might have asked about where, but she did.

The buses sped off, in an opposite direction each. She was talking to him, heading for one end in this city of uncharted possibilities, and he was talking to her, heading in a direction quite another, along only a route decidedly parallel.

By:

Sarthak Prakash