It stands just beyond arms length. It surrounds us, pervades our life and screams at us from the Newspapers. It is multi-hued, and multi-shaped. It does not have a name or a face or a personality. It roams freely and is not bound by truth or honesty or intelligence or talent. It has no trappings and is yet snobbish. It has no physical needs but still occupies the entire world. It sits lightly on people's minds but is too heavy a concept to teach.
It is the Machine. And the code is Money. The key is Money.
It belongs to the rich, to the moneyed, to the wealthy. It has no emotion, no ethics. It believes not in good or bad, or right or wrong. It believes in power and progession and in the steady, unhindered accumulation of wealth. It dotes not on the journey but on the evident visible results. It has only the spotlight and the stage. No rafters. It is by invitation only and the invitation comes printed on Money.
Crisp, Red 1000 Rupee Notes. Bright, Crinkly 1000 Rupee Notes. In Textile Paper with Intaglio Printing with the smooth ruffle of the edges and the comforting feel of Gandhiji. Stacked in packs of 100, and bound by static free tape.
You can hit it.You could kick it.
You can hit your hammer against it'outer wall.Or even a battering ram.
You can hit your head against it's even flat surface. Only your head bleeds from the effort.
You can smile at it. Or wince at it. Or show your tongue at it. Or ignore it.
You could recite a million sob stories and a thousand outstanding poems. Stage a Play. Act in a Film.
You could paraphrase Freud and expand on Newton. Or invent stuff. Or discover stuff.
You could photograph stuff. Or kill people.
You could get angry and scream at it. Rave and rant and curse and berate it.
You could call it names, tell it it has no ethics, no code; that It has no sense, no business being in business.
You could disgrace it before your friends and peers and family and bitch and moan about it to your boss.
You can write about it in your blogs and swear to maim and kill it if you got the chance.
You despair and cry and tear your hair out.
You can grow old and get hypertension and acidity and stomach ulcers.
You can ask it for pity and ask it to remember old times.
You could stare upwards and ask God to help you overcome it.
Or ask your friends to give you a leg up. But it stretches infinitely upwards.
You could grit your teeth and run faster and sweat and toil all your life.
You stare at the computer screen or you run around your vendors like a headless chicken.
You cajole your customers and beg from your vendors.
You kneel before your partners and beg them for some understanding.
You hope and pray that you dont fall by the wayside before it passes you over.
Because, eventually it will outlast you. That is because You could not crack the code. You did not acquire the key.
utekkare,
Pranay
It is the Machine. And the code is Money. The key is Money.
It belongs to the rich, to the moneyed, to the wealthy. It has no emotion, no ethics. It believes not in good or bad, or right or wrong. It believes in power and progession and in the steady, unhindered accumulation of wealth. It dotes not on the journey but on the evident visible results. It has only the spotlight and the stage. No rafters. It is by invitation only and the invitation comes printed on Money.
Crisp, Red 1000 Rupee Notes. Bright, Crinkly 1000 Rupee Notes. In Textile Paper with Intaglio Printing with the smooth ruffle of the edges and the comforting feel of Gandhiji. Stacked in packs of 100, and bound by static free tape.
You can hit it.You could kick it.
You can hit your hammer against it'outer wall.Or even a battering ram.
You can hit your head against it's even flat surface. Only your head bleeds from the effort.
You can smile at it. Or wince at it. Or show your tongue at it. Or ignore it.
You could recite a million sob stories and a thousand outstanding poems. Stage a Play. Act in a Film.
You could paraphrase Freud and expand on Newton. Or invent stuff. Or discover stuff.
You could photograph stuff. Or kill people.
You could get angry and scream at it. Rave and rant and curse and berate it.
You could call it names, tell it it has no ethics, no code; that It has no sense, no business being in business.
You could disgrace it before your friends and peers and family and bitch and moan about it to your boss.
You can write about it in your blogs and swear to maim and kill it if you got the chance.
You despair and cry and tear your hair out.
You can grow old and get hypertension and acidity and stomach ulcers.
You can ask it for pity and ask it to remember old times.
You could stare upwards and ask God to help you overcome it.
Or ask your friends to give you a leg up. But it stretches infinitely upwards.
You could grit your teeth and run faster and sweat and toil all your life.
You stare at the computer screen or you run around your vendors like a headless chicken.
You cajole your customers and beg from your vendors.
You kneel before your partners and beg them for some understanding.
You hope and pray that you dont fall by the wayside before it passes you over.
Because, eventually it will outlast you. That is because You could not crack the code. You did not acquire the key.
utekkare,
Pranay
