18 on 10 idiots

So what's wrong with 'ragging'? Nothing really. You are asked to take all your clothes off, perhaps jump up and down on water while sundry apes dip naked live wires on the puddle, or chuck burning cigarette butts on you. Some of you may look funny to specially trained eyes and may be firmly requested to act out favourite psycho sexual or other fantasies while you are taunted for being the smallest speck of dirt on the tip of a festering penis, venereally goried. Am I turning you on. Get this, I only got this by watching a film called 3 idiots. I had no clue about such splendid character building practices before this film came out. I was so limited in my imagination and stunted in my ability that I had to make do with voyeuristic pleasures only. Am I titillating you with my sordidity. You know what, while we are at it, lets actually get our worthless film censor board to check what was missed the last time they saw and passed the flim. That was the last straw that flipped my head and turned me from a bespectacled, nerdy and very naive geek to an all conquering senior superhero.

I did not see it coming. I did not expect my army of million, sorry 18 proto persians to be trumped by the self seeking sacrifice of 300, sorry 10 proto future persians who whinged about a little discomfort. Bully to all defenders of venerable practices in Indian professional institutions. The late lamented best public school traditions of the empire on whuch the sun never set are alive and kicking in this former jewel in the crown's fully grown men's or women's hostels. Where is the latrine, I need to take a dump!

Failsafe

Eight letters is what it has come to. Failsafe. A lifetime of seeking a saferoom, a fall back with no further terrors. Ejected from the womb onto a live oxygen atmosphere alive with dangers, we seek our familiar warm cocoons with 24x7 food, warmth and protection. We don't even have to worry about shitting or pissing. And get this, sans any effort. The only thing you don't get to do is fuck. But you are so secure and comfortable, momentary spikes of bliss don't count. The price we pay for leaving the womb and living the way we do is to feel scared and uncomfortable with being alive. Being outside.

Setting sophistry aside, what all this means is that we are fundamentally scared people. Scared of not being warm, scared of not knowing when the next meal is going to come, scared of being cast aside by people we actually like, scared of losing what we have, scared of not getting what we want.

So it goes, when we work, play or take decisions.Is there a better way? It’s when we don't want, that we get, when we execute effortlessly. The price of admission is complete detachment from what we want to see. Weird, isn't it?