Weltanschauung

 As an engineer, one of the most crucial questions I address is “How do things work?”, the discipline is often looked upon as the one which builds itself upon a series of instructions that, when followed in a prescribed manner allows an expected result to show up. The consonance between the ordinance and the execution is set forth by the genius of a “designer” and the math of an “engineer”. James Dyson, the British inventor best known for the invention of the dual bagless vacuum cleaner which works on the principle of cyclonic separation a method wherein the dust particles and air are separated through vortex separation rather than the use of filters, once famously said that all his engineers are designers and all his designers are engineers. Simple, right? A bit of math and physics, and kaboom you have the magic. So where does that out-of-the-box thinking come from that allowed us to save a handsome sum by eliminating the use of garbage bags for house-cleaning purposes? The en...

"Ink it or it's gone." is a common saying in the writer's community. Not just writers, but anyone who is creative respects this norm and knows that the winds of time will wither the rock of their thoughts.  The retention of the originality of an idea makes the very moment of thought a lot more pivotal than the thought itself, and this perturbs me. The point is how fragile an idea can be, that an artist pushes away everything just to capture it, but isn't this madness that one owes for being called an artist? Let's shelf this question for a while, and talk about time and originality first.  Talking of originality and time as a collective and how its dogmatic virtue conduces a channel of thought that bridges our differences but also bridges our uniqueness, The Ship of Theseus paradox could be the perfect example here. Theseus was the king of Athens, who had earned the throne after facing innumerable hardships. On his journey up the ranks, he had to embark upon n...

 a palette of words The sky was drenched in the amber gleam of the Sun, The winds whispering into the leaves of the Mango tree, The Dining room was bustling, the students chattering, and the day on its usual run. I stood there in a mundane silence, thoughtless was I, unbeknownst of the eyes of thee.   I just looked at her and smiled, and she smiled back. That smile, a secret that we share and both know, We might have found what the whole world would be searching for.   It was a glimpse through an interstice caught, The most magnificent twist to my life’s plot. Bewitched was I, in the sublime and captivating charisma of thee, A moment of stunning silence, where the words abjured and the eyes danced.   Many a time I try to seek you in these words, Out amongst the nuance of languages, All the trouble to take, to talk or listen to thee.   Numerous thoughts of mine are drenched in ink for you, To thee, the one who lent her ears t...

 the joker's ink for the queen Time stopped, yet my heart raced yesterday. Under those little lights and the cloudless moonlit sky. A smile of excitement and a shiver of jollity ran through my spine, As I rode alongside my friend to a place which I call the New Abode of mine.   Me driving, her sitting behind, was subtly stated as chauvinistic by her. And in front of her jitters of laughter, my arguments had to surrender. Her profound eyes, impeccable zeal, and kind heart are what I adore, To the ocean of words of mine, her eyes are the most devoured shore.   She doesn’t read any, especially of mine, until asked for, But this perfidy is something for which I will dearly implore. Numerous drops of ink of mine have been for her, For unknown yet beautiful reasons, my stringent pen lets this larceny occur.   A glimpse of her eyes pulls the right chords in me, After that, via my pen, these wonderous thoughts flee. As a writer, I devour per...

The Paradox of Unanimity It was May the 25th,1993. The town of Idar-Oberstein in Germany had just witnessed the most gruesome murder of a 62-year-old woman. Even after a series of rigorous and stringent investigations, the police were only able to collate futile shreds of evidence, pointless allegations, and a DNA sample whose analysis professed the murderer was a woman. This was just the beginning of the most tormenting case that would plague the minds of the citizens for decades to come. A serial killer on loose, whose unquenchable thirst for blood and impeccable stealth had thwarted the German police. Murders at different places at different times and to one’s astonishment the recurrence of the same futile DNA evidence, sometimes to be found in a kitchen drawer or on a pillowcase. It was a puzzle that engorged as and when more pieces were found, yet none fell in place. People became dearly cautious as the word spread, and they started coming up with numerous theories. To the commo...

  forlorn   The breeze carried a sound, Something it trying to say, Something it trying to mound, But none of it for sure was gay.   A faint expression on his face, Scuffling somewhere with his life’s lace. His quandaries were pale, Yet, his vessel wasn’t able to sail.   He stood up from his chair, Gazing into the offing, Catechizing,” Is life always fair?” Crusades of answers was he expecting?   I stood there, while he was lost in his somewhere, Pondering and observing this poor whippersnapper, For whom, this labour of life was too much to bear.   He sunk back in his chair, lost once again in the oblivious blank stare.   Was it the breeze or were it his thoughts? Anyway, they both were playing a gamble of some sort. The breeze had its warmth at stake, The lad had his peace at stake.   As and when the cards unfolded, The wilderness of his life engorged. The wind had a queen of club, an eight ...