-Jim Morrison
I sat with him at the coffee shop. It was one of those ambient places
with irritatingly low-lit interiors and pseudointellectuals with too much money
on them. The waitress had come in expectantly into our smoking booth, but was
sent back rather curtly by my company. I would have fancied a cappuccino for
myself, but the thinness of my handbag protested in support of the contrary.
He, being all cool and ‘modern’, did not ask me twice; life sucks when you’re a
broke girl in 21st century urban India.
After downing about two flasks full of sneaked-in vodka, both he and I
were loosening up, desperate to make our interaction meaningful.
“You know what,” he started, trying to spark off a conversation. “I’ll
tell you something which is completely true, but you will never believe me.”
Flogging a dead horse, man.
“Try me.”
“You sure? You won’t be allowed to go back on the challenge.” His tone
was condescending, which made me all the more determined.
“Go on,” I spoke with nonchalance.
“I am…not of this sys…I mean, this place.” His hesitance was not one
borne of inebriation; that much was evident. I remained silent, waiting for him
to resume.
“I am a visitor in humaniform. I came here to complete my research on
the many types of human peoples. It requires me to stay anonymous.”
I sipped at the flask stealthily, keeping a subconscious eye out for
the waitress. I sported a deadpan expression, and I did not have to force it.
“Of course, of course,” I spoke absentmindedly, rethinking whether he
was actually sober as he appeared to be. I’ve seen many drunkards in my life,
and I could bet my life’s meagre savings if this guy was under the influence at
the moment. No quiver in the voice, no droopiness of the eyes and no slurred,
fumbled words. He was dry as ever.
“You don’t, do you?” he asked, resignedly.
“I..well, yes, I don’t.” The truth.
He gave a wry smile and continued to beam at me. There was something in
his gaze that captivated me; nothing remotely romantic but nonetheless
appealing. He was talking without a word being spoken.
“Ok, go on, I’ll believe you,” I said with acquiescence, adding a small
“…for now” under my breath.
“You won’t remember any of this conversation tomorrow, anyway,” he
said, “so I’ll tell you.”
“I come from what my race calls the –“ he made a guttural sound quite
unlike anything I’d thought possible to come out of a human voice box.
“The what?”
“The *guttural sound*, my native place! You may call it anything you
want. It’s yet undiscovered by your scientists. We have been on expeditions all
over the universe, and we’re also recruiting our…volunteers, so to say, in
various worlds.”
Too much science fiction for
a first date, dude.
“Okay okay, enough I guess. Joke’s over, you win, I lose; you’re from
*cough twice*.”
I had already dismissed his proposition at the offset. Despite his
coolness, his disappointment was perceptible. He sighed twice, still looking
directly at me with that piercing glance. Mildly drunk, I wished for him to
speak. His voice was just the right pitch and tone; not displeasing to the
ears.
“So, continue?” I offered.
“No point. You don’t want to
believe.” In an instant, his voice had turned to almost a plea, a complaint. He
wanted to be heard. I sipped at the vodka once and smiled at him. It seemed as
if chance favoured me. I leaned forward and pulled his cheek playfully.
“You’re a sweet kid,” I said with a genuine smile of understanding. “Go
on, you have all my attention.”
Not to mention willing
suspension of disbelief.
He did not smile back, but spoke nevertheless.
“See, this is the fucking problem with you lot,” he spoke with
reenergised aggression, waving his cigarette butt around. “You have it all
ass-backward. You begin with
questioning and distrust. You are critical first and faithful second. It’s a
first, you know; I’ve never seen a race as stubborn and held up with the process of things than the nature of things. You get me?”
He paused for my reply, his eyes penetrating mine with intent and
fixation.
A thought took seed in my brain: who is this guy? A nutcase? A rogue sociologist, scientist, who? This
was our first date, and even though his words made sense, I could not help
being curious of his origins.
“Partly, I think. I’d love to hear you elaborate.” The truth, again.
“I know all of this sounds creepy, but I’ve been marooned on this
wretched place for more than 2 years now. It’s sort of like a rite of passage
where I come from, like a dissertation or a thesis you have to submit to gain a
degree. This is my thesis.” He formed
a puff of smoke around himself.
[Note to self: cigarette smoking is injurious to health but looks
fucking cool on sexy men.]
“What’s the subject?” I asked, genuinely inquisitive.
“The Social and Interpersonal
Idiosyncrasies of the Peoples of Planet 685. Earth, that is,” he said
casually.
I was impressed by the thoroughness of his made-up yarn.
“Basically, human nature,” I filled in.
“Yes. Like a roundup of what you people call sociology, just from a
third person’s perspective.”
“But tell me: if you’re an alien race so advanced that you can shift shapes and appearances and physical
attributes, why don’t you simply invade us and control our resources?” I was just checking how meticulously he had
planned his whole cock-and-bull story.
He laughed rousingly.
“I swear I’d seen that one coming!” He continued to laugh with uproar,
until he coughed a few times and let out a heavy sigh.
“This is another of your, what to say, novelties. You guys don’t see victory beyond the obvious and petty
conquests of land, water, resources, women, etc. We have studied your debauch
history for years, and have seen resonance of your ignoble actions over the
ages in that of our savage ancestors. We have moved over that phase in our
social conduct. We realized that conquest of knowledge is paramount; everything else is secondary.”
He paused for a sip of vodka.
“But how do you conquer
knowledge?”
“Exactly; we don’t. We gain it
from everyone. That’s all we need from all the races, everywhere. We are
explorers, not raiders. We explore worlds, pick up ideas and borrow
philosophies, all to possess greater knowledge of the world. Which brings us
back to the purpose of my exile: my research.”
It all did add up, but I
still felt pretty certain it was a first date trick that he employed to impress
scientifically-inclined chicks (like me). We had met in a chat room on science
fiction writing (as old fashioned and 90s as it sounds) and realized, much to
our delight and surprise, that we resided quite close by. One thing led to
another and here we were.
“Hmm. I daresay you make sense,” I conceded. I paused, waiting for him
to continue with his fantastic tale. He had me gripped.
As if reading my mind, he resumed, “I am a youngster in my world, too.
I am still learning and gaining information. So I have this social theory about
your world, something I think I came up with before any of my natives. It’s not
cast in stone, for now, but I am much
convinced of its veracity.”
“Umm hmm.”
“See, your greatest invention is also your greatest undoing: science.
It enlightens you, gives you a window to see and gain insights into the natural
world. It is the best possible way for the leading men of your time to make
sense of the mysteries of life. But, as I see it, it also inhibits you and
impediments your larger understanding. It stymies open-mindedness, because for
men of science, open-mindedness minus any sort of observable or testable input
amounts to nothing.”
I, being a ‘woman’ of science myself, took instant offense at this last
sentence.
“I don’t agree with you. Science unlocks
our thinking, our larger perspective. It stops us from the recesses of
convenient but false solutions, like religion and superstition. Were it not for
a scientific temper, we’d still be living and dying, believing that the earth
is flat and has a geographical ‘end’. We need
to shun all unobservable and improvable assumptions in favour of concrete
truths; that is how we will reach the ultimate truth, one day. ”
As I stopped for another gulp of vodka, I was proud of having so
eloquently defended the spirit of science to my date.
“You’re right,” he said, “but there are things which can never be fully established. They will
always ever fall under the shadow of possibility and improbability. For
instance, millions of people claim to have been visited by God or a
supernatural entity. There are hundreds of explanations that science offers to
these accounts, but what if they’re
all wrong and it is indeed a god
speaking to mortals? How can you ever tell? I bet if god itself descended to
the ground and revealed its true nature, scientists won’t believe him and take
him for a madman. Exactly the same way you totally disregard my claims of
otherworldliness.”
We smiled at each other, having come a full circle in our argument. His
words rang true in my mind, but they were nothing I had never heard before.
“Of course, you can say that. But then, what do we believe, and what do we not
believe?”
“Don’t ask me, I’m no older than you.”
His cigarette all but finished, he flung the doused butt into the
garbage bin at the corner of the coffee table. The vodka flask was also
emptied, its contents making me feel light-headed and funny. Somehow, his
heavily loaded theory never took a toll on my credulity; I believed his every
word, yet knew in my heart that he was faking it. My eyes half shut and my head
resting on my palm, I edged closer to him. His face was perfectly etched: a
right-sized nose, cavernous, brown eyes and tiny, pursed lips. His smile was
intelligent and disarming.
Under the influence, I grew audacious and rested my slender hand on his
cheek. I kept it there. He took out another cigarette and lit it up.
“Why do you smoke so much? It kills!” I implored half-heartedly, the
other half already anticipating the cloud of strong-smelled smoke around his
face, giving him the appearance of a gangster of yore.
“It doesn’t affect me: I have detachable lung-saps. I clean them every
once a while; like you bathe daily.”
“I don’t,” I said, and held him in a long, intense, savage lip-lock.
THE END
