To be(lieve) or not to be(lieve):

A fool he is who believes and a fool he is who does not.

At any one point we have, for a fool, either a believer or a non believer or both but never neither.

But then who is the fool and who isn't. Who decides who is what?

We, the self  proclaimed genius, the self appointed judges pass out the judgement and declare whether who the fool is and coincidentally, the fool is the one which we are not.

We have a believer in one or many of the following: in God, in Science, in Women, in Green-men, in Veganism, in Vengeance, in Sympathy, in Sinfulness, in Tolerance, intolerance, in Rules, in Revolts, in Education, in Ignorance, in Weapon-building, in Talks, in War, in Peace.

One believes in the spiritualism of science while another believes in the science behind spiritualism.

A racial joke is funny for one and offensive for another, but always there is at least one who believes it funny, the creator.

Besides these, pure black and white, believers and non-believers, there also exist a grey region for middle monkeys.

These grey monkeys, if ruffled rightly, would just spring to the one side or the other (or from one to another, time to time) against their initial resolve to remain uninvolved.

A grey monkey turns towards a black or white side when lured with a ripe yellow banana or turned against through a continuous pester.

But which side is right. Should majority be always right? Should the intelligence of the minority be always doubted? Does absolute right and wrong even exist?
Being in a minority, even a minority of one, did not make you mad;
- 1984: George Orwell
Why should anyone even care about another being right or wrong? You could believe, or not, and I needn't agree with you on either case or even on both cases.

Why shouldn't the other person, though foolish or misguided, remain so forever. The sky appears blue at day time and changes shade through day and night as the light scatters at various angles at various times.

Could White be White from all angles? Should a belief be a belief from all angles?

It is stupefying to see various colours of a rainbow and believed Stupid to accept the various shades of truth or belief.

To believe or not to believe is one's own volition and to deny that, is, I believe, a sin, and you could believe otherwise or nothing.

While a train moving at a speed of 60mph is not actually moving at 60mph on all frames of reference, why would you want to always assume the other's view should be wrong an seek to correct it while your version is right only from your own perspective?

Gone Girl (book)

You walk with; stand with; stand behind; fly with; stand away from; run around with an author as he tells you a mind blowing story.

For Gone girl, you just lay back, relax, be ready to, laugh, fold your hands tight and stay still, to jump high, to feel sorry, to feel happy, to blame one, to blame yourself for blaming one.

The story starts midway and you see it approaching from both ends (near ends). It's like sitting in a train coach that is lighted on either ends. You just wait on and watch either side as it approaches towards each other. You are at the middle of it, experiencing the heat from either end and warm yourself up.

The unusual way of story telling, letting the characters narrate their versions of the story gives you a feeling of a jury hearing out a couple.

We easily believe everything a character in the story says and Gone girl teaches you not to be such a fool and keep an eye open. No matter how far into the future of a story you see you could not see what the author has not printed yet.

Unlike movies, in a book the back of the page that you're currently reading remains blank until you turn the page and continue to read on.

In Gone girl, you'd suspect that as you close the book and go to sleep only to find that when you wake up somehow someone has changed the following pages cleverly.

Such confidence in defining the character, such tactfulness in manipulating the reader to like, adore, hate, despise, love, curse not different characters but the same character, one feeling per chapter is handled smoothly.

Speaking out a man and woman's mind so loud and clear.

You'd never regret choosing to read 'Gone Girl' I bet. But then on the other hand I've lost few bets too.

Personal favourite and deserves a recommendation.


You watch about 10 (new or old, but fresh) movies every month. You like about 3 of them. As this goes on for a while you end up starting to collect the complete set of movies created by the director who saw the world the way you see it or of an actor whose performance you admired, whom, you couldn't be, but couldn't resist wanting to be. That's how anyone starts following a genre, actor, style of making.

Once in a while you come across a movie that just cleaves softly through your head, passing through the skull and spreading all over your brain. Every background beat stings on different places on your brain making you feel alive. Every bright flash on screen enlightening you. Every moment of darkness puts you at ease and alert at the same time.

Very few movies do this and one the impulses one sends to one person isn't the same that it sends another.

Followed by 'A Clockwork Orange', 'Eyes wide shut' just carried me off to an entirely different society. A world on its own with it's Christmas lighting, oh, the pretty, selective dark theme, slow (real slow) motions, unbroken, long dialogues that start from nowhere, goes everywhere setting up different moods and ends up at an entirely different humour. The beauty of the selection of the right words that brings out the right emotions was like the best beans chosen to bring out the best aroma.

A person under a mask could be capable of anything. He could be harmless; he could be a killer; he could be a lover; he could be delicate; he could be diabolic; he could be an animal; he could be tender-hearted. But... you just wouldn't know.

Interestingly, a thriller with not a drop of blood spill.

The grandiose of the open party displaying the power of people and money; the (very) short sideline story at the small space of the costume rental shop; another short story of two girls living on their own; they are all connected, related, one flowing through another and all are floating on the same silent lake.

The masked ball is one of the most thrilling, quiet, slow, chilling, nearly freezing arrangement. Every beat, every mask, every action, every bending and balancing tells you how serious an affair the ball is. What could the mystery behind this mask, or that one, oh, why are those two masks so different from the rest? You keep talking as he keeps walking.

Followed by the orgy and the humiliation of the lead character in front of the entire secret mob.

The humiliation of unveiling in front of a group of masked men by command and the helplessness, owing to the lack of knowledge of whom you are surrounded by and how powerful they are, transfers through.

Of course, there's too much of exposing and an elaborate orgy.

With not a gun or knife in sight the pressure in the atmosphere slowly starts increasing by the grandness of the mansion and by the mystery behind the masks.

A clear, clever thriller through and through.

The Whistle!

Once, twice and three times he blinks before he could even get a blurred vision of what he is surrounded by, which is, sheer emptiness.

Rubbing the tiredness off his eyes he looks around to assure himself that which he is seeing is real.
This space is completely strange, lonely, and quiet.

It's bright but he can't see the source of light, there's no shadow to predict the direction of the source. He couldn't say if he is breathing or not. For sure, he still sees but what is there to look at?

It’s white on all sides. Is all that people see white when they go blind while others think it’s dark? But I’m not blind; I can see my body as I look down.

Sitting up on this white floor whose end is nowhere to be seen or even to be imagined to exist, he tries to remember how he ended up here.

Touching himself sends two signals to his brain, one, of his being touched by someone and the second, he touching something.

Is this real? Am I dreaming? 

He starts walking a few feet and soon collapses. He’s tired like he has been walking a desert for two days without sleep, without wat…

Wait! He remembers something. My tongue… It’s dry. I’m thirsty. I need… Wat.. Water. Water… I should drink water.

He then realizes why he was not able to call for help. His throat is too dry for him to make any sound that even he could hear.

He can’t remember when he lost consciousness. When he woke up he hoped against all hopes that he be anywhere in the world but here. He’s imprisoned in an open space with all the freedom to go anywhere but nowhere to go to.

He cried. His dry eyes could produce no tear. He wept. Like a child he wept and eventually passed out.

The taste of salt on his tongue brought him back to consciousness. He’s wet. Not just wet. No it can’t be. Am I swimming in my own tear? How could I have produced so much tear to swim in it?

His feet can’t find the floor, he is swimming, no he’s floating to be precise and suddenly a hand so strong grabs him by the collar. He hears loud whistles around him which mercilessly pierces through the loud thunderstorms.

The sound of the whistle and thunderstorm made him a blissful baby reborn after the unbearable silence of who knows how long.