Existential Me

My favourite browser has just helped me overcome the Javascript envy that I was secretly nursing for a long time now (after the Javascript browser wars began): it was lagging behind in the speed benchmarks that mattered, viz., Sunspider (and more recently, Google’s V8 Benchmark suite). No longer is this the case as this brand new version beats even the venerable Chrome on my machine (and presumably on other computers as well). See for yourself:

• Sunspider results for Opera 10.50
• V8 results for Opera 10.50 (will post a screenshot shortly)
• Sunspider results for Google Chrome 4.0.266 (developer stream)
• V8 results for Google Chrome 4.0.266 (developer stream) (will post a screenshot shortly)

I saw this

on the Google search results page today. Notice what’s unusual?

No? There are two l’s instead of just one. What was even more weird was this:

Again, did you notice the options on the left? I’ve seen this in the list of features introduced through Google Experimental, but on the main search results page? Something’s definitely cooking!

What’s up Google?

Update: This is what was up. Thanks to a well-informed reader for the heads up.

A couple of paragraphs that I came across in Arthur Hailey’s “Final Diagnosis”.

[An obstetrician reflects on the little ones in a hospital's nursery:] These, he thought, were the normal, healthy animals who had won, for the moment, their battle for existence and in a few days more would go outward and onward into the waiting world. Their destinations were the home, the school, the strife of living, the competition for fame and possessions. Among these were some who would taste success and suffer failure; who, barring casualty, would enjoy youth, accept middle age, and grow old sadly. These were those for whom more powerful and glossier automobiles would be designed, in whose service aircraft would wing faster and farther, whose every whim and appetite would be wooed by others of their kind with wares to market. These were some who would face the unknown future, most with misgiving, many bravely, a few craven. Some here, perhaps, might breach the barriers of outer space; others with the gift of tonues might move their fellow men to anger or despair. Most, within twenty years, would fulfil their physical maturity, obeying, but never understanding, the same primeval craving to copulate which had sown their seed and brought them, mewling, puking, here. But for now these were the victors – the born and urgent. Their first and gratest barrier was down, the other battles yet to come.

[One of the protagonists eyes his son who was born prematurely and who has been kept in an incubator.] Once more het let his eyes stray back to the tiny figure. For the first time the thought occurred to him: This is my son, my own, a part of my life. Suddenly, he was consumed by a sense of overwhelming love for this fragile morself, fighting his lonely battle inside the warm little box below. He had an absurd impulse to shout through the glass: You’re not alone, son; I’ve come to help. He wanted to run to the incubator and say: These are my hands; take them for your strength. Here are my lungs; use them and let me breathe for you. Only don’t give up, son; don’t give up! There’s so much ahead, so much we can do together – if only you’ll live! Listen to me, and hold on!This is your father and I love you.

Happy Birthday in advance SP! May your life be full of pleasant surprises; may the sounds of laughter always fill your life. God bless!

Love.

You know, it rained today, here at Pune. The October heat had been punishing in its intensity so far, and the respite given by the rain gods was quite welcome. Just as it began pouring, I went downstairs to unlock my bike and leave it out in the rain, so it could get washed. I got drenched in the process of course, but then, being with you for two years has not been a period devoid of learning.

I have learnt to appreciate the beauty of rains in this city – the intensity, the aftermath, everything. I have only heard you describe your love of the rain – how, contrary to a lot of others’ feelings for it, you actually enjoy watching the downpour; how, instead of making you feel depressed by its gloominess, it actually enlivened you – so much so that once you went out with your niece and danced in the rain, but I can visualise your happy laughter. I am not similarly talented in the department of dancing, having, as I do, two left feet, but if I could, I would have because I actually celebrated the rain today – the first time in a long, long time.

For you, I hope that, wherever you are, you are blessed with a man who understands and cherishes you, and a warm home. Of course, having your home located in a beautiful area, with someone indulging you everyday with your morning cup of “chai”, newspapers, furniture with upholstery matching the house’s decor – these would be nice too. I hope you’re really, really happy, and get everything you wish for, because you deserve nothing less than that.

Occasional, torrential rains shouldn’t hurt either.

I suppose it’s okay to make this post as long as I don’t disclose names and identify individuals. With that, let me go on.

He is simply unable to get on with his life. Sure, he goes to work and doesn’t skip his daily and week-end routine, but I can see that his heart is simply not in it, except when he plays badminton with me. Otherwise, his face has that look which is all too readable to anyone who cares to notice. To wit, he has become a zombie.

I’ve stopped trying to tell him that she has now gone beyond his reach – you can’t inform a man who already knows; you don’t need to tell a fish which is out of water that it’s going to die – it knows instinctively, but it can’t stop thrashing all the same.

I can see him suffering silently. Sometimes, he sets off on his new bike and vanishes for an hour, but when he comes back, it’s evident that he has gone on his “pilgrimage” – a visit to the places they used to frequent, and also her last places of residence. I’ve never seen him cry, and but for the tear stains, I wouldn’t have known he was even capable of crying.

Sometimes, I point out to him that his “pilgrimage” does not seem to be helping him at all; that it only seems to deepen his pain. But he doesn’t seem to listen, or maybe he feels that his pain is atonement for the grave mistake he’d committed. To him, she was the one, and the memory of how he’d let her go after her heart-breaking entreaties was painful to him beyond words.

I try not to judge him. After all, who can say what’s the right thing – right and wrong are extremely subjective even otherwise, and more so in these cases. Especially when a man who has never cried since he passed out of school sobs in front of you, you don’t want to be caught judging because his remorse is genuine, even if in vain.

As he was coming out of the mall, he saw her. He did a double-take to confirm that his eyes had not deceived him. Before he could take a good second look, she had turned away and was now walking down the steps. Then, as is the wont of many women in that city, she took out a long piece of cloth from her bag and proceeded to cover her face from the nose down – a process, he sadly noted, that did not go well with his desire to make visual confirmation. Even as he was staring at her dumbly, she turned, looked at him, probably noted something terribly wrong with his open stare, and turned away quickly. He realised that he was doing something that was not only stupid, but could potentially earn him a slap from a total stranger. He collected his senses and began to walk rapidly towards her. As he neared her, however, a strange fear gripped him: what would he say to her? After all, he had done her a terrible injustice in the past. He thought to himself, “Maybe he could simply say, ‘S?’ and the rest of the conversation would follow spontaneously.” Damn it, her gait appeared familiar, and so did her profile! Yet, he was so nervous that he simply walked past her instead of stopping to confirm his doubt.

He walked up to his bike, started it, and turned it once more in the direction he’d seen her walking. There, there she went! He quickly went past her again, and stopped a hundred feet in front so as to not appear to be a stalker, having made up his mind to talk to her, come what may. But just as she came beside the bike and he prepared himself to accost her, a truck went past, drowning out his voice. Damn! He started the bike again, noticed her talking to an autorickshaw driver, hoped that she would ride in it (so he would be able to follow discreetly), saw her resume her walking, and moved towards her. This time, he stopped directly in front of her, lifted the visor of his helmet up, and asked tentatively, “S?” “Sorry?”, came the reply. “Are you S?” he asked again, in what later seemed to him a very stupid manner. “No,” she said, her hand going toward the cloth that half-covered her face. He mumbled an apology, was now sure it was not her (the voice was a dead give-away, he could recognize it anywhere), and sped off on the bike. Maybe she thought he was a road-side Romeo looking for a blind date; no matter, he had made sure he didn’t miss an opportunity to talk to S.

His thoughts then turned to S. How was she? Was she happy? Did she think of him at times as he did of her many times in a day? As was usual in recent times, he felt a lump in his throat, a tightening of the muscles near the temples, and the beginning of a throbbing sensation that he knew would eventually result in a headache. And subsequent feelings of guilt and shame.

Dear SP,

I owe you an apology: I had taken a decision which involved you without giving you, or myself for that matter, the consideration that was due. Would I that I could change my decision as easily as I had changed my mind! Now, however, things have reached a point where they are irreversible, and I know your word of honour is as unshakable as the strength of my decisions were fickle.

Apologies are merely words, sometimes backed my sincere emotions, that rarely have the power to undo things that were done in a moment of anger, thoughtlessness, grief. Then why do I write this? It is with the hope that you’ll read these lines sometime in the future when the scars that I have caused you have either disappeared completely, or have at least ceased to give you any more pain.

You remarked more than once that I didn’t have the guts to stand up for what I wanted. You also said that my “slow approach” would cost me something very valuable. You were right on both counts. I should have given them a chance to see how happy things would have been, and how easily they would have been able to cope with changes. I should have had more faith in myself and you. Now, when things have gone out of my hands, I realise the value of things that are no longer mine.

Sometimes, just sometimes, apologies can reopen doors, and people are given another chance to redeem themselves. I will remain hopeful that such a chance comes my way.

Love.