Early last year in January, when thought accidents were occurring at rates with which I couldn’t keep up with, I met up with an old friend. At that time, I didn’t know I was in for a short jaunt into the edges of Western India. I rode on a camel for the first time. There was salt around everywhere. The sun was sinking itself into this wide bowl of salt that lay in front of us hiding Pakistan, just a giant scoop of Orange ice-cream melting hot, as we discussed the Operational differences between Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo on a football field. It was an argument consisting collective evidence regarding the broad differences between subjective being and objective doing as approaches to the sport. The idea originally took it’s obsessive toll on an off-kilter net-surfing moment on football when I had paused a muted video in which Messi had a football under his feet and I asked people to guess the direction he was going to steer it the next second. I couldn’t predict it the first time I watched. Quite tough as compared to a more straight forward, lean and efficient approach, that of Ronaldo. As Ronaldoes the Messier it becomes.

Of course, on a more sensible scale, one could ask, why would anyone try and predict the designs of the beautiful game? I presume such things, naturally occur to a species that primarily evolved and survived itself solely on its pattern-recognition ability and the deeper argument was why does detecting “how the process of goal-scoring” mattered versus the more objective result-oriented outlook of “how many goals were scored”. But clearly someone wasn’t getting laid enough or someone was battling with emotivism because of a stupid book. Almost accurately one of them is me. Please pause your judgement, like I did with the video.

Conversations weren’t as tedious just because we were sitting on salt because soon enough, the topic digressed into feminism for some reason. There should soon be a name for this digression among the likes of Godwin’s law. Also, feminism is a great subject to disagree on a lot of things as it thrives on disagreement and weirdly so, promotes it onto different subjects. On the car-ride to a nearby beach, after disagreeing a lot on diverse topics, we became silent pondering about how important pacing oneself is. Just like in a sprint, a sportsman or yes, music. This was of course, a borderline annexure to one of those pot-plots back at my place, the place were we left from, when we tried to logically de-construct the origins of language and after a few laughs (not much to disagree on, when you are high) quite quickly settled at a proposition that, the birth of the vowel preceded the consonant which led to the assembly of both as we gradually ran out of unique sounds that could be placed next to each other and that, we needed a quicker solution to keep up with the new additional things that occurred important enough to us to communicate to others and and that, there aren’t many differences between a song and a sentence but that of essence and and and that, the silences left between every “alphabet-phonetic” created a pronunciation (essential essence) which is no different from a song. In other words, songs are aesthetically designed sentences and silences help chisel the medium fundamentally. A boring ancestor would’ve preferred adding the sound of consecutive ands instead of the elegant comma’s hiccup. In daily life though, when two people are communicating, they often forget to paint those silences. Among today’s clutter on the screen-generation, in the ever-thickening attention-time continuum, meanings are often warped. To be precise, silences help clean a conversation and attain clarity consistently. Imagine a windscreen wiper when it’s raining. There was nothing revelatory in all this, but yet, it was a long time since we hadn’t Google-d anything and proofread our own existence with only thought and pot.

Earlier in the morning before we reached the salt bowl, we had stopped at a tea stall near the railway station at 4 am for a smoke and a cup of chai. The stall was manned by a 17 year old Saddam Khan whose dreams, we tried to encapsulate into a memory with the help of whatever little light our smartphones could spit at that moment. However, Saddam spat a lot. He was born last after his 7 siblings and all his hard-work to run his enterprise went unnoticed by a father who was punctual in skimming money from it. Saddam kept pointing a finger up the sky, indicating that there’s someone watching us all from above and whatever’s due will come and he will work even harder, earning more money, investing it back in his tea stall , remodel it into a canteen and further expand it into a hotel.

We listened in silence as Saddam grew visibly confident with his dreams. He stopped pointing his fingers up the sky. As we left, he grew silent. This silence was content and it was getting fat. We had to politely bid adieu to Saddam leaving the chairs we sat on, empty.

Most of it makes and has no sense, but there is definite essence because of all the silence.

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