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Detachment is an interesting concept. Many advocate it. Many others doubt the possibility of its execution. How can one live in a world, love it, and yet not be attached to it?

I saw the Transformers movie yesterday night again (for the seventh time), and was struck by yet another midnightly insight. What is it exactly that differentiates a Transformer from a human being?

I know they are actually giant alien robots who can turn themselves into machines of their choice and there really is no comparison here. But then again, they feel pain and anger just like we do. Also they seem to like certain things about us.

I have always wondered what people have against short answers.

In school, most of my classmates had problems squeezing ideas into a given limit of 200 words. When it was not about ideas and sheer data was what needed accommodation, they struggled with the squeeze again. There is only so much you can do to elucidate chapters of world history without giving in to the seductive bulk of it.

Even in college, I found word limits greeted with expressions of frustration and annoyance. For many people, being brief and simple actually requires more of an effort than being elaborate does.

In the beginning there was water. God, fed up, emerged from it and created an island. He filled it with lush green grass, tall trees loaded with the juiciest fruits, and flowers so sweet their fragrance swept the entire island.

All manner of wondrous creatures ran loose in the island. They shared the gifts of the island in peace.

Then God made people in his own image. He loved them very much, so he threw them into the water, far from the island.

Some people think creativity is something innate. Others believe it can be honed and sharpened. I believe it is a matter of willingness. One gets ideas when one is open to them.

Towards the end of my time in college, I began working on a story about an alien orphan on a backward and under-developed planet. My hero discovers that he is the last of a race of super-psychics who ruled the galaxy long ago. The story stayed with me for a month or so. I spared little effort in capturing it in its awesome brilliance, blaming my tight college schedule and my general inability to write long stories due to impatience. To my relief, it eventually left me.

A few weeks ago, I found myself talking to a bunch of college kids about the importance of visualising one’s goals. There was skepticism as usual. Some were convinced their choices don’t matter. Some wanted, more than anything else, to matter. One boy asked me if I thought he could do what he wants to do.

I told him it didn’t matter what I thought. If he thinks he can do something then all other opinions in the world don’t amount to zilch. All he needs is faith in himself and the universe. He looked better after that and offered to drop me home on his bike after the class.

Hanuman sat up abruptly and realised with relief he was not falling from the skies. He had never been a light sleeper. Quite the opposite in fact. Until a few months ago, when life was predictable, even his afternoon naps had been legendary. Then the two princes turned up at Rishyamukh Mountain and things had changed.

Ever since his leap to Lanka and back, he had been particularly twitchy. Even last night, he had woken up after an uncomfortable dream involving Singhika, the sea demoness he had to fight and kill on his way to Raavan’s land. Besides, he always felt like a fool sitting up sweating and breathless in the centre of a camp full of snoring vaanars.