Back from the future: Saving lives

Umbilical cord

Umbilical cord (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

A knock at the door catches you off guard. Upon answering it, you’re greeted by a man who says he’s from the future-and he can prove it. More important, he says he has information that will save your life.


“I’m a man from the future,”, he said,

As he stood at my door.

“Not a future man,” I replied, with a smirk.

“Another crank!” I thought as I tried to shut the door.

“I can save your life”, the man said,

“I can bring you back from the dead.”

“How so?” was my involuntary reply,

He had startled me so suddenly.

The man needed just the excuse,

To launch into a sales spiel,

Of gene therapy and mankind’s welfare,

Of my babies’ too.

All I’d need to provide is some stem cells,

and my babies’ umbilical cords,

And they’d make sure that my kids and I live,

Well into the next century.

At least, that was the dream!

And I let him go on,

‘Cos my lovely neighbour was spell-bound,

Yes, that pretty air-hostess had eavesdropped in

On her way to her flat up.

So I let the sales rep continue,

While I drank in her beauty.

But then the tale grew gruesome,

With a turn towards needles and hospitals.

And as the lass bid adieu,

With her face pasty white.

I decided it was time to say no,

For now, I’ll live in the present!

Sudden Downpour: It never rains but it pours

It was sunny when you left home, so you didn’t take an umbrella. An hour later, you’re caught in a torrential downpour. You run into the first store you can find — it happens to be a dark, slightly shabby antique store, full of old artefacts, books, and dust. The shop’s ancient proprietor walks out of the back room to greet you. Tell us what happens next!


The man was ugly—a dark, brooding chap with a faint air of menace. He smiled; I recoiled.

Yellow betel-stained teeth and the odor of beedis and paan assailed my visual and olfactory senses.

“Come in, you will get wet outside.”

I accepted, dour-faced. I had no intention of making my way home in this downpour.

I started to look around, if only to avoid eye contact with my host.

The shop smelt musty, like old books should.

I started to sneeze and quickly pulled out my kerchief.

“Are these books for sale?”, I inquired.

“Yes, sir, they are. They can also be returned at a discount. 85% if returned within 10 days, 75% within 20 and 60% within 30. Any later than that and you will be refunded 50% of the book’s value. Damages further.”

I smiled. This was a indeed a treasure trove in these days when the Internet and television have made the printed book a relic of the past.

And these were relics indeed!

Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and Kidnapped nestled side-by-side.

I jest! These were modern editions of the classics but still worth a dekko.

The rain outside had turned into a torrent and the asbestos roof was making a clattering sound that made shouting over the din a necessity to be heard.

“How much?”

“Two hundred. A Hundred each.”

“Sold.”

I fished out my wallet and paid the man.

“Do you have an umbrella, by any chance?”

“Yes. I have a spare one. You can return it to me when you come by the next time.”

“I sure will.”

He fetched me a red ladies’ umbrella from the back. I would normally be caught dead with such a loud, floral design but these were desperate times.

I picked up the books, wrapped in a plastic bag provided by the proprietor and quickly said my goodbyes.

Two classics to read on a wet, monsoon evening—what more could a guy need except perhaps a game of soccer in the rain?

I never paid another visit to the shop; the parasol did not survive the downpour.

Karl Popper: Social creatures

“We are social creatures to the inmost centre of our being. The notion that one can begin anything at all from scratch, free from the past, or unindebted to others, could not conceivably be more wrong.”

~Karl Popper, philosopher and a professor (1902-1994)