The Mystery Of The Missing Story
for a long time, i have wondered about the reason behind the phenominal success of mystery and detective stories. while in real life, we more often than not loath the very idea of something obscured from us. the inevitable proclivity of even the most ignorant of us is towards omniscience. the patient, for instance wants to know how many souls his quack doctor has despatched. the quack on the other hand wants to know how much his patient is financially worth so that he can appropriately modify his output of medical jargon and fake shots. the little boy struggling with his homework wants to explode the identity of the monster on the right(?) side of the equation. perhaps this daily exasparation is the reason for the great success of the detective stories. these not only create mysteries as life does, but also break them down utterly in the very end. the murderer of poor mr. smith, after two hundred pages of lies, clouded clues and scandalous affairs turns out to be none other than poor mrs. smith. the author tells us (in a hushed tone) of the spiked cudgel that smashed open the rich businessman's vacant skull (to the great diversion of the masses) only to declare that it was wielded by none other than his pet baboon. but however crass or improbable the solutions may be, they must be there. without the last ten pages, the detective novel would very effectively serve as burning fuel, preferably to burn the author with. similarly, deprived of their desired illuminations, the patient, the quack and the schoolboy move towards their coffins, jail cells and parliaments respectively. so, while the populance is generous enough to condone being fooled in the presentation of the solution, it is enraged at the unavailability of one.
but today thanks to the advance of that great machine called civilization, the compromise has become somewhat more strained. the new mystery is quite keeping up with the radical times. good old detectives gave mercurial solutions for sharp puzzles. poor authors gave pathetic solutions for modicum questions. but the new class of story tellers seem to be giving no story at all. it begins with with the promise of one, progresses with the pretense of one and at the end the author congratulates you on your discretion in reading this. it is rather like the old fable of the emperor who wore invisible clothes, only they have gagged all the kids.
the real danger of this situation is not per se in the progress of the trend of story telling itself. cyanide may be introduced in baits without any serious opposition from anyone (excluding the rodent community), but curiously, slipping cyanide into a fresh cup of coffee you have just brewed for your wife may cause nasty complications (not just for the lady). it inevitably draws axe blows (especially from the female community). so, the comparison reveals the existence of a wide gulf between the two applications, as wide as the one between the two communities (though many gentlemen say that the difference is not very considerable). similarly, all sorts of trash may be put in penny dreadfuls and old housewife gossip coloumns. it is when it appears in the daily diet pretending to be serious "news" that the situation becomes alarming.
for instance consider the articles in newspapers. in the actual news reports, inspite of a considerable level of distortion and disfiguration, there exists a story. on a cbi raid on a prominent minister's house, while the officers have found many unaccounted ornaments of his wife's, the media might choose to report that many unaccounted ornamental wives were found. but the fact is that something was found. while the police inspector in charge of the lathicharge may insist that the rowdy protestors come and banged their heads and bodies against the inert lathis in the hands of the shell shocked and innocent constables, the press might take a different view. but the fact remains that some people - angelic or demoniac were beaten up. a certain minimum level of artificial flavour is to be expected even from the most objective journalism. the real problem is in the articles bearing the opinions of certain persons who think it is their business to air their vacant opinions on all problems from the suitability of rexin belts for wife beating to the efficiency of the third century governments in controlling nuclear proliferation. there are two reasonable lines that one may take while giving an article. we can either take sides on the argument and try to show why our side is that of wisdom and the opposing opinion is dirt. or being neutral, we can catalogue the facts and let the reader reason out for himself.
instead of following one of these simple guidelines, these intellectuals go to great lengths to totally confuse the unfortunate reader. if their first four paragraphs tell you why the recent trade agreement is a blessing for the world that will make trees spring with flower and fruit in the middle of sahara and make the poorest mendicant in mecca the moghul of vast oil fields, their last four tell people to wake themselves up from their dreams and don warpaint and tomahawks to disembowel the evil perpetrators of the diabolical trade agreement which, if passed will blight vegetation and cause half the global population to die of diarrhoea and the remaining half to die choking on the discharge. they hail the selectors for dropping player M__ from the squad claiming that this decision proves that democracy and good intentions still rule, and then spit on the decision saying that it reeks of plutocracy and malice. these articles are inevitably followed by a box containing the credentials of the writer saying that he is from the "indispensible bureau of strategic studies" or "an acclaimed critic of the game for the past three decades".
this madness seems to be entrenched even more firmly and naturally in politics. if i were to write a story titled "young jim" where jim walks to the neighboring town, eats a biriyani that is the town's speciality and walks back humming a nice song (the lyrics of which i laboriously undertake to supply) to his house and falls asleep with a contented smile, i would expect to be flogged to death. it is not that jim is a disgusting boy who drinks soup made from rat tails or that he has an ugly girlfriend. jim's life, for all we know might be one tremendously exciting orgy of adrenalin and pleasure (after winning the lottery the next day), but the opposition to the story is that it satiates not in the least the expectations of the masses who read it (if any do read it). similarly, when the layman's reason behind casting his vote in favour of A__ or N__ is the hope of some bread, all he gets is information about why his choice was right - that the state would have gone to dogs under the godless despot with thirty three cases of fraud and debauchery on his head instead of prospering as it is now under the benign saviour of the people with just thirty one in his account. he is tearfully informed by the grand party D__ that the late lamented leader died with words for welfare of the masses on his lips (apart from scotch and soda). he is asked to dance in the streets in ecstacy due to the fall in fertilizer prices that he will apply (with great profit) to the farms he doesnt have. at the end of it all, he is hailed hero and martyr after he has been burnt by henchmen (while he was on his way to the ration shop) and remembered for his "self - immolation" that was the fruit of seasoned ideology.
a call to paint the sky green and eat monkey brains for breakfast is not alarming as long as it is from one person and is ridiculed or ignored by the society. but when the day comes when the common man thinks that green will be a practical substitute to blue and that monkey brains enhance creativity and agility, the society is in serious decadence. aristocracy that tried to enslave the common man and force its necessities into his duty-list was smashed by revolutions. democracy that pretends to embrace the common man and lovingly feed him hemlock has a terrible immunity, for the very parasites that drink away the life blood of the animal which is the society, are the children it raised on its bosom.
for a long time, i have wondered about the reason behind the phenominal success of mystery and detective stories. while in real life, we more often than not loath the very idea of something obscured from us. the inevitable proclivity of even the most ignorant of us is towards omniscience. the patient, for instance wants to know how many souls his quack doctor has despatched. the quack on the other hand wants to know how much his patient is financially worth so that he can appropriately modify his output of medical jargon and fake shots. the little boy struggling with his homework wants to explode the identity of the monster on the right(?) side of the equation. perhaps this daily exasparation is the reason for the great success of the detective stories. these not only create mysteries as life does, but also break them down utterly in the very end. the murderer of poor mr. smith, after two hundred pages of lies, clouded clues and scandalous affairs turns out to be none other than poor mrs. smith. the author tells us (in a hushed tone) of the spiked cudgel that smashed open the rich businessman's vacant skull (to the great diversion of the masses) only to declare that it was wielded by none other than his pet baboon. but however crass or improbable the solutions may be, they must be there. without the last ten pages, the detective novel would very effectively serve as burning fuel, preferably to burn the author with. similarly, deprived of their desired illuminations, the patient, the quack and the schoolboy move towards their coffins, jail cells and parliaments respectively. so, while the populance is generous enough to condone being fooled in the presentation of the solution, it is enraged at the unavailability of one.
but today thanks to the advance of that great machine called civilization, the compromise has become somewhat more strained. the new mystery is quite keeping up with the radical times. good old detectives gave mercurial solutions for sharp puzzles. poor authors gave pathetic solutions for modicum questions. but the new class of story tellers seem to be giving no story at all. it begins with with the promise of one, progresses with the pretense of one and at the end the author congratulates you on your discretion in reading this. it is rather like the old fable of the emperor who wore invisible clothes, only they have gagged all the kids.
the real danger of this situation is not per se in the progress of the trend of story telling itself. cyanide may be introduced in baits without any serious opposition from anyone (excluding the rodent community), but curiously, slipping cyanide into a fresh cup of coffee you have just brewed for your wife may cause nasty complications (not just for the lady). it inevitably draws axe blows (especially from the female community). so, the comparison reveals the existence of a wide gulf between the two applications, as wide as the one between the two communities (though many gentlemen say that the difference is not very considerable). similarly, all sorts of trash may be put in penny dreadfuls and old housewife gossip coloumns. it is when it appears in the daily diet pretending to be serious "news" that the situation becomes alarming.
for instance consider the articles in newspapers. in the actual news reports, inspite of a considerable level of distortion and disfiguration, there exists a story. on a cbi raid on a prominent minister's house, while the officers have found many unaccounted ornaments of his wife's, the media might choose to report that many unaccounted ornamental wives were found. but the fact is that something was found. while the police inspector in charge of the lathicharge may insist that the rowdy protestors come and banged their heads and bodies against the inert lathis in the hands of the shell shocked and innocent constables, the press might take a different view. but the fact remains that some people - angelic or demoniac were beaten up. a certain minimum level of artificial flavour is to be expected even from the most objective journalism. the real problem is in the articles bearing the opinions of certain persons who think it is their business to air their vacant opinions on all problems from the suitability of rexin belts for wife beating to the efficiency of the third century governments in controlling nuclear proliferation. there are two reasonable lines that one may take while giving an article. we can either take sides on the argument and try to show why our side is that of wisdom and the opposing opinion is dirt. or being neutral, we can catalogue the facts and let the reader reason out for himself.
instead of following one of these simple guidelines, these intellectuals go to great lengths to totally confuse the unfortunate reader. if their first four paragraphs tell you why the recent trade agreement is a blessing for the world that will make trees spring with flower and fruit in the middle of sahara and make the poorest mendicant in mecca the moghul of vast oil fields, their last four tell people to wake themselves up from their dreams and don warpaint and tomahawks to disembowel the evil perpetrators of the diabolical trade agreement which, if passed will blight vegetation and cause half the global population to die of diarrhoea and the remaining half to die choking on the discharge. they hail the selectors for dropping player M__ from the squad claiming that this decision proves that democracy and good intentions still rule, and then spit on the decision saying that it reeks of plutocracy and malice. these articles are inevitably followed by a box containing the credentials of the writer saying that he is from the "indispensible bureau of strategic studies" or "an acclaimed critic of the game for the past three decades".
this madness seems to be entrenched even more firmly and naturally in politics. if i were to write a story titled "young jim" where jim walks to the neighboring town, eats a biriyani that is the town's speciality and walks back humming a nice song (the lyrics of which i laboriously undertake to supply) to his house and falls asleep with a contented smile, i would expect to be flogged to death. it is not that jim is a disgusting boy who drinks soup made from rat tails or that he has an ugly girlfriend. jim's life, for all we know might be one tremendously exciting orgy of adrenalin and pleasure (after winning the lottery the next day), but the opposition to the story is that it satiates not in the least the expectations of the masses who read it (if any do read it). similarly, when the layman's reason behind casting his vote in favour of A__ or N__ is the hope of some bread, all he gets is information about why his choice was right - that the state would have gone to dogs under the godless despot with thirty three cases of fraud and debauchery on his head instead of prospering as it is now under the benign saviour of the people with just thirty one in his account. he is tearfully informed by the grand party D__ that the late lamented leader died with words for welfare of the masses on his lips (apart from scotch and soda). he is asked to dance in the streets in ecstacy due to the fall in fertilizer prices that he will apply (with great profit) to the farms he doesnt have. at the end of it all, he is hailed hero and martyr after he has been burnt by henchmen (while he was on his way to the ration shop) and remembered for his "self - immolation" that was the fruit of seasoned ideology.
a call to paint the sky green and eat monkey brains for breakfast is not alarming as long as it is from one person and is ridiculed or ignored by the society. but when the day comes when the common man thinks that green will be a practical substitute to blue and that monkey brains enhance creativity and agility, the society is in serious decadence. aristocracy that tried to enslave the common man and force its necessities into his duty-list was smashed by revolutions. democracy that pretends to embrace the common man and lovingly feed him hemlock has a terrible immunity, for the very parasites that drink away the life blood of the animal which is the society, are the children it raised on its bosom.
posted by Praveen at 11:58 PM
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