sachinkalbag
A FUTURE IMPERFECT
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March 28 2009, 01:36 AM
Mangesh Mahajan entered his dark, dingy, roach-infested room and said hello to Wormhole. Wormhole was Rabbit Hole’s younger, faster-processing sibling; fired up with all the complex algorithms he had storyboarded in his recurring dreams.
Rabbit Hole was Version 1 - Lewis Carrollish. Wormhole was Version 3, an idea that would put Hugo awardees to shame. Even Brian Greene who ate eleven dimensions for breakfast would be proud.
“Hell, please, Neo, make it work,” Mangesh thought, swatting away a baby roach that emerged from his non-ergonomic keyboard.
For Mangesh, Neo from The Matrix trilogy was The One. “God had to have some human form,” he once told an IIT Bombay lecturer.
Wormhole’s screen flashed:
OCTOBER 16, 2033 | 12:37:23 PM | “Killed sister at noon. Run!”
Mangesh gaped at the LCD monitor.
“Killed sister at noon? Come on, Warp, don’t mess with me!”
Warp was his software masterpiece; he had been developing it for seven years. Each day, Mangesh would meticulously write scores of journal entries into a spreadsheet, noting the time in one column, what he did in the next, and in what context he performed that act in the third. Nearly 88 percent of his tasks ended up being similar - putting on clothes, brushing his teeth, reading books, answering the doorbell, making love to his girlfriend, calling up friends.
Each of these acts was given a unique number. Mangesh then wrote an algorithm that would analyse the hundreds of thousands of journal entries and assign probabilities of these acts repeating. Warp helped him know exactly what he would be up to at any time in the future.
Mathematics defined his life, even if only with probabilities. Sadly, it was a dreary, monotonous future.
But now, Warp was prophesying he would be his sister’s killer.
He ran Warp on Wormhole again. No go.
Mangesh was swatting imaginary roaches now. He wiped a sweat-drop off an eyebrow.
He reworked his algorithm and changed a few protocols five times. He was still a killer. He looked up what he would be doing on February 3, 2037 at 11 AM. “Lunch at Arthur Road Jail.” He was a murderer!
“Damn!”
Mangesh stumbled out of his room, ran down the stairs, and revved his bike.
He had to tell his sister to stay away from him. “I could be wrong, mathematics can’t.”
He was doing 85 kmph. He had to reach his sister’s at Waterfield Road fast. Fifteen kilometers. That’s twenty minutes at 3 AM, he calculated. “
Come on!”
In a while, Mangesh turned into Bandra-Kurla Complex. He missed the large truck coming onto him. At 3 AM, a truck driver could take liberties with traffic rules.
Mangesh was hit head-on, throwing him thirty feet away, a few paces shy of one of the many glass facades.
“Goddamnit Warp, you never told me this. Traitor,” Mangesh said as he hit the ground and saw a long tunnel with exceptionally bright lights and little else.
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March 28 2009, 01:36 AM
Mangesh Mahajan entered his dark, dingy, roach-infested room and said hello to Wormhole. Wormhole was Rabbit Hole’s younger, faster-processing sibling; fired up with all the complex algorithms he had storyboarded in his recurring dreams.
Rabbit Hole was Version 1 - Lewis Carrollish. Wormhole was Version 3, an idea that would put Hugo awardees to shame. Even Brian Greene who ate eleven dimensions for breakfast would be proud.
“Hell, please, Neo, make it work,” Mangesh thought, swatting away a baby roach that emerged from his non-ergonomic keyboard.
For Mangesh, Neo from The Matrix trilogy was The One. “God had to have some human form,” he once told an IIT Bombay lecturer.
Wormhole’s screen flashed:
OCTOBER 16, 2033 | 12:37:23 PM | “Killed sister at noon. Run!”
Mangesh gaped at the LCD monitor.
“Killed sister at noon? Come on, Warp, don’t mess with me!”
Warp was his software masterpiece; he had been developing it for seven years. Each day, Mangesh would meticulously write scores of journal entries into a spreadsheet, noting the time in one column, what he did in the next, and in what context he performed that act in the third. Nearly 88 percent of his tasks ended up being similar - putting on clothes, brushing his teeth, reading books, answering the doorbell, making love to his girlfriend, calling up friends.
Each of these acts was given a unique number. Mangesh then wrote an algorithm that would analyse the hundreds of thousands of journal entries and assign probabilities of these acts repeating. Warp helped him know exactly what he would be up to at any time in the future.
Mathematics defined his life, even if only with probabilities. Sadly, it was a dreary, monotonous future.
But now, Warp was prophesying he would be his sister’s killer.
He ran Warp on Wormhole again. No go.
Mangesh was swatting imaginary roaches now. He wiped a sweat-drop off an eyebrow.
He reworked his algorithm and changed a few protocols five times. He was still a killer. He looked up what he would be doing on February 3, 2037 at 11 AM. “Lunch at Arthur Road Jail.” He was a murderer!
“Damn!”
Mangesh stumbled out of his room, ran down the stairs, and revved his bike.
He had to tell his sister to stay away from him. “I could be wrong, mathematics can’t.”
He was doing 85 kmph. He had to reach his sister’s at Waterfield Road fast. Fifteen kilometers. That’s twenty minutes at 3 AM, he calculated. “
Come on!”
In a while, Mangesh turned into Bandra-Kurla Complex. He missed the large truck coming onto him. At 3 AM, a truck driver could take liberties with traffic rules.
Mangesh was hit head-on, throwing him thirty feet away, a few paces shy of one of the many glass facades.
“Goddamnit Warp, you never told me this. Traitor,” Mangesh said as he hit the ground and saw a long tunnel with exceptionally bright lights and little else.
Poll Rate this entry