A man of many complications, Jobs immortalized a life free of restrictions. He innovated as he dreamt of and made products and concepts before customers could ask for them. In his words, “You can’t just ask customers what they want and then try to give that to them. By the time you get it built, they’ll want something new.” Steve sold ideas and products bundled with inexplicable clairvoyance to corporate houses and consumers.

Put up for adoption, Steve was raised by Paul and Clara Jobs in California. He officially dropped out of college after a semester but continued to attend classes which appealed to him. One such calligraphy class served as the inspiration behind Mac’s multiple typefaces.

In 1985, he was relieved of responsibilities in his own company Apple and left in search of greener avenues. Founding NeXT Computer Inc. in 1985, he also purchased ‘The Graphics Group’ (part of the Computer Division of Lucasfilm) and renamed it as Pixar in 1986. His lack of a college degree, any degree never derailed him on his path to greatness. He made mistakes, pursued wrong ideas but almost always got back on track. Pixar was sold to Walt Disney in 2006 for $7.4 Billion and the sale made him the largest Disney shareholder. NeXT Computer Inc. was bought by Apple in 1997 and thus began Jobs’ second stint at the firm. When he left Apple as CEO in August 2011, the stock price was up by 7, 240 per cent from the time he’d joined the firm again in September 1997. Keeping aside numbers used to describe his achievements, he made people believe anew in what Arthur C. Clarke (Science Fiction Author & Inventor) once said, “We should be less concerned about adding years to life, and more about adding life to years”.

The permission to go ahead, take risks and start-up is seen as the preserve of the wild and the callous, the entrepreneur. It is not supposed to be the path taken by sensible responsible people. Education has an importance but its purpose seems to have been lost in this age of information overload. We are studying for a quarter of our lives to attain respectability and a steady income thereon. It is a life followed by many and not one to be snubbed but is it the life dreamt of when we stare at ourselves in the mirror each day.

As Steve Jobs said in his Stanford commencement address in 2005, “When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: “If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you’ll most certainly be right”. It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?” And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something”.

One can change the way they look, their attire and at the most, their occupation. But, can they put forth their own ideas, ill-formed even and work on them like Jobs did. Is it possible to cast aside the shelter of conventionality and become an iconoclast in the hope of becoming an icon like Steve! At most, we can try to be like him but that was not his message to people. He did not endorse leaving school/ college, starting up or becoming a billionaire. He believed in people living their desired life unbound by convention and unscathed by prejudice. Jobs has been referred to as a fierce competitor but that was a by-product of the way he chose to live and run his companies.

In death, we see the end of a human being. But for Jobs, it has only just begun. His demise leaves a void not just in the technology sector but in the world. The contribution he made to mankind will ensure he never dies in our hearts and minds. People measure his contribution in terms of the company stock price, products, cash deposits, market share etc. What they cannot measure is the change he brought about in the world. Anybody can make money but few can create and see that creation’s potential limited only by man’s abilities to innovate.

His life’s work influenced millions of people worldwide and implored them to follow their passion and trust their intuition. Comparisons with visionaries of his time are futile. Jobs wasn’t a prodigy, wasn’t different, but he looked at things differently. He took what he knew and learnt and made people realize what they loved. Be it hardware, software, movies or life, his ability to connect with people of various generations was unparalleled. To borrow his catchphrase, “It just works”. The irrepressible salesman in life and in death will be a lasting influence for people all over the world.

He was a man who lived life the way it should be lived. He surpassed every barrier, struck down every convention and gave people what they wanted before they knew what they desired. Trailblazer, phenom, magician, genius are a few words which barely graze the surface when it comes to describing Jobs. When all is said and done, one would do anything to hear him say, ‘One more thing’ again.

To quote Leo Rosten (Academic & Author), “The purpose of life is not to be happy — but to matter, to be productive, to be useful, to have it make some difference that you have lived at all.”

Steven Paul Jobs did that.

Bed stories for children narrated in daylight as storytellers won the polls.
The arts decried victories as majorities roared in ballot paper to achieve goals.
Tales of words and numbers spread far and long.
These were stories for children, not for adults to make them belong.
The truth imperiled and twisted beyond extremes.
Now nothing lies in borders, not even dreams.

The truth would matter. It had stature and was placed on a pedestal, above the bickering of people and institutions. On a pendulum, it would swing one way or the other, but never for too long. It would return to its center and collude with morality. The truth was resolute and determinate. It was not easily thrust aside or foisted onto newcomers in the parliament. It was the great leveller and clung to the privileged and the implacably unprivileged. The concept of truth stood the test of time. It may still find its way back to the centre and bind people in its certainties. For now, it is dishevelled and rejected, hitchhiking on highways, in pursuit of people who will believe.

Freedom of thought led to freedom of speech. We didn’t stop. We took it to freedom of belief that stretched to freedom to persuade. Now, the truth is out of control. Never for purchase, it now changes forms and length and ownership. It would stand alone, but is now an acquired storefront. Truth corrodes society that it built, and coagulates as people question its origins. It is left and right and central, and funded by special interests. It is free and fair and expensive and discriminates.

The concept transmutes and spreads through mediums that once fostered equity. The great social networks were to lift people out of oppression and shed light on the darkness of disparity. Their purpose turned profitable, but their use has grown sour. We can’t stopper the truth as it spills, overflows and sweeps through dust on our roads. Power is derived through truths, but whose truths, and at what cost?

Public forums would require credentials and purposeful presence. As our daily waking hours were increasingly spent online, credentials deteriorated and one person could have many voices. With a low cost and time investment, people’s voices could be amplified and in repetition, take on the facade of truth. As people with agendas found megaphones to spread their truths, the ones to figure out the format trumped those who could not. The lure of personality gave way to misinformation, self-aggrandizement and blatant puffery. Personality is inadequate without a following. These forums enabled people to reach others who believed in their loathsome ideals and malignant beliefs. We equipped people with tools to build a following that no one can control, not even them. In the midst of this assault, begun by talking heads on television screens, we lost the narrative of the truth.

We cannot lose truth as it is quashed by the society to which it gave purpose. Its evil twin, misinformation, is lambasted in every single newspaper and digital media publication in the world today. The absence of truth is not unnoticed as we scurry around to stop falsehoods that occupy its position. In our hurry, we seek to stomp out imitators, instead of realizing the inherent power of truth. If mere falsehoods weaponized truth and made it a dirty bomb, we should walk the way of the underdog. We seek a fair fight funded on advertising networks. We should not. We demand justice in light of self-propagated nationalism. We cannot.

Reclaiming the truth requires belief in bodies that told the truth. We need our great social networks and technology titans to fund media that traditionally safeguarded the truth and repeated it for everyone. We all have to give back to take the truth forward. It must be in concert with disruptive forces that in part enabled our generation’s soothsayers to twist the truth. This process may hurt company profits today, but is imperative to heal society.

Curled up in the middle. The shadows dawn long and dark. Beings rustle in the dark and the light overwhelms the farce.

Tripping in the folds, cluttering into bowls. Sentries stand tall, unbowed and unblinking. Sovereign reign is sinking.

Glass like shards litter the surroundings. Steps are treacherous, inaction more. Who tells you stories of lore?

Safety sought in the inanimate, things quell beings hollow and cold. Squeaks and creaks escape the dark. Fire in art does little to escape a start.

Dawn greets silence. Light eats the world. Movements amplified, stillness in sighs. People flit, little children tear amidst. Grit.

Meals on wheels, normalcy in greed. Water splashes in colours of the rainbow. Strong ties in a blue bow.

Tired faces stare at sight, greet people trite. Books sit, clothes fit and disappear. Calm and clear in care, the bravest ones do not dare.

Wit strikes hardest as colours change. Folds envelop as we broaden their range. Things change and beings arrange, but the room is still strange.

My light is mine
My darkness is thine
People in line
Strobe lights divine

Pledging honesty fingers crossed
Beads rustle in a box embossed
People rush into a bout
Writing scrolls in papers devout

God men push doors intoxicated
Waiting for people sated
Lights flicker in anticipation
Cut lines call for 3 days at the station

My light is mine
My darkness is thine
People in line
Strobe lights divine

Chopping dicing and slicing roots
Teasing the spotlight off my boots
Ajar windows send smoke
Children sit entranced by shifting shapes woke

The final meal prepared for oblivion
People unite to separate with division
Slippers cast on the floor
Food lies in wait in askance of more

My light is mine
My darkness is thine
People in line
Strobe lights divine

Brothers in arms bear harm
Clenched fists no cause for alarm
Dining in plain sight in spite
What good has ever come of great might

Curved daggers fly in the air
Peaceful smiles mask those who snare
Legacies are borne of belief
Let yourself continue unburdened by grief

Streets lined in people with spine
Bees dine in the tower no longer mine

History ripples and bottles roar
Paved streets of gold, people want more
Unremarked ambition threatens to soar
At the end, how can you dare to be dour

Streets lined in people with spine
Bees dine in the tower no longer mine

Swords curse and ironsmiths smite
Briefcases, not arms, spin and fight
Voices float above the din in might
Eyes narrowed unaware, unafraid, instilled with bite

Streets lined in people with spine
Bees dine in the tower no longer mine

Tables weighed with fables, children hide
Horses in the stables, suppress thought and bide
Reigns that are stretched, people will abide
Unconscious, full bodied individuals garrulous preside

Streets lined in people with spine
Bees dine in the tower no longer mine

Crumbling steps hold unrequited dreams
Glimpsing through windows, flit people in reams
Nervous hands jostle with latches and inhibited screams
Tearing at the edges, baring all at the seams

Streets lined in people with spine
Bees dine in the tower no longer mine

Glorious throats squeaked till reproach
The winsome have no fear to poach
Ambitions in tiny lockets encroach
Spill, enlarge, ravage, and travel coach

Streets lined in people with spine
Bees dine in the tower no longer mine

Chins wag and the peacocks’ brag
Desires thrust in the open must sag
Leading with heart intact, a loaded mag
Opportunity thrust upon us curves up into onto the crag

You are surrounded by objects. A television, bag, proof of identification, all figments. Your search for substance continues as you plod through the house, rub your eyes and try not to walk into the door stopper. A bell rings and everything becomes clear in that moment in time. Not yet. All is fluid and unrecognisable from yesterday. There is time, wretched alarm clock time.

A silent groan escapes as you walk through a mountain of clothes and traverse the valley of debt in envelopes. A day more, one more day, school’s out, you tell yourself. A false grin, a half smile cavorts and plays mind tricks as you open the fridge out of habit.

Peeping into the next room, you walk on your toes like the grinch on Christmas Eve. True to form, you bang your knee against the drawer and hold it in as your eyes well up with passive-aggressive humour. It’s funny, terrible and inherently laughable.

Saturday

You bounce off the bed like jack in the box. As you whizz through the house, objects and unmentionables sidle & slide into corners with bemusement. Knock Ring Buzz Stomp, the sounds of silence call out. No one’s home.

Filling up your heavy duty OJ thermos, you gaze with squinted eyes at the cheeky palette outside. Stepping closer to the window, you nudge past wastepaper baskets vying for attention. It’s a day to behold for everyone clinging to threadbare robes. Bright glares unfold.

Clean socks, basketball shorts and tall sneakers wait in the hall. Your sneaker’s eyes follow as you traipse through the kitchen on the balls of your feet. It’s time to gaze and wave at people you have yet to meet. Warm cups of soul.

Life is a kaleidoscope of emotions. Warm wavy colours breeze into the night with cold harsh pastels. People turn the cheek and harden their hearts. Men fold their papers and twist their fingers into intricate combinations and then part. Women sigh and sense all the things bordering the intense. Children rush into lines and wonder with telltale signs.

Nobody hides when they are young. People fear when they know words. Till then, a warm smile, a little guile and a pure heart overcome through art. Waves crashing on the shore and birds twirling in the trees. Childhood is made of immense ingenuity. Baby steps in the dark are warmer than footsteps in the yard. Closing doors contain windows into the world. But who will bare their emotions in front of one’s own. Visible emotion in puddles of magical potion.

Rise up in the morning and turn towards the sun. Toss in a smile and cuddle the corners of a blanket all morning long. We are everything in the blink of an eye. Afraid to see with tiny bleary eyes. Cups stain wooden tables and the floor. The heart fades into slower beats in front of people who want more.

Say a little prayer. Sing a little song. The fireplace is warm with the glow of voices and intimate nothing sounds. Humming under your breath, you leave the peacocks behind. Why do you seek in pictures what you have in your heart. Keep spurning the verse of meaning and rhyme. Home lies in people and the people in your heart. Sleep softly with blazing technicolour dreams. Your vision will come to life in softly padded delicate scenes. Knit your story in needles of fire. Turn your life into hard bound, stories not fiction. Life is true in conviction.

What does it mean to resist? To turn the tide, lift up your chin and persist

Life can sway and swing with the wind, don’t be lied to by the undulating wave rhythm

Pull up your shoulders and tie down your shoes, life is going to slip you into a multicoloured swoon

Bragging the house down and twisting the door knobs, word has it the street is full of the mob

What does it mean to resist? To turn the tide, lift up your chin and persist

Books filled with dour matter, life is full of paper edges and rancid tatters

Tugging your sleeves and imperceptibly smoothening your collar, hush, the streets grow aloud with pitter-patter

Fierce sounds fill the air and breathless sighs overbear, are we going to start in despair

What does it mean to resist? To turn the tide, lift up your chin and persist

Doors creak and swear with every swing of overwhelming roar, can it be, is it, maybe someone is inching close

Pinpricks spread on tips of toes and fingers, singers whinge and cringe as they are made to linger

The faces appear, pear shaped and bare, smiles disappear, and laughs bear, this is what we desire, in the eyes of parents, these are the children who cannot tire, who inspire, and bring to life bombast and fire

Even as the morning sun beckons to me outside the window, the sheaf of papers on my desk weighs me down. As the birds talk and twitter about with gay abandon, I pick up papers resting on the floor. The shoddy desk was born as a majestic tree once upon a time. Now, it lay unlinked from the world, rooted to floors sheltered from the elements.

As I crane my neck to stare out of the guilty window, its frame doesn’t seem all that stable. Filtered light streams in and I become accustomed to the glare. I live with the glare and learn to embrace the times it settles on me. Shaking my head with a wry smile, I return to decluttering my desk by picking up one piece of paper at a time.

I stand up uneasy even as the papers on my desk stare with rank hostility. Hostility born not from the inanimate but from the havoc wreaked in my mind’s confines. I feel relieved as I withdraw from my claustrophobic environs. Glorious, strong waves of relief thrash and overwhelm as I concoct scenarios previously unimaginable. Sanctimonious thoughts cloud my judgement as too less is too much.

As I obfuscate the limits of imagination, I laugh aloud with realization. It is not real. Nothing is. All of it is steeped in physical limits placed by the world. There is a desk with papers, an unopened window to glimpse the world, and a chair. I had sat in the chair for 3 hours without pausing to collect papers that cluttered the attached desk’s surface. The window was closed but the scenery changed in defiance of the clock.

Nothing was changed, yet, everything was altered. The room, limited in size, expanded my horizons with the resplendent view. Papers with tiny print were magnified as chains that wore me down like the ones burdening ghosts of Christmas. Even oaths sworn were tainted by practicality as the room revealed its presence.

The smells and sounds of the world defied the closed windows and slithered into the room as a reminder of the material world. Nothing clouded my perception and yet everything could. The beauty lay in what was yet to take place. It was all in my head but maybe that is why it mattered. The world was unchanged and the room unmoved. People did not stop. They changed forms and beings and hearts. My work incomplete, room lost outside, and mind free.

As a wise man once said “Of course it is happening inside your head, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”

In the night, nobody is allowed to listen. Those hard of hearing and thought try to glean knowledge but falter in their attempts. Focusing on the offspring of others, they relinquish their fate to other such listeners and makers of sounds. Not the smartest decision but again, not the hardest decision.

Even as the body goes through the motions, the sounds it makes are unique each time. The rustle of a jacket’s rough inner seams against the comparatively soothing clothes is masculine, but not to the night. While guilty of magnifying sounds and moments, the night never embellishes them. The mass-produced television sets let us believe otherwise.

Even as the night betrays nobody, it betrays everything. Sounds of a being cater not to him but to those ill-fated mortals who believe they can hear. Supine at the crack of dawn and at other morning hours, these men wait for the night to provide them with entertainment. Inhuman as it may be, each man’s poison is not for us to decide.

Built up as mystical and profound, the night is not as it is told. It holds no secrets and may be the most visible time available for introspection. We cover ourselves with objects and barricade ourselves within our abodes with cold slabs of wood and steel. Shelter is sought under puny blankets and they witness us siding with solemn cushions. While nothing is what it seems in the day, everything is just as it is, in the night. Fear is fear, love is love and warm bodies keep each other warm in the throes of the afore-stated darkness.

While pain has no competitor, none that we seek, we often find an evenly-matched rival in the garrulous night. Letting the light flow in from the dark, we bear witness to what may be the closest relation of our freshly-washed outside world. Goading us to take a peek over the edge of the precipice, it is reminiscent of the tease we lusted after in our glory days. Pure in its intention and thought, the tease is often waylaid by the burden of puberty that weighs down on its observers.

Never marginalized in fairy tales or parental talks, its aura is often mistaken and lived in with fear. Its glorious character is misinterpreted and worse still, left to the interpretation of those who are taught backwards. Taught from stories the alphabet, unruly nighttime creations cannot hope to deconstruct the mere change in perception.

With unfettered and foul use of imagination, the shadows in the night assume the shape of our monsters. Each laborious breath and peek at the flaccid scenery draws us closer into ourselves than was thought possible. Even as the playground was never as large or as kind, the instinct of self-preservation overtakes the right to understand. The onus lies on us to see more than we care for but the mind colors every one of the squares that make up the scenery.

Our inability to see in the night is a weakness but we forgo what should be seen in the interests of our vacuous mind. Ignoring the blatant truth out in the darkness for the by-products of our convoluted minds, we pay lip-service to ourselves, to our imaginations. While imagination remains the greatest thing yet to be discovered, the night calls for the mind- The unadulterated, unashamed representation of one’s intellect hewn by the reluctant available media.

If you can see in the night, you can see the unabashed truth reflected in every surface and object that litters the dark. Nothing is pre-ordained, not the days, not the nights and not your perception.