The Witch’s Curse

The caravan decided to make camp on the bottom of the hill slope. The caravan carried gold from the Dranik Empire, that Kramer the Great had managed to earn after ridding the region of its many horrific monsters. 

Kramer had lived a very eventful life, and had earned a reputation for himself. All of the Poliksh continent knew that if some monster turned into a real pestilence, you sent for Kramer. Kramer had a beautiful wife, and like the prized possession she was, Kramer took her everywhere he went. People even speculated that she was his lucky charm. Sometimes in hushed whispers they would discuss whether she was an actual enchantress, who gave Kramer his skills. His wife was pregnant now, with a baby. The druids said the baby was going to be a healthy boy who would live a very remarkable life. Kramer couldn’t wait to teach all that he had learnt from life to his first born. 

As the tents for the night were being put up and the fire was being lit, an old witch cane into light.

“Oh how wonderful, I was just seeking shelter for night, and I saw this quaint settlement.”

A few men near her shifted uneasily, some hesitantly opened their mouths.

“What? I don’t bite!” She cackled.

“Not without reason anyway.” Her rotten teeth nearly seemed to fall out of her mouth. The black robe around her glimmered with the embers of flame dancing around the fire. Women were now pushing their children inside the safety of tents, a handful of men were about to unsheathe their swords when Kramer came out of his tent, unaware of the boiling ruckus outside.

“I am about to have a baby! Call the midwife!”

The midwife hurried into the tent. She had been made a part of this journey just to cater for such an eventuality. She scuttled in and Kramer was about to follow in too when one of the men hearkened him.

“What is it?”

“There’s a witch demanding shelter”

“Well tell her to bugger off.” He said this and went in.

The witch quietly smiled and sat down away from the camp. Her face was still illuminated partially by the camp fire. She muttered under her breath:

“Oh I think he’s going to need me anyways”

This was followed by a period of unease, as multiple loud cries of anguish and pain came out of the tent. Kramer’s wife seemed to be having trouble delivering the baby. The men and women outside sat solemnly now. They felt this delay in the birth ominous and the presence of the witch, giggling in the corner, foreboding. 

“I don’t care! Save them both! I’ll strangle you with my own hands!”

The uproarious command by Kramer startled everyone outside, except the witch. She calmly stood up, and stretched her back to an unnatural extent. The popping of her joints was sickening, as she ambled across the camp. Nobody stopped her. Nobody dared to.

“I can save them”

She lucidly said this standing barely outside the tent. Somehow despite all the cries from his wife, Kramer heard the witch and stormed out.

“Don’t lie, old hag!”

The witch threw her hands up in helplessness and started walking backwards.

Kramer took a step backwards and then swallowed, his ego quite possibly, and spoke:

“How can you save them?”

The witch plastered an ugly smile on her face, swivelled and started walking back toward the tent. She bent down outside, plucked the grass from outside and sniffed it.

“Listen you big bearded fool, I cannot promise you your wife’s life. I will try but the thread has gone too thin. However I will save your son. In return, all I ask for is passage with your caravan.”

“Granted, but my wife-“

She patted him on the shoulder and walked in.

“Just stay out.”

Kramer collapsed down against a rock outside the tent. He had given in to his emotions in a moment of weakening resolve. He hoped he wouldn’t regret it. He sat, stroking his beard, which still had some crusts of monster blood stuck in them. 

Nobody quite knew how much time passed because Kramer’s wife didn’t stop screaming. Her cries became more and more shrill. She didn’t seem to tire out. Nobody slept that night. Nevertheless before the first crack of dawn, her voice lost the verve. It seemed to shallow out, and just before it completely gave out, a new cry took its place. The cry of a baby. 

The midwife came out holding the baby. Kramer’s son. Kramer managed to stand up and hold his son in his arms. Tears welled up in his eyes and streaked his cheeks. They burned his sleep deprived eyes.

“My wife....?”

“Dead.” The witch emerged from the tent, rubbing her hands together. 

Kramer handed his son to the midwife, and stop quietly for a second; his head hung low. Then in a deep reverberating voice he said:

“You were supposed to save her.”

The witch scowled as she started moving towards her stash at the edge of the encampment.

“I said I would try. You should be glad the son lived, took all of my skills to get him out alive.”

The witch started putting her things in order, her vials clinked in her robe.

Kramer who had been standing motionless still, abruptly made his way across to the witch. With a single swift motion, he had struck the witch and landed her frail figure meters way.

“Get out.”

The witch who had been caught unawares by the blow, now stood up evenly, in a manner unexpected given her apparent age. 

“Don’t make a mistake, you bearded fool.”

“I. SAID-“ and with this he was on her again. This time he held her by her throat, and nearly strangled her. The witch managed to read some incantation and slightly singe his hands. Kramer still flung her afar. 

“Leave you filthy hag, and if I ever see your face again, I will make sure all of Poliksh knows of the torture I put you through.”

The witch lingered for a moment. Then she closed her eyes; spat on the ground; made gestures with her hand; and maliciously screamed:

“Listen then. Listen for I am cursing your son, Kramer of Ginia. I am cursing your son, to a fight he will not be able to win. A fight that will kill him eventually. He will fight a Hydra in his life, and as he slays one head of the Hydra, two more will come to take the place of the slain one, and so it will go on. Till your son will drop dead of exhaustion.”

Having said this, the witch ran away maniacally clicking her heels.

Kramer paid no heed to her words. 

Yet, for some reason they stuck with him. For he trained his son, Remi to become the best fighter of the entire Northern Continent. Kramer himself somehow fell through the cracks of the world like an old forgotten legendary tale. He was no longer as effective at fighting after his wife’s death. This seemed to accredit the soothsayers theory that his wife was the source of his magical skills. Withal, Kramer didn’t mind what the people around him spoke. He had lived his life and he had wanted to retire anyway. The only job he felt he owed was to tell his son of the conditions in which he was born in and so he did.

Remi was initially dumbfounded. His father had never really talked about his mother, let alone about the circumstances of her death. He felt relieved and confident. He felt like he was finally ready to take on the real world. This felt like becoming a man.

And so little Remi, left the sanctity of his birth town to find what fate had in store for him. He wasn’t sure if the curse was even real, at the same time though, it didn’t hurt to be careful. He made friends; some of them good, some not so good. When fighting monsters didn’t pay well, he decided to become a fisherman in a port city. He met a sailor’s charming daughter there one night and before he could explain what about her attracted him so much he was married and had settled down. In the second year of their marriage they had a cute little baby boy who became the apple of every townsfolk’s eyes. He had started to believe that he was one of the few lucky people in the world who pull the long straws from destiny’s store. He had completely forgotten about his legendary but now dead dad and the tale of the witch’s curse. 

Then the series of unfortunate events began.

His son died of a mysterious illness, and had showed no previous symptoms. They had a daughter next who was born still. Struck by grief and despair, for a couple springs Remi didn’t go to bed with his wife. Her wife of course blamed herself for not being able to produce him a healthy offspring. Their marriage seemed to be falling apart slowly. By some divine luck, they had twins later. When the twins came to be of two years old and showed no sign of any disease, only then did Remi breathed a sigh of relief. Elated he threw a feast to the entire town. Everybody joined in, in their celebration. The joy was preemptory though, for the very next day, the twins contracted food poisoning. This also proved to be the means to their end. 

This put the final nail on their marriage’s coffin. They separated and many a fathers offered their daughters hand in marriage to Remi, since he was still a mighty man who pulled in more fishes than many men could even boast of. Remi refused them all. Perhaps maybe a part of him did suspect his wife of being the faulty half, because unknown to common knowledge, he had a baby with a street harlot. The baby died in womb.

Convinced of his rotten luck and having embraced the fact that he was the last of his lineage, he sold all that he owned; paid all his debts; cleared all his accounts and bought a cottage near the shore, where he spent out the rest of his life in complete loneliness. 

The towns people notoriously secretly called him Remi the Childless One. One day a witch who happened to be passing by the town heard someone relating the tale of Remi the Childless One to a rapt audience in a bar. Her ears perked up and she stealthily inquired:

“Was this Remi you speak of, the son of Kramer of Ginia?”

“What? Who’s that?” the storyteller felt perturbed at being interrupted and he immediately continued his anecdote.

The witch paused for a moment and then took a big swig of the bitter gin from the mug. 

Close observers could see her smiling nastily into the mug. 

Sheep

One of the most recurring themes in modern philosophy is existentialism. Philosophers talk about whether life has a meaning or not, or if it’s even supposed to have a meaning or not. Albert Camus, says all such questions are meaningless and the only real argument that exists is; Is it worth committing suicide? 

Morbid.

However, what Camus was referring to as suicide wasn’t the one that probably got conjured up in your mind. Camus talks about philosophical suicide. He says, that even trying to find the meaning in life is absurd. We are Sisyphus, rolling a heavy boulder against the slope. Any attempt to want to establish a purpose to your life despite overwhelming evidence against the presence of one is tantamount to suicide; philosophically.

I am not qualified to talk about any of these things, even if I were, I regret to inform you I value my neck more than I value my principles. 

The term, philosophical suicide, that’s what piques my interest. I feel like there’s a phenomenon where this term would be more apt. 

People are sheep. I am not being contemptuous, but they really are. There are no shepherds. There are only german shepherds, and oh boy, are they loud. They’ll woof here and woof there and make sure all the sheep form a orderly queue, and go exactly where it wants them to go. The sheep don’t make a sound. Occasionally they bleat in protest but the reciprocating bark is always louder, more shunning. And so it goes, the german shepherds segregate the sheep and march them into their respective pens across the pastures. Nothing is expected of the sheep by the dogs. They eat, live and all they have to do is stay in the pen where the german shepherds have escorted them. What’s the incentive for the sheep? Why follow the dogs? It’s simple. To them, the wolves that patrol the borders of the pasture, the wolves of uncertainty and doubt, are scary. The sheep find the numbing blankness that the german shepherds and the pens bring preferable to the liberty and skepticism that the region beyond the pasture and the wolves offer. But, why do the dogs do their duty? Oh it’s so simple. It’s in their nature to bark. If they get to bark (which they have to do anyway) and their voices somehow make the sheep follow them, well that’s just handy dandy then. Who doesn’t like to be the centre of attention or be the cause for rallying. 

Sometimes, the german shepherd of one pen, decides to have a fight with that of another. They’ll go on at each other from a distance. Yapping away into the night. Despite not really caring, the sheep find themselves in the thicket of the skirmish. Accidentally or deliberately, the louder barking of one of the dogs sways them from one pen to another, and certain sheep find themselves in the wrong area. Does it matter to them? Not really.  The barks weren’t of very varying frequencies anyway. They are in the new pen now. The dog must have been better at guiding them or how else would they have ever come here. They couldn’t possibly make this decision themselves. After all, they’re just sheep. They have no will to power or decision capability. They go where the herd is lead by the bark. Let’s not forget though, the sheep knows it’s worth too, and secretly, it relishes that the german shepherds would go nuts were it not for the sheep following them. And so like the most intelligent being, the sheep takes strength from the knowledge that it is content with being a sheep. Thus unbeknownst to it, the sheep commits philosophical suicide. 

Don’t be a sheep.

Think for yourself.

Happy International Women’s Day. 

My haphazard notes on biological anthropology and Darwinism’s relation with Nazis

Aristotles teleological assumption

Racial classification

Craniometry and 5 types: Caucasian, Mongolian, Aethiopian, Malayan, American

Slavery and abolitionists; monogenists and polygenists 

Franz Boas and his distinction but continuation of racial (European) superiority

https://web.archive.org/web/20130106212400/http://anthro.palomar.edu/vary/vary_2.htm

Typological model= skin colour, hair colour, body build, stature etc based on Linnaeus’ classification

False assumptions and wrong criterias; Recent research comparing human DNA sequences from around the world has shown that 90% of human genetic variation exists within what we have previously assumed to be more or less separate "races" and only 10% between them.  In other words, "racial" groups are far from being homogenous.

Populational Model= based off of anatomical and physiological differences after considering the population ie groups of people who’ve mated internally and exclusively but distance has never hindered reproduction 

Clinal Model=This model is based on the fact that genetically inherited traits most often change gradually in frequency from one geographic area to another. Allele B frequency across Europe:

Gradual change because the close living people mate with each other and there’s more chance that they’ll mate with closer people (>100 miles) than more. Still as transportation becomes easier these results may be slightly tainted but still very reliable. 

But this doesn’t work well wide properly together. This might be due to historical migration, large world wide events or pockets of isolated communities.

==> The patterns of human variation around the world are not only highly complex but also are constantly shifting through time.  Furthermore, the rate of change in the patterns has been accelerating as our numbers grow and as long distance travel and migration become more routine.  Contributing to the intermixture of peoples in the Western World has been a reduction of inhibitions about marriage across perceived "racial" lines.  When we are compared to many other kinds of animals, it is remarkable how little variation exists within our own species.  There is 2-3 times more genetic variation among chimpanzees, 8-10 times more among orangutans, and thousands of times more in many insect species.  Most biological anthropologists would agree that human variation is not now sufficient to warrant defining separate biological races, varieties, or sub-species.  However, it very likely was in our distant prehistoric past.

—> Race is a social construct. No biological basis.

—————————————————————

https://www.csustan.edu/sites/default/files/History/Faculty/Weikart/Darwinism-in-Nazi-Racial-Thought.pdf

Hitler was a social Darwinist. Believed in survival of fittest but not human evolution: eugenics, kill disabled, more land, racial extermination

Because Nordic and Aryan superiority as they faced colder weather.

Agreed with Weismann and not Lamarck. Right to do so.

According to them Darwinism supports racial inequality: aryans diverged too early, natural selection drives aryans, oppose miscegenatio. n 

Eugene Fischer (big boy) also has hair colour scale, Fritz Lenz, Theodore Fritsch, Gobineaus racism, Hans Weinert, Hans Gunther, 

Present in Mein Kempf 

A new summer is around the corner

The birds were chirping.
The sun cast a bleak ray inside the cold, large mansion.
The lady of the house sat on the rocking chair, cradling a photo album. She wore rounded spectacles on her already ovoid face. Long strands of hair fell on both sides, curling at the very end. She had amicable features; large, circular kind eyes with brown iris, and a nondescript nose. Her lips were thin and even the slightest hint of a smile revealed her glossy white set of teeth. The menacing dimness of her surroundings were a vibrant contrast to her pale skin and white dress. She looked, for want of a better phrase, like a kindly ghost, sitting alone in that chair. She was looking outside the window now, at a tree; thinking about something intently, when the loud footsteps from above brought her shuddering back to reality.
“Aldous” a low pitched voice beckoned.
“Yes, master” an adenoidal voice replied and out of one of the many corridors, a butler appeared; hunch-backed and apologetic.
The owner of the deep voice, who was the master of the house, descended from the stairs to the floor. He was a man of bulky stature, like giants in myths. He looked positively intimidating. The magnificent curls of his moustache and his sculptured facial features made him look cruelly handsome. The stray strand of hair flitting on his forehead was just a touché. He walked up to his wife, kissed her lightly, and then addressed the butler again.
“I won’t be back till late, Aldous. Don’t hold off your Lady’s lunch or dinner because of me.”
He wrapped the regal green overcoat tightly around himself, as a barrier against the cold, and was making his way out when his wife stopped him.
“Benedict.”
He pirouetted gracefully:
“Laura, darling.”
“Where are you going, love?”
Her voice was so soft and peaceful, but the pace at which she delivered her words was fast, too fast. It lent a sharp jab to her sentences. Like a playful mockery.
“I’ve to meet the vicar”
She looked outside the window at the tree, and smiled, which almost turned into a grin.
“So early in the day?”
He shrugged.
“I’ve quite a few issues to discuss with him”
“Pray, lose that coat. Winters gone. You’ll get blisters.”
Benedict cringed at this comment and off-handedly remarked:
“No honey, winter is not gone, rather it’s coming.”
“Oh” her eyes narrowed. Then she sighed, and continued looking at the photographs.
“Well I’ll be going then”
She didn’t respond. She was too busy looking at the beautiful boy in the picture.
Benedict nodded absently and left the mansion, shutting the door with a thud.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she continued looking at the photographs and reading the captions on their backside.
Their wonderful child, dead at the mere age of 10. Today was his first death anniversary: it would be exactly one year since the horrible fire took him away. She’d herself sustained a head injury. But it was inconsequential.
Did Benedict even remember the date of his death? Probably not.
He was too busy shagging that harlot.
Cheater
Going to the vicar
Telling her it wasn’t summer, but winter
Liar.
She gritted her teeth, and her brows furrowed. She hadn’t wanted to think this way. But then she’d smelled the feminine fragrance on his clothes. She found this fact incredulous albeit oddly believable. He was cheating on her.
She started playing with her hair, and wondering what went wrong in their marriage. What did she not have that the other woman had? She was the daughter of a duke, of royal blood, and who was she? Just a simple commoner. What had she not given him? She had abandoned her education and her ambitions. Everything because of him. And this is how he had repaid him. By being disloyal. By not even gracing her with his presence today, out of all days.
The other woman must be real pretty. Or maybe just really good at her “art”.
She looked around, and then made up her mind.
“Aldous”
Like a djinn, the butler blinked back into the large room where Laura sat.
“Yes, my lady”
“Go to your quarters. Send every servant and help away too. Leave me be.”
The butler tilted his head and grimaced.
“As you say”
He started shuffling out of the room, and then while extinguishing the fire out of the fireplace, turned back to say:
“Should I give you, your medicine, right now, Madam?”
She got up from the chair, with the intention of retrieving a knife to kill her husband.
“No, Aldous. Not today.”


Late in the night, Laura still sat on the rocking chair. The moonlight was lighting her face up; aggrandising her gorgeousness. She still had the album open. She heard the gates open outside. The rattling of the iron bars audible over the quiet of the night. Benedict’s heavy steps were distinct and definite. Laura heard him fumble for the keys. He gasped as he realised the door wasn’t locked. He walked into the room.
He saw Laura. Not exactly surprised. His guilt didn’t need to register, he realised. The drunkenness was plastered all over his face.
“Laura, my darling.”
“Excuse me.” There was finality in her voice. And a strangeness that Benedict immediately understood. He rushed towards her, and grabbed her by the arm.
“Tell me, where are your pills?”
Laura looked at him confused.
“What are you saying? And how did you come in?”
Benedict stepped back and stared in horror. She had forgotten. It might be too late now.
“Why are you staring at me like that? Who are you?”
Benedict broke down.
He embraced his wife tightly, sobbing on her shoulders. His breath smelled reeked of alcohol. He wailed loud into the night, unleashing all his grief and sorrow. He didn’t want to cry in front of her and make her condition worse. He had tried to drown all his misery through alcohol, alone in the pub. But it all amounted to nothing as his hysteric crying worsened.
Laura tried pushing the man away, who had her in his strong grip. Her head ached. Fortunately for her, she saw a knife close by, and without much thought, pushed it into the mans back.
Benedict let loose a muffled cry.
And then landed on the floor with a thud.

She sat beneath the tree, as a new dawn emerged. The sun lit up her blood stained face. She leaned against the shovel, her bare feet on the freshly dug mound of dirt. She tucked her hair behind her ears; trying to piece together the events of last night.
She had killed someone and her head ached.
Something small and hard plopped on her head and dropped on the grass beside her.
A berry.
She looked up.
The branches of the tree looked healthy. The yellow berries dangling off of the boughs looked edible.
They were ripe. The new season was ushering in its own blessings.
As farmers around the country prepared their crops for winter, poor demented Laura whispered to her dead husbands grave and herself:
“A new summer is around the corner.”

Sheikh Zayed Campus Diaries

Campus Diary