Inversion (or how to dream them up during interminable waits at airport terminals)

Sophie rests her genuine Stardivarius in its velvet lined case and stares wistfully out of the window, as her teenaged cousins party hard in the next room to the foot-tapping tunes of the latest Bollywood music. "No one cares for good music these days. Why even metal is too passe for these kids, too angsty and too discomfiting for a generation that would rather thrive on superficial happiness, karma points and spicy fast food."

Sophie is feeling a bit blue with all this superficial materialism around. She steps out of the house , deciding to catch some fresh air. The engine of her Tata Nano revvs into life. It is compact, fuel-efficient , environment friendly and neatly functional. Sophie is not big on cars but she likes the pictures of the BMWs and Ferraris she has seen in old books (no she was never enthusiastic enough to visit an automobile museum). She likes the smell of old books too. And she likes the grand old philosphies of the Old West that are taught in schools as optional subjects in addition to the compuslory pop spiritualism-yoga combo lessons. The great ideals of socialism, democracy , existentialism and deconstruction were all born in the Old West. So were chocolates, ice creams and elegant sports cars. Today these are just used for racing and antique car shows. No one can afford the cost in our crowded , resource-crunched planet. In fact the expensive tastes of the older generations are looked upon with scorn and regret. No one acknowledges the useful contributions of the Old West nowadays, as all the young men chase the Eastern dream, and young women try to get more voluptuous around the hips, and have straight, shining black hair.

Sophie drives with adroitly practised caution, threading her way skilfully through the crowd of two-wheelers and battery-driven public buses. The advertisement billboards lining the roads show a skimpily clad oriental woman drooling over the latest offerings from a chain of Asian snackbars (her own boyfriend, who studies abroad in Korea, would drool over her, is what Sophie darkly thinks at this point), or a martial artist working hard on a Xingua laptop (to show how accessible and widely useful their products are to a wide spectrum of clients). Of course there are the giant Bollywood movie posters with men and women in fantastic space age costumes, their bodies contorted into various physics-defying positions; also carrying the promise of hiphop music well-integrated into their dramatic plotlines. Only occasionally, she could spot some smaller, far less glitzier posters for her favorite western arthouse films. They obviously cater to a niche market.

She stops by the supermarket to pick up some provisions. The sushi is costlier today. The local fishermen are going on a strike since their produce of halibut or mackerel is being driven out by the competition from these foreign multinationals. Their little demonstration aside it's business as usual for the stores. Sophie picks up her favorite assortment of pickles, readytoeat kebaps , vitaminized dog stew and babaghanoush for dessert . Suddenly she has this sharp longing for welldone steaks which are sold at only a nondescript roadside shack a couple of miles away : "Uncle Joe's" is the name. Sophie decides to drop by there next.

Uncle Joe is a gnarled old man who doesn't like what is happening with this world. He recalls the glorious times when the environmentalists weren't trying to outlaw large cattle-holdings, when the church was still a strong and stable institution and Gucci or Dior were the last word in fashion or cosmetics. "Today everything is homogeneous, mass-produced and Chinese" was his favorite lament. Sophie would like to remind him that some of the most trendy and artsy fashion products that rich people buy today are Bangladeshi jute or Balinese metal works or African agro-art. But she desists. Joe does make good old-fashioned steaks.

Another spell of driving and Sophie is by the river now. The riverfront is old and decaying. Buildings which were tall and stately once wear this tragic desolate look about them. Underpopulation and lack of skilled young labor (many of whom have migrated to greener pastures) has led to the gradual death of this once-bustling industrial suburb. Sophie often comes to this industrial graveyard when she'd like some peace and quiet. She faces the river, a dull grey murky presence, and takes out her viola to play some sad tune. Two or three people pass by without taking notice. They look like well-heeled Mexican business men who do not much care for classical music. An old white man in tattered clothes hobbles up, listens rapt in attention to the music, kisses her hand when she finishes, praising her profusely and somewhat over-sentimentally she thinks.

Feeling much better now, Sophie decides to go back to face the struggles of the real ruthless world and train her extremely small group of students. Fortunately some people would still like to hold on to some heritage and old values. She once again slips into an irritable mood though when she gets back home. This time it's the tv news which is to blame. It seems that the World League of Nations and the Development Bank (which everyone knows is dominated by China, India and Brazil) have imposed hefty fines on western countries including the US, UK and Russia, as reparations to be paid for the historical damage they have done to the world's resources. The western nations have relented except for the rogue breakaway Christian fundamentalist state of Texas, whose dictator has promised death before surrender. War is looming large in the horizon with China eying Texas's oil reserves too. Sophie didn't like this kind of armtwisting and what was worse, she would have to pay more tax now. The world's so unjust!