The numbers game

2010... Big whoop!
2011... Cricket World Cup
2012... The world ends
2046... Wong Kar Wai something or the other
2050... End of the world as we know it?

I say, “Big deal” and yet there’s enough people hell-bent on hammering into my skull the fact that I’m cynical... allegedly. I’m a killjoy... supposedly. And I’m just boring... apparently. None of which is to say that I haven’t had my fair share of fun at the end of a year. This year was fun. Relaxed. Chilled out. 2007 to 2008 was bloody horrible, being dragged as I was to a nasty club. 1990 to 91 was awesome as it marked the first time I got to stay up so late. But 2003 to 2004 was by far and a long way, the best New Year’s ever as I (chest puffs up) was one of the two hosts of what was by all measures, a party that was off the Richter Scale in terms of fun and sheer stupidity.

For the first time this decade, I digress.

It’s the accusations of me being boring that got me thinking along these lines. And I asked myself, “Why is it that us, humans are so damn obsessed with statistics?”. Look around you and you’ll see this for yourself. From the time you’re a little kid, you’re inundated with fools asking you how old you are. That carries on later as you try and sneak into an adult film, bar, or 18+ music show, with people always asking your age and you coming up with a response. Later in life, you try and downplay your age, but you’re always asked for that number. How many years has it been since you were born?

It gets worse. People are interested in how many marks you got in a certain examination. What year you graduated. How much you earn. What’s the size of your waist? How many runs did Sachin Tendulkar score? How many miles till I get home? How many fingers do you see?

Everywhere you look, it’s statistics. I understand the practicality of statistics... to an extent. I understand certain calculations need to be done. But the point of keeping a track on how many years it’s been since a certain man — that half the world doesn’t believe existed — was born is lost on me. Why, to me, it looks like we’re watching milestones fly past as we break all speed limits and rush headlong to our graves, pyres, towers of silence or whatever the hell else there is.

It is 4.20 in the morning and this is my sub-conscious speaking. Ernie, as my sub-conscious sometimes likes to call himself, hopes this rant makes some sense. His host is far far beyond the realms of sleep-blogging to know. He’ll probably realise in the morning. Ernie and his host however, both hate the human preoccupation with statistics. Happy New Year, all ye Viewphiles!