What’s the matter down there, Shiva? Is it all too much for you? It’s all too much for us, but you’re our leader. Rouse us! Inspire us! Give us one of your Gnostic speeches.
They’re always impressive, your speeches. The way you’re able to whip up the torment. But you’re in your depressive phase now, aren’t you? Too bad. We prefer manic Shiva. We prefer borderline Gnostic psychotic. We prefer mantic Saivite messianism, or whatever. We like our leader mad – but manic mad, not depressive mad.
An adrenaline injection. Just punch it through the rib cage. Like in Pulp Fiction. That would wake you up, wouldn’t it? That would zap a bit of life into you.
Because you’re dragging us down, Shiva. We’re all sinking. We’re all going to end up on the floor of dread.
Get up, Shiva! On your feet!
Someone inject him with something.
Try mouth to mouth resuscitation.
A poop transplant – that’s what he needs. Have you heard of those? It’s supposed to transform your gut biome. You’ll be a new man, Shiva. Not half as intense. You wouldn’t be waiting for the messiah to solve all your problems.
But who’s going to donate their poop? Do you have good poop, Helmut? Authentically Heideggerian poop? Maybe it should be Christian poop, Io. Do Christians have a good gut biome?
And there’s the question of who’s going to perform the poop transplant.
A cure – that’s what you need, Shiva. A cure for thought. Can they do brain transplant yet? Or bits of brain transplants? What’s the equivalent of a biome in the brain? That’s what you need, Shiva: something to fix your brain biome. You’ll be back to thinking healthy thoughts.
Did Shiva ever think healthy thoughts?
A lobotomy, maybe – that’s what’s required. Just take the neocortex out. There used to be this virtuoso doctor who could perform the operation with knitting needles shoved up your nose. He used to do it on live TV, as a party trick. All in one go. All at once. And zap – no more thought.
Was his name Dr Benway?
You should have been Russian, Shiva. You have a Russian intensity. You’re running a Russian fever. The fever of Dostoevsky. Of Chekhov. Of Bogdanovich. Who knows?
It’s so incongruous in a second generation Indian immigrant. Your identifications … as grotesque. Your European madness. All our European madnesses. But we’re all mad with Europe. What’s wrong with us? Why can’t we just settle down to a life of being a UK NPC? All these books that supposedly mean so much to us. We’re all running a European philosophy fever.
We should plead insanity. Just tell Organisational Management, that we’ve gone mad. Our leader’s gone mad! Shiva’s gone mad. He’s turned inwards. He’s gone catatonic. He’s not saying anything.
You can’t just go into deep Hindu meditation, Shiva. That’s not what this is about. We need leadership. We need to be shown where to go. We can’t lead ourselves.
We need lucidity. Need Intelligence. A guiding light! A lighthouse! A strategist. A philosophical Napoleon! Someone who would come into their own in a moment of crisis. Suddenly show himself as the leader we need.
Cometh the hour, cometh the man. Are you that man, Shiva? Where are you going to lead us?
Of course, if you were a really firm leader, we wouldn’t take the piss quite as much. We’d have respect for you. We’d shut up, obey orders.
Lead from the front, Shiva. Show us how it’s done. We respect authority – legitimate authority. We’d fall in line. Do what you say. Do what’s needed.
How about a rousing speech? Something with plenty of blood and fire. Something to stir up our loins. Look at Fiver – don’t you think he needs his loins stirred up?
Someone to light a fire in our bellies. We can’t face this all by ourselves.
Your people are scattered, Shiva. We need to be brought together. Assembled.
So blow your horn. Sound your bugle! Lead the charge!
Stop hibernating, Shiva. Step up! Be a man! Be the Hindu we want to be. Channel Ghandi, or whoever. Ashoka. Some Hindu God. The real Shiva, who knows?, with all his badassery.
Or someone else lead. Gazelle, this is your chance. Maybe we need a mutiny. Maybe this is your chance, Gazelle. Take charge. Seize power. How about a coup? We’d back you. Well, I would. This could be a night of the long knives. A regular putsch. No offence, Shiva.
Work in Progress 