2012: The day we make cakes out of muffins

 

Apocalypse, Armageddon, doomsday or simply the End of the World: there are innumerable ways in different languages to describe the unimaginable end, just as there are a million ways of reacting to it. 

The 5000 year old, Mayan calendar comes to an end on 21^st December, 2012 which triggers a series of rumours about the world's end. Quite a few believe that it will arrive in the form of a gigantic fireball as described in the Book of Revelation. Others may say that the Earth will be crossing the Galactic Equator on 21^st December, 2012, resulting in severe storms, earthquakes or even a polar shift. Or even that we might ourselves destroy the Earth by polluting the atmosphere to such an extent that it would be beyond any repair. Or an epidemic in the form of an incurable virus would consume the planet. Whatever the means of attaining this global annihilation, one thing is certain that it has brought forth an unending series of debate and discussion. There seems to be no end to prophecies to the End.

What strikes me is that, do we even care? Some critics might agree that the Book of Revelation, one of the chief sources of this controversy, was written only for a specific time-period and that it wouldn't affect us. Others believe that the prophecy has already occurred. But as Mark Twain once said, 'History doesn't repeat itself, but it does rhyme'. So, our ancestors' patterns of belief may never be duplicated but they can be reformulated in parts that approximate each other. In other words, the End may occur. It is specified not only in the Bible, but also in the books of other religions like the Bhagwad Gita and the Koran, and also in Roman and Greek myths. But again I ask how many of us are actually concerned for this day? How many of us actually stop for a moment in our day-to-day lives and even think about it? The answer would be very few. 

Most of us may say that 'Jab aayega tab dekha jayega'. These replies are a slap on the face of hardcore followers, some of whom have even websites prepared with adequate counter measures. My main aim is not to become the next Socrates but yes, I do want to provide a better audience to this subject, heck it deserves a better audience. It needs ears which can understand its grave meaning. We must understand that the year 2012 may or may not be a reality. May be the day is, after all, imaginary. But everything happening now-a-days are pointing towards that sort of end. It may not occur but we may make it happen. We must understand that even if that day or time has already occurred we are repeating it just as the way Twain explained. How many predictions have we not listened to?  The United States were warned that the Japanese could attack Pearl Harbour by crossing the Pacific. It fell to deaf years. Similarly, it was predicted that these winters would not be as cold as expected and that India was vulnerable by sea. These were not made by successors of Nostradamus, but by people who are experts in their respective fields.

Similar is the case of global warming. It was warned. In other words, all these catastrophes are man-made and not some divine punishment on mankind. It is possible that 2012 may just be a test for us. A test to ask ourselves whether we can survive, like we survived all those wars, epidemics and terror attacks. If we usher it successfully, it may end up as a glorious chapter in history books, and would be celebrated as a day where people all over the world unite for one cause, a cause greater than we have ever faced in our time-line. We don't know the enemy but we do know that when it will come, we have to ready for it, and even if we fail to survive, we must ensure that our coming generations live to see better days. We must learn that these terror attacks, these monstrous cyclones we suffer these days are what lie ahead, and it may reciprocate into larger ones. 

If we could survive through them, then Armageddon will just be another day in our lives.

The Japanese Puzzle

 

This morning I woke up to a splitting headache which got worse when I found out that instead of the usual newspaper, I would have to make content with a competitors’ viz. ‘The Hindu’. Yes people, I agree it is a more informative newspaper than the others around, but I like my news in coloured fonts. 

So, I flipped open to the one page a story grasping the world right now (actually one of two stories, the other being that of Libya), and thankfully found that the Japanese authorities confirming that the radiation isn’t a severe as estimated. As usual, my craving for information didn’t stop there. I went online and googled for Japan and the Sendai earthquake. True to the report, the radiation was a speck under control. I scrolled down to the Wikipedia link to ‘Japan’ and clicked it open. Flowing before me was the country’s past, present and future. 

As a child, we recalled Japan as the country of the rising sun and the land of kung-fu and ‘Samurais’. With age, we learnt about its involvement in the Second World War and subsequent bombings by the Allied forces on it. Surprisingly, that is the horizon of our knowledge of Japan. The question arises: ‘What do we know about the country with the currency Yen?’ Some of my friends looked upon me curiously. ‘What’s Yen?’ they asked. Ignoring their surprisingly low currency knowledge, I asked them that other than the ties involving Japan and India regarding automobiles and food crops, if they had any prior knowledge of the country. Some laughed inquisitively; others shrugged and shook their heads.

A few hours back, even I would have been stumped. World War II, Sendai and cars, that’s all I knew about the Japanese. I guess it can be called as an eye opener in my case, upon leaning the Japanese War Crimes. What followed was like someone had punched me in the gut. Things described there was too horrible to jot down in my blog. The atrocities committed against the Koreans and the Chinese was nothing less than what Nazi Germany did to the Jews; some at par and others even above. It seemed Germany and Japan were hosting as massacre competition within them. Koreas, from 1910 to 1945, was a living hell on earth. Exploited, uneducated and severely exposed, the Koreans couldn’t even keep their clan names. It was compulsory to change your name or be looked as filth in the community. The Japan-Korea annexation treaty was forced under threat of murder and other officials were handsomely bribed. Hundreds of thousands of Korean males were forced into labour in Japan and its colonies all over the Pacific and South-East Asia. Children were forced to apply in the Imperial Japanese Army and fight against the allied forces. About 200,000 women were used as ‘comfort women’ in Japanese Army camps and forced in prostitution; some not even old enough to menstruate were raped repeatedly. A typical comfort woman had to ‘entertain’ 25-35 men daily, and forced to live in inhumane conditions. The chances of survival in such camps were less that 25% for the women. 

It was not just the Koreans. Japan has been reported to have killed about 10 million Chinese during the same period and similarly force Chinese women to become comfort women. It implied to Indonesia, the Philippines and the Malay states as well. Over 500,000 Chinese labourers lost their lives in Japan’s effort to build the Siam Railway line. Oppression was crushed and thousands were openly executed on the streets of Seoul and Busan, none more famous the March 1 Movement where 7000 Korean souls were lost.

Japan’s war policy was severely brutal. The Japanese Emperor considered he to be God’s chosen disciple and his word was supreme. They believed that the other neighbouring countries was full of impurity and much like Hitler’s policy with the Jews, they had to be purified. The Chinese were not considered human and the Americans were considered mongrelized apes. The Japan Navy was ordered to execute all Prisoners-of-War (POWs) caught at sea. The army was brutally brainwashed and any discontentment was satisfied with more women. A POW caught by the Americas, Britain, Australia or New Zealand had less than 4% chance of not surviving as compared to the 30% death rates of the POWs caught by the Japanese. The POWs, along with hundreds of other civilians from Korea, China and other colonial states were subject to massive cannibalism as a result of the Allied forces cutting out provision lines for the Japanese Army. They cut off body parts from prisoners, while they were still alive and leave them to die. Stories recalled from Indian and Pakistani survivors of the war from Andaman Islands provide testimony to the statements. 

Human experimentation was common in Nazi Germany was well as Imperial Japan. Unit 731 of the Japanese Experimental Unit is known to have committed possibly the most horrible of these crimes. Open vivisection was common, mostly on the POWs. Thousands were sacrificed for the practice of science leaving them to suffer from the effects of cholera, malaria and anthrax as a part of the biological weapons programmes. In order to test the effects of frost bite, civilians were forced bare naked in the cold and water splashed over them repeatedly to speed up the process, until their arms and legs froze. Their arms were amputated and next, the legs followed until only the head and torso of the person remained, which was then experimented chemically; all these being done with the person still alive. Anaesthesia was not recommended as it was said to have reduced the effects of chemicals previously.

Looting was common and thousands of Koreans artefacts worth millions of dollars still lie in Japanese museums, unreturned. Japan was subject to trials for all the above crimes by the Allied forces but only a few higher ranked officers were convicted. Lower ranking soldiers were never brought to justice. Officers and scientists of Unit 731 were tried but most of them were acquitted under the condition that they cooperate to provide the results of their experimentation to the U.S.A. Furthermore, those punished were not considered convicts under Japanese law as they were following orders in serving their country. Japan has yet not apologized to Korea, China, Indonesia or the Philippines for all the comfort women used during the war. 

The  United States, Russia, Britain and the Netherlands along with the United Nations have repeatedly asked Japan to apologise, but Japan till date deny the use of women for such purposes or for further availability to comment on the issue. In 1993, the then Japanese Foreign Secretary issued an informal apology which was later denied by Japanese authorities. Japan refused to oblige to the United States pressing of an apology stating that it could hamper ties between the nations.

The March 11 Sendai Earthquake and Tsunami diverted all our attention once again to Japan after a seemingly long time. Indeed the country has prospered to become one of the leading forces in Asia and a leading economy of the world. But is the present worth the past? Japan is facing a crisis perhaps never witnessed before. Humanity is their chief concern today, an ironical statement as compared to their dark past. The decision to understand and logic rests in our hands. Both the Koreas as well as China have offered massive help campaigns to the country. In fact, it is the people of the country who are subject to help. We can turn our backs and be angry at what they did, or choose to forget, at least for those who are suffering there. 

The question, again, is: ‘What do we know?’

 

The Charm Caster

This one time I was really upset. Things were simply not going according to plan. My life was morphing into a major hub of procrastination and lethargy. 

There I was sitting at my favourite table in the restaurant near where I lived, analyzing other possible alternatives for my career. A plump man walked in, closely accompanied by a young, attractive girl. Her face appeared astonished, just like a five year kid who had just stepped into Disneyland, yet she charmed a cloud of mystic beauty as she walked by. He reached for her hand, (to which she grasped rather frantically) and signaled the waiter, probably for the usual. They occupied the table next to mine, enabling me to eavesdrop on them. The pretty girl went on blabbering how grateful she was to have met him, to which the man just gave short grunts of acknowledgement. 

This went on for a while after which the waiter showed up with the order, a glass of champagne and a peg of what looked like the finest scotch, The girl excused herself for the restroom, enabling me to steal a glance at the supposed-tycoon, to which I was quite taken aback. He was smirking at me beckoning to join him. I hesitated for a fraction, but then obediently walked over. He smiled and his shinny white teeth gleamed in the evening light. He asked me if I was confused and curious. I hesitated again and then blurted out, “Who are you?” He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. I explained I was a regular in that shop and never had I seen him any time before. “Are you somebody rich and famous?” I asked stupidly. “I’m nobody”, he said as he took a sip from his drink. My first impression was modesty; all celebrities were when quizzed about their achievements are. I laughed sarcastically and urged him to reveal his identity. The truth was bizarre. He confessed he was no Bill Gates, but pretended to be one since the day he lost his job three summers ago. He had worked as a chef in a rich man’s kitchen and awoke one pleasant Sunday morning with the news that he was fired. The abrupt dismissal was brought about due to the incident at previous night’s dinner. The millionaire’s daughter had fumbled while eating, staining her expensive gown, and blamed the fish gravy of being too thin which prompted her to err. 

However bizarre the acquisition, he was made to quit. He worked between jobs since then, all in some money man’s house. He had developed an unusual trait of stealing his bosses’ tuxedos, renting expensive cars in his masters’ names, and driving to well known pubs in the area and that is where his true talent emerged. A bureaucrat from Canada or an Italian Pizza Giant, he would say.  Amazingly his acts assured a very high success rate, so high I was beginning to doubt him. Believing was entirely my own opinion, he convinced. He winked and sank back to his chair. But then, the girl? Just someone he met at the bar, there were loads of pretty faces waiting for rich guys just to slide into their arms and be rewarded with expensive gifts and probably even being sponsored to exotic holidays over the weekend. After a while, his date returned and I left them to their privacy. They finished their drinks and the bloke tipped the waiter handsomely as he left, too much for a person claiming to be a part time apprentice. I marveled at his undiminished confidence and silently applauded at his supreme dedication to his acts each time he performed them, if he was indeed such an illusionist. He left in a flowing black limo and as I sat there sipping the remainder of my coffee.

Suddenly life seemed to open new doors for me. I felt livelier. This total stranger with his crap story had something more. I was surprisingly able to infer a moral from him. No, I wasn’t going to steal laundry or rent a chauffeur, but he showed that I could be anyone I wanted. It was just the ambiance I would provide after I had changed, that would determine my outcome. Confidence was a skill far more superior to talent, and worked as a chisel perfecting the latter’s quality. I finished the cappuccino, just as the waiter handed me the check and reached for the day’s newspaper. A few glances and I found the perfect job, wondering why it was so difficult to locate that advertisement just a few minutes ago.

Hey guys!! This is the Intro to a new story I've been working on. Do leave comments.

The cabin looked shabby and unkempt, but it was the only abode he had that night. It seemed fate had played an uncanny trick on him, and looking back at the incidents that occurred, there was no denying that it was indeed quite bizarre. His horse-driven carriage met with an accident, breaking a wheel and the poor animal’s shoe. He was forced to tread on foot till the nearest village in this heavy downpour as no help arrived for hours. Finally, he reached Middleton, a tiny farming village known principally for its sweet vineyards, and to his great dismay Lord Furlong found the streets empty. Not a soul stirred. He roamed his eyes all around and even in the flash of lightning, he could see no movement, save for the wind-blown leaves and quivering sign boards. Where was everyone? Was it a ghost town, abandoned by its residents due to reasons that couldn’t be spoken in words in the far off country-side? For those days, a terrible nemesis walked the lands in the shape of a man.

No one quite knew his precise appearance, but stories were passed on that a few who claimed to have witnessed the horror and lived to speak of it, assured that he appeared very pleasant and charming on initial notice. He was polite, assertive and very optimistic in his outlook. In addition, he was a patient listener and gave positive reviews on any query that crept up. Quite the politician, the Lord smirked as he trudged up the road. He could have given some of his peers a run for their money during the elections with an attitude and personality like that. But it wasn’t his resume` that worried this wily, old diplomat. It was the rumours. The country-side was always a place where bon-fire tales and old grandma stories always raised a spook in little children. Well, who wasn’t afraid of the big bad wolf? Lord Furlong in his time as Chief Tax Administrator had paid court to various defaulters and their absurd folk-tales. Many stated foxes and racoons as prime suspects for their poor harvests and more commonly the farmers particularly blamed the seeds. The seed story always fascinated the Lord and the reason for this amusement was a devious one. Seeds in the land those days were reasonably cheap and rich in quality. But the Lord had bribed the suppliers and stocked the prime seeds away. The farmers were indeed being supplied low yield seeds for higher prices, which provided a fair share of profit for the suppliers and in turn for the Lord. Hundreds of farmers had fallen prey to this evil scheme and when the state demanded tax, they had no or extremely poor income to pay for it. The Lord would then trick then into taking loans and hence, push them deeper into the dungeons of debt. The same story recurred year after year until the debt-ridden farmers had to sell off their land to the Lord or render even higher tax rates, while the defaulters who were unable to do either had to face execution. This way Lord Furlong and his aides filled up their coffers while the common man rotted in the gutters. The word of this evil never reached the soft ears of the Higher Council for the roads where well guarded and more importantly heavily bribed too. Even if a clever soul did manage to reach the court, he was never paid audience to. Lord Furlong had his sources well pinned at crucial spaces.

But one story stood out from amongst all. At first, it didn’t appear queer, but the target crowd for the story was always the well-fed farmers who were amply rich and were successful in paying their taxes, many of whom were registered in the Lord’s good books. Every victim had the same explanation, same identical story – the story of the Butcher. Literally speaking, he wasn’t a meat butcher, but his methods of slaying his victims earned him that title. A normal meat butcher slays his goat or pig methodically. The animal is fed amply until it gains the much required fat. It is then killed, but the murder is quiet and quick. The animal doesn’t even know what was coming and before you know it, its minced meat waiting to be cooked. The Butcher had his ways too, and much like any other butcher, he wore an apron, that was smeared red, supposedly with the blood of his victims. His only weapon was a long butcher knife, whose steel gleamed and smiled devilishly. His hands covered with blood, and his faced masked by a black hood, preventing his victims from seeing his face. But the ones who escaped recalled much horrifyingly that the Butcher did revealed his face before slaying the person, in spite of which none of the survivors had the courage to explain the murderer’s sketch to the artist. Their reasons – that they were traumatized by the events that they had gone through and couldn’t live to recall that horror again. As much as it frustrated the Lord and despite his great urge to torture out the information required from the narrators, he was bound to let them go on the notion that he didn’t want any unhappy, rebellious subjects to add to already increasing woes. He decided to imply a little patience and wait for someone who had the necessary courage to sketch the Butcher. He had already issued a warrant and a handsome reward for who-so-ever captures this mystery assassin. All he was bound to do now was waiting.

But he had no intension of waiting in the dark that night for the rain to subside. It was a known fact that storms like this often prevailed the entire night. His best hope was to find an inn and ask for shelter. A moment later, he did. “The Half-Bred Home”, read the sign. Snobby name, the Lord smirked again as he knocked on the big oak door. The door thudded open, and a small boy, no older than ten answered the door.

“Are you a weary traveller looking for food and shelter, Sir?” the boy asked inquisitively, with an anxious look on his face.

“No, I am wondering if pigs can fly!! Of course, I am looking for a place to spend the night, boy,” Furlong answered back sharply. “Now let me in. It’s freezing outside and I am drenched from head to toe.”

“There’s no need to be so harsh on the boy. He was merely being polite. Step aside Tom.” The Lord peered inside to trace the source of the gruff voice and saw a fat, thickly beard man who was thrice as huge for any normal person. He appeared to be the owner of the inn by his outlook and authoritative language. “You need a place to sleep for the night?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Furlong replied back, impatiently. “Now can I please step inside? I might catch a cold you know.” The fat man chuckled and spoke to the child to usher the man in. The inn was old, far too old to remain in a working condition. It was pleasantly warm but the room reeked of pipe weed smoke. A few tables accompanied by benches lay scattered in one corner where two men dressed in capes were sitting rather silently. The lord tried to catch a glimpse of the hooded strangers but their faces were well cloaked and the dim candle-light didn’t help either. They smoked on from their pipes and caused a faint mist in the room. Their long shadows stretched across the floor as the lord made his way to the front desk. There wasn’t any other noticeable furniture around and the walls were muddy and void of any colour. An ancient oil painting hung behind the desk but the room could have surely done without it. A weary old staircase was leading upstairs, possibly to the guest rooms. It’s not a palace, but it will just have to do, Furlong thought as approached the man.

“I need to fill in your name and place of origin in the journals,” he said. “So if you would be kind enough to state them both.” The man picked up dusty looking register and flipped it open, and looked up anticipating a reply.

“Lord Reginald Furlong, Advisor to the Royal Crown and Chief of the Tax Administration Department to Her Majesty,” the visitor proudly proclaimed. The fat man behind the counter looked up as if to say something, but quietly resumed writing. The boy was brimming with surprise and the lord could swear he saw tiny droplets of tears gleam in the dark as they ran across his rosy cheeks. The lord was smiling to himself at his proud salutation. He fancied his name and its announcement in public places. Often people would stop and watch as he passed by them after he was introduced; his head held high from confidence as looked onto his audience. There would be no such spectators that night, but the boy’s anxiety would do, he thought.

All of a sudden something caught his eye. He turned his head towards the movement and noticed one of the strangers had gone missing, while the other had stretched himself on the bench, sleeping with a soft snore.

“How many guests do you have tonight?” Lord Furlong asked tentatively.

“Well business isn’t this scarce on usual nights,” the man replied back with a slight concern on his face. “It’s the storm. It drove away all my customers early tonight. Looks like it will just be Tommy over here and me along with the two of you,” he said as he did a head count.

“The two of us? By that you mean the man over there and myself,” the lord quizzed pointing in the direction on the slumbering man.

“Yes, that’s all tonight. Would you like a drink or anything to eat?”

“Just a glass of water would be fine.” He didn’t trust the man so much so that he could drink anything else. He had the notion that the whiskey might be too strong and that he would get burgled after he fell unconscious as he seated himself on the chair in front.

“But if I may. I did happen to see another man sitting on the far bench over there as I stepped inside.” The lord wanted to clear his doubt.

“Not that I know of,” the owner answered back. “Hey Tommy, did anyone else step in with that gentleman over there?” he asked the lad.

“No sir,” Tommy said. “He was alone. We served just him tonight.”  

“There you have it. Are you concerned about your safety or that you might be robbed?”

“No, no. Absolutely not,” Furlong uttered nervously, but in the back of his mind he had this nagging feeling he might.

“You need not have a worry, sire. There’s been no thieving in Middleton for the past few months,” assured Tommy. “Not since the incident of...” He stopped dead in his tracks and cast a frightened glance at the owner, who was red-eyed now.

“That’s enough there lad!! Let the man rest now,” he scolded. “And off with you. Shouldn’t you be sleeping? There’s plenty of work in the morning.”

To his surprise, the lord saw Tommy bite his tongue on the way out and almost got the feeling as if the young boy had escaped quite a larger punishment. He turned back to the fat man.

“What was that all about?” he asked taking a sip from the glass of water.

“Oh it was nothing at all, my lord,” the owner gingerly replied, trying to fit in a smile. “Children you know. Always with their stories,” he said rolling back his eyes. “I am sure he was just about to recite a tale he must have overheard from one of the guests here. Not that I dislike them myself. Some of them are indeed very griping, particularly the story of the Butcher.” He grinned as he uttered the last few words, revealing his tobacco-smothered teeth, but to his great surprise, the lord remained unfazed. Not him again, he thought to himself.

“Yes, yes. That folk-tale is quite popular from where I come from,” he said casually. “Was that the one Tommy had in his mind?”

“Well you can never guess what that little simpleton might he wondering, but probably that might have been the one,” he answered shrugging his shoulders. “It’s the perfect one for dark, stormy nights like this.”

“Well go on then. I doubt I’ll be able to sleep with the wind howling like this,” the lord insisted as he took another sip and from the corner of his eyes stole as glance of the hooded stranger. Still asleep, he thought. “I might as well spend it listening to abash child make-belief.” In reality, his inquisitiveness regarding this ‘Butcher’ was still very high. But he didn’t want to appear beaming the way Tommy’s face was. So he curtained his expression.

The man looked uncertain for a while but then cleared his throat and questioned, “Well if you say so, sir. But may I ask if I can offer you some of the wine from Middleton’s finest brewery to go with it?”

“Well I think there is no harm in one drink.” The owner was successful in tempting him, and he didn’t mind. It was a bit chilly that night and the lord was still slightly wet from his long trek.

“Right away, sir.” The man’s face lit up and he disappeared behind his cabinet, fishing for the drink and glasses.

“I’m terribly sorry, but it seems I didn’t get your name,” said the lord as he removed his coat and lay it aside on the chair beside him.

“It’s Samuel, sir. Sam as everyone around here knows me,” he muffled a reply as he came back with a large black bottle and two glasses in hand. “An old friend of mine who owns some of the finest grape fields gifted this bottle. Almost forgot it was still here, hah!” he laughed. “I cannot think of a better occasion to open it up.” He seemed to struggle to uncork it, and after a seemingly embarrassing tassel, he finally emerged victorious with the golden liquid oozing out from the bottle. Looking very pleased with himself, Sam poured the two glasses and handed one to his guest.

“To tonight!” he raised his glass. The lord couldn’t see what the special occasion was. If all, it was a terrible night. The summer had been relatively calm and on his way back home he was promised by the weatherman a starry night. That was his reason for setting off only to be caught in this peach of a storm. Nevertheless, he too raised his glass to the toast, ungrudgingly, and quietly sipped his drink. It was excellent.

“This is high quality wine,” he commented with raised eye-brows. “I am envious of your friend now. I might just be tempted to buy his fields,” he joked. “Now as you were saying?” He set aside his glass and looked up.

Sam was two-thirds over with his second drink all this while. He gulped down the remaining portion and let out a loud burp. The lord pushed back his chair, somewhat disgusted at his behaviour, to avoid the pungent smell.

“Sorry ‘bout that sire,” the fat owner replied, whipping his bushy moustache with his dirty sleeves. “It has been a while since I laid my hand on such a delicious bottle.” Content with himself he sat down and began.

Ringing Rings

Spoiler Alert : Recommended only for people who have heard about the topic concerned, viz. The Lord of the Rings.


If there is one story I would love to tell my grandchildren over a camp fire, it would be The Lord of the Rings. I am simply mesmerized each time I come across those five words in unison, and every time I forge the story over and over in my head, every detail, every scene, every character. Now I know in the "Age of Hogwarts", there is but, little space for Middle Earth, and it is in this space that I find myself, separate from the Potter fanatics and quite distinguished from the rest. Its not just the movies, but the books, the maps, the prologue, the after words of J.R.R. Tolkien that takes me on this fantasy journey across the Shire, over the Misty Mountains, wading across the Auduin and onto the battle-plains near Mordor. Frodo is the first person along with Sam who come in my mind, bearing the luggage of a heavy task of destroying the One Ring in the fires of Mount Doom. Gandalf with his re-avatar in pure, flowing white, and along with other brave warriors stand up against the most fearful Dark Lord Sauron, in hope that one hobbit would do his assigned task and put and end to this war.

Why the fascination? Well lets just peep into the mind of the master himself. When Tolkien came up with this idea, it all revolved around one thing and one thing only, a golden inscribed ring. The characters followed simultaneously, in a singular channel of ideas, but that one ring became a legend in itself. It was not only desired by all beings in the story. but I am sure many of us in the real world would have turned Gollum for it. Such is its awe, unlike any other fictional object. Even Dan Brown's Holy Grail or J.K. Rowling's Deathly Hallows or perhaps even Herman Melville's Mody Dick [no pun intended] enticed us so much. I am sure it would have lured even the greatest of mythological and fictional antagonists and protagonists; after all who could say no to ultimate power, the power to command every living being, the minds of men. No one could deny it. So it is perfectly logical that the Ring has grasped me along with it. The more I think over it, the more I want to have it. Call me mad, or a freak, but you should know better what it is like to have a want, an insatiable one too. No I am no psychopath and don't intend to be. But what it gives me is creativity and imagination which I might have lost in my day-to-day activities. At least I know now that Frodo and Gollum would still be fighting over the ring on Mountain of Fire, and that no matter what happens the ring will always be immortal in the pages of eternity. My mind is ringing with music, deep dark music.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Lord_of_the_Rings