When In The Course Of Human Events...

Airport Syndrome

2012-01-22T12:30:00.000+05:30

'BOSE', embossed in its singularly brilliant boldface, sends a thrill down your spine as you run your fingers over it. Now, it nestles comfortably over your ear, shutting out the world around you in a way only the magic called noise-cancellation can. You then nonchalantly pull out your iPhone 4S and turn blue-tooth on, even as you admire how snugly it fits your hand. You know everybody in the lounge is looking at you even as you pull your American Tourister carry-on closer. Then, tucking your cheeks into the turned-up collars of your dazzling jacket and looking over the upper-rim of your aviators, you walk confidently towards the 'Self check-in kiosk' where the confused young man stands.

Stepping across him deftly, you manage to do in a minute what he hasn't been able to in ten; you are secretly delighted. Of course, if it was a lovely lady who was equally baffled, you'd have checked-her in and guided her through Security Clearance as well, but too bad for him! He isn't a chick, is he? And you've impressed him enough.

The only time you have a conversation with fellow passengers, you make sure you convey to them your preference for the Emergency Exit recliner seat or why you find the other airlines better. After all, it's all about being more aware and savvy than everyone around you. In fact, airport facilities are no longer just for the convenience of passengers during transit; they are so often the reasons why people fly! It's important for people at airports to show fellow passengers how much they have travelled or how frequently they do... Sometimes, they forget to remove a sticker which mentions DXB and AMS prominently.

The Airport Syndrome is something which repels you only momentarily before devouring you completely. The next time you must be a willing participant in the whole charade or you must be strong enough to admit to people that you don't know. People might snigger at you but really, it's okay to say you don't know where your boarding gate is. It's okay to admit that you have never been to this airport before. You don't have to be cool all the time. It's okay.

Although nomenclature might suggest otherwise, this syndrome is not nearly limited to airports! While I'm quite certain that its origins lie in aircrafts and airports, today the syndrome is commonplace in bars, discotheques, restaurants and showrooms.

At dinner today, I inquired about a particular dish to which the waiter replies - "Sauteed with olive oil, there is just a dash of marinara sauce... Finally, sir, it is garnered with mouthwatering parmesan."

"Mmm, sounds good," said one of the occupants of my table.

Please tell me how the fuck I'm supposed to know how that'd taste.

To Infinity And Beyond

2012-01-20T00:18:00.000+05:30

"Four seats: two lower berths, one middle and one upper," dad would say to the man at the booking counter. On the train, mom and dad would end up taking the two lower berths while Aashrai and I would fight for the top. Somehow, as a kid, I always felt proud and big whenever I conquered the highest seat available.

However, while taking-the-top-berth was a priority, it certainly wasn't atop the precedence list. Bullet-point number one on that list was 'window-seat'! Hence, dad always used to purchase two lower-berth tickets; that way, we could each have a window seat.

While reading books and Archie-comics during long train-rides was fine, nothing was usually better than sitting by the open window and gazing at the scenery zooming past your face. But even the window-seats had a priority order among them. Actually, they still do.

I would convince my little brother that no matter where he sat, he would end up seeing the same things anyway! Invariably, it would result in a few punches thrown and the odd nail finding its way through the opponent's skin... But a red-faced mom would soon turn adjudicator, trying to restore normalcy and pry away fellow passengers' eyes which would remain fixed on us.

We would both want the window seat which would have us facing the direction of motion. Not only was the wind in your face this way (rather than blowing against the back of your head) but you always got to see things which were going to come. It is strange that even on this day, if I'm seated against the direction of movement, I turn my head around to see what is going to come although I am completely sure that I will see the same houses, poles, fields and trees if I continued staring ahead.

Somehow, human mentality has us wanting to see things which aren't here yet: it's like an achievement. We're not happy seeing things which are just outside our windows! No; we want to see ahead - in space and in time. We all, so desperately, want that one look into our futures to see how we're faring there.

It's all fine outside but we aren't happy. We want to see things which are yet to come.

The Girl In Black

2012-01-09T21:39:00.001+05:30

The girl in black was very pretty. Her long curly hair tumbled off her shoulders and fell down the back side of her chair, but that's all I could see from where I was. All the same, it was enough reason for me to take the long route to the coffee machine, passing by her chair, a few minutes later. Yes, she is pretty. Especially when she laughs.

You know nothing special is going to happen by simply walking past somebody's seat, but it's something most of us have done. And as stupid as it sounds, the walk usually ends with a contented smile. Worryingly enough, it's not something that happens to me too often. I know quite a few lads who can end every single walk with that smile and sometimes I envy them.

I've often wondered what it is which brings those smiles to our faces: is cuteness a function of how people look or is it more about the little things that they do... What about the other aspects - how can someone I find irresistibly attractive be somebody else's Jane Doe? How do we each arrive upon an entirely different set of parameters? It's a completely different story that the solution to your complex set of equations is probably not your answer but you're always looking for that solution, aren't you?

You won't settle for anything lesser than that. You will not consider it. She has to be pretty and she ought to have done a lot of things you consider cool. She needs to make you laugh, but you want her to cry every so often. It's no fun otherwise. You want her to be all ladylike and still be completely awesome when you're together in a bar with your friends. She almost doesn't exist. It's probably why I don't want to get close to people I consider nice; I'm afraid the glass will shatter.

The problem is only exacerbated when you've lived like a nomad for your entire life! When you really don't belong to any one place, what you need is the empathy of a fellow Bedouin. You start finding some things your old pals say rather inane... And some other things, you simply don't understand! You've not become any cooler, or smarter for that matter. You're just different. You're a bit like everyone and yet no one is like you.

Tomorrow, I'll walk past her seat again. And then, I'll say something to her. Maybe not tomorrow, but sometime soon. It scares the hell out of me.

Maybe I should stop drinking so much coffee.

The Truth About Giza

2011-12-27T06:37:00.000+05:30

If I had known it would be such an experience, I wouldn't have minded working twice as long in the western desert. Never before has something managed to stand up to hype of such tumultuous magnitude surrounding it; the great pyramids of Giza simply stood-up and delivered, the way they have been doing for the past two millenniums, when their time came.

The knowledge that each block of the great pyramids weighs over two tonnes should be reason enough to be overawed by the tremendous structure, but it goes beyond that: to build such a massive pyramid wouldn't be an easy task even on this day! And then, let's try building something like that without cement. So, when somebody tells you that it's just a set of rocks and that they'd do it themselves if they had enough slaves doing their bidding, it gets rather irksome.

One of the lesser known facts about Giza itself is that it's not 'Giza' in the first place! Well, in Egypt, it is... but that's only because they replace every 'ja' in Arabic with 'ga'. So, 'Al-Jizah' becomes the world famous Giza! Another thing people hardly notice is the anachronism that the mighty structure is. Unlike in India or in any place boasting of an ancient civilization, where the great examples of erstwhile architecture are surrounded by small settlements of people having some roots, at least, in that period, the pyramids of Giza stand alone. I suppose it is mainly due to the broken history that Egypt has: the major periods being (1) the Pharaonic state, (2) the coming of the muslims and (3) modern Egypt, the world wars etc. Almost all symbols of the Pharaonic empire have been thoroughly eliminated over the course of history.

Interestingly enough, there is probably a logical explanation to all this and it lies in the Old Testament. When Moses led his people out of Egypt, across the Red Sea and into Israel, he kick-started three different religions: Judaism, Christianity and Islam. The people who formed these religions were the slaves who were part of the great Exodus. And since it was the Pharaoh's wrath that they'd always feared and his self-indulgence and pompous arrogance that they had disapproved of, when subsequent dynasties of Christians and Muslims ruled the land, they slowly eroded away the Pharaoh's people. The Pharaoh, who held the whip on thousands of slaves, was a villain after all.

Modern day Egypt has roots in the beginning of the last millennium and one would be lying if he said that it is more ancient than that. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that the day Egypt becomes a really wealthy nation (a la Saudi Arabia or UAE), they would want to have nothing to do with the pyramids at all! It's just something which fills their coffers up pretty well.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion (not something Arabs believe in much), but I'd want you to think that every nation must be proud of every bit of its history, even the 'darker times'; for it is our history that makes us. I'm no fan of Indian Governments seeking out roads named after British viceroys and generals, and renaming them 'Rajiv Gandhi Road'. The British were in India for two hundred years, for better or for worse, but they were there alright. And you cannot change that. So, it goes without saying that a country which depends so greatly on these spectacular architectural feats should do better than asking its people to be indifferent to the Pyramids.

I'm No Jogger

2011-12-20T00:24:00.000+05:30

At 3:25 p.m. the final bell would ring and I’d be among thefirst lads to run out of class, while most people remained focused on packingtheir bags. I’d sprint all the way to the autorickshaw which would be my ridehome. It paid to get there early as we always beat the rush. Getting home at3:45 always felt good, and I’d take a shower, have a snack and immediately siton my homework. Usually, everything would get done by five and I’d run out ofthe house with my new cricket bat and Cosco ball. Aashrai would follow me outusually, albeit unexcited by the games humans play.

Tennis (or rubber) ball cricket is probably the most widelyplayed sport in India and I was its most ardent fan for the best part of fouryears; I fancy myself a pretty good spinner even today. Years later, when thedays of cricket really did end, it was in favour of a more spirited and Isuppose ‘manly’ sport: Beach football. While I can’t defend for my life, I’mpretty good when I’m supplying that final flighted ball for my strikers tofinish. Then again, being quite selfish and short-tempered on field, I’dprobably go for the shot myself.

The days of regular football did end too, mostly becausemost of the other kids I’d grown up with no longer thought playing in the sandwas what ‘men’ did. Too grown up, that they’d become, they moved further awayfrom the water, closer to the road, closer to the girls… Soon, I was no longeraddicted to physical exertion and the sportsman in me died. Roorkee probablyburned his remains completely, seeing me play four or five times a semester!

At the end of it all, the mind wants to rekindle theexcitement of sport and the thrill of winning but the body fails to comethrough. Stamina is dead and Strength is left wandering in the desert. Whilepeople consider gymming a way out of their misery, it remains to me a poorexcuse for your inability to play. However, it is better than nothing at all.

And hence I championed gymming for all of six months, untilthey decided to throw me into the middle of nowhere. Well, Schlumberger doesprovide five-star facilities considering the location we are in, but even theyare unable to provide us a Gym, it seems. And hence, I decided I will runanyway.

And thus, when fellow Field Engineer and Delhi’strack-champion geared up for his evening jog, I made it clear that I’d betagging along. “I run in the open desert,” he told me. “Near the road, it’smainly rocky… Little bits of sand.”

The desert is a funny place. You can see far away objectsbut you’ll never figure out how far they really hour. They could be a kilometeraway or they could be ten, you’ll never know. So, when he pointed at anoil-storage location, “Hah, how far will that be,” I thought. And I ran.

I kept running until I was out of breath and then I ran somemore. We reached the oil-station an eternity later when track-champion says,“Hey, we’ve been running six-minutes. Why don’t you wait here? I’ll finish myrun…” I looked back an saw the caravan I had started out from at a distance. AsI told you, you can’t figure out distance in the desert: it could be akilometer away or it could be five. Let’s say two. I was damn proud of myself.

It was while running back to the camp that I took note ofthe most wonderful thing. You never need music while running in infinite space.You’re never fiddling with your iPod searching for ‘Brothers In Arms’ whiletrying to maintain your pace. You don’t have to change the song to fit yourmood. All you have is the wind. And it’s always singing the most perfect notes.

Izzai ek, Habibi?

2011-12-04T15:16:00.001+05:30

"Sabbah Al Khair", "Salaam Aleikum" and all that stuff. Ever since I've come to Al-Masr, most of my vocabulary has been rendered pointless - the English vocabulary at least. Some basic Arabic verbs, pointing and grunting help you fare better than elaborate expressions in English. In fact, in the very beginning, I could converse as well with a camel as I could with an average Arab here. And hence, in a desperate attempt to obviate (or at least delay) the onset of the "Me Anirudh; you who?" stage, I write this post.

The past two weeks have been a learning experience to say the least. From picking up basic phrases in Arabic and learning concepts which govern occurrences sixteen-thousand feet down-hole to mastering the art of picking up pipes which are heavier than most dumb-bells I lifted in the Roorkee Gym, there has been a fair amount of inflow into the grey-cell area. It has been a great knowledge sharing experience for the people around me too! For example, the other day I had to explain to a fellow that Hind was not near Mexique but near Pakistan. He found the information hard to digest but he managed a smile at the end of it all. And then, there have been numerous occasions where I've had to inform fellow members of the human race that Islam and Christianity aren't the only two religions available to mankind. Another stunning fact, no?

As ignorant as they may seem, Egyptians are really friendly people. They make an effort to talk to you slowly and explain things again and again until finally you gather the essence of what they're saying. They're open and warm too. In fact, Egyptians impose their opinions upon strangers all the time. It's not something they consider rude. And they can barge into your room and then ask you if it's okay to come in. You can do the same to them, of course. They're a welcome change actually after all the stuck-up foreigners we get to see.

And then, there's the food! Salads and salads and a few salads more... There's olive oil, rice, bread and meat. These guys eat everything - from camels to pigeons. My 'bland' diet alarms them as much as a Vampire's would. I never thought I'd say this about salads, but they're quite delightful.

It's all a mix of the fun of discovery and the discomfort of change - something every travel is about, I suppose; the same bittersweet feeling that passes through you when the sun is about to set over a lonely oil rig in the desert. You know it's going a brilliant sight. But then again, it's going to get so cold!

Sex

2011-11-09T21:53:00.001+05:30

Little is it known that the statement "Let there be light" is incomplete, for what He really said was - "Let there be light... (then, in a hushed voice) and when it's out, Thou shalt have sex!" And sure enough, ever since the very beginning, it has been the purpose of man's existence in this world.

Looking at the whole matter with the disinterest of a scientist and emotions of an Amoeba, it's rather laughable that the purpose of our eighty-odd years in this world is to create more people who will live hundred odd years with the same objectives. Gone are the days of childhood when you would ask Ma - "Ma, why do old people die?" - Because, godammit, you're going to make half-a-dozen kids soon! Who's going to give them homes?

But I guess it's only fair that God gets rid of the old and gets fresh faces into the world; even kids get bored of their Ben10 toys in a week or two these days. In fact, I'd say he's being rather patient. What irks me though are the kinds of games He puts us through! I'm pretty sure that He's laughing his backside off looking at some poor bloke right now - "Hey, look at that poor bastard! I put a new chick in his class today... Look at him go! Hahaha... Hey, pass me that beer."

You can say a lot of things about how the steam-engine or the modern banking system has revolutionized human activity, or how the internet and the television have been tools which have irrevocably changed the course of human evolution... But all that is a farce! All that these inventions and discoveries attempt to do is create an illusion of 'purpose' and 'achievement' while the forces which really drive us remain the most fundamental, primal urges. (Yes, "3G pe bijji" will not work)

Well, agreed, they could be the most mind-blowing, brilliant, reasons-to-live-for experiences in a man/woman's life but that's not the part which entertains Him; the most brilliant part of this master-plan is Behaviour Control. During the first twenty years of our lives, we are taught to develop logical thought structures and rational behaviour patterns... And then, we are taught morals and values - forgive, forget, trust, share, think and all that rot. I see no reason why we must forget all this elaborate coaching even a for fleeting moment, let alone long periods in our lives! In fact, the most brilliant part about the control mechanism is that it is immune to both atavistic knowledge and experience. So basically, while the fear of snakes can be inborn, at no point of evolution will Man be wary of the feelings. And while you can burn yourself once and learn to stay away from flames, you'll always remain a sucker to that 'one cup of coffee'.

Never in history has there been a peaceful coexistence involving a stable mind and a great love story - it's simply not possible. Man was given a brain to make decisions and a heart to pump blood. When you start using the heart to make decisions, all you're doing is messing with the blood-flow! But that's what each one of us does; even the wise ones like me, who understand the wicked ways of the world, cannot escape this convoluted trap. Ladies and gentlemen, the human race is doomed.

Centurion

2011-10-21T23:00:00.000+05:30

Runs are hard to come by, with the ball not really coming onto the bat. With boundaries not possible in this format of the game, batsmen are made to toil for each and every single they take; an insurmountable task if dashing between the wickets didn't seem so much fun! But there's a flip-side too - all this sprinting saps you of juice and Fatigue, the slayer of giants, pays you a visit. And then, the cramps - the scavenger which feeds on the dying. The moment your guard is lowered, you die.

So it is indeed a monumental moment when a batsman reaches his century - as it is a victory of human-will, nothing less. And as I'm doing precisely that today, I raise my bat. It has been a very satisfying knock.

I can hardly believe that I have lasted four years in this world where more blogs are indiscriminately discarded than created. Only a blogger, and an avid one at that, would probably understand how much this little space on the web means - something as special than a friend you share most things with, a brother who understands you completely, standing by you through good times and hell.

Since the probability of you being here for the first time is rather low, I suppose you've already witnessed my meaningless rants, random philosophy and sullen melancholy. Usually, this blog has just been a voice of dissatisfaction trying to break the run-of-the-mill days and chase one foolish dream after another. There have been moments of bliss, but as all moments of bliss should be, they have been ephemeral.

And since Life is all about running after a mirage, there will surely be more stories to tell. There will be victories and there will be losses, but they'll all be experiences. And hence the scoreboard will keep ticking.

Thank you, dear reader, for keeping me going all these years; without you, this space would be nothing more than a personal diary... and where's the fun in that? Anyway, here's hoping for a hundred more! My fingers are crossed.

Arabian Knight - Part Two

2011-09-30T03:58:00.000+05:30

(Read http://konfessionsofageenius.blogspot.com/2011/09/arabian-knight-part-one.html first)

Part Three: Great Gig In The Sky

Scheduled to land in Mumbai at 2030hrs, my plane reached ten minutes early as if by magic! Clearly there's a greater force dictating all this, I thought to myself, as I pulled my rucksack out of the overhead cabin. Sadly, in India, no one respects another person's urgency - everybody is in a hurry, you see - so I had to wait in line to deboard the plane. Running the length of the Mumbai Domestic Terminal, I reached the spot for International Transfers. Another baggage check and frisking later, I was on the bus to the international terminal. It was 8:45. The driver told me that he could reach the airport in twenty minutes if he drove fast. I reminded myself that the flight would take-off at 9:15. If I ran, I could perhaps make it.

At 9:00, we were at the international terminal and Jet Airways had the decency to send someone to pick me up from the bus. The lady in blue began helping me fill out my Emmigration Form, when her phone rang. She nodded twice and then looked at me in the eyes. "I'm sorry sir," she said. "You won't be able to make it."

There was a thunderous silence, which was only broken by the ringing of my cell-phone. Ismail was on the line. I didn't pick up. "We'll put you on tomorrow's flight," she said. I nodded meekly.

SLB HR has a weird way of hitting you when you're on the ground already. So, I should have expected their call next. "If you're not in Abu Dhabi by tomorrow morning, we might have to cancel your training," said the sing-song voice on the other side. Brilliant.

I begged and pleaded with Jet Airways once more until they finally gave in. "We got you a seat on a flight to Muscat, sir. Then you can take Oman Air to Abu Dhabi. The flight is in one hour; so hurry up with emmigrations..." Suits me, alright!

Part Four: Check Mate

The emmigration queue, like all queues in Mumbai, is really long. But it moves really fast, like everything else in Mumbai. So, I prayed to God that everything would go well when my chance came. As luck would have it, I was sent to Counter Six, manned by a rather strict, bald, old-looking man. When I gave him my passport, I noticed that he looked bit like ACP Pradhyuman.

Everything had been moving smoothly until now - until the man said the words, "Kya bakwas hai yeh? Visa dikhao..." I showed him a copy of my visa. Scrutinizing it for a while, he said, "Main tere ko nahin jaane dega," and ordered me to follow him to an inner room (which resembled Hollywood's representation of a KGB interrogation room) where we met a rather stout gentleman.

"Yeh dekhiye sa'ab," he told his boss. "Inka documents sahi nahin hai... Mujhe nahin lagta inko allow karna chahiye." The boss looked at the documents and then looked at me.

"Sir," I told him, "The Emmigration Check is to protect unskill..."
"Are you teaching me my job??" he demanded. "What is your visa validity?"
"Well, my company got it for me. It's a short-term visa... I'm only going for training, you see."
"I don't see," he said. "It must be printed here on the visa, but it's not here." He was right. There was nothing about validity on the visa copy. Great.

So, I telephoned SLB again. "What's my visa's validity?" I barked.
"I don't remember exactly," came the prompt response. "But it's short."
"How short?" I asked.
"Well, the validity is printed on the back-side of your visa... but we didn't scan that side of the document."
You're a bloody genius, aren't you? I hung up. There was still one way out - my degree!

I waved the Provisional degree on his face and said, "Sir, this is a BTech from IIT... Surely, this'll help us resolve matters."
"Degree kahan hai?"
"Yahi to hai..." I said.
"Yeh Provisional hai... I need original degree. Layega kya?" said the smart man.
"That's not possible... Please tell me what I must do... I need to go," I pleaded with the unreasonable fool.
"Visa validity chahiye. Ask the airline guys - they'll have it," he said, after some consideration. 30 minutes to take-off!

I went to Jet once more, this time to ask for my visa's validity. They said that they'd need a few hours to search their database using some highly advanced queries. Murphy, you freaking genius...

But even Murphy get's it worng sometimes. Another official came up to me and said, "I'll tell you what... Try going to another counter. Try your luck again... It might work." So, he made me enter another section of the line.

Fifteen minutes left and the final boarding call was announced. I was summoned to counter 31 this time. On the other side sat a dark, young-ish woman who looked far more affable than the idiot at Counter Six. She took my passport, turned the page and winced. "Visa?" she asked. I produced mine.

"Validity?"
"Twenty days," I said. "Here's my return ticket!" I showed it to her, trying to look as pleasant as possible.
"I need proof, no?" she said, almost staring through me.
"Ma'am, my flight has almost left! Besides, I'm going to UAE to study, not for work!" I lied.

Thoroughly confused, she began saying something when my name was announced on the PA once more.

"Ma'am, that call is for me... It's all in your hands now. If you stop me, you'll damage my life forever," I said to her slowly. She looked at me once again and then reluctantly, she banged the stamp on my passport.

Muscat, here I come!

Part Five: Private Plane

I don't have fond memories of Seeb International, Muscat, as I associate it mostly with leaving the beautiful country in 1999. All that has been changed now.

At 0040 Oman Time, the friendly Omani at the boarding gate called me, not by announcement but by gesturing with his hands. Then he told me, "My friend, I have some news for you... You are the only passenger on the plane."
"What?"
"Only passenger... You understand? One only! Warahada..."

I don't know if I was flabbergasted, elated or anxious, but the next one hour was one of those special hours in one's life. As I entered the flight, I was greeted by both the air-hostesses, an Arab and a Filipino, who said, "Welcome to Oman Air. Choose your seat... You can take any one!" And they giggled.

I got myself a wonderful window seat in front of the wings. With a scheduled departure at 0120, the main flight attendant, a middle-aged Arab, walked up to me at 0105 and said, "If you are ready, we can take-off... Air-space clear, you see?"
Here he was asking me if I was ready for take-off! "Oh, alright! As you wish!"
"But first, we shall instruct you," he said, and the air-hostess was by my beside once more giving me personal instructions. The flight attendant even showed me where exactly the life-jacket was under the seat. (I've never been able to find it until today) "In case of emergency, we have two exits in front, two at the back and four over the wings... Choose your exit as you please, sir!"

Soon, we were in the air, and Capt. Wilson made his announcement. "Hi Mr. Anirudh, this is your captain... Hope that you are enjoying your VVIP flight. I don't have the privilege of flying too many passengers alone like this; thank you for flying with Oman Air. In case you need anything, please feel free to contact Ahmed, your flight attendant or any of the air-hostesses. Hope you have a pleasant flight!"

A few delicious Arab bites later, my flight came to a halt at Abu Dhabi International. As I left the plane, I used one of the words I read in on the in-flight magazine. "Shukran!" I said, raising my palm to my forehead.

"Aafwen," they said together.

Arabian Knight - Part One

2011-09-30T02:34:00.000+05:30

As an escape from the usual codswallop I usually have you read on this blog, I bring to you this story from the land of Djinns and Flying Carpets. Below is a true account of what happened on September 23rd, 2011.

Part One: Fine Print

Schlumberger's 'Field Engineer' job profile is one of the most exciting jobs available to any person who calls planet Earth home, so it isn't surprising when you get your visa around 30 hours before D-Day H-Hour. An oil-man is expected to have nerves of steel. So, even when the ticket arrived just a few hours prior to take-off, I hardly shuddered (much unlike mom, who was completely in a soup). But as I've come to understand, even the seasoned oil-man can be rattled every now and again.

What happens when you don't read fine print, you may ask... My answer: It all depends upon what the fine-print says. If it says "Ensure that your passport has an ECNR (Emmigration Check Not Required) stamp before going to the airport", it just might be worth paying attention to.

With packing half-done at 1230hrs and my flight scheduled for 1745hrs, I was cutting it fine already. That was when I re-read the informative email. I cooly reached out for my passport and checked it with an air of nonchalant ease; all was fine and pretty soon, I'd be over the sea and far away, I thought. As I turned to the second page, I was met by the following words:

"ECR (EMMIGRATION CHECK REQUIRED)"

As you see, the Emmigration Check is in place to protect the unskilled Indian labourer from exploitation in other countries, especially in the Gulf. It shouldn't be much of a problem, I thought to myself. Since I had procured myself a provisional degree from Indian Institute of Technology Roorkee, I couldn't exactly be classified as unskilled. And besides, I wasn't going to Abu Dhabi to work; it was just training.

All the same, when people around you hyperventilate, it sort of rubs off on you. Soon, there's collective hyperventilation, mass hysteria and pandemonium in general. Dad's contacts at the airport told me on phone that I had a fair 50% chance of clearing the EC. Dad getting worried, ordered me to zip my bags as they were and head staight for the airport. It was 1:15 pm.

Part Two: Telephone

Reaching the Chennai Domestic Terminal insanely early (at 1345 for a 1745 flight), I was met by a few officials who studied my passport carefully. They told me that there shouldn't be any trouble in Emmigration. In fact, if the flight was from Madras, they said that they'd be happy to ensure that I get through EC; however, since it was from Mumbai, they said that I'd have to talk sense into the officials there. That shouldn't be too hard, right?

My flight was scheduled to land at 1945hrs at Mumbai and the international flight to Abu Dhabi would take-off at 2115hrs. So, having checked my luggage straight through to Abu Dhabi, I relaxed over a coffee in the Chennai Airport Lounge. One never knows how time moves when you're in semi-sleep mode - so, after a while, I checked my watch again: 5:30. Why am I still not on the plane?

"I'm sorry sir, your flight has been delayed. It will depart at 6:30 pm," said the suave Jet Airways official who I wanted to punch. Controlling the impulse, I asked innocently, "Does that mean that the landing will also be late?"

"Oh yes," he said, happily.

"How do you plan to get me on your flight to Abu Dhabi then?"

"What flight?" he asked.

"Jet Airways to Abu Dhabi. It's at 9:15."

"Oh, that! I'm sorry sir... You won't be able to make it. Why don't you take tomorrow's flight?" he asked me, as if he was offering me tea in place of coffee.

"No, no... I need you to get me there, somehow. Anyway, I've checked my luggage through to Abu Dhabi," I pressed.

"That's not an issue. I can get your luggage off the plane," he retorted, gleefully.

"I'd like my luggage to stay where it is. Get me there somehow... Make your other flight wait a few minutes for me if needed! Isn't that why I've booked myself into Jet Airways both times??"

He told me that it'd hardly be possible.

Seeing that an impasse was reached, I telephoned the ever-helpful HR hotline at Schlumberger (SLB) which no one ever picks up. As usual, no one picked up. After a few minutes of frantic searching, however, I managed to reach somebody in SLB who transferred me to the bilingual travel agent who had booked my tickets, Mr. Ismail.

Mr. Ismail was furious with Jet Airways for their callous attitude. "How can they do this?" he asked me, righteously. "I don't know," I said. Meanwhile, the Jet Airways official told me that he'd fly me to Bombay if I was willing to undertake the risk of missing the connection and being stranded in Bombay. He assured me that Jet Airways at Mumbai wouldn't be helpful (unlike him) and they couldn't care less about one more passenger being stranded in their mammoth airport. He asked me "Are you ready to take the chance?"

Next, I talked to Ismail again.

"How can they do that!" he yelled. "Main bhi dekhta hun aapko kaise chordke jaate hain yeh log! It is their duty to take you," he said. When I relayed the message to the Airlines, "Who is your stupid agent?" they asked. "Who books two flights so close together? He seems a little soft in his head," they said.

There was only one way to resolve this! I dialled Ismail's number and handed the phone to the Jet official and told him, "Talk." He picked up the phone and began talking. He paced up and down as they abused each other as politely as they could and I noticed that they were close to discussing the issue at hand. Five minutes later, at 6:17 pm, he ended the call, threw me the phone and ran towards the tarmac through the boarding-gate. "Hey, what did you guys decide?!" I yelled. There would be no response.

As a normal person would do, I called up Ismail to find out what decision they had reached. The phone was still ringing when the announcement came loud, "This is the final boarding announcement for Mr. Anirudh Arun for flight..."

Oh crap. Okay, I'll take the chance, I thought. To Mumbai...

(Read 'Arabian Knight - Part Two' for more)

Portrait of a Young Man as a Football Manager

2011-09-18T23:32:00.000+05:30

Only after Football Manager 2011 have I even begun to comprehend the immense difficulties of managing a team. I'm quite sure the case is the same for any sort of management, but this job epitomizes leadership and genius. If the whole of our life was stuffed into 90 minutes of power-packed highlights, I'm sure it'd result in a game of football. Football after all is a reflection of life in the closest possible way.

Most of us have played various versions of PES and FIFA over the years and many of us consider ourselves tactical geniuses. Set a staggered 4-2-3-1, push your players up and play a short passing game and lo, you win the Champions League. Well, it would be that easy if everyone shared the exact same thinking-space like on your computer. Sadly, a game of football involves 11 different minds playing for your team. The probability that any two of them independently have the same idea at any point of time is close to zilch. Well, that's where the manager comes in.

To impose your ideas on an entire squad is possibly the toughest task you can ask a man to do. Not only does he do that on the pitch, like begging the hot-headed Defender on a yellow-card not to throw himself into tackles, he needs to do it off the field as well. And that's something for which I've begun respecting AVB so much for. You would think it is impossible for a man of 33 who has never been a pro-footballer himself to handle legends of a club which has only recently tasted success. People like John Terry and Frank Lampard are probably as big as the club, and therein lies the problem.

While Sir Alex could threaten Ryan Giggs and Wayne Rooney with a good spanking now and then, and command awe and veneration from one and all with the simple question "Who's your daddy?", hardly any manager can claim to be the true daddy at Stamford Bridge. Thank you, Mr. Abrahamovich.

Surely, it couldn't have been easy at all for the manager of Manchester United in 1986, but he was given time... And time is the most precious commodity available to a manager of any sort. To cajole the Torreses into firing goals, to create legends like Leo Messi and to fill the CR7s with enough pride and vanity to etch them into footballing lore forever... all these require time. There is only one Mourinho - 2 Minute Success-Recipe - in this world and even he is to be tested over a long period of time. One could probably say that since The Special One was the closest anyone was to being daddy of a new Chelsea team in 2004 and a new Galacticos team in 2010 - hence, his jobs aren't the most difficult ones available.

I'm not taking anything away from TSO: it takes tremendous vision to see that Terry+Lampard+Drogba = GOOALLS; something Mancini is achieving through trial-and-error, buying everybody available in the market and taking United-want-aways. All I'm saying is that such success cannot live beyond the aforesaid manager's tenure. And the next guy in will almost certainly face the firing-squad. You can never change daddies overnight.

I'm writing this in the immediate aftermath of a 3-1 defeat at Old Trafford, one which has filled me with a new belief that AVB might be the man to change Stamford Bridge's destiny forever. Not often would I be in such high spirits after a loss but I feel this young man is a genius. The result could have been a lot different, and while we deserved no points from the game, the scoreline definitely doesn't say the whole story.

One thing is apparent to me: this fellow AVB has, to use a euphemism, guts. But he'll need a lot more of that (those) to ensure that the legendary numbers eight and twenty-six come off the bench more often. The big man Drogba isn't going to be around forever either and he should be made to understand that. There's no point being a sentimental fool and having these fellows occupy space in a football pitch, hoping that one day they'll produce a glimpse of their glory days. I believe AVB is doing a great job by remaining in the good-books of men almost as old as himself - men who are more decorated than he is - while politely reminding them that they aren't as young as they used to be.

I just hope this fellow sticks around... For truly, the times, they are a-changin'!

F*ck-Ups Among Other Things

2011-09-09T01:10:00.000+05:30

Seeing the drunkard of hadduland traversing the streets ofChennai isn’t something which one would call a rarity, but it isn’t commonplaceeither. So, when he announced his presence to me over the tele, I was quiteglad… Soon, the venue and time of the rendezvous were fixed and with the car atmy disposal, long distances daunted me no more.

Having completed a few chores, I called the aforementionedfriend and told him that I’d meet him outside the gates of CLRI. And I did,after scouring the streets a little bit. So, with ‘Maine Banaya’ in theshotgun-seat, I decided to drive up to a decent bar – establishments which areas difficult to locate as Dragonballs.

All the same, I located a very respectable sports bar inThiruvanmiyur and since the day was yet young, we expected no crowds and hencespecial service. Alas, the only beer he had was a Budweiser 675mL which cost awhopping Rs 290. Allowing logic to prevail, we touched nothing and left theplace in peace.

“I’ll take you to another bar, man,” I told him. “Don’tworry, it’ll be much cheaper. But a lot less classy…” He nodded in eager agreement and I began the drive towards the slightly-seedy establishment.

Let me tell you up front that as a driver, I’m neither azipper nor am I a vroomer. So, I don’t zip and vroom through the roads. Dodgingthe mean pot-hole might be something I’m yet not a master of, but my weaknessesend there. I am not a frequent driver either, so I’m still wary of the wheel: I’mnot overconfident, see?

So how did the man walking alongside the car on my left manageto get his left foot underneath my left wheel? The question will remainunanswered as most important questions are, but the result was obvious. Blood.

One can drive in all the traffic in the world… It’s thepedestrians who fuck everything up. So, an onslaught ensued. While Rathishaccompanied the man to the nearest hospital, which was luckily in clear view, Itried negotiating a tough U turn at a T-junction, which elicited questions like– “Dei, otta theriyuma? License irruka?” The incessant barrage of questionsceased only when I waved the RTO’s certificate in their faces!

I ran to the hospital to witness more blood. Then salinesolutions, anaesthetics, sutures, analgesics and anti-tetanus injections… Andthen X-Rays. Well, I didn’t see anything wrong with the X-Ray and I can swear theman’s foot was perfectly fine. But he was in pain and perhaps the doctor wantedto make hay while the sun shined. So, I coughed up the cash.

And as my dazed luck would have it, the people involvedwould speak nothing but Telugu… So, I watched like a mute, illiterate idiotwhile Rathish and mom tried to make them see sense. What sense? Well, I don’tknow.

In the end though, I’m left with one lingering feeling –that of pity. While I helped provide him with the best possible treatment, Icannot help but wonder what dastardly tricks fate plays on us. Two perfectlyinnocent beings going their separate ways – when this happens! It’s not myfault, but I’m not going to drive again… Not for a very long time.

P.S. Thank god we didn't touch that beer.

Important Conversations

2011-09-04T18:52:00.000+05:30

" The point is, there may be three or fourbig choices that shape someone’s whole life - and you need to be the one thatmakes them. Not anyone else." - Mr. Wyatt, "After SchoolSpecial", (Season 4) Supernatural.

There'snothing profound in the above quote; it doesn't say much we don't know already…But it's a line each one of us requires to hear from time to time. Withoutthese rather meaningless reassurances, life would become unfathomablydifficult. But I digress from the topic – the sentence which contains unquestionabletruth.

Theseare the decisions which shape our lives, the difference between what is andwhat will be. They make all the difference between today and tomorrow. Thesedecisions usually result in conversations, which are more often than not,highly unpleasant. Creamy, sugared dialogues aren’t usually the ones which takeus to the land of our dreams.

Dissatisfactionis one of those special feelings humans are almost perpetually capable of… Andit is this dissatisfaction with status-quo which throws us into that ‘I mustchange this’ phase. Although what needs to be done is generallyslap-across-the-face obvious, we’re filled with trepidation before the finalstep. What happens if the whole thing implodes, destroying even the meagrehappiness we currently enjoy? Is change really that essential; can we not livewith it? Is the land on the other end of the bridge really what it promises tobe?

Infact, we are so full of dread and angst that hardly can we muster the courageto take the final leap. We rehearse carefully, in our minds, how we will phraseour sentences and our questions – and we chisel these into perfection. Justwhen satisfaction is a step away, the complexity of the situation becomescompletely apparent! What response will Ielicit? How will I react to such a response? In the end, it’s all anintricate game of chess – and we’re all bad chess players.

Whenthe moment comes, you are very aware of your epiglottis, now a massive flapblocking the larynx. Compared to the situation you are in, you’d hyperventilationreally comfortable. Beads of perspiration run down your forehead and settle onyour eyebrows as the first syllable begins to form on your tongue. And then youtry to look at it from a third-person’s viewpoint at it all seems rather laughable.And then, you want to die.

It’snow that the conversation begins. You’re in a trance and you realize that the well-rehearsedconversation in your head has been thrown to the winds. Autopilot. You’resaying things so easily and you wonder why it seemed so difficult to surmount. Everysetback you face in the dialogue, you wave away nonchalantly, and each point youwin seems unimportant too. You wonder why you attached so much importance tothe conversation in the first place! The words flow smoothly and the onlyperson who is thinking before talking is not you. And then, you part ways inpeace.

Ten minutes later, you try toremember what you said, the words you used, the points you made… You ponderabout the impact your words had. You stomach is filled with cruel acid and you praythat it all ends well.

The Revolution

2011-08-17T19:35:00.001+05:30

In the wake of the greatest country-wide protests since the days of the Emergency, one only wonders how such a vast and diverse people, which can normally be dismissed as a bickering population at best, is united by a common and singular passion. Stranger still is the fact that thousands of people who have taken to the roads don't have an inkling as to what they are protesting. But that doesn't matter, does it? After all, in Hitler's great words, "Nothing unifies a nation faster than a common enemy."

Turning one's gaze towards the so-called educated lot - the ones who speak sense on Television rather than simply "Hum Anna ke saat hain... Jo bhi Anna karenge, wahi hum bhi karenge" - the uprising seems to be based on much stronger fundamentals. In fact, most of us can empathize with these people even as we attempt to comprehend the simplicity of a Gandhian struggle. While Anna, a man, can be done away with, "ideas are bulletproof."

Ideas alone have molded our civilization into what it is today. These are ideas which aren't intrinsically right or wrong; the notion of 'right' and 'wrong' is decided by the observer alone. But how independent are we in choosing our stance? While we continue to ridicule the fools who have no idea what they are fighting for, although they happen to support the righteous side by chance, we must consider how our own viewpoint on the matter came to be...

Most debates are won, not on logical grounds (as it is hardly possible to pitch the merits of one idea against different merits of another) but by appealing to one's sentiments. While Anna Hazare's motives are perfect and flawless, the Jan Lokpal Bill seems to be the only logical course of action. But imagine, for a moment, that our ruling Government wasn't such a supercilious, high-handed bunch; that Kapil Sibal didn't always carry that disdainful sneer and didn't declaim everything that the civil society did; that our thus far mute Prime Minister was able to address his people and make them understand that - while the idea of a Jan Lokpal Bill is excellent, a parliamentary democracy cannot allow such a movement to succeed as it will set a precedent which future governments may struggle to cope with... Then, would so many people still be on the roads?

If there is one emotion human beings are perpetually capable of exhibiting, it is Dissatisfaction. Channelize this, and you win the war. After all, if everyone understood what they're fighting for, no revolution will be possible. And debates are never won on logical grounds.

Hasta La Vista

2011-07-22T12:22:00.001+05:30

"I'll be back" - Arnold Schwarzenegger, 38th Governor of California (during his prime)
"Hasta La Vista, Baby" - Also Arnold Schwarzenegger (shortly thereafter)

________________________________________________________________________

It's not often that I read a blog-post which I think I could so easily have been the author of, but given the state of affairs over the last few months, it's not really that surprising: Any 'Goodbye' post I read seems to srike a chord.

I absolutely detest those lingering moments at the door, before you turn your back, knowing that you may never see a person ever again, but leaving prematurely is probably only worse. At least, this way, there is some closure.

It's really weird that in a world which we claim has grown so small, it is easier to lose touch with people than it was in the feudal age.Of course, people will argue that with the telephone and the internet, one can never be cut off from friends, but let me assure you that it is not the case. The aforementioned devices are but cheap virtual substitutes to something which is very real - much like the food-pills in SciFi world... Oh, one can only hope GoogleBelch doesn't become a reality!

The break-up with Roorkee is still fresh in my mind, and although it doesn't hurt now, it alarms me... When something stops hurting you, complacency sets in. And this is the beginning of The Drift. Soon, the person just becomes a red/green name on your GTalk friend-list, and you can never ping them again. But you won't delete them either. It's rather irritating, and I'm sure you've faced it too.

The only way out is never to say goodbye. There must be no permanence in absence, and one must endeavour to make this real: As Murty keeps saying, 'au revoir' is the way out.

________________________________________________________________________

In Tamil, it amazes me that there is really no word for 'Goodbye'. We simply say 'poitu varen' or the shorter, more colloquial 'varen' - which means 'I'll be back'. It simplifies things.

For nine long years, Bessi has played home to a bunch of people who had nowhere else to go and absolutely nothing else to do. This is not goodbye. There will be so much more 'nothingness', I assure you!

Na varen.

God

2011-07-12T20:58:00.003+05:30

It's an average afternoon and you're terribly bored. When surfing frustrating channels on the television has finally bored the crap out of you, you decide to walk up to the kitchen-cabinet and grab a few quick bites. Tossing the remote onto the sofa, you stagger towards the food in semi-siesta-mode. That's when it happens.

The sharpest corner of your refrigerator door finds the softest spot on your little toe, managing to break the nail in half. Off-balance, hopping on your left foot and trying to stem the flow of blood, you try not to cry out in pain. Spotting your sofa at the distance, grinding your teeth and keeping blood off the carpet, you attempt to walk the unfathomable distance. With great effort, you finally make it there and plonk yourself on the sofa, only to realize that you've sat on top of the TV remote, which rips cleanly through the seat-cushion!

You are filled with deafening pain and a blinding rage, but what hurts the most that it's nobody's fault. If only there was someone to blame, to curse, to slap or bludgeon! You cannot swear. You cannot hurt anyone for inflicting hurt on you! That's when you curse Him.

That's why I cannot be atheist or agnostic.

Stature

2011-07-04T00:11:00.000+05:30

Long before side-wheels became popular and when India was still in the nineties, under my mum's able tutelage, I began learning the art of balance on two wheels. She would constantly hold the handle-bars and run alongside me, refusing to let go. It all came back to me today, in one of those black-and-white flashes we're all so familiar with, thanks to Nolan: the first day I rode my first cycle, all by myself. Strangely though, it wasn't my mom at my side on the day it happened. It was grandpa.

Like a loose rock causing a landslide, a barrage of memories come back from the forgotten corners of the brain. I vividly recall that day, in Bangalore, when I tripped and fell, thus knocking out my first milk-tooth. It wasn't the pain which had affected my that day, but the sight of blood. Beyond that, I only recall staring into the sky as grandpa carried me home...

It feels strange to acknowledge that the very man who once used to carry me with consummate ease - someone who would, in those days, boast about his days inside battle-tanks and his travels across the globe - has waned in strength. Time is a cruel taskmaster. But one realizes that there are certain things that even Time cannot take away from us.

We talked at length that day about the culmination of my four years at Roorkee and life in the offing. Mentioning 'Schlumberger' as an 'Oil-field Service Provider', as I have so many times in the past, I ran him through the job-profile the company offered - to the extent I knew, that is. Most people don't understand what a barrel of crude is; few people know how a rig-functions and some people are quite baffled when they're told that oil comes from underneath the earth's surface.

But that day, I watched grandpa sitting on the sofa by the window, bent-double, uncomfortably picking at the mango with his fork, as he explained to me, in detail, what the oil-industry is about and what kind of rugged life a field-engineer must expect - eliminating a few doubts which have been growing inside my head. Having thrown in a bunch of stories from his work at Houston and Vancouver to supplement his facts, and having finished his mango, with some effort, he finally rose from the table.

At this age, he was not nearly as big and powerful as I once knew him to be, but clearly he was the tallest person in the house.

I Shall Always Remember

2011-05-28T01:35:00.002+05:30

1. Roorkee monsoons – for taking me, every time, to the beginning of four wonderful years

2. The Meta wing – for showing me that not all people change

3. The BC Dream – for coming true

4. Watch Out News Agency – without which I’d still be typing in ‘Times New Roman’

5. LitSec^TM – for being the only group I haven’t been thrown out of

6. Bone-chilling winters – for moongfali, coffee and rose-cheeked girls

7. The slope – for letting speed thrill, in the days before the humps

8. Numbers 62, 63 and 64 – and their occupants

9. Kondy – for being my name

10. Se7en – even if it’s on the second floor

11. Comfortably Numb – for having been my favourite song for most of my college life

12. Valentine’s Day – because it never came

13. My old (Atlas) ‘Flame’ – for taking me to places where my legs could not

14. Mussoorie – for being so close by

15. Café Coffee Day – for a lot can happen over coffee

16. Orchid Pharma & Chemicals Pvt Ltd – my first internship

17. The Grand Old Men – mentors, if not anything else

18. The Farjical engineers – for loving Fun more than I do

19. Chelsea FC – for finding me so many new friends. And enemies.

20. Cognizance 2010 – for helping me draw half a lakh out of a man who threw a two-thousand rupee cheque at me when I was in school

21. The Formatting Days – which made me the diplomat I am today.

22. Pro-Evolution Soccer – because it’s so bloody awesome

23. iPod Shuffle – for always knowing what to play next

24. Six Registration Cards – because I cannot forget them

25. My CGPA – for being the roller-coaster which never went off the rails

26. The original Krows and Helmet-head – for being who they are

27. The Schlumberger days – “Money for nothing”

28. The Newspaper man – who has tossed papers into my room unfailingly for three years

29. Karan-Arjun in BR – which remains an eternal source of déjà-vu

30. The Ganga canteen-wala (whose name I still don’t know) – who disarmed me with his smile, every time

31. ‘Late’ Team-WONA – for being people I will love forever

32. Delhi and Chandi Debates – for all the cute girls

33. Old Monk – for coming at 35 Rupees a shot (RP)

34. The Gym – for helping me put matter over mind

35. My dying laptop – for staying alive

36. EDC IITR – for being there through my fourth year

37. Department of Chemical Engineering, IITR – which god-alone-knows-how is the best department of the country

38. Spirited Fellows and Solani Nights – “To more of the same!”

39. Chest-monster and the Robot – Madmen

40. Gambit and the Camera-man – for sticking around

41. Team Goa and the Goat – “Next time, Tito’s!”

42. You, Blog.

A Box Among Other Things

2011-05-14T02:23:00.001+05:30

Being the trunk broker that I've become in my final days on campus, it is only fair that I part with mine too. It became all the more important since mum keeps reminding me over the telephone: "Get rid of all your junk!" But the question which kept me dilly-dallying forever was just one: To sell or to give?

It only takes you a moment to come up with an answer to that one, actually. It's a response which comes to you as naturally as, "Mom, stop calling it junk! I've really gotten attached to each of these things I've used during my four years here!" You realize that you can never put a price tag on something with such great sentimental value, and since it's rather impractical to lug an elephantine aluminium trunk over 2000 kilometres, the rational way to go about things is to give it away. As of tonight, my trunk is owned by a lad named Aditya Gokhale.

One would think I'm stupid to post stories about cycles and trunks, but inanimate objects are powerful memory tools. While I often find it hopelessly difficult to shut my eyes and recall a face, the way these everyday possessions of mine bring people back to life is rather eerie. However, to be very frank, I didn't care much about this large ungainly object which inhabited one half of S7, Cautley Bhawan long before its very last moments.

I was shifting stuff off the lid so that I could empty its contents when I spotted the ink. Much like the Camlin ad for permanent markers, my handwriting stared back at me from three years back. I remember that day, outside the Cautley cloak-room, when, as a kid who had just put up a status message "25% complete", I was instructed to ink my name on the top for identification purposes.

Obedient that I was, I began writing my name. I followed it up with my enrollment number '070607'. And then, I wrote the following words:

B.Tech (M

My hand froze at that point as I realized what I had done. I'm rather superstitious, and I still say a prayer at the beginning of every exam I write. And superstition freaked me out that day as I realized I never should have started writing 'Metallurgical and Materials Engineering' in the first place - not when a possible branch change was in the offing! After considering striking it out, I decided that I'd much rather let it stay there, and I thought, 'one day I might look back at this and smile... and it will remind me of this day.'

Well, that day was today.

Transporter

2011-05-07T02:57:00.000+05:30

On 23rd July 2007, I first set foot on Roorkee soil. Being the responsible maddu that I was, I telephoned the only R-person's number I possessed. Obviously, being a long-drawn maddu connection (cousin of friend of school-senior), the person in question was himself quite Maddu. I was with mum when I met Venkatesh Nandakumar outside the Saraswati Mandir some four years ago. And Venky told me the stories and the legends of the land. He also introduced me to the Velociraptor, who I came to know quite well during his years here.

Anyway, the two of them later informed me about how a first year is expected to behave. What they said, in nutshell, could be retold as: Be a proper Maddu who doesn't speak Hindi, wears the quintessential black and white shirt and trousers, and never looks at anything but his feet. And DON'T buy a bicycle.

To be quite frank, I was so terrified by his words that I almost sold my bicycle back home. But as time wore on, I realized that the distances were too much to be negotiated by foot. And so, filled with trepidation, I bought the black Atlas Flame which would become one of my closest companions in IIT Roorkee.

________________________________________________________________________

Having dinner early that evening, I decided it was dark enough to mingle inconspicuously with the campus environs. Cool autumn breeze blowing powerfully across one's face is motivation enough to up the speed. Pedalling furiously up a speed-breaker-less slope, I was greeted by the dazzling Central Library which was as new around these parts as I was. Overawed that I was by the sights that I encountered, I made a few wrong turns and didn't make a few right ones. And I ended up getting thoroughly lost.

'Transport Engineering' was the board that I stood in front of, and I didn't know what the hell it meant. And harbouring that perennial fear of being found-out, I decided not to ask anyone the route back, which only meant that my nerves took a tremendous beating. Naturally, I did find my way around eventually but these are the very first memories I have with my bicycle.

________________________________________________________________________

Over the years, it helped me reach meetings only twenty minutes late and classes only five. It helped me climb the slope a million times, just so that I could enjoy my ride down. It helped me outrace packs of angry stray dogs and do countless other things. It is only ironic that, never having left my side for three-and-a-half years, it chose to get stolen this semester, thus robbing me of a chance to say goodbye.

Rest in peace, Cycle.

Lavender Girl

2011-05-01T13:18:00.003+05:30

The decibel is upped, swallowing the still
In the burning lamps, red turns green
One thousand people palisade him, til’
He’s aware of none but the Lavender girl.

Standing her side, he watches her long
Until in her eyes, he finds his own…
A maudlin sigh, then with a smile so strong
She gazes at him through the cast-iron bars.

He has grown to love the way she laughs
And wishes she wouldn't do any of it now;
For when your world is being torn in halfs,
You cannot bear to listen to that voice.

As a monochrome man on grey cement earth,
Clumsily, he clutches the cold window grille
Black and white and colours without mirth
She reaches out but cannot touch his hand.

He opens his mouth so he can speak
But words don’t flow from a gated heart
Words for the brave, tears for the meek
He fights them back as the Lavender girl leaves.

Bow out with dignity, to himself he says
Kill all passion and restore peace:
He begins to erase their together-days
And erases a part of himself too.

The moment has passed, the train pulls away
Along the platform, he keeps up pace
Knocking over many an invisible man
As he wipes a tear off her face.

A million greys pile upon him
As he gasps and falters; seizes to run
He watches the train disappear dim
That Lavender shade is his no more.

Goodbye TS

2011-04-04T07:58:00.003+05:30

The blogger in me was still unborn when I first undertook the rigorous time-trial of a mid-semester examination. Those were days when my Branch-change dreams were still in their infancy; when I saw everything through rose-tinted lenses. The new Central Library had just been opened (and wasn’t the hostile MGCL of today) and India was yet to win the T20 World Cup.

Today, I see tinges of grey even as I re-read my post, though I know that the rose-tinted lenses have just sauntered back on for their second-innings. TSs have always been a time when I’m at my element – at least on my blog (my Glory, Glory Ghissing days are a distant memory). I once made a promise and I've endeavoured to fulfil it over the past few years: Write a blog-post on the eve of every TS. 2011 hasn't exactly been the konfessions’ golden age, and I must be forgiven for last time.

But I won’t fail twice. The days prior to a TS are days when the mind is at its creative best. Make all Indians write TSs and I swear to you that we’ll be a superpower before Armageddon – 2012.

It feels strange and rather disturbing that there was once a time I could write seven exams in two days in relative comfort. Today, three in as many days feels like an ordeal. But it’s probably a lot when you think of the fact that we have only five contact hours in a week. Nevertheless, I must turn away from my blog so I can ensure that this TS is, indeed, my last.

Goodbye TS. I shall miss you.

Lest We Forget Goa

2011-03-25T23:24:00.005+05:30

Like most self-respecting Maddus, I don't dance - at least when I'm not inebriated, I don't. However, that's where my similarities with the stereotype end, for I don't sing either - not for the public at least. So, when the lady at the bar asked me to sing karaoke, it was only obvious that I'd decline.

We had come to Goa for a whole lot of things - bikes, beer, babes, beaches... Karaoke, however, began with a 'K'. So, the bearded one just said "One Budweiser, please" before the blonde waitress bothered us any further. And thus began our story at the second bar of my first ever pub-crawl.

Rounds of vodka, rum, gin and fenny can do weird things to your head. All the same, yours truly was clever, as he had switched off his mobile phone and taken out the battery, lest he should fool around with it and end up as a fool the next morning. A few more beers were thrown in by the courteous waitress, about whom someone commented - "These foreigners are so pleasant, man! Why can't Indians be like them?"

I cannot vividly recall all the happenings of that night - but I certainly remember poring through a song catalogue, complaining about the randomness of the list and Pink Floyd's conspicuous absence. The senti one, who was thoroughly hammered by now, suggested that he's return to Goa in December if they promised to get new songs. Drunk people are particular when it comes to such matters, but they're not finicky. So we sang.

My cacophonous rendition of 'Hey Jude' quickly put Jetty's utterly horrendous 'Yesterday' (which sounded more like Bieber's 'Baby, baby, baby') to shame. The lady was there to rub it in: "You told me you wouldn't sing!" she said. "Well, I wasn't drinking then, was I?" was my deft reply.

Jetty continued to hog the title of 'worst singer ever' with consummate ease, even as the bearded fellow sank into a conversation with the waitress.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Zena," she replied.

"Like the Warrior princess?" he ventured.

"No. With a 'Z'," she smiled.

Sadly, their romantic chat was shredded apart by Jetty's 'Yellow Submarine'. The chorus was insane, with Jetty convincing the rest of us with irrefutable logic that we all do, indeed, live in a Yellow submarine.

Soon, it was time to leave, so we could reach the next shack. The bill came and we paid. As we left, the waitress ran after us a hundred yards just to say goodbye. After all, I've never tipped like that in my life!

Off My Bucket List

2011-03-14T13:25:00.003+05:30

Some of my fondest moments in Watch Out News Agency, and thus on campus, involve staring at the old tree which the wise old dog speaks about so highly. I’m sure most people who have stared in wonderment at the old tree’s majestic upper-branches will empathize with me when I say that the profoundest of thoughts jump out of its withering bark.

I’m quite certain campus Wi-Fi jumped out of it while it was a few rings younger and maybe co-ed hostels will emerge one fine day, as most of us fancifully dream. But usually, staring results in – The E&C Tower. What to do with the E&C tower? How to blow it up? How to throw oneself to the Gaon using the mighty concrete tower as a giant trebuchet? And so on…

While the greatest ‘Rank’ I’ve written would involve ways of getting oneself into SB and staying there undetected, all other spots in my top ten list would have something to do with the mysterious phallic structure. Fucchas, year after year, are bedazzled by the brilliant Main Building and baffled by the weird tower mastering the slope. And seniors leaving the institute inevitably harbour one unfulfilled dream – “Damn, I never scaled it!” Well, I did. (Albeit with a few score others)

Having gone four dry years, I’ve scaled it twice in two days now: courtesy Cognizance 2011. The fifteen story climb is an arduous one – but like in all great treks and pilgrimages – totally worth the effort! The summit has something for everyone: While flying paper planes off the top never occurred to us when we stared at the tree, the bearded one’s ‘Dragon’ demonstrated what fine aerodynamics must consist of. Gelf’s own multiethnic jackass spotted Kerala on the horizon and the Shutterbug was busy capturing anything and everything under the sun (including the sun itself, which, he very intelligently realized, was a few feet closer).

For me, it was about what R has always been about.

WondeRland lies in full brilliance in front of my eyes in uncorrupted pristine splendour. I watch the people, who have meant so much to me, scamper about like tiny ants disappearing into the trees. The sun drowns us in radiant ochre. And I understand why I’ll never stop loving this place.

The Social Network

2011-02-20T21:23:00.006+05:30

Alfred Borden: Everything's going to be alright, because I love you very much.

Sarah: Say it again.

Alfred Borden: I love you.
Sarah: Not today.
Alfred Borden: What do you mean?
Sarah: Well some days it's not true. I like being able to tell the difference, it makes the days it is true mean something.

_________________________________________________________

Like most ordinarily built Indian women, the teacher stood at five feet and four inches. She was an attractive woman in her mid twenties. Given the circumstances, it's only understandable that she felt like a giant. She had come to class I A. And in that class stood I, in the sparkling new outfit dad had helped me get into, as a little lad with a rather large head. Fifteen years have passed since that day but I remember this one certain detail: The teacher, being bored - understandably, as she was surrounded by twenty-three clumsy midgets - gave us an assignment. She said, "Open your notebook and write down the name of your best friend and the reason why that person is your best friend."

This also happened to be my first day in Indian School Al Ghubra, Muscat, Sultanate of Oman. It was also the first co-ed school I attended - my first school being Baldwin Boys', Bangalore. So, it is probably understandable that curiosity got the better of me and soon I was writing - "My best friend in Avantika because she sits next to me." I don't remember the girl's face; just her name.

I look back at that day in quiet amusement: how easy it had been to choose a best friend! As kids, most people who we get along could very well qualify as our best pals. And as kids, we have only two choices about people you meet: you love them or you hate them. There's no concept of secretly hating your friends, harbouring envy for your neighbour's superior penmanship or secretly admiring your enemies. I only wish the world had remained that simple.

That was a world where words and diamonds and gifts weren't the only ways of expressing love and affection. That was a world where a smile or even a knowing nod was a reassuring testament of love without warranting the three words, which have been debased by overuse; a world where friendship was a bond of blood and where there was understanding even in silence.

Life is, after all, not about immense networking and keeping in touch with as many people as possible. One would think it's about staying happy - with few people you will be happy with. Only then can words still carry meaning and promise. But we don't live this life: we live in a world where every acquaintance expects to be loved, to be greeted with hugs - which aren't really hugs - and kisses - which aren't really kisses. You can be held culpable for not uttering the right words when the 'moment' comes - the depravity of it all!

I can say one thing for sure - I will fall in love several times in this life, but there'll few I'll ever call my 'best friends'.

Assimilation

2011-02-10T09:46:00.004+05:30

I looked towards my wall proudly, having meticulously redecorated it. Apart from the mahogany shelf riveted to the wall, upon which rest a few relics of our inglorious past, and the luxurious bean bag which rests majestically in one corner of the room directly in front of my 50 inch television screen, the hall is fashionably empty. The French rug which I imported for a fortune covers the marble flooring which has become so passé. I love my small, comfortable dwelling.

It is strange that one should feel at home only after ostracizing oneself from one's own past, but that is how I feel today. I feel better after getting rid of those garish colours - those curtains and teak-wood sofas, and those Ravi Verma oil paintings! I used Berger's new 'Black' theme for interior decoration, and all things now blend into this elegant hue. I've even purchased a grey designer suit and satin black overcoat from the downtown Walmart to go with my silver Aston Martin.

I think I'll take the Metro now, to the Mall road to fetch some Budweiser for the party I'll be throwing later tonight. I know the party's going to be swell. We even have a dress code - Men in dark suits and women in evening gowns. This party will be the talk of the town - with all the Barbeque and the Italian spread. I have even unlocked the back door so that the men can smoke their cigars in the balcony outside, while enjoying the mighty steel and concrete horizon which modern India proudly boasts of.

It is the year 2130. I am proud of the fact that there are no longer divides and rifts between the people of the nation - we have all become global-citizens. There are no longer problems of language - we all speak English. There are no differences in food - no Rotis and no Dosas - we all enjoy a double-cheese Margherita and a big Mac washed down with some Sprite. We've renounced religion which has been the cause of so many conflicts in the past! No temple, no churches and no mosques - so no problem. All places of worship in this secular land have become museums - some of the finest in the world! And modern dermatologists have succeeded in making us all fair, so we can accentuate our new skins with the profoundest of black. No American is able to tell us apart from his countrymen now - to hell with racial discrimination!

I'm so glad we have taken a broader view of things since 2100, shedding our bourgeois demeanour for good! Our schools have begun teaching us about George Washington and Napoleon Bonaparte as much as they do about C.V. Raman and Rani Lakshmi Bai. Our kids are taught ballet in school, just like some western institutions have started teaching Indian Classical. I'm just glad there are no divides in this world. Everyone has become the same person.

Ei8ht

2011-01-24T00:33:00.000+05:30

The coat of arms catches your sight in all its magnificent gold and glittering red. A few moments later, you catch yourself gazing achingly at sun-dried brown and mildly striped white. Despite the dazzle and the intoxicating essence, you realize that the experience may not be as wonderful as someone once told you. But Novelty is a cruel friend, and Novelty won't let you go that easily.

You try to do it like them, but you fail miserably... There is not suavity or elegance like what you saw on television, as the powerful substance enters you. You cough and you wheeze. Your vision blurs and you stumble. But do you give up?

As you soon discover, Time is a panacea and your feet rediscover the firm earth below. So you try again, and this time harder. The fumes rise mightily and overpower your feeble body. You are part of it now, as it is part of you. But you don't like it... Not just yet. No.

Somehow you manage the third, to the amusement of some of your friends. This time you feel so much more in control and you realize that it has always been about the mind, from the very beginning: you wanted to conquer that searing stem. And now that you have, you could let go but it has endeared itself to you.

The fourth drag is followed by the fifth and then fresh air floods your lungs. Your hands are numb as they hang loosely by your side, like those of a puppet. A cold breeze, an inky sky, rustling leaves, burning stem, and you are alone... The Universe comes to an end: No longer do the dogs bark; the full moon appears painted on a motionless black screen; the air is stagnant; the waves hang in suspended animation; you freeze. The rhythmic ticking of the clock breaks the silence.

You put your lips to the filter for a sixth time and the world jerks into sudden motion. The dogs hasten after one another; the moon is partially covered by the racing cirrus; a blast of icy cold wind blows away the ash; the waves crash against the rocky shore; and cold noxious fumes enter your lungs. People stare at you in awe, like the way they would stare at their favourite movie hero. But you are unaware of all this, of course.

Lust, gluttony, greed, sloth, wrath, envy and pride: Seven is your ticket to the almighty heavens. Dreams become real in this world, everyone is happy and you are their king. Sorrows in this world ebb away into the infinite and anger is a forgotten pleasure. It is the hardest world to leave, but everything good must have an end. And this does too.

The ring of burning red is very close to your fingers now and you feel it feeding on your flesh. But you don't want to stop now. You want to push the high: thus comes the eighth drag, and your lap of honour. The hot fumes cloud your mouth and you gasp once again. You know that it has ended but you will never want to leave. You will want to stay here forever. But you can't do that. You cannot have more. You must let go. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven and eight... You must let go now!

And so the last puffs of smoke leave you. Forever.

Ten Greatest Fictional Universes Ever

2010-12-22T19:54:00.001+05:30

Sometimes, this life doesn't feel enough. It's fun, it's beautiful and all that... But once in a while, we wonder if there's a better place, a better life, waiting for us somewhere. Well, I wouldn't trade my life for anything, but these are the ten worlds I'd love to be in. Ten greatest fictional worlds I've come across:

10. BERK:

Who wouldn't want to live with big burly vikings, drink yak milk and pillage villages for fun? Here, I can sail. And I can fly!

"This is Berk. It snows nine months of the year and hails the other three. What little food grows here is tough, and tasteless. The people that grow here, even more so. The only upsides are the pets. While other places have ponies, and parrots, we have dragons!"

Watch the movie.

9. COLLECTING DRAGON BALLS:

It's my life's ambition to meet a real-life super-Saiyyan. That, and Piccolo's makankosappo (or Special Beam Cannon) means that Goku, Bulma and company find their place in the list at number nine.

Come get me!!

8. WITH THE JUSTICE LEAGUE:

Yes, more superheroes! While Bruce Wayne's Gotham alone is worth experiencing, one finds the city devoid of The Green Lantern, J'onn J'onzz and The Flash. So yes, wherever the JL go, I'd like to go with them.

Note 1: Superman is gay: the only eyesore in an otherwise perfect universe.

Note 2: More than offsetting this problem, we'll have Wonder Woman. And she is...

7. ARDA:

Being one of the most elaborately designed worlds ever (the Mahabharata isn't really fiction), not wanting to live in Middle Earth and, later, Valinor should be considered a criminal offence! Silmarils, rings and legendary swords... I'm probably doing Tolkien grave injustice by relegating the world to number se7en.

6. AS A PGW CREATION:

As a matter of policy, I dislike God-interference. Some plots become murkier and murkier until one stage a solution seems impossible, when Presto! An impossible ending is conjured out of nowhere and all is well. These story-lines just don't make sense! However, there are two exceptions to this rule: 1. My life and 2. A Wodehouse novel.

Jeeves is a genius.

5. HOGWARTS:

Even though I consider Rowling a highly unoriginal author, I'm a sucker for this world. Come on! 'Wands and Wizards' - there's no way in hell I'd say no to that! Besides, house-elves could do all my work.

(For the record, I prefer elves who tall, beautiful warriors to the sycophantic elves.)

4. HERGEVERSE:

Blistering barnacles, of course! Tintin, Snowy and the cap'n almost skipped my mind entirely... I'd love to gallivant Borduria, Sydavia and places as far away as the Moon. This one comes above Wands and Wizards!

3. THE MAGIC FARAWAY TREE:

Moonface, Silky the fairy, Dame Washalot, Mister Whatizname, Saucepan Man and the Angry Pixie... Need I say more? What worse could happen to me here than missing the hole back to the tree! Enchanting, yes! And one of the happiest worlds I've lived in as a kid.

2. LONG LONG AGO, IN A GALAXY FAR FAR AWAY:

Light sabers. Need I say more?

There is no emotion, there is peace.

There is no ignorance, there is knowledge.

There is no passion, there is serenity.

There is no death, there is the Force.

1. CENTRAL PERK:

A quintessential Friends group and the bittersweet symphony of Life. The most real, happy place I've ever had the fortune of coming across! Thank you, David Crane and Marta Kauffman for redefining happiness and laughter.

I'll be there for you...

'Cuz you're there for me too.

One Last Breath

2010-12-19T11:11:00.005+05:30

Greyness descended upon him even as his vision blurred. Colours seemed to fade away, as grass merged with dusty earth, in a cold steel grey. The pool of blood appeared black from where he stood. Once again, he crouched behind the makeshift wall to protect himself from sheets of savage arrows. Faces in the wall were a grim reminder of the dead who now constituted it: once his comrades and brothers, they now stared back through empty eyes. With swords in arms, they had all perished in the front-lines and now, in death, they protected him. They would not get a decent burial but dishonour and indignity are rarely felt by the dead.

A man enters a battle in fear, charged with adrenalin... but by the end, he is drained of energy and of tears. And he is fueled by unparalleled courage.

From his breastplate, he pulled out the shaft which had sought him out from behind the wall. The arrowhead smelled of his blood. He rubbed his wound; it did not hurt. He was alone and Death was near. He had sliced and cut his way here with his bloody broadsword before he had been sapped of his strength. He was alone in a losing battle now.

What is fear?

He picked up a fallen bow, instantly recognizing it, but thought not of its previous owner. With a final burst of energy, he sprang up from the dirt. With his one bloody shaft, he armed his bow. He could kill one more man. Through a cloud of approaching arrows, he spotted the chariot. A deep breath filled his lungs, as last breaths often do. He steadied his arms and squinted through the blur. The arrows descended upon him and they sliced through his chain-mail. Blood flowed freely now, even as he imagined that they had entirely missed their target.

He managed a final chuckle and let the arrow fly.

The Old Man & The Pot

2010-11-28T14:49:00.004+05:30

The mud track took one last turn around the hill, and a smile vanquished the last of those fretful lines upon his face. The boy, tired as he was, was finally nearing the end of his almighty quest. The meandering road had taken him through several villages and shanties, over treacherous rope-ways and some insanely beautiful scenery. But he was glad that it was all over now, for his legs: they were pumping acid; and his vision was blurring from fatigue. And thus, he threw himself around the bend with whatever energy was left in him, unconsumed.

Voila! The sight he beheld astonished him as much as it bewildered his senses, for beauty in its most consummate form can hold one in a trance forever; he held the vision in veneration and fear. The trees were taller than many mountains he had seen in his life and they were richer than the richest of kings. Snowflakes, like little stars, floated down through their almighty canopy into the bursting stream which ran down the hill. And in front of him was the most queer looking house, made of logs and bricks and stone - and yet it didn't look out of place.

He was rejuvenated by the glorious sight and he felt like he could run all the way to the house. For it was for the house that he had undertaken this perilous trip once again. Memories of his previous encounters with the wizened inhabitant of the house flooded his thoughts. It had been two years now...

* * *

"Welcome, welcome..." the old man had said, stroking his flowing beard. “What must I owe this delightful honour to? Not many lads come by these days," he had sighed.

"N… nothing sir..." the boy had stammered. “ I am merely an admirer of nature... and a lover of unadulterated beauty.”

"Oh, come now... Let me boil you some tea," the man had said, as he ushered the boy into his austere dwelling. "But you don't have to lie. I know why you have come. I know why all boys come!"

Then he had meticulously boiled the tealeaves in a large kettle and he had returned to the boy's beside only when he carried two mugs of tea.

"Sip on it when it's hot," he had commanded and the boy had obeyed. All of a sudden, he had found himself fully strong: renewed. The old man then posed the question: "Now that you are better, tell me... What are you willing to trade? I know that you have come for the Pot."

"Trade?!" the boy remembered himself faltering, shocked by the old-man's deduction.

"Of course... A trade! It's only fair, isn't it? And how is it you don't know about the trade?!" He had asked. The man seemed menacing now; no longer friendly and definitely not affable. "The pot isn't free of cost. What will you give me in exchange for the pot?"

"I have some gold...?"

"GOLD!" He had laughed, but without mirth. "You can keep that! It is worthless to me. I am looking for something far more precious."

The boy had stayed silent. The old man had played this game far too many times to lose at it. He always won. Every lad eventually gave in! They all knew that their lives would remain miserable without the pot. It was their only way out!

"You know what it is..." he said, slowly. “I know you lead a wretched life! You have nothing more than a pocketful of gold... You believe Life is unjust to you and you have come to me. But you have something I can trade the Pot for..."

The boy had stared mutely.

"Your dreams, your heart! Your soul..." The man went on. "I am willing to trade."

"My heart is mine to keep and mine alone to give. One cannot forcibly claim it. My dreams serve me as an infinite staircase to eternal glory... If you want me to trade that, you are fooling yourself sir. I might be poor, destitute, distraught and ill-omened, but I'm willing to walk back home empty handed. There will be no trade today. Now, will you give me the pot? Or must I walk?"

The man had then smiled, like he had smiled before. "Bravo, boy! Bravo..." He had cried, for never before had he listened to such words. People, usually, willingly submitted. “For you lad, free of cost!” And he conjured a small earthen pot out of thin air. "Just promise me that you will never trade. Otherwise you are not worthy of the Pot."

* * *

The boy was once again at the door of the strange tenement, and he stood on the threshold staring at the large oak door. He had once sworn to himself that he would never make this trip again. And now, he was here. He had promised never to trade, even for something he valued as much as the pot. His life had dramatically improved ever since he had sipped some of its magic. And Life had become fair and beautiful and lovely and grand. For two long years, he had ruled his world, but now he found his pot empty. He felt things would go awry once again. He was afraid: afraid to lose it all and return to square one. He felt now like it was worth a trade.

Suddenly, the door sprang open. But there was no old man this time: in his stead was a little boy.

"What do you want, friend," he asked to which the traveller replied that he had come to see the old man.

The boy looked sad now, and he replied: "You have come to meet grandpa! If only you had come sooner... He forgot to take his daily sip yesterday. I'm afraid he's no longer with us!"

The traveller stared aghast.

"Yes," nodded the grandson solemnly. "Grandpa used to sell Luck."

Senti Mental

2010-11-20T10:58:00.000+05:30

Another lazy morning reminds me that the calendar has turned yet another page in what has been a semester of erratic fortunes. The mellow light filtering in through the dusty mesh covering my window reminds me that the newspaperman will be here soon with his pricy Hindu newspaper. I remind myself to go to the ATM to forage enough cash to pay him off; that is when yesterday's copy of the paper reminds me that I haven't done justice to it.

I lift it off my side table meticulously, without disturbing myriad other things which lie beside it, and I discover day-before-yesterday's paper below it. I chastise myself for my shameless habit of not reading-up current-affairs, only to discover that my wrath is ill-directed. For I'm not really angry at myself for not reading the latest on the 2G scam, but for the fact that I let these things lie around.

I remember my mom admonishing me as a kid, when I refused to part with toys of yore, "Throw them out, son!" But I did nothing of that sort. I used to secretly stash them in the corner of my shelf along with the other stuff I couldn't bear to part with - books, worn-out crayons, old clothes and other stochastic paraphernalia. I knew that mom would find them out one day and then destroy them all with one cold-blooded swipe. But that never really hurt me, as I wouldn't know about it happening, until it was all done. And after that, I could barely remember what it was she had thrown away. So all ended well.

Now I am not that kid. And mom's not around to throw stuff away for me. And it hurts. I find myself drowning in a deluge of stuff I really oughtn't keep! I look around to find innocuous immaterial collections of Airline Baggage Tags and Bus and Train tickets, weird stationery items like a first semester notebook or a 'historic' pen, clothes which I won't wear ever - like the T-Shirt my dhobi ripped through, sentimental reminders of what I once thought important including wrappers, labels, boxes and memory-cards, empty cans of deodorant and broken knife blades.

I am determined now to rid myself of this horrendous habit. And what better way than to throw out these relics of the past. And thus I proceed to my shelf to blast them all into oblivion; but then the newspaperman is here. And I need to pay him. May be I should throw the stuff out some other day...

My New Roomies

2010-11-02T20:51:00.006+05:30

I brought food from home: a bag full of it. In fact, I took pains lugging it through Security-Check, proving to them at certain points that the sweets and savories weren't in fact plastic explosives and miscellaneous children of modern warfare. It was, of course, totally worth the effort. Home-food is, as you will agree, unparalleled in awesomeness. And one can never have enough of it.

And thus food from home found itself in S7 - Cautley Bhawan after a rather painful dry spell. It doesn't require Einsteinian IQ to figure out that one can't bring Vadais and Appams and Payasams all the way here, and still manage to enjoy them as food few days later if one isn't anaerobic. Luckily though, the same doesn't apply to sweets and savories. And one can never eat enough of them.

The ants dwelling in my room can't get enough of them either. I discovered today, with much alarm, that (not only are there lizards on my walls) I share my humble dwelling with myriad ants as well. I haven't ever bothered their sedentary lives just as they haven't interrupted mine. But today marked an end of those days of peace. Quite obviously, there isn't enough place for both of us! And hence I took to arms.

But then I faced the tiniest of problems. They were feasting on my 'handmade murukku' which I valued simply too much. So bashing their skulls in with the umbrella handle was out of the question. So, I calmly broke off a piece and kept it beside the rest of the stuff. And presto, within quarter of an hour, the ants completely forgot the packet full of murukku and went after the measly piece. I smiled. And then I threw the piece out of my window. And with it, my roomies.

It surprised me that all those ants went after one single piece of food. They forgot about the whole packet of goodies. And they'll never find out about the bag (mothership) of food. Somehow, I find their behaviour appallingly similar to ours!

The Temple

2010-10-18T23:29:00.005+05:30

I drove a long while yesterday, pleasantly surprising myself each time I threw the car around a bend with casual ease; for I have reason to believe that Driving, like Language, can be forgotten. Today I was bursting through the streets once again, though not equipped with the Swift this time around, as I found myself seated precariously on Mom's 50cc Kinetic - empathizing with the way Lord Ganesha feels when he sits on his mouse. Helmeted - not by choice, I stared through the vizor at the way Chennai's greatest road contrasted the erstwhile empire and ancient megalith with modern day towers.

I was on a mission today: an impromptu decision and a whimsical moment, which lead to the beginning of an insatiable urge. Being filled with the improbable melange of piety and desire, while all the time acknowledging the fact that neither could live while the other survived, I decided that it was only prudent that I nip it at the bud. And I embarked upon the pilgrimage.

I haven't been to the shrine for a while now and I felt that the Powers might chastise me for my ignorance, condemn me and relegate me to the desecrated world. But then I have always believed that the Lord is forgiving. And I continued on my trip, with expectations reaching their acme as the temple came into view. Like all temples, there was nothing blindingly brilliant about the exterior, for temples need not boast their existence. They merely need to exist, and people will come.

I stood in awe as I stared at the resplendent medieval facade, tattooed with the number '1844', which seemed to stare back down upon me, as if demanding, "Where have you been all these days?" I bowed my head and putting my right foot forward, I stepped across the threshold. A chill ran down my spine as I reminded myself that I was finally reunited with the lord in his abode, after all the missing years. Every aspect of the place left me amazed: the careless nonchalance in the way the angels presented themselves to those who cared to come, the meticulous and overworked attendants and the overwhelming mix of people who prayed by my beside.

No number of hours could suffice in such a place, as I tried placating a hurt ego - convincing myself that there was still time for redemption. I left the shrine a few hours later, as a greatly enriched man. And I swore to return as soon as fate and time permitted me to. And thus I exited Higginbotham's - the oldest bookstore in the country. And the finest, needless to say.

God bless Abel Joshua Higginbotham.

Long Walks

2010-10-08T00:57:00.006+05:30

The end seems near and I invite it closer. The trees fall behind giving way to more as my feet work assiduously against the floor. The street-signs fade along my peripheral vision, disappearing into my immediate past, mimicking the behaviour of the dazed grin which inhabited my face not too long ago. I am walking along a lonely dark road.

The culmination of the long trip seems closer now. It is always better to walk with a goal in mind than to wander aimlessly through the many unexplored paths of this world. It isn't half as exciting, but it's a soothing experience: knowing that the end isn't too far away. (No guessing is involved.)

There was once a time when I didn't know what to do with my hands when I strolled down a lane... But those times are forgotten now. My hands don't feel awkward dangling by my sides as I walk. The same, however, cannot be said about my head.

Questions crowd my mind as I continue walking. The dazzling brilliance of the final destination is clearly visible now. But new ideas continue to sparkle intermittently like the stars of the infinite sky which overwhelm me every time I set foot under the shroud of Night. Questions demand answers and statements beg to be questioned. The universe is too vast. And I continue walking.

My legs are pumping battery acid now. The end seems close. The questions are too many. And I am fatigued. The End now acts as a magic bullet, putting to an end the misery caused by a thousand-odd steps. I'd love to answer those questions. I'd love to endure the experience... But that'd have to wait until another day. I hit the bed with stupendous force, hard enough to knock myself out into sweet oblivion. I am tired. And I wouldn't mind walking some more...

Reinvention

2010-09-23T18:17:00.003+05:30

It was never about ‘D by DX’s or asymptotic lines which never mean anything! It has never been about swallowing a few pages up whole overnight and spitting the pages out, without having the goddamn decency to assimilate even a few captions… It has never ever been about dirty un-understandable balances or the fact that 2100 is a boundary condition for turbulence!! We have been lied to.

The foremost institutions of learning have pulled the bloody wool over our eyes; our eyes, only too willingly, have submitted to the shroud. We sit here today, indolent as ever, unwilling to put in even that small ounce of energy into understanding what we came here to do. We sit and we get tired of sitting. We get bored. And we begin watching a movie – a movie which propagandizes a well known foreign institution – lifting it a few notches further in our heads; Awesome has just become God-level. And then we curse. We curse the books; the profs; the methods; the exams; the whole f*#ing system! And we sit in awe of those people sitting abroad, going about their jobs with ostensibly effortless ease.

I don’t know where to start. Is it the professors? Is it Us? Is it MHRD? Is it…

The professors, of course, have failed miserably to perform their basic function – to mentor the student. But they aren’t here to mentor us; are they? They aren’t here out of choice… They seem to have been dumped here. One advice to all those who are thinking about pedagogy as a career: Teach if Teaching is your first love. If you are going to teach because you think you have no better option, then kill yourself. That’s better.

But you can’t really blame a professor, can you? They probably were subjected to the same means of education as we are now, and they know no better. And they don’t want to know any better. But that can’t stop someone who claims he chose Engineering for his life, can it? And in no realm of earthly imagination can Engineering sound boring… So what is it?! Why do we think that life beyond the IITs, far away across the oceans, is all lovely and beautiful; life eased by push-button technology and magical inventions. You can bet your four years in the college that they slog their backsides off like we can hardly imagine. Nothing comes easy.

And why does every one of us feel that it is a pain to go through what we are being taught. If there is one thing I have learnt, it is that Work doesn’t remain Work once you start loving it. And Science and Engineering once stood for everything that I believed in… Where has that gone now? It is only plausible that I have fallen to a devil called Disillusionment. But then, so has everyone else! How the hell does it make sense?

How does it make sense that the highest ranker is so oft looked down upon and is subjected to ridicule rather than veneration? And how does it make sense that the highest ranker in a class studies for the Grade, without love for what he is doing? Why does it happen that 'Management' becomes a fall-back phrase as the senior undergraduate year approaches? Life is not about eliminating opportunities and choosing what you hate least. It’s about what you love most.

If you don’t love anything, your existence is irrelevant. Obsolete.

Today, I met a man who explained to me why his name was prefixed by the phrase “Doctor of Philosophy”. I am afraid I have met him too late; beyond the point of no return. He explained to me the ways of nature, the ways of an engineer and the ways of an ideal engineering institution. He told me about the oneness of man and machine… the union of all the disciplines at the pinnacle of human achievement… And how nothing is possible without effort, observation and intelligence…

Did I get senti? Hell, yes. But can I do anything about it…

The Song Remains The Same

2010-09-12T00:01:00.002+05:30

Clear the desks; pull some chairs
Stash the bucket in the shelf…
Shroud the books; slay the sheets
Get up! You’ve got work to do.

Hoard some cash, be very tight
Do not buy and do not give.
And then all! Splurge it all…
Fling it all: Y’ know when to.

Let the windows give away
And let the sky come bursting in
Making way for endless fumes
Of smoke of evil and endless joy.

Grab the caps, light the flares
Get the speakers out once more
Let the cake come, when it must
Fix the old bulb up tonight.

Draw out crapes ‘n streamers encore
And write the names upon the walls–
Splashes of paint and sparkling text
The magic canvas is a glittering hall.

Revive the jukebox from days forgot’
Relive those old joys born anew
Reset the table; Repeat the song
Renumber the spirits alphabet-wise!

Get the knives and spoons and forks;
The dinner is ready – delectable, grand…
Steady the staircase – that infinite one
Which will take you to heaven tonight.

Keep the phone nigh – at hand
To answer all those midnight songs.
Now set the beat and up the heat –
And wait for Earth’s complete round.

Don’t forgive but do forget
All that past that wasn’t right
Indulge! Rejoice! Promise! Ascend!
There will be a party tonight!

ABC

2010-09-03T18:26:00.004+05:30

Accompanying the cacophonous ultrasound of Light meeting Death, each note converting the spinal cord into a lightning arrestor, was the beginning of a captivating little scribble - creamy white on pitch black. Scrawny and ungainly in proportion, one could but scoff at it in distaste, if it wasn't for the creator of masterpiece. For it is considered rather inappropriate to chastise the dribbling toddler who has just managed to blueprint the first of his fertile thoughts.

The figure lay static, incomplete, with bunglesome protrusions demarcating its realm until the emaciated boundary line faded into oblivion. The clumsy representation thus remained an unfinished, semi-open scrawl yearning for completion. It took a long while but it did come - and in the form of stable albeit inefficient strokes. The newer portions of the art seemed to inherit atavistic knowledge from the ancient; it grew stronger, faster, higher and more profound. There was a sense of power which endorsed the firm slashes of the blade.

With the coming of age, the jagged juvenile edges were smoothed and the beginners' habits were discarded with disdain. He began to learn from himself and from his environs. There was influence and then there was pressure to perform. He adapted fast and learned to live. He watched his compatriots race and often he lost out on speed, although making up in aesthetics and skill. He learnt from each man who bettered him and soon his 'crosses' became a work of art. He fell in love with a girl and all he managed was to learn from her - he mirrored her works the way she mirrored her 'F's.

There were times of struggle and disagreement, where two conflicting powers would often try to establish themselves on the man's style. Neither could succeed while the other survived and feeble pacts were forged. But the blend of styles gave birth to genius. The 'Tittles' were no long dots but narcissistic micro-circles. The edges were no longer straight; there were curves all around. What once stood reliably erect now carried an enviable tilt. He walked with a swagger now.

He slowed his hand to grip the edge of the penultimate alphabet and he slid down with consummate ease. And then he finished signing his name, slaloming twice and then punching with precision. A Handwriting was born. But was it his?

The Photo Post: Campus Shining

2010-08-28T18:35:00.000+05:30

Another one passes by and just like in three previous years, it went by so fast I cannot believe it has. Many have spoken the evergreen truth, but none more than yours truly, that Poly is in fact one of the most insanely unproductive occupations on campus. But being true to the 'Great Hypocrite' tag which I have won myself through persistent and determined industriousness, I decided to give Poly 2010 a shot, after having been egged on by none other than our pin(k)headed friend.

The past few weeks have allowed me to fully appreciate the definitions of a plethora of words: n00b, rookie, newbie, fresher, fledgling, idiot etc. After spending hours at night trying to distinguish the no-good from the competitors and the kings from the jackasses, only to rethink our conclusions the very next day, we were often filled with an inexplicable feeling of unbounded awesomeness which we sometimes confused with a lack of sleep.

The elections of 2010 have finally come to an end for most of us while it is just a beginning for those willing to go that extra mile in proving that unproductive hobbies can go a long, long way. And having exited from such a unique wing which threw in seven candidates for the title of 'Councillor', I end this post with the feeling that I came so close to saying - "Maine banaya!"

THE ELECTIONS IN PICTURES:

There were ambigrams and colourful banners sporting a gazillion names, but one of the most eye-catching posters was of this "Maslow"-esque pyramid.

I wonder if the bloke reached self-actualization?

Cartoons from my own wing-mate... Creativity reaches a new high.

Damn, we ought to have a lot more of these elections... And we can scrap the 'Fine-Arts' section.

The face which launched a million votes.

This was the rope outside the mess which was initially used to put up attractive campaign posters!

What ended up attracting us, though, was TOI's page 2.

Haha! Another punny one!

With The Flow

2010-08-14T16:39:00.001+05:30

Deeper, deeper – I was dragged
Until only blue remained;
Murky, turbid, whirling wrath…
I fought. I fought. Then I waned.

Tossed about with murderous flair
I clawed my way; I was hauled and keeled
I seized each wave with immense faith
And then again, as they did yield.

Like whips and daggers, the spray outlash’d
Puncturing my chest now fresh with breath
And then the logs came floating by
Meandering gently with the flow…

Yonder lay shore’s seductive sand
And yet it lay so far away
My every stroke towards the shore
Rendered harmless by tumultuous spray

I stared at the logs floating by
Riding the crests; gentle, unmarred –
And then the logs went floating by
With the flow, a few wrong yards…

Burning eyes and flailing limbs
Bursting lungs; I felt heavier now
The current was strong; I could still
Shore myself, with one more blow.

I fought to keep my dying breath
As I stared at the logs floating by
Once mighty oaks; so meek in death
They would live and I would die?

I stared at the logs floating by
And managed a smile at the irony,
Drifting away with effortless ease
So what if they swam a few wrong yards?

The easier way of the logs beguiled
The flow was too strong to oppose
So I wilted in the pellucid flow
And maybe now I’ll enjoy the course.

Alvida

2010-07-31T04:29:00.003+05:30

I entered this phase of my life as a sceptic - a disbeliever. I came prejudiced, constantly and repeatedly attempting to poison my mind with the words - "I shan't yield to temptation". Today, I stand a changed man. A believer. A sinner.

For these six weeks have given me some very memorable moments, ones I will cherish for a long, long time to come. I entered SLB wondering why they recruit people from the 'creamy layer' to perform tasks which any blundering idiot can also, with suitable training... Today I know that it isn't about the job as much as about the culture it brings about. Just like Roorkee, godforsaken that it is, has been able to develop its own quaint, unique culture, so has Schlumberger. And this, most disturbingly, has endeared it to me.

I recall those initial days when we underwent examinations which tested our safety training and safe operating practice knowledge. One particular exam required a minimum of 90% to pass and I can proudly say today, that it is the only test until today which I have failed. Four times in a row. Each of these times, there was this question which repeatedly occurred - "What is the last step after tool maintenance & check-up". I repeatedly dismissed a certain option the first few times, laughing my head off when I saw it pop up on the screen. I finally passed the test when I realized that it was, in fact, the correct answer - "Paint it blue".

These few weeks have seen me become a nomad, an epicurean, a spoilt brat, a romantic... I have come to enjoy a certain facet of life which I never knew I could - one involving the world of malls, movies, million-dollar houses, and more city. Somehow, I've also had the time to fall in love with any language which can make beautiful poetry - Urdu being the latest in this list...

I came to Mumbai happy that I was closer to Roorkee. Now, I wish I had more time here - Roorkee can wait. My blood seems to have turned a little blue and I know I have changed. I wonder if it is correct. Nevertheless, I find it exceedingly hard to separate myself from this experience. And I try to find solace in words:

"Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened."

What's Your Dream?

2010-07-26T01:23:00.004+05:30

There is this little kid next door, only three years old and clever as hell. He's an overly exuberant kid whose restlessness knows no bounds. It is as though he finds it imperative to do more than whatever he is doing at that moment. Albeit exceedingly fast, and sometimes reckless, I realized that he can hardly keep up with the speed at which his processing centre functions!

And hence, he performs like most machines we have studied about - lagging the stimulus by quite a bit. Strangely though, today I discovered that he wasn't much unlike me! It was an alarming discovery.

Some days back, I had asked the kid what he wanted to do when he grew up; a question I take immense pleasure in asking because of the fact that I used to respond 'An Engine Driver'. He promptly answered, "A Neurosurgeon!"

I was impressed. I was amazed at the nonchalance of it all. He had his life planned out at such a tender age, and I swore to myself that day that if ever I'd meet him as a neurosurgeon some decades from now, I'd eat my hat.

Yesterday, I found myself smiling once more as I stood there observing the way he lay underneath his tricycle studying the moving parts therein. What happened next was unexpected as my flatmate found it prudent to walk up to the kid and ask him the same question - "Child, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

The answer came out just as fast as it had the last time - "An Astrophysicist!" I smiled to myself, as my flatmate appreciated the vocabulary of the three-year old.

Today, I approached that kid once more, this time quite deliberately. I only wanted to know if he'd fall back on any of his previous choices. He was playing with a fancy spinning-top. I asked him the question - "Kid, what will you be when you grow up?"

The answer was unleashed - "The president." He continued fiddling with his toy. He never once looked up at me. I was so happy that I'd have bought the kid a lollypop! But then, he asked me a question next; one I was quite unprepared for. It came out of the blue:

"Bhaiyya, what do you want to be?"

I stood there silently. I looked around as the walls seemed to close in. I whispered to him, "I don't know." And I took the elevator for the ground floor. I'm afraid of seeing the child again.

A Train Story

2010-07-19T01:43:00.004+05:30

Waking up to new company has been a phenomena I have increasingly got used to owing to the immense variety of people I've been rendezvousing over the past fortnight. But even this sort of experience would have counted zilch if I hadn't remembered the happenings of the night prior. And Cafe Leopold.

Having got up in a room whose co-occupant was a certain Tiger, for the second time in my life, and being a few rooms away from the Blob, wasn't as disturbing an experience as the one prior but the headache was a lot worse. For people unfamiliar with the happenings of 'Wake Up : Episode #1', a brief summary would say that I had to un-'lock' my belt and scrape toothpaste off my face. But I also remembered that morning, that it was the first time I had got drunk on Beer. Haddu, Chatu, Chirag and Monkey were the other champions of the Colaba night.

But as dark secrets often do, this story too will let the night fade into the same darkness which enveloped the majestic Gateway that night. But the barley hangover won't be forgotten that easily, for waking up will a heavy head and a topsy turvy world isn't all that hard when you are in familiar environs. But when you realize that you have to traverse half a Mumbai to reach the far-off haven...

And thus I took the trusted local and went to the extent of affording myself the agony of having to change trains in the process - to reach my Navi-Mumbai home. Desperately yearning for that liberating coffee which so often is the antidote to many a headache, the protagonist of this tale crawled through the empty midmorning train and found himself a seat.

A few stations later, I arrived at a hamlet called 'Mankhurd' - one not many would notice if it hadn't been for a drizzle like none other I have ever witnessed. The rain seemed to be falling upwards. As the train gradually pulled out of the station, the rain started getting heavier and the drops larger. The small tenements gave way to a plush green; there was a green of every shade starting out deep and getting lighter with distance before finally fading into the grey-purple hills on the horizon. The cumulous formations seemed to have descended from the heavens, teasing my outstretched palm as I reached for the grey firmament. As the train burst through the greenery at immense pace, I found myself reaching out for the open doorway.

It was then that I saw the clear blue bay hurtling towards me through heaven's cataract. The Mumbai - Vashi bay is a beautiful sight on most days and nights. But this sight was one few are permitted. Plush green, faraway hills, a magical sea, an overbearing grey sky... And the land on the other end of the bridge bathed in golden sunlight unaffected by dampness. I leaned out of the compartment and the first few drops struck my forehead. No longer was there pain. It was pure bliss.

Superhero

2010-07-12T02:51:00.004+05:30

Superheroes are a part of a child's life.

And it was no different for this kid who had grown up watching his boyhood wonder doing everything he does, with panache. There was class stamped over every single move he made, every punch he landed, every feint, every counter... He stood for everything the child had always dreamt of - righteousness, power, speed, agility, dexterity, skill, magic, courage. His hero had once vanquished every demon who had dared to face up to him. And no one was more overjoyed than the little boy who went absolutely crazy celebrating the victory as his very own!

Soon, the neighbourhood chimed in... And the lad had a bunch of cronies who would all share his mirthful delight each time his hero claimed another victim. The lad grew up watching his hero; his hero grew in stature with every blow he landed. The boys would laugh when their fighter would say one of his oft repeated punchlines; they would shed tears whenever their master got hurt, as though their tears could heal the maestro and rejuvenate him! And thus developed a community of devotees who could pledge anything for their king.

Then, one day, the ruler of the land declared a competition - a gauntlet. Their hero, like all others who entered the contest, would face a series of challenges... And one man would emerge champion! How these kids rejoiced for they knew that now, children from far and wide could watch their champion win... It was a victory for these kids.

And then the championship began! Strangely, their hero had changed his ways... The lad had bought the best tickets available to watch the virtuoso performance which they all expected. But then, he was disappointed at the first hurdle... There was no magic; his hero lacked the sting - the venom! The great man won however, though he stumbled like he never had before... Hopeful like children are, he booked the best seats again for the next challenge. Uncharacteristically, the master stumbled again. This time, there was no speed... It was like he had forgotten his own game! He was slow at the dodge; he was almost cut to size by a relative minnow! Nevertheless, he got through the stage... The children, still draped in his colours, waved his flag. The boisterousness in their celebration was lacking though, as passersby noted.

And so it went on... Their hero had reached the grandest stage, scraping through each level with more difficulty than the preceding one. It was then that the boy realized that all that he always saw in his champion - the speed, the agility, the courage, the magic - they were all gone! He had given up everything that he had symbolized, and was closer than ever to legendary fame! But, the boy and his friends arrived at the grand finale dutifully, as they always did - draped in his colours, but more as neutrals than real fans! They hoped the superhero would redeem himself with one final gambit.

It never came. Their hero won. The boy ran out of the stadium screaming like many other fans, who were themselves drunk with joy, with tears streaming down his cheeks... His champion had vanquished his final demon. But these weren't tears of joy... He threw down his 'fan' scarf. And sat down quietly in a corner, trying to digest the fact that such a loser had actually won!

The Problem with Football Fans...

2010-07-09T02:12:00.008+05:30

I am not an expert on football and these few paragraphs can be forgiven as being written by a mature n00b who is just getting to know his way around the beautiful game. And since it is a fact that I have followed Joga Bonito closely for but the last year and half, I shall not profess to know much more than you, which in all probability I do not. But I shall also take this as a chance to be vocal about my abhorrence for all other people who have grown into football pundits overnight!

I had never given much thought to the lines I first came across on Murty's blog - "Opinions are like feet. Everyone has a couple and usually they stink." During this time of the year, the odour is particularly putrid and rotten. This is the time of the year you hear the - "How can you watch this World Cup dude? There is no Brazil or Argentina..." And then the chums chiming in - "There's no Messi! How is this a football World Cup?" And then, it get's worse. If the football were made of ferromagnetic material, then Messi's feet are two magnets; this doesn't necessarily mean these magnets did anything great in RSA! So it makes me want to puke when someone shrieks - "OoooOOoh! Messi... Whatta player... What a shot!!" - when the little master has barely touched the ball.

These are men and women who snigger at you when you shout at the top of your voice, exulting when a goal is scored... Or when you curse the ref harshly and desperately throw up your right arm as though the referee, on seeing you from inside the TV, will dish out a few Yellow cards! On the other hand, I find people trying desperately to learn Mesut Oezil's spelling in German (with the umlaute) by rote only so that they can make a witty comment about him at a lunch conversation the next day! I don't mind it that much really; if only they managed to keep it at this much wit. But then they soon start correcting you. Wrongly. Fernando Torres invites more and more insult as days pass, while it is quite clear that even the great David Villa cannot play in that central striker's position profitably for Spain; he needs to drift in from that left-side. I shall refrain from saying more as it will be an act of egoistic hypocrisy.

And it isn't because of profound soccer knowledge or detailed statistical analysis that I make yet another prediction, but because I feel that I can do most of what an Octopus can. And since I'm riding on a wave of luck, I shall make as bold as to say that Spain will win this World Cup, in spite of making the task a million times harder than it ought to have been for them. And to all those out there who have never watched a game and yet shoot your mouth, "Shut up."

P.S. Yes, Holland deserves to be in the Finals.

Warning Storys

2010-07-04T02:38:00.006+05:30

A traveller will travel. And if you place this wanderer in a city like Mumbai, he will wander. There is no dearth of places to visit - be it relics of medieval history, shopping malls, restaurants for every budget, bars, cineplexes, beaches... And the wanderer is all the more astounded by the variety the city offers if he hails partly or wholly from a semi-urban background - like 'R-men' do.

However the city poses one major obstacle in his path. His unquenchable wanderlust is brought to a screeching halt by the daunting task of having to traverse enormous distances to reach his final destination, or worse - having to travel short distances for long intervals of time. The latter experience is one every Mumbaikar will be familiar with - Travelling a couple of kilometres in an hour! Why we don't walk, I don't know... But that's probably because there is no space left to walk.

Nevertheless, these difficulties are minified by the awesome train system - which leaves the traveller astounded as to how an arrival time like 21:39 can be maintained! But travelling in trains is as difficult as it is brilliant. While you experience the real Mumbai life, you also end up with your bag strapped in front of your chest, with one hand in your pocket performing the duty of wallet-sentry and your head at an acute angle to the horizontal so that you can catch sufficient breath. But in the end, it is usually worth it.

After travelling to Jughead's in Powai to catch the Oranje win and returning by the midnight train, I decided that two consecutive days of such travel will be highly hazardous to health. And life. So, I could only sigh in relief when they said we'd be watching "I Hate Luv StorYs" at a screen nearby. After all the advertisements and being part of the naive junta, the prospect of watching the Sonam Kapoor and Imran Khan show excited me almost as much as the fact that I'd be back in time to watch Germany versus Argentina.

There were signs. First of all, the people I was supposed to go with left without us. Then, one autorickshaw guy after another refused to take us to the mall. We finally got one at the same time the movie started. It was raining and we were getting soaked too. Stubbornly ignoring all these forebodings and omens, we went. Once inside the mall, we behaved much like rats would once you drop them into a large box. We ran. We ran in all directions. Getting split up in the crowds was no longer a bother as each of us wanted our money's worth. So, when four of us found ourselves inside Hall#3, we didn't bother about the others, for a while. But when two minutes passed and then five, and when we still didn't understand any dialogue in the movie and since there was still no sign of both Sonam and Imran, we started worrying. Just about then, I asked Pulkit, "Dude, is this the movie? Are you sure?"

And then we left the Marathi film which we were trying to follow; we entered the real thing - an oxy-moronic flick which starts off with copycat HIMYM scenes and proceeds to copy the entire series. Only later, after the interval, do the HIMYM references and shameless lifts end; but there ends the movie too - turning insipid from plain empty. I took respite in the fact that I didn't spend more money on a larger popcorn-combo! I'm sure that Marathi flick was better.

This post is a warning.

P.S. I feel bad for Ms. Larissa.

Of Ticks and Triple-Stripes

2010-06-27T00:09:00.004+05:30

There aren't too many things which can conjure up such great prominence in such a short span of time like a simple check-mark, an innocuous M or a half-eaten apple! I wonder at times whether one could have ever foreseen this present day world even as recently as a decade ago. 'Free Enterprise' - the Americans would call it; socialists would denounce it as a diabolical plan to ruin mankind - but the bottom-line remains that Capitalism has come to rule the urban world.

Now, let us not fool ourselves here. India is not a mixed economy; even if it is now, it won't be in another decade. Our leaders have embedded their faiths in individualism and competition almost as firmly as Uncle Sam. While Obama is being denounced as anti-American for telling his people the positives of community-service and selflessness, India's demagogues talk about economic equality of the people while pushing through deals for one mall after another. Where is the scope for equality when you ask the Indian pushcart to combat an International Retail Mammoth? Of course, you will give me the argument that greater competition leads to a pursuit of excellence and hence a better India. We could continue this debate for a while, if it weren't for a fact that this isn't the point I'm trying to make!

I hardly care for the 'Is capitalism correct?' debate if it wasn't for the fact that it causes so much pain. There was a point of time when people actually cared about service quality, product calibre, durability, return for money, warranties etc. Nowadays, these are thrown to the winds in exchange for one simple thing - a logo.

It is truly disturbing that someone should choose shoes with three stripes on them knowing only too well that they are greatly overpriced when an equally good pair, if not better, can be bought two stores away. Why doesn't one squeeze a few oranges instead of piercing a pack of Tropicana? Why do you buy a McBurger for nearly a hundred rupees when the Tikki at a Nescafe joint tastes a million times better? Why are people desperate to show off a Macbook when it's quite apparent they are rather incapable of understanding Apple's OS? Why does logic fail?

If only everything can be solved in a completely intellectual manner! But proving a point to society and flaunting expensive useless accessories, sadly, are beyond the realms of intellectual pursuit. Brand loyalty is for morons... I'm not saying the concept of branding is useless as a whole; but I'd have it limited to where it makes sense. This has plagued me for a while now, as I find myself being sucked into a hopeless struggle against myself. I would like to think that most people today recognize this problem but are afraid to admit it, even to themselves! I wouldn't have written about this today, if it wasn't for yesternight's visit to HRC - Mumbai... An experience I am still confused about - for I am unable to understand if I enjoyed the experience or whether I thought I did!

Mumbai meri What?

2010-06-20T18:27:00.001+05:30

Almost six years ago, on a summer night, Mom, Aashrai and I alighted the Konkan Railway service and headed to Appa’s outstretched arms, who proudly said, “Welcome to the city that never sleeps!” It was my first visit to the commercial capital of the country, or as the indigenous folk calls it – Aamchi Mumbai. Half-dozen years ago, I thus spent my vacation in Andheri, opposite Leela Palace – where Dad used to work, in a rare apartment building (in those days, at least) complete with Swimming Pools and a Sporting Complex – hardly something one expects in a city like Mumbai!

But a few days and an Amoebic dysentery (courtesy: Juhu Vada Pav) later, to say that I absolutely reviled the place and was dying of claustrophobia would be an understatement. I wanted to get out and was glad when I finally did.

I returned to the port city today after risking my life in one of the fastest landings I have ever experienced. The pilot, being absolutely reckless, hit the ground hard enough to sink Mumbai a few feet into the sea. The air hostess smiled at our alarm and said, “Welcome to Chattrapati Shivaji Airport – Domestic Terminal”. I would be lying if I said that my initial feelings of apprehension were subsiding.

I was welcomed, however, by one of the most beautiful overcast skies I have ever seen. The airport having undergone a major face-lift had me standing in awe in the middle of the pick-up bay. The cabbie from Schlumberger told me that I would be going to a Thane guest house. And so we left…

I have seen a lot in the past hours: the winding road around the Powai Lake, the scenic Hiranandani gardens springing out of nowhere, shanties and malls juxtaposed, rather friendly people and a young lad by the slums with no shoes leaping through the puddles in dazzling blue Samsung – Ballack number 13… Even if all these didn’t influence me, the fluent Hing-lish conversation I had with my Tamilian driver did!

I sit here on the 24th floor now, wondering if I’ll have to revise my ‘Favourite Cities’ list real soon…

Face Off

2010-06-08T22:23:00.005+05:30

Burning red eyes in the darkness fix'd
A cold stare, unerringly ahead,
As if to shatter the air betwixt
Himself and wherever he looked.

His chest heaved heavy under the breath
A cold dry draught hurriedly inspired
And as if to bring life to apparent Death,
The air was warm through a choleric fire.

In a brilliant blaze of magnificent wrath
Became apparent the scars of conflicts prior
- Evidence of battle and the tumultuous path
Taken by his Life, Fate and Desire.

His locks were heavy, dark and curled
Flaunting an air of immaculate power,
An intrepid heart and a spirit unfurled...
So mighty did his countenance tower.

His lips curled to suppress a smirk
As if to forget the gashes of ere
Seasoned in war, Past ne'er him irk'd
As if he kept only the Present near.

It was a deadly, menacing face
Like one never to be seen before
Or after. For not even the minutest trace
Of emotion seemed to linger on it.

And then came by a squeaky man,
Absolutely mortified by the sight
From which even the best men ran.
This visage was mankind's blight!

The coward crept up behind the face
And he made brave, though filled with cold,
So as to pull the mask to his own face.
Now he could terrorize the world.

Oh Great One, I Summon You!

2010-05-30T23:26:00.005+05:30

A thousand hymns and a hundred names
Pleas for redemption, to allay pain
A prayer to smother the deathly flames
Of evil - in a soothing rain.

A promise to scale mountains tall
To negotiate with the Almighty one.
Or perambulate the temple wall
To repent for offences done.

A ritual invoking the soul within;
A quest to, body's depth, unearth.
- Tranquility crushes melancholic din
And serenity returns, if not mirth.

A passing peace, a diabolical trick
- Taking heart again before the fall
What hurt was once searing prick
Is now a saber - slicing all.

For prayers give you heart again.
The Believer begins to brim with trust,
Yearning for that eternal rain
Only to crumble like an Iron in rust.

He burns within in agonizing ache;
For worse still than drowning, is when -
At Death, he thinks there is a chain to take...
Hope is given and withdrawn again.

Wallowing in self pity and envious spite
He hates. He tires. He has lost. He's worn.
Oh Omnipresent Benevolent Light!
I hope you're glad. An atheist is born.

One Constant in Relentless Change!

2010-05-27T22:20:00.007+05:30

It was dusk and the sun turned bronze from radiant gold, peeking out from behind the gentle Cirrus which was splattered across the eternal canvas. A cool wet breeze carrying the occasional grain of sand blew landwards purging heat and assuaging pain. It would be evening soon.

I saw two children being led carefully through the sands, as though being introduced to the Bay, by their grandmother – although it would be very lenient of me to say that they were indeed ‘being led’, and soon enough poor old Grandma had no control of the children as they boisterously somersaulted over each other and threw fist-fulls of sand at each others’ face. After feeble initial protest, the old lady gradually grew despondent and helpless, after which she swore (imitating the great Bheeshma) to the God of the Sea – “I shall, never again, accompany these two children to the beach, alone.” This seemed to work miracles on the impetuous duo and almost magically tranquillity returned to the shores of the Bay of Bengal. I smiled as I saw two guilty looking children and one exasperated Grandma departing, to catch an Auto, together.

As I continued walking along, I saw a group of kids in their later teens playing beach-football. This was not uncommon as beach football was one of the most popular sports played in these parts. Most passes were played in the air and the curl of the shot was often aided by the wind, playing diabolical tricks on the hapless shot-stopper. I looked down and I noticed no more fine patterns and designs drawn by the fine hand of the wind; as all intricacy lay mutilated - bearing testimony to the savage struggles for the football. I jogged past the kids who were bellowing as loudly as their larynxes permitted. Soon, I reached the jogging track.

I witnessed a melange of people here – the twenty year old whose life seemed all but directionless, seated with other twenty year olds who were equally lost, discussing the futilities and pleasures of life, pausing only to take in the occasional stunner; the young gentleman who ran incessantly down the track, wincing as his muscles pumped battery acid, all the while listening to music streaming into his ears through his new iPod; the middle-aged man who walked down the side-lane hand-in-hand with his new wife as they planned their new universe; and the young man or old boy who was madly in love with his hot girlfriend.

I was getting tired and thought of retiring to the nearby Barista, which offered ambrosial delights for a fortune, leaving the customer a few notes lighter… Or maybe the nearly awesome Food-Court called ‘Planet Yumm’ which was the favourite haunt of children of all ages… I paused ephemerally by the group of gossiping old men so as to tell them the time, only to almost be bundled over by an irresponsible pram.

By now, the Sun was no longer visible and the sea seemed to be the beacon of light. The surroundings began to drown me as various elements began to coalesce. The sky was blue, green and violet all at the same time. A distant ship twinkled bravely as the world around me began to succumb in a conflation of immaculate grandeur. I was so lost in the spectacle that I almost forgot who I was!

The infant in the pram, the child with its grandmother, the teenage footballer, the old boy with his new girlfriend, the young jogger, the middle-aged man with his wife, the old gentleman in a veshti asking for the time – were all one person. And I am Time.

The Other Side

2010-05-20T16:53:00.009+05:30

Even as I write this, I find myself in a satiated state of semiconsciousness; a state which the enlightened would call near-nirvana and doped would call half-stoned. I find myself unable to shift postures too easily. In a way, I feel confident that I'm writing this with my brain. And not with my heart (unlike the previous time I applied ink to paper) which slumbers peacefully in an idyllic clime unfamiliar to Chennai brought about by Lady Laila.

May 2009 will be remembered for the Grand Scrabble Days, where the Farmhouse in one last attempt to make its mark on wonderland forever played its great gambit. It was a welcome measure as much as being a pointless exercise, seeing that the guest was to play against the likes of the soft Southpaw and verbose Velociraptor. At least it blocked out the change which was upon us, however ephemerally, and those few Cautley hours promised to stay on forever. I exited sophomore year fully conscious of pain - pain of having to carry my laptop a few GB heavier in movies.

May 2010 will be remembered. I don't know for what. There was no scrabble and in the absence of intellectual distractions, George Lucas' 'There is no passion; there is serenity' becomes obsolete. And a clear month prior to indulging my brain for the eighth time ever in the very hazardous end-sem rote, I broke down to emotions. I got plain morose and saturnine in my last work and I don't know whether or not to chastise myself for that last indulgence. But, it was relief. And ever since, I haven't known how to feel about the great Goodbye.

The last week lasted a day and the Hour-hand seemed to outrun its Seconds' counterpart. And it seemed as though I was trying to reach out to all those things I had missed so far. Be it the random trip to Ravindra in the pretext of searching for a cap or the Jan Shatabdi I almost missed, the experiences were outlandish. The hardest part though was the inability to convey through the English language what can be best described as an emotional implosion. Luckily, Silence seems to be the best way.

The Watch Out val, the great Lit dinner (which proudly maintains its chivalrous superbia), the last EDC 'party', the Yaadein pages I meticulously filled after having mocked it at first, sessions where I tried explaining what sentiyaap meant, even the Cogni culmination meet... Maybe this is how I'll remember the May of 2010. As the Dreamwalker Diaries so aptly puts it, Roorkee started as a mistake. I think it's the greatest mistake of my life. Hadn't it been for that omnipotent sheet I filled in IIT Madras, I would have missed out on condescending blobs, supersurds, extortion specialists, jobless somnambulists, Gunda-buffs, loveless tigers, reptile kings, kings of kings, air-guitarists, 8mm-collectors and others who I'd love to have known better! The thought simply alarms me.

Half an hour has elapsed since I began writing this and I find myself in that same lucid lull. So this is how the greatest goodbyes are said. In silence.

Till I'm No One Again

2010-05-05T17:36:00.006+05:30

It was around four in the afternoon on a rather warm day and he sat there on the Persian carpet, in the middle of the hall, he had managed to soil will generous amounts of plasticine. He was enjoying a post-Siesta chit-chat with his kid brother about why he felt the Cobras were always stronger than the G.I. Joes, while he positioned his Deep-Six action figure next to the tub they had filled up to the brim.

He was still feeling drowsy, the way one feels after a very heavy meal, as he had hurriedly eaten his idlis on the School-van back home so that mom or dad wouldn't find out... It'd have been rather unpleasant if mom found out once she got back from work, especially because she tended to be in one of those moods. His little brother was still eating his hot Top-Ramen which dad had made, slowly separating each noodle strand out meticulously first. He egged him on sincerely hoping that he wouldn't have to use the Microwave to heat the food again! He was the only one allowed to operate the Microwave when parents weren't at home... Li'l brother was still too little.

Mom came home soon and they both ran towards the door. The younger child threw his arms around her. They liked to have mom around, especially since they got into fights every so often. While the elder kid used his bigger size and superior strength as an advantage, the younger one didn't give up so easily, putting his nails and milk-teeth to good use. The routine 'What-happened-in-school-today' session followed while mom made herself tea and the kids Bournvita.

Soon, they were both off to doing their homework. They had been told to do it early in the afternoon, since they'd be completely free once that was over! Homework took them around half-an-hour to complete. In neat handwriting with a Natraj HB. The younger sibling's best handwriting however could be described as scribbling, at best. The zealous duo then raced down two floors to the play-park where they could get together with other expat kids and play the sport of India - Cricket. The elder kid played decent cricket strokes while his brother didn't care much for the game. In fact, he'd go out of his way to get bowled, so that he could go back to thinking about the new star he had learnt about in Encyclopaedia Brittanica, the previous day.

At quarter-past-six, they rushed back home and threw themselves into the shower. Those were days when the showers could be shared. After a quick hot bath and some bath-tub squabbles which mother had to mediate, they ran out to the one thing they'd never miss in their lives! Scooby Doo was on air, everyday at 6:30. They had watched enough of it to predict every single dialogue, but they still loved it. 'Which Witch is Which' was being shown that day - their most favourite episode! Scooby was the only cartoon character which could pip T-Bone and Razor, the Ninja Robots, Johnny Quest and Centurions, all together! Cartoon Network was God's gift to mankind and they made complete use of the time it was on air, until TNT showed up in an almighty explosion. Disney Hour and Mahabharata (yes!) were good,but no comparison really!

The nights were often the best as Toblerones for dessert were closely followed by the greatest story-teller of all time, save for Grandma, 'Enid Blyton'. The elder sibling often threatened to spoil the Pixie and Brownie tales for his kid brother by telling him the ending when he had just begun! Mom often used to spank him for that. Sometimes dad would tell him to stop too, if the noise they made disturbed the attentive evening news listener. So, generally he would lie down quietly in his bed and read Famous Five all by himself, trying to solve the puzzle before even George did. The only time the two of them read a book together was 'The Magic Faraway Tree' which he was reading for his third time.

Soon dad would come into the room telling them to switch the lights off and they'd run hurriedly to kiss both parents good night and then tuck themselves in. And then silently, they'd slip into sweet oblivion.

Today I got up as a twenty-something year old.

The Talisman

2010-04-26T14:08:00.009+05:30

Yesterday, I witnessed something remarkable. It is something which, so strangely, could eclipse the jubilation of watching two of my favorite teams win and go on to etch itself deep into the cells of grey. And even while my mind was swimming in that idyllic lake of Blue and Yellow as I drifted away into sweet oblivion, I knew that I had witnessed something truly wonderful. Once more.

There are times in life we feel hopeless and desperate. Depleted that we are, we yearn for that one magical twist, that one last burst of force, which will transform a tragic story into a fairytale. Rarely does such a thing ever happen, but Hope has a funny way. To believe is something which we all want to do in the most unreasonable situations. While all logic and even half-sound cerebration will suggest the contrary, all of us desperately want to believe in Adidas' "Impossible is Nothing".

There are, of course, those happy times and plentiful periods when we the word "impossible" quickly disappears from our dictionaries. These are times when the steadfast flourish and stability and perfection become the ultimate goals. SRT will bisect the off-side field so beautifully that the opponent team is ripped in half and MSD will smash an in-swinging yorker for a straight six. But these are the prosperous times and as they say, class is permanent. This class shows.

But then, there are dark times; there are times when the infinite is grey and 'silver-lining' is just a fanciful phrase which appears in proverbs. These are times when Class stands hopelessly, it's head bowed in dejection, in front of massively unimaginable odds. The Universe has conspired to kill and priceless blood will be spilled by the end of the ordeal. But then, protecting our icon for the savage, incessant rain of innumerable poison arrows from the sky is a single magic shield: A shield which has not the backing of consistency and reliability. A shield which hardly boasts of triumphs against powerful foes and one which would be disdainfully dismissed as ineffective and impotent had it not been for the fact that each one of us believes that this plate of silver armor can repel the almighty onslaught, parry each blow and carry our heroes to glory and beyond. The shield is a talisman; a talisman which feeds on faith. And delivers each time.

Yesterday, Keiron Pollard (a question I'm still proud of answering, at Dela's last) was that talisman. The effect he had on the crowds was stuff of legend. He arrived at a comically hopeless situation and six balls was all he took to make people believe. And tremble in fright. Each time I look at a talisman, I'm left in awe. It's not what they do as much as what happens when they appear. Everyone starts working, the cogs start clicking away flawlessly and suddenly, the painting is a whole new one! I'd put ManUnited's Macheda (who I dislike and admire) in this category... And Luke Skywalker. Napoleon is said to have had immense faith in his Imperial Guard even as he stared into the abyss of death. These are our shields. These are amulets which we trust in our hour of need. For me, I guess it's Mom.

In the end, it's never true that this magical trinket will take you to safety every single time. There are times it will fall. But that's not the point of life, is it? Most importantly, it makes us believe.

Chequered Flag

2010-04-20T05:28:00.010+05:30

I do not understand whether it is with the jubilation of accomplishment, on the completion of the omnipotent list, or the fear of humiliation from actually making this a blog-post that I begin typing at an unearthly 0445 hrs, a phenomenon which is becoming all too common lately contributing wonderfully to my languishing battle against the mighty seventy-five. But today is special. I checked the last Bhawan off my list.

Many before have dreamt of making the magical number Nine, but people have fallen aplenty... While most battle valiantly and end up just two short, there are a few (who are not-so-few in absolute numbers) who get to see the chequered flag. And since not everyone can garner the trust of Chief Wardens and acquire passes, people resolve to a magnificent array of novel-tactics. Some even get committed (this tag has been removed for the author's safety). Others, of course, have sections where it is a deplorable crime to not invite family and kinsfolk; exile and banishment are rewards for declining aforesaid invites. A few, of course, get invited over for a number of varied reasons which GenPop isn't able to comprehend yet. But they all do arrive with unsolicited punctuality, dressed impeccably in Armani, Versace, Nike and Petrol, to sweep their maidens, who might just feel a few kgs heavier and a few inches thicker, off their feet. A few however have the dubious distinction of being invited over, wanting to go and then choosing chicken over everything else. After all, Winner winner, Chicken dinner! Who can argue?

A heartwarming sight did greet me in MI-254 at 6:30 p.m. when the India-quiz was attended in full-strength; LitSecTM never fails you. While I had all but submitted to a strange fate, of ending up with so weirdly with Eight-Bhawans, before anything began, harboring but a tiny notion that someone would, in fact, call me - the call came from the most unexpected source. Battling words of discouragement (which I was later told- was secret envy) and those goading me to attend the event in Shorts, I ambled along to SB in grossly inappropriate attire, with Career Launcher getting free publicity. Add to that my maddu inability to dance (swinging arms and shifting feet simultaneously, and that too synced to the music, is something I will never pick up) and presto, the clown for the night! Oh well, leaving aside the gruesome details and the fact that women ranged from gorgeous to garish to ghostly, and the fact that you might presently be concluding that I am a chauvinist, the night went off well... With the benefit of hindsight, it's something I would never have missed. After all, I've mastered magic number 9 now!

The Quill of a Narcissist

2010-04-13T01:50:00.006+05:30

My blog is largely a personal diary. It's strange really; the way I put into words some of my most latent feelings here, by simply imagining that this is some private space - much like the loose bundle of faded A4 sheets relegated to the corner of my very cluttered drawer or like the back page of my shiny-new semester-old "Renewable Energy" notebook. While, all along, I know that this is all but private; throwing my mysteries wide open to the very public I so meticulously hide them from and giving tangible form to certain cerebrations which I try desperately to hide from the cognitive part of my brain. It is something I simply can't avoid.

Personality tests jeer at me as they tell me that they are unable to place me as an 'Open' or 'Closed' person. 'Extraversion' is a greatly pursued quality and I'd be a terrible liar if I told you that I don't admire the kind who can do just about anything without giving it as much as a moment's thought. These are men and women who don't mind opening their lives out to the world and can remain all so comfortable despite all those prying eyes. These are the few who will not shirk a responsibility, shy away from hardship or run away from problems or even run around them. Head on - that's how they'll be taken down. These are people who can talk to anyone, anyone at all - be it a beggar, policeman, colleague, salesman, lecher, mayor, professor, lawyer, thief, boss... I hold these people a cut above the rest.

While there is no name which comes to my head when asked 'Who do you hate the most' and a very few come up as answers to the question 'Name your loved ones', I wonder if I really have the emotional capacity of a soap-strip! 20 years and only a half dozen names?! Now, really! But then, a quick revision allays these fears and gives birth an alarming number of new ones - Ones which makes my world a living purgatory. Because the outside world is left dancing blithely to the joyous tunes of a spring afternoon while the insides are tormented by the most vile and vicious wraiths; ghosts which will not leave.

I've often been told I think too much. I perform the process of thinking several times over, each time slightly varying a hypothetical stochastic variable, before the process of rethinking begins. In the end, the results are largely desirable. No one gets hurt. There is absolute control. There is no impulsiveness. The meagre changes which happen in life are feeble and they decay. But in the end, no one is hurt. One thing I can't bring myself to do is - hurt. To the extent that it often requires holding back desires, impulses, drives, urges, thoughts, dreams... While it hurts the self, no one else is hurt. And that's good.

I can talk to pretty much anyone. I can talk within that cage I have constructed for myself, with new bars apparating every now and again as newly formed barricades. I can open myself up to the world and be as extrovert as you want me to be - but you'll never really know me. I will detour around a possible threat and get a job done. Mind you, I'll do the job... even if it requires traversing a hugely convoluted path! And I will never let anyone know that I love someone or if I hate them, least of all myself. No wonder the damn Personality Test is confounded.

I've rambled on enough already... And even though I'll probably look at this and laugh tomorrow morning, I've decided not to think too much for once. I'm hitting 'Publish'. Cheerio.

The Call

2010-04-09T03:14:00.003+05:30

I can broadly divide my life in R into two segments so far; one - an idyllic life with quaint pleasures and undulations, lackadaisical joys and soft sorrows, and the other – a violent onslaught, a race against everything worth racing against, bitter pain, gushing bile, infinite chaos and ultimate jubilation. While a timeline which I have carelessly doodled over Ms. Gandhi’s face on Hindu’s first page can hardly tell me which month of which year such a transit happened changing my Zion of freewheeling disorderliness to an imploding passageway of incessant chaos, I have a nagging feeling that I know when, what and how. That cognition doesn’t end there, but goes on to tell me that perhaps the halcyon days are back, after that wonderful, wonderful odyssey.

For I feel a lot stronger after taking blows on the chin without getting KO’d, a lot wiser after leading a myriad underlings to the finish line letting them believe that their halfwit overlord knew more than they did, a lot more impervious after acting like a clumsy clod on the line of duty and giving two hoots to the world as a whole and a lot more outgoing by the sheer compulsion of having to talk to every random person I’ve had the fortune of coming across, to some whom I still might and others who I never will, I relished the trip. I’ve been there and back again. And I know for sure that Experience is the greatest mentor.

But even a legendary mentor remains silent about certain intricacies of the trade. It didn’t take too many of my grey-cells to realize that Cognizance 2010 was part of the latter period of the aforementioned classification, not the period in whole but an indispensable part. And most of my job in Cognizance was to sit on an exorbitantly priced, obscenely comfortable and universally pursued black chair and push buttons on the thoroughly scratched Nokia N sincerely hoping that the person on the other end had enough money to spend and wouldn’t be parsimonious about going ‘All In’. In the end, one just fervently prayed that the bloke receiving the ring hadn’t had a row with his wife over the breakfast table. But nothing deterred those calls. And I believed I could talk anyone into anything.

Things have changed. My fabulous superstructure, it seems, was built upon a crumbling, half-wet foundation – and the castle won’t stand. The fact that I could once talk people into letting their money gallivant didn’t help when that phone call was made. All I wanted to do was to walk back to the crease in style for the second innings! Strike, strike, strike!! and I’m out. Thank you!

I’ve never really been a good phone-person from the days I can remember. But this was the height of frustration. When the normal howdy-whadoyoudo’s ended, I found myself hyperventilating. I tried unfastening the collar which I never wore and hopelessly tried freeing my trachea from that pretzel my imagination had deftly inserted. In the end though, logic prevailed in my utterance and I’m sure that the lack of Video communication would have made me sound fine on the other side. Until then. The conversation appeared to be taking a general route through the hackneyed happenings and mis-happenings of the past decade or so, mildly detouring through Nebuchadnezzar and Idi Amin – but ever so ephemerally that it was hardly discernable, when suddenly there was a lull.

A deafening silence which followed was rather unnerving. The worst part was the lack of any effort from the other side to soothe my nerves as I looked despondently for help. ‘Coupling’ came to mind and even ‘Friends – with Monica’s Cousin’ but I remembered none of them well enough to ape my way out. Then I coughed. Then I clung on to the lifeline and discoursed my way out, talking about the changing weather and susceptibility of even the most robust immunity system. My jokes had gone from ineffective to disquieting. I reconciled to the fact that a man like me has no hope. I dragged the conversation on for a few more minutes, but I was huffing and puffing in the end… turning purple by the effort it was taking.

Then, I gave up. I don’t remember how that happened though. The last lines I remember were directed against Alexander Graham Bell.

A Tribute

2010-03-08T16:04:00.003+05:30

There are times of unbounded ecstasy. These are moments of sheer jubilation, though hard to come by, which we would like to etch forever into the chronicles of our life so as to recall them during the grayer periods of our mortal existence. These are sources of courage, hope and unbounded delight which are keep the years ticking by without us going quietly insane. These are times when we know we have reached that depth we always knew we had in us; times when there is so much happiness, it is almost vulgar; times when the ground disappears from our field of vision; times when we feel we should honour ourselves, not with marble statues and monetary rewards, but with an acknowledgement from within - that we are, indeed, awesome. At times like these, I listen to a song.

Then there are moments of unparalleled sorrow. Though universally proclaimed a cheap emotion, self pity has an almighty impact- drowning us, asphyxiating us and swallowing our minds as we plunge into an endless spiral... Lower and lower, as the worst memories hit us, again and again. And again, shattering whatever remains of a meager self-belief as we soak in our own tears. Life seems pointless, people become cruel and wicked beasts, and our head sinks so low, we barely see a few feet in front of our apologetic stride. At times like these, I listen to a song.

And then there are those inexplicable days. Hours crawl by and yet rip through life at a relentless pace, tearing apart the fabric which defines our world. And it does this all so slowly. Challenges pile up to form kilometer high columns and Helplessness is the only emotion left accessible to you. Frustration and dejection, which were once carefully tucked away in a corner, smirk viciously from the centre of your brain. Even tears fail you, as the bottle fails to uncork. Slowly, gently, the searing heat transforms into a bitter chill; pain gives way to emptiness and calm… As steel slides against flesh, the latter yields lightly, and you feel it leaving you, with the blood. You want to let it flow.

But, there's an alternative. I listen to a song.

"There is no pain you are receding
A distant ship's smoke on the horizon.
You are only coming through in waves.
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying."

The song is 'Comfortably Numb'. Thank you, Pink Floyd.

Holi's Hypocritical Heaven

2010-03-02T02:39:00.007+05:30

My 20 has seen a lot of ups and downs; oh yes, very many. And each crest and trough has been religiously documented on the Konfessions, serving to rekindle warm memories when videos turn to stills, as memory fades. But each experience leaves behind a change; good, bad or ugly, but a change all the same. I once thought I would dedicate a post to my half century, but now I'm reserving it for the ton which, god willing, will come. So here is my fiftieth. Here's another change.

I just got back, having alighted a heavily overloaded bus and being made to walk half a dozen kilometers by a pleasant bus-conductor who very politely refused to move an inch closer to IIT R, a distance which I negotiated in a dazed stupor with passers-by leaping out of my way thinking I was at inebriated ease. I'd have loved the experience had I been awake to see it. Oh well, I just returned from Pinky's house.

It wasn't my first time, but nothing could have felt more different. To put things blandly, I felt much like a Guppy in lemonade; the surroundings are sweet, but it's still out of water. For one thing, I realized that Garhwalis are the true Mountain-folk I used to imagine when I was a kid; a happy and cheerful lifestyle, quaintly boisterous folk-music, energetic dance with loops all over. I hate to admit it, but Chetan Bhagat in his fourth nonsensical best-seller has some irrefutable arguments: However cosmopolitan you think you are, when you are some 2k length-measures away from home ground, you feel like the aforementioned Guppy!

I celebrated Holi for the first time in IIT R last year; the first year saw me sneaking away in the shadows escaping a Mud-bath. In the second year, I was caught unawares; WONA assaulted us - a sad day indeed... But this was the first Holi-at-home kind of situation. The water caught me and so did a few colours. I hit back, though rather meekly through half-hearted attempts, unlike the Pink marauder who soaked anything between 5 and 95 years of age, irrespective of gender, species and vehicle being used. All the while the neighbour's snow-white Pomeranian was seen donning Tiger-hues. All was well until now. Then came the dance.

A few strange, incomprehensible, quintessential mountain tunes filled the air and people began to dance, and how! Yours truly managed admirably, dancing with great composure and grace, leaving the crowd in wonderment, even as they imagined how similar the great Woolly Mammoth would look were it to dodge a Panzer raid. But when it came to food, I came out with straight A's! No matter where you go, my eating gospel remains the same: 'Eat as many things as you can, in as large proportions as is buccal-ly acceptable.'

No Pinky celebration is ever complete without a copious amount of photographs shot, which finally lets me understand why they had to shift out of the 'reel-system'. They simply couldn't make enough of them. As usual, I remained camera-shy or wished, in retrospect, that I had. And that was Holi-2010.

P.S. Why would you run away from colour and water when you want to get yourself colourfully dirty anyway? Bah.

P.P.S. Happy Bloggiversary, blog.

An Answer

2010-02-23T04:13:00.000+05:30

Given my distaste for pure Math- alarming though it might sound keeping in view from where I hail - and my ungainly arithmetic skills, I find that linear equations are rather uncomplicated; it's just a matter of letting the variable vault the equality symbol. But these seemingly innocuous relationships get vile and vicious once you let more variables join in on the act, soon forming an utterly incomprehensible matrix of bedazzling coefficients and perplexing solutions. So one can only sympathize with my latest predicament, wherein an inexplicable urge preceding incomprehensible actions find me trying to solve the 'Puzzle of the World' by a set of mathematical relationships.

What drives a man? What decides his behaviour towards fellow human beings? What are values? Who decides them? Is there ever an ultimate objective? What is the adhesive which binds men to other men and other men to money... Money to men and society... What is the Force?

I tried repeatedly talking myself into believing that this latest undertaking is not as daunting as it is impossible, but simple observations have change these overtures. Psychoanalysis is definitely not my forte, but conceivably I have made few breakthroughs- to satisfy myself, at least. One may chastise a Mathematician for oversimplification of a problem, for grim disregard of certain stochastic factors which simply cannot be snubbed. But, I am no mathematician.

One variable. That's all it takes to define Man. Each person has a single motive which serves as a life-force, a guiding principle, an omnipotent decree - with an immense aftermath, Life. Men are fickle and emotions make their ephemeral transits through their mortal flesh, but an intricate mind places this life-motive on top of any priority triangle - the ultimate veto.

"Mind over matter" arises from this simple explanation of human behaviour. So does the concept of karma, because- unknown to you, you have already determined your future course of action that very day you actualized this guiding principle. Selfish interest somewhere underlies this personal gospel - as every man, at some level he is capable of, strives to be distinct from the rest and set himself apart by realizing an iconic mental representation of his future.

These motives are wide and varied ranging from fame and glory to riches, respect, ethics and work. Take a look around you and any keen eye will discover the one force which guides any single being. You take that away from him and there is nothing left. No man. Just an empty shell, a husk. Nuclear explosions cause less damage.

Any other emotion can be overcome by forgiveness and time, which after all is the great healer. But you wrong this... and who knows? Emotions can temporarily block out or pervert the effects of the Guiding motive. But, this is temporary. Every man desires to free himself of all these and see only that one light at the end of the tunnel and the means to it.

"An inexplicable flow of life-force consumed him, conquering every emotion he had dared to muster. He was free."

B(e)ards!

2010-02-12T13:38:00.003+05:30

1. There has been an alarming rise in the amount the rhyme-intake I have suffered in the past two weeks.

2. I have been kept away from my blog for far too long.

1 + 2 = (the following)

And it began with a great Big Bang,
Spluttering and spewing rocks a-tonne…
The heavens roared as the rocks soared,
Leaving us – the third rock from the Sun.

And then came the chivalrous TRex,
While Thunder-lizard still gnawed on tree.
The Ents grew and Archaeopteryx flew;
The Earth had sprouted, Life was free!

Ever since then, there have been Bards;
The Beedles and tree-tied Cacophonixes.
Be whatever type, a poet’s figments are ripe
Unravelling Life’s sundry paradoxes.

And today we shall go forth; we shall
Attempt to consign, categorize and classify –
These rhymes and schemes; their crimes and dreams…
Into Ballad, Tautology, Death and Lie.

There are many forms and kinds of verse
Much more than there are kinds of any other thing!
Ranging from terse to plainly morose;
The wisest pen, as does every ding-a-ling.

In a world so vast and wide…. and weird
I try, desperately, to analogize…
But then Hey! Just a letter ‘E’ away,
I find ‘bEards’ closest to my prize!

‘Beards’ and ‘Bards’ have more in common
Than letters – two incremented thrice
A Bard for a season; a Beard for a reason
And vice-versa decidedly applies!

There’s the modern clean-shaven man
As unremarkable as his shaving blade.
His verses are blank, but intelligent prose does rank
Among the best poems ever made.

The stubbled gentleman is beyond salvage
For a cynic, a disbeliever is he.
With no time to save; no wonder – no shave!
His rhyme: A troubled Ode, Suicidal Plea.

Then, there are French-bards. Vive!
They are romanticists to the core
Fair maidens blush; while wading mush
Every line attempts to hit your heart for Four.

The rugged Mountain-men are a rarity these days
Their unmistakable ballads resemble holocausts more
Than love stories; or Vampires on trees
Though unpopular now, they’ll go down as folklore.

The Goatee is the most plebeian form
As he attempts to take conquered ways.
As different from the rest; as a joke from jest
He bleats out ‘rhymers’ at alarming pace!

Then there’s a motley collection of twisted forms:
‘Soul patches’, ‘Mutton-chops’ and untrimmed ‘Art’.
Harder to explain, is the Women-poetry strain
Which I shall save for ‘B(e)ards’ – 2nd Part!

Saare Jahan Se Accha

2010-01-15T12:42:00.006+05:30

We Indians are seldom perpetrators of racism. No; being home to such a copious heritage dating back to Mohenjadaro-Harappa and Pataliputra, we strictly adhere to the Vedic gospel –“Vasudheva Kutumbakam” – The whole world is my family.

It is the west which causes divisions among the people. Those damned Brits came to our land and tried causing rifts among the masses. Divide and Rule, they said. We didn’t give in. No! We stood tall and we stood our ground. The world is my family. I do NOT discriminate! All people are one. India is a very well governed country with great unity in diversity. But the differences in our cultures are so immense that we have had to divide the country into smaller governable regions – The states. And what better way to do this than to divide them on the basis of language? This is strictly for administrative ease. Nothing else.

After all, I resemble a Tamilian more than I resemble anyone else. Hence, it is only apt that I should be clubbed together with my people to improve bonding and social well-being. A Maharashtrian must live with a fellow Marathi and a Bihari with a likeminded person. It’s the only rational way. We are all united after all!

We Indians, from the land of the Mahatma, have been taught to turn the other cheek when slapped hard across the face. Non-violence. I am proud of this ‘Indian value’. It has lived on for over half a century now. Did not the UP worker in Mumbai turn his other cheek when Raj Thakeray’s mobs attacked him? He probably didn’t have a choice though. He died the next day, of excessive beating. His friends went with him too.
All the protests for independent Telengana are purely non-violent- Hunger strikes and peaceful all-state bandhs. Tears of joy roll down my cheeks when think of the mature stance we Indians have adopted.

When I came to north, I was ‘saved’ by my rather wheatish complexion. Other Madrasisweren’t that ‘lucky’. The ‘Oye kaale’s followed. But if this is being ‘saved’, I’d rather be on the other side, and take these ‘insults’ on my face. It’d have given me a good laugh, thinking of the lowly mindset of the United people of India. Today, we have wonderful politicians fighting for the rights of their people; fighting for more states; fighting for independent and autonomous regions alike. These people are our future. Karunanidhi would rather join the Sri Lankans than let his people speak a word of Hindi. That’s our country. Unity in Diversity.

There was a time in school, when I read about the 26 states of India. Now, it’s 28 and seven union territories. Who knows how many there will be by the time you read this post!

“All Indians are my brothers and sisters… and I am proud of its rich and varied heritage. I shall always try to be worthy of it.” Really?

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Root of all Evil...

2010-01-09T00:00:00.002+05:30

Cognizance has tried hard. But cannot absorb me completely.

A day after I posed questions like "How many hours can you spend in the Cognizance office", "How do you propose to manage some ten things together" and associated interview-standards, I ask myself the same. January first saw the Winter viruses finally vanquished, as my body cooled to more acceptable temperatures. Ever since, it has been hell.

A month ago, I'd have laughed - had anyone told me I can make myself busy and place that strange 'red dot' against my status. I'm afraid my worst fears have been realized. While thoroughly enjoying the process of 'search-call-extort', I am finally beginning to see the other side of things. Those unending hours of velaness have all been killed in one powerful, crushing blow. No longer do I play PES endlessly. I don't listen to music for the sake of listening to music. I sleep as soon as 'work' gets done. The frequency of my trips up and down Mount Library have more than doubled. Why, I am no the longer omnipresent Green I used to be, on GTalk!

After a long time, I have managed to spend four-hundred rupees on a monthly phone rental at 50p/min, and I'm not too glad about it. While the wonderful warmth of the Cogni - radiator remains one of the few reasons which make me glad to spends nights and days there, the thought of negotiating that cold kilometer more than makes up for it. I still enjoy the task of Sponsorship - which, according to me, is the next best thing to Writing. Nevertheless, I have been severely chastising myself for ignoring my beloved blog for so long. Incidentally, it turns two, today! Happy birthday blog! May you stay healthy and live long.

I've got a phone call to make. Over and out.

"I didn't steal it!"

2009-12-24T19:13:00.004+05:30

After a spate of serious posts, I have to break off! And what better time than when Christmas is around? Apart from the promise it holds in the form of cakes, goodies, Saint Nicholas and well... mistletoe, Christmas tales have always held me rapt with attention! From Christmas Carol and ol' Ebenezer "Humbug" Scrooge to 'Home Alone', I've found them all rather interesting. Here, I refer to the greatest Christmas villain of all time - The Grinch (who stole Christmas) - Thank you, Dr. Seuss. Thank you, Chuck Jones. Well, I happen to think he wasn't that bad after all!

The boys and girls of the world
Have all heard about the Grinch
Through the lies, which have been told;
Tales of evil which made them cringe.

“He is Green! And he is mean!”
In his town, they cried, aghast
They ran away when he was seen
And they ran really, really fast!

But this li’l boy called Grinch
Had problems, few too many
His heart was small, by thrice an inch
He was green; he looked real funny.

He was shunned, by one and all
The brats hated him real bad
Finally, he ran away one fall
His eyes were moist; he was sad.

Running up the hill, to his lonely dwelling;
(A shack, high up amidst the mist)
With his books, he sat there thinking
For few knew he was a secret Environmentalist.

‘Tis where the terrible lie starts
The tallest stories ever told.
They called him a loner! Unbelievable twats!
They said his heart was small and cold!

Today, I'd have them put behind bars:
(1) For ridiculing physical handicaps
(2) For perpetrating such abominable farce
(3) For introducing into the society- Gaps.

Poor Grinch didn’t like trees being chopped
Nor did he permit animals slain
He cried out loud when plants were topped
To eat only vegetables, he did train.

He was Green, as the World’s never seen
He’d have made Copenhagen* proud
But they said that Green was Mean;
And a Villain, they proclaimed him loud!

Then came the cold; December and fests!
(There were no Room-Heaters back then)
What the brats did next, you never will guess
For these boys were savage, wicked men.

‘Global warming’ was a concept, new
But alas, these kids had learnt of it!
To use it, they proceeded – these few
And with axes – the trees, they hit.

“They’re for Christmas,” they said, at ease.
(Only you and I know what they’d planned)
Robed like Claus, they chopped off trees
Causing in Winter, warmer land!

What’s worse? To celebrate this feat,
The scoundrels demanded gargantuan meals
Featuring dressed-Turkeys, head to feet
And Chicken, Caviar, Crabs and Eels.

Our Green hero, no doubt, alarmed
Set out for Town, down the hill.
He didn’t want his Nature harmed;
He would save them from the kill!

Dressed as Claus, he rode at night;
As his companion, was his dog
He then slid, into their chimneys, light
And climbed out with their Christmas log.

One by one, he did each house
And calmly, meticulously cured the town.
Then – silently, like a mouse
He ran the hill, up from down.

Morning came and obviously, tempers flared
They spoke about “The Grinch who stole Christmas!”
Charging up the hill, they said, “Do you want your life still spared?!”
“Return our trees, then… without a fuss!”

“But… Christmas is about the spirit,” said Green,
“It’s about sharing, caring, joy and all!”
“Oh! Cut the crap! You’re just jealous and mean
You green creature!” retorted all.

“We all know it’s about trees!
It’s about cakes and pastries and wine!
And the turkeys – minus their fleas…
Just return the trees. And we’ll do dandy fine!”

This is when the story hits a rather abrupt end
An enigma – so unfortunate, is it not?
We’ll never ever know what really happened!
Was our Green hero ever caught?!

But let him not be known from here
As a criminal, but a martyr great!
A Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year,
Together, let us all celebrate!

A Tale of Two Cities

2009-12-22T17:14:00.006+05:30

Aeroplanes amaze me. Three hours and bang! Everything has changed. The gradual change of climate is simply done away with, the intermittent linking cultures obliterated and landforms simply restructured. All the while, you are sitting unawares wondering why that simple Vegetable sandwich cost so much.

I am home now; and I am glad. I have accomplished the task of enduring a day of wandering through the length of our country, only to find myself astonished yet another time by the immense diversity of our nation. While Gandhi employed the steam engine on his tour around the land to comprehend the sheer magnitude of cultural wealth India possesses, I am sure he would have been far more bewildered had he taken a flight like I did, thus highlighting these stark contrasts. Here is a tale of two cities (I omit the town) which I encounter, three hours off each other; each time I take the ride home.

The massive cash inflow into the DDA’s coffers is only apparent in the speed at which the pillars rise. The Commonwealth Games have given Delhi’s development a mammoth boost which, all going well, must give the Capital infrastructure close the World’s best cities. The weird aspect however remains the fact that the mighty Mughal capital has waited until 2010 to grow into a global city. I have often wondered what Delhi-ites were doing prior to their magic-Metro. With an abysmal bus-service which is known to kill more people than it transports and immensely congested roads inhabited by colossal vehicles, I’m amazed people even worked!

On the other hand, the land of the Tamil people has been rather supportive to its growing population. With an impeccable bus-service and omnipresent autos, albeit charging exorbitant fares to the unwitting Northie, coupled with much less clogged roads as compared to any of the other Big4, it has never been a problem to traverse the lengths of the seaside city. Another fact is that each area of Chennai is more-or-less self contained, something I never saw during my ephemeral life in Delhi. Call it Boon – owing to lesser travel necessity – or Bane – as each man sees so much less of his City, it remains an intrinsic fact.

With mighty pillars, strong and bold, each overpass seems to underline that power which Delhi so much wants to flaunt. Malls rising out of every nook and cranny; retail chains spreading like Virus; and more asphalt, steel and cement, only make apparent the Capital’s urgency to let go of those chains which restrain it. These, however are also those ropes which link Today with the past. Delhi is letting go.

On the other hand, the maritime city, 20^oC warmer, is hell-bent on holding on. The outlook is cautious; and though development will not be overlooked, no one seems to be in a hurry to shed the present image. Malls are few; the few stand tall. Anything built overhead is with miniscule pillars, built as excuses for Flyovers. Buildings rise, not as cement monsters but behemoths of steel and glass. Rayban, Ferrari and Gucci are taking their own time trickling down the rungs of society; much unlike 1000 miles away, where Connaught Place boasts of a mini Manhattan - people trying all too hard to don the image of the quintessential New-Yorker. But the cautious outlook down South borders on bourgeois, leaving me reeling in alarm.

While T-Shirts and Jeans have become unisex themes of Delhi, Chennai finds itself yet a melange of tees, shirts, saris, salwars, jeans, trousers and veshtis – maybe not the collegiate dream. While Delhi has jumped into hyperspace drive; still the temple of the Theist, Chennai somehow seems to encompass the past, present and the future, . IT corridors have slashed open the newest avenues of growth and the coast may soon serve as the Auto-hub of India, while Parthasarthy and Kapaleeshwarar shrines and the Santhome church will forever remain the heart of Chennai.

NCR is growing at light-speed, breaking every record it sets; but as a friend aptly pointed out – 75% of Delhi is well-developed, great; but 50% of its people still suffer for bread. I’m uncertain about the below poverty ratios of Chennai, but the far fewer less endowed settlements are evenly spaced out, clearly visible to the naked eye; not latent. However, the steps taken both here, and there, are encouraging. The Delhi Metro has me overawed, but I cannot imagine life without my beloved ‘29C’!

I’m definitely against Karunanidhi in his unintelligent calls for protecting what he calls ‘Tamizh Kalacharam’, but maybe there is something in me that wants to hold on. This is not a sermon, and I do not preach. Neither approach is better than the other, neither easier to accomplish. I shall terminate with Anthony’s great words – “Take thou what course thou wilt.”

Winter Rank

2009-12-18T00:01:00.004+05:30

Christmas break is around the corner again. New year parties, albeit beguiling with great promise, as usual, will be missed out on, yet again, by us R-fools who, so desperately, rush back so as to save up on an extra-form and a few hundred bucks! I can almost see those stars and bells hung on every other household's front balcony. 2009 has behaved well and deserves a pat on the back. Holiday FB activity, as you normally expect, is on a high. Blogs are overflowing, again. Then what's different, one may ask. Well, a few things to say the least.

For starters, its been a while since we have managed to retain the lead on the top of the table at the break. My fingers are crossed. More importantly, I'm still stuck here in R, wondering when I'll get back home, reunited with Rasam, Dosais and Appalam. This winter has started off weirdly, to put things lightly. Nevertheless, Winter remains my favourite season of the year, ever since I was introduced to the concept two years ago. Here are five things which never change - things I'll always love about winter.

(1) The Fog: It delays flights, alright. But its one of the things I look forward to. The sheet of white takes me all the way back to my Scooby Doo days. At the stroke of half-beyond-six, bro, I and a handful of munchables used to plonk ourselves in front of the Tele singing for 'Scooby Dooby Doo - Where Are You?' There were times when Shaggy would take out a knife and cut a hole in the fog. The great mist takes me back to those days!

(2) The Girls: While 'Kingfisher's Swimsuit Model of the Year' contest will have you disagree strongly with my opinion, I remain constant. Winter is the best time for Girl-watching. The fairer gender turn all the more fair and the glowing cheeks make the wait worthwhile. Well, some might try chastising me with a reminder about the place we dwell in. Well, all observations are relative and after all, the multiplexes are just a bus-ride away. Yes, Girls definitely make Winter worthwhile.

(3) The Baths: These are privileges which come at a premium, few and far between, but remain one of the glorious aspects of Winter. While the icy air looms ominously as a powerful impediment, the hot steaming water transports you to warmer climes. You splash yourself and lo! - the perfect combination of Yin and Yang; much like fried ice-cream! The best part, however, remains the smoke emanating from the pores of your epidermis - when you resemble a sizzling brownie.

(4) The Coffee: Caffeine is a killer. While most people intoxicated by the roasted beans strongly detest Tea, or vice versa, my preferences aren't that strong. Nevertheless, I've never for once thought that the gentle leaves of the slopes could ever match the zing of the power-packed berries of the coffee shrubs. And come Winter, it's effect becomes all the more profound. I would bear sub-zero just for the coffee!

(5) The Sleep: While it would be sacrilegious and profane to speak (4) and (5) in the same breath, such are the funny ways of Father Frost. The weight of a heavy blanket, a broken alarm clock and a cunningly cold Sunday morning can combine in ways which would put every other pleasure to shame! The sweet arms of Morpheus are never this kind!

Dispor(i)ted

2009-12-11T23:57:00.000+05:30

Arun's status message on FB (paraphrased): "Our life is like a fraction; The numerator being what we are... And the denominator being what we want to be." Do your arithmetic.

My wing emptied itself out today, leaving Yours Truly as the sole company for dear ole Pink-punk. The cold wind blows through the hollow corridors as I find emptiness within...

While my neighbour pines for company, I must tell you I'm enjoying it. Simple astrology would tell you that it is but an expected trait of a Virgin, not because they are loners but because it gives time to reflect. To ponder. And it was during one of these bouts, in the afternoon, when I began to wonder about that 'Denominator', in my life. A rather disheartening picture crept up, with life tending to null and void. Feeling rather dispirited already, I walked out of S-7's safety into the open second-floor corridor... That was when it hit me. The reason why I was, all of a sudden, thinking about life as a fraction hit me hard. It was the same reason why my corridor is all but empty.

I am, generally, rather content with my routine, my achievements (whatever measly total they amount to) and my goals. But come December, I start feeling that vacuum again. Last year's Chennai and this year's Kanpur leave me estranged. The answer's cold hand slaps me across the face. This happens to be just the tip of a massive iceberg.

When I was in the fifth grade, I was introduced to the world of Classical music. I barely understood it then; I love it now, but without understanding. Then, in Standard Seven, I began to learn the keyboard and the 'Casio' entered my life. For three years it stayed; years when it would sing in harmony with my vocal chords. Incidentally, it was also Class VII when I began 'Tennis'. The coach liked me; 'vice-versa' not being applicable. Soon, I began Volleyball lessons in school. I wasn't nearly the best, but fast improving. I still boast of the one certificate I managed out of it in my résumé! I loved Cricket as a playing sport and I wouldn't be boasting if I said I was the best Batsman and Spinner within a few blocks' vicinity. Then.

It was when I began Volleyball, that I gave up on the tennis coaching. And then weirdly enough, I dropped Volleyball as it bored me! The Casio stopped singing to my fingers' dance almost in sync with my larynx's reluctance to produce melody. It was Standard X. Cricket lived on in my blood. Football grew on me. Then, I reached IITR. They both hit 'Pause'.

You realize the pain of failure when your denominator is so large. When you dream of doing great things, each setback is like a spear through the heart. Worse, however, is the pain of not being able to fail! Just because you gave up too early. I still can sketch brilliantly (can't say the same about painting) but I don't. I can sing. I don't. I could relearn the keyboard. I won't. Tennis exited my life early, though I'd have loved to go on. I almost made NSO with 'Volleyball'. I simply never visited the courts again! Life seems to have sapped me of Cricket. It all seems late now. I have a long way to go in order to become finite once more. All I do is crib. And write.

Lumos!

2009-12-04T05:00:00.000+05:30

Often have I wondered what makes one afraid of something. What is it which tells us what is worth being frightened of and what isn't? What makes us fear those heights when we peer down a 20 floor chasm from the top of a building, even when we are completely sure of being in control of ourselves? Why, albeit thoroughly convinced by science and its gospels, one can still not conclusively rule out Spirits... And why on earth would one fear a well grown cockroach?!

While snakes and tigers make reasonably fear-worthy animals, why should one be afraid of a harmless rat or worse, a spider, escapes my cerebral capacity. The range of phobias thus, unsurprisingly enough, encompasses the entire range from the logical poisons (Io-) to the rather obvious (Lilapsophobia for hurricanes and tornadoes) and the enigmatic (Apeiro- for 'Fear of infinity'). That a word should exist for Fear of beautiful women - Caligynephobia - leaves me flabbergasted!

While certain fears are imbibed in children for their own protection (like that for 'heights' and 'fire'), one usually outgrows these. Some, however, stay with you. I have admitted to this in the past and I feel rather unashamed when I say that the things I fear in this world includes the 'Dark' -Yes, so much, that I have dedicated this post to its awesome force. I would, in fact, go as far as to say that that it nearly tops the list of 'Things To Be Afraid Of'.

Sometimes, people look into my room at 3 a.m. in the morning and laugh at the fact that I have slept with my lights on, while ever so gently envying the fact that I can sleep amidst the brightest of lights and the loudest of sounds. Even I wonder, at times, how my laptop doesn't fall off the bed or at least succumb to a mighty blow rendered by my sleepy arm, but that's digressing from the topic.

While my sleeping is an involuntary action and I doze off while commenting on FB or reading an article on Soccernet, I have come to learn that people's general perception of Morpheus is quite different. While many stare for hours at their ceilings or even mull over the events of previous day or worse, plan their future; when I hit the bed, it's more like the bed hitting me. I sleep dreamless sleeps, which makes me feel I'm missing out on a rather important aspect of life. But when I sleep, I sleep. Then again, I hate staring at the ceiling in a perfectly pitch dark room... I know this sounds stupid, but who knows what might happen!

If there's something worse than the dark itself, it is closing your eyes in the dark! You know you cannot see anything with them open anyway, but you don't want them closed! It may be weird, but that's the way it is... It is comforting, however, to hear people admit that they fear Blackness in open places, at least. Go sit in an empty cinema hall when the lights are out and I'll see if you come out fifteen minutes later.

It all comes down to two lines, so beautifully penned by Steve Harris:

When the lights begin to change, I feel a little strange. A little anxious when it's dark...

I have a constant fear that something's always near. I have a phobia that someone's always there. Fear of the Dark!

Well, It's almost morning now. And I'm turning off the lights.

Foot-lose

2009-11-17T23:06:00.008+05:30

If this day hadn't already done enough to merit itself a few inches of space on this Course of Human Events, the events of the last hour have made it inevitable. So much so, that I've succumbed to the thought that - if this post isn't made, nothing else is worth writing about! To begin with, this post could, so easily, have been titled 'Remember, remember; The seventeenth November'.

One major reason I didn't post promptly after receiving two wonderful messages was the fact that I didn't want to sound like a narcissistic creep. The other, of course, was because I wouldn't have had the time to draft one as I was drowned in a deluge of SMSs, GTalk IMs and gargantuan EDC and WONA threads (yes, the latter giving the former a run for its money). Now, however, I realize that this moment of indulgence is perhaps something I must be forgiven for... One of the many reasons which bind me to the blogosphere is the fact that 'konfessionsofageenius' is a chronicle of my life, and if this day didn't make it there among the top days, I don't know what would. Some day I'll look back at this post...

A miss, a mistake and Bang! A strange shortlist and a weird Group Discussion preceded what was to be a classy interview- a dream, to be precise. With no technical question asked and the interviewer delving into subjects like Lit and EDC, I thought I had a reasonable shot. Then finally, when he took a copy of the latest 'Watch Out!', I thought I had it... They made me wait, but yes - I got Schlum.

Just when the formalities of home-calling had been finished and the sluice-gates were gradually giving in, Cogni decides to put up the second overdue list of the day. I wonder whether there are two other such adjacent Cogni rooms in the insti now, apart from Pinky et moi. Well, forget the sluices now. The dam had collapsed.

It took a while for everything to sink in as people all over telephoned and messaged. Thank you, all. Some people went into praise mode, some asked for chapos, few asked me details of the interview, while some said 'I was being too modest'. Still others said that they were doing their best to ruin the day for me. Thank you, Dela. And thank you, Lefty, for having that happen. And thank you, Lit, for everything else about it.

That hasn't dented this evening, but a mongrel almost did. Well, I found myself in Ravindra an hour back trying to get my Practical work signed. A Research Scholar who wouldn't let me into his room with my shoes on greeted me. I took the Four-'K' pair off, of course, and earned entry into the room. Soon, he was using me as an office boy to tabulate his bills, even as he took his time signing my file. Needless to say, I was half Gujju when I left his room, albeit with some A's in the bag, only to see a single shoe greeting me at the threshold!

Who would take one shoe?! Half-an-hour of math was thrown out the window as I realized a single shoe in a Rs.4000 pair wasn't worth two grand. Soon, two madmen (one shoe-less) were seen outside the Ravindra canteen searching for an elusive shoe, which I was told, had been taken by a dog. Soon some others including the watchman joined us in the hunt even as I profusely insulted the RS's lineage in every language I knew. The dog was detected, but the shoe was gone.

Another half hour and thoroughly scanned grounds later, it was discovered beside a bathroom somewhere far-far away! Nothing has gone wrong (yet) and I walk with two shoes.

P.S. Happy birthday, Nimba. The 17th of November will be difficult to forget.

P.P.S. Thank you all. Again.

Interview Do's and Interview Don't's

2009-11-11T23:25:00.001+05:30

It was sometime during the first week of this month, when I committed the second mistake of the sem, which incidentally also becomes the third mistake concerning my academic life; the first two being this and ITC. In the latter case, of course, I did not apply for the internship. After a lot of heartburn and having lost faith in all humanity, this disgruntled chap decided that never again would he miss an employment opportunity! And hence put himself in collision course with what could have been.

I know I'm not making too much sense yet, but when I tell you that I applied for 'M/s. Infosys' plainly because I wanted to make sure I didn't miss out on any more just because I didn't try (read into this line all you want), things surely become a lot more meaningful. The day after I pressed 'send', I was asked why I would do something outright dumb. Being the smartalec, I so often become, I quipped, "Even though I would NEVER do a coding intern, I don't buy the concept of letting opportunities pass. I'll screw up the pre-interview examination anyway! Don't you worry..."

It's not surprising then that 'today', as you will soon gather, came as a shock. I reach the Placement Office promptly at 6, to be told that there was no exam! 'A shortlist will directly be put up.'

For the benefit of the layman reader, let me lay down the placement ground-rules:

(1) Once you apply for a company, you can, under no circumstance, at no stage, withdraw the application without being debarred from placements henceforth. (A certain CS girl could tell you more.)

(2) Once you are selected for an intern, you cannot apply to any more companies.

(3) If anything can go wrong, it will.

At 6:15, a list of 15 names was displayed on the projector screen. I was among those. Cursing, I asked in vain how I could opt out. And then even more hopefully, I asked as to what an honest, hardworking Chemical Engineer can do in a great company like Infy. Again, gibberish.

NC Nigam saw me enter at 6:45 p.m., without a resume, dressed half like a dork and pretty much overwrought. I was hoping that sighting a bum like me devoid of even the dire necessity - a resume, I'd be booted out. Alas, they said the interview was to be telephonic.

Amidst all this chaos, there was one man who spiced this up even further - my HOD. In a frantic call to the great man, I heard him say the words, "Infosys doesn't give you 'in-plant training'. So, you cannot apply there! Strictly prohibited ! I won't let you do it..."

Those kind words revolutionized all future cerebration as now, not only did I have to give the interview (so as to not be debarred), I also had to flunk it! To cut a long story short, this is how it went:

The voice: Hello.

I: Hi, sir. A very good evening to you.

The voice: Good evening, Mr. Anirudh. Why don't we start off with you telling me something about yourself.

I: (Some bit of my history goes here...)

The voice: Oh good... You have mentioned 'Fluid Dynamics' as an area of interest here. Let's start with that. Suppose I told you to design a Room Heater, how would you do it?

I: I'd ask for the room size, ambient temperature, the requisite temperature... (This is when I realize I'm doing well)

I'm sorry, sir. I don't think I can tell you any more.

The voice: Why? You are doing really well... Go on.

I: I'm afraid that's all I know, sir.

The voice: Well... Don't worry. We'll go on to other topics.

What do you think is a continuous fluid?

I: Sir, the equation of continuity is...

The voice: No. Continuous fluid.

I: I don't know.

The voice (now a slight drag): Hmmm... Simple question now. What's the difference between 'Thermodynamics' and 'Fluid Dynamics'?

I: Why, sir! I always thought them to be very similar. There are subtle differences, but essentially same!

The voice (taken aback): Let's leave your Engineering skills alone now, Mr. Anirudh. Mental ability, now.

I: Sure, sir.

The voice: (Asks some question which required me to calculate the minimum time which four people require to cross a bridge, subject to certain conditions)

I: (After allowing considerable time for calculations, doodling all the while) Nineteen minutes!

The voice: Are you sure this is the answer?

I: No, I am not, sir. These are what my calculations tell me.

The voice: Well, what if I tell you this is incorrect?

I: Then, I'd have to tell you that I'm incapable of coming up with the right answer.

The voice: Don't get disheartened now... I'll give you a hint. (Proceeds to do so) Now?

I: (Taking some time again) Interesting... Informative, though your hint was, sir, I'm afraid it helps me in no way! I don't exactly comprehend its relevance.

The voice: It was great talking to you, Mr. Anirudh.

I: My pleasure, sir. Have a good evening!

That's that! And God is great!

Blunt

2009-11-03T06:20:00.004+05:30

A lonely drop did fall through space

Carrying all colours the sky held ere

The hues blotted and condensed

And stripped the Earth of its face.

Into a chasm, the oceans drained

As every door swung firmly shut

Mountains succumbed in a blurry haze

And colours vanished, as it rained.

The world lived, but shut me away.

Flavours and scents and music, all

Fled me, as I stared benumbed

As it was neither night nor day.

“Help me! Save me!” I should have called.

Instead I hung in a languid state

Like a puppet, in entangled strings

Better would have felt had I been mauled.

A dreary state of animated death

I didn’t know the difference now

The sun didn’t rise, the moon had set

I was dead of all, but breath.

I stared back at the childhood dream

At the hopes and plans and merry things

The tears and laughter of that Heart

This Heart tearing at the seam.

There is no suffering and no pain.

Only, the million hues were gone

To yield a life in gray and black

I am oblivious to the drops of rain.

And forth I go on that quest

To breathe in life; resuscitate

Those lost emotions in this void;

Until then, I shall not rest.

Beautiful Words

2009-10-27T15:18:00.000+05:30

No breakfast would have quite assuaged that tremendous hunger, which I had built up after a the healthy hikes of 25-10, as did those two words. Normally, after that verbalization, feeling rather chagrined, I'd have run for cover and sat myself in a seat where few would recognize me. But today was different; I reveled in that splendour and basked in that greater music of which my words were but a part. It felt good to swear again.

It is only lately that I have realized, people often mistake a genteel countenance and a civilized demeanour for spinelessness. Putting things into proper perspective again, then becomes the paramount task. Abuses have evolved over the years and expletives have garnered greater efficacy. But constant usage of these oaths as nouns, verbs, adverbs, conjunctions and prepositions have blunted the tips of otherwise sharp shafts. It is then only apt then, that my years of fast were broken by a phrase which caused so much turmoil on the listener's face.

Profanity, though part of everyday parlance, gathers great power when used where it must be. The lesser you use it in everyday life, the better you feel after hurling these savage words. Though, swearing requires little practice if any, it is always useful to keep certain points in mind.

1. Language of choice: This may be a crucial decision and a vital factor determining the effect of an abuse. It is important to use the language you are most comfortable in. While I prefer good old English to Hindi and even Tamil, one may choose from a myriad tongues with German and Arabic being favourites.

2. Communication: While swearing, you must never forget that it is, after all, a form of communication. And communication is listener oriented. So if the listener doesn't understand what you are saying, you have failed miserably in your attempt. Another reason why Tamil or, for that matter, German is not suited for Roorkee. Getting the semantics across is probably the most important task.

3. The Time Factor: Often, you procrastinate. And then, it's too late. Or so you think.

Revenge is a dish best served cold. So, the later your response, it's probably better. And besides, you catch the target unawares. So, it is advised that the user delay his response as much as possible for maximum effect. Studies have shown the seven second deferred expletive causing greatest havoc.

So after the guy accused me of breaking the line in the mess, my response was probably greatly amplified as I spoke only after I had ladled enough sabji into my plate.

4. Kinesics: Your face and body must reflect what you say. So it's best the abuser pauses (see above) to gather his emotions and then let them all out in one short burst. For longer abuses, it is proposed that the person take in a deep breath, so as to not run all out in mid sentence. Fingers, elbows, eyebrows, knees etc. all play indispensable roles in a good abuse. Props in the forms of emblems and illustrators may also be used; Eg. Chains, Sticks, Sarias etc.

5. Proxemics: The importance of distance while blaspheming cannot be underestimated. It is essential that the listener gets the entire effect of what you are saying. However, if the target is much larger than the abuser, it is advised to increase the separation by a few more feet. If this 'large' listener is much faster as well, it may be required to rethink your urge to insult.

I fell short on this front the other day, as I was a more than a few feet away from the listener.

6. Reason: While most abuses are preceded by motive, it is not mandatory that this sequence of events is followed. Often, a motive arises after the first abuse is made. This pattern is often great fun.

The above points are not rigid rules but a flexible framework which guide the reader to better and greater heights in this industry. You may choose to practice here... or better 'here'. I hope these were useful tips in what is, after all, a vast subject. Kindly do let me know the usefulness of the same. Any further suggestions on how to subdue the stuck up half-wit are also welcomed.

Rhyme or Reason

2009-10-12T01:36:00.003+05:30

A class-time poem: The Shepherd (name being a shameless copy)

On the eastern slopes, as the sun did fade

Stood my dozen sheep and I

They grazed- content, in the hillock's shade

None of them escaped my eye.

They were mine- in their golden fleece

I watched them meander with smiles - benign

My only friends among the trees

When for company, I would pine.

I loved the beasts with all my heart

And will continue to love them still

But oft I wonder - "If we were apart -

Would my sheep be happy still?"

The very thought fills me with dread

Love yearns to be reciprocated, yet -

As they walk happy, and far-away tread

They will, for love, remain ever in debt.

Love - I know, is to give and give

And expect nothing back.

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Madman's Lull

2009-10-08T23:33:00.001+05:30

As the three lines on the top of this page indicate, this blog, or any blog for that matter, as you ought to have realized by now, is but a reflection of the author's life, acts and opinions. A reflection rather distorted by constant recall, mellower or sharper; but a reflection, nevertheless. So this month long lull on the blog-o-sphere directly translates to a long and painful calm in the real world.

Being in one of those ineffectual states where one cannot do anything even if he wanted to, I have watched rather quietly, the reordering of the right-side blogroll. Even as he resurfaced, a certain knotted-mind was keen to observe the compulsive need of a blogger to keep track of everything post-worthy. Well, let me tell you - I was keen too. But try as I might, nothing! For once, I thought there was nothing blog-worthy. These tranquillized states are, luckily, few and far in between, but when they come, they hit you hard.

Pessimistic, I have been before, but seldom have I breached certain boundaries. So I advise the weak-hearted to proceed no more! Because the story of the lull begins with a stark realization, which strangely (and thankfully) has eluded me two-and-a-half years.

I reached R as a rather ambitious kid with (what I thought then) rather pragmatic dreams of achieving great feats during my four years in a college which then boasted of so much history. I had no unrealistic expectations and I was probably one of the most content fucchas in those days, beaming away at the green environs and the dazzling dome. Joining a handful of groups and making sincere endeavors to exit the wonderful realms of Metallurgy, yours truly was on course for greatness. Or so he thought.

Soon the rose-tinted glasses faded into a rather depressing brown and the brisk walk became a sapping drag. One wonders what changed during these three years though it is obvious that such periods of retrospection are but passing phases. All the same, what happened to that romantic who dreamed of being the master of all trades? Where are have those dreams been safely tucked away? Will he ever rediscover that lost zeal?

However content I am with the way I have gone about my responsibilities and initial commitments, something still eludes me. The void. Hence, that lull? I did get the branch change. I have done most things I wanted to do in college. But now, it all suddenly seems futile!

Call it an error of judgement or a madman's rant, but my initial discernment now seems rather irrational, faulted and unsubstantiated. The branch change only lead me to another branch I feel few emotions for. Classes which once held meaning have become hours for E-Book reading and correcting writings on desks. Professors who once carried words, if only so little, have now become mute puppets. And so many activities, I have been part of, so meekly crumble in front of the rudimentary 'How did it help me' question. It reminds me of that one question a certain condescending chap quotes every so often.

This great nothingness however gave me time to think. That - coupled with a week spent in Chennai and three great hours of conversation with a lovely lady aboard the IndiGo flight (which terminated in me asking her name) - may have just given me answers. The disgruntled youth who bounded south returned with rekindled hope. To give it another shot. And it seems to work.

Yesterday was probably the longest day in my R-life and I enjoyed being omnipresent on the campus. Call me weird, but I rather enjoyed being prised away from these computer based indulgences and similar irrelevancies. Work seemed to have become desirable once again. Today, attending just one class but listening to every word the prof taught was a new high. Albeit most words flew over my head, the simple pleasure of knowing that I still can 'listen' was great. I realized that, maybe, it is wrong to see what one gains from each and every action of his! Maybe you should just go on as long as you enjoy the process. And may be it's only fair that we give everything a chance.

One Score. Next is what?

2009-09-12T03:00:00.000+05:30

It's a mere technicality, this three hundred and sixty fifth day, which we most convieniently choose to honour and celebrate an entire year which passed and to resolve to make the future happier, replete with smiles all around. These are empirical observations then, which propose that the sun has reached the exact same point it held when I was born into this world; observations which when repeated one score times throw you on the other side of twenty. Trivial though this day seemed a fortnight earlier, it is one which marks the end of one great score and the beginning of another. And thus, it is with great veneration for life and the future that I begin writing this post.

After spending seven years, a mighty thirty-five percent of my life, under the aegis of Teenage, I am finally booted out of that society by people who now can lay substantial claim of being younger than me. I still believe I left the tutelage of Teenage last year - this same time, as I am supposed to have completed a score now and have been living my twentieth the last 365. Nevertheless, it is only now that my age will be displayed as '20' on the loose paper stuck on to the side off my compartment on a train back home, or on a flight ticket. Sentimental and foolish, though it seems, the weight it carries seems to be profound. I can quite empathize now with the kid on the Twelfth of September, 1999 as he reaped a dual-digit age for the first time.

A Facebook quiz taken yesterday brought back fond memories of childhood, one which still provides me with a feeling of safety by remaining close by, though deep within I do realize I shall never be able to back back to them. Reminiscing about my G.I.Joe collection (which still lies stashed away somewhere in the attic), the Blyton books (I still recall vividly tales of Pixies, Brownies and Thirteen o'Clock), plasticine, my first ambition as a kid to become an engine driver and losing my first milk-tooth brims me with a sense of deprivation before I realize the importance of these memories. The place each of these events hold in my heart is perhaps the same way I'll feel about each of these blog-posts once I reach two-score and more. When we see a memory, we more than just visualize it; we feel it. Each of these small acts, however trivial and trifle they seemed back then, has helped mould me to what I am today. It is with great honour and love that I recall each of those black-and-white sequences.

I remember bro (who is a Sagittarian) saying when he was a kid, "Anna, your birthday comes before mine. So you will become older before me!" He is the same kid now, who wishes 'Happy Twentieth' me at the stroke of twelve... Looks like we all have grown. Change once again proves itself the only constancy in this ever mutating world. Only a fool would want to stay at a point forever. To go on forth with ambition for life and a prayer on our lips and to 'look back at our past with smiles, not tears' (Lord Cautley) is forever the gospel. Happy twentieth to me.

P.S. Thankfully, my non-reading phase is over with the coming of 20. Many books for the future, hopefully.

P.P.S. The weather's condition is wonderful, a clear contrast to that of my back-side.

La Gare Du Nord

2009-09-02T23:50:00.001+05:30

I expected a blast of cold air, or at least a chilly October-ish breeze. Instead, a 95% R.H. welcomed me with open arms to the great state of J&K. It wasn't my first visit to the state (and neither should it be my last) but everytime I reach Jammu, I somehow expect blizzards and Yetis even though I'm sure that the odds of those happening are about the same as a tsunami in Roorkee. Nevertheless, I was decieved once again.

Hemkunt Express was expected to reach the Jammu Tawi train station at quarter to five, a deadline - I'm quite sure it met, because, when I was rudely shaken awake sometime later by someone who looked like he had come to clean the compartment, the train was pretty much stationary, not to mention empty. An expletive for the man and an ejaculation of gratitude directed upwards (for making Jammu the last stop) later, I alighted, groggy and fatigued; drag-bag and all. The stares I obtained from the few people waiting on the platforms told me that I much resembled the Muddlehead from Petushkee. Undeterred and unfazed by my hostile environs, I continued to stumble forth towards the fat man in khakhi who stood by, what looked like, the gate. I must mention here, that the station betrayed no signs of this being the capital (if only Summer) of the crown-state of India.

My cell-phone battery was dead and I needed to contact Dad who I was to meet as soon as he alighted his own train from Delhi. The problem was I didn't register his coach number, the train's timing or even it's name! The lack of a timepiece and my inability to tell the time by looking at the stars and the moon, lead me to approach the previously mentioned fat-man ('FM' henceforth) in khakhi (who plays a wonderful part in this tale).

I: "Uncleji, time kya hua hai?"

FM: "Mere haath pe ghadi dikti hai kya? Time pooch rahe ho!"

I: "To time kahan se pata karoon? Actually, main train keliye wait kar raha hoon."

FM: "Mujhe pata nahin... Idhar-Udhar dekho. Kahin na kahin to mil hi jaayega."

I assumed he was talking about a clock, and not the train, and proceeded to follow his wise instructions. The quest for the elusive clock in the railway station followed and luckily, I wasn't to be disappointed. Within five minutes, I had indeed zeroed in on the location of a clock. But what I saw alarmed me! The clock (I swear) read: 4:61! I didn't bother checking whether it was A.M. or P.M, of course. Hapless and lost and running out of time, I ran back to the only source of information I had.

I: "Sirjee, yeh phone ko charge karna hai. Plug-point kahan milega?"

FM: "Kaunsa SIM Card hai?"

(I didn't think it was his business. Nevertheless)

I: "Airtel Prepaid."

FM: "Idhar dekho." (Suddenly switching languages) "The Airtel SIMs of India do not work here. And our SIMs do not work in their states!"

I was so baffled by his latest vocalization that I collapsed on my suitcase. India? Jammu? Passports?!

However, the next few words just about escaped my mouth.

I: "STD or PCO booth? Where can I find one?"

FM: "Arre, samajhte nahin ho tum! Hamara desh bahut gareeb hai... Idhar aapko booth-vooth nahin milne wala."

I was utterly devastated after the chat and began thinking up ways to beg, borrow or steal my way back to R, which seemed like heaven now!

However as the story goes, I travelled a kilometer outside the station premises to locate an open PCO. I made the call and intercepted Dad's train. The remainder of the journey went quite uneventfully with the climb from Katra proving to be a wonderful experiance once again!

I finish off this post rather hurriedly as I have two exams to write tomorrow. Happy Onam to all. Jai mata di.

Notes:

#1. This is part of my pre-exam stress relief exercise. And yes, I remain sane.

#2. According to the Hindu calendar, I have completed 20 years on this Earth today.

#3. Chelsea is depicting sheer class! Hope it lasts. It's beautiful football.

The King Of Chocolates

2009-08-23T00:05:00.005+05:30

Dad had just returned from Jubail that month, after having given life in that behemoth prison, fondly called Saudi Arabia, a shot. For Aashrai and me, who were still young and carefree back then, it was dad coming home! We couldn't see the long term effects or the great work paradigm shift; we were perhaps too young to realize the consequences of this decisive step in our lives. On one hand, it was decided that day that the remaining of my schooling would be done in Adyar, in Chennai, in Madduland... On the other hand, dad coming home meant lots and lots of goodies! I remember that that was when I got my Sony Playstation II - which, most inexplicably, is still in perfect working condition, stashed away somewhere safely below my Tele and DVD player in the TV cabinet. The most unforgettable aspect of dad's homecoming, however, were the chocolates... Ferrero Rochers and Toblerones in tonnes, Snickers, Bountys and Mars in scores, Hersheys in its various forms and a gazillion more- in a rainbow of chocolate hues soon littered our shelves. They would serve well to satiate our sweet tooth during the next few months.

Amidst this great pile of swell chocolates, there was The One. It is most strange that I must forget the brand of this chocolat de la chocolats (maybe bro remembers; I must ask him) but we both knew that it was The One. The one chocolate to rule them all. The master Yoda of the Jedi order, the Bruce Wayne of the Batman series, the Tolkien of 20th century writers. So, bro and I forged a gentleboys' pact that we would both share the dark chocolate delight in equal proportions and, as average human psychology would dictate, we decided to the best for the last.

Days passed and then weeks. Weeks cohered to form months, and every day we had a chocolate bellyful, always staring longingly at the shahanshah, albeit never yeilding to the dark temptation. Soon, we were almost out of all other chocolates and our stomachs sensed the coming of the legend, and made way. D-Day came with astonishing rapidity and the first rays of the sun woke up bro, and he in turn, very faithfully, woke me up... And then we ran. We ran to the kitchen cupboard and opened it greedily thrusting our arms into the open shelf, groping and yanking at whatever was in our path. Unfortunately, we could find nothing but dried fruits, nuts and worthless Good-Day packets! Where had the awesome one gone??

After a few anxious and fretful moments of franctic search, we gave up. The good part is neither of us suspected the other of having taken it - the pact had been sealed. So going up to mom and granny, we enquired as to the whereabouts of the quintessential gift from the land of the arabs. Mom was quiet, but then granny coughed up the tale. The previous day, the tiny tot of a kid which lived next door had come over and had sat itself on the sofa. Apparently, it acted famished and had asked grandma for some food... Soon, it asked for chocolates. Morbid as this tale sounds, it did happen. Grandma searched and found only one chocolate remaining. Unwittingly, granny handed it over to the twit which subsequently scampered off to prey on its next innocuous target.

We have all heard of cliched quotes like 'Opportunities knock only once'. But never once did I give such sayings a second thought. Until that fateful day. Procrastination is sin, deferral - a blunder. Planning is but a futile exercise. The punishment for all these - the glowing hope vanishes, leaving you empty and desolate while you wonder, in retrospect, why you pondered so much when it ought to have been a spot-decision - spontaneous. Then again, on retrospect, everything seems so simple and all your mistakes seem glaring. But was it so obvious in the first place? Why didn't we eat that chocolate the day we saw it? Why did we believe that by postponement, we could make the event even more special? Why?

The answer, now, seems so simple; and yet so elegantly, it flatters to decieve time and again! Why we postponed making a meal of that chocolate is the same reason you defer making a phonecall to someone important. It is the same nagging feeling which frightens you everytime something important is going to happen. The longer you postpone eating that chocolate or making that phonecall, the longer it continues to remain a dream... and not something you goofed up badly. You long to make that moment special and perfect, when nothing can go wrong. You wait for that moment when everything is as perfect as they will ever be. Most regrettably, such a moment will never come, as 'perfection' as a concept is flawed. That perfect moment doesn't exist, and things will never get brighter than now. Shilly-shally does nothing good. It only means giving up before you even started. A walkover. A paradise is lost, never to be regained.

The most upsetting part is that time, being the healer he is, lets you forget these wounds and lessons and forgive your past actions. Soon you accept these losses as a part of life and fall back on the 'It was never meant to be' quip. However foolish it may sound, this is how the human psyche works. That day, that kid next door was trying to teach me a lesson. But have I learnt it?

It All Began Here...

2009-08-10T22:32:00.001+05:30

Another week has passed, although with a better conclusion this time - as the recruitments, being as interesting as they always are, didn't fail to satisfy. Half a score girls walk through the same tunnel we traversed two summers ago. The repeated sensations of dejavu were only justified then, even though it was my first time as an interviewer inside KB. Having missed out on the major chunk of the recruitment procedure last time around, I can unequivocally state that this is the first time I formally sat at the other end of a Watch Out interview.

7th August 2009: What one looks for in an interview cannot clearly be put into words. An abstract quantity albeit intangible, can be felt, though not explained. That being stated, its funny then to see a pattern in the way people retort. You place the same question to a number of persons separated spatially or by time, you will inevitably elicit the same responses! One such question turned the hour glass back two complete circles to my very own final interview in the RJB TV room.

Mid August 2007: I entered the room amidst a grim atmosphere, trying hard not to flash all thirty-two. I didn't want to portray myself as a very serious person also. All the same, I can openly admit today that calling the ambience a little unnerving would be a gross understatement. Some fifteen pairs of eyes stared at me intently as I composed myself. I identified but a few then, mainly from the intro-talk, among the many people I would come to know in the years to come. I remember vividly Lefty with a diary in hand (I'm pretty sure) and Khandu, who sported the kind of a look I would have called 'dashing' back then. Banga looked as innocent as he would ever. SriPri, Middah, Sarthak, GoGo, Bonda, Young-Sahith - everyone was there.

I believe it was Khandu who remarked about the disapparition of my spectacles. The questions which followed where not exactly what I'd have called banal; nevertheless I would be lying if I said that they were unexpected altogether! But then came a final question, after which I was asked to leave the room... It was a question which took me back three years, to the days when the mind cared not about anything significant and a time when thoughts meandered so randomly.

Sometime in 2004-05: Standard 9: The day was bright; the guys in their usual boisterous mood and the girls huddled away in their private discussions filled with frequent giggles. The spatial confines of a room which restricted their activities would never be able to incarcerate the human mind. As things stood, on many desks were already carved ambigrams of our names - such was the creativity and joblessness of those days of yore.

It was a free period, and afraid of letting any time go waste devoid of creativity, our minds drifted onto poesy. That was the day, in that very classroom, a friend - my namesake and I sat down to pen a poem; definitely not my first and perhaps not my best, but one which would inspire me to write more. Many more.

The brightness dissolved into the shadows... and there I was, again in KB, asking the same question I had been asked in in 2007. The answer - one which ought to have been my first blog post. One which I had started typing out way back in December 2007, only to give up time and again in favour of a more pressing topic. However, this interview interrogative, one of the less expected ones, finally brings forth the long overdue and heretofore unrecognized. "What is the most creative thing you have penned?"

At that time only one rhyme brimmed my head.

He will come to every being,
Yet he instils fear
With eyes glazed, unseeing;
An expression calm and clear.

He will come when the time is right
Like the grey clouds bringing rain;
Like the darkness swallowing light
The essence of being, he will drain.

When he’s here, we’ll know for sure
By his chilly, rattling breath;
He is Fear, yet so pure

He is here, here is Death…

The interview was then declared complete.

But It Rained

2009-08-07T03:30:00.005+05:30

The chapo was over. Suppressing a mighty burp at its very nascence, after having devoured two Paneer-Pyaaz Paranthas, a Pav-Bhaaji, one and two-seventh portions of fried-Maggi and an aloo poha (the last of which, I detected was spoilt after having shovelled in a few spoonfuls), I struggled to rise from my seat which I am quite sure would have buckled under my weight had I eaten another morsel. The human brain recommends that you eat until you are full and then exist in equilibrium with atmospheric pressure - but this process is apparently deleted from the register when some one else is paying for your meals! Nevertheless, with great effort, not only did I manage to stand up, I negotiated a few steps towards the Ganga Canteen exit. To Cautley and beyond... Or so I had so naively thought.

The Met Department predicted, in today's newspaper, (which, thankfully, I have been allowed to read again by the newspaperwala) that the SE-monsoon trough has moved further up north. As an average human being, evincing as much faith in Met as I would express in the IITR Admin, I only thought it convention that a long dry spell should follow. And there. Met tricks you again! This one time they get it right and the everlasting dilemma of 'Can we always consider Met wrong?' continues...

It was 1 a.m. With my tangible presence getting soaked in moon-sized droplets and my mind still pondering about how I must run the Ganga-Cautley gauntlet, my temporal lobe picked up a nutter's quip, "How about football?" Bizarre sounding at first, it gained universal acceptance soon and then against my better sense of judgement, I jumped on the bandwagon too! And into some puddles, in jeans, slippers and all. What followed was an 'awesome' session of dragging the ball through pools, slush tackling (which apparently has it advantages) and observation of wet-ball aerodynamics. An irate Resident Warden and a feckless watchman looked on in awe. And veneration.

The game ended at one all (possibly), with no one keen about keeping scores, when most people had each completed the mandatory ten somersaults in the muck. Chemical's obsession with photo-shoots followed (which might even be uploaded by now) when the cloud-cover relented. I began my arduous, risky trip back home dodging tadpoles here and searching for bricks there. I also realized the importance of being on the look-out for live wires during rainy days such as these. My clothes are ruined, but it was fun all the same. It would have been just another day with a chapo and some footy. But it rained.

P.S. Frogs are cuter and nicer creatures than one imagines them to be. They actually oblige by leaping out of your way before every one of your steps.

Three Point Oh!

2009-07-31T16:21:00.006+05:30

A new year. A new dawn. More insolent, supercilious juniors (not that I have any reason to complain). A road leading away from the half way mark... The same old routine, punctuated with few new additions to the my repertoire - like football every evening and arbit walks (which I never previously had considered worthwhile) through the lesser explored realms of the insti. I also rediscovered my penchant for arbit chats, my GTalk status indicating as much a few days back, courtesy GTalk itself and an eighteen year old by the name: Leif K-Brooks. The new year also saw the insti screwing with me once more, as I ended up exiting sophomore with lesser credits earned than any of my contemporaries who hadn't earned themselves a back. I also wasn't given an elective and chosing 'Creative Writing' has been one of the better decisions of my life - if it weren't for which, I'd never have learnt about the 'Dutch' and his 'last Dutchess'. Vocab building is part of this course, I'm given to learn, and I've added at least two more oxymorons to my vocab already, thanks to Jetty - "Useful-Omegle-ing" and "Thomso-work".

I have been one of those few who have been fortunate enough to retain their original names as part of their identity. 'Anirudh', 'Ani-Arun' and 'Ani' were the only names I cared to respond to. However, a short life at IITR has redined nicknaming as I find myself responding to words of varied origins - from the absurd 'Kondy' to the inane 'Andrews' and then the insane 'Kondrews', I have been supplied a plethora of appellations to cope with! Often the name transcends the language boundaries too - I also respond to the call 'Ani-puli'... Why, the burgeoning of names never ceases to amaze me. When people stopped being able to come up with better names, out of fear for having to resolve to banal, hackneyed phrases and words, they simply update the version! Apparently, the 'Kondy' saga has seen a 1.0, a 2.0 and now, most disturbingly, a 3.0 version! Yes. Now people simply say, "Three point oh!"

I cannot elucidate to you the differences between the Kondy prototype and its newest version, as I believe, along with many others, that there has been no modification. However with the higher intellectuals being either vela, bonkers or both, insisting on them being meaningful (read: declaring the same by fiat), I fear these names are here to stay! To the delight of the aforementioned brainboxes (and to my dismay), now any crazy act conceptualized by their fertile and versatile grey cells can be attributed to me by stating, as if obvious, "It's 3.0 da. He can do anything!"

Well, one week into this insti and 3.0 have already been in love (which, I'm told, lasted for a day or two), I have stood for Bhawan-Secy (God alone knows what is happening to that) and today, I've been informed that Kondy 3.0 is the greatest Ghissu ever! God save this world. God save Kondy 3.0 (at least).