Sabbat(h)ical

As I sat with a couple of seniors from the magazine, who were here for their convocation, I was reminded that we do certain things only because of two reasons. One, that we're half-decent at it, and two- passion. In accordance with those very words, I realised over the ongoing weekend, that when it comes to this page, I seriously am lacking both. Once proud of having an equally potent appetite for food and reading (which, in case I need to still elaborate, was very), I haven't been into serious, or even casual reading for almost two years now. As far as the passion goes, I can't force myself to churn out a few words that I know wouldn't do justice to those feelings that precipitated them when I read this again.

Ergo, I'll be on a hiatus for some time. I'll do some long-overdue reading, try and bring some juice back into my writing, and come back to doing what I do best- not shutting up.

P.S. - It, ideally, will all begin with completing Rabindranath Tagore's Fireflies and A History of the Thomason Engineering College.

Precipitate

It's amazing how marginalised clouds are. Grey clouds are a bad signal, a metaphor for grim times. When all's nice and sunny, that one cloud is cursed for being a blot on the otherwise flawless countenance of the sky. So much for a silver lining. A clouded vision is dangerous, clouds socialising by gathering is a bad omen and them getting charged, through no fault of their own, thanks to Coulomb's and Faraday's laws, and giving rise to lightning makes them big-time thugs. And don't even get started on rain- clouds bear the brunt of the criticism when the air around them doesn't want to cooperate and precipitate. If they had thoughts, the first thing they'd think about is disappearing altogether. Not that it's in their hands. To use a terrible pun, they can't even pee by themselves. All the Captain Planet elements- Earth, Fire, Wind, Water, Heart (you can continue reading once you've put your fist up in the air and said "Go Planet!"; or, finished the theme song and smiled to yourself)- hate them. For sanity's sake, I repeat- all the Captain Planet elements hate clouds.

Yet, the gods choose them as their abode. Gods are nice guys.

P.S.- I looked up "precipitate" in the dictionary for secondary meanings. Oxford's primary meaning for the verb form- cause (something bad) to happen suddenly or too soon.

Blistering Bus Blues!

The dithery Whiteline slows to a trot a few metres short of the majestic Lal Quila as indigenous salesmen raid the bus, selling everything under the moonlit sky from two-week-old coconut slices, eerily crunchy papads and family-shaped toothbrushes to paradoxically marketed “Sacche Dilli-waalon ke liye sacchi Dilli ki guidebooks” and stainless gold chains and rings for ten rupees. The three-strangely-dressed-man-strong cabin crew pulls in anyone within their hands’ reach through the non-existent doors, sometimes calling for worried wives’ angry wails, which barely matched the cacophony of the same crew’s shouts of “Naveda, Naveda, Naveda! Kale Khan, Nizamuddin, Naveda!” . The even more strangely dressed conductor begins his swagger-filled strut through the crowded corridor of uncertainty, throwing bloodshot bullets from his eyes whenever asked for the price of the ticket, when not shooting sugary greetings at his beloved(s) on the phone. All those manners are forgotten in a moment (déjà vu) when the driver slams the brakes, prompting a barrage of expletives from both men- one at the other, while the other at a poor brother who forgot to see the red light earlier. The golden-nosed Himesh croons carelessly from helicopters, auto-rickshaws and what-not as these scenes play on, supplying an apt background music as the three capped fellows in front of me whisper on each of their phones “All day, all night- mujhe yaad sataye teri”. I switch on my phone’s radio to escape the nasal onslaught, only to run into Kylie Minogue expressing her desire to chiggy-wiggy with Akshay Khiladi Kumar. As I desperately try to make head and tail of that song, the rest of the channels disappoint, too, when not screaming into my ears- “Happy Choti Diwali!”. Sector-37 couldn’t come any sooner, and I got down, thanking the invisible stars for ensuring I got there without further mental/musical damage. Lady Writer, fast becoming my circumstantial favourite song, kept me busy before Ma, Big B and I got to our new home, somewhere in the almost-deserted urban jungle that is Greater Noida. I direly regretted not recharging my phone, but vowed to get in touch with everyone I always call each year on Diwali as soon as I got back to R. Meanwhile, as I get down to writing this post, Pa cheerily informs me that I’ll be travelling to Delhi from Noida by bus on my way back. The song automatically playing in my head treacherously switches to Mann ka radio tu sunle, mann ka radio...

(Originally published on October 18^th 2009, at 0202 hours)

The Mistress of Spices

Over the past week or so, I’ve inadvertently taken a trip through the dark side, or at least quite a bit of it. I’ve bitched about people, been rude and ruthless, displayed inappropriate anger, lied, tried forced insomnia and have, in general, been a person worth hating and not not liking. This trip has taught me many lessons, the most pertinent obviously being that it’s never worth it. Another significant learning has been the fact that most of these tools in my hands could prove to be very profitable on my end- and dangerous for others.

But throughout all this, has been an undercurrent of melancholy, which has somehow characterised this semester so far. Unlike ever before, I wrote six separate drafts- all jottings from the holidays gone by- and trashed them all. Okay- another lie. I’d written one, and imagined another, at most, but that isn’t the point. Somehow, now every post I make has to make the cut. The cut earlier was probably a stamp of approval from people I look up to. Now, it’s a concoction of emotions from inside, and an extrapolation of some outside. And in all this lies an undertone of discontent, disillusionment, detachment and, most of all, disappointment- words I wouldn’t have in my vocabulary a year or two ago. But, that’s the kind of times these few months have been. Yet, the darkest of clouds has to have a silver lining. In the midst of hastily deteriorating relationships, I’m beginning to form a bond with my branch-mates, finally, and they’ve been nice enough to accept the late bloomer, too. Status messages have changed from esoteric referencing and dereferencing to corny songs on (un)popular professors. I’m beginning to get the feeling I’ll really miss this motley crew when they’re gone, and that’s a strangely nice feeling to have. A sense of underachievement still overrides these smiles, but anything’s better than the almost omnipotent feeling of indolence. That reminds me- I have to take off my shoes. And stop listening to The Beatles, for now.

True Lies

Lying is an art man has been trying to perfect for ages. If Paris were good at it, Troy wouldn’t have been part of history the way it is. It’s another one of those dark arts that can make man all very powerful. Imagine Dharmaraja accepting it, and the Mahabharata would probably never have been the epic it is. But a vice it remains- albeit a very potent one. Even a decent level of mastery over it and snap: you’re in the seat of power. Of course, social science in its own innocent journey towards uncovering every little aspect of human nature, has left no stone unturned in trying to figure out the intricacies of this dark power, and has been successful to a very large extent. So much so, that some are actually in the profession of finding out when one is attempting to blind Lady Truth, much like her notorious cousin, Justice. But, as one great man implied perfectly in the work of his lifetime, man’s greatest weakness is a consequence of his strength, and vice-versa. To convince the greatest of doubters of your statement, you’d have to do just that- convince the one who can have the greatest doubt: the one who knows it isn’t the truth. Once you conjure up a lie good enough to convince yourself, in a way that you yourself believe the truth to be just a figment of your imagination, the deed is done.

In a way, lying is telling the truth.

Can United score? They ALWAYS score!

Electrical machines are almost always designed to work at a certain optimum load, a particular operation point. They have their maximum currents and maximum voltages, alright- but only rarely are they supposed to operate in such conditions. I believe our emotions are also designed to function the same way. It’s very rare for the average man to experience the apogee of happiness, the nadir of despair, the worst disgust or the greenest envy. More often than not, we're going through feelings best expressed by "He's got a daytime job; he's doing alright". But when machines are put into certain conditions for testing or specific applications, they go through their extreme conditions. Sometimes they heat up and get back to normal; at others, they implode. Again, the analogy can be extended to us human beings. Some say one of these tests or specific applications is love. I obviously can’t corroborate on that. I can give one other situation, though- a pot-boiler of a football game at a cauldron of a venue.

Although it’s being used too many times these days to start losing its sheen, there isn’t any better way to put it than Sir Alex’s golden words after that win- “Football. Bloody Hell.”

P.S.- Tunnel of Love from Dire Straits- Live at the BBC. Mashallah!

For a different breed of muggers

One of the activities a soul with as little an attention span as me tends to indulge in during the pre-test-series hullabaloo is repeatedly go online, and do what one always does when online. The past few days’ status-message-reading and mail-checking has been quite interesting. I was redirected to articles like these, and was reminded of the existence of this beautiful song. But, the one that caught my attention the most were a set of status messages on various lists compiled by Rolling Stone. Some were engaging, like the 100 best guitar songs’ latter half, while others were enraging, prime example being the 100 greatest guitarists list. Some more searching and surfing revealed lists like top 25 angry-at-girl-for-dumping-me songs, and the top 25 songs for a road trip. Mulling over this (as quite obviously, the working of induction motors had lost out comprehensively), I wondered what lists they’d missed out on, and the one that struck me first was the top songs for the bathroom. And, the jobless nut of the first order that I am, I also theorised that there should be two categories of the same.

The water heaters in both the bathrooms closest to my rooms have been put out of service for the summer, leaving people who love their hot water shampoos frustrated. This has consequently led to more and more buckets being left unused, and the showers groaning under the pressure (in some cases, literally). Bathroom singing, one of the most underrated art forms, has always been portrayed to be an act done under the shower. Countless movie songs, including the ubiquitous Thande Thande paani se, have been shown to be sung under the shower. It’s quite understandable, really. But, true bathroom singing enthusiasts never leave the show for only under the shower. The counterpart is a much more difficult task, what with the continuous mugging one has to keep up with, but with the right rhythm, and more significantly, the right song, the musical part of a bath can be preserved, and enjoyed.

So, taking the cue from the above findings, I present to you my top five non-shower bathroom songs.

5) Romeo and Juliet (Dire Straits): For those who can’t forget the pain of separation, that too in when it’s more bitter than the soap you might swallow to commit suicide, wallow in your pain, while the gentle beat and music set allows you to bathe rhythmically. If you wash your face at the end, this song’s perfect as you can shut up for the guitar/piano solo.

4) Zindagi Ek Safar (Andaaz): I’d sung this at the top of voice many times during the Our Bathrooms Have Talent series we had in first year. The yodelling comes out best when you have water flowing across your face, by the way. Plus, it’s a happy-go-lucky song that most bathroom singers love.

3) Stairway to Heaven (Led Zeppelin): This one’s made for those with the niche tastes, the ones who like to be technically correct even if it takes swallowing some foam. Starting off slowly, picking up the pace through the middle, and finishing in a dramatic crescendo- some people just love their baths the same way. Plus, for those who miss the air-guitaring that’s an integral part of shower-singing, the drum solo makes an able substitution.

2) Phir Dekhiye (Rock On): Those who advocate shower-singing always say that their clients have the freedom of choosing their own pace, and considering that many contemplative songs have been portrayed under the shower (Awarapan in Jism and Mirza from American Desi being cases in point), they do have popular backing. But, even such songs, with the right pace, can always make it to a mug-and-bucket act, too. I can’t really explain this one; just try it and you’ll know why this one’s so high up on the list.

1) Highway to Hell (AC/DC): Bathroom singing is, ninety percent of the time, born out of nothing better to do. And what better to do than start jumping around crazily, shout at the top of your voice, and clear your road with this adrenaline-pumping song. The guitar solo’s too difficult for maximum amateur air-guitarists so you can wash your face as you admire that, and with you singing out aloud, the guy knocking your door waiting outside impatiently is gleefully asked to suck it. Two birds with one stone- perfect!

Apart from all reasons given in usual arguments, the best part about bathroom singing is that sometimes it actually is a strong reason for going for a bath. Can it get any better? What’re you waiting for, stinkface?