The Geek speaks... or rather types!

Bheegi Billi and other tales

2011-11-02T21:58:00.000+05:30

I slowly, carefully slipped my hands through- the left onewent first, to the chagrin of the pot-bellied Master Rasul, and then the right, and a few smoothing of creaseslater, he directed me to a mirror to take a look. The suit felt mighty fine,and unlike what I’d thought, almost weightless. I tried to stretch my arms outwide and had to stop at an unwieldy angle that made me look like an overdressedscarecrow. Ma had the now-ubiquitous “I wish was quick enough to take aphotograph now” moment, as Big B started laughing out, too. The tailor wasshaking his head when I enquired if I couldn’t stretch my hands beyond thepoint where I was. He replied through poorly controlled sniggers- “People insuits aren’t really expected to go beyond a shakehand”.That was probably the only dampener in an otherwise supremely satisfying twohundred seconds. As Big B and I concurred, Tashaniya.

While that tailor’s receipt says my abbreviated name willreceive that suit two days from now, my name troubles will probably haunt me aday earlier. It’s that big feline day tomorrow, and stories are flowing in fromall directions on how the organisers are very particular about identificationdetails, with at least three different levels of frisking and checking. In thatregard, it's piquing that my passport, college ID card and ATM card, the only three officially acceptableforms of identity verification I have here, all happen to be slightly different variationsof the same 25-character name (without spaces). An identity crisis, indeed.

Talking of that catty event, the venue happens to be anotherof those million permutations for college names here in Hadduland that go like (random-alphabet)ITAM. Just to make sure,Big B and I did a recon of the venue yesterday. The morons have the only centrein Visakhapatnam a full thirty kilometres off the city. Thankfully, at leasttwenty-five of those are either on the highway or on a newly-constructed BRTSroad. But once you take that dreaded diversion the college board demands, you’reinto a sand-and-rocks quagmire in the middle of dense snake-infested forests,flanked ever-so-briefly by an almost out-of-place picturesque lake. I have afeeling Slartibartfast left some of his work over here, too.

***

Five months after the last visit, and more than twelve yearsafter that first landing, I think I’m going to miss Visakhapatnam/Vizag/The cityof destiny.

There. I got that out.

O Brother, where art thou?

2011-09-03T23:54:00.000+05:30

It’s been over a month since I lastgave abstruse hints about my romantic meanderings, dear reader, andto say that it has been just eventful would start a riot. Allthe attention of the avaricious atrocity that is the world’slargest democracy’s fourth estate has been on Anna, Arundhati andeven everybody’s favourite cow, Arindam, has failed to think beyondit. Pardon the ill-advised amour with alliteration- don’t confuseit with acerbity, please- but being averse and apathetic through thissuccouring of angry acolytes has led to an accretion of... alright,I’ll end your misery before you go all apoplectic with rage. But,you get the idea.

The whole movement gave a mind with acomic bent of, err, mind, so much ammunition for jokes. Yet, for fearof being mobbed and lynched, I couldn’t release it all. Even afterthis great surge of democratic(?) anger has finally ended in avictory for civil society (refer this for perspective), onehopes it isn’t pyrrhic. And, I have to admit, assuming it’s safenow, that I was never party to it all. That enraged the jingoisticMatkas in Azad even more than my pleas for them to stop callingJackie, “Kalu” (as Maya Sarabhai would surely aver, that’sso middle-class!). In fact, even through the deluge ofAnna-related news all over print, news and Twitter, I looked fordiversions. MSD’s boys were bleeding black and blue, the footballseason hadn’t started, and Blake Lively, Leighton Meester andcompany hadn’t made an entrance into my life. So what I was up toreally?

If you are reading as a present studenton campus, I’d probably have rubbed it in a thousand times alreadythat I have no courses this semester. Which means no lectures, notutorials, no practicals- no contact hours. None. Naught.Nothing. Nada!

It isn’t as rosy as that last wordmakes it sound, though. Twelve hours of sleep have becomeindispensable, while the only daily attendance I mark is to onebalding Gujju I run into everyday at Nescafe, him not takingArchitecture final year as seriously as the rest of that incestuousfamily. Then, there’s the moping around with the rest of thecoffee gang, SMSing Mango to continue her education of the over-hypedShangri-la that is 5^th year, and the tension-filledconversations at home about feline matters. Thanks to the amazingsocial anomaly called birthdays, though, I have at least six newnovels to get through with. And did I tell you, we get paid eightgrand a month for all this? Money for nothing, indeed.

The problem with having so much freetime, though, is that you get time to think things over. As I wastelling Dang the other day, time may be the best healer, but woundswithout closure burn the most. And that is when you’d spot mewalking about alone, shorts fluttering with the easy wind, eyes onthe lookout for that speck of brilliance always lurking in the sky,and a heart still yearning for the girl with love in her eyes, andflowers in her hair. Did I tell you I was falling in love withLed Zeppelin, too? Anyway, this is the product of the past twomonths’ random walking. Trusty cell-phone camera earns the xoxo’s.(Mal, I really don’t see how x and o aren’t hugs and kisses,respectively.)

Of Pipers and reason

2011-07-12T00:45:00.003+05:30

I was searching for his birthday, since he’s taken every possible measure to hide it, when I stumbled upon these wise words that PeeTeeVee shot at me in a chat. I was then cribbing about how I still had two and a half years to go before I quit this dump, and now as the sand quickly thins down with less than a year to go, it really makes me wonder.

“You know, I don't know if this will make much sense to you, but so many things pass us by when we keep looking forward to someplace else, sometime in the future.”

Random romantic epiphany strikes once again. I sigh, once again.

P.S.- Over the past month, I finally figured out what Stairway To Heaven means. As Plant says in one performance, this is a song about hope.

Life and a box of chocolates

2011-06-26T23:52:00.006+05:30

There are some things in a seven-year-old life which you know as facts but have absolutely no idea what the source of that ubiquitous truth is. For example, it is known to every benevolent soul who’s worn a ridiculously decorated conical hat that it’s Lord Ganesha who holds the world record for most puris eaten at a birthday party. Or that The Undertaker has more than one life.

One similarly gathered titbit that garnished a most filling childhood was that Toblerone was the best chocolate in the world. Many a Punjabi kid with relatives in the States would brag about how his cousins would brag about its all-conquering flavours. Taste buds located at least an hour’s drive from the nearest Nirula’s Nutty Buddy would long for a mere taste of those Swiss peaks. Even renditions of Kajol prancing about drunk beyond her wits on the highways of Zurich would only entice mouths hungry for that elusive ultimate cocoa delight.

A close-to-normal life - collecting Tazos, singing this song as the first one as soon as someone finished saying Bolo Ram Ram Ram on the bus back from school, and discussing the day’s Power Zone cartoons while playing cricket in the evening – was never to be the same once it acquired this one direction and purpose: to experience the taste of Toblerone.

It’s a great travesty to romantic justice that I don’t remember how that first pack of Swiss-made treats ended up in our corner of the fridge. But I don’t. And it did. We took almost a week to even touch it, scouring the calendars for an auspicious day to first lay our hands on the end-product of a long, arduous pilgrimage. Then we did, asking Ma to gently open the packaging- its golden foil and triangular top would make a perfect addition to my budding chocolate wrapper and foil collection, I thought. And after a gleaming glance into each other’s joyous eyes, my elder brother and I let one bejewelled piece into each of our gaping mouths. And we closed our eyes for a good few seconds...

Obtaining Toblerone isn’t much of a big deal today, with every other neighbourhood store selling its overpriced versions. Yet, as Pa gently opened another box brought with much excitement from Mumbai airport’s duty-free shops, I felt the same old rush. Perhaps it’s the part of me that refuses to accept growing up that makes eating that chocolate seem like a pilgrimage. Or maybe Toblerone is the best chocolate in the world.

These kids- 2

2011-06-07T01:55:00.004+05:30

"Jealousy, like the flawed love that bears it, has no respect for time or space or wisely reasoned argument. Jealousy can raise the dead with a single spiteful taunt, or hate a perfect stranger for nothing more than the sound of his name."- Shantaram.

Sigh. Makes you wonder if it's your jealousy that's flawed, or your love.

Dekho baarish ho rahi hai

2011-05-28T01:39:00.004+05:30

The huge huddle in Mishra’s room finally broke out with a collective sigh. While it was relief let out by some, exhaustion was also a part of the air around the Fifth Wing. Merva’s illegible scrawls lay Xeroxed in our hands, as Jynja, Mishra and I ambled around the corridor, filling in on minute details at the eleventh hour. My loose shirt swayed at the sides, as the others scrambled to keep a hold of their loose pages. Downstairs, Haddu joined another jolly bunch in lighting up and away the banalities and vagaries of four long years...

***

Almost proportionally, as the light from the window kept dimming, my chin, unstably resting on my slipping hands, went closer and closer to the books I was supposed to be studying. As I shook up from another unintentional catnap, the darkness outside told a story quite different from the wall clock’s. I got up and trudged that well-worn path to G-27, to find Dela strapping his sandals to reciprocate. Smiling, I asked the obvious question- Coffee, Dile? The weather's amazing outside. He didn’t crib about having a mountain of notes to copy and the usual rants about the insti’s affection for academic bulimia; the cool draft from the back door would barely allow anyone to.

***

While I was eagerly following Man Utd’s second-string’s demolition of Schalke in the Champions League semi-final on the phone, Mango texted that the lights had gone out in the Nightingale’s Nest too, putting her plans of finishing some vast syllabus over the course of the night in great jeopardy. Yet, her voice betrayed little concern for that business. The strong winds were making it difficult to walk, and the century-old tree in front of Ravindra danced in delight. Exams could take a backseat when the heavens were in such a generous mood.

***

Back in the corridor, Mishra was getting goose bumps. “It’s going to rain, I’m telling you. It’s unbelievable. It always rains, ever so slightly, every single time, during these exams. It’s...”
His voice melted away in the rapturous thunder from the sky. We took pictures to mark the occasion; their hair wavy and unrestrained. And it rained. One final time.

P.S.- Anu Malik’s solo albums were great entertainment, weren’t they?

Through the bubbly froth

2011-04-24T17:01:00.004+05:30

The incoherence of the early-morning toothbrush conversation never manages to mask the potency of the words it carries. So as a mumble through Pepsodent’s light pink replies to my Colgate Total’s utterances, I’m resigned to another Monday morning beginning with chana-halwa. Almost four years of the same may have dampened my resolve to disregard its presence on the weekly menu, but haven’t broken into my stubborn dislike for black grams and the accompanying oily mud patch. As (to Ma’s utter surprise) I finish the daily ablutions and proceed to pray to the many Gods adorning my dusty shelves (which almost made her faint), I sincerely hope that there is some semblance of taste in the breakfast that follows. Back home, there’d be Ugadi Pacchadi, a dish with six different tastes symbolising the different emotions we’d experience through the coming new year. The mess keeps to its word and emotions in being as stoic as inhumanly possible, and off I am for the last set of mid-term examinations I expect to take.

The euphoria from the World Cup win was, quite obviously, yet to die down, despite the looming spectre of IPL 4. Facebook display pictures still hadn’t lost their “Bleed Blue” badges, which disgustingly kept reminding one of sanitary napkin advertisements. Nor had the Computer Centre forgotten our raucous celebrations after the win, with the huddled chairs in front of the biggest computer screen we had still in their respective places, including those two traitorous ones who were watching United’s miraculous comeback at West Ham on another live stream.

The month-long gap between those final mid-sems, and the ultimate end-semester exams would see a whole bunch of farewells, valedictory functions, photo-ops and other general sentiaap. I couldn’t help but wear my favourite emoticon through it all. :-/
Jynja says that emoticon sometimes looks like someone brushing his teeth. I love this guy.

You know, stuff.

2011-03-22T01:04:00.002+05:30

It’s a recorded message in Telugu that breaks my nonchalant routine. It’s something the (wildly obvious) Punjabi aunty beside me barely registers, as does her bespectacled son, who’s still ravenously running through his KFC munch-box. The rest of the process, though, from the now almost always messed up safety instructions, to the pilot’s oft-practised “We’re fourth on the departure list and should be off the runway in ten minutes”, is in order and I put my newspaper down, put my head back and ready for another take-off, homeward bound.

The coffee on the plane isn’t as bad as the last time I decided to shell out twenty rupees for that favourite beverage being served like it is in those American movies by skirted waitresses. Most importantly, it keeps me up for that depressing fictionalised account of a family going through the ’71 Bangladesh war that was a gift from the British Library, Chandigarh, part of the eye-opening trip to the green-and-gold fields of Punjab that Mal and His Majesty had taken me to. Soon after the landing at Hyderabad, the pilot’s throaty rasp was upon us again, informing us that the remnants of the winter up north were inexistent back home- the mere mention of 36 degrees had my hands sweating their veins out. The landing at (an incredibly further Anglicised) Vizag was rougher, the temperature six degrees lesser but I swear I might have passed out on the walk from the plane to the arrivals terminal because of the humidity. Ah, that’s the city I know as home, alright. The car’s angel lights and air-conditioning were veritably heavenly, as were Ma’s healing hand and Big B’s choice of boom-blasting music.

All along though, I kept wondering: where the bloody hell do pilots get their ruddy accents from?

***

Sometime last year, my brother tried to teach me how to drive a car. My incompetence beat my impatience in an uneven encounter: he gave up in two days. With my father expressing his surprise that with a little over a year for college to end and me being impotent with anything that’s motorised and has gears (yes, I added gears for that very reason, dear nefarious imbeciles), Big B brought himself to teach me to get two wheels moving, instead.
But, as he remarked himself, I must be the first person ever to be learning how to ride a bike when the cat to be belled has a 220cc engine.

For those who haven’t learnt riding a motorcycle yet, here’s a heads-up: it’s quite an emasculating experience. Particularly ironic for a vehicle that prides itself on being definitely male. Every single time I screw up the “press clutch – don’t accelerate – now shift up a gear” routine, the malevolent male bike gives its master’s male parts a proper crushing. Even Big B runs out of sarcasm when I manage to continuously achieve the holy grail of the neutral gear when trying to shift from the second to third. Yep - neutral gear at 30kmph, the fastest I got today.

As I deliver my well-rehearsed “belief in the public transport system” bullshit, even my most optimistic believer avers “You’re so never having a girlfriend. And your wife will hate you.”

I gobble another oatmeal cookie and snuggle in Ma’s arms watching F.I.R. on SAB TV. And stuff.

These kids

2011-03-12T21:36:00.001+05:30

It’s a vile surge of anger, rushing to your head in a blinding flash. Pope’s dangerous little knowledge was producing that primal emotion that the rational me (better known as the pussy) forever endeavours to subvert. But, this time there is little restraint. I can’t hear what he’s saying. All I see is an enemy. My hands bashing his brains into the wall with manic barbarism. I shake it off my head, and a few minutes later, it’s the more familiar feeling of embarrassment. Of being shamed. Of being laughed at. More human, less primal, I console myself. I’m a loser, but at least I’m not a testosterone-charged ape. There, there.

I’m trying my very best. It’s the funniest I can get without referring to human excrement. It’s been a full hour- give me one full laugh, please. I’ve reduced peaches of men to rolling heaps, and more than just the odd woman, too. The distance, though, just keeps growing, and the vibes only get colder. And there it is again, a little spike from the spine growing into a raging monstrosity. I could take that chair and...

The ape inside thinks we social animals are such pansies. Bloody poofs, the whole lot.

P.S.- This is a fictional account based on true events. Or vice-versa. And stuff.

(Originally posted on March 12, 2011 at 2:53 a.m.)

Touch-me-not

2011-02-01T12:30:00.000+05:30

It’s almost creepy how your mother can decipher the mood behind every “Hello” on the phone, even spotting the fake cheery ones. The last few replies have been exasperated pleas for better sleeping habits, if not “What’s wrong?”. That first utterance always sets up the tone for the rest of the conversation, with Ma using those Mommy superpowers to figure out the ethereal emotion around every breath and highlighting her inexhaustible will to make something of her lazy bum of a younger son. Such amazing abilities aren’t just limited to maters though- the elder siblings are similarly blessed, getting the drift behind a redundant emoticon or a mere drop of a shoulder. Big Brother, indeed.

These intangibles are pretty much the best excuse I give to my professor for taking no interest in artificial intelligence. Those networks and algorithms can learn all they want, but they’ll lack, to use an almost out-of-context phrase, a basic instinct. I just know that sentence is grammatically correct- spell check or no spell check. And though that picture is for all and sundry to see, you just know that that smile is for just the one lucky bastard.

Things- Good, Bad, Pretty Young etc

2011-01-04T07:51:00.002+05:30

As I begin typing awkwardly on the stone cold keys of my keyboard, dawn slowly breaks on R-land’s horizon, its steady ascent only disturbed by my phone’s cacophonous alarm. I’ve been up for the past three hours; the frigid air penetrated through every strand of fleece in my quilt to end uneasy dreams of being George Costanza’s business partner (or something like that). Feet propped up in front of the heat convector on the tea table, I look out of the window to see the night’s pitch black give way to the snowy blue of the morning, eliciting a bright response from the birds in the blanket of trees behind our wing. What I like most about dawn is how the changes are never too sudden, never too alarming. You get time to think about what's gone by, and get ready for what's up ahead. The darkest of the night soon seems a long way back, only in an hour, with the sounds of dreary slippers dragging on the corridor floor waking you up.

The rigours of academics, however, aren’t as accommodating. A first ever six (followed by three sweet zeroes) will sit next to the colon on my latest grade sheet’s SGPA column, its rotundity eerily irritating the eyes used to the more robust sevens, even as its inverted brother remains as elusive as a semblance of sense in Tees Maar Khan. A fourth consecutive New Year’s Eve in the insti didn’t help the saddened mind, itching to join the rest of the family watching another farcical orchestra crooning Daler Mehendi’s legendary Ho Gayi Teri Balle Balle as midnight strikes.

Yet, despite the insti’s most monstrous efforts over the past four years, that resilient bug of optimism fails to go with the (outrageously cold) wind. Ladies Luck and Love await, according to random quacks in the newspaper’s horoscope section but what really gets me cracking for the day and year ahead is the Quote of the Day from yesterday’s Hindustan Times.

“Everybody should believe in something. I believe I’ll have another coffee.”

– Anonymous.

Three

2011-01-02T23:59:00.002+05:30

Dear Blog,

Happy birthday to thee!
Today you turn three!

Love,
Me.

Slip Slidin’ Away

2010-11-02T15:27:00.001+05:30

If someone who didn’t know asked me what the main ingredient for rasam was, I would have to answer- tomatoes. Yet, one barely associates them love apples with the steamy memories of the best piping hot rasams we’ve carefully sipped. Just the right amount of water, the careful tickle of the fingers to pick out just the right amount of spices, the hiss with the introduction of mustard seeds- tomatoes play but a bit-part role in the grand magic of rasam.

Such is also the magic of bookstores. Anything and everything from a cushion on the floor at the end of a long shelf, to a sitting ladder to reach for the dusty tomes at the top, my favourite bookstores have always been more about the browsing experience, even more than the buys themselves. The inscriptions on the first page of many a second-hand book in a makeshift street market have touched my heart. Sometimes, even overall disorganisation has made book-searching memorable; swimming through a pile of dog-eared, sulphur-teared copies looking for that elusive gem gives that heady feeling that Scrooge McDuck must have when backstroking his way through his money pool. Quite often, it’s the most fickle variables that bookmark a store in the memory, like the primly dressed man in the business section, the hep homemaker in the cookery area, next to the hippie in the travel section, or the giggling-gaggling teenagers “woo-hoo”ing whenever they spot a favourite in the chick-lit section. Or, of course, if you get (un)lucky, you could spot me secretly trying to finish the ultra-expensive Complete Calvin and Hobbes Collection.

P.S. - On that note, if you’re anywhere in and around Delhi, avoid Om Book Shop. For all kinds of reasons. Reliance’s Time-Out has a god-amazing selection, but makes book-searching seem like grocery shopping (something they are managing to do with every retail venture of theirs).

Red Letter Days? Not.

2010-10-01T22:12:00.000+05:30

As another cold winter morning began with me wiping my drool off the pillow, I had a weird feeling in my stomach that told me it wasn’t going to be a great day. But it could as well have been the excess sambhar from the previous night. With this conundrum in my drowsy, lazy mind, I made my way to the toilet seat, where I proceeded to forget what I was doing and fall asleep in a pose not completely unlike The Thinker.

After some frantic shouting, shoving and shooing, I was out the door and into, well, a place I only knew as our front porch, but one could see no further than his own feet. Negotiating each step carefully while still trying to keep that icy wind off my nose, I somehow managed to see our school bus’ lights in the distance and made a dash for it. Getting in only after an exhausting sprint to the next stop, I got on wondering why I wasn’t allowed to take my Hero Kidd bicycle to school like my brother was. Even the usually chirpy driver seemed grumpy, and as I moved ahead, my usual spot with the Antakshari/Name-place-animal-thing gang was taken. I had to wind my way through to the back to stand between a couple of hard-nosed seniors I had no idea about.

Classes began, and my fears were confirmed when I missed two out of five spellings in the English class, earning the teacher’s rebuke. I was caught talking in the next class, and the week’s only P.T. period couldn’t have come sooner. At the football field, it was the usual: Chenab and Ravi versus Ganges and Satluj. Now, Satluj and Ravi simply hated each other; they were green and we were red- we had to! In those days of scrawny eight-year-olds, I was the ball-bashing midfielder. Well, that was more because every other kid wanted to be a striker, the fat-ass was the goalkeeper, and the abject losers were stationed at the back. Somehow managing not to fit in any category, I stuck around in the middle of the yellowish park jumping into tackles and passing it to the silkier, more skilful players up ahead. Trying to win one such ball, I rammed into one of the Satluj strikers, and having missed the ball completely, brought him down crashing to the cries of a badly mispronounced “Penalty!”. The penalty was duly argued over, taken a few times over in haste and finally agreed upon, and slotted. Now banished to the dreaded keeper’s position, I sulked between the posts. It did get better, though, as a couple of saves denied the rivals a win, and the match finished as a diplomatic draw. And my days as the permanent goalkeeper had well and truly begun.

The lunch break followed, and after filling myself with Mumma’s delicious creations, I finally thought the day wasn’t turning out that bad. As I went to relieve myself before the last period of the day started, I felt, well, relieved. The cold indolence of the morning had given way to exhaustion in the midday sun, and I let the bad day out; my head began to lighten. Strutting back in to the class with a dazed smile, I put my hand out and softly spoke “May I come in, Ma’am?”. Even before she could turn and nod, my daze was ended by loud screams. “The post office is open!”, “Letters, anybody?” and as it dawned on me, to the bemusement of the now-amused teacher, a loud chorus began... “Shame shame, puppy shame...”
I still pretend I don’t remember what happened next, but like that midsummer night which was to come a decade later, I remember every minute of that infinitely long last period and the subsequent bus ride home. They even sang “Shame shame, puppy shame” in the bus during Antakshari! I got through that day, and if I’d seen the Star Wars series by that time, I’d have known I was well on my way to becoming a true Jedi.

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.

Famous Last Words?

2010-09-02T16:42:00.001+05:30

To Fattu (alias Six Foot Three): I think I just saved your last penalty in the insti. (At the main football ground)

To Sushi: Hahahaha, Soosma! (At Nescafe)

To Kaka: Accha, to hum chalte hain. (Outside his room)

To Sunky/PG: I’ll see you guys in Ravindra. (Over the phone at 3 am from Azad)

To Dela: Bye, man. (At the Azad gate at 6 am, near the rickshaw to the railway station)

To AP: I don’t think a Hello is the best way to begin this. (At the railway station, aboard the Jan Shatabdi)

Watch her go as she sings...

2010-08-25T21:22:00.005+05:30

Settled comfortably in V’s cushy pillow, I stare with the slightest of smiles as he playfully strums that famous guitar intro from Romeo and Juliet. After Shakespeare and Mark Knopfler, I speculate on the magnitude of the disgrace it is that someone with the song-writing abilities of Taylor Swift gets to put her ignominious pen to this blessed title. Disregarding such eventualities of terrible anomalies, I applaud fulsomely when he’s done, and he brushes it off with a blushing wave and moves on to play it on his iTunes. A minute into the song, I, as always discussed with an Arbit Prat, mentioned how my idea of a perfect proposal was “You and me, babe- how about it?”. V notices the longing of immaculate romances in my eyes, and quickly catches the geek in me off guard with a quip on his acquisition of a book called “The origins of words with their romantic stories”. I laugh at his smart diversion, and quickly delve into the yarns of how I learnt the word decoy when playing a computer game called Commandos... I wonder what brought us together- laughter, pain or just a mutual friend, but our chats remain outlined with the common desire for that which we cannot have, an uncontrollable fancy for things that aren’t, weren’t meant to be. Knopfler brings his voice down to almost a whisper, in those lines that kill me each and every time; we talk about how songs we like are very different, on the contrasting planes of acoustic likeability, and emotional connections. He plays Julia Dream from a Pink Floyd album I hadn’t heard of before as we dissected Wish You Were Here, making the conversation itself the perfect example of what we were talking about.

Over three hours later, after negotiating the minefields of dogs in front of the E&C department crossroad and Ravindra Bhawan, I return to the conversation, and despite my best efforts to control the habit, I revisit the events of the night gone past, and start my playlist with Lady Writer once again, knowing only too well it’ll end with The Hardest Part.

P.S. - If the Arbit Prat and the Delanged One are reading, I couldn’t help myself when typing this post, and listened to Piper To The End more times than good for me.

P.P.S. - The title is from the chorus of this song I’ve been listening a lot to lately: She’s Got A Reason, by The Coral. Yeah, of that Scrubs song Dreaming Of You fame.

(Originally posted on 21st August, 2010 at 6:11 a.m.)

...and, we're back!

2010-08-18T15:32:00.004+05:30

Continuing the trend set in the past two years, the first month of the new academic year has once again flown by at a speed that would frighten an already threatened Usain Bolt. The wounds from the champion's loss to Soderling at Wimbledon seemed long-healed when Murray upset him again last night. India were playing Sri Lanka yet again as the rest of the cricketing world- the Twenty20 World Champions in particular- got down to some actual work. For example, Afghanistan is now not just playing an insane amount of cricket, but regularly beating other Associate countries, too. I figure it won't be as long as some predict before we have another subcontinental Test-playing nation.

Most significantly, though, the mostly-horrible advertisement for football that was the World Cup ended without too many memorable incidents, and the Premier League returned to my relief. The transfer window was typically Fergie-ish once again, but the slight frustration of not picking up any stars was more than wiped off by the impressive pre-season showing. Chicharito looks like one hell of a find, and even 10 million pounds for a 22-year-old now seems like a bargain. Even then, my instinct tells me Bebe will be another one to join Kleberson, Eric Djemba-Djemba and Juan Sebastian Veron on that infamous list of terrible, expensive buys.

The late Monday night kick-off meant the Azad TV room would be where I watched United's season opener for the fourth year in a row, although it's zilch when compared to the fact that this was the 15th season in succession that Paul Scholes started in a season opener, or that Ryan Giggs continues to be the only player to have scored in every Premier League season. At the stroke of Chris Foy's whistle, there were just four people in the room, and me the only United fan, with the others following the fortunes of their Fantasy League selections or there to wind me up in case we drew like two years ago. And despite their joy at seeing their rivals misfire, the opening half an hour had them all disappointed as Wazza didn't even look close to getting a shot on target, leave alone scoring- their captain was failing them.

When the ever-improving Valencia charged back to win the ball from behind, and a disappointing yet spirited O'Shea passed it to the Ginger Ninja, I, like most of the Stretford End, screamed "SHOOOT!". Yet, he calmly found Berba at the edge of the box, and the Bulgarian's finish was met by my yell of delight and relief. As the celebrations for United's opening goal of the season died down, the fact that I had no fellow fan to high-five began to prick me, though I knew that be it Bangalore, Hyderabad, Mumbai or Gurgaon, Dela, Sushi, Gulati, Manki and Kaka would probably be jumping out of their chairs and yelling, too. The rest of the game, thankfully, was a breeze, with Scholes especially in imperious form. It would have been a perfect night had Berbatov put an end to that lovely one-touch move involving Scholesy and Rooney. 3-0 was still an auspicious start to the season, and definitely the boost we need before that ever-tricky visit to Craven Cottage.

Let's hope, in the year that marks two decades since Liverpool last won the League, we decisively knock them off their fucking perch. Glory, glory, Man United!

Old dope and lost hope

2010-07-27T23:23:00.001+05:30

He had little idea when he was woken up from an uneasy sleep that the time was four in the morning. After some weeks’ rest, the rain gods had decided to get back to business, springing a rude surprise on the few residents who were enjoying these dry days. From the vantage point on the uncovered top walkway looking up to the stars, he drowsily dawdled down the dusty steps. The dust kept reminding him that this area wasn’t inhabited anymore, not for the last few months at least. How it mattered to him was anyone’s guess, though, as no one knew if he could keep track of time. Those two months could mean a fleeting break, or an ever-lasting epoch. Few could care about what he felt, but anyone who’d have noticed the drooping ears and those longing eyes would know it was the latter.

He cursed the clouds as he unsuccessfully tried to settle into another walkway. Sleep disturbed is like a child ridiculed: it just isn’t the same ever again. Then, a door opened, and through the slowly-fading darkness, he spotted a small light. The noise from the sources nearby suggested familiar revelry. Even though a more rational part of his heart asserted it to be a red herring, his hopeful part convinced him the last two months were just a small break from the routine. He scrambled down the stairs; the very stairs he’d acquainted himself with along with his master, along their many varied sojourns across the land. He’d fed and fondled him, loved and lingered with him. And then he had disappeared, but the reappearance of that light he had so often near his mouth suggested he was back. His delight overpowered reason, and he ran across to the room’s closed door, looking for the mouth holding that light. The smell of another familiar smoke wafted in to his nose, and he was lost again. He was reminded of the first time his master had introduced him to the magical grass. The grass that could be burnt and its smoke inhaled, he remembered light-headedly as he sauntered across to the back door, convinced his master had returned. That feeling of weightlessness was vivid in his memory; he recalled being on top of the world with just one puff of his lungs. The man with the light looked down at him doubtingly, as the sun slowly emerged from its reverie. The dark blue silhouette emerged to be a shorter, leaner man than his master, but his belief was unbroken. He feverishly turned to the open door, looking for the face he looked forward to the most amidst the overhanging layer of magic smoke. The man with the light shouted, and more came out from inside the room; an air of hostility around them. His master wasn’t one of them, but as he tried to walk into to the room to check if he still was in some unseen corner, they kicked him. They shouted curses, some laughed as they threw those very lights at him. The pragmatic part of his mind chose this moment to take over, and his hope was crushed. Beaten, humiliated and crestfallen, he walked out onto the wet grass, feeling slightly cold in the steady drizzle.

Jackie knew Noka had probably left for good.

Another drip in the wall?

2010-07-15T18:59:00.000+05:30

There were damsels in distress,
There were bright shining knights
There was garbage in excess
And heroes in tights

In the middle of the night
And the blinding sunny day
Under the shimmering moonlight
Were sold shady tales

Of eyewear worn by superstars
And belts by their dads
Weary of hefty men with bars
Collecting cash in wads

There were starry-eyed girls
And single-minded guys
With their hands roaming in twirls
Remembering failed tries

There was a rich man on a bike
There was a pauper with pink paper
One another they didn’t like
On the flip sides of a taper

Not beaten by trick or treat
Our subject has a ball
As he cracks open that zipper
And pees on the wall

(You can sing this quite like those Irish drinking songs.)

The Sultan of Swing- Part II

2010-07-14T12:52:00.003+05:30

Eagle Studios sounded a shady enough name for a film studio in Uttar Pradesh. I hadn’t heard of a Film City anywhere above the Aravalis, and it was with this sense of doubt that I entered the vehicle that was to take us there. Past acres of land supporting omnipresent apartment buildings, the Sumo lunged and leaped to a more open road, to the relative relief of my seemingly claustrophobic co-passengers. The road was finally smooth, and I reached down for my water bottle, before the oily teacher from the previous night’s dinner gasped “What is that huge golden statue of Lord Shiva?”. I smirked at his self-answering question, and continued to look for my bottle, as the driver explained in his gutka-chewing sideways voice, “Gulshan Kumar’s studios. T-Series, you know? Lots of good music.”

We reached the venue after five more minutes- in the final stretch, the car had once again gone off that good road, and hit bumps that propelled our heads through the roof, almost. I mentally patted myself on the back for not having had too heavy a breakfast, and stepped out to a building not very different from the ones surrounding it- only a storey or two smaller. An overly-fancy fountain welcomed us to the side entrance of Eagle Studios. A neat garden on our right was full with smartly-dressed school kids. Across the salmon facade of the building, near the edge that bent away to the even more fancy front entrance, stood a small table bearing a water container and a coffee machine. Huddled around it, and up ahead in front of it, were a group of teachers, chattering politely. I noticed a couple of lookers in there, but was disappointingly reminded that I had no one to point them out to. A dinner and breakfast didn’t give enough time to make acquaintances, and my partner seemed anything but interested in the fairer sex (I’d heard he was committed; I hadn’t much of an idea of the class one year senior to mine).

The guy who’d accompanied us asked us to wait as he ran inside screaming on his walkie-talkie. Before anyone could move, I grumbled to our teacher “Look, none of them are wearing blazers. Why are we being forced to wear them when they’re not part of the school uniform? I’m burning in here”. “Oh, come on, don’t be a baby. When they’re inside, even they’ll be wearing theirs. Don’t be impatient. You can take it off if you’re not comfortable now. But once we’re inside, you better be in that green coat!” As I continued to make a face, a couple of people beckoned us inside. The otherwise dully-coloured walls were replete with movie posters, with a small glass-framed plaque below each showing the year and room it was shot in. I could only spot a few I knew- Mrityudaata and Shahrukh’s Chamatkaar, amongst others. The irritatingly catchy title tune of the eponymous TV series started playing in my head. Trying to shake it off, we walked on towards the lounge, where we could watch the proceedings, as a huge applause resonated from the wall beside us. A few metres ahead, a door opened, and out he walked. “Phew! That was a close one, wasn’t it?”. He seemed to be talking to no one in particular. We walked into the lounge, where faces with contrasting emotions stared at us from cushy sofas. I was still smiling in the glory of finally seeing the man I’d previously only admired on television. The nine of us took some spots, and looked to the guy who’d ushered us in. “Sonia will be here in a few minutes. She’s the producer. Yours is the first episode tomorrow morning; the first one for the South Zone. Make yourselves comfortable.” We snuggled into the couches, as the crowd from the previous episode barged into the now-jam-packed lounge: it was time for the West Zone finals of the ESPN School Quiz 2003...

The next morning began with me complaining about our blazers again. “This is my brother’s. It hasn’t been used for almost five years, and just barely fits me. When we joined in the winter and wore this, we weren’t even allowed to go in with this! And now, suddenly, it’s the pride of the school. Those Chennai schools don’t even have ties, for goodness’ sake, forget blazers! They’re fine with coming with their collar buttons open, but we have to wear blazers. Show-offs, I tell you!” My partner calmly heard all of this, and proceeded to have his breakfast in relative peace after that...

Our episode was good, our teacher said. “You shouldn’t have gone for the win, though. Respectability could’ve been fought for. I mean, after last year’s -1, -6 isn’t...”, he stopped as I glowered at him. “Sir, in quizzes, you go out to win. If not, try keeping your school’s pride intact by giving a good show. I know -6 is a horrible score to end up at, but do you intend to insult our commitment out there?”. As soon as I said that, I feared a harangue, and bigger problems at school, but he smiled and said “I know you guys gave your best. Don’t worry, you’ll do much better next time, I know”.

Then, it happened. Harsha Bhogle (yes, it’s him centimetres from you, I pinched myself) came out of nowhere, patted us on the shoulders, and said “That scoreboard doesn’t always tell the true story. You’re a good team, DPS Vizag.” He smiled and walked to his room. My day was made, or so I thought.

As our teacher walked back to the lounge, I and my partner stayed back for water. The water cooler in the studios was just outside the main set where the episodes were shot, almost obscured by the stairs. I passed my partner a glass, and a clear voice said from the top of the steps “Yaar, thoda mere liye bhi paani lena.” A long flashy pair of black pointed boots strutted down, topped by a blue denim jeans. A tight black shirt clung to a tall muscular body, and as that left hand with a Rolex watch came for the glass in my outstretched hand, I finally saw the face with the sunglasses. It was unmistakeably clear, yet distinctly unreal, that the Sultan of Swing, and ODI cricket’s highest wicket-taker had just said “Thanks, man!” to me and shook my hand. Wasim Akram stood for a moment sipping, when Harsha walked back and said “Ah, so you’ve met the man already! Come, everybody, let’s go have a little intro session in the lounge”. The word had spread, and before they reached the lounge, Wasim was bombarded by pens and scratchpads. My teammate had run to find his bag, too. I still stood at the water cooler, dazed. I never even got an autograph, or even a photo. But, I somehow, couldn’t care less.

The Sultan of Swing- Part I

2010-07-09T13:56:00.002+05:30

The round, friendly Kashmiri at whose once-home we were staying called out to us all from downstairs, and I shouted from the couch to my companion in his bed: it was time for dinner. Ever since we had been driven from the Hazrat Nizamuddin railway station after an exhaustingly boring forty-hour train ride to this quaint little three-storey guest house, I had been starving. While the others all crashed to sleep, my hunger kept me up through the three hours or so till dinner. As I sped downstairs, a dozen other fourteen-year-olds and a handful of adults stood waiting near the steaming, but closed containers. As one bespectacled, oily-haired adult groaned “It’s a good ten minutes past nine. Late again. When will we sleep?”, the round Kashmiri’s even rounder wife turned up panting. “The curd you wanted. The helpers mixed things up in the morning. I had to set the milk again, and...”. “Alright, alright! What do we have today?”, barked another teacher in front of me. As the Kashmiri with the greying beard and wizening, yet bright hazel eyes took off the lid, I breathed loudly Kamal ki kakdi. The teacher turned around as if I’d cursed him in French, but the man with the lid in his hands was glowing through the steam. “Lotus stems in spicy red gravy, sir”, I answered to no question from the teacher, quickly adding before he could point that out “A Kashmiri specialty”. He walked away to get himself rice, and as I served myself, the host couldn’t hide his glee. “Are you South Indian? Then how do you know about our dish?”, he asked. All I came up with was “I like food, from anywhere.” He moved along to tell me about their chicken special, when my vigorous shake of the head brought a slight dip in his spirits. “You’re vegetarian, too? Those people should’ve told us they’re sending all South Zone people here. They always...” “My friend here, though, will love this”, I said quickly as I dragged my partner, who was then told the story of how tender the chicken needs to be in Hindi tinged with Punjabi. He nodded on and smiled nervously, even though he couldn’t get a word. I couldn’t afford distractions as I poured ladle upon ladle of piping-hot rajma onto my plate.

One would have to be as dumb as Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua to not notice the tension in the air. The large portico behind the guest-house’s entry gate served as the dining area, which was torn through the middle by a silence best described as killer. An occasional spiteful glance here and there would be met with equal acrimony: the two sides mentally murdered each other repeatedly. Before we could think of a way to avoid it diplomatically, we were right there, in that deserted centre. Stuck in no man’s land, we had to decide which side to take. As my partner nudged me in the side to help decide, I made the soundest decision I could think of: stay close to the food. Our choice was made, and we, too, were now being quartered and battered in the other side’s mind. I went up to the nearest soul who didn’t look like homicidal, and asked why there were two sides looking at each other like wolves about to tear into each other. He replied with a question- “Where are you from?”. As quizzical as it seemed, I answered Visakhapatnam. “Didn’t they put the Andhra guys in another place?”. I wondered how long till I’d have answers instead of more questions. After three more, he bothered to help me. “Those cocky asses- they’re all from Bangalore. Think they’re like bloody Americans. Keep making fun of us for no reason. Think that 50Paisa guy is cool, and we’re not...” and he launched into a tirade of expletives, ending in Tamil. I nodded on, carefully picking out the chillies from my raita, and swallowed one when he asked “You’re with us, right?”. I grinned and said “Bloody Northies put too many chillies in curd, don’t they?”, earning his widest smile and silently praying to God for mercy.

For as far as I could remember that early in the morning, I woke up in a room before anyone else did for the first time ever. My roommate and partner proved to be a tough log to shake, and I was all clean, dressed and ready when he finally got up. It was five minutes to the end of breakfast time, and he rushed down with me as a thinner crowd stood having buttered bread and boiled eggs. I could notice no one of the Chennai side from last night and my partner yawned loudly. “Here comes another one from In Da Club”. That comment elicited a roar of laughter, as more jokes, almost all ending with da or something to with Rajnikanth, ensued. We took a corner and spoke softly in Telugu, when one of them walked up to us and said “You guys aren’t speaking Tamil. Not from Chennai?”. “No, we’re from Visakhapatnam, actually.” “Come on, you mean Vizag! Don’t make it so long! Hi, I’m Easwar.” Sides were asked to be chosen again, and we side-stepped again, but the rest of the meal did go smoothly. Both the sides weren’t too bad actually, and when my partner asked me who I preferred, I couldn’t pick one.

Before we left to crash in front of the TV again, I went up to the landlord and asked where we’d be taken, and when. He said “Those who had their slots today are gone already. All but two Chennai teams, and most of the Bangalore crowd. It’ll come back to pick you all up in about two hours. You’ll be going to Eagle Studios. That’s in Film City, Noida. Not too far from here.”

(To be continued)

Stories of the Sabbath

2010-06-28T15:34:00.001+05:30

Easily the best part of my ninety-minute bus commute to work is the stretch between the Sector-8 and Sector-11 bus stops. As the conductor announces the arrival at either, I’ve put Kane and Abel, Six Suspects and Two States down over the past week, for those precious few seconds I get to look at my school. One such early morning, I was mildly surprised to see no barrage of cycles in the stand. Between the (now) four buses, below the arch bearing the school’s name, the principal’s almost-ubiquitous car was also missing. I took a look at my watch, which showed the time to be quarter to eight. I wondered why the school would be so desolate so close to the opening time when the bus radio announced how the overnight rains had given Vizag a most pleasant Saturday morning. I recalled one-upping every kid in the township from any other school as ours had a five-day week, and felt sad I’d forgotten that very fact.

Even though it was always Sunday’s less-celebrated cousin for us school-goers, Saturday was most welcome as it heralded the dawn of the weekend: no getting up at seven, no sprints to avoid missing the bus, and best of all, (early in the new millennium) Premier League games. The absence of Power Zone on Cartoon Network and the ESPN School Quiz would dull the afternoon; nonetheless, not looking forward to the stern class-teacher’s rebukes early next morning made holy Sabbath a winner in its own category. Since Sunday would be an off-day for the parents (and would have Bournvita Quiz Contest in the morning, some new movie in the afternoon and a trip to Delhi, more often than not, in the evening), Saturday nights brought no fever, as the spectre of Monday Tests loomed ahead. All the same, the NTPC Club, as I hope the Scuttling Shuttler would corroborate, screened new movies in the auditorium on Saturday evenings.

Even the weekend harbinger changed quickly as school gave way to coaching after Class Ten. The unforgiving six-day week meant Sunday’s little brother was in no way different from the other five. Those same kids we’d been troubling with cries of “Saturday bhi school ja rahe ho?” for ten short years, were now slyly-grinning classmates. The worst part? The weekly tests from school which for so long had nurtured Monday morning blues (and for brief periods, Fridays and Tuesdays, too) had now decided to take over on Sunday, not only ruining the best day of the week, but killing Saturday evenings, too. Truly Black Sabbath.

The return of the two-day weekend in college couldn’t have been more welcome. I could once again pick on some poor ex-classmate who’d graduate on six-day weeks, and sleep in peace on Friday night (or in most cases, early Saturday morning) with no lectures or weekly tests to look forward to. The college weekend is a great leveller, as Sundays now can’t claim any bragging rights and too many times, I forget the distinction between the two days of the weekend.

Back home, in the summer holidays, I can’t distinguish between any days of the week, as I’m down sleeping or up eating no matter what Shani, Mangal or Shukra have in mind. This summer with the internship, whenever I do take the 400N that takes me past my alma mater, I realise why they love to say “Thank God, it’s Friday!”. I realise, I miss the good old Saturday.

Puzzles

2010-05-17T17:58:00.000+05:30

For reasons that I’ve failed to attempt understanding, red ants hate the Visakhapatnam summer. Attacking every piece of plum real estate in the kitchen and the refrigerator is passé; even the innocuous wardrobe is now victim to these tyrants. Blindly putting on such afflicted clothes, I sat down for the daily swing of the remote. Separated by a whisper and a yowl (in that order), a tickle and a sting spur me into fickle effervescence.

It’s weird how life can send two conflicting messages with the same courier. As I remove my scratching fingers to reveal the results of a weak insect’s poison, I am lost in thought. There are times when if one would run out of ink, even blood would bobble in effortlessly to keep the penning going. At others, it’s a feeble sputter, stutter and stop: shut shop. After feverishly dusting any remaining ants off them, I wear that salmon kurta and green shorts from last year’s Holi again, wondering where my pen is headed.

Only a couple of days ago, my two masters shrugged off Morpheus’ advances to be in probably their last moments as students of R in G-104. While the ~~Deranged~~ Delanged One and I kept the ever-aimless chatter going as I was packing, the Lead (Air) Guitarist couldn’t start, never mind continue, any conversation all the way till the Jan Shatabdi’s engine signalled our parting. Probably it was because he hadn’t slept for three days, and was in spirits way too high (not the metaphorical ones) to know it. The tickle was excruciating; the sting bovine.

And before it could all hit me, PV’s calm voice died down and I fell asleep, to wake up with ants on the right side of my chest.

Gratification

2010-04-03T01:55:00.003+05:30

Two of my favourite activities are eating and observing people. Obviously, it’s good fun when the two come together. Watching people’s expressions before, during and after the fulfilment of this great responsibility bestowed upon us by Mother Nature is probably the second most enjoyable part of the process- behind the process, itself, of course. Nearing two illustrious decades of nibbling, munching, gobbling, and other similar acts of gluttony, I’ve seen a glut of faces speaking a million words through their sounds of silence, and, in many unfortunate cases, those very faces and some other faces communicating quite audibly.

Who hasn’t seen that million dollar smile, embellished by that nugget stuck between the front teeth? Some faces scream approval for the food, as others, disapproval for their company. While some choose their sparkling clean plates to do the talking, notes and coins do it in their own separate ways in other cases. One of the comparatively rare expressions, though, is that of the countenance that tells the tale of a hungry stomach reaching its complete capacity, a rapacious mind once raring for more, now full to its core; of a gourmand satisfied.

More often than not, when slowly washing my hands, it is this face that I see in the mirror.

P.S.- Weird coincidence that this post should come hours after I had dinner with my father at a restaurant almost named after that other great foodie we know.

Mostly Harmless

2010-03-19T06:51:00.003+05:30

The English language has never ceased to throw gentle surprises, dramatic shocks or globs of spit at learners it considers alien. While the Queen may grab the opportunity of the odd snort at the rookie addling his verbs and prepositions (I sat in the toilet seat and felt cold, so took out some tissues, you know), even the vim-filled boaster isn’t spared from the deep holes lurking in India’s secondary lingua franca (by assuming ‘enigma’ to be of Italian origin, making it an enema).

Even yours truly hasn’t been spared (almost) similar embarrassment. Having assumed the phrase to imply ‘logic, driven by sentiment’, I concluded a long argument as Class Monitor to ask the girls’ representative to attend the Student Council meeting by quipping “Come on now- for our posterity’s sake.” It took me a few years and a dictionary to figure out the wide-eyed stare and cold shoulders I was given ever since.

The school, though, was no stranger to such occurrences. After all, in its history of Physical Education Trainers, it had had one who strictly believed in the policy of students forming straight circles, while another’s voice had once bellowed through the quadrangle, screeching “All aaf you sould come with paalissed sooes and saacks from tomaarow!”. Then, there’s the unverified legend of a Class 4 kid explaining his misspelling of psychologist by exclaiming “Ma’am, I only forgot to P!”.

Somehow, it’s these little anecdotes that survive the relentless march of time over those twelve wonderful formative years. Not many would remember the Eshans and the Pushyamis, but the (deliberately?) misspelt ‘Assoul’ on the toilet walls remains as ageless as television’s Ba. And this very idiosyncratic human trait - endeared by some, and troublesome for others – is what keeps the smiles going for posterity’s sake.

Roadside Rodeo

2010-03-08T01:47:00.005+05:30

The NBA’s tagline “Where amazing happens” is queerly apposite for the sibling states of Uttar Pradesh and Uttarakhand. In a little over 30 months here, if there’s one thing the stretch of National Highway-58 from Modinagar to Roorkee has never failed to deliver, it’s an amusing surprise. Having grown up in a township connected to the capital via vast expanses of UP’s villages, the likes of ‘Swapnadosh va Gupt rogi mile- Hakim Usmani, har mangalvaar’ were not too surprising. But the first few bus rides across the aforementioned road brought quite a few revelations, like highlighting the movie tastes of the towns along it, for instance. Pyaasi bhootnis, jawan chudails and teesri aurats dominate the theatres, with even titles like Maut ka naya avatar and Anokhe karishme grabbing the coveted A-ratings. Even more intriguingly, the tickets in black for these very movies are seemingly sold by ten-year-old kids. The government doesn’t lie about fast-track growth at all.

After sleeping through the entire duration of my four-hour flight, and spending the afternoon watching some electric business quizzing in the capital, I was in no mood to give in to Morpheus anymore for the bus ride to R. With a jovial ten-pointer for company, the god-awful traffic jams were seen through, and the battle-hardened bus emerged through the Meerut bypass with purpose. The bus' bulbs were switched off as the road’s dim yellow lights were gradually overpowered by the side-show. Radisson Punjabi Dhaba could mislead many, while Rosetta Inn has already claimed numerous such victims. One would be led to believe Jain Shikanji is a chain of highway restaurants, but these were just the lower tiers of the cake. The battle was hard-fought, but Patiala ke puraane Pandit ji ka mashoor Vaishno dhaba finished only as the icing. The proverbial cherry on the cake had to be ‘New Sher-e-Punjab New Super Deluxe Super Star Dhaba’.

Now you have a lot more to look forward to on those rickety rides. Cheers!

P.S. - No, I’m afraid Murti Hot Hot Khana Khajana Vaishno Dhaba can’t be taken in, to avoid any suggestions of favouritism.

P.P.S. - After Dela and Prondu, it was a Haddu and Haddu’s turn to make R proud. Congratulations for winning the Chandigarh round for us, again!

Dreams visits sometime

2010-02-16T03:30:00.005+05:30

If you can dream- and not make dreams your master.
If you can think- and not make thoughts your aim.

One of the most wonderful truths about life on earth is this very fact, that there’s a piece of verse for every situation. Rudyard Kipling’s prescient words couldn’t have been more perfect for the situation I’d found myself in. With yet another set of mid-semester exams less than touching distance away, I had a browser window and a notepad file open detailing how my ideal trip across Europe would be. If one were to write a Wikipedia article on it, the ‘cultural references’ tab might just be the only one on the page. From fiords in Norway, to the clichéd walk along the Champs Elysees, across tulip fields in the Netherlands, and the six hundred-year-old canals of Belgium, down the Calais-Dover ferry to London, and culminating with hitchhiking across the northern countryside to my Mecca- Old Trafford. Midway, there’d also be the castles of Wales, saying ‘Why aye man’ at least once in Tyneside, and a late evening spent sipping coffee watching the citadels of Edinburgh, as high on the parapet, a Scottish piper stands alone, playing the Caledonian blues. That’s just Western Europe. But, the final tab leads to a quick reality check, as I ponder over applying to this random coding internship, with no stipend and food arrangements in either Gurgaon or Bangalore. And, years of reading novels and watching movies still hasn’t made me insensible enough to imagine a huge thud as those rosy plans come crashing down to earth. I plainly close the windows and stare at Mark Knopfler on the desktop. He’ll be touring the continent over the summer, with a week’s dates at the Royal Albert Hall in London. I try to distract myself by logging into Facebook- hoping others’ happiness on the anniversary of St. Valentine might just seep in, but the cruel cycle of events over the past year may have left me with a lot of hope, but little luck. Things get worse as I see Kondy’s status message, beaming ‘This day, last year’. I shut the lid down for good, and trudge wearily for a coffee. But the Shiv Sena or some sister society’s warnings had left all indoors and Nescafe teeming. Sighing, I called Mum and walked back to Azad. Thankfully, her reassuringly cheerful voice has remained one of the few constants from my time in R, and sunset over the main gate combined with that to gladdening effect. Formatting the magazine wasn’t exactly a welcome distraction, but it did take my mind off greyer matters. And, as I returned to my ever-welcoming quilt, I felt lucky to have somebody’s arms to fall into. Hope is a good thing.

There’s a chink of light,

It’s a burning wick-

There’s a lantern in the tower.

Wee Willie Winkie with a candlestick,
Still writing songs in the wee, wee hours.

365 days in 8 slices

2010-01-01T15:12:00.004+05:30

Numbers are wonderful ornaments for speech. For instance, if I were to encapsulate most of the events of the past few days, I could do it all with just one jewel.

Four and a half months of painstaking care, and in four and a half minutes, the mane was off. A four and a half hour flight to the capital, four and a half hours in the train, and from Visakhapatnam’s coldest winter in four and a half decades at 18 degrees, I was to be rattled by the four and a half degrees in R, made even more deadly by the early morning drizzle I got caught in. Not to forget, there was last night’s four and a half thousand rupee bill, and the resulting four and a half hundred rupees a glutton.

***

Ever since I read supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, I knew that of the many heavy responsibilities bestowed upon me to better this world, one was to enrich dictionaries. Sadly, like many of the aforementioned responsibilities, I couldn’t pay enough attention to fully fulfill this one. Yet, I continue to take small steps towards making the reading world a better, more convenient place. Here’s last year’s creation.

relaze (v)- To relax lazily, and in the delightful process, expedite the dawning of crucial realisations.

Origin: From the proximity of the Z and X keys on the standard QWERTY keyboard.

More: Relazing, Relazer, Relazisation, among others.

Red Herrings: One of the common misconceptions regarding one of the noun forms of the word, relazisation, is that it is the American spelling for ‘relasisation’. That, as the origin and definition of the verb form clearly demonstrate, is a stupid accusation. Also, the word or any of its derivatives has no connection etymologically with the word ‘relaxative’ or its derivatives, apart from the fact that they share the same creator.

***

To recall one of the few enjoyable moments from last semester’s lectures, “Phoetry is not eejy... One of the hallmarks of a great phoet is suffering. If you have not suffered, you can never be a high-class poet.” Laughing it off like most other things in those classes, I couldn’t ever imagine how true those words would turn out to be. Staying true to my late learner qualifications, I only got an eight on ten in Creative Writing in English, and with thorough honesty, I aver I deserved it.

***

Finally, the fog has lifted off the grass outside my room to reveal bright yellow flowers blooming right on top of that little mound a little off the centre of the garden. It’s still the darkest, foggiest quarter to three in the afternoon I’ve seen for quite a while. If at all it requires any mention, the temperature is hovering around the ten-degree mark. My room’s tube light is still out of service, and the fan gathering more dust, leaving a musty damp smell beautifully hanging in the air. Without intending to demean the sheer beauty of the prevailing weather, I’d say this probably is an Orwellian dream. Tucked up on the edge of my bed in a neck-hugging sweater that makes me cringe even more for home, I look back at the year gone by- in pictures, phone calls, text messages, e-mails, and top of all, crystal-clear scenes from my eidetic memory. And what better song to give company, than one of the very few songs I loved from the school assemblies- Turn, Turn, Turn.

A new year, and the double-digit decade lies ahead, and for now, it is definitely a time to gather stones together.

***

P.S. - 18 = 4.5 + 4.5 + 4.5 + 4.5. I’m getting the feeling at least a couple of people will have noticed this. Oh, and don’t bother about the title.

P.P.S. - Years may come and decades may go, but I remain frugal with phone calls. Happy New Year!

P.P.P.S. - As cold as it is, and as lazy as I am, I'm sure I'll be forgiven for labelling this my second bloggiversary post.

Animals make strange sounds
As do a machine gun's 500 rounds
Coo-coo-coo, cock-a-doodle-doo
Ho ho ho, me blog has turned two!

Heroes, herrings and heartburns

2009-12-18T02:15:00.001+05:30

The herald of the last decade of the second millennium saw the winds of change blowing through India. The nation was finally going to shed its protective traditionalism and give way to economic reforms. That yearly horde at the airport grew larger as more plucky Punjabis and sharp Gujaratis flew to the West, leaving a sizeable imprint on both sides of the Atlantic, and giving a fillip to the use of the word ‘Diaspora’ back home. Even at the movies, the era of Bappi Lahiri-fuelled disco hits was slowly but surely fading into a newer form of cinema, with the audiences being treated to the likes of Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak, Andaz Apna Apna and Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron. In a more morose change, the Indian cricket team was readying to let its ageing golden generation give way to a newer set of hopefuls. Little did anyone know, though, what was to become of that diminutive sixteen-year-old who, till the beginning of that decade, with twinkling eyes, was carrying drinks for the household names that were Kapil Dev, Sunil Gavaskar and many other legends of Indian cricket.

It was the time of a generation seeking to put behind years of underachievement, reclaim its glorious- and more prosperous- past and move towards a future of economical, social and technological advancement. Yet, it was a generation starved of recent past success, save the cricketing community, on whom the realisation that its championship-winning capabilities were under the threat of geriatric decay was dawning. In a way, people were looking for someone to show the way. Even including the cricketers, it was a generation looking for idols. For heroes.

Right at the start of this decade, on a typically dry July night in the capital, I was born. And true to the prevailing zeitgeist, I, too, longed for icons. Even before I turned three, the little master was enthralling crowds all over the world. I probably couldn’t even understand what that swing of the blade meant, but I am told I clapped with glee, jumping up and down in excitement. That was the start of a worship that still goes on unconditionally. More on that in some other post- that story has so many chapters and anecdotes; it wouldn’t be complete till Sachin Ramesh Tendulkar takes the heart-breaking step of retiring.

I studied nursery in a small school in Kawas, a town a few kilometres off Surat, in Gujarat. A feisty little boy I was, throwing the deadliest of tantrums when my mother made her valiant attempts to get me to the school, adjacent to the hospital where she had to go. Even after the sapping battles I fought to get there, I would never be short of energy in class, picking up fights with anyone and everyone for no reason at all. But, mere pugnacity wasn’t enough- my frail frame made me get beaten time and again. Even at home, my elder brother always had the better of me. In such trying circumstances, I looked for heroes to guide me on my path to claim glory.

Cue for the stars of the World Wrestling Federation to step in. Carrying imposing bodies built from the street fights in the Bronx, the stunts of Hollywood, under the tutelage of Samoan wrestling legends or sheer Texan tenacity in their blood, these men not only entertained, but inspired many a child to fight like there’s always next Monday. Even if there’s blood from that chair-shot, or the twisted ankle from that submission manoeuvre, you don’t give up until the referee bangs his bare hands into the canvas three times as you’re pinning down the enemy. And not just that, these men also brought their quick-witted imagination into play, winning many a battle without raising a fist, with the power of their words. The Rock, Stone Cold Steve Austin, Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart, the ‘Heart Break Kid’ Shawn Michaels, (my present namesake) Triple H and a host of others enriched my childhood with words, gestures and finishing moves. Oh, standing triumphantly in a full classroom, raising an imaginary belt high in the air, one eye acknowledging the raucous crowd, the other scouring the corridor for a hint of the teacher’s arrival- the WWF, just like Tendulkar, filled our hearts with delight, inspiration and hope.

A few years into the new millennium, I saw a show on the TV called ‘Pro Wrestling’s secrets revealed’. What seemed like a damning attack on my childhood addiction, turned out to be the dark truth. Yet, I couldn’t seem to think The Rock’s impromptu Samoan drop to Triple H at SummerSlam, Shawn Michaels’ death-defying leap of faith from the top of the first Hell-in-a-Cell or Stone Cold’s audacious beer bash in a monster truck could’ve been staged or, in fact, were staged. My idols couldn’t be fake. Making the reasonable assumption that it was the present crop of pretenders that were the culprits, I quit watching the form of wrestling branded as sports entertainment.

Till today, that show’s revelations resonate in my heart. My confidence was shaken, my belief shattered and my abilities questioned. As defining as that event was, it wasn’t to be the first of its kind. As the dawn of a new age saw this upturn, the end of teenage saw another. Thank God, my mother clarified that Shahrukh wasn’t cheating on Suchitra Krishnamoorthy by running away with Kajol. And thank Ramesh Tendulkar and his wife for Sachin Tendulkar.

Two States

2009-12-13T02:26:00.000+05:30

My favourite literary device smacks me in the face yet again, striking once again on the eve of a homeward bound journey. Over five and a half decades ago, a small, frail man by the name of Potti Sreeramulu held a peaceful fast-unto-death for the formation of a separate state for the speakers of Telugu. The diminutive gentleman’s oft-forgotten sacrifice led to the formation of the States Reorganisation Committee in 1953, giving the basis of the geo-political structure of the country as we know it today. In an ironical occurrence of déjà vu, K. Chandrasekhar Rao’s fast- not going to the ultimate end- has seen the government finally give in to the twenty-year-old demand for the separate state of Telangana. However, things couldn’t have been any more different than during the decade after independence, and thus, the announcement of the division rankles me further, no matter what and how potent the political pressures the ruling government maybe under.

The first reorganisation or reformation of states in India to have taken place since the economic revival of the early 1990s was the formation of the three states of Chattisgarh, Jharkhand and Uttaranchal. Years of underdevelopment and want for separation on the basis of tribes and castes saw the formation of the trio at the dawn of the new millennium. Also, the administrative difficulties involved in managing states the size of the BIMARU quartet deemed it almost compulsory. In a hastily-done reorganisation, Bihar and Madhya Pradesh were almost robbed in clear daylight, with almost no care taken in properly dividing the various natural resources of the regions. Even a ten-year-old like me could point out the glaring errors. Only one of the five power plants that Madhya Pradesh had remained in its divided territory, and mind you, even after the bifurcation, it remained one of the biggest states by area. The forests, coal, limestone, bauxite and other natural reserves, arable land and water resources were also shabbily divided leaving MP high and dry- quite literally. Yet, the scourge of the naxalites and Chambal valley’s notorious dacoits went into the newly-formed smaller Chattisgarh’s hands, whose accordingly-sized police force was obviously outnumbered and outgunned by the seasoned insurgents. Result? MP didn’t do too much good to its “BIMARU” reputation, while Chattisgarh is now officially the state worst affected by insurgency. Bihar’s split saw similar mistakes, with the already notorious state’s few resources, too, unequally handed, with the ample coal reserves and the prestigious industrial city of Jamshedpur going Jharkhand’s way. The little forest cover that it had, too, went the other way, and all Bihar was left with was Patliputra and the Kosi. Bad fortune played its part in flooding the river, and Jharkhand has its own issues with the naxalites and Maoists. Another division decision not going too well. Uttaranchal, now Uttarakhand (they took over a month to finalise Uttaranchal in the first place!), hasn’t met the fate of its other birth brothers, but having lived most of the past three years in the state, I learn that most of the Pahadis, for whom the state was purportedly divided, are still left in the lurch over the advantages of the development projects, the most well-documented being the displaced in the many hydro-power projects that have been commissioned in the state. Yet, maybe because of the able early leadership of the seasoned campaigner B.C. Khanduri, and many other factors, this state has prospered to quite an extent. I won’t call it an honourable exception, yet. Most of the developmental projects in the state are yet to bear fruit, mind you.

I’d always disliked more states being formed. As an enthusiastic quizzer, the idea of remembering one more state, capital and Chief Minister sounded bad. As I’ve grown up to understand the nitty-gritties of how the largest democracy in the world works, it’s only been sadder. Each year, as the Budget is announced, every other state is up in arms about the allocation of vital Central funds to it. The same goes on at the state level, too. But, given the legislative structure of the country, it is the responsibility of the people’s representatives- the Members of Parliament and the Legislative Assemblies, at the two respective levels- to address the concerns of their state/region. After god-only-knows how many years have we had an almost unanimous decision at the Centre. The Congress Party won by an overwhelming majority in the General Elections this year, requiring only minor support from allies. Despite lingering doubts over corruption, it was generally hailed as a new era with a stable government at the helm. That’d streamline the funds allocation, one would tend to believe, as more information was assimilated from the previous years’ mistakes and with stable representatives, the demands would be heard properly. Yet, the demand for statehood for certain regions, citing long years of neglect, remained.

Even back home in Mana Andhra (Our Andhra), the YSR Reddy-led government won the Assembly elections, even if by a narrow margin, indicating another stable government. The Telangana movement, though, picked up steam after the sudden unfortunate demise of the Chief Minister, and went beyond the control of the interim supremo, K. Rosiah. The reason remained the same, though- crores of funds earned by the region from the Centre were diverted to development projects in other regions, and the people of the state continued to suffer from long-standing problems like draught and poverty. Let’s come to facts- almost all ten districts of the region have seen numerous changes of political dominance over the past decade and a half. The TDP and Congress have always ping-ponged in the number of MLAs and MPs from the region, and if the required funds, aids and projects aren’t coming in for the region, isn’t it a failure of these region’s representatives, I beg to ask? Isn’t it a failure of these men and women fighting for seats of power and responsibility to deliver on the promises they’d made over all these years?

Somehow, it isn’t that easy to try and stick to what one says during election campaigns and serve people of the regions they represent in the Assembly and Parliament, but easier to campaign for a separate state, where more of the same may occur, as the real root of the problem hasn’t been removed. Now they’re going to fight it out over the next few weeks and months over the city of Hyderabad, where the price of the real estate is probably going to tilt the deal.

Amidst all this, I’ll probably have to make more space in my cramped memory for another capital city and Chief Minister, and maybe pay more to travel to my mother’s hometown, where my maternal cousins stay, as it’ll be across state lines. That farmer somewhere in a parched hut in Mahbubnagar district will still have to shiver through the night and wonder if it’ll rain well enough next year.

Maa telugu talli ki malle puvvu-danda!

(A jasmine garland for our Telugu motherland)

P.S.- No offence intended towards any particular party/region/race/caste/religion/people. This was just a rant coming late in the night.

Gut Feeling

2009-12-06T21:01:00.002+05:30

Going by the set precedent, it’s been long since the Geek has spoken, or rather typed. It’s been a year that’s seen more churning of emotions than the worst of diarrhoeic fits, and has ironically ended in a state of constipation. Being used to having more to say than the average Appa Rao, I found myself knotted and tongue-tied to even answer the most routine of greetings with a Hi. But, as Lefty pointed out during his return to R, one’s inner Lit-wit may die down but never die, and thus returns this jobless git, with further generous helpings from the five-course meal that shall be my time in R.

A few days ago, I officially completed two and a half academic years here- exactly half my tenure. Unfortunate as it was to have been crowned by a semester characterised by academic bulimia, I celebrated it by missing all meals through a 12-hour sleep-a-thon. I’m yet to ruminate about the complete ramifications of that milestone, if I am to call it one. When I come to think of it, sadly, I can’t seem to imagine not using the likes of awesome or fokiaap in every other sentence. It’s hard to believe these are the same sentences that once used to end with an almost primal ra. To the chagrin of many from school and junior college, I’ve changed beyond comprehension, and, yet, I see myself as the same babbling-gabbling geek from Honolulu still producing doggerel at a rate that’ll make multiplying dogs reel. I’ve fallen in love with people who’re not right, argued with rotten dogs, seen rapsters who’ll make rappers weep, chiggy-wiggied with true dudes, sang along with domineering bluestockings, experienced true L.O.V.E, chitty-chitty bang-banged phlegmatically, and, in general, grabbed many a byte from the geek wi-fi. One sentence may make it seem I’ve done so much, and I’m only halfway through in this journey to find the Ultimate Question. But, as the starters have been nibbled and the first bits gobbled up, the main course beckons, and I hope I have the capability to digest whatever else is to come my way. Bon appétit!

Sabbat(h)ical

2009-11-15T03:42:00.002+05:30

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

2009-10-31T21:04:00.002+05:30

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!

2009-10-21T07:00:00.000+05:30

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

2009-10-14T22:15:00.000+05:30

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

2009-10-03T00:02:00.001+05:30

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!

2009-09-21T14:43:00.003+05:30

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

2009-09-02T21:26:00.001+05:30

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?

Me against the World

2009-08-29T11:58:00.005+05:30

Let me clear a few things now.

Yes, I'm a Shahrukh Khan, and I cried when I saw Kal Ho Naa Ho even for the fourth time.
Yes, I can't pronounce French words correctly and think it's very stupid to write so many letters when you don't ever want to utter them in the first place, just because it sounds good. And, yes, I especially hate that when desis do that.
Yes, I haven't read anything ever penned, drawn or imagined by J.R.R. Tolkien, and I admit I've slept each of the three times I've tried reading his tomes after the first fifty pages.
Yes, my favourite Harry Potter book isn't The Prisoner of Azkaban. It's the Goblet of Fire, closely followed by the fifth and sixth installments.
Yes, I used to use chat lingo before, and I dumped it for good because I realised it was no good. And, no, I don't believe that's hypocrisy.
Yes, I don't always speak in my mother tongue with the family. You want to make up for me?
Yes, I haven't seen either of the Star Wars or the Star Trek series, or books, or comics, or cartoons, or towels, handkerchiefs and bedsheets and what-not they've made out of them, and am in no hurry to, too.
Yes, I have an impulse to know everything that happens around me- be it in the newspapers, on the computer screen, or when I'm sitting at Nescafe sipping my coffee. Some people are just curious to know things around them, and in some cases, make sense out of them.
Yes, I talk a lot and have no qualms about it.
Lastly, if you have a problem with any of this, bask in the glory that you're superior and/or more enlightened than yours truly and sleep on your Yoda-bedizened bedspread with peace, safe in the knowledge that the force is with you. Ride your high horse with glee; I don't mind walking alone.

More importantly, smile to yourself and for that you'd need to shut up.

P.S.- The title's a song by Simple Plan I used to like. I still do.

Coorg Versus Microcontrollers

2009-08-21T20:19:00.001+05:30

It’s seven minutes past seven in the evening, and I decide to head to Nescafe for a coffee. The attire’s very boys’ hostel-ish but I’m too lazy for a change. I try to visualise the notes and coins in my pocket, and the lack of a one-rupee coin strikes me. The counter guy never has change at peak times, and I wonder if I should settle for the four Eclairs I might be offered after I hand the ten-rupee note. No- that’d amount to spending ten rupees instead of six. The only alternative is to lose possession of the one-rupee note I got from the same counter a few days ago. I have a thing for a few things- five-rupee coins, one and two-rupee notes, Dire Straits wallpapers, digressions and some more. The Ravindra circle is reached, and there’re all these dogs littered all around- most lying around aimlessly, some sleeping, and the odd one moving towards that big light pole to raise its leg around. A strange thought of the scene being my corridor comes and is pushed out. I decide I’ll sit and have my coffee- I’ve burnt my tongue one time two many to take the risk of walking back with that cup to Azad. I reach the counter, to hear the following conversation going on.

...aur bhaiya, sandwich aadha karke dena.

Sandwich to aadha hi hota hai.

Haan, use hi aadha karke dena. Accha, ek-chauthai hi sahi.

I find it unusual that such a routine-sounding conversation goes way over my head. Vowing to control my curiosity, I ask for my coffee, while a distinctly feminine voice feebly utters Excuse me. I get my elixir, while the lady in question goes unheard. A couple more Excuse me’s later, I’m asked to pay up, and, to my disappointment, I had to lose the prized note. That wasn’t the bother though, when I turned sheepishly to my right to find the source of the unheard requests, thinking of giving a short discourse on how to get heard in R with my two years’ earned, two-penny worth experience. That wasn’t to be, as a not-so-discrete female voice jammed in to utter Arre bhaiya, suno to! The feebler voice came back to give her order, and after that, went back to her discussion over some kitty matters about she said so-and-so about me, and I asked someone else, and she said blah-and-blah that only two girls with voices like the aforementioned kind indulge in. I make a half-turn to grab a look at their faces, but then realise that’d disturb the hand that holds a hot cup. I console my curiosity by reminding it that it’s still in R.

I forget my resolution to sit, and walk around the back side back to Azad, with the usual set of steps. Starting with my usual pace, which I realise isn’t necessary unless you want to spill the drink you just bought on your white T-shirt, I slow down to a slow drag. Even that isn’t good enough, with the regular rise and drop making me either sip R’s air, or making a few taste buds take medical leave from work. So, the usual set of steps is followed again, meaning I wave to every random soul I see in front of Ravindra, before I reach the circle past the dogs, when the coffee has gone a little colder and easier to sip, while the bubbly froth at the top is lost. Compromises have to be made when you’re dealing with pretty-sounding ladies and dogs. And politicos, too. But that’s another story.

It’s twenty-seven minutes past seven, and I, for no apparent reason, decide to post again.

What It Is

2009-08-12T02:44:00.006+05:30

One of the many things that living in R for a little over two years has taught me is the art of eating paranthas. Growing up to my own food whims at home, the tomato ketchup was stormily avoided, and curd regarded as a spoiler, thanks to the logic that curdling being a process of bacterial growth, dahi wouldn’t form an ideal combine with Sunday morning’s hot, fresh stuffed breads. And I’d always hated the chip-chip oily feeling in my hands after having the ones with butter spread all over. It might be the desperation for half-decent food here, or a more abstract maturing of the taste buds, but I’ve begun to accept, and even cherish, these methods of devouring paranthas, apart from the ketchup, of course, which I still believe is an integral part of an evil alien conspiracy to take over the planet. Of course, like any other learning experience, I’ve burnt my hands in this endeavour, too- more often than not, literally. But, getting it right is a most satisfying feeling, and like most such wonderful feelings, extremely short for you to recall perfectly. While sipping a Dew Shikanji in the canteen earlier in the night, I thought for long about how I’d got it right ten days ago with Dela’s favourite cheese paranthas. It was probably the curd tinged with chaat masala that made the difference- a luxury not afforded in the canteen. The thought process took so long that the paranthas went cold, and the butter refused to melt. The drink was still satisfactory, though. After hearing the gory story of how Ravindra’s Shikanji (Lemonade) was, and is continued to be made, I was quite hesitant for a long while. But the love affair that started way back in mah first month in the insti with the Kshitij recruitment treat at Ganga canteen with Sprite Shikanji, refused to go down meekly, and I’ve been regularly downing various variations of the same lately due to the prevailing weather conditions.

It’s getting more and more irritatingly sultry here- a sort of weather which is a way of life back in Visakhapatnam, but a rarity in R. That’s made the classrooms a favourite, strangely, with all on the second floor of the Electrical department being air-conditioned. So much so, that the one-hour gaps in the afternoons between elective lectures and laboratory sessions are now preferred to be spent in the confines of the lecture halls, rather than Nescafe’s booths. The first-years, meanwhile, have caught on to Nescafe like Veronica Lodge to the latest lipstick flavour. Hordes of random freshmen and women pass by daily, with now-almost unsurprisingly bad manners, best summarised by the quip- “Bhaiya, yahan Coke nahi milta? Ye kaisa Nescafe hai?” We surprisingly managed to find a few with much better sense- and manners- at the recruitments for the magazine from the two first-year fortresses.

That consequently included my first and, in all probability arising from commonsense, last visit to a girls’ hostel. I’ve always wondered if living there is even half as close to how living in Rajendra and Azad has been, and part of that unfortunately came true as many young ladies passed by in their night-suits, which forced me to restrict myself to the lounge lest I feel further embarrassed. I politely refused a chance to visit the Nightingale’s Nest last semester and am sure I’ll be less circumspect if by the greatest of Improbability Multiplications I get another pass- the sight of flowery curtains and stick-it notes in a few guys’ rooms is sickening enough for me; I’m not sure I’ll be able to bear almost an entire hostel like that. As soon as I typed that last line, I turned to my tablecloths to notice they both had flower patterns on them, and so does my bedspread. But, I scarcely mind that, and, to be honest, I love it as it reminds me of Ma, as does the empty jar of laddus. The little hair gel box Pa had bought is glanced at, too, as it goes on in its annual dust-catching procedure. I find it almost weird to have my room arranged really well, but Pa’s words of a man being a good manager for others only when he can manage his own things comes to mind. My tennis racquets lie outside catching dust, too. A short session with the newly-turned sophomores a fortnight ago made me feel I’d discovered my touch again, especially with the Justine Henin-inspired single-fisted backhand. But, I was to be laid low soon by an injured toe, crushing daydreams about representing the insti at the 2012 Sports Meet, which might as well be held here. But that’s OK.

P.S.- I thought it isn't worth a mention after Dela's post on reaching the milestone, but, I shamelessly admit, that after counting four deleted posts, this is my half-century on the blogosphere- and I'm not even halfway through my time in R! I'm definitely the Shahid Afridi of R's bloggers- and you can guess why I chose that certain batsman and not any other dasher!

The Ultimate Quest

2009-08-05T15:36:00.005+05:30

The third of my five-year, epiphany-filled, poorly-tilled but well-willed journey through the realities of R has begun exactly where I’d left it off the last time I was in G-104: in a state of complete disorder. The difference is that that unusually pleasant May had my room completely devoid of any semblance of habitation apart from an old toothbrush, while my mind was in complete disarray thanks to the events of the year gone by, whereas this inexplicably sultry August has my head clear and my room looking like a wartime minefield. My tea-table sits pretty on top of my study-table, and perched proudly on top of that, is the runner-up trophy from last year’s Ashesh Memorial Quiz (the institute’s official inter-department quiz competition, for the uninitiated). Another batch of freshly-turned-sophomores has moved into the adjacent wings, with their usual baggage of over-filled trunks, numerous bags, Linkin Park and random rap music, and filthy etiquette. Another bunch of Matkas (M. Tech students) have stepped into the empty rooms in our wing, and infiltrated our area with the usual Matkagiri¬- random songs blaring out loud, people making you turn right around when they walk out of their rooms as they’re doing a John Abraham from Dostana (yes- seriously!), and, of course, filthy etiquette.

Thanks to these wonderful characters around, I’ve been out of my dwelling most of the time, which has my corridor-mates asking me when I’ve returned from home some two weeks after the registration. After the wonderful set of coffees at work in the summer, and the visits to Cafe Coffee Day back home, the modest six-rupee Nescafe coffee seemed like one of those Nutri-matic drinks Arthur Dent kept getting served in the Hitchhiker’s series- completely unlike the one you’d asked for. Despite the distasteful drink, I continued to pay my regular visit to the ubiquitous coffee-shop every evening and set off for arbitrary walks all over the campus. There seem to be too many new faces around- enough to make someone with a curiosity like mine very uncomfortable. A chat with Ma on the phone about these very people, the JEE, the government policies and politics, in general, got me thinking.

I theorised that the story of Life, the Universe and Everything is too vast, and has too many complex factors, to be broken up into small pieces to make a jigsaw puzzle out of. Yet, I thought about the few factors that do majorly influence lives, and thought mostly from the perspective of one who’s come to and lived for two years, in R(bit)-land.

Choices roughly determine the course of almost every human’s existence; we’ve all had to make some be it one between Rasna or Tang, or the more pertinent one between Manchester United and the rest of the world. Quite amazingly, whenever I thought of situations where I have had to make choices, it’s almost always between two things. The Jan Shatabdi or bus to Delhi, a laptop or a desktop, a four-year study program or five, the hand-held video game player or a new Ninja Turtles 1-in-1 disk, Bournvita or plain milk, and many more. This almost-omnipotent theory of dichotomy is prevalent in life, in general, too- good and evil, Yin and Yang, mind and body, and a host of others. And it takes no rocket science to know that these choices establish the direction of Life. The number two governs choices.

Another important factor in one’s success in Life is how good one is at remembering the things that matter. And, not surprisingly, another number governs this region. Try to remember some popular phrases you might use- lock, stock and barrel; heart, nerve and sinew; the good, the bad and the ugly- it’s so much easier to remember triplets. Public speaking coaches always speak of the rule of three- that an average human tends to remember things in threes, and of an overall presentation, only three important things. Even Aristotle in his discourse on Rhetoric, divides most things into three, and talks of the importance of this number. Winston Churchill, in one very famous speech of his, spoke of Britons having to give “their blood, sweat, toil and tears”. But, the phrase that has widely been attributed to him out of this is “blood, sweat and tears”, isn’t it? Thus, clearly, the number three governs the capability of memory.

Finally, one of the first things to have struck me on this topic was the significance of Luck. This elusive Lady is benevolent to some, brutal to some others, and benign to the vast majority. And, time and time again, she too has shown an affinity for a number, one which we all know only too well. A look into some of Manchester United’s most successful players- George Best, Bryan Robson, Eric Cantona, David Beckham, Cristiano Ronaldo- shows they’d done most of their legendary deeds when donning the famed number seven jersey. Ergo, quite clearly, the number seven governs luck.

The mysteries of Life, the Universe and Everything have been subject to studies galore, people have spent their entire lives trying to find out the Ultimate Question and the significance of the Ultimate Answer. I strongly believe in Douglas Adams’ idea that if we were able to somehow figure out the purpose of this complex Universe, it’ll be replaced by an even more confounding one. Yet, it is only human to wander and wonder about these questions, and in that course, I happened to get the above findings, after deliberating, at various places, in varied conditions, meeting and interacting with a variety of people along the way, and finally only getting to the following conclusion.

The mysteries of Life, the Universe and Everything can’t be unlocked by only a few factors, but take a few significant ones, get them all to work together, and you might as well be successful.

Remember- Two multiplied by Three multiplied by Seven equals...

For whom the bells toll

2009-07-23T09:19:00.001+05:30

I’ve been told often that almost all that I put here for public viewing on the World Wide Web are recitals of incidents I’ve been through, of what I have done or been following, or blasts from the past where I explain the antecedents of my present characteristics. To that I say every human is shaped by the incidents they go through, that the nature of man today bears a causal relationship to what he has done or gone through before. But I get replies ranging from “You can talk about it- wait- you do talk about it!” to “Where’re your thoughts, sonny?” To that I ask them to peruse the link to this webpage and its title, and on other occasions, I paraphrase Eric Cartman and say “Oi! This is my blog and you don’t have a say, jackass. Respect my authoritah, or I’ll do a Screw you guys, I’m going home”, followed by the requisite finger movements.

On that note, I’d go on and recall another incident that happened what-seems-like way back in Class IV. I’d just disembarked from the school bus after another enlightening conversation with the driver about my double-roti-enriched breakfast, and a lightning-quick game of Country, city, continent, kuch bhi (which finished when I got stuck on Y after Yugoslavia and Yemen were done, and Yorkshire wouldn’t count- reason being “Fir to main Services, Saurashtra bhi bol doon!”. I wasn’t aware of the existence of wonderful places like Yerevan, Ytterby and Yelamanchili back then). The cold winter breeze accelerated by the bus had frozen the generous layer of oil on my hair, and as the others playfully checked out my razor-sharp hair-do, I looked out of our first-floor class window to see an ominously dark, cloudy sky and the imminent rain that would ruin the morning assembly- Friday’s special assemblies almost always cut short the time for the first period, to our delight. The teacher had probably assumed that’d be the case for her cursed class, and not turned up on time that morning. When she did come in, she put out her umbrella by the door and immediately ran through the attendance. After our rapturous scream of delight on her announcement of not taking the day’s class, she went on to explain why she’d come late. “I’d been to the temple early this morning, children. Today was my younger son’s birthday (she either pretended not to hear or totally missed the shout of “Chocolates?” from a corner of the class). But, the rush and the sudden rain got me late. I see you’ve been to the temple, too, Abhishek”. The addressed roll number one, accordingly allotted the first bench, stood up to answer “Not exactly, Ma’am. I just apply the teeka every morning after I complete my Gayatri Mantra jap a hundred times”.

Later during the recess, I sped straight to the front of the class to ask him if he was kidding to impress Ma’am. He shook his head in shock at my accusation, and showed me a set of Rudraksha beads he was carrying as proof. My eight-year-old mind couldn’t easily believe this level of devotion- the idea of learning by heart a few lines and reciting them a few times, leave alone hundred, every single day seemed beyond me. When my countenance displayed the same feeling, Roll-Number-One proceeded to recite the verses before I deferred to him respectfully, and took my leave.

Back home in Visakhapatnam, a week back, I was switching on the laptop at eleven to work on a story, but even at the comparatively early time, I felt drowsy and shut Microsoft Word down. Clicking my fingers, I instinctively went to the videos folder to play Sultans of Swing (Mandela ’88 Concert Live version; in my opinion, the best of the lot), which elicited a quizzical look from Big B. “I’ve been observing for the past few weeks, that apart from the Kambakkht Ishq overdose on TV, you listen to just this one song. What is wrong with you?” I brusquely answered “Bhai, aaj ka jap nahi hua to neend kaise aayegi?” (How’d I be able to sleep without the daily recital?)

Good night, now it’s time to go home.

Makes it fast with one more thing-

We are the Sultans;

We are the Sultans of Swing.

No offence- but I guess I’ve found my Gayatri Mantra.

Achilles’ last stands

2009-07-15T14:52:00.003+05:30

Sidekicks have been an integral part of so many legends. The Sundance Kid to Butch Cassidy, Circuit to Munnabhai, Sambha and Kaalia to Gabbar come to mind. The hero’s potency even without them notwithstanding, a consummate sidekick, to use a terribly cloying cliché, completes the hero. It’s hard to imagine a “Kitne aadmi the?” without an answer, even if the question “Holi kab hai? Kab hai holi?” could be considered rhetorical.

This blog, after a sudden change of mind a long time ago, and a quick return to normalcy, has missed a subtitle. The present outstandingly lame title had an even more outstandingly lamer adjutant, giving a sneak preview to the (you guessed it right) outstandingly lame pieces of writing that appeared under its banner. Although I can’t seem to remember it in its entirety, I vaguely recollect mentioning emetics and aggravating suicidal tendencies. Considering my vile idleness at present, I’ve been thinking about filling the void below that title. Redundancies, banalities, blatant rip-offs and sacrileges of the sacred number are all that I’ve been able to come up with. “In search of the Ultimate Question” seems like a most poignant peg, but doesn’t fit the round bore (pun intended).

(If you haven’t been a regular reader, now you comprehend the outstandingly lame sense of humour I possess.)

Just before Pick Withers does a round trip of the drums in front of him, as John Illsley lets his fingers loose at his bass guitar, and the Knopfler brothers avow together “We are the Sultans of Swing”, something feels just right. No lines filling the aforementioned gap have given me that feeling so far. Ergo, the gap remains.

Wandering and wondering, what place to rest the search...