Coorg Versus Microcontrollers

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

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

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

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

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...

The Bisibele Baath Diaries

Another brief tryst with the Garden City’s most wondrous weather had come to an end and with that, my three-week-long sabbatical from the World Wide Web. Gmail was to greet me back with a little under hundred unread e-mails, and perusing through them clearly wasn’t on my priority list as I hugged Big B, wishing him on his 23^rd birthday. Ma had carefully chosen and helped decorate the cake- a delicious-looking chocolate delight- and a short visit with her to Big B’s treat at Cafe Coffee Day revealed there was one more cake waiting to be devoured, thanks to TV Didi and Rachel. And, like bad luck, good fortune tends to stream in continuously- it was another chocolate cake, with both being from two of the three best chocolate pastry-making bakeries in town! My teeth’s health and their monthly check-up by Big B could take a backseat- it’d been exactly a score days since I’d had good food, and I was not going to let up. A Chocó-latte, too, was gulped down greedily in the meantime. I’d ordered that for a reason...

After a squalidly dry first week, the in-plant training kicked in to work mode, with regular morning presentations and afternoons spent reading about or configuring devices. I was ordered to buy another phone by Ma and Pa, and I reluctantly bought a threadbare Nokia- the one with the Hindi SMSing and the flashlight. And Snake. I quickly rediscovered my touch and started racking up mammoth scores. That, and the free local and national SMSing kept me busy enough till dinner, a task I somehow got through every night at the paying guest accommodation where I’d put up. The mornings at the office were to get better, too. On our second day into the second week, a routine conversation with our on-site guide revealed the coffee machine was open to us as well. More significantly- for free. We strutted in awkwardly the first time, looking to see if other employees weren’t giving us curious glares- they didn’t seem like they’d be bothered unless we were big white ghouls with a sickle in one hand and a hook for another. The overwhelming aroma of coffee beans had me hooked in a trifle. The first button I pressed was espresso, to clear my perennial confusion over which of that and cappuccino was black coffee. After quickly throwing that cup of espresso- it being black coffee- I pressed the cappuccino button, and even though I messed up on the amount of sugar I needed, Cafe Coffee Day’s impeccable mix even through a programmed machine left me begging for more. From then on, we needn’t an excuse for heading off to the pantry room, where rested that amazing little contraption. Cappuccino, elaichi tea, ginger tea, masala tea and classic tea were all duly tried and tested. Although cappuccino won a few battles, the war was decisively taken by the latte- the delectable mixture of milk and chocolate, with the almost-ubiquitous tinge of coffee, all served neatly in a cup only a few inches high, with a carefully measured spoon of sugar- just perfect.

While the first weekend was positively squandered doing nothing, the next was spent with an old monk, Rapu, in Bengaluru’s most famous mall. Although the fairer gender left us squarely disappointed, Hugh Jackman as Wolverine didn’t, even when the entire movie was made to rest on his shoulders alone. Lunch at a beautifully designed North Indian restaurant, and (yet another) coffee at CCD, and I was off to the city’s outskirts again in those breezy air-conditioned buses that glide through the city roads. Although there was a television at the PG, it was shared and that meant I was only to hum random Kannada songs, when not chatting with the two interns from DCE who were also staying there.

Back home, the first thing that caught my eye on the TV’s programme list was the return of The Championships, and I found myself ooh-ing and aah-ing at the sight of the lush green tennis courts at SW19, London. The state-of-the-art retractable roof notwithstanding, the air of tradition wafted all the way through to my couch, as I gazed like an eight-year-old, in amazement. Alan Wilkins and Vijay Amritraj’s voices were a relief after the drab Rolland Garros coverage, but despite this beautiful sojourn through the various courts at Wimbledon, just one thing seemed missing- the one thing that those most wonderful articles in The Hindu had described assiduously. The next evening was to see that culminating at Centre Court- His Royal Highness Roger Federer, prancing like a freed gazelle. Now, some who may have watched tennis with me may think I’m not a Federer fan and am thus, now being a hypocrite. The only reason I supported Nadal through the Australian Open and other tournaments, is that I felt he was the one who could bring the latent best- yes, even more- from the champion, that He needed a thorn in the flesh to bloom further, a loss’ bitter pill to make that one elusive victory that much sweeter. The French Open triumph has brought back the FedEx, who almost effortlessly, almost carelessly brushed aside the competition to equal Bjorn Borg’s once-impossible record at the greatest stage of ‘em all. Watching Him thwack forehands wide, snuff those once-pristine backhands, and grimace in agony at those double-faults was painful, and to see Him recover from that, and come back to play the divine tennis that we worship Him for, is precisely what sport is all about.

I bow to The King.

P.S. - A little fiasco involving a long-overdue recommendation letter had me bunking office for two days. I got to complete my intern only because of Pa, Musit and Tiwari ji. A big thank-you to you all.

P.P.S. - By the bye, the prettiest lady I encountered during the entire duration turned out to be in the office all along. Although one of my comrades flirted openly with her, leaving us staring open-mouthed one time and throwing punches another, the idiots that we were, she was the only company employee whose card we didn’t take. Sigh.

A midsummer night’s drag

The only on-off affairs you have are with the television. You use the adjectives “tender”, “gentle” and the like only with food- the kind that you aren’t getting. You start the sentence “I love...” and end it with Christopher Nolan, Sheldon Cooper or the guy in that stupid dance video . You know you’re having a mineral water overdose when you think Sprite “tastes funny”. You’ve spent your entire weekend switching between sleeping and lying down with the laptop on your lap. You’ve been disconnected from the Internet since the past week (you care to keep count in hours and minutes) but still know that you haven’t posted on your blog in June- a fact that keeps hurting you in your sleep. You’re sitting at work in a 110-country, 115,000-employing MNC reading “The Restaurant at the End of the Universe” while people around you try and protect substations.

 

It’s clear that you’ve been reading only Douglas Adams in the recent past when even the phrase “at sixes and sevens” seems to have a connection to 42, to you. It’s also not surprising that the aforementioned phrase applies to you perfectly. Murphy’s Law has been at its, well, veritable best, to be most etymologically correct. You take hours of explaining in your most heavily accented Hindi that you want a mobile connection without residence proof in four shops and when you finally catch hold of that elusive SIM card, your handset gives up on you. Your one connection to friends and family is gone.

 

The best pastime I’ve had over the days I’ve spent here in a place which excuses itself by adding “Bangalore” at the end of its address, apart from marvelling at the wonderful weather here, is precisely what I’m doing right now- not whining, but typing. The “First Intern” folder in my documents has a document named “Work Log” which is more of a daily bloopers collection. There’s another named “Weekend Log” which doesn’t have much because, as mentioned earlier, I don’t do anything worth writing home about. There are also a few score drafts I’ve typed but haven’t saved because they’re either too morose or too romanticist or clearly show that I’ve been watching a lot of The Big Bang Theory episodes repeatedly. My best friend is my keyboard, and the screen gives me angry glares as I keep typing. There’s no phone to talk to Ma and feel better. There’s no room nearby to drop by to chat and feel better. There’s no Internet to find others to talk to and feel better. And, just when you need it the most, there’s not even a thought to make you feel better. At best, you try and recite Betty Botter and the story of her butter and how she felt better, but her feeling better makes you bitter that you aren’t feeling any better. Bugger.

 

Loneliness isn’t a good feeling. Solitude- yes. Loneliness- no.

(Published on June 14, 2009 at 10:57 p.m.)

P.S.- Thankfully, this was just the end of the first week.