What were you doing on May the 21st, 1991?

We were on our way to Mangalore in a bus, Ma and I. We took the bus from Bombay like we always did. The western ghats are tricky, and hence a bunch of buses usually left together. Somewhere near or after Belgaum, our bus slowed down, and then stopped - we couldn't figure the confusion was, nobody told us, just some hints about one of the buses being caught up/delayed and hence this one had to wait. We reached in the morning. Amidst the noise and chaos of the reunion, someone screamed for us to shut up when we heard the heard the words "Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated" on the radio.

What we didn't know was that my uncle was traveling from Bombay on the same day, and on the bus behind and was the one that was caught and torched by rioteers (?), because the news of the assassination had spread by then. It tumbled into a ditch. He reached home 11-12 hours late.

Over the next few days, Doordarshan stopped the broadcast of all their "entertainment" programmes, and it was one of those occasions when noone complained. The entire family, led by my grandmother, wept in front of the TV, openly, as Sonia Gandhi hid behind her giant sunglasses and Priyanka looked suitably in control. Everyone made guesses about the future of the elections and the family.

18 years later, the memories of that time have hit adulthood and some of the details have been lost, but the bus ride the chill in the spine, the ambiance, the lull afterwards, I have never quite forgotten. Since then TV or not, I remember, albeit quietly, every year.

Recently, I was quite surprised when a friend asked me the same question in the midst of much rave-talk about his big backpacking trip to India in '91. It was surprising only because he is not Indian, though he is sufficiently brown on the inside. We swapped the reconstructed bits from our memory, that evening. "Where were you?", "What were you doing?"

--

Needless to say, everyone misunderstood me when I asked the question today. I wasn't campaigning for any political party, or saying that Rajiv Gandhi was the greatest PM India has ever had, or trying to bring up Bofors or gaping holes in his policy. I have little or no personal interest in the matter. It has little to do with recent death of Prabhakaran.

I was merely experimenting on whether people retroactively attach importance to ordinary goings on in the wake of a "big event". I was also trying to verify whether Rajiv Gandhi's death can be considered one of those "big events" for someone my age, or was it just me who remembers everything so vividly.

I have a substantially accurate memory of time leading to that event. And I wondered if many people could accurately reconstruct the mundane goings-on of a day because something seemingly big has happened. It was a study of how the brain captures memories of a Black Swan event.

It struck me when someone (Oprah, was it?) said about the day Obama won "It is one of those things where you'll tell the future generations - What were you doing that day when Obama won?"

I do believe that ordinariness of a day gets magnified because of a big event, and you retrofit the events leading to the point when the news was broken to you. I was skipping about in the corridor, doing my math, playing hopscotch - when I got the news. Some remember more details (from the start of the day), some less (five minutes before the event). Almost everyone remembers the location. It's almost as if people correlate the ordinariness of the time before to the degree of shock/joy/any-other-emotion experienced.

Right after the event, everything perhaps moves in a sort of slow motion. If the event was the cause for the succeeding chain of non-routine events in an otherwise normal day, for instance, riots, then even the normal circumstances during that day become a part of the memory, even if it's only to connect the dots, the high points, and one remembers every bit of a that train ride in excruciating detail.

Agreed, the importance of the event is subjective, it comes from the buildup, the months preceding, the media, the charisma yada yada. Someone in a small kampong in Malaysia is perhaps not that greatly affected by 9/11. But due to his charisma, or the general Kennedy-esque tragedies that have are attached to the family, Rajiv Gandhi's death seems to have had a great impact on quite a few people of our generation (except you, youth icon Manu). I think the previous generation was impacted by Indira Gandhi's assassination the same way.

So, yes, tell me, what other such events can you remember in this detail? Describe.

Of intelligence, stereotypes and word salads.

Overheard: You get tired of people complimenting you for your intelligence, and hence read trash which insults it.

--
Monday morning came with the unusual comparison to a very interesting character, a man, from a TV show. Immensely flattered by this compliment, my question was rather simple "Why aren't there any intelligent women to be compared against?". The answer I received was nothing short of a revelation: "Because intelligent women become a stereotype and then proceed to get utterly lost."

The Activist, the Carrie Bradshaw, the power dresser, the Martha Stewart, the Liberated feminist, the Joni Mitchel, the SAHM, so on and so forth. At some point of time most get slotted, pigeonholed into their parts.

I have heard this before, I think. It never registered. And never before have I been this amused.

Every now and then..

...I do this to myself. Every now and then, I go back there and devour the trite.

Cut into little pieces, rinse-repeated in an infinite loop, the ordinariness of a story is executed in detail. And it's not just executed normally, it's clubbed to death. Then you round up the usual suspects who all go by the last name of Trite. Let me say that once more: TRITE.

Oh, and the drama in a bowl of Chocolate frosted sugar bombs.
Every single time, I put a skeptical spoonful in my mouth, and then I promptly start complaining about it. Ah, how does one resist the incredible urge to throw up.

I really should have no reason to complain. You would tell me, it's a choice I make. There are other people to read, other ideas to live by. I know. And yet, I don't know why I still do it.

I still do it, every single time. Every single time, I hop out of control. Rather, I hope out of control. Maybe it's the curiosity of knowing if something has changed. Maybe it's the insecurity of "Why can't I be like them?". Or the confidence of "Hell, I'll never go that low". The only reasonable explanation of why I go back is because oftentimes you see something really disgusting, and so really disgusting that you can't take your eyes off it.

No, something must be seriously wrong with my planetary alignment that makes me so masochistic. Marquis de Sade Saati.

--
Oh, don't ask what or who it is..

The klutz and courage

The five hundredth time she tripped, he finally sneaked in a snicker or two. What could she do? The mysterious roadblock seemed to have cropped up from nowhere. Or was it those invisible cables?

Amidst her protests of "Jalega, jalega" (it will burn, it will burn), he joked, "Baby, you give an entirely different meaning to baby-proofing the house."

--
To say life hands out important lessons like people hand out advertising pamphlets on street would be a cliche one must avoid. More than that, at each iteration, every single definition one has ever learnt gets trashed. One constantly reinvents, redefines. What I am yet to figure is, as one starts paying attention to the little details, does the learning get more trivial, more ordinary? Or is it just that as the greatness of old tasks seems extremely easy one gets more time to fret over the inconsequential stuff?

Take for instance, courage.
At a certain point of time, it's no longer about whether after a nasty fall, you can get up and walk back home, blood streaming down your face. That becomes easy. As trivial as it may seem, it seems to be about whether you have the courage to go to work on Monday morning, and answer the gazillion questions about the scab.

The blue horizon

Sitting amidst the leaning tower of cartons, the house empty but for these boxes which have our life, our belongings carefully wrapped, I watch the memories of belongingness running amok.

We loved the view, loved the blinds.
Here we were, you and I, hoping that life would be a cake walk and discovering that switching the oven on causes the mains to trip.
Here we were, being careful as we clinked our precious crystal, wiring up the microphone, singing freedom on Fridays.
Here we were, yo-yo-ing in and out of faith and trust and invoking the Gods, as our washing machine gave up on us.
Here we were, you and I, curling in a corner waiting to grow up, taking decisions for our lives and our hearts, like which cooking oil is healthy.
Here we were, locking our knees, carrying the weight of the world and your prized Marshall half-stack across to the study.

Nothing was easy, as we, you and I, sharing the same space, got hooked to looking at the world outside.
We learnt and we learnt, not to cook when angry, and not to sing out loud at 3 am. And how to tell the sound of the others footsteps downstairs, on the broken tile below the window.
We gained pounds and lost our dollars and cents, never quite learning how to deal with change.

And now, though we are not reluctant participants to this change, there are some things which will perhaps never let us forget the first big challenge in this house - that our toothbrushes were of the same colour.

--
Unbeknown to me, you brought some of our mess over.
Unbeknown to you, I left some of our nostalgia behind.

Popping bubble wrap...

...is about the only fun bit of a pack and move.

Moving usually is an exhausting process , both physically and emotionally. Pickling in your own sweat, nails chipped as you try and locate the damn end of the packing tape, you hit the great realization that the first thing to go inside the box was the pair of scissors. You think of how you could possibly manage to organize and compartmentalize life and times into little boxes? Not to mention the battles with the skeletons in the closet and monsters that lurk under the bed.

Stubbing your toe for the four hundredth time, you resist the urge to thwack someone on the head as he sneers at you. Really, how did you ever manage to have a godzillion cartons labeled "Books"?

--

Our environmentally conscious packer Gary recycles cartons. For packing "loose items", he gave us cartons which have been used by people before. Some of the labels are still stuck and it's much fun to observe how people pack. There is a chaotic packer whose labels go from Assorted-1 to Assorted-11. Two massive cartons are tagged "Daniel's wine and liquor", with FRAGILE written in red, and underlined. Then there are the rich - Third floor Second Room(a house with three floors in this country?), the secretive - "RM 1 - plecatbe", and the sublime - "Kids school bags + Oil". "Kitchen" says one in a kiddie scrawl - an 8- year old trying to help his parents perhaps. But the one that really made me smile was the little note which says, "Relax".

Unable to resist, I decided to be creative. So, if you ever encounter a carton with bits of masking tape which says "How fragile we are!", or "Blue suede shoes", you know who did it.

WTF1

One is not qualified to write about Motorsport, but one can always mention a sport we love: Calvinball.

The only consistent rule of Calvinball is that it may never be played with the same rules twice, because Calvinball is against organized sport. You can always change rules on the fly, especially after it (the game, the season) has started.

No sport, really no sport, is less organized than Calvinball.

So with all these rule changes, maybe I'll switch to watching football, learning the offside rule is much easier.

--
Title credit: shub

The first date

The evening had been fantastic. The friend who set them up had been right about how much they had in common, though to others they looked like a very odd couple. She a fair brown woman, he a tanned white man.

Coming to this Indian restaurant was his idea. A common friend had tipped him about her foodlove, and what better time to experiment with Indian food than with an Indian woman. She chose an assortment of curries, letting her fingers do the talking, while he struggled with the unpronounceable names. Soon after, he started melting into a puddle of sweat. She poked fun as she saw him through different stages of red, blushing coyly at his miserable state.

They walked back home on that quiet winter night. When he stopped at her doorstep, her heart did too. He had this look of urgency in his eyes, will she invite him in?
And she did. She was nervous. His stomach rumbled.
As soon as the lights were flicked on, with a moment of quiet hesitation, he pooped the question: "Can I use your bathroom?"

Riposte

She wishes she had listened to her mother when she told her not to believe that man.
Heartbroken now, she swears that she'll chase him down to the end of the earth and not rest till she pierces his heart with her sword. The heart, only the heart, and nothing else but the heart.

--
She stands facing him, eyes bleeding rage and bloodlust. They engage in a dramatic duel. Years of training have given her the agility which the world would be envious of. Reflexes, on the other hand, can't be acquired - one needs to be born with them.

He swings at his opponent, who barely dodges the blade before launching her own attack. She retreats a few steps before slashing forwards. Swiftly, she lunges and aims her sword at his chest. He bends backwards. She misses. The sword slices his gut instead.

Content, she skips down the winner's path. For though she has missed the bulls eye, the promise has been fulfilled.
Her mother always told her, the real way to the man's heart is through his stomach.

Reviving Romance

To cure her headache from last night
he placed on her palm a pill-
the morning-after poem.

One of a hundredth of something.

Weekend was people filled and beer filled. No movies to boast of, no reviews unwritten. No new experiments except packing plates and a hundred little things to eat a meal by the poolside. And trying out a hundred shoes, a failed attempt at shoe shopping. And making a list of things to do for a pack and move. And chewing nails as a hundred distant others scream through the exciting Liverpool-ManU match. And witnessing a very boring meeting between two very old friends.

Distracted, one runs through a diminutive list of a hundred words in their head.
A hundred words run right back, causing a bit of a collision.

One intentionally hides their intensity behind the accidental frivolity of wordplay.

The clouds form the comforter, and one hides the dark black skies behind the new monday morning blues.
Just when one is about to find their comfort zone, it raineth, it thundereth.

Mojo Rising?

Written a few nights ago, this is mostly a placeholder for thoughts.
--
I, the Money Spinner (a.k.a. the corporate zombie), have done the unimaginable. Right in the middle of a recession, I have quit. No, I didn't get the pink slip. No, it wasn't a momentary lapse of reason. No, I don't have another job yet. But despite the work and perks and money being good, this job was draining me out. I decided that the prime of life was not worth wasting on the petty. There is only so much that achieving capitalist milestones can do for what we all ultimately want: happiness. Plus, I was tired of talking about it and not doing anything..

So we, the Mortified engineer-scientist-consultant, the Monochromatic non-photographer, the Moody photoshopper, the Modest writer of intense pieces, the Morose writer of humour, the Montage of uncertainty, the Motormouth, the Mockingword, the Motivator, the upwardly Mobile, the Model citizen, the Modern artist, the Morally deprave, the Movie lover, the Mover-and-shaker, the Moron, the Mortal, the Moribund -- all of us and Mo -- are happy that some steps have been taken which move us out of our comfort zone. We believe that even if we don't do anything, the ride on the Mobius strip would still be more worthwhile than the nothingness.

Of course the definition of nothingness changed right after MoneySpinner took the step, yet, we are happy that we have taken ownership to reclaim our life.

Now, we use the leftover bits of our daily courage limit to admit that we are a little scared, since we don't seem to have a plan.. MoneySpinner may take over in a few days, who knows?

Anyway, tonight we sleep, for tomorrow we will probably have to dream.
Let's see how the story unfolds..

Of Perversions and attention spans.

Dear Mr. Muthalik,

In the midst of Oscar frenzy, while everyone is busy celebrating and criticizing, ranting and revolting, I write to you. Not because I have anything worthwhile to communicate with you, but because I accidentally found this article online: 'Pink chaddi' campaign a perverted act.
I felt an incredible amount of pity for you, for no one really cares about what you have to say. Not any more.. Whether you sue the Consortium of pub going, loose and forward women or not, this story has exceeded it's shelf life. Unless you go get married, and then get involved in some other controversy thereof, your fifteen mins are over.

Pity.

Not that I agree with your doctrine, but my inherent need to look at good in people makes me think hard if your intentions were noble and your execution was pathetic. And apart from airtime and pink underwear, you got nothing more. It actually is a lot if you think about it - Indian women shedding their inhibitions and underwear and being proud of it. Imagine a daughter asking her mother to send some on her behalf. But then again these days salwar kameez clad chammak challos are curling their toes in ecstasy.

Mr. Tharoor had written an article about the disappearance of the Sari, requesting Indian women not to stop wearing Saris. Needless to say, he got a lot of flak for it. His point was rather simple: India has always been firmly grounded in her culture, while making sufficient progress, an example of which is the Sari. It's perfectly normal for a woman on top to "power dress" in a Sari -- despite it being more revealing than western clothes. Japan, China and all other countries have almost entirely given up the traditional attire. You hardly ever see the cheongsam or the kimono except during weddings.

I assume your point was something similar, only you are not as erudite as Mr. Tharoor, and made a mess. But when you said "Prem ek pravah hai", you don't need a day to celebrate it - I kinda got where you were coming from.

You misunderstand our generation. We are not the pravah types, not with the kind of patience to let a thing develop and go with the flow before it strengthens and forms a web of roots.

We go from one high branch to the next. In quick, short leaps. We live because of our short attention spans, hopping from one such high to the next, hopping from one viral to the next, hopping from one controversy to the next, hopping from one bus to the next - for which Sari is the most inconvenient. Glued to our computers, we check for the latest trends, we barely raise our eyes from the keyboards, and when we do, we realize that there are occasionally ordinary people around us, who don't care about goings on in the world. We look down on such people. We claim we are not ordinary, because we are up to speed. Sometimes we are just too fast.

Today we talk about Oscars and the Slumdog win. Tomorrow it will be the filmfare, perhaps. The day after it will be the F1. Then there will be something else. Some days an Indian will win, some days he'll lose to others. Some days there will be a racism row. Sometimes Apple will release a new product. Some days there will be a new election. We will sit and talk about it. Do nothing but talk about it.

Everything will fit itself into the 15 min frame, and then much like the protagonist of that horrendous movie, we'll wipe everything out. We won't allow our memories the luxury of a fade out. We'll forget with a bang.

Hence, the flow business doesn't really work. Even love, like birthday and anniversary needs a day, a quickie -- it only needs those fifteen mins.

Not that this is going to change. A permanent revolution, a change of thought process is not likely to happen. So if you you can't beat them join them - write, tweet, communicate. If there is anything worthwhile in your thoughts, we'll understand. But make it quick, else, well, give someone else a chance for his fifteen mins.

I know I have said this a little too late, yet..

Sincerely,

--
PS: Only 1500 Pink chaddis were received by Sri Ram Sena, the FB group has 51,831 members.

Because we need a superhero story.

Once upon a recent past, in a tropical island not so far away, there lived a girl called, what else, Tomoko. Of unparalleled goodness, niceness and sweetness. since she was a girl, and this has started off as a fairy tale, it obliges us to have a supervillain called evil-stepmama-san.
The evil-stepmama-san, the aerobics instructor, made her do all the work at home, and at her studio. But it kept Tomoko slim, and she didn't complain. And then, Tomoko decided to have other plans. So secretly, next to the cinders, she hatched her great plan of getting out of this mess, and finding a superhero.

She decided to cheat, and looked through the phone book, for all the alliterative names. And after rather bad attempts of making blank calls to people called Bunny,Bugs; Duck,Donald and Parker,Peter she found a name she thought sounded imaginary enough to be that of a superhero. [But I can't tell you what it is, because it would make it his story, and that would be unfair. And we will save his story for another day.]

So she packed her clothes, and her precious glass slippers and gladiator shoes, and set out to find her superhero. After a long day's journey in public transport, she found a little shack called Namastay. As soon as she checked in, she fell asleep. And as soon as she fell asleep, she started dreaming. And her fairy-godmother, poco coco, [a fashionista - Her aim in life is to eliminate all badly dressed people. But we will save her story for another day too] came into her dreams and gave her the message. She told our darling Tomoko, that the Cinderella look was outdated, and to ensnare the man, she needed to dress the part.

Latex body suit - green. She didn't care that sticky latex made her hot (not like thaaat) in that equatorial weather. Next, she coloured her hair an envious shade of green, and wore red lipstick on her grin, (taking inspiration from Joker, who suddenly seemed very popular). And she got a purple cape, which apart from giving her the superhero aura, , also served the purpose of keeping her warm, when the air conditioning froze her to the bones.

--End of story, maybe--

Bindra and all that.

As an Indian blogger, I can't possibly miss out on the Abhinav Bindra slice of the blogging pie.
Much has been said about how it's an individual achievement, about how India -- her govt and her people-- had little to contribute and yet dwell in his glory. A generous dose of sarcasm has been meted out to the officials accompanying the Olympic team, with passing comments on lack of sports infrastructure, and lack of money in sports except cricket. Much has also been said about the golden boy being born with a silver spoon -- his father being rich and being able to risk the head of a domestic-help and waste (invest?) money on his son's indulgence.

And yet, somewhere, maybe, we all miss the point. The onus is not on them. It's on us.

--

Very recently, I was at a friend's place. A single mother, she had a tough time controlling her little son who is hyperactive and showed textbook (wikipedia?) symptoms of ADHD. We sipped tea. On Tv, Olympic cyclists reached their destination of the badaling section of the great wall, after a grueling 5 odd hours of cycling. We spoke of their endurance. And A and I joked and bantered whether her son should be trained to be a fencer or a gymnast. The mother looked sternly at us, and said "You two can start a fund if you want, I am only paying for his education, and not for this". She stopped short of uttering the word "nonsense".

By the time the child is 14, he will be enduring marathon study sessions at his table. And before we know it, he would be sitting in front of the TV watching Olympics 2024, looking at the athletes with envy.

And yet, we crave that kind of glory that being on TV would bring us. We like to associate ourselves with glory. We all know "a cousin is a cricket player", "A friend who started his own business and made millions", "An uncle who won the Pulitzer prize", or the "colleague who ran the marathon". We didn't do it, someone else did. Then we spend hours evaluating whether s/he deserved it. If they are related to us, the glory somewhat rubs off on us, by law of association. If not, then we settle for dressing our envy with criticism -- how we are/were equally deserving and they cheated their way out of it, how we never had the opportunity. To give you a simple example, I love repeating that Anil Kumble was an alumnus of my engg. college. The sports teacher in college though, didn't have the nicest things to say about him.

For every one of them that succeeds, there are thousand others that fail. And naturally, we are not willing to take any such risks.

We don't aspire for glory, we aspire for mediocrity under the garb of security. So, the hypermobility is not a reason to take up swimming, it's just a cheap party trick. The big feet are just a shoe-shopping issue that mothers would complain about. And in the end, it's the marks that matter. And frankly, it's not anyone's fault. Without a social security system, the insecurity about bread and butter gets the better of us. Given that it's gonna be a while before this changes, our mindset changes, govt is better off spending their money on additional IITs.

Goodbye Randy Pausch

And thanks for everything.

Twittery tales

Everyone is talking about twitter. It seems to be the latest fad, much like the word "shenanigans", which seems to creep in every other review and blog post. Including this one.

But I digress.

Twitter, twitter, twitter, the lesser said the better. It works, and it works well. The authoritative post on why twitter works is here.

I have taken rather well to it. It makes things easier, given my ADD-type behaviour, and because I am always doing ten things at once. As much as I would love to spend time on IM and write long emails, it's getting increasingly difficult to focus on work. Most often than not I just need a quiet little space to share links and tools, debate and have short discussions which are not about the weather :). And to record (and broadcast?) the stream of consciousness. And banter. It's perfect for that. I love the delightful randomness of it all.

The constant flow of information could be overwhelming. Constant tweeting could cause a drainage of ideas, what will you blog about then? I have no idea how people follow tweets from 200 odd people, and have 100 updates a day. I am already confused at 20. Plus, the twitter ego-system is yet to evolve fully for me to figure out what's right and wrong (much like we figured, at some point, that writing in all caps on IM was rude)

Right now, since it doesn't have the penetration, twitter is not diluted. Believe me, even orkut was clean and fun and nice five years ago. Most people are discussing ideas and tools, and not people. Not too many personal updates either, and thankfully, no leetspeak. But I am afraid it's a matter of time before people start murdering grammar to kill time.

But till that happens, I'll write about my life and times in 140 characters or less.

Indulgence

Ooh, I was digging up drafts and I found this. This one written in late Jan sometime:

--
The one indulgence I allow myself year after year, is writing the birthday post. (Dig up archives you curious people) And this year, I missed the birthday post! I missed the opportunity to write a deliciously self indulgent post about the discovery of another strand of grey hair. Ah, old age... we really should leave it to the kids.

So, today we were having this conversation at a dinner. And everyone claimed that they had no idea where the last ten years went by. I thought it was strange, for I remember having felt each day giving me gooseflesh as it passed me by. I told them that. They thought it was strange. I am miles away from where I was at 18. Ten years is a long time! I have lived, I have grown, I have learnt. And I can say it with no bitterness.

And yet, they ask me to grow up. I heard that four times last year, one for each quarter perhaps. "Grow up", they said "We are waiting". Why should I?

Maybe they are just jealous.

Joker

"Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another, if I have to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice"

One always want to enter the book loving the hero and hating the villain. That's how it's meant to be, isn't it?

For the record, I am not a graphic novel fanatic. Yet.
I bought the deluxe edition of the "The Killing Joke" only because it looked beautiful on the shelves, and I fell in love with the glossy shiny pages. I also seem to have lost the patience for reading books. It took me three weeks to read the last one which was only 200 pages long, and I had already watched the movie. It's temporary, I tell myself.

Fool's day

Today was good. Awesome, even.

I was surprised with my own enthusiasm.

Was off gtalk. And Facebook. And Yahoo. And all other social stuff.
Checked feeds only twice.
Listened to Bowie.

Sent a few emails though.

All too weird, I know. Who am I trying to fool?

Back in Black

In the past few days a few people have asked me where I have vanished, and whether I have abandoned this already neglected child of mine. Considering how little I write here, thanks, I feel flattered (while secretly wondering why anyone is waiting for me to write anything). In this world full of rock-star bloggers and prolific writers who get TV coverage and book deals, may be, I am the indie artist with a small, hidden and devoted fan following. Maybe after it's all over, someone will dig up the archives and fit me into well-stitched quotes, word for word. Till that day comes I will stay in the square brackets, stay aside. And yet, I beg you, don't feed my ego so much, please.

Blogging is not what it used to be. People who I used to read have moved or moved on. Busy with lives, or have found other suitable obsessions. Some people who are still writing have lost their edge, like characters in the last season of a long running sitcom who have refuse to evolve. I know them, I know their jokes, and yet the laugh-track seems all too familiar. It's almost perverse... The others who are still writing have few hundred people leaving comments of the order of - "How sweet", "How beautiful" or "How right". It's cloying. Yeah yeah, who am I to say anything? Their blog, their spiel. They are better known than me anyway.

Oh, and the meta blog I liked has been linking to such pointless pieces -- it's almost depressing.

And to be honest, if I still needed to stalk, I have facebook.

Just a handful of bloggers remain who I actually *like* to read.

And I am not talking about anyone or any specific blog, nor is this a state-of-the union address, I am just trying to figure out why it doesn't feel the same anymore. Or maybe, I am not reading the right things.

Anyway, time to dig up the drafts. And to try and write again.

EOY

I am usually on a hunt for metaphors, I just found mine which should sum the year rather well. I just went to the optician after a year and was told that the power in my right eye has reduced. I am less myopic. I am not as short sighted in my right eye.
And that would be the one line I would write to summarize this year.

So I have decided not to be as emotional as this. But I will write because I need to keep track of what I dealt with, what I achieved and what I lost.

I lost my wisdom tooth. Molar decay, I said.

Apart from that it is nothingness of a year that just flew by, where I struggled with decisions and revisions. And inflation. But that's not gonna change. 2006 was troublesome. 2007 was inconsequential.

Oh, I regained strength. And some of the lost faith. I got a new hairstyle, and I also gained some fashion sense. I now flaunt aviators. But I painted my toenails the same boring shade as last year and the year before.

I saw friends deal with change. I tried be there for them, and yet be still. I tried to keep a neutral perspective.

I wrote many emails. Read not as many books. Spent some time on facebook. Lost interest in orkut. Studied Spanish. Forgot my French. Penned irritating verses.

I forged new bonds. They are the same old people, but there is newfound strength in relationships. This should tide me over any trouble.

Into the third year of working, I had a terrible time at work. One, there was so called "lack of motivation". And then there were the super high expectations. Also, I can't seem to deal with the repetitiveness of this. It's just way too mundane.

Which is like 2007. Random. Mundane.

I have no idea what 2008 holds. But it shows promise.
And at least I am not as short sighted anymore.

Winter Solstice

I wait for what could have been the longest night of the year.
It doesn't make much of a difference at the equator.

And I scratch, pick skin off the scabs, while I wait for inspiration.
The bookshop is in an old shop house, nestled against a hawker center.
Irony of that quiet corner, that isolation.
I buy a notebook. Moleskine. Clad in plastic. Used by Hemingway, Picasso and Chatwin.
I look at it with hope. Oh, the desperation.

The bookshop owner puts a small packet of punched holes into my bag. Paper snow, a handwritten note says.

"Did you notice he put in a packet of paper snow?"
The thought collates.
A sign, perhaps. Maybe I should put in my papers now.
The resignation.

I think I was much happier when I was discontent.

Office attire

The company I work for is a privately held French firm. The partners are all naturalized French citizens - they of Lebanese descent. Most of their families, and those of many of my colleagues are still in and around Beirut.

It's a cool place to work. They let us be. As far as attire is concerned, they don't care one bit. We dress to our nines only when we go to the client side. Rest of the time, everyone is casuals - Jeans and t-shirts, even on weekdays. Yes, they are nice to us. Which is why I was stunned when I saw my teammate wear "Israeli Defense Forces" T-shirt to work. I casually asked him if he didn't think that it was kind of inappropriate. He said "It's just a T-shirt man! My friend got it for me". Following which, he hurled a mild accusation at me for making a big deal out of it. I smiled and changed the topic. I admit, I have heightened sensitivity to things, but somehow this unnerved me, and I began wondering how much are our T-shirt messages meant to demonstrate what we stand for. Maybe it struck me as odd because I feel the company is being nice to us by not insisting on proper business attire, and my colleague shouldn't misuse this freedom.

It really is a T-shirt. There is little reason for one to be sensitive, or to believe that it portrays ones allegiance. Like a foreigner wearing a t-shirt with a bold "Om" emblazoned across it, doesn't mean he believes in Hinduism, or is remotely spiritual. The figure of Ganesha has become more or less a commodity, till a bunch of religious fanatics find it on a piece of clothing and create a furore. We argue - it really is nothing but a t-shirt.

And yet, I still feel that there is a thin line between coolness and impropriety.


----------------
Now playing: The Beatles - While My Guitar Gently Weeps

Linking park

I can't type Linkin Park without making a mistake.
Anyway, I went for the concert two days ago. It wasn't because I still listen to them, it was because I listened to them eons ago, and I wanted to watch them then and hence had to watch them now. For completeness.

Lights were fantastic. Really really well done. I was truly impressed. Sound was ok, though A claims it was better than many other concerts he has gone for. The vocalists are mindblowingly good. Considering that having two vocalists (and their egos) may be a bit too much for a band.
Oh and the turntables and the DJ were in a position which rightfully belongs to the drummer. The drummer was kind of sidelined. At one point of time, there were major drum-rolls going on, and we caught the drummer getting a drink, and we figured why he was placed in a corner. Rest of the band kept themselves occupied - they changed guitars as often as they could even between songs. For appeal. (Heh!)
Much of their stuff is programmed, so it gives little scope for improvisation or interaction with the audience.

So that's that.

As an aside, what's with the encores? The bands pretend to go off stage without performing their best-selling/most-popular songs, leave the guitars on stands, and then the crowd will scream and clap. Then they will come back on stage and play three whole songs.
Mockery. I can't stand the farce of encores anymore. I am yet to experience the euphoria of a genuine encore.

How dare he?

Was rushing to work this morning, late and stuck in traffic. As usual.
At the traffic light, there was this old man behind us on what I would call a luna/moped/what-do-you-call-them-here.

And he was whistling. A song he liked perhaps. And he was whistling. With ups and downs and vibratos. Like there was no tomorrow.

How dare he? How dare he enjoy the morning rush?

Om Shanti Om.

No review, just notes.

• Its like a big party that you have been invited to, and everyone seems to be having a whole lot of fun, and you do too. But at times one just has to stand in a corner and wait to get noticed. It's full of in-jokes that only a die hard Bollywood fan will appreciate. It's full of these moments that one will remember and guffaw about, but the story-telling is very average. The story is obviously predictable, that's what Farah Khan intended to do. The point being that the this predictability doesn't have to be in the face.
• Shah Rukh Khan: In a place which seems to be reserved for people with connections, he has really made it. He hams, overacts and does all that people claim that is SRK. He is a natural in the role. I love him.
  
• Deepika Padukone: We argued over whether she is hot or cute. Sam summed it up rather well "She is trouble". I am not qualified to rate her talent, but the thing about her is that she's got the appeal, the aura of a star. She walks into the screen, and you stare at her in wide-eyed amazement.
  
• Songs:
• Dard-e-disco: Ok only. The song was not a stand out. Even the choreography very ordinary, especially by Farah Khan's standards. I prefer the others.
  
• Deewangi Deewangi - I love that song. However, it's not actually 31 *stars*, it's less than that. Aftab Shivdasani and Dino Morea are stars?!?

Having said all of that, I love the movie. It's full paisa wasool.
I might even watch it again.
I am not watching Saawariya. No chance in hell.

Diwali

Diwali is supposed to make one nostalgic, and homesick. Sadly, it doesn't do anything for me. Not any more. Have been away from home for far too long. Nine years is a long time. In any case, the hostel Diwalis can hardly be counted as proper celebrations. We walked up and down in our new clothes, jumped and danced around a little bit, and then went back to our rooms to gossip about the warden. Oh and we visited our local guardians. But, that wasn't really home.

For me, Diwali is supposed to signal the onset of winter. If there is anything I miss, it's the crispness of Diwali air. The chill you feel after you have finished bursting your stash of fire-crackers and have settled to see those black tablets conjure up long snakes. Yes, the ones that burn their way out of fire.

But I don't feel a strong wish-I-was-in-India sentiment anymore. I am fine here. Here is where I want to be.

Maybe I really have moved on. Maybe there is no going back. I can only visit, but I can't lead my life here thinking about how much it was better back there. Because even if I go back, it won't be the same. I think the harshness of it struck me when I went back home after the first semester, and I realized that time hadn't stood still. Things hadn't waited for me to come back and continue from where I had left them. Ma had found use for the cupboard that once belonged to me - she had stuffed linen in there.

Anyway, I have cooked up my own ritual for Diwali here - I wear a sari, go to the temple and pray. And pray hard.

--
Here's wishing all the five devoted readers of this blog a very Happy Diwali.

Counting Sheep

Confucious says: Don't hold on to a post too long, else you will hate it.
I hate it. It pretends to be informative and intelligent and worse still, funny.
Anyway, since I put in all the effort typing it, I will post it here. For completeness.
---
No, its not another pint of whine about Insomnia.

Now that I have ruined the opening gambit, I might as well tell you that it's about the NZ landscape. The rolling plains with balls of wool. For miles and miles. Speckled landscape. Dotted eyes.

In that country, the sheep outnumber people by 10 to 1. If they were not the aww-inspiring mild mannered creatures of our metaphors, I would be scared.

Far away from civilization, we focussed on subjects in sight - the sheep. The conversation ranged from bitching (Why don't they get tired of eating?), to curiosity (Is grass sufficient nutrition for them? Do they have boring lives?). The sheep were judged, classified (the ones by the highway, the "City sheep" - confident, conversant - they flock to look at us, as opposed to the ones on the off-roads, the "country bumpkins" who run for their lives instead of making good use of the photo-op). Their enclosures were judged - crowded ("Downtown Tokyo") to sparsely populated ("Singapore CBD on a Sunday afternoon"). Jokes were created ranging from bad (Sheepish grin/ Silence of the lambs - DIY jokes) to worse (Why are songs by Meatloaf not kosher for the sheep?) . There were some games too, but trust me, no counting or throwing of sheep was involved.

We went for a farm adventure, which promised us the real thing. As the farmer took us around his never ending acres, the complexity of it all struck home. Farming is far more difficult than studying/working can ever be. Farming needs common sense which as we well know, is in short supply and that itself should discourage anyone with the herd mentality.
The amount of effort needed for a human baby from conception to infancy - now imagine managing 3000 sheep through their pregnancy and raising 4000 lambs through infancy (?). And that doesn't even include the circus of worrying about their healthy diet, how to gather them together to shear them and the selection process of which ones to keep. (Cows are much worse, anything and everything scares the crap out of them.) Anyway, I dont think I could have ever been able to take that kind of stress. I am glad my teachers warned me when I was young, that if I don't study I will have to become a farmer.

And now that I am noticably in love with the species, please don't throw any sheep at me.


----------------
Now playing: Om Shanti Om - Om Shanti Om - 02 - Dard-E-Disco

The gate

----------------
Written a while ago, after looking at the new structure at the entrance of the alma mater. Very emotional moment that.

--

Once upon a time, there was a fragile looking board, faded, rusted, stood in a corner. The name was written on it.
More than an institution, it was our passage to adulthood.
A fancy structure, an arch of stone, now marks the entrance. And a slab, also of stone, bears the name. Etched and fitted with metal letters. Shining. Tall. Promising matching futures all the same.
And an MBA school sits where Dreamland once used to be.

I can still see us.
It wasn't time that was passing by, it was you and I.

Daffodils

There is a part in the movie The Namesake, where Ashoke's family come to "see" Ashima. And her dad proudly tells them "Our daughter's best subject is English", urging her to recite a poem. She starts - "I wander'd lonely as a cloud.." . Her father-in-law-to-be completes the lines with fervour "A host of golden daffodils", thereby putting his signature of approval. (I don't remember reading this part in the book. And I didn't last the entire movie, just so you know)

Anyway, I don't know if it was intended to be that way, but the importance of that little part is accentuated to me because of my upbringing. Wordsworth's Daffodils was a big part of the education in Bengali (and Oriya) middle class families of those years, the ones who consider themselves culturally superior. How do I put it? It was a sign that you appreciated poetry, you were a step ahead of the standard coursework fare.

My grandmother was one of those culturally elite people: well read, well aware. She knew her Shelley and Wordsworth and Keats and Pope, and refused to drink tea if it wasn't served in a cup with a saucer with a spoon on the side to stir the sugar. And one had to stir it gently. She firmly rejected the use of words such as "fridge" calling them colloquial. But I digress. Why she liked the poem is still a mystery to me, but she recited the poem to me when I was quite young and urged me to memorize it. It is strange, because not only was I was alien to how Daffodils look, I was completely oblivious to the vacant or pensive mood described in the last para.

Anyway, now that I have seen the flowers I can tell you that they are indeed very delightful. They grow in hordes and yet by themselves. Like nobody planted them there. As we drove around, I saw them everywhere. Stretching in never-ending lines. A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, fluttering and dancing in the breeze. In a place where the landscape changed like a video game, they lent a vague sense of sense of continuity.

And they shone, they really did. Like stars that shine, and twinkle on the milky way. Jumping and joyous in their dance - how else do you describe them? In certain places, where it was still too cold, they were the only reassurance that spring was on its way. They stood there, braving the chilly southerlies, with their silly pouts. Swaying sideways, frantically at times. Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

Self absorbed. Vain. Narcissistic.


And my thoughts, if they spill towards the grey skies, the memories of this trip will blot them out. At least for a while.

Been there done that

Taking the plunge.

Yes, that's me taking what seemed like the leap of faith. Feet tied, strapped in a harness, I went through a round of obligatory chickening-out, "I don't want to do this". And Timmy said "Believe me, you do". He was cute, and I didn't want to look uncool. So, I stared at the bridge straight ahead on that chilly spring morning, and jumped. Into Euphoria.

I know Bungy jumping is not fashionable anymore, but hell, I did it, I took that giant leap, so let me show off for a bit.

First, a bit of history, as I have learnt from the little pamphlet I got along with my photos: The people of Vanuatu have been throwing themselves off huge towers with nothing but vines tied to their legs. Some coming-of-age ritual that. In the late 70s, some crazy folks in Oxford university Dangerous Sports club got inspired by this, and they tried out a few test jumps. AJ Hackett saw one of those videos, and teamed up with Henry van Asch, to develop the Bungy into the modern ritual it is today. In June 1987, Hackett jumped off the Eiffel Tower straight into international spotlight.

The Kawarau bridge Bungy, in Queenstown, New Zealand, though not high by any standards (43 m), is still the unique for being the world's first, and is hence styled as "Home of Bungy". The other choices in Queenstown are the Nevis highwire (134 m) and the Ledge where you go up a hill and jump looking at the city below you. I don't have the guts to attempt either of those two.

The feeling of free fall, might not be new to many of you, but for me, a first time jumper, it was like: No no no no no. WTF. Eeeeee. Ah the cord. Stretch stretch strech Touch touch touch. Wooohooooo. In civilized English and in Hackett's words "You will go from nervous to completely elated in five seconds"

Oh yeah, I tried, I really tried to touch the water, but was short by a few feet.

PS: Speaking of childhood dreams, this was one: to do the Bungy jump at the original site. Yay.

The lecture.

Mr. Lim has been a turning point of sorts. It cured me of regrets and remorse. The memories are far too precious to be wasted on them.

The experience that sealed it up was the last lecture of Dr. Randy Pausch. To use the oft repeated cliche, words don't do justice. It's an experience, and I would urge you to watch it.

It's easy to be scared of death. It's easy to live mediocre lives. But to be able to look back and say, in this life, I have been able to achieve all that I wanted to do, I have been able to get all that I desired, that needs something. Don't we all want lives like that?

I had a friend argue with me that he is not impressed with the speech of Dr. Pausch. He's white, rich, educated, American, smart, born with the privileges. There are many others who have done it, face cancer, face death, and yet keep their courage. "What's the big deal? Let him be an African", he said, "Have kids with malnutrition .. live in a country torn by civil war... then we will talk about his contribution"

It's so easy to be cynical. At the expense of sounding crude, if a person with one leg manages to get from point A to point B, would it be right to undermine his achievement by saying "What's the big deal? A person with no legs has managed to do the same."

Probably the reason why we are starved of heroes. Because we refuse to believe. I agree that many others have done it. Bad example, but didn't millions eat spinach before Popeye did?

Touching the lives of millions and setting an example needs courage. To do so in the face of death, even more so. This is what a teacher would do: communicate, in no uncertain terms, the lessons learnt, and provide a structure for the path ones life should take.

I am a changed person.

--
PS: Comp Science people should be able to recognize Andries van Dam. Remember the big fat book of CG?

Prayer

God, give me my forty winks, and I promise I won't ask for anything else.
Today.

The uncommon couple

Due to the immense popularity of my previous post on Mr. Lim (Two people, both friends, read it and liked it), I have decided to do more sketches of people. The people I meet make up most of my stories and to avoid repeating them when I meet you in person, I will type them here. So today, I will introduce you to Jorge and Soo. Both in my Spanish class.

Jorge is retired. Jubilado. The connection with the word jubiliant is rather distressing for a workaholic like me. If I have no work, what will I complain about? Anyway, Jorge seems rather happy. He comes on time, does his homework, and pays attention in class. He has a snorty laugh and perverse amount of curiosity about rights of transsexuals in Spain. He also refuses to accept that things like tables, chairs and keys can be classified as masculine and feminine.

Soo teaches. Somewhere. Something. But that's not really relevant, is it? She speaks very clear English, which makes me suspicious that she teaches the language. She owns a dictionary, and brings it to class rather religiously. I don't carry mine around since dictionaries are thick and rather boring to read on the bus.
I think Soo is a closet activist. She brings up her dissent in the rarest of moments. The word bonita means pretty. It can only be used for things and little girls. Chica bonita. Pretty little thing. This made Soo immensely worried about the objectification of women.

Soo and Jorge have been together for many years. It is rude to ask how long, but I am curious since she pauses before she refers to him as her boyfriend. They are too old to be boyfriend and girlfriend, you know. What makes them strange as a couple is that they don't stay together. He claims, they would have killed each other if they had another day under the same roof. This works, and works well for them. But it must be togetherness, since he buys her a snack before coming to class so she can grab a quick bite during the break.

They amaze me... for in this world of fragile relationships, they are willing to stay away from each other just so that they can be together.

The question of anonymity

I think bloggers make a big deal out of their online identities. You find some of them obsessing over keeping it secret. Not sure if it is because the persona they create, that of being fun and erudite and with a fun life is far detached from their real lives. Not sure if it is the romantic appeal of being a mysterious stranger with a smart moniker, or Spiderman-Peter Parker dichotomy. Maybe it was a trend started by the chicklit bloggers to preserve the identities of people they speak about and to avoid being googled.

Anyway, nom-de-plumes are a good idea. If and when you become famous, it will make a good trivia question a la - What was 'The blogger formerly known as Prince' formerly known as?
Ok, bad joke.

My point being that bloggers put up a nice little fight to keep their identities secret. Frankly, it's hardly a challenge, ever since orkut, facebook and the other evil sisters came about to put one's six-degrees in the public domain.

How hard can it be? There is a high chance that people blogroll their fleshandblood friends (as opposed to virtual friends?), and few of those friends are vain confident enough to use their real names for sure. A click here. A click there. Easy, no?
And then there are pics of family, kids, latest holidays and tattoos proudly cross posted on orkut and the blog. Seriously, you actually thought you won't be discovered by someone who has listed "stalking" under "passions" a lot of time to while away.

Sigh.

Find a random person on orkut, and discover their blog. Now that's like a real challenge.

Deseo

Desire.

If the last bits of my memory would fade away, what would I do? Would I look at everything differently? Would not knowing what to call a table bother me? Would there be any remorse left with me? Would it be like speaking a different language? Would it be worth expressing pain in a different language? Would I have any memories of my desires?

Mr. Lim is about seventy years old. He is in my Spanish class for beginners. We are in the early stages, and still at a loss for words. What sets Mr. Lim apart is that he is in the early stages of Alzheimer's disease. His motivation, his perseverance confuses me. I want to ask him, will it be worth forgetting it all in a different language?

Deseo, he said the other day, doesn't that mean desire? And Hawaii, doesn't it have active volcanoes? That when he was being helped with his homework. The homework I had forgotten all about. Never before have I felt smaller, like a speck, whining about the memories that I would rather forget. My memories are what make me, I had argued with myself endlessly. My memories attach the relevance to my existence. And that, when I can't remember my best friend's phone number... when I can't remember who my best friend is... when I can't remember which was that one moment that filled me with joy... when I can't remember the how "wonder" feels like...
when I can't remember what I desire...
And yet, like Mr. Lim, perhaps I can't remember the end of my desires...

Hazaaron khwaishein Aisi, ki har khwaish pe dam nikle.
A thousand desires, each one worth a million times to die for.

Its not desires that I lack, I lack lifetimes...

For posterity

Some jokes I heard over the week. Very niche, and heavily dependent on cliches (Isn't it unfortunate that those two words don't rhyme?)

- On Jazz bass players.

What is the difference between jazz bassist and a large cheese pizza?
A large cheese pizza can feed a family of four.

- About the electric bass players.

A man gives his son an electric bass for his 15th birthday, along with a coupon for four bass lessons. When the son returns from his first lesson, the father asks, "So, what did you learn?"

"Well, I learned the first five notes on the E string."

Next week, after the second lesson, the father again asks about the progress, and the son replies, "this time I learned the first five notes on the A string."

One week later, the son comes home far later than expected, smelling of cigarettes and beer. So the father asks, "hey, what happened in today's lesson?"

"Dad, I'm sorry but I couldn't make it to my lesson. I had a gig!"

To which a bassist said:

Q. What has six strings, is black and blue and lying in a gutter?
A. A guitarist who cracked too many bassist jokes.

-And a guitarist/lightbulb joke:

Q. How many guitarists do you need to change a light bulb
A. Five. One to change the bulb and four to reminisce about how good the old tubes were.

- And the one about Mac users, which you will get only if you have been hanging around with too many obsessive users, who can't get enough of telling you how great their iMacs are.

Q. How many mac users do you need to change a lightbulb?
A. One. Let him change the bulb and see the whole world revolve around him.

Its nine o'clock on a Friday

There comes a time when we realize our problem stems from the fact that we are pretentious. And judgmental about ourselves. And that we are so afraid of mediocrity, that we would rather not do something than to do it badly. Which is worse, of course.

There also comes a time, roughly 20 seconds after the previous epiphany, where we drop the unnecessary garb of the royal "We".

Very Ayn-Rand-ish, but not too bad for a Friday. For which "I" am Thanking God. Profusely.

Rant

You know what's frustrating?

To spend three years working on something, and then getting the terrible feeling to sweep over you - "I am too good to be doing this."
And to have a blog and not be able to rant. Because it is barely anonymous. Because I am too stuck up. Because I pretend like this is literature.
Normal lives we lead here,
Breakdowns, disappointments, frustrations, hopes, and dreams of an improbably futuer.

Maybe I lack the confidence. Maybe everyone expects too much from me.

Let's just hope that hindsight fixes it all.

Alex

Alex wakes up at 8 in the morning on Saturdays.
And plays soccer. The door of the study is one goal post, and something at the end of the living room is the other.

He is also learning how to play the piano. On Sunday mornings.
His impatient fingers trace an unfamiliar path on the keys.
He can't keep time yet. It will hopefully, sound like music someday.

Alex is all of 4. Or 5? How does it matter? It does. Because he is at the age where being four and half years old is different from being five.

Alex stays in the house above, and screams goodbye to his dad every morning.

Last afternoon, while I was sleeping, I heard him play Ludo, or Snakes and Ladders, or some other board game. He was perhaps playing with an adult.
Every few minutes, the dice would fall and roll on the floor.
And I would hear him make his move. Definitive, like it wasn't a move, but a statement. It was mostly tak tak or tak tak tak. Just that once he moved six places. Tak tak tak tak tak tak. Oh how happy he must have been.

As much as I hate him in the mornings, Alex makes my weekends surreal.

Office Romance

She wakes up
with a faint recollection
of the dream
of the guy from work.

In front of the mirror,
the smile,
the blush,
and the doubt
if he would seem
too familiar today.
And the decision
if she should wear red
and put
a twist in her ponytail.

Notes and quotes

Quote:

Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow.
- Oscar Wilde

******
Which leads us to collect some notes from a Swedish Hindi movie buff:

- He wonders why the Hindi Movies follow the three layered approach - they have the comedy part, the tragedy part, and the family part. By the time one is all geared up for comedy, the tone of the movie has already changed. He says it confuses him.

- He claims to have liked "Salaam Namaste". But he didn't like another one with a aforementioned three layered approach. Which movie? In his own words "There were two guys in the movie, and the girl liked one of them, but this one dies, and so she gets married the other one in the end. It had Pretty Zeenta, and the guy from Salaam Namaste, and the other guy who is in all other Hindi movies" Geddit?

- Next on his list is Krissh. Before you starting judging his tastes, I will be the one lending him the VCD.

********
And the note to self:
Next week will probably be worse than this one. So see, on hindsight, this week was not so bad after all.

Cultural hierarchy and Potter

Lowbrows: Have never read the books. Watch the movies the weekend they are released. Derive joy from calling it "Hari Puttar". Appreciation severely limited to "Cho is cho cute, no?"

Lower-middlebrows: Have read the books AND watched the movies. Deeply involved, and yet a bit confused. Don't remember too many details. Love Hermione, like they loved Dana Scully.

Middlebrows: Have pre-ordered the book. Have made plans to spend Friday night drinking standing outside the bookshop so as to be able to grab the first copy of Deathly Hallows. Know the curses, the charms and the animals. Play Quidditch like they play Calvinball. Have spent at least 15 minutes mulling over who "R. A. B" could be^*. Watch the movies without much ado. Chew on it. Promptly post reviews on their blogs saying, the book was better.

Highbrows: Don't read Harry Potter. Claim that it is an insult to the fantasy genre. Wax eloquent about how it's a marketing gimmick, and how everyone has become a capitalist slave. In fact, they force the fact down everybody's throat that they don't endorse the franchise, or anything else. Visit the loo more than once during the movie.

^*My guess: It's Sirius Black's Brother.

Verses which probably should never see the light of the day

The End

Ever get the feeling
something can't be mended.
stuck in limbo, you yo-yo
and wish it had ended.

Potent mix of coffee-whiskey
in the bloodstream blended
wide-eyed, drunk on thoughts,
All for the better, I pretended.

----
Rouge

Up at the hour of loneliness
of her empty bed
Narcissa painted her toenails
a wanton shade of red

Far away, in the throes
of yet another orgasm
Juliet painted the town
a happy shade of red

The possessed one, Durga,
in the fury of scorn
painted his nightmares
with an angry shade of red

Quiet in her quilted corner
Cathy, (*identity concealed),
painted her mind with
a helpless shade of dread.

Insomnia - part 2

Every tick of the clock,
with invidious intent,
steals one away
from the awake hours
of the next day.

PS: At this rate, it will have a book full of these

On romance novels...

The first one I read was at home. It was Ma's. It was called Kona Winds, it was set in Hawaii. Its weird because Still life with Woodpecker, the book that I tend to quote most about love, is also set in Hawaii.

The second Mills and Boon I read was the one I liked more. I don't remember the name, though I remember the story really well. She was called Alicia, and he was called Jean-Luc or Jean-Marie or Jean-something.
She was very pretty, and British. After been jilted by her ex at the altar, she duly lost faith in love, pulled her hair back in a tight chignon and made it big as a high profile fashion designer in Europe. Now this tall-rich French guy, with his hyphenated name, squarish jaw and piercing eyes, is hosting a wedding for his goddaughter, and our belle dame sans merci, Alicia, has been hired to design everything for the wedding of the century.
She walks in. She can feel his eyes following her. Animal magnetism. A passionate kiss in a moment of weakness. Confusion. The other woman. The other man. Further confusion. Then in the last ten pages, they make-up, and kiss. In that order.
There were some hints about the happy ever after.

Classic M&B. I devoured it. I read it like it was literature. From cover to cover. And then I read it again. And again. A few times over. Ah, to taste the forbidden fruit... and the cheap thrills of youth... At that age, I was curious as hell, and ready to read anything in print, and romance novels were out-of-bounds.

Ma and I never spoke about romance. I am not sure she liked the story I just narrated, but it would be wrong to judge her ideas about romance. She would buy them for long boring train journeys, and upon returning home, symbolically trash them by hiding them in the top-most shelf, hoping I couldn't reach them. My cousin sisters would come, and take these away. They were a lot older, heavily into this stuff, and unwilling to buy it for themselves.

College came with its own share of romance and romance novels. With the curiosity dead, and having figured out the pattern in them, it wasn't so exiting to read them anymore. But during those uncertain years, there was definitely something reassuring about their predictability.

There was this little lending library next to the hostel which stocked up very few good books and tons of trash. During cram-time before exams, Dep and I would borrow Archie comics and M&B from there, and read them for a break. Each of us had developed our individual style of reading them. I used to read the back cover and the last twenty pages. She used to read the first five, and one page every ten pages thereafter. Neither of us admitted to the other that we occasionally skipped to the two-pages-where-they-kiss and read them too.

I don't think the books really affected my ideas about romance, or love in general. The characters in there were rather unbelievable, hence. But those days, these books did strike a note somewhere...

I haven't read even one since.

Quo Vadis?

A.k.a, in which I figure out the root cause of all my dissatisfaction.

Its not because I feel I have anything less.
Its only because I want more from life. More experiences, more travel, more learning.
Its only because I want a life. A life full of life.

For past few months have done nothing except work, just to see how it feels. And have realized that the element of disuse, the whole feeling of not knowing what to answer when someone asks me “What else have you been up to?”, is the culprit. That irritates me to no end, that I have no answers when I ask myself, what have I gained in the past few months? How have I grown as an individual? (Before you take a dig, I dropped two Kgs)

You know, there was this small shack, quite named Dreamland right opposite our where plans for life were made over copious amount of chai. You know what we had then? No, not talent. Passion, yes. And more so, the non-judgmental attitude towards anything and everything. We had deep devotion for everything we did, small, big or otherwise:
Making those posters for College clubs which lasted on the walls just for a few days,
preparing for the next quiz, the glory of defeat in which lasted only till the next,
screaming your lungs out for your team when they played a losing match,
and singing along when the college band played their own comps in a badly planned concert.

I miss that.

Insomnia

Its a been long time since Hypnos wasn't kind to me.
Really.
It was the coffee maybe.
Drunk with pleasure then, as I am drunk, now,
with this languid sense of being awake.
And why does this time of the night come with this itchy-scratchy feeling?
And the song playing incessantly on the radio channel in my head happens to be Justin -
"What goes around, comes around!"
Stuck in my head.
It's just that one line playing, no more.
The stuck head. The scratched record.

The sheep are tired, they have walked in and out all night.
They go around and come around.
And what happens next?

The clock ticks away, ten minutes too fast.
The lights from someone else's window flicker on mine.
It's almost dawn.
The early birds yawn.
And my dreams for a better tomorrow wait for sleep to come by.

Of Flus and Fathers...

Been down with fever and a sore throat since yesterday, and I am back to work.

Falling sick when I was growing up was different.
Dad would take leave from work, and launch a one man crusade against the invaders. Home would become a father-daughter citadel, meaning, we were allowed to make a mess of it till Ma came back from work.

No sooner than she had left the front door, he would start with a status check - he would put the thermometer in my mouth, and then head to the kitchen to make some herbal tea. I would squint, and wait for the mercury to reach 99, and get the thermometer out of the mouth. If it had already reached a 100, I would shake it down to 99 and then announce loudly and gladly that I was decidedly feeling better and should be allowed to go to school. He never called my bluff, but am quite sure he knew. So, despite all my protests, I was sent back to the bedroom.

By then the herbal tea would be ready. The tea was a speshul remedy for sore throats, a miracle cure, I was told. It had herbs instructed by old-wives - except that he would add them all at one go. The results, though not totally disastrous, were potent enough to scare the viruses/bacteria away.

He would then proceed to cook lunch. He is not a bad cook, just that he likes to experiment a little too much. Those days, anything he could successfully boil and add salt and generous amount of pepper to, would be served with much-ado. With the numb taste buds it hardly made a difference so long as the stuff could slide smoothly down my throat. Though, I must say, he has improved over the years. Having a guinea pig helps, I guess.

And medicines? Dad was particular that they be taken on time. I remember him waking me up on cold nights, and giving me an assortment of pills with half a glass of warm water. A cold hand would check if I still had fever, and he would stand still for a minute to check if I was wheezing.

Years later, he packed me away to the hostel sans much emotion, but with a semesters' supply of medicines: antibiotics, antihistamines, multivitamins, the works. One day, lying alone in the hostel room, running a temperature of 103 and yet trying to be all adult about being sick, I felt cold, lonely and abandoned. And then I realized it wasn't the medicines that I needed, it was all the fuss. So I did what I had to do, called him, and whined on the phone.

Like I did yesterday.

Verse #2343

I could see him distinctly in the light of the moon.
His dark face seemed paler than marble.
His left eye twitched, perhaps to violently protest against what was about to happen.
It was then that I realized that it had all gone wrong.
Right before he pulled the trigger.....

Flash of a lifetime
Loss sifts through moonlit leaves
Haiku left behind.

Peddling pedals.

Many summers ago, two boys went on a shopping trip to buy a cycle, It was vastly frustrating, so they boldly went where no men have gone before. They decided to open a bike shop.

It all started out when Nikhil and Rohan came up with the crazy idea of cycling to work. Despite the killer traffic, these two aficionados have been religiously riding their bikes to work for more than a year now, and have discovered that it is far less stressful to manoeuvre a bike in the traffic than to drive. They strongly believe that this could be a healthy solution to the current unhealthy traffic situation in Bangalore. With the nobel intention of sharing the gyaan, and helping people attain the same nirvana, , they came up with the idea of getting state-of-the-art Trek and Firefox bicycles to Bangalore. And lo and behold, BumsOnTheSaddle was born.

Together, the erstwhile-partners-in-crime and now in business are looking at spearheading a community of biking enthusiasts. So check out the cool website, the blog and/or the bikeshop (big incentive - it is located bang opposite the Girls' hostel in Jayanagar). And do remember to drop them a word even if you are not looking at picking up a cycle.

Generous as they are, they even offer free test-rides.

PS: Rohan, I just emailed you my bank account information . :)

The baker's dozen

Fans of the classic caper genre will say that Ocean's thirteen doesn't qualify as one. Maybe, this wasn't meant to be one. Also, that 11 was perfect. For this one, the aim wasn't perfection, perhaps.

Roger Ebert might complain argue that the plot is fragile, and whatever is left of it is quite absurd. I beg to disagree. While not cult-level, or anything remotely memorable, this one did justice to the series in a way no threequel this year has managed to achieve. I drooled, I laughed, I guffawed, and then I left, and that is what this was meant to be. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Matt Damon emerges as a personal favourite among the star studs. Brad's Rusty is well, rusty.

Also, for my plebian tastes, the Oprah touch was quite a masterstroke.

?

There must a reason why common sense so uncommon!

The process

So the plan was quite clear, thus spake the Engineer/MBA. He charted it out for me neatly on a piece of paper. He excelled at spreadsheets, that kinda stuff you know. This is how he put it:

#define Start date T April sometime.

Start chatting;
T + 1 month: we will send pictures to each other.
Iff (all goes well) /*meaning, she doesn't get a heart attack looking at his pics*/
{

2 more months of wooing;
Early part of the following month, he proposes;

If( she says yes) {

Jump up and down ten times;

For(the next three months) discuss if we should get married?;

If (OK) then {

For(one month) - discuss when to get married;
loop for One year {
swimming and sinking in love;
If (End of next year) get out of this stupid loop;

}

Check(bank balance);
Tie the knot;
}
}
Happy ever after;

Bloody geek. Wants everything to be perfect. In order. Six Sigma compliant. Cant go wrong. Only 6 defects in a thousand pieces. In a million, the nitpicker would correct you.

Thankfully Love, as Tom Robbins said, is the ultimate outlaw. And it had other plans.

So then she called, and said she had sent him the pics like he had asked for, for which he had cooked up a silly excuse like a hard disk crash, and that she had Paneer butter masala for lunch which was too spicy.
And thankfully, the process crumbled.

Eeeesshh. Shilly phish, the two of them, I tell you.

With their parents blessings, they will probably elope today. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Kee Kando.

Somedays, I am not so cynical about the world. And I am kind. And excited.

[PS] I know the brackets dont match. Its okie. Its fine.

On reviews :)

Two goats who wandered into an alley behind a motion picture theater happened across a can of film. Being goats, one of them promptly devoured it. "How was it?" asked the other.

"Not bad," replied the first goat, "but the book was better."

Hehhhehehhh.

The attack of the unimaginative three-quels

Will keep it brief. Pirates 3 was convoluted, too tedious even for the swashbuckling Jack Sparrow to resuscitate. Special effects are never as funny as people. They can wow you, but they can never ever strike a chord. Having said that, with every little ounce of life and love that's left in me, I am and will remain deeply devoted to Johnny Depp . So I still kinda liked it. The movie has its moments, wish it was easier to find them though.

Shrek 3: Ahh, the lesser said the better. Waste of popcorn. And what's with everyone giving emotional speeches in the end?

Fantasy, they say, has to have its ends tied up, only reality has frayed edges. But yet, just because all known characters come together on screen in one scene, where they all fight it out, give their speeches, find their loves and say goodbye hoping to squeeze some tears out of the cynical audience doesn't necessarily mean justice is done to the characters. It just leaves you with a bad aftertaste. Whatever happened to the joy of simple storytelling?

As for Danny Ocean's Motley Crew, I really hope thirteen proves lucky. Frankly, I have little hope.

SpiderMan 3: the obligatory bashup

All I can say is that, this heart wrenching love story of Pavitr Prabhakar and Meera Jain would make Sooraj Barjatya proud.
The dying speech delivered by the hero's best friend makes up a memorable moment for Hindi Cinema, no?

Rhetorica

In all honesty, the idea wasn't to hurt you. When you reach an age, my age, you are not guided by judgment of right and wrong, but by the sheer fear of consequences. Tiny mistakes glitter like the shiny sequins in the memory-scape. None worth the mention, but none that you didn't learn from. There are mounted picture frames on the wall. Some staring at you, some you can't look at in the eye.

The woods are lovely. We walk to collect nostalgia for the future. Though this road less traveled seems alluring, yet, shouldn't one have the sense not to take a path where everybody gets hurt?

And then there are some promises to keep. One, the promise to oneself that at the next iteration, you would fix it all, get it right, right at the start. Two, the promise to a friend, that you won't retreat.
Some of that courage keeps you going. Some of that courage let's you go.

So, to sum up what I have learnt -
No loss is ever as big as the loss of peace of mind.
No motive as meaningful as the one of protecting your loved ones from hurt.
No sense as common as the need to live and let live uncomplicated lives.
And yet, despite all that is there to justify -
No apology is as heartfelt, as the next one, here -
I am sorry, I couldn't, I can't.

Contrary to what you may believe, the choice wasn't between holding on and letting go - the choice was between venom today, and leaving you with discomfort in my will.

Spring Cleaning

What I perhaps will never learn is how to deal with yesteryears. I don't think I like the feeling of flooding myself with a certain set of memories. And yet, I keep all the stuff, just because I am afraid that if I let them go, I would have nothing left. It would be like losing history of my being.

I have never been able to delete mails from the past. The way I deal with files/photos is even more peculiar - I zip them up, and put them away in a CD or in a folder named "Important". And then one fine day shift-delete or junk the CD. It helps me get rid of the remorse, and doesn't spike my curiosity of why I kept them in the first place.

Clutter. It is almost impossible to classify my clutter between what's truly "junk" and what's really "important".

In comes Ramdeen, who got an unfair share of wisdom at birth, with the recommendation of the cleanup. The experience, he promised, would be cathartic.

So I have cleaned it all up - good, bad, otherwise. Have kept a few priceless treasures, though - one being the first email sent by then-little nieces, one with an intense discussion about the feasibility of the layers of a stack being implemented as different processes, one containing sepia toned pics of awkward teenagers in bright shirts, and one with my favourite little Johnny joke.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

And Ma said today -

If for all these years, I could keep the plastic flowers from withering away,
why can't you?

the escapist

there was a time, the truth was fast
like the highway,
the view of everyone
everyone's view
blinkered by the helmet.
sticking to the order of the day.

now its the winding road,
hidden from everywhere
convoluted
the ride is scenic
and un-polluted.

at the hairpin bend,
i take a break.
i stand in a corner,
hunched.
thoughts collect
bunched.

as is the case,
they are -
all lowercase.
and i am the protagonist,
the narcissist,
the escapist.

Horror. Hope.

Opened the previous post.

Date: 16-April-07
Title: Horror-scope.
Last line: Somedays, horoscopes stop giving you hope.

Gave the post another read, one of those pointless, inconsequential posts. And yet, a certain sense of ominousness took over. Horror. Hope. The words seemed the same, I had written them alright. Cut pasted them fine.
What had changed then? The perspective? A perspective which seems to fix itself only in hindsight.

Virginia Tech happened. A senseless act of murder. For the past few days, I have read and re-read the news. Watched the guy's rants on youtube with a sense of disbelief. A seemingly normal guy. The kind you would see walking on the streets around you.

Gooseflesh.

This of course is just the beginning of what will seem like an endless analysis of his psychological profile. You know, finding the right pigeon hole to fit this guy in. Son of immigrant parents. Had a tough time fitting in. Wrote of sadness. Wrote of violence. Obsessively listened to Collective Souls' Shine. Sounds like a killer alright?

Is everyone who writes of sadness depressed? Is everyone who writes of violence a potential murderer? Is everyone who comes from modest origins a threat?

What could have been done to stop this?
Guns? Enough has been said about the ease of access to guns. And yet, not enough for them to do something about it.

But I would also hold the gross neglect of mental health issues responsible for a good part of it. On hindsight, its easy to judge him, call him a madman, with a perfect profile for a killer. But I wonder if enough was done to prevent him from sinking to these depths?

PS: Orkut offers advice today: Society prepares the crime: The criminal commits it

Horror-scope

Dear Mo,
Here is your horoscope
for Monday, April 16:

Could it be that you've outgrown this way of life? If that's the case, you need to let this old identity go. Isn't it time you acknowledged how much you've changed, and accept the scope of your recent emotional development?


Somedays, Horoscopes stop giving you hope.

The calculus of story-telling

A story, simplistically speaking, is driven by a function. Like a curve - it has its ups and downs. You remember the once-upon-a-time when we all had to study differentiation, and calculate the maxima, minima and inflexion?? If you carefully observe, a simple story would ride on a curve.

• Boy meets girl, (At t = 0, perhaps? )
  
• Boy and girl fall in love, Maxima
• (Lo and behold, we discover that the families were always rivals. )
  
• Girl's dad-mom find out and threaten to kill the boy, Minima
• Girl and boy elope, Point of inflexion.

The point of inflexion. The point where the double derivative is zero (??). The point where the direction of the story changes. The point of freedom. The point where there is nothing left to lose. The real art of finishing up a story, I believe, comes with bringing your characters to this point of no return. Beyond this point, even if its a tragedy, the story itself takes over.

So, the aforementioned story could either be QSQT-esque tragedy ending in a bloodbath. Or, they could have a child and then the parents look at the grand-child and have a change of heart (Now which movie was it? Dil? Bobby?).
Of course, nobody is making these formula films anymore. But, even for a complicated story, it should be possible to identify such points.

Cheats, (like me), create a vivid landscape for the characters, write about the maxima usually soaked in nostalgia, drag the story to the minima, to the sadness/helplessness/despair, and let the pathos do the trick on the reader. Probably because of the lack the creativity and/or the courage to give a fair treatment to the characters.

What do you think?

Song of the Road

I recently read somewhere that the first principle a writer should remember while narrating a story is - "Show, don't tell". One can write volumes explaining how the character feels, but nothing is as powerful as conjuring up the image of the character and his surroundings in the reader's head, making him a part of the narrative, getting him to think and judge for himself.

But doing it in cinema? There are too many distractions, if one may put it that way - the music, the colours, the costumes - all force the director's vision/ imagination into the viewer's head. Detachment is easy in such a situation. So, to elicit emotions, Indian cinema uses melodrama to great effect - people crying, gore on screen, dialogues drenched in emotion, songs to illustrate the agony of the separated hearts, the high pitched tones of the shehnai. A director will use it all, Unless of course, he is a genius.

Watched Pather Panchali till late last night. The last time I watched it, I was way too young and way too naive to perceive the depth of each character. Now, older, and obviously more exposed to average-tending-to-bad movies, I realized how well Ray used the aforementioned principle brillantly and that too in a difficult medium. Images come and go, without being overbearing. Minutes on end are spent in silence, where one is left alone to explore the emotions, study the evolution of the characters. Emotions are presented sans melodrama, understated, almost matter of factly.

Genius, I tell you.