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.


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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.


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

The gate

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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.