The Waffle Iron

A toast to 2008

2008-01-04T17:51:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year y'all. How ya been? :D

Okay, so if there IS anyone left around here that still reads this blog. Apologies.

Today:

I am high. On life. Completely. I have just rediscovered the joys of solitude. My mental faculties are at an all-time high. All my room-mates have left for a holiday, and I'm all alone in a 2BR apartment. I feared depression, but I'm loving this. Playing music aloud without having an annoyed room-mate demand that you turn the volume down. Piling dishes in the kitchen sink in wanton disregard. Forgetting to put my coat up in the closet. The prospect of leaving the faulty shower pin down on 'shower' mode guiltless (and without getting yelled at).

I am at peace. I am in love with myself all over again. I like solitude.

Yesterday:

All my room-mates are leaving to different places on vacation by tomorrow. I'll probably be left staring vacantly at cartons of used books and empty closets. And sepia-tinted memories to get me by. I'll have to make dinner all alone - serving only one. There won't be laughter and loud conversation ringing at the dining table anymore.

But I've graduated. Yay! I'm going to receive my degree (written in Latin - fancy that!) in May. Do I have a graduate degree? Really?

Three weeks ago:

I'm a believer.

Six months ago:

I forgot I could write. And how therapeutic it was. I hate myself for that.

Strange Bedfellows

2007-06-28T11:22:00.000-07:00

They had been multiplying steadily. In the crevices of the bed-frame, under forgotten layers of foam, on hardened corners of the box-spring, between undone sheets fading with laundry washes. Or maybe it is the spray of rain.

One. One two. One two three. Sometimes four. That's how they feasted. Breakfast, lunch, dinner. They call it. Sometimes a midnight snack? The irony of it was that they were ALL midnight snacks. When you squish them between your fingers, or beat them to death with your bed-time book, they spill blood. Full and red. Like the lifeblood that gushes out of the man's throat in her dream. Or was it a nightmare? The one where she orders Cobain's throat to be sawed. No. Not head to groin. That was quicker death. She saw blood gushing like a fountain. They stuff it with his shirt. To keep it from bleeding. He's still alive. Laughing and waving at her, while they embalmed him. Not his voice.

She opens her eyes. Relief. It wasn't her that killed him. It was the gun. And the guitar.

Then she sees it. The bedbug, that's what. Small. But it grew in size and engulfed her vision as she drew closer. Until it was large enough to block the doorway. Like another Gregor Samsa. Should she play Grete? But they kept leaving trails of mess on the mattress corners. All the Gregors. One is hard enough to keep. She wonders if he sold anything yesterday, the manager has had enough to complain about anyway. And now there are so many of him.

But she is patient. Maybe the Lysol will work. She rubs the Calamine into the welts on her arms. The pink blobs smear and spread into swirls. Of a reassuring coolness. Then she sees them, the tiny scabs. And calls in the cleaning woman.

Fitting the bill

2006-09-28T09:56:00.000-07:00

My supervisor pointed me to this today. He said, "This is UNBELIEVABLE!!". I read it and thought.. "Well, maybe this is how it felt during the Emergency in '75?"

Maybe I should start imagining Bush with black hands, green hair, black teeth; within green walls..

Conservation of Energy

2006-09-02T14:30:00.000-07:00

If there's any scientific law that has made most sense to me, it has to be the Law of Conservation of Energy. Besides being the basis of my favourite set of Physics problems, it also seems to me like a fact that can be universally applied. Although we have moved on to instances where Classical Physics is often defied, and more complicated laws have been introduced to explain even more complex phenomena, I still associate this law with a wider range of my ideas and understanding. In its simplicity lies its allure, so I've developed this near-compulsive habit to THINK on the same lines.

For example, I have this inclination to try and guess how energy is skipping through various forms. But I often reach this point where I don't know where the energy's going. I run water into the kitchen sink, it's falling to convert its kinetic energy into potential and sound energy. The potential energy, I guess will now shake the sink up a bit. I can hear the sound, so the sound energy vibrates my ear-drum. I dont know how things work after this, so I'm stuck here. I stop playing the guess-game and move on another physical 'occurence' now.

Sometimes, the law can be applied to meta-physical entities. One of my MOST solid beliefs, of Karma, sort of draws from it. And although I can think of anomalies in that association, I also know that those can be smoothed out by clever dissection. What goes around, comes around. But, if you thought of yourself as a 'system', and goodness & badness as forms of complementary energy; if you spread 'goodness' around you, you'd be filled with 'badness' until all that good was returned to you. But maybe my assumption of good and bad as complementary forms is flawed... maybe some systems are solely good, and others sole-ly bad. However, THAT theory is no good either. So, I've finally evolved this theory (which is open to criticism :P), that it is in fact the UNIVERSE which is the 'system', and we the 'particles'. [Which btw, reminds me of what Benjamin Franklin once wrote: "I imagine it great vanity in me to suppose that the Supremely Perfect does in the least regard such an inconsiderable nothing as man" - that's how tiny and inconsequential we really are! **Sigh**] So maybe the universe is just this neutral system, where there is as much good as there is bad. They say the world gets more and more wicked every day, so where's all the good going to? Maybe it's being sucked into some inchoate galaxy.

I sometimes wonder, if we combined everything in the universe, and melted it together, what colour would it be? Being led by the conventional theory of 'white light'; I always come up with 'white'! So we're all better off being a non-homogenous system. Else, we'd probably be white and neutral. If there was a theory that suggested a universal 'form' as well, we'd know exactly what our combined molten mass will look like. :P

However, we all know, that white is a conventional representation of 'good' and black of 'bad'. So is our all-encompassing white a grim reminder of the fact that 'good' can be regular and boring? Then we all NEED the shades of grey [and all other 'secondary' and err.. 'primary'(?) colours].

The same theme goes for 'ideas'. I'm now taking this stance that ALL ideas borrow from one or more sources. A lot of instances have led me to believe so. The moment I start celebrating someone's novel idea; I start upon the realisation that it wasn't SO original in the first place...

I used to be a TOTAL fan of Rushdie's, and would be immersed in wonderment, at his smarting style and intelligent, but subtle literary allusions; until I read James Joyce. Of course each author must have his/her influences, and everyone borrows style. And it definitely does not, in any way, diminish awe of the influenced writer's ability to deliver BEYOND just the 'borrowed style'. But it certainly is a slight let-down to have 'Grimus' be a heavy reminder of 'Ulysses'. I don't know if Joyce borrowed too. :-|

So I once tried to trace the earliest invention. I'd assumed that the earliest 'innovation' that revolutionised humanity was the wheel. But a quick check on the internet yielded pottery as the first human invention. I guess I'd crossed that out because pottery is done on the wheel... well, maybe they intended it to be more like clay-modelling?

Anyway, so there I was wondering HOW anyone would've thought of the working of a wheel. I must admit that my mental faculty proved to be quite limited in this case (atleast). So I exclaimed to a friend, "How do you think our ancestors thought of making a wheel?!". He didn't skip a beat, "Must've seen a round stone rolling down a slope". Which left me in utter disappointment of my own thinking abilities. :-|

So it finally dawned on me, that there is NO 'original' idea. We all draw from the universe and give back to it. The law of conservation of energy.

My dearest dreams come true

2006-08-30T14:47:00.000-07:00

Alright, although this might seem a little too juvenile, maybe my fortune cookie wasn't so wrong.

Here's something that could get SOME of you jealous: I got a hard-bound copy of 'The Satanic Verses' from the library. And oh! Shalimar the Clown too. :D

Now I can read ALL the books I want.. If only I could OWN all those books, have them leather-bound and stock them in a rose-wood panelled library! 8->

2006-08-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

I remember reading this article in our college magazine (fondly or rather, de rigueur-ly named 'Belles Lettres' - and in the bargain, massacring another of the 'Romantic' [to those who understand what romantic with the capital R means. :P] languages), written by an alumni member - do I also qualify as one now, btw? It certainly sounds like a HUGE onus anyway!

So, this article was about how each of us 'evolves', and correspondigly, encounters 'advancements' in our identities. How we're just individuals in school, and are recognised and stereo-typed by our own personal traits. Then we move on to college, where almost everything you do is characterised by WHERE you come from - which I think is unfair. So you're now representing your town/city/state. You know what is now coming - you move out of the country, and you now represent INDIA!! Although this might not be a very rigid rule, you WILL agree that each of us has undergone one or more of these transitions already.

Having to 'behave' Indian has now put me on a more ponderous track... and in almost everything I do, I "compare" notes with life in India. And I still would go back to India. For the pani puri AND for all the sentiments that 'Swades' stands up for - I figured citing a movie for an example would prove more effective. :P

2006-08-26T07:19:00.000-07:00

My fortune cookie yesterday said "Your dearest dreams are coming true". Whatever that means!!

Another 'encounter'

2006-08-24T18:38:00.000-07:00

Well, this happened today, a few hours ago... so it's all too fresh in my mind, and I just cant keep myself from posting it. I dont know if it's gonna smack of vanity/whatever.. but well... Because my friends are hungrily waiting for some 'drama' at my end, I gotta post it.

So, I tag along with a bunch of girls, window-shopping in some shops along our school's lane... Of course we were doing the currency conversions and gasping at the prices. Of course we stopped at the books section and picked up the astrology book to check on the sign of our ideal 'partner' for 2007. Of course we sized up everyone else that was buying the BYOOTIPHUL UPenn jerseys and sweatshirts that were EXORBITANTLY priced. Of course we carefully peeked at the finely-printed price stickers under the Maggi-shelf at the Indian store [Oh, btw.. they only cost about twice as much as they do in India... so I'm now Maggi-happy]. Of course we bought the samosas for 60 cents, swallowed them down with a dollop of ketchup; after which we mentally did the conversion again.

Of course all that happens like everyday. But what ALSO happened to me, was what I'd generally put down as a scene out of a cheesy thriller.. like a Chase maybe? No, maybe a Jackie Collins or Danielle Steel.

I'm standing in an aisle of this grocery store, totally oblivious of blocking human traffic.. so this guy wants to pass. Of course he excuses himself, and of course I apologised and moved out of the way. So he laughs it off with an "Oh! You dont have to apologise!"... So I make a mental note to keep clear of narrow aisles. Then, I'm just loitering around, AGAIN doing some quick math and mentally making a weekly grocery list. Stuff like plain, sugar-frosted cereal, whole milk, wheat bread [remember NOT to buy the 'organic' brown bread], etc.

The guy who's way I was in, earlier comes back and asks "So where you guys from?". I was like "Timbuctu!!" (ok.. that was an aside actually).. so obviously we are beaming "India!!". So he's like.. "Which school are you going to... blah blah.." And then, out of sheer courtesy, I'm like "You?". So he's very casually saying "I'm gonna teach at Wharton" or some such thing. I'm close to popping my eyes out... so I try and maintain a normal conversation.. and he says "How about dinner tonight?". So I'm like... Huh!! Of course I'm politely refusing and he just wont give up... He asks my name, and I wouldnt give it. So he proffers his hand and says "Jim." I shake it. It's like PUTTY!! That's a BAD BAD sign you know. So I quickly say mine. Surprisingly, most of these guys get it RIGHT!!

He wants my number, I dont have one. So he wants me to take his number. I pretend not to have paper on me. So he writes it for me on my palm. 8-| Now HOW cheesy is THAT!!

Gack!! That's pretty much it... And of course, I'm not gonna call him. He's not even one of the bhai-jis, for those who'd be interested...

I still have the number on my palm though. :P

How is America?

2006-08-21T15:53:00.000-07:00

Yeah, me dahling Blur.. if you're reading this: You were right about being haunted/taunted/plagued/whatever by that question after I got here. I've been asked THAT so many times so far, that I've started to see stars (and stripes) each time I answer it.

But since I can't shrug off the curious cats that are my friends (who also make the handful of my blog-readers), and because they know who "Bhai-jis" out here are, and will also eventually figure out who the "others" are, I can nonchalantly write away, without screaming out a disclaimer for the benefit of the 'characters' that are/will be a part of my narration.

Well.. First of all, to answer the question... so far, so good. Everyone still looks 'human', the weather can't get any hotter than it is now (I guess we're hitting 90!) - so I can still refuse to use sunscreen and crib about my tan, money can STILL buy and I'm still a 'clumsy' idiot.

But what about my life here? I guess I can't say much. I've been in Philly for about ten hours now, to be precise.. and I've got like ten thousand things to talk about. But calls are friggin' expensive, and I couldn't "rave" about things on mail.. And I think I'm slowly tuning into the 'self-denial' mode. I cant help but do it, as long as I do the notorious dollar-rupee conversions. Oh, by the way, the dollar's been on the decline. Yay! But JOY never lasts too long. :-<

Most things that happened today, happened while I was alone. Yeah, I was on my own for the most part... and I'm not exactly gifted with a mind for directions. But heck.. I managed not to get myself too lost. How I wish we had our cities as well-planned as this!

To start off with, I've started to feel puny. No, not because I'm err.. a wee bit diminutive, but because I've landed myself in an apartment with some super-smart people. People that do PhDs: at Wharton (!!), at the Penn Medical School and what not. I guess it's pretty much what I felt when I got to my campus at Warangal. So I'm sure it'll pass.

And to finish with (I'm too tired right now, to keep a long story... long?), I met ALL kinds of people today. I had an interview with an Associate Prof. AND a brief 'encounter' with one of my beloved 'bhai-jis'. I guess I won't go into the details of it, but anyway, after all that, I make a mental note NOT to take the same route the next time. So I'm walking around, trying NOT to get lost, and I run into the SAME guy again, on the SAME street.

That's about my life so far....

The thread that binds

2006-08-08T12:28:00.000-07:00

I get kinda' depressed when I don't: smear colours on Holi, light crackers on Diwali, decorate the doors of our house with flowers for Sankranti or eat cross-legged out of banana leaves for Ganesh Chaturthi. It's worse still, when you can't tie a rakhi, only because distance makes brothers dearer.

It's miserable that I couldn't go haggling for rakhis this year! Which means there won't be gifts/chocolates either. Sigh!

But well.. I think this is gonna make me feel better:

Happy Rakshabandhan, to my DEAREST brother...

Ten Things I'd HATE to be doing after getting back from the US of A

2006-08-04T21:09:00.000-07:00

Drink bottled water.
Wear thick cotton socks even with Kolhapuri chappal.
Listen to people advising me against driving, cuz I'll have to drive to the left side of the road now.
Answer people when they ask me if I'd STILL want to come back to India for good.
Say "Hyderabad hasn't changed one bit!!" - it makes for superficial conversation.
Hear relatives argue over how "I" have changed.
Convert the rates on price tags to dollars, and complain about how expensive it is "over there".
Advise kid-cousins what area they should specialise in, to make pots of money: I get to do it already, anyway. 8-|
Spell colour as 'color'.
Forget that I'd NOT want to do the above.

Shades of Sepia

2006-07-24T09:20:00.000-07:00

I have exactly three weeks to go until I leave India, for God knows how long. So that'll be August 14. And in case you haven't noticed, it's the day before the 15th. I vividly remember Independance Day last year. When I walked the streets around my house, hunting for rakhis. (No, I didn't sing the national anthem at any ceremony that day) But, it was the atmosphere that permeated my whole being. Kids wearing the tri-colour for badges, strains of 'Sabarmati Ke Sant', the flag fluttering high, right in the middle of a tiny street where it was hoisted... And again, I'd had that feeling that gives me goose-bumps: which I associate with a very elevated emotion; a mix of pride, solidarity and desire-to-act. THIS is where I belong!

I couldn't quite describe what it is like, for me to leave India. When I think too long about it, it builds up an extreme state of agitation within me. Yes, I'm gonna miss the heat and dust, the rain and clogged drains, the hawkers and haggling, the crowds and traffic, the saffron and green.

And worse still, I'm gonna miss all the people that've been dear to me all these years. And. Hyderabad. The sight of the stolid, grey walls of my school that look like they enclose a fortress (or like I've heard people say: a prison 8-|). The tiny ice-cream place that we used to frequent. The malls that I must've visited a million times so far - with family, friends, and alone too. The road to the railway station and back and the fly-over with its sky studded with huge billboards. All of them are like a panorama of my life. Makes me go "She's got a smile that it seems to me, reminds me of childhood memories..." And yeah, if I stared too long, I WOULD break down and cry.

Oh. My. God.

2006-07-22T22:37:00.000-07:00

I think I use that phrase innumerable times each day. Which means I call upon an omnipotent, omniscient and omnipresent force, just like countless other voices rise in discordance every day, in countless other variations and countless other languages. And each time, I say it as a sort of automatic reaction to a variety of situations. If I pondered upon the phrase, I'd immediately think of that Friends episode. But it certainly doesn't question my faith in that evocation. In fact, I'd be shocked, to say the least, if a voice boomed "Yes, Child?"

It charms me to see people with an unshakeable belief in God and blind devotion to religion. Atleast they KNOW someone's up there looking down upon them. It's like that Barbie 'house' I used to dream about having, as a kid. You watch Barbie having tea, watching TV, reading books, laying out breakfast. And you know you can fix her arm right in, if it fell out of the socket. You know you can make her a new pink lace dress, if she grew out of it. You 'make' her live. She can count on you.

And then, there are some that refuse to acknowledge any divine presence. And some like me, that don't know which side to take, as yet. I read somewhere recently, that the young are more resentful of accepting a supreme deity. As you grow older, and become more aware of your vulnerability, you start to give in. Maybe it's because you begin to get used to the ineluctable idea of 'mortality'. I tend to get morbid when I think of religion. Is it only human frailty that can act as a bitter reminder of a more powerful, arbitrating force; that shines down benevolently as long as you're doing 'right'? It's staggering to think how frail we really are. It scares me each time I wonder how we're still surviving with our limited physical and mental resources. Fortunately, we seem to be the 'cleverest' of all species (on Earth??) - Darwin's Theory of Natural Selectivity?

Besides growing up in an extremely devout environment, I've failed to imbibe an equivalent 'faith' in the Almighty. I DID have bouts of religious fervour though. In school, I'd tag along with friends to the adjoining St. Mary's church whenever we went early to school. Kneeling to pray, lighting candles, sprinkling Holy Water on our heads, accepting Communion, etc. The time, when I would chant Hindu mantras for almost an hour each day until I tired of it... Go to temples EVERY day, during Navratri. And yeah, at midnight on New Year's too. AFTER gorging on the cake that is. :P

And, thanks to Erich Von Daniken. My imagination can now safely take lead when I read mythology. Was Lord Krishna an alien? Why was he blue? Did the Gods use nuclear fuel? SOME flying chariots they had! What a diplomat Noah must've been. Was Moses some kind of a 'favourite'? Is this sacrilege?? Or maybe God can give me the benefit of doubt?

I wonder what it will take to attain enlightenment. I REALLY would like to know. Renunciation? Self-denial? Devoutness?

I can't stop thinking of Courtney Love. :-|

Being Single, Selfish and Satisfied

2006-07-21T21:55:00.000-07:00

What's the deal with the world these days? Water's (bottled, of course) costlier than wine in Australia, they sell petrol for Rs. 3 per litre in Iraq, and people I thought "dumb" come up and talk "sense". We're all running upside down. (Eerily enough, that reminds me of my favourite scene in 'The Exorcist'. Brr!!) The person in question is Paris Hilton. Now, I don't have anything against blondes really. In fact, I rather like most of Reese Witherspoon's outfits in both the Legally Blonde movies. :P It's only about Hilton.. pardon my spite, but she exudes an air of dim-wittedness. However, this time around, looks like she's on the road to self-discovery - don't we all need it?

This is what she said, last month, on Letterman's show:

"I'm single for the first time in my life. I just want to be alone. I'm just going out with my sister and my girlfriends. It's cool not having to answer to anyone. I've never had time to get to know myself, I always put all of my energy into the man. I don't get to spend time on me. I'm just getting to know who I really am, until I can find someone else."

Period.

Untitled2

2006-06-15T10:45:00.000-07:00

There are times when I wish science-fiction would come true.. and yesterday was one such occasion. It reminded me of this book by Clarke, I'd read YEARS ago.. I think it was '3001: A Space Odyssey', where this guy travels at a speed SLIGHTLY lower than that of light [about 99% of c] and notices that his wrist watch seems to have slowed down, he can actually count upto a number, between each second. Of course that follows basic Physics [traveller's time = terrestrial time * sqrt{1 - (traveller's speed / speed of light)²}]; but at that time, it seemed like the most fascinating thing to me. I'd fantasize travelling at such speeds to visit the future, and find out if they'd discovered a technique to visit the past.

However, this time, I was occupied with less 'utopian' ideas. I was on my way to see off this VERY VERY dear friend of mine at the railway station, and got caught in the heavy evening traffic. Every second of the way, I was willing some supreme power to transport me at even one-tenth the speed of light - I knew I'd make it even if I could just stay time by a fraction. However, the power chose to ignore me and, as always, the traffic decided to clobber us all down with our individual anxieties. But, I finally DID reach in time - after running so hard, that my throat went SO dry that I couldn't swallow and my heart hammered like it would burst, only to see the train glide away. And yeah, I DID miss her. Sigh!

Driving in Hyderabad is like a hit-release-hit-release (the break-pedal) routine. On a good day, I hit 40 and land home with my feet hot and aching from holding down the pedals; on a bad day, I don't have to push the gear out of the first, don't have to bother honking and can blissfully inhale all the lead-laden fumes surrounding us, like it was some ethereal miasma.

If you've noticed, I've called this post 'Untitled2'. For those of you that are curious, it's simply because I knew this one wasn't going to have a preordained theme. And besides, I've often been accused of writing posts that seem to meander aimlessly and finally come full circle.. and this one won't be any different.

A few days ago, I'd hinted to Hijake, that I might recount some of my latest culinary expeditions on my blog. And although it will be hard to persuade those who know me well, that I DID NOT fall dead from food-poisoning or atleast fall ill after tasting a product of my cooking, I shall nevertheless venture to force some of my newly acquired skills and knowledge upon the unsuspecting reader.

But come to think of it, there's just ONE thumb-rule to follow when you're cooking - trust your 'senses'. And that is certainly NOT what I learnt from Penelope Cruz [in her décolleté, blood-red attire] in 'Woman on Top', if that's what you're thinking. However, you could turn out to be a failure if your cortex is slightly delayed in its functioning. I'm sure you've heard of the fact that, on an average, we all utilise only one-tenth of our cortex. And since I can hardly call myself extra-ordinary [I hope you can appreciate my humility], I tend to goof-up when that one-tenth is urging all my receptors to indulge in more fanciful occupations. Like getting lost in the voice of Freddie Mercury. And imagining my ingredients and utensils singing to the strains of Bohemian Rhapsody...

Chorus: "Is this the real life, is this just fantasy?..."
...
Onions: "I'm just a poor boy, nobody loves me..."
Chorus: "He's just a poor boy, from a poor family, spare him his life from this monstrosity" (all my vessels - caught in a delirium of camaraderie)
Tomatoes: "Easy come, easy go, will you let me go home?"
...
Me: "No.. We will not let you go"
Chorus: "Let him go!"
...

And so it goes. While I'm caught in a sort of anarchistic uprising, the rest of Rome burns. I don't play the violin, but I'm already crooning "I WANT TO BREAK FREE!!"

It Rained

2006-06-02T23:55:00.000-07:00

It rained in May, and mangoes are aplenty. So, it's like a perfect (last??) summer vacation. I don't wake up to read death-toll numbers of the heat-wave in the news this time. But well, there's something ELSE that HAS been in the news though. And I'm sure you know the answer.. 49.7% reservation? And any mention of the issue would automatically raise the din of a harangue, to justify MY stance, or rather, OUR stance. But I'm NOT going to do that now, especially not after my abnormally long hiatus from blogging. Mainly because the past few months have probably been some of the most eventful ones of my life, and partly because I can't pour out as much conviction as you must have been subjected to already.

Firstly, I've turned twenty-one. And I can now demand to be treated more like an adult, and my wisdom/experience cannot be merely termed as beginner's luck any more. [But age has a down-side. Read: Quarter-life crisis. Or maybe, more like 'one-third life crisis' - considering sixty-three is a pretty optimum age to live upto. You don't begin to lose your teeth just as yet (and salt-and-pepper hair is de rigueur)] So, I'm beginning to think of life as 'short', and I'm disappointed that I haven't yet tasted all the varieties of cheese that France produces. I haven't even earned my first million, that most child prodigies achieve by the time they're old enough to drive with a licence. :P

Secondly, one of the greatest miracles in modern times occured - I got accepted at one of the 'Ivy League' universities. And I'm poised to fly across the Atlantic (and even swim with the sharks if we crash unceremoniously, into the sea) in a couple of months, IF the FBI gives me a clean-chit and absolves me of taking an online fire-arms course. I wonder if my first words, on catching glimpse of the Statue of Liberty will be recorded in gilded History records. My memory's bad and history poor.. so I don't quite remember what Columbus said or how Vasco da Gama exclaimed; but I'm sure I can think up something significant enough, if I'm promised my words won't be ignored. Even if it something as unimaginative as humming "We're sailing to Philadelphia...".

Thirdly, I've discovered that people AND places CAN be 'missed'. Also, that friendship involves a lot of forgiveness and indulgence. So, I was naturally surprised to find that we all are very forgiving of each other, and that each of us is intolerable in one way or other; and that the world is one precariously balanced system that is quickly adjusted by ineffable events, as soon as the scales tip one way. But that is besides my point.. I was going to say that nostalgia is a funny thing. Why think of times past, when you haven't even got enough time to think ahead? I used to associate nostalgia with the old, but maybe you OUGHT to look back and ponder over the first one-third of your life... and all these ideas create a stronger impression of being twenty-one years old. AND of becoming (irrevocably), a B.Tech. graduate.

And finally, I fell down and grazed my knees yesterday. :- And although YOU wouldn't deem that important enough to mention here, you WOULD understand how it hurts when the scabs are fresh and moisture burns them. So, until my scabs are dry and brown, in other words, old enough to pick at... I'll continue to reminisce over my school days and campus-life through my holiday-torpor, and cheer up occasionally when it rains, and get my feet dirty in road-side puddles.

Mah Myoojik...

2006-02-01T16:00:00.000-08:00

Just when I'm beginning to slip into the despair of having nothing to write about, someone 'tags' along and nudges me into posting one on "things about me". You could complain about my renewed 'tag-chasing', and frown at how 'shallow' I seem to have become. You could sneer at my consecutive posts that talk ONLY about my personal likes/dislikes, or merely shrug it off in indifference. But well... a blogger has GOT TO post...

This time, it's about MUSIC. Which by the way, did not mean too much to me, until a few years ago. Books kept me going, and I STILL can do without music, if I had a good book to pore over. I'm not as 'authoritative' about music, as I am about literature... and yet, music IS a second love; so I'll go ahead and post this one. When I think of music, I inevitably think of Bollywood. Which was probably MY definition of music, as a child. I think the first ever 'song' that I sang to myself was 'Ek Do Teen'. :P I guess I actually learnt my Hindi numbers like that... I found it tougher to learn the ones AFTER thirteen. In school, it was predominantly pop, with a smattering of country and classic rock; and now, it's a mixed bag...

I got tagged by: Blur

Total volume of music on my computer: About 30GB I guess (I'm limited by my 40GB hard-disk), and a few more on CDs

Title and Artiste that I last bought: Err... "Bought" did you say?? I think I'll pass.

Song I'm playing NOW: Ozzy's 'Mamma I'm coming home'

Five+ Songs that I like/have been hooked to lately:
- Hand in the Pocket (Alanis Morrisette): This one makes me feel 'liberated'. And (strangely enough) it ALSO reminds me of Rhett Butler.. "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."
- Beautiful Day (U2): I bet you can think of a song that forces you to take another look at the world, at your life. And no matter how rotten your day is/was, you'd smile inwardly and tell yourself 'Life IS Beautiful'. This is mine.
- Papa Don't Preach (Madonna): I have a weird adjective for this song - RAW! Yeah.. it's got a raw appeal to it. The lyrics cut right through you.
- I Shot the Sheriff (Bob Marley): I like most of Marley's stuff, but THIS one's just TOO good: Humour AND Irony!!
- The Man who Sold the World (Nirvana): I'm not doing justice by singling out just this one, cuz there are plenty other Nirvana that are EXCEPTIONAL. But I like his timbre in this one.
- Losing My Religion (REM): Because it captures SOME agony, and touches a cord.
- Johnny B. Goode (Chuck Berry): I make motion of strumming a guitar and tap my foot furiously, every time I listen to it.
- Free Bird (Lynyrd Skynyrd): I think this song is just BEAUTIFUL. There's a spirit that RINGS through it, and carries you far beyond.
I actually think it's unfair of me to stop at that, cuz I haven't listed a lot of others that are a constant part of my playlist: Guns 'n Roses, Aerosmith, Dire Straits, my Indian favourites, etc. But, I picked those off the top of my head...

I think I'll tag Shrutz. SWEET REVENGE!! >:) But actually, I'm curious... It's ALWAYS been books between us.

BOOK-tagged!!

2006-01-15T14:30:00.000-08:00

Shrutz tagged me.. again! And that seems aeons ago, but I'm keeping my promise to you Fhruti (NOT a typo). :D So here's what I read...

To me, reading is an OBSESSION. It doesn't matter WHAT I'm reading, it could be a novel, a mag, a newspaper editorial, a daily cartoon, a comic or the preface of my text-book. But, it makes me all queasy when I don't lay eyes on print for atleast five minutes, EVERY day. Unlike most other voracious readers, I did not inherit my reading habits from my family. NOONE reads in my family (not even second/third/fourth cousins, that I haven't met!).. atleast not the amount any self-respecting regular reader should. I guess it just sprung up in me. I've never really had anyone guiding me to read this or that... so I've experimented with a lot of crap, including James Hadley Chase, a couple of Mills & Boon and a few sleazy Indian authors. I began my reading career with 'Study in Scarlet', a Sherlock Holmes adventure. Of course that was preceded by a stint with Tinkle, Champak, Fairy-tales, Amar Chitra Katha, Sweet Valley University, Carolyn Keene, Franklyn Dixon, etc. Then I moved on to this "phase" with Arthur C. Clarke. That was when I used to frequent the British Library in Hyderabad. I was too young to hold an account (I nagged my dad to get one for me), and too small to reach for the keyboard and search for titles on their online catalogue; so I'd tag along with my dad, gawk in awe at the rows of racks; and scan them for random, interesting sounding names. That's how I chanced upon Clarke. Once, the 'latest arrivals' section had 'Fall of Moondust' featured; THAT caught my fancy, and got me hooked to science fiction.

It's strange that I actually DID read some masterpieces just by picking books that had unusual names. For example: The Club of Queer Trades, by G. K. Chesterton; Garden of Rama, by Arthur C. Clarke and Gentry Lee; Inversions, by Ian M. Banks; Expedition to Earth, by Clarke and Past Imperfect, by John Matthews. And then, there were times when I'd pick an eye-catching dust jacket, read the title and the review at the back; and borrow it from our TINY local library. By this time, I was also talking to OTHER 'avid' readers, so I was on the way to developing more refined taste. One remarkable thing about my reading history, is that I went through the 'Sidney Sheldon' phase AFTER I'd read a lot of classics, including Jane Austen and Margaret Mitchell. You may ask how I even got down to them, from that elitist perch... I think it was the easy availability of Sheldons in high-school, and the wicked plots and characters that attracted me. I read EVERY Sheldon that I could lay hands on. But NOW, I SHUN them!

I think what makes your 'taste' in books, is what you SEEK through them. Is it just a favourite pastime, a break from your hectic schedule, a source to rejuvenate your expression, a need to stay "in" your circle, or a form of therapy? I guess that question will have a composite answer, but it pretty much leads to solve the books-that-you-LOVE(D) puzzle. The first category would include adventure, action and mystery; the second would include non-fiction (the fact that I HAVEN'T read too much non-fiction implies the fact that I'm mostly jobless); the third will probably mean a lot of epics and classics (??); the fourth should include works by Pulitzer and Nobel prize winners, and the latest 'rage'; and the fifth would primarily depend on WHAT is of therapeutic value to you. But then, I'm sure there's no stereotyping allowed here, and you wouldn't fit into any of these anyway.

To me, a good book is one that is well written, with a distinct style; and one that changes the way I think. Distinct style would be characterised by that of Shakespeare ( for obvious reasons), Jane Austen (yeah! the round-about, LONG sentences, riddled with ten-lettered words), Salman Rushdie (the most insane, inane, bizarre, shocking, outrageous, lurid, blasphemous writing I've ever read), and maybe others that I haven't read. And there are plenty of books that have shaped the way I think, even Sheldon (!!) The ones that I can immediately recall are 'Gone With the Wind', 'The Diary of a Young Girl', 'Kane and Abel', 'Timeline', 'Roots' (I fell in LOVE with Africa), 'The Day of the Jackal', 'H. M. S. Ulysses', Chekhov, 'Frankenstein', 'Wuthering Heights', 'Les Miserables', 'Vanity Fair', 'Life of Pi' and 'War and Peace'. I think I could go on, at my own accord about books, but I'm SUPPOSED to answer these, as a part of the tag-chase:

Number of books I own: This is a shamefully small number - about fifty (or less) I think. But it's justified by the fact that nobody reads in my family, and I've always BORROWED books. And besides, I think all my Tinkles, Tintins and Amar Chitra Kathas have been sold. Sigh!

Last book I read: I AM reading about four books in parallel at the moment, so its been a coupla' months since I FINISHED reading one. The one I read last is called "Haroun and The Sea of Stories", by Rushdie. It's this VERY imaginative, fairy-tale. And it's HINDUSTANI. :D Has names like 'Baatcheat Chatterjee', 'Iff and Butt', 'Gup', 'Chup', a moon called 'Kahani', 'Prince Bolo'; and a host of other colourful characters. Of course, there's the incisive style and derisory humour.. but well..

Last book I bought: That was YEARS ago - Gone With The Wind!! And that was a second-hand copy for hundred bucks. :-I The book is PRICELESS to me. The last book I bought for my friend(s) however, was more recent... but never mind that.

5+ books that mean a LOT to me:
- Secrets of the Oceans (or something like that): I was gifted this book for my seventh birthday. It was a HUGE, hard-bound book, full of large pictures and scientific literature about the under-water world. I don't know who thought of it (Bless them!) The book was too big for me, but I'd sit cross-legged on the floor and devour those strange creatures. I still haven't lost my fascination for ocean-life - the beautiful sting-ray and the terrifying octopus, the kindly turtle and the ruthless shark...
- Wars of the Twentieth Century: Again, I can't name the author(s), 'coz I don't know where it's disappeared. I DIG History, and especially WARS. So this was like manna to me.
- Gone With The Wind (Margaret Mitchell): I know there are a lot of people that will scoff at this. But I've read that book thrice over, and it was the first 'epic' novel that I bought. Maybe I attach some emotion to it.
- The Rama series (Arthur C. Clarke and Gentry Lee): Like I've said earlier, I've always been charmed by SF. And Clarke does his job well!
- Timeline (Micheal Crichton): If you've read the book, it needs no explanation from me. I fancy myself as Marek. :D
- The Arabian Nights - The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night [Volume I] (translated by Richard Burton): I know you'd have watched Alif Laila, which by the way, does NO justice to these stories. They date back to the 8th Century AD!! No modern romp can match that of 'The Porter and the Three Ladies', and no Harry Potter can tip Sindbad. I read that book like it was a DREAM!!
- Roots (Alex Haley): Gone With the Wind symapthises with the American women of the South, and sort of demonises the Blacks. But 'Roots' gives you a darker perspective. I LIVED every moment of Kunta Kinte's life as I read that.
- The Count of Monte Cristo (Alexandre Dumas): A quintessential fairy-tale.. for grown-ups. Very fascinating and very poignant!
- Life of Pi (Yann Martel): This is one of the best books that I've read from contemporary fiction. The writing is fantastic, and the story is inspiring. Better still, it's about a tiger - my favourite animal. It shaped the way I now think about religion.
- Animal Farm (George Orwell): This one reminded me of 'Tintin in the Land of the Soviets'. It's a BRILLIANT satire.
- To Look and Pass (Taylor Caldwell): I can bet most of my readers haven't even heard of this one. Maybe you wouldn't even think of it as a striking comparison with the others that I've listed here. No religious symbolism, no adventure, no SF, no war, no history, no great story-line, no forceful characters, no famous author. But I still hold it high... I think it touched me more closely than most others books did.

I'll pass this one on to Kiran, because he JUMPED at the idea of writing this tag.

A 'crajee' dedication...

2006-01-06T21:45:00.000-08:00

To YOU, my friend. LOL!!

Random Musing

2005-12-29T22:00:00.000-08:00

Apollo-111 had CRASH-LANDED. To a bird's eye (though there was barely any sign of life in this forsaken place), it would have appeared like a speck on one of the infinite craters that mottled the surface. But, inside that speck hummed hundreds of thousands of tiny machines, that cocooned a fragile life - that of Neil Armstrong Jr. A hundred years after the first landing on the moon, all of the complicated calculations and complex engineering had apparently gone wrong. "It's not my turn to say, 'One small step on the moon is a giant leap for mankind'", thought Armstrong Jr. And THEN, it fell on him like a thunderbolt - was HE the first man on the moon?

Scored Out

2005-12-14T22:00:00.000-08:00

Shrutz here tagged me. And because we're playing tag, and someone's gotta keep score; I'll say no more, and tell you things about me, in order, score. (that's like.. umm... TWENTY secrets??!!) **Gulp**

If I could hitch a ride on a time-machine; I'd pull the lever to "Past", wind the spring to "Medieval" and shoot for it. I've got a 'thing' for gore, it excites me.

When I was younger, I'd read Shobha De, Maureen Dowd, and the likes; and secretly hope to write like them someday - a newspaper column, with my name on the top.

I think I was about eight, and my dad decided I needed to get some 'art'. So he asked me to choose between classical dance/music and painting. I chose the latter, went for summer classes, discovered some weak talent, won a coupla' prizes, and then gave up. Now, when we visit museums, dad's shoving me to the art gallery, I'm longing to look at the swords and rifles.

I've considered a variety of career options. But, more than ANYTHING, I used to want to be a journalist. Like my dad was. He once told me how he pelted stones at Indira Gandhi's convoy, in college; and then interviewed her a few years later, as a journo. THAT left me fascinated.

I have a fetish for embroidering my OWN clothes. Especially geometric and floral patterns, with beads, sequins and mirrors thrown in for effect. So, if the needle seems to have faltered, and the design's a wee bit skewed, you have it - MY handiwork.

I HATE Recipe books. That's because I don't like doing things the way they're supposed to be. A small amount of improvisation, and a little innovation can't harm!

I used to fight TERRIBLY with my niece, who's thirteen years younger. Back in high school, I'd have my face permanently scarred. I'd snap at her, she'd lunge for me. But, I LOVE that kid!

If you asked me to draw the first thing that came to my mind, it'll be a row of perfectly conical mountains, with the sun shining through their shoulders. A brook flowing at their feet, and a tiny village in the valley below. Huts without doors, a well, a cat, and a lehenga-choli clad girl, with a pot full of water.

I like the 'Barney' songs. Of the "I love you, you love me; we are happy family" and the "Stop Kookaburra stop, Kookaburra leave some (berries) there for me" genre.

The most recurrent dream I've ever had, is of a HUGE tiger chasing me into the woods. My heart's hammering so hard, that I can hear it in my ears (even in my sleep!). The way it ends, changes each time.

Death doesn't scare me; but the thought of going blind does. I'm myopic, and I DREAD losing my eye-sight. It used to be very frightening, when they'd drip those drops in my eyes at the doc's and tell me to keep them shut for a while. I'd hear the news playing, people chattering, kids crying, cars screeching, but I couldn't SEE!

I feel sorry for fish in aquariums. Boxed up in silly, transparent cases; fed with crappy protein; swimming in fouled water; taken away from their natural habitat and having to watch tight-faced weirdos stare at them all the time. They can't even reach out through bars and rattle the 'cage'. But, I wonder if they care.

I used to borrow the 'Economic Times' from my classmate every Wednesday. To read Dilbert.

I learnt up the 8086 microprocessor pin-diagram, by associating the pin functions with my class-mates having the corresponding roll number.

In my twelfth-grade (Intermediate-II), I'd walk back home, with my head FULL of numbers. I'd calculate squares and cubes; and think of easier techniques for division. It used to be FUN!

When I feel like 'Google'-ing things up; and I can't think of much else, I try "How to make explosives". Sometimes, I consider using a proxy server; because Anti-Terrorist Agencies might be watching. :P

I believe a prayer always has to begin with a "Thank You". Thank You, God. For lizards, here in India, don't fly; rats don't fall off the ceiling and gnaw at my hair. Thank you, for not giving me eyes at the back of my head, or I'd be able to see the dog snapping while it's chasing me. Thank you for not giving me sweat glands on my upper palate, I don't like things too salty, especially when it's hot outside. And thank you for giving me the strength to wake up today, and hit the 'Snooze' button.

A purr-fect day begins with a healthy breakfast. And the one that best suits my taste is good ol' Idli Sambar. I'd DIE for soft, steamed idlis with piping hot, heavenly-tasting sambar.

I INVARIABLY forget milk boiling on the stove. It's like a curse. I HAVE to spill atleast THAT much, when I make myself some coffee.

I enjoy chopping vegetables, but I'm CLUMSY at it. I can't remember the last time I did it, WITHOUT having some skin peeled off my fingers.

I think I'll pass the baton to:

Abhijit - Been too idle with a burnt MoBo, but THAT's no excuse to stop blogging!

Kiran - EnTranced, you say? You've been tagged nonetheless. :P So RUN!

Vamsi - Let the CAT prep lie for a while, and chase it.

Pav Bhaji, Pani Puri and an Ice Gola later....

2005-12-14T11:53:00.000-08:00

It's VERY early in the morning, right now. So early, that I can still taste the mint in my tooth-paste, and recall a few of the strange dreams that I had last night. It's SEVEN O'CLOCK. [Which I assure you, will NOT be the time of POSTING this]

What is it about a vacation, that's SO numb-ing? You don't hear the clock ticking!! You don't know it's the weekend until there are additional supplements with the newspaper, you don't know it's Christmas until they're showing 'The Grinch' on TV. And I think I'm beginning to love it - the blissful ignorance of the insanity that lies beyond. But, it won't be too long until I miss campus-life. To deliberately steal (maybe YANK) time out of an incredibly packed schedule for a silly B'wood movie, to scour the bottom of the potato-chips bag and salve the last crumbs, to try HARD and keep a straight-face in class when the Prof says something that's unimaginably stupid. What I DEFINITELY WILL NOT miss though, is the hapless glances at my watch, every minute, of each hour-long lecture. Maybe it's despair, but the tiny dial looks like a monster-clock to me, every time I take a peek at it. I TRY and PULL the minutes-hand down, so it runs faster. But I just keep getting tinier, and the hand gets bigger and heavier. It's SO huge now, that I'm hanging from it. Now I'm using my weight, but it just WON'T move! O..K... I think it just did, but there.. it's sprung back into place. Sigh!! Who says 'Time Flies'??

But it IS true, Time's an incredible rush! I'm in the middle of my winter vacation, fighting the bitter cold; I'm rummaging through assorted trash on my hard-disk; and here's what i found. A post (that never WAS posted!) that I wrote when the semester was 'young' - VERBATIM. :P

Just for the information of the precious few that form the 'elite' group of my patrons, I'm back on our sprawling(do i hear objections?), GREEN campus; after 10 weeks of internship at Lucent Technologies, Hyderabad (for the obscenely, inexplicably ignorant.. Lucent Tech. is an offshoot of the phamous Bell Labs - guess where the enigmatic, bipolar junction transistor came from?!) As is the case EVERY new academic year, it's that time of the year, when everything and everyone is scurrying hither and thither to get the neglected state of the NITW {(formerly known as RECW) - Deemed University} campus back into what civilization would call "habitable". To add to the melee is Campus Recruitment; that inevitable roller coaster ride, which every "about to step out into the big, bad world" fresher can take, without a paid ticket.

However, this post of mine is a chronologically ordered sequence of 'oeuvres', that were typed-in on my humble PC, in my now furnished room. The Internet is a luxury, in the jungle that I live in now. I've even had one of the fans(yeah, the antediluvian three-winged somethings, that read "Usha"/"Crompton Greaves" in most places) in my room start turning with loud complaints the first time I switched it on, and then, screech haltingly after which EVEN a sacrificial offering can't propitiate it!! Alright then.. here we go...

12th July, 2005 (Tuesday)
I finally have all my cartons lying on the not-so-clean floor of my new room, and my beloved PC hastily connected together atop a Hindu paper (today's edition!). I guess the whole place is screaming to be cleaned.. so all I'll say is that it's funny to be back here. I thought I'd cry when the train left the bustling Secunderabad station on Saturday; but before I knew it, Kazipet was here!! And, now...!!! It feels as great as ever..

15th July, 2005 (Friday)
It's been a PHENOMENAL day!! We had a couple of DREAM companies hiring today.. and I was on my 'Placement Co-ordinator' job - one that i took up for the sheer joy of finding people their IDEAL jobs and live through the excitement of the whole activity. And, all the doggedness that is a part of the package doesn't even hold a candle to the euphoria that greets you, each time a short-list is announced. It's amazing how suffused anyone could get, with JOY.. and it's contagious!! I thought I'd burst with happiness whenever I saw a face lit up by the brightest of smiles.

Unfortunately, that 'chronology' ended there. I think the rest of the placement season was spent in attending endless Pre-Placement Talks, and waiting for short-lists, with fingers-crossed, hoping that THAT 'deserving' friend of yours gets into THIS one! I forgot about the post, the campus came back to life, the cog got out of the mud, and the wheel set into motion...

NOW, all that has been stashed away, to be trodden upon, only when there's a need for a 'walk down Memory Lane' - a series of sepia-tinted pictures. I celebrated home-coming, by indulging in "Pav Bhaji, Pani Puri and an Ice Gola" at Abids. It's WONDERFUL to eat good food, makes me REALLY happy. :P I'm now back from a whirlwind tour of Mumbai, Nasik, Panchvati, et al. And I guess train journeys (down South, atleast), offer the same painting-style landscapes. Mountains (the Aravallis, this time), hills, rivers, fields, tiny huts... But, it IS fun, trying to make shapes out of the mountains; just like it is, to conjure stuff out of clouds. A herd of rhinoceroses, probability-distribution functions, a collection of party-hats, a blind giant, a pixie's ear...

What I took, to read on the journey, is a book titled "Miracles of the Gods - A Hard Look at the Supernatural" by Erich Von Daniken. If THAT name rings a bell, it's probably because you've either read, or heard of his other, rather popular book called 'Chariots of the Gods' - VERY interesting! I didn't have oppurtunity to savour more than fifty-pages of 'miracles', but I DID get to take a HARD look at the Preternatural, though. At Mumbai, that is. While I write..err..type this, I'm reminded of the pictures of Hyderabad, I'd once posted; claiming it to be THE most beautiful city. I admit I went overboard with the "beauty" bit, but I confirm that it STILL is one of the best cities to live in. Not too expensive, not too crowded, not too polluted, not too corrupt, not too dirty. However, Hyderabad DOES suffer some notoriety. Whatever it may be, nothing can beat the lassitude that ripples beneath the city's cover. You see vehicles rushing, people pushing; but the langour's there. Not noticeable, but VISIBLE. Mumbai on the other hand, seems to be in a perpetual hurry. Like a string of 'Old Cities' glued together. And, no discussion of the city can be complete without a reference to the sub-urban trains. It's like the Tantra T-shirt that reads: 'Indian Railways: Since 150 years - Bringing people closer than ever'. A PRESS of people!

There are a countless things/people that spring to my mind, when I think of the last five days. But, I think the most remarkable ones are just a handful:

The cottages on the hills in Khandala, that you can see from the train. THE place to settle in, if you ever wanted to write a book.

The tourist guide who called this place "Baandh-ra Ri-kala-ma-(na)-shun [Reculmination, I thought]". The board read 'Bandra Reclamation'. It's like calling a gentleman, a genital-man!!

The kindly sabzi-mandi lady on the sub-urb train, who was carrying this HUGE wicker-basket of greens.

The boat-ride to the Elephanta Caves: the Japanese tourist, the calm waters, Lionel Ritchie playing in the background.

The kid at Sion Centre, who was trying to draw a red tilak on a street-dog's forehead, with a sketch-pen.

A questionable 'shop' that read "Crazy Land Video Game, Police License No. 270/2001", and the unmistakable jingle of coins, and shuffling of stakes.

Juhu Chowpatty, and the little girl who lost her parents in the crowd.

The walk from the Gateway of India, to Churchgate; the 'Café Royal' and the cricket-match being played at 'The Oval'.

The Godavari at Panchvati, and the children splashing about, in it.

Sir Hyenatius' Fall From Grace

2005-10-30T13:00:00.000-08:00

Hark, oh ye, philanderer;
Riding on a 'steely steed',
Thy ineptitude tearing the twain asunder
'Tis time ye concede,
And submit to charges of slander
For the sun has dawned, pay heed
The point will smite, the wounded will bleed

Here, larks sing, paeans ring,
Finery, viand, victual, spread,
Raiment that befit a King
While Fires of hell, the Beast (raise its head)
To ye, they shall, visions of the 'Nemesis' bring
What verse, shall we use in prose's stead,
To poison the lesions that've long bled?

Sir Hyenatius X, of noble ranks, ye say,
Of flighty rapidity and rapid flight?
Watchful sentinels of the Earth, nay
Of the nether kingdoms, pardon the slight
What care have ye wrought, answer this, I pray
Ne'er has thy palm touched whetstone, or mite
Nor in the commons' heart, did passion ignite

Spoken, have ye, of the Clan's treachery
Spiteful venom from thy forked tongue, oh heretic
So I shall, dispel, amend, fight Fate's vagary
And dip my quill, cast words, further this polemic
Allow the audience to mull upon the current quandary
While I attack thy jugular, here is my rhetoric
Ye shall writhe in pain, drown it, go **hic hic**

Did ye not cower, find solace in cocktail
Mix rum, vodka, gin, wine and beer?
Whilst the Queen burn'd at the stake, and terror entail
I mixed the Molotov, ye cringed in fear,
Found solace in spirits, forgot to protect the frail
Alas! Now, with thy falsity, ye sear
Accuse a heart, which is to the Kingdom, dear!

Awkwardsinusoidalfunctions, jewels of God's Eye,
Of brilliance in quality, and rarity of deed
Retribution's the middle name, thy end is nigh
Sir Pretty-V too has conspired to kill the weed
Ye show us blood on the earth, we point to the sky
The azure has deepened, the clouds decree'd,
Stay to spar, or fly on the damnable steed

In cruelty, ye revel, in love, find repair,
Did ye not, misuse, in fallacy, the same Love's name,
With 'wile and trickery', a noble's virtue compare?
I shall confer with Justice; Fie Fie, 'tis a shame
Ye shall be indicted, suffer comeuppance, fair
Mister-s and Miss-es, witness this game,
Arbitrate, punish the wrongdoer, set Evil aflame.

Gah-wind's Story (A Sequel)

2005-10-25T20:30:00.000-07:00

Prologue:
Revenge, they say, is a double-edged sword. But strangely
enough, mine only has a carved, blunted edge of the hilt strongly fitted at one end and a poisoned, piercing point at the other. The hilt is safely still in my hand, while the blade is ready to impale the adversary. THIS however, is NOT what I need to give a curious bystander for an introduction. This post stands as a testament to the glory of LOVE (especially, to that witnessed in this author's previous work: "Love Story"), and hence, to honour the convention that Erich Segal fulfilled after his schmaltzy novel, with an even greater tear-jerker.. titled 'Oliver's Story'.. and in memory of Oliver Barrett, I have been commissioned with this mammoth task of recording the fate that awaited our noble man, Gah-wind. (However much I hate reading Prologues and more often, Forewords, I've HAD to write one this time. Forewords are baneful, because:

They take the joy out of reading by narrating circumstances in the story BEFORE you can even tread on it
Sometimes, they make you realise that the person who wrote the Foreword might have been a better writer than the one who's reeled out the muck that you got into later; AFTER you buy the book -- Believe me, I felt that way about five years ago after reading Jane Austen's "Sanditon"

I wouldn't want to do the first, and the second is an impossibility, cuz, I will finish this story, unless my thoughts freeze by some macabre freak of fortune [or rather, misfortune]. And hence, without much ado, I shall begin on this fascinating story.)

The story so far:
The rakish Gah-wind and the 'pretty' Pretty-V spent several months
together, simpering at each other by day, and sighing in solitude by the moonlight. There were those, to whom this powerful union deified THAT abstract emotion that very few have had oppurtunity to experience; and there were those, to whom the sight of unlikely duo inspired.. errr...transpired, or maybe: induced a terrible nausea that heightened every time their clammy palms met. Alas!! A transgression such as this - an attempted defiance of the laws of Nature, a curse to the self-righteous Conservatives was not to be. Strange are the quirks of Fate, she joins two souls in what may seem to be the perfect communion and then tears them apart with the savagery that even a hungry beast cannot match. And what should now happen to those two wretched hearts? Do they quietly die in grief? Do they drown in lachrymose lament? Do they silently suffer for eternity? Those are questions that WE-who have not seen ALL cannot answer. However, that line of digression should not distress us now. What really happened with our friends here is: NOTHING! Yes, NOTHING!! One fine day, their love for each other seemed to have deserted them. Gone, POOF!! Just like that -- AWOL. And life still moved on, slow as ever.

Gah-wind haunted the NITW campus on his newly acquired moped (which, as I have often confirmed, looks very much like a moulting moth). Frowning in the harsh sunlight, he personified all bestial adjectives. His face reflected dark wrath (directed towards whom? - nobody dared to guess), his mouth was always twisted in fury and his eyes shone with shocking malice. In the dark, even lost spirits cringed at the very sound of his sputtering, somewhat blue-d vehicle. The wind stopped whistling, squirrels hurriedly scampered away, trees stopped swaying and then... with tyres squealing, smoke billowing behind him, appeared our hero. He was just exhibiting that dangerous stunt, banking dangerously around the corner; and.... he flew off the bike! For a moment, it seemed like he was rising to the heavens. Arms flailing, metal shining and limbs crunching. And then life came back to normal - the wind whistled, squirrels hopped back to get their forgotten nuts, the trees shook free the inertia and Gah-wind cried out: "MUMMY!!!"

And he spent the next few weeks in the placidity of a hospital ward - listening to the rustle of the nurses' starched uniforms and lost in the encompassing whiteness-of the walls, the shining floor, the bed-covers and his restricting casts. Then he emerged - a healed man; a little warped in the limbs, but lubricated in the heart. Now, the roads had a different story to tell. The wind whispered, squirrels wrestled and trees blossomed. And Gah-wind smiled!

Enter: The delightful new protagonist of our story - Jay-Lee. SHE, let me make it clear: SHE was the quintessential, matchless, Oriental beauty. The kind of beauty that can put a thousand candles to shame; make a fresh rose appear like a lily; freeze fish in the aquarium, leaving them staring with their pouting mouths; turn Narcissus suicidal; flutter the hearts of all; and leave Gah-wind bedazzled. So taken in with her was he, that the famous "Twenty thousand brothers couldn't match my love for Ophelia" seems like an amateurish estimation. Language does not allow the superlatives that I am burdened with, to be able to express the potency of the affection that our hero shared for her. She was Scarlett O'Hara in her wiles, and Melanie Wilkes in her kindness; Portia in her brilliance, and Miranda in her sweetness. A cut above the rest, a diamond better than the best. So.. it is time hat our hero moved on from rhinestones(sorry, Pretty-V, if you're reading this) to diamonds.

If ever there was a "rose" that had smelt "sweeter", it would have grown only in Eden (and long sacrificed to the whims of Eve). It was the sweetest of roses indeed, that had perfumed the love that permeated the beings of Gah-wind and Jay-lee. It did everything to their fist-sized hearts - capture, rapture and enrapture. I am, almost paralysed with emotion, to talk about their mutual admiration. I choke on my own words (or is it that fish-bone?), so I shall take leave. The love of Gah-wind and Jay-lee shall not be forgotten. It will be found like the most sacred of scriptures, the most voluminous of sagas - locked into a secret chest, buried at the bottom of the sea. And then, there will be fearless explorers, who shall retrieve the wealth that captures the golden immortality of that wonderous emotion, from the treacherous depths of the waters. They shall heave it into sight, carefully open it, read in delight and draw comparisons. Yes - like Romeo and Juliet!!

One mile closer, and looking back...

2005-10-15T17:40:00.000-07:00

There's this often repeated saying that goes "A picture speaks a thousand words", it may be true. But I've always found that those thousand words carry more detail than an eye could discern from the picture. They burnish, they colour, they highlight the beauty that is more often overlooked, than not. Sadly, in my case, the mosaic of Literature seems to have been replaced by the parquet of quotidian pursuances, now. (Pardon the indiscretion in use of metaphor) I feel reduced to a philistine when I discover that I don't even remember the name of that Wordsworth poem that I knew by rote five years ago. Literature meant Wotton, Eliot, Tennyson, Pope, Tagore, Davies, Frost, Auden, Browning, Shakespeare, Sarojini Naidu, Keats, Premchand, R. K. Narayan, Tolstoy, Chesterton, et al back then. It bounded me in amazement at their skill to capture the pathos, the desire for action, the ecstasy and the general sentiment in their time. But, of all that prose, only two still cling on... One: Kamala's Das' 'Punishment in Kindergarten'. The only one I know of, which delicately condemns children's insensitivity. Therein lies its novelty - the denouncement of what is always glorified:

...
On the lawn, in clusters, sat my schoolmates sipping
Sugarcane, they turned and laughed;
Childen are funny things,they laugh
In mirth at other's tears, I buried
My face in the sun-warmed hedge
And smelt the flowers and the pain
...

The other one, that I still remember to date, and the one that left me with the strongest impression contains these lines by Robert Frost:

The woods are lonely,
Dark and deep
But I have promises to keep
And miles to go,
Before I sleep
And miles to go,
Before I sleep

After I read that, I mulled over what time would bestow upon or take away from me. Now when I look back, I think I've walked a mile farther. But, there's a strange impulse to run all that way back, and walk that last mile again. And walk it with the same faltering gait, and stumble too. It's that liberty to make mistakes that attracts me. Now that you've walked that mile, you're expected to walk steadier, choose the right lanes and plod your way through the tortuous route. It's rewarding to feast your eyes on the clichéd 'light at the end of the tunnel', but I think I'm insane.... I'd rather wait and walk for another mile before entering that tunnel. I'd rather be laughed at, as a child. Children laugh at tears, but they also forgive.

If you've ever drawn a kid close, and taught her a new rhyme or told her a story; you'd know what I'm talking about. It draws the blinds over the 'big, bad world' around you, and makes you chuckle at how silly you might have been at that age. You're flooded with nostalgia and child-like pleasure at the same time. When my four-year old niece got back from school, she'd come up to me and teach ME the rhymes she'd learnt for the day:

Machli jal ki rani hain
Jeevan uska pani hain
Haath lagao tho dar jaayegi
Baahar nikalo tho mar jaayegi

And with all the expressions and actions too!

And then, there are times when they leave you stunned with their questions. When I told her the story of 'Little Red Riding Hood'.

I said: "And so there lived a little girl called Little Red Riding Hood. She always wore this tiny red cap, with a red frock. She lived in a neat little house... "
"But why RED! Doesn't she like pink better? Why did she have such a weird name anyway?"
"Well! SHE likes red, alright. And her parents probably liked to call her that. I mentioned it was her pet name, didn't I?"
"No, you didnt." (She's sulking now)
"It was. So LRRH..."
"What was her real name, then?"
"Never mind THAT... So, LRRH had a grandmother who lived deep in a forest. And LRRH was VERY fond of her..."
(Now, it so happens that 'grandmother' in Telugu is two different words, one for your paternal and one for your maternal grandma. I tried playing safe, and said 'grandmother' in English)
"Will that be ammamma (maternal), or naanamma (paternal)?"
"It was her ammamma."(I pat myself secretly)
"....So LRRH's mom sends her with a basket of red apples to her grandma, to the forest" (Now, I'm beginning to wonder myself: What mother would send her child to a FOREST, that too with a basket of apples!)
Fortunately, the little devil didn't have too many bright ideas this time.
I continued, "There lived a wicked wolf in the same forest, who'd spied on LRRH while she was singing to herself happily, making her way to grandma's cottage. And he thought to himself: What a fine meal she'll make!"
At this point, I don't recall what exactly prompts the wolf to go to LRRH's grandma's cottage, so I'm desperately clutching at straws and trying to make up some intelligible crap.
"It so happens to be, that the wicked wolf knows that LRRH is visiting the old lady. So he laughs greedily and thinks of a plan and goes to grandma's place. He then gobbles her up, wears her gown, cap and spectacles; and tucks himself into her bed, lying in wait for LRRH."
She's looking at me with her eyes open wide, and moves closer to clutch my arm. I've got her riveted!
"So when LRRH arrives, and knocks at grandma's door; the wolf shouts, 'The door's open, come in child'."
"How come the wolf speaks English?"
"This one does. You know, there are some animals, like talking parrots that learn how to talk!"
"Uh, huh!"
"Yeah! So LRRH is frightened by the wolf's voice, because grandma's voice is softer. She asks: Grandma, what's wrong with your voice? The wolf says: It's my cold, child. Now come right in, will you? So, LRRH walks into grandma's bedroom and sees grandma with a long snout, looking VERY different."
"But, WHY would grandma have a long snout? Did the cold make her nose longer too?"
"I told you it was the wolf, didn't I? Grandma was inside the wolf's stomach. So the wolf now had a swollen tummy. And LRRH is shocked: What's wrong with your nose grandma? And why is your tummy huge? The wolf replies: I told you, child. It's the cold. I'm ill. Come closer and give me those apples...."
"I dont like this story, tell me another one."
"But, you haven't even listened to the whole thing!"
"I don't like it. Tell me another one."
"Okay", I say; and toss around all those silly fairy tales in my head. I don't recall most of them. Only Cinderella, Thumbelina, Rumpeltiltskin and Snow White - all vague recollections. But, I don't want to complicate the situation any more. So I make up my own Indian version from fragments of Champak and Tinkle stories, complete with graphical descriptions, that I was very proud of. But before I can finish even that, she's either fallen asleep, or isn't in the mood for stories any more.

"Let's play Teacher, Teacher", she says. And I sigh resignedly.

Untitled - F2 - A visit to Paradise (only, closer home)

2005-10-13T19:15:00.000-07:00

I realise that I haven't blogged in ages.. well... two months IS a fairly long time. Long enough for me to do plenty of reading, get employed (yeah.. Finally!), write mid-semester exams that I've forgotten about already, chew on things that I ought to have done but have been procrastinating, idle around, watch movies that date to the latter half of the 20th century; and go on a HOLIDAY!! And all this time, I've had this obscure page called "The Waffle Iron" chiding me. No matter how few or how many hits I have, I wouldn't let this one identity of mine be swept into that forgotten corner of the ever-expanding cyberspace. Like all subversive Internet users, I've had several online accounts that I don't remember about, any more. I wonder if my username, password, date-of-birth, Secret question & answer are still stowed away in a database thousands of miles away; beaten into "bits", to live on for eternity, never once summoned to serve their purpose. I have a feeling that THAT train of thought won't get me anywhere, and I have been thinking like THAT in a long time now. That's why I decided to call this post "Untitled". For most of you (especially if you use MS Windows' Notepad like I do - I prefer plain text, no fancy word-processing for me, thank you), it's what your text-file would be called, if you're too lazy or are not in the mood to do some christening. Fortunately, Windows is more tolerant than UNIX's vi-editor is, in that respect. You can leave the file-naming until you have to save the file, and even let it be called Untitled, Untitled1, Untitled2, and so on. By the way, here's a disclaimer: If you're an Open Source freak, pardon this greenhorn's culpability in whatever crime I might have comitted by publishing the aforementioned sentence. I haven't tried ANYTHING but the vi thing so far.. sed &co. are but strangers to me.

Anyhow, THAT was only until I took a few days off to visit Andhra Pradesh's port city - Vishakhapatnam and the nearby Araku valley; accompanied by my motley group of friends. NOW, I think I'll rename (shortcut - <F2>) this one as: "A visit to Paradise (only, closer home)" - yeah, the Windows file system allows braces too.. :P I guess 'Paradise' means many things to many people. It used to point to 'Eden' in the daily-newspaper crosswords that I don't solve anymore, it means 'Mecca' to a pilgrim, it's what school text-books term Kashmir as, it's where a dope might find solace, it's what a Swiss bank account can buy you, it's where that extra zero appended to the number on the annual cheque you sign for charity, will take you. I don't think I can boast of any of these yet, so I'll bow humbly and call my abbreviated 'holiday', a "visit to Paradise".

Well, anyway, this is where I went: the Kailashgiri Hill (which cost us an exhausting climb up the hill for Rs. 2; and a quite unimpressive rope-way downhill for Rs. 20: see the wonders an appended zero can do!), the R. K. Beach (which was FUN, and cost NOTHING - ZERO again) and the back-alleys of the port (which the Romantic in me would describe as 'redolent of the sea, the fish and the quayside home of the Catalane in The Count of Monte Cristo') in Vizag; the Eastern Ghats, on railway lines winding through long, dark tunnels, around BEAUTIFUL hill-tops blanketed in fog (or clouds - which I almost touched, or whatever); to a tribal museum AND a tribal dance, and the Borra caves (which are 150 million years old, and have the most curious carbonate formations housed within. Humic acid, they say, is what causes this - I never was one for Chemistry, so don't ask an Electronics Engineer! A stone-staircase takes you to a naturally formed shrine of Lord Shiva, if you will. However, you MUST brave the steep, wet stairway, try not to steal a glance down below (especially if you have vertigo), fight off claustrophobia, chant 'Om Namah Shiva-yah' and hold on to dear life.

I haven't been to a beach in years, so I rediscovered the joy that crashing waves afford. I thought of the guy who propounded that theory (I think we learnt it in high-school Physics) which explains how/why waves form while I stared at the walls of water gushing forth, building, breaking, crashing, receding... It really is tough to explain how the sand under your feet is swept when a wave hits you and then clumps on top of your feet as it recedes. If you stood still, you'd get buried right there! It's a wonder how, while you're disappointed by an approaching slow wave, it can surprise you by slapping you in the face, making you taste salt and throw sand in your eyes, as if it were challenging your perception of its strength. You could marvel at the stories that the ocean can tell you, dream about the intriguing whispers of the sea and; try to penetrate that never-ending expanse of water and steal a look into the depths, at the ocean floor; at the world that lies beyond the horizon that's bathed in blue; try to distinguish the line that seperates the water from the skies; risk fathoming the secrets of existence which it probably hides. You could gape at the far-away ships that sail towards the harbour (which by the way, is called 'Dolphin's Nose', here), and think of Sindbad, or Columbus, or Robinson Crusoe, or Arabia, or the Titanic, or spices, or silk, or oysters, or sea-horses, or mermaids, or squids, or octopuses, or nothing at all.

The Ghats however, have a different treat store in for you. If you looked up at them, from the valley below; they look like the paintings that we made as children. It always was the only landscape I could conjure up in MY mind. So, in almost every art-class; I would sketch conical mountains with the sun rising through their shoulders. (It's easier with the sun around, cuz otherwise, you'd have to paint fog, which I NEVER did manage to do) You can look down proudly at your work, with the palette stained with green, sepia, chrome, ochre, brick et al. What I saw, was a GREATER work: a masterpiece that covered all details exhaustively. Clusters of trees, acres of step-farmed land, silver ribbons of water, red earth. When you get to the very top, you can touch the clouds (well, almost) and feel the cool precipitation on your fingers. All you can see is swirling mist; so dense that if you looked fixedly, you could get persuaded that you were swimming in the miasma; that if you jumped off the edge, you'd float and maybe catch a glimpse of water-clogged fields and of the solitary cars making their way down the dangerous roads through that gossamer curtain. It's only when you look down at your feet or turn your head to look at the treacherous path you're driving on, that you can break the fantasy.

Such and such, have been the wonders of Nature that I've witnessed. There are structures that enrapture the human mind more than these locations. That's probably why the Universe lends to Imagination. Even the fleeting images that run by when you look through the train's window can enthrall you: the mud-houses, the greenery, the roads, the cities, the people, the kids waving at you, the scary but lovely ride on a long railway river-bridge...

Sare Jahaan se Achha...

2005-08-14T18:15:00.000-07:00

I am patriotic. I may not know how many God-forsaken states we have (is it 26, 27, 28 or 29??), I can't remember the names of their capitals; when I read the morning newspaper, it's 'Calvin and Hobbes' that I turn to first, and not the National Headlines. I don't remember when the Cabinet was shuffled last, Indian History is a vague blur from the little that I managed to learn at school. I don't care too much for politics, and I don't burst crackers when India wins in cricket against Pakistan. I haven't attended a single Independence Day or Republic Day celebration at college so far, and I haven't even mouthed the "Jana Gana Mana" in years.

However, there's something that the plaintive "Ae mere watan ke logon" stirs inside me. Something that makes me smile inwardly when I see grimy, little urchins selling miniature tricolour flags for a couple of rupees apiece. Something that got me piqued when I found China featured as a growing country on the June edition of the IEEE's Spectrum, while I had an unswerving, blind opinion that India is/will be the undisputable leader among third-world (I hate to call it that, though) countries. A feeling of unwavering pride in my motherland, which was seeded unknowingly and stands rooted firmly. A sense of gratefulness to all those millions of un-named people who sacrificed their lives, and most importantly, their dignity; to give us this republic, egalitarian democracy. A republic which is in most ways handicapped, egalitarian with some undefined constraints; and a democracy with a freedom of expression, which lets us gripe about the system and blame it for failings that we aren't ready to do anything about. A country that gives me the privilege to callously run on, about things that most of you (reading this) don't care about; while elsewhere, voices like that of Glutter Girl are stifled, when they cry out for millions of people, demanding Democracy.

I've grown up, dreaming of doing something BIG for India. But then, I wonder, what/who is India? Is it the people? No, that seems too parochial; I'd want to do something for the starving kids in Africa too, if I could. Is it the place, the land? Sounds fine, but not a very satisfactory answer. Is it the culture? Well, ok! But who said the Zulu tribe didn't have one? Even the Cherokees had a society! (Or so I think) Maybe it is the collective spirit. The spirit that binds us all, and lights up the ceiling lamps in upmarket stores, as well as the cheap, neon signs in downtown markets. The fire that helps make gruel in tiny hovels and sets them aflame on a dark night. The fury that keeps activists fighting, and engulfs them with its intensity, to leave them charred. The fever which is paraded as 'patriotism', while it really is chauvinism.

As a kid, I'd have something akin to resentment, against our neighbour. But today, there are so many things that I admire about the people. I simply LOVE the nasal voices that make their music unparalleled, I gawk in wonder at the yards of fine fabric that is flown down from there and I see a shining tenacity in their faces that might stun even the suffering that looks them in the eye. There must be a common thread that was woven into the length of our variegated, mutual culture; which hasn't lost it's colour even after fifty-eight years of bleaching with unfounded contempt; the strength of which makes the soldier flinch as he charges across the border, and stretches even more taut while he pulls the trigger. Will it ever snap?

As I post this, there must've been flags unfurled thousands of kilometres away. And tomorrow, there'll be millions of onlookers while a flag is hoisted at the Red Fort, speeches and promises made, military parades cheered, thousands of school-children marching under a scorching sun, the National Anthem sung at numerous ceremonies, sweets distributed, sacrifices remembered and a passion rekindled. While every word is uttered and each consonant enunciated, remnants of a six-decade old struggle are revisited. The same noble sentiments are reiterated, and a resonant sense of integrity cherished. Some of this spirit might still be alive, fighting bravely against the winds of more pressing, personal interests; some will flag, struggling to keep burning; and the rest will die without a whimper, because it was either mere affectation or because it didn't have the strength. And so, I risk sounding juvenile for not matching more eloquent voices and echo my current state of mind; and will witness the spate of activities tomorrow. All done and forgotten until the next time.

I Recommend...

2005-08-06T11:20:00.000-07:00

I have an idiosyncrasy, a strange fascination for frivolous humour. I see humour in the platypus' bill, the wriggling, severed tail of the house-lizard, the polyp-shaped suckers of the octopus, the irregular stripes of the zebra, the plumage in the hats (or so I recall), placed atop the heads of florid-faced, roaring fifteenth century warriors and dukes, the illustrations in Russian folk-tale books, the wag in the silly, hairless tails of mottled puppies, the monotony of red polka dots, the costumes of the pantomime and the antics of all those unparalleled comedians & their slapstick (that we LOVED as children). (Well, you know, there are many MORE such inanities that can leave me squealing with joy, however, I do not want to take credit for writing the longest ever sentence that my patrons will have read so far; and neither do I want to abuse the comma or traumatise punctuation freaks) And so, that explains my delight at finding this terrific book that tickled me and sent me into paroxysms of laughter, every page (if that be allowed as a quantum of my literary progress) of the way. I wonder (oh, and by the way, this happens to be one of my favouritest words as well as pastime. Wonderous Wonder!!) how many times an unabridged G. K. Chesterton has been discovered and devoured with such glee. I shouldn't forget to attribute this serendipitous opportunity to my room-mate who's had this book with her for seven years now (after winning it for a 'Proficieny' Prize.. whatever that means!!), and didn't know such a treasure even existed. :P

Now, coming to the book, it's called "Napoleon of Notting Hill". That's ironic, considering that my last book was an epic about Napoleon's exploits in grand, old Russia. This one ain't Bonaparte though.. Well, anyway... think of an age hundred years from now. What would it be like? Cars are faster, and maybe they'll even fly (yeah Hollywood-SF ishtyle). Your maid isn't the same sari-clad lady with the high-pitched voice wearing two-dozen green bangles on both hands, but a poker-faced android who's got contraption for flesh and blood. The night sky isn't studded with millions of stars, but with UFOs and SUVs and what-nots. Your clothes carry sensors that inject tranquilliser when you start getting hyper-emotional (Federal Policy, like the Yanks say). You think so, eh? Well, NO!! That's not what it'll be like, you see... Cuz "it's the old that startles and fascinates".

Think of just how much more fun it'd be if we were ruled by a king. Our kingdom has colourful banners and a blazing coat of arms. Not those dreary bombs and rattling rifles and nuclear weapons to fight with; but real, shining swords set in carved scabbards, armour-clad knights mounted on strong horses. This is precisely what is MY fantasy. It's not grey, dull streets that I want. It's thoroughfares, flagrant with colour and lamps set alight with fanatic patriotism that I dream about. If there's anything that underlines the mediocrity of our times, it's APATHY. There's resignation in everyone's heart, and indifference in everybody's dealings. And, if I were given this miraculous chance to change the world with the sleight of my hand (or a little more than that), I'd paint the whole world with Passion (I hope that wasn't put too indelicately). Passion that kindled the fire in the eyes of our ancestors hundreds and thousands of years ago. And this is what King Auberon Quin, the hero of our 'Napoleon' (Adam Wayne) ventures to do. In a time when people have lost complete faith in democracy, and a bunch of wide girth-ed, quibbling parliamentarians are better substituted by a monarch, Auberon is chosen from a list of citizens of London. And so, our man of crazy whims and stupid humour becomes King. Notice the protagonist's name: Auberon. It reminded me of Oberon in that wonderful Shakepearean drama, 'Midsummer Night's Dream'. The King of Fairies!! What follows is "midsummer madness".

Our Napoleon, Adam Wayne, is made Provost of Notting Hill (oh, I know you're thinking of Julia Roberts, he he!! But, Notting Hill is just that inconsequential mound where inconsequential people live in inconsequential harmony. To add a little trivia - Notting Hill is just a variation of 'Nothing Ill'). Now, Wayne takes Auberon's large-scale joke a little too seriously, and is ready to spill blood and break bones to defend Notting Hill. He wears his red uniform and carries his borough's emblem with the pride of old. And so, the dull streets of London are set aflame with the colours of Wayne's army and the fire of his enemies' fury. Wars are fought not on open fields like in the 1500s, but on streets lined with shops stocked grocery, toys and curiosities. The art of war is redefined, and the passion of patriotism rekindled.

Sigh!! How I wish I lived in those times!!

War and Sleaze

2005-07-31T15:30:00.000-07:00

After over seven months of dog-earing and shifting my book-mark between the yellowed pages of a Penguin Classics 1984 edition of a fourteen hundred and fifty paged book titled "War and Peace", I finally closed the book for the last time with a grim feeling of dissatisfaction at the dissipated state of changed times. While this epic (written in the late 1860s) by Count Leo Tolstoy still mirrors human spirit and mourns the futility of wars, you can't help but ruminate upon the different state of affairs that invading/invaded countries now find themselves after the horrors of a war. What should normally be termed 'peace' (if ever there was), now occupies newspaper and tabloid front-pages as 'sleaze'. However, I don't consider myself qualified to decry decisions that those in power deem insurmountable or to deplore the hero-worshipping of those who strategise the mass butchering of a body of the army, the victory or loss of which represents the triumph or humiliation of the people of the nation that they had chosen to represent.

I had intially ventured upon writing (or rather, typing) my interpretation of this HUGE book that I read intermittently between periods of frenetic activity (read: last minute photo-copying of notes before semester exams) and blissful idleness (read: the last few weeks). So here I go...

The sole aspect of reading a Russian book which narrates the circumstances that Russian life was, in the early 1800s, is the names - yeah, proper nouns!! While I struggled to disentangle myself from the webs of Bezuhovs, Rostovs, Drubetskoys, Bolkonskys, Kuragins, Alexeyivichs and Vereshchagins; I tried to hold on desperately to the triflings at the battles of Borodino, Smolensk and God-only-remembers-where-else. Despite the despair that seizes you, when Tolstoy slips into Books, Parts and Chapters of trying to unravel those skeins of thought that each of the priciple characters inevitably draw themselves into; there's a well arranged train of logic and an artfully contrived jigsaw of colourful cameos that throw you into contemplation. You could have convulsions of grief/joy/wonder/awe/boredom through the pages in which he (Tolstoy) rails at French 'historians' who deify the quite ordinary Napoleon Bonaparte as a 'genius' and Russian writers who claim that Alexander I was a monarch of the subtlest virtues and the paradigm of magnanimity (while he seemed to me like a puffed-up schmuck of the first order). The minute inspection of lives and circumstances is justified by the idea that a macro phenomenon like a war between nations is an integral of the infinitesimals (which are the unconscious actions of individuals who are otherwise termed inconsequential). The famous Epilogue is like a homily, pages of 'Freewill Vs Necessity'!! And, I must admit, I was more occupied with the odd mosquito buzzing at my ear and the discoloured lizard that seemed ready to leap from the ceiling, when I forced myself to undergo the agony of savouring all those grande ideas.
I did find some similarities though, between this one and my OTHER favourite book (Gone With The Wind) - copious explanations about the movements of the left flank of 'our' army and the ruination that would await the middle column, or the burning of cities and entire towns and the impoverishment of wealthy, but squandering families. The most striking one, however, is that not-so-rare state of uncertainty that most stories make their (so far) patient readers suffer in. While Scarlett announces that "Tomorrow is another day"; the young, impressionable and orphaned Nikolai Bolkonsky decides to do whatever his beloved uncle Pierre considered right (which suggests his involvement in the formation of a secret, anarchist organisation) at the fag-end of this wonderful story when you thought a Sleeping Beauty - style '...And they live happily ever after' ending would leave you in raptures of joy. It leaves you with that disconcerting sense of intrigue that tears your mind apart, while you mull over it for days after.

Acing the GRE - Part 1

2005-07-27T21:22:00.000-07:00

If you're a confused, about-to-graduate (about=86,400 x 365 seconds) good-for-nothing... (and I just happen to be a paragon of that very virtue), and have your fingers stuck in too many pies(metaphorically, ok??); then I can bet my boots(not designer, nah!) on you getting ready to ace the GRE... Generally Recondite Esoterica. And that's about as General as it gets!!

So, to fulfill dreams of minting $$$$ (ahem!! don't get greedy and demand for more $s); you'll want to give this 'un your BEST shot. Here's one, from someone who's fresh from the battle-field and has seen it all, and done it all.. :P

First of all.. you have to know WHAT the GRE consists of. I've laid out the pattern here for you:

Section I: Analytical Writing Assessment (75 mins)

Task 1: Present your perspective on the following issue. (45 mins)

"Nosology is an essential study that contributes towards society's development. It must be included as an essential part of under-graduate curriculum."

Note: Puhleeez make sure you understand the topic before venturing upon writing, a coherent essay.

Task 2: Criticize the following argument:

"By deductive syllogism, it can be proved that Man (even as we discuss this) has active nerve endings where he once had a prehensile tail. Through millenia of constant metamorphosis, the human form precluded redundant forms of biological adaptations. It has been found in a survey, that nine out of ten people all over the world, experience increased stress on activating the aforementioned nerves. Also, the effect has been found to be more in times of greater dorsal inactivity."

Note: You're telling me you didnt figure that out, neither can I.. unless of course you rise to my lowly thinking.. LOL!!

Section II: Verbal (30 questions - 30 mins)

This section typically comprises three kinds of questions: Reading Comprehension, Sentence Completion and Analogy questions.

Reading Comprehension:

Females of most animal species have been found to have greater privilege in terms of choice of mates, and the area that will be susbsequently marked as their "realm". Apart from this, some females are also found to have greater physical strength than their male counterparts. This biological inclination, is evident in the results of biological study performed on wild as well as domestic animals, especially on the spiders in the forest areas of Colorado, USA and elephant seals along the Arctic coast. Questions have been raised, and hypotheses proposed to explain this phenomena. However, it can be gathered that as is the case with other species, human females have a more stimulative cortex; and hence enjoy greater freedom of choice where dominating males do not suppress female individuality.

Questions:

Why, according to the author, are females blessed with greater advantage of choice?

Males are basically psychologically deficient and physiologically abundant.
Females are also blessed with greater mental abilites.
Males lack restraint.
Males are not deserving of greater privilege.

Note: You may find that more than one answer is correct, however only ONE choice is allowed. Be prudent.

Sentence Completion:

Rowan Atkinson is undoubtably the most _______ actor of all time, his _______ prowess is manifest in the potrayal of one of the greatest comic characters: Mr. Bean.

(a) awful ... awesome

(b) extravagant ... artless

(d) versatile ... indisputably marvellous acting

Analogy:

Dyspepsia::E-coli

(a) Malaria::Anopheles

(b) Meningitis::Beckham

(d) Acacia::Germination

Section III: Quantitative (28 questions - 45 mins)

Note: Now, Math is what warriors of my ilk don't even consider worth fretting about. So, if you're reading this, you had better be a number-wizard, an algebra-expert and a geometry-pro.. Hee hee.... that just means to tell you, that I'm not covering this section.

Love Story

2005-07-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

LOVE - The religion of Erich Segal's Oliver, the mush that M&Bs are made of, the poison that killed Juliet, the 'virtue' that drives Bollywood heroes, the antidote for all evil and... (what makes me give the larger half of the chocolate bar to my adorable li'l niece)

Such was the love that had sprung on the verdant campus of NITW; in the late August of 2002. The damp sidewalks and the puddles on the road to the Admin Block were just beginning to dry, and umbrellas were being put away until the next year. Tardy sloths of the second, third and final year were settling in with the quagmire of lab reports and class assignments; and wide-eyed, untouched first years were streaming into the hostels & learning to cringe when they met the peremptory glare of a second year or were beckoned by a nasty-looking final year.

In walked the HERO of our little story: Gah-wind, clad in pink leather, he was in what can be described to have attained the dizzying heights of haute couture in those happy times. Chewing a wad of gum (then advertised as Wriggly's Nick-o-teen), toting his luggage-bag (he was panting with the effort, but he bravely refused to betray any signs of cholestrol-induced weakness); our hero traipsed down the beaten road to the Hostel Office. Gah-wind whistled gay-ly and spat out the Nick-o-teen juice... then he went.. "Gah!!"

To give you a wind of the reason why Gah-wind went "Gah", we'll have to swerve our camera around, one hundred and eighty degrees, and train the lens on the sight that had struck Gah-wind. There!! What do we see? The very nimble Pretty-V!! The wind that had set the sails of our picaresque Gah-wind. Now, to the short-sighted, the nimbleness of our... uh-huh.. hmm... heroine may not be so evident. But, Gah-wind's heart had at that fateful moment started to beat only for Pretty-V, his throat was dry and there was the familiar feeling of weakness in the knees.. (the only OTHER time he had gone weak in the knees was when he'd seen Clark Gable in 'Gone with the Wind' turn on his heel at the Wilkes' and walk out of the library, leaving Scarlett mortified at the discovery of her little talk with Ashley).

However, unlike the subjects of most melodramatic love stories (including the one in which our hero's 'object of weakness', played Rhett Butler), we shall not let our hero's love remain unrequited. Unbeknownst to Gah-wind, Pretty-V too had, at that very fortuitous moment, fallen for our dauntless man. Years of chewing Nick-o-teen had given Gah-wind a jut-jaw and a rubbery tongue. He drawled for his vowels and drooled for his consonants, sputtered when in doubt and would now slur, when in love. This did not further his cause, for Pretty-V suffered from an acute case of aphasia and was congenitally dyslexic.

Despite the aforementioned impediments, Gah-wind and Pretty-V fought all odds and exemplified LOVE. Their tale is heart-rending. Even today, when I see Pretty-V nod despairingly when Gah-wind slurs and stutters agonisingly and hear Gah-wind go "Gah" at Pretty-V's inability to say "eeYyyess" to his plans; it warms the very cockles of my heart. Even the chill of winter winds and the heat of the Warangal sun won't serve to stultify the amazing power that binds these two. While they walk into the sun-set, holding each other's hands, Pretty-V pulls out a pack of Wriggly's from his pocket, Gah-wind giggles nervously as he fingers his Four-Square.

How I 'almost' got employed

2005-07-22T02:33:00.000-07:00

If there's anything that I've been procrastinating for too long, I think it's filling-in this space. Technically(ain't that the word for it?), I haven't found enough time to step out of our GREEN campus and foray into the wilderness beyond and find a cyber cafe.. (Well, there are PLENTY of them around, alright.. but ones that have semi-battered keyboards, dysfunctional mice, low resolution monitors, cramped cubicles and an obscenely SLOOOOW connection!!)But, more non-technically... there hasn't been much I've had to write about; until NOW!!

It's that time of the year in every NITWian's life.. when the Training 'n Placement Section swarms with impeccably clad job aspirants (yeah.. those ubiquitous ties, and folders held in clammy palms... mornings without breakfast.. and bleary-eyed midnight vigils for the day's interview results) The time of the year, when the corridors of the TnP are ruled by self-important student co-ordinators.. that.. ahem.. includes ME!! :D

If there's anything in life, that's the most heartening thing to witness, it's the JOY on the faces of the 'lucky' ones... The suffusion that's near contagious... and I thought it wouldnt be long until it was my turn.. well, it sure did... only.. "ALMOST"!!

If there ever was a case-study done on the most moronic gaffes committed in ONE HR interview, mine would take the cake. Despite clearing my hour-long tech, and a near successful HR.. I had to do what I shouldn't! And well.. the rest wasn't so surprising after all!!

Hyderabad.. Most Beautiful!!

2005-07-05T00:09:00.000-07:00

Now, I do know that I'm treading on a land-mine... there'll be ferocious arguments about the validity of the title of this post of mine. But, say what you will, Hyderabad in my eyes (and in those of my fortunate fellow-denizens) IS Beautiful. Despite all the trappings that come with a city like this.. read: the terrible traffic, pot-hole ridden roads and burly, baton wielding traffic-cops, who can contort their faces into the most menacing scowls!! ** shudder ** .... No city can match the grandeur!!

Introspection Inc.

2005-06-30T21:10:00.000-07:00

Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror, purged all traces of narcissism from your soul and wondered what lay beneath the lines that age brings? If you whittled away that layer of dermis and epidermis (I admit my knowledge of Biology is well refutable :P), gouged out all that adipose, tore away the muscle and struck out all elements of your skeletal system.. what would you have? Now, I'm not trying to reveal the discoveries of an evolutionary biological-study or evangelise the concept of the Soul.. It actually is the other way round, I still have that question unanswered!!

And what would happen if your cortex decided to take a holiday, and all those bunches of neurons embraced anarchy, and got detached, attached or remained reclusive? I guess you realise that by now, your vision is failing, your hearing impaired, your learning exhausted and well.. all things awry!! I can sense conjecture, that this is what is called a 'vegetative state'. :D

If you're wondering why I'm reeling out so much gibberish, then it's time that you know.. I'm suffering from the dreaded WRITER'S BLOCK!! And, while I'm desperately trying to cerebrate.. so that I can celebrate another post; I'm also fighting off an impulse to smash this keyboard with my fist and bludgeon my monitor until every shard of phosphor-laden silicate is ground...

** BOOM **
** CRASH **
..........
...........

** SIGH **

I HATE Chemistry...

2005-06-23T01:06:00.000-07:00

Yeah!! I've always HATED Chemistry... Right since I used to sit in Ms. Mathai's class, as a 14 year-old and try hard to stare in bleary-eyed stupour at the mindless equations and complex chemical behaviour that were being scrawled across the blackboard, with what is popularly believed to contain Calcium Carbonate. (I sometimes hoped there'd be traces of cyanide in it, so I could die right there.. and take the rest of 'em Chem-loving humbugs too.. Ha Ha!!) And, the half-hour lecture before each lab was like performing (an extremely harrowing form of) hara-kiri. I'd be one of the back-benchers, pretending to be so involved in the goings-on.. that you would think I'd fall off my perch on the top of the theatre-like (for lack of a better phrase) arrangement of benches, in anticipation of just how many spatulas of the nitrate I'd have to add after heating half a test-tube of conc. H₂SO₄... Oops!! Did I just make an explosive?? Geez.. I didn't know I was this GOOD at Chem!

Ewwwwkkkkkkk.....

The only thing that kept up my morale (with regards to %$#&istry) was the Chemistry Laboratory at school. It was this quaint, old lab that managed to exude a Gothic aura!! There'd be rows of shelves stacked with beakers of highly concentrated acids and foul-smelling salts. The huge desks had a range of 'paraphernalia'(hope I've spelled it right), including a Bunsen-burner for each victim. These burners, had some kind of gas-fuel that was supplied by old, rusted metal pipes that ran overhead across the room. In moments of despair (which were not so rare), I'd imagine those metallic monsters writhe and cry out shrill-ly and then turn upon me, twist themselves around my puny person and squeeze the air out of my lungs. My eyes would pop out and I'd barely get a yelp out of a terrified scream... and then... Well... I never got that far!!

In High-School, no girl with olifactory receptors could miss the Chem Lab. Especially when a hapless bunch of Chem scholars were manufacturing SO₂ . Even a rotten-egg doesn't smell like that! And there were rumours rife, of how a lab-assitant fell unconscious after a leak in those terrible metal pipes... Imagine how dreadful it is, to open the lab one fine, sunny Monday morning after a hearty breakfast of bread and scrambled-egg, have a whiff of toxic-smelling fuel, choke and fall as-good-as dead only to wake up in a sickeningly-sweet smelling room with green and white curtains and a whey-faced nurse staring down at you in evil satisfaction at being able to wield absolute control over poor YOU!! I'd mourn for days, for the breakfast that went down your throat but came right back out, only.. the wrong way!!

On that distressing note, I have to say a strained Goodbye... and wish all Chemistry students, luck in their endeavours! May God be with your breakfast!!

Good Ol' St. Ann's....

2005-06-22T21:54:00.000-07:00

That's where I began my tryst with the world beyond Mummy, Daddy and Me. I vaguely recall crying inconsolably, when my parents left me inside the two little gates of the Kindergarten section... but, that was only until I discovered the joys of creaky swings, bumpy merry-go-round rides and hugely popular slides inside that little haven.

And so, I grew up, dreading the two days of the week when we had 'Sports' scheduled.. when we'd have our nails and white-keds checked, to have the teacher nod disapprovingly at the slightest hint of a smudge on our shoes or badly cut nails. I now admit though, that I used stolen chalk-pieces to polish my shoes, and resorted to biting my nails; just so I wouldn't have to kneel on gravel in the scorching sun. And then, there were the particularly hilarious incidents when one of the sisters (ahem!! that's what you call the nuns at school) gave us a piercing stare and said in this imperious tone: "What child?"; and we'd wish that we'd melt right there in our shoes.
(I'd laugh in their faces, until I turned red, if they said that to me right now!) And then, there was the 'Dramatics and Singing' class.. where we'd sing and dance to the notes of the piano.. well... all in a day's work!!!

However, the most striking memory of my convent-bred childhood will always be the morning prayer.. "Our father in heaven..." followed by hymns and cute li'l songs or the National Anthem. I wonder at the simplicity of the time we spend as children, there's nothing that CANNOT be taken care of!

Anyway, it was at school that I discovered Literature... and consequently, the therapeutic value of writing. Of all the forgotten stories, essays and poems.. I salvaged just ONE! And that's the one I've typed in here. Before you get lost in that quagmire of banal poetry, lemme deny any understanding of what these verses imply.. cuz I have no self-professed love/respect/whatever for the 'Knowledge' that school imparted to me and no great insight into the architecture, either. I guess it was in those fits of solidarity (that we parade) to school or in times of exaggerated emotion, that I penned them. But, if you tried to be tolerant, and read between the lines.. you'll be sure to catch a tiny semblance of what I probably wanted to say behind the veil of verbosity.

There it stands in the midst of flora,
It's high shadow towering over the world
The grisly grooves like the recesses of a secretive heart,
Covers itself with benign hues
The formidable structure encloses within
An array of mysteries forever shrouded.

Exuberance takes lead in the atmosphere,
That exudes the sweet fragrance of Knowledge
And endows us, the Seekers,
An invaluable store of pure elusion
Proffers to us bitter endurance,
At the pre-dieu for the sacred altar.

Autumn brings the fall of golden leaves,
Showering confetti over the reunion,
Of the two forces of Emerging Soul and Divin Knowledge
The reunion that personifies Eternity and Peace
Peace, that is joie de vivre and
Eternity the ultimate bliss.

'Ere i stand before the incarnation of sanctity,
Moving along like the Saintly Piligrim to the Sacred Shrine
Shedding the superfluous materialism within Me,
To achieve Divine Prescience
Across the labyrinth of emotions,
Bidding au-revoir to worldly allurings.......

Phew!! Now that was quite a roller-coaster ride...

2005-06-22T03:06:00.000-07:00

As fresh as they come..

2005-06-22T00:36:00.000-07:00

..... And so, I begin blogging!

(Ahem!! The prequel to this would be an extremely long-winding, edge-of-your-seat experience... which I'll stall for now)

Firstly, for the uninitiated... Waffle means TWO things...

One: The mouth-watering crisp, light, pieces of heavenly^** tasting thingummys; which you can drool over by taking a peek at my previous post.
Two: Aimless banter, that you're reading now.. and probably will, if you'll hazard another visit HERE.

Despite my non-existent ability to be concise in what I write/say.. I'll present my humble first-hand (plz forgive any indiscriminate of unnecessary phrases) autobiography in its least lurid, non-extraneous form:

(But wait.. does this thing need a history of my life? I'll pass THAT too!!) Well anyways.. to come to the point of interest.. I'm a nondescript student at the prestigious National Institute of Technology, Warangal. I gambol (no, that's NOT a typo) with circuit-designs, dig into 'tronic esoterica and get high on obscure anomalies of electron-behaviour. And, believe or not.. I've NEVER EVER seen an electron before!! However, I invite claims of sightings of a rampant electron... There's one absconding from my n-type silicon wafer.

If there's anyone out there sniggering at the inanities in the above paragraph.. GO DIP YOUR HEAD IN A PILE OF TOXIC ELECTRONIC WASTE!!

I've always believed that I grew up to WRITE, but it so turns out that I'm destined to reel out relatively unimaginative lab-reports and not perverse top-sellers... The earliest recollection that I have of writing poetry, is the following verses:

Oh God! Please give us rain,
So the farmer can have his grain,
And satisfy our hunger and pain,
........

The ellipsis there is an unfortunate lapse of memory, that 20-years inevitably face as a consequence of senility.. Yes, my dearies.. we live at an accelerated pace! At the end of another 10 years, I'll be what you could call a victim of a rapidly-paced lifestyle..

Time is a sassy wench, as someone wise once said... don't remember who!! ... and Duty beckons.. So, I'll give you readers a respite for now... And call it a day!

PS: If you were waiting for an honest biography.... well.... COME BACK!!

^** Don't take my word on that.. It's only when you have rich chocolate sauce spread over it!