Of Vorpal Swords and Balderdash.

India's favourite snack.

2012-01-26T20:24:00.000+05:30

Yes, we've found out what it is. On our 63rd Republic Day, ladies and gentlemen, I present a paean to this, something that I plan to eat tonight:

Yummy.

No, its not the same thing that you have for dinner if you're single, not-so-hungry and live near Abhinandan Restaurant. Neither is it the stuff for which queues gather outside MTR, Vidyarthi Bhavan and the lot, nor is it what Nagu ದೊಡ್ಡಮ್ಮಾ makes to perfection.

It is, in fact, a potato-filled South Indian crêpe. Eaten with coconut chutney and sambar, something which the peeps who come from anywhere north of Davanagere will never learn how to cook.

What crap (crêpe), you say. Well, read this.

More later, but on a closing note, just to set the record straight

Stop calling it a डोसा . It is called a दोसा .
Stop calling it साम्भर . It is called साम्बार .

Random Thoughts v4.0

2011-03-12T00:34:00.000+05:30

After a long long while again, hello.

I had been to Mumbai this Sunday, for a BQC quiz at IITB. Now quizzing, like writing, is something I've barely dabbled in since I left college. Shame on me, for letting myself fizzle out so. Nonetheless, the general quiz had a question that contained a recitation of the Jabberwocky, and I went something like "Fuck, I have a blog called the Vorpal Sword or summat," and besides, my good friend is bored to death in JSR and wanted me to write, so this post is for him.

I couldn't think of anything intelligible, but I hardly ever do, so this post, like all the ones preceding it, shall be a ramble too.

Damn. I don't have anything to rant about (in a public forum, grant me private audience i'll give you all the gossip). I would really like to be philosophical and all - Derrida like - do I exist, and if I do not, do I really have to go to office tomorrow?

Oh, awesome. Now I have two things to rant about:

The 'world of work'. (Yes, GET42_SMALLCAR, I still remember every word of Nanda Dave's. And yes, I still remember who she is, unlike you. Ha!)
Derrida.

Work:

It has been about a year and seven months since i've been earning a living. And nearly six since I left home. And I've learnt and unlearnt many things. As you may have already divined from the deteriorating standards of this blog, yes, English is one of the things that the world is forcing me to unlearn.

Now, I've always been a diligent writer. My dad and English teachers at school are to be credited (or blamed) for that. I have always been a stickler for grammar and punctuation. Even my SMSes are replete with commas, hyphens and colons all in their appropriate places.

I like punctiating. Period.

The bitter truth is that English teachers at school, a linguistic-geek dad* and the Eyes Only editorial board build within you a false sense of the importance of (and basically the demand for) grammatically correct, painstakingly written prose. Nobody gives a shit about how beautiful your sentences are. And you are the last person anyone would plagiarize if they wanted beautiful sentences.

Eventually, the realization dawns. 70% of the mails I recieve just read "FYI". 15% of the mails tell me about error's, learning's, important point's and stuff. The office water cooler posts a notice telling us all about the Does and Dont's of keeping the place clean.

It won't be long before the grammer goes out of my writing's.

Derrida:

Trying to understand Derrida's eccentric philosophy is something that has developed within me a new respect for my dad* and his philosophy-professor friends. Deconstruction is crazy, and it is confusing. And the worst part is that by deconstruction, it is entirely possible that the theory of deconstruction does not exist.

There is this really cool series of comic books on philosophy for beginners. I bought Derrida for Beginners a year ago in Ahmedabad (hell yeah, the two racks of English books in the Satellite-wala Crossword turned out to have something buyable in spite of being predominantly Mills & Boon). Rama bought Freud for Beginners.

As the name suggests, philosophy cannot get simpler than for Beginners. And I still cannot really get Derrida in attempt no.1 - he's that dazzlingly obscure - and cool.

The book is awesome though. I suggest you get this, Freud, or one of the other books in the series and have a nice read.

More Later.

* He's super awesome.

Random Thoughts v3.0

2010-07-17T20:20:00.003+05:30

Hello there, and as the Spikester says, weekend!

This week went by real quick. Real, real quick. And to top it off, there was no make-the-weekly-report-for-boss's-boss-asap chaos at work today. Sunshine and lilting music has infused my world again. Oh no, wait, that was a CFL and the neighbour's doorbell. Crap.

Nonetheless, I have time to kill until the 10:30 show of Inception, so here goes:

All you zombies

I just read this story by Robert A. Heinlein a few days ago. And the whole idea behind it is really whacko and infinitely cool. I think I pretty much identify with the protagonist, except for the painful-parentless-childhood part.

I'm 22, find everybody dull, and miss the person that was me. I'm pretty sure I'll die alone, a spinster surrounded by a dozen (or so) cats.

Then I glanced at the ring on my finger.
The Snake That Eats Its Own Tail, Forever and Ever.
I know where I came from—but where did all you zombies come from?
I felt a headache coming on, but a headache powder is one thing I do not take.
I did once—and you all went away.
So I crawled into bed and whistled out the light.
You aren’t really there at all. There isn’t anybody but me—Jane—here alone in the dark.
I miss you dreadfully!
Pablo Neruda

I'm a new addition to the fan-club.
I came across his poetry by an utterly random route - an article on cats, which quoted his quote:
"I should like to sleep like a cat, with all the fur of time, with a tongue rough as flint, with the dry sex of fire; and after speaking to no one, stretch myself over the world, over roofs and landscapes, with a passionate desire to hunt the rats in my dreams."
Its perfect.
Some googling (binging, actually) made me stumble upon his works. The chap is bloody awesome, and I wonder why I never read any of his poems before.
Life in general

Its weird how one has to be cathartic to live in peace, and how everything and everybody all but scream at you to move on, about how you'll find whatever it is thats waiting for you. And still, you stubbornly hold on to what you think you have, even when you're telling yourself to let go? How do you make you listen to yourself, and conversely, how do you stand up to the you who's in your way?
The things you're on the verge of losing and the things you hope you'll have someday - its like hanging on to the edge of a cliff by your fingertips and not knowing what lies down there. Should you trust the vacant hope of a cushioned fall or hold on with all your might and struggle to get back to what only you think was yours?

My mum coined a phrase for me when I was little, comparing my stubbornness to a blunt knife which just will not cut anything - if you forcefully use it, you've ruined your vegetables. I haven't changed much and am what I am (she still uses the metaphor on me). This makes things difficult, and this abreaction stuff isn't my cup of tea. I'll try, however, because I'm no Mohammed and the mountains do not come hither.

Please don't take me seriously. I'm just getting a little lonely. The roomie has been away for a week, and half the population of my building has moved to Ahmedabad, rendering it silent as a crypt. And I'm not what you'd call good company.

Cheerio.

Rant of the day.

2010-07-12T21:14:00.003+05:30

It just happened. I have absolutely lost the will to write. And perhaps I'm losing the skill too. I'm starting to get frantic. I don't think I've written a poem since I left school, and no prose since the Eyes Only days. Drafting MOMs and emails to various chaps in TML does not count. No. I've become one of those lousy people who just pretend to be literary. Trust me, there are a lot of them. You are one, too.

Silly bitch, you say to yourself. Her rants are all the same. So why is today any different, you inquire of me. (Poor me, who's cowering on the floor somewhere while the world gives icy stares etc.)

Nothing's different. Nothing at all. Same old. Perhaps I'm sick of diesel engines. Perhaps I'm trying to grab your attention. I don't know.

But yes, nothing ever seems to happen around me. I am indeed bored of getting bored. Dammit.

Where have all my crazy friends gotten to?

Timepass

2010-05-13T21:55:00.005+05:30

Got an email forward and decided to try it out for myself. The results are entertaining. Sample these google search suggestions:

PS: I like bing. At the risk of sounding un-geek, I like it because it looks better. And it searches fairly well to match my requirements. And because Google-supporting and MS-bashing is so very clichéd, I don't wanna do it.

PPS: I hate 6-day workweeks. One Sunday hardly feels like a holiday, because half the day is already over by the time I'm done with the week's laundry. Woe.

PPPS: I do my own laundry because absolutely no bai evinced any interest whatsoever in washing my dirty linen for a fee. If you live around where I live, and you know a bai, please send her over. Although by now I've gotten quite good at washing clothes.

Utterly Random Ramblings

2010-05-12T20:56:00.001+05:30

"You don't write anymore?!!", was the gist of the lamentings of a few select individuals. "Is anything the matter?", they add.

So you (you all know who you are) read my blog and check regularly to see if I've written anything. Yeah, right.

So here I am again. Will blog away to glory. (For a while, though. I'm a commitment-phobe) Just like the good old times, I'll rant about an assortment of utterly random crap. Here goes nothing.

Random Thought 1: The trouble with Twitter: There are too many tweets in town these days, and I still am not one of them. The above sentence, when recited to humans, elicits two responses.
1. Incredulity : for being so hopelessly out of touch with the times.
2. Ridicule : for not being cool enough.
If you're still not hopping on to the tweetwagon, your life basically sucks, with the amount of suckiness being beyond compare.
Of course, I do now see the folly in my ways. And now know what has been missing in my life all along. A few tweets. How can I expect to go places if I'm not aware of what Tharoor, Shilpa Shetty &Co. chirrup about each day? How can I make new friends if I'm not aware of what the whole goddamn world is doing at every goddamn living moment, and how can I even hope to propel my immensely stationary and stagnant single-status and get a (love)life if I'm not telling all my goddamn followers what I'm doing all the time? Who do I think I am, a RAW agent, having such an unshareable life? If the Foreign Minister is out there doing it, why not me?

Nuts.
Random Thought 2: Whatever became of the CPLFW? Ah, you have no idea of what I'm talking about, do you? No, of course not. You ignorant fools.

(see link)

Being one of the PLFWs myself, I identified deeply with their mission-vision statement (I wasted half an hour at work today trying to mug up my company's mission-vision, and I can't recall the same now), and turned into one of the many ardent admirers of the geniuses who spearheaded what is now famous as the Pink Chaddi Movement. Face-narrow-minded-chauvinist-book banned the original Pink Chaddi group. Ah well. Men!

Anyhow, some frantic googling on my part gave me the sad news that the original group is now inactive (inactive, ladies and gentlemen, not dissolved... there still is hope!), but there is a support group on facebook for the same. Started by some women outside India, this has grown into an international organization of sorts:
We were founded in support of the Consortium of Pub-going, Loose and Forward Women group, now inactive, and we still support them, but we now describe ourselves as free thinking, free spirited and free drinking women all over the world. Join us!
I love the group description:
Yes, you can buy us a drink. No, that won't get you into our chaddis.

Enough for now.

Summertime blues

2010-05-09T17:48:00.005+05:30

Today is summer at its glorious best.

Its hot as a furnace outdoors, and crisp as a new currency note. The sun is fiercely bright and daring in his might, as though egging the clouds on to dare try and obscure him. (They did obscure about two days ago, and when they were done with the obscuring, he shone with a vengeance the next day making everybody extremely sweaty, sticky and regretful about the rain.)

The place I live in has all kinds of trees growing in wild abandon. Out in the heat, they come across as dormant giants, firmly rooted as deep as they can go under the baked ground, their bare arms stretched skyward. Maybe it is the idle mind's imagination at work, but I an sense them itching with the utmost impatience, waiting for the monsoons to come so they could burst forth with foliage .

But right now, everything is bone dry and brown. The undergrowth rustles in continuous symphony. A squirrel scampers across from one tree to the next. A chameleon dives into the leaves in an attempt to escape the scraggly pup chasing it. A ಭಾರದ್ವಾಜ ಹಕ್ಕಿ hops amidst the twigs hunting for God knows what. (I've always wondered what its diet consists of)

The Gulmohur tree in front of my building is resplendent in a fiery, vivid bloom, and so are the bougainvillea - bright and cheery in contrast to all the dull drabness of the ground beneath them. The trees in fact look prettier with the building's plastered walls as a backdrop. Two young girls are running about beneath the trees in summery frocks gathering fallen blooms. I wish I were a kid again. Nobody bothered me and i didn't care, and now I struggle to be self-contained in a world that bothers me, and I'm bothering about that. Nonchalance is a virtue.

I love today. Its nice to be alone and look at the flowers once in a while.

Chennapattinam Diaries Vol.II

2010-05-01T12:20:00.001+05:30

Howdy.

I've given up on Vol.I.

If you really wanna know what happened in Chennai, buy me a cuppa and I'll tell you over it.

Toodle-oo.

Chennapattinam Diaries Vol.I

2010-01-25T22:08:00.005+05:30

I am in a rather foul mood tonight. I thought banging on the keypad would alleviate the rage. Hence this.

Well I wouldn't be in Chennai for long, and I don't know if and when I'd return to these parts, so I decided to give myself a crash-course Chennai tour. Sunday proved handy, and I conveniently ignored my flu and set off. Who knows, I may have repented if I hadn't.

Nevertheless, Chennai-based acquaintances and the Tamilnadu tourism website supplied me with a list of "spots one must visit", which I refined to suit my interests and time-frame - and budget, of course (which ruled out the Taj Fisherman's Cove resort).

I started the day much later than planned (I overslept thanks to the flu+benadryl), so it was near 11 AM when I walked up to Valluvar Kottam (the closest 'tourist spot', walking distance from Habibullah Road). Sunday, gates locked. Excellent, I get more time for the rest.

Stop two was the Egmore museum, promotional literature for which promised some remarkable archaeological exhibits indeed. Like most of everything in Chennai, it disappointed me. This museum has the potential to be marketed as a very good museum indeed, weren't the whole place a crumbling old relic and the very picture of disrepair. They have a huge collection of a very large variety of stuff, but everything is - what's the word - derelict. And no piece de resistance, or whatever the french term was. The natural history section, in particular, I found insipid. A Japanese tourist with whom I had fallen into a conversation ("Excuse me, where is this Mohenjo-daro?") suggested that I thought so because I was 21 and not 12, until I pointed out that his young daughter was wandering about the exhibits with a bored face. Trust me when I say this, but the Bio lab at KV NEHU had a better collection of reptiles in formaldehyde.

For those who do not know, I am a fan of colonial buildings. For those of you who can visit Bandstand at Bandra, do have a look at Shah Rukh Khan's neighbour's house. It is amazingly beautiful (Keki Manzil, I think its called). And another house further up the road - which was unoccupied and had plants growing all over when I had seen it. Rumor had it that Sachin Tendulkar was going to buy it, demolish it, and build a new one in its place.

Ah, yes. The Egmore museum is a remarkable old relic in its own right - the building that houses Gallery 2 was closed for some reason (security guard was about to tell me but he departed suddenly to tackle a couple of French tourists who were clicking pictures without permission). It is a brilliant example of colonial architecture gone to seed, quite literally with vegetation sprouting out of every cranny. It pained me to look at it. I think we should do much more to maintain the buildings the Raj left behind instead of building all those glassy monstrosities in their place - unfortunately, none of us is interested enough.

The museum also houses the Connemara library, which says it has a good collection of rare books, but I couldn't go in because some conference on Dalit literature was going on (or so I inferred from the Tamil poster).

I then boarded a bus that would take me to Santhome church. It is a pretty, old-world church on the coast. It felt strangely Carribbean. Pretty as a postcard, and very peaceful. Church-run bakery nearby sells very good sandwich, which was what my lunch was. It also has the tomb of St. Thomas. The interiors weren't as baroque as promised, but sufficed. I wandered about admiring the simple yet magnificent ceiling, and what I thought artsy flower decoration for Sunday mass. A priest and two men were talking busily among themselves all this while, gesticulating wildly in my direction, until one of them came over and politely asked if I could hurriedly step out of the side door please, for his sister was due to be wedded in about two minutes, and was standing at the entrance, waiting for me to get my ass out of the aisle. I am good at taking hints. I scooted.

(contd)

New Year? Hear, hear.

2010-01-03T11:18:00.004+05:30

That was the year that was (or wasn't). A lot of stuff happened (or didn't), so, for me at least, it has been a long, long year.

It is funny how we look back on the year past every first of January. 2009 seems like long ago while in fact it was only yesterday. Its like everybody decided to cast their demons aside and start afresh giving the rising sun the glad eye etc. Tosh. Its just another day. What's the big fuss? We're only inching closer to the year when we run out of gasoline.

Speaking of gasoline, I read in some auto magazine or the other that ethanol powered transport would be the in-thing in a short while. Which is a good thing. Maybe fuel can be made cheaper if the government allowed us to brew and distill in our backyards. It'd be great if they subsidised it too. After all, they cannot possibly notice if we were to siphon off a liter or two for personal consumption.

Coming back to the new year festivities, well, they're all over. The newspapers are full of lists of all sorts. The best movies of 2009, the biggest fashion bloopers (they missed me out on that one), the most important events in the year etc. Anyhow, perusal of such stuff this morning has led me to believe that I must be quite a bore indeed.

Sample this. Here was a list I came across on rediff.com which was labelled "The Bollywood Hits of 2009". Which is journalistic lingo for Which Producer Earned the Most Money. It went something like

3 Idiots
Wanted
Love Aaj Kal
Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani
New York
Kambakkht Ishq
De Dana Dan
All The Best
Raaz 2
Paa

Going through this list, I realised that of the top 10 movies of the year, I have only seen two - I won't count Love Aaj Kal because I fell asleep while watching. I guess I'm not hip at all, because I had fits of guffaws throughout the "9th best movie" Raaz 2 (I wasn't the only one, so there) and spent a school-friend-reunion watching What's your Rashee. The movie was my idea, and thanks to me we missed the first 20 minutes so we spent the next 3 hours with no clue as to why the hero was getting married with such urgency in the first place.

Kaminey was great. Not only was the movie good, the circumstances under which we saw it were fun too. It is only in Satellite, Ahmedabad, that you can step out for a midnight stroll through the neighborhood with the intention of consuming ice-cream and end up watching a movie instead. Then walk back home at 2AM as though this was perfectly normal behaviour. In your pajamas.

Another reason why this year has been eventful is that I have lived in five cities (that's right, five, the same number as the number of followers of this blog at this moment). The best part is that I cannot tell you where I'll be on Republic Day.

On a personal level, I have declared 2009 as the year of book purchases. Yes, I bought too many of them.

I'll sign off now. Oh yes, if you are aware of fun things I can do in Chennai, please post them in the retorts section.

Howdy.

2010-01-03T11:02:00.001+05:30

Three months without YTV writing is three months too many. Or so was the gist of what Ru2 told me yesterday over a beratement session on gtalk. Perhaps he's right, but I mostly think it is because he hasn't quite forgiven me for what I did to him (rather for what he did to himself, everybody knows C came from B) in the IT quiz last Axis. He is still piqued. Someone tell him about closure.

Nonetheless, the point was that I haven't been writing on my blog (or anywhere else, for that matter) which, if the situation be analysed, seems highly unnatural.

In the long absence from blogger, I have noticed that

5 (yes, FIVE) people follow this blog. Maybe they have been doing so for a long while now, but I only noticed this morning. They are my true admirers, and connoisseurs of this dying art that I practice for they bother to do so for a weblog that is updated once in four months. Thank you, dear people. In your honour I have placed you upon the sidebar.
SSD is continuously improving* wrt his literary works. He writes really well now. When I read his blog, I lose all desire to blog again because I start thinking that I cannot write like that anymore. The ganglia just do not fire. The writer's block is getting chronic. Maybe my children will inherit it as a congenital disease.
The public demanded something new, so I tried changing this blog's theme. Not only did it end up looking horrible, it also deleted whatever was on my blogroll.

Maybe I really should get on with the rambles. At least five people read this tripe, so I have some motivation to keep up with the shenanigans.

I am quite self-deprecating, ain't I?

*We auto experts have a word for that.

2009-10-05T08:00:00.002+05:30

Why doesn't anybody read my blog?

Why do the few people who do, decide to not leave a comment?

And why do they ping their retorts on gtalk?

Why don't I ever get a 3-day weekend?

Why is my life fucked up?

Flibbertigibbet

2009-09-28T11:04:00.000+05:30

Hello there.

Greetings from another planet.

Yes, I finally have an internet connection. No, I still do not own a computer. So for all of my well-wishers who seem somewhat overzealous to establish contact, please do wait until I get the second installment of one of the most awesomest things in the world - my salary.

There are several things about which I am overtly enthused to write about. I have chalked out an action plan, along with the required time frames to put them up on this page. No, screw it, I think I'll just rant like I used to in the good old days.

Dilbert was right. : I am employed now. I draw a not-so-handsome-but-not-so-ugly salary (which I do not really spend, but that's another story altogether), and pay taxes to the government. But that is beside the point that I wish to make. Being in the world of work (Nanda Dave, anyone?) has taught me a few golden thumbrules about business as usual. The prime one being, that the Dilbert principle is actually very true. It isn't that apparent in an industrial scenario where I work, but you do find parallels if you look for them. I hope to be a singularity to this rule, but considering that I have just vociferously vouched for the universal veracity of the Dilbert Princip., I must stand by my own statements, and assume that it shall apply to me as and when I get promoted. (will I be called Miss Manager - pun intended - three years hence?) That would imply the glutting of some ganglia, but I would certainly get paid more. Its a nasty tradeoff, and I am not ashamed to admit that I prefer the latter option.
Pigeons. : Call me prejudiced, but I do not like those birds. Pigeons are evil birds, if you have not noticed before. The next time you get close to one of them, have a closer look. They have a glint in the eye that says it all. A very evil glint indeed.
We have a couple of them who live in our kitchen, on the loft. They have an irritating habit of suddenly flying out with a loud coo and an even louder flutter of wings that gets amplified thanks to the emptiness of my kitchen. The sudden loudness of their actions results in my flatmates or me being frequently startled while in the process of ironing clothes (which is what the kitchen in our apt is primarily used for). Also, the trajectory followed by these pigeons as they fly out of the loft and out of the window kind of intersects the trajectory of myself as I iron my uniform every morning.
While in Ahmedabad, I visited Sabarmati Ashram. That is another story in itself that I shall share sometime later. Anyways, I was waiting for a few colleagues to join me and in the meantime was fiddling around with my camera. The subject? A pigeon on the embankment, of which I tried to take a great NatGeo style shot. I adjusted the aperture, exposure time, focus, etc, and activated the drive mode so I could take some nice pictures of the thing flying. The pigeon ensured that each of the 12 shots I took contained the image of its pigeon-butt. I gave up, and poof went my NatGeo photo of the month. ( I learnt how to use a charkha instead, which was fun)
A pigeon left its droppings on my towel drying on the balcony.

Stupid birds.
Feline AIDS : I read about this virus today. Its called the FIV, or the feline immunodeficiency virus. It basically causes an AIDS like syndrome in cats. 11% of the world's cats suffer from it. I am a cat-lover, if you do not already know, and this detail disturbed me greatly. I chalked out a scheme for preventing cats across the world from using contaminated needles for crack injection, and also finalised the logistics for a feline-condom distribution scheme. Considering the large domestic cat population and also the large population of cat-owners who would do anything to prevent their pussy cats from dying, my scheme is guaranteed to be a success. I need the following things before I begin, though:
a) Venture capital, or a business partner who is willing to put in all the investment, for I am just one salary old
b) A marketing person whose job it would be to spread panic amongst the cat-owning populace regarding FIV thereby ensuring they buy our cat-condoms.

Wotsay?

Burnt offerings to the Blog God

2009-07-05T22:46:00.004+05:30

Oh yes! I do have a blog,
To keep it up I really must slog.
But I have nothing to write
Think hard as I might,
I now feel like a brain-dead dog!

Its been months since I wrote
Anything worth of note!
This is so frustrating
The self-ministrating
To get myself to emote!

As I type this tonight
I feel the cold fright:
Perhaps I have lost
The talent to post
And can't do it try as i might!

"Ah no," said my friend,
"this is far from the end!
You're flying one day
And will live in LA,
Oh! The stories your diaries will send!"

Why should i write if nobody'd read it?
Rather use my brains on things that'd need it.
It would be much better
To burn every letter
Or to the shredder feed it.

This writer's block is ever so bad.
Heavens! Its driving me mad!
Its been a month and a week
For this poem so weak
To come, so I am sad.

Footnote: This rather lame effort at writing connected limericks comes after admonishment and inspiration from Ru2. Blame him. Not me.

Random Thoughts v2.0

2009-05-28T22:36:00.001+05:30

Greetings.

A lot has been happening in my little world. Wars, cyclones, tournaments, elections, tree-felling, centenaries, rains, stabbings, n-bombs, acquisitions and whatnot. Needless to say, this curious character has been busy tracking it all, and the sheer scope of it makes her mind boggle. What a wondrous place this planet is, and how beauteous is mankind! *

Some perfectly random thoughts:

Eye Pee Yell: The IPL finally ended, just before the overdose of cricket would make me vomit. Everything in moderation, I say. Nevertheless, the IPL has helped change my viewpoint on a few things. (a) Lalit Modi is an ultra-super-duper-brilliant marketing guru. A genius. Incredible powers of planning and foresight. Too good. (b) I was always of the opinion that Harsha Bhogle had the best job in the planet - travel first-class for free, watch cricket all the time and yak about it. My eyes have now opened, it is in fact Mandira Bedi who takes the honors. Harsha has this onus upon him to be smart and well informed. All Mandira has to do is wear the clothes she normally does (in the freezing Jo'burg winter, God bless her with lots of Vicks and soup). In short, you do nothing and get rich and famous. One heck of a job.
Tender Coconuts: Something I sorely missed while in Nagpur. Ambrosia must taste like coconut water. I learnt that in some college campuses in Kerela, aerated drinks are banned. What is available is tenga vellam. Anyways, I'm busy having my fill of it. And I really pity North Indians (non-coconut chaps, to generalize) to not partake of this natural elixir. Speaking of which, I never tried the thela near VNIT.
Roland Garros: Its the French Open season again. When the television comes resplendent with red clay and redder geraniums which Mum keeps envying. New players, quite good ones at that, springing up. But the most moving image this French Open is the defending champion. Who made my day by wearing a brilliantly pink shirt and fluorescent yellow head and wristbands. He could give an epileptic kid a fit. I now support the FedEx with a vengeance. Today's match was awesome.
Danny and his boys: I saw the Ocean series again. Out of sheer boredom. Someone once told me this was the Charlie's Angels equivalent for girls. Almost, but not quite. Anyhow, if you throw in the likes of Matt Damon, Pitt and Clooney in a movie, I'd certainly watch it. Eye candy-shandy. Talking of Matt Damon, I wonder why people call him short. According to IMDB, he's 5'10". That is not short. That is normal human height. Its unfair. How tall should actors be if 5'10" is short?

बस, बहुत हो गया। Ta-da.

*Sorry, Miranda.

Chee-mail ?

2009-05-15T22:42:00.002+05:30

I hate email, even though my nephew tried very hard to convince me otherwise. I solemnly doubt the brat shall read my blog, but in the rare event that he does, and for your infotainment, I shall proceed to explain why I am suddenly so vehemently vocal (though all my communication is ironically electronic).

If you're familiar with my ways, you would infer from the tirade that something has touched a nerve. Why, of course.

Babies are cute, yes. They smile and gurgle and draw attention to themselves. A baby in a familial gathering is the cynosure of all eyes and conversations, and while they're not bawling or wetting themselves they do manage to be quite adorable. But that is where I draw the line. It is quite ridiculous to admire dozens of photographs of babies you do not even know (and mostly of a race and ethnicity far removed from your own), but what is downright repulsive is to accord each image a "cute" tag line and forward it to all the humans you are acquainted with, and they in turn are brain-dead-moron enough to forward it to all the humans they are acquainted with, and so on and so forth until one brain-dead-moron from among the multitude manages to land one such missive into my inbox. You know what is worse? More than one brain-dead-moron decides to forward me that scum. Aargh.

Its not just baby-forwards, though. There is another class of email forwards of the motivational variety. These comprise chiefly of photos of the Grand Canyon, Mount Everest and the like, with some words upon them exhorting the reader to never give up, have faith in god, value his/her friendships etc etc. Baloney. I can do without that kind of motivation. I do not go misty-eyed, all touched and filled with gratitude because that person took time out to try motivate me and up my spirits. Because he didn't. Up his, I say.

Then there are the forward-this-to-a-gazillion-people-in-two-minutes-else-you-will-die-a-painful-horrific-death forwards. Quite seriously, I do not think Jesus Christ or Buddha or Sai Baba would care two hoots about whether you sent people spam or not. And if not forwarding that email to each person on my contacts list really did incur divine wrath, then the concept of God I had until now was flawed, and I shall turn atheist. I had a classmate from school who used to repeatedly spam my inbox with such crap. When it got a bit too much, I sent her a scathing reply, which in polite terms, asked her to get printouts of all her emails and eat them. She stopped, after that.

Oh yeah... how could I forget about the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation who managed to install some widget in your IE so that it detects you forwarding that email and one cent being donated to the cancer relief fund of some poor African child? Or the countless invitations to join forums and communities and whatnot?

Stupid forwards are characterized by:

UNNECESSARY CAPITALS
Bright colors
unparalleled stupidity

So you see, my dark, black thoughts now tell me that if I weren't an extensive user of the Internet, I wouldn't have need to endure all this. My mum doesn't get emails of this kind, and she is currently standing behind my chair as I type this and is smirking to herself. How I wish I could smirk back...

Yadda, yadda. Elementary.

2009-05-11T19:31:00.004+05:30

Bangalore is treating me well - strangely, I have been here nearly four days and I haven't been stuck in a single traffic jam, the temperature is 32-ish on the centigrade scale, its been raining in the evenings, the breeze is cool, Mum is surpassing herself in the saaru-palya department and the neighbour's kid has decided she doesn't want to bug me anymore.
Which is helping cure what I thought would culminate in chronic depression*. Good for me, then.

Well there is about six days' worth of waiting left for me to do, and I need to keep my mind off things to retain some modicum of sanity. So I've turned to my trusted Sherlock Holmes collection, revising it for what may be the umpteenth time. At this rate, I'll end up knowing all the dialogues by heart (i already do for some of my favorite stories).

If only QPC had decided to go in for a Sherlock quiz instead of a bollywood one... ah, well. Life's never perfect.

Anyhoo*, Here is a list of my personal prejudices abotu the Holmes series:

Hercule Poirot is a far better detective than Holmes. And Christie can kick Doyle's a$$ anytime.
Public perception says that Watson is nothing short of a blundering, bumbling Boswell. I beg to differ. He is intelligent (a surgeon, for God's sake), his eagerness profound, he is capable, brave and dependable ("Get your service revolver, Watson") and is astute enough to understand Holmes.
Watson is the ladies' man (speculation is always rife about the number of wives he had), but somehow, Holmes, being the more mysterious chap, would logically have drawn more women to him. Not that he cared, anyway.
Favorite Holmes short story: Silver Blaze (and The Final Problem, for separate reasons)
Favorite Holmes long story: The Hound of the Baskervilles
Least favorite story: The Engineer's Thumb (the goons escape. an engineer gets hurt)
He never says "Elementary, my dear Watson!". Never. A dialogue that comes close reads "Elementary."
My favorite Holmes quotes:
"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
and
"Is there any point to which you would wish to draw my attention?"
"To the curious incident of the dog in the night-time."
"The dog did nothing in the night-time."
"That was the curious incident," remarked Sherlock Holmes.

Enough, I guess.

Toodles, all.

*an exaggeration, pardon me

Withdrawal symptoms

2009-05-10T00:18:00.011+05:30

I can't think of a better phrase than this to sum up all thats going through my mind. I'm spewing it out here. This blog post will mostly be sentimental bullcrap, but bear with it. I am sure many of you feel the same way.

I have been meaning to write about the 4-year journey that was VNIT for a long while now. But everytime I sat down to write, I just couldnt. I hated to think it would end one day, and I did all I could to prolong my delusion that there was more to come. Sitting and thinking about it didn't help, so I avoided doing that like the plague. Now it is all done with. I am back in Bangalore, my stuff is in a Gati truck somewhere in North Karnataka, and all the people I was so used to have been dispatched to different parts of the country (and abroad). Whether I like it or not, it is over, and try as I might, I cannot convince myself otherwise anymore. The four best years of my life have just whooshed past, and I am yet to come to grips with it. If these feelings aren't withdrawal symptoms, I do not know what they are.

I remember my first day in Nagpur like it was yesterday. The fun and item-giri started the moment I landed at the Nagpur station. Mum tells the auto chap to go to VNIT, and of course he was flummoxed. He consults with the other auto chaps around, and gets only puzzled looks. We try tell them its a large engineering college, but to no use. Then along comes a smartass rickshaw-wallah and figures out what we want. He tells the auto guy "Inhe VRCE jaana hai," and to us "Us college ka naam change ho gaya madam, abhi use VRCE bulate hai". "What the hell," says Dad, "lets just go along and see where he takes us." The guy didnt seem familiar with the area, anyhow, and completely overshot the Bajaj Nagar gate. And so it was that my first entry into the VNIT campus was through the Yashwant nagar gate.
I remember Shreesha and Mitra standing outside the reading room, Shreesha being overtly helpful and booking a room in the guest house, him and Mitra helping to carry my bags. I remember the long queue in there, I remember seeing the faces of the people who would later go on to become my classmates, and I distinctly remember Shalini borrowing my pen; Negi's dad and mine striking up a conversation because they owned the exact same bag. I remember cringing when I walked into the damp, dingy place that was the 1st year block in the GH. I remember Umre, Warade, Gappu, VKD and all the buffoonery that was the C-section. I remember waaay too much. Lemme stop remembering.

Four years in VNIT have given me a hell lot of stuff. I think I'll write about only a few. Though if I want to, I think I could fill a book.

If a list were made of all the things in VNIT I successfully poked my nose into, the No.1 spot would go to Quiz Pro Co., our quizzing club. I was there to witness its birth, growth, apex (and death??). Never before was I so glad that I was such an insufferable know-it-all, and never before had I so many insufferable know-it-alls in my vicinity. I met some amazing chaps like Keshav and Vinny, who apart from being founder members, also happened to be Bangaloreans. Quizzing sure was fun, for more reasons than one - monetary gains (in almost every college in Nagpur), Saturday morning timepass, getting to know some of the smarties around the place (and being one such "smartie" yourself), fame (notoriety?) as the only female quizzer around, lots of arguments on "Girls don't quiz" and so on. Third year saw me as one of the Fabulous Five, and of course the Quizfest.

Life in the GH at Central India's largest Technical Institute would come next, perhaps. All the bitching, bad food, time pass and stuff I'll never forget, but if I were to single out one thing, it would be my group of friends : Deepti, Shalmali, KP and Rama - co-conspirators in a lot of mischief (seldom caught), lovers and haters of the same things and people, eternal partners when someone's "case" has to be taken, fighting with authority, and a lot more. Those times will be sorely missed. I'll go to new places, do new things, but I'll have to do all that without Deepti and Rama on either side lending me buckets, detergent, pens, food and all the things I seem to be perpetually deficient of. Oh, dear.

My class. VNIT Tronix 05-09. The best class I have ever been in, the nicest set of people ever to have coincidentally landed up in the same classroom. Each person is supremely talented, dedicated and hard-working. This was the only class that was concerned and interested enough about the department, the only class who turned up in full strength for all the DGs and IGs in all the four years. Everyone was friendly, free and approachable; simple, unpretentious, honest and down-to-earth. We needed only the slightest provocation or excuse to go away on a picnic. The N3 practical batch was a group of like-minded lazybones. The first year M.Techs will have a tough time trying to use some of the comps in the RF lab next semester ( Wotsay, Hardy, Biswa, Khurana? ;) ) It was great fun being with you guys. I have never had classmates like you before, and will never have any. VNIT Tronix 05-09 shall be the Eternal Champions. That sobriquet is ours for the keeping, and noone else would even come close to deserving it. I wish you all luck, may you all only go higher.

And last but not the least, the group of people who I hung around with most of the time in the 4th year. A group of people who like to refer to themselves as the biggest losers in the neighborhood, but as Wagle once pointed out, its actually the opposite. These guys are awesomely, smashingly, mind-blowingly capable of doing anything they please - anything at all - and doing it well. They are the people who would volunteer to do something that has to be done without even being asked to. Axis is testimony to the fact. So is the newsletter. And Aarohi. Yes, you are right, I'm talking of the K-Wing. An amazingly close-knit yet open group I have had the good fortune to be friends with. All the places we've been, all the time we spent together, and the infinite items given by each one of us, I shall always cherish. I can never forget six of us sitting in Cafe Ashoka for over an hour with one cup of coffee and one providential glass of water - no wonder the place went bankrupt. Nor the immensely-K-trip to Pench and the awesomely non-K one to Chikaldara. These chaps are amazing, and among my best friends, and witness to my highs and lows and acute embarrassments. Dunno what I'd do without them.

An era has ended. We're all engineers now, set to go our own way, ready to take on the world as we deem fit. Bitter and sad though I am, these is this tiny tinge of eager optimism about what the future might hold in store. Because I know I'm all the more stronger, fitter and bolder thanks to what the four years have taught me. My voice wouldn't get unchoked and the solitary teardrop wouldn't stop running down my cheek. But all our tears combined wouldn't be a tribute enough for the days gone by. The times weren't worth a teardrop - they were worth a million.

Adios, VNIT. Thanks for all the good times and the bad, the beautiful times and the ridiculous ones. Thanks for the friends and foes, the classes and the offs. Thanks for my degree, for making me an engineer. Thanks for everything.

Random Thoughts

2009-04-26T01:33:00.001+05:30

Hi there, everybody. Long time, eh?

Many of you keep reminding me that the next dosage of ramblings is due. And seriously, I had no idea so many people read my blog. I wonder why none of you post a comment or two if you do.

Today's exam was not the pain-in-the-wrong-orifice that I had expected it would be, the paneer in the mess was actually edible (not the usual plasto-eraser-in-gravy they feed us, i.e.), and I have just consumed a cupful of extra-strong coffee. Needless to say, I am all revved up and raring to have a go at writing something. My ears long for the clickety-clack of my keyboard.

Anyways, here I am.

Random Thought I: Sarcasm vs. Cynicism
Certain well-wishers have bestowed upon me the sobriquet of "Sarcasm Queen". Honored though I am by their effort, and charmed by the fact that people do sometimes pay attention to my snide remarks, I think its time I made a few humble observations.
I do admit that I am sordidly dripping of sarcasm at times, but I prefer regarding myself chronically cynical rather than soppily sarcastic. The title-giving-public didn't seem to get this, so I am bothering to elucidate.

A cynic can be defined as (my favorite definition)
A blackguard who sees things for what they are, and not what they are supposed to be.
A cynical remark is one that is inherently true, everybody knows it, but noone is willing to admit its veracity. Sarcasm, on the other hand, is the use of a sentence to imply the exact opposite in a somewhat snide, wry, mocking, (and somewhat) humorous manner. It is commonly marked by a distinct change of tone.

For example, we may like Obama (or perhaps not) but we all know "change" was just a publicity stunt. So when you say "'Change' was a publicity stunt", you are being cynical. Saying "Yeah, right" on being told that Obama would change the world is sarcasm.
(Follow this link)
Random Thought II : GTalk Status Messages
GTalk is the primary means of communication between us chaps at VNIT. In fact we all chat up more on GTalk than we actually do face-to-face. It makes for very good timepass. Even if you aren't chatting with somebody. What I mean to say is, everytime I log in to GTalk, I go through my friends' list to see who's online. So do most people. While doing that, I happen to glance at everyone's status messages. They make for really interesting reading. A major article on that is planned and will be out here soon for your perusal, but in the meantime, I couldn't help noticing some gems today, which I reproduce below:
@AlphaMale: Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she'll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart. She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.

@NikWag: Newton's 21st century law: Every book continues to be in its state of rest or covered with dust unless an external or internal exam occurs.

@Piran: There is a time and a place for everything, and it's called college.(Nostalgia, anyone?)

@Ojha: (written with some help by Vasava :) ) A pizza with radius 'z' & thickness 'a' has a volume pi*z*z*a.
Random Thought III : Of Cats
There used to be just one cat in my hostel, and this corner of the world was at peace. Until the arrival of another. Now of course these two cats (like all good cats should) contributed to the growth of their species. As a consequence, this place is teeming with cats.

Now most people here don't seem to like cats (not me, I like them - the constant companion of my early childhood was Maya Aunty's cat Marushi - and Sweety and Jimmy after that) and quite a scene is created when a feline is discovered inside somebody's room. Which must be most traumatic for the cat, if you ask me. Imagine finding a nice cozy nook to have a snooze, minding nobody's business but your own, only to be rudely awakened by a biped about fifteen times your size and emitting loud, disturbing noises.
Poor Cat.

Enough baloney for now, I guess. Ciao.

A Saree State of Affairs

2009-02-12T00:39:00.005+05:30

The Consortium of Pubgoing, Loose and Forward Women has struck. And how. The presence of an Indian sense of humor has been verified, albeit in an almost blasphemous manner. India Post officials at the Hubli GPO must be in splits... imagine your workspot being beseiged by heaps and heaps of parcels all containing pink-colored women's underclothing - all addressed to a chap who would equate such "loose references to such things" with a cardinal sin, a twisting in the dagger whose blade is sunken deep into the flesh of "Indian Culture". I dunno about you, but to me, the eternal silent observer, this whole episode is dang funny. In a most ridiculous, evil manner. Some thoughts:

Does Muthalik have western-style commodes in his house?
Why weren't the goons wearing Indian clothing?
I wouldn't mind being married off by SRS on Valentine's Day if the mangalsutra they're supplying is made of gold. I would in fact try and get married to as many people as possible. It wouldn't be illegal as none of these marriages would be admissible in a court of law.
Extending their wonky logic that drives them to marry off couples cuddling in public, it should be morally correct for a married couple to make out to their hearts' content in a bus stop, eh? If marriage is a prerequisite to PDA, then why not, eh?
Acc to Muthalik, it is ok if men drink in a pub. Dear male friends of mine, you now know what to tell your moms.
Muthalik plans to respond to the panty deluge by sending each contributor a pink saree. Well, what is everyone waiting for? A pink chaddi would cost you an average of, say, 30 to 40 rupees. No Jockey or VIP. Cheapo ones will do. A saree will cost him what - Rs.150? (again, a cheapo one will do) Which translates to a more than 200% profit. Hurry, send in your panties today. Even if you aren't a woman, pretend to be one. You stand to gain.
In response to the SRS's specious arguements, the saree in fact exposes more skin than jeans and a t-shirt.
Human rights groups are up in arms. There is uproar everywhere. Just where was everyone when some MIM goons attacked and threw furniture at Taslima Nasreen under full media glare in Hyderabad? I would have appreciated the efforts of this consortium more if that event had been protested against too. Pink modular furniture for Owaisis, maybe?
Lastly, on an off-hand note, why pink, though?

Fillosofies

2009-01-25T23:50:00.006+05:30

Random thoughts:

Good old Murphy & his law: I wonder why bad luck seems to follow only some people around. For example, the solar-heater runs out of hot water the very moment I go for a bath. And seven times out of 10, someone has already taken out all the hot water from the geyser. Have you ever noticed that whenever you need to catch a bus/auto/taxi/etc, the road is absolutely devoid of traffic? And the very same road witnesses the heaviest rush ever when you want to cross it? And how the occurence of these phenomena is directly proportional to hurry involved in your catching a bus/getting across the road? Or that the mess makes the most inedible food on the days you are the hungriest?
What is luck, anyway? And what are the judging criteria for it to be good/bad? Is there such a thing as perpetually bad luck? Or is it just a figment of our imagination, something based on individual perception? Out of a set of coincidences, would some minds retain the "lucky" ones (and consider themselves blessed) and some others retain the "katwa" ones (and form the K-wing). Of course, there would also be a group for whom stuff like this escapes notice. Or is there atually a scientific bearing to the planetary positions etc playing a part in ensuring that the good coincidences happen to you?
Pet Peeves: An absolute oxymoron. How can a peeve be a pet? Peeves are something that exist solely to piss you off, and pets are the objects of your affection, so logically, ne'er the twain shall meet. Still, I kinda like the sound of this phrase.
It has been my intention that if I ever happen to lose my eyesight completely, I will get myself a guide dog, preferably a lab, and name him Jeeves. Now I think I'll get myself a cat - preferably a tabby (if I'm not blind, ie.) - and call him Peeves.
It'll be royal fun with Peeves the pussy-cat in the house:
Other human: So what is your pet peeve?
Me: A very efficient rat-exterminator.
Other human: {exhibits confused look}
Of course, Peeves's hairballs would be a big peeve. But he's a pet, after all.
Beauty is not skin deep: I think it is. I mean, how deep do you want it to be? For all the fuss that we create about people being fair/dark, chinky/doe-eyed, curly/straight haired etc, why doesn't anyone say anything about my liver being prettier than yours, or you having a sexier gall-bladder? If beauty isnt skin deep, all this should matter, right? Or do my internal organs look the same as yours, rendering them incomparable? Have you ever asked your doctor what colour your pancreas is?
Life, the Universe, and Everything: The last few months in college - and the blues have set in. Bleak visions of an uncertain future loom on an ominous horizon. Every passing day my optimism wrt MS admissions diminishes. So maybe I'll have to work, after all. Oh dear. This means a sudden exposure to the dirty, unscrupulous world we inhabit. If I do move to Pune, I'll have to learn a host of things, of which I have no knowledge as of now. Them being: (a)driving a car, (b)cooking (beyond maggi, toast and MTR ready-to-eat, of course), (c)saving money, (d)getting work done in a government office without paying a bribe, (e)paying rent, house tax, water bills, phone bills, electricity bills, credit card bills etc, (f)paying income-tax, (g)evading income-tax, (h)making sound investments and most importantly, (i)getting along without your friends around you anymore. It feels like it was only yesterday that I left Shillong. At that time, I thought moving to a real city like Bangalore would be the character-defining-moment. I now realize how puerile those thoughts were, and how much more there is to learn. The sudden entry into an adult world of work marks the end of an era of twenty-one carefree years. The very thought of it brings a kind of dismal sadness to the heart. However, there still is a tiny tinge of eager anticipation - I'll be out there, alone and independent, not living off my Dad anymore. Its a bittersweet feeling this, the sudden realization that you've finally grown up. I hope I don't make a mess of it when the time comes. Till then, I plan to live it up here in Nagpur.

*My mind was very idle when I wrote this. Very idle indeed.

**If I'm chaatofying you, I'm sorry.

***I love footnotes.

Bye-Bye, Bush.

2009-01-21T18:44:00.008+05:30

I don't know if it is just me, or if there are a large number of people out there who feel the way I do.

Of course, I'm talking about what's been emblazoned on the cover pages of all the newspapers today. All those full page articles about Obama. And quite seriously, I am beginning to lose my patience about it all.

I'm fed up of hearing what a great guy he is. I'm fed up of hearing he's the first African-American to be elected to the Oval Office (I noticed his skin color the first time, thank you). I'm fed up of looking at his perfect family dressed in matching designer costumes (that black and red set of outfits was too ridiculous). I'm sick of reading articles on him searching for the perfect presidential pet dog (and the subarticles which listed the dog varieties his younger daughter is allergic to). But most of all, I am thoroughly peeved at the "change" that all Americans (and some Indians here) are so delighted about.

Obama's PR guys seem to have pulled off a very major, successful stunt with making change the central theme of his presidential campaign. The humble word has been emblazoned everywhere, and has successfully been ingrained in the psyche of not just the Americans but also us Indians.

Of course, having a half-black-Kenyan, half-white-American who grew up in Indonesia become the most powerful man is a very big change indeed in the general scheme of things. For America and the rest of the white world, it is a big step forward, considering all their history about slavery and apartheid and other associated stuff. For us, well, any person with third-world roots achieving something of this magnitude is a very significant thing indeed. Everyone loves an underdog, and Obama is a perfect specimen of the quintessential underdog.

But the main problem is that most Americans (and many Indians) have no definite thoughts wrt the change, and just seem to be going through with the drift. Sample this, a news report i saw when Obama won the election: two college going girls, around my age, burst out crying when the results were declared, hugged each other and screamed out in sheer delight "At last! At last! Now things can change!".

My point is, no Bush in office is such a significant step for the betterment of America and the world, that it doesn't make an iota of a difference as to who succeeds him. Anyone could do a better job, so concentrating it all on Obama is foolhardy.

Secondly, Americans don't seem to have much of an inkling as to what change they want. Sample this again, a conversation with my dad's friend:

Prof.V: "If Obama wins, things will finally change! I'm voting for him!"

Me: "But Prof.V., what do you suppose should change?"

Prof.V.: "Um... things??"

Me: "What things, Prof.V.?"

Prof.V.: "Oh, well, (thinks a while) Iraq maybe? (thinks some more) Israel?"

Don't get me wrong, Obama is certainly a talented and a well qualified chap, but I just can't digest all the hype around him. I can't bring myself to agree with him being as big a deal as he is made out to be. He's just another US president, for nuts' sake. How effective or not he will be will be determined four years from now, and not before he's even moved to the White House. He has many tasks cut out before him - Iraq, Israel, Iran, the economy - which he will have to deal with effectively in his tenure. Praise him once he does that, not now.

I'm going to miss Bush. He was like a constant source of entertainment for the past few years. Obama has a pretty high standard set before him in this regard. It remains to be seen if Jug Suraiya can make a Dubyaman-esque comic strip on Obama. I'll eagerly await that.

In the meantime, I shall have to put up with seeing Obama all over the media. I'm treating it as a test of my mental strength, and checking my tolerance levels. How long before I snap, ie.

Maybe I'm paranoid, but am I paranoid enough?

What is a Vorpal Sword, anyway?

2009-01-11T13:45:00.008+05:30

Ok, so I've gone ahead and given my blog this fancy name. Full of mystery and stuff. Sounding like a sentence straight out of fantasy fiction. Without any doubt, people are now going to think things like:

Wait a minute, there is no such word, is there? This girl does talk nonsense all the time.
Must be something to do with LOTR. These quizzers, can't think of anything else.
Swords? Violence? Has she been watching too much gore?
Hoga kuch to... who cares?
Is it Harry Potter?
Or H2G2?
Yawn.

Those who know me well will suppose that this has something to do with a favorite book of mine. They're right. Those who know me better will say I'm trying to show off and be a smartass. They're right too.

Of course, in a more desirable yet improbable scenario, one might figure out what I'm trying to say. In that event, perhaps we're co-members of same secret society. We just do not know each other owing to the death mask and hood, of course.

OK, back to the sword. This is not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill medieval weapon, but belongs to the league of Excalibur and Arondight.

A Vorpal Sword is what you would use in order to kill a Jabberwock. At brillig, then, maybe you would commence cooking it over a Gubraithian Fire. Then you could use a Runcible Spoon* to consume the Jabberwock soup you just made, provided Skelton doesn't drop a whym-wham into it.

Of course, a pen is always mightier. The keyboard too, of late, has been making its presence felt in this domain.

* New addition to the knowledge-base.

Slotted Woes

2009-01-06T21:11:00.009+05:30

Life's pretty boring these days. Thanks to the subjects I've taken, and the slotted fundae, it turns out that I have a large number of sporadically occurring lectures to attend, interspersed by periods of free time. The lectures aren't all that bad, though. Its the free periods that are getting on my nerves. Inactivity is bugging me like never before. So I've decided to do something about my slotted woes.

I began by taking into account the following factors:

There is a limit to the number of cups of tea one can consume in the canteen
There are constraints (mostly concerning finances) about visiting the canteen too often
After a while, attending in a random lecture in a random classroom isn't all that exciting (no point in going to a random class to sleep, ie.)
Someone always happens to be in possession of the English newspapers in the reading room when I want them (erm, well, I did try Sakal)
Everyone seems to have a different set of subjects, causing the lack of a steady partner for free-slot related timepass
The reading room is too noisy a place to read a novel

I've come up with some solutions to the problem, which might ease my life a bit. Which one of these I shall actually implement depends on the feedback I get from the public.

Learn how to power nap. Find a people-less spot somewhere and have a good snooze. The labs might give me the necessary degree of being deserted that I require. Pros: No need to list them. Cons: Why on earth would one wake up to go sleep again in class?
Form a club of and for people with similar woes. Pool money/resources and get scrabble boards, sit somewhere and play. Pros: One's vocabulary is improved. Cons: The games would last for only about an hour.
Work on the Final-Year-Project. Pros: The work gets done. Cons: This involves working.
Install a TV in the reading room. Pros: Duh, timepass. Cons: Too much noise causing people actually reading something there to hurl abuses at self.
Get yourself cloned*. Then strike a deal with the clone so you can split the lectures (and subsequently the exams) 50-50. Pros: This is foolproof, provided the existence of the clone is a secret. Cons: There would be a 20 year age difference between me and my clone were I to get cloned now.

I can't think of how to end this - I'm too bored to even tax the literary ganglia. So I'll stop this nonsensical post right here.

*I happen to have a lot of interesting thoughts about cloning. I'll put them up later.

Movie Review - Slumdog Millionaire

2008-12-26T10:01:00.000+05:30

Disclaimer: I have reviewed only one movie before this one (refer previous issue of Eyes Only). The movie being Karzzzz, there was plenty to write about, which of course everyone had a good laugh reading. So, dear Reader, I consider myself totally inept in this movie-review business. Many of you may disagree with what I have to say, but, what the heck - its my blog.

The main reasons why I was eager to see Slumdog Millionaire:

The hype. Gtalk status messages, the news channels, newspapers, small talk, everything proclaiming this to be a really amazing movie.
Curiosity. Oscar and Golden Globe nominations? For an out-of-nowhere movie with an Indian story? Oh, wow! I'm game!
Joblessness. 8th sem VNIT timetables. Two lectures in a day. Free afternoons. Ownage of a PC. What do you expect?

To cut a l. story s., I saw the movie this afternoon. And could not figure out what the purpose of all the hype was.

Danny Boyle's Slumdog Millionaire is based on a book called Q&A by Vikas Swarup, a book a friend said she couldn't bear to finish. It is the story of Jamal, his brother Salim, and orphaned slum girl Latika (the trio call themselves the three musketeers). Jamal answers his way to the final question in Who Wants to Be a Millionaire (WWTBAM). Being an extremely unlikely winner (FYI, people from slums who converse in flawless English are not supposed to know stuff), he finds himself hauled off by the cops and accused of cheating. And so begins the movie with the classic ruthless-cops-hanging-chap-from-roof-and-electrocuting-him scene ( "Sure, let me just take these electrodes off and we'll have a little sit down, Jamal." -- I mean, wtf??). Nobody in the least suspects that he might actually have known the answers. But he does. By sheer coincidence, the lessons he learned via slum life gave him the answers he needed.

What ensues is this absurdly hyperactive and at times crazy story of his life. His childhood hopelessly gone wrong, his love (Latika) lost first to beggary and then to prostitution, a vengeful goon "who never forgets" and is baying for his and Salim's blood. Salim shoots the goon and they rescue the girl, only to have Salim sexually exploit her. Jamal runs away in disgust, not bothering to find out what happened to Latika. So much after all the love and the trouble he took to find her.

Many years later, he does trace her. She is a keep of the gangster that Salim works for. Begin another rescue mission. Which is foiled by Salim. Jamal now knows that Latika follows WWTBAM, and therefore participates in the show so she can see him, wherever she might be.

And then comes the ickily sugary, formulated, pukka-Bollywood style ending. Hero's brother who once saved his life can't be all that bad, after all. And he isn't a good guy either. Expectedly, he helps Latika escape then shoots himself in a bathtub full of 1000 rupee notes. Jamal uses the Phone-a-Friend lifeline, and who should pick up the phone but Latika. Sundered hearts reunite. Jamal wins the show. Song-dance in CST (?). The end.

Contrary to what I expected, this is a love story, but the chemistry between the lead couple was missing. This may not be apparent for the intended western viewer, but the hero does a bad job at masking his very markedly un-Indian accent (Dev Patel is a Briton, btw). And everyone is talking in english, making the dialogues sound very forced and unnatural, even for an urban-India scenario. The child actors have done a brilliant job, primarily because they use the native tongue. They turn adolescents and suddenly start speaking in english (?). Anil Kapoor's (the WWTBAM host) lines are downright rude and abusive, deliberately ramming down our throats the factoid of Jamal being a slumdog, endeavoring to arouse in the audience a feeling of pity.

As for Rahman's music, it kind of escaped my notice. So I won't comment. Lets leave that aside.

The movie isn't all that bad, though. A raw attempt has been made of mixing Hollywood and Bollywood, a taste that will suit the palate of the average moviegoer. The child actors are worth a watch. And some scenes and bits of the story do work well, especially the first half. The depiction of the slums is very real and compelling (even though it romanticizes the slum-dweller). All the Oscar talk has done the movie a lot of good, and optimistic reviews from all sides have made it an "Oscar contender". The movie definitely isn't in that league, not even close to it (trivia: Warner even had plans to scrap the release in North America).

Final Verdict: The movie lacks maturity, has an unbelievable storyline, an overdose of WWTBAM, an extremely saccharine ending, unimpressive acting by the male lead (and also Freida Pinto), and had me shaking my head in disbelief at the truckloads of praise it got. The movie is proof that good PR can work wonders. If you want a good film, go watch Salaam Bombay. What I liked about the movie? I now know the names of all the three musketeers.

So long, then.

PS: Tons of thanks and eternal gratitude to Geekru2, without his timely intervention this review would be lost forever in the myriad bylanes of deleted electronic text. Dahisamosa for you, Ru2.

The White Tiger - Review

2008-12-19T21:55:00.002+05:30

The White Tiger

Aravind Adiga
Harper Collins, Rs.395.

There is something about the Booker prize. Or rather, the Man-Booker prize. And the Booker of the Booker prize. And the Best of the Booker prize. And every other spinoff of that damn literary award. They do manage to selectively pick out the trashiest junk from all the fictional novels that got printed in the year that just passed. And bookworms like me, idiots that we are to not yet have seen through the scam that is the Booker, make our wallets lighter year after year in our efforts to figure out the ingrained merit in these prize-winning publications.

I bought a copy of Aravind Adiga's "The White Tiger", not learning from my past experience with Booker-winning books. I read it. I hence review it.

Gist: The White Tiger is a self-story narrated by a character called Balram Halwai (born Munna Halwai), in and as the white tiger. Narrated as a letter to, of all people, Wen Jiabao. Balram is born in a stinky, underdeveloped village somewhere on the banks of the Ganges (Gaya, to be precise). He drops out of school. Works in tea-shops. Becomes a driver. Goes with master (whose car he drives) to the corridors of power in Delhi. Murders aforementioned master, steals his cash and runs down south to Bangalore. Uses aforementioned cash to start taxi company there. Prospers. Writes a letter to Jiabao. The End.

And yes, introduce the term "Darkness" with a capital D three times in each page. That's the book for you.

This book presents a very sordid picture of India indeed. Life here is all about the suppression of the poor by the rich. The picture presented is one of those presented by 1970s Hindi movies. You get the idea. Cruel zamindars, abject poverty, no roti-kapda-makan-bijli-money. Lousy school where no one learns anything. Rigged elections. Corruption. Gundas. And what have you. Adiga portrays an Indian society which is grotesquely binary, where each person inhabits an extremity. You are either Mr.Rich Thug living in buildings with British names and zipping about in an AC car, or you are Mr.Poor Saint who inhabits a plaster-flaking room in the basement and drives the car for Mr. Rich Thug.

So you see, Adiga has most conveniently left us out. Me and you. The educated, honest (mostly), hardworking, down-to-earth middle class. People who live in buildings with Indian names. People who drive Scootys or ride about in autos. People who catch the bus to office. People who aren't rich and aren't poor either, and can make ends meet without much difficulty. Most Indians, that is to say. According to Adiga the middle class does not exist, or if it does, it isnt important enough to warrant mention. He is so busy putting things in black and white, that he failed to notice all the grey around him. Adiga's book swears by the adage of "two Indias", which he refers to as the "Light" and "Darkness" (By the end of the book, you'll be sick of this Darkness-Light thing, i swear). Light being places like Bangalore, Darkness being Gaya. Same funda of his rich-poor divide, applied to places. There are hundreds of Indias, Mr.Adiga. Each vividly different from the other.

This is why I hate authors who claim to "know India", and have an "honest, open writing style" and gallantly provide us with a "unique insight" into the "real India", as much as I hate the reviewers (I wonder if they are paid to do it?) who provide these fellows with blurbs using the words and phrases highlighted above. What do they think their readers are? Unexposed to the world around them and hence unable to understand their country? Pshaw.

Overall, this book is clearly written by an outsider - an NRI who has claimed to understand the country of his roots. The viewpoints are very superficial and not adequately researched.

Hence the Booker Bashing. It is a tragedy, almost, these useless books winning prizes like this. And pissing us all off with "Winner of the Booker Prize" emblazoned on the cover. And "Booker Prize Winning Author" on the covers of all the books the author has bothered to write/will write. Trust me, and take them as warning signs, and do not read those books.

Final Verdict: Bleargh. Stay away. Unless you belong to the class who likes reading stories about protagonists going through the journey of their lives, endeavoring to enlighten you in the process. Or if you are the type who believes that if a book won a prize it must be great anyway, so why not read it and pretend to have advanced literary tastes. Or if you are Aravind Adiga.

Musings on the World

2008-12-15T12:16:00.009+05:30

The world is a highly entertaining place indeed. Something or the other keeps happening to keep you amused and maintain the usual bonhomie and joie de vivre, making the person-in-the-corner-watching-things-go-by role quite enjoyable.

For this however, you first must remove your rose-colored glasses, and toss them aside into the garbage bin. See the world for what it is like a true cynic, and the irony of it all will get you hooked.

Current events that grabbed my attention:

Journo throws shoes at George Bush Jr.: An Al-Baghdadia TV reporter threw both his shoes, one after the other, at the US president, calling it a "goodbye kiss from the Iraqi people" or something. Everyone's now going into overdrive broadcasting stories about how much the Iraqis hate America and Bush and whatnot. Coming to the funny stuff. (a) Bush's initial remarks were "It was a size 10", (b) for all the highly sophisticated security that the CIA gives the most powerful man in the world, they couldn't stop a guy from throwing his shoes at the Prez; a collision of shoe and Dubya was prevented from occurring only because of Bush's very athletic ducking and (c) it would be dead cold in the Iraqi winter, and this wise guy would probably have to trudge it from the chokey in his socks. Love thine enemies alright, but you don't have to gift them your best footwear.
Mrs. Karkare rejects Modi's relief package: The news channels, or rather the 'secular' news channels that are the nation's pride for exemplifying the right to free speech and free press were full of caustic and sarcastic reports on how Hemant Karkare's wife had rebuffed Narendra Modi's offer of monetary help. "Serves him right," was the general tone. But the best was yet to come. Like Esmond Haddock so correctly points out in "Mating Season" by Plum, "You can only defy an aunt if there is some circumstance to defy her about. You cannot just approach the aunt and say "I defy you."". It is a known fact that one can only rebuff what has been offered to you. And it turns out that Modi never did offer any money to the Karkare family, nor did they reject it. (link) NDTV and Headlines Today were so dejected that this great excuse for Modi-bashing (which happens to be the Indian journalist's favorite pastime) happened to be false, that they chose not to report it at all. Instead they have declared this "War on Terror". A brilliant step to mask one's goofiness.
Air conditioned bus shelters to be installed in the city: The Hudson Circle bus-stop has shot into prominence for getting the nation's first AC Bus shelter. Which essentially means that if you're at Hudson Circle on a hot afternoon and desire to utilize public transport, you need not swelter. Instead you can cool your heels and unruffle your feathers in this AC bus-stop when waiting for a bus to appear. Each such shelter costs Rs.8,00,000/- to build, and many more will be put up in the city to keep up with its "Bangalore is the next Singapore" slogan. One could build 8 bus shelters of the non-AC variety with that money. For every AC bus-shelter that the BMTC plans to put up, I could point out 10 stops where there is no shelter at all, or where the existing one is unusable (The Mayo Hall bus-shelter for Airport Road bound buses is on the wrong side of the one-way. An enterprising chaiwalla now uses it for business purposes). Who foots the electricity bill for all the ACs is also not very clear. Looking at the plus points, the city's homeless need not spend the hot summer nights on Cubbon Park benches, but now utilize this luxury, while the proletariat sweats it out under a ceiling fan.

More later.

The Enigma called Batman

2008-12-13T20:20:00.004+05:30

Men come and men go, but superheroes live forever.

These superheroes sure are interesting chaps, chiefly because:

They have bulging muscles strongly reminiscent of ripe corn in a rippling field.
They possess all the latest gadgets and gizmos and whatnot, and their mission control rooms / headquarters seem to have walls made out of electronic display panels.
Are immensely rich.
Superhero = Costumed Crimefighter (acc. to wikipedia). They have perfectly fitted costumes, having a distinct logo on the chest area.
Their "real" identities are always a secret, which only adds to their allure. The superhero cult is said to be more secretive then the Priory of Sion and the Kaballah sect combined.
The good old reason of them wearing their underpants over everything else. Nobody knows why, but see above.
They are well-versed in all possible forms of martial arts without any conspicuous training.
Etc, etc, etc.

Spiderman (my favorite) posseses arachnoid characteristics (scales walls, builds webs). Superman, too, lives up to his name and is superior to most men (superhuman strength, speed, flying skills). The Incredible Hulk is indeed a hulk, and the Wonder Woman is truly a wonder of a woman (her costume is ridiculous though). The Green Lantern has everything green (the power ring!!) . Captain Planet does stuff for the planet (plus the five elements funda). The Invisible Woman is invisible. The Human Torch can throw flames at will. And so on and so forth. You get the drift. One can get a pretty fair idea about what the features of a superhero might be just by hearing his name.

I'll come to the point now.

I'll begin with the enumeration of the similarities that Bruce Wayne's secret identity has with a bat:

Both are mammals.
Batman's costume makes him look like a humungously huge bat.
Thats about it.

Seriously speaking, I don't quite understand the rationale behind Batman. He can't fly. He can't emit ultrasonic squeaks. I'll be damned if I see him hanging upside-down from a branch. Bats aren't even dangerous*. They eats moths and fruits and stuff, and are smaller than a mouse. They are associated with witches and ghosts and other spooky stuff. Poor misunderstood creatures. But that's not my point. My hypothesis is**, that Bruce Wayne became Batman and not Tigerman or Vultureman, only because his friendly neighborhood Halloween Costumier ran out of all the other-animal-costumes. Only the bat costume was left, leaving our Bruce with little choice. The bat costume is extremely uncomfortable, too. Those who've seen the movie (with Christian Bale) will recall that his voice turns hoarse and constricted whenever he wears it. It is not healthy, this. Never take on the risk of suffocation when you're fighting baddies. Given a choice, I am certain Bruce would have chosen a more comfortable outfit. Maybe like the one Chandler gets for Halloween in the 8th(?) season:

We would have Bunnyman then. Makes good PR sense too. He could earn extra money by endorsing carrot juice brands as well as Vit A supplements.

That is all for now. In case you're wondering, I've been reading Green Lantern comics in the recent past.

*Not entirely true. To the best of my knowledge, Vampire Bats do bite, and can even give you rabies in the process.
**Never mind what DC says.

The Pink Blues.

2008-12-09T16:15:00.001+05:30

I HATE PINK. If you do not already know, I absolutely loathe this colour. Pink is the colour that goes naturally with (some species of) flowers, candy floss, newborn babies and your nose when you've been roaming outside in the biting cold. Anything else that is pink is simply a no-no, and individuals who wear pink by choice look like blotches upon the landscape. No other colour consistently stands out and strikes the eye like pink does (don't say 'fluorescent yellow' now, lemme get on with the tirade). The more intense shades have even succeeded in making the eye water. They made the mind boggle.

I finally meet a close friend after a very very long while. Upon sighting him, I do not utter any exclamations of joy. I don't even greet him. I say instead - "Why the hell are you wearing a pink shirt?!!". The anti pink-sentiment in me is that strong, that I tend to overlook logic and emotion in its wake. (Sorry, Menon, for bearing the brunt of it. My apologies.)

My battle with this colour dates back to when I was a little kid. I wasn't even wearing glasses back then. That long ago. I was fond of using big words to impress kids and adults alike (still do that). When asked what my favorite colour was, I used to say "fuchsia" (#FF00FF). Needless to say, I had no clue as to what colour it actually was, so when someone actually pointed it out, I was chilled to the bone, and never repeated the error.

What I dislike more than pink is the look of bewilderment that people give me when they figure out my views on the colour. When someone is buying me a present and asks my preferences, I say "Not Pink." They then give me a blank, mouth-half-open sort of look and say "Why don't you like pink?". When I was little, it was much worse. Aunties would look down their noses and say admonishingly "All little girls must like pink," That has abated now, but males still tell me I should like pink because I'm a girl. I have never heard a more ridiculous thing. This gender-based-colour-code is irritating. If anyone ever finds a barbie set in yellow or blue (and no trace of pink), call me. I will land up at the location with my camera, and might just buy it.

Thanks to the modern, tech-savvy woman, high-tech gadgets too have turned pink. The pink motorazr (sic) is a common sight. So are pink ipods. I even saw a billboard two days back advertising a pink laptop for "today's woman, who does things her way", wa-wa*. It comes pre-loaded with all fancy features. Bleargh. No self respecting female geek (their supposed target customer base) would want to be spotted (dead or alive) with the latest, slickest device in... wait for it... pink. Imagine walking into a boardroom to give the boss and senior company executives a presentation. You sashay into their midst, the very picture of confidence etc., and open your pink laptop. Eh, what?

It is sad being stuck in the societal stereotypes and getting on the wrong side of the colour divide, but methinks it is worse for guys who like pink - why they like pink I can't imagine, but still - and other "feminine" stuff. Women can watch either football or a chick flick and get away with it. A guy who wears pink stuff, loves to bake, gets facials/manicures/whatever done and likes watching mushy romantic movies is instantly branded as gay.Girls play cricket, they are cool. A boy plays with dolls and he is a sissy. An equal world, this is supposed to be.

Coming back to the subj.,pink as a colour is wretched. When I see a friend in pink, I instinctively crinkle up my nose, as though the colour was wafting through the air like a foul odour. Many people give me retorts like "Its NOT pink, its lavender/fuchsia/magenta/peach/flesh tint/yadda-yadda!". Yeah, right. To all such geniuses, when one says "pink", one does not refer to a definite hex colour code, nor is pink scientifically defined with great accuracy and specificity, but we're talking about the entire spectral domain that comes about by mixing red and white in different proportions and intensities. Whether you call it lavender/fuchsia/magenta/peach/flesh tint/yadda-yadda, fact remains that it is pink. Pink. There is nothing you can do about it, and I will continue to chid you. (Best retort I've got so far: So what if its pink? Its Provogue!")

I'm not the only one with this anti-pink-ness, though. I once read about this group of breast cancer victims (in UK, I think) who started an "I hate pink ribbons" group. The poor souls, not fans of the colour themselves, must have been beseiged by pink ribbons to add to the trauma of being a breast cancer victim. My heart goes out to them.

Confessions:

The only pink article of clothing I own is a pink kurta my mom bought me.
I once, with like minded people, tried starting a band called "Pink Flawed" (You got the allegory? Smart!). The band flopped before it even started, because none of us could play any instruments. Once we fix this glitch, U2 will look up to us, you'll see.
The only pink things I like are pink roses and babies. And Digene, when I have an upset tummy.

*Feynman for "whatever it was"

Why didn't they tell me before?

2008-12-09T08:44:00.001+05:30

Boy, I love reading newspapers. Most of the stuff in it are adverts; but of the little news they print, you can always find a gem or two tucked in somewhere amidst ads for IIPM and VLCC.
I found one such gem.
The Deccan Herald reported on Dec 8 that the hon. Supreme Court hath decreed "sleep" to be a fundamental right of any citizen. This is in conjunction with a Maharashtra government rule prohibiting musical functions and other loud things occurring within a 100m radius of a hospital or educational institute. The SC said sleep was a necessity for good health, and I totally agree. (link to the article)
I was overjoyed on reading the article, especially because the judicial chaps so accurately correlated 'sleep' and 'educational institute'. Which essentially means that I can sue any Prof who has told me off / will tell me off for snoozing in his lecture; charging them of grossly violating my fundamental rights. If this was America I'd be a millionaire by now.

Just thought you'd like to hear the glad tidings in the season of cheer. Do spread the gospel to all who might benefit from it.

Talking of the season of cheer, I made a sombre observation yesterday. Bangalore seems to have lost its yuletide spirit. There are no fancy decorations, no crowds shopping for gifts and stuff, and Nilgiri's bakery wore a deserted look. I wonder if this is due to recession or the fear of terror attacks. But maybe I am leaping to conclusions. It is just the beginning of December, after all.

If you reached this sentence, you most probably have read this blog post. Thanks for that. This nonsense came about as a by-product of joblessness.

Bomb-bay

2008-12-03T19:03:00.000+05:30

This is all everyone has been talking about since the 26th of November. This is all the news channels show. This is all my co-passengers in the BMTC bus would discuss today. It isn't surprising at all that it should be so. When the Taj burned, India burned with it. The greatest icon for India's most important city is now scarred, marred and gutted. The sight of it was enough to break a billion hearts. I say that because it did break mine (patriotism tinged with a love for antique architecture).

What was the most frightening issue in the whole episode was the easy vulnerability of Mumbai to an attack via the coast. Maybe we were fortunate it was just the Taj and the Oberoi/Trident. The terrorist chaps could have made the nuclear installations at BARC their target with equal ease, and where would we be then? As the Navy, Coast Guard, IB, RAW, Maharashtra Police, the state and the central governments and god knows who else engage in the highly competitive sport of pointing fingers, I cannot help but boil with rage at the uselessness of it all now. Just what were the maritime forces doing at sea? A bunch of nutters can travel all the way from Karachi to Mumbai with kilos of explosives and ammunition, and nobody finds out. I have always thought smuggling to be a highly risky activity, and wondered how the D-company et al did it for a living. I don't anymore.

Another thing which greatly peeves me - the so-called "Unbeatable spirit of the Mumbaikar","Mumbai will be back on its feet","Mumbai me dhande ko manda nahi hone denge" and other associated blah-blah. Hogwash. If Mumbaikars are getting back to their feet, it is with no intention of teaching LeT and party a lesson or two. It is because they have no choice. It is easy for us here in Bangalore to pass such wise comments on our Mumbai bretheren. If something similar happened here, our city would stop for a day or two, unlike Mumbai. An average Bangalorean just does not have the urgency to earn a living that the average Mumbaikar has.

The attack has also raised questions on the usefulness of the NSG. DH today said that 60% of the commandos are engaged in VVIP security. And our beloved Motherland abounds in VVIPs. Every MP, every MLA has a security guard equipped with an AK-47. And the Policemen facing Kasav and accomplice in CST had .303 calibre rifles. The NSG is flown in from Delhi in a plane that is first sourced from Chandigarh and 10 precious hours are lost in the process. Many lives could have been saved and the Taj need not have closed for a year. The public is clamoring for an NSG branch in each state, Karnataka is even contemplating an SSG. Instead, I feel it would be a better idea if the police force everywhere was supplied with better arms. I am so used to seeing police constables everywhere with those antique guns of theirs...and sometimes with just a lathi. How many of them have ever handled an automatic?

Bangalore is worried. This city stands for what India is today, a symbol of the new and technologically advanced India. Toss a stone into the air and it would either fall on a stray dog or on a software engineer, as the old joke goes. (We'll leave the dogs out of this. A certain Achuthanandan is known for his skill at handling them. Those with access to today's TOI may check out Ponnappa's cartoon on the saga. A gem. I am preserving a clipping.) Post IISc attack, extra security has been provided to all the IT, BT, BPO etc etc sectors, but industry leaders are still running scared. Which comes back to the point I made. Just how equipped are the Home Guards and the CISF to deal with grenade toting maniacs? Kiran Mazumdar Shaw was distraught. Metal detectors and baggage checks are all fine, she said. No problem. But Grenades?

What struck me most was the hypocrisy of it all. We brag about being the world's largest democracy etc. It took only 10 people to create a ruckus with their AK-47s and our very belief in democracy is shaken. Everyone is baying for mantriji's blood, and our beloved government at the centre takes "a hard stand on terror" and "proactive measures", and every leader has a grim face and is "talking tough on terror". Mantrijis are being sacked left, right and centre, and we all shake our heads and say in a smug manner, "too little, too late". Where does our voice go when we really need to speak out? We who are cribbing about the politicos we have, are the ones who voted them to power in the first place.The notion of who the devil is changes every four years. In scientific terms it is called the anti-incumbency factor. We the people have equal blame to share. For being mute spectators. For making our voice restricted to our living room discussions. For ensuring that the good guys can never make it in politics. For not joining the armed forces (North-east / Kashmir me posting hoga beta, fauj me bharti mat hona). And for subsequently complaining about the lack of good hands to leave the nation in.

All Indians are crying out, saying enough is enough, lets go to war with Pakistan and end this matter. Obama has given the go ahead if India needs to go to war. It is not really related, but I seriously wonder what Gandhi would have done in a time like this. There is no question of giving peace a chance - there have been plenty of chances but there hasn't been any peace. Satyagraha might have worked with the British, it might work against rulers with some sense in their heads. But considering the fanatics and zealots we have against us today, I continually wonder - just what would Gandhi do?

On an ending note, due tributes from me to all the martyrs. I am proud we were on the same side of the battle. Specially to fellow VNITian Hemant Karkare and fellow Bangalorean Sandeep Unnikrishnan. There is no glory like martyrdom. And kudos to those who survived. You NSG commandos are the real heroes. Move over, Bollywood. India has new idols now.
And a line from one of my favorite poems:

The mighty perish in their might,
The slain survive the slayer.

(It feels wrong to think of the terrorists as mighty, but I think the part about the slain surviving the slayer is apt)

PS- Candlelight vigils are on all over the country as I type this. My deepest sympathies to the municipal workers who get to scrape all that wax off the pavement tomorrow.

To fk or not to fk ?

2008-10-30T22:39:00.000+05:30

Today's TOI has on its cover page a rather amusing piece on teen lingo, and about how the youth of today are divided into two categories, the 'wannabes' and the 'acheivers'. The wannabes are the lot who freely use slang, and the acheivers do not, on account of their superior intellect etc etc. I was reminded of a conversation I had in school on the usability of slang, particularly the increasingly liberal usage of the f-word. There was in fact a school of thought which believed that it was cool to use the queen's tongue the way a certain Wren and a certain Martin told us to, and the rest (me included) believed it didn't make an iota of difference, and the inventive and versatile usage of the f-word may in fact aid in the evolution of the language.
I had once read about a speech by Osho on the topic - not a speech, exactly, but a response to a query put to him by one of his disciples who was outraged at the diminishing morals of society, particularly in reference to the word in question. I reproduce the same without permission:

"F*** is one of the most beautiful words. English language should be proud of it…. I don’t think any other language has any such beautiful word. One Tom from California has done great research on it. I think he must be the famous Tom. Of Tom, Dick, Harry fame… He says one of the most interesting words in the English language today is the word F***. It is a magical word. Just by its sound it can describe pain, pleasure, hate and love.
In language, it falls into many grammatical categories. It can be used as a verb, both transitive—John f***ed Mary—and intransitive—Mary was f***ed by John. And as a noun: Mary is a fine f***!
It can be used as an adjective. Mary is f***ing beautiful. As you can see, there are not many words with the versatility of the word f***! Besides the sexual meaning, there are also the following uses.

Fraud: I got f***ed at the used car lot!
Ignorance: F*** if I knew!
Trouble: I guess I’m f***ed now!
Aggression: F*** you!
Displeasure: What the f*** is going on here!
Difficulty: I can’t understand this f***king job!
Incompetence: He is a f*** off!
Suspicion: What the f*** are you doing!
Enjoyment: I had a f***ing time!
Request: Get the f*** out of here!
Hostility: I’m going to knock your f***ing head off!
Greeting: How the f*** are you!
Apathy: Who gives a f***!
Innovation: Get a bigger f***ing hammer!
Surprise: F***, you scared the shit out of me!
Anxiety: Today is really f***ed!

And it is very healthy too. If every morning you do it as a transcendental meditation… just when you get up… the first thing… repeat the mantra, f*** you, five times… it clears the throat… that’s how I keep my throat clear….enough for today!"

That about seals the matter, I guess. Though it would be ages, if you ask me, before the f-word grows out of its word-that-not-be-uttered / chee-chee status.

Blah-blahs of a jobless soul.

2008-10-30T19:56:00.000+05:30

Ah. A long while indeed since I put up anything on my blog. To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten that I had one.

Diwali has come and gone, leaving me immersed deep in festivity-withdrawal-symptoms. It doesn't exactly help that the coming week looms ahead like a formidable dark cloud on the horizon with inklings of impending disaster, what with the return of the project guide (who expected "sincere" fellows like us to be done with our stuff by November, lol.), a truckload of meaningless drivel to be written and submitted to VRS in the form of an assignment, and of course, coming up soon after, are the End Sem exams.
Time seems to have flown, giving me a sinking feeling that a whole semester has gone by and I haven't learnt anything worthwhile. Add to it the ever-intensifying Final Year Blues, and life presents a sordid picture indeed. Gloom prevails, alas.

Depressing stuff apart, the break we had was welcome. I utilized it to the hilt, so to speak, at least for the first few days (am now thoroughly peeved and can't wait to breathe Central Indian air). For some unearthly reason, I decided to make Mysore Pak for diwali. Expectedly, the public reaction was one of amusement tingled with outrage. And as always, noone really took me seriously. Some sample reactions -

Amma: "Mysore Pak? ಅನ್ನ ಸಾರು ಮಾಡೋದಕ್ಕೆ ಬರಲ್ಲಾ. And Mysore Pak??" (this isn't enough sadism for her. She tells all my aunts over telephonic gossip, and its become a kind of family joke now.)
Me: "Happy Diwali!"
Aunt: "Happy Diwali! I hope you all are hale and hearty?"
Me: "Of course,"
Aunt: "Oh! But you were making Mysore Pak, right?"
Me: "??"
Dad: "Hehehehehehehe" (and after I gathered the ingredients, with true, unfeigned surprise: "What, you weren't joking?")
Sravya: "Oh, I don't eat sweets at all!"
Gupta Uncle: "Ah, Vasavi! I'm diabetic, how unfortunate!" (and then proceeds to consume a kaju-chocolate-roll)
Pinky: "शादी करने का इरादा है क्या, अचानक से खाना पकाने में इतना interest?"
and so on.

I mean, wtf? I can cook, if I wish to, and the fact that the only stuff that i can successfully create in the kitchen is toast did not deter me from going ahead on mission Mysore Pak. And luckily for me, it was a success. The net result looked and tasted like Mysore Pak, and nothing else matters. It might sound kitty-partyish, but I thoroughly enjoyed giving the recipe to neighborhood aunties when they asked for it (they were hoping to replicate my efforts, no doubt). The downside of it all is that mum has started to nag, trying to get me to help her out in the kitchen. Of course, I don't bother to do that.

Shown alongside is a snapshot of my Mysore Paks. Be content with the eye-candy (quite literally) and consider it as a reward for reading this gibberish-filled blog post.

So long, then.

Bengalurued?

2008-09-28T17:01:00.000+05:30

The residents of this peaceful city are in a quandary. Well, actually they aren't, but considering the collective populace as a whole the confusion does, quite evidently, exist. Take a spot poll, and you will find the city to be divided over what it calls itself - Bangalore, Bengaluru, Bengalooru and whatnot (I've even met people who seem to think its called 'Bangluru'). The tiny hamlet Kempe Gowda christened as Bendakalooru (famous story containing boiled beans and a old lady, won't repeat it here), was colloquially called Bengaluru and anglicised to Bangalore when Her Majesty's troops set up their garrison here.

We the people, consciously or unconciously, have lived along with the two names of the city - talk about it in english, it is Bangalore, and the name metamorphoses into Bengaluru quite effortlessly in Kannada conversations. The best evidence for this is at the City Railway Station (and also at the Cantt. and B'lore East stations, now come to think of it) where the ancient signs that remind you about your whereabouts still exist, with a different name in English, Hindi and Kannada.

Then, one fine day, the renaming bug hit the country like an epidemic of sorts. Calcutta became Kolkata, Bombay became Mumbai, Madras became Chennai. The progressive Bangalorean does not like to be left behind. We start by renaming a dozen or so roads and stuff around that time. Residency Road? Victoria Road? Cox Town? How very British! Where is our swadeshi spirit? Off with Victoria, Cox and all those firang chaps. The aforementioned are quite conveniently replaced with the names of prominent Kannadigas. And albeit somewhat late, it strikes us (read the Govt.) that the ultimate pinnacle of renaming is yet to be achieved! Out comes a draft proposing to give new names to about 15 cities in the state. Mysore, Gulbarga, Hubli, Belgaum, Shimoga and Bijapur among others are all set to get brand new names. A bill was drafted and sent to Sansad Bhavan (do not call it the Parliament Building - use a more Indian name, will ya?) and everyone south of the Vindhyas is waiting with bated breath ...

But a spanner did appear in the works. Considering that Belgaum has a predominantly Marathi-speaking population, the people there cried foul over being forced to live in a place with a Kannada name, and preferred it being renamed to Belgaon instead. The Shiv Sena and other Marathi SIGs have also made a noise, and hence the bill hasn't been signed yet. Bangalore is Bangalore. So far, so good, I say.

What a crazy bunch of people we all are, and what a crazy bunch of leaders we elect. The renamings create a greater furore than civic issues like infrastructure (or the lack of it). Bangalore is now very prominently on the world map and we want to wipe it off and replace it by a city whose name cannot be pronounced correctly by 60% of the city's population, leave alone their countrymen.

What we (and, more importantly, our elected representatives) tend to overlook is that without the British setting up their cantonment here, our city would not have been a city at all. The least bit of gratitude we can accord to them for building our city is by keeping the name they gave it. And they are always made out to be mean, but they couldn't have been, else they would have called it New Bedford or summat. They just respelt our name, so what's the big deal? By the same logic, India should be named Hindustan with immediate effect. Or Bharat, because this is an older name. Aryavarta, anyone? Or, heck, what was it that the Harappans called the place?

On a lighter vein, we can have fun prophesising what neological words Bangalore has spawned will now become... Will American jobs get Bengalurued? And, closer home, I wonder, what would the Bangalorean call himself in the future? A Bengaluruean??? I don't want to think.

Us purists can only hope that the bill remains stuck in Parliament forever. Until then, as I said, we live in confusion. As evident from the Hard Rock Café signboard - the most unlikely place to find 'Bengaluru' in writing, as its not really a "happening" name :

Entry From Backside Only - Review

2008-09-22T22:14:00.000+05:30

Entry From Backside Only: Hazaar Fundaas of Indian-English

Binoo K. John

Penguin India, Rs.95.

One lazy post-sessionals evening, I went over to Crossword for a bit of air-conditioned literary time-pass. What I really intended to buy was a biography of Nehru written by Shashi Tharoor, but, typical of this particular bookstore, the labels on their shelves have very little to do with the books they contain (Jeffery Archer stacked on a shelf labeled “Science Fiction”, lol) and I chanced upon this tiny volume in the biographies section. The cover of the book caught my eye – imaginative that the title is – and since the book promised to address a topic that is one of my pet amusements, I bought it (Maybe the oh-so-not-Penguin price of Rs.95 helped). This book turned out to be a charming take on Indian-English, a witty synopsis perfect for a weekend of light, informative reading.

Binoo starts off from where it all began, i.e. the introduction of English in India, the plans and stratagems employed by the Raj to thrust it forward in widespread use, and throughout the book chart out the trajectory that the Raj-imposed language took to grow into what is now Indian-English (Every reference to English in India in the book is termed as Indian-English, always hyphenated).

When it comes to describing our view of the Queen’s tongue, Binoo hits the nail on the head, and in my opinion quite succinctly and accurately describes the “elite” and “highly educated” epithets we Indians accord to an English speaker. Of course, English in India is but a relict of the Britishers, of something in the past used by Burra Sahibs (the kind who still congregate at places like Bangalore Club for a spot of high tea served by liveried waiters in turbans), a talisman of our colonial past, but the status it enjoys today is only because Indians found English and the “advantages” it brings along, too much to resist.

The first few chapters are devoted to Indian-English in its evolution stage during the colonial times, and the author has done a gem of a lit survey fishing out priceless examples from the annals of history. I was somewhat peeved, however, at the way this section dragged on and on and endless examples of Indians through the ages writing “wrong” English in the matter of correspondence kept appearing. I sure was delighted when this part ended, for I thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the tome, and would have been glad if it had come sooner.

The chapter on Gandhi, Nehru and their unknowing contribution to Indian-English was hilarious, to say the least. The subsequent chapter on Bollywood and English is somewhat redundant and serves no point, but is very entertaining, replete with fancy dialogues like “Come and meet me in the backside” (Main Hoon Na) to all the Ajit and “Mona Darling” jokes. However, towards the end of the book, the author seems to run out of things to write about, and goes on and on for pages about Arundhati Roy and the God of Small Things and how it is the best book ever written by an Indian in English etc etc. Balderdash and baloney. I absolutely detested that book, and was surprised as to why this chap liked it so much. (Btw, Arundhati Roy is a good friend of his).

All in all, this is a intelligent, light, fun (somewhat) book on a heavy linguistic topic, and is worth the Rs.95 I spent on it. Not a must-read, but reading it will do you no harm.

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2007-11-24T12:18:00.000+05:30

Hello, All.
Since I have finally taken recourse to blogging (now resolving to be regular about it) I resolve to be more careful to remember my blog's url (which I forgot in the case of my first blog) and also the password (as was the case with my second blog).
Let's hope this blog works!
Keep an eye on this space, so as to be acquainted with my rambles.
Ciao, till then.

Of Vorpal Swords and Balderdash.

India's favourite snack.

Random Thoughts v4.0

Random Thoughts v3.0

Rant of the day.

Timepass

Utterly Random Ramblings

Summertime blues

Chennapattinam Diaries Vol.II

Chennapattinam Diaries Vol.I

New Year? Hear, hear.

Howdy.

Flibbertigibbet

Burnt offerings to the Blog God

Random Thoughts v2.0

Chee-mail ?

Yadda, yadda. Elementary.

Withdrawal symptoms

Random Thoughts

A Saree State of Affairs

Fillosofies

Bye-Bye, Bush.

What is a Vorpal Sword, anyway?

Slotted Woes

Movie Review - Slumdog Millionaire

The White Tiger - Review

Musings on the World

The Enigma called Batman

The Pink Blues.

Why didn't they tell me before?

Bomb-bay

To f**k or not to f**k ?

Blah-blahs of a jobless soul.

Bengalurued?

Entry From Backside Only - Review

printf("Hello World!\n");

To fk or not to fk ?