Old Insomnia Cure in a New Blog!

The Case for Systemic Change

2012-01-03T22:09:00.000+05:30

(written in parts over several months in 2006)

I have been a lifelong believer in the premise that mythology often serves as a symbolic form of prophecy, and it represents far more than mere bedtime stories. I hold that the ancients wished to spread information gleaned in their lifetimes to the general populace, which was invariably not as academic or verbose as these seers, and in so doing, chose mythology as a tool. Most of the people in the so-called “West” are already familiar with biblical parables, and the Greek fables. In India our sources have been, for aeons, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. Within these epics we find much more than mere legend, and generations of Indians, irrespective of their chosen vocations, have taken the fundamentals of living from them. In the latter epic, the key episode is of course, the battle of Samantapanchaka (often referred to as the battle of (as opposed to for) Kurukshetra). This battle, in the context of the history of the Kuru race, marked the point of systemic change. It was the re-establishment of the clichéd Establishment. The significance of several factors crucial to the process of systemic change can also be understood through a critical study of this history. But perhaps the most crucial aspect is the nature of the new government, or organization or whatever that is set up to replace the incumbent. It’d be gross to imagine one violent dictatorship replacing another, and this has been seen so often in history. In the Mahabharata, we see the adherence to Dharma by the Pandavas and hence the justification of their rule over their cousins.

Recently in India, the reservation issue has created a unique turbulence that has pervaded Indian society unlike any seen in the past decade. However, this protest was unique in that it was conducted largely on the Internet. Before I talk of replacing the incumbents, I first wish to point out the inefficacy of such a protest. It is my firm belief that any form of protest must be conducted at the most visible level; at the level where it is impossible for the people against whom the complaint is directed to ignore it. Any other form of opposition is inherently bound to fail. It has often been remarked in various forms of Mass Media that the government has developed a buffalo’s hide. Such a shell is quite unnecessary in a society where the forms of public response to gubernatorial actions have occurred so far from the government’s notice as to evoke no response. In a country of people who are individualist in that they would not put themselves to undue trouble just so long as the same task can be done without lifting the proverbial little finger, it is really unsurprising that a mass protest should be as electronic as possible.

How then, do I propose to “awaken” the government to the travails of the populace? Our country has a rich tradition of strikes and other forms of spanner-in-the-works methods of evincing public outrage. Those methods were supremely efficient in Gandhian times when we were trying to subtly throw the British Economy off its tracks of progress. But any true patriot should think twice, thrice even before resorting to any form of remonstration that would adversely affect the nation’s economy. Only an unthinking child would throw away a toy in order that someone else not play with it. The Mahatma devised the most perfect means of irking the British, and if we are to follow his example, it must in being innovative in our ways of opposition to such governmental policy as may be deemed harmful to the general public.

Nor do I agree with blind violence as a way of clamouring for attention. That is a much older, and much over-hyped method, and is even more ghastly in the way it reflects the protestor’s utter disdain (not to say loathing) for human life (where killing is resorted to) or for the necessities of human existence. As the saying goes, no good ever comes from depriving others of their livelihood, leave alone life. It is these instances of horrific brutality that bring out the animal in the “social animal”. As I said earlier, any candidate for power resorting to bloodthirsty means has invalidated his own candidacy. What proof will he/she offer to his countrymen that he will not resort to the same when his/her powers are threatened? Have we not learnt even the tiniest iota from the ravages that History has witnessed? For any human being to call oneself modern, he/she must encompass a thorough understanding of history instead of rote memorizing dates and battles and kings.

It is just the same in civilized human society as in (uncivilized?) wild nature. The herbivore feeding off plants, triggers in the plant a self-protective mechanism, but soon the herbivore develops a counter to that, and so evolution continues. Modern democracy therefore requires new tools to battle the same old problems. For an absurdly long time, we wandered in pursuit of civilized means of achieving societal peace. During this time we saw “glorious” empires rise and fall. To give them some credit they did show now and then that human beings could be civilized (by their development of the arts, for example) but for the most part, the record is blood-stained. Then came one man, from the East (as it always has been) and a short while later another, also from the East. I am talking first of the Buddha, and second of Mahatma Gandhi. In the entire history of the human civilization, there are no greater epitomes of compassion in the political realm. Although neither of these men were at the helm of governments, their thoughts and ideologies were compelling enough to sustain empires and countries. Yet sadly, we as a civilization have suffered from memory loss yet again.

So, what is the next rung of political evolution? What new form of protest can we use, hoping to make an impact? Democracy herself has shown us the answers. Today’s politicians have learnt to exploit the mandate for their own private profits. All through school I have read of political empowerment, and seen around me abject disempowerment. The one thought, the one question that kept hammering against my temples was this: what would happen if these “masses” were truly made aware of their position in this land; their heterodox motherland? It isn’t as if they are unaware. Those who vote in our country have shown a definite intelligence, even shrewdness. It’d be wrong to say that they are always swayed by election manifestos and caste marks. But given that the basic problems haunting a vast majority have not changed since Independence, what really has gone right? Or equally, what has gone wrong? Have we been too trusting of governments, or have we been too self-centred as a citizenry? I have come full circle back to the questions I raised at the beginning of this article, and haven’t been able to give any indication to the answers. Not yet…

Notes from a Wedding, Or, O Granny, why tap your fingers thus?

2011-11-28T03:48:00.000+05:30

(A dedication to the unknown elderly lady who sat facing the musicians rather than the ceremonial stage and followed every note played on her fingers…)

I walk past the now-filling seats

Men and women, young and old

Some joyous, some weary, all relieved

One more event hits the marquee

Two more friends, today, tie the knot

Their lives now set to a marital trot

But, o Granny, why tap your fingers thus?

Why follow the Naadaswaram?

Why not the Paasuram?

Or do you reminisce, of your wedding, thus?

There are flowers, there are fruits

There is food and there’s the juice

Uncles and aunts, nieces and nephews

Another family divides, and grows,

A husband now, now a wife,

Another modulation on the tune of life

So, o Granny, why tap your fingers thus?

Why follow the Tavil?

Why not the conversation civil?

Or do you reminisce, of your wedding, thus?

I wonder how your wedding was, way back then

How grand the ceremony, how many the guests

Did your father lavish his fortune upon you?

Were you a bashful bride, or too young to know?

Did you know your groom earlier?

Or was he only a suitable outlier?

Why, O granny, why tap your fingers thus?

Why follow the Vaadyam?

Why not the Vaadyar?

Oh! Do you reminisce of your wedding thus?

Notes on Tamil words:

The Naadaswaram (An oboe-like wind instrument) and Tavil (a percussion instrument) are called Mangala Vaadyam (Auspicious Instruments) and no wedding in the South of India is complete without them.
A Paasuram is a hymn in Tamil composed by the 12 Alwaars (or preceptors) of the Iyengar (Vaishnavite) Brahmin tradition of Southern India. Some are sung at weddings along with verses from the (Sanskrit-language) Veda.
The priest officiating the wedding is here referred to as Vaadyar, although the word literally means teacher.

A Night for Drunken Palindromes

2011-11-25T09:52:00.000+05:30

Only a few blocks away... about 35 years that way
I had met who I would be
On a night as bright as a moonlit afternoon
I took a few steps backward running hard as I could
and with spasming breath I had consumed everything I see

It was a night for drunken palindromes
for Adam's Madam and Eve to argue over apples
for time to become a rolled-up ball of emptiness
and vanish into everythingness, and sit on a palm tree

I spoke with tongues that argued in French, debated in Chinese
and still courteously said Ciao at the finis
when a clock near a telephone booth refused to chime
and cacophonies began to chant in unholy rhyme

The cup deserted the spoon, the cow shat on the moon
and regulation whipped rule with a hardbound book of law
nothing happened but ever so soon
life went on having forgotten the flaw

a morning out of time

2011-11-23T09:58:00.000+05:30

On a morning out of time, awakening to beeps

Rather than birdcalls, it seems my mind alone sleeps

While the world out there, churns endlessly, life’s butter

The first tendrils, the first contact, the first daylight

Each a succeeding wave of cold, startling clarity

I am awake! – I wish to yell, but there’s none to hear

I too must follow suit, and respond in like fashion

Silently, with keystrokes

On another day, in another land, awakening to raindrops

But not human sounds, I felt my mind awake slowly

Becoming aware of quietness, of life’s early stillness

Nothing touches me but barely, I am wrapped snugly

In my own cocoon, wherein everything pauses

Takes deep breaths and rises as one with nature

Softly, without footfalls

Living life this way, and that, often confuses

Waking up in strange places disorients

Even the well-oriented Oriental, let alone me

I shall think of this day much the same

That my own bed, in my own room, is new

That a lifetime has elapsed unknowingly

Quickly, post-haste.

If Life doesn't care for Life, who/what will?

2011-11-20T23:55:00.000+05:30

What do the following people have in common: A post-doctoral fellow whose research ended abruptly thanks to the economic recession, a biotechnologist from one of India’s top-tier institutions, a displaced famer from the badlands of central India making his first ever terrifying train journey across the country, and a college student hoping to grab a piece of the shining Indian pie? Before you begin to suspect that the answer is an award-winning piece of fiction, let me tell you it is not. These are real people who have somehow all ended up in Madras, now called Chennai, searching, as it is, for their very lives. To me, they represent points along the axes of a dichotomy that is somehow, uniquely, Indian, but also, utterly human. In the year and half since I moved back here, I have felt myself look at life more keenly, and this is only the continuation of a process that began four years ago, in the wilderness of Kenya, where, despite having seen social disparities in different places, the truth of how man was a predator unto man first hit me like the proverbial thunderbolt.

Yes, I will say that again. If human beings suffer, it is in the large because of other human beings, but the shock doesn’t end there. There is a third group of human beings more than ready to profit off this shameless deed. But what is new about this, is the indifferent question that is thrown back at me often. Humans are infinitely, and supremely, capable of such atrocity, and in some sense, have always been. A skimming of social history reveals page after page, decade after decade of such inhuman deeds. To me, the only thing that is different about today is that we possess the means to expose such cruelty as never possible before. Thanks to technology, there are enough media outlets to cast a revealing light on every single inhuman aspect of humanity. All it takes is for sensitive eyes to probe reality where they see it to be shadowed or cloaked in deceit.

Of course, this too boils down to the question of responsibility. How many of us can claim to have weighed for our own self our connection with our world? Who among us can stand up and say they’ve seen more in the world than just the neon lights – the glitter and the glamour? Today, there are enough ways for each of us to awaken to the murky truth that is painted over with shiny colors. But if we choose to ignore that – and this, mind you, applies only to those who have seen beyond the glitter, what purpose the rest of our lives? I place emphasis on the observation of the dichotomy – the seam-split of life. If you haven’t noticed that life isn’t exactly smooth sailing, like Anand and Deepa Ranthidevan perhaps, you are not going to realize what you’ve missed. I will return to the story of this couple in a moment, but continuing on those who realize life isn’t exactly a finely tailored fabric and does have a gaping hole in the back though the front seems eminently presentable, I ask if they ever felt a sense of “I must not let the hole be hidden from other eyes”.

The story of the Ranthidevans made me shudder for a host of reasons. How could they have thought their life was “full”? How could they have traveled around the world, and not realized that life can have an endless assortment of possibilities? How did they define “being happy”? I don’t pass judgment on their decision, but I do question it. In part because I know I would not have taken that route had I been in their shoes. And I don’t make that comment from idleness - at two junctures of my life, I have stared at the dark innards of my mind and asked if I would ever think of giving up on life. The answer both times was a firm and immediate no. I value life and I see much in it – beautiful, ugly or indifferent. I empathize with every emotion that tints life, but only where I understand it. Where I don’t, I seek comprehension with the utmost of my abilities.

To all my friends who’ve taken the pain of reading this far, the question that I am revolving around is this: can we as human beings make whatever attempt possible (even lifting your little finger counts!) to redress this imbalance? Isaac Asimov once postulated laws for robots, the first, and foremost, of which reads: “A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.” In his series of novels, Asimov later went one step further, to include a “Zeroth Law”, which states “A robot may not harm humanity, or, by inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.” I have often wondered, since reading the novels, if it is possible to apply these same laws for humans, If we reduce our lives to modules of function – of following a routine of dictated tasks (as I suspect the Ranthidevans did) , how better are we than robots? Surely, the human aspect of us comes from our ability to emote and feel for another human being? Can we convert this emotion into something more than just a chemical outburst? Can we channel it and make change happen? I ask you but this – try this with yourself. Next time, you get really angry with the world or something or someone, force yourself to sit down and breathe. Next, ask yourself how you can alleviate your anger by constructively working with whatever makes you angry. If you can effect this change within that microscopic aspect of your life, you will know you have the power to go further, much further. It is with some pain that I fleetingly wonder if the Ranthidevans ever thought of the difference they could make to the world – by being in it.

To close, I come back to my four introductory characters, if it isn't already obvious how their lives have become victims of human predatory instincts. The post doctoral fellow's grant was abruptly canceled because the government thought it more important to lend money to banks than to educational institutions. The biotechologist is being refused a job because he is honest enough to admit that he needs the money more than the job. The farmer has been displaced because greedy politicians see his land as another means of filling their overflowing, black coffers. The college student has been sold an absolutely worthless education for an exorbitant price with the promise that it will pave the road to proportionally greater riches for him. Did anyone of them have a choice in the matter? They didn't, but they were victimized by those who had choices to make, and simply put, did not choose humanity.

When the soul goes a-wandering… The Wilderness That the Week Was

2011-11-15T23:04:00.000+05:30

I can already call it a week – it has seemed that long. Properly, it only began Saturday night, with my attending a Saha Gaan concert at the Music Academy here in Mylapore. The stirring renditions of the Khayal and Nirguni bhajans had a lifting impact on the soul, and inspired me immensely. I had hoped to do a musical “double bill” of sorts by following up the concert with catching Imtiaz Ali’s Rockstar, but a lack of tickets meant I had to wait until the following morning. For those who haven’t read my review of the movie, it resonated in strange ways. I call myself a poet of sorts, and also a Bohemian - a wanderer through life, and watching that movie brought home with a crash the distances I’d covered. More specifically, there were situations in the movie that I had written poems about – yes, poems, plural. What happened next is too personal to talk about on a blog. The week didn’t end there though – time is remorseless that way. I had a ticket to a Sadhana Sargam concert, also at the Music Academy, and with my mind awash with memory and music, there was much to write. The soul had gone wandering, like a child of Hamelin following the Pied Piper, but my piper was playing tunes that were layered with melancholy, the music I heard over the weekend, and my own poetry. The mind and body, meanwhile, amused themselves by pouring content onto computer…

Sometime in the last 24 hours, the soul came back and knocked, very politely. I had spun a full circle, as if doing the Sama, and I felt, in some sense, whole again… and an evening of chamber music played by the Minguet Quartet helped even things out. Except that I wasn’t quite ready for Mozart yet, but Brahms? Perfect! Now for Thursday, and Zeb & Haniya! Ae Zindagi, gale laga le!

Rockstar – A Movie that mocks the Image that did Injustice to It

2011-11-13T17:39:00.000+05:30

Rockstar (2011, Imtiaz Ali) piqued me the minute I heard the soundtrack. An instrumental piece called “the Dichotomy of Fame” slotted in among songs that supposedly underline the “rock” aspect made me sit up and think – what the hell was Ali up to? Poor planning on my part meant I had to wait till the Sunday of the release weekend to see it, and in two days the movie was talked about and written about – voluminously. I cursed and thought this would ruin the movie-watching experience – a fear that, thankfully, did not deter me from going for it. I was in for a soul feast, but I did not have any inkling of this. But my burning question after watching the movie was this: why was it packaged in such a populist tone? Why did Ali – the writer as well as the director - not go the full distance call the movie “The Rockstar Psyche” or something to connote that? I guess this is one of those distinctly Bollywood issues, dealing with which would have lifted Ali well above the clique. Still, it was a packaging issue – the product was pure gold. Sometimes the best of books comes in the most indigestible of covers – hence the idiomatic warning, I suppose. And the movie does make one attempt to redress this – the scene where Jordan (Ranbir Kapoor) tears up his contract in a mockery of the image-focused Dhingra (Piyush Mishra). (I went “waah!” at this – Ali had flat-batted a slap at the industry!)

Again, I was too tempted not to read the movie reviews and the average opinion seemed to be highlighting the flaws – a weak second half, not enough detailing of the “pain”, the movie was long. I believe that all these are flaws seen owing to the packaging of the movie as being about a Rockstar. I did not find it to be so – Abhishek Kapoor’s Rock On!! (2008) was closer to that suggested mould. Instead, the only comparable movie is the peerless Meenaxi: A Tale of Three Cities by M.F. Husain. To me, Rockstar was purely about the artist struggling to find his voice through the search for a muse, and having found both, mixing his emotional reactions to the two hopelessly and feeling a nameless frustration thereafter. While Khatana (Kumud Mishra) might have pointed Jordan in the right direction when he said all art comes from a sense of loss and longing, Khatana was himself at a loss as to how to deal with the chaos of Jordan’s morning-after. The two scenes in the second-half – one on the street after Khatana drags Jordan from the brothel, and their exchange later in the hospital when Jordan comes to check on Heer (Nargis Fakhri) underline this very poetically.

This was the “Dichotomy of Fame”, which Rahman renders to us through a “jugalbandi” between Jordan and Ustad Jameel Khan (Shammi Kapoor, in his final(?) fitting cameo), between the newly-established and the older paradigm. In the end, the “Nadaan Parinda” that was ripped from Jordan’s soul in the abrupt transformation from Janardhan to Jordan by Heer, his muse, was finally brought home by Heer herself when she, under cover of a blanket, in a scene Ali teases us by keeping for the very end, tells him this is his “field”, where, “beyond wrong-doing and right-doing”, beyond the flash of cameras and the whys and the wherefores of society, the artist and the muse can be united in peace. My soul wept with joy for Jordan, and I was glad that I did not wear my spectacles to the movie hall.

Ali also pays an immense tribute to the artistic community by debating their equation with society. In a world before television – presumably one in which Ustad Jameel Khan would have first found fame, there was a certain distance between the artist and the fawning fan following. The internet age has banished this space, and now public opinion has almost begun to dictate what can and cannot be created and labeled Art. Society, even as portrayed in Rockstar, tends to forget its debt to the individual who buys into the social contract voluntarily, even without truly wishing to. The price of the entertainment isn’t merely the cost of the ticket – there has to be a certain understanding that true artistry isn’t the product of rote education or other social factors. The question of why artists can’t be normal is an oxymoron, in my honest opinion.

The quote by Rumi that is the running theme of the movie applies to this. Artists plough a “field” that is beyond any socially-acceptable definition and they must therefore be accepted as such. Start giving them the treatment you’d give to your neighbor’s uncle’s third brother-in-law who works at such-and-such bank and you might as well stop following art altogether. The artist can only demand his “Haq” and sadly, invariably, encounter denial. While the rest of society faces hunger as a physical problem, to the artist this is much a spiritual question. Art feeds the soul, and also feeds off the soul, and when, on the morning after an acute burst of creativity, the artist finds an emotional vacuum within, he seeks succor of a kind that tears and rips at him, almost animal-like. Where along society’s acceptable avenues is such soul food to be found? Sometimes, the paths that lead to truly great art go through many a shady alley. Ustad Jameel Khan alone understood this in this movie, and felt a helpless sorrow. Again, the complex dynamic between artist, art and muse that M.F. Husain painted in such extravagant colors in Meenaxi, is given more everyday tones – but that inexpressible secret is –must be- jealously guarded, even though the payment is the lifelong social “taint” of an unsavory reputation. And besides, what adventurous voyageur ever thought of the consequences before embarking upon the journey?

Someday, Imtiaz Ali - Sir, I too hope to meet you in that field beyond wrong-doing and right-doing. There, I shall pay you my uttermost respects, if that is truly possible of me.

Urumi – A Study in Fluidity, of time, of history, of the heart of man…

2011-11-12T02:25:00.001+05:30

Santosh Sivan made his name for giving the Indian cinemagoers some of the most eye-watering backdrops that Indian cinema has ever seen. Eye-watering here carrying the same sense that delicious food is mouth-watering. When he turned his hand to direction, you could expect that the movies would at least be visually pleasing, but with Urumi, it is not merely the backdrop that comes alive – the entire movie seems to be a shimmering, bubbling, frothing, rolling mix of poetry and visual art that, frankly, left me gasping at times. With the actors delivering emotion with the same fluidity that pervades their environs, the movie perfectly captures the essence of the actual “Urumi” – a sword with a blade that is not stiff, but instead springy, allowing it to be coiled and flicked – in short a sword whose natural thrust is along all three dimensions.

It is an intense movie that deals with history at several levels, but the sublime quality comes from the incredible leap that the director makes – bridging the beginnings of an imperial past with what is seen as the beginnings of an imperial future – the movie is very relevant in the contemporary political milieu of nexus after nexus depriving citizens of land and livelihood. Those three epitomes of the crux of human existence – Roti, kapda aur makaan (bread, cloth and housing) – are once again brought to the fore – in a far different setting and with far greater purpose.

While there are confessed liberties taken with the historical context, the movie admits to being more about the present than the past, and in this, it deserves rich kudos. Indeed, having followed the political chaos of Chhattisgarh with much empathy for the people caught between the State and the Anti-Statists – or Maoists, if you prefer – I was struck by the parallels that Urumi throws up. I was also struck by how the movie seemed to borrow context from Mani Ratnam’s Raavan, but where in Raavan Beera - the pseudo-titular protagonist - is brought low and shown in a villainous tint, in Urumi, the analogue of Beera (played superbly by Arya in a masterful cameo) becomes the inspiration for rebellion.

I was also glad to see Prabhu Deva back on screen - he is probably the human manifestation of fluidity - and it is this sheer choreography that makes even the goriest battle scene seem aesthetic. Sivan marries the bloodshed of the Kill Bill movies - of 300 - with the elegance of a Kathakali performance. Prithviraj's character courts Genelia's almost entirely via slashing enemy throats - with she responding equally in kind. Genelia's giggly expression gains a new dimension when she points out possible sites for trapping enemy soldiers with a glee that is chilling, yet disarming. Somebody please make her play Jhansi ki Rani!

For Santosh Sivan, for Arya, for Genelia, for Prabhu Deva – for India – please go watch Urumi. Oh, and watch out for the really sly Macbeth insertions :)

Movie details: Urumi

Release Year: 2011

Language: Malayalam

Director: Santosh Sivan

A New Paradigm

2011-10-13T23:03:00.000+05:30

Just moments ago I saw a 14-minute synopsis of the tragedies that have struck worldwide all year long causing immense grief, loss and damage. That such a “catalog of horrors” could be summed using video footage and news clippings is, to me, a remarkable footnote upon the technological progress humanity has made. We have instruments today that are far more sensitive than any since the dawn of the Industrial Age. We have access to sources of information that were unthinkable even half-a-century ago. But human psychology and mental assimilation are yet to adapt to this ever-accelerating change.

It is only moments of great personal tragedy that remind us of the life we lived and are possibly going to miss forever. And when the internet and the television make the whole world “personal” and expose you to catastrophic events on a scale that vastly outstrips our own life, it becomes infinitely more difficult not to choke and gasp and psychologically collapse, especially if you are of a tender temperament. Already there are questions being asked about how much “disaster publicity” is actually good for the average person. I think it will require much more than a media poll to determine the answer. It might even take some individual soul searching.

The reason I take this extremely seriously is because I do not shrug away the possibility of a singular sequence of events that will forever alter the way humans live and go about their lives. I am not trying to euphemistically portray a doomsday scenario, only drawing attention to the increasingly probable changed reality that such global phenomena as climate change might create. While this could mean a number of things in terms of evaluating calamitous incidents, the extreme is the survival of pockets of humanity who are forced to rely on the leftovers of modern technology.

On the other hand, there is the technological equation. There is a school of thought whose core belief is that the Earth has forever been unstable, with earthquakes and other similar phenomena occurring very frequently. That we were thus far unaware of this fact is explained by a lack of technology – for measurement, for storing and distributing information. Thus we are now in possession of a highly active “disaster media” transmitting all the details, however grisly, of every single scary event. This particularly line of thought underscore the point about adaptation I made at the beginning.

Thus the position that we need to let our minds absorb the fact that we live in a very fragile ecosystem, one that’s being constantly pushed, pulled, kneaded and stretched by a host of forces whose actions are still at the fringes of our knowledge. Perhaps with even more scientific advances we can understand these better, but until then we need to patiently imbibe the lessons being thrown helter-skelter at us and learn to tailor our existence to the ever-transient world around us. What must most definitely change is the attitude that we can continue a way of life that ignores nature.

It is my belief that we cannot choose to be irreverent about something we have very little knowledge of. At the same time, we cannot cower in fear either. The only middle course is that of awareness – making the best use of whatever knowledge bases we have to further our understanding of the Earth and the cosmos is our best hope. It is knowledge alone that can help us stay sane and rational when the proverbial hell breaks loose. That and just a little smidgen of fear, that ensures a state of awareness at all times. Stay aware, stay cautious, stay safe, friends.

The Day I Changed

2011-10-05T11:30:00.002+05:30

A summer day, hot and humid as ever, found me clad as usual in my half-sleeve shirt, cotton trousers and sandals walking home from the market. I was carrying a bag of vegetables in one hand, my phone in the other, and was contemplating which pocket to put my phone in so I could pull out a kerchief and wipe some of the perspiration off my face and neck. Somewhere amid this meditation upon personal comfort, I heard a sob. It was a quiet, private sound that had absolutely no place in the public milieu of a noisy street, but despite the thousand other sounds, that one sob hit my eardrum with the same impact as crashing thunder. I looked around, my confusion startling others around me, half-wondering if I had imagined it, but no, I hadn't. It was the old woman whom I had seen a million times sitting on the stone slab that served as a doorstep and threshold. But usually, she was quiet, staring at the street as if it were empty, but being aware enough to shout a warning to an errant driver or pedestrian. I myself had been the recipient of her shout a couple of times. But today, what I got from her was a different sound.

I stood there, stiff as the lamp post I had just walked past a moment ago, and I hoped she wasn't aware of my standing there. Several thousand “me”s were holding a hurried conference inside my head. I had to stop and attend, I didn't know how to proceed. There was a proposal floated that I inquire about the woman's grief. This shocked many of the more insular “me”s, those parts that had, over the years, learned not to intrude on any unshared emotion, even among friends. This suppression of curiosity was in someways an alienation of my childhood, when I would ask a gazillion questions about the most trivial thing. But slugging through an adolescence into an adulthood characterized by having to “deal with it” - it being any emotional upheaval, any depression, any want for affection – by myself, without expectation of understanding or support, the questions changed direction and went inward. The well was drawing water into itself. It would no longer provide water to any, outside. And then, the teardrop behind the sob had sunk to the deepest levels of the well. So what would I do?

That day, and on many days afterward, I walked away. I isolated myself even further. I was an ostrich with its head in the sand, a bird of flight with its head in the clouds, whatever. Around me, it wasn't just one old woman washing the street with her anguish. A country-load of cries, wails and other pained expressions rent the air, and I heard them all, even while attending parliament inside my head. As it was inside, so it seemed to be outside. The real Parliament, the one with the Lok Sabha and the Rajya Sabha, was also turning cacophonous as more and more atrocities weaved their way into common speech. Even as the mass media equally railed and ridiculed, ranted and (wittily or not) remarked, the debates and the motions continued. The monsoon came, then the winter, then the summer, and so on. Nothing happened. The voices inside the head grew louder and louder in a bid to outcry every other sound. They became insidious, effete and eventually merely raucous.

The first emergence of the voices had struck me dumb, just as the first reports of the staggering levels of corruptions had rendered my fellow citizens mute with shock. But the incessant haggling over the particulars and relevant protocol wearied everyone. The number of pointed, pointy and pointing fingers annoyed endlessly. Now, with the voices outshrieking everyone, I wanted to be deaf as well. I had changed, become aware of a growing dumbness, just as the nation I lived in became cognizant of being a mute spectator to a masterly puppet show. Whoever is pulling the strings in India, knows we are losing our senses, one by one. We never ever saw who did what. Our sense of smell is redundant since ages. We are being rendered voiceless, by shock or by gag-on-mouth. We are tired of all the outrage being poured on our ears. Do we really feel the proverbial horror making our skin crawl? I doubt it. The end is nigh.

The Philosophy of Wrong

2011-09-26T21:13:00.000+05:30

Note: I read this poem at 100 Thousand Poets for Change held on Saturday, September 24, 2011 at the AAT Media College in Chennai. The poem was subsequently mentioned in the IBNlive article about the event.

I could explain away, all my weaknesses

Say that the world is wrong

Say that my existence is meant for another, higher world

That it suffers in the one all around

But that, would contradict my strengths

And those, other parts of me, far exceeding

That find a place in this World

Thus I come, to a Simpler Conclusion

That I too am fallible

I recognize my weakness, I combat it!

I gain strength!

Having faced myself, I grow hardier!

I sought reasons for the World being right

Where I tread falsely

Solely due to being, of birth, imperfect

But seeking, through life, a perfection

Also seeing through any false aura

I see, through my incongruous façade

I see through, my Philosophy of Wrong

Man, man, Ram and Ravan

2011-07-13T09:24:00.000+05:30

It’s close to midnight on this balmy June evening, and I am experiencing my usual monthly internet downtime. I am therefore spending my time rummaging around - one of my favorite activities – while Windows Media Player rummages through my music collection and plays (supposedly) random tracks. It doesn’t seem random right now – hence the supposedly. It just finished playing Pal pal hai bhaari from Swades and is now playing the theme song from the (Tamizh) Hey Ram. For those not in-the-know, both the songs have one common keyword: Ram. They both have an eerily similar connotation of the word. Despite one carrying the import in Hindi and the other in Tamizh, the force is similar. Ram is not mere mythology, not mere godhead personified, but is the very essence of that moral characteristic termed good. Without dwelling on the moral imperatives here, I draw attention to the excellence of the lyrics. In Hindi, on Ravan’s demanding of Sita where that blessed husband of hers may be, and why, if he is so good, has he not rescued her yet, she mystically responds with a description of the omnipresence of Ram. At this point, the fourth wall is broken by Shah Rukh’s character, and he presents us with a 21^st Century description of this self-same omnipresence. While he finds Ram in progress and compassion, he also urges thusly:

Man se Ravan jo nikale Ram uske man me hai! Man se Ravan jo nikale, Ram uske man me hai!

Observe! Observe the seemingly-irrelevant repetition! Observe now a tiny comma in the second version! That one iota of punctuation marks a quantum leap in meaning. The first rendition is simply the comment that much as Ravan may attempt to think otherwise, Ram still pervades his thoughts – his mind (Man). The second goes on to encompass the surrounding notion - That whosoever removes Ravan (evil thoughts) from his mind, in that mind good shall reside! Poetry alone ever achieved so much with so little! The singing is flawless too – with just the right pause to convey the comma. Thus indeed, what is one small step for Man, is a giant leap too for man.

I met a woman once,

2011-06-24T20:17:00.000+05:30

I met a woman once,

she was smiling through her tears

and I knew I had to stay

and not just for a single day

I met a woman once,

she just laughed away her ache

and I couldn't walk away

she had so much to say

I met a woman once,

she dreamed on a bed of thorns

there grew roses where she lay

and her demons they would slay

I met a woman once,

she could talk despite the hurt

to her words my heart did sway

into my life she did foray

I met a woman once,

she is smiling at these lines

in her pretty little way

for none else did I pray

Age-limits in the So-Called Modern Age

2011-06-24T18:48:00.000+05:30

So I read today that the Maharashtra government's Social Justice Minister Shivajirao Moghe has resorted to the oldest bogey in the Indian political book: religion, to defend the government's raising the age limit for alcohol consumption to 25, from 21. I have had a few discussions on this with friends, but even deeper than that is my quest as a late-adolescent/ young adult at understanding the reason behind Hindu -more specifically Brahmin - teetotaling attitude. I am raised in an Iyengar Brahmin family where meat and alcohol are strict taboos. While I had no curiosity to sample either (don't ask me why) I did want to know why they were forbidden. As with numerous other life-dilemmas, the Mahabharata answered this too. Here's a gist.

The tale goes back to the time when the Hindu gods and demons were constantly trying to go one-up on each other. The demons, thanks to their guru Shukracharya, had the ultimate upper hand - Shukra alone knew the science called Sanjivani, or how to bring the dead back to life- not to zombie-hood, but to full fledged life (again, don't ask me how). Naturally the demons wanted to keep this a closely guarded secret and naturally the gods wanted to get their hands on it. So they sent the son of their guru, a lad named Kacha, to become Shukra's disciple and learn the science from him. As luck would have it, Shukra had a young daughter - Devyani by name - who's all in awe of this celestial chap and soon the two are in a daring dalliance. This the demons don't like - naturally. So they plot to get rid of Kacha. First time they kill him and throw his corpse somewhere, Devyani runs to her father and needless to say, he brings Kacha back to life. The demons go "damn!" and kill him again and this time chop up his body and bury the pieces in different places. Not evil enough. Shukra again manages to revive Kacha. Now the demons go "hmmm" and knowing Shukra's fondness for a peg or two - they go full evil mode: they kill Kacha, burn him, mix the ashes in Shukra's drink and make him drink it all. On regaining sobriety, Shukra is made aware of this. His dilemma now is incredible: he can still revive the guy - but that would mean killing himself! So he goes double-hmm, and decides that life is bigger than science. So he revives Kacha (inside him) and makes him promise that he will revive the guru when he comes out. Kacha promises, and is taught the science of revival (MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! flashes in neon here as also NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!) Shukra then rips his abdomen to let Kacha out, and Kacha, dutifully revives him. He also manages to convince Shukra to let him return now - but stumps Devyani by telling her that since is now born of her father, he is a brother to her. (no comments, seriously)

And oh, the relation of this to our topic? Shukra, realizing that being drunk is what led him to "consuming" Kacha, pronounces a ban on drinking for Brahmins equating it with the sin of killing a person and thus ruining one's karmic equation for not just this life but also the next. In modern terminology that's like two life sentences plus additional indictment for murder. Apparently no one wanted that kind of punishment. Aside from this one story, there's hardly anything that comes close to addressing the issue head on. And as regards religion extolling intoxicants, I need only point to the various Rig Vedic verses about the Soma Rasa.This latest statement from the minister is only one more example of mouthing-off without substance.

On a personal note, I firmly put alcohol consumption in what I call the Family section of social issues. States mandating age-limits is, in one way passing the buck. What the State should instead increase is the severity of punishments of crimes under intoxication - drunken driving, harassment etc. Intoxication, unlike insanity, cannot be an excuse since it is within the control of the person. An intoxicated criminal must therefore be given the maximum allowable punishment - maybe even something along the lines of Shukracharya. Drunken driving = one life sentence anyone?

A thrilling Foray

2011-06-15T12:53:00.001+05:30

A thrilling Foray

At the edge of a precipice stand you and I

the one who blinks first, shall attempt to fly

we stare tearless into eyes carved in stone

for neither dares to break the gaze

preferring this awkward contest to the unknown

And then, for reason unfathomed, I take the plunge

I look no longer into your wistful visage

A river bubbles below me, a mere murmur

where above lies your verbal outrage

I broke the rule, say you – is that alone the matter?

There was a story between us, layered, embroidered

dabbed with color, stained with pain

now the layers are all rock, hardened, splintered

the many-hued earth, the blue-tinted sky

the final curtain - falling rain

I have time – a last wish, a hasty swansong

but you only have ears for the rules

much like much that has passed before

this too is cast into time, in infinite capsules

fragmented remains of a broken cup

So long then, be of good cheer

where life is, what room for fear?

And where life isn't, hardly anything can be

between a blob of white and a black smear

I wade through a universe shaded gray

Every further inch into the unknown, another thrilling foray

Oops?

2011-06-13T22:26:00.000+05:30

So you rushed out, hot and sweaty and your dress disheveled – only because you were woken up from a summer morning’s sleep-in. You rushed out also because there was some procession or a march going on outside creating a din. You rushed out to watch the fun perhaps, or perhaps you really were going to be a keen observer and maybe even report on the proceedings. But in rushing out you forgot to take with you any device to help you note your own impressions – not even the usually present pen and paper. So you mentally take notes, but in the meanwhile tempers are flaring and adrenaline count is soaring and so by the time you rush back in your body is sending signals to your brain that you have fluids waiting to be disposed. You now plunge into the toilet and attend to bodily needs and experience some semblance of relief in doing so. You come out and by the time you are ready to write down what you saw and experienced, you are blank. Not entirely blank, but you realize that in releasing bodily fluids you’ve also let out whatever emotions were locking in the memory. Oops?

Dhobi Ghat: The wandering questions

2011-01-22T15:33:00.001+05:30

As soon as I was comfortably seated in the theatre I texted my friend to tell him that I was about to watch Dhobi Ghat first day first show. His reply was surprise that the Dhobis had not created a controversy over the title and let it release. My brief open-mouthed mental reaction was quickly silenced by the on-screen announcement that the film would not have any intermission. I found that extremely cheery, and shouted a silent hurray! 95 minutes of undisturbed viewing followed. I think if those 95 minutes had been broken into two halves, no one would have come back for the second half. By which I don’t mean to suggest that the movie was terrible enough to leave unfinished. This opinion is purely because I felt the movie was akin to seeing a dream – you can’t expect to wake up for a drink of water and go back to seeing it again can you?

That was perhaps the greatest aspect of the movie – a visual appeal that keeps you hooked throughout with an almost voyeuristic curiosity. The subtitle ‘Mumbai Diaries’ is a fair pointer in the direction of the stories we are told, as also of the story within the story. We are told of the lives of four singular individuals almost continuously from each other’s perspective. What is singular about the individuals is that they are all migrants, which is perhaps rather too common a state of affairs these days. Where Dhobi Ghat excels is in showcasing the self-proclaimed distinction that is often a signature of migrant histories. Every migrant, in seeing his new home with new eyes, translates the novelty to the object rather than himself, the subject. Thus the city is made novel, even if people have come here a thousand times. Whether seen through Yasmin’s videos, or through Shai’s camera lens, or through Arun’s brushwork, every migrant has the singular self-identity as discoverer, as first traveller. But not every migrant story treads such mystic realms. Some are very much grounded in the difficult-to-digest hardness of life-in-the-commonplace. Some, like that of Munna, are of hunger since birth, and migration if only to satiate that hunger, through whatever is available.

The aspect that delineates sharply the migrant from the resident is the issue of competition for resources. Every migrant sees only other migrants as competition – the resident is the host, and hence, paradoxically, not hostile. Whether in labour, or in love, the migrant only contends with other “foreigners”. Equally too, migrants tend to form their own enclaves. Again, the irony is delicious and the friend-foe equation becomes very much an imbalanced seesaw. This too is subtly demonstrated in the movie, through minor stories that parallel the major ones. The long-domiciled resident often has very little clue of the stereotypes that play in the heads of the newcomers: their craving for familiarity in the unknown, their need for anonymity in the knowable. It is realizing that almost everyone comes to Chowpatty for bhel puri and also not being discovered as a migrant by other migrants in a crowd. The question then is, where does the questing migrant really come to a halt? Or does he/she ever really stop moving? Is one migration only the beginning of a thousand others? In my own life, I hesitate to answer that question, having lived, as I have, as a migrant in cities full of migrants. I find the journey intoxicating, far more nourishing than the “settled” life in one place. In Dhobi Ghat too, the migrants keep moving, although for a different clutch of reasons – and not always happy ones.

So what is the Dhobi Ghat? It is a symbol, one among many whose recognition and identification might easily separate the resident from the migrant.

Foodie-ism 102: A Foodie is what a Foodie does

2010-12-26T03:26:00.002+05:30

Author's Note:

Dear Readers,

The incredible reception to Foodie-ism 101 has steeled my resolve - in fact, it has been titanium-ed. But I must desist from self-praise and do some housekeeping first, and then we shall proceed to the next frontier of awareness - the eagerly awaited Foodie-ism 102.

1) "Foodie-ism", asks a fond history reader from Chattanooga, TN, "is as huge as Fordism, right?"
Ah, friend, history may yet award me that equal stature (hopefully higher!) but I'll let history do that. I shall merely bask in humble false modesty.

2) "Uncle,uncle, uncle, uncle" pipes lil Chewy Chomp Chomp the Frankfurter" am I a Foodie if I eat 2 dozen lollipops and a gazillion popsicles everyday?"
Chewy, you'd be a Chomp Champ even if you ate a lot less! More on that in the coming lessons!

Happy Munching,
"Uncle" Eat-a-lot

So, we have associated all of the world's problems with a lazy attitude towards food. Now, I don't expect everyone to be solving complex puzzles before their dinner, but rather make the cooking a complex puzzle. Consider this student guide to cooking:

How to make tomato soup:

1) Open Can.

2) Pour contents in bowl

3) Heat in microwave.

4) Eat

However, if you were to consult, say Chef Gusteau (of Ratatouille fame), he would give u a recipe at least 3 pages long, and would require you to consult a city directory as well as a culinary dictionary. You would realize that Ginger and Rosemary are not merely girls' names; Nutmeg is not Meg Ryan's formal first name, and Oregano is not a first cousin of Valentino Rossi. Again, Ajinomoto is not a Sumo wrestler (or a Motorola phone model). Just as you can tell a man from a woman from their understanding of some obscure sport terminology (or maybe you can't - I have at least 3 fabulous women friends who know that a "silly point" isn't exactly silly, or pointless.), you can tell a true Foodie by shooting off a random foodie term and watching them react. Observe the following conversations:

Jolly Roger runs into Classy Cucumber - CC has a reputation for being a foodie.

Jolly Roger (in a loud whisper): Beets cooked with ginger and turmeric taste incredible!
Classy Cucumber (looking outraged): Beets! and ginger! (The rest of what CC says is unparliamentary, and therefore unpublishable)

Now, wanting to rescue some false foodie pride, our friend Jolly Roger tries a similar trick on Saucy Salsa

Jolly Roger (chanting): Sautee the onions till brown. Then add the veggies. Finally fry the tomatoes on top.

Saucy Salsa: You cumbersome curmudgeon of a cook! It's always onions, and tomatoes, and then other veggies!

Clearly, Jolly Roger can start his Foodie Club with Classy Cucumber and Saucy Salsa as Joint-Presidents.

Now, the next question has to do with our Chewy Champ's question (see above). What truly is considered Food for a Foodieness? We did some "marketing research" on this.. and here are some insightful ideas:

Mrs. YJB: Food is anything that you can digest. I can digest almost everything but my husband (whispers) has smelly poop when he eats carrots!!!

Mr. NOK: Food! Ha ha! My favorite topic! Ha ha! Eat healthy, stay healthy...ulp..(clutches stomach and runs)

Lil Micky: My mommy always says you should chew your food before swallowing. Is that right?

Professor Paglewala: Food is any aesthetically pleasing combination of solid and liquid substances which are constituted of various naturally-occurring and artificially-produced chemic... (our cameraman fell asleep at this point, but you get the point don't you?)

So, to categorically answer Chewy Chomp's question.. Food is what the Foodie eats!

We'll be back with more, so stay tuned!

उलझी हुई शायरी

2010-12-26T03:04:00.001+05:30

कलम उठाया लिखने जब जब
अपने मन को समझ न पाया
आपे को संभाला जब तक
शब्दों को कहीं भूल आया

आज अकेला बैठा था
सोच सोच में दुनिया घूमा
ताज बनाया अपने हाथों
सपनो में किसने था चूमा?

मुरादों की वीरान है बस्ती
मिले को माँगा माना
अब भला इतना है करना
अनजाने को है अपनाना

पैदा नंगा हुए थे हम
माँ-बाबा ने पहनावा दिया
आज चीरोगे कपडों को लेकिन
कोई अपमान हमने ना लिया

An Unquiet Moment

2010-12-26T03:01:00.000+05:30

It is an unquiet moment, really
that has snuck up like this
A warm Saturday afternoon
the mind lost in reverie
and then comes along this phantom
this shatterer of the peace
was it a photograph? a sound? a misspoken word?
but know I feel much like van Winkle
have I really slept so long?
or am I just beginning to snooze?
Is this the middle of a dream?

Forever.. and 2 other days

2010-12-26T02:42:00.002+05:30

forever...

how many times had i stopped and wondered at the Bard's inspiration for that awful phrase.. "..forever and a day?" how many times had i thought to quote him in one of my own ramblings.. and miserably admitted defeat? in retrospect i realize i never understood what he was talking about until that self-same equation of eternity came to stare me square in the face, and i was left a) blinking.. gasping... b) staring wide-eyed...

day 1

my biannual "pilgrimage" began yet again. i was heading back to the hills, that frosty cradle which had, even in the bitterest winter of my birth, given me the first notion of warmth. as with every journey, i would have to endure two halts to seek a different mode of transport. the train trip away from the plains would always be occupied in the mental exercise of imagining what transport i would get for the second and third legs. just the year past, i had to hitch a ride with a cattle transporter much to the horror of my aunt who welcomed a me smelling like a rotting barn. the train had two hours to get to its destination. i was already smiling, the springtime scent of deodars already in my mind. maybe i was carried away, but i stretched and stood.. forgetting where i was..suddenly hearing the harried shouts of people who realized that i had nearly pushed a man out of the train.. he had miraculously grabbed onto the lowermost door rail.. and hung there.. even as a shocked me looked on... and as lifetimes weaved around me, other bystanders pulled the man up...

day 2

Sometimes, the clothes we wear bear no great significance in terms of their quality or structural attributes, and yet, there is a deep flowing undercurrent of emotions that surfaces on giving the garment a sense of fulfillment. A surprise awaited him on her return from her travels. It was a simple yet beautiful Kurta. It was unanticipated and thus doubly pleasing, especially as he enjoyed wearing a kurta whenever possible. He wore it the next day, and went to meet her. She opened the door and greeted him, unconsciously pausing as she saw him wearing the kurta. He was looking at her, and the expression on her face, her head half thrown back at an angle, gauging, measuring, and he wondered.. did you see me in your mind wearing this? did you imagine this is how i'd look? her expression seemed to say.. yes... this is exactly what i felt you'd look like.. and that look on her face made wearing the kurta priceless...the moment.. timeless

The Life-Meter Clock

2010-12-26T02:27:00.000+05:30

The usual clinic trip - "Hey Doc"
"Wire me up to the life-meter clock"
"Am an year older, le'see what it says"
Says the doc, "just what it shows always"
"I'm off to the customhouse to buy me a ration"
"But, just the same, I'll plug you into the clock station"
That's what ye did, and that's where I was
as midnight beckoned, and life went for a toss
no, i wasn't on anti-depressants
yea, i knew what the clock represents
your will to live, and your need to die
always thought it a big fat lie
but that night was 29 years down
and the meter readings all seemed to frown

The Doc once told me of a time before the clock
Them People, they lived, on some else - "free will"
That a crop? I ken no country has any left-over stock!
Or is that a drink? Can ye pass me a swill?
No matter then, it was all said and done
as the clock said, of years, I had less than two
but am still here, six years below the sun
none up there has the whisker of a clue!
I ripped the wires before the clock chimed
and in came the doc, all smiles and stuff
the move was so barely well-timed!
wishing him good night was a tad too tough
yet that night was 29 years down
and those meter readings they seemed to frown

It's another night now, 26 years spent up Shit Creek
near half-a-life spent on the run, never being weak
never looked back -ever! on that sordid City
stole some, took some - but it wasn't no pity
caught a few others like me on the scram
living on them own away from the bedlam
they said the Doc was put away
for sending that damned Clock down hell's way
I cringed and swore, for me fault they shot the Doc
all for a machine that knows not tick from tock!
on a night that was 29 years down
when the meter readings all seemed to frown

Travels, Travails, and Treasured Memories

2010-07-22T09:27:00.005+05:30

A chance visit to Tanjavur, where my parents have a house, also meant a chance visit to the town of my birth, Srirangam. Srirangam, formally called Thiruvarangam, is also home to the Aranganathar Temple, from where the seer Ramanuja began his categorization of the Iyengar sect of Hindus. It was purely by chance that both I and my sister were born in this town of ancient chants - neither of my parents have ever lived there. And therefore, I have seized every chance to visit this quaint little Southern Indian town, even if it only entails a temple visit. For a while now, I have desisted from visiting temples altogether, but I make special exception for this one monument. This stems from the memories of a childhood visit, when I was taken to the temple by my beloved grandpa and given a splendid guided tour. He had the patience to answer my gazillion questions about stones and sand and river water and sewage water and such like.

Also, the temple at Srirangam is huge enough to absorb every loud chant, and unlike most Indian temples, does have a few "dead zones" where you can quietly sit and reflect upon the existence of any divinity at all for hours on end without clamouring chants impinging on your thoughts.This is rather appealing to my primarily agnostic frame of mind. Consider then my delight when my father and I reached the temple only minutes before closing, at the presumably ungodly hour of 9 pm. the temple was empty, and the priests were preparing to sing the lullabies as dad and I raced through the outer perimeter into the sanctum sanctorum (the garbha griha, to use the Sanskrit term). The main deity was still hosting visitors, and so our presence was not strictly sans decorum, but visiting the shrine of the Thayaar (the mother deity) meant waiting in a silent hall with a few other religious souls.

Now, as my friends will vouch, give me a few silent minutes and I'll have lapsed into la-la land. I had been entertaining a variety of thoughts (such as travel always provokes in me) and these were the first few minutes of peace I had had all day, and thus delving into my disorganized thought pile was a welcome task for me. In such a state, I rarely have any sense of time or its passage. Thus was I occupied in my own private reverie when the sound of a most amazing drum burst upon me thunderously. It was booming enough to share even the images of thoughts, and I was awestruck at the primal nature of the sound. The drummer was just beating the skin with a single repetitive stroke of the right hand, and it was the drum rather than the force of the hand that cause the sound. Even as I accustomed myself to this atavistic assault on my eardrums, the Nadaswaram picked up. For those who've heard it, it can be a raucous instrument, and needs a fine hand to keep the tune from jarring on the nerves. So, I braced myself for this effect, but it was vain preparation because the third instrument to pick up the beat was something even more primal, with a sound that must surely have been inspired by the guttural roar of a brachiosaur or some similar creature with a deeply-placed vocal chord. This horn for want of a better name made the nadaswaram sound positively feminine. Between the three they encompassed all the physical qualities usually ascribed to the mother goddess - femininity, the quality of being able to beat (read bludgeon) into submission all that is evil, and a "primality" - something that is defiant of time. In that silent hall, the effect of these instruments was to produce abject awe, a sense of being puny in the strongest sense of that word. And just as your brain steeled itself against this pulverizing attack, the beat ended. Pure shock and awe doesn't get any better.

Dandakaranya - The Modernization of Mythology

2010-07-17T13:04:00.003+05:30

I have ruminated and fulminated over the Indian government's not-so-friendly tactics against the Naxalite-Maoists. I've also frowned at some suspicious coincidences. All that is expressed in this article. Please read and comment. And pass on if you find it something better than nonsense.

Dandakaranya

A Superficial Man

2010-06-14T11:43:00.001+05:30

Men there were who’ve gambled fortunes away
Men also there were who ruined their families on a chance whim
And such men scarce escape fate’s merciless retribution
Oh! they sink, always, never, to safety, can they swim

And in that same corner, or almost, do I now stand
Almost, but awaiting a Fury far worse
Gentle seems to me the unendurable scorn of destiny
Of no use now is any expressly expressed remorse

I, who call myself A Superficial Man, have committed sacrilege most fey
I, who called myself an Artist, deserve only to be buried, alive, in permafrost
I ask for no mercy, seek no pardon; so execute me now
For I, feigning the charms of the lovelorn, have wagered my Muse – and, worse, lost.

Now there are ashes, and rags only, the sum and gist of me
There will be words written and words said, but by other pens and other mouths than me

The Thakur of Jhoolapur

2010-04-03T18:42:00.004+05:30

(being the first part of an excerpted series, originally published as the memoirs of Shri Pitambarnath Chaturvedi , former Special Adviser to the Governor of _______)

[Author's Note: These papers were held in great confidentiality owing to the constant threat posed by one or another anarchist element. Shri Chaturvedi was well-known especially for his presence of mind, which endeared him to the said Governor. Since the issues dealt with in these chronicles might still have political significance, names and places have been altered freely.]

"Beloved Priyamvada,

It will no doubt please you to know that I am safely put-up at the guest rooms of Shri Niranjan Das, ex-Tehsildar, whose hospitality knows no bounds. He is also is possession of an encyclopedic knowledge of this district, which greatly simplifies the task set before me.

You've often wondered -and how rightly! -that our dear Governor seems to either place too much trust in me, or the exact opposite, as his assignments for me seem to border on the frivolous. Consider this one, whose details I have not been thus far at a liberty to reveal to even you, who are partaker-in-chief of all that is mine. His Excellence has sent me out to this extreme corner of our wonderful state, only to deal with superstition! His instructions to me, delivered in his unique abrupt fashion were - "Pitambar, Jhoolapur is on the verge of constitutional breakdown. The townspeople refuse to participate in elections, preferring that their Thakur continue the feudal rule that his family has imposed for centuries. I have already spoken to Niranjan Das, who just retired as Tehsildar - which was much in name only - who agrees that the Thakur wields the administrative reins. Please find out for me how we can redress the situation" - and with that he dismisses me. I , who am too obliged to him to make much fuss about my assignments, could naturally not refuse.

I know you will not judge me harshly, but I have registered my protest with the Governor. It is unconstitutional of him to keep a family man away from family - let him worry about people closer to him than those at the very edge of nowhere! I must confess that the natural calm and serenity of this place very much reminds me of our mutually-undertaken travels, and I catch myself in a mock conversation with you while walking among these environs. I hope that the Governor will allow me a furlough here upon completion of this assignment, and at that time you can join me. It is either that, or one of those new-fangled video cameras as my next birthday present. I cannot endure to paint such a lovely picture in a few miserable words!

Tomorrow, I will have my first glance at the actual town- the Tehsildar chooses to live in some isolation, even in such an isolated place. From what I've heard so far, there seems to be no great unrest here, apparently the Thakur has such a hold in the people's imagination that even robbers and thieves stay away! I'd be tempted to think that this place is better served as is, but such a judgment is beyond my station. The Tehsildar's story is fascinating, no doubt, but such talk of ghosts is not for educated men. There are mysteries waiting to be penetrated here, Priyam!

Tomorrow, when I have ascertained more facts and hopefully can tell them apart from opinion, I will communicate my results to you, and hope that you will bear patience in perusing these dry accounts of administrative ad hoc-ery. My pranams to the elders, and love to thyself.

Signed,
Pitambar

(to be continued)

A Prayer to Tomorrow

2010-04-01T14:36:00.002+05:30

I, who do not claim to believe in one God more than any, or many
who only know that natural law dictates progression
that where one is weaker another is stronger and a third stronger still
perhaps someone strong enough runs the universe with mathematical precision
or perhaps not, but to that master, to that comptroller of lives
I make these petitions, out of neither fear nor favor, but only out of bewilderment
that may I live even as all around me thrives
that mine be not the life for which the universe is squandered
that as and when I pass on, to other universes
I will not have my identity surrendered
that the words that pour out of me forever seek beauty
failing that, Truth, and failing that, reason
that I be not bounden to blind irrational duty
that what I choose to live for be worth the effort
even when I cannot see that to be the case
let my thoughts, my deeds, totally support
when i walk, my steps be sure
even where the path is invisible to me
and thereafter, if only briefly, may my footsteps endure

Imminence

2010-03-30T15:35:00.003+05:30

Imagine the pain of a leaf, bearing upon its tip,
the very last drop of rain
is it the pain of separation?
or is it the last bit of pain suffered from carrying so many raindrops?

Imagine the creak of a door hinge, about to be shut for the day,
and locked up for the night
is it a sigh of relief?
or is it yet another gasp at being swung about all day?

Imagine, the thudding of a felled tree,
upon the unrelenting, hard ground
is that the final utterance of an unrewarded life?
or does the tree finally express its anguish at having to stand motionless all life long?

For voices never heard, for actions practiced only in shadows,
and for thoughts formed only within cerebral walls
there is but one release - Imminence
and such is the travesty therein!
the overwhelming cry of chaos, the chitter-chatter of change
drowns all other sounds in its crashing wave
none can ever truly distinguish
an utterance from anguish
relief, from disbelief
separation, from transportation

In the gushing wake of Imminence
life hereto, and hereafter, could very well just be
an empty box, devoid, desolate, disparate

Another Pre-Dawn Post

2010-03-10T14:43:00.002+05:30

What is it with me and posts scribbled post-3 am? However, unlike the sheer uncoordinated mania of the last two, this one is set to piece music. Wanting something to mute out the clashing chorus of the $s and ;s of linux programming, I let WinMP randomly pick pieces from my collections, and three songs in, I am elevated spiritually by the voices of Pranab Biswas and Shreya Ghoshal in Sakhi Piya

In the quietness of my apartment, these voices awaken the deepest of silently humming heart strings and set them all resonating to the same tune... all the wild rumblings of my mind are quietened into a murmur befitting the humblest of mountain brooks... and suddenly all I know and care about is the universal communion of music.. if there is a region of the mind that can truly be called soul, then it's the one that connects with music - for really, what living creature is that which is not moved by music? the tunes are sometimes irrelevant - WinMP followed up with Floyd's Poles apart, and as I remarked elsewhere, the two songs didn't seem too poles apart in reality.

A scene comes to mind: the one in Shawshank Redemption where Tim Robbins plays the gramophone record on the prison PA system, much to the chagrin of the authorities. Uttered in the immortal voice of Morgan Freeman "I have no idea to this day what those two Italian ladies were singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think they were singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, those voices soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free. ", and then again, later in the movie:
"Andy: That's the beauty of music. They can't get that from you... Haven't you ever felt that way about music?
Red: I played a mean harmonica as a younger man. Lost interest in it though. Didn't make much sense in here.
Andy: Here's where it makes the most sense. You need it so you don't forget.
Red: Forget?
Andy: Forget that... there are places in this world that aren't made out of stone. That there's something inside... that they can't get to, that they can't touch. That's yours.
Red: What're you talking about?
Andy: Hope. "

Amen to that.

(quotes sourced from IMDB)

Einstein did thought experiments, I do thought push-ups

2010-03-03T16:35:00.002+05:30

once upon a time, in an ancient city called new delhi, a nine-year old boy played board games with his father in candle-light. his rationale was that if Gandhi could free a nation without electricity, he could surely play board games. mom says doing so will spoil my eyes. but the game happened. thanks, dad, for the experience. a thought push-up gained physical shape. the boy now thinks google can cause tectonic plate shifts. and arnold sneezing can cause the San Andreas to erupt. i don't wanna hang around to see those thought push-ups get real. in the immortal words of russell peters (did i ever think i would quote him?) "somebody gonna get a hurt real bad".
my neighbour is convinced 2012 is happening. me thunk i cud live in a cave underground and escape. naah, cave collapses, roaches get to eat raghu chutney. build a sub and live Nemo-style. Captain Nemo, not the clown...fish. Nemo was a Indian Raja with uncut diamonds for eyeballs. (dollar-signs-in-the-eye animation was not invented back then, not even by the man Verne) i have squishy muscle in my eyes that gets cramped often. not good. same logic for planes and space shuttles. so i think i'll just get on with drinking late-night chais and not watching my weight (but continue to watch friends get on and off the weighing machine like christmas tree lights).

roomie says everyone'll grow a beard by the time plans get executed. i point to my six week old stubble. plans are getting executed, but the guillotine is far far away, in both space and time. i find out tagore was a high school dropout. now there's a man who blows u away with a wisp of poetry. its both dynamite and a gale-force wind. packed into a gentle whisper. jodi tor dak sheune keu na aashe, tobe ekla chalo re - if none walks besides you, walk alone. simpler instructions for life were never written. no questions asked, none answered, just point the way and move on.

"but the dawn is breaking, it's early morn." i'm off to sleep. arrivederci.

A Statutory Dose of Humour

2010-03-03T16:15:00.004+05:30

I generally store the less insane excretions of my brain on my satire blog, but I am sitting up at 4 46 am Central Time, and I know right now the difference between sane and insane is much the same as the difference between Raima Sen and Tansen.. Raima.. whoo.. err.. anyway, a question is sitting outside the Red Fort with a bowl containing a note addressed to me "why are you awake at this hour?" - it is begging to be asked u know - and i am not only being asked, but also answering which is also very Sen (Zen? Zane? Billy Zane? Phantom?) AHEM!

To be frank I've had a woozy day. make that woozy 3 days. and it's all cos i've slept average of 4 hours. (3+5)/2 is 4. and i discounted the third day. which is today anyway. (i'm still awake, no?)
at this point all ye wannabe brainologists can come out with ur "steely steely knives" but u can't quite cull the boast can u? it surely wasn't my brain that Hannibal Lecter/Anthony Hopkins ate before he did whatever-he-did to a drunk and woozy Clarice Starling/Julianne Moore. woozy, the word is woozy.

also, i had the urge to put it out on facebook for all ye peeping tom employers out there that i sometimes feel goo-fy. its one of those english constructs. oxymoron. no not that. synecdoche. no, not that either. tantrum? panjandrum? portmanteau! that's it, yea. goo-fy is portmanteau. goo is a nickname i've had since the middle of college. being one of a gang of fourteen and all having monosyllabic nicknames and bisyllabic favorite cuss words is fun u know. so thanks to ree, lee and C, i am goo. wait, does shit have 2 syllables? oh yea ok.. she-ite. got it. the word is goo-fy.

fy is actually fi, as in hi-fi. half the world is hi-fi. the other half is low-fi. i am goo-fy. beat that.
which is all a merry-go-round spin on the simple fact that i've just given myself my latest nickname. here's a brief list of all the other
MGS Raghuramprasad-Raghuram-Srihari-Hari-Harris-Harry-MGSRP-MGHS- Raghu-Ghu-Goo-Goo-fy. call that evolution. amen.

We, the people,... of the Sovereign Socialist Secular Democratic Republic of India, ... still have no clue what our country is all about

2010-01-27T01:52:00.002+05:30

I have heard enough calls of "Happy Republic Day" to put me in a slight depression. We "celebrate" 60 years since India became a constitutionally governed republic. What does this mean, I ask? Do we truly understand what it means to be either Sovereign or Socialist or Secular or Democratic, leave alone the permutation of all those words? Do we, as a people, possess the self-assertion required to fulfill our own destinies, let alone take upon the onerous commitment of fulfilling a nation's destiny? I think not. I think that we are a nation riddled with doubt, confusion and dogma. Doubt, as to the meanings of everything in our life - from our names to our identities, from purpose to validity. Confusion as to our environs, our beliefs and our value systems. Dogma, in the shape of a thousand inherited and disseminated untruths.

Man doesn't spring up full-grown from the soil. He is a work-in-progress. But to assume that the task began at birth is akin to thinking that the seed was born of itself. The seed obviously comes from a fruit. What fruit bore the seed of our thoughts? The answer to this question is but the first step in the quest of self-assertion. When we truly understand where we came from, we can aver in the strongest voice who we are. I am Indian, a human born in a land named thus because of a river and a mountain, whose indigenous names belong to a language barely spoken anymore. A country that has existed far longer than its geopolitical definitions, in variegated forms. A country that has successively imbibed the wisdom of several "religions" but has continuously adopted the oldest precept of all - that every man is free to chose his beliefs, and is equally free not to believe. We are sovereign - we follow our truest belief and do not merely parrot the words or actions of Someone Else; we are socialist - our hearts and minds encompass every single human being; we are secular - we do not question a person's beliefs, we only question our own rationale; we are democratic - our voice echoes the beliefs of a thousand souls, our thought is the imbued amalgamation of a thousand such voices.

If today, or any other day, I celebrate anything at all, it is the fact that I was born in a country whose history, tradition and culture has given me a unique identity, an identity that is open to enrichment by my own life experiences, an identity born and fostered by contradictions and an unbounded zeal for an unbounded life. I am the person, the people, the Republic. Happy Republic day, everyone!

A Hastily Scribbled, Unjust Review

2009-12-24T11:25:00.003+05:30

I promise a longer one, but for those in a hurry, as I am: Aal Izz Well. That is the overwhelming message of 3 Idiots. It has shades of Hirani all along, as also of Aamir's previous screen incarnations. But, all that put together makes 3 Idiots a tribute to some of the best that Bollywood has offered in the past decade. The trio (DCH), the Idiot (TZP), The Crazy Principal and hated student (Munnabhai MBBS), the vast vistas of Shimla (Jab We Met) and Ladakh (Lakshya). Aal Izz truly Well, with India, and Indian cinema. We have reasons to smile and be proud, the cynics be damned. "Jaisa filmon me hota hai, ho raha hai hubahu" as the song in the movie goes.

I do promise a longer, more detailed review soon.

Reaffirmation

2009-12-19T06:17:00.003+05:30

I walk into the midst, of a newly gathered crowd
For me they are here, of me they stand proud
What did I do?, I ask. What do they see?
I say words are tough in the coming,
maybe, just for them, I will sing
and the melody that pours out of me
is but the sound of falling tears
choked memory's forgotten arrears
suddenly, perchance, becoming debt-free
and I, bathed in the salt of my own eyes
many a hidden truth do I realize
life, stark naked, in all its beauty
no voyeur of the senses I am
I've just lost my copy of life's program
the necessity of tomorrows, sought in prophecy

Of Presidents, Poems and Human Happiness

2009-11-04T12:23:00.004+05:30

A Real Story of a Chance Meeting

He stood there, an arm’s length away, and for the first time I saw him for who he was. At once, I was the shy kid who used to only come out from the bedroom when his parents asked him to “come and say hello to so-and-so Uncle and Aunty”. A second later, I was reading and absorbing his presence and reeling from the fatigue I saw on his aged face. It hit me then, here is a man older even than my own grandfather, who has been on his feet all day, and he deserves now to put up his feet and savor a cup of hot coffee. Was I going to press my blundering self and meaningless questions upon him when he was in such a state? My thoughts turned as the reporter from the Huntsville Times started off on his question. The newswoman from Fox 54 put her mike on him (with his permission, of course) and we “settled” into the humdrum of a press conference.

The questions sounded usual to me, but these other newspersons had never met him, and the monotony helped me find my reason and voice. I asked him about student exchange programs (one more silent vow circumambulates my mind) and I got the answer in a pat. Questions were traded about research facilities, space programs and space physics. Suddenly, all the regular questions had been asked. My inner urge to seek the man rather than the ex-President finally burst forth – Will we be reading about Huntsville in your poetry? –and in the proverbial blink of an eye, he changed. He smiled hugely, and with much animation, said that we might - “since the ideas were definitely flowing here.” Having stepped across the threshold into his personal space, I presented my little book of poems as an introduction, and spoke to him in the language-of-home, and sought his blessings. He skimmed through a poem and penned his “Greetings” to my Welcome, and signed it – A.P.J. Abdul Kalam.

Hours later, I reflected on all dominoes whose fall led to this chance meeting. In choosing to forsake ambition, and let life “guide” me unto the path of wisdom, I had met with some unforgettable moments. As Gulzar put it, when a moment fell off of time, only a legend was found, the moment nowhere. My own story is not studded with legends, but the moments have found form in my poems. I have struggled with misunderstood notions of duty, affinity and human happiness, but as I wake from today unto tomorrow, I know but this – I have met one more person on this beautiful planet to whom the very mention of poetry is a refreshing gust on a day of endless slog.

Of Presidents, and Poems, and human happiness
A smile, is indeed the finest finesse
What stony countenance be that
which poetry does not positively affect
‘tis but such like that forever shut out regrets

Of Time, and Place, and gentle ironies
A smile, mostly, will put one at ease
Can history not bear witness?
Will geography leave no memorial?
Of tiny miracles, such as these

Birthday’s Eve

2009-10-15T14:03:00.000+05:30

A birthday has just come and gone
Yet it’s the eve of which I now speak
Those two hours when all was forlorn
A cloud hung over, the stars I seek
Winter’s mist, reflected above
The heart now sings a new critique
Tomorrow’s gifts in today’s alcove
Patterns woven in Batik
If all were left to fate perchance
Would life evolve in new technique?
Could I have done the chicken dance?
Would I have become an oil-rich Sheikh?
Worry not, o gentle inquisitor
with Such Questions, cursorily I do tweak
Simply out of boredom sans fetter
My joie de vivre, incorruptible, will leak
Quietly, mouse-like, much as me,
Into every avenue, whither I sneak
Thus I say, in this pithy poetry

A return to blogging ways

2009-09-24T22:06:00.002+05:30

quiet, lonesome, studious nights
flickering, bickering, burning lights
who wouldst today, be with me?
farther than this, what shall I be?
sharpen once more, my failing sights

onrushing darkness, slumbering fears
something inside me rips and tears
soon I would be a thing once lost
trading with the devil, a la Faust
ambition is dreadful, or so one hears

poetry, prose, both inspire
thus surrounded, I, with ease, respire
what is read, and what I write
heavy winds, and lonely kite
to what height do I aspire?

waking up way past dawn
even then horribly do I yawn
perhaps six months I need
to sate my slothful greed
how quickly, all this time is gone!

What Am I Doing?

2009-09-08T13:23:00.002+05:30

Apart from abusing my own sense of humor... I am looking forward... to what? To the Lost Symbol, to 2012 (the movie, not the year), to the end of my PhD (err... maybe too hopeful on the last, but definite on the first two) and hopefully some more road trips in my much blighted, much mocked, but trusty, rusty '92 Nissan Sentra... I am writing too, but sadly, more for a living than for believing... but promises abound... May the year end with endings to some of my unfinished works...

My personal favorite poetry 1

2009-07-16T12:57:00.005+05:30

"Zarre zarre mein uska noor hai,
Jhaank khud mein wo naa tujhse door hai,
Ishq hai usse to sabse ishq kar,
Ishq hai usse to sabse ishq kar,
Iss ibaadat ka yahi dastoor hai,
Ismein usmein aur usmein hai wohi,
Ismein usmein aur usmein hai wohi,
Yaar mera har taraf bharpoor hai…" - Prasoon Joshi, Delhi 6

In the last few days, I have revisited a lot of the poetry that inspired me to pen my own humble verses, and I felt that I should introduce these immortal lines to my friends and readers. Yet, I start with a verse that is recent, and has slowly started becoming a morning prayer. The lines are simple yet powerful poetry, and this is how I interpret them:

" In every grain, in every fraction, is seen His light,
Look within! He is not one to stay far away
If you profess to love Him, love everyone else
If you profess to truly love Him, love everyone!
This devotion has but, that one ritual
In him, her and Him, is He
In this, that and that, is He
Everywhere, I find my Friend amply"

I have previously heard Amitabh Bachchan narrate poetry - he has recited and sung his father's verses both on and off screen, yet nothing prepared me for his recital of the above lines. It is almost the voice of a Divine Guide, telling you exactly how to find the voice of God. As in so many of the world's belief systems, the call is simple - Look within!

She, I, we, me

2009-07-10T15:26:00.001+05:30

She, and I, one day became “we”
Sat about, and saw what things there could be
Some agreed, some we fought over
But never did we set, our sights a little lower

She, and I, one day became “we”
And the next, saw how things would be
Less concurred, less traded about
Never a solemn word, nary a shout

She, and I, one day became “we”
Two days later, neither the other did see
The house stood silent, desolate
The food stood rotting, upon the communal plate

She, and I, one day became “we”
Days passed, and when minds were once more free
Laughter was shared, and so was joy
Yet things seemed uncertain, the air very coy

She, and I, one day became “we”
Oh! how the doubtful weeks did flee
Oft we would go to the same eating-place
And, in the mallard’s lair, find shared solace

She, and I, one day became “we”
Now the day has come to be lonely
The cracks turn crevasses, shards are boulders
And all we can do, is merely shrug our shoulders
for, she and I, one day became “we”
but today, she is She, and I – why, I am Me!

To the Child of Today

2009-07-10T02:23:00.001+05:30

The age of kings has come and gone
we now trust but God and the man anon
friendships remain, but whence the fealty?
tombs and holy places now un-prime realty
such is the status quo, and here you are
dear princeling, welcome to the Great Bazaar

Cynical, you may think, is every single word
surely, life can't be so strangely absurd
well, it isn't, so pardon my jest
go forth and live, with joy, with zest
Never sulk, as age marches you along
never be bitter, however many be the furlong

Be curious, be bold, ,make many a tricky query
be aware, be not afraid to enjoy an occasional reverie
Strength, and weakness, both wax and wane
know that no effort will ever be in vain
life is long, reputation longer
but to judge just by that, could be no wrong-er

Time, as manifest, often is more than just a clock
all my words, one day, may turn out fodder stock
new things you may learn, new worlds as you see
any vestige of falsehood, from your mind, will surely flee
keep the words for nostalgia then, if not for worth
they, like us all, will finally go to the Earth

An Intermission from my regular ramblings

2009-07-10T00:45:00.002+05:30

I know I am overdue on 2 poems and several sequels to my Foodie-ness series, but I simply have to get this out of my system. I have spent a good part of the last week or two cataloging my collection of songs from Hindi movies (aka Bollywood) and I find that I have an uninterrupted coverage from 1951 to the present year, i.e., I have at least one song from a movie that released in any year between 1951 and 2009. This indicates neither depth nor volume, just that I have a very continued musical history :) Of course the oldest song in my collection dates to 1938....

So next time you want to know about "that song which had Shammi Kapoor in a houseboat flipping his head like a bean on a frying pan.." (Taarif karoon kya uski, Mohd. Rafi, Kashmir ki Kali, 1964) or "Oh! the one with Gurudutt looking more like a minor villain" (Sun sun sun zalima, Geeta Dutt & Mohd. Rafi, Aar Paar, 1954) etc. you know whom to ask :)

"And now, back to our regular programming..."

Life Presents...

2009-07-05T16:23:00.000+05:30

This post is a random memoir of some of the funny moments in life that you usually step on like a carefully positioned garden rake... the photographs are taken by yours truly (really-truly)...

Our first gem is a personal hygiene classic... the picture says it all... however, imagine a poor gent waiting and hammering the door and you going.. hang on i've got 7 seconds to go....

Oh, the illustration of the hands helped.. i almost ended up washing my ears first... :)
But then again, they didn't - there are only 10 fingers for 20 seconds?

Observe the name... now guess where I saw this? No, I'm not in London.. this was in Sewanee, Tennessee, U.S.A.
In a church. On a Mountain. In Tennessee. Beat that!

More coming soon....

Foodie-ism 101: The History of Foodieness

2009-06-25T01:20:00.003+05:30

Author's Note: All Characters in the following treatise are fictional. Any resemblance to real people, places etc. can be attributed to watching too many movies featuring music by Anu Malik.

Author's Second (and hopefully last) note: The author is not responsible for people practicing the preachings in the following treatise.

Author's Third (and definitely last..or else..) note: The word treatise has been used and abused as it contains the word treat which is the author's favorite word.

We live in times when everybody and their dogs have theories about birth, death, rebirth, re-death, etc. We also live in times when people tell us that we are either with them or without them, i.e., we are living in the same space-time zone as people who make a living out of saying the bloody bleeding obvious. But most crucially, and most unfortunately, we live in the time of fast food. You ask - why unfortunately? Because, the lesser time we spend worrying about how to fill our tummies, the more time we have to cook up evil plans.

Consider scenario 1:

(In an undisclosed location (cave) in a 200 mile radius of Kandahar)

Soldier 1: O great Mr. Been-Laden (with food)! I have placed the order with Dice's of Peshawar for 16 large Shish Kebab combos which come with 20 jugs of goat milk tea and 12 dozen naan. What orders do you have for me now?

Oh-Some-More Been-Laden: Shabash, my boy! You can go and bring down those twin towers now, they are blocking my view.

Soldier goes and brings down the WTC, and reports back to Been-Laden

Been-Laden (vituperatively): Not those twin towers, you idiot! (rest of conversation lost in the thudding of falling Dice's of Peshawar delivery bags)

See the point? Not yet? Consider scenario 2, for which you have to go back... (no wait, don't go home) I meant go back in time...

Another cave, this time very well disclosed, somewhere in Ancient France:
(subtitles kindly provided by Mr. Archaic Mildews of Rivervale)

Mr. Caveman wakes up with a roar to a growling sound -
Mr. Caveman: Wooga! (turns 90 degrees) Wooga! (turns another 90 degrees) Wooga!
(Who goes there? Who goes there? Who goes there?)

Mrs. Caveman: Nooga! Thaa oorrrr tumwum! Ooga loogga yumga!
(No one goes anywhere! That's your stomach! You go look for food, go!)

Mr. Caveman: (grumbling) Yrrrg minna looggaa!
(Why should I always look?)

Mrs. Caveman: (angrily) ooorr nigga looggaa! Yrrrg looggaa! oorrr syggaa chigga!
(Ok, don't look (for food)! I'll go! You look after the kids!)

Mr. Caveman: (jumping up and running) Noooga! Nooga! thoorr liggaa inggooggaa!

(Nooo! Noo!! They are intolerable!)

(exit Mr. Caveman)

See, everything taken care of! Mr. Caveman forages all day, comes back and sleeps hungry. He can barely fill his stomach, leave alone his brain with zany ideas!

Of course, as a rejoinder, history also tells us that 5000 years later, the angry Mr. Caveman killed his entire family and took on the name of Genghis Khan, and killed his way across Asia to fill his "tumwum" - that is unavoidable - you can't keep anyone hungry and dumb for 5000 years, can you?

Again, not all the time not spent looking for food has been wasted. We've invented the movies, created awesome music and also the Internet, chatting, blogging, etc. So, ideally the compromise is to stuff half your life with the pursuit of foodiness and the other half with chatting and blogging. So, go hunt down your pizzas and cokes folks and come back for more history lessons. I have to go solve this Mandelbrot Grid to find my dinner! Bye for now!

An Obituary for Romeo Sierra Golf

2009-06-01T23:49:00.003+05:30

Wonder not, O brethren of the gun
of you, Romeo, definitely wasn't one
yet why call him by this code
alas, that is how he wanted this ode
to be engraved upon a marker cold
the font to be underlined, in italics and bold
so hinder me not in my entrusted duty
a task i render, perforce, with a peculiar beauty
come later, and at my work, please do ponder
and give a care to him who has gone yonder
I knew him but for a season or two
he came, and was gone, with speed undue
A velocity that was his birthright perhaps
yet one which came without the attendant mishaps

"Met him at the cinema at half past ten
don't think had heard of him before then
he was somber and scary and thin as hell
in a lumbering voice he said he hadn't been well
said he was sorry for the troubles he gave
said his life had been through many a close shave
then he collapsed in my hesitant hands
this traveler of many strange lands
the hospital was gloomy, the doctor sleepy
but quick was the diagnosis, in that chamber creepy
he would die within the day
all anyone could do was but pray
Patting me on the shoulder, away he walked
then returned only to tell what the dead man talked"

a letter he wrote to me the day before
laid out, between us, the entire score
seems I knew him after all
a long forgotten brother of the Fall
he who in life and health had I known
his ashes, into a sodden field, I have now sown
a single slab now sings his tale
where time and memory will grow stale
he whose verse filled many a page
a sonnet is all that remembers his age
like us all he was borne by a Mother
unlike us all he was forgotten by his brother
his name, for all those friends of the Wolf
will remain, now and ever, Romeo Sierra Golf

A Dose by Any other name....

2009-05-15T08:36:00.002+05:30

So, as you have noticed i've changed the blog link. Something a tad shorter, and hopefully easier to remember. Complaints, suggestions, kudos and brickbats are welcome, but will probably be "return to sender"ed by the post office.

More soon,
Rags

वृन्दावन के आँसू

2009-05-12T02:27:00.009+05:30

वृन्दावन में सघन अँधेरा
अमावस ने इसे पहले से घेरा
ऐसी रात में दो नगरवाले
घरों की ओर थे राह संभाले
चारों ओर थी रात की चुप्पी
इतने में आई एक सिसकी
पथिक उधर ही अपने को रोके
देखे इर्ध-गिर्ध, चौकन्ना होके
उधर! कौन वहां तट पर है बैठी?
जमुना को आँसू नहलाती
कौनसी जाने दुःख है पाई
चले देखने वही दो भाई

अपने पैरों को धीमा कर
आहट बिन वह निकट पहुँच कर
पहचाने उस दुखियारी को
वही नहलाइ यामी को
दुखी हुए वह , उदासी छाई
पर नही उठी कोई दुहाई
देखे जो थे राधाजी को
उस असहाय रानीजी को
आँसू कितने बोझिल, निर्मल
यामी की धार, धारी परबल
मथुरा के हुए अब विश्व विधाता
राधाजी को कौन बतलाता
नही इधर कोई संरक्षी
जिधर है चंद्र सदा कृष्णपक्षी

एक और मोहब्बत

2009-05-06T11:04:00.001+05:30

कल रात का किस्सा है, चाँद की गवाँही है
यह इश्क की नही, मोहब्ब्तों की कहानी है
हाँ, हम शायद मंद अकल थे,
तुम्हारी कहाँ जोश-ए-जवानी है?

दो कदम क्या, चार कदम चलने को तैय्यार थे
हम तो हमेशा से बेकार थे!
तुमनॆ कौनसे खेत मे मूली उगाए
जो तुम्हारे लबों पर हमेशा लव्ज़-ए-इनकार थे?

मैने तुम्हारे साथ बेवफ़ाई नहीं की है
बस तुम्हारे साथ औरॊं को भी चाहा है
जहाँ के कन्हैय्या राजा थे
हमने भी उसी समंदर का नमक खाया है!

यह सच है, तू ही दिल की रानी है
तेरी मेरी अदभुत प्रेम कहानी है
पर यह भी सच है, “अमर प्रेम” मे कहा है
यह सभी बातें नमकीन पानी हैं

another sem bites the dust.. and.. ITS IPL TIME!

2009-04-29T03:21:00.004+05:30

well.. readers and other folks... its been a few weeks of hell bent on bending my gut.. :).. but i am back.. gut and everything else intact.. and tactfully.. i mean thankfully so...

IPL 2.0 is under way and rather topsy turvy at that. Without bending any ears on the nuances or lack thereof, my prediction for the final is Indians vs Chargers - washed out! :D

moving right on, to even last year.. i dun believe that Indians will ever get over the Raj... KP n Flintoff being picked up for all those baubles.. and alllll those teams royally named is a royal pain... u know where.. so here's my version of IPL names:

Delhi Daredevils... hmm ok.. this is our cue.. better still make it Delhi's Deadly Daredevils

Kings XI Punjab - Punjab de Pyaare Patthe, by which of course we mean even such sons-of-the-soil as Shaun Marsh and Sreesanth. Roving eye comment - "import" Bhajji.

Kolkata Knight Riders - Kolkata's Karizmatic Kricketers (ergo making the Karizma and the KKK and Krish Srikkanth a brand supporter) aka Kolkata ke Khatarnaak Khiladi (thus including the Satyajit Ray angle)

Chennai Super Kings - The voracious virtuosos of the Hindu have always been very verbose. Yet, they forsook their verbiage and suggested: Chumped Champs of Chennai

Royal Challengers Bangalore - Bangalore's Bejaar Boozers (has a Kannada word to ensure no riots happen.. Mallya's Booze.. err.. brand still flows)

Rajasthan Royals - must be localized to Ranthambore as other Rajputs can't agree with the team being "Rajasthan"i. Thus, Ranthambore (Run-them-bore(d)) - the most succinct team name ever!

Deccan Chargers - Again, a geographical misnomer - and a conspiratorial move to confuse Dhoni and Flintoff into playing for Hyderabad.. err.. Deccan. They will now be called Hyderabadi "Hawa-Hawai"s.

and last but not the least..
Mumbai Indians - the sheer cheek of this city team to equate itself with the nation must be lauded. However, it cannot be tolerated. The BCCI, CCI, ICC and other CCs have unanimously voted to call them Mumbai's and Matara's Marauders, since, really, no one else is doing much for them.

On that note - oh look at the dog on the pitch! is it.. oh dear God.. is it.. YES! it is..

doing an incredible imitation of Lalit Modi!!!!

from our unnameable correspondent in Madagascar

The Museum Curator

2009-03-08T23:44:00.002+05:30

Dedicated to Rudyard Kipling, and to the hapless Indian government fuming at the sale of Gandhi’s artifacts

All day I see people come and go
Some the curious, some nefarious
Yet none has passed who did not stare
At these precious sculptures rare
Such is my pleasure, such is my vocation
That I watch over my wares
And watch others wonder at them too
So, you ask, how came I to be here?

Not many years ago, I too was a child
And passing through the library
I chanced upon a work of Kipling’s
You guessed it – it was Kim!
Ah, the Zam-Zamah, ah the Lama!
Such antique mysteries they are
Very much a reality – mind you!
Indeed I had been to museums before
But the Ajaib-Ghar fascinated me no end
And ere you know, I was smitten

Not everyday does a family bear a curator
And not everyday are they ready to bear one
“How will you manage expenses?”
“What will people think?”
“Why not a Doctor? Or an Engineer?”
Such were the mundane queries they threw
Sadly for them, I was not unlike the Lama,
My destination fixed like the compass’ north
The winter since have seen much struggle
A civil servant am I, subject to gubernatorial whims
I took work, and found apathy
I railed and rallied, ducked and sallied,
Any funds that could be found, any pot of gold
I’d make another Ajaib-Ghar of this wreck
But none there were to fill my plate

Thus was I driven, driven to despair
And to the lowest basement levels to hide
There I had never been, and I sneezed at the dust
And there I noticed a thing or two,
That had long not seen the light
Curiosity claimed my mind right then
I found a stool, and began my study…

Six years have passed since then
Six thousand letters have traveled since then
And every one of them is gold
That which I found that Autumn day
Was nothing short of a treasure trove
Precious documents there were bound
Their veracity now beyond doubt
All these men of wisdom you see
Traveled here on my behest, without fee!
They will tell you History’s unknown tale
They will write a book or Books
And celebrated is this museum going to be

Hath off, you government-owned goons
You who seek borrowed glory
I have quit my position since
No longer am I a Man in Suit
Now I am a free operator
Searching for history my sole vocation
Who shall pay for this endeavor?
History pays he who history keeps
Haven’t you heard of Gandhi’s glasses?

A Song of Happy Happenstance

2009-03-04T11:56:00.000+05:30

Such as has never been is happening
And such that is happening, shall never be
Such as is, is happening, such is life full of
Chance has brought us upon this lively lane
And to the child of yesterday clamoring and enquiring
As to that which is happening, such is all I say

The earth is round, does Dinesen say, to hide that farther be
And also did a friend once say, farther than that the farthest is
Why worry about the farther, when so much nearer is this
The humble merriness, the frolicking solemnity
The fabled paradoxes of life in the commonplace

Of numbers does Scripture speak, numbers large and small
Some be virtuous, some very evil, but numbers be they all
Ten are the commandments, 3 the Principals, 1 the son of God
1 also is God to some, to others, He numbers in millions
and some also there are for whom He be naught

Billions upon Billions, does Mother Earth bear upon herself
Oft she grumbles, oft she spews molten anger, oft she spits and squalls
An iota is but all she cares, uncounted though her worries are
Who be God to her? Who is Human to her?
One, to her, is They all!

Life there was, in teeming numbers, yesterday, and the day before
What seems new, is but rehashed old, not seen today in today’s light
But yesterday was today a moment ago, and tomorrow will be today a moment hence
And life shall bloom forever; such is its bent,
The light of different eyes must necessarily see things differently

What is that wild beast, once it is tamed? What is that free spirit, once it is caged?
Nature grants to all a lease, and within that lease, a definition to fill
It is but a desk job at a variance, to each his bounden task
You keep to yours; I will to mine, the earth will still go around the sun
Perhaps there will be a reordering, but keep your counsel until then

My parents taught me the Word- to them by logic belong all my words
Yet the Muse has a mightier share, for what is that word that flows uninspired
And what words are those that Coherence failed to capture?
Fly glow blue six life Everest lost – such is not poetry, nor meaningful cipher
It is but the sewage of unkempt mind

The Spirit grows weary, the Body does age, the Mind wiser by the day
Yet rarely does Optimism’s flag lower, fierce the storm may be,
The eyes seek sleep, the back a gentle massage
But listen O friend this gentle call, hold me once before I fall
I own nothing, but all I have, belongs to you, for I go to the earth

The Wrong Problem - A Shorted Story

2009-01-31T03:08:00.003+05:30

dedicated to Mr. Stephen Nicovich - my co-conspirator!

Imagine having to study a subject which has classes meeting twice a week. Yes, I know, very commonplace. The imagination really needs to kick in when you realize that all you can focus on while sitting in class is random streams of verse. In a class on communications that's like noise interference. But, - your mind tells you -that's the darned signal and not the noise! Everything else seems like noise! And that's just where the problem started for me. Despite all the mind-boggling, I thought I could pull an A out of the muddle (not exactly like pulling a rabbit out of the hat but close). I took one good look at the homework assignment, cracked my knuckles, blew my nose, and started flipping pages in the book. Slam bang dunk! One problem done. Turn around, and it's a double! So on and so forth until ten minutes later I was done! WOOW! The fastest homework assignment in the whole unrecorded history of... err.. homework! I am too cool for this course! Not the faintest shred of doubt anywhere. I have a whole spring balance in my step as I submit the assignment.

Fast forward one week... The Spring Balancer returneth! And then.. screech.. skidddd! Sudden brakes. The Assignment has begun to talk. It's practically screaming. What's it screaming you ask? It's screaming "WRONG QUESTION". The lights go out on me. My life as a smoothly conducting circuit has just been shorted. WHY? WHO? WATT.. err.. WHAT? More flipped pages. Problem 2.8 says the Assignment sheet. Question 2.8 says my answer sheet. Problem, Question - synonyms right? Rose by another name or wot? Correction! says the book. Question is not the same as Problem. Apparently. There are Questions 2.1 thru 2.20. THEN there are PROBLEMS 2.1 thru 2.20. I see starlets. I see shoots. I see leaves. I see R. I see E. I see D. I am seeing RED but it doesn't quite strike me.

Five days later... Ok, pal. You've done everything right this time. Almost. There's this one besotted unprintable word of a PROBLEM (not a QUESTION!!!) that just won't be solved. Well, that's what a professor is for! Yea, of course, and maybe we should Brownie Points for doing the right QUESTION.. i mean PROBLEM this time! No Spring balances this time.. hell not even mass dampers.. just a straight forward walk to turn in the homework. And that's all I wrote.

Slumdog Hoo Haa

2009-01-28T04:10:00.003+05:30

I am not reviewing this movie. It has received its share of plaudits and brickbats, and I don't understand some of the brouhaha. I am trying to understand this incredibly brilliant movie and the astonishing rate at which it has propagated into the consciousnesses of men, women and children in
"so many places" (read U.S., U.K., and India, and maybe a few other inconsequential countries).
And I'm doing this understanding business aloud. So if I am too loud, eshcooshmepleez. I have been inside a slum, although not on the scale of Dharavi. And I have been in 3 different school environments. And believe me when I say this, the most bloody-minded curious are the slum kids. It's cruelty - the way that Guy Out There dandies about. The ones who've least access to education are the ones most eager to learn. There I was, an 10th grader, who got some bizzare sense of satisfaction skipping 2 hours of classes twice a week and instead going to a slum dwelling to "teach" a few impoverished kids the alphabet. Along with me were a bunch of other kids of whom maybe 2/3 really cared about teaching these kids. I remember walking a little away from the group, not sure whether to question anyone about their predilections.
We would, as a group, walk into the only solid brick structure in the slums - a Church. Often, it'd be locked and one of the kids would act as a self-appointed runner and go fetch the keys from God knows where. And then the farce would begin. Yes, farce. We would go through the same ritual of A-Z and 1-20 every damn time. Simply because there were no resources for going any further. And I don't know how it took me so long to realize it -but at first I never seemed to see the faces of anyone. I didn't know then, and I don't know even now - after Madras/Huntsville/Kenya/Huntsville whether I can look into any of their faces and bear to look away. The first face I looked into is the face that I forever see - a tiny midget - perhaps 3 years old - a regular waif - tugging at my pant sleeves and asking me what that curly number was. "That curly number" was 3. My favorite number. Ever since. It's the numeric manifestation of curiosity.
I don't know what happened to that kid. But when I saw Slumdog - devil take the nomenclature - I hoped, in my heart, that that kid had had things turn out like that for him.
People argue about the representation of India in the Western eye. That "Slumdog" is a derogatory word. So while we are busy ranting about insignificances the mammoth problem of poverty is sidestepped once again. That is what I see as being represented in anyone's eye. This incredible capacity to nitpick over nothings while there's so much to be done in terms of nation building. I do not know if Nero was indeed playing the fiddle while Rome burnt, but I can say that if there had been an Indian in his court, I am sure that guy was arguing about the Indian origin of the tune while his house was burning. Slumdog - Jai Ho!

A Different Kind of Graduation

2009-01-26T07:55:00.000+05:30

dedicated to my mother who's afternoon nap accompanying stories still make me shudder

Think of what you were or are or will be doing at the age of 21. I got my Bachelor's degree at 21. I then started on a graduate program in a university 9035 miles from my home country. But never was I strained for resources or support. Thus, when I wonder about people who are less lucky, I wonder what drives and defines their life/lives. I admit its more than a mere stretching of the imagination. There are things and events and phenomenon you can't take into account. It is one such exception that has prompted this article. The case of a 21 year old named Ajmal Amir Kasab to be very specific. He too graduated at the age of 21:

Except, in his case, it was not a final set of examinations that decided it, but the brutal and horrific attack on a city, an attack his "teachers" told him would get fame and the good will of God.

Except, in his case, his family would have been paid for the successful "culmination" of his "studies".

Except, in his case, he did not study engineering or law or medicine or the arts, he was indoctrinated into a holy war.

It is now almost exactly 2 months to the attacks. I have read with much interest the governmental negotations, the confessions and the media analysis. I am shocked, and yet, also, immensely saddened, that just by virtue of circumstance, lives are changed so immeasurably.
This alone must serve to underline the fact that until we identify the basic deficiencies that exist in each and every corner of the Earth, until we find ways of overcome the most fundamental and common of enemies - poverty and the resultant lack of education , we cannot truly begin to bridge other differences.

A post published belatedly, written at the year's dawn

2009-01-26T07:29:00.001+05:30

A Belated Yawn, Stretch, Scratch, Sniff and Hullo to the New Year

I know, dear blog of mine, you have suffered an obnoxious silence in, ironically, total silence. I return to you now not as before - angered, rebuked, abused or amused; insulted or insulated. No, I instead come to you anew, as one friend greeting another, and with the level of cordiality that accompanies each box of sweets that is distributed throughout the neighborhood with a cheery "Happy New Year!" Ha, ha, you can call me lazy bones, or dreamy face all you like, but with all the disdain that I possess for most, if not all, "societal" customs, I say - "I am me, take it or leave it!" A healthy 20 days into the New Year, I tick my blog's article count over into the New Year. Having checked off all the names on my "whom-to- (and, importantly, whom-not-to) wish-on-The-New-Year", I come to thee, dear blog. So here' s my little verse for you to contentedly carry until I return to previously charted territories and spew my unwarranted, unwonted, un-vented garbage over your pristine sheets.

Another calendar rolls over, and dies
Another generation is born, and cries
Y2K is a distant, almost forgotten memory, we have Y2K+10 at hand!
9 years into a millennium once believed to be impossible
and we wait for the dreadful date the Maya hung upon us
December 21, 2012, all calendars would die, or so said they
Fear not my blog, for even in the dreams "beyond the mortal coil"
I shall, in those unseen times, tick over thy pages, year after joyful year
Perhaps then would not be some lazy rant, or broken verse
but the continuing melody of unending hours
the mind, freed from all other maladies and phobias
would bask in the enjoyment of unknown delicacies
and would conjure up flavors hitherto untasted
Oh, a thought drags me back to the mortal present
One family now grows into two, and that denizen of the same womb
sister dearest will soon adorn another household with her grace
a happy occasion that will mark this year in our minds
off we go to the bazaar, buy an year's load of festoons
let the whole street know of the occasion awaited
its time for sweetmeats, for gossip,
for rice grain blessings and eagerly opened gifts
let the season passes, from winter unto summer
onto the monsoon of bridal tears, Godspeed
and then, let the year slow down, and relax in the autumn afternoons
Only then, let it take stock of itself, and only then, dream of what can be

An untitled poem written in lieu of a response

2009-01-26T07:23:00.002+05:30

childhood's aftermath, often is
a sequence of waking nightmares
do they pass under adulthood's guise?
I should think not

Adulthood's interim, often is
a passage of dreams awoken
do they pass for nostalgia?
I should think not

Somewhere, between the two
waking nightmares and dreams awoken
a reality dares to thrive
a rose blooming in the desert
brave candle in the eye of storms

Wisdom, as some call it
but the total of lifetimes survived
some spent waiting, some enjoyed
yet some others are quietly denied
mine, is none of the above, and all

A Man called Obama

2009-01-23T08:43:00.003+05:30

I am not an American citizen. I am one of many who have been given the opportunity to come and live and study here, and in the process, enrich our lives. Far removed from my own homeland, I had to establish some semblance of a home in these foreign parts. It is nice, in such circumstances, to find yourself among people who are not merely curious about you but friendly in a general sense. I did, and it is because of such people that I have had the confidence to explore my skills in every possible direction - not merely academic. But that I would come here was a reality that was envisioned even before my birth. As I grew up and became aware of the concept of a motherland, India looked outward to growth and acceptance. A charismatic leader, whose surname -by one of those crazy accidents of fate that has been much discussed - was the same of the "father" of his nation, a leader named Rajiv Gandhi was at the helm. And then, just when it seemed that hope would fly on the swiftest winds, he was assassinated. That was May 21st, 1991.

I cannot exactly say when a man called Barack Obama entered the frame of my awareness. As you will realize by the time you come to the end of this piece, the spheres of interest that existed in my mind barely bordered those that involve the political hemisphere. I could tell you about a range of sporting events, hundreds of movies that ever seemed to be at the defining edge of cinema, and of hundreds of songs that made for not just good listening, but were capable of keeping the mind locked in a different realm. That, was the realm of my existence. And then there was Barack Obama. Barack, as in Mubara(c)k - (something) worth celebrating. A planetload of people watched him ascend the political ladder. At every moment, it was unbelievable. As history proveth, it was inevitable. Hope ran for the Presidency of the United States. Hope - the subliminal quanta of which had glowered like a fading ember in the dark recesses of my mind - Hope, that, for me, had died in the form of Rajiv Gandhi, had reincarnated. Hope was once the Prime Minister of India. Hope became the President of the United States two days ago. Hope, for a world where the songs of peace would replace the gunshots of misery. Hope, for the long-dreamt, long overdue formation of the fraternity of all humankind. Hope, for a world without agendas, without phobias, without skeletons-in-the-closet. Hope, for you, me and everyone. On January 21st, 2008, for the first time since May 21st 1991, I read the news pages before the sports pages.

"for you... a thousand times over"

2009-01-20T23:40:00.002+05:30

Simple lines often tend to evoke powerful emotions. Such is the case with this one line from Khaled Hosseini's The Kite Runner It seems relevant to me that I read this book at a time when my life was awash with a lot of emotions. Having just returned from a long overdue trip home and crucially, spent a lot of time with people very very close to the heart. On my return, I find a long list of some wonderful movies awaiting ["for those who came in late" - movie watching is, next to reading, my biggest consumer of unavailable time]. I watched Marley and Me, Slumdog Millionaire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, Gran Torino.... and am currently extremely moved. If emotional movement can be approximated in terms of physical movement, I would be orbiting Jupiter by now. Perhaps I sound like a junkie who gets his emotional high from Books and Movies, but those who know me know that I tend to give emotions a rightful place in the Valhalla of human inventions. I believe that a "normal" human being should have the sensitivity to capture emotion irrespective of its source. Our hearts should behave, ordinarily, like finely tuned forks.
Coming back to The Kite Runner, it is impossible to describe the scale of the debt that this one statement carries. Taken literally, figuratively, orally or with water, or however, one cannot escape the vortex that this statement, in the context of the book, drags you into. So, dear friends, go read this book. And then maybe, you might just want to watch Gran Torino....

The unvented tripe of a digital age news junkie

2008-11-30T00:42:00.002+05:30

I am frustrated, frustrated and angry
I am neither scared nor fearful
I am neither worried nor carefree
But I do hate the news media
who will focus only on what will sell most
and show the same ghastly images
"over and over again"
I am neither numb nor reactive
I am neither panicked nor mechanical
But I do hate it when someone says
"What must happen will happen,
God will take care of everything"
Well, Sir, God has his hands full
as is easily evidenced
and what is core humanity
if not the desire to go beyond oneself
and attain to that exalted virtue
that we call Godhood
I cannot eat, I cannot sleep
until I feed full my conscience
that clamours all day asking
What have you done? What will you do?

A babe in the arms of Mother Destiny, I gently murmur in my sleep

2008-11-17T13:26:00.002+05:30

Today I see pictures of the future meeting the past
A niece meets one set of grandparents
A generation further arches back into two generations, at last
And I, a generation in between, wonder, and gasp
Voices betray no time, the telephone tapes you to a forgotten clock
And your own mirror, that ungentle reflector, betrays the fact
And yet you cling on to the hem that no longer hides you
Caught in the glaring headlights of onrushing life
you become lifeless, struck dumb by happenstance
You are awash with awakening, sleep never existed
but then, in the wake of life, you find a gentle rhythm
once aboard the ship, you are soothed by the engine
and you become a babe in the arms of Destiny
that deceitful mother, who leads you through a dreamless existence
every experience wherein is mere illusion
you know no truths, falsehoods are brushed under the carpet
all is mellow, never too hot, never too cold
you will gently murmur in your sleep
not wanting, not daring to awaken
you trudge on mechanically
sleepwalking indeed
but in reality a puppet marched on by a master supreme

Weep, beloved cricket! Thy Titans will soon be all gone...

2008-11-03T04:49:00.005+05:30

This article, like most others, must begin with a confession. I have been an unabashed cricket fan all my life, and much as I try to get out of my adolescent passion for the game, I will never have an adult-like maturity of it. It's a game that will always, always strip me of any and every pretense of being anything other than a hoarse-throated, full blooded, maniacal worshipper. My first run-in with enforced discipline, my first dismissal of academics as being unworthy of primacy in life, and my first few thousand streams of angered invective - all owe their presence to cricket.
And why not, I ask myself in retrospect. After all, the last 15 years have seen some of the greatest ever players to grace stadia around the world. Will the cricketing world ever again see a contest akin to Glenn McGrath vs Rahul Dravid? Tendulkar vs Warne? Lara vs Kumble? Perhaps today's gods of cricket are men upon whom posterity, in her infinite generosity, will eventually cast a light of glory. But as I read of Kumble's exit from a team that has, most unknown to itself, been awash in the glittering wake of his achievement, I realize that the cricketing contests that I had spent countless sleepless nights watching will be replaced with other - and for perhaps quite a while - lesser contests. In perhaps a couple of years, two other Titans (Tendulkar and Dravid) will also walk, perhaps quietly, perhaps with a bang, into the nights of their retirements - and then, then alone, we shall know what cricket fans like me in India will truly have lost. Thank you all for the most wonderful memories!

the Brouhaha Begins Again!

2008-10-22T02:53:00.002+05:30

I have spent the last 3 nights staying up watching the Indian cricketers demolish the visiting Australians piece-by-piece. It was fantastic to watch. One single fact has, for me, taken sheen off the cricket, and in effect, the media and the commentators have wrested the focus away from the actual cricket. Take any news source, and questions leap at you: Is it time for Kumble to go? Shouldn't Dhoni be made the permanent captain for Tests? Should India drop an arguably underperforming Laxman for Kumble at the spin fortress of India (Kotla), especially given it was here that Kumble demolished the Pakistan team single-handedly (9 years ago)?

Zoom out a bit, look at world cricket as opposed to Indian cricket. Is the Australian Age finally over? Is India set to dominate world cricket? Will South Africa take over the crown when they play Australia later this year? Is Ricky Ponting a better, worse or similar captain as Waugh/Taylor/Guy-who-became-Australian-Captain-when-cricket-was-uncorrupted?

To all these crazy media-mongers: Shut up and watch the cricket! This match was about attrition and the unfoiling thereof. Harbhajan and Zaheer keeping the Aussies at bay; Watson and Lee eating into the Indian lead; Ponting desperately (and unsuccessfully) trying to slow the Indians second time around; and Hayden trying manfully to get out of a lean patch, and that final desperate measure - Michael Clarke batt(l)ing both his own form and the ever-more-certain defeat. A classic match, and kudos to all the participants.

Sadly, the victory will eat up precious media minutes and words while Bombay teeters on the edge of chaos, and Orissa witnesses a bloodbath shameful in the extreme, and in a totally different dimension - Chandrayaan prepares to lift(-off) India into a lunar/lunatic orbit/future.

Rapidly being buried deep beneath all this hubbub is the global financial crisis.

My favorite prayer from my Hindu origins just gained a fourth line penned by me. The original in Sanskrit reads:

Asato Ma Sat Gamaya
Tamaso Ma Jyotir Gamaya
Mrityor Maamritam Gamaya

From the unreal lead us to the real
From Darkness lead us unto light,
From Death lead us unto immortality.

And the fourth plea:

From Chaos, lead us unto reason.

A day that approaches.. approaches the past

2008-10-21T02:40:00.003+05:30

Indeed I was a youngster then, indeed am no wiser now
Sure, you were the smart one, no doubt, the more adapted
But perhaps I understood you then, and not so much now
or perhaps it is the other way around
either way, the lion will never catch it's tail
the circle will never cease at a certain point
the unfortunate misunderstandings of Friendship's past
will perhaps come back to the limelight,
as a future content to share nothing but what was

The years between us were an unshakeable truth
the memories between us oases in a desert
the space between us, the emptiness between the stars
sooner ignored, safer forgotten, best unremembered
and yet there were these far-flung innuendoes
the embers of a fire that burnt itself
and it that burning, consumed universes
fragments of these now lurk in distant minds
occasionally do they meet, upon the cross roads of time
the same paths that we never chose to walk on,
now, angered (cross), offer us no room to pass

A day approaches, and brings another floating charcoal piece
the companion of which was flung upon me post-haste, early
that vanguard sleeps for a momentary eternity, safely defeated
yet the unuttered noises of the coming fleet crowd my mind
they refuse to offer a fight, nor do they volunteer to walk swiftly past
they shall be the guests of the winter perhaps, hibernating, snoring
until the freshness of an as-yet-unsprung spring time leaf shall sweep them away
and going forward, forward, forward... they shall once more approach the past

Ladies and Gentlemen... I proudly give to you..

2008-10-20T14:25:00.003+05:30

It is always a sweet pleasure to discover an unexpected fount of delightful writing, especially if you are as wiggly a bookworm as I am. (sorry, hard pressed to come up with a bookworm simile!) The pleasure doubles when you realize that the writing is a friend's, and the icing on the cake is that in all the time you've known the person, you didn't know he/she could write something so wonderful! My dear, dear, supergood , better-than-the-bestest friend, Jerry, who is incredibly talented with Ambigrams, decided, sometime ago, to give the world a taste of his genius. He put them on a blog. All jolly good. But what I thought was a straight shot from a shotgun turned out to be two full barrels - cos he topp(ing)ed the blog with a sample of his (relevant) writings, and (boy, o boy o boy) can he write! His sense for titles alone kicks me up incredibly ("You will be shot if you fly too high", "Assumption is the mother of all screw-ups" for samples). I find myself sitting in unnameable places trying to imagine what the title of his next post is gonna be. So, let me point you straight to the man, or rather, his works of sheer, bloody brilliant, art: Jerry's Mindless (???) Scribbles

Entrapment-o-phobia

2008-10-10T20:25:00.002+05:30

On a day not yet lost amid memory's mist
I beheld a butterfly caught in my palms
it flickered, and shimmered, in the pale Autumn sun
it flickered and shimmered some more
sending me a message, in Morse Code
let me free, and let me be, much like
you would want yourself to be
startled, i let it go, wondering
how, this acquaintance of a passing moment
had conveyed so much of me to the gentle being
and returned a message of such non-violent force
watching the butterfly fly off into the distant blue
i hear myself, telling myself, indeed, you are right
to the soaring skies i give myself, to unfettered reality
the entrapment of everyday souls, the endless bind
such were not the dreams of a post-adolescent past
this acquaintance of a passing moment,
brings back to me, in a different voice
the one bad fear, the switcher-on of panic
for which i give my own name
entrapment-o-phobia, the fear of emotional knots

2008-10-09T22:42:00.001+05:30

A Brief Dive into Genealogy

2008-10-09T22:00:00.002+05:30

[song playing in the background: Pyaar hume kis mod pe le aaya (Look where love has brought us!))]

Ok.. so.. the idiom goes that Necessity is the mother of invention... and I guess we all agree that the Daddy is Steve Jobs-ties-with-Tom Edison-ties-with-Will Shakes-his-beard-in-disgust. I really don't care for invention, even though I am a bloody Engineer. (*NO! I am not swearing.. I am just referring to the amount of blood lost while working with badly stripped electrical wires).

What I really (really-truly if you are Rushdie fan) care about is the parentage of imagination. More than my engineering skills, I would invest in my imaginative skills. (You need not, it's a hopeless gamble), and ergo must pay homage to the progenitors of this entity called imagination.

So, will the (un)real (not-so-)slim (totally not) shadies please stand up?

So all you who read this, please help this hapless devotee looking for his God and Goddess!

A Solitary Moment of Serenity

2008-10-03T07:54:00.003+05:30

3 days ago, I vented fury at a fellow driver who seemed not to care about traffic rules as he zoomed ahead in the lane where he was supposed to stop to let me pass. Today, I found myself in his place. There was none to vent fury at me, but I retrospected. I had been listening to a particularly transcendental song, and I was caught, soaring high above any imaginable terrestrial realm. I thought, that perhaps, this other driver, that other day, had been caught in something similar. How often does one have to come down meteorically (literally) to earth, after all?

This particularly transcendental song, if you are wondering, is the song Tu bin bataye from Rang De Basanti.

A Brief. Subtle Soliloquy

2008-09-29T08:20:00.002+05:30

Hello, I say, to none but myself
We are alone here, says me , only to I
Indeed, agree we both and marvel
at our luck, at this auspicious opportunity
Set aside from the world - that maddening inquisitor
I can sit beside myself and lend voice to my dreams
and that voice comes back to mine own ears
amplified, tranformed stand these children
of my imagination, their adulthood starkly revealed
prophecy beyond prophecies, a joy beyond childhood
can any joy be greater than such, even if unimaginably conceived?
this knowledge will suffice, that all the dreams of childhood
nurtured and nourished through adolescence
shall finally gain fruition in the glorious youth of time
Until then, say myself to I; Until then say I

The Day of Rants

2008-09-25T19:20:00.002+05:30

I have decided to observe the 25th of September as my personal day of Rants. yea.. rants. See I am not a cribber by nature, but if you bottle things for a long time they either die and decay and become forgotten or they foment virulent gases. In my case, I am afraid that my naturally possessed digestive will result in the latter. So I have decided to be only a cribber, not a stinker and a cribber-about-the-stink. Thus, this novel invention. (If I keep at it long enough, may be September 25th will become International Day of the Rant - UN Ra(n)tified!)

So, the first Rant of the day - its just about 9 am where I am so perfect time to start! I hate newspapers explicitly count out the Indians or Pakistanis or Antarctic Penguins among the victims of some grotesque incident - usually a horror of human origins - such as a bombing or a plane crash or what have you. Take, for example, this little beauty:
http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Yemen_Indian_among_16_dead_in_US_embassy_attack/articleshow/3494171.cms

I have just one question for all those wonderful newsmen at ToI: Do you think we are so callous that we would be shocked by the bombing only if an Indian had been killed? OR - I'll make it easier for them by offering a choice of questions - OR- Do you want us to live in the morbid paranoid fear that Indians, wherever in the world they go, will definitely be marked out in any such incident? The suggested image that any (friendly neighbourhood) bomb attack or plane crash would be singing "Look! I killed an Indian!" is even more bizzare, and I ought to thank the Times of India for giving my imagination such wild flips.

Speaking of imagination, I need to find out why a certain female I know has been screaming in my dreams that I ought to read a book called "Telescoping Vision" or some such title. Also, I have read an altered version of one of Vairamuthu's Tamizh poems in my dreams and I don't get the hang of that either. This last dream was so vivid that I thought I would go to sleep after reading the poem only to realize that it was time to wake up! AAAWWWWKKK!!

The Rant Day Anthem:
All year around, I held my voice
not out of fear, nor out of muteness
I respect thoughts, I respect ideas
I respect the expression of both
I regret the abuse of either
Thus, this one fine day,
I give vent to my innermost venom
Spewed aplenty upon the assailors
of thought, tongue, speech and writing
Today I swear an oath to myself
That today none shall escape my scathing words
whether unleashed by mouth or pen
and that today my protest shall stand marked,
even if it stands alone.

and so, at last, in your arms i slept

2008-09-25T00:41:00.003+05:30

the waiting seemed endless, the journeys a vicious circle
night and day the earth spun under my feet, and verily too
it spun around me, making me feel far encumbered
i knew not the time of the day, nor the hunger
that ate at me for want of better food
my mind had long taken to clamming itself up
an oyster in its own shell
forming pearls from one's one dead flesh
consoling i found everywhere, opinions a thousand
yet none i wanted, none i sought
indeed i wished to become one with my own mind
even as it wished to swallow itself within itself
and thus become invisible to the outer world...

long had i known of the coming of this day
yet there was no sense of awaiting it
triumphs, losses, pains and pleasures
all floated by, jetsam in life's wake
none would decorate my mantelpiece
none would feature in lengthy memoirs
life's abridged to a well disguised point
one that's fast diminishing into nothing
the time for lies and confessions long past
now there is but one truth to look to
that, O death, at last, in your arms I shall sleep

the song of the Bird That Saw It All

2008-09-24T05:16:00.003+05:30

Oft I flew in the sultry breeze,
the spoilt city spreading its arms to snare me and my kin
and oft i escaped many a flying shard of death
Until chance brought me upon a broken window,
through which to enter what seemed safe habitation
and joy of joys, a nice high Pedestal for me to roost
Now my distant kin could come and visit
now they could marvel at this sinking city

Oft I wonder who walks here barefoot, barebodied even
is it not one of the creatures that the city seems to breed from itself
sprung from stone and concrete seem they
and much affected by shine and garbage seem they
their saving grace being these habitations - for themselves and us!
and this creature, in particular, seems to be more jungle bred, not unlike my kin
seems to rip and tear at its food, and makes these strange noises
noises that send me flying away until safety finds her calm

Oft I see into the far away sky, where three suns have flown end to end
since I came to this nest, and seldom too does the naked creature walk
giving vent to its lungs beneath my swaying, jittery three-limbed pedestal
causing me anxiety that grows lesser with the growing knowledge that it is harmless
and also, importantly, it knows not how to fly, lacking all sort of plumage
or so I think, and as if to prove me wrong, here comes it, waving a huge wing
and this false arm of wood, that is similar to one shape of death suffered by my kin

I fear to come down from my pedestal, and yet my curiosity drives me to see
what this strange and naked creature does, walking to and fro the broken window
whence flew I into this habitation, and oh! oh! he has flung the arm mightily into the wood below the window, and oh and oh, he has driven it further in with another, mightier metal arm
and now he binds the wing to the wood, and pulls and pulls
until the bind makes even me choke,
and oh - it has flown! I am undone!
it flies, this creature, though it flaps not any wings
down it goes, even as i rush out the window to see,
and barely do i fly aside as it shoots up again
up and up into the shimmering sky, cloaked in shiny bits

then the noise, the ripping noise, that seems like a thousand eggs hatching at once
then the wooden arm starts flying too! all my nightmares come true at once!
and then, a mighty shriek, the creature falls screaming back to earth
oh flap your wings you foolish one! else you are surely doomed!
grab quickly that giant wing, and flap it as mightily as you can!
but no, the wing has taken flight by itself, and the creature takes a mighty fall
his scream makes me lose my head and nearly do i fall as well
alas the creature, he knew not how to fly,
i cry his tale to all i know, and they know not what to say
except to bid me return fast to the jungles,
lest more such creatures take open flight
and make of me, an easy prey

A visit to revisited revisions

2008-09-12T11:41:00.003+05:30

What do you do with a story as old as Adam? How do you tell it? How do you convince yourself that this story has never been told? You can do one of two things. You blind yourself with two hot poker rods and maybe even deafen yourself. Or you throw the story into the fireplace. But maybe, just maybe, there is a way out. Or so you hope, since my earlier alternatives aren't so rosy. I don't particularly feel like giving anyone any options today, sorry. Consider this a particularly bad bad hair day. Maybe I fell off the wrong end of the wrong side of the bed. But I am about to tell you people the most sordid old story - the straight end up. And as always, as I ever tell anyone, take it or leave it.

I woke up 3 mornings ago to find myself, aside from awake and alive, staring through a broken window. I don't really know why the window was broken. Not even now. But I am a lazy guy, and the window is still broken. This has had some significant effect on my lifestyle within my own house. Because, now, in addition to a broken window, there's a nice little nest on the ceiling fan. Perhaps to remind me that I no longer need it, thanks to the broken window and the amazing breeze through it. I actually shiver a bit in the mornings. I think my childhood eosinophil condition is reawakening. I am sometimes prone to hypochondria and so I allow myself to shudder at the prospect of catching pneumonia. I also have nightmares of waking up covered in bird shit. My land lady has never taken the pains of pressing 3 elevator buttons to come up to inspect my penthouse shanty as often as she's supposed to. I have a feeling she might just do that tomorrow. Because I have decided to convert my broken window tonight. By midnight, I will have a 6 feet wide open panel in the wall where the window used to be. A perfect place to practice bungee jumping from. Especially when you live 13 floors up. I went to the hardware store half an hour ago and bought a stake that will be planted firmly on the edge of the window. At precisely 1 am on 17th November 2008, I will grandly announce the 26th year of my existence by bungee jumping from my apartment window. I plan to do this naked. And I plan to scream at the top of my voice all the way down, and all the way up. Wish me luck!

A perfunctory attempt at humour

2008-09-07T14:43:00.003+05:30

The best kind of jokes, it is said, are the spontaneous ones. They're like a super hothead - you just have to open your mouth and they jump on you like a hundred thousand peek-a-boos rolled into one. Which cracks me up. Cos if all the jokes in the world were to be spontaneous ones:

a) you'd never read a joke (you'd hear a new one every other nanosecond (did u jus hear that?HA HA HA!)

b) this line would be a joke. (lol!)

c) Khushwant Singh would be writing ad jingles for the nearest dhaba instead of all those absolutely smashing joke books which we passed around under the bench in 9th standard ("so that the girls won't know we read Khushwant Singh! {"YEEECCCH! you read diiiiirrrrtttyy Khushwant Singh jokes!!!"})

So anyway, jokes are not merely spontaneous, they are merely humorous. They are actually never mere, but that's excusable (under poetic License No. 420/ 9-2-11 registered at the Alibagh District License Division expiring 9/9/99 (vide Y2K+1 compliancy)). Every other minute, someone somewhere in the world guffaws, giggles,roars or pulls his/her/it's hair out on hearing a joke. [Unless of course, you are watching you are watching the umptillion gazillionth rerun of the rerun of the BEST SITCOM SINCE THE BIG BANG! (in which case you are telling yourself the jokes and trying to laugh more at your inanity in watching the rerun than at the canned laughter)]. One of the best works about humour (and by recursive induction, in itself humorous) I've ever read is a book mysteriously titled The Road to Mars (by Eric Idle). If someone can imagine a robot trying to be humorous they surely deserve accolades. In fact, a big round of applause (spontaneous only, no neon lights going up that read "Applause!") to anyone who has ever written anything about humour because they realize the importance of humour in all our lives.

So please clap after reading this.
(If you are scratching your head after reading the previous line, read the one before that. Still scratching? GRRRRRR!!! Why are you here? In 10 years I'll have written a book called "Understanding my brand of humour - for dummies". Buy/Build/Steal/Borrow a time machine, buy the book, read it and then come back and read this again. I'll wait for your comment on doing so.)

Melancholia... in two guises

2008-08-27T13:32:00.002+05:30

Of late, I have been fixated on two songs from the yesteryears of Indian Cinema. Both, incidentally, star that much mocked patriot - Manoj Kumar. I find it strange, sad indeed that all people recollect of him instantly is that mannerism of his - passing his hand over his face, almost hiding himself. Anyhow, the two songs (youtube links below for fellow fans) both depict a certain loss, and while the first is a successful plea for reunion, the second is not quite so... both are duets sung by Mukesh and Lata Mangeshkar, stalwarts needing no introduction.

Main na bhooloonga (version 2)
(from the movie "Roti, Kapda aur Makaan")

Ek pyaar ka nagma hai
(from the movie "Shor")

listen and enjoy folks!

Some unquestioned answers

2008-08-23T15:54:00.002+05:30

13

yes

the universe is way too big

i don't know

what a big fat stubborn lie!

can't sleep

(for the curious - these are my answers to some simple questions... riddle me right!)

An Introductory Exercise to Cinematic Romance

2008-08-23T15:45:00.002+05:30

aka The Standard Date at the Beach Scenario

aka Half mine, Half yours (for the hopeless romantics)

One solemn Moment
Neither stolen nor borrowed
Half mine, half yours

A million grains of sand
neither counted nor collected
Half mine, half yours

The water beneath our feet
the water in your eyes
Half mine, half yours

The endless ocean-image above
neither mapped nor manned
Half mine, half yours

Forgotten verses of poetry
quoted, unquoted
Half mine, half yours

Lines after lines of thought,
unending, unbending
Half mine, half yours

The dying rays of the setting sun
some scattered, some splintered
Half mine, half yours

No fears before or after, nor now
The peace of the universes unseen, sadly
Neither mine, nor yours

2008-08-23T15:31:00.002+05:30

"...i designed this rhyme
to remind myself of the time
when i tried so hard..." - Linkin Park, "In the End" (Hybrid Theory)

the most frustrating periods of anyone's life is the part where all your efforts seem equal to pushing a solid brick wall. life sometimes brings us this dead end seemingly to taunt us.. push us to discover transverse lines of thought and direction... newer trajectories for us to launch ourselves into.... and yet and yet.. the inexorable inanity called life paradoxically requires of us to walk solely into and thru the wall....

like the mathematician[1] in that classic joke... "assume there is no wall...."

[1] The joke runs like this:

"A scientist, an engineer and a mathematician were once imprisoned and given one unopened can of food each. When the warden came by the next morning, he checked on the physicist first, and to his astonishment the can was cleanly opened and empty. The physicist jovially told him that he had located the pressure points of the can and popped it open. The warden then visited the engineer, who had smashed the can open and eaten messily out of it (Brute Force Method, was the explanation). Then the mathematician, who seemed to be intensely concentrating upon the can.. the warden came closer and closer quietly.. until he caught what the mathematician was muttering.. "Assume the can is open... Assume the can is open..."

" Alas Fraility! Thou hast defied the Bard! Thou art not merely woman... thou art wholly and regrettably human!" - Self (Unadorned Ornaments)

Comments upon a machine's behavior

2008-07-20T08:04:00.003+05:30

Recently I had the wonderful opportunity to use the embedded messenger on the Yahoo! mail site. Irrespective of the importance and relevance of my conversation with a friend, the messenger found a most unique way of completely hijacking and subverting our conversation to the purposes of glorifying (and eventually vilifying) itself, viz. the messenger. Imagine this sequence. You are seriously typing piece of sarcasm and your eye is caught by the status line that periodically flashes just above the text box. Normally, and most often, this is just a useless piece of information alerting you to the fact that the other person is typing something (although how that is perceived is slightly beyond me - only slightly - please don't waste a precious comment explaining it). The present interface however, purports to cast a devious light upon its own intelligence by expanding on the theme and letting you more precisely (supposedly) what the other person is doing. Two fine examples:

"XYZ is typing something awfully brilliant..."

(my first reaction to this was.. "wow.. embedded IQ checker".)

"XYZ is typing AND chewing gum..."

(holy cow! how do you come by that piece of info)

Arguably, these are completely random garbage messages added by some underpaid programmer trying desperately to spice up his/her non-existent life. But it is difficult to sympathize with such an individual when you are trying to seize upon a train of thought that is more discretely distributed inside your brain than an atom in a quantum cloud. As I commented to my friend, at this rate I was soon going to be working on a machine that would be telling me that half my cranial output was about as good as my anal output and that, I am afraid, would give the wrong part of my body a needless superiority complex, and that(the complex, not the body part) truly stinks.

With tendered apologies to all such programmers as mentioned in the above article. If you want to improve the quality of your life, start reading my blog. It is updated every time humanity makes a quantum leap towards progress.

The Paean of the Caped Crusader

2008-07-20T07:49:00.002+05:30

Mine was not the Roman's cry
to have come, seen , conquered
all without batting an eye
nor was mine an endless army
to wage war upon relentless war
those i battled were villains beyond doubt
and not merely cloaked in enmity's paint
their colors bespoke an insanity unmatched
their laughter, their mania untapped
even so i did my diligence due
not knowing whither awaited me
fame, fortune or notoriety
my opponent plunges into my own well
self-doubt he raises, in buckets of muck
calls me a kindred yet ravages my kin
thus do i know him for a knave
and thus do i set about unmasking him
him who wishes to see beyond my own mask
and that is but all that i will do
i will maim, i will shatter, i will consign him to prison
and despite this, I shall remain much unlike him
for i do not kill - either with abandon or with purpose

The Dark Knight

2008-07-18T14:22:00.001+05:30

The Net is flooded with paeans to this most glorious Batman movie. My pen can only add these three words:

GO. WATCH. IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.S. Come back and tell me about it :)