Veni Vidi Blogi

A very crappy poo-em...

2010-04-04T08:46:00.001+05:30

...cuz I was in a shitty mood.

Ladies and gents, now I'll tell you a tale
It will lighten your burden, if you observe the details
So hear of my visit - please pay some attention -
to the "Toilet Manufacturers' Annual Convention"

The shiny yellow walls looked almost divine
But the N and the U had (whoops) dropped off the sign
The exhibition hall was empty at first
When suddenly, attendees flushed in with a burst
The Guest of Honour was most certainly Brit
For when they served coffee, he threatened to quit
"I shan't drink this filth!", disgustedly said he,
"When all I asked for, was a pot-o'-tea!"

So they brought some tea quickly, and he was appeased
And the organizers, they heaved an air of release
"After all, we're family, like shishtersh and brothersh,
let'sh shit and enjoy!" slurred one to the other.
The evening began, dinner bowls passed around
I must say the flavour of the beans was profound
They were baked in France (it was the organizers' idea)
by the world renowned chef (from Loordes) called D'Arhea.

"Brethren, and Sistern" the speaker began,
(The organizers here noted this was according to plan)
"My name is Peter, friends call me Mr. P
And being among you, just fills me with glee.
In fact I'm so full, I must use the Room -
So just a quick pit stop, then we shall resume."
The speaker thus zipped off the stage in haste
Leaving the organizers slightly pale-faced.

You see, neither was good with the oral powers
One shlurred, the other confused doublews and arse.
"My fellow shitizens, we'll continue tonight
But let'sh have our raffle while P'sh out of shite
Now it'sh ten quid for the firsht one and five for more"
Said the first organizer, giving the second one the floor.
"Rhen you're done rith the tickets, re rill rork the machine
and if your number turns up, then rell, you rin!"

"Your prize", said he to the lady who'd won
"is a solid lead seat, in strength: number one!
Number two in looks, but in nothing is it third
It's so rery robust, that re call it the Sturd!"
While the winner was exclaiming how this was so great,
That her husband would never manage lifting that weight,
Mr P came back to join the crowd
Surrounding him, was a gaseous cloud

Just when it all had been going so super
Mr P, oh, that party pooper
Banished the convention, with what must
be only described as a guttural gust
What can I say? The crap hit the fan!
Men and women and animals, they ran
So quickly did the milling crowd depart
That P's stench could be called a piss-off-fart

Every year since then, in the month of July
To relieve that moment, I still sometimes try
The Annual Convention still goes on
Alhough Peter's member-ship's been withdrawn
The organizers occasionally write to me
"You're our next 'Gust of Honour' if you chose to be!"
Their profits are up, in spite of their oops
Well, the bottom line is that - everybody poops.

Starchild

2010-04-01T09:41:00.002+05:30

"Thus is foretold," said the prophecies of old
"When the Moon will be blood upon the midnight sky,
Fire and flood will equally hold sway,
Rivers will dry, mountains give way,
The Time of the Starchild, then, will be nigh."

      The planets aligned, this was the Sign.
      Priests stared at the firmament and frowned,
      While laymen, scared witless, pointed above
      (Some said they saw a heavenly dove)
      And a solitary star dropped to the ground!

So they traveled on foot a hundred paces,

They traveled from a thousand faraway places.

They came wearing rags covered in mould,

They came bearing gifts of glittering gold.

They silently, reverently whispered his name,

They hoisted their banners and coveted his fame.

They prayed with folded hand and asked for salvation,

They spat on the ground and called on his damnation.

The King called court, nobles pledged their support
"Power be to Thou," said the chief vizier,
"Let us avow (since this 'starchild' is new)
We shall nip him in the bud, while his followers are few!"
Agreed the assembly "Hear! Hear!"

      Thus the elites took to the streets
      And poisoned every ear that lent to their lies
      Soothsayers disappeared into the night
      Murder and riot and pillage and blight
      filled the cities with tears and cries

They thought of the signs and trembled in fear,

They heard the rumours and in mocking, they jeered.

They locked their gates and boarded their doors,

They didn't even care, went on with their chores.

They cynically noted that something was odd,

They loved him and hailed him as prophet and God!

But none of them noticed it was already dawn

When lo, and behold! The Starchild was born!!

The Pattern

2010-03-13T20:19:00.011+05:30

Anguished from tackling with a bug for a few hours, a novice had been idly browsing when he saw the reflection of a shadow flit by on the monitor. It was the Master Programmer coming in, late as usual.

The novice turned around and asked: "I come in early every day and code many more hours than you do, whereas you come late and attend unimportant social events. How do you manage to get any work done?"

The Master Programmer drew a flowchart on a screen. It was two boxes, each with an arrow pointing into a funnel, with another rectangle pointed out from under the funnel. Then, he drew a much larger third box, again pointing into the funnel, but as quickly as he had drawn it, he erased it off the board.

"Behold, the Pattern! This first square," pointed out the Master Programmer, "represents all my daily chores. The second one is my work. They are the inputs."

"The funnel is my capacity, and the rectangle is the useful code that I produce. It is the output. As long as there is balance, the Pattern surrounds me and my being. Being a programmer, I can easily manipulate both the inputs and outputs to my wishes."

The novice was impressed by the ease in which the Master Programmer had explained to him the Pattern. But he was curious for more, "Pray, Master, but why did you erase the third box?"

The Master Programmer looked stoically at the novice. "That represents Emotion. Emotion lives outside the Pattern and occupies infinite space. If you channel it into the funnel, it will obstruct the output."

"But why can you not manipulate this box, just as the other inputs?" inquired the novice.

"Because Emotion can not be programmed." said the Master Programmer, and the novice was enlightened.

Whoa! Where am... ouch headache!

2009-08-31T16:52:00.002+05:30

The suicidal madman and the comedian

2009-01-01T19:13:00.023+05:30

A comedian was drinking, and merrily singing
When a suicidal man came sat at his table
"Give me your strongest ale!" he cried
And turning his head to the man beside
He started narrating his forlorn fable.

The barkeep served rum, as strong as they come,
and glanced upon the looks on their faces
They had similar features, the left one was pale
And both were drinking the pub's strongest ale.
But its effects in each were opposite cases.

Said the suicidal man:
My dreams came and went and passed me by
There's naught but lightning in my sky
I turn to the heavens and shriek out "Why?!"
But there's never an answer from on up high.

I no longer feel compelled to try.
The path is clear in my mind's eye.
I fall on my knees and silently sigh
This day today is a good day to die.

Tell me, O comedian, why should I not
just cut my vein and end this drought?
Or blast my brains against this wall?
Or hang myself? And end it all!

The comedian now woken, saw the man had spoken
to him and asked him for advice
So he cleared his throat and said "Dear Sir,
Hear me out and if you don't concur
You are free to commit suicide twice."

The suicidal man, on hearing this plan
looked pleasantly full of hope
But he soon lamented - "Alas, my friend
There is no choice (this is my end)
except gunpowder, poison or rope."

Said the comedian:
Sir, in my mind, there is no doubt
That life does twist and turn about
But instead of asking - "Is this worth?"
Try to think of it with mirth

Let's take, for example, your own dreams
of lightning, thunder and your screams.
Juggle the order of things around,
add some filters, add some sound.

What happened in truth was this I recall
You looked at the sky and then you bawled
"Why?!" you cried and the clouds did part!
Thunder and lightning!
Or, was it...
a fart?

Ha ha ha, so you see my friend
I kept the punchline for the end
But look at it this way and you'll feel in your heart
On you, God farted, so on Him you must fart.

No response was evoked, from the comedian's joke
"Do you get..." The comedian began
"There's a man in my mirror. Who is he?
He taunts. He shouts. And he laughs at me!"
suddenly shouted the suicidal man.

The comedian let this fact first sink, then felt the need for some more drink
He ordered the barkeep for some more rum.
"The man in the mirror? I see him too!
Just laugh with him when he laughs at you.
This little trick, and you'll never be glum."

Said the suicidal man:
You've seen him too, and yet your relief
at something so serious, is beyond belief!
Don't you see the imposter, the robber, the thief!
We have to finish him; he'll fill us with grief!

Said the comedian:
But wait my friend, just consider this
If you make at him faces, at the mirror you piss
Isn't it funny how he'll have to do the same?
Just imagine his helplessness, his shame

Hearing this, the suicidal man, he ran
and clutched a butcher's knife
"How do you know that's what he does!
That won't make sense unless it was...
You! No wonder you love your life!"

Said the suicidal man:
You evil twin, you comedian clown.
Ha! Now I will strike you down.
Ha! I will carve you out a frown.
I'll hold you underwater until you drown!

The sharp shiny blade swept across and sprayed
red pearls of blood on the wooden floor
The man was stricken by a manic pain
When he realized who it was he'd slain
The man in the mirror smiled and closed the door

The light went out and it was darkness about
The man and the comedian were side-by-side
They looked at the news and the comedian, said he,
Funny they don't even mention of me
It read: "Schizophrenic man commits suicide"

Aloo Phataphat

2008-10-02T16:43:00.010+05:30

Serves: 2 normal, or 1 very hungry person.
What you will need:

4 medium-sized potatoes.
1 onion.
1 tsp each of coriander powder, kitchen king, chhole masala, haldi.
A pinch of heeng.
Salt to taste (I put in about three quarters of a tsp.).
Jeera for frying.
4 tbsp oil.
Chopped fresh coriander OR Kasuri methi.

What will happen:

What you gotta do:

Finely chop the onion to a paste, preferably in a grinder.
Boil the potatoes till they're soft.
Peel off the skin and cut into pieces about an inch thick.
Heat the oil in a saucepan till it starts to let out smoke.
Add the jeera, stir till they turn dark.
Add the onion paste. Keep stirring till they turn brown.
Add all the masalas.
Add the peeled potatoes and keep stirring so that they are uniformly fried, for about 5 minutes.
Garnish with Kasuri methi or fresh cut coriander and serve hot.

What you don't want happening, but will happen anyway:

That's all, folks. Making aloo is simpler than "easy as pie".

UPDATE:

Experiment #AP07X

Blame it on Cupid

2008-09-15T00:04:00.007+05:30

I wish I were a monkey still, climbin' up a tree
And life was fruit and sweet and bliss, instead of you and me.
If only I could close my eyes and will to turn back time,
I'd bring it to a point where evolution's best was slime.

It's been six years, four months, three days, and we were man and wife
And all that life has been rife with is misery and strife.
I rue the day I asked you - "Honey, will you marry me?"
Cuz I had no idea what your reaction would be.

I was so stupid
Blame it on Cupid
I should've been lucid
And asked you to lose it

And you said:
"You remember the time we spent in the mountains on the grass?
That was the time, you moron, when you should have made the pass.
I've always thought of you as sincere but lacking class
Ah fuck it, what the hell, at least you had the balls to ask.

My answer, my romeo, is an affirmative yes
I know your heart's in doldrums, now it doesn't have to guess
Come let us sign the papers, and our love we'll formalize
And the lawyer I've been cheating with can take off his disguise."

I don't know why I said "I do", why happened that mistake?
I guess I thought the chef was asking if I wanted cake.
How could I be so blind, I should have hid the wedding ring
But I didn't - now we're married, and so, all I do is sing:

I was so stupid
Blame it on Cupid
I should've been lucid
And asked you to lose it

Now we are one, but you are two, or three, or sometimes four
The postman never seems to enter in through our front door
At least he brings the mail, and of that I am so glad
Since the milk boy never brings milk, he just shows up with his dad

I love all of our children, and you know I try my best
To be a good role model, hope they'll figure out the rest
But it bothers me sometimes when li'l Jon asks me with a frown
When he's coming back from juvi, after jailtime spent downtown.

"How is it motherfucker, that I'm black and you are brown?"
It's times like this that make me feel so confused and so down.
I think I'd have been happier, if only I were gay
But I wasn't, and we're married, this's all I have to say:

I was so stupid
Blame it on Cupid
I should've been lucid
And asked you to lose it

Nightmare

2008-08-07T19:40:00.000+05:30

I woke in a grey room with grey flooring and a grey ceiling. There was a table to my side and a porthole in front, which I looked out of, and saw a vast expanse of blue-black with an occasional white, slowly moving and wispy. Beyond the translucence, I could make out ruins of cities. It took me a while to comprehend. I was on an airship flying high above the clouds. As soon as the realization dawned, I felt sickness in my stomach, and I laid down again amidst the crumpled sheet on the uncomfortable bed.

This was when he came, the man with no features. His demeanor was calm and gentlemanly; his nose, or at least the flatness of the face where his nose should have been, was definitely upturned, I’d have mistaken him for a butler.

“Go find a room for yourself!” he commanded.

It took me another confused moment to analyze the situation. Then dazed, I ran for my life, out of the room, out from the door, slamming it shut behind me. It made a dull thud and I found myself standing in a seemingly endless hall, with two rows on either side, all with identical grey doors with nameplates hanging on them. One by one, lights switched themselves on before me, first near and then far so that the furthest ones blended into the grey of the background. I couldn’t read the names – they all seemed be etched in eerie squiggly curves, and I was deathly scared of no-face following me, so I just darted into one. And then, I bumped into her. Thankfully, she looked just as she had looked always. She looked up from the book she was reading, folding the page to follow it later, and her fingers unknotted themselves from her hair.

“Do you want something to eat? I made you something.”

My tongue seemed to be momentarily paralysed, and before I could utter a word, she pointed to the bed.

There were huge red ants crawling all over the room. On the floor, on the ceiling. My hand involuntarily went to the doorknob, but they were there too. Pile upon pile of red ants, all marching around the bed, under it, even on it, marking territory except for a small silhouette, like a living chalk mark from a homicide. I untied my tongue and looked back to ask her: “What in the name of…”

She had disappeared.

Instead on the bed, lay a maggot-infested, barely recognisable, rotting corpse, now home to a civilization of red ants, holding its hands a grey plastic tiffin box, slowly slipping out from its rigor mortis. Ants ate fiercely away at maggots and larvae crawled out, half gnawed and dying, twisting and wriggling through the eye sockets. Ligaments, bone and sinew transformed into one another and then decayed away, and for a moment the carcass seemed strangely alive, as if giving me a wink. One by one, its fingers lost contact with the tiffin box, and as I leapt to catch it, the grey box fell to the ground and shattered into glass pieces. Out came a swarm of flying ants, buzzing and crowding over me, stinging me in a thousand places on my hands. I felt a swelling, throbbing pain and utter horror. I threw myself towards the door as the lights turned to darkness, and the cadaver arose.

I was frozen in mid-air. Everything seemed in stasis, except the ants which were blowing away into clouds of grey smoke. I tried to turn to the door and failed. I couldn’t turn back either. But then, I didn’t have to. I recognised her voice.

“Why did you have to do it? Why did you have to go away? Why? Why, why, why?”

And as I felt her icy touch on the nape of my neck, I kicked and flailed and screamed and twisted and wriggled, until the grey clouds of darkness turned to pitch black, muffling my cries but somehow making hers louder, surrounding us completely and forever.

Two emotions

2008-08-05T00:07:00.002+05:30

It was a Thursday.
You were coming back.
I had covered my injuries.
Worn a shirt to conceal my wounds.
And I waited patiently,
Waited, and waited, and waited.
Longing, dreaming.
Ignoring the pain.

Then I saw you.
Tingle up my spine, I sighed.
Ecstasy colored my face
Like a child finding their favorite sweets.
And you smiled.
It was but for an instant
But in it, I saw
The reflections of a lifetime ahead.
And I knew we were one.

It was a Thursday.
You were coming back.
I had covered my injuries.
Worn a mask to conceal my feelings.
And I waited, confused,
Waited, and waited, and waited.
Chewing my lower lip nervously.
Ignoring the pain.

Then I saw you.
Tingle up my spine, I sighed.
Agony shadowed my face
Like a leper dying in the desert.
And you smiled.
It was but for an instant
But in it, I saw
The reflections of a lifetime ahead.
And I knew it was all over.

Funny how a simple smile
Can express so contrasting
Two emotions.

Damsel in distress

2008-06-03T07:18:00.015+05:30

So we went river rafting the other day.

Lots of people do it. We've done it before. I mean it's no mean feat really.

As far as I can remember from the last time, six people get into a fat rubber raft with a guide. Each one has a paddle, and easy access to some piece of rope fixed into the boat. Then:

Guide says "Left!" - people on the left paddle.
Guide says "Right!" - right side paddles.
Guide says "Down!" - people scramble helplessly for the nearest piece of rope and hold on for dear life, while guide rows people straight into the heart of the approaching rapid and everyone gets kicks and lives happily ever after.

Bitter from experience, I can now tell you that this is how rafting is done for corporate offsites, and Real Life(TM) can be a little different sometimes.

This is where the Cache Canyon River Rafting starts off. The bottom left corner is the departing point, and the brown pixels are all rocks. Craggy, pointy, ugly rocks of houselike dimensions.

There was Harshi, Gaurav, Gaurav's friends Benjy and Jen and I, and a large bunch of other randoms from Stanford. It was a longish 100-mile journey to the campsite, and I arrived in the midst of stunning beauty, eager to hit the water and start paddling ahoy.

Instead what followed can be best described by: I wet myself.

The temperate water on that cold day (it was raining!) was so damn frigid it made my skin want to jump out back onto dry land, leaving my skeleton stranded on the water. The boats were freakishly small versions of the ones I'd seen before, and seated just 2 people. The instructor (note: instructor, not guide) gave a lengthy elocution that could have been titled "What not to do in 21 easy steps" and then gave a toothy grin. This is what he said:

"Try not to fall into the water. If you manage to somehow, hold your body straight and point your feet downstream. It's called bodysurfing (the bastard smirked here). Heaven knows what alternate forms of swimming you'll do today, but hopefully you shouldn't have to. All right, everyone into the water."

I feel I must add here that Harshi doesn't know how to swim. Needless to say, she was quite afraid of going forward with this whole thing.

Now of course, being the man of the boat, I easily convinced her, that no matter what I'd save her if anything untoward chanced to happen - after all I know how to swim and how! I've swum before in the finest swimming pools of the finest schools in Delhi back in my days. I've swum in Olympic sized pools with diving boards at fourteen feet! So all would be hunky-dory, there was no reason to worry.

I would be her charming knight if she ever became the proverbial damsel in distress.

So Harshi and I climbed onto the raft, paddles and all and rowed into the current. The first rapid was not a hundred yards away. The paddles are about as much help as a fork with soup, and your ass feels like those mushroom rocks just outside Hyderabad that one wonders how nature manages to balance.

With a lot of screaming, fighting (You row left. No, you row left!), clinging onto ropes, ass-gymnastics and paddling waving, we managed to get through the first few rapids.

Then we saw this:

To the observer, it's just a bunch of rocks to be avoided by steering due right into the water channel. However, when helpless, nervous, wet, fighting, i-didn't-wanna-come-you-did people try and row away from it, it's a whole other story. Our efforts at steering due right ended up with the rubber boat going backwards directly into the rocks, and I got the shove of my life.

Plop! I was in the water. If you're too lazy to click on the picture, it says "108.51 metres". That's the length of the rapid. X-axis.

I shouted. Harshi shouted. I remember trying to do something with my paddle. Then the raft, following the laws of motion dutifully, gushed into the water below with a whooshing sound.

When the dark dark image of the instructor's smirk finally cleared my mind, there was water in my nose, no boat and the emasculating realization of me being the damsel in distress. The realization turned darker when I further realized that my knight in shining a(r)mour did not know how to swim.

108.51 metres, 42 seconds, one eye-glass-lens and numerous breaths later, I reached the end of the rapid. I cannot describe how exhilarating / horrifying the feeling of going down a rapid feet first, beating against rocks, and just hanging on, is.

And then I saw a beacon of hope. Harshi had somehow managed to stop (how the f*** do you stop a f***ing boat?! With one paddle, when you don't know how to swim!) and was clinging to a branch to make sure she stood her ground. I swam slowly to safety over the cries of "you have to pick up your partner!" and "I can't!! I'm holding the tree!" and climbed tiredly into the boat.

My knight in shining armor had come back to embrace me with open arms, and picked me up on her horse with a tug on the reins. No man has ever felt so much gratitude at the same time as so much shattered ego.

The worst seemed to be over.

Then I fell right back in again, twice!

Practice makes Perfect, as they say. So by the time we reached the biggest rapid, it was plain sailing. It's called "Mother Mary" because it skips the reminds-you-of-God part and directly reminds you of His mother. This is what it looks like.

See the waterfall? There.

Three and a half hours later, our raft reached dry ground. And in a curious twist, everyone lived happily ever after.

UPDATE: The map starts here: http://maps.google.com/maps?f=q&hl=en&geocode=&t=h&ie=UTF8&ll=38.922253,-122.328563&spn=0.003977,0.008261&z=18

How not to take a left turn

2006-10-18T00:43:00.000+05:30

The past two weeks, I've been on a "sorta" diet (apart for some lavish homemade dinners ;-) ). For all of this week though, I've been shifted to Bangalore, and it seems that God has plans to keep me burning the extra calories that being in Pub city automatically brings.

So when I was invited to Styx by a couple of friends, not only did I not find an auto anywhere on the road (and thus had to walk the entire length from Guest House to M G Road), but even worse shit happened on the way back.

Knowing that I am quite badly directionally-challenged, I made sure that to reach the Guest House, I remembered to take a left turn from the petrol pump after the office, and this was somewhere near State Bank of India. So I got the autowallah to stop near aforesaid SBI, and confidently made my way on foot. Only, I accidentally managed to reach office about two hours, several blisters, four full circles and 5 suttas later. Guess what? Wrong petrol pump.

Meanwhile, I discovered that near office, there are Esprit and Satya Paul showrooms, a Barista, a Coffee Day, a Java City; and not-so-near there is Jewels de Paragon, Lavelle Road, and, well, M G Road. I had just made a trip from guest house to MG to office to MG to guest house.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I'll just attach this beautiful landmark I found. It has "chootia" written all over it :-(

Flying start

2006-09-08T20:13:00.000+05:30

I recently have started using my roomie's bike. Last Friday was the first time I came all the way to office, a gruelling ordeal in itself, compounded by the sudden failure of the engine as I turned inside the security gate, when the clutch abruptly released as I was busy showing the guard my security badge. Since a security guard's business is to make sure people are secure, I think he didn't like that happening, and gave me a cold stare. Worse still, I managed to not start the bike again and dragged it up the ramp, at which point his gaze may have turned even colder; there was positively a hint of a frown. Undettered, though slightly low on ego, I human-powered the bike into the parking lot.

Day 2, Same place: Well, I am a newbie, so the bike stalled again. Notice how I knew by then that the word is "stalled". But with a solid, powerful kick of the right foot, I revved up (one more word) the engine again, and off I went. The guard was unimpressed though. Kept his stoic face.

Day 3: I finally made it. Absolutely no hitches whatsoever. Gracefully, like a swan doing a ballet, I shifted gears to neutral as stood beside the security guard showing him my security pass under my shirt, holding it like a badge of honour. As I put the bike into gear and whizzed past the obviously impressed security guard, I noticed the smile. No, it was an ear-to-ear grin, like the one the old man from the movies finally smiles at his deathbed, knowing he has trained his young student well, content in his legacy.

Oh, the ego trip. I felt on top of the world, figuratively, and not-so-figuratively, the bike. I never realized when I had already reached the parking lot and parked the bike. Then it happened. I was looking down at the stand, and saw it all - in a vicious and altogether different light.

My fly was open.

Life is beautiful

2006-08-28T13:04:00.000+05:30

Here I am, comfortably seated on my Google bean bag on a Monday afternoon, the TV playing classics from six feet in front, laptop wirelessly connected to blogger, sunbeams streaming gently through red curtains making soft silhouettes and bathing the room in a coloured light, popcorn making faint sounds as it slowly gets microwaved, a small quantity of vodka lying in easy reach, and movie tickets booked in advance for the 4 o'clock "Cars" show.

Life is beautiful.

Murphy's Law revisited (or How not to go to Goa )

2006-08-14T21:18:00.000+05:30

You can fool Murphy once. But you can't fool Murphy twice.

It was a long time ago when Takli and I went riding to Brigade Road from Vijaynagar for a cup of tea and ended up, 6 hours and 120km later, in Mysore. What a breeze of a trip that was: we had left totally without any planning whatsoever, with barely enough money to buy us even the petrol for the trip, reached without a hint of mishap on an evidently accident-prone road, as Banner and others would tell you.

So this time it was not two bikes, but a car; it was from Hyderabad, not Bangalore; and the destination was Goa instead of Mysore. It was a distance of 900km instead of a mere hundred, but with the above exceptions, was it not basically the same thing all over again? - Just a joy ride, unplanned yet bound to be uneventful.

Or so we thought.

As is usual, Shanatanu called up in the middle of the night asking me to get ready to leave for the weekend. And as is usual, I paid no heed, thinking that with it pouring cats and dogs outside, Shantanu, friends and I would probably be sharing a beer somewhere on the countryside, and merely changed into a pair of jeans. 50 km later, I realized that this was no joke, we were indeed on the highway cruising towards Sholapur, then from there to Bijapur, then Chikodi, to a few other places en route and finally, Londa and then Goa. Indeed the trip was altogether uneventful, if a little tiring, till we crossed Sholapur. I observed that as you move further away from the metro areas, the place names become weirder and weirder. So far, so good.

Unlike me, Shantanu, Ankur and Abhinav (my fellow Murphy victims) were a little better prepared, having on them spare shorts, a change of clothing, a camera and several beers. It had been raining quite heavily all the time. It was during a brief spell of dryness that we came out to chill and here is where Murphy's ugly face first surfaced. While opening a Foster's, the bottle having been agitated quite severely over the several 120 kmph speed breakers on the way, furiously hissed and spat all over the back seat. Wanting to capture this moment of insanity with our digital camera turned out not to be, since the batteries were found discharged. Slightly dejected, but nevertheless eager to push forward, we drove on.

On reaching Chikodi, we were dutifully informed by the locals that the way ahead was closed due to heavy rain. We still went on and managed to find the bridge. It was ok, but for the minor exception of being under the water. Car and all, we waded through it with the steering tilted in a direction opposite to the running water and came out victorious on the other side.

Minor hurdles apart, we reached Londa, although it was getting late by now. We calculated that being about 60 km from Goa now, it would take us at most an hour to get there, ie at about 3pm Saturday. But then we saw the road from Londa. Potholes that looked like small barren hills followed by ridges where the road was just not there. After about three km on such track at 20 kmph, a chaiwalah told us (with glee. Oh that bastard. He was actually smiling.) that the next 12 km was even worse. Needless to say, we didn't heed him.

Although we reached the other side, our primary concern was now not to find a beach full of hot firang babes, but where in Goa to get the silencer repaired, and the engine fixed, which by now was leaning at a dangerous sixty degree angle, ready to take leave of the rest of the car any time.

Fortunately, we found such a place, then rented a car, then went to the beach. This is what I learnt: Never go to Goa in off-season. It looks like this.

complete with sari-clad aunty and boxer-clad uncle. A Cafe Coffee Day in Delhi has a higher population density in the middle of summer. And I'm just talking quantity.

By the way, that's Calangute beach. We never got to see the other beaches, because as luck (Murphy?) would have it, the rental car suddenly lurched to a stop a few km before getting there. It turned out the petrol filter had broken and the car was spewing oil all over the road. It took the rental guy two hours before he got there, leaving us stuck miles behind the beach.

It took us the entire night to drink our bad luck away and refreshed, we started back the next day, knowing to avoid the flood and the screwed up road. All went well till Sunday night, till this happened:

Yes, six kilometres from the nearest service place (meant for trucks) and twenty-five kilometres from the nearest town. Don't even ask what happened to the spare. But I guess we were so used to this by now that the three hour wait after getting the spare and the tire repaired, followed by an oh-so-comfortable truck ride home didn't even scratch my bum.

I finally reached Hyderabad around 3pm on Monday, swearing never ever to make another unplanned trip.

Adventures of Appendix man

2006-07-09T16:03:00.000+05:30

Last Friday, even as I was finishing the final few of my remaining rites at IIT Madras, as every graduating student must, I felt a sharp pain in the stomach. Truth be told, it had been lurking about in that area rather sadly for the past week, but there was that something about this sudden spurt of renewed enthusiasm.

On a gut feeling (painful pun obviously intended - Ha! There's a pun in that sentence, too.) that something was wrong, I decided to visit the doctor. It was my second trip to the IITM hospital - the first one being on the second day of joining, five years ago. This one was no weirder though, for the last trip occurred due to a rather strange accident involving me running at about 5 miles per hour, an embarrassingly stationary scooter and several stitches.

After waiting at the reception for ages and being told that I had no medical record at the hospital, I left for about 2 hours to promptly sneak back in when there was nobody at the reception. Finally I met a doctor who told me to lie down and diagnosed me with sub-acute Appendicitis.

Appendicitis is the kind of disease that has two forms: the acute one gives you so much pain that you need surgery immediately; and sub-acute, which slowly persists till it reaches the acute stage, at which point your innards explode.

My first reaction was - "WTF! I'm a ticking time bomb!"

On Saturday, therefore, I rushed back home to Delhi, where a close friend's father happens to be a world-class surgeon. All this while, I'd been taking antibiotics and painkillers and the pain had been easing off, although slowly. When I first contacted friend's dad, the pain was still enough to make him diagnose appendicitis, but he asked for an ultrasound.

For a first-timer, an ultrasound is an adventure in itself. Basically, they ask you to keep drinking gallon after gallon of water and then hold it in till your bladder is fully distended. Whether there is a medical reason, or pure sadism on the part of the operator, I will never know, but the pain in my abdomen was definitely not the first thing on my mind as I lay down on the doctor's table. For crying out loud, the idiot actually took a phone call leaving me in a helpless plight. That done, my appendix didn't show up in the report at all. (Perhaps it got obscured by the now oversized bladder?) The ultrasound wrote down some general inflammation, and a few -itis words so that other doctors could make sense of the report. On seeing this, other doctors advised me to rest and be "under observation" for the next week and avoid rich food.

So here I am, at home, bored to death yet unable to venture out of home, surviving on boiled vegetables when mom's excellent cooking is so close (yet so far), getting blood tests done every other day.

Life slii sucks, but could have been much worse.

UPDATE: It turns out I was afflicted with typhlitis, which in layman terms is basically a different form of -itis. It affects the cecum of the large intestine. Unfortunately, since "Adventures of the-cecum-of-the-large-intestine man" does not have that familiar ring of the original title, we will have to stick to the original.

Although this leaves me with no worry about surgery, it still means that boiled vegetables will continue to constitute most of my meals :-(

Undignified posture

2006-05-22T12:00:00.000+05:30

Just when I thought I had become used to being a good-for-nothing penniless bum surviving solely on richer friends' altruism, I hit a new low last night.

It started at 10 o'clock when my friends took me to have the first meal of the day - a five buck plate of idli at Tiffany's. Not that we had any choice, it was the only food left there that late at night. Obviously dissatisfied by the light dinner, my friends decided to go to the beach for some more grub. We decided to meet at Tarams, but when I got there, the folks were nowhere to be found. Thinking they might have gone to the hostel, I returned to my room, only to discover that my room's keys were in a friend's pocket. The fact was, as I later learnt, they were walking to Tarams and were behind me and my borrowed cycle.

So I decided to wait in front of my room, hoping they'd come back to check on me. The thing is, I was wondering if I'd look completely out of place dressed in purple shorts a tad shorter than most micro-mini skirts and stolen bathroom slippers two sizes too small. I would appreciate a quick change of clothing to look more dignified, but I ought to have known that in times like this, survival is the more important thing. Hunger can drive people to desperation, and my friends went to the beach anyway. A half hour passed and nothing happened, so I decided to sit in front of the room and wait it out a little longer.

Next thing I know, I was woken up by someone passing in the wing - it was 11:30 pm and my friends were still on the beach. I had been woken up lying face down in front of my room in the wing, looking like the face of misery, a terribly cocked-up position I had thought I wouldn't want to be caught dead in. So much for dignity.

But there was nothing else to do. All traces of dignity gone, I promptly resumed my place in front of room, the fan inside occasionally blowing thin streams of air on my face from the place between the door's bottom and the floor. It was 12:30 am when I finally got up to drink some water and was spotted by my friends. It seems nobody had bothered to check on me after all.

"College life ke ch**iyape", as one of my friends would agree.

All alone

2006-05-13T04:03:00.000+05:30

Thus goes the saying: Mirrors don't lie
Speech is silvern, Silence Golden
Then explain to me, O Truthsayer, why -
There are two of me and not just one?

Alone in truth, alone in reflection
Sad and unspoken, Stolid and still
Staring silently in no direction
Empty of spirit, broken of will.

What I would give to hear them speak
My friends, a decent conversation
But I stare at my future - distant and bleak
Working alone, hoping for salvation

Who's that in the mirror? I turn about,
Find nothing but despair, a mirage, a dream.
Call me crazy - I want to shout
But all I can make is a soundless scream.

Stricken by a stupor of madness.

Voiceless.

Still.

I am all alone.
I am all alone.

New wallpaper

2006-05-06T00:51:00.000+05:30

Tribute to Mandak...

Weather forecast

2006-04-29T14:31:00.000+05:30

Chennai weather sucks!

My day in lab

2006-04-26T15:36:00.000+05:30

7:00am - breakfast
7:25am - ask junta to wake me up at 9:00
7:30am - go to sleep
9:00am - angrily drive away idiots who try to disturb
12:30pm - wake up
12:31pm - check mail
12:35pm - brush
12:45pm - shower
1:00pm - lunch
1:15pm - tarams
1:20pm - feel the heat of madras, reconsider the 1km ride to esb
1:30pm - back in room
1:45pm - quake
3:30pm - reminisce
3:45pm - tarams
4:00pm - sleep

well, time for tarams...

Rich man's poor world

2006-04-24T22:33:00.000+05:30

"Paisa to haath a mayl hota hai". Whoever said that must have been filthily rich; obviously, he had never experienced that most humiliating and debilitating of all sicknesses - poverty.

I have recently been afflicted with a form of poverty. Not the malnutrition, starvation, illiteracy, or multiple childen-producing variety - that is for the have-nots, but a slightly richer form. I have a mess account that feeds me enough to keep me fat, all modern sanitary amenities, heck, even a computer and a free internet connection to blog on. But, my net cash worth, not counting the several people I owe debt to, would be around Rs. 1.75 right now.

The thing in common with both forms of poverty is the frustration. I can't get my cycle repaired, I can't buy any more cigarettes, can't buy soap, and I am definitely not in the right place needed for ordering a pizza and a veg. burger with extra mayonnaise and a bottle of coke. That pretty much rules out vodka alright.

So, what do I do? I look up to my wingmates and other friends for monetary support. Rs. 5.25 for a Navy Cut and a Rasna packet from Kuntry, 20 bucks for soap from Panchali, 5 bucks from Bachi for a puncture repair... basically, I get into debt. The month goes on, and the debt keeps accumulating. The first of the month approaches, stipend is withdrawn happily, then debts are paid off - and poof! - all the money vanishes.

I am caught in this vicious circle of borrow and pay back. It's essentially the same concept as that of a credit card, only with the added humiliation of approaching someone at the end of the month asking them for a monetary favour, and sometimes getting weird looks and a beat-about-the-bush conversation that basically means "fuck off".

Oh, how I am waiting to get paid for work, and then treat all those who helped me get by!

Long overdue post: Hostel nite

2006-04-19T19:44:00.000+05:30

Mandak hostel nite rocks. Has always. Will always.

Inspite of the dean's instructions and threats against having it, this year's hostel nite saw a repeat performance of last year's Raindance™. However, this time not only was it indigenously designed, but it actually performed better, showering more water per square foot than ever. And of course, there was the now-cliched strut and disco lights arrangement, which Mandak proudly introduced in my third year and which has been shamelessly copied by every other hostel nite ever since.

We started by planting a tree in memory of Jhantu in the Mandak yard - May he rest in peace. One by one, we poured water to nourish its roots, and subsequently observed a two-minute silence.

Food Plaza supplied the grub. That itself was not so good, but they also offered unlimited ice-cream, which junta thulped like month-starved pigs. Being a fifth year has its own advantages, primarily that of cutting the line and my Alak guests and I made our way to the ice-cream before dinner had started in earnest.

Most third year get senti at some point or the other, as the night draws in, and the hugging and weeping starts. I remember our third year, when so many of us inconsolably cried ourselves shitless for hours after the toast. But one has to give it to the present batch - there was an excusable amount of senti of course - but I was almost a strangling victim by the hands of Fart.

Raindance™ was followed by the toast, and in another great Mandak tradition, it went on and on - night turned to dawn, dawn to morning - and finally it finished at 6:30 am with none other than yours truly's rape, after which all those remaining went for breakfast to the great Himalaya.

After the roast, going with the senti mood, I recited "Life@IITM", a poem I had written last year for Mandak nite.

Also present on hostel nite were Jha, Banner, TG and Meha. Jha was the wild dancer as ever, a combination of monkey and elephant in heat with his new Medusa hairstyle flailing about like half-crazed octopuses trying to attack a whale. As for the other three; Banner kept popping into the dance floor every now and then; TG clicked away photographs, made not-so-obscure anti-drug references; and Meha spoke with nothing and no one. Seemingly, their minds full of other things, they weren't really enjoying it.

The blast over, we all retired to our rooms for some sweet sleep till 3pm, when another Mandak enthu-fest - the Treasure Hunt - was poised to begin.

But that is another story for another time.

What a mess!

2006-04-01T20:28:00.000+05:30

The aptly named Himalaya officially started (dys)functioning today. I've been registered into the Northie section of the RR mess, as have 1100 others. Contro and Khokhar accompanied me today on this rather adventurous journey to the first floor. But that was the easy part. When we got upstairs, there were like sixty people standing in line in front of us, and the line wasn't moving.

It was a poond-or-die-starving decision. I chose the former. Bad decision. Perhaps waiting would have whetted my appetite so that the distasteful food would at least seem palatable.

When the food finally arrived, there was a sabzi with unpeeled potatoes in dalda, curry that looked like shit (a tasteless but literal analogy), pooris so hard they could put a hammer to shame, and daal conspicuous by its utter and complete absence.

One more great decision by the great powers-that-be to make hostel life even more miserable. Every time they make such asinine decisions, it makes me happy to know that I will be out of here in a few months' time.

And they wonder why IITM grads never pay any homage to their alma mater.

Jackasses!!

GMail bug

2006-03-27T13:53:00.000+05:30

This just in:

This is a shot of a gmail conversation i had a few minutes back. I never really look at the timestamps with any seriousness, but certain events (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) have altered my perception a bit.

Hmmm, it seems Google's been working on a time machine.

Big bunch of nerds

2006-03-26T19:14:00.000+05:30

Communication has always been difficult for me. And I'm not talking about Fourier transforms and Constellation diagrams (which are rather easy). This is about talking to others in a group without inviting raised eyebrows or generally commencing on what I call "suicidal conversation". You ever get the feeling that a perfectly normal topic you are speaking about is causing people around you to slowly drift away? There, you have just committed conversational suicide.

It's particularly annoying when the Eureka Effect suddenly manifests itself, causing irreversible effects and fatal amounts of ego damage. A case in point:

Me: So, anybody else here ever had this vague problem with MFC? Those bastards call it a feature!
21 others (thinking): Ummm, no. But the bar would be just the place to go right about now.
Me (realizing seconds later): Hey, where did everyone go?

So when I met 21 random people from all over India at the Google open house in Hyde over the last two days, I sorta felt it easy to mix into the crowd. Because, guess what, there were actually 21 other people there who felt it was perfectly rational to let a comment about Java drop into a dinner conversation and laugh about a faux-pas involving a ridiculous bug in a program.

For starters, all of us met first at a bowling alley. There were 17 guys, and 4 girls, which, no matter how you look at it, is an over-the-top sex ratio, since it's much, much greater than zero, which was the figure I had in mind. Now, bowling alleys are fearful places for compulsive suicidal conversationalists. No matter how small, there is always the lingering probability of a physics model turning up in your head and eventually finding its way to your tongue. A comment or two about rigid bodies, and suddenly a radius of two metres devoid of any sociable creatures envelops you in an aura of solitary nothingness.

This is where a chance meeting with an old friend from school saved the day for me. (Well, I failed to recognize her at once, but that went ok, I guess) Reminisces, nostalgia and catching up with five years past subdued would-be outpourings of dynamics and statics, and soon enough I was introducing myself to everyone, as everyone was introducing themselves to me.

And here is where the first suicidal conversation tidbit emerged.

"There is no freaking way I can remember 20 names in so short a time." proclaimed I.

And then realized that while the thought was true, it was not one meant to be shared aloud with the world at large, which in another situation might have been miscontrued as "So who the hell really cares about what you idiots are called anyway? I am Aditya, and that is all that matters." Surprise, surprise! Twenty other people were telling me that the exact same words were at the tip of their tongues, and they all agreed with what had been said.

I would have written here the names of these excellent people I met and enjoyed with over the past two days, but unfortunately, I have forgotten some names.

At least five different people came up to me (wearing my Quake@IITM t-shirt) and asked me if I really played Quake. Wow! That should make interesting company.

Thursday night was basically a freakout session - bowling and ethnic cuisine, and a skit we were supposed to prepare in teams of 5/6, which thankfully never happened. There was also an extremely cliched "uncle's pink pyjamas" game, which in other circumstances would have been the conversation killer, but here everyone seemed to enjoy it.

The next day was damn hectic - meetings with all kinds of heads of everything, who gave deep and inspiring (read uninteresting) lectures on all sorts of things. And of course, meetings with our year-old seniors who turned out to be extremely good company as well. Here, I clarified with them that Quake was indeed part of the job experience.

It was during the lunch break that I made the observation that only 5% of the world smokes, since I was the only one who went outside the building to take a fag break.

Dinner was at the Taj Krishna in an opulent and oversized baquet hall all dressed up in red. The words "GOOGLE DINNER" were arranged in golden letters on a velvet banner outside, and I exchanged them to read "GOOGLE NERD IN". Missing an "S", but quite to-the-point.

Of course, what company could be good without a dash of vodka and rock music. So, after the dinner our seniors took us to a pub called "Easy Rider".

At the end of the day (or two days), it seems like a nice place to go to work every day.

Incorrigible loss

2006-02-24T13:57:00.000+05:30

The sense of loss is profound. He is gone. Left us, forever.

May he rest in peace.

The end

2006-02-21T19:06:00.000+05:30

He turned back for the last time. He was leaving it all behind. From now, on, he would have a new identity, a new life. He thought about the mistakes he had made in the past. But could he have made his choices any other way? He tried to turn his mind away from the negativity of these thoughts, and suddenly the beautiful image of his wife pierced into his mind. The shock of that forced him to face away. He looked straight in front, tried to focus on what lay ahead, but his mind lay in the past still. The friends, who had turned away, at his time of need. His own brother had refused to see him anymore. His wife, how could she have deserted him? He had thought this would not be so difficult. But then, he had also thought that she would understand. He gazed at the infinite stretch of road that lay in front; at the solitary tree standing in the wasteland among the shrubs, tall and proud, yet alone; at the hills in the distance, seeming to call him forth.

He sat down and wiped his moist eyes, then stared at the heavens. Dark clouds loomed in the blue sky, trying to eclipse the sun, which persisted in its descent towards the horizon, making long, dark shapes on the ground. He had been an atheist all his life, always the one in control of his destiny, always in charge, always the world had obeyed his wishes, always he had been the master and all of nature his influence. But today, he felt minute, just another speck on the vast expanse of creation, a dead leaf blowing in a hurricane. As he took off his shoes, he looked down at the gravel below him, studying the intricate pattern. He wondered when he had strayed from the long, patterned lines on the road, all so equal in length, so well-organised; to the random mishmash of the gravel, the neurotic chaos of the grains; from the light to the dark.

The wind was changing from a breeze into to a howl. The dusk was fading into the night. He knew he had to move on. Maybe, there would be more opportunities, there would be new friends. Perhaps, there would be a new life that he wouldn't end up hating. He breathed in deeply and stood up straight, facing the road ahead. The light danced on his clothes, half of him ashine with the illumination, half of him obscured as the dark clouds blended into his silhouette. The shadows danced on the ground, trying to make a straight line with his feet, an athlete's start marker, for a man about to embark on a journey. The winds danced amid the flailing bushes, while the tree stood absolutely still, as if in a silent gesture of mourning.

His arms crossed themselves, and between the quivering of his lips, and the tears that suddenly enveloped his eyes, he heard himself pray for the first time.

New arrival

2006-02-15T17:07:00.000+05:30

The Whatever League

2006-01-10T12:27:00.000+05:30

Unbeknownest to the people of this world, a team of undercover superheroes and supervillains lives among them. Their secret personalities as mundane by day as possible, they turn into magnificent beings as night approaches.

"To the service of Justice, Social service, World peace, Orkut, Whisky, Classic milds. Well, whatever..." is their undying call.

The following journalistic entry finally exposes their well-kept secret of 20+ years.

THE SUPER HEROES

1. SUPERJHA

It's a bird. No, it's a plane. No, it's Superjha's pyjamas.

Team leader and the general secretary of the Whatever League. Superjha realized his superpowers when he failed to commit suicide by falling into a well in 4th grade. Speaks parseltongue. Moves his neck at velocities faster than a speeding bullet.

Special powers: Instant bakwaas generation (which compensates for his vestige of a brain), transmogrification into his snake avatar, and making poverty into an art form.

2. CYBORG GARY MALL

Able to perform involved computations and evolve complicated strategies from the smallest of assumptions, C. Gary Mall is Superjha's trusted sidekick, aiding him in all his activities even though unfortunately few of strategies have actually ever worked.

Superjha and his Cyborg on the Jhamobile

It (Cyborg Gary Mall) was formed from a failed experiment in the army to create the ultimate spy, and has even worked in this capacity for several years. However, the next generation of the experiment was a hit and succeeded in producing its brother, who is immune to any form of intoxication.

It can sponge emotions completely, because it has none of its own.

Special Power: Complete hypnosis. It is said that CGM once made people apping "strategically" take up jobs.

3. DESTRESS-MAN

Others destress; his distress.

Destress-man's expression after somebody else's hard day at work.

Destress-man is always at the forefront of the team, ready to take in punishment from supervilains for the rest of the team. Unfortunately for him, his own team usually ends up beating him to a pulp long before the villains can arrive.

Special Powers: Long distance phone calls.

4. THE BEHOLDER

It is said that: "Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder."

The Beholder's reaction to a butt-ugly woman.

The Beholder has beauty stuck in his eye in a spot that blinds him to more down-to-earth concepts like symmetry, facial features and height. Can see directly into the heart of his female companions, which is good, since most of them would repel even the most beer-saturated, beyond horny males.

The Beholder derives his superpowers from his "Helmet of unassailability" which renders him invulnerable against any magnitude of force, such as motorcycle crashes.

Special powers: The Beholder rushes in where angels fear to tread. Thereafter, he suffers the consequences.

THE SUPER VILLAINS

1. THE BHULK

The Bhulk shows off his goods

Superjha and The Bhulk have a love-hate relationship, akin to Tom and Jerry. He is the arch nemesis, and when irritated is not afraid to push his weight. Many an innocent victim have been pressed against his bulk and a tight spot, and barely survived to tell the tale.

Loves to indulge in extravagant excesses, and can induce magnanimousity in people merely by being close by.

Special Powers: Killer accent, Senti mode, Hooba power.

2. BANNERMAN

Supertrio: From left: Bannerman, Dr. Gadgetron, Junior
"Resistance is futile. You will be bannered."

In the past, with just one click of his mouse, or one keypress, Bannerman has "bannered" multiple blogs, orkut profiles, SMSs, emails... what not. A curse of "bannering" cannot be undone, and the fate of the helpless victim is destroyed forever.

Obsessed with certain rhyming words, his favourite places are Havana and Ghana, and his favourite fruit is a banana.

Special Powers: The curse of "bannering", fist of death.

3. DR. GADGETRON

Dr. Gadgetron makes evil weapons of mass destruction, all of which have hand-driven motors. It is said that the evil part of his brain resides within his beard, and it can only be destroyed by burning it after dousing it in alcohol.

Special Powers: Evil laugh.

4. JUNIOR

A recent addition to the super villain roster, Junior can suck the soul out of his victims by merely placing his hand around their shoulders and using the spell of "Jindagi ka saath". However, his development in the team has been rather slow, since most of the instructions are not in Hindi.

Special Powers: Seniors, Hindi Fundaes.

Ho ho ho!!

2005-12-25T16:30:00.000+05:30

Merry Christmas, junta :D

I just got screwed

2005-12-20T16:49:00.000+05:30

Didn't make it to any of the shortlists :-(

Winter cleaning

2005-11-17T06:17:00.000+05:30

I have to give a seminar on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder tomorrow. I thought I'd finish leeching material off the web by putting a night-out tonight. But what better way to know more about OCD than obsessively, compulsively cleaning up the room?

So after what seems like several decades, I cleaned my room today. Yes, all of it. Even the parts under the bed. Rocky helped me with the heavy stuff. Therefore, I now have a nice, clean room and Rocky has lower back pain and dust allergy.

Needless to say, quite a few unusual things turned up:

two socks. Different pairs.
one large, green, dead grasshopper.
6+1 (!) computer case side panels. (WTF, I have 2 computers, one which is used to write this stuff, and the other which I have eternally promised to send Banner the following week. One of these has a panel already on.)
two rotting fungus-infested t-shirts.
three rotting fungus-infested hard disk drives.
cheque made out to Rohit Taklikar in April 2004. Not cashed, now outdated.
also, Rohit Taklikar's CAT admit card and lots more stuff.
two "Operating System Fundamentals", both second editions. Great, wish I were doing computer science instead of elec.
one green candle.
300 tonnes of Shaastra-related paperwork. NOTE: mild exaggeration.
seven porn magazines.
eight metres of twisted pair cable.
fifteen packs of free ICs from TI.
one lizard that scared the shit out of Rocky.
one Rasna in a pouch.
three year old canned cheese. They say cheese ages with time. I don't think I'm going to try and test that out.
five-year old mixed fruit jam. Now, this is most definitely bad for health.
four buckets. I threw one out.
three shoe-polish brushes. Unusual, since I don't own any shoes.
five empty bottles. 1 beer + 3 vodka + 1 whisky.
one cigarette lighter that worked exactly once.
thirty-two leaves of expired antibiotics.
thirteen certificates for "First place in Choreo", with no names on them. Muhahahahaha!
not-too-old cornflakes that I'll have for breakfast. :-)

Other stats:

Time taken: 6.5 hours.
Floor space cleared: ~15 sq. ft.
Cigarettes smoked: 3.
Number of items originally belonging to Rohit Taklikar found: 17.

Whew!! I'm tired now. Must sleep and leech info off the net later.

Self-portrait

2005-11-16T07:33:00.000+05:30

Spot the Difference:

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Yes, I am totally jobless!!

Copyright (C) 2005. Created using the same tool used to create graphs on BTPs. Yes, Microsoft Paint

Before Lanset, after lanrise

2005-11-12T05:31:00.000+05:30

We've got quite a thriving community of quakers and counterstrikers out here. You can log into practically any game at any time of day, and find a fistful of opponents to vent out the whole frustation off.

Unfortunately there's a downside. Pained by the decreasing attendance in morning classes, the insti made a new rule: no LAN from 1am to 4am.

"Bah, Humbug!" I say. Proof, you ask? Well, I am writing this blog; so, sue me. Everyday now from lanset to lanrise, junta watch movies that they've downloaded by bunking the morning and the afti classes. Let's see what miracles that brings to attendance.

The only effect of this sham has been counterproductive to those seriously apping or trying to finish their projects at night.

Which reminds me, I saw the movie "Waking Life" tonight. Ok, yesterday night. Yeah, whatever.

Although it's a FOX production, it's quite different from regular Hollow-wood fare. For starters, it's not real life action, but it's not animation either. It's something in between. It's about a dream and, hell, it looks like a dream. Excellent use of animation. A host of characters and ideas on life and on dreams. Then, there's no story as such. The characters don't stick to a plan; instead they talk about a variety of ideas and experiences. Very very insightful.

This movie is art, not formula computer graphics, fake sex and mindless gore.

In short, if you know Banner, this is the kind of movie he couldn't ever hope to comprehend - he would hate it and label it fart, probably by just seeing the animated content. On the other hand, if you liked "Before sunset" and "After sunrise", you'll love this one - it's a MUST-SEE. There's even a scene with Julie Deply and Ethan Hawke talking about reincarnation, which gives you a strong deja-vu.

Watch this and if you don't like it, go see "Shaadi No 1" instead. You'll be a happy person.

PS: Julie Deply has the sexiest voice in the world. Just the way she pronounces her "R"s and "O"s turns me on bigtime.

An all-in-one trip

2005-11-02T16:50:00.000+05:30

Like the 11 year sunspot cycle or the annual flooding of the Nile, it seems that the triennial submerion of Mandakini hostel's ground floor has a deeper meaning than what appears at the surface (pun intended).

So anyway, that is how I landed up yet again in Bangalore, and it's been a very eventful journey right from the start.

After my afternoon train was cancelled due to rain on Friday, I stood three hours in line to get an RAC ticket at 7:58 pm. One more guy had been in front of me, and the counter would have closed with my entry. All this fight to find a train which was so empty, there were seats left after all the RAC tickets had been confirmed.

Ever since, it's been a mish-mash of activity and adventure - quake, a bike trip to Mysore, a miraculous escape from a near-fatal accident, meeting with a cousin, a joyous diwali after a long time, raspberry flavoured vodka... - basically masti of the jhakaas kind.

The scariest moment has been the accident. On our way up to Mysore, I was riding pillion to Takli, and Banner was behind Dumbo. Takli was doin 110+ and Dumbo, despite protestations by Banner, was trying to race ahead. Obviously, Takli's Unicorn kept Dumbo's Discovery (or whatever that contemptible vehicle is called) far behind. It was just after Dumbo actually overtook us, when the most ghastly (but incredibly lucky) sequence of events unfolded. It was by far the most number of things happening in front of me ever in just two seconds.

Dumbo overtakes us and we follow him into an unmarked diversion. He bumps into a pit and then strikes some inclined plane from hell, which sends his bike flying four feet into atmosphere. They land, but tilted dangerously towards the left, and Dumbo loses control. The left leg guard screeches against the road, giving out bright orange sparks and leaving behind a hefty skidmark. Takli slows down, and I can see Dumbo falling head first onto the road with a skull-cracking thwack. Fortunately, he's wearing a helmet (but only because there weren't enough caps for all four of us). Meanwhile, Banner grabs Dumbo tightly from behind, juts his head into Dumbo's back and as they fall, he performs some awesome acrobatic stunt. He flies six feet and falls down. Now, our bike hits the half-built road and shakes the jeebies out of us. Takli's unicorn is heavier and slower, and we take no damage.

Immediately after this, Dumbo removes his helmet, and yells around for Banner, who walks back from his landing point, asking if Dumbo is safe. The net damage: A bruised Dumbo, a shaken Banner, bewildered Takli and I, and a bent left leg guard. NO ONE HAD DIED!

Let me repeat that: Nobody had died. Heck, no one even had any serious injuries. Even the frigging bike was working despite its former leap towards heaven.

So, with an extraordinary nudge of luck, four weary and injured souls (with bodies still intact) made their trip to Mysore good and returned the following afternoon, with Takli driving 100+ yet again.

Look, we even took pictures.

After lamenting for years about how Madduland Diwali sucks so bad in just so many different ways, I made up for four years of lost Diwalis in Blore. We contributed to buy candles, crackers and colourful fireworks, and shot amazing videos and pics of the beautiful displays. Pics here and here.

Raspberry vodka followed, and since the extended weekend had been so eventful that nobody realized that I had to book a ticket back to Chennai, I've decided to live it up here till Monday. With Bachi coming this Friday, it ought to be twice the fun.

A question of space and time

2005-08-20T03:45:00.000+05:30

Suppose you have two tables and four benches arranged around them, each of which can comfortably seat two people. Add several large vodkas, a dozen tequilas, and obscene quantities of beer. Now, put up a video screen. Of course, some earsplittingly loud rock music is in order. Also, a crowd numerically strong enough to make jostling the only form of movement possible, and numerous heads in upswing-downswing motion to the beat of the music. Add springs under the tables which give a particularly woozy feeling if you stamp stoutly on the floor. Suppose you are holding these two tables.

This scene is routine. Welcome to a Saturday night at Styx. A trip to Bangalore without a night at Styx is like going to an amusement park and not riding the roller-coaster. In fact, for people like me, it's more than that. It's almost a teerth sthan.

Now the question: Can you fit in sixteen more people in the 20 sq ft or so of space that you hold?

Surprisingly, the answer is yes. And it's been experimentally tested.

Over the last two weekends, taking a break from it all, I've been chilling out in Bangalore. It isn't very surprising that I probably know more of the city than I know of "hometown" Chennai. Aur kyon na ho with Banner, Jha, Takli, Dumbo, Lala, Naan, Dil and Bachi all staying there in one flat?

The first time I went there was with Banner. Now a full engineer with more than just a muttocked-up project to worry about, poor Infy-placed Banner had gone to Blore to attempt placement at Yantra. The abovementioned party took place right after the interview, and soon news arrived that the poor Yantra-wallahs had actually agreed to employ him.

What Infy had lost, Yantra had gained - One BTech Banner and my wholesome and heartfelt sympathies for the millions of dollars they could otherwise have made.

Serves six, Sir

2005-07-20T01:37:00.000+05:30

I remember the day when a bottle of beer was enough to have me rolling on the floor spewing, well, "stuff" everywhere. Times have since changed. Things have since been very different.

Today was the day when Banner finally got done with his viva. He's a full engineer now as far as the degree is concerned - Sourav Bannerjee, BTech (Ocean Engg), IIT Madras. Therefore, it was time for a treat. The name "Bikes and Barrels" comes to mind. It has always been the favourite, albeit a bit expensive, location for most such treats, and we decided to indulge ourselves a bit over there. Just a bit, I had decided, for someone had to guide the auto back home since Banner had already decided that he wasn't going to let mere currency in the way of complete bliss and a bad hangover.

We initially ordered a single bottle of beer for the both of us. "For starters," I thought. Of course, the waiter was a little concerned. So he came back in about five minutes, as soon as the first two mugs were over, enquiring whether he could fill our glasses with another bottle of Kingfisher. "2 minutes," we told him, "We'll order more later."

It wouldn't be unfair to assume that the word "cheapskates" crossed his mind about that time. After all, if you come to Bikes and Barrels, you ought to let down on your pursestrings a tad. Especially, when this is known as a place to enjoy, not dribble over money, or lack thereof.

That's why our second order caught him a little off guard. "Bring us a pitcher of Bloody Mary." we told him simply. The reaction was priceless. His eyes grew wide. "But that's worth six hundred, Sir" he divulged, with some consternation. "It serves six!", he exclaimed after some hesitation.

"Right!" Banner told him, matter-of-factly. "Get some French fries and a Tawa Paneer while you're at it."

The order was duly served after a small delay. Much nudging of elbows, raising of eyebrows, and general chitchat happened between the waiters consequent to the delivery.

Half an hour later, it was time for a second pitcher. Wide eyed surprise gave way to dutiful conformance - "Of course, Sir. No problem at all". Bikes and Barrels had just discovered the two most profitable customers of the day. Soon enough, complementary salad, peanuts, popcorn and an unknown paneer dish followed, replaced every ten minutes or whenever the stuff got over.

Enriched by a serving of beer and six of vodka each, Banner and I left a generous tip, and auto-ed back home. Needless to say, we overpaid the autowallah, since negotiation on price was beyond us at the time.

Moral of the story: On a treat, keep your initial order small, and then follow up with an insane amount. If nothing else, it'll give you the pleasure of looking at flummoxed faces trying to put it all together.

Days with DD

2005-06-26T00:09:00.000+05:30

"Naugarh Vijaygarh ki thi takraar
Naugarh ka tha jo Rajkumar
Chandrakanta se karta tha pyaar"

That was DD a few years ago, when indian television was not yet overpopulated with a 1001 satellite tv channels and our very own rendition of arabian nights was still enjoyed a host of people, inspite of its special effects.

In fact, I feel even slightly nostalgic about the Byomkesh Bakshi's and the Junoon's. But today is a different story. I have no cable tv at home these days. Nobody even watches tv at home. And in these times of excessive boredom when I am forced to watch DD's fare, I pray fervently for the souls of fellow watchers out there.

Hey, wait a minute, nobody said these people behind DD productions aren't dumb. They're doing exactly what anybody in their position would do. They're copying stuff from other channels and mixing it up with old tried-and-tested DD ideas.

Like this serial called Qayamat, which is a mixture of a saas-bahu serial and Alif Laila. A Muslim couple give birth to a Jinn, who is prophesized to destroy all humans. Meanwhile the guy remarries and struggle ensues between the two wives. Of course, the editing is as slickly done as an ass rubbed on sandpaper.

Wife 1: Nahin, main ye kabhi nahin hone doongi.
Wife 2: Main tujhe dekh loongi.
Genie Kid: (with magical special effect) Masterji aapke bag mein saanp hai.
Masterji: Ui ma!!!

The clear-headed will notice that the above are lines from two different scenes. The magical special effect is some sort of Ramayan-style ray shooting out of the kid's eyes and reaching into the bag. Why the background didn't change betwwen them is left to the scene editor.

DD even has its share of saas-bahu serials placed right at dinnertime to help dieters lose apetite immediately. They're even stricken by the "Kkkk" bug. Kkaanch is a story of a journey of emotions, the saga of circumstances where relationships are fragile and yet tough - basically it's full of bullshit and mindless & impossible housewife politics.

But clearly the best ones I've seen as serials with names like - "Lady Inspector" or "Detective Karan". Lady Inspector wears a uniform a shade khakier than the others and is never afraid to squeeze the balls out of any criminal. Detective Karan is played by some guy who's appeared as side-villain in 3 billion bollywood movies and is now obviously out of a job.

One thing the DD folks completely don't realize is that taking ugly wannabes off the street and pouring a bucketful of make up on them does not make good artistes. Lady Inspector looks like she had been on the job forty years too many; and when Detective Karan's enemy's secretary smiles seductively at him, one is reminded of a shady grin from one of the Ramsay Brothers' early horror flicks.

The only saving grace is reruns. DD still plays golden evergreen classics like Byomkesh Bakshi, Mitti ke Rang, Neem ka Ped and some others at odd hours of the morning and night.

Pity though that DD's news channel actually seems a better option than DD1 more often than not.

3 more days of misery... Which idiot said "Something is better than nothing"?

A different kind of railway mishap

2005-06-22T18:42:00.000+05:30

So this was it. Leaving my best friends behind, I was traveling alone in a 3AC Tamil Nadu Express compartment, all the way to Delhi. It was a thirty-hour trip, and I was well stocked on books - Paulo Coelho's "The Alchemist", Dan Brown's "Angels and Demons", Wells' "The First Men in the Moon". For food, I had bought a single big bag of Lays, and a two-litre bottle of water to last for the time being.

Seat no. 25 AS2 was a lower berth. "I am traveling alone. Anyone who wants to exchange an upper berth?" I looked at the varied multicoloured faces staring at me. I swear I heard a whisper saying - "If he has seat number 25, why is he putting his luggage under #26?" Thinking the remark to be a figment of my imagination, I smiled heartily and closely regarded my neighbours to-be of the next thiry hours.

There were four traders: two Tam Brahms, a Jat from Jallandhar, and a Sri Lankan. There was also a Gujju aunty. One of the Tam Brahms and the Jat had the upper berths - both refused to budge. Helplessly, I looked across to the side berths. No luck there either, as a seemingly newlywed couple sat there, hand-in-hand. It seemed like a love marriage for three reasons: 1) both the guy and girl were dressed from top to bottom in red - the woman in a red salwar kameez, the man in a red silk kurta pyjama (and btw, that is totally gay) 2) the guy was a little shorter than the woman 3) the woman had a sense of humour that involved a) shouting "soopi soopi soopi" in a southie accent after the soup-wallah passed by, and b)marrying such men shorter then herself as would dress completely in red silk if asked.

This menagerie apart, there was the inevitable faceless baby, the presence of which was inflicted upon everyone only by its merciless bawls. One wonders how a 3 kg instrument can produce 300 decibels of noise.

They could even have been good company, but at least three of them chose to open their mouths during the journey. The Sri Lankan kept quiet (or spoke in a mixture of Tam+Sinhalese that would bring shame even to the dialect of Madras autowallahs) and of course the Gujju Aunty, with her 5 kgs of luggage and 50 kgs of food, never had the chance to speak lest she accidentally choke herself on delicious home-made gujju grub.

"So, sir, what do you do?" began the Tam Brahm.
"Hello myself Rakesh. I am a trader." The Jaat said with odd contentment in his eyes.
"So are we!" exclaimed the other excited Tam Brahm and they shook hands. "What do deal in?"
"Clothes."
"Ah, garments!"
"No, no, clothes" clarified Rakesh quickly, but then his underclocked brain decided that it was just a synonym. During this time, the others actually nodded. I guess their underclocked brains had decided that these were in fact not synonyms.
"Yes yes clothes and garments. I deal in both." Rakesh smiled. Then everyone shook hands and the Tam Brahms introduced themselves. Their names could have been included, but then the blog would be several pages longer.
"Crunch Crunch Slurp" said the Gujju Aunty.
"Soopi soopi soopi" began the fat woman in the red dress.
"Saapad-qzwtghy blethargqooey" went the guy from Sri Lanka
"Bwaaaaaaaa" bawled the faceless baby
"Oh my God. Oh my fucking God!!!" said the little voice, drowned in all the noise. It took an effort to realize that it was my mind reacting.

A while later, things were mostly settled. The traders talked like old friends (from a loony bin). Other noises continued. Paulo Coelho told me the importance of having faith in omens and realizing that "overshadowing all other human languages is the One Language of the Mind, which communicates with everyone regardless of any distinctions". Unfortunately, since it was already 11 o'clock, the Tam Brahms decided it was time to sleep. Midsentence, Paulo Coelho's book was clothed in dark as the light turned off. Right now the One language was telling me to go and throttle each and every one of these characters and make a bed out of their corpses. After successfully turning on the light twice for fifteen minutes each time, and being rudely interrupted each time, I decided that vengeance would be mine tomorrow morning.

I woke up just before Nagpur the next day. The Tam Brahms were perched narrowly against my feet, careful not to accidentally touch them.

The heat of Nagpur not only took over the atmosphere of the AC compartment but also the conversation. After having an ice cream each at the station, the traders started debating on why Nagpur was so hot this time around.

Several interesting observations were made:
1. A coal mine had just been discovered near Nagpur.
2. Some fart about rain causing less humidity and more temperature. [!]
3. Due to pollution, "global" warming was more here. [!!!]
4. We were getting closer to the equator. [!!!!!]

"The Alchemist" is an altogether nice and compelling story. Sadly, it tells of caravans with expert traders following stars and directions for weeks on end. I wondered if they sold garments too. Or perhaps only clothes. It was time to switch books. At such a time, the opening chapter of "Angels and Demons" makes one overcome with a desire to brand an ambigram of "Eat this, asshole" into the skin of the aforesaid, well, assholes.

The rest of the journey was also mindnumbingly dull. Dull, at most places, but completely mindnumbing where not dull. I made no attempts to speak at all, and as few tries as possible to catch their attention.

Finally, New Delhi Rly Stn approached. The traders got up and into their shoes. They shook hands again for the gazillionth time. Then they exchanged visiting cards. Oddly enough, the Tam Brahms (who seemed to be a group all this time) exchanged cards too. It appeared the Jaat was taking the Sri Lankan to Jallandhar and was due to catch another train.

Nice try, asshole. I should have told him. Does he really expect traders he knows from a train journey to visit him, when they can't even make out which side of the equator they are? Heck, they even do the same trade, doesn't that make them bloody competitors?

But I guess when the God of Logic was distributing brains, these four were shouting "Rs 150. SALE! SALE!" to the people standing in line.

Life@IITM

2005-06-05T04:12:00.000+05:30

The sultry, hot weather of Madras.
8 hours of tiring classes a day.
Workshop, where you work like an ass.
Ragging, abuses hurled away
At you, then an unknowing prude.
Life@IITM is sometimes rude.

The first Saarang - cultural flavour.
Ogling at women, coming of age.
Dressing savvier than the next-door neighbour
Who cashes anyhow. Frustration and rage
On this "friend" you decide to "forgive".
Life@IITM is highly competitive.

Bunking: 8 hours of classes reduced to 4.
Notebook in hand, but brain elsewhere.
Wingmates "borrowing" food in store.
Exams passed on the power of prayer.
Thinking of parents' hopes to live up.
Life@IITM is sometimes "give up".

Another Saarang, old errors repeated.
Sticking to forgiven friend like a limb.
At the room alone, feeling kinda cheated.
Resolving next sem to join the gym.
"Never again!" - the heart reminisces.
Life@IITM is empty promises.

Payment for gym given contently.
Mess not visited for the entire term.
Weight gain and more because, incidentally,
The resolve for fitness was not that firm.
Eating out daily at prices just double.
Life@IITM is financial trouble.

CAT or GRE: what choice to make?
Feeling so lost about a career choice.
Enthuless mugging for CGPA's sake.
Waiting for the sem to end to rejoice.
Taking a stand, then parents' opposition.
Life@IITM is confused ambition.

A few more courses, the final project.
Sit back, relax. Cigarettes and booze.
But problems appear: Which guide to select?
Time's running out. Attendence blues.
Meeting deadlines by working long nights.
Life@IITM is last minute fights.

A pitcher of vodka. A pitcher of rum.
A pitcher of whisky, some cigarettes and grass.
Jovial company, all comfortably numb,
Look back at those years and exclaim - "Alas!
These days of our lives forever we'll miss"
Life@IITM is everlasting bliss.

The Golden Age of quake endeth...

2005-06-01T00:39:00.000+05:30

The first time I played the game of Quake 3: Arena was in class 12. It was a new game, a first person shooter with a twist of vengeance never before seen. Fancy graphics, simple gameplay - just frag. In my first year, it still represented stress relief of the twisted kind... you kill, and your veins surge with the excitement of an adrenaline rush. But by God, was it addictive! The image of the stereotypical Quake fanatic comes to mind. Geeky clothing, teeth bared, eyes glued into the monitor, he glowers in anger and gloats at the corpse of his dead opponent. Competition emerges. The defeated swells and tried to vanquish the victor.

By the end of second year, it was a daily activity. I was a part of the Quake religion. The capital Q in Quake gave way to the small q in quake. That's when you realize how far reality is from stereotypes. That's when you find out how many other "normal" people were part of the same "cult".

It's really a great feeling. Unknown and talented opponents identified only by their quake aliases became good friends. A new subculture emerged out of the already rich heritage IITM had. "Newbies" practiced hours on end to challenge the successful and the famous. All entertainment. No hard feelings.

We had our own legends - Faisal and Vibra to mention a few. No other year had as many quake afficionados as ours. True, our juniors have had their own crop of enthusiasts, but none of them have gone through the kind of conditioning we have. From mere beginners to people who downloaded every mod available to test all challenges, all limits. From duels against lone nightmare bots to two-versus-six CTFs. Each challenge bigger than the next. From standalone machines to home-made networks to the insti lan. Bigger and better.

Now that the current fourth year leaveth, with it endeth the Golden Age of quake.

Old friends leave and only the legacy of their legendary skill remains.

A Hair-raising tale

2005-05-22T02:46:00.000+05:30

"Addy's hair are perpendicular to his scalp, 'nuff said"
"He's shed his hair for more durable and sensitive antennae"
"Aapka baal nagaland house ke logon ki tarah hai - mota. Mujhe har baar kainchee badalnee padti hai"
"His head with its scalp of hair resembles a puffer fish all puffed up"

All odes to my hair, once a live tribute to a point charge's electric field... diverging radially outwards from a point right inside my scalp.

My cousins called it "khandani baal". Apparently, the family genes perpetrate a hairstyle which stands on end. However, before any of them reached the age of eighteen, they had been magically cured of the electric field and sported more familiar and smarter looking partings. But not me, nuh-huh. In my case, the familiar carpet hair refused to sit down. Like freedom fighters bent on gaining independence, they stood right through onslaughts as varied as mom's applications of oil, the hairstylist's regular scissors and comb, and many a succesful hair gel.

There was a time when a particular "famous" hairstylist finally accepted defeat. "I'm sorry, I've seen nothing like this before. I can't do anything about it. Maybe next month..." He refused to accept payment!

At school, I was jibed at as the "porcupine" or more affectionately "the guy with the carpet hair" with some of the more adventurous kind ruffling my hair - a truly enjoyable experience, I was told. In fact, if somebody from school bumps into me, their first remark is - "Wait a minute... Aditya Pandey, oh my God, whatever happened to your pointy hair?"

And so it is. But I know the pointy hair is all but gone. The secret is just the length. Grow hair long enough and it's bound to lay down - after all, even thick pointy hair can't defy the laws of Physics. It all began in third year, when tired of the same style I'd been a victim of for all these years, I decided to not get my hair cut for several months. When I finally did go to the barber, he actually told me to come visit him more often! And as an onlooking friend of mine exclaimed - "It was like shearing the wool off a sheep! Enough hair to make a truckload of wigs and still weave a sweater out of the rest." It was that long. Over thirteen inches and counting.

It was almost miraculous - what happened after that haircut. Like a class of rowdy students suddenly behaving well with the teacher pondering confused what trick they have up their collective sleeve, my hair just settled down. Just like that. No attempt at any anti-gravity stunts. No defiance to stand tall and face the world again. And for a while, it was good. It was new and smart. I looked into the mirror and felt different.

All in vain. Only to suddenly burst forth into full bloom after the subsequent bath! And not just the "natural" antenna-like stance. Something stuck in the middle. Like a cross between a lady's locks and the hair on a boar's tail. It might even have looked better before.

So I tried a middle parting. And it was good again. All seemed well till I went home - hair all grown long, and a parting to rival Salman Khan's in "Tere Bin". Then mom saw it. Four hours later, my new hairstyle had vanished, replaced by half-crazed antennae again.

Since that time, I've tried half a dozen different things, but the resolve of my hair never fails. It's still the ugly cross kind. No matter how long. The worst part is, even shortening it doesn't seem much of a help.

Well, at least it's not "porcupine" any more.

Life is a bitch

2005-05-06T02:23:00.000+05:30

The roaring ocean

2005-05-04T02:15:00.000+05:30

I finally understood the meaning of "roaring ocean". A first hand experience is worth a million words in a million books, however descriptively written.

There was a general warning today about the sea behaving abnormally in Chennai. Fishermen were cautioned not to venture too far. My friends and I, not knowing this fact, decided to spend some time at the beach tonight. After all, the weather had suddenly turned pleasant in the evening, and the beach by night looks all the more mysterious.

When we got there at first, it all seemed normal. Then, we noticed that the beachfront was considerably steeper than normal tonight. Also, the total absence of sea breeze. You could light a match without it blown off in half a second. Yes, I tried it. It burnt through and I had to fling it away before the flame touched my fingers. That kind of breeze. The water near the beachfront had collected in some sort of a pool. Obviously, it was much deeper than usual. It was also totally calm. The waves were coming, strangely, in an oblique direction and breaking several metres away from the beach. It was an awesome sight, a Mexican wave breaking up here at one instant and elsewhere a few seconds later, making a great splash and all. As if a large fish was swimming along the coast in one direction and its fin was cutting across the water in a straight line. Mysterious and yet blood-curdling at the same time. We had the jitters anticipating a giant tsunami washing us up before we knew it.

Ah yes, I forget, the sounds. At times the sea would go totally calm, with just the swish-swash of stagnated water splashing around. Then a new wave would come and break, and make a sound like a huge vacuum cleaner on Full Suck. Many more smaller waves would follow and the result was a cacophony which sounded like a deaf band beating their drums totally out of tune. It sounded like a warning alarm. Heck, it even looked like a military base after a warning alarm has gone off. White foaming waves here, there, everywhere, all criss-crossing each other in random directions.

We stayed there for the better part of an hour, seeing the waves growing only bigger. When we left, the biggest waves, about 20 metres into the sea, must have been at least ten feet high.

The next logical step would be to inspect the beach in the daytime, and I plan to do just that tomorrow.

The end of an Era

2005-04-23T10:53:00.000+05:30

Now that the final few weeks of the fourth year approach, and the joblessness of the BTech junta increases day-by-day, a feeling of melancholy overpowers me. Affection. I try not to think of it too often. It is meant to happen, it is inevitable, it is all for the best. And when that day comes along ultimately, when all these amazing friends of mine leave IITM for a better life elsewhere, I don't know whether I'll have enough words to bid them goodbye.

Time flies. First year, new friends. The blink of an eye. Then whoosh, before you know it, a teary-eyed farewell to the best friends you've ever had. And a guarantee that your life will never be the same again.

We did so much together. We shared our joys, our miseries. We wrote plays to make people laugh. We had long discussions all night long on totally pointless topics. We thought about the future. We worked our asses off for the Litsoc. We frolicked on the beach like six-year-olds. We played Quake till our eyes were red and minds numb. We celebrated Holi and Diwali like they were the last days in our lives.

And then you bat your eyelids. Everyone has a job in a different city. And then I think of the good times behind us. And how they're gone, how they'll never return after this point in life. And I feel terribly, terribly sad and old.

Maybe it's a mistake. Or maybe I am just too emotional. Maybe it is all for the best.

I thought I had let it all out when I cried for four hours at Ganga's hostel night. I had plunged into Shaastra to avoid exactly this feeling. Then I wake up today and TG reminds me that it's Faisal's treat. And like a river waiting behind a dam's sluices, the feeling flows over me again, drowning me.

I remember. The memories are still fresh.

I remember when he had graduated, and was leaving for his Infy job. I had gone up to his room. I think I woke him up, and said goodbye, ready to leave since my train was due. Faisal came out, bulbing, shook my hand and went right back in to bed. But I broke down. And when he came back after his trasfer, I was so totally overjoyed!

I remember getting impressed watching Faisal beat the shit out of his opponents in Quake and I remember putting fight and reaching a level where I could too. I remember all the conversations we used to have after every single CTF match when we set up our own LAN. I remember listening to him sing in the bathroom, and search around for the music system which was playing the impeccable melody. I remember all the new lingo we coined together, some just for the moment, some to become a part of IITM's heritage. I remember the skit we made on the train to Bombay. And I remember the excrutiangly long bus trip back from there, and the stopover at Bangalore at Ganaps' place. I remember the smiling face, the resilient voice, the sharp wit, the dextrous fingers, and the best friend called Faisal.

And when I zoom forward into the future, and look back from there at this point in time, I see so many farewells, tears, hugs and smiles. I see so much excitement, tension, joy, nostalgia and above all, so much change.

I see the end of an era.

Just a story

2005-03-29T23:39:00.000+05:30

Ordinarily, in Creative Writing class, it takes me much time to put pen to paper and write something. So much time sometimes, that I leave with a blank sheet :(. This is a story I wrote at home for an assignment. The object was facial description. I thought up two different expressions and emotions on the same man's face, and then connected them with a story... The good thing is it took only an hour or so.

Asai Nagamasa cupped his plams and splashed his face with the cool water. His breathing was fast and he studied the image in the looking glass, taking in short gulps of air. His moist breath clouded the reflection which stared back at him, the water dripping off his high cheekbones and his moustache, which drooped low. The eyebrows were strained into thin lines, his forehead knotted like a tree’s roots. The front part of his head was shaved, a scar running a short length from left to right the only reminder of the hundred thousand battles he had fought during his life. He had undone his oiled topknot and his graying hair was spread unkemptly upon his long neck. His lips, pink and full, spread slightly apart and quivering, showed his tightly clenched teeth, coloured alternately black and blue, the mark of a master samurai in assault. Hot steam escaped his mouth every time he exhaled, depositing drops of moisture on his philtrum. Yet, the rest of features were overshadowed by his otherwise unremarkable narrow eyes. He opened them as wide as he could and looked at the mirror with fury and hatred, and they glared back at him. Fiery and reddened, they seemed to boil the water on his smooth skin and heat the air around him. His muscular chest rose and fell, stretching the fabric of his kaleidoscopic kimono, like the high tide on the Shirahama beach lashing and pounding the sand. For an instant, he remembered his dear wife Yuri and his unborn daughter, and his face twitched from the agony. It was only for a moment, and before his eyes could become moist, he filled himself again with rage and resolve, reminding himself of the great Matsuo Basho’s haiku:
Summer grasses,
All that remains
Of soldiers’ dreams

“Bushido. One must follow the way of life.” He called out aloud to himself. “Let not emotion weaken the temper, for a warrior’s greatest strength is not the weapon he holds in his hand, but the spirit in his mind.”

Asai Nagamasa washed himself with soap and ash, taking the usual time to complete the ritual. He lighted the incense sticks in front of the temple to his ancestors, put on his sandals and drank cold tea. Once again, the pangs of memory struck at him and once again he steeled himself. Trying to keep occupied, he read his favourite Kabuki script and made his bed. With a soft puff, he blew out the candle. He was soon fast asleep.

* * * * *

“Don’t go out today, please,” begged Yuri. Her oval face was the Sun glowing even in the dark morning, her eyes were little slits, her voice soft yet wispy. Her lower lip, red like a rose blossom, held pouted, she pleaded - “The dogs bark and the clouds are black, the omens foretell misery.”

Asai responded matter-of-factly - “This will be the last time. I have routed enough of Hojo Ujikuni forces, that today’s last blow will shatter him. I must leave, and leave I shall.”

“May you be safe. I’ll have warm sandals and hot tea waiting when you shall come back.” Yuri came up behind him and helped him adorn his kimono and chain mail. Her swollen belly brushed against his back, and his face lit up and he smiled - “What shall we call our daughter, Yuri-san?”

Yuri blushed - her cheeks turning beetroot, rivaling the blood red of her full lips. “If you win today, we will call her Shouri, Victory.”

Asai fetched his katana, the longsword and his wakizashi, the dagger and wore them. Humbly, he bowed before his ancestors’ place and planting a kiss on Yuri’s forehead, left for the road.

* * * * *

With a cold sweat, Asai woke up and sat on his bed. He took a towel and wiped his forehead. A tidal wave of emotion swept him over. His memories haunted him again. He had led his men to battle, and they had routed the last surviving enemy force. But, Hojo Ujikuni had escaped with a small band of whatever was left of his men. The coward! No one knew where. He left him for another day, and thought sweet thoughts. He would go back to Yuri and Shouri tonight. He would buy toys and sweets and decorate the room for his firstborn daughter.

Instead, he came home to despair and suffering. Yuri had been slayed by Hojo’s men. Shouri had been swallowed by the darkness of death before seeing even her first light.

“Avenge them. But forget not the Bushido. Go and calmly slay your enemy.” said a voice in his head.

* * * * *

Asai Nagamasa cupped his plams and splashed his face with the cool water. His breathing was controlled and relaxed. His beard was trimmed. His hair was oiled well and folded first front and then back and tied into a tight top-knot. The water drops danced on his face till they reached his elegant moustache, then dropped from the ends. His forehead was clean like a washed slate today, the eyebrows were steady. His tenacious expression still had a hue of pain, but he put on his eboshi, the ritual armored helmet, till only his fiery red eyes showed.

The warrior proferred the lighted incense sticks to his ancestors. He put on his kimono and his armor. In his belt, he fixed in a knife. In one hand, he grabbed the sharpest katana, in the other his dagger. As Asai Nagasama marched out of his house, the wind itself seemed to grow shriller and the Sun less bright in the face of this valiant warrior. Elsewhere, Hojo Ujikuni’s aides gaped dumbfounded, discussing about their escape plan from the region, when they saw dark raincloud beginning to form suddenly out of a perfectly clear sky.

You win some, you lose A LOT

2005-03-09T01:55:00.000+05:30

hi all

Congratulate me. Pat me on the back. Shake my hand. Crack a joke or two. Feign a laugh as I fake mine. Swear to be my friend forever. Lick my feet for a co-ordship. I'm now the co-curricular affairs secretary of IIT Madras, the first ever "northie" to do it. To win an insti-based election for Shaastra. But at what cost? Why, oh why, did I ever stand for this post? What was I ever thinking?

There are "friends" all around, congratulating me, saying I was worth it. Saying that my opponent deserved to lose. So many of them were openly supportive of me before the elections. Yet, what was the margin? 23 out of 3033 votes!!! Is that all I'm worth?

Barefaced liars. Bastards with no souls. I don't care how many of them even went through my manifesto, went through my credentials. I believe there were only 23 who really did. Those who made the difference. The others? Whores who sold their support for a co-ordship. Prostituted themselves to get a hold on the Saarang bandwagon. Motherf*ers who just saw the names "Uthpala Raghavendra Rao" and "Aditya Pandey" and figured out the longer one made the grade.

They predicted a hands-down victory. They foresaw a 500+ margin. They pledged they knew better than to vote on vague "fundaes". They promised they'd act sensibly and without prejudice. They cheered and applauded at the soapbox. They met me afterward and said I was great. They asserted that they knew me as a person, not as a candidate. Some of them were later surprised to know I'd won.

I always thought that people in general were sensible. The mass was sensible. The majority saw the manifestos and the credentials, and voted with objectivity. It's all wrong! And I thought that this was a pinnacle of an engineering institution, where logic and reason prevailed over regionalism and casteism. Oh, how naive I was! And yet, one expects politics to be clean. The truth is we have the keenest brains here. And that spiderman saying is all hogwash: There's just great power, there's no concept of responsibilty. With great power, comes a large cache of false friends, of sycophants of the highest orders, of two-faced people so full of themselves they'd do anything to be the next me.

And my best friends. I did it for them. To serve what I thought was some sort of "poetic justice". To see to it that their dreams left unfulfilled were finished with my beginning. They turn around now. Look the other way. They say it was a waste of time. It wasn't meant to be.

I am a fluke. I got into this place by accident. I was involved in Shaastra by mere chance. And here I am, a general of a force of enthusiasm, left hanging by the sheerest of margins. My opponent calls up and says "No hard feelings!". I reciprocate. At least he acted sensibly. No one else I know did.

The day is over. A new dawn begins. I must put all this behind me, they say, and work out a new and better beginning. But I am lonesome. I am afraid. I am looking the future in the face and it's staring right back at me. The past meanwhile is chuckling, at my naiveity and inexperience. At my failure to judge. At my over-confidence. At my inability to come to terms with what I thought was right, but in effect was a pile of smelly crap.

So here I am again. I have power. I have responsibility. They expect me to judge truthfully, but discount objectivity for "friendship". Some of them are as afraid as I am. Thinking I will seek "revenge". Contemplating my moves to suck out their blood. Yet claiming to be the truest friends I will ever know.

They congratulate me. They pat me on the back. They shake my hand. They crack a joke or two. The feign a laugh as I fake mine. They swear to be my friends forever. They lick my feet for a co-ordship. I'm now the co-curricular affairs secretary of IIT Madras, the first ever "northie" to do it. To win an insti-based election for Shaastra. But they don't care about what it cost me, emotionally.

Why, oh why, did I ever stand for this post? What was I ever thinking?

How I grew to hate exams

2005-02-20T01:08:00.000+05:30

A long long time ago in a galaxy not so far away, there was a kid in kindergarten who was not yet introduced to the concept of the exam. Life was a playground, life was a dream. In that dream, he was a doctor one day, a plumber that evening, then an armyman at night, and an actor the next morning. School was synonymous with a few hours parting from his parents and being forced to stay in a classroom and being fed with ideas a grown-up was spewing out. But it was fun in a way, because the grown-ups would show the kid weird new things and ideas he had never seen at home, and his mom would be delighted when at the end of each weekday, he told her all about what he had learnt in school. And there were other kids to talk to and play with and share food.

Then came class I, and twice a year they made him sit in a room on a desk by himself, forbade him from talking to other kids, made him regurgitate the contents of his mind, and then scribbled numbers on his papers. And his parents looked at the numbers and were unhappy if they were too low and their mood was visibly brightened if the numbers were large. He was confused at first, but learnt soon enough that if he merely imitated the very words his teacher had spoken in class, the results were mostly good - and this was ironically the first real thing he learnt in school by himself. Soon, he was used to this, and devised ways to maximize his potential marks like buying lots of copies and taking down notes. It was a new experience at first and although painful, there was a sense of achievement there. He took his exams with a mix of fear and anticipation and awaited the results with excitement and sometimes even anxiety.

The years flew by and exam after exam passed. By class 5, he was used to the two exam a year notion. However, the sense of achievement and a lot of creativity had died down - exams were plain boring to him now, an unwanted responsibility, a burden on his fledgling brain, a merciless and useless cut on his playtime. But, he was good at it by now, he would mostly finish top of class. That is when in class 6, they introduced the weekly test.

A test every week? With marks to be added into his ? His first reaction was panic, despair. He reciprocated with more sincere effort - spent the first six weekends studying for the following dreaded Monday Test. Sincere effort soon gave way to mere mechanical slogging, and then to laxity and finally apathy.

He was in class 10 now, and the board exams hung heavy in the air. They told him his future depended on this! So all his efforts uptill then had had no meaning? An exam which could affect his life? He thought over it and mulled. The Monday tests continued meanwhile, as regular and going as unnoticed as his heartbeat. The month of the big exams finally came and he sat through them and wrote down pieces of his future with pen on paper. He eagerly awaited the results. They were random enough.

It was class 12 now, and another big exam awaited. His previous experiences had taught him the tricks of the trade. Writing exams was by now a totally emotionless, taken-for-granted act. After he wrote his last board exam, he celebrated with all his friends. He no longer cared for the marks.

His hobbies had taught him more than school, and he now believed that the real world was far removed from his exams. As he went into college, his belief only became stronger and stronger with each passing course, each passing exam (no pun intended). Exams were now about beating the system - about the only enlightenment they provided him anymore.

He was just sitting at his desk one day, thinking about how to go about the department quiz the next morning, when his mind wandered away. He remembered how he had chopped time off his playtime, his story books, his drawings, and the system had swallowed it all away without as much as emitting a burp. He wondered if he would have been different if he had pursued any of those interests further. He wondered if he had actually been the one writing his own destiny all the while. He thought when it was the last time he had done something truly new and unexpected and showed all his friends. He wondered, and he lamented.

He had been a doctor, a writer, a plumber, a sportsman, an engineer, a scientist, an artist, an actor, a dancer, an architect, sometimes all of it at once ... but they had taken it all away from him and given him a sheet of paper which summed up his life.

It had 8.14/10 written on it.

Victory at the beach

2005-02-17T04:24:00.000+05:30

I am what you could call "a beach person". I love idling away on the beach. That is, when the sun is not yet out. When the ocean's deep blue and the beach full of people. When it's frothy and sprays you across the face. When it makes you want to throw your clothes away and plunge into the salty water. When it transforms grown-up men into the amoebae they once evolved from, thrashing away at the waves, feeling tranquil and content with this way of life. A thousand voices of laughter all mingling to form a general "happy" background noise. It makes you want to lie down, stare at the horizon and stay there forever.

However, tonight was the first time I went there after dark. At night, the ocean looks sinister and dark. The beach is empty. It looks as if conspiring to take you alone by surprise. Reach out with unseen tentacles, grab you and swallow you deep into its maw. The froth reminds me of a mad dog's mouth, slavering canines and all, ready to bite without warning or reason; the swish-swash of the waves breaking as they reach shore sounds of low growling.

In fact, I am so scared of the ocean at night that the mere sight makes my hair stand and churns my stomach.

So tonight I tried out an experiment. I first decided that I have noctomarephobia (nocto=night, mare=sea, yes, i coined this) - the unnatural fear of the sea at night. Why unnatural? Well, consider the odds of a tsunami suddenly rising out the ocean at the exact time that I happen to be strolling on the beach, and then all my limbs cramping at the same time so I can't even swim back. Or the probability of a deep sea giant squid lashing out its tentacles and finding me for dinner. You get the idea - it's very very very very improbable. So my fear must be unnatural. Given that, the only way now to get rid of the fear is to confront the situation - much like AXN's "Fear Factor" (except not do it on camera and make it all artificial).

Hostel life is a two-sided coin. It's fun to live out freely but tends to get overbearingly boring in routine. In recent time, I had been feeling totally pained and idle. Therefore, ... beach. There were eight of us who'd gone to the beach, and here I can extoll endlessly about the virtues of hostel life - independence, friendship, blah blah blah....

So I nervously (I admit) walked towards the sea, and unable to push it all away, finally succumbed to fear about 10 feet away from where the waves were hitting the beachfront.

This is when four of us just continued on to the edge and waded into the water. It was my cue. I followed, albeit still scared. And reached the edge. I let the waves come and wash my feet. Nothing happened. No sea monster, no sudden wall of water. No dead bodies floating bloated in the water. No crabs gnawing on my toes. No plastics filled with nuclear waste. Actually, that last one, I just made it up. But seriously, the rest were all things I would fear.

I stayed there for a long time. I walked along the edge of the water in one direction for a few minutes, just to be alone. Everyone was quite for a while - something that doesn't happen too often. I just kept staring into the horizon, at the dark ocean merging into the cloudy grey sky so seamlessly.

We stayed at the beach for quite a long time. It was about 11 o'clock when we finally returned. The general chit chat had begun again.

I stole another glance at the beach. It was still dark and gloomy and lonesome. But I wanted to lie down, stare at the horizon and stay here forever. I had conquered my fear of the ocean at night.

Encore

2005-02-17T03:54:00.000+05:30

Since my D-slot is free and happens to lie between the C and A slots, it made sense to take up French class for fun. So I did just that today. Granted that it's a bit late in the semester to take up any new courses, but with all the experience in school I thought I'd ace it up easily.

Unfortunately, I've been out of touch for quite a long time now. But fortunately, the blokes in class are all in fourth year and too lazy to really learn up pronunciation well enough. So it was immediately obvious to Evangeline Manickam - when I took up a passage to read and pronounced all the R's like the err's they are meant to be - that I had taken French before. "Combien d'ans?" she proceeded to ask. It was then that I realized that although back in class X, I had aced the Alliance Francaise interview for the CFE, the "touch" was all but lost. So I stared right back at her much like a stuffed pig stares back at you if you ask it its name. For a while, she kept repeating the question, then finally gave up and asked "How many years?"

"Four," I answered, and only by reverse-translating the question into French was I able to make sense of what she'd asked. And even the four was a lie. It's actually more like seven, but three years we did nothing but parrot the teacher's sounds without understanding a word of what was taught. So, I guess those three years don't count. In any case, I made a quick judgement about the period of time so that given my failure to understand an ordinary two-word question despite repetitions, she doesn't take my first impression as a pathetic birdbrain. Stupid ego.

Of course, deep down all this was deeply depressing.

We went over the text and some grammar after that. Articles indéfinis, Pronoms possessifs. It's been a month and a half since the course began. Conclusion: These people are primitive :)

So it's decided. A revision of French fundaes is required. I am auditing the course. At worst, I end up being far ahead of the class but get some practice recognizing really basic spoken French. At best, the level of the class increases and all my friends end up scoring high and give me a treat for the coaching.

Encore.

Vacation time

2004-12-31T22:15:00.000+05:30

Whew!!

It's been a fun vacation time, yet I've still been really busy. Moral of the story: Vacations and calendars don't mix.

Long story short: Arrival – Cousin’s wedding – Get back – Stay at family friends’ place – Go to different cousin’s place – Family Lunches and Dinners – Own friends – Shimla – More friends – New Year’s Eve.

The wedding was really fun, just as weddings always are. The get back part was tough for two reasons: Dial-up and stupid old TV. It’s an ancient TV –good for all the saas-bahu crap for Mom to watch, but devoid of the frequency ranges for the following channels: Star World, Zee English, HBO, ZMZ, [V] and National Geographic.

One thing I really hate about vacation breaks is the “Family Lunches and dinners”. That’s when they take me out for family get-togethers with little-known “family friends”. It’s really very awkward:

Uncleji: Aao beta, aur batao tumhari engineering kaisi chal rahi hai?
Me: (not recognizing uncle and faking a smile): Haan ji, uncle, theek thaak hai.
Auntiji: Arey, beta, bahut kamzor ho gaye ho?
Me: (surreptitiously look down and find “kamzor” belly still staring right back): Kya karen aunty, Madras ka khana!
Auntiji: (to all around) Haan, bechara beta! Tsk tsk tsk!
Mom: Nahin, kamzor nahin, “theek” ho raha hai!
Auntiji: Nahin, nahin kaisi baat kar rahi hai?
Me: (fuming inside and wanting to throttle both the ladies, hoping Aunty has a son): Aur aunty, bhaiya kya kar rahe hain?
...

Also, in the face of the so-called MMS scandal, the IIT-DPSRKP connection inevitably kept coming up:

Auntiji: Arey, tum to IIT se pehle DPS RK Puram mein the na?
Me: (Nod)
Auntiji: Tsk tsk tsk. Aajkal ke bachche!

I especially hate the future career plan thingie at such parties:

Uncleji: Aur beta, aage ke bare mein kuchh socha?
Me: Haan uncle, waise to ... (interrupted)
Uncleji: Who sab to theek hai lekin ... (half an hour later) Garble Farble Warble!

There should be a law or something!

The Shimla trip was a welcome change after this drab period of forced politeness in the face of criminal stupidity. But also slightly disappointing. You see, it traditionally snows (don’t ask me how, it just does) in Shimla on Christmas day each year. It’s been this way for the last fifteen years or so, except maybe once about three years ago. And I haven’t seen snow since I was a little kid (I thought never, but my parents have a picture of me playing in the snow from a time I can’t recall). Seeing snow after staying in Madras would be so cool (no pun intended). Or so I thought. I stayed there till the 29th. No snow :-(. At all. Also, I first heard about the tsunami in Shimla on TV. Such depressing news.

Since then, I’ve been back, met my own friends, and had a good time. Oh yes, all that in two days. And with a flight leaving on the 3rd, this is the first time I get to be not on the train on New Year’s Eve. I was hoping it’d be fun as well.

Only now, I’m stuck here in my room with nothing to do, while Mom watches SRK serenading with assorted babes on Sony. And occasionally surfs the news channel that shows what they’re doing in Goa. Worst of all, those still in the hostel are having a better time.

Wish you all a happy new year.

Twenty-one

2004-11-19T01:23:00.000+05:30

I turned twenty-one today. That means I'm free to get drunk anywhere except hometown Delhi. It also means I am an eligible bachelor now.

Not that it feels very different. As a friend's dad put it when we excited on approaching adulthood at eighteen, "So what's the big deal - it's not like you'll grow antennas behind your ears!"

Ek Anek

2004-10-24T15:59:00.000+05:30

Long time no blog. With Shaastra and the quizzes coming on every alternate week, and litsoc several times between that, it's a wonder I've had enough time to breathe properly. And every time I sit down and try to blog, I get a too-much-information-oh-what-to-write writer's block. So, I've decided. I'll fill up on the juicy Shaastra tidbits later.

For now, it only makes sense to go here and feel really really nostalgic for a while.

Quiz again tomorrow. Bah!

Requiem for email

2004-09-17T13:26:00.000+05:30

There was a time when the "experts"at the DCF decided that the only way to get more people to use the department email was to make the systems so slow that it would be excruciatingly painful to access any outside email providers, and additionally to ban the use of any URLs with the mention of 'mail' within. It was even suspected that they were going through our files. The metaphorical criticism below was written at the time. It's been part of my .project file on the EE server ever since, even after we finally got web access in our rooms.

At the time, the department's computer facility had only 300 MHz Celerons running a very unstable RedHat Linux 9.0, and an old version of the Netscape browser (before Firefox came out).

It's 9:30 in the morning and our hero is busy on his terminal, staring emptily and gloomily at a screen, which is staring back equally emptily at him, and even more gloomily. He waves his head from side to side, trying to focus on the monitor, which slowly produces a yellow flower and a blue login prompt after much effort, as if quarrelling with the processor about whether to start RedHot (Donot touch) Linux 8.0. Tired by its relentless effort, it then proceeds to blank the screen a few times while intermittenly showing the login prompt, attempting to discourage the user from going any further. But our hero, filled with a relentless valour, is completely nonplussed. He merely rubs his eyes, yawns, and types in his username and password. Lo and behold, the monitor blanks out again, and reappears only with WindowMaker loaded and done. A clean velvet desktop greets our hero.

Our hero erupts in a flurry of clicks, swashbuckling and neatly moving from menu to menu to lay that final click on Netscape. The menu blinks a few times and then disappears, only to leave behind the cheerful velvet background and a feeling of nothingness. Meanwhile, our hero rests. He talks to his neighbour, another knight drawn upon the same path. They talk of the old free times, of the new evil that has barred their freedom. Soon they turn to feast their eyes on a nearby classmate, who is struggling herself to boot another of those hideous beasts our hero is so determined to conquer. Our hero's friend excuses himself and turns to courteously offer the lady his services, while our hero remains firm in his singleminded devotion on his quest.

At length, the Netscape window flashes before our hero's eyes. Its many eyes gleam and glow. Arrows fly right, left and round. A fireworks display to the right catches our hero's eye. Knowing that touching it will load the slowest website in the world, he avoids contact and carefully types into box in the middle. mail.yahoo.com. Alas! Little does our hero know that the doors to communication have been shut by the evil empire; the drawbridge is broken; a moat surrounds our hero. He is trapped! But what is that?? Our hero spots a sign on the wall. It laughs at his misery. Access Denied. Please contact your service provider. A sign follows, but our hero knows that it belongs to no one. Such anonymous insults are characteristic of the cowardly enemy. Desperate, he kills Netscape and summons Opera. He spends that duration thinking out his strategy and alternative routes. Opera appears after a good deal of time, simple yet stylish, ready to help our hero. She leads him straightaway into her own portals, but fumbles on the way and falls headlong into the enemy's abyss. The banners with the insulting signs raise their heads again. Carefully, our hero leads Opera through the right proxy, which he identifies by only its number. He succeeds but finds that it is being carefully secured by evil as a temporary means of communication before his dark reign obscures one and all.

The gate is small and too many are scurrying out, frantically calling out to everyone they know that they must change their identities or be wiped out under the oncoming curtains of darkness. The mad rush has choked the gate and reduced everyone's speeds. Our hero is suffering yet. Inspite of Opera, he is seeing such speeds as 33B/s, speeds which had once haunted him in his nightmares. He remembers the days of his hometown, which inspite of having woebegone dialup, would not choke him like the iron hand of the enemy was now. Frustrated but not yet beyond patience, he waits and waits: Opera will soon load his post and provide him a messenger. His hope is fulfilled in time, and he sets out to write a message to all his beloved ones: I am behind the Iron Curtain now. Hope is vanquished. We are seeking foreign help but not much is forthcoming. Even they can only do so much. The enemy is ruthless. He is punishing the mere mention of the word 'post'. He is keeping all resources in his own mighty arm. Communication has suffered grievously. I am forced in changing my identity. Henceforth, I shall be known as ...

Just as our hero touches the Send button, a loud beep sounds. It is the sound of alarm, of destruction and death of all that had not already been saved. An empty and gloomy screen again stares, but at our hero's flushed and angry face. Alas! Opera is dead. RedHot Linux could not tolerate the slightest touch. The dam of his patience has held so far. But now the water has gone too high. He hits the beast in front of him in its blue elliptical eye. With a last low growl, the beast succumbs and lies dead in front of our hero.

I have a long life ahead, our hero tells himself. Maybe the evil empire shall disintegrate one day, and we shall see the sunlight. He decides to go back to his own castle, and play with the tamed beast there. That one is so much better. I will continue to fight, he thinks, I will use my own beast as a platform to defeat these lumbering thugs here. Maybe a few scrolls of knowledge will help. Maybe an informal organisation with others on the same quest. With a last ray of faint hope in his heart, our hero leaves to ride his steed, Hercules, and return to the confines of his castle to think.

How It Began

2004-08-01T01:49:00.000+05:30

A lot of posts have had this title. But this one is different. This is about It.

In the beginning, there was Nothing. Oops, sorry, not even Nothing with an uppercase ‘N’. Let me start again.

In the beginning, there was nothing. Then God said “Let there be Light!”. And there was Light. Then God looked around and saw a lot of Empty Space and set about creating Creation. And so, the twin crafts of Engineering and Interior Designing were born. And God, donning the cap of Engineer, started the work of creation. To help with the interior designing, he created Angels.

It took several million combinations before he got things right. He was a downright sloppy engineer. At the end of the sixth day, one of Angels noticed something amiss. When he spoke, God confessed – “Yeah I know, the Light period actually lasts only half the time I intended it to!”
Angel: “So what are you gonna do now?”
God: “Well, I’m too tired now, and besides tomorrow’s Sunday. I’ll just call it a day.”

This was when God created Man – in his own likeness – another downright sloppy engineer. This is an explanation of why men run to fix plumbing jobs whenever they get a chance, and in all probability, end up messing the water pipe worse than before. It also gives me a good excuse for shoddy work.

The Angels, tired with His antics, told God that the ribs inside Adam didn’t confirm to Feng-Shui. So God took out one of the ribs, putting in a wall hanging instead, and made Eve. Unfortunately, this didn’t work out very well because the Snake coaxed them into believing that Adam had constipation and should eat fresh fruit to get rid of it. This fruit was from the Tree of Knowledge, and gave Man the intelligence to rise from sloppy engineerdom to not-so-sloppy inventordom. God was enraged because all this while he had thought the apple tree was just another Feng-Shui artifact planted by the Angels from the interior designing department, and threw everybody out of the Garden.

Several million years later – after the pyramids were built, but before cellphones with cameras made their appearance – Thomas Alva Edison realized that God had been sloppy and day really lasted only for half a day. So, he tried several thousand different combinations again.

Thus was made the bulb – a modern engineering marvel!

The moral of the story is that mythological chronicles are long and pointless, and culminate anticlimactically, or leave behind more than enough room for sequels.

For example, this story ends with a bulb, but talks about camera cellphones.

Read the Silmarillion or any of the Wheel of Time books for further insight.

Occupational Hazard

2004-07-30T22:46:00.000+05:30

It is commonly believed that the only occupational hazards that engineers face is cramped posteriors from sitting all day and cockeyed expression from staring at the screen for too long. There have been reports of computer-induced sterility, brains exploding because of too many Eurekas, and health problems amongst overworked programmers with 70% coffee in their blood instead of water, but those are either just rumours or extreme cases.

Most people neglect to realize the fact that an engineer's life-cycle nudges him slowly to abstain from social life outside his friends' circle, which commonly includes other engineers. As a result, jokes like the following become very popular:
Engg 1: "And when I turned it around, it was only a burnt capacitor!"
Engg's friends: "ha ha ha"
Engg 2: "And then I realized it wasn't even a capacitor, it was just a burn!"
Engg's friends: "HA HA HA HA HA"
Nearby people: Gurgle! Gurgle! Choke! Puke!

The nearby people call these "PJs" and shun the people who make them, causing immense happiness to the Goddess of Engineering, thus making engineers bond together even better. Soon the circle expands in circumference, and others start excommunicating engineers with non-engineer friends. And so it goes on ...

So, I was chatting with a friend from school the other day, who had just returned from abroad, a foretelling I had received from some (engg) friends there. We discussed the Indian victory over Sri Lanka, school nostalgia, my internship, lab reports, then I made a joke. I could detect a slight difficulty in the conversation here. It turned out she was an ornithologist.

While on ornithology, imagine a herd of noisy ravens in a tree and a gunshot nearby. Now imagine how the crows would respond to this. A similar sound went through my head when I found out her occupation.

Needless to say, we haven’t talked ever since.

Oye India!

2004-07-27T22:35:00.000+05:30

Finally! It had to happen sooner or later, but it may not have been so spectacular. Totally tension-building, edge-of-the-seat, nailbiting, dinner-without-thought-for-food game. Excitement to the last ball. Boundary or not. Wicket or dot. Skipper shaping field before the last ball. Zaheer wiping sweat on his sleeve. Batsman nervously licking his lips. He bowls - a delivery on the onside. For a moment, time stands still as the ball zooms towards the batsman, bat ready in hand, aiming for the boundary. Suddenly, he cuts his bat towards the ball.

And then India won!

That's when I realized I was having delicious mom-made shahi paneer. It's never felt this good in the mouth before.

5 more days before I leave for IITM again. Time to savour the good things in life - TV, AC, midnight raid-able refrigerator and mom's cooking.

The Aarghthooey conspiracy

2004-07-24T12:41:00.000+05:30

Long ago before time began
When God's nose with influenza ran
He snoze an awful sneeze that day
And today we-of this universe-still pay ...
For, on that unfortunate date
Was twisted the Universe's fate

Get the entire scoop at http://aargh.port5.com/nsindex.html

Inspiration (or How it began)

2004-07-22T13:24:00.000+05:30

One of the most difficult things to come by in a situation like mine is inspiration. I am currently lying at home, wallowing in an absolutely tension-free environment – a nirvana disquieted mainly by rumblings of the stomach, only to be instantly satisfied by mom’s cuisine; noises from the TV or AC or the odd phone call; and the bed creaking beneath oneself more and more as one’s “health” enhances. Lack of inspiration results in lack of evidence for the same – hence no blogging.

In such paradise, the occasional inspiration one comes across can only be while recounting earlier experiences and contrasting the mad rush of “normal” life with one’s pleasantly serene surroundings. What one therefore needs is a diversion, if you could call something causing one to break away from eating, sleeping and watching TV a diversion.

To break the monotony of sedative life, I decided to read a few books. This also meant a trip to the bookshop, which in turn implied getting off the bed. And with the hot Delhi Sun outside, it was an admittedly difficult thing to do. But sometimes, you have to do what you have to do. So after weeks of symbiosis with my Kurlon mattress, I had to bid it goodbye, with only my ancient buttmarks left as a token of appreciation. A few hours later, it was done. I now had the first two parts of the Wheel of Time, Dune, Mein Kampf, Contact, Airport and a GRE guide to act as diversions.

The other books were really interesting, but the book that gave me the most inspiration was Mein Kampf. It talks about Hitler’s struggle – his childhood, his notions about polity and society, and more stuff that I haven’t read about yet.

Don’t write me off as a Nazi just yet. The most important realisation was yet to come. That dawned upon me as soon as I had reached page 237 and felt annoyed at having been duped. Mein Kampf is full of high sounding but meaningless propaganda which makes very very boring reading. No wonder Hitler wasn’t taken seriously at the beginning of the World War. The leaders must’ve read the book and just thrown it away asking for a good cup of tea or some cheese.

If this guy could write this unreadable crap and sell six million copies of it, then I too can write a blog full of crap and not feel bad about it. It was the best inspiration I’ve had in years.

Down Memory Lane (or How it began)

2004-07-18T20:30:00.000+05:30

I remember that my school was one of the best ones around. Everyone said so. That’s because it “produced” so many engineers and doctors that the principal could boast about later. I also remember that four out of every five people were two couples (It would be difficult otherwise – two and a half pairs?). School was such a great place. The classrooms and the front seats, the teachers and the exams, the playfields and the bruised noses – well, it was not all so good.

Every fifth guy out of school was an engineer. The other four were the pairs and went separate ways later. But that is a different story.

Absolute slosh

2004-07-18T00:20:00.000+05:30

I’ve decided to write a post which makes absolutely no sense
whatsoever. The story below was originally meant to be a birthday card
but was reused.

Once upon a time long long ago, in a galaxy far far away, there lived
the race of the Bloobloogobbs on their home planet Blooplanet-III. They
were the most primitive and most peaceful intelligent species to ever
have existed. This of course had partly to do with the fact that their
tools were blunt stones which couldn't possibly have scratched the soft
underside of the Swarm Blooflallows that they hunted for food. In fact,
the Swarm Blooflallows, which were then a significantly more
intelligent race then, took pity on the Bloobloogobbs and decided to
kill their useless and more senile members and leave them for the
Bloobloogobbs. This also took care of the problem of old age homes in
their civilisation, since building old age homes when you have four
legs and no arms is a difficult task inspite of brains and the
Blooflallows were not particularly proficient in it.

The Bloobloogobbs were undoubtedly very pleased with their hunt
everyday, and made small chants in a nonexistent language, which they
didn't know didn't exist, or they couldn't have made them at all. In
their nonexistent language, the only word which had one fixed meaning
was "Bloobloogobb" which meant "dead Swarm Blooflallow" because they
thought that it described them best.

It was on a warm summer afternoon one day when after a tiresome hunt
and a good catch, several citizens of Bloobloogobb society were
returning back to their camp, when all of sudden one of them tripped on
a letter with funny letters scribbled on it.

This is described by most Historians as a turning point in their
history, since the profoundness of the letter left so many of them so
shocked that over the next few months, they developed a language,
better tools, writing, and laser-guided lock-on movement-following
rocket-propelled weapons. With these, they killed all the younger Swarm
Blooflallows who madly and uselessly ran for their lives, and left only
the useless and more senile ones who quietly stood there and did
nothing. So finally everyone lived happily ever after, especially the
useless and more senile Swarm Blooflallows, who discovered that their
life expectancy was otherwise infinite. Therefore, some other
Historians maintain that this was a turning point in Blooflallowian
lifestyle rather than Bloobloogobbian.

It was, however, discovered several centuries later by young and
promising Bloobloogobbian engineers that contents of the
aforementioned letter were to the effect - "Enjoy my next post which is
so full of slosh that it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever, even in
non-existent languages.” Since they agreed with their government on the
fact that it was indeed a useless thing to get so excited over, they
reverted back to their primitive lifestyle.

Historians describe this as another turning point in their history
because following this, they promptly starved to death since there were
no young Swarm Blooflallows left to aid them in their otherwise
ineffective hunting.

Hmmm, the title does seem to correlate a bit with the story. And I put in the word engineer in the sixth para somewhere.

The Eureka Effect

2004-07-16T13:37:00.000+05:30

We engineers are a simple folk. We believe everything existing exists for a reason, no matter how complex. For example, the three successive e-words in the last sentence. These exist because, well, I put them there. Of course, the reason could have involved random variables, keyboard layouts, divine intervention or accidents, but some engineer would have guessed it anyway. It is this characteristic of the engineer that causes the Eureka Effect.

Try the following: Find an engineer and walk with him. Make small talk. You’ll observe that every five minutes or so, the engineer will suddenly realize something around him and will feel the need to blurt it out.
“Look, the spelling on that billboard is wrong!”
“Ever wonder how the cheese mixes with the popcorn?”
“No, it’s not gonna rain – that’s cumulus cloud, not nimbus!”
“If only I had a long enough lever…”
“Garble Farble Warble”
Of course, it takes an engineer to notice this as a process and not just an annoying habit. And another engineer to name it after. Archimedes must be turning in his grave.

The Eureka effect works in the exact same way as another famous phenomenon, the Axe Effect, only in the opposite direction.

Anyone who exhibits the Eureka Effect 5-6 times in a half hour can be labelled an engineer. The number of Eurekas grows proportionally with the engineerdom of the subject.

Yes, that was a Eureka.

Why me blogi?

2004-07-15T20:45:00.000+05:30

I’m an engineer. Or at least I’m on my way to becoming one. Engineers shun nature. Nature bothers them. Which is why we have bridges where nature intended water, cellphones with cameras when nature thought privacy was a good idea and computers instead of brains.

I’ve often noticed that as the volume of stuff on the internet keeps on increasing, the amount of pretentious garbage dressed as ‘cool stuff’ decreases while that of unadulterated crap increases. It’s nature. And this is just an attempt to go along with nature for a time instead of against it (I can do that when the time comes). Why have a real page with real information on it when you can get away with writing slosh and then claiming it too?

To summarise, engineers shun nature. It’s their nature.

Oops!

First post

2004-05-13T18:29:00.000+05:30

I've never been a believer in blogging. But lemme just try it out for once.