An induction motor
Turning in my head,
Perfectly in phase
With what was being said
By a dreary monotone.
Sandman descended
To switch off supply
To the flux in my head.
Lullaby
12 years ago
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
From Enochlophobia to Freedom!
I am not a very sociable person. Apart from a great reluctance to be the first one to strike up the conversation, I also think I suffer from, to say the least, a mild case of Enochlophobia. Google it if you don't know what it means. So it is clearly established that I am, under no circumstances, a party animal.
But fate plays it's funny games, and I had to attend, of all the parties that could've brightened up Delhi's nightlife, a wedding. And not just any wedding, a Punjabi wedding. I had very cleverly avoided so far all the social obligations I had as an army brat, but none of the excuses in my list, which now had become considerably exhaustive, could nudge me out of this tight spot.
Thus at nine in the evening, when I should've been sprawled on my bed listening to music and playing football manager, I was smiling rather uneasily at people I neither knew or cared to know. I somehow survived the initial pleasantries, and set off on a reconnaissance of the vast lawn where the part was being organised. I located the food stalls, the bar (which served only Coca Cola) and the gazebo under which a band was playing the latest Hindi hits.
And then I saw it. The perfect vantage point. As if illuminated by a heavenly spotlight, it was waiting for me. I walked towards it almost instinctively. The spot was close enough to the food stalls for me get refills without having to march cross country, and far enough for me to eat in silence and anonymity. It was a stone's throw from the bar, so I could have as much Coke as I wanted. Most importantly, it was at the perfect distance and angle from the speakers, which made even a most ordinary rendition of 'Om shanti om' seem almost mellow.
There I stood, drinking my coke and eating the free food, listening to the latest bollywood chartbusters, and all this far from the madding punjabi wedding crowd. Every now and then I would get a refill of the chaat they were serving- I liked the fruit chaat the best. And I lost count of the number of glasses of coke I consumed. The rest of the party was like a colourful blur, what with the Aunties separated from fresh air by three layers of greasy makeup, one layer of glitter, and heavy, bright, shiny, lacy outfits, the uncles all suited and booted, kids zooming around, and 'cool' teenage boys and girls cheering the 'band' on, and requesting encores of songs of the class of 'Om shanti om', 'Dus Bahane' and some some stuff I couldn't recognise.
Much like Sauron's, my eyes saw everything. Aunties discreetly helping themselves to cartloads of Golguppas, ice cream dripping onto the little boys' best pair of shorts, and dejected uncles settling for coke, visibly disappointed, the band moaning on all the while. And then dinner was served. It was rather lacklustre, to say the least. I ate only half of what I had very greedily heaped onto my plate, but my appetite was pretty much satisfied by all that chaat. A few more glasses of coke, and I was done.
I wasn't disappointed by the mediocre food, or the groaning band, or the smell of myriads of cheap colognes permeating the atmosphere, for that night, I had come as close as I had ever come to getting rid of my enochlophobia. The trick was, simply, to look at the crowd objectively, treating it as a single entity. And then you see how the whole thing unfolds before you, like I said earlier, in a blur of colours. Maybe it was the beauty of my spot, or maybe it was all in my head. I'll find out at the next party.
Ironically, I didn't set my all seeing eyes even once on the bride and the groom, not that I knew them anyway.
The Fall of Old Delhi!
The other day we decided to visit the much talked of 'Paraanthe Waali Galli' in Chandni Chowk, Dad, Mum, brother and I. I loved a good parrantha any day, but the journey promised to be tiresome. It was impossible to drive up because of the distance and the traffic, so we had to drive up to the nearest metro station and take the metro.
The metro was crowded as usual, but I didn't mind the journey, hardly ten minutes. We disembarked at Chawri Bazaar, the station before Chandni Chowk, Mum had some shopping to do. The market was a fair distance from the station, so we had to take a rikshaw. At this point, I suggested that we take two rikshaws, but the rikshaw-wallah said with pompous reassurance, "Ho jaayega bhai, do aage, do peeche." The 'peeche' was a nothing more than a plank with a rusty iron rod running accross it about chest high, not unlike an amusement park ride, and naturally, my brother and I were dismissed to it.
So we set off, four people, overweight to say the least, being towed through an ocean of activity by a set of skin and bones in comparison. But the man was an expert- he meandered cleverly between pedestrians, motorcycles, bullock carts, hand carts and horses, and we progressed at a very lively pace considering the situation. He took us through numerous shortcuts- paths just wide enough to accomodate a rikshaw and, say, two pedestrians. Lined along every path were innumerable shops that claimed to sell everuthing to microwave ovens to cheap kites. And the kites were so abundant they might have outnumbered the people. It seemed to be the season for kite flying, as every shop stocked them. They came in all shapes, sizes, colours, materials and prices.
The air was saturated with the smell of fried, oily food from homes and restaurants, mixed with the odour of sweat from labourers who engaged themselves in a plethora of activities, from pulling huge handcarts to carrying people around in rickshaws to sweeping the streets to making paraanthas in roadside restaurants. And the sounds- the sounds were loud and ceaseless- people calling out loud greetings to each other as they passed, the rickshaw-wallahs shouting 'Raasta!' at the top of their voices to clear the way ahead of bodies, motorcyclers hurling profanities at the rickshaw-wallahs and the handcart-wallahs, who in their turn flung them them back even louder, shopkeepers advertising their wares, hawkers attracting customers for goods ranging from jalebis to digital watches.
The sights, sounds and smells of Old Delhi were beggining to sink into me. And sitting uncomfortably on the back of a rickshaw, holding on for dear life, I felt a little bit like Shantaram on his first tour of Bombay. But reality struck hard moments later. There was a big bump on the road ahead. The equilibrium of the vehicle, precariously tipped towards the back already, gave way when the rickshaw attemted to negotiate the bump. There was a moment when I thought I was floating in mid-air, and a split-second later, the rickshaw went down on its backside, much like a tipsy elephant. And as I mentioned, my brother and I were perched on this backside, so the weight of the rickshaw, with mum and dad and the rickshaw wallah still on it fell flat onto our (my brother's and mine) stomachs, which, thankfully, acted rather like shock absorbers. I hit my shoulder on a rock and bruised the back of my thigh. I didn't really see what happened above, but Dad told me later that Mum and he jumped out, and Mum ran towards us screaming 'Mere bacche! Mere bacche!' The poor rickshaw-wallah was a good six feet above the ground pressing down on the pedals trying to level the vehicle. It was quite a spectacle. Bystanders came to help us, suppressing their laughs, commenting on our indecision of opting to travel four in a rickshaw. We thanked them and told them we were okay, paid off the rickshaw-wallah and now with the wisdom of hindsight, decided to walk the rest of the way, as the market was not very far.
After and hour of uneventful shopping, we set off to find Paraanthe waali galli. Basing our route on directins given by shopkeepers en route, each of whom insisted 'bas aage hi hai, do minute," we plodded on for about half an hour and finally, four shaken, famished people reached a veritable oasis in the sweltering desert that Chandni Chowk was. There were several paraantha joints in the galli, but one of them came with strong reccomendations, and luckily as we entered, four people were just leaving. We sat down to our collective relief, and had a long draught of water each and slowly glanced toward the menu.
It was a huge of assortment of paraanthas made out of anything you can imagine- from kela to karela. We ordered the Mewa, Kaju, Paneer, Rabri, Khurchan, Paapad and Matar paraanthas and a lassi each to go with them. They took some time to bring our food, and I got time to look around. It was a very small place, seated about thirty cramped people. The witers jostled their way through the diners to serve paraanthas that were made outside the place in tens and hundreds. A certificate hanging on the wall indicated that the little establishment was over a hundred years old. A few photographs of the owner of the place with various dignitaries like a few MPs and MLAs were hung in places, although I suspect that the one with the Prime Minister is fake.
Anyhow, lunch was served in ten minutes and we fell upon it and ate it in earnest, and very few words were exchanged. It was totally worth the money, which wasn't much by any standards. We finished it off in ten minutes, paid the bill and walked to the Chandni Chowk metro station, which wasn't far away (we got off at Chawri bazaar earlier, which is the stop before Chandni Chowk). The metro ride to the car and the drive home were refreshingly uneventful, and the long sleep afterward felt extremely well deserved.
I woke up a few hours later with a sore shoulder and a bruised thigh. I had visited 'asli' Delhi and lived to tell the tale.
The metro was crowded as usual, but I didn't mind the journey, hardly ten minutes. We disembarked at Chawri Bazaar, the station before Chandni Chowk, Mum had some shopping to do. The market was a fair distance from the station, so we had to take a rikshaw. At this point, I suggested that we take two rikshaws, but the rikshaw-wallah said with pompous reassurance, "Ho jaayega bhai, do aage, do peeche." The 'peeche' was a nothing more than a plank with a rusty iron rod running accross it about chest high, not unlike an amusement park ride, and naturally, my brother and I were dismissed to it.
So we set off, four people, overweight to say the least, being towed through an ocean of activity by a set of skin and bones in comparison. But the man was an expert- he meandered cleverly between pedestrians, motorcycles, bullock carts, hand carts and horses, and we progressed at a very lively pace considering the situation. He took us through numerous shortcuts- paths just wide enough to accomodate a rikshaw and, say, two pedestrians. Lined along every path were innumerable shops that claimed to sell everuthing to microwave ovens to cheap kites. And the kites were so abundant they might have outnumbered the people. It seemed to be the season for kite flying, as every shop stocked them. They came in all shapes, sizes, colours, materials and prices.
The air was saturated with the smell of fried, oily food from homes and restaurants, mixed with the odour of sweat from labourers who engaged themselves in a plethora of activities, from pulling huge handcarts to carrying people around in rickshaws to sweeping the streets to making paraanthas in roadside restaurants. And the sounds- the sounds were loud and ceaseless- people calling out loud greetings to each other as they passed, the rickshaw-wallahs shouting 'Raasta!' at the top of their voices to clear the way ahead of bodies, motorcyclers hurling profanities at the rickshaw-wallahs and the handcart-wallahs, who in their turn flung them them back even louder, shopkeepers advertising their wares, hawkers attracting customers for goods ranging from jalebis to digital watches.
The sights, sounds and smells of Old Delhi were beggining to sink into me. And sitting uncomfortably on the back of a rickshaw, holding on for dear life, I felt a little bit like Shantaram on his first tour of Bombay. But reality struck hard moments later. There was a big bump on the road ahead. The equilibrium of the vehicle, precariously tipped towards the back already, gave way when the rickshaw attemted to negotiate the bump. There was a moment when I thought I was floating in mid-air, and a split-second later, the rickshaw went down on its backside, much like a tipsy elephant. And as I mentioned, my brother and I were perched on this backside, so the weight of the rickshaw, with mum and dad and the rickshaw wallah still on it fell flat onto our (my brother's and mine) stomachs, which, thankfully, acted rather like shock absorbers. I hit my shoulder on a rock and bruised the back of my thigh. I didn't really see what happened above, but Dad told me later that Mum and he jumped out, and Mum ran towards us screaming 'Mere bacche! Mere bacche!' The poor rickshaw-wallah was a good six feet above the ground pressing down on the pedals trying to level the vehicle. It was quite a spectacle. Bystanders came to help us, suppressing their laughs, commenting on our indecision of opting to travel four in a rickshaw. We thanked them and told them we were okay, paid off the rickshaw-wallah and now with the wisdom of hindsight, decided to walk the rest of the way, as the market was not very far.
After and hour of uneventful shopping, we set off to find Paraanthe waali galli. Basing our route on directins given by shopkeepers en route, each of whom insisted 'bas aage hi hai, do minute," we plodded on for about half an hour and finally, four shaken, famished people reached a veritable oasis in the sweltering desert that Chandni Chowk was. There were several paraantha joints in the galli, but one of them came with strong reccomendations, and luckily as we entered, four people were just leaving. We sat down to our collective relief, and had a long draught of water each and slowly glanced toward the menu.
It was a huge of assortment of paraanthas made out of anything you can imagine- from kela to karela. We ordered the Mewa, Kaju, Paneer, Rabri, Khurchan, Paapad and Matar paraanthas and a lassi each to go with them. They took some time to bring our food, and I got time to look around. It was a very small place, seated about thirty cramped people. The witers jostled their way through the diners to serve paraanthas that were made outside the place in tens and hundreds. A certificate hanging on the wall indicated that the little establishment was over a hundred years old. A few photographs of the owner of the place with various dignitaries like a few MPs and MLAs were hung in places, although I suspect that the one with the Prime Minister is fake.
Anyhow, lunch was served in ten minutes and we fell upon it and ate it in earnest, and very few words were exchanged. It was totally worth the money, which wasn't much by any standards. We finished it off in ten minutes, paid the bill and walked to the Chandni Chowk metro station, which wasn't far away (we got off at Chawri bazaar earlier, which is the stop before Chandni Chowk). The metro ride to the car and the drive home were refreshingly uneventful, and the long sleep afterward felt extremely well deserved.
I woke up a few hours later with a sore shoulder and a bruised thigh. I had visited 'asli' Delhi and lived to tell the tale.
Eyes wide open
Today has opened my eyes to many things.
- It's extremely hot at one in the afternoon in Delhi.
- A Maruti Zen is an extremely stubborn car.
- It is very difficult to push a stubborn car almost two kilometres in aforementioned heat.
- There are nice people left in the world.
As you might've guessed, our Zen broke down about two kilometres from home at one in the afternoon. If a Delhiite's reading, it broke down near the embassy of Qatar and we live in SP Marg (near the Taj Palace, incidentally). Since it was too close to home to abandon it there and too far away from a garage to call for help, in a moment of madness, we decided to push it as far as we could.
So began the first effort. We went probably 700 metres, looking into each passing automobile with pleading eyes, but to no avail. The next stretch was a climb up and we were bracing ourselves for a heculean effort when my eyes were opened.
A man in a scooter appeared out of nowhere and offered to help us. So there it was, my dad steering the car, the guy in the scooter riding behind us with a foot pushing the car forward and me trying to keep up with them on foot. I gave up the chase after a while, opting to walk home, rather than amusing passers by with my catching up act.
So I had to cover about a kilometre and a half on foot, in the sweltering heat. I consoled myself- hey it's better than pushing a car the same distance. Still, it was demanding work, and in seconds I was dripping with sweat. And then my eyes were reopened.
Out of nowhere came two men with plastic tumblers and buckets of cool sherbet. They walked straight towards me. One handed me a tumbler and the other poured sherbet into it.
My initial impulse was to tell them that I had no money (it was all in the car). But as though they understood my expression, one of them said.
"Pi lijiye bhaiya, garmi mein aa rahe ho."(Drink up, brother, you've been walking in the heat.)
"Thankyou ji," I said and gratefully drank up what was offered.
"Thoda aur piyenge aap?"(Will you drink some more?)
"Nahi Bhaiya, Thank you."
And I walked away, homewards, with my eyes opened twice by complete strangers, who, on first sight, we would have dismissed as inconsequential, even petty. I know I would've, and I've been proved wrong.
Thank God for the good people left on earth. But for them, I might've been too weak to type.
Ironically, I don't even know their names.
I, Ibanez!
Whoa!
I can hardly say anything else. I now own an Ibanez V72E acoustic guitar. You'll probably see it splashed all over my orkut account, and I've even made it my gtalk custom message, but the fact remains that I now own an Ibanez, which is light years above the Givson 150 that I used to play on. It cost me INR 8650 for the guitar plus the works- gigbag, capo, strap and an extra set of authentic D'Addario bronze strings. A fortune, I agree. But I'm not complaining.
I can hardly say anything else. I now own an Ibanez V72E acoustic guitar. You'll probably see it splashed all over my orkut account, and I've even made it my gtalk custom message, but the fact remains that I now own an Ibanez, which is light years above the Givson 150 that I used to play on. It cost me INR 8650 for the guitar plus the works- gigbag, capo, strap and an extra set of authentic D'Addario bronze strings. A fortune, I agree. But I'm not complaining.
About this particular guitar, it has a spruce top, mahogany back, sides and neck, and a rosewood fretboard. It comes with a handy on board tuner.
And I've found out that a list of famous Ibanez users include:
- Michael Einziger of Incubus
- Gareth Davies of Funeral for a Friend
- Brad Walst and Barry Stock of Three Days Grace
- Terry Balsamo of Evanescence
- Chris Broderick of Megadeath
- Brad Delson and Mike Shinoda of Linkin Park
- Mike Deowolf and Steve Richards of Taproot
- Ed Faris of Adema
- Tom Fischer of Celtic Frost
- Martin Hagstrom of Meshuggah
- Dexter Holland, Greg K and Noodles of The Offspring
- Steve Holt and Mike Whitney of 36 Crazyfists
- Sean Kipe of Course of Nature
- Munky and Fieldy of Korn
- Mike Mushok of Staind
- Josh Rand and Corey Taylor of Stonesour
- Matt Roberts of Three Doors Down
- Mike Thomson and Paul Gray of Slipknot
- Dave Weiner, and Steve Vai himself!
- David Williams, with Michael Jackson
- and a lot more.
Here's hoping that some day, someone buys an ibanez and makes a list like this and it has my name on it, cheerio!
Help!
Please, please, someone give me an internet connection!
My long hiatus should not be mistaken for laziness. In fact, I churned up enough material in my head to fill pages, but alas, Mahanagar Telephone Nigam Limited has reduced the creativity in the universe, and doesn't even bother to make an excuse.
My family shifted to a new bigger home (incidentally, next to the taj palace hotel). Everything's fine- bigger rooms, cooler, and of course, ipl keeps me occupied, as does the heap of dvds that i burnt back at college. But my life, and everyone else's, is incomplete without a net connection.
So we wrote to MTNL to shift the line to our new address. They called up one fine morning and told us that it's up and running. All happy and smiling, I switched on the comp, waited for the green light to blink and then stabilise, but nothing- no green light. Switch off-switch on... nothing.
So I registered a complaint at their automated complaint centre. A guy came, switched on the comp, refreshed the desktop a few times, deleted all the temp files and said that the problem's in the phone line.
So I registered another complaint-this time about the phone line. Another guy came the next day, dialled a few numbers on the phone and told me he'll be right back. I never saw him again.
I registered another complaint two days later- amazingly the whole process was repeated.
How in the name of hell does MTNL have customers?
We are switching to airtel. They have a nice little Rs 599 scheme- unlimited download, and although the max speed's only 256 kbps, that's still a lot of downloads.
My suggestion, request rather, to anyone who still has an MTNL connection is- please, don't let this happen to you!
My next post will be from an airtel connection. I hope they pay me something for all this publicity!
My long hiatus should not be mistaken for laziness. In fact, I churned up enough material in my head to fill pages, but alas, Mahanagar Telephone Nigam Limited has reduced the creativity in the universe, and doesn't even bother to make an excuse.
My family shifted to a new bigger home (incidentally, next to the taj palace hotel). Everything's fine- bigger rooms, cooler, and of course, ipl keeps me occupied, as does the heap of dvds that i burnt back at college. But my life, and everyone else's, is incomplete without a net connection.
So we wrote to MTNL to shift the line to our new address. They called up one fine morning and told us that it's up and running. All happy and smiling, I switched on the comp, waited for the green light to blink and then stabilise, but nothing- no green light. Switch off-switch on... nothing.
So I registered a complaint at their automated complaint centre. A guy came, switched on the comp, refreshed the desktop a few times, deleted all the temp files and said that the problem's in the phone line.
So I registered another complaint-this time about the phone line. Another guy came the next day, dialled a few numbers on the phone and told me he'll be right back. I never saw him again.
I registered another complaint two days later- amazingly the whole process was repeated.
How in the name of hell does MTNL have customers?
We are switching to airtel. They have a nice little Rs 599 scheme- unlimited download, and although the max speed's only 256 kbps, that's still a lot of downloads.
My suggestion, request rather, to anyone who still has an MTNL connection is- please, don't let this happen to you!
My next post will be from an airtel connection. I hope they pay me something for all this publicity!
Kodaikanal: A Photographic Expedition!
We started out on one hot sweaty evening, with high hopes of rest and relaxation at beautiful Kodaikanal. And what you see on your left was our means of transportation. I have heard of Air Buses and stuff, but this definitely was a first.
The journey was bumpy. The bus was small and cramped, it just about held 47 of us. But the ride wasn't as bumpy as my friend's nose to your right.
We were all very tired and some of us were not used to the altitude. Like my friend here.
We finally reached Kodaikanal at about seven in the morning. We stayed at "RJasmine Gust House". Surprisingly, it wasn't really windy!
We rested a while and got ready to see the sights, and as the Kodai tourism people put it, the "Seeneries". Come to think of it, it was my second time in kodai, and i had already "seen" most of the stuff there...
And we went to the following places, among others:
1. Pillar (or is it "Piller") Rock.
2. Suicide Point: Here, we were requested to "Put the waistes in the dustpin" and avoid smoking to "save the forest fire"!
The other places we visited were not as eventful so we returned to the gust house. We played rummy and bluff until after midnight and went to sleep. The next day we boated and then returned to college in our spare bus. I could not find any more images to reminisce the trip with, but it was one awesome experience. And the rest of us couldn't agree more...
Well here we are...
Where am I? What is this place? Why are all these people here? How do they live their entire lives in this God-forsaken hellhole? Are they superhuman? The next step in human evolution? Or are their olfactory nerves severed when they are born? How else can they bear the unbearable Trichy odour? And how do they live right in the center of the same mind-numbing stench? So many questions, so little answers...
These and other thoughts ran through my mind as I sat on a bus to Chatram bus stand. I was going to buy textbooks. A harmless expedition. I tried to guess where we were by the stench outside. Thiruverumbur has sort of the smell of a thousand people who have never seen a deo in their lives, a very strong BO. As you go further, the stench changes to resemble a hundred year old compost pit in a state of pure putrefaction, highly toxic, hell, captain planet would've given up. And when this stench ends, you know you've reached the bus stand. And oh, yes, the bus stand. You would think that people forgot to build toilets in their houses- nature calls all of them to the bus stand, and they leave their offerings to mother earth in a puddle that could've made Noah anxious.
Oh, and where were we? Yes, I'm on the bus, when a couple of women board carrying four huge bags filled with vegetables and the like. They walk straight at me and hand me one bag and say something in rapid tamil. I nodded and smiled and held on to the bag. A few moments later:
Woman 1: "mani enna thambi?"(what's the time, little brother?)
me: "Six Forty Five."
Woman one: "enna six fofofof vaaa? enna thambi? ha ha haaa..."
Woman 2: "ha ha ha...."
Man in the seat behind me: "ha ha ha..."
Man in the seat in front of me: "ha ha ha..."
Conductor: "ha ha ha..."
In short, practically the whole bus went mad with laughter when I told the woman the time.
Well, I am not trying, now, to give an explanation for this, this phenomenon. I just thought it would be good that all of you know now that when asked the time on a bus in Trichy, just smile and nod. And if you have an explanation, email it to me at kc.hcyke@gmail.com.
Hell, where am I?
These and other thoughts ran through my mind as I sat on a bus to Chatram bus stand. I was going to buy textbooks. A harmless expedition. I tried to guess where we were by the stench outside. Thiruverumbur has sort of the smell of a thousand people who have never seen a deo in their lives, a very strong BO. As you go further, the stench changes to resemble a hundred year old compost pit in a state of pure putrefaction, highly toxic, hell, captain planet would've given up. And when this stench ends, you know you've reached the bus stand. And oh, yes, the bus stand. You would think that people forgot to build toilets in their houses- nature calls all of them to the bus stand, and they leave their offerings to mother earth in a puddle that could've made Noah anxious.
Oh, and where were we? Yes, I'm on the bus, when a couple of women board carrying four huge bags filled with vegetables and the like. They walk straight at me and hand me one bag and say something in rapid tamil. I nodded and smiled and held on to the bag. A few moments later:
Woman 1: "mani enna thambi?"(what's the time, little brother?)
me: "Six Forty Five."
Woman one: "enna six fofofof vaaa? enna thambi? ha ha haaa..."
Woman 2: "ha ha ha...."
Man in the seat behind me: "ha ha ha..."
Man in the seat in front of me: "ha ha ha..."
Conductor: "ha ha ha..."
In short, practically the whole bus went mad with laughter when I told the woman the time.
Well, I am not trying, now, to give an explanation for this, this phenomenon. I just thought it would be good that all of you know now that when asked the time on a bus in Trichy, just smile and nod. And if you have an explanation, email it to me at kc.hcyke@gmail.com.
Hell, where am I?
Disillusioned resolution...
It's 2008 finally. I had been given a clear heads up about the coming ocassion by the constant chiming of my cellphone, about a dozen e-cards, a couple of refreshing, actually personal, e-mails, and of course a scrap from each orkut contact which said "click to send scrap to entire friends list" in big, bold letters and "wish you a happy and prosperous new year" in tiny, undecipherable hieroglyphics.
I spent a major amount of the festive week from christmas to new year under two, sometimes three blankets as Delhi temperature hit the lowest recorded in the last six years. I would get up once in three or four hours to eat and charge my laptop before I would curl up again. So, all in all, the whole week was was pretty uneventful. I passed my time playing NBAlive, listening to music and watching tv.
And thank god for good tv. Typically, I would wake up at 7:30 am (pretty early, huh?) and switch on the tv. My day would start with 'Rodney' and 'Hope and Faith' on Star world. Though these can never hope to achieve the success of Seinfeld or Friends, they're pretty good to just pass time. Later, I'd watch EPL highlights on ESPN, followed by certain other stuff, followed by certain other stuff...
About six or seven hours of tv, and I'm worn out. I switch on the computer and browse through arbit stuff. Listen to the radio, watch some videos, and so on and so on.
But the highlight of the whole week was the 31st of December. I went to watch 'Taare Zameen Par" with my family. Though the journey was chilling, the theatre was warm and the movie was excellent. A thorough recommendation. We had a new year's eve feast of shawarma, chicken legs, chilly paneer and lots of chocolate ice cream. I skipped the booze:P
And because of the totally shitty stuf they were showing on tv on new year's eve, I slept off at the stroke of midnight.
So ended 2007.
I sign off now, hoping that 2008 would be a renaissance for all the lackadaisical, shabby, overweight(only slightly:D) people like me, so that we wake up into a year of determination, spirtit and constant hard work.
Hah! January fool!!!
I spent a major amount of the festive week from christmas to new year under two, sometimes three blankets as Delhi temperature hit the lowest recorded in the last six years. I would get up once in three or four hours to eat and charge my laptop before I would curl up again. So, all in all, the whole week was was pretty uneventful. I passed my time playing NBAlive, listening to music and watching tv.
And thank god for good tv. Typically, I would wake up at 7:30 am (pretty early, huh?) and switch on the tv. My day would start with 'Rodney' and 'Hope and Faith' on Star world. Though these can never hope to achieve the success of Seinfeld or Friends, they're pretty good to just pass time. Later, I'd watch EPL highlights on ESPN, followed by certain other stuff, followed by certain other stuff...
About six or seven hours of tv, and I'm worn out. I switch on the computer and browse through arbit stuff. Listen to the radio, watch some videos, and so on and so on.
But the highlight of the whole week was the 31st of December. I went to watch 'Taare Zameen Par" with my family. Though the journey was chilling, the theatre was warm and the movie was excellent. A thorough recommendation. We had a new year's eve feast of shawarma, chicken legs, chilly paneer and lots of chocolate ice cream. I skipped the booze:P
And because of the totally shitty stuf they were showing on tv on new year's eve, I slept off at the stroke of midnight.
So ended 2007.
I sign off now, hoping that 2008 would be a renaissance for all the lackadaisical, shabby, overweight(only slightly:D) people like me, so that we wake up into a year of determination, spirtit and constant hard work.
Hah! January fool!!!
The tape's not so red any more...
Well, we all blame the tight red tape wound around any government office, but I had it untied at some places to get my learners’ license made today.
The guy I know, or rather my mum does, came beaming towards me as soon as I got to the place. He took care of all the discrepancies in my application form, and gave me a few dry runs at the ‘test’ you have to take to get the license. After doing it about three times, the questions started repeating themselves; in seven tries I told him that I was ready for the real thing.
Two minutes and a whopping Rs410 later, I had my license. But 400 bucks is a lot. Inflation, they say these days. What the hell are the economists and politicians and stuff doing? We engineers are doing our jobs pretty well. At least, I am. Or at least I think I am after starting that project. Hell I feel proud of myself. I found a path. It is, I admit, long and winding, but a road is a road.
This has never happened to me before. I mean I never wrote arbit stuff like this. Maybe I’m catching the blogging fever. Or whatever the hell they call it. It’s sort of addictive. But hey, I can brag about being an addict now and make that an excuse to stay shabby. ‘Cos baby, shabby is the way to be… uh huh…
The guy I know, or rather my mum does, came beaming towards me as soon as I got to the place. He took care of all the discrepancies in my application form, and gave me a few dry runs at the ‘test’ you have to take to get the license. After doing it about three times, the questions started repeating themselves; in seven tries I told him that I was ready for the real thing.
Two minutes and a whopping Rs410 later, I had my license. But 400 bucks is a lot. Inflation, they say these days. What the hell are the economists and politicians and stuff doing? We engineers are doing our jobs pretty well. At least, I am. Or at least I think I am after starting that project. Hell I feel proud of myself. I found a path. It is, I admit, long and winding, but a road is a road.
This has never happened to me before. I mean I never wrote arbit stuff like this. Maybe I’m catching the blogging fever. Or whatever the hell they call it. It’s sort of addictive. But hey, I can brag about being an addict now and make that an excuse to stay shabby. ‘Cos baby, shabby is the way to be… uh huh…
When in train do as train-people do...
Let’s get the facts right, here. I’m sitting in a train bound to Trivandrum. I boarded at Trichy. Seat number 4 in compartment B1. I get into the train. Reach my seat. And a minute later a lady arrives with two kids. They have a huge, huge suitcase. They smile at me, a very sly smile. Very funny creatures, human beings. A smile can mean so many things. I can think of a few right now:
The Genuinely amused smile.
The Sympathising-at-a-weak-joke smile.
The wicked smile.
The Understanding-nod-of-the-head smile.
The Pleased-to-meet-you-not-really-smile.
The hi-I-could-use-some-help-here-smile.
The I-don’t-understand-but-can’t-look stupid-smile.
The… well that’s all I can think of right now.
Where was I? Yes, the lady gave me a sly smile. It was category 6. Glorious Indian tradition left me duty bound to help those who seek my help. And good natured at heart, I naturally oblige. Unfortunately the suitcase wouldn’t fit under the seat, and it had to stand where in natural conditions someone would place their legs. And ironically, that someone turned out to be me. So it was settled. I would have to have a suitcase testing me for knee jerk reflex each time the train jolted. At least they’d get off at Madurai, a three hour journey.
So I resigned myself to ‘The Godfather’.
Amerigo Bonasera’s daughter was beaten to pulp when,
Lady: “Thambi, per enna?” (What’s your name?)
Me: “er… Krishna, but sorry, tamil theriyadu” (er… Krishna, but sorry, I don’t speak
Tamil)
Lady: “oh… ok.”
It’s Connie Corleone’s wedding, and her brother Sonny is checking out the bridesmaid, and suddenly,
Lady: “where… studying?”
Me: “REC, Trichy.”
Lady: “And where going?”
Me: “Trivandrum.”
Lady: “ok,ok…”
Luca Brasi is giving the Godfather his gift,
Lady: “we live in Singapore.”
Me: “oh, you came here for a holiday?”
Lady: “No, no. kids are having vacations, so we come.”
Me: (smile 4) “ok…”
So, many pages of brilliant description, powerful character sketches, intricate plot, inquisitive queries and monosyllabic replies later, Madurai arrived. Oh yes, and so did the smile 6 that I anticipated. I half pushed and half fell over the suitcase and got it to the door. They got off.
Lady: “Thank you so much.”
Me: “oh, you’re welcome, no problem.”
Lady: (to kids) “say thank you to anna.”
Kids: “Thank you anna.” (anna means elder brother).
Me: “You’re welcome.”
At last the train leaves. And I resign myself to my book again. It’s funny, though, that now they’ve left, I slowly lose interest in the book (no offence, Mr Puzo, you’re one heck of a man). I mean it’s no longer a challenge. The plot is progressing very smoothly, no breaks, no interruptions (by the way, the people who took their places were gems. Just gave me a smile 5 and kept to themselves), so strangely I lost the will to read. I gave up the fight after 220 pages and took out my laptop.
I observed that now the number of people staring at me increased by a factor of ten. Annas selling coffee paused to have a peek. Kids travelled from places as far as seat 59 to look at the modern wonder. Passers by stopped to look. Some even smiled. The guy in the bunk above is, as I type, sticking his head out and oscillating his frame of vision between the laptop and my guitar.
I’m feeling very insecure now, with all this staring.
Have-to-stop-turn off-laptop…
But first, think about this. If I were in some place other than Tamil Nadu or other rural regions of our beautiful country, I would still be typing away at leisure. Why is this?
Well, as someone very correctly put it, “We are like this only…”
The Genuinely amused smile.
The Sympathising-at-a-weak-joke smile.
The wicked smile.
The Understanding-nod-of-the-head smile.
The Pleased-to-meet-you-not-really-smile.
The hi-I-could-use-some-help-here-smile.
The I-don’t-understand-but-can’t-look stupid-smile.
The… well that’s all I can think of right now.
Where was I? Yes, the lady gave me a sly smile. It was category 6. Glorious Indian tradition left me duty bound to help those who seek my help. And good natured at heart, I naturally oblige. Unfortunately the suitcase wouldn’t fit under the seat, and it had to stand where in natural conditions someone would place their legs. And ironically, that someone turned out to be me. So it was settled. I would have to have a suitcase testing me for knee jerk reflex each time the train jolted. At least they’d get off at Madurai, a three hour journey.
So I resigned myself to ‘The Godfather’.
Amerigo Bonasera’s daughter was beaten to pulp when,
Lady: “Thambi, per enna?” (What’s your name?)
Me: “er… Krishna, but sorry, tamil theriyadu” (er… Krishna, but sorry, I don’t speak
Tamil)
Lady: “oh… ok.”
It’s Connie Corleone’s wedding, and her brother Sonny is checking out the bridesmaid, and suddenly,
Lady: “where… studying?”
Me: “REC, Trichy.”
Lady: “And where going?”
Me: “Trivandrum.”
Lady: “ok,ok…”
Luca Brasi is giving the Godfather his gift,
Lady: “we live in Singapore.”
Me: “oh, you came here for a holiday?”
Lady: “No, no. kids are having vacations, so we come.”
Me: (smile 4) “ok…”
So, many pages of brilliant description, powerful character sketches, intricate plot, inquisitive queries and monosyllabic replies later, Madurai arrived. Oh yes, and so did the smile 6 that I anticipated. I half pushed and half fell over the suitcase and got it to the door. They got off.
Lady: “Thank you so much.”
Me: “oh, you’re welcome, no problem.”
Lady: (to kids) “say thank you to anna.”
Kids: “Thank you anna.” (anna means elder brother).
Me: “You’re welcome.”
At last the train leaves. And I resign myself to my book again. It’s funny, though, that now they’ve left, I slowly lose interest in the book (no offence, Mr Puzo, you’re one heck of a man). I mean it’s no longer a challenge. The plot is progressing very smoothly, no breaks, no interruptions (by the way, the people who took their places were gems. Just gave me a smile 5 and kept to themselves), so strangely I lost the will to read. I gave up the fight after 220 pages and took out my laptop.
I observed that now the number of people staring at me increased by a factor of ten. Annas selling coffee paused to have a peek. Kids travelled from places as far as seat 59 to look at the modern wonder. Passers by stopped to look. Some even smiled. The guy in the bunk above is, as I type, sticking his head out and oscillating his frame of vision between the laptop and my guitar.
I’m feeling very insecure now, with all this staring.
Have-to-stop-turn off-laptop…
But first, think about this. If I were in some place other than Tamil Nadu or other rural regions of our beautiful country, I would still be typing away at leisure. Why is this?
Well, as someone very correctly put it, “We are like this only…”
An early sunrise, and one big download later...
Time: 6:30 am.
Location: I-lab.
Feeling terribly bored. Waiting for a download to finish. Surprisingly, it's my first non-non-educational download, and I have to wake up at this unearthly hour for it. It is the latest edition of altera's nios II prcessor development tool. But, chuck, what do you know?
And as I sit alone here in the peace, solitude and stuffiness, I think about a lot of things.
Like finally going home today. Yup. That's right. twenty two friggin days I spent here, in this hole of a place, killing time watching friends and movies( some info withheld here, hey! It's my private life), writing abstract poetry (The extravagant adventures of a hopeless middle aged romantic- three episodes, Check out the previous posts), taking stupid tests(the previous post), and lying in bed and planning the future(not April first yet, but thought I'd try!).
And now I'm going home. Home to Delhi. Home to non-insect-infested food. Home to a soft mattress and fluffy pillows. Home to... well, all the good things in life.
But as I plan out the next twenty odd days- dividing my time equally between KFC, Dominoes and McDonalds, and, yes, my favourite kebab and tandoori place, Al-qusar or something it's called- I am overcome by a very strange feeling. In case you were wondering how the Oracle felt when Smith poked two fingers into her arm(and arm does not, I repeat does not mean anything else in Trichy slang) call me now. I feel very infinitesimally sorry to leave this place. There, I said it. Yes, yes, I know. Call me a wuss or something. I don't care. I'll miss here, so what?
I'll miss the stench in my room, the meticulously created mess on my table. I'll miss sitting up through the night playing WoW( after they banned the I-lab after hours, I activated GPRS...Hah), downloading shit at the I-lab for free, after the long wait for the rapidshare link to get activated, making fun of matkas, eating at bamboos and azeez every night, watching scores of movies just for the sake of it, getting fried in the tronics lab, hey, I take that back. I'll miss having a maa from the bru at two in the morning and waking up at two in the afternoon.
But most of all, I'll miss my friends. Yup. Go on. I am a wuss. But the fact is, I'll miss being with all these people, their Chandler-inspired punchlines, their equally stinky and messy rooms, their company in CS and WoW and their idiosyncrasies that make them who they are.
Well, i've told you all about my thoughts and feelings, and now my download is done. Hey thanks for keeping me company at this ungodly hour. Claim your reward on 6th January at 12:30 am, I'll be at Bru.
And fyi, I wasn't bluffing about the educational nature of this download, after all, okcupid says I'm a nerd...
Location: I-lab.
Feeling terribly bored. Waiting for a download to finish. Surprisingly, it's my first non-non-educational download, and I have to wake up at this unearthly hour for it. It is the latest edition of altera's nios II prcessor development tool. But, chuck, what do you know?
And as I sit alone here in the peace, solitude and stuffiness, I think about a lot of things.
Like finally going home today. Yup. That's right. twenty two friggin days I spent here, in this hole of a place, killing time watching friends and movies( some info withheld here, hey! It's my private life), writing abstract poetry (The extravagant adventures of a hopeless middle aged romantic- three episodes, Check out the previous posts), taking stupid tests(the previous post), and lying in bed and planning the future(not April first yet, but thought I'd try!).
And now I'm going home. Home to Delhi. Home to non-insect-infested food. Home to a soft mattress and fluffy pillows. Home to... well, all the good things in life.
But as I plan out the next twenty odd days- dividing my time equally between KFC, Dominoes and McDonalds, and, yes, my favourite kebab and tandoori place, Al-qusar or something it's called- I am overcome by a very strange feeling. In case you were wondering how the Oracle felt when Smith poked two fingers into her arm(and arm does not, I repeat does not mean anything else in Trichy slang) call me now. I feel very infinitesimally sorry to leave this place. There, I said it. Yes, yes, I know. Call me a wuss or something. I don't care. I'll miss here, so what?
I'll miss the stench in my room, the meticulously created mess on my table. I'll miss sitting up through the night playing WoW( after they banned the I-lab after hours, I activated GPRS...Hah), downloading shit at the I-lab for free, after the long wait for the rapidshare link to get activated, making fun of matkas, eating at bamboos and azeez every night, watching scores of movies just for the sake of it, getting fried in the tronics lab, hey, I take that back. I'll miss having a maa from the bru at two in the morning and waking up at two in the afternoon.
But most of all, I'll miss my friends. Yup. Go on. I am a wuss. But the fact is, I'll miss being with all these people, their Chandler-inspired punchlines, their equally stinky and messy rooms, their company in CS and WoW and their idiosyncrasies that make them who they are.
Well, i've told you all about my thoughts and feelings, and now my download is done. Hey thanks for keeping me company at this ungodly hour. Claim your reward on 6th January at 12:30 am, I'll be at Bru.
And fyi, I wasn't bluffing about the educational nature of this download, after all, okcupid says I'm a nerd...
Hello...Hello.. Testing please...Check...Check...
I've been feeling quite depressed lately. And very agitated. I get provoked at the most trivial things.
My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
I was browsing around aimlessly, when I found the link to a test on www.okcupid.com.
It's called the 'How you would commit murder test'.
I took it.
Turns out, you guys should stay away from me....
Here's the result:
You are a victim to your animal instincts. When you get angry, you lose control. If you were to murder someone, it would probably be after a heated confrontation. You'd get so furious that your only aim would be to cause the other person pain. And how would you do that? You'd reach out your arms and strangle them to death. Slow, painful and ugly.
You scored higher than 24% on Composure
You scored higher than 19% on Style
You scored higher than 10% on Intelligence
So, whaddaya say? Friends for life??:-p
And while I was at the testing thing.... I took one more....
The 'Who you would be in 1400' test...
Surprisingly... I'm the Cardinal... Result:
The Who Would You Be in 1400 AD Test
Your Score: The Cardinal
You scored 71% Cardinal, 30% Monk, 20% Lady, and 32% Knight!
You are the real power behind the throne. No one dares dispute or refuse you. Which is good because that's how you get things done. You are also, however, completely corrupt and highly immoral. This doesn't bother you in the least as you lounge around your rich comfortable surroundings, reveling in wealth and authority.
You scored higher than 99% on Cardinal
You scored higher than 99% on Monk
You scored higher than 99% on Lady
You scored higher than 99% on Knight
You know you've been Trichy-fied when...
1. You give a flower sporting, saree-clad specimen another look.
2. You concentrate hard on the conversation two fat guys in lungis are having in the seat behind you.
3. Your eyes search for a sambar-rasam-sadam combination on any menu card.
4. You experience the urge to communicate in a strange new language.(Research has shown that this is a unique combination of Tamil, English, Hindi, Malayalam and also Japanese. Research has also shown that NITT grads have inadvertently mastered the language).
5. You think 'da' means 'full-stop' daaa
6.You eat a 'pizza' at icy.
7. You listen to 'Nethu Rathiri' blaring out of 'Bose' Speakers in the local bus. And enjoy.
8. You travel to chennai more often than you take a bath.
9. Body parts other than your mouth and your eyes start watering after a sumtuous pongal-vada breakfast.
10.Your resume reads bovinology as an area of special interest.
11. you can name 25 types of chutneys. And tell with proper reasons which tastes best with dosas.
12. You think that the world is divided into 'annas' and 'akkas' with the ocassional 'thambi' in between.
13.You pulverize anyone who refers to 'ettukal poochi manidhan as spiderman.
14 All your friends are called GMC, BBC, VH1, VH2, DVD and WTC.
15. You think that Baskin Robbins is a living person.
-Perv and Ulti Khopdi.
The Myth of the Elements.
(The script for our department's prize winning show, 'Elements', at an inter department cultural fest in our college. Excuse us if some lines remind you of Galadriel.)
Prelude
The world has changed, I feel it in the water,I feel it in the earth, I smell it in the air.
Much that once was is lost for few live now who remember it. But the myth has lived through the ages, the myth of the elements.
God created the 4 elements-fire, water, wind, earth, and bestowed upon them the power to control the world, but only if they worked together, in harmony. Even man, with all his technological advancements, depends on the elements for his sustenance. For God knew, the creature man would try with his insatiable thirst, and talent for technology to take over these elements.
Everything God created, yin/yang, black/white, life/death, all were meant to have perfect crystal symmetry, perfect balance, sweet harmony.
That was the way it was, with the elements...
_________________
Harmony
Water
Man has, and always will, revere the purity and sanctity of sacred water, that has ebbed and flown along with civilization, forever keeping man afloat.
Wind
Fickle wind, now sweet and mellow, then gusty and powerful, and back again, but forever will remain a symbol of strength and power.
Earth
The circle of life of man begins from and ends with mother earth. We are born from it, and we shall die into it. Mother earth, ever a symbol of support and sustenance, caters to the needs of humankind.
Fire
Dancing flames, ever a symbol of warmth and protection, yet hiding unspeakable power, was, still is, and would be worshipped for generations.
_________________
Anomaly
It is but a dream that this harmony would exist forever. But as fate would have it, an anomaly presents itself to disturb this magical symmetry, in the form of a steadfast, but stubbornly misdirected soul. He takes it upon himself to bring the 4 elements under his control. He knew, it at all there was a way, the only way to do that was through vigorous penance.
_________________
Thou shalt bow to me
Slowly but surely, fire and water surrendered their powers to his irresistible will, for such was the power of his penance.
He was powerful by now, with the elements fire and water by his side.
But he was still thirsty, and it was a only a matter of time before earth and wind succumbed.
_________________
Ode to Destruction
Volcano
Blazing fire, igniting the skies,
The dormant beast awakened,
Burning, uprooting, leaving all,
In a wreath of fire emblazoned.
Earthquake
The earth beneath cleaved in half,
A wave of fear, a tremor,
Destruction, despair, no soul is spared,
From the wrath of this seismic terror.
Tsunami
From the depths of Poseidon's watery stronghold,
A spear of death was hurled,
Hissing, spitting, tidal fangs,
Sorrow on millions unfurled.
Tornado
Murderous monster, spitefully swirling,
A whirlwind of venomous vice,
Gripping, twisting, turning at will,
No stopping this devilish device.
Walk to their death?
Realizing their helplessness, the elements desperately try one by one to win back their lost freedom. But even the powerful elements had to bow down to his superior will. Try as they might the elements could do nothing to penetrate his black aura.
Fire..
Water..
Wind..
Earth.. they all fall..
The revolution (final fight)
And then there was a light in the sky, a sign from the heavens for the elements to unite and bring down the tyrant in one final fight for their forsaken freedoms.
The sound of a thunderbolt reverberated through the universe, the flash of lightning blinded all, and it was done. The mighty tormentor had fallen, drained of all his powers, he lay on the ground, from ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Another little something...
Insomniac.
Heavy eyes, drooping shoulders, shabbily clad, I pass the morning hours like a ghost. Counting each hour as it passes by, I wait impatiently for the night, every minute hoping that tonight would be ‘the’ night that I finally realise that wondrous moment when I finally fall into the blissful state of complete relaxation and ignorance, of heavenly joy, of sleep.
I am an insomniac. Every night for as many as I can remember, I have been teetering on the edge of euphoric semi-consciousness only to be prematurely awakened from the dream by a cold sweat. Every night I squirm around in my bed trying to shake off the skeletons in my head, disturbing my peace. But before all this, this evil kaleidoscope of misery, there was a time, like the little ray of hope in Pandora’s Box, when I could rest, sleep when I was tired, and wake up when I was refreshed. Those days are long gone, but the light in them percolates through the dark cobwebs of my consciousness, showering a little joy and hope into an otherwise futile existence.
We all take sleep for granted. The clichéd “nights before the exams”, the inevitable nights wasted away trying to copy down the multitudes of pages of an assignment that helps “develop interest” in the subject, have all made humungous contributions towards making me and a lot of other people living dead that we are now. And the future does not hold a lot of promise for our lot.
There is absolutely no escaping it. Let’s face it, assignments have to be submitted, tests have to be written. We cannot revolt against the system, which many believe to be very sound. All we can do is wait for the messiah to come and sing an irresistible lullaby to us and put us to a long awaited and extremely well deserved repose.
Till then I remain a figment of Enrique Iglesias’s imagination. I remain an insomniac.
Losing my Festiginity
(The cumulative effort of the lowly second years of Writers' Circle of NIT, Trichy. This may have been our big break!)
I wake up. I brush. I eat. I sleep. Then i go home during Festember. I was just some arbit frustoo who went to Bamboos once a month and had five square parathas and a PBM. But everything changed this time. The darn train reservation wasn't confirment and i was stuck here, just me and the other frustoos without rail reservations. Ofcourse, we found a better way to describe our position. We thought we're really smarter ones since staying here was rebelling against the fickle minded flock that flew north every winter, autmn rather. So we called ourselves the pirates. We went to Chatram to get eye patches but they'd run out of them, so we grew our hair long enough to cover our eyes. We rented an air conditioned old vessel where we took an oath of secrecy through the ip messenger and called ourselves the Writers Circle/ Media Team. And so I lost my Festiginity.
So here it was, Festember '07. Now you'd imagine what mood has been associated with that statement. Do i sound excited? Or nonchalant? Well i haven't the faintest idea, partly because i read last year's newsletter brought out by the WC. That's what this society (read: evil brotherhood) does to you, it takes all the fun out of life. Reading artciles like wake me after Festember ends' don't exactly gear you up for the Fest you're supposed to remember. Frankly speaking, this Festember wasn't very different from the image portrayed by those who had the courage to brave it to the last time around. Definitely, a few events like Power Cut and ChoreoNite were worth watching, but a large portion of the crowd was rather interested in the food stalls. So was I. When i was not devouring the pizzas, i was locked up in Cad lad preparing reports and articles for pirate radio.
I gained a lot, mind you. Three days of fun, frolic, festivity and Iced Eskimos. And it was fulfilling. Am i getting obsessed with the F? But in its varied meanings and diverse views, the F met the K, not one mind you, but two. And that really enthralled the enraptured audience. Yup, the memories of Festember will remain ingrained in my mind forever, or atleast as long as the flavors of the Triple Bar Sundae and the Cool Blue of CCD do. As i look back down the road of drifting memories, conflicting emotions and suppressed nausea, the vivid images of my screaming, red and grey coloured hair, my white painted face, the voices of the radio- jockey- from -Bangaluru- who- assures- that- radio- is no- match- for- TV (which ofcourse is no match to print), the magic of the creative fire lit by the arts exhibition, the lits events which got our rusting grey cells working, our never- quenching thirst for more and more of DT numbers, stays on. Phew! And thus i move on experiencing over and over again the epitome of joy, entwined in a swirl of creativity... and waiting for the next fest to arrive...
By- The Triumphant Perv with an Ulti Khopdi who has a Beautiful Mind that spurts Lava.
Now Walk the Walk…
(A little something I wrote for the college magazine.)
“Dude, this sem I’m going to study regularly and become a nine pointer”, proclaims our hero, all of a sudden, on a warm night, up on the hostel roof. “What’s up with you, man? You aren’t even high! All of a sudden, this?” Our hero has a little smile on his lips and an enlightened illumination in his eyes. “No dude, I’m serious. I’m perfectly capable of getting even a ten if I study hard enough. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go and study for next week’s cycle tests now. Catch up later.”
Ten minutes later, the friend finds our hero in his room, all lights out except for a table lamp, Floyd playing out loud, asleep peacefully, dribbling all over his textbook. This classic ambience inspires the friend, and he suddenly walks out of the room as if struck by lightning, with a brilliant idea in his foggy, alcohol soaked brain.
Now the friend, our new hero, can strum a few chords on his guitar. So he goes to his room, grabs his guitar and sets off to find another of his friends who has a beautiful singing voice (self proclaimed, of course). He finds him lying face down on the floor of his room, which was reeking of cigarette smoke and cheap vodka. He wakes him up. “Dude, dude, get up. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Wha..”
“I can play six Floyd songs, a Metallica solo, and two Green Day songs. That’s nine songs. You can sing along. We can start a two man band; make videos, even concerts on the roof…”
The high friend, wide awake by now, laps it all up.
“Great idea dude, we can post the videos on YouTube… dude, we’ll become famous.”
“I’ll make all the arrangements and we’ll meet up tomorrow to practice. Later.”
Our high friend wakes up the next morning with a hangover and a very empty stomach. He finds his way to the mess, only to find that it had run out of food. He grabs a cup of tea and finds an empty seat next to a guy whom he vaguely recognised from somewhere.
“Hi”, says the vaguely familiar guy.
“Hey…”
“So, don’t see you in class too often.”
“Yeah.”
“You know you’re low on attendance, right?”
“Yeah.”
They go on like this through till his cup of tea runs dry, with our alcoholic friend replying in monosyllables. Then just before they part ways, the vaguely familiar guy says, “Hey, you heard about the totally cool techfest that’s happening next month? I’m planning to make a robot for it. It’s tough, but I’ll manage it. See you later.”
As soon as our man hears ‘Robot’, his brain does a backflip. If that nerd guy could make a robot so could he. It’d be really awesome, him and his robot, winning, and more importantly, becoming famous.
So he picks up his pen drive, goes to the internet lab and downloads a dozen e-books on making robots. He’s about to leave when someone suggests a few quick rounds of counter-strike.
Twelve hours later, its terrorists-541, counter-terrorists-540, with enough intensity in the game to last for twelve more. So much for the robot…
This cycle, of planning great things and achieving close to nothing, repeats itself. It has been clichéd that nothing turns out the way it was planned. Whatever groundbreaking feats we dream of realising, we remain nothing more than fickle minded college students, acting on pure instinct. If things don’t work out, always remember Pink Floyd-
“The grass was greener,
The light was brighter…”
“Dude, this sem I’m going to study regularly and become a nine pointer”, proclaims our hero, all of a sudden, on a warm night, up on the hostel roof. “What’s up with you, man? You aren’t even high! All of a sudden, this?” Our hero has a little smile on his lips and an enlightened illumination in his eyes. “No dude, I’m serious. I’m perfectly capable of getting even a ten if I study hard enough. Speaking of which, I’ve got to go and study for next week’s cycle tests now. Catch up later.”
Ten minutes later, the friend finds our hero in his room, all lights out except for a table lamp, Floyd playing out loud, asleep peacefully, dribbling all over his textbook. This classic ambience inspires the friend, and he suddenly walks out of the room as if struck by lightning, with a brilliant idea in his foggy, alcohol soaked brain.
Now the friend, our new hero, can strum a few chords on his guitar. So he goes to his room, grabs his guitar and sets off to find another of his friends who has a beautiful singing voice (self proclaimed, of course). He finds him lying face down on the floor of his room, which was reeking of cigarette smoke and cheap vodka. He wakes him up. “Dude, dude, get up. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Wha..”
“I can play six Floyd songs, a Metallica solo, and two Green Day songs. That’s nine songs. You can sing along. We can start a two man band; make videos, even concerts on the roof…”
The high friend, wide awake by now, laps it all up.
“Great idea dude, we can post the videos on YouTube… dude, we’ll become famous.”
“I’ll make all the arrangements and we’ll meet up tomorrow to practice. Later.”
Our high friend wakes up the next morning with a hangover and a very empty stomach. He finds his way to the mess, only to find that it had run out of food. He grabs a cup of tea and finds an empty seat next to a guy whom he vaguely recognised from somewhere.
“Hi”, says the vaguely familiar guy.
“Hey…”
“So, don’t see you in class too often.”
“Yeah.”
“You know you’re low on attendance, right?”
“Yeah.”
They go on like this through till his cup of tea runs dry, with our alcoholic friend replying in monosyllables. Then just before they part ways, the vaguely familiar guy says, “Hey, you heard about the totally cool techfest that’s happening next month? I’m planning to make a robot for it. It’s tough, but I’ll manage it. See you later.”
As soon as our man hears ‘Robot’, his brain does a backflip. If that nerd guy could make a robot so could he. It’d be really awesome, him and his robot, winning, and more importantly, becoming famous.
So he picks up his pen drive, goes to the internet lab and downloads a dozen e-books on making robots. He’s about to leave when someone suggests a few quick rounds of counter-strike.
Twelve hours later, its terrorists-541, counter-terrorists-540, with enough intensity in the game to last for twelve more. So much for the robot…
This cycle, of planning great things and achieving close to nothing, repeats itself. It has been clichéd that nothing turns out the way it was planned. Whatever groundbreaking feats we dream of realising, we remain nothing more than fickle minded college students, acting on pure instinct. If things don’t work out, always remember Pink Floyd-
“The grass was greener,
The light was brighter…”
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