Capital Gains

These are what you may call a few jottings based on experiences of a jobless wanderlust. You've been in India's Garden City for nearly two months. You've driven around in your little Scooty Pep for which you're very very thankful to your brother-in-law. (You assume the gratitude is kinda mutual here, since your brother-in-law initially didn't have an idea of what to make of that brown scooter lying idle when his second sedan strolled into the portico). You're interning in the same company he's working in. You're excited for the major part, but this is where you believe things can work both ways. You know he sets very high standards for himself, and you really don't want him to throw lego blocks at you looking at the way you write a for-loop (of course, on top of that there's this running gag that you faced technical glitches while compiling your very first Hello World C program. If he ever learns of that.....). You turn on the scooter head-lights on your way back home after what you tell them has been a very long, hard, taxing day at work. Of course, they believe you. And you believe them.

Never mind work. It's your usual run-of-the-mill C program, your normal bug which you can never spot at NTP and your usual gmail where the number of times you scour your chat list for punny statuses and possible gossip-mongers is bettered only by the number of occasions you frantically turn around to ascertain the presence of unnecessary surveillance. You're glad it's not C++ because those damn pointers coupled with shapely objects and their incomprehensible behaviour is precisely what you wouldn't want to be working on. And of course, there's your group-mate, who shudders every time you remind him that you're in the project only to provide him moral support. You don't talk too much about work with your peers in the company, or your friends in other stations. To the former, you keep your project description as high profile as possible. To the latter, well, all that delving into company policy and confidentiality paints their faces with perplexity and irritation, while bringing a smirk onto yours.

Okay, so I take the vehicle on a drive every now and then, amidst the frenzy of Bangalore roads. You've to hand it to these motorcyclists and autowalas. The way these people use up road space, leaving hardly an inch between vehicles would leave the conceivers of the simplex optimization method speechless. Sure, your Dijkstra's shortest path algorithm would be rendered ineffective in such cases of jam-packed roads, but this is practical optimization at its best. Autos can squeeze their way through into the smallest available niche and get out without as much as a scratch. You observe. You learn. But you can't implement. You're no expert. Amidst all this hullabaloo, spare a thought for officers stuck with traffic as long as they're employed. Hapless traffic policemen.

Bangalore roads remind you of your strengths. I realize I have an excellent spinal cord that takes a mere 176th of a second to spot and react reflexively to a cleverly concealed speed breaker. You get worldly wise when a few rare autowalas drop you at precisely 200m from the location you asked him to at the beginning of the ride. See, he intends you to do a bit of map-reading (women - don't bother, he'll drop you where you want. Autowalas have read the book too ;) ), and figure your way out. If you're a guy and end up asking for directions to your destination after getting dropped, the joke's on you, sorry. Plus if you're slightly on the plumper side, autowalas have that fair bit of human concern and drop you, well, close to a few meters from your destination. And well, you think for a while, and realize you've mostly never been dropped where you've wanted to be ;) That explains the couple of maps you always carry around.

Like a lot of people, you enjoy the company of books. You remember your visit to this place called Blossoms in Brigade Road (for more than one reason) where you're a spectator to optimal techniques for book placement. Only, these people at Blossoms have taken it a touch too far. They assume humans can walk upwards on walls as well, and populate the whole room with books right up to the ceiling. Of course, there's a ladder, but finding it won't be all that easy given the space. Rather, the lack of it. And yes, there's this Crosswords outlet somewhere near 80 feet road where big books can be put to really good use (apart from reading). Erm, what I mean is short folks can reach the higher racks using these books as erm, props. The price of books is well on the higher side, but when you can sit down and read for however long you wish, that's not going to be an issue.

And yes, to illustrate why Bangalore's the in-place for technology, fare-meters in Bangalore autos pride themselves on their artificial intelligence capability. They function under er, natural intelligence until their built-in sundial indicates absence of solar rays. That's when the crisply written O(n) Java program takes over, does a few really awesome calculations, and returns original fare x kappa x phi (Kappa's your automatic factor and depends on that sundial thing. It's a complicated mechanism. And so much has been talked about the golden ratio lately...you now know why). For the sake of understanding of the non-academic, you'll find your fare can increment itself by up to well, 100%. If you're looking for cheaper means of transport, you always have these BMTC buses on which all routes are marked invariably in Kannada. You might learn a little something here if, inspired by your ignorance, you pay enough attention to the Learn Kannada in 21 days series of books. You don't know Kannada. But your Hindi is good enough to get you around. So you ask the BMTC bus conductor. He nods sagely.

Now, all the flip sides. You own a cell phone. And an Airtel prepaid mobile connection. It's decent. No worries about losing connectivity when you take a sudden unexpected trip to Bechuanaland. But what you can't take, is those damn automated callers enquiring after your state of unrest and announcing 'Hot Caller Tunes and Ringtones' at a monthly rental 8 times a day. Nevertheless, I take this opportunity to thank everyone who advised me against going for a Vodafone connection. When those buggers find out that you've hung up on yet another of their half-an-hourly customer calls (which to the disgust of many, begin with a female voice booming "Namaskaaraha!" followed by an extract from #include "KannadaSwearWords.h"), they're kind enough to make up for loss of conveyed information by way of a prompt SMS. Airtel's a boon considering this. They call me up from four different numbers which I've named as Don't Pick Up, Dont Pick Up, Don't Pickup and Dont Pickup. So much trouble to just cut the damn phone call.

Plenty of malls here. They overflow with upper-class fashion statements. You don't hear many vernacular languages being spoken. Kids scream for chocolates and fancy toys only in English. Their moms tell them off for wanting exorbitant stuff, again in English. You see a dozen CCD outlets and other hangouts every hundred meters. You can't make out if they're filled to capacity, but you're sure they are for wherever there's an Adam Iamcoolix, there's Eve Vitalstatistix as well. You observe them. You ponder. Back in your village, you're used to Adam Boreman, Adam Smalltalk and Adam Shutimup (no idea where the Eves Absenthemselves are) all huddling together in the corner of a potti-kadai (call it box-shop. No idea what you call those in English) proceeding to discuss panchayat tactics over tumblerfuls of kaapi. Here in the city these people don't talk about anything of utility. If anything, it usually retrogrades to the Who's-After-Who issues and the latest movie flicks. After experiences at both kinds of hangouts, I can tell you - there's no difference really, but for the anglicizing of kaapi to coffee, and the appending of zero(es) to your kaapi bill at Murugan tea-stall.

And oh yeah, almost forgot the vital statistics ;)

Credits: Code Composer Studio, for driving the nuts out of me and taking my mind off work a couple of hours back.

The Goo Goo Dolls

The scallywags. The cute pumpkins. The adorable rascals. The goons with twinkling eyes capped with pronounced eyebrows. The diminutive little beings who know when to smile so bystanders pamper them, whom to cane with cricket bats so that their beatings aren't returned with thanks, when to announce the occasion they want to take a leak or answer the longer call, how to make their grand-dads dance to the tune of the latest Bollywood hit, master the art of evading shrill calls from their moms, garner attention thanks to their inborn innocence (albeit feigned, at times), bring the house down with their 300db yells, psyche family-folk out making use of their inherent ubiquity, keep that smirk going on their faces even after a post-mischief thrashing, release all those pent-up feelings in a language none can make sense of, keep those rosy lips sealed, resistant to spoonfuls of baby-chow, jump right on the bellies of sleeping uncles and climb up their shoulder in a trice, get people howling by running into them on their tricycles, assume a sense of smugness while still chewing their thumb, incense their mothers by running around the household in their birthday suits, bark "Paakkadhey" ("Don't look at me!" in Tamizh) at interested spectators watching them er....do their daily duty into the diaper, hum tunes in parallel with sketching God-knows-what diagrams on paper and insisting they are a new species of elephant (this is when you get suspicious of him - you dont know if its the truth or he's caught on with the others and mimicking your frame), usher you away from the computer just when you've gotten online and expecting to bowl a few over with those wacky status messages (more on this later ;) ), make faces at your sis who's on webcam with you and take monopoly over the keyboard and mouse, ask pointedly for the pick and pull the strings of your guitar with such force you're reminded of stories you heard as a kid about Arjun wielding the Gandiva, throw probably everything they see (including junk food) right at your forehead (its a wonder, but baby boys never miss their mark), share the dining table with you and line up for the chapatis, take walks with you and remind you of those days you spent walking back in college - you notice their small strides and are reminded of someone particular, watch the "Love Thing" video like that's there was nothing better about Joe Sat than his Ibanez (his hairstyle finishes a close second in his perspective)...

Kids.

If his looks could kill, we'd all be six feet under by now. A first hand look at him will convince you that dictators needn't necessarily possess that intimidating mustache or an impeccable military uniform. No, not even that thunderous voice that sends shivers up the spine. He's small, sprightly, and never short of energy. He addresses everyone by their first names. His prattles light up the place and you marvel at his attempts to string words together. He’s a package you can’t help but love. He loves The Corrs and Joe Satriani. He’s your nephew after all.


Credits: Ragav, my nephew who turns three today.

None burning out, all fading away.

There are a few things I feel very strongly about. My club back in college, music and cricket would top that list. I figure each of my posts has always had something to do with music, so I guess writing about another of my interests is not a bad idea after all.

I’ve always been very taken with both forms of the game of cricket since ‘93, which was not uncommon in the places where I grew up. And of course, you can never keep me off any other form, be it T20 or Hong Kong Sixes – I am always in front of the TV even if Bermuda plays The United States! The earliest cricket match I remember watching on TV was the Hero Cup final between India and the West Indies at the Eden Gardens in ‘93 with Kumble coming up with a kind of magical one-day spell he hasn’t been able to better yet – 6/12.

This post is also a dedication to all those forgotten Indian players who did play the Gentleman’s game at one point of time or the other (as far as I remember seeing them play live). They either have themselves to blame for not being able to stay at the top tier, or as is the usual case, cricket politics has intervened and shattered what may have possibly become dream careers. But as I see it, politics is part of everything these days, so you gotta be prepared even if things don’t go your way. And you find that most people who’ve made a comeback have persevered – Hayden and Dravid are examples you can’t miss.

The list of forgotten cricketers begins with a certain Prashant Vaidya who I remember played a few ODIs against Pakistan in Sharjah. A lone memory of his stands out – Saeed Anwar and Aamir Sohail carting him through extra cover for three fours in an over. Another bowler, Salil Ankola figured he was better off acting than bowling (His role in the soap Kora Kagaz opposite Renuka Shahane elicited tears from many household women). In the same series, a middle order left-hand batsman called Atul Bedade who was picked following an excellent run with Baroda, made an impact but as usual, a string poor scores left him in the lurch. A gentleman named Raman Lamba who played a few years before Bedade unfortunately met with a fatal injury on the field – he paid with his life for choosing to stand at forward-short-leg without a protective helmet. He succumbed to a powerful blow on the forehead which killed him a few hours later. A promising Hyderabad off-spinner, Kanwaljit Singh was sidelined from the Indian team quoting agedness. Another quality off-spinner declined. Ajay Sharma, the Delhi player became more synonymous with match-fixing than cricket.

I am sure a lot of us remember Vinod Kambli and his massive double hundreds (224 and 227) versus England and Zimbabwe. A few fanatics would do well to recall his mammoth 664 run partnership with Sachin for Shardashram V St.Xaviers’ back in ’88. But I guess the most distinct memory we all shall probably never forget is a sobbing Kambli heading for the Eden Gardens pavilion with an angry and chaotic crowd booing him off, and the game being awarded to the Lankans. This was probably the poorest way to lose a World cup semi-final. Another promising left-hander never to be heard of after his first few ODIs was Amaya Khurasiya. He was touted to be a dashing leftie, and I remember him making a 46-ball 57 against an opposition my memory eludes me to recall.

Under Sachin’s captaincy, there were a few more such players. During India’s tour of the West Indies in ’96-97, when one of our players was declared unfit (or ruled out, don’t remember what; don’t remember who either) the Indian management sent a replacement in the form of Noel David. Apparently Sachin immediately texted a reply asking, “Who is Noel David?” I remember an ODI in that series where David captured 3/21, dismissing the Windies for 116. We won that game by 10 wickets. Let’s repeat that question now. Who is Noel David? The BCCI probably doesn’t know him now, and for all we know, couldn’t care less. Paras Mhambrey, who also made that trip to West Indies, is still around in the coaching circuit. India toured South Africa round-about the same time with a couple of new quicks from Karnataka – David Johnson and Doddanarasiah “Dodda” Ganesh. Injury forced Johnson out, and Ganesh played a few first class matches before drifting away into nothingness. I am not sure if he’s playing for Karnataka still. Vijay Bharadwaj who was branded an all-rounder had his fleeting moments of glory in South Africa before fading away, too. I recently heard he was part of a software company that focused on cricketing technology.

We’ve had a lot of test and ODI openers in the past – Vikram Rathore, Debang Gandhe, Gagan Khoda, Connor Williams, Sadagopan Ramesh, Sujith Somasundar and SS Das, all in a span of 5-6 years. With Ramesh doing a television programme on Star Vijay and SS Das playing the odd game for Orissa now and then (or does he?) the others are all forgotten heroes who made a huge impact in the local circuit. A successful middle-order batsman from Bombay, Jatin Paranjpe missed out on the opportunities given to him, as did Abhijit Kale, his teammate. Avishkar Salvi, again from Bombay, who had modeled his action after Glenn McGrath was never to be heard of after a Bangladesh series sometime in ''99-'00. What happened to Rohan Gavaskar, Jacob Martin and Mannava Sri Kanth Prasad who toured Australia in ’99? Forgotten. We’ve also had a problem with wicket-keepers – we’ve had MSK Prasad, Saba Karim (he’s still around on Aaj Tak), Vijay Dahiya, Sameer Dighe, Parthiv Patel (who seems to be having a decent run of late), Ajay Ratra and Deep Dasgupta (both of whom actually have a test century under their belts). Why didn’t anyone last? Deep Dasgupta grassed more catches in the England series in ’01-‘02 than the total number of tests he’s played. Vijay Dahiya and Ajay Ratra weren't efficient enough at No.7, Parthiv Patel was still a kid, Saba Karim and Sameer Dighe were at the other extreme, and no one knows what happened to old MSK. The quicks didn't go amiss either - Abey Kuruvilla, the lanky paceman made a feeble impact in the Caribbean, and we've also had Debashish Mohanty and Harvinder Singh opening the bowling once or twice in the Sahara Cup against Pakistan (late '90s). Running a few years back, offie Rajesh Chauhan once pulled off a magnificent six off Saqlain Mushtaq to win us an ODI, and does anyone recollect a cricketer walking along the shore singing a couplet in the famous "Mile Sur Mera Tumhara" video aired on DD so often? The man was Narendra Hirwani, whose 16/136 won us a test long long back. And more recently Nikhil Chopra who currently is part of the expert panel for some sports segment on TV had an ordinary record as off-spinner.

When India claimed the world record for the highest ever run chase (to be broken later, eventually) of 316/7, few Indian supporters would have believed that Hrushikesh Kanitkar who hit the winning runs would join the long list of forgotten heroes. Tinu Yohannan of Kerala who debuted against England had a memorable first session – in fact he scalped Trescothick in his very first international over. That reminds me of another left arm spinner Nilesh Kulkarni who made his very first ball in international cricket count for a wicket. He's gone too. His Bombay-team mate and leggie Sairaj Bahutule made a similar exit. And the last offie who played test cricket for India – Sarandeep Singh who had Michael Vaughan out handling the ball, has gone behind the veil as well. Thirunavukkarasu Kumaran, Sridharan Sriram and Hemang Badani of Tamil Nadu never made the impact that was expected of them in international cricket, but currently they seem to be happy enough with the ICL package they’ve been offered. Ashish Kapoor of the same team was part of the ’96 world cup squad, but exited sometime later. Sanjay Bangar reminds me of that gritty 236-ball 68 he made at Leeds to set up the first session (and hence, the match) on a swinging pitch against the Englishmen. He also was part of a historic ODI chase of 324 versus the West Indies, partnering the centurion Dravid to win us the game. Punjab's Reetinder Singh Sodhi and Bengal's Laxmi Ratan Shukla were dubbed "promising all-rounders". Ha, another googly!

A lot of unsung heroes in the local circuit never made it to the national side despite a lot of commendable performances – Hanumara Ramkishen who bent his back for Andhra Pradesh, S. Gokulakrishnan who etched a similar script from Tamil Nadu, Amol Muzumdar of Bombay, Utpal Chatterjee of Bengal, Barrington Rowland of Karnataka, Ananthapadmanabhan and Sunil Oasis of Kerala, Shafiq Khan of Bihar (who was written about as another Afridi in the making) and lots more. Politics or lack of sufficient effort, we will never know.

I may probably have missed out a few cricketers. Never mind, they all met with the same fate. Ever since Ganguly became captain, he made sure he backed talent where saw talent. He backed Harbhajan, Yuvraj and Kaif like no captain had ever backed his players. That was real positive intent displayed by him. Kaif is still around and I am betting he’ll be back soon. He’s a very capable batsman (Lords’, 2002. Need I say more?) and too good a fielder and to be left out of the side for too long. His time will come. In case he’s still left out, well, I am sure you’ll know why.

Credits: Dad and Navin, who helped me recollect a couple of them here and there. A special mention about Iyer, who came up with a lot of names!

2nd Feb, Saturday.

A very late update: I bow down to my good friend and fellow enthusiast Anand "Ninja" Iyer (That's his latest middle name after....well, it is too extensive a list, so forget it ;) ) for messaging me one more name - that of Rahul Sanghvi, the Delhi left-arm spinner. Thanks da!

6th Feb, Wednesday.

An very very late update: Gyanendra Pandey, the UP left-hander played a couple of matches against the Pakis. Iyer, you beauty, you deserve ten aappams! (Ravi Shastri ishtyle ;) )

Chained Melodies

The earliest piece of music I remember having listened to is Mozart's Symphony No. 40. That was back in my UKG when we used to listen to different composers at bed time. In my dad's eyes, the melody of music outweighs the jingle of coins, so its natural that his offsprings - my older sisters and me did justice to the hundred-rich rack of western classical music. It took me a while to appreciate it, though my sisters were instantly very taken with the likes of Bach, Beethoven and Tchaikovsky. But over time, I grew to love it.

I remember taking my X class board exams with The Beatles playing in some remote corner of my brain. My bro-in-law in the US had sent along a few Beatles CDs, and every evening saw my preparations for the next day's exam coupled with shouts of I wanna hold your hand, Love me do! and Yesterday (that's more of a hum than a shout ;) ). Dad picked up a couple of ABBA and Carpenters audio cassettes from a shop in Brigade Road, Bangalore sometime then, and that was probably the first time I was exposed to Karen Carpenter's entrancing voice that needles even the most un-romantic minds and drives their imagination. I can't pick the better voice between Joan Baez and Karen Carpenter - Diamonds And Rust by Joan Baez is something my sister Deepa took to singing everytime she came back from college, and her treble was simply unbelievable in the sense that she made a very good job of imitating Baez.

Then I entered college, where for some reason, you're considered akin to vermin if you do not listen to the in-thing - hard rock. You name a few kick-ass rock bands and you're instantly part of a happening department or club. It's the time when listening to Iron Maiden and Guns N Roses (for more than one reason ;-) ) brands you as "cool" and in some cases scum like Cradle of Filth (pun intended) is the sole reason why you have friends. You probably won't believe me when I say I hadn't even heard of a chap called Bryan Adams when I entered college. (Someone told me he's still single after all those love songs he's written!). Roxette and Billy Joel are pretty good for timepass numbers. At a point of time, We Didn't Start The Fire became a kind of cult song within my club. I also heard my first U2 number during my first year, and it's a song that never tires me even if it's going into its zillionth repeat. Sigh. I can't live With or Without You. Man.

Second year was when the wave of Pink Floyd hit me, and that was when I started appreciating the art of playing the guitar. I also discovered how Chris Martin of (Coldplay fame) with that amazing voice floored Gwyneth Paltrow into marrying him. Second year was also when I started wishing for traits from various gifted people. I wanted to emulate Don Felder's slide guitar antics in Hotel California, employ Dave Gilmour's booming voice in Coming back to Life, and coo like Chris Martin in Clocks. I couldn't do any of it.

The magic of The Bee Gees hit me during my third year. They lent a different dimension to rock and roll. Maurice Gibb with that one-of-a-kind voice (I really don't know how to classify it) made it big for a certain John Travolta who starred in the late seventies' blockbuster Saturday Night Fever. And there was Bruce Springsteen and Dire Straits - the former captured fans (not just girls) thanks to his lyrics and passionate voice. Courteney Cox got her big break when Springsteen pulled her over from the crowd during a live rendition of Dancing in the dark and made her sway on stage for a few seconds. And the latter, well. I know guys who're trying to trying to smoke just so they could deepen their voice to sing and play the guitar like Knopfler does. I mean, you could even call it arrogance...he plays the guitar without flinching a muscle, like it's the most trivial thing mankind ever invented. No sweat, job done, while girls continue to drool. And hey, being a Tamilian, I've never appreciated Ilayaraja more...he's like Beethoven of the East. I could quote a dozen songs I'd do anything to perfect.

Final year, well. That's now. Before I came back to campus I got myself a guitar, and have been trying to perfect Stairway to Heaven without much success. I must have listened to it a thousand times over the vacation, driving my folks mad. And Joe Satriani and Eric Clapton are my latest Idols (you might have figured that from my earlier posts) after The Extremist and Love Thing and Cocaine and Wonderful Tonight and Layla, among others. And oh yeah, there's this song called Stop! Stop! Stop! by this Russian/Ukrainian band called Nu Virgos (I suggest you check them out on Wiki ;) ) which has become a popular number on campus.

That covers most of my favourite bands. I think I left out Vertical Horizon, The Calling, Vanessa Amorosi and a few others. Ronan Keating, Five for fighting, Hoobastank, Richard Marx, Maroon 5, INXS and the likes will keep coming out with love songs while Iron Maiden will continue to give meaning to rock music. But there can be no end to this I guess. So then, So long, farewell, until the next post!

SLOTH 4.1

SLOTH:

1. Apathy and inactivity in the practice of virtue (personified as one of the deadly sins).
2. Any of several slow-moving arboreal mammals of South and Central America; they hang from branches back downward and feed on leaves and fruits.
3. A disinclination to work or exert yourself.

I am living up to two-and-a-half of the aforementioned points these days. Why climb branches when you have a snug bed, a wall to lean back onto, a packet of biscuits to pounce on in case of untimely stomach calls, the comp right next to you with the keyboard on your lap, multiple googletalk windows open and active and most importantly, you guitar to turn to to echo the river of tunes flowing in your head, thanks to all the Clapton and Floyd and Joe Sat you've listened to during your state of acedia. It's this part of your life in campus - a vice we shall christen 'Psenti-sem', and I dare say it's got to be appended to the se7en; they should call it ei8ht I guess ;).

One of my friends here who started blogging recently was talking (I am not sure I could call it cribbing) about how it was his Psenti-sem and still he had no psenti. Well, is there anyway you could actually get a psenti just for your last sem? I see the psenti eliminating the latest vice we coined, but we hit a snag here. A four-and-a-half month trial version of a psenti isn't really a psenti. It's something like freeware (if you substitute the treats with (w/t)alks) you download and experiment with. If you really like the trial version, you'll pay a semester later, not with money but with a heavy heart, trying to make yourself believe that long-distance is going to work in your case. It just doesn't. You simply have to resign yourself to Sloth 4.1. You've just downloaded the full version, and it's free!

So how is Sloth like? Let me try and explain. There may be alternate versions, and they may be just as vague. It's like finding a coach for the Indian cricket team. There's no single solution. There are so many that you're totally zapped and have to contend with the one you believe is the best, and go all-out with him. (Still from time to time you're not sure he's your coach, and rant publicly against him in all tabloids, but that remains another issue).

When you're in Sloth mode 4.1 (or 4.2 or 5.1 or 5.2 in other cases), there's this particular inkling to listen just as keenly as the first time to a number that has gone into its 176th repeat. If it's a song-video, well, you simply give up trying to bring yourself play another song. You begin to note down significant instances in the video, like the time Clapton starts off fiddling with chords for the first minute and 3 seconds, and then the bass guitar joins in playing a mysterious chord I still haven't been able to figure out, to be accompanied by a gentle tap of the drums a couple of seconds later and at 1:17 Clapton ends the unknown chord sequence with a smile towards the drummer who goes rat-tat-a-tat-tat and then the confluence of the guitars and drums happens, the crowd suddenly goes wild realizing that the number is Cocaine - a masterpiece by Clapton. Fine, the suspense no longer remains suspense when you listen to it over and over again, but the kick you get out of it is undiminished throughout.

Well, and then there is this inner persuasion that drives you away from your room come night time. You just walk. Somewhere. You don't really have an idea about the time, it's probably 1 in the morning for all you care. You look up to the stars. You try and identify the few constellations you know. You wish the moon would just disappear so you could get a better look at the astral bodies. Hum the song you’ve listened to that day. Find a possible interpretation to the psychotic lyrics. You wonder why. Then you wonder why you wondered why when you know you can never zero in on the real reason for the song to come into existence. Most songwriters are either loonies or geniuses, and are almost always gifted with the art of pulling the right strings on live shows. It just comes out brilliantly, and most people are left marvelling at the numbers of years these guys practise relentlessly. When you can’t think more than you already have and are totally saturated with inner voices, you stop, sigh, walk back to your room and crash.

That’s the Sloth 4.1. I love it, and execute its routine everyday.

Credits:

1) Eric Clapton's Cocaine which I keep experimenting with (only on the guitar ;) )
2) Wordweb (er, you now know where I flicked the definition of Sloth from).

No strings attached...

It was brand new, straight from the most gorgeous showcase of the shop. The desire of owning one had long kindled his musical instincts, only to be bogged down by his inability to pick up guts and ask his father for the money. The family situation wasn't ideal - his mum's cancer treatment chiselled away $220 every month from the $950 pension his father drew as a retired bank officer. His sister, separated from her husband, undertook odd cleaning jobs at Brooklyn households adding a measly $40 a week to the family earnings.

And there he was, a dropout, still only 21. He'd defied education and taken up playing the instrument when he turned 19, learning chords on and off and currently was no more a professional than a two-month old novice at the National Academy on 74th Street.

He was looking at an Ibanez. This one boasted of a JS neck, a signature of the master himself, Joe Satriani. He'd seen him play at sonic speeds, his fingers moving over the rosewood board with stunning ease negating the complicacy of the notes. Picturing himself playing Lynyrd Skynyrd's most famous number yet, he marvelled at the thought of all the girls swooning over the breathtaking five minute solo towards the end. Freebird. He'd probably give up playing if he could pull this one off somewhere in the best part of the next twenty years. It's a long shot, he told himself.

Catching sight of another wannabe on a Gibson in the acoustics room, he pointed at the Ibanez, paid $5 for the trial and waited outside for his ten minute slot, scanning his brain for possible tunes to experiment with. The solos from Dance of Death and Blood Brothers, Love Story, the Godfather theme, the first few notes of Nothing Else Matters and Wish you were here, Wherever you will go by The Calling, Superman by Five for fighting....

Shutting the door behind him he proceeded to plug the instrument and sat down. Resting the curve of the Ibanez on his thigh, he brought his right arm around the basswood body, took up the plectrum and strummed. Delight. Yes, this was a JS100 and not a Gibson Les Paul or a Fender Stratocaster, but that wasn't going to make him think two ways about playing the first ever tune he'd learned...

E E E E E E E E

B B B B B B B B

C^# C^# C^# C^# C^# C^# C^# C^#

A A A A A A A A…

So simple, just eight notes on one string, and eight notes on the other and yet so delightful. And so significant that you couldn’t imagine The Edge playing With Or Without You with any other base note…

And he continued to play it over and over again till the end of his allotted time.

Morning fever

The first thing in the morning I tune my mind to is The New Indian Express. I am your average guy who never delves much into stories unless it concerns Cricket, Pink Floyd or Hollywood actresses. Then I grope every place that has the remotest likelihood of sheltering a pen - the top of the fridge, the computer table, the little shelf in the toilet (yes indeed!). Invariably I find it in the toilet shelf, and head for the sofa. I struggle with the Sudoku for an hour before switching to comic strips on the penultimate page. Nobody in the household misses out on Beetle Bailey. A few smiles later I move to the column courtesy Messrs Henri Arnold and Mike Argirion, Jumble. Over a period of years I've understood why I've never seen the words 'silent' or 'master' appearing here in Jumble, because you can make up more than one word with the letters s-i-l-e-n-t. I wish I could do a Tom Marvolo Riddle etching out his name in thin air for them to magically spell out 'I am Lord Voldemort', but I'll resign myself to saying that master can also anagram to stream, as can silent to listen and enlist. Anyway, as I get around to the crossword with which I've never had a lot of satisfaction in the past, my eyes glue themselves on to clue 15 across:

Persian reunion of broken parts (7)

Oh yeah - that's Algebra, I tell myself, Al-jabr echoing in my head. It had come up earlier in a quizzing jam back at college, and I put it down in black and white before I spot the clue succeeding it :

Glowing causing confusion at the lowest point (7)

I stop to think for a moment - lowest point may mean chasm or nadir, and for some instinctive reason decide on nadir, club it with 'at' and end up with radiant. A bit of chance there, but all's fair in love, war and crosswords.

I migrate to the bedroom, and switch on some music. It's a delightful combo, doing crosswords with The Bee Gees playing along. I suddenly start to imagine a dashing young man walking down the sidewalk making him the cynosure of all surrounding eyes, and my mind dates back to the 70s era which I unfortunately wasn't a part of. Sigh. Back to the crosswords.

8 down: Transgress a lesser colour (6)

I have help here - the last letter clashes with the t of radiant, and I can think of only one six-lettered colour that ends with t. Violet. I consider it for a moment, and the brilliance of crosswords hits me. I hurriedly go through what the gentleman had in mind when he set the clue - Transgress = violate; which is a lesser - 'a' lesser => violate minus a, and playing with the other letters I land up with violet. Oh man.

At this point I look at the clues I've solved thus far. There's some connection somewhere between them...I think to myself.

Big and strong husband partially eyes extremes of key (5)

I put down h-u-s from 'husband partially' - then gather the extremes of key - k and y. An easy clue, I tell myself. Husky.

Again, the bridge between the words is so strong...I can only imagine she has more than one admirer from the society of cruciverbalists. Subconsciously, I smile. My mother spots me, and gives me a quizzical look. Shaking my head, glad that I can see something she can't, I turn off the music and march off, the crossword page in my hand.

It's all a delusion, I tell myself. 'A false belief of french lion surrounding America', my alter-self pipes in and I laugh at the weakly constructed clue.

I still have a lot to learn.

8:02

As she slammed the door of the sedan shut, she looked askance at the house which she believed hadn't looked this desolate in decades. Raindrops pattered on top of the car. Getting behind the wheel, she turned the ignition key. The car quietly whirred into action, and with it, the local FM station. She stared at the wheel, or something beyond it she alone was capable of discerning. A couple of pensive minutes passed.

"There's a lady who's sure, all that glitters is gold...."

She stepped on the accelerator. Memories came flooding, taking her back to that night. She'd liked him at once. He had all the right moves, and behaviour equivalent to an 18th century Englishman - courteous and admirable. What began as a platonic relationship tumbled across the borderline towards sensuality in a matter of weeks and before she knew it, they were poring over The Big Book of Child Names.

“….. but she wants to be sure, ‘cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.”

When he had said “I do” the joy enveloping her had known no bounds. It had come to an abrupt end as the devil in him began to unleash. The night she realized why he had never bothered to mull over her marriage proposal delivered the first blow of several to follow. Three days after the marriage, driving at 60 miles an hour on the US 176, she looked at her bruised arm which showed traces of dried blood. Her hands bloody, her wrists were still shrouded by a shred of bandage which she had carelessly ripped off with what remained of that broken champagne bottle - one of the many paraphernalia that had been flung at her.

“Yes there are two paths you can go by, but in the long run, there’s still time to change the road you’re on.”

She paused for a moment and considered, it seemed to make sense to her chaotic mind. Wearing a wry smile, she stepped on the gas. These guys were geniuses. It was a pity this was going to be the last time she listened to the song. And she knew it.

“Dear Lady can you hear the wind blow, and did you know, your stairway lies on the whispering wind.”

Nervous excitement. Joy. Exhilaration. Vigour. Power surging through the limbs. A thousand moments of glory fluttering in the head. These last few minutes of her life were going to be her best. The speedometer showed 180 miles an hour.

Three minutes later, in the town of Spartanburg, South Carolina, a ramshackle sedan lay smashed against the façade of a multi-storeyed building leaving the onlookers stunned in silence, while the player continued to hum in the background.

“...and she’s buying the stairway to heaven.”