Atrocity in Madras City

An old Mountain Dew ad emphasized what would go on to become a popular quote on TV: "Cheetah bhi peeta hai". Now, what do you know. The fact that you'd join a firm and start working too, talking about company prosperity, project deadlines, client-server applications and related technical know-how could be thought of in the same vein as Ganguly playing international cricket for India. Both cases are classic examples of a tragedy, but true, nonetheless.

On the first day, like all South Indian men gaining entry into their first jobs, you arrived at your workplace an hour and a quarter ahead of the scheduled reporting time adhering to standing instructions from home (what with the Rahu Kaal and the likes creeping in). You checked your watch every ten minutes, and wiped traces of sweat trickling down your forehead. There was a slight bout of tension coupled with excitement, but you knew the sweat had more to do with an external factor - a painful one at that - being Madras city's climate. Man, you'd seen the hot deserts of Rajasthan and even withstood the 51º Pilani summer, but Pilani kinda went easy on the H-word. The humidity in Madras, alongside the sweltering heat was sufficient to make a camel pant, your sources had informed you. As you ran the kerchief down your temple for the twelfth time in as many minutes, you had not the slightest doubt in their judgments.

Your to-be colleagues did not observe superstitious sentiments, for they arrived on the dot at 9.30. After the obligatory round of introductions, they made you fill numerous forms, including those that involved you nominating a person to receive your funds in case you suddenly kicked it, bringing to your memory a blog post that you'd read sometime back.


Work culture in your company was something that you started to appreciate, as the week panned out. The easiest way to a man's heart is through his stomach - it seems like your companyfolk knew this funda too. Maybe that was why they treated you to a pizza lunch on the very first day, following it up with a get-together at Το Πάρκο* (refer Footnote). That was where the MD got the new recruits to break their shell of shyness by way of cajoling them into singing or doing a jig. With all due respect to your colleagues, the feeling that your rendition of Hotel California was received with much more gusto than the few Tamizh numbers or more importantly, the Gult numbers that went on display, ended your day on a high. And of course, speaking of highs, the 16 bottles of red and white wine that were shipped in came to your mind. You'd even gotten a phone call during the course of the get-together, where you had belligerently claimed in a rather shaky tone that you held a wine glass in your right hand, sporting brown coloured liquid right from the stem up to the brim. That the brown liquid was Coke, and that it had nothing to do with wine escaped the caller's imagination.

If you'd thought the parties ended right there, you were in for a surprise - which was another party, this time at Ο ψαράς της ορμίσκος** (refer Footnote again) - a place you considered retiring to after you'd seen enough moolah in life. A game of beach cricket later, four more imposter drinks later, more maniacal dancing moves from the MD later, you returned home well past eleven, when you looked back at the week that passed. Sadly, this was just the first week, and the actual business started the following week.

At work, your discovery of a few subtle yet significant points taught you a thing or two with regard to interacting/socializing with your colleagues. Initiating a conversation with colleagues could be uncomfortable, less awkward for a newbie. So the most common initiator would be to enquire after the area they resided in, the current state of their project, and the likes. But asking a colleague what he was working on at the moment could be embarrassing to both sides if the two of you were in the restroom, beside each other...you get the drift. Lesson to be learnt: Never open your mouth in the restroom. No, don't even look at people. Go, do, leave. No questions asked.

You also tried to draw parallels between life at college and at work.

At college, bucket parties (bucket = vodka + champagne + soda + etc) happened well past midnight, unbeknownst to higher authorities in your college.

At work, bucket parties happened well before midnight, amidst higher authorities in your company. And invariably, it was the higher authorities that acted cranky at the end of it all, and behaved the next day like they could never stand nonsensical behaviour from anyone.

In college projects, you can get away with copied code. No sweat.

In company projects, you can't get away, even if your code is original. Efficiency issues matter. Sweat.

At college, your presentations are attended by experts in your field who will screw you no matter how brilliantly you've explained your implementation of the Bellman-Ford algorithm.

At work, your presentations are attended by colleagues who'd rather get on with their projects than listen to your presentation, bringing down the population of flies in the process.

And finally, at college, you'd rather discuss who's seeing who, who just ditched who, and that cute girl you spotted in your Data Structures lecture.

At work, you're forced to discuss the G8 summit, the India-Pakistan-Iran gas pipeline, the 123 deal and the role of the communists in Bengal, and that cute girl....wait a minute...cute girl who?

So that's the work drill. And it goes on.


Footnote:

* - Language changed for privacy.

** - Language changed again, for privacy.

The Art of Self-Discovery

This post comes to you courtesy Dad who sent me an interesting article this morning. I thought I'd post it, as a continuum to my previous entry. All apologies to all those who were in anticipation of another mokkai post. I promise you it's not far off ;)


The Art of Self-Discovery

By Pandit Sri Sri Ravishankar

Only those who have eyes can see and only those who have ears can hear. That which has to be seen cannot be heard; it has to be seen. Life has five dimensions or five senses — seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, touching. But there is one more dimension that has gone out of sight; that is feeling. Feeling the Presence. Light cannot be heard through the eyes; it has to be seen through the eyes. Sound cannot be seen through the eyes but heard through the ears. Likewise, the presence has to be felt by the heart.

God is not an object of senses but the feeling of feelings, the presence of presence, the sound of silence, light of life, the essence of the world and the taste of bliss. And our human life is enriched only when we can live this sixth sense of existence, of feeling.

If you are feeling depressed and continue to feel depressed, you create particles of depression around you. Those ions of depressions around you go and stick to the environment. If someone walks into that place, even after you have left, that person for no reason would start feeling depressed. Have you experienced this? You walk into a room and suddenly feel angry vibes. You were all right a few minutes ago but the moment you walk in, all the anger, stress and tension overtakes you.

Today there is a lot of talk about the environment. Environmentalists are at work everywhere you see. There is talk about protecting the forest, bringing up more greenery, recycling of things, materials, plastics and use of more natural and organic substances. A few years ago, this was not an issue at all, wasn't it? Now all nations are coming to an agreement to save planet earth. Like we pollute the earth, we pollute the water, we also pollute the subtle environment of feelings and emotions.

Man has become a victim of his environment. He is not in control of his mind but a victim of the environment. Is it not so? We pollute our environment in a very subtle way through our negative emotions. But it takes quite sometime to clear the environment of this. It is inevitable that sometimes you feel stressed, sometimes you feel negative, sometimes you feel doubt, sometimes you get into all sorts of moods — it is inevitable. It happens. Nobody wants it. But when it happens how do we handle them? We hear a lot about other things in life but we spend very little time to hear about ourselves; how to handle our mind? How to be in the present moment? How to be happy and grateful? This we have not learnt. This is the most unfortunate thing. Then what is the solution? This is where we miss a very fundamental principle that governs our environment, our mind our emotions and our life in general. Our body has the capacity to sustain much longer the vibrations of bliss and peace than it does negative emotions because positivity is in the centre of our existence. Just like in the structure of the atom, protons and neutrons are in the centre of the atom and electrons are only the periphery, same is with our lives; the centre core of our existence is bliss, positivity and joy but it is surrounded by a cloud of negative ions. Through the help of the breath we can easily get over our negative emotions in a short period of time. Through meditation and certain breathing techniques you can clear this negative cloud.

In future, I think the rule will come — anybody who feels depressed, will be fined! Ten thousand rupees fine for getting depressed! Then you will be asked to go and breathe and meditate and get rid of all your depression without swallowing any tablets. What is there for you to get depressed? You are here for a few years anyway; just a few years on this planet. And as long as you are here, you can as well, be happy.

This life has so much to offer to you. You can see this once you take sometime off, rejuvenating the soul. You soul is hungry for a smile from you. If you could give this, you feel energized the whole year and nothing whatsoever can take the smile from you.

Everyone wants to be successful in life. But without knowing what is success, you want to be successful. What are the signs of success? Just having a lot of money, is that success? Why do you think money means success? Because money gives you freedom so that you can do whatever you want. You may have a big bank balance but, you have stomach aches, ulcers, you may have to go for bypass surgery; can't eat this, can't do this, can't do that. We spend half our health to gain wealth and spend half our wealth to gain back the health. Isn't that funny? Is this success? It is very bad mathematics.

Look at all those who claim to be successful — are they successful? No, they are miserable. Then, what is the sign of success? The sign of success is overwhelming joy, right? It is confidence, compassion, generosity and a smile that none can snatch away, being really happy and being able to be more free. These are the signs of a successful person.

Take some time off to look a little deep into oneself and calm the mind down. Thus erasing all the impressions that we are carrying in our minds and experience the presence, the divine that is the very core of our existence. This is FEELING THE PRESENCE!

I am high!

I am no atheist. At least, I was never brought up that way. But I do take time and ponder over THE question (which is considered kinda sacrilegious in my household) - Is He there or isn't He?

I've wondered why people take the trouble to visit temples. I once asked my mother this, and got told off for asking smartass questions in a place of worship. Okay, my point here was, when most households do have a room dedicated to Pooja/Punaskaar, from where does the need to visit temples arise? Is it because God frequents temples more than he visits households? Or is it just the plain tradition originating from years past, which has stood the test of time?

One such answer that makes sense to me is that temples are where good vibrations interfere. Huge temples built over thousand years ago have multiple chambers which diminish in size as one progresses towards the deity in the very last chamber - which is invariably lush with vibrations. But for the priest's mantras, the chamber would be deathly quiet, yet exuding a sense of calmness and composure. Over a period of time, a confluence of good vibrations adds to the aura of a temple - which is immediately felt. For example, there's this temple called Dhyanalingam, located some 30 km west of Coimbatore which remains one of the best places I've meditated at.

I said I was no atheist. I am no agnostic either. I do have an idea of what God is.

Okay, so most people claim they find peace after a visit to a temple. So do a lot of people, after a round of meditation. Let's equate the two sentences.

Meditation initiates vibrations, which as we theorized, are already abundant in a temple. Man feels content thanks to the positive vibrations, leading me to believe that God is nothing but good vibrations. In another sense, God is everything that is good and pure.

I do believe in a God who is not a person or an idol. It does not make sense that God could be a man/woman - and all men and women are bestowed with identical bounties when they take their place in the world. When man is in a spot of bother, he appeals to someone who he believes is a higher force with greater wisdom - like when we may approach our elders whom we believe would be the right foil to provide help/advice during testing times. Very simply put, man looks for someone better than him.

At this point, I am reminded of my Physics teacher at High School - S.Venkatraman, who often used to quiz us on matters of religious/mystical significance even as he wrote down the equation for Newton's Law of Gravitation on the board. He was one who believed that a person is often his own solution. "Aham Brahmasmi", he declared, when a curious student asked him whether he believed in God. 'Yes', he said, 'I am God. You're God as well. Vaazhve thavam. Anbe Sivam' (Life is meditation, Love is God)

I can't help but agree with him. When you meditate, the vibrations you sustain are so powerful that they kinda give you the feeling you've been teleported to some place else, and believe it or not, most people are almost always infested with a new kind of vigour after a quiet session all alone. Maybe this is why elders advise us to close our eyes and count upto 10 everytime we get hot under our collars. Bluntly, after a round of meditation, you're better than you.

In Hindu culture, it is common to see children being addressed Parabrahma - for they've only just stepped into the world - and well, honestly, I can't think of a better example for something so good and pure. Therefore, children are God. It is only once they grow up that they learn about malice, slander, jealousy and hordes of other vices - so they kinda lose their 'good and pure' status. It is when we meditate that God makes that quick entry into us, and for a few moments we are at peace with ourselves. But not for long, right?

When you pay your respects to elders, you're merely acknowledging the fact that they've been through the mill, through life (which is perhaps the strictest teacher you could find) and therefore they are closer to realization of the self than we are, which is why I guess most people look up to saints like Ramana Maharishi or The Divine Mother. They're so full of good vibrations, so you could suppose they WILL have been wiser than the average man, given any point in time. Of course, a corollary follows that God is any equation with a Lim wisdom --> infinity applied.

So much for vibrations eh? For all you people who thought they could only be transverse or longitudinal, here's some gyan. It doesn't come often from me ;)

The Forgotten War

He was on the verge of a battle. A tussle had been on the cards for a long time now. He had tried his best to avert it. But who could thwart higher orders? Certainly not a pawn. There was immense pressure. From all sides. If Fate was against him, even the Gods conspired to bore chinks on his armour. Those chinks would soon proliferate to expose gaping holes, and his armour would be just as good as a sieve, tailormade for his enemies' artillery to embed themselves into his system. But if blood had to be shed, there were hardly any options left. He was a warrior after all. He was expected to made out of the stern stuff Mark Antony once waxed eloquent about. He was made to stare death in the eye and defeat it, at whatever cost. He had remained one-up against death ever since he had taken to the weapons.

He entered the field. He armed himself with weapons. Three powerful swords, each of them lethally sharp and capable of delivering fatal blows on their own. He had used them before to escape death numerous times. He geared up.

He rubbed his hands together. His palms were warm, yet soaked. He looked at himself in the mirror. No blood yet. Only a matter of time, he told himself. He rarely returned from battle without a bruise or a scar. He rubbed his cheeks, his chin and his temple slowly but surely. It helped him focus on the job at hand. It seemed to grant him some unforeseen strength and belief. It was the usual drill when he embarked on yet another of those Would-He-Return-From-This-Alive journeys.

He was on his way.

He caught sight of a horde of black ruffians charging towards him. He unleashed those powerful weapons of his, and brandished them with a flourish.

Chop. Chop. Chop. Heads went tumbling, and he marvelled at the lack of resistance from his opponents. When confronted with genuine valour and sophisticated weaponry, they just caved in. Every single time. He was in a rush at the moment. He permeated into their ranks.

And then the first drop came out. He had been struck. Reddish brown fluid oozed out of his system, in trickles to begin with. And then profusely. He yelled for courage, wiped the blood off, and pursued his task with dogged optimism. More ruffians fell. More blood exuded. He was a spectacle to behold. His eyes sparkled, the sinews of his face tightened, and his heart throbbed. Horatio Nelson would have been be proud of him, though he still had two eyes for vision and two legs to support his body. He continued to strike terror into their hearts.

Within minutes, he was done. He had lost count of the number of warriors who had been slain by the wrath of those deadly weapons. His face was a mess, but he was now relieved. The battle was over. Aah. Back to base camp. He was alive to tell his tale and see the light of another day. He'd won. He sighed and reached for his conch to signal victory.



"Dai! Stop howling and get out of the bathroom! I want to shave next!"

Damn.

"Coming, Dad. Give me two minutes."

RIP : The English Language.

Disclaimer: Any reference(s) to living beings in this post is directed at their ability to take it in the right spirit (hic!) and is cent percent intentional.

English.

I am glad I have the gene to appreciate the beauty of the language. A few people I know call it eccentric. Even my dad who is a very good exponent of vocal English chooses to call it peculiar, and attributes his reasoning to phonetics. As dad sees English phonetics, G-H-O-T-I is pronounced "FISH".

GH as in enouGH

O as in wOmen

TI as in funcTIon.

And there you go. GHOTI = FISH. Pronounce words the way you want. It's a free country.

I disagree.

Words are supposed to be pronounced and written the way they should be. I've always subscribed to the puritan school of thought as far as written and spoken English are concerned (though any vocabulary along the lines of these is always frowned upon. Substituting words with their verbose counterparts does not exactly qualify as creative writing).

It's surprising that in this context, man errs deliberately, as is his wont, in the world of type chatting. Sample this. Most of us would be used to these kind of statements:



Margarine man:

Instance #1: thr? i gt rmnded of smthn. rmembr tht plce in velacheri whr i stayd?

Instance #2: Ntn. Bi bi.

(Our man despises vowels, by the looks of it. And the letter 'g' too. But it's become routine to omit 'g', specially if it's a trailing 'g'. Somethin'. Anythin'. Nothin'. Geez! Where are they?!)



Obbu BOBbu:

Instance #1: Chk dat. im gng der. r u 2 cmin wid us or wat?

Instance #2: k. u hrd abt dem? dey r gng to cum 2 pilani!

(A clear obsession to replace th with d. Erm, I am not going to classify the other typos.)



Mr. Nose Picker:

Instance #1: cmon...tis s chennai...ppl can liv outside cols!!!

Instance #2: wodever. actualli, i hav watchd onli 3 movies..."d john nash" movie ,den "no country 4 old men" and den crouchin tiger hidden dragon..seriousli gud!

(Substituting Y with I? Why?! Might as well type 'y' and get the spelling correct, right? No, this is style, he says. 'Wodever'. )



And finally,

The Rather-Man:

(quoted verbatim from an online profile)

Passions: sittin idle gazin at te sky(sounds too poetic rather..)nyways dats wat i luv doin!!!chattin for hrs...nd all other stuffs vich r absolutely worthless...,

Cuisines: vnt given a try (?!)

(No comments)




I understand the whole fiasco started with a brilliant mobile phone provision called SMS. Rather frustrating to hit a key thrice to get a letter on the screen. T9 dictionaries are a waste of time and space (No point arguing how efficient the data structure is, Mr.Huffman. No one is using your algorithm, sadly).

So the practice carried over to keyboards as well. I for one find it much much easier to type "Are you there?" in double quick time compared to its chat lingo counterpart "r u der?"

And the worst part is everyone's doing it. I find it revolting to find people replying "S" to my questions. On my part, no amount of cajoling people to type out each word in its entirety has worked so far.

So I resort to derision. Not that it works. At least I get some kick out of the conversation.

Credits: Dad, Goldilocks and people who've made me get my act together for this post ;)

Dawn at Helmsted

" This is Hotel to Delta. Oscar's cover has been blown. You are to terminate Oscar before any further damage. I repeat, terminate Oscar before he sings. Over and out."

2:33 AM, somewhere near Checkpoint Charlie on the East German side.

Delta arose from his make-shift bed - an assemblage of heather, bracken and leaves. In a corner of his tent was a flask of water, and he gulped down a few sips. Near the flask was a corpse – that of a man, head twisted, hands and body curled up and arranged into a foetal position for want of space in the tent. He was devoid of his clothing, which lay in a pile behind his back. Delta lifted the pile and donned the clothes even as he mulled over his assignment for the day. He would then have report to headquarters who would, after taking stock of the situation, decide his fate. If he were to succeed, he would be back as a Tunnel Rat in the jungles of Vietnam and amidst the treacherous Viet Kong. Else, Delta guessed, he might as well take his own life. He knew too much to be out there and at large, and he doubted headquarters might excuse anyone with his level of knowledge at classified information to take a break for a leak. Throwing cold water on his face, Delta recollected the invaluable use Oscar had been put to. It was a pity he'd been apprehended. Oscar had to go. And he, Delta, had to do it. He dismantled his gun, split the parts and shoved them underneath his shoes, and crept out of his tent. Come 5:05, and his escort to the Central prison would cross Checkpoint Alpha. The catch-words here were time, and unnoticed interception.

At 42, he was powerfully built, his broad shoulders doing justice to his six-four frame. His face expressionless and legs fleeting as that of a twenty-year old, Delta was a WW2 soldier who along with many had landed at Omaha beach on that fateful day. Later, he had served in Korea for a few years, followed by Vietnam. The CIA saw something in the Second Lieutenant that the US Army didn't, and fished him out for a top-secret mission in Berlin. Six months of training taught him fluent German. He took up the tricks of the spy-trade like a fish to water. For a year and a half, Delta ran a spy who the CIA codenamed Oscar, thanks to whom a load of West Germans who'd been buried away in the prison cells of the East managed to get home to the West. The Stasi had no clue to the disappearance of the inmates from the cells of Brandenburg and Saxony. They struck gold when a suspicious looking man landed up on the surveillance tape covering the Chief Inspector's office in Saxony, and the rat, as they called him, had refused to yield till now. The trouble generated by the rat was such that this piece of news had made the headlines in every German daily.

Dr. Hans Köller drove down from his residence before dawn to reach the Central jail and to take the place of the night-duty medico. At 60, Köller had seen both world wars. He had watched from close quarters as orders were relayed to the German Unterseeboot 20 to torpedo the RMS Lusitania. The whole idea about submarines dishing out missiles to bomb ships fascinated him, and he was very taken with the thought of guns, spies and stealth. He idolized the Red Baron and Mata Hari. Any attempts at emulating such heroism in WW2 failed during the Normandy bombings - he survived a major surgery after a ricocheting scalpel missed his eye by inches. He'd stayed away from the rest of the war, and took charge as a part-time doctor and overseer at the Helmsted Central Prison after he recovered. A majority of his journey every morning spanned a lonely Autobahn (or the German speedroad) stretch and it was here that Köller stopped over for a breath of the fresh air, all in an attempt to ruminate over the ongoing cold war. He was a hard-hearted communist loyalist who despised the West and its ideologies. Half an hour of solitude later he would pick a waiting compounder up from Checkpoint Alpha and head for Helmsted. Today was no different.

“You are?”

“Heinrich Schmidt, County Hospital at Helmsted”

“Papers?”

Köller glanced through the man’s legal status in East Germany. Any East German was good enough for him. Darned West Germans. Darned America. They had to interfere everywhere. That brought his senses to the rat. He’d kill him if he could. But not before he heard the rat's story. The rat was a spy after all. Köller put on his glasses, scrutinized the waiting compounder and pored over his photograph. Wife and two children. Lived in Saxony.

“I hope you know your nerves and syringes. Klaus before you was top notch. Pity he kicked it. You heard about it? They’re still investigating, eh?”

“Yes, Herr Köller. Very unfortunate. His body hasn’t been found yet, I am told.”

“Get on.”

Delta politely placed his compounder’s case in the rear seat, and took his place beside the veteran.

The medico and the compounder had their papers and baggage checked at the prison entrance, and made their way inside.They stood in front of the jailor who did a second check of their legitimacy in the prison.

Delta checked his watch. 5:24. The quicker he was done with Oscar, the better. Evading the Stasi would be easier before the sun went up on the German land. That wouldn’t be for another half hour. Time. He didn’t have much. His homework on the medico would have to be put to work.

“Say, Herr Köller”, he whispered “Isn’t this where I hear they’ve stashed up this West German rat? One hell of a time he gave our men, didn’t he?”

Köller screwed up his eyes. An apprehended spy acting against them. He had to meet this guy.

“I’d like to see the high security vaults first up.”

The jailor nodded, and a guard escorted the medico and the compounder to the high security vaults, cells here protected by a rusted iron double door with a vent for food and water. Peeking through the opening, Köller caught a pair of bloodshot eyes staring back at him and jumped. A mangled body greeted the guard and the visitors. The guard agreed that the inmate was a nasty piece of work. He smiled at the doc and offered to fetch him some water.

Oscar had been subjected to nothing short of near carnage. His face unrecognizable, he’d been beaten, kicked, and pounded. If anything hadn’t been done, it was the Stasi leaving a permanent imprint of their stamp on his face. Delta gripped his toes together. The parts would have to come together now. He slipped off his shoes in a corner and opened his case. Köller approached the inmate.

“So, you’re the spy?”

No answer.

“The rat, as they call you?”

No answer.

“I must admit, I admire you fellas. The audacity to act against the rules, the single-minded will never to be brought down, and when in fact you’re brought down, the nerves to act dumb.”

Still no answer. Oscar’s eyes shot to the other man in the room, who was getting his medical instruments in order.

“You don’t suppose I am here to cajole your wounds, do you? I would like it better to kill you myself, but I am a doctor, you see. My job is to cure, not kill. I save, not – “

Oscar opened his mouth in surprise. A split second later, the medico caught his expression, and turned back to see the compounder holding up a .45 aimed for an Oscar headshot. He had to do it. Now.

Delta lowered his gun, turned it a touch to the left. He fired a dozen silenced shots. The medico collapsed, his face and chest covered in sticky red fluid. It was impossible to tell the doc apart from the inmate. The compounder turned to the prisoner and whispered.

“My name is Delta. You have two minutes to switch clothes and get out of here with me.”

While Oscar switched gear, Delta grabbed a pair of knives from his case, and creamed them in the blood pool. Oscar helped drag the doc to take his place at the corner. Yelling for help, Delta hoisted the inmate over his shoulders and ran past the advancing guard who dropped the tumbler on the floor in confusion. The jailor was aghast, and watched in shock as the six-feet-four compounder thundered past him shouting sacrilegious terms against the West and betrayers of East Germany. Oscar landed on the rear of the doctor’s car with a thud with Delta at the wheel and they sped away.

A day later, the doctor’s cremation took place in the prison’s burial grounds, with none to claim his body and speak of his services to East Germany. While the jailor looked over the gravediggers’ shoulders pondering what caused his immobility when the wretched Westerner rushed past him with the betrayer on his shoulders, elsewhere, Oscar downed a beer alongside his agent and chuckled.

“For a minute, I thought it was all going to get over. That bullet through my head could have ended the misery.”

“Naw. I decided you’d live to see another day. You couldn’t die. Not after all you’ve done for me.”

Oscar’s eyes pierced Delta’s.

“So what do we do now? Headquarters will be after the two of us.”

“We run.”

Credits: Spy Game the movie starring Robert Redford and Brad Pitt.

Food for thought

You’re wondering about something to which you attribute your existence.

A funny incident that happened on a cricket field years ago comes to your mind. Ian Healy seemingly couldn’t help wagging his tongue at the bulk of Arjuna Ranatunga at the striker’s end and yelled to the bowler, “Hey, Warnie, throw a Mars Bars halfway down the pitch”. Ranatunga looked back at Healy and replied “Not to worry, Boonie at forward short leg will get there before I do” to peals of laughter from the Aussies. Not funny, your food-o-philic alter-self scoffs. You know you could have given Boonie a run for his money yourself.

The kid looks robust to his mum, pleasantly plump to others. Chapattis for lunch everyday add to the kid’s adipose tissue. The kid has his little gang who crowd around him for a share in the chapattis. The kid has other ideas though. Out of the half a dozen chapattis his mum packs for lunch, he grudgingly parts with one, to be shared by a dozen others. The others fall upon the solitary chapatti like vultures on dead meat. The kid still grumbles. That is a sixth of his lunch gone.

Your brother-in-law made sure all of you ate out once in a while. You know he appreciated people who in turn appreciated good food. In all those restaurants he’d taken you to, you’d made sure you feasted on everything of importance, everything that appealed to your taste buds. You wanted to try your hand at non-veg sometime, but not with your sister around. The look on her face when you suggested Mongolian kebabs told you that you’d be better off telling her that you were eloping with a Venezuelan. Maybe some other time, you thought. You recollected your best friend and advisor the Pharaoh trying his hand at fish a couple of years back in Goa. De-bone-ing the fish had proved to be a cumbersome issue, so the Pharaoh decided he would go after the chicks (woops! And boy, I think he did!) instead.

Dad, mum and the kid are on the way to the capital city by air. The kid is pretty excitable, for the journey spans four earth hours, and that means food while they are airborne. So when along comes the air-hostess, the kid has the make-shift table in front of him laid out, and ready to attack.

“Veg or Non-veg?”


Dad points his index finger at himself, mum and the kid, and says, “All-veg.”

Now, this is where the story is rather hazy - you don’t know if there were altitude issues high up there or if the air-hostess was partly done in the ear. The kid opens his meal, and finds something fluffy and robust on the side. Cauliflower? Of course. He figures dad and mum aren’t hungry yet. Mum opens her meal pack a few minutes later.

“Mum, the cauliflower gravy is brilliant, give it to me if you don’t find it too appealing.”

One look at the cauliflower gravy and the colour on mum’s face changes from normal to pink to violet. One of the nearby air-hostesses catches her flummoxed look and grins, “Oh, your son likes chicken!” Mum has a fit and almost passes out.

Your love for Pizzas is a known fact among your circle of friends. There was even a time when you invited your friends over for a pizza dinner and they ended up admiring your appetite more than the magnificent house. And while the others decorated their blogs with fancy, hotshot pictures of nature, deserts, cars, guns and fighter planes, all you could think about was garnishing your blog with pizzas, quesadillas and a ghee roast. Oh, and if there’s anything you’d rather not tuck into, it would be fruits and curd. Your mother wondered why fruits and curd are akin to clay for someone who actually bit his poor finger which was on its way out after delivering a mouthful of sambar rice. Such hurry to get the food to its destination always comes with a price. You were caught red-handed ;)

Dad distributes chopped fruits to his girls and the kid. The girls are not voracious eaters like the kid, and reflectively, they are not what one would brand as plump either. But still, from time to time, they derive a bit of hedonistic pleasure by deliberately treating the kid to offensive odours emanating from curd and mangoes and papayas. The kid is affronted. He sulks and mopes. Dad chuckles quipping that the girls might not have anything to feast upon, if the kid were to smack his lips at the sight of fruits and curd too. Who knows, they might run out of food supplies. The girls guffaw at this. Mum is not impressed. The kid gets extra dosas at night.

Your efforts at the treadmill at your brother-in-law’s place lasted a fortnight. All those vows to shed some skin evaporated once you started “working” late. The early morning yoga exercises took an extended break too. Chocolate icecreams were as regular as the BMTC buses, and you decided you’d rather stay this way. So what if you had a few extra pounds? The hell with fitness anyway. You had one life. Eat it! Erm, rather, eat through it!

At six in the morning, the kid wakes up to the sound of his alarm echoing between the walls of his hostel room in college. He puts on his tracksuits, a pair of old socks and his running shoes. He’s been doing the drill for a couple of weeks now, and feels good about running six rounds everyday. He tells anyone who would listen about how his biceps and triceps are taking shape, and how visits to the gym are bearing fruit. In parallel, the Pharaoh does his best to spread malicious stories that involve the kid fainting and throwing a fit in his very first gym session. Of course, all this is part of the propaganda to mar the kid’s reputation. The kid pledges to carry the fitness routine on for the rest of his college life. It takes just a silly tut to break the kid’s perseverance. The daily routines become weekly routines. A month later, the kid is back to evening cheese pizzas at Skylab, a popular eatery in his college.

A few of us eat to live. While others live to eat. You mull over both the implications, letting them run over your mind for a while. You look for an in-between point, a compromise, a consensus somewhere…you try to make up your mind…

I need a bite.

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.