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The Day I Scored

2011-07-01T09:17:00.001+05:30

A goal. Not a girl. Or weed. Both desirable things to be scored, but not what I scored last Saturday.

Strangely, there are a substantial number of people who would remain calm and composed and greet you with the merest twitch of the lower lip if you were to tell them that I had scored a girl or some weed, but would swoon, faint, hang out a crepe and have their friends gather around and say what a pity it all is, upon hearing the news that I had scored a goal on the football field. Some might even go the extent of remarking that there is enough sadness in life without fellows like Basil scoring goals. However, being largely liberal and broad minded and drawing the line only at Rebecca Black actually explaining the hidden meanings behind her songs, I am able to accommodate such views. Further, I am able to dissect, analyse and discover the source of such emotion.

I have always been a flamboyant and irrepressible forward who was denied international honours only by the misfortune of his own genetic makeup, selectorial prejudice against rubbish football players, and his inability to score flamboyant and/or irrepressible goals. The fascination in scoring a goal depends almost entirely on whether you are facing the goal post and net or whether the items mentioned are facing your back. I have been, for as long as I can remember, a goalkeeper. The sole purpose I had while playing football was to stop goals from being scored, rather than actually scoring them. I suspect that this has rubbed off on the general public. Perhaps because I am a sensational keeper, or because of sheer repetitiveness, many of those acquainted with me can picture me only between the posts and nowhere else on the field.

However, the general laziness of a few friends and their subsequent disinterest in mucking about on the field, I have been forced to be an outfield player while the more idle become goal keepers. So it was on Saturday. I had gone to the school ground hoping to catch a few goal-ward bound balls and let in as few goals as I could manage when forces beyond my control pushed me out into open play. Observing that the forward line of my team was rather unoccupied, I strode to position.
I ran about, rather aimlessly, for close to an hour or so with little result. I had wasted a couple of good chances and was generally letting anyone who had eyes see that I had as much chance of making an impact as an SFI march had of remaining peaceful. Taking solace in the fact that I had little to no experience in the business of being a striker, I sauntered about the penalty box.

Then, came the moment. It was a corner kick, though definitely not intended for me. It flew into the box and bounced of half a dozen players like the ball in a pinball machine. Then, in what seemed to me like ultra-slow motion, the ball bounced on to me. From the mere fact that I had made an absolute mess out of two previous chances, not many a punter would have put his money on me. However, seizing the tide in the affairs as Shakespeare advised, I prodded the ball with the side of the boot, accidently adequately placing it between the outstretched arms of the goalkeeper and the right post. It was a goal.

Man has, over the course of his existence, discovered a whole gamut of emotions. Some are considered noble. Some not so much. Love, for example, has had a lot of press-agenting from the oldest times. However, on Saturday, I discovered that there are higher, nobler things than love. The sheer exhilaration upon scoring, an euphoria that wells up inside you, your brain chemistry getting all messed up, resulting in an ear to ear grin, that feeling that makes you want to run a hundred metres, take off your shirt and jump into the arms of a dozen people. That undefined, unnamed and probably unanalysed feeling is perhaps the noblest of them all.

Being a game with zero audiences and no consequence to anybody other than the players, I merely turned around and looked around me. On their faces were a unique mixture of amazement, incredulity and relief, for we were getting a shellacking at the hands of a superior opposition. I was merely grinning from ear to ear.

It was at that moment, for it has been a very very long time since I scored a goal, that I realised why professional footballers celebrate the way they do upon scoring. They may score in almost every game every weekend but they are ecstatic enough to prance around and do somersaults in front of forty thousand people. That is why Wayne Rooney can shout into a camera, Ronaldinho can flex his body into a dance, Cesc Fabregas can risk a yellow card by taking his shirt off, Raul can kiss his ring and Totti vibrate his palm around his ear like a confused man trying to adjust the volume on the car stereo. They may be getting paid astronomical sums of money for doing that but in a golden moment or two, true passion and love for the game shines through. It is those moments that make the game truly beautiful.

I, on the other hand, am still ecstatic and continue to boast of my telling strike. This post is merely another effort in that direction.

Angry Bearded Men

2011-06-09T14:39:00.002+05:30

The other day, one cloudy morning, I opened a newspaper, having been kicked out of bed and a beautiful dream by parents who were anxious that their son was whiling away his vacations with the pursuit of nothings. Right on the front page of The Hindu, greeting my still sleepy face, were two angry bearded men. One was Ilyas Kashmiri, who was declared dead in Afghanistan. The other was Baba Ramdev who declared a fast until death unless India’s rather large share of black money was brought back to the country so that more people may learn and practice yoga.

In a more frivolous time, when you did not have to sweat a gallon about being politically correct and did not have to fear angry mob who might scythe off your palm, a resourceful editor with a sense of humour might have swapped photos of Ilyas Kashmiri and Baba Ramdev. You know, just for kicks. However, that was not to be and we are forced to go through our mundane days without being able to fall back on the morning memory of Baba Ramdev being captioned Ilyas Kashmiri.

I am a simple man with simple world views and in my opinion, the fewer angry bearded men the world has, the better. The death of Ilyas Kashmiri, whose only endearing quality may have been that he had a pretty wicked name, brought joy to my heart as the world population of raving bearded men took a minor hit. Baba Ramdev seemed, as far as I could make out from The Hindu, to be alive, kicking and very angry. In my limited view, the black money unscrupulous and enterprising Indians have stashed away in the mountains of Switzerland and the white sand beaches of Cayman Islands can stay there for a wee bit longer if it rid this world of Baba Ramdev, his anger and his antics.

In fact, I suppose a win-win situation can be achieved if the government, or whoever is in charge of such things, would just let Baba Ramdev die. The death of Baba Ramdev would inevitably unleash the fury and wrath of that small percentage of the Indian population who still give a tiny rat’s ass about politics, corruption and Gandhi-like fasts. This fury and wrath, aided by further blackmailing from the part of Anna Hazare would surely spur the government or whoever is in charge of such things to actually bring back that rather huge stash of black money and lose it in corrupt deals within India. Go desi! The final balance sheet- Baba Ramdev, no. Lots of money coming back to India, yes. Two birds with one stone, eh?

However, as I lack the political pull pre-requisite for putting through such pulverising plans, I am left to merely postulate. Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been’. As midnight raids and salwar-kameez escapades abound, one can only hope that it all tapers off to a good end. Though what end that might be I fear to contemplate. Baba Ramdev, for all his anger, rainforest beard and inane posturing does appear to be a singularly determined man. Like all singularly determined men, he has dug his toes in and is only prepared to dig them out if his demands are met. It is at moments like these that one looks upto Flying Spaghetti Monster and asks ‘Why?’ Why at all was Baba Ramdev created human? All the first-class qualities of a mule gone to waste.

The Hindu, in a rare occasion of front page humour says “The demands of the jet setting Baba, whose acolytes recently bought him a little Scottish island to open an ashram….. range from the serious to bizarre”. Of course, you know them all by now. Hang the corrupt from lamp posts, ban the institution of currency and go back to the barter system, renounce a tried and tested form of governance the British came up with and opt for a Swadeshi model, make him king of the country and the like.

Of course, as with all such reforming revolutionaries willing to fast it out in New Delhi, our angry Baba Ramdev wants to promote Hindi at the expense of English. For some reason, perhaps ranking his demands in ascending order of stupidity, The Hindu put this point last when they made a list of Baba’s main demands. I was going through this list the aforementioned cloudy morning shaking and nodding my head, letting out intermittent chuckle,s a ‘Ha!’ here and there until I reached the last point. At this point my blood started bubbling and boiling and in the interest of surviving, I jumped into a cold shower.

Baba Ramdev himself, is suspected of having several dirty fingers in several dirty pies. No one knows from where he gets all his money, though he is generally recognised to be a multi-millionaire sadhu. The government, in a perfect example of the term tit for tat, has decided to investigate the Baba and find that piece of incriminating evidence by which it can direct a well-aimed kick at Baba’s saffron clad derriere and send him squelching back to his Scottish island.

As much as I pity the fine Scots, after all they gave us Scotch whiskey, I rejoice at the distinct possibility of Baba Ramdev fading away into his remote island, where he might spend the day and night practising yoga, making much more money and, if he is enterprising enough, banging the brains out of his ardent worshippers.

On The Last Bencher

2011-06-01T08:31:00.000+05:30

Different people have different times at which they can be guaranteed to be at your service. Some prefer the early morning air and chirping of the birds, while some others are not themselves unless they washed their insides with some fine old port. Some people I know are up to anything once they have wolfed down a couple of calzones, while some can run till noon on a glass of skimmed milk. If you want me for anything, be it scaling Mount Everest stark naked or to deliver a heavily loaded emotional bomb to your better half, call me up in the holidays. The months of December, as well as the summer months of May, June and July find me at my willing best. Throw me a challenge and I jump at it like a restless pug.

Obviously familiar with this fact of life, the Alumni Association of IIT Madras, whose esteemed campus I (dis) grace, sent an e-mail sometime in December, calling forth those interested in signing up for a literary endeavour that was to be the first of its kind. This novel venture aimed to capture the life and times of the batch of students passing out in 2011 in a book. Touted as a book of memories, it sought to preserve in print the exploits of those bidding goodbye to the leafy shades of IIT Madras. It was the holidays, Christmas was around the corner and I was bored. Thus, one fine morning, the Alumni Association of IIT Madras woke up to find in its inbox an e-mail that enthusiastically offered the services of Basil James.

Weeks passed and I completely forgot about the Alumni Association and its book. Things were in the doldrums when an unexpected e-mail sometime in February reminded me of those bored days in December and what I had signed up for. Apparently, the Alumni Association wanted to interview me. Invited to the unfamiliar haunts of the Central Library, I appeared for the interview and forgot all about it in two days. Again, weeks passed and things were in the doldrums. Again, quite unexpectedly an e-mail appeared congratulating me on being a part of the book the AA wanted to put out.

Headed by the cute and inimitable Surbhi Maheshwari, we were a motley crew of almost a dozen. Work was distributed efficiently, and I realised I was a correspondent, in charge of visiting final year students and asking them to think of funny stuff that happened to them while in college. In fact, everyone in the team who was not a final year was a correspondent and the rest were editors of some sort or the other. A few weeks and interactions with students later, I suddenly came to realise that I was made an editor of the book. Of course, within days I soon realised that though being the only non-final year editor on board was pretty uplifting, it had its rough side. A final year editor, when asked by a fellow final year editor to do some work, can always ask the latter to bury his/her head in the toilet as the former wanted to watch movies. However, a second year editor can never do this and hope to hang on to dear life. The pretty straight forward rules of senior-junior interaction meant that I did my work with the belligerence of an Assyrian coming down the hill.

I still got to go out and meet a few seniors and listen to their stories. It was great fun, listening to the pranks some fellows have been upto, especially chaps you would not suspect such behaviour from in the first glance. The people I mostly interviewed were people the final years on board knew, which meant that the people I interviewed were also people pretty well-known across campus. Some of the people had reputations that preceded them and they backed the rumours up with solid stories. Others were resolved to, as Lady Macbeth said, look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under’t.

Being an editor, I was exposed to a lot of original writing by Insti junta, articles that were written by final year students themselves and not by correspondents. I was, quite frankly, appalled by the standard of English and writing that exists in my college after reading them. Many of those articles would make a first grader look like Lord Tennyson and made me dumber for having read them. Such toxic waste led to much more work, where I virtually re wrote entire articles to give it a semblance of respectability.

After much effort and equally effective amounts of slacking, the book finally came out in the middle of April. It was well designed, the double pronged design team showing us and the world the way it is done. It was quite a good return for a few months’ work and I found myself feeling slightly proud for what I had helped to accomplish. Of course, going through the book, I found a few errors here and there, some in articles I had personally edited. Being a firm follower in the Wodehousian philosophy that one should never apologise in life as the good people do not want one and the bad people are prone to take a mean advantage of them, I shall desist. But I wish I had done a better job and given a bit more attention and spared a few more moments before rushing off to watch the Arsenal defence leak like sponge.

It was pretty great to be a part of The Last Bencher (as the book got christened) and it really taught me much about bringing out a book. Much credit, though grudgingly given (due to my miserly nature more than anything else), is to be accorded to the team of almost a dozen that worked hard to make the book a success. At the risk of this sounding like a cliché vote of thanks speech, let me extend my hand and shake theirs.

Woes of a Not So Religious

2011-05-10T09:23:00.000+05:30

Back in Trivandrum for three months of peace prosperity and joblessness, I have been occupied in useful activity to a lesser extent than a bunch of union members demanding nokku kooli in a local junction in Kerala. Almost exclusively due to that fact, I have been dragged along to pretty much every place my parents thought fit to grace with their presence. Of course, one man's meat is another man's poison. Being only this much short of being television evangelists, the preferred locations in which my parents hang out are prayer groups or other gatherings of similar nature. Being an agnostic and a closet one at that, these gatherings are as much appealing to me as Chris Gayle is to Prasanth Parameswaran.

One such expedition led me and my sorry ass to the inaugration of a new church. It was supposed to start at seven in the evening and I presume it did, but by the time I reached there it was well past eight. Inside, some Reverend was going Old Testament on capitalism, consumerism and all that is good with the modern world. From the outside, I could perceive a packed church, teeming with devotees, clinging on to every pearl dropping from the mouth of the Reverend.

Being a new church and hampered by financial constraints, it was a small establishment, fit to to house less than a hundred people. A more glaring disadvantage the place had was that it had only one door, an entry point from the front. Now, an essential feaure any church should have is multiple entry points, from the sides as well as the back. The reason is simple. The more religiously inclined are bound to come right on time and enter through the front door. However, those who have been touched by the Holy Spirit to a lesser extent often leaves home at 7:30 for an event that starts at seven. For them alone, the side and back entries are necessary. If you have only a front door, the church goer and his sorry ass is forced to walk in through the front door, under the critical glare of everyone present, receiving unspoken censure from the Reverend. One is forced to screw ones courage to the spot, modify the facial expression to one of intense passion and religious fervour and walk in, looking at the floor and hoping not to upset the charity box on the way. Added to that is the risk that the Reverend, who just spent fifteen minutes handing modernity's ass to itself, might seek to provide comic relief through the late comer, with one snide biblical reference.

All this only exacerbates the need for all churches to have multiple entry points, with at least a few of them hidden away from the censuring eyes of the punctual and the religious. Otherwise, that church is bound to miss out on having illustrious persona such as yours truly in the audience, as the Reverend makes modernity wish that the earth would swallow it. Of course, one could always argue, from an economist stand point, that such grief would be an added incentive for any church goer to reach on time. The flipside, of course, is that, if the church goer is resourceful, he may just slink off to a side road as his parents walk into the church, screwing their courage to the spot, modifying the facial expression to one of intense passion and religious fervour and walk in, looking at the floor and hoping not to upset the charity box on the way.

On Movies and English

2011-04-18T22:44:00.000+05:30

I have been watching a lot of movies lately. Not that I was not watching them earlier, it is just that I have gotten more into it than before. Earlier, I used to be the Parthiv Patel of movies. Now I am the Brendon McCullum of movies. Not yet Sachin Tendulkar, but getting there. A majority of the movies I watch are from Hollywood, featuring the big names, the household names, the soon to be big names or just names. Sometimes, people tickle me that I do not watch enough Indian movies and thus miss out on a lot of fun and frolic. The fact is that I speak two languages of which only one is native to India. I have watched most of the good Mallu movies and quite a few bad ones as well. Just for kicks. The other language I am fluent in happens to be English and not Tamil, Telugu, Hindi or Bhojpuri, thus restricting my choice of movies. People say that the visual media has a language of its own and one should watch movies of different languages even though you understand just about nothing. The problem is that enjoying the dialogues is an integral part of any movie watching experience. It is only then that one gets to know the nuances and the intricacies of the movie. Plus, one can understand only the bare skeletal structure of the story by just watching the scenes of a movie. These days, all movies seem to have the same structure. It is only good dialogues that make them enjoyable.

One fact that continues to amaze me is the lack of bilingual movies in India. With a population of 1.21 billion and a few thousand languages, it might seem very profitable to have two languages in your movie and thus draw double the crowd. Or maybe, perhaps if you take a movie in Tamil and Hindi, the Tamil audience might think it is a Hindi movie and move it while the Hindi junta would call it a Madrasville production and sweep it under the carpet. Perhaps, making a bilingual movie is the perfect way for a producer to go the dogs.

Personally though, I would love it someone made a bilingual movie with the two languages I know- English and Mallu. Now let us be clear here. When I say bilingual movie, I mean a movie in which actors can speak both languages with at least as much finesse and fluency as I can. Instead, if the fare to be put on show involves Lalu Alex spitting out English dialogues which sound as if they were written by Britain’s P.E No.1, I am outta here. Too many movies have gone by with someone or the other taking a hacksaw and chopping the language I love into six. English dialogues in the Mallu movie industry is pretty much like school in July- no class. Of what I have seen, very few people in the Mallu movie industry speak good English. It has reached such a situation that sometimes I pray people in movies do not venture into English dialogues. Yet, once in a while, they do.

May be it is the unfamiliarity with the language, but the dialogues in English are clichés, grammatically incorrect and outright bad. I am perfectly sure there are opportunities open for a part-time English dialogue writer in Mollywood and I am prepared to jump for it. At least then, the Suresh Gopis and the Prithvirajs can shout out decent dialogues, dialogues that do not sound like they came from a remote corner of an elementary school.

On Shakespeare

2011-04-03T02:47:00.007+05:30

"With the single exception of Homer there is no eminent writer, not even Sir Walter Scott, whom I despise so entirely as I despise Shakespeare, when I measure my mind against his"- George Bernard Shaw.

One wonders whether Shaw was being appreciative of Shakespeare or otherwise when he made this statement, but either way, I could have said the same thing several times. I first met Shakespeare as a pimply lad of fourteen in school. Julius Caesar, that famous political drama/thriller was the topic of study. Shakespeare had formally entered my life. Of course, I had brief and fleeting interactions with the Bard before, but they were too small and insignificant to deserve much mention.

Much has changed from that time and now and one significant change has been that I actually like Shakespeare these days. Back in school, Shakespeare appeared to be a douche nugget from whose pen words fell like shit from a diarrhoeic ass. May be it was the fact that he wrote in verse which did not have that allure of well written prose.

Julius Caesar came upon me at an impressionable age. Unfortunately, it was not Old Bill who got to do the impressioning. Rather, it was a strange anti-Shakespeare feeling, a notion that what the fellow had written was jackshit. We were told that Shakespeare was a master dramatist, someone who understood the human nature intimately and portrayed society wonderfully in his plays. To me, Shakespeare was just a sycophant on an ass-kissing mission to the royal palace. In those times, if you did not know something, then it was art and if art was shoved down your throat, you hated it. At that time our Shakespeare teacher seemed to grab me by the throat and bark sternly into my face: “You are coming with me. No arguments. Now sit down, and do exactly what I tell you.”

The whole Shakespeare affair was supposed to be informative, refurbishing and ultimately giving your soul a gung ho! I don’t say I’ve got much of a soul, but, such as it is, I’m perfectly satisfied with the little chap. I don’t want people fooling about with it. ‘Leave it alone,’ I say. ‘Don’t touch it. I like it the way it is.

Three years later came Macbeth and the treatment meted out was pretty much the same, if only less harsh. Shakespeare remained that incredible scourge that blots the English literary landscape. Add to that it was taught by someone who was once described as a manipulative svengali and you get the general picture. May be some psychoanalysts would like to read into those uninformed days of hate as Freudian slips of emotion. After all, I was, and still continue to be, a flamboyant and irrepressible pen wielder who was denied international honours only by the misfortune of my own genetic makeup, selectorial prejudice against rubbish writers, and my inability to wield a pen in a flamboyant and/or irrepressible manner.
Shakespeare’s works seemed to border on the ridiculous, an almost implausible rendering of affairs, if you will. Back in those days if I got an opportunity to meet Shakespeare, I would have sat him down, mopped his brow, given him a sharp talking to, told him to get a proper job, and poured a cup of iced tea over his head.

Some may like to call it anti-Establishment bias or a need to revolt against the prescribed norms, but back in those days, Old Bill seemed to be just plain stupid. His stories seemed more undercooked than a roast chicken that arrives at your table on the phone to its personal injury lawyer complaining of mild heat rash. Julius Caesar appeared to be a silly story of how eight men kill one chap and then three men, who thought the deceased chap had been hard done by, went and bopped one each on those eight chaps. It was historical, classical and widely praised by grey hairs all around the globe. Or in other words, it was something not to be touched with a ten foot bean pole.

But as time passed, I believe I have come to appreciate the man in a better sense and perspective, becoming much more receptive to the taste and feel of a Shakespeare. Today, I recognize him as the foremost among the great British playwrights and authors, not that my recognition matters to anyone else but me. Interestingly, it is the very facts about the Bard I hated all those years ago that endears him to me now. I love his old prose. They have a certain ring to them and they just rolls off one's tongue. He certainly has to be one of the best scriptwriters ever. One wonders what Guy Ritchie would have done with an original of Merchant of Venice.

Shakespeare is no longer a stubbly man with the gold-hooped earring leering at the girl in the candy floss hut on a shady London street. Back in those days, I swore by Francis Bacon and was convinced without any evidence whatsoever that Shakespeare was a thieving little rat who had pilfered the works of an unsung great. However, today I do not care whether it was Shakespeare of Bacon who was responsible for Hamlet or Much Ado About Nothing. After all, what is in a name? The very idea of Shakespeare, a literary genius whose plots and stories are still rip roaring material today, a man with exquisite art and grace and capable of putting it down in the written word.

I will no longer win the great delusion award for unshakable self belief. But I can keep googling for quotes by Shakespeare for almost anything under the sun and get cracking results. May be, that is what has put Shakespeare in a better light for me. The very fact that you can copy a couplet with stupendous results puts him in a league of his own.

Bad Hair Days

2011-03-06T13:17:00.000+05:30

Something I presented in class for a creative writing course last semester.

These are times when plurality and an open minded nature are all the rage. Everybody seems to be exploring avenues to demonstrate to the whole wide world the breadth of their outlook. Authors as a class are no exception. They are leaving no stone unturned to ensure that they do not ignore the realities of life. In the days of the old fashioned novel or short story, your hero would be Dr. Blank or Mr. Asterisk I.A.S. But not so today. You walk out on to the road and you see writers everywhere whose latest heroes are taxi drivers and stadium curates.

And yet, no writer has been plucky enough to make his hero bald.

Novelists go into every class to construct heroes and surely, some of them must have had a receding hairline. I’m sure that this was the case at least with the originals. Then why not say so? Authors are moving with the times on every other aspect. Then why not in this? It is futile to suggest that bald men are not romantic. I have spotted signs of a receding hairline on my head and have a strong family history of the same, but I am singularly romantic. For commercial reasons, if not for others, writers ought to take some of that fuzz from the tops of their heroes.

It is an established fact that the reader likes to imagine himself as the hero, while reading. What an audience the first author to star a bald hero will have! All over the country thousands of men will brighten up their scalps and immerse themselves into the pages. It is absurd to keep on writing for the well haired public. The growing tenseness of life, the hair raising stock market crashes and those cricketing disasters which prompts us to put a palm on our heads is whittling down the percentage of the population which has perfect hair to single digits.

I seem to see that romance. In fact, I think I shall write it. ‘“Pooja, see that hair conditioner which I imported from Japan, specially for you? I myself cannot use it, not having much hair, but don’t bother about me. Go ahead and use it” said Raj.’ Or, ‘Raj passed his palm through his shining scalp and faced the hired goons without a tremor.’ Hot stuff, right? Do you think there will be even a single man who has the price of my novel in his pocket and a bright shiny head who will not kick and scream like an angry child if you tell him you have run out of stock of my book? And the serial, dramatic and film rights. All editors have receding hairlines, so do all film producers and theatrical managers. I will be an unstoppable force, breaking all records. Just ensure that the cheque is for the right amount and the posters are prominent. Posters shall blare out to the world “Bald and Bold” by Basil James.

Have you bothered to consider the dramatic potential of a little less hair? How about tragedy? Our hero is a dashing spy out to save his woman from the clutches of an evil despot. ‘From the high watch towers, a guard spots a bright, shining spot amid the darkness. Lo! It is the hairless head of our hero that he has seen. “Fire!” shouted the commander. A stifled wail and there was blood.’

The time has truly come when novelists should accommodate the bald hero if they are not to be left behind. One does not wish to create a ruckus, but we bald heads are in a large majority when we get together and can make our presence felt. Roused by this piece, an army of men, characterised by hair only on the back of their heads if at all, could very easily give authors bad hair days until they accept our demands. If we have any more of those red curly hair, wavy blond, straight black hair or any hair at all, we shall know what to do about it.

I, for one, am also willing to accept cash.

50!

2011-02-27T03:41:00.000+05:30

Yaay! This is the fiftieth post on this blog. On this great occasion let me take a moment to honour and congratulate myself for all the hard work, vision and creativity that has filled the web pages of this blog. On a slightly more serious note, I wish I had the above mentioned by the bucketfuls so that I could splash them across the web pages of this blog.

To be slightly more serious, when I started this blog in the cold final month of 2008, I never imagined that this blog would clock up a half century of posts. Nor that it would manage to attract 21 followers. When I started writing this blog in December 2008, it was a mere experiment, a quest to find out what all the brouhaha about blogging was and a desire to be in touch with Web 2.0.

Much has changed since this blog sprouted up on the edges of the information superhighway. One could may be say that the whole direction of my life has changed. One might even argue that events in my life has affected the seriousness with which I take this personal space of mine on the world wide web. From being just another tab in my Google profile, this blog has come to become an arena where I can write and ruminate, a space where I can experiment and express.

At 3:40 on a Sunday morning I make this entry, surely a testament to the love for blogging and this blog that has slowly but surely seeped into me.

NL Leaks

2011-02-21T22:14:00.000+05:30

Saarang 2011, at least from the outside was a pretty cool thing to have. Thanks to a slightly more intimate knowledge of how things work than the average Saarang visitor, a certain amount of disillusionment has crept in like Pakistani soldiers through the LOC. The disillusionment was not helped, contrary to expectations, by the fact that I was in charge of the Saarang newsletter.

Saarang newsletter is usually a mildly amusing six or seven page publication that makes fun of anything and everything in Saarang and generally tells everyone not to take themselves too seriously. It was with great hope that I applied for the co-ordship and I was delighted when it came my way. Talk about flattering to deceive.

Saarang newsletter, may I assure you, is probably the most taxing thing you could find to do in any given Saarang. You spend the time the sun is out covering various events and on the hunt for interesting quotes, incidents and tid-bits of news. In the dark of the night, you slog it out at CFI or the Dean's office putting the happenings of the day into print, making it look good and reading it aloud to see whether things are as laugh out loud funny as you thought they were.

All so good so far, except things were rotten and outright bad at points. Things looked dark and foreboding on Day 1 of Saarang, when I picked up the NL at 10 in the morning. I could not be a part of that issue due to various reasons, but five minutes into reading and I was thanking my luck for exempting me from that not-worth-to-be-toilet-paper issue.

Whatever one may accuse the NL of, one could never doubt its organisational skills or its commitment to procedure. In its laboured efforts to be a mildly amusing Saarang morning publication, the NL sets for itself a well researched algorithm that is sure to bring in laughs and bouquets.

While a small part of the NL team, often comprising exclusively of yours truly covered events while the sun was high up in the sky, trying to showcase the happenings in a humorous light, rest of the mob placed themselves at strategic locations, fully in papparazzi mode, hiding behind penguins, under tables, disguised as coconut trees in the Saarang Village, out on the streets on all fours sniffing around for bits and pieces of spicy news about the more recognisable figures of Saarang.

The concerned parties scurry around like a swarm of rats on a railway track, cajolling unwilling co-ords and cores, latching on to straws a drowning man would disdain. Armed with these scraps of news, the team assembles at CFI or the Dean's office, as per availability of keys. Someone takes out a who's who of Saarang and hands it over to the WebOps genius, who runs a search to match the names that have been sullied on the streets of Saarang. The cooks then proceed to cook up some broth, adding a liberal dose of toilet humour, anecdotes from someone's personal lives, locker room talk and some bad word play. That was step two.

The NL then moves on to step three when someone opens a directory of M.A students. Eyes gleaming and mouth watering, a search is run to see which person hailing from the HSS department makes an appearance where. With the brutality and clinical efficiency of an army of Hitlers, the NL proceeds to assassinate a few characters, resurrect them for a couple of seconds and assassinate them again. If someone happened to be female and studying M.A, the treatment meted out would make having your anus bleached seem like a heavenly experience. Tried tested, chewed and spat out jokes on the mathematical ability of a few M.A students are splattered across a couple of paragraphs. Having thus achieved nirvana, the team pats itself on the back, leans back and proceeds to put its feet up.

Cartoons have always been a prominent feature of the Saarang NL. Usually, someone in the NL department blessed with the ability to decipher which end of a brush goes where takes up an interesting event from the previous day and proceeds to draw a cartoon. But such measures were branded old world and cruelly chucked out of the window. Instead, one of the NL co-ords thought it best to burden upon the team his favourite brand of cartoons on the Internet.

For four days, it worked like this. The co-ord in question would select one random cartoon and go gaga over it, rolling on the floor and laughing his bottoms off. He then invites the rest of the team to take a look. The fact that none of them have understood what it is about is written with indelible ink on their faces but they proceed to laugh out loud and praise the franchisee anyway. He then proceeds, every night, to select that random cartoon that has nothing to do whatsoever with Saarang, and put it on the newsletter. Once, yours truly vainly attempted to point out that those cartoons were straight out of a bull's rectum and was met with dire consequences as the whole team descended upon me in defense of the Web's 1057th best cartoon website. Furthermore, that co-ord proceeded to name the newsletter in honor of the blasted cartoons.

The NL worked in mysterious ways but always failed to come up with the goods. Sensible and respected opinions showered flak on the each day's issue and were completely justified in doing so. The NL of Saarang 2011 turned out to be, almost exclusively, a six page fictional account of the private lives of the big guns of Insti life. Good writing was taken out through the back door and shot in the face to make way for something that would have been more at home in a paparazzi reporter's diary. Saarang should hope for better luck next time.

The Account of Rajesh Vijaybhaskar, M.Sc

2011-01-29T07:52:00.003+05:30

This is a fiction piece I wrote in November as a part of a creative writing course.

My name is Rajesh Vijaybhaskar. I am by profession an assistant professor at the Illustrious Institute of Technology (an occupation listed under the Dangerous Professions Act of 1988). The head of my department is Dr. Premila Vincent, popularly known among the students as the Old Hag, not necessarily, I think a point of opprobrium. She is a scholar of seemingly high achievements, as her doctorates suggest, and much given to the expression, "The Department comes first, Vijaybhaskar". I attach no particular meaning to this remark.

At 10 on the morning of Wednesday, November 3, I entered room 356 for the purpose of instructing the fourth batch in Basic Statistics, one of the subjects for which I have been engaged by Dr. Premila Vincent. There were present Agarwal, Babykutty, Chatterjee, Gunashekhara, Kumar, Latif, Mishra, Ravi Teja, Sharma, Schweinsteiger, Tamilselvan and Zohrab. Singh, who has, I am told, a fractured leg, was absent. It should be explained that even though I have listed out the names of my students in the alphabetical order of their surnames, that is not the order in which the students were seated on this occasion. It should be noticed that almost all of the female students were seated in the front rows and Tamilselvan, the student whom I am now accused of assaulting, was in the middle row. The last row was shared by Gunashekhara, our Sri Lankan exchange student and Ravi Teja, a cretin. I do not have the slightest inkling that these facts will be of any bearing upon this case, but I have lavishly furnished them for the sake of completeness.

I walked into the class to find the following quote scrawled across the board by the professor who had previously occupied the room. It went: "The postulate or common understanding involved in speech is certainly co-extensive, in the obligation it carries, with the social organism of which language is the instrument, and the ends of which it is an effort to subserve". The quote had created a considerable excitement and restlessness in the students, though of varied kinds.

"Today", I remarked, taking up my Davis and Pecar, "we shall focus our energies on problem solving which involve the population confidence interval", and I told them at once that if there were to be anymore of that groaning they would do nothing but solve problems involving the Poisson curve for the next one month. It is my experience as an assistant professor of some years' standing, that if groaning is not checked immediately, it may swell to enormous proportions. I make it my business to stamp on it with hob-nailed boots.

Mishra, a fair boy with glasses, remarked that it would not be possible to do problems on the Poisson curve for the next one month, and on being asked why not, he replied that there were only three more weeks for the semester to close upon us. This was true, and realising that the numbers were against me, I made no reply. I proceeded to write a problem on the blackboard, a sample problem which I felt would prepare my students for their end semester examinations.

"A researcher determines that a margin of error (or sampling error, e) of no more than plus or minus 0.05 units is desired, along with a 98 percent confidence interval. Calculate the sample size, n".

Agarwal promptly replied "Eighty seven". I enquired of him how, unless he was the next Ramanujan in the making, he imagined he could produce the answer without troubling to so much as set a pen to paper. He said, "I saw the answer in the back pages of the book". This reply caused a great deal of laughter, which I suppressed with an iron hand.

I should have spoken sharply to Agarwal, but at at this moment I noticed that in the bench right ahead of him, Gunashekhara appeared to be feasting on a small piece of cheesecake, causing considerable excitement. I ordered him to stand up.

"Gunashekhara, you are not perhaps quite used to our Indian ways, and hence I shall refrain from punishing you for this deviation of etiquette; but please understand that I will not have eating of foodstuff in my class. You did not come here to eat, but to learn. If you pay attention and work hard I may not despair of teaching you something, but if you do not wish to learn you might as well as go back to your country".

Mishra, without being given permission to speak, cried excitedly, "He cannot, sir. Didn't you know? His father was chased out of Sri Lanka in some big revolution or something. A big man with a moustache and a cap chased him for three kilometres and he had to escape in a small boat. He is lucky to have made it here to Chennai. It is true, sir. You ask him. Gunashekhara got hit by a falling branch on the small of his back, didn't you Guna? And his sister- at least I think it was his sister-"

That will do, Mishra", I said. "Who threw that?"

I am, I hope, not a spoilsport, but I will not tolerate the throwing of paper rockets or other missiles in my class. This sort of thing has to be struck down with great vengeance and furious anger or work becomes impossible. I accordingly warned the boy responsible that another offence would mean an imposition. He had the impertinence to ask what sort of an imposition. I told him in clear terms that it would be an imposition that would make him wish he had not taken my course, and if he wished to know the exact details he had only to throw another rocket to find out. He thereupon threw another rocket.
I confess that at this I lost patience and threatened to keep the entire class in for at least three more hours if I had any more trouble. I proceeded to solve the problem.

It was not until I had spent fifteen minutes working out the problem on the board that I realised that I had worked on the assumption that the confidence interval was 89 percent, rather than 98. This led me to an impasse. Some one from the back whistled. I at once whipped around and demanded to know who had made the infernal noise. Latif suggested that it might have been Tamilselvan whistling in his sleep. I was about to reprimand Latif for his impertinence when I noticed that Tamilselvan was indeed asleep and had in fact, according to Chatterjee, been asleep since the beginning of the period. Mishra said, "He has not missed much anyway".

I then threw my Davis and Pecar. It has been suggested that it was intended to hit Tamilselvan, but nothing could be further away from the truth. It is an entirely false assumption. I never wake sleeping students by throwing books at them, as hundreds of students who have passed through the doors of the Department in the college will be able to ascertain. I intended to hit Mishra, and it was a tragedy I shall always regret that I did not hit him right on the nose. Blinded by my anger, I believe, my aim was compromised and Tamilselvan was struck. I have had, as I have told Dr. Premila Vincent, a great deal to put up with Mishra, and no one who knows the boy would blame me for the attempt to inflict some physical violence on him. It is indeed an accepted maxim in the staff room that physical violence is the only way to deal with Mishra to obtain any desirable result; to this Dr. Premila Vincent some time ago added a clause that the boy be deprived of his spectacles before being assaulted.

I do not blame myself for the unfortunate stunning of Tamilselvan. It was an accident. I did all I could for the boy when it was discovered (I think by Schweinsteiger) that he had been rendered unconscious. I immediately summoned Dr. Premila Vincent, who then summoned the ambulance. We agreed that concealment was impossible and that I must give a full account of the events to the police if they came asking. Meanwhile the work of the Department was to go on. Tamilselvan himself would have wished it. Dr Premila Vincent added that in any case the Department should come first.

I have made this statement after being duly, cautioned, of my own free will and in the presence of witnesses. I wish only to add that the boy is now none the worse for the blow, and has indeed shown increased zeal in his studies since the incident.

Sachin and the Burglar

2011-01-19T09:47:00.002+05:30

This was a flash fiction piece I wrote in November for a creative writing course.

It was 3:30 a.m.

The burglar paused outside the window, pipe wrench in hand. Light filtered through the drawn curtains, but it was the hesitant mumbling from within that held him hesitant.

Then, he gently, very expertly, opened the window. A harsh, coarse voice said, "Tendulkar's score now stands at 241".

Four peple were hunched about the television. Father, mother, son and daughter. The floor was littered with crumbs of various delicacies gulped down during the course of an innings.

"Agarkar cover drives for a two", sighed Richie Benaud.
"Who is bowling?", said the burglar excitedly, stepping in to the room.
"Lee", said the whole family, like one man, without looking up.
"Ayila!", exclaimed the burglar.

Searching the house, he packed up the most portable valuables and was looking for more when a loud harmonius groan came from the vicinity of the television.

"Wat's up"?, he cried, rusing in. "Is he out?"
"Agarkar. Clean bowled by that beast Lee", sobbed the mother, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
"That's the front door", said the father. "Someone answer it".

No one answered it. "Gillespie bowling", announced Benaud.

"I suppose I'll have to go", sighed the burglar. A large cry of discontentment arouse when he opened the door.
"What's wrong here?", asked the policeman sternly.
"The score crossed 700 and Ganguly has declared the innings over", murmured the burglar in a hoarse voice.
"Oh man. That sucks!", exclaimed the policeman, rushing in.

And at 5:45 a.m, the blear-eyed family dragged itself to bed, the policeman, nervously gazing about for the SI, back to his beat, and the burglar went home, having forgotten his loot.

"Anyhow", he muttered, as he climbed wearily in to his bed. "I don't care. Seven hundred and five is going to take some catching".

Where is the USP?

2011-01-03T16:38:00.000+05:30

“But why?”, asked John.

It was a question he had been meaning to ask for a long time. It had been on the tip of his tongue for so long that it had set up a Victorian mansion and bred its own children right there. Like wine, Scotch whiskey and certain brands of cheese, the question gained potency over its long period under the wraps. For a question consisting of just two monosyllabic words, it rocked the house. It sent papers flying out through the window and made lesser mortals quiver. Heavenly powers moved the doomsday clock to within a minute of apocalypse.

The Absolute-SuperSonic Film Corporation had, over the years, established itself as one of the leading houses of the art (or what of left of it) called cinema. Their rise to the top of the industry had been powered by the iron rule of its head honcho, President M. He was rumoured to be as bad-tempered, loud and greedy as a gaggle of geese and could strip a tax-man of his wits faster than a priest could strip a choir boy.

Approximately seven and a half minutes before John released his lethal query, President M had been describing in detail the minor changes he thought would look good in the Corporation’s latest project, a musical. Apart from the usual inclusion of a cabaret and a skating ring, President M had a major bomb to drop that day.

“In our latest project, I feel we should cut out the music entirely”.

And then, John dropped his bomb. A question sure to go in to company folklore, a Prometheus-esque act, something on which the major poets would write epic tragedies. The question took the room by storm. President M quivered and dropped the beef sandwich he was munching. His secretaries took their fingers off their typewriters. Weathermen in distant weather stations checked the skies for signs of an impending thunderbolt. The security goons moved their palms to their hip holsters like one security goon.

“But why ?”, John repeated. “Why would anyone want to cut the music out of a musical ?”.

President M had an orderly mind and he classified the situation as only the fifth most worried he had been when someone asked him “but why ?”, though the top four had been screeching, delirious women. President M was stunned and momentarily tried to find an explanation.

“Because our lyricists are a bunch of doofus who cannot rhyme love with dove.They are a bunch of no goods and I do not think they should be writing anything for a movie. What good is the music ?”, asked the President impassioned. His assistants nodded and made a note of it. His secretaries were quickly back to work.

“But how do you make a musical without music ?”, persisted John.

“Let me ask you, young man. How is our music different from the scores of scores you hear elsewhere? What sets it apart? Where is the USP ?”.

The assistants got down on the floor in search of the USP. The attender pulled out the drawers to check for the elusive item. The cry “Where is the USP” rang throughout the room and some of it even managed to seep out through the windows, doors and the ventilation. Everyone was wonder struck at how emphatically the president put it.

“Where is the USP ?”, he bellowed and beamed, ecstatic at yet another victory at a verbal duel.

John could feel retort after retort avalanching themselves on the tip of his tongue. He knew he should let them out. He wanted to. He loved music and musicals. But it was President M who signed the cheques. The thought of further risking the displeasure and being summarily dismissed appalled him. For there is no spiritual anguish like that of a man who, having grown accustomed to opening the crackling envelope at the end of each month and fingering the warm cheque, reaches out one day and finds it is not there. The thought of Absolute-SuperSonic ceasing to be a fountain of gold and becoming just a rather portly man with a awful sideburns turned his spine to jelly. Maybe he would go down in history as the company’s Boswell’s clergyman. Fragmentary, pale, momentary; almost nothing. Meekly, he inherited his seat.

John swallowed the retorts knocking on his teeth. They were many in number. Hire new lyricists if the current crop is bad. Throw money at it. Improve the settings and theme of the projects. What about the previous musicals the company released? Were not they created by the same team? How will the critics view the current releases we have when they learn that the music has been disbanded? Create an USP for itself. Do something. Do not take the easy way out. Do something to keep the music.

Wiser counsels prevailed and John retreated to studying his fingernails as President M rambled on about the need for sensuous passion in the next project.

The Very Little Punjab I Saw

2010-12-27T10:53:00.002+05:30

I was in Punjab the last week and despite my best intentions and my mother's constant badgering, I managed to see only very little of it. In fact, I would not be surprised if someone were to walk up to me, bang his or her fist on the table and assert that I had not been to Punjab at all. My original destination in Punjab was Ludhiana, but after a few days of the utter boredom of being cooped up in my cell, my laziness was trumped by the craving for the new, the fresh and for anything that did not have four whitewashed walls.

The one thing I had been looking forward to a lot in my trip to Punjab was to get a good look at a few girls and see for myself whether the word of mouth was good to believe. It was. Punjab features, in various varieties of appearances and sizes, everyday girls on the streets, in malls, looking out from the balcony or in somebody's mobile phone. They sashay in a swirl of colour, in their elegant salwar kameezes and in jeans in the more urbane parts of the state, moving like queens of city, head held high and with steps as firm as a mountain goat. Their faces can launch any number of ships and trawlers from any number of harbours as they breeze through the crowded markets in search of Flying Spaghetti Monster knows what. They are ephemeral and almost ethereal, with a quaint and ancient charm upon them. A glow seems to permeate through them, a halo of glory surrounding them. In more realistic terms, they are surrounded by well built, well to do Punjabi brothers who, in all probability, have a few Kirpans on their bodies. You would do well to keep away from them.

A characteristic Punjab shares to a great degree with Kerala is the number of booze shops that dot the streets and even places where there are no streets. For every hundred meters you travel, you are guaranteed to find at least three booze shops, though the three of them tend to be more or less adjacent to each other, a logic that evades me to this day. Unlike Kerala, the government does not seem to be taking any initiative to sell liquor and thus pocket great profits I am sure is to be gotten from the good people of the State. In Punjab, private dealers abound. There is no Beverages Corporation that holds monopoly over sale of wines and spirits. Thus, in the land of five rivers you find thriving in the business the likes of Gill Brothers, Bajaj and Co., Chaddha group and may other small timers. Add to that shops which would rather go with the the plain and straight forward 'English Beer and Wine', the 'Country Beer and Liquor' offering the native style and traditional touch and the all encompassing 'A to Z Liquors'.

If there were any statistic for number of booze shop in a given unit of area, I am pretty sure Punjab will trump all. While the shops in Kerala almost blend in to the background, almost indistinguishable from other establishments but for the long and disciplined queue, Punjabi booze shops make it a point to stand out. They are well lit and neon and other luminary mechanisms are employed to proudly display their names, their purpose and the various brands they happen to possess. They stand out from the rest of the crowd of shops and the very appearance seems to invite every passer by to drop in for a drink, or at least take a bottle or two for the folks at home.

Then I went to Chandigarh.

I went on a long distance route plying bus, part of a bigger scheme of things named PunBus. The bus ride puts on display for you the many features of Punjab, including the wheat fields and the booze shops I have mentioned above. Chandigarh is roughly, a two hour ride from Ludhiana and it is a pleasure to be in the planned city.

Much of the tourism potential of Chandigarh lies in the fact that it is India's first planned city. In a nation which is not exactly famous for planning, being orderly or any other virtue in the same category, Chandigarh comes as a refreshing whiff of fresh air. When one enters in to the city, it is like a whole new world. One feels like Alice, or like those kids in Narnia. It is a place truly apart from the rest of the country, a haven of the orderly and the neat. one gets a feeling of being in a well maintained place, where the roads are spick and span and there is not much traffic, pollution or any sort of hurrying. One could eat of the pavements in Chandigarh. It came as no surprise to me when a signboard told me that Chandigarh was found to be the cleanest and greenest city in India.

One can see Le Corbusier's genius through out the city, in its well planned roads, aptly situated structures and a general look of lush greenery and a spirit of relaxation. Of course, there are spaces at certain points where you can almost see Le Corbusier thinking, "Now what will I do with that 30 cents? I already have three parks. Enough with planting trees. Oh dash it, we will just allow people to park their carriages and horses there. Humph!". The place is a marvel.

Chandigarh has many parks and grounds were people (mostly old people and tourists) can relax, while away time and bask in the sunshine when it is not too hot. There are umpteen gardens and other places that exhibit flora. It is as if when Corbusier was at his charts, plotting out a road here, a legislative council there, a couple of associates came up and said, "It would be nice to have a garden of rose, some acres where there is nothing but rose, in all colours, in full glory...", only to be cut off by the next man who thought there was nothing like bougainvilleas and any city without a bougainvillea garden was not worthy to be called a city. Tired of all these rants, Corbusier seemed to have made each man;s wish come true with various gardens here and there, of roses, bougainvilleas and many other flowers.

One of the biggest attractions of Chandigarh is the Rock Garden, a forty acre expanse built entirely from home and industrial wastes in to a charming and innovative spectacle. The vast maze like structure was built secretly by Nek Chand Saini an was finally discovered by the government in 1975. They had the sense to recognise a good thing when they saw one and took the garden in to their own hands and made it a major tourist spot. It is a breathtaking place, where one wonders about the sheer audacity of the idea, the huge proportions of the place only adding to the bewildering charm.

Punjab is a great place to be in, though it was cold as freezer during the time I was there. I escaped before January set in and Mother Nature really cranked up the iciness. Of course, it is all compensated with the melting heat of the summer. Punjab certainly was a great place to visit, though I am not sure I am ever going up there again.

Loose in Ludhiana

2010-12-22T11:59:00.000+05:30

Last week, I shipped myself off with the mater to Ludhiana, where the brave people of the Christian Medical College attempts to make my sister the absolute terror and harbinger of doom to millions of people. In simple words, the job would be called a dentist. Ludhiana, as you may know, lies in the state of Punjab; as north as North India gets if you were to cough surreptitiously, scratch your nose and forget about Jammu and Kashmir.

The transport mechanisms in place in India made it pretty hard for me to get to Ludhiana, probably in the altruistic thought that the farther away I am from my sister the better. The whole procedure was done in several steps. First, I had to take a flight to Delhi, about which I was pretty psyched. It is not everyday that one gets to board an aircraft, let alone one with in-flight entertainment options. If one were not traveling through a travel package offered by one's parents' employers, I would advise them to take a train out to Delhi, which would take you three days if you are lucky.

Once I landed in Delhi in one piece, I was required to reach the New Delhi Railway station to take a train, mysteriously branded as an express, to Ludhiana. Once you reach the railway station, it is as easy to reach the college in question as it is to learn to ride a pantomime horse. You sit in the assigned seat, in the case of reaching the college, the seat is in an auto rickshaw, and get out when you have had enough.

Ludhiana is a bustling city of considerable proportions. Like that oft repeated cliche on India, Ludhiana has two faces- Old Ludhiana, where the streets are narrow and markets are smelly, and New Ludhiana where there are swanky malls and the wide well laid roads are dotted by Audis and BMWs. As it was, I did not get to see much of either as I was largely cooped up in my cell (officially known as Guest Room 2) with the outside temperature at 13 degree centigrade. The mercury dropped to 5 when the solar steeds fled with Helios' chariot.

The College itself is a small place and is more like a boarding school than a college, though if you were to ask me the difference between the two I would have slink off slyly. The place is infested with Mallus; there are more Mallus there than there are types of cheese in France. Once you enter the hallowed gates of CMC, that is almost the only thing you can hear. You walk around and you hear familiar strains of the language. At first, you think to yourself, "Aha, us Mallus are everywhere". Then you hear it by the canteen, from underneath a few trees and some excited whispering from shady nooks and corners and you think, "Well, that is really a lot of Mallus. Good for them". After a couple of hours, you realise that the place is virtually a district of Kerala that happened to be in Punjab due to a quirk of fate.

It is slightly on the disconcerting side when you have lived your whole life in a certain place, then wound up in a class constituted majorly by the people of the above mentioned state and then go to Punjab to find that the same old folks have set up base camp there too. One tends to wonder as to the whereabouts of variety and whether spice has been totally eliminated from life.

Elsewhere in Ludhiana, I sullied with my presence a department store and something caught between a mall and a department store as the female contingent of the family went about shopping, willing stuff to drop off the shelves into their baskets.

One thing that really caught my attention in Ludhiana was the almost total absence of buses in the city. You could not find a local bus if you went about with a magnifying glass on all fours. The bulk of the local transport is on what is known as 'share autos', where auto rickshaws are like small buses; they ply a route and you can get on if if you are on the same route and there is space to sit, all for five or ten bucks. There are buses of course, but they all ply to other cities like Chandigarh or Amritsar. If you want to go from the railway station to someone's place a couple of kilometers away, you would not find a bus to save your life.

Then of course, there are cycle rickshaws, where old, dilapidated and probably malnourished old men pedal like there is not tomorrow, bearing you on equally dilapidated seats in the back. On humanitarian grounds, I refused to board those contraptions, though once again the female contingent showed no remorse in doing so. Doubtless, they will throw the economic side of the issue at me, arguing how we are depriving the old men of a livelihood and their family of bread by refusing to solicit them.

Ludhiana is probably vast and rolls on for kilometers and kilometers but I preferred to stay cooped up in my cold cell and think of the Thar desert. Except when I got lost, coming back from Chandigarh. But that is another story for another day.

A Film Festival- Wish I Were Here

2010-12-10T09:21:00.001+05:30

The International Film Festival of Kerala, 2010 kicks off today here in Trivadrum and I am sure it will be a rocking show. Today's newspapers are filled with details about various movies that are to be screened in this eight day gala and the whole affair brings back to me pleasant memories from 2009, when I was a regular delegate at various cinema halls across the city during the film festival.

This year, I shall not be infesting the seats at the venues owing to my forced absence from the city for a considerable part of the festival. Seeing the pictures and the news in newspapers makes me wish I was at Trivandrum from the 10th to the 17th. However, blood being considerably more viscous than water, I am forced to ship off to Ludhiana to see my sister. Agreeable trip, one might say, except that it forces me to give the festival a miss in the bulk.

Last year, 2009, I attended the IFFK on every single day, sometimes delicately jumping over hurdles such as protests by my parents and....umm.. yea, protests by my parents. Some really good films and a general atmosphere of bonhomie and goodwill at the film festival more than made up for everything, indulging me and my eyes in some visual delight.

The films were as varied and different as the mornig birds cries on a Saturday morning at an Indian village, truly proving that variety is the spice of life. The films were from various parts of the globe- the quintessential Iranian movies featuring some great stories and actors, Eastern European ones showcasing the unique socio-political climate of a region caught between two blocs, South Asian movies reflecting the social issues such as poverty and corruption that have become everyday occurances, Latin American movies rich in colour and detail, African movies that throw some light in to the dark continent... The list is pretty huge and not one that sticks to my sieve like memory. It suffices to say that the festival opened to me vistas and windows that to which I may not have had another opportunity. It threw open before me a whole new canvas called Art Artis Gratia. Art for Art's sake.

If you read the papers around here you may garner many nuggets of information such as how the IFFK often focusses on the Third World, or how its movies often feature a socially relevant theme, or how it is one of the best film festivals in the country. But what clinches the deal for an average movie watcher like me who does not possess an intricate and in depth knowledge of movies and the way they are made is the atmosphere that prevails at the festival. It is not a festival where VIP delegates parade themselves in the theatres, watching movies and commenting on how deep the theme is or how the director has managed to inculcate the intricacies and delicacies of turbulence of the protagonist's mind.

It is, for a major part, an informal affair. A place where anyone is welcome and everyone with a pass can go in, grab a seat and watch till their eyes drop. A certain feeling of bonhomie and goodwill, an almost bohemian atmosphere prevails around the place while the city attempts to be at its best behaviour for eight days.

I will never forget the day, when I had to skip breakfast at home in my hurry to reach a theatre in time and, after a movie that lasted for two and a half hours at the Kalabhavan, skipping across the road to feast on some suptuous biriyani at Azad. If there ever was a heaven on earth, it was then and there.

IFFK 2010 promises a great deal and if it is anything like 2009 edition, I am sure it will be a great show. The pictures in the newspapers makes me wish I could stay, but alas, one cannot hope to have everything in life. May be, in 2011. More movies, more biriyanis.

Local Adventures

2010-12-04T09:00:00.005+05:30

Chapter 1

On a dark lonely Thursday night, I was set up in my base camp (also known as The Unused for Ages Room in the House) trying to figure out what purpose mining camps and mills served in a game of Age of Empires. Cutting in to the silence (a silence whose perfect nature was periodically cut in to by the trumpet calls of AI wanting to attack me), something went “Ringgg, Ringgg”, an object I quickly identified as my mobile phone.

Pressing the green button, my aural nerves were greeted to a sound that said “Basil James”, in a sort of leery and creepy voice one would associate with one of those apparitions in a Shakespearen play. The voice belonged to my friend Gooth (I am glad to say that leery, creepy voice was something he put on and not a natural condition). He wanted to inform me about some quiz at the Mar Ivanios College in Trivandrum.

I knew the iota of a quizzer remaining within me would force me to put on some pants and go for the binge with my long time partner Achu.

Chapter 2

As you may have divined from a long association with me (or short association, depending on your luck), I am a native of Trivandrum. One of the afflictions the place has gathered over the years (or charms, depending on the way you look at it) is its tendency to decide once in while that its residents should keep off transport every now and then. The city (if one may call it so) seems to be of the opinion that its people should take frequent holidays from traveling to certain locations and instead lean back and put their feet up.

While you may not find a man anywhere near this place who is a bigger proponent of leaning back and putting one's feet up, the attitude the city takes can be tiresome when one really needs to get something done.

The quizzer in me kept its date and prodded me until I lifted myself up from a cosy bed and got myself in to a presentable form. I set out for the quiz at Mar Ivanios. I have been on the road to Mar Ivanios so many times in my life, the place being a frequent destination while I was in school, I am pretty sure I could drive a three tyred car without a windshield to the place in my sleep. Therefore, I was pretty surprised when the conductor of the bus I was in motioned me to get off at a stop more than a kilometer away from my destination. “But this is not the place!”, I tried arguing. The conductor acceded to my argument.

Upon the submission of a relevant query, I was informed by the man in charge that buses need roads to move on and the point on which we were at the moment was all the road that could be obtained there in the near future.

Left to walk more than a kilometer, I surveyed the landscape. I felt like one of those half-hearted explorers looking at the Amazon from their jeeps deep in the jungle. It was a vast expanse of light brown, a colour that one would particularly desire not to find on tarmac. I set foot, hoping for the best and less than adequately prepared for the best. Hoping for the best was soon proved to be a bad decision as I was forced to hop from less muddy spot to less muddy spot, avoiding the more slushy parts in the interest of a semblance of cleanliness, which as you may know is next to a semblance of godliness.

Now I knew how one of Noah's sons would have felt after the great rain and floods. Only that, in my case it appeared that there had been a steady and heavy downpour of hot melted chocolate. What used to be roads were now unrecognisable masses of slush. Hiroshima would have looked better after August 6, 1945.

I did the best I could, but still managed to get considerable amount of mud and other brown coloured, Flying Spaghetti Monster knows what, stuff on me. By then my feet could have merged with the ground and no questions asked. With a crushed spirit, extinct dignity and really muddy feet I walked in to Mar Ivanios College.

Chapter 3

The quiz I was supposed to be taking part in was a part of a much larger orgy, known as Elixir 2010. It was “a pan Indian Economic fest” according to the Department of Economics of the college, the organisers. If nothing, they surely revolutionised the meaning of 'pan Indian'.

While the people who had turned up for the quiz were whiling away their time waiting for the binge to start, I was somehow shepherded in to a hall were, I was promised, I would be treated to some high quality debate by the best talents across the country. Though I took the last part of the last sentence with a liberal dose of sodium chloride, my expectations were at a reasonable level. The topic of the debate was whether a better model for developing nations was India or China.

Some excerpts from the event.

Some dude trying to attack China on the one child policy:- “The birth of the childrens of the country have been suppressed.....”

Some other dude trying to point out India's internal security problems:- Are you saying that Maoists have some blatant ideals?”.

Meanwhile two dudes got in to feverishly hot argument about which nation was better. They argued for so long that seasons changed outside; the old rector died and was replaced. They banged tables and spanked the air. They took threatening stances, like the poses people in M&M movies strike just before the major stunt sequence in the market. They traded arguments. Things seemed such a level that the guy in favour of India addressed India as 'my country' and China as 'your country'. The dude representing China too resorted to a similar nomenclature.

The moderator kept trying to get a word in sideways. Warning bells and final bells rang galore. No one seemed to pay heed. The audience tried to clap the contestants off their trivial fight. They shrugged it off. At that moment, I decided I had witnessed enough debate to last a couple of lifetimes. I slowly slinked off.

Chapter 4

It is almost 24 hours since Gooth called me. I can hear my mom shouting incessantly in the background about something I cannot decipher. I seem to be the guilty party. Like those debating dudes, I pay no heed. Rather, I turn my attention to what the Mountain Goats have to say about the best ever death metal band out of Denton. Oh, how I wish my phone would ring now.

The Internet Psalm

2010-12-02T12:28:00.001+05:30

The Internet is my shepherd, I shall not want anything else.

It maketh me float in the virtual world of awesomeness.

It leadeth me away from boredom.

It refurbishes and enriches me.

It leadeth me in the path of fun and frolic amassed from all over the world.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of shadow of death, I will enjoy my life, for the Internet, it excites me.

It prepares a collage of everything I love before me.

It anoints my head with humanism. My cup of joy runneth over.

Surely, the quest for the new and craving for information shall follow me and the next generation all the days of our lives

And I wish to be on my chair in front of the Internet forever.

The Writers' Club

2010-11-10T13:18:00.002+05:30

This was something I had to write for a creative writing assignment. Thought I would put it up here as well.

Psychedelic lighting. Smoke rose up in helices, withering away into random parts of my room. Outside, the general hullabaloo of hostel life made itself faintly heard. But almost all sounds were drowned out by the great buzzing of four brains, one of which was mine. Desperate times called for some desperate thinking, and, as a wise man once said, four heads are better than one.

The humdrum of academic life throws an occasional spanner or two in to the works of any student. Such a blip had occurred in mine when an assignment to write a short story proved to be particularly difficult. It was time for the rescue team to get down to its act and in this case the team materialised in the form of three friends who were particularly jobless that night.

Smoke continued to rise, the distinctive smell of a particular member of the flora becoming more and more pronounced.

“So”, I said. “Gentlemen, you have gathered here to bail me out of a sticky situation and I will need all that you have got to set matters straight”, I rambled like a Mafia don addressing his cronies. In a few more words, I described the situation at hand and the acute case of writer’s block that had kicked me in the crotch and nullified all efforts so far.

“Bottomline is, gimme a story”.

The brains continued to whir, like some great machinery at a factory, beating all other aural competition hands down. Anyone walking along that corridor could have been forgiven for thinking that they had been suddenly transported to Jamshedpur or some place where they indulge in such activities.

It was some time before the wheels slowed down for fuel, the machinery slowly winding to a halt.

“What exactly are you looking for?”, asked Dawg.
“I don’t know. Anything”.
“I mean, like comedy, sci-fi, dadaist....”
“Anything, Dawg. Anything”, I said, trying not to sound desperate.

The whirring and the buzzing forced itself back in to the scene, though periodically intercepted by random half baked suggestions such as “Dude, I read this book recently....”, “How about you try....” and even “Macha, have you seen Enthiran?”.

Things were far from rosy. It was everything but rosy. If a five year old kid had asked her dad what rosy meant, he would have pointed to our situation and said anything that is not this is rosy. In short it was bad.

“You know, if you want you can be this dark, deep guy. Shady past, murky future. That kind of thing”, suggested The Dude.

I had not planned on that, but it was a start and the best one so far. I took it.

“Angry young man or disillusioned guy dabbling in myriad illegal activities?”, asked The Dude.
“I prefer the latter”, I grinned.
“He can frequent the shady circles of the city, scavenging for Flying Spaghetti monster knows what, unable to satisfy the inner cravings of his soul with the dire pleasures the city offers. He seeks nirvana”.
“Wow”.
“Bimbos and booze bore him. Cannabliss is all too common. What he wants, no one knows”.

We sat open mouthed. straining our ears to catch every last syllable of the words that were dropping from The Dude’s lips. Pearls they were.

"And he is all angst ridden, ok", said Dawg, taking up from where The Dude left off. "Can't speak for thirty seconds without saying the f word or the c word four times. His mind is like one of those whirlpools I saw on Discovery channel. You fill up his dialogues with such stuff,dude. He hops from woman to woman like a bee in a coterie of orchids. Our man should be a gun totting, rum guzzling, weed smoking metro sexual womanizer. The whole story should be around as clean as Suresh Kalmadi".

“And then he meets this awesome girl somewhere. Her eyes are as blue as the skies above and as deep as the ocean below”, chipped in S.

A bit of background on S. S had one ultimate aim in life- to start a little known, and possibly innovative venture known as the Gift Shoppee. Till date, no one knows exactly what this bit of entrepreneurship involves. Like my protagonist, it too has a murky future. But many and complex are the vagaries of life and S had some how ended up in college.

“I know!”. S jumped up excitedly. “Our hero is in a Gift Shoppee, checking out some tribal beads from Nagaland. Amidst the strings of beads that hang there, his eyes meets those of this girl. Both of them are going for the same string of Naga bead. A collision is imminent. Strong situation, don’t you think? One complete with romance and mystery. Thrilling”.

Three pairs of eyes looked at him in pretty much the same way they would look at a particularly foul smelling trash can. That he had lost it was the general consensus.

“Dude, shut up!”, interjected The Dude. “Bring a girl in to it. Yes. So far you are talking sense. But what is all these crap about Gift Shoppees?”

“Yeah, no Gift Shoppees”, I agreed. “Girls, yes. Definitely. How do we move on from there?”
“You appadiya insert a couple of paragraphs about how your hero hangs out with the girl and flirts with her. The hero can tell her a couple of Commonwealth Games jokes. They are mighty funny and gives the impression that you and your protagonist are intellectuals who are concerned about the fact that the country is going to the dogs.”

Once again, I was awestruck. I was this close to drafting an agreement with The Dude to make him ghost write for me for eternity.

Dawg had another brain wave.

“You can end that sequence with our hero kissing the girl or something like that. Hold on as long as the censors will allow. Then you got to decide whether the you let the camera shift focus to the shining lake, the fragrant flowers and the chirping birds or call a spade a spade”.

I was left to ruminate on why life keeps throwing such tough nuts at me to crack while in the background S said something about the two being alone in the back of a Gift Shoppee. By the time I told him to shut up, he was describing how the owner of the Gift Shoppee would walk in on them and say “Ain't a thang, dawg”.

The next half an hour witnessed a downpour of random ideas that had varying degrees of relevance to my story. It was what is known in literary circles as constipation of thoughts in a diarrhea of words. I put a couple of feet down on the issue but had almost no effect. I might as well as had tried to summon the sun to my backyard at midnight. Its pretty amazing how fast some people can talk. Its almost impossible to get a word in sideways.

I don’t know what happened next. Everything seemed to grow dark and heavy. Words hit me, like the pitter patter of rain on an asbestos sheet. I felt as if someone had tied lead ingots to my eyelids. It was a futile attempt to keep them upright.

Sunlight petered in under my door, looking to the left and right apprehensively, as if in doubt whether it actually belonged there. A plethora of alarms sounded in my room, which after a long battle, finally caught the attention of my aural nerves. Something hairy was shaking me awake.

I opened my left eyelid. Dawg. Things began falling in place as memories from last night came back, slowly but steadily.

“What happened to your story dude?”

Five minutes later, I was typing away rapidly on a laptop, much like a woodpecker on a tree. I knew I was not going to make much of an impression with my makeshift attempt but something had to better than nothing.

“Dawg. I need a rocking first line to start my story”.
“You start with something like ‘Let’s legalise marijuana’. Anything will be cool, bhai”.

What's been going on

2010-09-15T14:53:00.000+05:30

If you belong to that extremely small class of people who diligently follow this blog, you may have noticed that it has been pretty static. General laziness combined with not having a laptop to myself and some Shaastra work led to this lack of dynamism in this space.

Speaking about Shaastra, this tech extravaganza is from September 29th to October 3rd this year and promises to be one grand event. It is gonna be bigger and better this time, especially as we have a title sponsor and all this time. And just in case you chance to drop by Shaastra 2010, do not forget to attend the IIT Madras Symposium on Education in Rural India. The event itself promises to be really good, even though the meetings we have to decide stuff for it just won the Most Boring Thing Ever World Cup. So make an effort and do come by.

As usual, despite my best efforts to swim against the tide, I have been caught up in the current of academics and curriculum. Badly beaten and bruised I am after a few quizzes, but I am still kicking.

Keep watching this space for more stuff. I am beginning to get super busy now. Not a state I am particularly fond of.

On the road- Ernakulam

2010-08-08T03:59:00.003+05:30

Ok, First things first. This place I went to is around 40 or 50 kilometers away from Cochin or Ernakulam town. By Ernakulam, I mean just the Ernakulam district. The vast number of villages, hamlets and towns are the stuff under discussion when I say Ernakulam.

Now that we have got past that formalities, lets get down straight to the brass tacks.

As some of you may know, I was in Trichur for a day before I decided to shift ho and move a wee bit down south. Somewhere in the district of Ernakulam lies a small village and in that my Dad's place. It is one of those quintessential villages that one reads about- cut off from much of the world, dense expanse of greenery all around the place, small houses dotting the landscape, tea shops scattered around the area and generally giving off an old world charm.

It is a tough job to be able to get to the place, one having to grace a train and at least three buses to set foot in the village. Armed with the awesomely funny Stephen Fry, I set about to tackle this dangerous and tough task. I do not remember much about the train except for the fact that the mirth and jolly nature I was prone to exhibit courtesy Mr. Fry was not at all well received. I could sense a strong desire among my co-passengers to write to Ms. Banerjee about it.

I got off at the Alwaye railway station, a small but busy station which somehow seems to recite to one Longfellow's poem "A Psalm of Life". The walls seem to shout out "Life is real, Life is earnest And the grave is not its goal". Buses were boarded on and the familiar sights of the district drunk in as the miles were eaten up. In less than an hour I was a mere 10 kilometers from my destination, looking for a bus that would finally take me there.

After hunting around for anything with wheels that would go anywhere near where I wanted to be, I finally found a bus which actually had my destination printed on the board near the windshield. Surprise! Too good to be true, thought I, a thought I would regret later. I boarded the bus heartily, joyous at having a bus that could take me to my destination in one piece.

I knew the bus ride would be pretty long, so I was content to just gaze out of the window once I had a ticket, continuing to feast on the sights, just ensuring that they were familiar. A latent fear that I may have erred still persisted. Happily proved wrong.

Thirty minutes in to the ride, I reached what can be called a proper village area of the district, the stereotypical signs of a typical village put on show. I was aware that my place was still some miles off so I resumed my feasting/drinking.

Now, the thing about these Kerala villages is that they are so small that it is perfectly possible to trip over one and land on another a few miles apart. This is exactly what I proceeded to do.

Almost an hour after I had boarded the bus, I reached a junction from where it was just a matter of a five minute walk to reach my destination. Some inner voice told me I should do so. However, another inner voice told me "Dude, this bus goes to YOUR place. It may take a longer route, but it will eventually deposit you at the doorstep. Stay on". In the ten seconds that the bus stopped at that junction the two inner voices did the angel and devil on the shoulders act. Even before any conclusion could be arrived at, the bus moved. Now that the former of the inner voice was rendered null by forces outside my control, I had no choice but to retain my seat.

The bus sped on.

Another half an hour later, the population of the bus had dwindled down to three. The bus had not taken any major deviations so far, something I expected it to do since it was supposed to go right till my place. Five minutes. One more person off. By this time, we had moved on to the deepest and darkest corners of the land. Another five minutes. I was the last person on the bus.

The conductor walked up to me and asked where I wanted to go. I provided the needful. "Eh?", he said. I explained my destination in some detail. A wtf expression sparked onto his face. He explained that I was as close to my destination as Edison was to Tesla.

I got off in the middle of nowhere with only my legs to serve as locomotion.

It was nearing seven and there were very few streetlights on the village road. I started walking in a direction I deemed to be right and five minutes alter chanced on to some population. Asking for directions, I continued, repeating the exercise whenever I came across a few fauna.

At last, when it seemed like my legs would go into coma, I reached a junction. I asked some people for the place which hosted my destination. "This is exactly that place", they said.

Fuck. There were two roads, one to the right and one to the left. None seemed familiar, not even in some long forgotten dream. The chances that I would have to retrace my steps if I took either road were roughly equal. Sensing my helplessness, someone asked, "Do you want to go to the church"? It was a lead, a slender one at that. I replied in the affirmative. I was informed that the road to the right led to the place of worship.

With all fortitude I could muster, I took the road to the left.

Ten minutes of walking later, I came upon familiar territory, from where it was child's play to reach my Dad's place. I reached the house drenched, parched and bewildered.

When I hit the road- Trichur

2010-07-28T17:38:00.003+05:30

It so happened that quite a few of my relatives, to whom I hadn't spoken for months, suddenly wanted to see me, a final glance before I shipped off to college 708kms away. Generally reluctant to tear myself off from the computer and the television, I put off the visit for quite some time until the final weekend of my long holidays. Forced by circumstances beyond my control, a three day itinerary was planned and I set off.

First stop: Trichur. This place is also known as Thrissur. This city hosts the well-known coaching centre run by a certain Mr. P.C Thomas which used to be all the rage among those engineering and medicine aspirants and still is somewhat of a rage. Competitiors have cut into their business, but the going is still good. It is in this abode of learning (also referred to as 'prison house') that my dear sister pursues her ambition to be a doctor or paramedic or just anybody in a white coat and stethescope hanging from the neck.

Trichur is a delightful place. It is a small city, may be only slightly smaller than Trivandrum. But its charm lies in the fact that it is infinitely more friendly and welcoming than many other places I have been to in Kerala. Their delightful accents, lavish smiles and grins and a generally happy outlook on life make interacting with the very few people I interact with, a pleasure. One yardstick I have to judge a city is how the auto drivers behave. Auto drivers in Trichur are a more chatty lot than those in Trivandrum and Cochin and effuse a warmth and glow that is hard to find elsewhere. Their chatter is not intrusive and neither is it cocky garbage. They somehow engage their travellers in friendly small talk which, like the Thai Airways, is smooth as silk. If someone told me Dale Carnegie had conducted an extensive lecture tour in Trichur ages ago, I would not be surprised. Most importantly, when the meter shows Rs.18 at the end of a journey, the Trichur auto driver charges you exactly Rs.18, unlike the Trivandrum driver who charges you Rs.25, the Cochin driver who charges you Rs.27 and very much unlike the Chennai driver who may not have a running meter but charges you Rs.70 anyway.

Trichur leaves you in no doubt as to which state you are in at the moment (of India that is. Not solid, liquid etc.)- a few red flags on various posts interrupted by tricolours sans the ashoka chakra, prominently placed and extremely busy Beverages Corporation stores and an unfinished flyover. A six month old retard of a kid could tell you that you are in Kerala (soon to be, Flying Spaghetti Monster forbid, Keralam). The former and the latter sights especially show how the city has managed to progress into the future (or at least the present) while ensuring that its past is safe and intact.

Interestingly, Trichur has many good shops, well lit and swanky, that provide some great shopping experiences. They are convenient, well-stocked and generally caters to all sections of the society.

Now to the most important point. Chicks. Next time you are left with just your bottom fifty paise, I advice you to invest that in a wager with some goof convincing the goof to bet against the hotness quotient of the female population of the city. If you would take my word on anything, take it on this. They are smokin'.

There ended my trip to Trichur. In hindsight, especially in the light emanated by some hot stuff in the city, it was a great trip.

There is more to my trip, but I must be off now. Or hell reigns.

A Response

2010-07-15T11:54:00.004+05:30

A couple of weeks ago, on a Sunday, I chanced upon a column in a Malayalam daily, titled 'Avoid being a Fool'(translated). Thought prvoking, eh? Eye ball grabbing, no doubt. My thought was thus prvoked and my eye balls grabbed and dragged to the paper and soon I found myself nestled in a sofa, paper in hand. The column called 'Today's Food for Thought' (translated) is written by some guy with the initials T.J.J, whom I later found to be Fr. Dr. T.J Joshua. Then, right on the next day, I happened to lay my eyes on an article by some doctor dude called Iain Smith who, in some online mag called 'Health News', said that an alcoholic nature killed and stifled many of our creative geniuses.

To the uninitiated, a brief description of the former. The article is a staunch denouncement of social drinking, or any type of drinking for that matter, and it urges its readers, the youth in particular, to follow the straight and narrow path of teetotalitarianism.

It is now a commonly known fact that alcohol in dilute aqueous solution, when taken in to the human body, acts a depressant rather than a stimulant. The intelligent layman, when faced with some important work, seldom reverts to the bottle. S/he resorts to it after the business is done, when s/he can rest and afford some leisure. S/he indulges in it to realease in his taut nerves and let off some of the steam in the spleen.

If time is the great healer, then alcohol is most certainly the great simplifier. It reduces and simplifies emotions. It raises the threshold of sensitivity and phases out the the partucluarly unpleasent ones. It puts a brake upon all those qualities which enable us to rise and shine before our fellow men- combativeness, diligence, ambitiona and the like. Rather, it brings out the qualities that make us loved among other homo sapien sapiens- amiablitily, humour, sympathy and the ilk.

A man who has knocked back a couple of cocktails is barely capable of launching a missile strike against Pakistan, to formulate the budget of a state, to cut off a leg or to conduct Bach's B minor mass. But S/he is infinitely more capable than a sober person to admire a pretty girl, entertain a dinner party or to hear Bach's B minor mass. The harsh, useful things are done by men who are as sober as so many prisoners in the Tihar Jail, but the lovely and useless things are best left to people with more than a couple of sheets in the wind. Pithencathropus erectus was a teetotaler but you can bet your bottom 50 paise that the angels know what is proper at 5 p.m.

Back to the afore-mentioned article. The reverend seems hell bent on equating celebrations with the state of drunkenness. He quotes a few occassions he was invited to where he witnessed people of coming together in great spirits to enjoy good spirits. At this point, I would like to chastise those dudes and dudettes. Who on earth invites a priest to a booze party?

Not content with sermonizing on the evil nature of the liquid, he goes on to lecture about the increased drinking habits among youthful women, subtly bringing out all the entrenched sexism and conservatism in that old mind. The reverend diverts from his topic of the drunken nature of all into the drinking habits of the fairer sex. He goes on to mock this as 'women proving they can do what men do and better' (translated). Really T.J.J, if you want to lecture on drinking, stick to that. Why bring in such blatant stereotypes.

I suppose all human life is divided between those who order by the crate and those who assume that sherry trifle leads to everlasting bonfire and never the twain shall meet except on the sodden battle fields of 'Health News'. You are on one side Doc and all those creative geniuses and I are on the other. My own conclusion would be drastically different. If Hemingway, Beethoven and Van Gogh had not been constant business for bootleggers, they would not have been half the men they turned out to be. If those great men had stuck to orange juice as instructed by the nearest medics in their localities, Hemingway would have thrown in the towel at 'The Sun Also Rises'. Ludwig would have said "Chopsticks is pretty good. Enough. Genugschein" Van Gogh would have stopped when he sold "The Red Vineyard in Arles". And then , where would we have been?

It is no accident of fate, if you believe in such things, that all such men have laboured under the shadow of the corkscrew. Some, like Keats and Coleridge chose to go for the opiates. How else are these giants to survive against pygmies, make the everyday and mundane tolerable and favourable to those whirring intellects, to tone down the effects of numbing normalcy?

How must Old Vince have felt when he woke up one morning to find that the red enamels had all gone mouldy, the cat had knocked over most of the remaining over the only clean canvas he had and the landlady was shouting in anger about the increase in the price of vermicelli?

What thoughts would have gone through Hemingway's prolific mind when he, full of characters, situations, clever lines and much of the spare, tightly written prose buzzing about in his head, found that stationery store across the street from which he had planned to get fresh paper in the morning was closed because the proprietor had contrated German measles?

Worst of all, people like you, T.J.J and Dr. Smith, were constantly nagging Beethoven to get on with his bloody music, what about a couple of symphonies to follow up the ninth, shouldn't take more than an hour or two, the prime minister's birthday is coming up next week and he has requested a special performance, no fees naturally, and oh, I almost forgot, my wife's sister's son plays the triangle, not professionally though, but we all think he is rather good, so I have arranged a little dinner party next Friday so that you can have an opportunity to listen to him, all about unearthing new talent, haha!

I know from first hand experience that alcohol, in contrast with popular opinion, instills love and consideration in the heart of every human being. When full of the stuff, their hearts overflow with the milk of human kindness and their bowels are full of sympathy and compassion. Not a violent thought or act crosses their minds or bodies. They are all for world piece and nirvana. All this is so obvious that I am amazed that no utopian has ever proposed a world system by which every single person is gently stewed, mildly brewed. In my opinion, humble of course, in such a state a person exhibits all the qualities that make him/her toast of the society.

All the great villanies of history, from the murder of Abel to the Treaty of Versailles to the Babri Masjid have been perpetuated by sober men and chiefly by teetotalers. But all the charming things in the world, from Jeeves to 'With Malice Towards One and All', from the nine Beethovan symphonies to the Martini cocktail have been given to mankind by people who, when the hour came, turned from pipe water to something with colour in it and more in it than mere hydrogen and oxygen.

On the Internship

2010-07-06T14:56:00.006+05:30

Some of you may have been aware that I did an internship at The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India) in June. Uncharacteristic of me, said some on recieving the news. 'Finally at work, eh?' sneered a few other acquaintances. Anyway, I put my nose to the grindstone for a month and embarked on what some would describe as a roller coaster ride. I would not though. I would describe it as bungee jumping.

I, humbly and politely, offered my services to The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India) upon which they sent me a few forms to fill. In that I filled in a lot of garbage, directed them to this blog and informed them of the general trend of ideas in my head. All these should have qualified as reasons not to grant me an opportunity and so I was pleasantly surprised when they said "Welcome, Basil James" as if they were goddamn Gmail. I think the promptness with which I dispatched a DD for a grand as they had instructed may have tipped the balance in my favour.

Soon they sent me a brochure which proclaimed in red "Thou shall not plagiarise" and went on to say that I would be damned and consigned to the deepest and darkest hell with immortal worms and burning fires if I dared to so much as lift a single comma from anywhere. They then proceeded to tell me that I was now a member of a huge international family (six nations to be exact) and was welcomed to feel at home. Demonstrating to me that they do have lawyers at the office of The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India), I was informed sternly and strictly that I was, under no condition,to shirk my duty or walk out on them.

"Clause 6. Some clause that".

"May I read Clause 6?".

"No, don't read Clause 6. It is much better that you do not. You wouldn't sleep nights. You can take it from me that they are some penalties. Haha!".

"Oh. Would I be taken for a ride?".

The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India) smiled quietly but deeply.

With that the welcoming and ingratiating cermony came to an end and we moved on to the brass tacks. They sent me a list of topics, twelve to be exact, on which they wanted articles from me in June. They gave me the freedom to choose topics randomly from the list and so I decided to go with topics 1, 2 and 3 for the first week.

First up was an ad review, my first assignment for the self proclaimed 'Voice of the Youth of India'. I had no problems in becoming a note or two in that booming voice and I followed up with an article about football in my home state of Kerala. It irked me somewhat that the Ed was determined to change the titles I gave my articles, but I could always give and take a bit.

Two weeks of frentic writing ensued on a number of topics. The thing had transformed itself, almost overnight, into a job rather than some useful and interesting mechanism I had found to pass time. It seemed there was some international conspiracy to throw a spanner in to my works as the World Cup came along in the middle of June. It meant that evenings were completely booked, leaving only sleepy mornings for me to fill the web page of The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India). The silver lining in that very dark cloud was that I forced myself to write an article about the Cup in deep sleep. The article was somewhat crappy. It was at this juncture that I realised the Ed would publish most of anything I wrote, regardless of its quality. Not exactly an encouraging thought for me. If I had been running The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India), I would have been extremely reluctant to publish that article. Some underworld don mistaking me for a long forgotten son, I imagine.

Meanwhile, the outside world moved on in its usual fashion and found an inopportune time to butt into me.The tide of events swept me away from my laptop for two whole days, leaving me with close to five hours to write a book review. I was reading Prem Panicker's Bhimsen at that time and with ample help from Binny's blog, I wrote a review. Decent, I thought, if you overlook the reliance on Binny part. I had entered a phase where I rated my article according to my own intellect rather than whether anyone deigned to publish it.

A movie review came next. I dished out the needful without making much ado. Almost all of the few drops of goodwill inside me instilled by the internship had now evaporated under the burning sun of frustration and twenty three bumbling Enlishmen in South Africa. I did not have much cause to be disgruntled and I fancy I wasn't, but I certainly wasn't gruntled. The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India) was not turning out into an establishment I particularly like anymore. Like Gordon Brown, I felt under-valued.

Then came a period in which I kept writting articles on the topics the Ed wanted, but none of them saw the light of the day in the normal time it would take to publish an article. I took out Quality through the back door and shot it in the face. Finally, an article about Maoists got published, breaking a hiatus of almost a week. Quality, once again, made sure people remembered it through its absence. The Ed badly needs to take a course on how to keep its interns, who churn out THREE articles a week, happy.

My next assignment was to write about a disease that affected the youth. I had a gigantic urge to write about Internshipitis, but found out that it did not even have a wiki page, thus rendering the initiative impossible. Another crappy article in the form of an article about about dementia praecox resulted.

I got more pissed at the Ed's habit of changing the titles I gave my articles and substituting them with inane ones. It happened in the case of the Maoist article and then more blatantly in my article on the prospects a chef in the modern world has. I gave it the title 'Whats cookin'?'. The Ed changed it to 'How to become a Chef'.

Things went up hill from there. Although, at that point, I was feeling things could go only up hill from there. An article about an imaginary cat, one about the environmental impact of the Deepwater Horizon spill splashing my name across the roster.

Fortunes changed, as they always do. Two decent pieces about the Greek Debt Crisis and Stem Cell research rejuvenated my spirit and Basil was smiling again.

The month of June wore to a close and I was relieved. I fired off my final assignment, a travelogue. I knew it would prove to be tricky, as I had not travelled to any place worth talking about in recent memory. Inspired by Road Trip, I fabricated a road trip to Kanyakumari and it too duly got published.

I was thus left in peace to enjoy the last eleven days of the World Cup. In retrospect, I guess the internship was an useful thing to do. If anything, it forced me to do some research and spend some time on Wikipedia. Some stuff like the article on the Greek debt crsis and the one about stem cell research added to the coffers in the skull. Great lessons in time management were rendered as I alternated between Facebook, Twitter and other entertainment on the internet while trying to churn out articles for The Viewspaper (The Voice of the Youth of India). May that voice blare out loud.

I ultimately got my name splashed around the net, something I hadn't expected to do. Being jobless these holidays, I have had plenty of time to think about what would happen to me if I chose to take M.A English and I figured out that I had better write as much as I can right now and gain some experience and exposure. After all, I definitely don't want to end up teaching 7th standard kids in Loyola.

On LA Fest 2010

2010-07-04T13:35:00.001+05:30

Warning:

1. If you are not from Loyola School, Trivandrum or any part of Trivandrum chances are that this would not make sense to you.

2. This is just a personal opinion.

Every school kid or has-been in Trivandrum knows that LA Fest is the premier inter-school event in the city calender. Even if you are not a Loyolite you would recognise the quality that sets apart LA Fest from the rest. LA Fest had stood the test of time, for 14 years, as it enthralled the up and coming teenage population of the capital city of Kerala. Its success has spawned a number of similar events across the city in various schools. But LA Fest is the big daddy of them all. Ask Federer whether he would rather win the Wimbledon or the Vanautu Open. For an answer in a similar vein you could ask any school in Trivandrum whether they would rather win LA Fest or some hooky assed fest else where.

On July 3rd, the city watched with eyes wide open whether the 15th LA Fest would be a worthy successor to its illustrious predecessors.

LA Fest 2010 was the second LA Fest to be held in the huge indoor stadium of Loyola School. Since last year, the venue had been moved from the inimitable Sutter Hall to this colossus of a venue. Sporting a new onstage event and a couple of events off stage, LA Fest 2010 had an air of something new and fresh around it. An increase in student intake meant that there was a sea of dudes in a rather neat LA Fest t-shirt but it certainly made life difficult for anyone trying to find out who was in chage of what.

To be frank, LA Fest 2010 was not all that great. May be it was due to the lack of quality of the participants, may be it was some pretentious hosting or may be it was some pure bad luck, but the batch of '11 failed to pull of an event that could hold its head high among the other successful ones of the past fourteen years.

LA Fest kicked off, without much dilly-dallying and shilly-shallying, at eight o'clock. For once the opening cermony started off at pretty much the same time it was supposed to. Since I did not watch the events that unfolded in the auditorium until the lunch break, I shall not comment on that.

The lunch break gave way to Encuesta 2010, the quiz event of LA Fest. Being a former host of the LA Fest quiz, I know that the quiz slot is where the audience generally slips in to the afternoon nap or a stroll in the lush campus of Loyola. Contrary to expectations, the quiz got of to a good start and the crowd actually semmed quite enthused by the thrills the show offered. But it all went downhill from there.

The initial hosts let the tempo slide a bit and a few bloopers later the event was back in familiar territory. The first pair of hosts gave way to another as the crowd raised their drowsy heads slightly to take a peek at the new offering.

They were left wishing they had not. The new hosts made just one mistake. They forgot that the performers of LA Fest are the competitors onstage rather than the hosts themselves. Ideally, a host facilitates opportunities for the participants to shine and capture the hearts of the crowd. Somehow, the boys got their priorities mixed up.

I gave Block N Tangles the miss as I had to go out to get something done, but the reviews from the crowd was not that great either. Block N Tangles is often the biggest let down of LA Fest. It is often touted as the most entertaining and intellectually stimulating event of LA Fest but almost every year it comes up short. The participants often fail to rise to the exalted standards that would amaze and thrill the audience and thus there is often too much onus on the hosts to liven up the affair. So, if the hosts are not up to scratch, you have yet another show in tatters.

La Persona, the most awaited event of LA Fest, turned out to be the biggest shock of the week for me. Reason: It turned out to be a damp squib. The hosts came on stage in the garb of the quintessential 'Vijayan' and 'Dasan' of the Mallu movie industry and made a meal of it. They failed to pull off the act succesfully, getting caught between the usual high-brow, sophisticated nature of La Persona and the down to earth, slapstick style of the movie characters. Their attempts to get the best of both worlds was brutally turned on its head by their own ineptitude. Suffice to say they got it all wrong from the start, right from the theme.

Two hot chicks and four others made up the contestant list and they looked set to set the stage on fire, with some imporessive ramp walking. Alas, it was not to be. Talk about flattering to decieve. I should have known when one guy started off by rendering a speech from Old Bill's Shakespeare. It was insult to injury when he walked away with the title of Mr. La Persona. One hot chick almost undid the visual effect she had on the crowd by rendering Eminem's 'When I am gone'. The performance would have made Eminem commit suicide and then turn in his grave. She won the title.

The contestants where nowhere near the levels set by dudes and dudettes of previous years, as they stumbled and stuttered through the rounds, making the whole thing a drab affair.

Dance O Mania is usually an event which sets the stage on fire and has the crowd on its feet, singing and dancing as one man. Not to be. This was the fourth LA Fest I happened to be at, and never have I seen such an inane display of dance from Trivandrum. It was the age old steps, with little or no verve, no mood to innovate, no dare devilry, just a ritual of going through the motions. It was intensely disappointing that LA Fest ended with such a show that was starkly in contrast with the spirit of LA Fest.

The closing ceremony, supposed to be at 7:30 was pushed forward to 7, which meant that the ceremony was done for the most part sans the chief guest. Nina Prasad, a noted dancer, made her appearence as the chief guest at an opportune moment, just in time to give away the trophies for over all champions.

The night did not end there.

Understandably disappointed at their failure to grab one of the top spots, a school alleged discrepancies in judging and heated arguments ensued. Senior Loyolites had to intervene to atleast partially gruntle a hugely disgruntled lot of students. Not that I blame them. Though it is easy to pass off cliches like 'graceful in defeat' I have amply demonstrated to Trivadnrum that, when faced with failure, my approach to matters is only slightly better than those of Jack the Ripper and Attila the Hun.

On the whole, LA Fest 2010 left me with a bad taste in the mouth. A collection of events of a rather banal nature did not have too many people savouring the delight of LA Fest. The usual rumours of this being the final LA Fest did the rounds, but the current talk seemed to have an added ring of truth to it. May be, fifteen is a good number to end it all. On second thoughts, I hope they don't. May be it is time the school channelled some of that energy and enthusiasm in to rejuvenating the banal arse-wipe called the Loyola Basketball team.

A Certain Attitude

2010-07-01T10:26:00.001+05:30

When I am in Trivandrum, I often find myself visiting the alma mater, Loyola. A couple of days ago, I made what could be the fifty seventh trip to the old place, this time under the pretext of LA Fest preparations. Accompanied by a dear friend, we decided that it would not hurt to see some of the old folks at the place, the teachers, the 'uncles' and the ilk.

It was during this rendezvous that I came to notice a disconcerting attitude among many of the fauna at Loyola. My friend has what could be described as a rather unruly hairstyle, a dry long black mass of keratin falling over on to the face. In a land where short, cropped and oiled hair is the norm, it stands out like a nun in a brothel. What I found distasteful was the fact that conversation between my friend and the people we met started and ended on that topic alone - the hair.

In the short, almost nineteen years of my life, I have come to accept the fact that my hometown is far more rustic and conservative than I would prefer. Yet, it came as a mild shock to discover that the malaise was deeply entrenched even in Loyola, our second home.

One member of the non-teaching staff was particularly vehement in his criticism, describing something as personal as a person's hairstyle to be against the ethos and culture of the school. He percieved as a major sacrilege, this tendency on the part of a few pass outs to forget the 'values' imbibed in one's hometown. It might be intersting to note that I have heard him speak in a similar vein at other seniors who have dared to change their attributes from the ones generally seen in the city.

Come on! How does something like a hairstyle of a single person affect in anyway the culture of a school. Is Loyola suspect to degradation on account of 'wayward' tastes in style on the part of a pass out? I believe not. And if it is, it is better we dispense with such a fragile culture and bring in a better one.

While one can be persuaded to take into account that the elderly may be slighlty set in their ways, I hold that no one should be dictated on such personal matters. What is the point of shouting slogans like 'unity in diversity' if people cannot tolerate a diverse hairstyle. This attitude is ultimately restrictive and inhibiting.

Loyola was a place where students were given a lot of freedom and encouraged to strike out their own paths. How would you justify the insistence that everybody follow a set path of conservatism even on personal matters such as this?

Fodder for thought.

New Design

2010-06-28T10:19:00.000+05:30

Hello. Welcome, O lost traveller in the online woods. And for those of you who have made a habit of getting lost and ending up here, a most hearty welcome. So, you would have noticed a few changes in the general appearence of this patch of land in the online woods. I guessed it would not hurt to repaint the whole thing in a different pattern and so, here we are.

If the wine you serve is old, the bottles had better be new. Following in that line of thought, I revamped this blog to a vast extent, changing the template and background, all using the new template designer.

So. You like it? Or was the previous one better? I chose the previous one because it was simple, bright and easy on the eyes. The new one keeps with that formula for most of the part. I first tried out a template which had a bookshelf with brightly coloured books, but popular opinion seemed to be against it. So keeping with the spirit of democracy, mutualisation and what-not, the new template is a field or pasture with a lot of grass (hehe). Symbolism for life etc.

So feel free to comment and tell me how the new design looks. Bouquets and brickbats are accepted in equal measure. I don't know how to create a poll on my blog, so you will have to comment on this post. Yea, I know. Deliberate plans to get someone to finally comment on my blog.

Toodle-oo.

The Marathon Match

2010-06-25T14:25:00.005+05:30

There is a tide in the affairs of men, says Old Bill, which when taken leads to great fortune. The thing is to take the tide at the highest point. You will be in the depths if you miss that boat. Well, I missed that chance when Robert Green made a howler against the States at the World Cup. But I intent to park my own ruddy ass on that boat this time if no one else does. Life has given me a second chance in the form of the Isner vs Mahut match. Another ideal opportunity to crack lame jokes at those gentlemen's expense.

1. Samuel Beckett sued the All England lawn Tennis and Croquet club for plagiarising his story line and enacting it at Court 18.

2. The Pope decrees that Matthew 24:35 be amended to include the Isner vs Mahut match.

3. Year 2060 A.D- My grandkids come up to me and ask "did you have the Isner vs Mahut match even when you were a kid?".

4. Federer and Nadal played in an epic 6 hour U.S Open final but nobody watched because everyone was still at the Isner vs Mahut match.

5. Isner and Mahut played for so long that their apparel contracts ran out and they had to strip.

6. Isner and Mahut played for so long that Court 18 at Wimbledon is now a clay court.

7. Isner and Mahut played for so long that Mahut grew an inch.

8. The French celebrated Mahut's match joyously because his run at the Wimbledon lasted for more time than the French football team's run at the World Cup.

9. Aliens invading the earth in circa 2178 retreated back to their planets cautiously when they discovered that earthlings had already discovered time warp.

10. Mahut ran around for 11 hours but still could not get a 69.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Added on June 27.

John Isner was thrashed 6-0 6-3 6-2 by an unseeded Thiemo de Bakker in the second round. People all around the court wanted to know whether it was the shortest match at any Grand Slam.

Stupid dreams of childhood

2010-06-23T16:56:00.004+05:30

You may find this hard to believe, but once upon a time I was not as awesome as I am today. Yes, I used to be a kid. In that period, between the ages of five and 13, I harboured dreams I would laugh at right now. You too can laugh at them from now on.

1. Vegetarianism. The times when I avoided any kind of meat as if it were the plague. Killing animals? Gawd! Eating dead animals? OMG! Well, you know, I was a kid.

2. Becoming the prime minister of my country and making it the best in the world. By best, I mean THE BEST. Every kid probably has day dreamed about such a scenario. But, I tell you, mine were vivid. Again, I was just a kid.

3. The dream that one day cute, cuddly carnivores like lions and tigers would live in perfect harmony with cute, cuddly herbivores like deers and rabbits.

4. Using the game of football to settle international disputes. That was your cue to fall off your seats.

5. The next Batman. Need I say more.

6. I once wanted to be alive for 250 million years after I read somewhere that a supercontinent, like the Pangea, would be formed in that time.

7. Ambition: Super scientist-cum-action hero-cum-awesome football player-cum-rockstar. Talk about small dreams.

8. You know what happened when Harry Potter came out. Sigh.

9. DECIMATE THE U.S HEGEMONY!!! Being born and brought up in a place which had a strong presence of the Left helped.

10. I wanted to be an adult.

A Week into the World Cup

2010-06-19T12:53:00.004+05:30

A week into the World Cup and I am like a child who has been promised candy but has not got it yet. Face it. The World Cup has been, at best, bland after the first week. Though it got better as the days progressed and the future looks promising, I am not yet the candied kid. A few teams like Germany and Argentina rescued the tournament from being utterly crass, but the disappointment persists. A few matches have gone by and it is time to take a look at what happened.

South Africa vs Mexico- Opening match of the tournament was literally a tale of two halfs. South Africa, to be frank, was almost horrible in the first period, their game quite amateurish, while Mexico dominated proceedings creating chances and converting none. In the second half, a sublime strike by the sublimely named Tshbalala put the hosts ahead only for Mexico to strike back. On the whole a decent game. Bu World Cup quality? Na.

France vs Uruguay- The second match saw a floundering France barely managing to keep up with Uruguay. France has reportedly been plagued by infighting and rivalry within the team and it showed on the pitch as Les Bleus looked very short of ideas and zest. Uruguay, led admirably by their two forwards, Forlan and Suarez, did a lot of running but ultimately lacked the penetration to trouble Hugo Lloris in the French goal.

South Korea vs Greece- I missed the match because I was playing football at school. I think playing was definitely more exciting than watching a drab Greek tragedy as a hard wroking and efficent South Korea completely over ran the European qualifiers.

Argentina vs Nigeria- The world switched on its T.V sets to watch the world's best player, Lionel Messi. And he did not disappoint. He troubled the Nigerian defence with swervng runs and was denied thrice by an excellent VIncent Enyemu in the Nigerian goal. Argentina looked quite a champion team in its demeanour and style of play as Nigeria was left gasping for breath.

England vs U.S.A- England took on the USA!USA!!USA!!!(as The Guardian calls it) in one of the most awaited matches this world cup. England is most often a big let down, but they started positively with a goal in four minutes. In the fourty fourth munte Robert Green, Enlgand's goal keeper, showed the world that British PEtroleum was not the only British thing prone to leaks as he let Dempsey's tame shot slip out of his hands in to the goal. The match then became a midfield battle with not many chances, until Altidore troubled the England goal mouth. Green redeemed himself by making a fine save. England were once again a big let down.

Algeria vs Slovenia- Another of those matches which led many to call this World Cup the most boring in recent history. Somwhere in the last five minutes, I found myself woken up by the raised voice of the commentator signifying Slovenia had scored through a goal keeping error.

Serbia vs Ghana- Was far above the previous matches in standard of play and entertainment offered. Both teams created and missed chances until a handball and sending off gave Ghana a goal from the penalty spot. The witches could not work their magic and Ghana easily scratched out the itches.

Germany vs Australia- Undoubtedly the best match so far by many a mile. The Germans were simply scintillating with amazing runs off the ball and some pin point passing. Aussies had no idea awhat was going on, which was worsened when Tim Cahill was unfairly sent off. Germany seriously looked the goods and is touted to go a long way with their youngest squad ever.

Netherlands vs Denmark- The Oranje was a team everybody looked forward to, except the Danes. Reputed for their dashing stylistic game, they promised a treat. It did not turn out quite in to a treat, as the Danes pegged back the Dutch, not allowing them much space. In the end, a freak own goal and some fast running gave the Dutch a deserved victory. The Dutch played like the Germans and the Germans played like the Dutch.

Japan vs Cameroon- A match between two distinct styles of football, the pacey, diminutive Japs prevailed through an opportunistic strike. The Africans failed to exert themselves until late in the match and paid the price for it.

Italy vs Paraguay- I am not insomniac. I am perfectly capable of falling asleep by myself and do not need to watch Italy play to do so. So I skipped the match.

New Zealand vs Slovakia- Yet another drab match. Brightened up by the Kiwis' late goal.

Ivory Coast vs Portugal- Another much awaited game and did provide decent entertainment. I half expected Drogba to play with a ten kilo metal cast and leave at least three Portugese players incapacitated but that was not to be. But still, a good match. Either side could have scored, but they were a bit too generous to their opponents.

Brazil vs North Korea- It was the highest ranked team vs the lowest ranked team. And what pissed me off was that the commentator on ESPN kept reminding me of this fact. The commentator was extremely patronising of Korea, praising in hyperbole every tackle and every pass they made. It was sickening. The guy seemed to think that North Korea comprised of players playing in wheel chairs against the Justice League. The game ws quite entertaining. The Brazillians realised that there was no point in leaving anybody to defend after five minutes. North Koreans had already decided that there was no point in sending any one to attack. The Asian Rooney, as the Korean press called the star forward in a red shirt was hardly as good as Roney (a senior of mine at school who plays decent football). The Koreans defended extremely well until Maicon's magic (or luck) finally gave the Samba Boys some respite and was followed by Elano. The Koreans managed to score in the end, a testament to their spirit. Surely, they aren't the bad folks the Western media makes them out to be.

Honduras vs Chile- A game which threatened to slip in to new found levels of drabiness. Livened up by some enterprising Chile attacks. Ultimately, Chile was too hot to handle for the Central Americans and Palacios brothers.

Spain vs Switzerland- The game which made the most headlines. Spain, boasting stars of amazing calibre, fell 1-0 to the Swiss, an opportunistic goal by Gelson Fernandes sealing the issue. Credit to the Swiss for defending as if their lives depended on it and to an excellent Diego Benaglio under the bar.

South Africa vs Uruguay- The second round of group games began. The host were beaten all ends up by Forlan and Uruguay. Nothing more, nothing less.

Argentina vs South Korea- The Albiceleste was out to rock again and Leo Messi came up with the goods. Though he failed to score, he carried the team forward with that amazing skill. Higuain scored the first hat trick of the World CUp as Korea could only marvel at the Argentine game.

Greece vs Nigeria- At the outset, a drab, boring match. But it was everything except that. The match is best described as a thriller novel, with all the characteristics of a Sheldon or Archer. Nigeria dominated the first half, going one up through a lucky free kick. But some where in the thirtieth minute, a Nigerian dude called Kaita got sent off for trying to kick a Greek dude in the balls and finding only the thigh.At any rate, it was for kicking. The game turned and how! Rehhagel took off a defensive midfielder and brought in the irresistable Samaras and the Greeks were on the hunt, like an Athena. Just before half time, their toils were rewarded with a goal. The Nigerian goal keeper, Vincent Enyemu made at least four world class saves, befor spilling a shot and allowing Tzorisidis to score. In the end Nigeria slipped to defeat because there was Greece everywhere.

The Greeks have such awesome names. My personal favourites were Sokratis Pappasthopoulos, Kostas Katsouranis and Avraam Pappadapolous. Nigerians were not that bad, contributing to the name game through Danny Shittu and Dickson Etuhu.

France vs Mexico- The French suffered the shock of their lifetime by losing 2-0 to an enterprising Mexican side. Raymond Domenech is one step away from being as crazy as Maradona. At least Maradona's team is winning. Dopey Domenech once left a player out his squad on astrlogical grounds. As France missed the reassuring presence of Zidane, questions are bound to be raised as to why the new Zizou, Samir Nasri was not even included in the squad.

Germany vs Serbia- The sexy Mayanti Langer wanted to see how the young German side would cope under pressure and she got her wish. Miroslav Klose got sent off in the 37th minute by a referee who was too eager to flash cards. Serbia scored against the dazed Germans immediately. Germany regrouped and created a few chances and even earned a penalty only for Podolski's shot to be saved. The second biggest shick of the tournament.

Slovenia vs U.S.A- A ripper of a match. One of the best this World Cup as U.S.A justified their world rankiing of 14 by coming back form two goals down to draw the match. Great performance from both sides.

England vs Algeria- For an England supporter like me, there was only three words on the tongue. They were England, was and shit in that order. A hugely disappointing match, when almost every England player switched off. The only decent players were Ashley Cole and David James. Rooney was not even as good as Roney while Gerrard and Lampard looked lost as the stunnig club form was nowhere to be seen. Two or three years ago, a defensive error by Terry was something museums would pay millions for, but now it is too common to even befit a couple of exclamation marks. Capello baffled everyone by playing Heskey till the 70th minute and replacing him with Defoe in the same formation when clearly that formation was not working. Nobody but Capello knows why Joe Cole did not make an appearence. A big blow for England. They now need to beat Slovenia by a good margin to top the group, but nobody is betting on it.

What is gonna happen?

2010-06-10T16:35:00.002+05:30

The World Cup kicks off tomorrow and I'm all excited. I can barely sit. It is like I have ants in my pants. So, I was thinking. What will happen in this one month period starting tomorrow? That spark of thought turned in to a wild fire, and before I knew it, I had a pen and some paper and was making a list. Here goes.

1. The Bafana Bafana, aided by ten thousand vuvuzelas and some really bad refereeing decisions, makes the round of 16.

2. England go out in the quarterfinals AGAIN!!! You guessed it, penalties!!!

3. Cesc Fabregas, after spending a lot of time with half the Barcelona squad, a.k.a Spain national team, decides to move to the Catalan club. He says that it is his dream come alive and in his heart he has always been a Barcelona player. Especially when he was 16.

4. Maradona blasts Messi and Milito for "being useless in training", while Javier Pastore and Ariel Grace are said to be the real strengths of the team. This follows a 6-0 victory in which Messi and Milito scored three each.

5. Messi is proclaimed as God by pundits and journos. Pele says people tend to exaggerate so much these days while Maradona continues abusing more journos. Incessant coughing, identified as an attempt to butt in to the conversation, is heard in the background. The cough is later traced to Ronaldo.

6. Rooney kicks five people in the balls, bad mouths the ref and drives his knee into some bloke's chest and thus gets sent off. The British media blames the opposite team's physio because he had got some dust into his eyes and closed that eye alone.

7. The Oranje play fantastic football again, beating the crap out of opposition until finally they go out in the quarterfinals, inexplicably losing, in all probability to some team like....South Africa!

8. North Korea demands that no one be allowed to watch any of their games as it is offensive to their culture and tradition. After some persuasion from FIFA, Jong agrees to let his team play if FIFA agrees to a plan he formulated. The plan is , on the previous day the same match is played in an empty stadium and N. Korea wins and the match is re-enactred pass by pass on match day.

9. Wayne Bridge is caught in a compromising situation with Toni Terry. He secretely arrived at South Africa in the garb of a North Korean team staff. He is reported to have quoted Matthew 7:12 in Pulp Fiction style before commencing activities with Toni.

10. A host of players would be raring to emulate Zidane's final act on a football pitch. Didier Drogba head butts Ronaldo after the Portugese star snipes that "he would rather NOT have Drogba's mom".

Enjoy the World Cup! They come only once in four years.

The problem with poetry

2010-06-09T13:11:00.003+05:30

I was aghast, when going through the scribblings and rantings of many of my classmates, to find that an overwhelming majority dealt with poetry. Few things can be more bone chilling to a prosaic person like me than the realisation that my class was populated by a hoard of minor poets. Now, you may think that I harbour some intense anti-poetry agenda, and you could not be farther from the truth. In fact, I adore poems, as long as the publisher guarentees that the poet has been dead for at least a hundred years. As a result you will find me poring over 'Daffodils' and 'To Autumn', but I draw the line at that. Poetry, like wine, certin brands of cheese and buildings, improve with age. Therefore, no connoiseur would dream of filling himself or herself up with stuff on which the ink is still fresh.

In the olden golden days, poets where chaps who shut themselves off from the outside world in their own cottages, which they left only for the purpose of being thrown out of publishing houses to which they had attempted to sell their wares. Thus, if a respected gentleman were to be trapped in a remote island for eternity with only a poet for company, he would rather build a wall and talk to it.

The poetry bug appears to be catching on, like an epidemic. More and more victims are reported each day, with many of the respected and loved ones going down the drain. Gone are the days when 'published posthumously' was a proud tag on a book of verse. Times are such that anyone waking up on a fine morning can dish out a few lines on the blue sky and the black roads and make a couple of fortunes. As a result, young people all over the place are throwing up steady jobs to devote themselves to the new profession. It is a horrible sight to wander out to the junction on a Sunday afternoon and find one's progress positively impeeded by swarms of young poets brought out by the warm weather.

Imagine if Charles Dickens had been a poet.

"Marley was Scrooge's partner
But Scrooge was definitely the meaner.
One day Marley died
But Scrooge never cried.
Scrooge kept both names on the board
For the dead man he adored."

Of course, finding the root cause of the problem is a tough task. A long time ago, when a Tom, Dick or Harry ventured to immerse himself in the perilous proffession, you could talk sense into him. There was that one thing which served like a strong fort in front of an advancing enemy. "What about rhymes, Tom?", you could ask. "Dick, just imagine having to spend your life attempting to find words that rhyme with 'cosmic' and 'symbolism'". When Harry asked why you objected, you could reply "Think of those dark times when you have used up 'May' and 'Gay', 'Fool' and 'Cool' and 'Moon' and 'June'. You may live a few months with 'Intution' and 'Confusion' and 'Cricket' and 'Wicket', but that time too will pass". The next day, you get notifications on Facebook telling you that the above mentioned friends had removed themselves from the group 'I love Poetry'.

But then, like the snake in the Eden Gardens comes a certain person called Edgar Lee Masters and invents vers libre. The rest is history. He told everyone that they need not have rhymes. He urged them to leave out rhymes all together. And thus was born poetry sans rhymes. If my good friend Percy Bysshe was living now, he would have had to rewrite 'The Cloud' thus if he wanted to pull in a dollar a line.

"I pour water over flowers.
I go to the sea and rivers to get it.
I give them shade, so that they can dream.
My dew wakes up the buds as the Earth continues
To revolve around the Sun in an elliptical orbit according to Kepler's laws.
But,
I am also capable of snow
And some rude, loud thunder.
Muahaha."

A sleeping population has awakened to the reality that it can make money in heaps by chopping down prose into bits and inserting the relevant punctuations. What is to be done? Mr. Masters left this world long ago, making it impossible to exact any sort of revenge upon him. The only consolation is that, if we all were to become poets, then the phenomenon will die out by itself, because poets seldom buy other poets' stuff.

Second Sem \m/

2010-06-02T16:27:00.001+05:30

You saw that thing which just went whoosh! Don't worry that was just my second semester at I.I.T Madras, which broke speed limits left and right to land me at the beginning of a three month vacation. Here I am, left to recollect my thoughts and memories of that awesome four month period in the comfort of a cosy chair.

A general feeling of awesomeness about the past four months persists strongly inside me, but as I search in the haystack of memories, I find it hard to pinpoint the needles of awesome moments that made my second semester a rollicking one. The sem provided me with a lot of memories and experiences which shall be with me for a long time.

The semester started of in January, and January to us I.I.T folks means only one thing- Saarang. Saarang, the cultural extravaganza (literally and figuratively) held annually by my college, attracts the best talents from across the country. Saarang guarenteed four days of amazing fun and four days of amazing fun it delivered. For more details on how Saarang was refer here. Saarang, for me was mostly about the girls. I.I.T is a place, to quote a dear friend, where a chick gets a 5 on a scale of 1 to 10 just for being a chick. It was into such a barren desert that Saarang came as a refreshing shower. And how! If you had seen the campus one of the four days you would not have recognised the place from Adam. It got transformed, metamorphosised into something completely new and, not surprisingly, refreshing. Hot girls descended on the place in droves bringing a wide smile on my lips. Heaven, albeit momentary!

The semester passed into other months, namely February and March. A "peaceful" semester, with a realtively small workload gave me and my buddies plenty of time to indulge in the vices. It reached a crescendo in April, with the hostel nights. We rocked Tapti (my hostel) night, inebriation style. It was a day when anything liquid around the place came in dark, cold bottles. On a hot and thirsty night we turned from water to something which had colour in it and more than mere hydrogen and oxygen. Hours were spent performing the bottomless bucket act until gradually several of those buckets had malfunctions and decided to eject majority of its contents. Thus ended the best night of the semester. It was a night I would love not to forget but unfortunately I do not remember much of it.

Ohh..I almost forgot. Football Schroeter. In the month of February or March (I do not recollect) we tasted the pleasures of organised football in the form of the football tournament as a part of Schroeter. Our hostel team, despite having decent talent and calibre did not make it past the group stage. It was dissapointing, yet to fun to turn out in the hostel colours, albeit last year's. We had a pretty good run in the friendly matches though winning one or two and losing only one to the eventual winners of Schroeter.

Second semester probably had the biggest impact on my lifestyle, completely revolutionising my daily time table, especially in April during the week preceeding the end semester exams. Nights were made into days and days into nights. Sleep all day, party all night. Never grow old. Never die. It is fun being insti junta. Wake up at ten in the night, stagger off to the DCF, a few smokes on the roof, ogling at a computer screen for hours at a stretch, the five o' clock trip to tarams, breakfast and finally to back tot he department for class or examination. Well, at least I got to eat breakfast everyday. Though it was the only meal I often had the entire day.

Its a three month holiday now. Internship reminds me how work can actually be taxing. Seems like hard work will finally kill me.

A Tearful Goodbye

2010-05-08T12:09:00.008+05:30

Finally, I caved in. After a long and forlorn battle against society and conservatism, I had to sacrfice a recent and beloved friend to guarentee some peace of mind.

How I miss you already my dear friend, five minutes into your departure and I am ruing my action. Ah, my black, bushy companion, I hope to see you again.

I forget. It so often happens that one starts to ramble on about a topic without getting on the fact that the audience has no idea what you are talking about and before you know it they are on their hind-legs yelling for foot notes.

So here is the lowdown on the issue. It is about this beard I had. Now I have experimented a lot with my facial hair, but this beard was kind of special. It was not the prettiest or the most glamourous but I liked it a lot. And then, the villain came in the form of family and neighbours.

They attacked my sweet little beard tooth and nail. They created arguments based on flimsy grounds such as culture and tradition. But the beard was not going to give in that easily. After all, it grew on a capable chin.

It held out. Somebody said I looked like a fakir. Well, great people like Gandhi have been called that and he did not mind, so I took heart. A certain neighbour said I bore a striking resemblance to another famous personality- Osama Bin Ladan. Well, you got to take the good with the bad, said I to my beard. Little did I know that the sluice gates were just about to be opened. Parents, neighbours, acquintances, even a relative who had not seen me adviced me over the telephone.

My parents redefined the word nagging forever, giving it a whole new dimension and meaning in every plane. Others shot weird glances at me, when they thought I would not notice, but I did. Relatives who had only overtly biased earwitness accounts of the proceedings lamented the flawed and dangerous path of a vagabond that I had supposedly taken. I knew the end was near. My mind was being subjected to torture way beyond what it was made to take. It would crack any moment.It forced me into a choice I did not want to make.

And thus, past midnight on the fourth day of my arrival at Trivandrum, I, armed with a razor blade accomplished that painful task. It was not easy. I mean, when you have a strong bushy undergrowth which has not seen the glint of a Gillette for two months, it is never easy.

So long dear friend. Hope to see you again in the near future.

Damn you, you conservative mallu society!

An Attitude Problem

2010-04-24T12:54:00.001+05:30

Did you know? I have an attitude problem. Yea, that is right. You didn't read it wrong. No, it is not an altitude problem. I am not afraid of heights and huge mountains. It is not an aptitude problem. I am slightly more intelligent than I look. Yea, it is an attitude problem.

I have often been told that I have a lot of problems. I do have a ligament problem. I have had plenty of math problems to solve. A wise old man once told me that I would soon have a drinking problem. But this is new news. An attitude problem? Gawd!

Well, so this guy tells me I have an attitude problem. Amusing, because that is exactly what the Church told Galileo. And what did old man Galilei do? He told them where they could shove it. Due to social constraints I haven't told this guy where he can shove it, but then you can bet I have done that in my mind a few times by now.

The way I see it, I don't have an attitude problem. You have a perception problem.

The very fact that you think that I have an attitude problem presupposes that I have an attitude. I HAVE A COOL ATTITUDE! YAAAY!! \m/

They should manufacture more ties like this.

So you consider my attitude is a problem? Back in the 1600s they considered Fermat's last theorem as a problem. But that was long ago. As James Truslow Adams famously said "The greatest discovery of my generation is that man can alter his life simply by altering his attitude of mind". Change your attitude about my attitude.

Anyway, I learned a lot of things. One of them is to take DoCoMo ads more seriously. You know what they say in those. Your life changes every second yadda yadda... Well, I realised that is true. I would have missed those priceless comments about my attitude if I had slept for two more seconds. After relentless prodding by a dear friend of mine, I woke up, just in time to hear those pearls drop from this guy's mouth. Life changing!

Well, as the old Italian proverb goes, as the house is burning, let us all warm ourselves.

A Likely Story

2010-04-09T23:45:00.010+05:30

What rum bottle in what glove compartment, Ma?

It is not my car.

It well may be my car, now that I look at it from this angle, but surely it can’t be my bottle, can it? . Do you think it is one of the servants’?

Yes because don’t you remember: when the usual bottle for the engine coolant was misplaced, I asked you for a spare bottle to keep some water for the engines, and you said there were old bottles in the servant’s area, ones that used to hold kerosene. I must have absent-mindedly gone to the storage room under the stairs and taken out the bottle you use for wine and then put it in the glove compartment thinking it was the kerosene bottle, because I have always loved it’s shape. Haven’t you loved it’s shape as well?

Since you ask, no Ma, I can’t picture you having wine in a Bacardi white rum bottle in a millennium, make that ten millennia, especially that kind of make. Maybe that is one reason we don’t see eye to eye as often as we used to.

However, that doesn’t alter the fact that they were in the storage room under the stairs and I, not bothering to switch on the lamp, mistook it for a kerosene bottle.

How do I know? I expect you put it there yourself, after unwrapping it. I know you have a short memory, but surely you can remember Uncle Bobby getting you a Bacardi white rum bottle last Christmas, among other suitable items? I remember you verbatim. “Thank You very much darling, but I can’t have it in a millennium”, you said. "I’ll take them back to the shop tomorrow and get you something more mellow and suitable, a bottle of red wine maybe?” he replied. Then you must have popped it in the storage room and not given a second’s thought to it from that day to this. How fast time flies doesn’t it. If you remember…..

All right. Joke over. Do you want to know what really happened?

You are not going to like this, I’m warning you.

Because it involves someone, the mention of whose very name you hate.

G, the college practical joker.

Of course, you know he is the college practical joker. That is why you loathe him so much. Surely, I am not to be held responsible for my batch-mate's off-beat sense of humour. I know you hate him because he kept sticking out his yellow tongue at you at the college party that we went to.

Well, he thought that was a practical joke.

So, I can’t prove anything, but I did notice that G, the college practical joker was loitering around the car parking area in the evening, where he had no right to be as he doesn’t drive. You know.

Let me get this straight. You are telling me that if G, the college practical joker, somehow got into the car, somehow forced opened the glove compartment without breaking the lock and placed the Bacardi white rum bottle he happened to have in his pocket and then locked the glove compartment and got out off the car, you are going to call a doctor and test for alcohol in my blood?

Then it’s very lucky indeed that that is not what actually happened. The incident actually centers around S.

S. I don’t think you have met him. He has quite a reputation as the college conjurer. I have seen him do tricks with cards that would astound you. We all tell him he should take it professionally. Listen. I saw him do this legendary thing the other day. Imagine a rocking chair, a bowl of goldfish, a couple of cigarette cases…..

Did I mention glove compartments? Or sleight of hand tricks with Bacardi white rum bottles? Then until I do mention them please be kind to reserve your judgment, Ma.

Where was I?

Good heavens.

You know that sensation that comes, you know it don’t you, that someone sometimes is going to say something? Déjà vu, isn’t it? Well, I just had it then.
It was when I said ‘Where was I’. It brought back sudden memories of sitting in the same car and saying-it wasn’t ‘Where was I’-it was ‘Who am I?’ Must have temporarily lost my memory.

No, I know that is not the same thing as déjà vu, but you know what I mean. Of course you do. Don’t tell me you have never lost your memory temporarily and come around saying ‘Where am I?’ or ‘Who am I?’.

I don’t think I like your tone, Ma. I wouldn’t dream of asking you to believe that I came around to asking ‘Where am I or Who am I or What is Bacardi white rum bottle doing in the glove compartment?’. Had that been the case, I would have mentioned it.
This time I found myself sitting in the car and asking ‘Where am I?’ or ‘Who am I?’ as the case may be. This time I temporarily lost my memory.

Yes, I was about to tell it you, but I forgot about it.

Well, Bacardi white rum bottles don’t come into it anywhere. I just got sidetracked by a moment of déjà vu or whatever it was.
I am getting back to the nitty-gritty. G, the college practical joker, and S, the college conjurer were, how shall I put it, somewhat worse for the wear. Tired and emotional. There was a football match, you see. Pretty important for the college. And we lost because of a last minute controversial penalty kick. So, you see, there was Raj coming in from the right wing and he crosses to the centre…..

You are right upto a point. G, the college practical joker, doesn’t play football, but now he plays like a couple of Peles. The only reason you don’t know that he plays is because you won’t have him in the house anymore. Because you hate his insides.

They were hanging around at the car parking, G, who doesn’t drive but who plays now, and S, who both drives and plays.

They had been celebrating.

Does it really matter for what? Since you must know, they were celebrating A, the college kleptomaniac, being accepted for an exchange program to Germany. So A thought he would instill some happiness into these morose guys for a night. Must have been his good deed for the day.

Didn’t you? Oh yea, the college and staff keeps it hushed up, naturally. We have been asked not to talk about it. Its an illness. He takes pills for it.

Yea, that is perfectly correct. He did get into a German college three months ago. But it was only temporary till recently. He is now a permanent guy for a year over there. A lucky chap he is.

By all means congratulate him, if you know the ISD code.

You may mention Bacardi white rum bottle if you want, but I don’t see why on earth you should in the first place.

Have I accused A, the college kleptomaniac, of stealing Bacardi white rum bottle from some place somewhere and then stuffing it into that glove box?

Very well then.

The only reason A comes into the picture is that he was planning to spend the night at S’ place before returning to Germany by a late flight. S, the college conjurer, was too tired to drive. G, the college practical joker, doesn’t drive. Foolishly, I volunteered to give all of them a lift.

No, I am not going to bother you about how S threw his bunch of keys out into the sewer and swore he could produce it in the glove compartment when we reached home. We all believed him, because he is so damn clever, a member of the magic circle and all, did you know?

Well, we reached S’ place and no keys in the glove compartment. G, the college practical joker has passed out and none of us know where he lives. So, I couldn’t dump them at his place, and I couldn’t bring them back here because you hate G like you hate none other.

So.

I am drifting on the road, wondering what on earth I could do. Should I get a hotel room or what? And then I see my headlights rest on something in a purple dress, waving her arm about, outstretched. One stunning blonde thumbing a lift. Haven’t I told you this story before? I thought I had.

So, the gentleman that I am, stops and she gets in at the front where the glove compartment is.

G, the college practical joker, S, the college conjurer and A, the college kleptomaniac are all sleeping, dead as dodos at the back.

Now, as you know, there is a light in the glove compartment, which was switched on because we had been searching for S’ keys. I was able to get a good look at the hitch-hiker and I thought hello, I have seen you before, dear.

And do you know who it was?

I can see that you are not going to get it. Off all people it was none other than K, the college hottie. Not much of a coincidence, you know. K lives in the same street as S does.

‘Thank God, it’s you four’ says K, ‘because I’m in dead trouble….’

HS106

2010-03-24T18:45:00.003+05:30

I am basking in the Chennai sunshine that filters in through the trees and through the windows into HSB 352. Yawning away even before a dry monotone proceeds towards my ears, I can watch the cosmopolitan crowd passing all around me.

Just in front of me is Sajad a.k.a Sajjubhai, head and hands on the table, indulging in what Garfield refers to as the perfect exercise. A man for all seasons, I smile faintly at the hunched back of the person who taught me to sleep in every position and location.

Ah! Shabba has just entered. The svelte dancer with a ready smile, who used to make suspectible Tam-brahms shut their large mouths- how long ago?

Behind her is the handsome young Jerry, an actor from B'lore, and PP, a thin athlete from the same land, who once strangled a French cook for lack of expertise in Blanquette du veau, Bouillabaisse and the Tarte Tatin.

'In class and all, eh?'
Surely, I know that voix.
Assurement! It is 'Sid', the wicked writer with a semblance of reason, who can rip apart anything and everything as long as it exists somewhere or the other.

We greet each other.
'Tiens, mon vieux'
'Et vous?'
'Pas mal'

At a corner table, languishes Chenji, his mane brushed back neatly up to the neck. He has a newspaper in his hands, held the wrong way and his jeans are patched with brown material resembling his own skin. No, it is his skin. He is a wild young man, this tiger, and drops eggs on passerbys from the department terrace.

'Aniyaa'
Startled, I look up.
A long grin from a crooked head greets me.
Its ABO, the die-hard philosopher-cum-commie, who makes ardent speeches at every opportunity. Popular opinion, however flawed, holds they are bullshit. They say he once orated from the top of a chair with just three words- 'Freud', 'Marx' and 'Why?'.

Ah, now for a real beauty- Baas, who sashays into the room with a mild doped expression and a smile that betrays nothing. Seems like green is her new favourite.

Couples, despos and poets walk in. A particular individual of the latter species always captures my attention for the wrong reasons. She was brought up by a loving family, but ran away to a publishing house when she was sixteen (the modern equivalent of running away to the sea) and managed to get a collection of poems published. It failed, and she did no more work.

Behind me I am amazed to find Booby. General rumour iss that he is engaged to his lappie and will soon be getting married. Well, I guess an occasional seperation is good for all couples. They say he is breaking into the college swimming team next year. All I can do is wish him luck and destroy his fiance.

The prof walks in. My eye-lids droop and consciousness makes for the exit from my brain.

Ah, HS 106!

Till the clock strikes an hour later: lots to sleep before I go, lots to sleep before I go.

I am bored. Fuck you.

2010-03-12T22:43:00.001+05:30

I know this is my second post this week, a seriously rare thing, but that just shows you how jobless I currently am. Plus the last one was absolute crap.

Its Friday night. Should have been party time and checking out every girl in sight. But here I am stuck in my department, pretending to work on a shitty presentation that was due three days ago. All I have to do, or rather, can do, is stare at my computer screen. People around me tap away at their keyboards, presumably at work.

Right now I am shouting "Die motherfucker, die", with a gun down the throat of an entity called time.

So what do I do?

FB games? Strictly no-no.
Chat with somebody? Might do it, but not feeling like it.
Study? Yes, right. :P

As I stare with an empty gaze at my screen, thoughts of a past few minutes rush back to fill the vacuum in my mind. Yea, I had been reading random jokes from different parts of the internet. Like, Sarah Palin thinks that the Berlin Wall separated Kanye West and Kanye East. Or like, Bendtner scored the first hat-trick of his career. Ok, that really happened.

People around me leave, back to fruitful activities. New people arrive, to their work turn they. I am so bored, boredom should redefine itself for me. I shall not wish such a Friday night even upon my enemies.

Come to think of it, I do have work. My presentation, which got postponed twice, still lacks perfection. Why don't I do it? Its Friday night and I have two more 24 hour periods to do it in. I have a other presentations and papers coming up. Why don't I do it. Face the truth I have faced before- I am abso-fucking-lutely lazy.

There is IPL on YouTube. Goddamitt! I can't get the goddamn thing to work. I impatiently wait for the Arsenal game tomorrow.

More than ever, I crave for bimbos and booze. Right now, right here, I crave like a fish craves for water. The past eighteen brain, rusty for lack of much use, has forgotten its old ways. It no longer produces sparks of good natured creativity. It releases the rust within, to cover me from head to toe in a light brown haze of drowsiness.

Twitter updates, blogger updates, e-mail updates et al. remind me of life outside myself. I love them and hate them for the very same thing.

Yawning every thirty seconds, still waiting for a genie to pop out of the screen sits I. Not an interesting thing to do, not a fresh female face to look at (dammitt!!!), only a huge black steamy cloud of restlessness.

May God (if there is one) save my soul.

Psychology of a Dictator.

2010-03-10T14:46:00.007+05:30

Disclaimer: This is outright shitty, boring and disgraceful. Proceed at your own risk.

This is a piece I wrote for a creative writing event for my hostel. Its rather shitty, but take a look.

There we were in a dimly lit room, straight out of a dark comedy meets drama style setting from Hollywood. Opposite me, sitting on a worn out sofa is a man past four score and seven years. His presence would not command the respect of a gully dog, but his reputation precedes him. As the aging lion who still roars proceeds to exercise his vocal chords, yours truly, the scribe for the occasion begins to scratch his notepad with a stub of a pencil.

“My name is K and I am a dictator. I don’t have a sad excuse for a moustache on my face. I don’t command a huge army in any part of the world and I don’t have dollars cheated out of subjects stashed in myriad banks. I don’t mind the newspapers spewing damaging stuff about me from time to time.

My name is K and I am, still, a dictator…..

Those were the days when you could rule with an iron fist in a velvet glove and get away with it, even when the glove was absent. Not that it was much to get away with in the first place. But the feeling of not having to answer to anyone in the neighbourhood was surely an exhilarating feeling.

I mean look at the guys (and gals) today. One guy can’t get his garden cultivated according to his likes and dislikes because his head gardener wanted roses of a different colour. The way I see it, if your head gardener does not like your choice of colours, you take a battle axe and divide him into four head gardeners and no questions asked.

I’ll tell you one thing and put it down in your diary if you have one. You know how I began? As a youth of twenty, I started running Riot in The City. That was a good 60 odd years ago. In case you don’t know, Riot was a night club, frequented by the who’s who of the political class of the age. There I learned that winny-wannies who called themselves leaders were just a bunch of pushovers. And push them over I did. It was there that I learned to accept Chaos as better than Order and I grew to love the proposition, especially when I propogated the chaos.

You know what is wrong with the world today? I’ll tell you man. Its just that people have fallen into a rut, of endless mechanical life where they accept the Order as a part of the scheme of things, aiming for a static perfection that is never to be. As Barney said, ‘What’s the first syllable in routine?

My name is K and I am a dictator.

You know why I am still the main guy here? Not because the people love me. Its because nobody cares. The way I see it, you leave the people alone, and they leave you alone. I mind my own business and don’t keep up a face. The people mind their own business and have probably forgotten that I exist. I still get all I want, I live like the king I am. And nobody gives a shit.

My name is K and I am a dictator.

Of course, there is a reason why I am a dictator. Apart from being the occasional creator of chaos in chief, I have my own secret recipe to keep the power all to myself. I host lavish dinners from time to time and I waste no opportunity to show them who the boss is. While dining with the others, I allow the conversation to linger on general topics, but after a couple of hours I inevitably begin one of my many monologues. These speeches are flawless from start to finish because I rehearse them any time I get a moment. My favorite topics include: ‘When I was a soldier’, ‘When I was in The City’, ‘When I was in prison’ and "When I was the leader in the early days of the party’. You can’t say that I am not putting in an effort. Its no child’s play, being a dictator. It comes with practice.

I don’t generally try to construct any sort of image in front of my subjects, but from time to time I let a few of my staff see me in certain modes, who then rapidly spread the word. And let me tell you, they are not clichés, they are classics. A cliché is a cliché for a reason. I pace frequently inside rooms, always to the same tune that I whistle to myself and always diagonally across the room, from corner to corner. My handwriting is impeccable. When the famous psychologist Carl Jung saw my handwriting, he remarked: ‘Behind this handwriting I recognize the typical characteristics of a man with essentially feminine instinct’.

My name is K and I am a dictator.

It is little wonder that I am still a dictator. I am a dedicated student of the art and I strive for excellence. I got to secretly try and suppress a few hot-blooded youth from The City. A good dictator never allows for a repeat of history. That shall be all.”

How to write a Short Story.

2010-02-08T11:26:00.010+05:30

Hi there! Recent happenings have been, as usual, giving me food for thought. With all these food for thought, you must think i have a burgeoning brain, but truth is, most of it is lays and Kurkure. Anyway, back to topic. Saarang 2010, the cultural extravaganza at my college, IIT Madras, had a short story writing competition. I toyed with the idea of turning up for it, but I let I dare not wait upon I dare as, Shakespeare tells me, cats do in adages and finally spent time "sight seeing". This whole exercise made me think how I would write a short story and led me into the researching the typical and characteristic Basil James short stories. Here are my findings.

1.Teenage boy in minority group who does not know what is going on around him, but takes on the world with a shrug. An example:

"Imtiaz strutted about the street, absent mindedly kicking an empty can of coke. In his T-shirt, three fourths, sneakers and baseball cap he looked the quintessential teenager in those parts. But of late he had realised that he was subtly yet irrationally different from the rest of the people of his age around him. The TVs and newspapers did not have good news to tell him. Events in far off lands startled him, but he did not know what he feared..."

I guess every one knows how that story pans out.

2. I'm stoned beyond description. After a blurry sequence of events, at one in the morning, I find myself in a room with some random thing in an LBD. This type of short story describes the hallucinations of yours truly while under weed coupled with sexual activity in colour purple.

"I put my hands up the fringe of her dress, onto her buttocks. Her hot breath descended on my chest. The lobsters were redder than ever and were making red faces at the white clouds. My helicopter zoomed into their line of vision and it was my turn to make faces. She shed her outer coverings and curved down like a supine snake. A gang of gangsters plants dynamite in a bank's locker to blast the lock. Come on bitch, I'm about to explode.."

I have no idea how that is gonna end. Whew!

3. The single father and three kids living in a suburban house story.

"Its Saturday. The smell and fumes of my still un-perfect art of making breakfast eased into the living room. My elder son, Arun, was reclining on a chair, gazing into the computer screen probably on facebook. I wandered into the room and was met by the raised eyebrows of Arun. 'You are still on the computer? Go do your chemistry homework', I said. 'I don't wanna do it, Dad. Chemistry is stupid'. What could I say, I agreed with him. 'Then go clean your room'. 'I have given Binny 20 bucks to do it'. 'Binny!!! He is only three'. 'So what? He knows how much 20 bucks is worth'.

4. If you think it is bad enough, wait until you see the fourth type of short story. This 'genre' is directly related to the profound 21st century prose poetry of Ron Silliman, Anne Carson and Sheila Murphy. Though the creative impetus behind this is usually expressed as novels, short stories of this type do appear. I shall not give an example of one because I am in a happy mood, a frail one, easily dispelled by contemplating the short story I refuse to contemplate.

5. And finally....
This short story is an amalgamation of various styles of various people I have read- from my friends to acclaimed authors. This type of short story has a bad habit of never getting completed as the author often runs out of ideas or is hit by a particularly heavy writer's block. But some stories of this type have managed to be born, albeit half-baked. It usually goes like this....

" S is fast asleep on his fluffy bed ignorant of the chatter of crows, cuckoos, mynahs, swallows and others of the ilk outside. The Asystasia, Grey Mangrove, Philippine Violet, Barleria, Mayurpankh etc smiled brightly in the morning sun. A ray of sunshine rushed into the room and played about on the well cut face of our protagonist, S."

The story goes on like that for another ten pages and even I don't want to read it.

There are many other varieties of writings which arise from my chicken brain, but those are the types which you shall find on this blog and so I shall not go into the details. I see 'junta' charging upon me like the Assyrian, who came like a wolf upon the fold. I had better rush. Cya. Happy Valentines...

The Nostalgia Battle

2010-01-29T00:46:00.009+05:30

Well, well...I don't know if its only me, but I notice war cries, broken chariots and the lot around the place today, all indicative of some sort of skirmish around these parts. So, I decided to look deeper in and found an intricate and intriguing battle being fought out.

The turf was the crown prince of social networking-Facebook. The gladiators, two of my friends, "Sami" and "Gandhi". The topic of nostalgia is quite naturally our old school, Loyola. While it certainly is one of the best things an ex-Loyolite can be nostalgic about, the out of the blue nature of the posts coming up on my home page is what makes me curious. As another of my friends insists on, events in chronological order goes like this.

One score and seven days of the first month of the new decade, "Sami" makes a random post about how he would love to sit in our former math teacher's class, back in school. Ok...random post..understandable. Boy, I never thought it would set off this chain reaction!!!

Some info on "Gandhi", just so that you have a sort of heads up. He was a prominent figure in school and has been told quite a few number of times that his topics of conversation to random people is often excessively limited to the school. Having been a well known personality might excuse some of his over blown-at-times feelings, but sometimes he crosses that fine line.

Back to "Sami". His post receives a few likes, one of whom is "Gandhi". "Sami" made his post at some unholy hour which is kind of typical of him, but Gandhi probably sees it amidst his daily chore of reading about certain deceased Chief Ministers. Anyway, after a morning class, "Gandhi" posts about a funny incident that happened in the same teacher's class in a senior batch. Maybe it was the trend catching on, but he got seventeen comments and a couple of likes. The comments represented a variety of Loyolites from seniors who passed out long ago to his batch mates. The comments ranges from the appreciative to the disdainful, but "Gandhi" certainly got noticed.

Sami had evidently recognised that the best way to continue keeping his account active and visited was to dish out similar stuff, so he comes up with another post. This is like a general rumination on how great and wonderful life in school was etc etc. with lots of sentimental stuff and good memories thrown in for spice. His post is commented on by six of our batch mates, all adding to the already long post.

I know "Gandhi" to be a persevering and determined chap and his skill at writing has been recognised at various levels. He knows, like all authors, how to tug at the heart strings. He comes up with a rather lame joke cracked by a teacher which was funny for its lameness. The junta chose to give "Gandhi" the brusheroo this time and restricted themselves to just a couple of likes. "Gandhi" did not reach the heights he has reached by giving up at the first instance. He rallied around with another incident involving the same teacher, a lengthy one to tell the junta that he has no intention of being fazed by a few people's attitudes. His endeavors are rewarded and his post garners thirteen likes and four comments. "Sami" had by this time realised the futility of competing with "Gandhi" or the lame nature of the proceedings, or both. He gave up, leaving "Gandhi" the clear victor of the battle.

Thus ends the glorious history of The Nostalgia Battle.

First Sem...:)

2009-12-07T11:33:00.000+05:30

It is not very difficult to write about my first semester at IIT Madras. In fact, I can do it in one word- AWESOME!!!

The first sem gave a lot of memories to store in that deep vault in my mind, finding a commendable space among many sweet memories in 18 years. The first of those started a day before the sem officially began, when I started playing football in the hostel quadrangle. In an attempt to demonstrate my goal-keeping skills to my seniors, I banged my head on the goal post, ridding myself of a significant portion of skin on my forehead. To make matters even more interesting, i did not realise I had sustained an "injury" until some fifteen minutes later, when I accidently happened to brush my brow. I was quite startled to find a deep red coloured hand returning back from the forehead trip. In the end, I had to have a stitch, and my misadventure proclaimed to my classmates. On the bright side, a significant number of people got to know that I am pretty enthu about football.

The sem progressed into the second month. Freshie schroeter passed, and I got to represent the hostel in the football team. Unfortunately, our team, though talented, could make it only to the quarter finals. One of the incidents in my life which time shall find hard to efface happened during the freshie schroeter. A match against Godav did not produce much of a cheering squad from my hostel Tapti. The result was that all the people around the ground were godav supporters, and not too many voices to shout "Go Tapti". We were playing rather well on that day, which meant that the ball was in the other half for most of the time, and I was rather lonely at the goal post. Sensing this, a huge army of Godav supporters decided to rid me of my boredoom, though not in the way I would have desired. They gathered around my goal post and started shouting against Tapti and me in particular. I had to endure some twenty minutes of fifty people hurling abuses at me, right in my ear. They started in Hindi and English, until a couple of guys from my hostel tricked them into believing that I was from Andhra Pradesh. Then they started in Telugu, until a few people finally discovered I was Mallu (I have no idea how). They were massively overridden by the gult crowd though, so I ended up adding a few words to my now-stagnated Telugu vocabulary.

Shaastra, the tech festival of IIT Madras descended pleasantly upon the insti. It showcased a variety of innovative tech in a variety of fields. It facilitated a good number of lectures for the science and technology buffs by leading figures from the industry as well as the field of research. I was a hospitality volunteer and gained a lot of work experiences during the five days of Shaastra '09. Hospitality was mainly concermned with providing accommodation and help during the events to the participants. I still recall carrying dusty mattresses four and five floors to make rooms habitable for participants from across the country.

The sem progressed into a deluge of quizzes, assignments and presentations. I have never considered academics to be any sort of a stronghold for myself and won't be in the near future. The trend was aptly reflected in all my papers as I crawled past with below average marks. Others whizzed past me with varying degrees of super grades, while I was left with an usual sense of-no, not disappointment-ordinariness, because that is what happens in my everyday life.

In retrospect, all I did for a majority of the first semester was play football, read a few novels and sleep.

I briefly and frequently toyed with the idea of checking out the much touted great leveler called alcohol but I never got to tasting a drop of it for I don't know why. Time flew by, carrying me along, till we came to the end of November and the end semester exams loomed up like a bleak grey mountain. Serious and desperate last minute studying ensued, with nights and days merging into each other in a sleep deprived haze. I wrote exams the way I have done all my life-hoping for the best, though not quite prepared for the worst. In the end I managed three of Bs, a C and a D, resulting in a GPA of 7.47, what I like to call the Boeing GPA.

Back home for the winter hols, and looking forward to seeing insti again. :)

Yet Another Disappointment

2009-12-01T12:42:00.001+05:30

Yet another disappointment for this young gooner, who saw yet another gunners side flatter to decieve in a clash with one of the "Big Four". Having lost to United and the newly empowered City, Arsenal needed to hold its own against the mighty Chelsea. But what happened at the Emirates stadium on that Sunday evening was one of the worst performances from Arsenal in a few seasons. Arsenal was clearly overwhelmed by the significance of the match as well as the quality (and quantity) in the blue jerseys. It was quite simply a case of men against boys, a fact that Arsene Wenger denied. Arsenal lost spectacularly 3-0 to the current table toppers, to remain in third. The defeat, coming after a 1-0 lss to unfancied Sunderland, clearly shows that Arsenal is not quite up there with Chelsea and United.

The November Curse struck Arsenal yet again two weeks before the match, depriving the gunners of the serivces of ace striker Robin van Persie. The absence of the Dutchman was clearly felt against the Black Cats and was sure to be felt against the Blues. The man replacing van Persie, Eduardo, carried a lot of expectation on his shoulders and......turned out to be the worst player on the pitch. Eduardo, was fed admirably upfront in the first half, getting the ball just outside the box. Eduardo conveyed to everyone his lack of ideas on the day, shuffling arond,waiting for God knows who fiddling around, till Terry or Carvalho was kind enough to relieve him of the ball. Eduardo seriously needed to move the ball around and get himself moving around the pitch. Once the game progressed and Chelsea started to dominate, Eduardo became just an exhibit at one end of the park.

It was not like one department in the Arsenal team failed to function properly. Clearly Chelsea were the better side and they trampled the Gunners out of existence. Nobody was particularly at fault for any of the Chelsea goals. Les Blues emerged triumphant out of a no-contest to go eight points clear of the gunners.

The usually creative Fabregas was effectively subdued while Arshavin was given no ball or space to make an impact.In fact Arshavin got so frustrated that he resorted to blocking Cech from taking a goal kick late in the match. Bacary Sagna could not pepper the box with crosses as he usually does, and when he did manage to put a few through, there were no forwards to meet them. Nasri had an off-day, and kept losing the ball, as did Fabregas with astonishingly loose passes.

Arsenal were clearly put down and jumped upon with hob nailed boots by a superior Chelsea. The result was as much of a tactical victory for Carlo Ancelotti as the excellent display of football by Chelsea.

Arsenal went on to lose 3-0 to City in the League Cup as well, making it three defeats in a row. When will the Gunners start firing on all cylinders again?

Hottest Athletes

2009-11-16T14:53:00.000+05:30

Sport is sport, period. Over the years I have strived to drill that into my own head, to assess and appreciate sport for what it is-the display of human brain and brawn combined with amazing will-power to do the incredible. But sometimes, and here I wander into the category known as women's sport, I simply cannot stop looking for glamour. I just cannot resist a hot female athlete.

There have been many over the years to satisfy viewers around the world, in a variety of sports. From Anna Kournikova and Maria Sharapova in Tennis to sexy European athletes on the track, the list is rather good.

But, just take a look at who is probably the one of the hottest female athlete ever, Allison Stokke. Ironically, I came across her when I read reports about the NCAA athlete Alizee Paradis, who is in the limelight for similar reasons. But for me, its Stokke, with her large eyes and long legs, who takes my heart. Here is the beauty.

Stokke (or should I call her Allison..:P) is a pole vaulter from Norwalk, California. She is 20 years old and smokin' hot. She first rose to fame when a pic of her on the field was posted on the internet by someone with a really good eye. Soon, more pictures would surface, millions of new fans would stare at her pics, and this future California Bear Field Star, would find unexpected, and unwanted fame as one of the few Internet stars that have kept their clothes on.
She was the National Freshman Record holder in the pole-vault in 2004 going 12-8 and winning the California State Meet. In 2005 she was trying out a new pole during a practice session at Golden West College and unfortunately fell into the concrete box, breaking her tibia. Her other interests include pole dancing and there aren't many things I wouldn't give up to see her at her best. Possessing the crucial numbers of 34-25-36, Allison Stokke is certainly destined for more fame and hopefully medals and recognition on the field.

So, till I find another ravishing beauty on the field, toodle-oo.

Football@iitm

2009-10-28T23:13:00.000+05:30

The atmosphere is charged...a mob encircle a round plot of land...a hundred pairs of eyes to witness glory made or lost...a hundred minds willing a few others on...a hundred tongues wagging eloquently in anticipation of more work known as bragging....welcome to football at IIT Madras, where the beautiful game has as much passion involved as you can find elsewhere.

Its not about the players, its not about the score...its just about the crowd. Wins, trophies and points are secondary in the football circuit of the "insti". The game is played for the masses, for those who come to cheer for their hostels. This prioritisation is repaid by the patrons as they "put enthu max", so to speak into each game that has anything to do with their hostels.

Almost all of football in the insti are inter hostel events. The passion and grittiness of inter hostel rivalry lace each contest.As a "veteran" of seven inter hostel matches, [:P] I'm slowly but surely coming to grips with the dynamics of football at IIT Madras. Matches are usually held at hostel quadrangles or at the Sangam ground. The ground would be surrounded by a whole lot of people, the "cheering squad", the inmates of competing hostels. The "cheering squad" don't cheer as much as mentally disintegrate the opposition, hurling out chants designed to crack the toughest of minds. Its on the quadi that I learned the basics of sledging, the art of cheering for your team by abusing the opposition. As cries of "Godav(or any other hostel) ki maa ka..." render the air, even the most dormant of freshies can't help but be enthused by the hostel spirit that charges the atmosphere.

Football is one of the more "refined and pleasant" ways of getting to know your seniors and bonding with them. Each hostel will have one or more "stud" football players, the unanimously acclaimed best of the hostel. Playing three or four times a week, the seniors get to have a good luck at the budding talents in the new batch, and see who all would be fit to don the hostel jersey for a variety of sporting events.

What makes football a joy to play and watch in this intensively competitive academic setting is the passion and love the people have for the game. Quizzes may come and go but nobody misses a game if they can help it. That is the love of the game a peculiar hostel spirit has inculcated in every hostel mob.

Why My Choices Make Me Happy

2009-08-25T15:20:00.000+05:30

This part of my life..... this part right here? This part is called "being happy". I believe that happiness is a state of mind. We choose whether we want to be happy or not. A person can have all the comforts of life and still be unhappy. Happiness is, in plain economics, managing scarce resources for maximum benefits. What the benefits are is left to the person to decide.

All throughout the eighteen years of my life, I have strived, like everybody else, to keep myself happy. But I have never measured happiness in grades, money or acceptance by others. I have had only one yardstick- to have maximum fun. I have realised that what makes me happy is to be myself, to be an independent thinker and not to strive for anything but to have maximum fun- let everything else take care of everything else.

I make choices that I hope are rational, decisions which I hope will lead me to “greener pastures”, avenues which, I hope, will be great fun to explore. I do not believe that everything happens for the best. I believe that I can do anything to be the best. I know I can count on myself to make choices that will make me happy.

Living a life aimed at having fun can have its drawbacks too. I, in the course of having fun, have neglected stuff that others, correctly or incorrectly, termed as important. I have invited the wrath of a host of people, people who are important to my life, a whole lot of people who come under the category of family, friends and teachers.

At different times, my definitions of happiness are different. Sometimes, it is being curled up with a good book, otherwise a movie, or hanging out with friends. All these acts which give me happiness are acts of my own free will, acts which I have decided to commit, and not those which have been imposed on me. Some activities are fun, disregarding whether they are of my own will. This includes activities like writing an essay (depends on the topic, though), reading a literary work, or even solving math problems.

I would like to end by quoting a character from a popular sitcom. “When I am sad, I stop being sad and be awesome instead. True story.”

Deer and Girls

2009-08-22T13:27:00.000+05:30

Life in IIT is fun. Super fun in fact. Pseud to use the insti lingo. A major part of the fun is provided by seniors, who, in their quest to have "friendly interactions" and"Personality Development Programmes (PDP)" make life heaven or hell as you may choose to see it.

A few weeks in the insti, and one realises that it is a sort of honour to be "hit on" by seniors. So here is the latest news from that front. A senior, on learning that I am a MA student, and assuming that all MA people speak well, asked me to compare the deer and girls in the campus.

Having a name like Nympho helps. :D Here goes my extempore.

1. I have seen very few girls in the campus and slightly more deer.

2. Deer come out on the roads more in the night, but the girls behave in a diametrically opposite manner.

3. Deer are more near the boys hostel, but the same cannot be said of the girls.

4. Deer abound in leafy, bushy areas, but so far I haven't been able to lure any girl into those regions.

5. Deer can be found all around the campus but the girls are restricted to sharavati and the library.

6. Most deer have horns, but I am yet to meet a horny girl.

7. Deer are more forthcoming and friendly than a majority of the girls.

8. "Misbehaviour" with deer may be injurious to health, but no loss occurs when the same happens with the girls.

9. All deer walk on four limbs, but I am yet to see a girl in campus on all fours.

10. Yea...girls wear clothes.

A report

2009-07-02T15:07:00.000+05:30

This was a report I wrote in school last year. lot of my friends, rightly or wrongly said it was rather good.... So, enjoy!!!

To
The Principal
Loyola School.

The summer camp, which has been scheduled for the standard 12 has finally got an ideal site to be held on. A committee comprising of seven members of standard 12 visited the Rampur village, 15 km north of Trivandrum city. This scenic spot can be reached by bus and takes 30 to 45 minutes from the school.

The committee in charge of picking the site had decided that the spot should be scenic, picturesque, hold possibilities for recreation and above all, have friendly and welcoming natives. Rampur fit all these requirements. It is scenic and pleasing to the eyes. It also holds possibilities for trekking, rock climbing etc, which I am sure will be of utmost interest to my classmates. Even though a resident of the area said that seventeen people were killed last year while involving in these adventures, most of think he is joking. It had been agreed that the village should have connection with a main road leading to a town or city and the village headman informed us that there was an accessible main road leading to a town. The people of the village did not appear to be bothered by our presence and the village headman welcomed us all.

The camp is proposed to be held on a large expanse of undulating land,just outside the village. The whole place is quite beautiful, with three or four streams flowing by the site. There were supposed to be three more, but they had dried up by the time we arrived. There are small doughty hills on the outskirts of the site, which somehow reminds me of a bull terrier, and so promises plenty of good trekking and climbing. I just hope it doesnt turn back and snap at our heels. There are some steep slopes which shall be a challenge to the best of us and some rough rocks which can hurt if you dont do it right. The valleys are beautiful with a wide variety of plants with lot of biological diversity which would have made our E.E teacher shed tears of joy. There are plenty of plants which we havent seen elsewhere. One of the committee is a botany genius and told me the names of all those flora but I have forgotten all of them. The whole scene suggests the simple, wholesome and ideal lifestyle of the villagers.

We outlined our plans to the village headman, seeking his approval. One of his "advisers" was sceptic of our plans but even the headman thinks he is a joke, so we wont bother.

The village headman agreed to show us the main road and this he did by pointing to a brown dusty, crooked path (and I am understating it). We had not seen a single vehicle in this village and our taxi driver had not heard of the place and this put a bit of a dampener on the main road.It is untarred and the altitudes vary sharply with distance and was quite unfit for motor transport. One of us pointed out that the above arguments are reasons enough for it to be declared a main road. His argument was accepted without dissent.There is an old, almost dysfunctional post office along the main road. Nobody has received or sent any form of communication through the post office for well over a decade.It is still alive as it sells paan and allows its customers a lot of credit.

The local people are friendly, warm and receptive. Till now we have not received any concrete proofs of cannibalism in the region. Safety is another over-riding factor that works in our favour. Only a dacoit out of his mind would even think abut looting a place like this.

Finally, the village headman, impressed by our orderly conduct and fine disposition,consented to host us. We drafted an agreement which said as much in three languages, but found the headman illiterate. So we drafted another contract without arousing much suspicion and had the headman put his thumb impression on it. By that agreement, he has given all of the village ,a total area of 54 acres , to the school. You can now start building an indoor stadium there.

The whole village smacks of innocence and has clean fresh air which will make us healthy, hopefully wealthy and most improbably wise. We are looking forward earnestly to the summer camp.

Yours Sincerely,
Basil James.

On Arsenal

2009-05-08T12:40:00.000+05:30

And finally its come to an end. The big soap opera at north London closed shop on tuesday, but dont worry, this august its gonna start again!!! Yea, mates its the Arsenal F.C's fortunes which once again brings me to this page......as a Gooner I feel that once in a while I be allowed to ruminate on the state of affairs at the Emirates. After seeing Manchester United shove the gun up our arse, a humiliating defeat I should say, I have been flooded by what needs to change at arsenal- who do people think I am, Wenger's understudy? phbbt!!!!

Anyway,cutting straight to the matter, getting down to the brass tacks, what exactly is wrong?? Arsenal posses an assortment of players, who have been touted as the next big things in football, an array of talented modern players, who hold a barrel of promise.....but that is as far as the good part goes, all the "progress" that we claim to have achieved are dwarfed by the barren trophy cabinet which has had no work to do for four years.....Wenger has put trust in techinically superb players who also happen to be young. But let me tell you , it was not always so. Four or five years back, Arsenal possesed men like Viera and Henry, who were big men who could play. And still Arsenal played beautifull football, good enough to rival the breathtaking stuff Fabregas and co. puts out when on form. And to add to that, the trophy cabinet was not unemployed for four seasons....

Arsenal have played some fantastic, breathtaking football this season. But at the end of the day we are trophy-less for yet another season. If the dark clouds don't change their act and start dishing out a considerably bigger slice of silver linings at an early date, many fans may have to reconsider their alliances and even go in search of greener pastures.

Its imperative that Wenger stops taking the risk of being imprisoned for child labour , and brings in a few experienced legs. After all, Arsenal has proved this season that experience is important by their lack of it.

Arsenal urgently needs a heavy weight midfielder, some one like Viera, who can win the ball in midfield and leave lightweights like Nasri, Fabregas and Arshavin to do what they do best- attack. And if anyone is suggesting that Song be the defensive midfielder that we need, I can only think of heavy drinking as a possible explanation.

And then we come to the part called defence, a part that has not been our best for a couple of seasons. Bacary Sagna has been decent as a right back, one of the few positives for Arsenal this season. The rest haven't risen to the task. Arsenal need a center back who strike fear into the hearts of strikers and make them think twice before performing a fancy stepover. Arsenal need not and should not goback to CG days, but thats no excuse for not tightening up your defence. Gallas has let his temper get the better of him, Djourou needs to go a long way and Silvestre is not what he used to be. The fact that Silvestrre may be slighlty over the hill was demonstrated in the first leg of the champions league semi final, when he forgot on quite a number of occasions the way transfer markets work and played for his old team. He has been in this business for quite a few years and he is not one to shirk duty merely on the fact that his jersey was slightly different in colour from those of his erswhile mates.

Manuel Almunia has in recent times justified himself as an Arsenal goalkeeper, though his feet are yet to grow to the size of Seaman's boots, has been showing improvement. If he keeps on the good work, you never know!!!!

And finally the frontline......an area thats frustrsted Wenger and fans alike so much that I spotted a few wrinkles on my Byronic face last week!!! Robin van Persie for all his briliance is too inconsistent and a bit injury prone. He needs to put in consistent performances. Adebayor is at best a tap in specialist. Now, if he would confine himself to that role all would have been well, but he insists playing like a playmaker he is not-winning a ball on the wings, trying to create chances, and thus rendering himself useless. The injury monster has marked Eduardo for its own. If he comes back fully fit for next season, maybe Arsenal could have renewed firepower. The less said of Bendtner, the better. He probably will have to go, though I wish he would not because he is tall and gets into such good positions. Its a pity that I can finish better than him. So, one may safely say that Arsenal lacks a talismanic center forward, like the likes of Rooney, Drogba or Torres. Robin van Persie is the only striker in that mould and comparisons with the aforementioned would only give van Persie a fourth place.

Anyway, there is no doubting Arsenal has plenty of talent. Wenger has to prepare to splash a bit of cash else Arsenal wont win anything for the fifth reason n a row. wow!!! cant even imagine it. We got a game against Chelsea this Sunday and then Manu(hope we get our revenge).
Having Arshavin and a much fitter van Persie will help us. Maybe we can put in a last round rally!!!

Bidding Farewell.

2009-01-17T04:48:00.001+05:30

Its time to bid farewell, to say good bye to all that we have considered our own, a part and parcel of our lives.It is time to say goodbye to all that we have stood for in the past 13 years. It is not taken away from us permanently, but we have the feeling that we have passed on from owners to spectators. As we watch our juniors enjoy life in Loyola- ignoring the inevitable that they will leave some day (like we did).

As we move on from one phase of life to another, we have an inevitable sense of depression-as memories come back flooding in to your mind, blurring your brain with nostalgia and deja vu, dissolving the pain in salty tears. As we rewind Psmith's quote" The time has come to part. It has served its turn.", we often ask ourselves why we feel sad as we are free to come back to the great institution any time we want to. We shall miss our school, no doubt, but it is the fact that we may never see some of our classmates again that causes this mammoth pain in our hearts. For all our bravado about "everlasting friendship", "bonds which cannot be broken" we know fully well that we may correspond regularly for maybe just a few months more. After that those of us lucky to be in the same college or at the same work place or living in the same locality may see each other once in a while, but the great leveller called Time and indestructible distances may slowly but surely break that divine bond called true friendship.

As one of my friends put it, "Loyola is not a school. It is a feeling. Like hatred, love, jealousy,sympathy.......". This feeling, which has driven us for the past 13 years, shall remain in our hearts, maybe dormant, may be active. I had resolved to myself the previous day, that I would not cry on the farewell day, come what may and whatever feelings I experience. You bet it was hard work. Disregarding a fractured arm, I joined my classmates for a final game of football- a game followed and played passionately by our class. I knew that whatever be the result of that match there would be no celebrations, only solemn salutes to the game that binds our class together.

As I along with 47 others bid farewell to our second home which shaped our life, as we say goodbye to a glorius phase of our lives, as we struggle to say goodbye, desperately try to cling on to what we know has passed, I can only say one thing, quote the Eagles in Hotel California.

"Some danced to remember, Some danced to forget".

Celebrity Stuff.

2009-01-07T05:03:00.000+05:30

Britney Spears. Manchester City Paris Hilton

When you are among the rich and the famous, its hard to be No.1

K.D Jadhav. ---------------------------------------M.C Marykom.
But sometimes, when you are No.1, it is hard to be rich and famous.

Calcio Comedy

2008-12-31T10:31:00.000+05:30

For all you football fans out there.................hope you enjoy this one............

Calcio Comedy: 20 Things To Expect From Italy v England

It's Italy v England in the Champions League last 16 as Juventus take on Chelsea, Roma meet Arsenal and Inter play Manchester United. Here are 20 things to expect before, during or after the Anglo-Italian ties…

1) Cristiano Ronaldo says that he is better than Pele and Diego Maradona, and compares himself to God.

2) Jose Mourinho bangs on beforehand about how his Chelsea side were better than United, and that his record against Fergie is Won 6, Drawn 4, Lost 1.

3) Sir Alex Ferguson will use the words “No doubt about it” at least 100 times, while he will mention during an interview with SKY Italia about how good Luciano Spalletti’s wine is.

4) Wayne Rooney does a Zinedine Zidane and headbutts Marco Materazzi in the chest after the Italian snipes that he would “rather NOT have Rooney’s mum”.

5) Mourinho runs down the Old Trafford touchline to celebrate a last minute goal that puts Inter into the next round.

6) Ferguson engages in a furious touchline row with Mourinho over the award of a throw-in, and lobs his chewing gum onto the pitch in disgust.

7) Manchester United fans sing “same old I-Ti’s, always cheating”, even though Inter don’t have a single Italian in their team.

8) Claudio Ranieri laughs hysterically during both of his pre-match interviews in the tie against former club Chelsea.

9) Ranieri gets a better reception at Stamford Bridge from the Chelsea fans than Luiz Felipe Scolari.

10) English commentators tut-tut about Italian diving shortly before Didier Drogba goes down like he's caught the plague.

11) Momo Sissoko to have the best pass completion rate...for Chelsea. “Camoranesi... Nedved... Del Piero, back to Nedved, now Sissoko, oh he's played it straight to Deco!! Deco, Lampaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaard GOAL! Chelsea lead!"

12) Lampard is credited with the goal by UEFA, despite the fact the ball took eight deflections, and travelled to and from Timbuktu, on its way into the net.

13) Phil Thompson, Graeme Souness, and a number of other SKY Sports pundits bash the Italian league at every opportunity, and label it an “old, slow, retirement home”, while repeatedly championing the Premier League as the “best league in the world”.

14) Souness says he would never have the over-rated Francesco Totti or Zlatan Ibrahimovic in his team (if he was a manager).

15) Italian media pundits jealously declare that the only reason the Premier League is so strong is because of foreign owners, managers and players.

16) In the build-up to Arsenal-Roma, both will be described as attractive, passing sides who play good football, but whoever loses the tie will be condemned as being 'in crisis.'

17) There will be serious crowd trouble inside and outside the Stadio Olimpico. English fans smash up a number of local bars. Italian fans attack their adversaries while riding around on mopeds.

18) The English media blame 19th century Italian policing for the trouble.

19) The Italian media blame 19-times over-the-drink-limit English fans for the trouble.

And Finally…

20) Whichever country comes out on top in the three-round contest will declare that they have the best league in the world.

2008-12-31T08:40:00.000+05:30

Quitters Never Win,
Winners Never Quit.

But those who have never Won,
Are those who have never Quit.

2008-12-29T09:06:00.001+05:30

Another interesting and relevant one............

http://theluminar.net/2008/06/07/another-rant-the-story-of-indian-students/

TCS IT Wiz

2008-12-29T09:02:00.000+05:30

Here is an interesting article I found.

http://theluminar.net/2008/01/02/tcs-it-wiz-2007-lord-why-me-everytime/

On TCS IT Wiz

2008-12-29T07:44:00.000+05:30

Everheard of jinxes? Of course you have. The great thing is to be a part of the jinx, a sufferer or at least a member of the group that suffers. It wasn't really a jinx, just a way for the outlet of dissappointment and frustration inside every Loyolite after every TCS IT Wiz.

It was almost incomprehensible. How could Jayachandran and Jian not win?They,that dynamic duo with brains enough for four, were constantly outwitted and relegated to second place (ugh!!).
How could Justin Thomas and Gautam Das fail? Once again second place seemed and was their fate. Why did Arun TP finish (you guessed right) second. All of them, the best quizzers in Trivandrum in their times, in case of the first two, the best (or one of the best) in India. They were beaten by lesser fancied opponents, opponents whom these enterprising Loyolites would have creamed elsewhere.

One can be forgiven for thinking that some jinx has been cast on our school. The school with a rather good quizzing history, has not since produced quizzers of the calibre of the above mentioned names. But still modest quizzers have managed to bring the school into the limelight - a journey capped by winning the TCS IT Wiz in 2008. Meet one of that pair which finally won- yeah, its me.

A long journey when I continously witnessed my seniors finish second, cheering wildly for every right answer they gave and leaving for home shaking my head. The journey almost reached its climax when we qualified to the finals in 2007,only to put up what may be the school's worst performance yet, a third place. But finally we reached the climax, and for the first time since the inception of the quiz, Loyola were crowned champions.

Its been a fantastic journey- from standard eight when we came, naive and got just four out of 20 in the prelims. That was the toughest prelims many faced and many quit after that. We had the sense to hang on and in the end we showed that perseverence pays. From four out of twenty to getting19 out of 20 in our final year has been a fantastic journey. We persevered and had a fair bit of luck.

Finally winning the quiz on tie breakers itself was a great symbolic moment- five years ago, when I had come for my first TCS quiz, Loyola were defeated in tie breakers. Despite many hiccups, despite being awed by the moment, despite history,despite many messups, despite missing lots of simple answers,despite an unconvincing perforance we managed to win. A win I sincerely believe that our school has a right to have. We have given our school something nobody else has. I am proud of it. I thank all my seniors who inspired me, all whose losses I was able to avenge.

Thank You Loyola for that one opportunity.

TCS Prelims questions.

2008-12-28T22:44:00.000+05:30

1) Name the industry standard that allows computers to represent text in most of the world's writing systems. Ans: Unicode.
2) Expand CMM.
Ans: Capability Maturity Model.
3)Name the term derived from Greek mythology for a malicious pprogram that appears harmless.
Ans: Trojan.
4) Identify the logo.
Ans: Kaspersky.
5) Simple one. What do you call unsolicited bulk email?
Ans: Spam.
6) What do you call the fraudulent acquisition of passwords and credit card details over the internet?
Ans: Phishing.
7) What do you call the fraudulent acquisition of passwords and credit card details over the telephone?
Ans:
8)
Identify the bloke.
Ans: Som Mittal.

9) Which was the first city in India to be completely wi-fi enabled?
Ans:Bharamati.
10)Name the only Indian to be awarded the Turing Prize.
Ans: Raj Reddy.
11) Satyanarayan Gangaram born in Titlagarh, Orissa, is an inventor, entrepreneur and policymaker. widely considered to have been responsible for India's communications revolution . He is the Chairman of World-Tel Limited, an International Telecommunication Union (ITU) initiative. He holds many key technology patents, has been involved in several startups, and lectures extensively around the world on management, governance and the implications of communications and information technology. How do we know him better?

Ans: Sam Pitroda.
12) Identify the game.
Ans:Space Invaders .
13)Another simple one. The smallest piece or part of an image is called__________?
Ans: Pixel.
14) New touchscreen version of the Blackberry is called_________?
Ans: Blackberry Thunder.
15) What or who is "BlogHer"?
Ans: Female Blogger.
16) They asked the question after erasing the name. Anyway, identify the software.
Ans: Panda Antivirus.
17) Which company owns www.news.com?
Ans: Ask.com
18) Who owns Lexico?
Ans: Yahoo!.
19) DoubleClick is a company that develops and provides Internet ad serving services. Its clients include agencies, marketers (Universal McCann Interactive, AKQA etc.) and publishers who service customers like Microsoft, General Motors, Coca-Cola, Motorola, L'Oréal, Palm, Inc., Visa USA, Nike, Carlsberg among others. Simple question. Who owns DoubleClick?

Ans: Google.
20) What did this terrific trio make?
Ans: Youtube.

My Last Assembly speech!!!!

2008-12-27T22:32:00.000+05:30

This was my last assembly speech in Loyola....its basically Chetan Bhagat's speech at Symbiosis, I just added a few lines here and there and made it somewhat relevant to school.................

Respected Father Principal, teachers, and my dear friends,good morning to all. Last week, one of my classmates, Abin, inspired us all to speak in the assembly.As a result, I am here. Hats off to him.

This day is about you. You, who have come to this school, leaving the comfort of your homes (or in some cases discomfort), to become something in your life. There are few periods in human life when one is truly happy. Though many of you may not agree with me now, school life is one of them. When you get ready for school, you feel a tingling in your stomach. What would be the day like, what would the teachers be like, who will win the football game at lunch break...... there is so much to be curious about. I call this excitement, the spark within you that makes you feel truly alive today. Today I am going to talk about keeping the spark shining. Or to put it another way, how to be happy most, if not all the time.

Where do these sparks start? I think we are born with them. The little kids in UKG have a million sparks. A little Spiderman toy can make them jump on the bed. They get thrills from creaky swings in the park. A story from their teacher gets them excited. They do a daily countdown for birthday party – several months in advance – just for the day they will cut their own birthday cake.

When I see teenagers like you, and I still see some sparks. But when I see older people, the spark is difficult to find. That means as we age, the spark fades. People whose spark has faded too much are dull, dejected, aimless and bitter. Remember Kareena Kapoor in the first half of Jab We Met vs the second half? That is what happens when the spark is lost. So how to save the spark?

Imagine the spark to be a lamp’s flame. The first aspect is nurturing - to give your spark the fuel, continuously. The second is to guard against storms.

To nurture, always have goals. It is human nature to strive, improve and achieve full potential. In fact, that is success. It is what is possible for you. It isn’t any external measure - a certain cost to company pay package, a particular car or house.

Most of us are from middle class families. To us, having material landmarks is success and rightly so. When you have grown up where money constraints force everyday choices, financial freedom is a big achievement. But it isn’t the purpose of life. If that was the case, Mr. Ambani would not show up for work. Shah Rukh Khan would stay at home and not dance anymore. Steve Jobs won’t be working hard to make a better iPhone, as he sold Pixar for billions of dollars already. Why do they do it? What makes them come to work everyday? They do it because it makes them happy. They do it because it makes them feel alive Just getting better from current levels feels good. If you study hard, you can improve your rank. If you make an effort to interact with people, you will do better in interviews. If you practice, your football will get better. You may also know that you cannot become a Pele or a Maradona yet. But you can get to the next level. Striving for that next level is important.

Nature designed with a random set of genes and circumstances in which we were born. To be happy, we have to accept it and make the most of nature’s design. Are you? Goals will help you do that. I must add, don’t just have career or academic goals. Set goals to give you a balanced, successful life. I use the word balanced before successful. Balanced means ensuring your health, relationships, mental peace are all in good order.

There is no point of getting a promotion on the day of your breakup. There is no fun in driving a car if your back hurts. Shopping is not enjoyable if your mind is full of tensions.

You must have read some quotes - Life is a tough race, it is a marathon or whatever. No, from what I have seen so far, life is one of those races in nursery school, where you have to run with a marble in a spoon kept in your mouth. If the marble falls, there is no point coming first. Same with life, where health and relationships are the marble. Your striving is only worth it if there is harmony in your life. Else, you may achieve the success, but this spark, this feeling of being excited and alive, will start to die.

One last thing about nurturing the spark , I know many of you will disagree with me here,- don’t take life seriously. Don’t be serious, be sincere. Whether its your studies, your relationships or any of your goals. I get thousands of opinions on my way of living everyday. There is heaps of praise, there is intense criticism. If I take it all seriously, how will I live? Or rather, how will I live? Suppose one of our celebrities in society took up the newspaper one day and read all the news about him or her and then took it all seriously, then how will he or she live? Life is not to be taken seriously, as we are really temporary here. We are like a pre-paid card with limited validity. If we are lucky, we may last another 50 years. And 50 years is just 2,500 weekends. Do we really need to get so worked up? It’s ok, bunk a few classes, goof up a few interviews, fall in love. We are people, not programmed devices.

I’ve told you three things - reasonable goals, balance and not taking it too seriously that will nurture the spark. However, there are four storms in life that will threaten to completely put out the flame. These must be guarded against. These are disappointment, frustration, unfairness and loneliness of purpose.

Disappointment will come when your effort does not give you the expected return. If things don’t go as planned or if you face failure. Failure is extremely difficult to handle, but those that do come out stronger. What did this failure teach me? is the question you will need to ask. You will feel miserable. You will want to quit, like I wanted to when nine publishers rejected my first book. Some IITians kill themselves over low grades – how silly is that? But that is how much failure can hurt you. But it’s life. If challenges could always be overcome, they would cease to be a challenge. And remember - if you are failing at something, that means you are at your limit or potential. And that’s where you want to be.

Disappointment’ s cousin is Frustration, the second storm. Have you ever been frustrated? It happens when things are stuck. This is especially relevant in India. From traffic jams to getting that job you deserve, sometimes things take so long that you don’t know if you chose the right goal. Frustration saps excitement, and turns your initial energy into something negative, making you a bitter person. How did I deal with it? Seek a certain enjoyment in the process rather than the end result. Even something as simple as pleasurable distractions in your life - friends, food, travel can help you overcome it. Remember, nothing is to be taken seriously. Frustration is a sign somewhere, you took it too seriously. There will be days when you walk back fromschool, brimming with disappoinment, your face long, and fling yourself into your bed. But remember, there will be days when you come home, your head held high and look into the mirror to see championship personified.

Unfairness - this is hardest to deal with, but unfortunately that is how our country works. People with connections, rich dads, beautiful faces, pedigree find it easier to make it – not just in Bollywood, but everywhere. And sometimes it is just plain luck. There are so few opportunities in India, so many stars need to be aligned for you to make it happen. Merit and hard work is not always linked to achievement in the short term, but the long term correlation is high, and ultimately things do work out. But realize, there will be some people luckier than you. In fact, to have an opportunity to go to college and understand this speech in English means you are pretty damm lucky by Indian standards. Let’s be grateful for what we have and get the strength to accept what we don’t. Don’t let unfairness kill your spark.

Finally, the last point that can kill your spark is Isolation. As you grow older you will realize you are unique. When you are little, all kids want Ice cream and Spiderman. As you grow older to college, you still are a lot like your friends. But ten years later and you realize you are unique. What you want, what you believe in, what makes you feel, may be different from even the people closest to you. This can create conflict as your goals may not match with others. And you may drop some of them. Basketball captains in college invariably stop playing basketball by the time they have their second child. They give up something that meant so much to them. They do it for their family. But in doing that, the spark dies. Never, ever make that compromise. Love yourself first, and then others.

There you go. I’ve told you the four thunderstorms - disappointment, frustration, unfairness and isolation. You cannot avoid them, as like the monsoon they will come into your life at regular intervals. You just need to keep the raincoat handy to not let the spark die.

I hope that ten years later as well, your eyes will shine the same way as they do today. That you will Keep the Spark alive, not only through school, but through the next 2,500 weekends. And I hope not just you, but my whole country will keep that spark alive, as we really need it now more than any moment in history. And there is something cool about saying - I come from the land of a billion sparks. And there is serious pride when I say, I hail from an institution of over 5000 ignited minds.

Thank You.