Read the previous part here.
I must meet these people who are waiting for me in the car. I stuff the loose cash I found, a decent amount of twelve hundred Euros, in my pant pockets. I also collect the four Credit Cards and the Passport from the attaché case, all of which bear the name of Jean Felix; I keep these in the inner pocket of my jacket. Dr. Ackerman’s visiting card finds its way in the same pocket moments later. Now I must go and see my companions in the car. With this intention I exit the room. Once outside, I find a man, dressed in the Hotel Staff Uniform, wearing the Crescent Hotel Badge over his breast pocket. He greets me in a thick French accent,
“Bonjour, Dear Sir. I will escort you to the parking place where your car is waiting. This way please.” I follow him to the Elevator Entrance, outside which a Gold Sign reads: 12th Floor.
Minutes later, I see the sedan in which three men are seated. One of them starts walking towards me. He is a heavily built huge guy; his presence is certainly intended to intimidate me. As he approaches me, he greets me in a friendly manner, much to my surprise. I had a feeling I was about to be muscled into the car, but the man’s not looking threatening. He asks me to step into the car politely. With some hesitation I get in. He gets in after me and sits beside me. The other one starts the car and we set on a journey to our next destination, whatever that might be. Once the wheels are set in motion and we hit the road, I ask them where we are going. My companion tells me that we are going for my treatment.
“What treatment?” I ask.
“Mr. Felix Sir. You must not speak.” He says.
“What treatment?” I repeat.
“Give him the injection” says the driver.
And suddenly I feel a needle piercing through my arm and I feel my bodily sensations weakening.
When I open my eyes, I am tied to a chair. I have electrodes connected to my temples and there’s a monitor showing some graphs on my right. I still can’t move my limbs; it seems like I am in a trance. I can discern the things around me but I sit there paralyzed. I can feel the peculiar warmth in my temples and some kind of a gel is dripping down my sideburns. I know this is a medical facility. I am undergoing a brain scan, but why? Who’s administering this? My eyes travel to a sign on the wall which reads:
Ashford Institute of Brain Research.
That sounds familiar. I have a visiting card one in my pockets which bears the same few words on it.
And then I hear someone’s voice telling me, “Stay collected. Do not think. You might hurt yourself.” The voice is coming from the vibrations of the vocal chords of a man, aged between 60 and 65, and presently I see him looking into my eyes. I can barely read the name on his badge as he turns a few knobs on the monitor which let strong sensations through my brain and I fall unconcious again.
The name I read is Dr. Patrick Ackerman.
Read the next part Here.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 4
Read the previous part here.
According to News Paper reports, Michael Baker is dead. I know the report is not true; it doesn’t take much persuasion to convince oneself that one is not dead: I am Michael Baker. The clouds of confusion surrounding my head become denser. The News Report also says that Baker was missing from his California office for a week. Today is August 24; there is certainly one week of activity that my brain cannot account for. For some strange reason, I can’t recall how I engaged myself during the last week. The News Paper could still be hoax. There’s one way to find out. I must call the Crescent Hotel and find out if someone by the name of Michael Baker was found dead there. I reach for the Telephone Directory. Upon opening it, on the inside of the cover, I find stamped in red ink:
“Property of the Crescent Hotel, Brussels.”
Upon further inspection, I find similar stamp marks on the other books in the shelf.
I realize I am in The Crescent Hotel. The only logical explanation I can summon is they must’ve mistaken someone else for me, but logic is not the driving force of the events I have experienced lately.
The phone rings again. I pick it up and the same female voice conveys that they are still waiting for me in the car. I tell her to tell them that I’d be there in five minutes. I must go and find out who they are and what they want.
I find my clothes and get dressed up properly. There’s no money on my person. There’s a small gray attaché case on a wooden shelf. I open it. There is some loose cash, besides a few Credit Cards and some other documents. Among the documents I can see a Passport with my picture on it. But it bears the name of some Jean Felix. It dawns on me that I am being set up as an imposter. Someone has died and the departed is being identified with my identity.
There has been no misunderstanding: these events are planned; I can bet my life on it. There is some force which has brought about the series of events - by expert planning and flawless execution - culminating to this point so far, and this adventure will definitely go beyond the present, for this is part of a scheme which is yet to see its final stage, a fact which I know because they are waiting for me in the car. The forces who have planned the scheme are no ordinary ones, they have exhibited extraordinary qualities by making an American citizen disappear from his country and reappear in strange circumstances in a strange Nation with one week of his memory more or less fully erased. They must have International links and substantial resources to pull this off. Without a doubt they are a threat to my life, but my guess is: I have an important part to play in this plan, whatever it is, and my living is essential to the completion of it.
Now that I’ve figured out as much as I could’ve with the aid of the clues at my disposal, I must play along with their plan to discern their motive and their plan. The bottom line is, I must know more about the people I am dealing with before trying anything that might lessen my chances of survival. And for that I must meet these people.
Read the next part here.
According to News Paper reports, Michael Baker is dead. I know the report is not true; it doesn’t take much persuasion to convince oneself that one is not dead: I am Michael Baker. The clouds of confusion surrounding my head become denser. The News Report also says that Baker was missing from his California office for a week. Today is August 24; there is certainly one week of activity that my brain cannot account for. For some strange reason, I can’t recall how I engaged myself during the last week. The News Paper could still be hoax. There’s one way to find out. I must call the Crescent Hotel and find out if someone by the name of Michael Baker was found dead there. I reach for the Telephone Directory. Upon opening it, on the inside of the cover, I find stamped in red ink:
“Property of the Crescent Hotel, Brussels.”
Upon further inspection, I find similar stamp marks on the other books in the shelf.
I realize I am in The Crescent Hotel. The only logical explanation I can summon is they must’ve mistaken someone else for me, but logic is not the driving force of the events I have experienced lately.
The phone rings again. I pick it up and the same female voice conveys that they are still waiting for me in the car. I tell her to tell them that I’d be there in five minutes. I must go and find out who they are and what they want.
I find my clothes and get dressed up properly. There’s no money on my person. There’s a small gray attaché case on a wooden shelf. I open it. There is some loose cash, besides a few Credit Cards and some other documents. Among the documents I can see a Passport with my picture on it. But it bears the name of some Jean Felix. It dawns on me that I am being set up as an imposter. Someone has died and the departed is being identified with my identity.
There has been no misunderstanding: these events are planned; I can bet my life on it. There is some force which has brought about the series of events - by expert planning and flawless execution - culminating to this point so far, and this adventure will definitely go beyond the present, for this is part of a scheme which is yet to see its final stage, a fact which I know because they are waiting for me in the car. The forces who have planned the scheme are no ordinary ones, they have exhibited extraordinary qualities by making an American citizen disappear from his country and reappear in strange circumstances in a strange Nation with one week of his memory more or less fully erased. They must have International links and substantial resources to pull this off. Without a doubt they are a threat to my life, but my guess is: I have an important part to play in this plan, whatever it is, and my living is essential to the completion of it.
Now that I’ve figured out as much as I could’ve with the aid of the clues at my disposal, I must play along with their plan to discern their motive and their plan. The bottom line is, I must know more about the people I am dealing with before trying anything that might lessen my chances of survival. And for that I must meet these people.
Read the next part here.
Friday, July 10, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 3
Read the previous part here.
They are waiting for me in the car. Who are they? I find the visiting card still lying on the table by the bed. I pick it up. It says:
Dr. Patrick Ackerman
Head of Department
Ashford Institute of Brain Research
Brussels.
The name doesn’t ring any bells. Brussels? Am I in Brussels?
The table has a lower shelf where a few books are stacked. I must look at them. A man like me, with a lot of questions like these can not rest until he finds the answers; and he leaves no stones unturned to unravel the mystery surrounding the strange circumstances he finds himself in. Perhaps the books would give me something to think about. My hands find their way into the shelf, removing the books on top because they are merely magazines published in Belgium; they could’ve been planted there to mislead me. I find a Bible in the stack. The thickest volume at the bottom of the pile is a directory, the Telephone Directory of Brussels: now I can find out if I really am in Brussels. I search my pockets: my cell phone is missing. I look around; if she has a cell phone, it must be somewhere. Finally I spot the note on the base unit of the land line: Press 0 to make calls, 9 for room service…
I hold the receiver against my ear and press 0, I hear the dial tone. I randomly open a page in the directory and dial the first number I see. I hear the ring from the other end; someone picks up; I hang up. I am in Brussels: the line connected without an STD code.
Why Brussels? Why have I been brought here? Who has brought me here?
Suddenly I hear a swish. I turn around to find a News Paper near the door. Apparently it’s Room Service.
Inside Europe, Brussels, dated 24th August 2007.
Fortunately it’s the English Edition, I can read. I pick it up from the floor; I hate it when people place agents of knowledge on the floor: they demand respect. I look through the first few pages: there are writings about the Politics, the Budget and stuff. And then I come to the local news page. My attention is drawn towards a particular article titled, American Citizen found dead in inscrutable circumstances in a room in The Crescent Hotel. I read through parts of it wherein the journalist describes that the victim was reportedly missing from his office in California for a week and was found in a room in the hotel in mysterious circumstances. The last line says,
The deceased was identified as Michael Baker.
I am Michael Baker.
Read the next part here.
They are waiting for me in the car. Who are they? I find the visiting card still lying on the table by the bed. I pick it up. It says:
Dr. Patrick Ackerman
Head of Department
Ashford Institute of Brain Research
Brussels.
The name doesn’t ring any bells. Brussels? Am I in Brussels?
The table has a lower shelf where a few books are stacked. I must look at them. A man like me, with a lot of questions like these can not rest until he finds the answers; and he leaves no stones unturned to unravel the mystery surrounding the strange circumstances he finds himself in. Perhaps the books would give me something to think about. My hands find their way into the shelf, removing the books on top because they are merely magazines published in Belgium; they could’ve been planted there to mislead me. I find a Bible in the stack. The thickest volume at the bottom of the pile is a directory, the Telephone Directory of Brussels: now I can find out if I really am in Brussels. I search my pockets: my cell phone is missing. I look around; if she has a cell phone, it must be somewhere. Finally I spot the note on the base unit of the land line: Press 0 to make calls, 9 for room service…
I hold the receiver against my ear and press 0, I hear the dial tone. I randomly open a page in the directory and dial the first number I see. I hear the ring from the other end; someone picks up; I hang up. I am in Brussels: the line connected without an STD code.
Why Brussels? Why have I been brought here? Who has brought me here?
Suddenly I hear a swish. I turn around to find a News Paper near the door. Apparently it’s Room Service.
Inside Europe, Brussels, dated 24th August 2007.
Fortunately it’s the English Edition, I can read. I pick it up from the floor; I hate it when people place agents of knowledge on the floor: they demand respect. I look through the first few pages: there are writings about the Politics, the Budget and stuff. And then I come to the local news page. My attention is drawn towards a particular article titled, American Citizen found dead in inscrutable circumstances in a room in The Crescent Hotel. I read through parts of it wherein the journalist describes that the victim was reportedly missing from his office in California for a week and was found in a room in the hotel in mysterious circumstances. The last line says,
The deceased was identified as Michael Baker.
I am Michael Baker.
Read the next part here.
Monday, July 6, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 2
Read the previous part here.
The phone is ringing. A cold shiver runs down my spine again. Whose call can it be? What if the girl wakes up? How am I supposed to act? Should I pick up the phone? I decide to pick up the phone, not because I wish to talk, but because I don't want my sleeping companion to wake up. As I lean further forward to pick up the ringing phone, the inevitable happens: she wakes up. The phone stops ringing that very instant. "Who is it?" she asks, peering into my eyes. “I don’t know”, I manage to utter, dumbfounded. Her arms circle my neck and I receive a kiss on my temple. She drifts to sleep again. I’ve never felt so intimate with a stranger before; for some reason, the feeling is a welcome one. Silencing my inner desire to stay in that position for long, with some amount of effort I set myself free without waking her up again. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. My mind is boggled by questions. What place is this? How did I get here? Who is the girl? I breathe in and out several times to regain my bearings. I know sitting on my rear will not answer these questions. I will have to find out. I get up and walk up to the window. I look outside. There are skyscrapers around me. It turns out I am in one myself, I know there are more than ten floors below the one I’m in. This is not my town. This is not even my country. I can tell that from the strange script on the advertisement boards; it looks like French. A strange fear overwhelms me. I feel like vomiting. A string of elusive questions gnaws at me. Nothing seems to make any sense. I turn back, look at the blond again. She’s beautiful. Her serenity has the soothing effect on me. My senses come back to me; I have to think of a plan. I look around; there’s a door in the wall opposite to the bed. It must lead to somewhere. I open it and find a dead end: it’s the toilet. I get inside; it is well lit. I bow down in the wash-basin and splash water against my face. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I am no Brad Pitt; the presence if the girl is left unexplained. As soon as I’m done wiping my face with the towel, the goddamn phone rings again. I walk towards the phone with long strides to answer it; perhaps it might leave me with clues to solve the puzzle. I pick the receiver and the voice of a female is heard: “They are waiting for you in the car.” She hangs up.
Read the next part here.
The phone is ringing. A cold shiver runs down my spine again. Whose call can it be? What if the girl wakes up? How am I supposed to act? Should I pick up the phone? I decide to pick up the phone, not because I wish to talk, but because I don't want my sleeping companion to wake up. As I lean further forward to pick up the ringing phone, the inevitable happens: she wakes up. The phone stops ringing that very instant. "Who is it?" she asks, peering into my eyes. “I don’t know”, I manage to utter, dumbfounded. Her arms circle my neck and I receive a kiss on my temple. She drifts to sleep again. I’ve never felt so intimate with a stranger before; for some reason, the feeling is a welcome one. Silencing my inner desire to stay in that position for long, with some amount of effort I set myself free without waking her up again. I get up and sit on the edge of the bed. My mind is boggled by questions. What place is this? How did I get here? Who is the girl? I breathe in and out several times to regain my bearings. I know sitting on my rear will not answer these questions. I will have to find out. I get up and walk up to the window. I look outside. There are skyscrapers around me. It turns out I am in one myself, I know there are more than ten floors below the one I’m in. This is not my town. This is not even my country. I can tell that from the strange script on the advertisement boards; it looks like French. A strange fear overwhelms me. I feel like vomiting. A string of elusive questions gnaws at me. Nothing seems to make any sense. I turn back, look at the blond again. She’s beautiful. Her serenity has the soothing effect on me. My senses come back to me; I have to think of a plan. I look around; there’s a door in the wall opposite to the bed. It must lead to somewhere. I open it and find a dead end: it’s the toilet. I get inside; it is well lit. I bow down in the wash-basin and splash water against my face. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I am no Brad Pitt; the presence if the girl is left unexplained. As soon as I’m done wiping my face with the towel, the goddamn phone rings again. I walk towards the phone with long strides to answer it; perhaps it might leave me with clues to solve the puzzle. I pick the receiver and the voice of a female is heard: “They are waiting for you in the car.” She hangs up.
Read the next part here.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
In a Stranger's Shoes, part 1
I wake up this morning and see the beautiful blue sky outside my window. What a fine morning! And I see Halle Berry in the sky, sporting a silver bracelet and dark glasses. She has the usual indifferent attitude. What in the sky is she doing up there in the sky and why is she so big? Am I still dreaming? Were I, why would I see Halle Berry and not Ashley Tisdale or Caitlin Stacey instead? Is this God's way of punishing me for my high standards? "Well sue me, mate".
There's only one way to find out. I draw the blinds, so I can have a better view. I can now clearly see the orange colour of her James Bond movie attire. It is one of those goddamn billboards. It was certainly not there, outside my window when I last slept. When was it? What place is this? I look around. There's a cup of black coffee on the table by my bed, and an egg sandwich. What is with the coffee? I don't drink coffee, it's not healthy. I could use the sandwich though. I stick my left hand's index finger in the coffee and it is hot. Damn it! It hurts. My slow mind races to the conclusion, it is not a dream. Whatever it is, it's real. And now the innocent sandwich belongs to me, I can eat the sandwich. As my right arm swings voluntarily to grab the object of my desire, I hear someone breathing. The sound's coming from behind me. I am lying on my right side, so i turn around; it is a reflex action. I have only rotated a hundred degrees out of the hundred and eighty when a shiver runs down my spine. My face just about prevents a collision with some other face. I have company. I certainly did not have it when I slept. It is a girl, and a beautiful one. She's an attractive blond all right, but the unnerving truth is I can't figure out who she is. I spot someone's visiting card on the table by her side of the bed and I lean forward to hold it, trying to avoid brushing against her body when the phone suddenly rings.
Read the next part here.
There's only one way to find out. I draw the blinds, so I can have a better view. I can now clearly see the orange colour of her James Bond movie attire. It is one of those goddamn billboards. It was certainly not there, outside my window when I last slept. When was it? What place is this? I look around. There's a cup of black coffee on the table by my bed, and an egg sandwich. What is with the coffee? I don't drink coffee, it's not healthy. I could use the sandwich though. I stick my left hand's index finger in the coffee and it is hot. Damn it! It hurts. My slow mind races to the conclusion, it is not a dream. Whatever it is, it's real. And now the innocent sandwich belongs to me, I can eat the sandwich. As my right arm swings voluntarily to grab the object of my desire, I hear someone breathing. The sound's coming from behind me. I am lying on my right side, so i turn around; it is a reflex action. I have only rotated a hundred degrees out of the hundred and eighty when a shiver runs down my spine. My face just about prevents a collision with some other face. I have company. I certainly did not have it when I slept. It is a girl, and a beautiful one. She's an attractive blond all right, but the unnerving truth is I can't figure out who she is. I spot someone's visiting card on the table by her side of the bed and I lean forward to hold it, trying to avoid brushing against her body when the phone suddenly rings.
Read the next part here.
Friday, June 26, 2009
A Few Leaves from The Diary of Jane
Sunday
There’s this guy I know from the church. He seems intriguing. I don’t know his name but there’s certainly something in him which I find mysterious. Most of the times he appears pre-occupied. He comes alone, departs alone and doesn’t talk much. He even prays in silence; I wonder if God understands his wordless prayers. He doesn’t even close his eyes, as if he has no respect for the custom. People like him should better be atheists. He doesn’t bother much about what he’s wearing. Today he showed up in a checkered blue-black shirt and Bermuda shorts. But the worst part was: he was in sandals. What sort of a sane person does that? I’m sure there are a lot of losers like him wandering the streets, waiting for a chance to be with someone like me; like that’ll ever happen. What a loser!
Tuesday
I saw the guy from the church in market today; not that he was buying or anything, he works at the general store instead. I always knew that there was something that caused him to be the way he is. I know he’s my age, at least he looks so. What could’ve been the reason behind his working at the store? Probably his dad’s a drinker or -god forbid- is dead. He didn’t seem to recognize me. We’ve seen each other many times in the church, but I wonder if he was ashamed of the difference in our positions: his behind the counter and mine on the other side of it. That could be the only explanation of why he didn’t indulge in small talk with me. Most guys his age would give away their comforts to talk to me.
I don’t know why, but I certainly feel for him in a way a girl would feel for a boy she liked. If only I could hold him close to me and tell him that whatever he was, I would be there for him through thick and thin. If I could have him lay his head in my lap and caress his soft hair, I’d not feel this sadness I do now. Poor guy, I long for him.
Thursday
I went to the store again today, hoping I’d find him. Sadly he was not there. I asked for him and found out that people refer to him as JD. He was on a leave and he would be back tomorrow: the noon shift I was told. I will go there again tomorrow, not to let him know that I am fond of him or anything because that is the guys’ job; we girls just sit pretty and have them do the hard work: that’s the way this works. I will go there just to look at how he’s doing and stare into his deep blue eyes and gratify my eyes in the process, give him signals that will prompt him to talk to me: that’ll be the icing on the cake.
Friday
I was dressed my best today. I went to the store, right when I expected him to be at the counter. He was there, much to my joy. I waited for some time to let the other customers depart. I wanted his attention to be entirely subdued by my presence: that was plan A. As soon as the others were all gone, I went and stood in front of him, peering into his eyes, searching for the answers that had eluded my intellect. Actually that was my way of tantalizing him. He looked at me and waited for me to say something. After a while his gaze gave way and he looked away. Looking down he asked me what I wanted. I waited for him to look at me again, and gave him an inviting smile. He smiled at me, not in response to my smile but out of shyness and embarrassment. I told him I couldn’t find certain items in my list and asked him to help me out looking for them in the stalls. I led him to the stalls and he followed me. I’d look into his eyes and make him look away and then ask for a random product and make him find it, look into his eyes again and smile at his discovery; this was my little game. I did this several times, making sure he understood my signals. I swear I’d have continued this business for quite some time had a group of people not come in, forcing him to attend the counter again.
I am pretty sure he now has the knowledge that I want him to possess.
Sunday
What a loser. I’d have told him to go get a life had he waited long enough. JD met me in the church today, dressed all smart and smiled at me. Not only did he smile at me, he said hello. How did the wuss get all the courage to act in this manner? When I did not reply and walked past him, he stopped me and said he wanted to speak. I waited and he told me that he’d seen me at the store; as if I didn’t know. He asked me if I had been passing him signals and said that he wondered if I liked him. He must sure have overestimated himself; how could a girl like me like someone like him, why would a girl like me pass signals? I told him I was not interested and he said it was fine with him. How could it be fine with him? He should have shown at least some wistfulness, some disappointment. But he did not show any. He is too full of himself. How could it ever be fine with anyone who could not get to be with a girl like me? Guys like him do not deserve the company of girls. I knew from the beginning he was no more than a worthless loafer in the search of a girl to be with.
There’s this guy I know from the church. He seems intriguing. I don’t know his name but there’s certainly something in him which I find mysterious. Most of the times he appears pre-occupied. He comes alone, departs alone and doesn’t talk much. He even prays in silence; I wonder if God understands his wordless prayers. He doesn’t even close his eyes, as if he has no respect for the custom. People like him should better be atheists. He doesn’t bother much about what he’s wearing. Today he showed up in a checkered blue-black shirt and Bermuda shorts. But the worst part was: he was in sandals. What sort of a sane person does that? I’m sure there are a lot of losers like him wandering the streets, waiting for a chance to be with someone like me; like that’ll ever happen. What a loser!
Tuesday
I saw the guy from the church in market today; not that he was buying or anything, he works at the general store instead. I always knew that there was something that caused him to be the way he is. I know he’s my age, at least he looks so. What could’ve been the reason behind his working at the store? Probably his dad’s a drinker or -god forbid- is dead. He didn’t seem to recognize me. We’ve seen each other many times in the church, but I wonder if he was ashamed of the difference in our positions: his behind the counter and mine on the other side of it. That could be the only explanation of why he didn’t indulge in small talk with me. Most guys his age would give away their comforts to talk to me.
I don’t know why, but I certainly feel for him in a way a girl would feel for a boy she liked. If only I could hold him close to me and tell him that whatever he was, I would be there for him through thick and thin. If I could have him lay his head in my lap and caress his soft hair, I’d not feel this sadness I do now. Poor guy, I long for him.
Thursday
I went to the store again today, hoping I’d find him. Sadly he was not there. I asked for him and found out that people refer to him as JD. He was on a leave and he would be back tomorrow: the noon shift I was told. I will go there again tomorrow, not to let him know that I am fond of him or anything because that is the guys’ job; we girls just sit pretty and have them do the hard work: that’s the way this works. I will go there just to look at how he’s doing and stare into his deep blue eyes and gratify my eyes in the process, give him signals that will prompt him to talk to me: that’ll be the icing on the cake.
Friday
I was dressed my best today. I went to the store, right when I expected him to be at the counter. He was there, much to my joy. I waited for some time to let the other customers depart. I wanted his attention to be entirely subdued by my presence: that was plan A. As soon as the others were all gone, I went and stood in front of him, peering into his eyes, searching for the answers that had eluded my intellect. Actually that was my way of tantalizing him. He looked at me and waited for me to say something. After a while his gaze gave way and he looked away. Looking down he asked me what I wanted. I waited for him to look at me again, and gave him an inviting smile. He smiled at me, not in response to my smile but out of shyness and embarrassment. I told him I couldn’t find certain items in my list and asked him to help me out looking for them in the stalls. I led him to the stalls and he followed me. I’d look into his eyes and make him look away and then ask for a random product and make him find it, look into his eyes again and smile at his discovery; this was my little game. I did this several times, making sure he understood my signals. I swear I’d have continued this business for quite some time had a group of people not come in, forcing him to attend the counter again.
I am pretty sure he now has the knowledge that I want him to possess.
Sunday
What a loser. I’d have told him to go get a life had he waited long enough. JD met me in the church today, dressed all smart and smiled at me. Not only did he smile at me, he said hello. How did the wuss get all the courage to act in this manner? When I did not reply and walked past him, he stopped me and said he wanted to speak. I waited and he told me that he’d seen me at the store; as if I didn’t know. He asked me if I had been passing him signals and said that he wondered if I liked him. He must sure have overestimated himself; how could a girl like me like someone like him, why would a girl like me pass signals? I told him I was not interested and he said it was fine with him. How could it be fine with him? He should have shown at least some wistfulness, some disappointment. But he did not show any. He is too full of himself. How could it ever be fine with anyone who could not get to be with a girl like me? Guys like him do not deserve the company of girls. I knew from the beginning he was no more than a worthless loafer in the search of a girl to be with.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Jobless
He looked at the lines in his palm,
And wondered if they had any meaning.
The clefts, the wrinkles the crevices:
They must tell tales of his failures.
What could he ever do
To change his destiny?
He was speechless
And didn't understand the language of the lines.
That he would succeed one day,
The sightless pauper had told him.
He had believed him,
Remorse - now he felt - and self-reproach.
His old man had rebuked him
His intentions were foolish.
The poor can dream no dreams,
They're born in garbage and perish in trash.
He had fled, to the big place
To make it his own.
If only the big places had room
for small folk ...
The lines in his palm
Had become less distinct
From lifting heavy freight and cleaning cars,
And praying for a change.
He prayed for a change,
For the lines to be wiped off his palm.
Only if he believed,
Fate also favours those who’ve lost their hands.
And wondered if they had any meaning.
The clefts, the wrinkles the crevices:
They must tell tales of his failures.
What could he ever do
To change his destiny?
He was speechless
And didn't understand the language of the lines.
That he would succeed one day,
The sightless pauper had told him.
He had believed him,
Remorse - now he felt - and self-reproach.
His old man had rebuked him
His intentions were foolish.
The poor can dream no dreams,
They're born in garbage and perish in trash.
He had fled, to the big place
To make it his own.
If only the big places had room
for small folk ...
The lines in his palm
Had become less distinct
From lifting heavy freight and cleaning cars,
And praying for a change.
He prayed for a change,
For the lines to be wiped off his palm.
Only if he believed,
Fate also favours those who’ve lost their hands.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Failure
This is the best I could've ever done
I'm not what I used to be.
When I look into the mirror,
I don't even recognize the guy in there.
I'm sure she's not noticed the change:
She says I am not trying.
I'm not what I used to be.
When I look into the mirror,
I don't even recognize the guy in there.
I'm sure she's not noticed the change:
She says I am not trying.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
The Best Pickup Lines
Well, recently I have been experiencing a serious subject crisis. What I mean to say is : despite all the events that are happening around us, lately I have been feeling a lack of subjects or topics to write on/about. I cannot come up with a reason to explain this apparently strange phenomenon right now; maybe the things around me aren't inspiring the writer in me, or whatever. It need not be mentioned that the frequency with which I write blog posts is on an all time low. But the pen has to be kept in flow, lest the ink might dry up; hence I am putting forward this post. Before you judge me (on the basis of the content), let me ask you to read the opening sentence once again.
Well, pickup lines have been the basis of all population, if you know what I mean. When I say all population, I mean almost all population. Let us, for the sake of the argument, leave out India from the population I was talking about ( a logical thinker might protest this segregation, arguing that India is almost all the population in the world; oh, what the heck! ), for here the conventional protocol that leads to population is the concept called “arranged marriage”. For those oblivious of the concept of a pickup line, let me quickly enlighten you with the definition: a pick-up line is a conversation opener with the intent of engaging an unfamiliar person (usually of the opposite sex) for dating, romance or copulation. In other words, a pickup line is the hammer with which you strike the ice to break it.
Without making more fuss about it, I'll list fifteen pickup lines which I found worthy to be included in this post. Now that IIIT is full of new faces, these might come in handy for my college mates. For what it's worth, this might still make a good reading:
1.If I asked you out, would the answer to that question be the same as the answer to this one?
( I personally would give it a ten on ten. It is foolproof, only that nine out of ten people who 'd be addressed are likely to fail to figure this out. )
2.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.
3.You've made me so nervous that I've totally forgotten my standard pick-up line.
4.(After the target walks in) And out of nowhere comes the sunshine!!
5.Do you have any raisins? No? How about a date?
6.I'm sorry, were you talking to me? Target: No. Well then, please start.
7.My friends bet me that I didn't have the guts to talk to the most beautiful girl in this bar. Wanna drink with their money?
8.Excuse me, but I DO think it's time we met.
9.I was blinded by your beauty so I'm going to need your name and number for insurance reasons.
10.I'm invisible. (Target : Really?) Can you see me? ( Target: Yes) How about tomorrow night?
11.Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?
12.Can I take a picture of you, so I can show Santa just what I want for Christmas.
13. Hey I just realized this, but you look alot like my next girlfriend.
14.Screw me if I am wrong, but haven't we met before?
15.I bet you $40 you're gonna turn me down.
Well, pickup lines have been the basis of all population, if you know what I mean. When I say all population, I mean almost all population. Let us, for the sake of the argument, leave out India from the population I was talking about ( a logical thinker might protest this segregation, arguing that India is almost all the population in the world; oh, what the heck! ), for here the conventional protocol that leads to population is the concept called “arranged marriage”. For those oblivious of the concept of a pickup line, let me quickly enlighten you with the definition: a pick-up line is a conversation opener with the intent of engaging an unfamiliar person (usually of the opposite sex) for dating, romance or copulation. In other words, a pickup line is the hammer with which you strike the ice to break it.
Without making more fuss about it, I'll list fifteen pickup lines which I found worthy to be included in this post. Now that IIIT is full of new faces, these might come in handy for my college mates. For what it's worth, this might still make a good reading:
1.If I asked you out, would the answer to that question be the same as the answer to this one?
( I personally would give it a ten on ten. It is foolproof, only that nine out of ten people who 'd be addressed are likely to fail to figure this out. )
2.If I could rearrange the alphabet, I'd put U and I together.
3.You've made me so nervous that I've totally forgotten my standard pick-up line.
4.(After the target walks in) And out of nowhere comes the sunshine!!
5.Do you have any raisins? No? How about a date?
6.I'm sorry, were you talking to me? Target: No. Well then, please start.
7.My friends bet me that I didn't have the guts to talk to the most beautiful girl in this bar. Wanna drink with their money?
8.Excuse me, but I DO think it's time we met.
9.I was blinded by your beauty so I'm going to need your name and number for insurance reasons.
10.I'm invisible. (Target : Really?) Can you see me? ( Target: Yes) How about tomorrow night?
11.Apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?
12.Can I take a picture of you, so I can show Santa just what I want for Christmas.
13. Hey I just realized this, but you look alot like my next girlfriend.
14.Screw me if I am wrong, but haven't we met before?
15.I bet you $40 you're gonna turn me down.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
To a Single Guy
Hang on there dude,
Don't just give up.
Quitting is a sport for the wusses:
This game requires more than one ball.
What are you afraid of?
Things could get no worse.
You're single, you can't be halved
Go out there and act like men.
The good times didn't last long,
She's gone; you're on the road again.
There is a lot of potential waiting to be tapped
You just need to be yourself.
What if you get turned down?
She's not the last one on the planet.
She was not meant for you anyway,
The guy up there works in mysterious ways, they say.
It's no big deal to ask someone the question,
Just do it and you'll know.
It's not the prize but the sport
That real men play for.
People fall in the races,
All the time.
It takes a winner to get up
And race again.
Don't just give up.
Quitting is a sport for the wusses:
This game requires more than one ball.
What are you afraid of?
Things could get no worse.
You're single, you can't be halved
Go out there and act like men.
The good times didn't last long,
She's gone; you're on the road again.
There is a lot of potential waiting to be tapped
You just need to be yourself.
What if you get turned down?
She's not the last one on the planet.
She was not meant for you anyway,
The guy up there works in mysterious ways, they say.
It's no big deal to ask someone the question,
Just do it and you'll know.
It's not the prize but the sport
That real men play for.
People fall in the races,
All the time.
It takes a winner to get up
And race again.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Eternal Rest Grant Unto English O Lord
Languages are an indispensable part of human existence, for they are the basis of almost all forms of communication. The beauty of any language is in its freedom of expression. Most languages are quite powerful; powerful in the sense that they allow innumerable ways of expressing oneself; they provide interesting and groovy linguistic tools of pun, irony, personification and a lot more.
A language entitles its user a truck load of power, and a common man with a limited knowledge of the language and with some wit and imagination can exploit this power to draw a wonderful masterpiece on the canvas of comprehension. However, most people seldom realize that with great power comes great responsibility: and the result of their companionship with the language is more often than not a collection of alphabets with spaces in between diffusing an ambiguous sense, or no sense at all; in other words: human forged textual gibberish in its crude canonical form.
The internet is full of such quintessential rubbish. This document is addressed to our kewl brothers and sisters who, in an attempt to appear kewl, tap their keyboards in the “wrong” spots while they type out stuff they publish on the internet. This could be considered an unofficial bulletin on the incorrect usage of language or whatever you wish to call it. From this point onwards, I’ll use language which is more “socially acceptable” by the “netizens”.
Guys and gals, understand that what you put up on the internet is actually addressed to folks of all age groups and backgrounds, and anyone can read it. So be a little more patient and considerate when exercising your freedom of speech (or rather text). Perhaps, some of you might find the following pointers useful (and some of you will find it annoying).
1. Spelling Mistakes: It appears like spelling words correctly is out of fashion today. Nowadays even numerals find their places in the midst of alphabets. I believe this is not a good sign for a language. English is spoken all over the world and to ensure that every English using guy understands every other English using guy, there needs to be a standard way of spelling things. There was once a time pupils were penalized for errors in spelling: those were the days. I wish such measures were enforced by Websites today.
People spell my as mah, life as lyf, fine as f9, me as meeh and what not. Seriously dudes, you completely deprive your statements of all sense when you do stuff like this. Incomprehension is something no sane person appreciates; yet you do it. I found this in the about me section of someone’s profile on a social networking site:
i'M nOT GoNNa tEll YA A THainG ABt Meh!!! ><....WhatYU gOnnA Do ABoUT iT huh!!??!!.....
What the hell is that supposed to mean? How did this person ever complete school?
TIP: Use a Dictionary. If you don’t have it, buy one and if you’re experiencing a financial crisis, download one for free.
2. Grammatical and Syntactical Errors: Well, one thing follows another. I’ve found that the internet is the largest source of ill-formed sentences. A sentence, by definition, is a collection of words making some sense. If spelling errors deprive the sentences of the intended meaning, the intention is lost as soon as grammatical errors creep in. And then life becomes tough. Observation indicates that three out of five people fail to handle sentences having four or more words. As shameful as it might sound, it is true: most people are not aware of the way the language works, and their grammar falls apart in every sentence they write. Consider again,
WhatYU gOnnA Do ABoUT iT huh!!??!!
This piece of text (I wish I could call it a sentence) seems to be a waste of words, and symbols of course. There’s a verb missing as well.
I don’t know if it was a typo or not but someone once asked me, “What does your travel site called?” I could extract at least three meanings from the sentence; fortunately it is easy to grasp the intended one here.
Most people are unaware of the concept of Subject-Verb Agreement. An aftermath would be, Howz you? (While someone who wrote this might think it is cool, it is incorrect still.)
Some people suck at using the correct tense of a verb. A common error would be, “Care didn’t killed the cat.” Perhaps, this is the most common error in writing that the internet is infested with.
Then there are syntactical errors. Note the “!!??!!” that marks the end of the about me example. However, such errors are allowed, as long as they don’t interfere with comprehension. Besides, some people seldom use quotation marks while others put them like toppings on a pepperoni pizza (like when they tear apart the oregano seasoning sachet and sprinkle it everywhere, and the flakes come to rest wherever they’re lucky to fall) .
3. Literary Piracy: Yes, plagiarism is widespread. People even say the same things about themselves (the notorious - about me - section again). And most often, what people say about themselves happens to be the lyrics of some Enrique song.
4. Using illegible fonts: Thanks to Orkut Stylish Fonts, readers are confused like never before. It takes more time to understand the symbols than extracting sense out of the trumpery. Once again, let me assure you, the stylish fonts are hardly cool.
5. Unneeded exhibition of attitude: Well, this has nothing to do with literacy or lack of it. Still it requires a mention because it meddles with the semantics of the text. Someone wrote this somewhere:
“When I was kidnapped, my parents snapped into action. They rented out my room.”
One question to be asked from oneself before propagating thoughts that are borrowed from elsewhere should be “Am I really what I’m suggesting I am?”
It is noteworthy how few people fail to notice the self contradictory nature of their accounts. The same person - in the five things I can’t live without section - wrote my mom, my dad …
TIP: Don’t just say stuff you don’t intend to propagate, just for the sake of saying. Or better consult your parents before putting stuff up there.
6. Lack of Understanding: Since the dictionaries have been out of town, there is utter chaos in the world of understanding. People assume stuff, when there are ways of finding out. Almost every girl’s Orkut profile has “mirror cracking material” in the looks column. Well, FYI people, “mirror cracking material” is used in a bad sense, if you know what I mean. It is ugliness exaggerated: ugliness to the extent that even the mirror cracks at the sight. Don’t blame Orkut for setting a tempting trap for you if you fell for it: the options are arranged in the decreasing order of the aesthetic value; still people choose the last option without noticing.
I was talking to this stylish NIFT creature once and I asked her, “So what does your old man do?” and she said, “Which one? I’ve been in several relationships?” People certainly do not think before answering. FYI lady, “old man” is an informal term for one’s father. She should’ve asked me to clarify before risking the reputation of you know who (let’s see if you can figure out who are the two people whose reputations are under threat here).
TIP: Find out, don’t assume. You have the right to know stuff if you don’t already. Believe me, no one thinks of you as un-cool if you ask them what they intend to say. Or better use other resources (like the dictionary or Yahoo answers) to find out.
A language entitles its user a truck load of power, and a common man with a limited knowledge of the language and with some wit and imagination can exploit this power to draw a wonderful masterpiece on the canvas of comprehension. However, most people seldom realize that with great power comes great responsibility: and the result of their companionship with the language is more often than not a collection of alphabets with spaces in between diffusing an ambiguous sense, or no sense at all; in other words: human forged textual gibberish in its crude canonical form.
The internet is full of such quintessential rubbish. This document is addressed to our kewl brothers and sisters who, in an attempt to appear kewl, tap their keyboards in the “wrong” spots while they type out stuff they publish on the internet. This could be considered an unofficial bulletin on the incorrect usage of language or whatever you wish to call it. From this point onwards, I’ll use language which is more “socially acceptable” by the “netizens”.
Guys and gals, understand that what you put up on the internet is actually addressed to folks of all age groups and backgrounds, and anyone can read it. So be a little more patient and considerate when exercising your freedom of speech (or rather text). Perhaps, some of you might find the following pointers useful (and some of you will find it annoying).
1. Spelling Mistakes: It appears like spelling words correctly is out of fashion today. Nowadays even numerals find their places in the midst of alphabets. I believe this is not a good sign for a language. English is spoken all over the world and to ensure that every English using guy understands every other English using guy, there needs to be a standard way of spelling things. There was once a time pupils were penalized for errors in spelling: those were the days. I wish such measures were enforced by Websites today.
People spell my as mah, life as lyf, fine as f9, me as meeh and what not. Seriously dudes, you completely deprive your statements of all sense when you do stuff like this. Incomprehension is something no sane person appreciates; yet you do it. I found this in the about me section of someone’s profile on a social networking site:
i'M nOT GoNNa tEll YA A THainG ABt Meh!!! ><....WhatYU gOnnA Do ABoUT iT huh!!??!!.....
What the hell is that supposed to mean? How did this person ever complete school?
TIP: Use a Dictionary. If you don’t have it, buy one and if you’re experiencing a financial crisis, download one for free.
2. Grammatical and Syntactical Errors: Well, one thing follows another. I’ve found that the internet is the largest source of ill-formed sentences. A sentence, by definition, is a collection of words making some sense. If spelling errors deprive the sentences of the intended meaning, the intention is lost as soon as grammatical errors creep in. And then life becomes tough. Observation indicates that three out of five people fail to handle sentences having four or more words. As shameful as it might sound, it is true: most people are not aware of the way the language works, and their grammar falls apart in every sentence they write. Consider again,
WhatYU gOnnA Do ABoUT iT huh!!??!!
This piece of text (I wish I could call it a sentence) seems to be a waste of words, and symbols of course. There’s a verb missing as well.
I don’t know if it was a typo or not but someone once asked me, “What does your travel site called?” I could extract at least three meanings from the sentence; fortunately it is easy to grasp the intended one here.
Most people are unaware of the concept of Subject-Verb Agreement. An aftermath would be, Howz you? (While someone who wrote this might think it is cool, it is incorrect still.)
Some people suck at using the correct tense of a verb. A common error would be, “Care didn’t killed the cat.” Perhaps, this is the most common error in writing that the internet is infested with.
Then there are syntactical errors. Note the “!!??!!” that marks the end of the about me example. However, such errors are allowed, as long as they don’t interfere with comprehension. Besides, some people seldom use quotation marks while others put them like toppings on a pepperoni pizza (like when they tear apart the oregano seasoning sachet and sprinkle it everywhere, and the flakes come to rest wherever they’re lucky to fall) .
3. Literary Piracy: Yes, plagiarism is widespread. People even say the same things about themselves (the notorious - about me - section again). And most often, what people say about themselves happens to be the lyrics of some Enrique song.
4. Using illegible fonts: Thanks to Orkut Stylish Fonts, readers are confused like never before. It takes more time to understand the symbols than extracting sense out of the trumpery. Once again, let me assure you, the stylish fonts are hardly cool.
5. Unneeded exhibition of attitude: Well, this has nothing to do with literacy or lack of it. Still it requires a mention because it meddles with the semantics of the text. Someone wrote this somewhere:
“When I was kidnapped, my parents snapped into action. They rented out my room.”
One question to be asked from oneself before propagating thoughts that are borrowed from elsewhere should be “Am I really what I’m suggesting I am?”
It is noteworthy how few people fail to notice the self contradictory nature of their accounts. The same person - in the five things I can’t live without section - wrote my mom, my dad …
TIP: Don’t just say stuff you don’t intend to propagate, just for the sake of saying. Or better consult your parents before putting stuff up there.
6. Lack of Understanding: Since the dictionaries have been out of town, there is utter chaos in the world of understanding. People assume stuff, when there are ways of finding out. Almost every girl’s Orkut profile has “mirror cracking material” in the looks column. Well, FYI people, “mirror cracking material” is used in a bad sense, if you know what I mean. It is ugliness exaggerated: ugliness to the extent that even the mirror cracks at the sight. Don’t blame Orkut for setting a tempting trap for you if you fell for it: the options are arranged in the decreasing order of the aesthetic value; still people choose the last option without noticing.
I was talking to this stylish NIFT creature once and I asked her, “So what does your old man do?” and she said, “Which one? I’ve been in several relationships?” People certainly do not think before answering. FYI lady, “old man” is an informal term for one’s father. She should’ve asked me to clarify before risking the reputation of you know who (let’s see if you can figure out who are the two people whose reputations are under threat here).
TIP: Find out, don’t assume. You have the right to know stuff if you don’t already. Believe me, no one thinks of you as un-cool if you ask them what they intend to say. Or better use other resources (like the dictionary or Yahoo answers) to find out.
Friday, April 17, 2009
Looking Back
I have nothing I can call mine
Wish there were a thing or two.
They took away what I cared for
Now the bleak wind blows past my face.
The torch of my existence,
One day passes on to Another.
'Tis Fuelled not by desire,
But by promises I have to keep.
The summer's gone
Winter's come.
I have no warm clothes
And no cozy bed.
Whose nimble fingers once
Played the harp of the past,
Now pull the strings of the future:
His ways are strange.
I believed in freedom
And set it free:
Happiness was a bird;
I couldn't keep it captive.
Will this pain last longer
Or the life?
I am not rich enough
To buy my past.
Wish there were a thing or two.
They took away what I cared for
Now the bleak wind blows past my face.
The torch of my existence,
One day passes on to Another.
'Tis Fuelled not by desire,
But by promises I have to keep.
The summer's gone
Winter's come.
I have no warm clothes
And no cozy bed.
Whose nimble fingers once
Played the harp of the past,
Now pull the strings of the future:
His ways are strange.
I believed in freedom
And set it free:
Happiness was a bird;
I couldn't keep it captive.
Will this pain last longer
Or the life?
I am not rich enough
To buy my past.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Companions
I come alone.
I leave solitary.
What transpires in between
Is a foul-play called life.
I've no friends,
Only companions.
I'm a loner at heart,
I don't need them.
They use me,
But I don't care
For I'm a loser,
I'm used to being used.
I've realized,
People can be unreasonable.
But they sure must have
Reasons to betray.
I'd have loved friends
But I never met them.
Probably they're lost,
Probably they're not.
I'm an underachiever
But I am true.
It's a cardinal sin,
To be true when you're a failure.
They don't understand me,
And I don't love to explain.
Life's tough on the road
If you're the only one following rules.
I leave solitary.
What transpires in between
Is a foul-play called life.
I've no friends,
Only companions.
I'm a loner at heart,
I don't need them.
They use me,
But I don't care
For I'm a loser,
I'm used to being used.
I've realized,
People can be unreasonable.
But they sure must have
Reasons to betray.
I'd have loved friends
But I never met them.
Probably they're lost,
Probably they're not.
I'm an underachiever
But I am true.
It's a cardinal sin,
To be true when you're a failure.
They don't understand me,
And I don't love to explain.
Life's tough on the road
If you're the only one following rules.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Yuktahaar- Appetite's Best Friend
I never knew what delicious food was until I started eating in Yuktahaar, and then it was too late to know. Well, I do not exactly believe in the crap I wrote in the previous line but I find it funny, so I put it there and let it remain there in the final draft of this piece of writing.
Now that I've mentioned that I eat in Yuktahaar, you must have speculated that it is one place where food is served. People from IIIT would know what I am talking about, but for those not familiar with the campus, I'd state that it is one of the four messes in our college. The food is really cheap ( at least in terms of the amount they charge us per meal ) and you have to sit on the floor and eat, not to mention that people who eat there are supposed to wash the dishes themselves. How's that for economy? In fact, one of my companions who eats in Yuktahaar – Mayank Juneja – once suggested, “Dude, since we wash the dishes daily, why don't we seriously consider working here, at least we won't be paying for our meals.” My reply was, “Seriously chum. We could use the money too.”
Now that I've disclosed the royal treatment of the people who eat there, I better not conceal the fact that people love the place so much that there's always a mile long queue for chapatis. I never used to eat rice before, but rice and I are two inseparable lovers now. And Murphy's law applies here as well: the more the haste you're in, the longer the queue is and the slower it moves. The love for the place doesn't simply end there : there's another half a mile queue at the sinks to wash the dishes. It is an ultimate test of one's patience. Once my patience was really being put to a tough test and I blurted out, “ I can stand for an hour in a queue to get a blasted chapati but I cannot stand in this queue for 5 minutes to wash the goddamned dishes.” However the benevolent mother nature made me wait for another 10 minutes and I passed the test. I've grown a lot more patient since Yuktahaar became a part of my life. After that incident even the petty insolent kid who stuck a pencil in my eye failed to get on my nerves.
Once someone asked me if the cooks in Yuktahaar were good. My reply was, “ Are you kidding? They sure know how to prepare something fit for human consumption by means of heat.” Ask anyone who eats there and he will testify the truth of my statement. I must tell you that it is not only good food that is served there, for it is one such place where you learn while you eat. Don't ask me what it means: I leave the interpretation as an exercise left to the reader.
There are quite a few quotes that adorn the walls of the temple of diet. I'll list a few of them with my remarks. Don't hate me, I'm not being judgmental- I'm merely putting myself in the shoes of a common man - who ate there once - and stating his observations subjectively.
Quote 1: “Enjoy health not taste.”
Remarks: “ You've ensured the second conjecture. But what about the first?”
Quote 2: “Wasting food is a sin, not allowed here.”
Remarks: “What's that steel bucket with all the waste food doing there. Did you not put that there? Irony! ”
Quote 3: “Please take a maximum of 3 chapatis if queue is present.”
Remarks: “ Can anyone not see the queue? Or is it that I'm hallucinating all these people standing one behind the other?”
Quote 4: “ The remedy of a disease is the kitchen, not the hospital.”
Remarks: “Kiss my a**.”
I love Yuktahaar- I eat there all the time. Everyone loves Raymond. Everyone loves Yuktahaar. Noticed the analogy? People have their terms of endearment to refer to Yuktahaar, some call it Muktahaar and some call it Kuttahaar. In fact there's a community dedicated to Yuktahaar on Orkut . Please join it and show that you are as much in love with it as everyone else it.
Everyone should eat in Yuktahaar at least once, after all happiness is not everything.
Now that I've mentioned that I eat in Yuktahaar, you must have speculated that it is one place where food is served. People from IIIT would know what I am talking about, but for those not familiar with the campus, I'd state that it is one of the four messes in our college. The food is really cheap ( at least in terms of the amount they charge us per meal ) and you have to sit on the floor and eat, not to mention that people who eat there are supposed to wash the dishes themselves. How's that for economy? In fact, one of my companions who eats in Yuktahaar – Mayank Juneja – once suggested, “Dude, since we wash the dishes daily, why don't we seriously consider working here, at least we won't be paying for our meals.” My reply was, “Seriously chum. We could use the money too.”
Now that I've disclosed the royal treatment of the people who eat there, I better not conceal the fact that people love the place so much that there's always a mile long queue for chapatis. I never used to eat rice before, but rice and I are two inseparable lovers now. And Murphy's law applies here as well: the more the haste you're in, the longer the queue is and the slower it moves. The love for the place doesn't simply end there : there's another half a mile queue at the sinks to wash the dishes. It is an ultimate test of one's patience. Once my patience was really being put to a tough test and I blurted out, “ I can stand for an hour in a queue to get a blasted chapati but I cannot stand in this queue for 5 minutes to wash the goddamned dishes.” However the benevolent mother nature made me wait for another 10 minutes and I passed the test. I've grown a lot more patient since Yuktahaar became a part of my life. After that incident even the petty insolent kid who stuck a pencil in my eye failed to get on my nerves.
Once someone asked me if the cooks in Yuktahaar were good. My reply was, “ Are you kidding? They sure know how to prepare something fit for human consumption by means of heat.” Ask anyone who eats there and he will testify the truth of my statement. I must tell you that it is not only good food that is served there, for it is one such place where you learn while you eat. Don't ask me what it means: I leave the interpretation as an exercise left to the reader.
There are quite a few quotes that adorn the walls of the temple of diet. I'll list a few of them with my remarks. Don't hate me, I'm not being judgmental- I'm merely putting myself in the shoes of a common man - who ate there once - and stating his observations subjectively.
Quote 1: “Enjoy health not taste.”
Remarks: “ You've ensured the second conjecture. But what about the first?”
Quote 2: “Wasting food is a sin, not allowed here.”
Remarks: “What's that steel bucket with all the waste food doing there. Did you not put that there? Irony! ”
Quote 3: “Please take a maximum of 3 chapatis if queue is present.”
Remarks: “ Can anyone not see the queue? Or is it that I'm hallucinating all these people standing one behind the other?”
Quote 4: “ The remedy of a disease is the kitchen, not the hospital.”
Remarks: “Kiss my a**.”
I love Yuktahaar- I eat there all the time. Everyone loves Raymond. Everyone loves Yuktahaar. Noticed the analogy? People have their terms of endearment to refer to Yuktahaar, some call it Muktahaar and some call it Kuttahaar. In fact there's a community dedicated to Yuktahaar on Orkut . Please join it and show that you are as much in love with it as everyone else it.
Everyone should eat in Yuktahaar at least once, after all happiness is not everything.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Remembering Murphy- Murphy's Law
I never had a slice of bread,
Particularly large and wide,
That did not fall upon the floor,
And always on the buttered side.
Everything is either said for a reason or for no reason at all. It is noteworthy how certain sentences say just what they're supposed to and never fail to astound us with their truth. Every person, unless he's dumb says something. Even the dumb who have been deprived of their power of speech say things by their actions. The responsibility of understanding what has been said is ours entirely and it is only us - who understand - who can actually propagate what we heard so that others can hear what we say.
One such man who said something worth pondering over was Edward A. Murphy, Jr., an engineer by profession. I respect him not only because he was an engineer but because of that something he said. His statement is called Murphy's law today and it exhibits the firmness of the grasp of this man on the ways of the world. He had understood what every living person had to live with and though many people might have realized the same, I salute him for he was the first one who said so.
Murphy law states,
“Anything that can possibly go wrong, does.”
Isn't it true? People might brand me a pessimist for repeating the statement but name calling never helps, so I suggest such people to save that energy and use it for nobler pursuits. Once seen in the right light, Murphy’s Law actually starts making sense: Shit happens in this world. Subtract the number of times you've succeeded from the number of times you've tried and if you're human you are bound to get a non-zero result. That my friend is the quantitative measure of Murphy's law holding. Upon dividing this result by the number of trials, you get a better estimate. And if the quotient of the previous division has no fractional part, you my friend are one specimen of either of the two species- God or the author's true alter ego (if the latter is the case, get in touch with me. Let's hang out together sometime.)
Now some people might have qualms about the involvement of science in this law. Well, doubts in the verity of a statement are good signs, both for the person who has doubts and for the person who stated the law. Since Murphy's been dead for quite sometime, I take on the prerogative to answer for him, to the best of my ability. ( If you think I am bullshitting you, I might have done that. Do not hate Murphy for what I say because these thoughts are mine in their entirety and they do not reflect what Murphy had in mind when he said what he said.) Ask yourself what science is. I've found texts to support that science is the quest to know. In this sense history is science, right? Isn’t history a little something when it comes to gaining knowledge? In all these years history has been an important tool to the achievement of this objective- knowing. Time and again we have turned the pages of the past to satisfy our quest to know. And history has shown us that things have gone wrong when they could've gone wrong. So, there is science in the law. It might not have a hundred percent chance of holding, but no law has that luxury. Ask someone who knows, is V=IR always? Ohm's law doesn't hold always : even the textbooks show that the characteristic straight line is a curve in the practical sense, but you call that a law.
There have been many stated versions of the this law and I will list a few of them, in my style of writing. Forgive me if you find the language blasphemous, for it is just intended to bring in some humor. I've made additions at my discretion in places to bring about the same effect.
1.If anything can go wrong, it will, at the most inopportune time. It will all be your fault and everyone will know it.
2.If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the one to go wrong.
An extreme version would be,
If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the FIRST one to go wrong.
3.If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.
4.Nature always sides with the hidden flaw. The hidden flaw doesn't remain hidden for long. And then people find out it was your fault.
5.Mother nature is a bitch.
6.The legibility of a copy is inversely proportional to its importance.
7.You cannot successfully determine beforehand which side of the bread to butter. ( Try and relate this to the four lines that mark the beginning of this composition.) Now, read the next point.
8.The chance of the buttered side of the bread falling face down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.
The following statements could be classified as Murphy's Laws of Selective Gravitation:
9.A falling object will always land where it can do the most damage.
10. An unbreakable object will always fall on the only surface hard enough to crack or break it.
11. A paint drip will always find the hole in the newspaper and land on the carpet underneath (and will not be discovered until it has dried).
12. A dropped power tool will always land on the concrete instead of the soft ground (if outdoors) or the carpet (if indoors) - unless it is running, in which case it will fall on something it can damage (like your foot).
13. If a dish is dropped while removing it from the cupboard, it will hit the sink, breaking the dish and chipping or denting the sink in the process.
14. A valuable dropped item will always fall into an inaccessible place (a diamond ring down the drain, for example.)
15. The greater the value of the rug, the greater the probability that the pet dog will throw up on it.
The following statements form the equivalences in shopping:
16. No matter how long or how hard you shop for an item, after you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.
17. The other line always moves faster.
The statements pertaining to love:
18. All the good ones are taken.
19. If the person isn't taken, there's a reason.
20. Brains x Beauty x Availability = Constant.
This constant is always zero.
21. "This won't hurt, I promise." is not true.
The statements for a computer:
22. Program complexity grows until it exceeds the capability of the programmer who must maintain it.
23. Bugs will appear in one part of a working program when another 'unrelated' part is modified.
24. Line number 108 : m=n;
Line number 109 : assert ( m==n);
Output : Execution Aborted. Assertion failed in line 109.
25. Undetectable errors are infinite in variety, in contrast to detectable errors, which by definition are limited.
26. If such a program has not crashed yet, it is waiting for a critical moment before it crashes.
27. The speed with which components become obsolete is directly proportional to the price of the component.
28. Software bugs are impossible to detect by anybody except the end user. And the end user can do nothing about it than wait for the next version of the software. The next version of the software will have bigger bugs.
29. The maintenance engineer will never have seen a model quite like yours before.
30. Any manufacturer making his warranties dependent upon the device being earthed will only supply power cabling with two wires.
31. If a circuit requires n components, then there will be only n - 1 components in locally-held stocks.
32. Each computer code has five bugs, and this number does not depend on how many bugs have been already found (it is conservative).
33. Whenever you're in a hurry, the server is down.
There are more statements- thousands of them, all stating the obvious. All of them support the law. For instance, Steven Right once said,“If Murphy's law is correct, everything East of the San Andreas Fault will slide into the Atlantic.” Since nothing of that sort has happened so far, you might be tempted to think Murphy's law doesn't hold. Well the good thing about Murphy's law is, even when it doesn't hold, it holds, “If Murphy's Law can go wrong it will.”
I'd like the readers to write down similar statements in the comments section. It'll be an amusing exercise.
Particularly large and wide,
That did not fall upon the floor,
And always on the buttered side.
Everything is either said for a reason or for no reason at all. It is noteworthy how certain sentences say just what they're supposed to and never fail to astound us with their truth. Every person, unless he's dumb says something. Even the dumb who have been deprived of their power of speech say things by their actions. The responsibility of understanding what has been said is ours entirely and it is only us - who understand - who can actually propagate what we heard so that others can hear what we say.
One such man who said something worth pondering over was Edward A. Murphy, Jr., an engineer by profession. I respect him not only because he was an engineer but because of that something he said. His statement is called Murphy's law today and it exhibits the firmness of the grasp of this man on the ways of the world. He had understood what every living person had to live with and though many people might have realized the same, I salute him for he was the first one who said so.
Murphy law states,
“Anything that can possibly go wrong, does.”
Isn't it true? People might brand me a pessimist for repeating the statement but name calling never helps, so I suggest such people to save that energy and use it for nobler pursuits. Once seen in the right light, Murphy’s Law actually starts making sense: Shit happens in this world. Subtract the number of times you've succeeded from the number of times you've tried and if you're human you are bound to get a non-zero result. That my friend is the quantitative measure of Murphy's law holding. Upon dividing this result by the number of trials, you get a better estimate. And if the quotient of the previous division has no fractional part, you my friend are one specimen of either of the two species- God or the author's true alter ego (if the latter is the case, get in touch with me. Let's hang out together sometime.)
Now some people might have qualms about the involvement of science in this law. Well, doubts in the verity of a statement are good signs, both for the person who has doubts and for the person who stated the law. Since Murphy's been dead for quite sometime, I take on the prerogative to answer for him, to the best of my ability. ( If you think I am bullshitting you, I might have done that. Do not hate Murphy for what I say because these thoughts are mine in their entirety and they do not reflect what Murphy had in mind when he said what he said.) Ask yourself what science is. I've found texts to support that science is the quest to know. In this sense history is science, right? Isn’t history a little something when it comes to gaining knowledge? In all these years history has been an important tool to the achievement of this objective- knowing. Time and again we have turned the pages of the past to satisfy our quest to know. And history has shown us that things have gone wrong when they could've gone wrong. So, there is science in the law. It might not have a hundred percent chance of holding, but no law has that luxury. Ask someone who knows, is V=IR always? Ohm's law doesn't hold always : even the textbooks show that the characteristic straight line is a curve in the practical sense, but you call that a law.
There have been many stated versions of the this law and I will list a few of them, in my style of writing. Forgive me if you find the language blasphemous, for it is just intended to bring in some humor. I've made additions at my discretion in places to bring about the same effect.
1.If anything can go wrong, it will, at the most inopportune time. It will all be your fault and everyone will know it.
2.If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the one to go wrong.
An extreme version would be,
If there is a possibility of several things going wrong, the one that will cause the most damage will be the FIRST one to go wrong.
3.If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something.
4.Nature always sides with the hidden flaw. The hidden flaw doesn't remain hidden for long. And then people find out it was your fault.
5.Mother nature is a bitch.
6.The legibility of a copy is inversely proportional to its importance.
7.You cannot successfully determine beforehand which side of the bread to butter. ( Try and relate this to the four lines that mark the beginning of this composition.) Now, read the next point.
8.The chance of the buttered side of the bread falling face down is directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.
The following statements could be classified as Murphy's Laws of Selective Gravitation:
9.A falling object will always land where it can do the most damage.
10. An unbreakable object will always fall on the only surface hard enough to crack or break it.
11. A paint drip will always find the hole in the newspaper and land on the carpet underneath (and will not be discovered until it has dried).
12. A dropped power tool will always land on the concrete instead of the soft ground (if outdoors) or the carpet (if indoors) - unless it is running, in which case it will fall on something it can damage (like your foot).
13. If a dish is dropped while removing it from the cupboard, it will hit the sink, breaking the dish and chipping or denting the sink in the process.
14. A valuable dropped item will always fall into an inaccessible place (a diamond ring down the drain, for example.)
15. The greater the value of the rug, the greater the probability that the pet dog will throw up on it.
The following statements form the equivalences in shopping:
16. No matter how long or how hard you shop for an item, after you've bought it, it will be on sale somewhere cheaper.
17. The other line always moves faster.
The statements pertaining to love:
18. All the good ones are taken.
19. If the person isn't taken, there's a reason.
20. Brains x Beauty x Availability = Constant.
This constant is always zero.
21. "This won't hurt, I promise." is not true.
The statements for a computer:
22. Program complexity grows until it exceeds the capability of the programmer who must maintain it.
23. Bugs will appear in one part of a working program when another 'unrelated' part is modified.
24. Line number 108 : m=n;
Line number 109 : assert ( m==n);
Output : Execution Aborted. Assertion failed in line 109.
25. Undetectable errors are infinite in variety, in contrast to detectable errors, which by definition are limited.
26. If such a program has not crashed yet, it is waiting for a critical moment before it crashes.
27. The speed with which components become obsolete is directly proportional to the price of the component.
28. Software bugs are impossible to detect by anybody except the end user. And the end user can do nothing about it than wait for the next version of the software. The next version of the software will have bigger bugs.
29. The maintenance engineer will never have seen a model quite like yours before.
30. Any manufacturer making his warranties dependent upon the device being earthed will only supply power cabling with two wires.
31. If a circuit requires n components, then there will be only n - 1 components in locally-held stocks.
32. Each computer code has five bugs, and this number does not depend on how many bugs have been already found (it is conservative).
33. Whenever you're in a hurry, the server is down.
There are more statements- thousands of them, all stating the obvious. All of them support the law. For instance, Steven Right once said,“If Murphy's law is correct, everything East of the San Andreas Fault will slide into the Atlantic.” Since nothing of that sort has happened so far, you might be tempted to think Murphy's law doesn't hold. Well the good thing about Murphy's law is, even when it doesn't hold, it holds, “If Murphy's Law can go wrong it will.”
I'd like the readers to write down similar statements in the comments section. It'll be an amusing exercise.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
A leaf from the book of the Past
Memory is one of the most wonderful things available to any entity. The finite state machines are inferior to the push down automaton only because they lack memory. Computer Memory is either fast and expensive or cheap and slow but in either case the data in the memory follows Newton’s law of inertia, except in the case of a hardware failure of course. Computer memory is simple to understand. Human memory on the contrary is a thing beyond human comprehension. Sometimes we remember something- sometimes we do not. It is there in the memory- somewhere there but where exactly, we are not aware. Probably the search algorithm the brain uses is not exhaustive, for if it is, human memory can be shown to be very unreliable. And let’s not talk about the hardware failure issues in the case of human memory. One thing quite noteworthy about human memory is that it can house vast amounts of data - though most of what it chooses to store by its own accord is irrelevant. And when the human brain sits idle, it does not merely sit idle; it invokes its search programs with random search keys and the results are random thoughts and reflections of the past. Without further digression from my motive, I relate one incident from my past experiences which the search in my idle brain just brought to my notice.
I was traveling from Delhi to Allahabad in the winter of 2006. The train I was on traveling on -Prayagraj Express- was and is still the best train that ever marched that route. I was alone and I had a lower berth reserved against my name. That most of the women from Delhi are firebrands is not a big secret. And I was an informed youth. So I was (I’ve always been) mentally prepared to let any lady have her way and leave me unscathed. So when the woman with her young sister in law asked me to move to berth number eight (an uncomfortable side upper) I flinched immediately and displaying an unwavering determination towards service to females I complied, but only after both of them agreed to keep an eye each on my attaché that I had already chained under one of the lower berths in that compartment.
Well, berth number 8 has a special place in a train’s A/C coach. It is the berth directly above the one allotted to the TTE (traveling ticket examiner). And Indian TTEs are pretty decent when it comes to handing over their seats to members of the opposite sex. Evidently our TTE- a grey haired, obese, jolly faced guy in his fifties- was no exception to the rule for I saw three members of the afore mentioned community adorning seat number seven. It was not even ten in the night and I was reading some work of Mario Puzo, so sleep wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind. Some other day I would have shared the lower seat with its occupant to sit for some time and let my ears get used to the rattle-rumble of the moving wagon before diving into the book, but that day was different. Seat number seven would have proved an electric chair for a young man like me and I didn’t want to perish. So I was determined to reach for my berth and resume the book reading exercise. However it was not meant to be so. As I was climbing up the bunk bed ladder I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned and found a pair of eyes staring into mine. The eyes belonged to one of the occupants of the side lower.
“Do you mind exchanging berths with me?” these words flew off the oral cavity that was a couple of inches below the eyes. I took a deep breath and examined the object under consideration from top to bottom. The next moment I was embarrassed to find out that the object’s companions had noticed me doing the scrutiny and I came to senses instantly. “..Only for an hour. I have to read my Namaz. It is the month of Eid you see”, she continued. Damn she was fuming! What was I to do? It was another form of nature’s call, for attending to the call was indispensable in this case as well. How could a guy with a heart ever turn down such a request? I remembered the words of Don Vito Corleone, “I’ll give him an offer he cannot resist” and noted the apparent similarity. You must understand that questions such as the one she had asked have only a rhetorical value, for the answer is implied from the context. I knew I had to go, so why not make some small talk out of the transaction. I said, “Well FYI I have already been traveling to and from different berths like a common man in a government office. As fed up of this business as I am, I would’ve refused to someone else; nevertheless I will make an exception for you. I will move if you promise to keep your word and let me have my berth as soon as you’re done.” She replied with “Thanks. I really appreciate your cooperation.” Playing hard to get, I made no further attempt to carry further the conversation (I had to appear like some sober guy who minded his own business) and asked, “So where do I go?” “Seat number ten, right there” she pointed and her white fingers with decorated finger nails caught my attention. I turned again to make eye contact with her friends and they nodded gently to assure me that they were not regular interlopers and that my seat would definitely be restored. I gave them a business-like smile and jumped up seat no. ten- a middle berth in the adjacent array of berths.
Unfortunately the people who were destined to be my neighbors in my newest acquired berth were all trying to sleep and had shut off the lights. So involuntarily I had to lie on the bunk and face the aisle, to catch as much light from the aisle as possible to read. From my position I could keep an eye on my seat and the one beneath it and they could see me. The girl who occupied my berth was kneeling and praying. That was quite a sight. I’ve always believed that beauty is meant to be admired and sometimes I get so engrossed in the activity that I lose track of my coordinates. It was one of those times and I let the book escape my grasp and following the laws of gravity in a moving frame, it struck the floor. It broke my sleep and I heard her companions giggling. Apparently they had become aware of my state of mind. If they thought they could embarrass me, I was past that stage already. One of them reached down to pick the volume and momentarily my heart skipped another beat. She picked it up and turned it around to read the gist. I waited patiently, and wondered if I were to produce some password to reclaim my ownership. She looked into my eyes and commented -most probably on the contents of the novel- “Interesting”. Sometimes it is hard to decipher what girls mean when they use four-syllable words in place of sentences. And I bet it was one of those times. I knew for sure that the two of them did not have confirmed tickets -that was why they were on seat number seven in the first place. And I also knew that they knew that I had a berth against my name; add to this my knowledge of Delhi gals being firebrands and put yourself in my shoes (though you would’ve loved to be in my berth right then). I started to doubt her intentions but as careless as I was, I was always good at following algorithms and one algorithm that my mom taught me for traveling safe was to beware of strangers and strange women. I did not want to lose my berth, for I had seen men lose their homes due to similar causes. I responded with a curt, “Can I have it back.” (Today I totally regret that line. It could just have been a casual session of harmless flirting.)
I buried my nose into the book again and waited for the time. In the meanwhile the TTE came and allotted the two gals on his seat a berth. He asked them to share it for no more travelers were absent. Their seat was nine berths away from my current position, and this ruled out the possibility of further small talk. I silently observed their transition. Sometime later, the pious soul completed her prayers and descended from my berth. I saw her walking towards the toilet. Open doors tempt a saint (don’t get any ideas. Read on). With the first opportunity I jumped from my temporary position to my semi-temporary position, i.e. back to seat number eight. I engaged myself in endeavoring to stop all thoughts.
She came back in a jiffy. She was surprised and probably pissed off at my nonchalance in regaining my position without formally notifying her. I wasn't a state attorney after all, I had no knowledge of laws of transfer of property and stuff. She looked at me with the eyes of a wounded tigress. I avoided eye contact. She suddenly realized her companions were not where she had last seen them. She looked here and there but they were not anywhere in sight. So from her stack of questions, she popped one: “Where are my friends?” I had expected this. With a devilish smile I popped mine, “Are you sure I'm supposed to know?” She was caught off-guard and struck speechless. She kept staring at me; her eyes no longer had the fire of a tigress' but the timidity of a pet cat's. My heart melted and I surrendered the national secret without the least hesitation, “berth number nineteen.” She smiled and I reciprocated the gesture with a sheepish grin.
I turned my attention to the work of literature in my lap. Five minutes later I saw her climbing onto her berth. Fortunately she placed her head away from the aisle so I could finally concentrate. Another five minutes later I felt someone tap my shoulder. It was her. Another question was fired at me, “Did you use the pillow?” “I do not remember”, were the words that escaped my mouth. She stared into my eyes again, searching for an answer. Being a non smoker, I was not used to a lot of smoke around; I could not think. It was like my thinking faculties had taken sleeping pills and quit. Finally I gathered all my remaining strength and announced, “What should we do? Choose any one.”, I said handing her my pillow. She looked at both of them. The ball was in her court (no pun intended). Finally she took one ( I believed randomly) and left with a curt, “Carry on.” I had no words.
I read till late and slept. I woke up at about eight and went to the basin to brush my teeth and wash my face. When I was back, she was in my berth again, doing her prayers. Her friends were sitting on the TTE's seat and they smiled at me. How the frog was I supposed to react? I chose to smile and sat on the lower in the front. One of them said, “ We've put you to a lot of trouble” and smiled again. I had to say, “Yes I am aware of that. I am paying the price of trying to act like a gentleman”, I smiled back. The other one added, “so you're only acting like a gentleman? You're pretending?” I said, “I'll let you be a judge of that.” They started giggling. Even the religious lady on the side upper started chuckling. “So you too are pretending to pray?”, I blurted. This made them laugh even harder and one of them nearly choked. Meanwhile the TTE emerged and he joined me on the opposite side lower. He asked me, “Do you have any exam? You were reading.” I said, “Not really uncle, but my fellow travelers are examining my character, so I suppose...” He didn't seem to understand but those who were supposed to did. That brought forth another roll of laughter. Soon the other people in that compartment had risen so naturally there was a scarcity of space. It is a simple law of physics, the combined size of the contents of a container is to be no more than the size of the container itself. I chose to move to the next compartment and capture my perpetrator's berth.
Fortunately the people in that compartment had also risen and we removed the middle berth on which she had slept. I didn't notice that her “chunni / dupatta” was still on her berth. So when we removed the berth it came to rest on the lower berth and unluckily and inadvertently I sat on it. Sometime later I felt a shiver down my rear. I stood up with a start. She was pulling her “dupatta” from underneath me. I was embarrassed and avoided any eye contact. They did not disturb me thereafter. I had the option of returning to my seat but somehow I could not muster the courage to face them after the latest encounter. From my position, I could not hear much of what they were talking about but certainly I heard “where's that guy” and “you'll find a few of such guys everywhere” and this further motivated me to stick to a place where I did not need to interact with them. Soon the journey ended and I had gained nothing but lesser free space on my brain's hard disk.
I was traveling from Delhi to Allahabad in the winter of 2006. The train I was on traveling on -Prayagraj Express- was and is still the best train that ever marched that route. I was alone and I had a lower berth reserved against my name. That most of the women from Delhi are firebrands is not a big secret. And I was an informed youth. So I was (I’ve always been) mentally prepared to let any lady have her way and leave me unscathed. So when the woman with her young sister in law asked me to move to berth number eight (an uncomfortable side upper) I flinched immediately and displaying an unwavering determination towards service to females I complied, but only after both of them agreed to keep an eye each on my attaché that I had already chained under one of the lower berths in that compartment.
Well, berth number 8 has a special place in a train’s A/C coach. It is the berth directly above the one allotted to the TTE (traveling ticket examiner). And Indian TTEs are pretty decent when it comes to handing over their seats to members of the opposite sex. Evidently our TTE- a grey haired, obese, jolly faced guy in his fifties- was no exception to the rule for I saw three members of the afore mentioned community adorning seat number seven. It was not even ten in the night and I was reading some work of Mario Puzo, so sleep wasn’t exactly the first thing on my mind. Some other day I would have shared the lower seat with its occupant to sit for some time and let my ears get used to the rattle-rumble of the moving wagon before diving into the book, but that day was different. Seat number seven would have proved an electric chair for a young man like me and I didn’t want to perish. So I was determined to reach for my berth and resume the book reading exercise. However it was not meant to be so. As I was climbing up the bunk bed ladder I felt someone tap my shoulder. I turned and found a pair of eyes staring into mine. The eyes belonged to one of the occupants of the side lower.
“Do you mind exchanging berths with me?” these words flew off the oral cavity that was a couple of inches below the eyes. I took a deep breath and examined the object under consideration from top to bottom. The next moment I was embarrassed to find out that the object’s companions had noticed me doing the scrutiny and I came to senses instantly. “..Only for an hour. I have to read my Namaz. It is the month of Eid you see”, she continued. Damn she was fuming! What was I to do? It was another form of nature’s call, for attending to the call was indispensable in this case as well. How could a guy with a heart ever turn down such a request? I remembered the words of Don Vito Corleone, “I’ll give him an offer he cannot resist” and noted the apparent similarity. You must understand that questions such as the one she had asked have only a rhetorical value, for the answer is implied from the context. I knew I had to go, so why not make some small talk out of the transaction. I said, “Well FYI I have already been traveling to and from different berths like a common man in a government office. As fed up of this business as I am, I would’ve refused to someone else; nevertheless I will make an exception for you. I will move if you promise to keep your word and let me have my berth as soon as you’re done.” She replied with “Thanks. I really appreciate your cooperation.” Playing hard to get, I made no further attempt to carry further the conversation (I had to appear like some sober guy who minded his own business) and asked, “So where do I go?” “Seat number ten, right there” she pointed and her white fingers with decorated finger nails caught my attention. I turned again to make eye contact with her friends and they nodded gently to assure me that they were not regular interlopers and that my seat would definitely be restored. I gave them a business-like smile and jumped up seat no. ten- a middle berth in the adjacent array of berths.
Unfortunately the people who were destined to be my neighbors in my newest acquired berth were all trying to sleep and had shut off the lights. So involuntarily I had to lie on the bunk and face the aisle, to catch as much light from the aisle as possible to read. From my position I could keep an eye on my seat and the one beneath it and they could see me. The girl who occupied my berth was kneeling and praying. That was quite a sight. I’ve always believed that beauty is meant to be admired and sometimes I get so engrossed in the activity that I lose track of my coordinates. It was one of those times and I let the book escape my grasp and following the laws of gravity in a moving frame, it struck the floor. It broke my sleep and I heard her companions giggling. Apparently they had become aware of my state of mind. If they thought they could embarrass me, I was past that stage already. One of them reached down to pick the volume and momentarily my heart skipped another beat. She picked it up and turned it around to read the gist. I waited patiently, and wondered if I were to produce some password to reclaim my ownership. She looked into my eyes and commented -most probably on the contents of the novel- “Interesting”. Sometimes it is hard to decipher what girls mean when they use four-syllable words in place of sentences. And I bet it was one of those times. I knew for sure that the two of them did not have confirmed tickets -that was why they were on seat number seven in the first place. And I also knew that they knew that I had a berth against my name; add to this my knowledge of Delhi gals being firebrands and put yourself in my shoes (though you would’ve loved to be in my berth right then). I started to doubt her intentions but as careless as I was, I was always good at following algorithms and one algorithm that my mom taught me for traveling safe was to beware of strangers and strange women. I did not want to lose my berth, for I had seen men lose their homes due to similar causes. I responded with a curt, “Can I have it back.” (Today I totally regret that line. It could just have been a casual session of harmless flirting.)
I buried my nose into the book again and waited for the time. In the meanwhile the TTE came and allotted the two gals on his seat a berth. He asked them to share it for no more travelers were absent. Their seat was nine berths away from my current position, and this ruled out the possibility of further small talk. I silently observed their transition. Sometime later, the pious soul completed her prayers and descended from my berth. I saw her walking towards the toilet. Open doors tempt a saint (don’t get any ideas. Read on). With the first opportunity I jumped from my temporary position to my semi-temporary position, i.e. back to seat number eight. I engaged myself in endeavoring to stop all thoughts.
She came back in a jiffy. She was surprised and probably pissed off at my nonchalance in regaining my position without formally notifying her. I wasn't a state attorney after all, I had no knowledge of laws of transfer of property and stuff. She looked at me with the eyes of a wounded tigress. I avoided eye contact. She suddenly realized her companions were not where she had last seen them. She looked here and there but they were not anywhere in sight. So from her stack of questions, she popped one: “Where are my friends?” I had expected this. With a devilish smile I popped mine, “Are you sure I'm supposed to know?” She was caught off-guard and struck speechless. She kept staring at me; her eyes no longer had the fire of a tigress' but the timidity of a pet cat's. My heart melted and I surrendered the national secret without the least hesitation, “berth number nineteen.” She smiled and I reciprocated the gesture with a sheepish grin.
I turned my attention to the work of literature in my lap. Five minutes later I saw her climbing onto her berth. Fortunately she placed her head away from the aisle so I could finally concentrate. Another five minutes later I felt someone tap my shoulder. It was her. Another question was fired at me, “Did you use the pillow?” “I do not remember”, were the words that escaped my mouth. She stared into my eyes again, searching for an answer. Being a non smoker, I was not used to a lot of smoke around; I could not think. It was like my thinking faculties had taken sleeping pills and quit. Finally I gathered all my remaining strength and announced, “What should we do? Choose any one.”, I said handing her my pillow. She looked at both of them. The ball was in her court (no pun intended). Finally she took one ( I believed randomly) and left with a curt, “Carry on.” I had no words.
I read till late and slept. I woke up at about eight and went to the basin to brush my teeth and wash my face. When I was back, she was in my berth again, doing her prayers. Her friends were sitting on the TTE's seat and they smiled at me. How the frog was I supposed to react? I chose to smile and sat on the lower in the front. One of them said, “ We've put you to a lot of trouble” and smiled again. I had to say, “Yes I am aware of that. I am paying the price of trying to act like a gentleman”, I smiled back. The other one added, “so you're only acting like a gentleman? You're pretending?” I said, “I'll let you be a judge of that.” They started giggling. Even the religious lady on the side upper started chuckling. “So you too are pretending to pray?”, I blurted. This made them laugh even harder and one of them nearly choked. Meanwhile the TTE emerged and he joined me on the opposite side lower. He asked me, “Do you have any exam? You were reading.” I said, “Not really uncle, but my fellow travelers are examining my character, so I suppose...” He didn't seem to understand but those who were supposed to did. That brought forth another roll of laughter. Soon the other people in that compartment had risen so naturally there was a scarcity of space. It is a simple law of physics, the combined size of the contents of a container is to be no more than the size of the container itself. I chose to move to the next compartment and capture my perpetrator's berth.
Fortunately the people in that compartment had also risen and we removed the middle berth on which she had slept. I didn't notice that her “chunni / dupatta” was still on her berth. So when we removed the berth it came to rest on the lower berth and unluckily and inadvertently I sat on it. Sometime later I felt a shiver down my rear. I stood up with a start. She was pulling her “dupatta” from underneath me. I was embarrassed and avoided any eye contact. They did not disturb me thereafter. I had the option of returning to my seat but somehow I could not muster the courage to face them after the latest encounter. From my position, I could not hear much of what they were talking about but certainly I heard “where's that guy” and “you'll find a few of such guys everywhere” and this further motivated me to stick to a place where I did not need to interact with them. Soon the journey ended and I had gained nothing but lesser free space on my brain's hard disk.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
On Humans and Humanity
It was a Saturday, another Saturday. I wonder why people chose to have only seven days in the week- not that it’d be any fun to have a different number of days but it sure is a wonder how everyone agreed with the number seven with no one complaining. Humans were never so concordant. Anyways, putting aside the wondering and the speculation, I’ll stick to my story.
So, Saturday it was. It was another day in the alleged paradise we populate. I had not had a sound sleep for quite a few days- owing to the psychological pressures that come with the Indian System of Education and the perturbation arising out of the other problems that had been gnawing at me. After a few hours of the rudimentary sleep, I could no longer pretend to be engaged in the coveted activity; I rose from my bed and looked at my watch- it was 0430 hours. Picking up my towel from its usual throne- the backrest of my chair- I slung the door open and walked towards the washroom. Once facing the mirror, I looked into my eyes (might sound strange but the human exploitation of optics has made it a possibility). They were still red and burning with the desire to rest. I splashed water into them and instantly discovered a method of decreasing the pH of hydrogen-hydroxide. After the heat in my eyes had lessened, I wiped my face. In doing so I realized that my facial hair had exceeded its usual length, but realizing that it was not something I cared, I let the thought drift out of my mind. I walked towards my room and placed the towel in its habitat. The time was still 0440 and the mess would not serve breakfast before 0730, so there was time to be digested. Following an impulse, I decided to take a walk. I pulled on my walking shoes and let my feet embark on a journey to the unknown. Once at the gate, it took me seventy seconds to persuade the guard to let me out.
Once outside the gate, I started walking towards the Hyderabad Central University. The HCU campus is about two miles from our campus and once upon a time the IIITH campus was part of HCU as well. I was perhaps thinking of this and consequently I didn’t notice the rays of the sun breaking through the darkness. It was only after sometime that I realized things around me were visible. This was one of the times when I was fully aware of my surroundings; I had nothing specific to engage my mind, so I was as free as a bird. To surrender all the thought provocation and look around, only to be surprised by Nature, helps at times. And that was what I was precisely trying to do, until I set my eyes upon the scene ahead.
Through the infant rays of dawn, I saw a pup sitting near the remains of its mother. The mother had apparently been run over by some heavy vehicle and was reduced to a stationary mass of dog-flesh and dog-bones, and perhaps dog-food. I am not a dog person. However the sight was pathetic and no human could’ve resisted turbulence in the pool of emotions. The pup’s serene muteness seemed to radiate an overwhelming sensation of mourning. Its fixed black eyes seemed frozen in their cavities and its tears had dried out, only to be represented as dark lines on his face. The pup appeared human. It had feelings and it knew of a way of expressing its feelings. That nobody cared how it felt is another issue.
Dogs are a species as old as the humans. Even if they’re not, it does not matter. What matters is that they are flesh and bone-like us. Dogs do not have organizations like humans, they cannot construct buildings and they do not drive cars on the roads they built. They have no jobs and they certainly do not read books. But like us, they like other dogs and dislike other dogs. But there’s a bottleneck in their hatred of other dogs. They can kill only one dog at a time, unlike us humans. We might resemble dogs in some of these days but we’re superior to the dogs in a lot of ways. We should be called super-dogs, because we are dogs who can burn a hole into the ozone layer, control weather and cause catastrophic changes to the climate around the world. Only if we were half as loyal as - they say - dogs are. Someone once said, “You take a starving dog, give it food to eat and let it free. It will never bite you. This is the fundamental difference between a dog and a man.” I don’t know how much of truth is in what he said but man’s history has shown us that the statement is not false altogether.
I walked a little further and then my feet found themselves glued to the ground. I could not walk any further. The pup was a few feet away from me. It had lost its only kin. It was alone. It had no place to go to, no one to turn to. If it had harbored any dreams - if dogs could dream - they were shattered. It suddenly became aware of my presence and it looked in my eyes. It was sad. I was sad. The whole situation was an irony. Humans have the ability to feel, to sympathize and to understand pain - be it their own or somebody else’s - for pain is universal. Nevertheless humans have the social forces that prevent them from relieving themselves of the agony they find themselves in when they see others in pain. Simple acts of kindness fail to manifest themselves when they confront the ways of the world. I was a human. I wanted to embrace it but the sole fact that I was a human and it was a pup and having seen people frown at dead dogs on roads and dismiss them as rubbish and label their children as ‘litter’ all came to me and left me in a dilemma. I was wordless and the pup couldn’t speak our language either. I could not decide on how to react, so, I wished the pup were strong enough to survive on its own and prayed to God (the force we turn to when we face tough times) to take care of it. And like a useless mass of flesh and bone I turned back and started walking towards College.
I wish the pup had found company.
So, Saturday it was. It was another day in the alleged paradise we populate. I had not had a sound sleep for quite a few days- owing to the psychological pressures that come with the Indian System of Education and the perturbation arising out of the other problems that had been gnawing at me. After a few hours of the rudimentary sleep, I could no longer pretend to be engaged in the coveted activity; I rose from my bed and looked at my watch- it was 0430 hours. Picking up my towel from its usual throne- the backrest of my chair- I slung the door open and walked towards the washroom. Once facing the mirror, I looked into my eyes (might sound strange but the human exploitation of optics has made it a possibility). They were still red and burning with the desire to rest. I splashed water into them and instantly discovered a method of decreasing the pH of hydrogen-hydroxide. After the heat in my eyes had lessened, I wiped my face. In doing so I realized that my facial hair had exceeded its usual length, but realizing that it was not something I cared, I let the thought drift out of my mind. I walked towards my room and placed the towel in its habitat. The time was still 0440 and the mess would not serve breakfast before 0730, so there was time to be digested. Following an impulse, I decided to take a walk. I pulled on my walking shoes and let my feet embark on a journey to the unknown. Once at the gate, it took me seventy seconds to persuade the guard to let me out.
Once outside the gate, I started walking towards the Hyderabad Central University. The HCU campus is about two miles from our campus and once upon a time the IIITH campus was part of HCU as well. I was perhaps thinking of this and consequently I didn’t notice the rays of the sun breaking through the darkness. It was only after sometime that I realized things around me were visible. This was one of the times when I was fully aware of my surroundings; I had nothing specific to engage my mind, so I was as free as a bird. To surrender all the thought provocation and look around, only to be surprised by Nature, helps at times. And that was what I was precisely trying to do, until I set my eyes upon the scene ahead.
Through the infant rays of dawn, I saw a pup sitting near the remains of its mother. The mother had apparently been run over by some heavy vehicle and was reduced to a stationary mass of dog-flesh and dog-bones, and perhaps dog-food. I am not a dog person. However the sight was pathetic and no human could’ve resisted turbulence in the pool of emotions. The pup’s serene muteness seemed to radiate an overwhelming sensation of mourning. Its fixed black eyes seemed frozen in their cavities and its tears had dried out, only to be represented as dark lines on his face. The pup appeared human. It had feelings and it knew of a way of expressing its feelings. That nobody cared how it felt is another issue.
Dogs are a species as old as the humans. Even if they’re not, it does not matter. What matters is that they are flesh and bone-like us. Dogs do not have organizations like humans, they cannot construct buildings and they do not drive cars on the roads they built. They have no jobs and they certainly do not read books. But like us, they like other dogs and dislike other dogs. But there’s a bottleneck in their hatred of other dogs. They can kill only one dog at a time, unlike us humans. We might resemble dogs in some of these days but we’re superior to the dogs in a lot of ways. We should be called super-dogs, because we are dogs who can burn a hole into the ozone layer, control weather and cause catastrophic changes to the climate around the world. Only if we were half as loyal as - they say - dogs are. Someone once said, “You take a starving dog, give it food to eat and let it free. It will never bite you. This is the fundamental difference between a dog and a man.” I don’t know how much of truth is in what he said but man’s history has shown us that the statement is not false altogether.
I walked a little further and then my feet found themselves glued to the ground. I could not walk any further. The pup was a few feet away from me. It had lost its only kin. It was alone. It had no place to go to, no one to turn to. If it had harbored any dreams - if dogs could dream - they were shattered. It suddenly became aware of my presence and it looked in my eyes. It was sad. I was sad. The whole situation was an irony. Humans have the ability to feel, to sympathize and to understand pain - be it their own or somebody else’s - for pain is universal. Nevertheless humans have the social forces that prevent them from relieving themselves of the agony they find themselves in when they see others in pain. Simple acts of kindness fail to manifest themselves when they confront the ways of the world. I was a human. I wanted to embrace it but the sole fact that I was a human and it was a pup and having seen people frown at dead dogs on roads and dismiss them as rubbish and label their children as ‘litter’ all came to me and left me in a dilemma. I was wordless and the pup couldn’t speak our language either. I could not decide on how to react, so, I wished the pup were strong enough to survive on its own and prayed to God (the force we turn to when we face tough times) to take care of it. And like a useless mass of flesh and bone I turned back and started walking towards College.
I wish the pup had found company.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
[ Tag ] Top Playlist
Until very recently I was not aware of what the concept of informal tagging of bloggers by other bloggers is all about. Thanks to Karan Sir for tagging me and thanks to Aniket Sir who told me what it meant and how I was supposed to react to seeing my name (or a reference to it) in print in Karan Sir’s post. Thanks also to my buddy Mayank Juneja who brought this fact - that i had been tagged - to my notice. I’m not sure - still - of what is to be done, for Aniket Sir enlightened me by saying that the person tagged has to write a post with the same title as the post in which he/she was tagged and I firmly believe that different forms of literature : stories or essays or whatever can share titles. I wanted to write a story with the title ‘Top Playlist’ but after finding ample support here and here, I said to myself “What the Affective Stylistics? Let’s stick to the common practice.”
Consequently, to stay on the safer side and to retain (or this is what I thought) the unblemished image of staunch non-goofism (a term I use to describe the ability to goof up) I was led against my own will to change my decision and list some of the songs I’ve been hearing lately instead.
I’ll cause one final interruption before I itemize the songs: since I’m an explorer of different forms of music, you might find the songs unrelated in taste but believe me: a masterpiece of a diet is one which is composed of delicacies which are all tasty and which are all unique in their tastes and no two of the delicacies can be compared on the basis of their flavours for even though they are on the same table, they stand apart from the everything else and each other still. However for the listing to be more medium relevant I’ve classified the songs into the languages their lyrics are in. The songs are in no particular order though.
English:
1. Rise Against - Swing Life Away
2. Scars of Life - Bullet in Your Name
3. Stevie Nicks - Edge of Seventeen
4. No Vacancy - Fight
5. Mother Jane - Chasing the Sun
6. Savage Garden - To the Moon and Back
7. Megadeth - A Tout Le Monde
8. Fort Minor - Where’d You Go
9. Breaking Benjamin - Diary of Jane
10. Kenny Loggins - Dangerzone
11. Cardigans - Bluest Eyes in Texas
12. James Blunt - I really want you
13. INXS - Afterglow
14. Counting Crows -Big Yellow Taxi
15. Vanessa Carlton - 1000 miles
Hindi:
1. Call - Jilawatan
2. Fuzon - Ankhon Ke Sagar
3. Jal - Sajni
4. Noori - Ooncha
5. Roxen - Mujhko Satao
6. Strings - Keh Diya
7. Akash - Hum Azad Hain
8. Khawar Jawad and Faiza Mujahid - Bandeya
9. Josh - Kabhi
10. Delhi 6 - Rehna Tu
11. Rock On - Zehreelay
12. Roza - Yeh Haseen Wadiyan
13. Abhijit Pohankar - Piya Bawri
14. Mohd. and Ahmed Hussain - Nazar Mujhse Milati Ho
15. Jagjit Singh - Ahista
Consequently, to stay on the safer side and to retain (or this is what I thought) the unblemished image of staunch non-goofism (a term I use to describe the ability to goof up) I was led against my own will to change my decision and list some of the songs I’ve been hearing lately instead.
I’ll cause one final interruption before I itemize the songs: since I’m an explorer of different forms of music, you might find the songs unrelated in taste but believe me: a masterpiece of a diet is one which is composed of delicacies which are all tasty and which are all unique in their tastes and no two of the delicacies can be compared on the basis of their flavours for even though they are on the same table, they stand apart from the everything else and each other still. However for the listing to be more medium relevant I’ve classified the songs into the languages their lyrics are in. The songs are in no particular order though.
English:
1. Rise Against - Swing Life Away
2. Scars of Life - Bullet in Your Name
3. Stevie Nicks - Edge of Seventeen
4. No Vacancy - Fight
5. Mother Jane - Chasing the Sun
6. Savage Garden - To the Moon and Back
7. Megadeth - A Tout Le Monde
8. Fort Minor - Where’d You Go
9. Breaking Benjamin - Diary of Jane
10. Kenny Loggins - Dangerzone
11. Cardigans - Bluest Eyes in Texas
12. James Blunt - I really want you
13. INXS - Afterglow
14. Counting Crows -Big Yellow Taxi
15. Vanessa Carlton - 1000 miles
Hindi:
1. Call - Jilawatan
2. Fuzon - Ankhon Ke Sagar
3. Jal - Sajni
4. Noori - Ooncha
5. Roxen - Mujhko Satao
6. Strings - Keh Diya
7. Akash - Hum Azad Hain
8. Khawar Jawad and Faiza Mujahid - Bandeya
9. Josh - Kabhi
10. Delhi 6 - Rehna Tu
11. Rock On - Zehreelay
12. Roza - Yeh Haseen Wadiyan
13. Abhijit Pohankar - Piya Bawri
14. Mohd. and Ahmed Hussain - Nazar Mujhse Milati Ho
15. Jagjit Singh - Ahista
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Canonical Anatomy of Robin Stevens
It was still dark outside. The wind had a chill to it. The sun had not yet fully intruded on the privacy of the darkness of the night. It was one of those days you wished to wake up late, relishing all the coziness of your warm bed, as if it were your last day of peace.
But things are not always what you want them to be, and for a person with a strange job and strange habits like me, the deviation between the desired and the available is even more. So there I was, walking alone on the desolate street in the early morning duskiness, an exercise I had become used to liking, for it kind of reflected what I was inside- cool, intriguing and unexplored.
I stopped at the bend on the way to the subway station and picked a copy of the Times, from the newspaper boy who had little reason to expect anyone else at this hour. Today he didn’t give me his usual shy smile as I shoved the customary 1o buck bill into his coat pocket. As usual I had no time to handle the change but he exhibited the lack of his usual practice of having all the time to notice me. I wondered if he was fed up of his job as well. But a job is a job and not matter how demanding it becomes, you have to have a job, not because you cannot survive without it but because the social circus would not let you survive without it- honor is certainly important to some people and I used the particular quantifier on purpose.
I didn’t want to rush into the sheets in my hand, which you would’ve noticed if you had witnessed me, I hadn’t rolled down like most people do: because I consider that gross; like my father, I like to keep all paper in two dimensions. His words “Son, even flattened cellulose pulp demands respect and you owe it to it” rang in my mind and I continued on the usual path.
I didn’t want to rush into the paper, for I recently had developed a strict policy of not rushing into things, after the divorce with my ex-wife Tatyana a week ago: she had turned out to be a Russian spy.
I still had a plethora of unresolved issues but my life had to wait till operation PINFRE could be formally deployed. (PINFRE is an acronym for the Prevention of Infiltration of the North Frontiers through Reverse Engineering, and that is all what I can reveal right now for it is still a long shot and also Confidential Information). I wondered how long the software ELF 1.0 I had been working on for six months would take to be completed- I’d love to see the look on the General’s face when he gets a taste of his own medicine.
I realized I had reached the subway station and swiping the pass against the magnetic pad, I rushed down the stairs to find my local all set to leave. Its doors were moving towards each other, and I managed to get in there just in time to prevent the amputation of my left lower limb. I smiled at the young lady in the overcoat who I had held out my hand to pull me up but who hadn’t responded. She didn’t utter a word even when I said “Hello”. She looked indifferent, as if she were oblivious of my presence. That was something I had not experienced in years, since passing out of junior college. Now I held an important office, people around me had gotten used to noticing me.
I had always preached about minding one’s own business and it was my time to practice the same, so I sat on a seat conveniently close to the door, next to the old man with the long beard. Minutes later the sleepy-eyed old buddy fell asleep and his specs fell off. Like a responsible fellow traveler, I picked them up and placed them in his palm. He woke up with a start, looked around, noticed the glasses in his hand, put them back on and dozed off again. He didn’t even look at me, let alone thanking me. I was kind of getting freaked out.
Still minding my own business, I set my eyes on the Times and what I saw sent a shiver down my spine. Right on the first page, in bold letters were the lines,
AN ASSET TO THE NATION IS LOST FOREVER- ROBIN STEVENS, THE MASTERMIND BEHIND ELF 1.0 FOUND SHOT DEAD IN HIS APARTMENT. FOREIGN HAND SUSPECTED.
I had ceased to exist.
But things are not always what you want them to be, and for a person with a strange job and strange habits like me, the deviation between the desired and the available is even more. So there I was, walking alone on the desolate street in the early morning duskiness, an exercise I had become used to liking, for it kind of reflected what I was inside- cool, intriguing and unexplored.
I stopped at the bend on the way to the subway station and picked a copy of the Times, from the newspaper boy who had little reason to expect anyone else at this hour. Today he didn’t give me his usual shy smile as I shoved the customary 1o buck bill into his coat pocket. As usual I had no time to handle the change but he exhibited the lack of his usual practice of having all the time to notice me. I wondered if he was fed up of his job as well. But a job is a job and not matter how demanding it becomes, you have to have a job, not because you cannot survive without it but because the social circus would not let you survive without it- honor is certainly important to some people and I used the particular quantifier on purpose.
I didn’t want to rush into the sheets in my hand, which you would’ve noticed if you had witnessed me, I hadn’t rolled down like most people do: because I consider that gross; like my father, I like to keep all paper in two dimensions. His words “Son, even flattened cellulose pulp demands respect and you owe it to it” rang in my mind and I continued on the usual path.
I didn’t want to rush into the paper, for I recently had developed a strict policy of not rushing into things, after the divorce with my ex-wife Tatyana a week ago: she had turned out to be a Russian spy.
I still had a plethora of unresolved issues but my life had to wait till operation PINFRE could be formally deployed. (PINFRE is an acronym for the Prevention of Infiltration of the North Frontiers through Reverse Engineering, and that is all what I can reveal right now for it is still a long shot and also Confidential Information). I wondered how long the software ELF 1.0 I had been working on for six months would take to be completed- I’d love to see the look on the General’s face when he gets a taste of his own medicine.
I realized I had reached the subway station and swiping the pass against the magnetic pad, I rushed down the stairs to find my local all set to leave. Its doors were moving towards each other, and I managed to get in there just in time to prevent the amputation of my left lower limb. I smiled at the young lady in the overcoat who I had held out my hand to pull me up but who hadn’t responded. She didn’t utter a word even when I said “Hello”. She looked indifferent, as if she were oblivious of my presence. That was something I had not experienced in years, since passing out of junior college. Now I held an important office, people around me had gotten used to noticing me.
I had always preached about minding one’s own business and it was my time to practice the same, so I sat on a seat conveniently close to the door, next to the old man with the long beard. Minutes later the sleepy-eyed old buddy fell asleep and his specs fell off. Like a responsible fellow traveler, I picked them up and placed them in his palm. He woke up with a start, looked around, noticed the glasses in his hand, put them back on and dozed off again. He didn’t even look at me, let alone thanking me. I was kind of getting freaked out.
Still minding my own business, I set my eyes on the Times and what I saw sent a shiver down my spine. Right on the first page, in bold letters were the lines,
AN ASSET TO THE NATION IS LOST FOREVER- ROBIN STEVENS, THE MASTERMIND BEHIND ELF 1.0 FOUND SHOT DEAD IN HIS APARTMENT. FOREIGN HAND SUSPECTED.
I had ceased to exist.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Paradox
I am sitting by the rails.
I aim to destroy myself.
As I look back through the years,
Through all the pain and agnoy,
I am glad it all will soon end.
I'll soon leave this mortal shell
And move to some place more peaceful
Where my faults won't be pointed out.
And no blames against my name,
And no blames against my name.
I am not what I wanted to be.
I am but another slave of the latent force.
What happens is what he makes happen.
And he doesn't care what we want.
I am a damn necessitarian I know.
And If I leave the world he rules,
I will be a free soul Or will I ?
Is there life after death I know not
And will never know till I get there.
It scares me to wonder if things'll get worse.
If at all I'll be aware of myself,
Once I reach my end.
What form will the continuance of my being take?
Will it be better or worse?
We are all enclosed in Paradox.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Insane
The Sky has lost its red
The wind is playing a game
The someones around are commonplace
And we no ones are insane
The road is a boozy one
It unwinds like a snake
We don't care where it takes us
The vision, if its real or fake
All we have is our own
The music and the rhyme
Their harrowing tunes once disturbed us
But now we don't have the time
Cause now we've set for the tunnel
That'll take us to the Destination
We pursue our unfulfilled dreams
Some say its redemption, some perdition
The bland world is phoney
But we are what we are
We have walked out on them
But we still have to walk too far
We'll leave our foot marks in the sand
And they'll look for our track
But we're determined to go on
Now there's no turning back
Calling a truce'll be a crime
Against our life of perpetual pain
But we love the excrutiation
For we no ones are insane
The wind is playing a game
The someones around are commonplace
And we no ones are insane
The road is a boozy one
It unwinds like a snake
We don't care where it takes us
The vision, if its real or fake
All we have is our own
The music and the rhyme
Their harrowing tunes once disturbed us
But now we don't have the time
Cause now we've set for the tunnel
That'll take us to the Destination
We pursue our unfulfilled dreams
Some say its redemption, some perdition
The bland world is phoney
But we are what we are
We have walked out on them
But we still have to walk too far
We'll leave our foot marks in the sand
And they'll look for our track
But we're determined to go on
Now there's no turning back
Calling a truce'll be a crime
Against our life of perpetual pain
But we love the excrutiation
For we no ones are insane
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Walk Away
Its no long obscure
things are not working between us.
There's but one cure:
One of us walks out on the other.
The tears shed in helplessness,
The sleep lost in restlessness,
The sacrifices made in selflessness,
And the ever evasive happiness;
All these haunt me night and day.
And I'd be better off
Were we never in a position to
have this conversation today.
I wish I could turn back time
And restrain myself from falling.
But you got to fall when you got to fall
It's ice beneath your feet.
You say I have the flaws
That I am a plain girl.
I guess I always were
A substitute for someone else.
But now I will not stand
This degradation and humiliation.
My self respect demands
My naivety is shed.
I don't have the time to say all I want
So I walk out on you
Before you find someone else
And walk away from me.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Closer to Nowhere
Do you know who you are?
Do you ever think about it?
If you were told it’s a place
Would you drive until you found it?
Or would you turn down a street
That you know would lead to where you were before?
You call it home, but are you really sure
That’s your home?
-Jen Foster
We are born to this world like everyone else. We are made to believe that we’re special. Everyone is special in a way- everyone is special for himself. In all these years I have not come across one person who’s an exception to the rule. I believe that is what humanness is all about. Of course different people would say different things - disagree with me or agree and yet say that my analysis is incomplete. But I’m not claiming that I’ve said everything that needs to be said, or that what I’m saying is conclusive. I’m just putting my thoughts to paper and I choose to do so- at times to amuse myself, at times to kill time and at other times to swallow the venom that is offered to me and employ my disturbed mind in an activity that doesn’t require interaction with the outer world .
When a person comes to this paradise called the world, he’s instantly associated with other mortals- his family. Even if he doesn’t find a family, he gets one, for a family is indispensable at that stage, it is a much needed life sustaining survival kit. We are animals, not plants and we need to be fed and tended. From what I hear, life is a gift and we must go to great extents to preserve it. This is perhaps one of the very first instructions that we’re fed, as part of the human doctrine. And we follow this religiously. We fall in love with our lives and take away others’ for we’re not geniuses at understanding principles. Some of us do, but that hardly matters as long as the others exist. It is only a quantitative issue.
As we continue to live, we learn things. We are made to learn things. Since we lack experience, someone else has to show the way and we take the path shown to us and walk on it for the rest of our lives. Some of us do not, but that hardly matters, as long as the others exist. It is merely a quantitative issue these days. So we do what we are expected to and do however much is expected from us and we fail- we’re ordinary mortals and we’re bound to fail. Some do not fail, but that hardly matters as long as the others exist. It is just a quantitative issue. So we fall and we rise and rise to win the race. But some of us do not rise and win the race, and I wish it did not matter, but it does, for it is a quantitative issue.
I knew a certain character in this whole play - directed by the latent forces that created us - who realized that the paths were misleading; in fact they never took you some place nice. You kept on driving in circles and you saw the milestones from far away and felt you were advancing but you never really bothered to read the stones and all of them had the same figure on them: You were in this state called stagnancy in motion, where you were moving but not getting anywhere. Of course his was a different path and not all of us are on that one, but that hardly matters as long as that path exists. It is only a quantitative issue. And one day, he stopped driving- he parked and sat on the grass, silently observing the others racing past each other on the road that led to the hypothetical place called nowhere. And they stared at him, frowned upon him, ridiculed him and called him names, and he smelled the lavender that grew beside the grass. He had no companion but the wind that blew past him and the dew that made his bed in the grass each night and greeted him good morning, when he woke up each day. He died this morning, and the leaves from the nearby maple tree made his shroud, his burial garment. No one came to his funeral but the wind that caressed his hair and the dew that kissed him goodbye.
We go on, race on and keep on rocking in the free world, oblivious of others like him, for the fact that there are people like him hardly matters. It is only a quantitative issue.
Do you ever think about it?
If you were told it’s a place
Would you drive until you found it?
Or would you turn down a street
That you know would lead to where you were before?
You call it home, but are you really sure
That’s your home?
-Jen Foster
We are born to this world like everyone else. We are made to believe that we’re special. Everyone is special in a way- everyone is special for himself. In all these years I have not come across one person who’s an exception to the rule. I believe that is what humanness is all about. Of course different people would say different things - disagree with me or agree and yet say that my analysis is incomplete. But I’m not claiming that I’ve said everything that needs to be said, or that what I’m saying is conclusive. I’m just putting my thoughts to paper and I choose to do so- at times to amuse myself, at times to kill time and at other times to swallow the venom that is offered to me and employ my disturbed mind in an activity that doesn’t require interaction with the outer world .
When a person comes to this paradise called the world, he’s instantly associated with other mortals- his family. Even if he doesn’t find a family, he gets one, for a family is indispensable at that stage, it is a much needed life sustaining survival kit. We are animals, not plants and we need to be fed and tended. From what I hear, life is a gift and we must go to great extents to preserve it. This is perhaps one of the very first instructions that we’re fed, as part of the human doctrine. And we follow this religiously. We fall in love with our lives and take away others’ for we’re not geniuses at understanding principles. Some of us do, but that hardly matters as long as the others exist. It is only a quantitative issue.
As we continue to live, we learn things. We are made to learn things. Since we lack experience, someone else has to show the way and we take the path shown to us and walk on it for the rest of our lives. Some of us do not, but that hardly matters, as long as the others exist. It is merely a quantitative issue these days. So we do what we are expected to and do however much is expected from us and we fail- we’re ordinary mortals and we’re bound to fail. Some do not fail, but that hardly matters as long as the others exist. It is just a quantitative issue. So we fall and we rise and rise to win the race. But some of us do not rise and win the race, and I wish it did not matter, but it does, for it is a quantitative issue.
I knew a certain character in this whole play - directed by the latent forces that created us - who realized that the paths were misleading; in fact they never took you some place nice. You kept on driving in circles and you saw the milestones from far away and felt you were advancing but you never really bothered to read the stones and all of them had the same figure on them: You were in this state called stagnancy in motion, where you were moving but not getting anywhere. Of course his was a different path and not all of us are on that one, but that hardly matters as long as that path exists. It is only a quantitative issue. And one day, he stopped driving- he parked and sat on the grass, silently observing the others racing past each other on the road that led to the hypothetical place called nowhere. And they stared at him, frowned upon him, ridiculed him and called him names, and he smelled the lavender that grew beside the grass. He had no companion but the wind that blew past him and the dew that made his bed in the grass each night and greeted him good morning, when he woke up each day. He died this morning, and the leaves from the nearby maple tree made his shroud, his burial garment. No one came to his funeral but the wind that caressed his hair and the dew that kissed him goodbye.
We go on, race on and keep on rocking in the free world, oblivious of others like him, for the fact that there are people like him hardly matters. It is only a quantitative issue.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Pink is not for Boys
I was at this mall the other day with one of my companions, looking for a birthday present for my dad. She was supposed to do the extraction but some people simply can’t resist the temptation offered by open doors, so there I was – stuck in the midst of an annoying exercise wherein people in an attempt to pursue the means forget that there is something at all called the end. After arguing with the betrayer of my intentions umpteen times that L’Oreal was the same brand as Garnier, and never managing to bring her round to my side, I threw up my hands and started looking for something that might interest me, in the hope that sooner or later she’d realise our sole purpose of being in the blasted mall. Suddenly, from behind the elevator area I saw a young mother coming towards us, dribbling with a pram in one hand and a cell phone in the other. Believe me, the little one in the pram was one terrified babe. Its eyes fidgeted in all possible directions, wondering what the trouble with the lady was. And the lady in a quick movement of agitation let go of the pram and it came to rest against my abdomen. What a painful relief from boredom! I cursed the lady telepathically and the child seemed to nod approvingly. Its mother still failed to realise that she had lost the baby and continued to subdue the father on the phone (I guessed from her tone.) I caressed the child’s forehead and suddenly it burst into a wail. Damn! People around me stared at me as if I had committed a crime. I managed, “I thought we were friends” when actually I had meant “I thought we had a common enemy”. This woke up my company from her obnoxious state and she held the child in her arms, staring into my sheepish eyes with the ruthless eyes of a tigress. Thankfully the child stopped howling and its mother came to fetch the pram. I exhaled a sigh of relief as the feeling of silent vindication crept in. “The child was cute”, she said. “I wonder if it was a boy or a girl”, I blurted out. “Duh, It was a girl”, was her reply. “HOW?”, I asked. It’s tough getting used to the supernatural powers girls exhibit sometimes when guys fail to be observant enough. Besides, my words betray my thoughts when I am perplexed, so I said, “You’ve got x-ray vision and you never told me? And I thought we knew each other.” Not appreciating the humour (girls seldom do It. It requires a non negative IQ. Kidding.), she burst out, “Are you insane? You actually believe that crap you just said? Didn’t you see the baby’s blanket was pink?” “Whoa, Whoa, Whoa”, I repeated, “I’m not sure, No and Yes I saw the pink blanket. But what has it got to do with whether the baby was a he or a she?”
…
…
You must’ve grasped the essence of what transpired later. I asked her questions to unearth the mystery but she was not a genius after all (Kidding). So I had to seek the answers myself, and I found that surely there exists such a belief- more among women than in men- though none of the people I asked could convince me by their powers of eloquence or clarity of thought.
So the colour pink is not for boys after all. I sought some historical evidence and I’ll tell you what I found:
Once upon a time, the colour for boys was pink. Some argued that pink was a close relative of red, which was seen as a fiery, manly colour. Others traced the association of blue with girls to the frequent depiction of the Virgin Mary in blue. Pink being a more decided and stronger colour was more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, was prettier for the girl. Now during World War II, the Nazis made the homosexuals in their prison camps wear pink triangular badges as means of identifying them. Why they chose to profane (I chose this word specifically) the pink colour is something no one knows, but this is how pink came to mean a mark of the feminine. What the heck?
So, assigning colour to gender is a 20th century trait. On my part I don’t see any reason why guys shouldn’t sport pink- though I’d prefer darker shades myself. I'm no human rights activist but only an observer. And I ask, why associate colour with gender at all? I can understand girls vouching for this myth- they get to wear pink and this is one field guys can’t compete with them in. To even things out, maybe girls shouldn’t wear blue (which is another absurd remark but let’s just say it for the sake of argument) but it doesn’t happen that way. I’ve seen dozens of instances of girls mentioning on the internet that they get turned off by men in pink (you don’t have to believe me- just browse through the profiles of girls on Orkut). Well I’ve seen guys in pink – in fact one of my batch mates who’s got quite an impressive built goes to gym each evening in the same pink t-shirt – and I don’t find them feminine or homosexual. If the thing is just that guys don’t look good in pink, then I’d better not comment on the girls who wear shiny black jackets made of raxine along with a grey pair of jeans. Anyways I’m not someone who should comment on who looks good in what, but seriously people, we should not let such baseless assumptions hinder us from doing what we like doing. Pink is the colour!!
…
…
You must’ve grasped the essence of what transpired later. I asked her questions to unearth the mystery but she was not a genius after all (Kidding). So I had to seek the answers myself, and I found that surely there exists such a belief- more among women than in men- though none of the people I asked could convince me by their powers of eloquence or clarity of thought.
So the colour pink is not for boys after all. I sought some historical evidence and I’ll tell you what I found:
Once upon a time, the colour for boys was pink. Some argued that pink was a close relative of red, which was seen as a fiery, manly colour. Others traced the association of blue with girls to the frequent depiction of the Virgin Mary in blue. Pink being a more decided and stronger colour was more suitable for the boy, while blue, which is more delicate and dainty, was prettier for the girl. Now during World War II, the Nazis made the homosexuals in their prison camps wear pink triangular badges as means of identifying them. Why they chose to profane (I chose this word specifically) the pink colour is something no one knows, but this is how pink came to mean a mark of the feminine. What the heck?
So, assigning colour to gender is a 20th century trait. On my part I don’t see any reason why guys shouldn’t sport pink- though I’d prefer darker shades myself. I'm no human rights activist but only an observer. And I ask, why associate colour with gender at all? I can understand girls vouching for this myth- they get to wear pink and this is one field guys can’t compete with them in. To even things out, maybe girls shouldn’t wear blue (which is another absurd remark but let’s just say it for the sake of argument) but it doesn’t happen that way. I’ve seen dozens of instances of girls mentioning on the internet that they get turned off by men in pink (you don’t have to believe me- just browse through the profiles of girls on Orkut). Well I’ve seen guys in pink – in fact one of my batch mates who’s got quite an impressive built goes to gym each evening in the same pink t-shirt – and I don’t find them feminine or homosexual. If the thing is just that guys don’t look good in pink, then I’d better not comment on the girls who wear shiny black jackets made of raxine along with a grey pair of jeans. Anyways I’m not someone who should comment on who looks good in what, but seriously people, we should not let such baseless assumptions hinder us from doing what we like doing. Pink is the colour!!
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Aim for the moon; even if you miss you'll land among the stars
The title is a well known quote which I’m almost sure most of us would have heard. The message is clear: shoot for your goal, and if you miss you will still have achieved something. Positive thought, isn’t it? My critics often say that I’ve an aura of negativity around me (which they say is evident from what I write). I’m not sure I have it for I haven’t noticed any of it. It is just that I have a different perspective. In fact, I try to place myself at a vantage point from where I can see the things differently, but definitely more clearly than those in the views offered by the other similar positions. Or I might be incompetent to see things that others see. Negative or not, I have a protocol of understanding things: first I question them, then I analyse them and then I decide whether or not I believe in them, and while doing so I totally disregard the reputation of the proposer.
Once again I have decided to analyse. This time the subject under study is a quote- the title of this piece – enunciated by W. Clement Stone. Since intellect lies in the ability to read between the lines, and the meaning between the lines is already clear, I’ll take on the more interesting task of reading the lines instead. The author was certainly imagining some game in his mind when he said the words, “Aim for the moon.” A sane guess would be archery or shooting. And then he adds, “even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” Well, there’s some fundamental flaw in the conclusion, for it contradicts the science we know. This guy lived a hundred years from 1902 to 2002 and this piece of information might come handy to convince ourselves that certainly there’s something wrong with the saying. I intend no disrespect to Stone or his sense of sapience but the chap must’ve struggled with his Geography or his maths, if at all he was a student. The moon is about 40.4 x 10^-9 light-years away from the earth. On the other hand, the nearest known star (other than the Sun), Proxima Centauri, is about 4.22 light-years away. Now you do the math. The stats reveal that the nearest star is too far away than the moon is from us and we simply can’t reach the stars if we are aiming for the moon. Nevertheless crap is crap and you can’t get rid of it for it is a gift from nature and you can’t say no to nature. So there we go, aiming for the moon and convincing ourselves that something good will come out of the exercise for we’ll land among the stars even if we miss.
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