Of Pee and other things

So there I was, chopping up a goat named !..chix^ (because chopping up goats IS a healthy pastime that usually culminates in an appetizing bowl of mutton rogan josh) when I suddenly got an impulse to pee into the dustbin situated right next to a certain somebody's room. Now I recognize that something doesntr smell quite right in my pee, but still, it's MY pee eh? I am gifting my pee to somebody, and i will be sans my pee for like he next two hours. Why, I'd say its a grand gesture. Now you'll say it's a nice gift, but a tad messy. But then what isnt. I give somebody a watch, they suddenly know what time it is. All the fucking time. Do you know what thats like? Like, its 8:15 and you have a class at 8. And you are awake. Now just because I presented you a watch, you have to feel like crap for another 40 minutes, and crappier for the rest of the day. Or i could gift you a hen. Man. Thats one hell of a messy thing. Imagine finding egg shaped eggs inside you favourite underwear. Thatd be a nighmare. Andif you grew tired of the hen and tried to chop it up, why tatd be messy. Chicken blood is sticky and gooey. Not at all like goats. Goat blood is the most divine drink found on planet earth, but thats for some other time.

So my undying love for this certain someone gave me this sudden urge right. so I go to this fellow's room. I proceed to sit in front of his comp and start playing his guitar. This fellow, with all possible modes of entertainment sealed off, gets bored and drifts off into a slumber. I sense that now is the time, and proceed to pee in his dustbin, because any good gift should come as a surprise right.

What i had forgotten is that this fellow routinely pours beer into his dustbin and drinks it. He says drinking from the bottle stirs up his arachno(?)phobia and claustrophobia. I understand the claustrophobia part, but i never quite figured out the arachnophobia. I mean, are beer bottles made from molten spider? I have to check that out from wikipedia. anyway. This guy wakes up, and gets extremely pleased at finding a pungent fluid in his dustbin. Now this guy thanks me right? and i am like very happy that he likes my gift. I DO NOT at this point know that he thinks its beer. So I have this smug look on my face, andthen suddenly , this guy lifts the dustbin and drinks its contents. I am like stunned you know. before I can react hes finished it. Whats more, he LIKES it. He asks me what brand it is, before clutching his stomach and collapsing in an ungainly heap.

I am writing this from the hospital ward.

moral: Pee makes for a great gift, except when the intended recipient loves beer. Pee may be a great gift, but it's not a very healthy thing to ingest. In case your frind loves beer and you still want to gift your Pee to him, make sure you DO NOT pee in his preferred beer container

A lament

In another arduous episode of self analysis, I will attempt to analyse why I havent felt so bloggy over the last year or so. These rather sado-masochistic blogging habits being the chronologically prime reason, even if it is probably not the most immediately contributing reason, as it led to a severe fall in the readership of my blog, which in turn took away the compulsion factor, ( to be read as unwarranted policing at 2 AM by an equally insomniac member of your gtalk chat list as to why you havent written a blog post since your last one 3 days, 22 hours and 16 minutes ago), and lazy that I am, It probably effected the quantity and quality of my output adversely, and also should indicate to the (non?) existant reader that this sentence is still on, baby. Ok, now its over, so fucking what?

Oh yeah. Why I havent bloggy over the last one year. I suppose it has to be attributed to a combination of factors really, apping (yuck) being a big one, and I suppose the absence of marquez and cortez and joyce from my literary existence for a very long time would count as well, departure from "artist->album" mode towards "listen to 5 vids on youtube over and over and over again till you could draw the notes that both guitars are playing ambidextrously if only you knew how to draw the notes" mode would also contribute.

I s'pose getting old would count. The wide eyed days of yore are long gone where you still believed that the world was nice and fine and artist recommendations at 2AM would culminate in an 8 hour marathon till 10 that would see you getting well acquainted with 4 albums when you'd suddenly remember something and rush off without shitting to optics lab and sing Child in time at the top of your admittedly shrill voice, when in a suddern downflux of noxious post digestive fumes, you'd come to regret both the aforementioned: your singing and your NOt shitting, when a summary kick to your rear end would serve to blind the perprator in a further onrush of said fumes, and make you grateful for the sorts of defences nature has deviced for you to utilize against beasts who'd tear your creamy flesh into violated shreds :O

That was when I was bloggy. Life was so fresh and surprising. Life was full of discioveries, Life was exciting. That, and when I studied in class 9C . that was magical too. But i wasnt bloggy then, though my 24 page essays would indicate that the only thing that kept me from being bloggy was the fact that I had no fucking idea what blogging was. were. was.shit.

Damn man, I love magic. My life is so unmagical, because I have painstakingly endeavoured to opress my wild side, and I have endeavoured to govern my life by cold hard rationality, but being the medieval romantic i hve always been, have hopelessly but gallantly failed in said endeavour, and as a result find meself turned into this grotesque shadow of my former self. Bloated, literally, egoistically and emotionally, I face my doom, dark, final, inevitable.

So inspite of the deceptively frivolous tone, this blog post is a lament. Not only for my unblogginess, but also for those glorious days in my youth when the world, pale and shrivelled, lay listless at my feet, and I , its master, poked it with my glittering boot, sure that it would never eat me up, that I would never feel fallible, vulnerable, Sure that the day wouldnt arrive when i'd wonder what the fuck I am doing here, and boldly sit my arse down on this plastic chair, old and cracked now but brand new and a treat to said arse back then, and dazzle the (blogo)sphere with my amazingly,intricately and ultimately delightfully nonsensical blog posts.

The death of Isaac Vivian

Gleaming beads of perspiration glided elegantly down his forehead like errant pearls out on a mission to obscure his vision. Vision. He thought. A matter of utmost importance. Vision is always of utmost importance, but especially so when an Ogre twice your height and thrice your weight is doing his utmost to smash your skull to smithereens with a red ball with 160 grams packed into a diameter of a little more than seven centimeters. Small, Heavy, and in this case, Fast enough to tear a hole straight through the middle of a man's heart. What hope had a man, He thought, had he not his vision. The lord be praised.

But his vision was being obscured. It was like being inside a Sauna in his grilled Helmet. A steady stream of putrid smelling sweat slowly glided down his eyelids, making tiny beads on his eyelashes. He batted his eyelashes painfully, a vague thought now entering his mind : He had to raise his helmet and reach inside to wipe the sweat off his eyes with his Red hankerchief after each of the last four balls he had faced in his innings that was now five balls old. And as if that wasnt enough, he always had a deep distaste for helmets , specially for the grilled variety that was doing rounds at the moment.

The bowler, if that creature running up to bowl can be called that, being an occupation that can be occupied by solely human beings, and Our protagonist had serious doubts about that, his mullet angrily bouncing behind his bulbous head, while his face , dominated by a moustache so ample that it would have left WG Grace licking his lips in envy, was presently contorted into a fierce grimace as he steamed in from nearly a mile away to hurl the cherry down at what our Hero felt must be pretty close to Two Hundred Miles per hour.

Suddenly, overcome by a sudden instinct, our Hero held up a hand. The raging bull of a bowler, having been interrupted near the climax of his charge, scowled and threw an awful tantrum. Promises of heavenly deliverance were promptly uttered to our Hero, who in turn , unstrapped his Helmet, quite oblivious to what was happenning around him, and hurled it to the ground in disgust. Never would he allow, ever, ever again, his vision to be obscured by inessential human contraptions again. He had to test if he was worth the name he was given at birth. He would know today if he was worthy to have as his idol The unquestioned reigning god of the race of batsmen.

The bowler, oblivious of his opponent's grand designs, reared like a bull in heat. He ran in faster than Michael Johnson, leaping elegantly like a gazelle (for truely, his leap was the only part of his action that was truely elegant), and proceeded to hurl a yorker at six hundred miles an hour. So naturally, when it soared high over Mid on and landed 40 rows back into the stands, all he could do was to blink idiotically. Of all possible outcomes, this was least expected. And turning back, he found that he had been injured before being insulted as he stared at the right hand of the umpire, which was presently outstretched horizontal to the ground, as if signalling something deeper about the bowler than the fact that he had just bowled a no ball.

Yes, thought our Hero. He was worthy of his name. He hadnt been christened Isaac Vivian for nothing. He was one with his idol. He had the swagger, and now he played without a Helmet AND disdainfully flicked hard working fast bowlers over mid on for furious sixes. What joy. He was free.

The dear old bowler, this sudden turn of fate making him look now more like a grumpy old father of three, trudged back to the top of his runup. His runup, now looking ragged, bore him to the part where he Leapt, which, now, with his aura of invincibility lifted, looked like a pig on a trampoline. The ball he proceeded to bowl was in itself very ordinary to say the very least. Our Hero, now endowed with SuperVision, free from all human contraptions and sweat and all other things that had distracted, knew the moment the ball had been delivered what to do with it. But keen not to overdo it, he punched it off his backfoot to point.

Alas. for he had punched it straight to the greatest fielder on earth. He thought he had hit it to the left of point, not noticing amidst all the excitement that he had moved a tad after the last ball. He swooped on the ball like an eagle and threw it towards the non strikers end. he wasnt going to make it.His only hope was to dive in so that he could take the throw ( which was quite low) on his body. that is the only option he has. Yes, he must put in a dive. The thought filled his brain so fast that there was little to distinguish it from an innate instinct, aimed at the overriding need to protect ones wicket. the thought made him fly from midpitch towards the non strikers end. Onlookers later recalled in awe that he never dived, he flew. But where was the ball? The stumps are intact.

He is saved. saved. the thought fills his head like the black plague. Slwoly, inexorably, before it all turns black.

Isaac Vivian lay past the stumps, his face bearing a serene smile. He had saved his wicket .The ball had hit his head. Blood streamed down his face, taking nearly the same trajectory that the sweat had taken a while back. The church bell struck three, its sonorous sound ringing through the stadium, shocked into silence, but father time stood still. Isaac Vivian was dead.

Uniqueness theorem

In this day and age where mediocrity is cherished, paradoxically, we are supposed to rejoice that we are unique. Notice, we are not supposed to rejoice IF we are unique, rather, THAT we are unique. Fags, Child Molesters, Tree huggers, anti war campaigners, global warming activists, people who participate in walks for a cause, all worthlessly mediocre individuals on face of this earth find something unique in themselves. But leave that. That is a complaint that might well hold solely in my frame of reference. Now by hypothesis, I am assuming that "uniqueness" is good. And then , again, by hypothesis , we have seen that it can more or less be assumed that everyone can be "unique". And the fact that man screams his lungs out proclaiming his virtues SOLELY to gain acceptance of his fellow man is almost axiomatic. So pray tell me, if everybody were to participate in aforementioned screaming out of lungs over his/her supposedly "unique" virtues, they are still all alike by axiom. Ha. Proved by contradiction that all people who claim they are unique are members of one large set of people who deserve to be disembowelled and thrown into a sarlacc pit. :O

In other noos, I seem to listened to bullet with butterfly wings 100 times without listening to any other song. And I sincerely hope India loses by an innings and 109 runs. I might finally be losing "it". Note: By "it" I mean the unique set of characteristics I possess that I should have screamed my lungs out about while I had the chance. Yay

February 12, 2009 2:57PM

His life was rotting in the supposed rut he was stuck in. Only that he knew that the magnitude of whatever he was stuck in hardly made it justifiable to refer to it as a rut. It wasnt a rut, it was total decadence, stemming from years of stasis, years of almost religious adherence to the cult of self destruction. Of course, he had been wronged. It would be unfair to say that he wasnt. He was indeed sinned against. And he was bitter. But as he also realized that day, being wronged and being in the wrong are not mutually exclusive states. This realization had brought over him a sense of calm. A sense of calm coated with a veneer of bitterness. The greeks were wrong in believing that distress stems from discomfort, physical, or mental. No. Distress stems from a sense of helplesness, which in turn arises from a profound ignorance of why what is happening is happening. So certainly, this realization cooled his heart

Which, if you really thought hard about it, is extremely bizarre. Here he was, the bitter metallic taste of failure rankling and festering in his mouth. And yet, he (with his poker face) was not indulging in hurling obsceneties at who he knew fate had favoured this time, but rather contemplating. Its funny to imagine that if we all followed a forced contemplation program, that is, if we force ourselves to look inwards everytime we feel we are about to explode in the flames of fury that seems ours by right, the world would be a simpler place. I wouldnt say the cliched "happier" place, but certainly simpler. He of course, in this moment of self evaluation, was completely aware of this. He knew that by not giving in to the boiling froth of rage building up inside him, he was breaking down things for himself, making his options simpler. He also knew that a simpler world is not necessarily a happier world, and had he never experienced mirthlessness, he would never appreciate joy.

So he was, as we would colloquially say, sad, but okay. Sorrow is not one of the seven deadly sins, unlike anger, because we cannot help feeling sorry for ourselves some of the times. He had this theory about the seven deadly sins, that all seven were things that one had to "give in to". So was rage. Often criminals convicted and proven guilty of crimes provoked by anger would say something along the lines of "But your honour, I couldnt help it". That in my humble opinion is a load of horse faeces. One can always help it. As, we must mention, our hero was so admirably doing.

Which again, we must note, is quite remarkable given the fact that anger management wasnt one of his fortes. In fact, he had spent most of his life pandering to his vilest and basest of passions. Which is why, he understood, he found himself today in this predicament. And given this new found understanding, he wasnt about to start doing it again. He understood the topology of the problem. It was what topologists colloquially call a vicious circle. Staying on the colloquial, he also knew that it was commonly believed that there is no way out of a vicious circle. However a passing interest in the subject had led him to encounter as a fact that his situation wasnt inextricably bad. There was a way out, albeit excessively convoluted. But if he started now, maybe he still ccould fix it.

And so he proceeds to bed, knowing that if he were keen enough on it, the situation could indeed be fixed. There is a glimmer, but it is very faint, and a hint of smile on his lips, mirroring that glimmer. He knows he can get himself out of this dark grave he has dug himself.

Although, we must ask ourselves (for hope is in vogue nowadays, so much that the author doubts it has much substance in it), Can he? Only time will tell.

Application blues

Now, I am hardly the racist I am made out to be, Why, I am probably the only Indian who showed genuine skepticism about the hypothesis that Andrew Symonds is a monkey. His ancestors were, but that is an entirely different matter altogether. Now , assuming the fact that i am in fact not a racist, one has to take seriously my claim that a certain green skinned race of people, (to whose stronghold I surreptitiously plan to defect to sometime this year, owing to their established monetary pre-eminence) are very dumb.

Especially the people who deal with our petitions (The details of which i'd rather not divulge, but which roughly speaking outline the plight of our existence in a poor third world country (as seen on tv, and the dvd of that movie, बस्ती का कुत्ता करोड़पति) . I mean, I would say I am a very good speaker of the language they supposedly speak, but after a few conversations with their finest, I am left in serious doubt. They simply seem unable to process compound sentences with connectives. You say "See, my point is that you have not recieved my scores to this, but you have recieved my scores to that, which is quite absurd considering I ordered the two together". And then, after a brief awkward gap of about 10 seconds, when you almost give up any hope of conveying your problems, and in the bigger picture, of making the transition from being an alpha in a third world country to being a gamma in The promised land (of the green people) , a raspy Green female voice suddenly crackles through your headphone (if you use skype) "Yeah, yeah, yeah yeah, I got that, you were saying your point is , I am sorry, what?", then you proceed to remove all connectives from whatever you said, and proceed to say something that makes no sense to you whatsoever, and miraculously, they understand.!!!, Of course, even that joy is shortlived when you discover that they mistook whatever you said (sans the connectives ) to be a complement to their mothers, but anyway, at least they understood something.

These Green people are a people with an affirmative mindset, (again, as seen on tv broadcasts of a certain dark green skinned guy's speeches, where the positive mindset was only too evident by the hoardes screaming "Yes we can". Nobody yet knows what they can, but hey, who cares). Speaking of this dark green gent, it also is evident that for so rich and prosperous a nation, the Promised Land seems remarkably short of change, but that is for another day, though i 'd like to say that not having change is a precarious situation indeed, and it leads to you opening accounts with all varieties of fruit stalls, chaat wallahs, etc etc. But yeah, coming back to what i was saying, these people are extremely positive, often mindbogglingly so. For example, they start every sentence with at least 4 "yeah"'s. Now this, I have observed, often has a very uplifting effect. Although, I must also add that what follows is seldom uplifting, but a little positivity never hurt anyone, eh?

There was this one time, when I called up ETS (which is this agency incharge of importing the brawniest of the third world young and ambitious to allow them to be employed in the excellently morally emancipating fields of working in coal mines and cleaning the green people's latrines). The conversation went something like this
"I see sir, your scores were not sent because when you ordered them, they were not available"
Then I, flummoxed and awed by the sheer weight of intellect at the other end of the line, proceeded to say something like "But your website says that if I do that, you will wait till my scores ARE available", to which the answer was something like "I see sir, your scores were not sent because when you ordered them, they were not available". Now, underestimating third world people is a very common mistake, which I proved immediately by retorting, "Then how is it that you sent the scores to half the places I wanted you to send them to, and not to the other half", and the reply was again, believe it or not "I see sir, your scores were not sent because when you ordered them, they were not available". I was about to hang up, nearly in tears, and at the same time, marvelling at the sheer genius of placing an automatic answering machine with a pre-recorded message to deal with offensive calls. Wonderful, amazing, I want to be one of them. Maybe I'll get some brilliant ideas if that came to pass. I seriously would have died believing that had the headphone not suddenly crackled back into life and said "Sir, i think I know what the problem is ", and proceeded to recount to me how her mother dealt with a bout of acute acne by mixing toadstool with toad.

It was these isolated events, that, on a more sombre note, made me realize that maybe the reason for the green-ness (the type that comes from prosperity) of The Green People and the green-ness (the type that comes from envy) of others is the fact they are so lacking in something, which I cannot quite pinpoint, that they dont waste precious time writing a blog post full of witticisms, and utilize it instead in drinking and spawning, which, it must be realized, is the key to prosperity. of course, there is enough drinking and spawning in third world countries, but the catch is that its not co-ordinated optimally. Co-ordination of drinking and spawning is a science, which we do not understand, because we use too many logical connectives in our sentences.

The green people mastered it. That is why they have so many greenbacks.
sigh...

I have no fucking idea what this is :-o

Ok. First of all, I have no fucking idea what this is all about, but you probably already got that from the title of this post. To cut a long story short, I "set out" to blog, and after sitting around for about an hour (with the odd porn clip thrown in) I suddenly remembered (dramatically of course, with appropriate Hitchcock style music playin in the background) that I have many unfinished unpublished posts, which I could publish. This one seems to be from three years back (:-o), and after reading it, it doth seem that I was (very) gay about three years back. However, that is besides the point. I have no fucking idea how I conceived this story would unfold. In fact, had I suffered head trauma and had my memory of the last three years wiped out, I can state with some certainty that one of two things would happen.

a) I would blame it on one my my currently gay friends who still can wield the ugly blade of flowery prose
b) I would actually know what the fuck I was thinking when i was writing this story, and hence probably know how this story was supposed to have ended

Reader must note that I do not quite know if memory wipeout reverts me to the state I was in three years ago, or leaves my state invariant and just erases my memory. But anyway. Help would be appreciated..
So here goes :

" It was a cold , damp, and oppressively still night. The air was thick with the sweet smell of death, as if death herself had descended on this barren wasteland ", He began. He had planned this for days. He hadnt written a blog entry for over a month.He had planned that he would write one starting exactly this way for days, in fact a week to this day to be precise, or "utterly precise" as he liked to say.He was happy, not to mention. He was, as we decent folk would say, " a nice, dumb bloke" . He had an utterly maladroitly irritatingly unsettling habit of listening to the same song over and over and over again. He was, for instance playing "Zombies" for the fifth time today, and considering that the day was just two hours and sixteen minutes old, well, ladies and gentlemen, you have quite an achievement here. Anyway, back to his blog entry.
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"Nina glanced about herself furtively. She was a pale, a ghastly pale, and if she were to see herself in the state that she found herself , much to her own utter befuddlement , she would surely have a heartattack. It was beyond comprehension, at least beyond her comprehension. "
.
" She was normal, as normal and unremarkable as a mass produced Japanese car. Till this moment that is, when even she could discern that her life had suddenly taken a totally inexplicable, but all pervading change . She was never overtly intellegent, in fact it would be fair to say that she had never said an intellegent thing in her life , but then she had never said a dumb thing in her life either.But she was intellegent enough to know there was something the matter with her. She was a sweet little spoilt girl. She knew that her mother was obnoxiously rich , and that she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Her father of course, was a Son Of a Bitch (and she had a fair idea of that too, though she never bothered to ask him to establish the authenticity of the aforesaid assertion). She had a , shall we say, a "life" , as is the fad to have nowadays . Why, There she was, just four hours ago it seemed, indulging in lascivious talk over luscious food with men as stupid as she herself was, and maybe as rich. She had gone back home from the party, content with life and whatever else she could content with, and had gone to sleep, happy with life, with the smile that this guy had flashed her, with the way that guy had looked at her. In short, she was a dumb , sweet bitch whose sole aim in life was to get laid by a handsome guy who had enough brains to help her from losing all her money."
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"Anyway,she had come back home, and being utterly exhausted from doing nothing, had gone straight to sleep. And then the next thing she could remember was that she had woken up on the cold bench in that park by the pond that her mother had forbidden her to play in as a child, on the pretext that it was where poor children played. In truth, however, it was a sense of dread that the park evoked in her , a strange and inexplicably eerie sense of dread , that prevented her from letting her daughter venture into that park. She could not explain it, and being a superstitous woman, did not make any attempts to, and simply forbade her daughter to play there. So her daughter never did. "
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"Her first reaction was one of utter shock, as it should be when the subject is not clinically insane, which she definitely wasnt.She had sat there with her mouth hanging like those ridiculous cartoons, for a good fifteen minutes or so. In fact it would be fair to say that if IT had happened in those fifteen minutes, she would definitely have died of the shock.

Cheesy poofs

Adulthood sucks. I mean this whole concept of having to be up till 3 at night because you can, and if you dont you are "still in school" and all that crap sucks ass. Just think of it. This is specially true of people who try to be up till 3 by watching tv series with 20 minute epsiodes. watching amovie is a good way to stay up till 3, but then i dont know what happened to my movie habit. Movies just switched off once i started watching tv series. I think its the sheer repetetiveness ofthe whole damn process that gets to me. the only thing i seem to be doing all the time is selecting a new file to play, with 20 minutes of rest in between, as if selecting said file to play in unsaid avi player were analogous to wanking. everything else is analogous to what logically seems the most plausible candidate for it to be analogous to.

No. night time is to be meant fer sleep and nothing else. in fact, we should go to sleep as soon as it gets dark, which is around 6 PM these days, and wake up when its bright and sunny again, because, well, waking up before its bright and sunny during holidays sucks. and is reserved fer parents only. because they have to till the land fer me to have enough money to support my drug habit. And day time should be tastefully occupied by watching educational pornography, eating light dainty morsels pleasant on the tongue and to our respective humours, and in between, get some reading done while lazing around like a big anaconda in a bigger bathtub filled to the brim with lukewarm water.

Of course, i could envision grander ways to spend my waking hours, but come on. i am a pragmatist. I cant just dream about lazing around in a big soft bed filled with the fur from persian cats and the choicest handpicked cunts. It just aint possible. but ye, what i described in the last paragraph is. In fact, I just realized, this is what brainless american blonde daughters of millionaires (BaBeDOM) do. except the porn maybe. But then again, who knows? Maybe what they say about BaBeDOM is true.

true? time to bru some hot strong coffee, poppy. The reference to Cheesy Poofs was a red herring, indirectly advertising Cheesy Poofs based on the (assumed and obvious) premise that Cheesy poofs make you insane, and (assumed and obvious) premise that insanity is the beast thing. Topmost top thing. 10/10 makes a perfect ten.

Ooh, and I almost forgot amidst all the scatological literary equivalents. Happy Yulemas. Find a mistletoe, find a hot chick, and do the needful.
Merry Christmas

•Prostitute /ˈprɒstɪˌtut, -ˌtyut/ –verb : to put to any base or unworthy use : "to prostitute one's talents"

Every blogger needs material. He (pardon for gender bias from reader assumed) has to look around for things to blog about. Bloggers who religiously follow this golden law of blogging never run out of readers, all their blog posts have lots of comments, and lots of readers. Whereas bloggers who dont, who write convoluted shite like this very piece of shite you are wasting your time by reading, dont get readers. It is as simple as that. And since, inspite of all assertions to the contrary, Blogging is an activity that is analogous to baring your torso, this is sometimes a disquieting fact of life. Of course, as long as we are in this metaphorical (or, isn't it simile-cal?) realm, we might as well warn the reader of abstaining from any such blatant act of exhibistionism and, well, nakedness, if his fat intake is anything close to my fat intake. The ladies might not be so tolerant then.

But disquietude apart, I think I have unwittingly conditioned myself to the art for art's sake motto. Except when it is about Sourav Ganguly, who I consider an artist in his own right, and am instantly subjected to a million jokes and a billion sneers. But , thats another subject I wish not to dwell on in this post. A dear friend of mine has made a habit of writing about the hottest current topic, and right now, you can guess what it is. Now, I love and respect him deeply (in a purely platonic and heterosexual way, I should add), and this disclaimer has nothing to do with the fact that I am going to forcibly make him read this post in about half an hour, but I consider this some form of prostitution. I consider blogging a very high form of art, the boundless potential waiting at each moment at the footsteps of any blogger is immensely mindboggling. You can write whatever flows from your brain, flowing through your heart (a hypothesis that is widely disputed), and finally moving your fingers in a gentle dance across that discotheque called "The Keyboard". If there is any degree of truth in what I just said, I would think it follows naturally that you should not restrict the area of this metaphorical dance floor by placing at each moment political agendas on the floor.
Keep the dance floor free of garbage, and twirl your heart out.

Notwithstanding that rhetoric, I would still say that sometimes, as a blogger (albeit one who isn't particularly up to date in anything other than Cricket) , it is hard to resist to the temptation of taking the "hottest road" . After all, it is insane to write about blogging ideals at a time when Mumbai is burning, Live, 24 x 7 on NDTV. True that I didnt hear the bomb blasts, and the only hint of genuine, but repressed distress I sensed was in a friend from Mumbai who has spent the last three days watching CNN and BBC videos and laughing insanely and nervously while engaging in this activity, yet maintaining admirable calm in a situation in which I would have visibly panicked, still, as a blogger, maybe solely as a blogger, I have felt several times over the last three days that I ought to vicariously benefit from the plight of Mumbai as have so many Media people, and fellow bloggers from what, viewed dispassionately, is top quality blog fodder.

But till now, I have successfully resisted. Maybe I am old fashioned. But worry not, I am well on my way to modernity. By the time I am 80, I'll be as big a cunt as the rest of you.

Adieu Dada

I have always been a fierce fan of Dada. Fierce is indeed the word, for readers who might be smirking at my choice of the word. For ask anyone in class 12 B, batch of 04, Seth Anand Ram Jaipuria School, Kanpur, I once fought off an entire class of 50 in a heated debate over him on one of those not so infrequent occasions when our English teacher decided that English is better taught by letting people speak, rather than making them read. Over the years, the evolution of my own personality has mirrored that of Dada. That is probably why I am surprised that I actually feel this urge to write, on his last day in international cricket, to give an account of sorts, of what it meant to be his fan.

Being a fan of Sourav Chandidas Ganguly is at once the most gratifying and the most infuriating of experiences. People who were never would never understand what it is like. To really root for someone with your heart and soul, To be not just insanely happy when he scored a hundred or took a wicket or took a catch or even, ran a single (which, I must admit, he wasnt particularly good at), but to think what you'd give up, if it made any difference, to make him score another 50, hit another 6, caress another ball with silken grace past point. I still remember that when I was 14, before every match I used to imagine him scoring a hundred, I used to play out every ball in my mind. To his penultimate day in international cricket (and I am 22 now, and NOT a certifiable maniac), I never lost this habit. I used to conjure up from the depths of my brain fantastically grand images of brilliance, yes-he-can-ness, of sheer Dadagiri, and frankly, to me, it seems a lot more than 18000 runs and 38 centuries. For I have seen him score a hundred more, in my waking hours and in my dreams.

That is what being a Dada fan means. It was never part time, for me or the million others like me who rooted day in and day out for this man. It was an emotional bond, there was no room for the cleaner emotions if you were his fan. There was no dispassionate, unbiased, rational justification that made us such. He was never Sachin. He was never meant to be. You did not love him because he made so many runs that you'd hate yourself if you didnt. You just loved him, unconditionally. A slump longer than the Great Depression, statements that often were more indiscreet than Paris Hilton , controversies left and controversies right, it didnt matter. Once you were a fan, you just were a fan, and goddamn proud of him, no matter what he did. Such were the chords he touched in your heart.

Being a Dada fan was hard. For whenever he reached the brink of statistical greatness, he somehow contrived (or so we believed) to throw it all away in a maddenning flash of insanity. It meant that anytime you could teased by a whole bloodthirsty gang of classmates baying for his (and your) blood. But being a Dada fan was fun too. It was more fun than anything else. Because you got to see that incredulous, sheepish look on all those who doubted him, so many times. In hindsight, I think he rather enjoyed that. Adversity brought out true greatness in him, whereas calm collection of accolades never appealed to him. To him, it lacked that aroma of medieval adventure that his heart forever craved for.

In many ways, his life was a drama. Played out over a lifetime. There had to be a twist in the tail. and a twist in the tail of the twist. Ad infinitum. He enjoyed making people notice him. For you never could be unbiased about him. Sourav Chandidas Ganguly. You either loved him, or you hated him. You could not NOT care about him. A nation went silent when Sachin got out, but as far as Dada was concerned, the nation was never silent. You were always screaming. You'd either be heaping him with the most hyperbolic accolades and adjectives, or you'd be adorning him with the choicest obscenities. there was no middle ground.

That was what being a Dada fan really meant. For in some perverse way, even his bloodthirtiest detractors were his fans. He was like the Sith. For you could hate a Sith with all your passion and energy, and even that would turn you into a Sith. That was the power of Dada. The intensity of the passion he evoked in you. And that, I believe, is what you'll miss the next time you tune in to watch India play.

PNA-L N5230 A

I must admit in a somewhat sheepish (?) fashion that my catty (???) lifestyle affords me little time for lavish luscious activities (also describable with other adjectives starting with the letter L) like blaaging. But I have had 9 months unbroken of one post every month, and so I must do my utmost to keep up this Dog-gone dogmatic and otherworldily doggerelly tradition of using words that pay their homage to India's most common animals (ye , sheep too, their tribe has increased, thanks to abou ben adhem) in mindbogglingly shitty pieces of e-floating-junk

Anyway...last antaragni is ober....as various individuals have in varying degrees digressed to realize: the end is near....somebody tore my dear checked shirt in ze glyder concert...guess headbanging/gers shouldnt be checked/chequed/chequered..whatever... some fat fellow with long curly hair who , as our esteemed zunily put it, is from KQA but is a tam, arseducked us in the...lets see... yea..last 4 rounds of a 6 round MELA quiz....this Mela having nothing to do with the dusty places you and your sister accompanied your grandmother to to buy balloons and baboons and other boons and banes when you were two...

Enough Pooing around. I run the danger of being referred to as Dash the Pooh. or Poof. your choice. Any information about the individual/agilent network analyser bearing the birth mark mentioned in this post title would be most welcome, and would be rewarded with an MNS free trip to Bombay...

and presumably, you might want to settle there. Yeah. right

oo...and KKR's manager started off on aquestion about eratosthenes' sieve...and in 15 seconds, it became eroticawhatevershite's sleeve...now the funny thing is ...he got the erableh part right throughout...its just that sieve became sleeve became siege, when he was running thru the questions again...

primes are in PEEEEE... yipeeee yay yipeeee yay yipeeee yipeeee yay

The fall

A throbbing, a painless inanimate mechanical throbbing engulfs my entire being, threatening to erase the last links I retain with what I once was. I am a coin now,an old coin, worn down to a smooth polish with criss crossing lines across my face, with a silhouette that you will notice only if you peer hard enough. Maybe if you ran your forefinger on me, not too hard, but softly enough that you would feel something if there were something to be felt, maybe then, you'd sense an almost imperceptible undulation , as you would on a mound of earth flattened by a bulldozer.

I wont bore you with how I remember the time when I had a lot more than you see now, when I was a hearty lad with a cheery disposition. I do remember that time, or maybe I dont. It doesnt matter. It was a long time ago. Or at least seems that way. I am not sure any longer,not sure when it started. And in a sense, that seems just about right, this freedom from aspirations, this state of anonymity, where you'll hardly notice me unless you were to accidentally tread on me. I am aware that I still retain some worth to other individuals. I still have, as I understand, certain uses, though not for myself.

Sometimes I think that my situation is not beyond repair. Well, repair in a manner of speaking, as I dont really mind the way things are now. Age has gradually brought me the understanding that its all futile anyway. But sometimes I do catch myself thinking that maybe my reverting to who I was is not totally impossible. After all, I do sometimes make vague attempts to communicate, deep inside I do seem to be half aware that something is amiss, something is askew in the road I took. But then, I find myself gently melting away into a state of suspended animation, life coming to a crawling pace before halting, and I, laying there as if paralysed with mouth agape, stare lifelessly through glistening eyes, while image after image in an endless stream of images is branded,searing hot, into the back of my brain.

There will come a time when it can take no more. Then suddenly, the stream would have to turn back, as bullets turn back from the body of some cheap comic book caped hero. I am vaguely aware that I must prevent that from happening . The Doctor said so. Not that it matters, but this light really blinds me. I must close my eyes. Now. I must close my eyes now.

But I really dont know how.How?
I really dont know..

Alimentary, my dear Mace

In light of recent rather unmentionable events , I abandon whatever I might have said about any metaphysical shite. Henceforth, all such past happenstances (which babylon tells me means "chance occurence", though I am seriously in doubt about the chance aspect of the whole sordid affair) will be recalled or brought forth only by those who believe in Rebirth.

Right, having cleared that out of the way, what can take the place of Metaphysics as my Chief Useless Pursuit?Well, for one, we could try answering why anybody, even a Jedi Knight, would be named "Mace". I wonder what kind of a kid "Mace" would have been. I , for one, certainly wouldnt prefer having him in my class, and though George Lucas does his best to assure me "Mace" lived a long time ago, in a galaxy far away, I shall forever have the creeps. Why, I just checked the current Phd students of some 45 universities, and I was rather relieved to note that none of them had a Mace enrolled.Yet, that is.

I wonder if Mace can be used as a verb. Like "Club". Then maybe Lucas got his name wrong. Maybe he really was called Mace Window, a name that expresses a sentiment that I am all too familiar with,and yet I would not switch to Linux for my life. There is a certain perverted joy to be extracted from paying for things that can be replaced by better alternatives that are free of cost.

Imagine if english language spelt "elementary" as "alimentary", and "alimentary" as "alimentary" too. And then, Imagine a situation where Dr. Watson is replaced by Dr. Mace. I am very sure that the phrase "Alimentary, My dear Mace" repeated 125 times a day would go a long way in alleviating our deplorable state.

Talking of english language, I dont really know what ancient texts George Lucas delved into to give us this wonderful double trilogy, not to mention a whole "Star wars expanded universe", but its fascinating to note that English language has survived unchanged since that time , which as He makes a point of mentioning , was indeed a Long long Time ago, in a galaxy far far away. I wonder what happened to the curious language of wookies, which, though sounds like a donkey in agony, was undoubtedly one as rich in expressive power as Fortran. Lost in Translation I expect. Of course, Star wars loyalists should try to reconstruct the Wookie language from Han Solo's responses.

This is indeed a time consuming, and , might I add, ricly rewarding task, that might address the problem we first stated in Paragraph 2. I have already devoted my life to it, and have already started decoding the Wookie code. For example, "Grunk Grunk" means "Cant you come here to hold the welding arc while I try to locate the contact points?" , whereas "Anh Anhhunk" means "Luke will come to save us". But a lot of work needs to be done for us to truely understand the full range of emotions Wookies were capable of expressing. Who needs Metaphysics, eh?

low budget angst

I am fucking bored and it must be somebody's fault.i got like a million things to do and yet I wanna have notrhing to do with any of them. I must do stuff. I know that. I read cartoon strips and I suddenly wanna be witty when I have numbers in my brain..I am playing tennis whn this *&$%^$ reminds me of jake sledghammer and i want a new diversion so to speak when i am doing fine with one. i am online on gtalk the whole fucking day, and all i do is watch youtube videos . i even comment on those fucking videos m descendoing to thw depths of crackmonkey74 and bloodleechnoob456 . punctuations and correctness of form no longer appeal to me. I am fucking out of this. all this savagery and debauchery and whatever othger ery can cross ur mind has to be somebosy's fucking fault.i cant evem read THAt paper, and i have 2 more dys to read it. i ant read a fucking book, and i cant watch a ficking movie..all this is somebody's fault.it fucking has to be. in trhe morning class my mind gose sexsexsexsexsexsexJenna Jamesonsexsexsexsex... and when i am watching porn, i think shit, i never ealized that the boundary coondition is THAt important. Icant even watch porn. I have an attention span of a fucking 5 year old, and all this has to be somebiody's fault. and to top it all, anythink anybody says, my mind goes, "what a fucking privk, i understand his parent scouldnt afford a good education, but did they afford any"? all this must be somevbody's fault. go away
seriosuly
go away
i fucking hate all of you

The Essence of Celluloid

I am sick and tired of people who watch movies and then they'll say, "Ok, that guy jumped from a cliff, onto the ledge underneath, thats believable. He misses that ledge, thats believable too. But then he lands on a tree, and then it so happens that there is a cave opening in front of that tree. Now hows that possible?"

I am sick and tired of such people. Its not that I am saying "look dude, its a movie, just watch whatever they show, and if you cant keep shut, just take off and go and dig yourself a hole". Though let it not be mistaken, I would say that if I could.

But there's a deeper reason in my humble opinion than "its just a movie" If a person jumps from a cliff to escape whatever predicament he finds himself in, there are hundreds of possibilities of how the next few seconds will pass. At the point when he takes off, he can pass through any point on his way down, there is always a finite possibility. But if he went straight on, would you care to make a movie about that? Would you tell a story that goes like "He jumped from the cliff, and fell straight on down, and smashed to smithereens on the hard rocks below, and then slowly the vultures swooped down one by one, and the wolves started howling. Next morning, they found just the bones"

Poetic maybe,but not a story worth telling. No, Out of those hundreds of possibilities, the one that seems the most outlandish, is the one thats worth telling, Its outlandish , so its worth telling.
There is this new practice among film makers to make movies about "nothing"
no climax, no nothing, just plain life taking its least action path, no deviations, just plain , anticlimactic as life alone can be, no shocks, and then the titles come up, and people say " oh thats it? what a great art film"

Now with all due respect to these "filmmakers", they miss the whole point of telling stories, of making movies. A movie is a temporary suspension from reality. I dont need to watch a movie to know what'll happen 99 times out of hundred. I see it everyday. Artistic license is not a freedom, its a constraint that all artists have to obey in order to earn the right to be called artists. Otherwise there is no difference between art and pornography. If there were cameras 2000 years ago, then I am sure Jesus would be considerably less popular than hes now. People dont want reality. People want a representation of reality, reality seen through bottle, distorted pleasantly out of shape. That is the essence of a good story

So my advice to all cynics who manage to find something wrong with every movie, go out onto the streets, maybe you'll enjoy what you see out there

My Encounter with Shri x 24

Last week, I was pleasantly surprised when I boarded the train to find a man who had a striking resemblance to Param Poojya (Shri X 24) . Having regularly followed broadcasts of his lectures on how Potato sales have been affected positively since biologists have come up with new ways to produce smaller, starch free potatoes, and on how the left nostril is the one that should be used in inspiration when ingesting the aforementioned vegetable, I was positively thrilled at the distinct possibility of my companion actually turning out to be the Peerless Param Poojya (Shri X 24).

There was, however, one thing about this man in sitting in front of me. The Param Poojya (Shri x 24) who appears regularly on National Television is usually clad in a Saffron (every Indian's favourite colour, if you didnt know) tracksuit, and wears brown chappals. This person, however , was clad in a pair of blue jeans (torn around his shins ), a T Shirt bearing a slogan of some sorts ( I think it said "Georgio Armani"). , and Reebok sneakers. I was a bit taken aback, and if any of you had been in my position, you probably would have faced the same consternation that I was faced with at that precise moment.

For here I was, alive and warmed up to the possibilty of spending time with India's foremost icon, one so noble that he thought of naught save potatoes, but at the same time, I was also aware that if I were to accost this man thinking that he was the aforementioned icon, and he turned out to be someone else, well then I'd be in an embarassing soup.

I shuffled around uncomfortably for a long time, thinking about whether or not I should talk to this man. I was especially suspicious of the slogan. What if he turned out to be one of those dangerous miscreants that we've been reading about in the papers of late who have been planting tomatoes in potato farms? What if the slogan T-shirt on his really said "Down with Potatoes " or something henious and heartless of that sort. Then I suddenly remembered (Yes, I am sure you all figured that out a long time ago, its just that I was too panic stricken to think as fast as Potato Eaters should be able to, according to Param Poojya (Shri X 24) ) that the Reverend M.O.P. had recently been on an advisory tour to Bacteria, Where he also happened to calm down two warring Central Ropean Tribes who had in the heat of battle spilled over into Bacteria , and perchance, they happened to be warring about The Potato Rich Lands that lay on the border separating their territories (One can only shudder at the thought of what could have happened if Param Poojya(Shri x 24) hadnt been visiting Bacteria at that moment).

This revelation briefly emboldened me. So he must have got this T- Shirt in Bacteria. But then, my tiny mind began to bubble with a million questions, the satisfactory resolution of almost all of which required an entity far greater than me, and I knew that well. What Was this slogan then?
Was it potato related, or Was Param Poojya (Shri x 24 ) about to embark on another crusade to revolutionize the way we looked at yet another aspect of our society? If so , did the Slogan contain a clue as to what He (x24) would grace next?

So these questions kept bubbling and issuing forth , for about an hour, and I kept repeatedly turning my head 270 degrees to alleviate some of my curiosity, and also to prevent my arteries from bursting from the admiration coursing through them (For by now, I was positive, That the Occupant of the seat opposite to me was None but He (x24)).So again, I did something that I thought immdiately afterwards that I would have Plenty of occasion to regret, but in Hindsight, it was the best thing I ever did.

For I blurted out (genuflecting ere this Great Occupant) "O Master of Potatoes Param Poojya (Shri x 24) Ji, What does that slogan on your tee shirt say?"

And He said ,

"O Son, I have been dying for someone to ask Me That. Undoubtedly, you have learnt Well, and have become a True Potato Eater. The Slogan on my Tee Shirt says (in Bacterian) "Georgio Armani", which , in your tongue, means that the man who cares for Potatoes more than Foreign Exchange, shall eventually inherit the Earth , and all forms of denominations used to effect the exchanges between countries in Times Past. Remember my words well, son. "

Tears of joy in my eyes,My soul Burst forth into a thousand tiny joyous smithereens. His logic was crystal. Seamless, smooth , transparent, the highest embodiment of the rules that join truths to make truths.

And I,insignificant for so long, was the chosen, blessed One.

Chat log with "The" Chachi

Well, I figured, what the hell, This is crap enough to be on my blog. Ergo, here we are, a rare glimpse into the inner workings of the minds of two utterly jobless gentlemen, one of whom, we are told , burst a capillary in his thumb trying to play his guitar.Sticklers for correct orthography, be warned. You may suffer a cardiac arrest in what follows


me: open sourse is like communism
source
ssgosh: yeah
10:47 PM
me: since there is no mmonety involved, well, everybody is a propaganda device
:DF
ssgosh: communism should ideally rule the world hmm
me: you are a commie bitch? :-X
ssgosh: yeah why?
me: Oo I believe that there should be a high and alow
ssgosh: hmm
10:48 PM
me: and i believe there IS ahigh and a low
ssgosh: what high low?
me: in this universe we live, the anisotropies are as important as the large scale homogeneity
ssgosh: hmm
10:49 PM
me: so trying to smoothen out the landscape is based on a fallacious assumption, that we can do that which is not provided for by nature
ssgosh: i feel that in the modern world, i should not need to fend for food
me: and that, my fiend, is impossible
oops friend
ssgosh: hehe
me: :D
ssgosh: i should get whatever's needed for living, and then be allowed to do whatever i wish
10:50 PM
me: ok if you say so but that takes away the incentive to be extraordinary
ssgosh: so instead of curbing individualism, i am supporting it, if you can see that
no
me: or in john nash's words to matter
10:51 PM
ssgosh: that takes away the incentive to work to have food
if, let's say, machines grow all the food, and no human being needs to work to survive, then everyone would be able to whatever they really want
10:52 PM
me: ok so you aint a commie
ssgosh: fuck all night with whores, or study cosmology or whatever
me: you are a socialist
ssgosh: hmm i dunno what i am i have my own ideas :D
me: no
10:53 PM
ssgosh: I am Karl Marx !!
me: actually, you are an idealist
ssgosh: bwahahahaah
me: :D]
ssgosh: bow under my supremacy !!!
hmm
me: \O/
ssgosh: idealist meaning sahi, u bowed
10:54 PM
me: :D see this isnt being a commie
being a commie means its a sin to wearn more than your neighbour
ssgosh: ah
me: its a sin to achieve more than your neighbour
you do nothing
10:55 PM
your state does it
ssgosh: in my world, there is no achievement...
me: you are a lifeless feelingless cog
ssgosh: state gives you food, and you do whatever pleases you
there's no pressure...no responsibilities
10:56 PM
you are free
me: have you read 1984?
ssgosh: no
me: that is a commie world
yours is an idealist world
ssgosh: hmm
ah
me: yours is a utopia
communism very soon degrades into a dystopia
10:57 PM
ssgosh: it's a utopia until humans need to work
once there are machines to do everything, it's no longer a utopia
after that, human beings would be able to concentrate on the important stuff
10:58 PM
me: why is it a utopia till humans have to work
ssgosh: everyone would have time to think, what is my value in this universe
me: you mean its NOT a utopia till humans work right?
10:59 PM
ssgosh: no...i meant that until humans need to work, my state isnt achievable, because again there would be pressure and responsibilities..
me: ok
ssgosh: some people would need to work to grow food
11:00 PM
whatever..
i mean
me: yeah gottit
ssgosh: for a majority of people, there should be options..
to do whatever they want to in the world
right now that's possible only for a few people who are rich
me: no
11:01 PM
a utopia is not a state of bliss for the majority
its a state of bliss for ALL
our world will eventually tend to that blemished version of a utopia
ssgosh: i am talking about an achievable state..
yeah
11:02 PM
me: but the pure, pristine utopia, boy, that is nigh impossible
ssgosh: a few peopl would still need to work, they'd be groomed, like, say, bees
me: yeah :D
ssgosh: i dont care about that, if most people get it, it's fine if some don't, tough luck :P
me: yeah
11:03 PM
so in todays world 90% are the have nots
not too bad eh?
ssgosh: hehe
me: but if someday, 1% are in a position o be opressed by 99% of the population
that'd be a sad day indeed
ssgosh: actually no, cuz there are emotions too...neccessity is not the only thing binding you...society is there too
me: the equlibrium exists because 10% oppresses 90%
11:04 PM
its like a mosquito sucking your blod
ssgosh: hmm
me: when it getas too annoying, you swat it
but if you were to suck the mosquito's blood
ssgosh: hehhe
me: why, there is nothing that the poor thing can do about it
ssgosh: heehe'
11:05 PM
he can fly away
me: the only way out of this is to have only suckers, but no suckees
in other words, nobody in a position to be oppressed
ssgosh: hmm
me: if that is impossible, then its much better to let things be the way they are
11:06 PM
ssgosh: dunno..that's none of my business anyway
me: ie, suckee is much larger than the sucker
ssgosh: as long as i get free pussies and good food and stuff to think about, i'm okay
me: I am putting this chat on my blog if you aint
ssgosh: hehe
me: :D
ssgosh: put that pussy stuff at the top :P
11:07 PM
me: :D hahahaha
11:08 PM
ssgosh: i mean, what more does one want for life, your basic needs and a goal
me: A glass of wine, a puff of weed
A comely lass, is all I need :D
ssgosh: hehe

The Master Whiner

Whining is an art. I can attest for that, for I am a master at it.I am the master of whiners. All these years, I have been good at lots of things , but what I have been best at , really, is whining about how I really am not good at them. People go as far as to ask me how I happen to be so good at something as complex as whining, whether I have tips for them on how to become better whiners, for really, one of the deepest and yet most scantly realized truths of the human condition is that the most preferred state of existence is one in which everything goes right with the individual, and yet he whines effectively about every aspect of his existence. But try as I may, I cant help them. For whining is not something you can acquire. Its not a skill. Its a freak mutation of the genes that only very special individuals are born with. You should see my parents try and whine. They sound happy even when they are at it.

I was chatting with a friend of mine, when I switched to Super whine mode about how the modern generation is so unfortunate as not to have to scope to really expand their minds, how we keep on learning things that others did to explain occurrences that others observed , and how had we not been so unlucky, a few hundred generations ago a few generations of couples could have had kids a couple of years before they actually had, and how it would have all accumulated, and we'd have been born 60 years ago. Then he, presumably bored by my whining (for people want to whine about their lives,but somebody else whining, now that isn't a pretty sight), said that he had to tune his guitar.

The funniest thing for me is that when these lesser mortals are around whiners, they keep providing them with whine fodder, thereby aggravating the situation they are so desperately trying to avert. They just keep saying things in order to stop the leaking whining , and slowly the leaking turns into a steady flow, then into a mini flood, and the takes the deluge route to an out an out natural catastrophe. You keep hearing about these hurricanes? You heard of the butterfly effect? Well if an 8 year old ever asks you how hurricanes start, you have your answer.

So anyway. This was whine fodder. Oh yeah baby. Primo. Then , much to the chagrin of my dearly beloved friend, I kept blathering on and on and on and on about how I always wanted to play the guitar, and how I am too lazy to actually go out and buy one, and how if I bought one, I'd almost immediately lose interest in it. I also vaguely remember whining about how I really really wanted my cosmology course to be one on GR. I have no idea how that came up. I guess I really let myself go that day.It swung from my inability to play a guitar to the cosmology course back to guitars, then onto some other things I'd rather not mention on a public forum.

Now get this. This guy is the politest guy I know.So I really really must have let myself go to make him tell me to stop whining. He could take it no longer. I had reached his breaking point, and then ladies and gentlemen , IT happened.

Now I swear this , I never know when I switch to whine mode. Its like this unstoppable power I have that I have no control over. Who knows what I could have achieved had I found a way to harness it. I'd beat Gandhi , who was , after all, a really really really good old nagging whiner (No Offence). So what followed, was, albeit unprecedented, totally unintentional. The next fifteen minutes was a haze. Fifteen long minutes on, I realized, that after my friends rebuke, I had been Whining, about how much I WHINE!!!! My friend had given up. He was just replying in hmms and ohs. I am sure he had tears in his eyes.If he didn't, He is Superman. I was whining about how much I whine! It was amazing, when I actually realized what I was doing, to hear myself rant on and on and on about how I always thought my personal relations are affected by my tendency to whine. It was strange and grotesque and fascinating at the same time, like one of those really ugly turtles they show on Discovery channel, and all the hosts always seem to have that weird disgusted look contorted into a smile, touching the turtle with he tips of their fingers, and yet, pretending to actually pet the turtle as if it was a furry pooch. You want to run as far away from the television as you can, and yet it draws you to it. Grotesque can be fascinating.

So, even if my statement seemed a tad preposterous to you when I started out, I am sure it seems more like an understatement now. I may be the only Man alive at this time who has actually whined about how much he whines when he is not drunk. I didn't consider women. They whine a lot less than men anyway. So please, allow me to refer to myself, as The Master. The next time somebody complains that you are whining too much, just say "I know the Master" . Trust me, the subject wont be broached again.

Les années terribles

And as I lay breathing in the Oozing pit,
My mind fixed on That festering Solenoid,
swimming in a pool of bluey golden pus,
My guts chewed in half by the Green Siberian,
That an hour ago did me the ultimate honour,
Slapping my cheekbones in two and two,
Blood flavoured Deep Pink Choclate,
Oh how sweetly she melts, how meltily sweet,
That shape shifting sorcerer, that once had
the temerity to be me, maybe only to,
Irk the Brown wine into rebelling against
The sweet walls of my tummy aches
Doggerel I am well versed at, Nay, Give me not that,
Thou hast lost thy soul To my Pet Pomeranian
A Sin that in its inanity baffles me to the worlds end,
Wherein The seeker, trenchant, sets out,
To be Cosmo Kramer.
Amen

Rock and Roll aint dead

I tried to keep myself from adding this one to the humungous pile of shite that has already piled up here. But Wolfmother did the trick. Now, unfortunately, I am in such an eloquently doggerelly mood that I can hold it back no longer.

So here goes. Hallelujah,for rock and roll is not dead. It has long been me belief that I should have been a creature of the 60's , my soul gyrating to impossibly quaint pieces of Hedonism given permanence by a generation of musicians endowed with special powers by he who rules supreme in Heaven, if there be such a place. I so decried today's "music" with the hatred of a thousand suns, a million kegs of vitriol overturning in my heart everytime I heard what passes as Music today. Gone were the good ol' days when you had people waiting in anticipation for Zeppelin or Floyd's next subtle bit of insanity. Gone were the good ol' days when a Tommy vinyl record was the highest you could go in terms of earthly possessions. The music was so powerful back in those mystical times that it shaped a whole generation.

But alas. Man decided that he no longer wanted to be led, shaped by music. He lost what made him human. The wise say that the downslide started some four centuries ago with the industrial revolution, but thats too far back for us to lament. We can lament what we have been bereft of recently, and there arose a creed of lamenters, who continuously lamented what they percieved the slow and excruciating death that Music was being put through. It made them sad, and exacerbated their own travails. I am not even talking of what the masses swear by, as the masses are arses. My sympathies with you if you think that Jay-Z makes music. I'll gouge out your eyeballs if I ever meet you. What really hurt was what passed off as music of the thinking man. You must pardon if I have insinuated something against you and if you own my arse in any way I may or may not know of, but if I have offended you, then look at thy visage in mirror thine, and thou wilt see naught but a donkey. Anyway. The section of the society that was once catered to by a Musical industry that had a delectable menu ranging from Page to Clapton now lapped up cacophonous sequences of frequency modulations produced from millions of dollars worth of instruments that were naught but soulless creations by soul less men. People started swearing by increasingly disharmonious objects being passed off as music, and the Industry started taking the easy way out and producing and distributing what they too knew, deep within , was no more music than produced by banging tin cans against each other.

I should add "Most" to that statement probably. There was always a subterrenean presence of those amongst us who refused to be polluted, and drew their daily dose from old dusty records of that long gone golden age. They held strong, and battled hard, even when their cause seemed lost. They still drank only from the fast drying pond of Rock and Roll, once so luxuriant and abundant that such a predicament would have seemed impossible. They didnt lose faith even when people started referring to lesser arts by the moniker rock and roll. Suddenly everybody was a rockstar. The masses , who anyways always thought Rock and Roll was all about the Drugs and Sex, wholeheartedly hailed poseurs with Cocaine habits and licentious intentions as the flag bearers of rock and roll, and since supposed defining attributes of Rock and roll required significantly less talent , everybody became a rockstar. MTV made things worse than any record company with ulterior motives could have, and the weak were brainwashed.

But we held strong. To be fair, there have always been flashes of occasional brilliance to support our ingeniously stated hypothesis stated above so many times that I feel no need to write it down again. But the past week has opened my eyes, and I feel vindicated, as I am sure do many like me. First I heard Jet, and then Wolfmother. Jet had me jumping up and down like an overexcited bunny on a deathrow screaming that Rock and Roll aint dead, and Wolfmother actually had me teary eyed . Even the lizard on the wall was teary eyed, although it might have been that awful smelling bug it ate when I was playing Wolfmother. But anyway. These people have grown up on Manna, and they produce accordingly, speaking of higher truths lesser mortals cannot dream of. They are not exactly Jim Morisson yet, but give them time, they'll ripen. That both bands are Australian says tons about which way the nation is going. They arent the best Cricket team for nothing you know.

And before I begin yet another excursion into the Silver City , I'll say it once again
Rock and Roll is back!!!
Amen

Dot

Now I fully understand the fact that its inappropriate to start a sentence with the word "now", and especially so if that sentence happens to be the first sentence of a body of text. But I just did, partly because I cannot figure out a way to get past more than 15 levels of The Desktop Tower Defence, (which I must endorse on account of its being an addictive flash game that isnt actually as stupid as Stick Cricket, in which my career run rate is above 22, or Stickfootball, where I make Thierry Henry score four goals for me about thrice a day), and partly because I realized that my blog posts have actually been aspiring to be sensible for the last year or so.I use the word "aspiring" , but in case my reader (may his tribe increase) (Oh gosh! I forgot, I used that line quite a few times in my blog already) is that literal, I must point out that a Blog Post is fundamentally incapable of Aspiring, It not being human. Heck, a blog post is not even living.

So,whoever's reading is obviously wondering (shame on it/him/her if it/he/she is not) ," Oh wait, the claim that this blog post is about nothing at all is flawed, for it does seem that the Esteemed Author (note the upper case) is trying to point out that his blog posts have been aspiring to appear to have a reason, and is maybe resenting the fact, on account of his firm belief that the world is governed by disorder, not harmony".

blah blah

Except that I never really made that claim. I merely said what the reader must have been thinking at that point of time. Or wait, maybe thats what I wanted my audience to be thinking at that point of time, so I subliminally triggered this chain of thought in his/her/its mind. The evil,evil me.Plotting and Scheming Sequences of Thought . And considering that Thought often translates to action, I might just have won myself an election in Bihar. Oh ! you didnt get that Bihar one did ya. I can tell dude. Oh you did, What did you say? Oh, should have known. References to Disorder gave it away didnt it? Not as smart as I think I am, am I?

Oh. that was a slip. You see, (well , somebody sees, so you might as well see) This Post had a reason after all. You see, I had planned to subliminally advertise Bihar, thereby induced you to move there, and then when I had induced a sufficient fraction of my fan base to populate Bihar and spawned in Bihar, so that my people would pouplate Bihar in vast numbers, I would have moved to Bihar, contested elections, eaten some fodder, and spent the rest of my days comfortably curled up in an airconditioned cell in Tihar, sucking at Dusseris, and life would be just beautiful.

And how that one slip of tongue trashed that whole Great Indian Dream. Its just not right. Nothing really ever is.

The Golden Rabbit and the Golden Horse (and how pre-established ideas lead to the wrong choice in a grave matter relating the two)

Vishnu hallucinated last night. I dont know what about, but he hallucinated last night, and he also had high fever. But my story is not about his hallucinations, for I did not experience them. Today I left the lab, for I had a headache. Came back, went to sleep, and had hallucinations of my own. Well, technically they werent hallucinations, as I was asleep, they were just a nightmare, but thats besides the point. Point is, I have figured It out.

Now allow me to throw yet another irrelevant detail at my dear reader, the fact that I almost never remember my dreams, even when I really really want to. So it is a rare enough occurence that I remember this one. Who knows, maybe all my dreams are this bizarre.

But I doubt that all of them are this relevant. I remember one dream sequence . Let me relate it to you, and then I'll leave you to judge its relevance.

It was quite weird. In that my Dad was a wizard, and my mom a queen. How it is that my dad wasnt a king, I have absolutely no idea. But this is how it was. There came a time when they realized that the sustenance of justice in this world required them to have a magic rabbit, and a magic horse. So they sent a friend with me on a quest. A quest for the magic rabbit and the magic horse. Our quest seemed to take a lifetime. We seemed to cover geographical distances on foot that would take a man years to cross. We went over deserts, over forests, over brook and mountain, we went to castles and rundown huts. You get the idea. Now throughout the quest, I insisted on being the man with the Horse, and I repeatedly stressed the importance of my being the bearer of the Horse, and even before we found either animal, I had almost ensured that the rabbit would be entrusted to the care of my friend, and I, the powerful Son, would take back the prize horse. My friend, being a farmer's son, relented without much ado, and so it was decided who would have which animal when he returned.

So it was to my dismay, when after many a mile, we found the Horse before the rabbit.I expected my quest to be more circuitous than my friend's . It was golden , and it could talk.its mane wasnt even matter. It was a flame. Then, the horse spoke, in a deep drawling voice, oozing with wisdom, and he said, " O son of the queen and the wizard, I am afraid you have decided to have me." For I shall bear back the weak of heart , whereas the stronger of the two of you will go on in the quest. In fact, I wasnt even part of the quest, and if you hadnt hastened to deciding who would bear back which animal, I was to aid your quest. However, that is not a possibility now. Alas for you, O son of queen and wizard, for it has been foretold that this quest will end in glory. That is why your parents sent you on it, for you to win fame and glory.

But now, now you will be borne back as the weak of heart.

That sixties show

People who saw the 60's often reminisce about the golden decade of the twentieth century, and we, born later, but who werent beyond the mystical ripples of that special decade, can only shoot wild arrows at floating images in our minds of how it must have been.

For face it folks, the 60's were a special time. People who roamed fearlessly then are now tipping from middle age to rheumatism and arthritis, and so it is easy to dismiss them when they say what a special time their youth was. But they have a point. for the 60's were a special time. There were no iPods, no laptops, indeed no fixation with material affluence. Which is very weird considering that the world was just recovering from two devastating wars in the first half of the century , and the youth of the 60's , the first lot of the baby boom of the late 40's , might have been expected to hoarde, to be obsessed with material affluence. But they weren't. Instead , they gave it their all to the quest of beauty.

For the 60's wasn't only about Rock and Roll, sideburns and mullets, free love, the hippies, and the flower children . These things were the side effects. What was happenning was a much larger thing, that manifested itself not only in the mass behavorial patterns, but also in the way these people did what they did. For the 60's was the first attempt since the middle ages to break free from the canons of truth and logic that the ancient civilizations, most notably the Greeks left in their wake. The 60's was an abortive attempt to break free from the stranglehold of Truth, and Worship in her stead Beauty, no less an entity than her sister Truth, only forgotten by mankind.

The middle ages were very much the ideal universe that the Golden generation of the 60's wanted to emulate. For true, there were plagues, there were diseases, there was poverty, there was every goddamn imaginable evil in this world, but Man obeyed Beauty, and not Truth. But then came the Renaissance, and the Industrial Revolution, which rolled back the Wheel of Time some 2000 years back, To ancient Greece, with its Aristotelian ideals of Truth, the Immutable, which left no scope for Beauty, which was now relegated to being a useless accessory. And then, the wheel of time jammed. instead of alleviating man's wretchedness, his mad rush for developement and advancement made every problem he had more acute. But he had organized thought. So instead of enjoying what he had, he began diverting all his energies to acheiving what he did not. Where Greece had failed, its Offspring, coming of age 2000 years later, succeeded. This time they almost did away with beauty , and replaced it with the Immovable Edifice built on Human Flesh to Truth.

That is why the 60's was such a special decade. For out of the blue sprung a generation, and instead of following the Code of Truth, like their Fathers and their Fathers , they almost pulled of the greatest heist in all of recorded History. They almost reversed the tide. Classicists took this as a personal slight. They labelled the Flower Children as part of a Counter Culture, as being anarchists , a perpetually drunk and drugged lot lacking any general direction. For this attempt struck at every thing everyone had ever learnt about how to live life. Indeed, it sought to render all existing Knowledge, and indeed the Concept of Knowledge obsolete.

It might be that they could take such a radically different direction, precisely because of unabated suffering Man had been subjected to a few years earlier. For the first time since Renaissance, there was at least some scope for doubting the wisdom in obeying Logic alone . This was the first time where the way of Logic had failed, and What Man saw was not at all a pretty sight . Maybe that is why the Flower Generation turned into a bunch of Libertines. It was their way of foraying into ways of life long forgotten in the civilized world.

It is indeed worth asking, looking at the material fixation of our generation, that did that generation fail in its endeavour? We live designer Lives in our designer clothes, designer mobiles in our pockets, Stepping out of designer cars into designer restaurants, where we can afford to eat only thanks to our designer pay packets. We have designer girlfreinds for whom we have in our designer hearts nothing more than designer love, which we choose to express through designer valentine cards. We are the corporate generation, Hoarding madly as if the world were to end tomorrow, something that our fathers were expected to do, but didnt.

But this will pass. For I believe that the 60's was only a dress rehearsal. Beauty will return. She is preparing now. She will come back. And when she does, I will be waiting. We all will.

And then, then we will be free.

Hey Joe

Hey joe, where you going with
that bomb in your hand?

Hey Joe, I say, where you going with that
bomb in your hand?

Hey joe, where you off to,
you know its dangerous

I am goin down to blast ol' Liberty
Heard she's been messin around with another man

I am goin to blast out ol' Liberty
You know I caught her messin with another man
And that aint too cool


Hey Joe, I heard you brought
Miss Liberty to the ground

Hey joe, I say, heard you brought the woman down

Yes I did, I brought her crashing down on the ground
A pile of bricks

Yes I did, coz you know I caught her messin round now
And that aint cool


Hey Joe, I say, where you gonna run to now?

Hey Joe, I said, where you gonna run to now?
where you gonna run?

And he said this

Why,I am going way down where
nobody ever went to
man

I am going way down to Where
a man can live and be free

Aint no hangman there
to put a noose round my neck

Aint no Prez there,
who cares that I brought ol'Liberty down

..........................................................................

The Fiddler's Green

Tonight, I tell you all the story of a young man, in his early twenties, who loved music. He was forever advised by friends (some of them more than the others) towards new pieces. He liked most of them, qualifying them with grandiose words with which he deemed fit to adorn the greatest glories, and this happened with every thing he heard.

But to his infrequent amazement he found that, that though he always liked these new pieces, his friends' favourites, the ones that moved him beyond words were the ones were always stray musical vignettes that he found in his long wanderings through the Land of Notes, the maps of which he understood not a jot of, since he didnt know how to read notes. Vignettes from some larger story, which to other mere mortals always seemed more beautiful in their totality than the bricks that made them up. But our protagonist was no mere mortal. He was a deconstructionist, where the term implies what I intend it to imply, and if it does not seem so to you, you are relieved with immediate effect of your duty to hear out my story.He stumbled on a beautiful brick, and then that was all he wished to ever see. It kept him up through nights filled with sweet torment, with their notes bouncing off like Divine rays off the walls of his brain, and he played the same piece again and again and again, till the spell was broken by the stealthy fingers of sleep.

And then , he would wake up the next morning, and remembering every detail of his enchantment, of his imprisonement without chains, and yet he would suddenly find himself released from the spell. And he would then seek to relive that feeling, at the focal point of all known human emotions, that man was always too awestruck by to name it when he encountered it. We therefore refer to it symptomatically, some call it Speechlessness, though a moment of close consideration would no doubt render the expression ludicrous, as it attempts to characterise the greatest unknown known to man by just one of its uncountably many symptoms. Preposterous.

So he would attempt to relive this great feeling. One may now ask, how?It is rather weird what a scared creature our subconscious is. We wander anywhere close to the Highest Secret, and our subconscious, the great traitor, clandestinely steals into the driver's seat and drives our wagon to more earthly considerations. Indeed, all the great individuals in the History of man have been characterised by the ability to subject this traitor to their will. And lesser men say that The have sold their soul to the devil. Rubbish. So the answer to that how is not what may occur to a man who is himself not standing on the verge of that great something where it becomes expedient for his subconscious to assume control. Its funny though. He never thought of attempting to relive it by literally reliving it. He would read some expository article on the piece, or try to hum it simultaneously along with his morning chores,anything but reliving the piece, and immersing himself in its magic , and seeing that the magic is gone, would abandon that once magical brick, and wander off, heartbroken, at being stabbed in the back yet again, so close and yet, so, so far. He would abandon that piece for ever, thinking that the chrome had rusted off. Little did he ever realize that it was all chrone, from end to end, through the meat, and his subconscious had coated it over with iron, dull and dry, to avert his gaze from it, towards safer avenues.

But he didnt have the vatage point that I and my readers occupy. So he would resume his journey through the Land of Notes, heartbroken, but never Hopeless, for he knew there would be a next time. He had too much experience to know there would. But there was always a tiny voice in his skull, which had nothing to do with all his experience of rambling through the land, that he would fail again, next time, and again , the time after that. He was doomed to be forever on the rim of that great stream of Understanding, forever on Human territory.

For if he did cross over to the other side, there would be no way back, would there? He would no longer be him, would he?
Would he?
Would he?......

A Brief Study into Continued Acts a Ghastly Violence Aimed at Mathematicians (Compiled At 2:42 AM)

Okay...here it goes.. this might be a little deviation from my painstakingly poetic (or as some would claim, doggerelly) posts that I am wont to post here. I was having this discussion with my friend about a certain something that somehow triggered a certain something else, which led to a certain seemingly random firing of a random sample of my neurons, that eventually landed me up thinking, that all hypotheses in order to make sense need a framework.



Here. let me put things in perspective. We complain all the time about the (in my opinion) the great service to mankind that mathematicians do as the defining act of their occupation . Not claiming to give us a perspective of reality. Let me see if this comes out right. All of human learning seems to be a description of what we perceive "reality" around us to be. Thats a sticky proposition indeed if you look at that statement alone, because all we are doing is trying to put reality down in terms of a description, which isnt really reality, its just the descriptions. But mathematicians arent pretentious. They make no claim whatsoever to be describing our tremendously intricate universe. They just play god. They make their own little universes, and play with them.



Now the basic aim of mathematics is to make those little universes and hypothesize about those little universes. So why is it that we laugh at them? well, apparently because, they dont try and talk about reality, or in other words ,they have to make their own framework to hold their hypotheses.Apparently, other , more socially useful beings dont, because they claim to be studying reality, whereas the mathematician says , what the heck, why study what god did when you can be god yourself!!!


Well but let us for a moment take our critical gaze off our Mathematically minded fellow human beings, and cast the same on ourselves, The supposedly "Normal " people, capable of making statements about "Reality", and hence needing no logical framework to hold it up, because hey, what the heck, its out there for all to see. Let us take up an example. Say for example, lets State a Hypothesis, which I have found to be statistically true , starting with me, and therefore I deem it to be a fact "Out There", an Integral part of reality.
"Bloggers who blog on non factual topics hate to read on topics they have been thinking of blogging on" .
Now I have observed this. Its a part of reality, that every self respecting blogger who has seen a painting and is thinking of writing a blog on it would hate to read a 200 page hard bound volume on that painting. But I bet that if I let this Hypothesis stand as it is, it can be torn into shreds by any semi-competent logician. Why I myself can think of a few logical arguments countering it, and I am not even that good.


What this "Hypothesis-about-reality-made-by-a-Non-Mathofreak" needs to stand up is a Rulebook defining what the scope of logic is in its case.It needs some less contentious facts from the same perception of reality to fall back on. For example, I can say, as the first rule of this universe , that
"Writing is a two phase process 1) formulation and 2) writing" .
Then maybe I can put in a parallel rule in addition
"Non commercial writing is usually less about content, and more about satisfaction"
Then in order to make this framework watertight for the hypothesis to sit in, I'd have to put in two subrules, first
"Satisfaction in case mentioned above results from writing what the writer has formulated in his own way"
and finally
"Aforementioned act of Individuality is hindered by reading other expositions on the same topic"


Now with these four rules, Our Hypothesis doesnt sound so contentious, and until you are super cynic, you wont put up a huge fight against my framework. So a statement of reality, supplied with a framework , actually starts looking quite realistic. But what was it without a framework? A paper house with a Big Bad Wolf at the door, with three shivering little piglets inside. And the framework, why, they were strict! No Maybe's ,No proably's, they are rules, but they were acceptable, and more importantly they made a seemingly unpalatable hypothesis about what I deem reality quite acceptable. So next time you smirk at a mathematician, stop dead in your tracks. You are no better.


And no, thanks for asking, but I am not a mathematician, I am a physicist :D

The Blue LED

My speaker system has a blue led. Its a 4.1, but thats besides the point. What is not besides the point is the fact that it has a blue led.

Now, we never quite realize how bright an led glows in ambient light.Its always dimmed by the surroundings, as all bright things in less bright surroundings are. Its almost as if lesser beings around the led feed on its extraordinary brightness to make themselves little more than what they are. The speaker has three knobs, which is not entirely besides the point, but well, we'll come to that later.

In order to realize the true magnificence of the led attached to my 4.1 speaker system (with three knobs) I realized (said realization eventually did lead to intended realization as stated before) that I must impair all sources of ambient light, the sources of those abominable parasites that feed on the brilliance of the aforementioned blue led.So, as per my rationalization, I proceeded to impair all sources of ambient light. The reader, if he is taking notes (as I would very much like, for this is a remarkable experiment with remarkable results) should note that this experiment can be performed at any location, provided the reader has a speaker system with an led as bright as mine, which i sincerely doubt, but well, whats the harm in trying eh.

So well, I proceeded to impair all sources of light, and even put my computer on standby. And Voila, there it was. So I was right to hypothesize what I hypothesized a while ago.The knobs , which are all above the led, looked as if somebody had lit a LPG burner underneath.The lowest knob was literally on fire. , and the fire burning within the upper knobs was progressively smaller, but conspicuous all the same. And there seemed to be a tinge of gold at the side of each knob, conspicuous enough to make its presence felt, and yet inconspicuous enough not to be explicitly seen. Blue crescents in the dregs of the dying day. I imagine that this is how sunset would look like from a planet with three moons, which are all , suspiciously enough, blue. Oh well, maybe they have water. And if anything, all this the whole scene a little more ethereal, a little more otherworldly, as if it subtly reminded us of blisses once commonplace but now long forgotten, misplaced in the labyrinth of misplaced memories,coated with the dust of time.

Oh but wait, tinge of gold? that sounds suspicious. True that it renders beauty even more beauteous, and makes a poet out of commoners like me, but where doth it spring forth? Surely I extinguished every known (and unknown) source of ambient light. Needless to say, I was stunned. So does it spring forth from nowhere ? Or is it some errant wind that blows pixie dust onto my knobs, lighting up with a faint angel glow my blues.

And at this very moment, I will rudely awaken the daydreaming my uber philosophical doggerel must have induced and sustained in the reader, who at some point of his/her life will surely realize that wasting his/her time reading my blog is a deplorable waste of his/her time. But let me ignore these moral compunctions which the future version of the reader will experience, and tell you where, after five minutes of composing useless doggerel in my head, some of which may have influenced some of what I have written here, I finally realized the unexplained light was coming from. It might indeed be a confidence shattering anticlimax for the reader to be told that it wasnt any pixies, or sprites that were making their presence felt, but I dont have a funny way of saying it yet, so,I will have to say it as plainly as possible, inconveniences caused are regretted.

There is a window to the right of my speaker, and there is a fence to the right of the window, and there is a house to the right of that fence, and the house has a porch fitted with a 200 watt bulb.

Somebody had left the bulb switched on.

Yes maam , thats my head swimming in your pool

Right. Now it must be understood at all costs that all I wanted was to start a Blog Post with the line "My head is swimming, my stomach squirming..." .


Now ,the reader must at this point think that,"Hell Shite, I can start a hundred and one blog posts with that, after all, this happens so often", like when you are about to finish a four hour lab at the back of five lectures hours, in which you strived (and unfortunately succeeded) in staying awake , or when you are shitting the morning after you've had the temerity to consume one whole Chicken Kali Mirch at Chainatown (for all ye ignorant fools, take note of the extra a in Chainatown, the pride of Kanpur), or when , oh, forget it.


But that is the whole fuckin point see.it happens to us too often. I waited for so long to find some interesting occurence that is initiated by my head swimming and/or my stomach squirming, or maybe some interesting occurence that ended with my head going for a swim etc. You get the point right..


Well, that shoulda been a simple enough proposition.But for that extra clause that states that the aforementioned incident/narrative ought to be positively interestingly.


I mean, how'd a sane responsible citizen like thyself respond if I listed out in detail all/any of the incidents that entail such acts of indiscipline by what are very, very important organs. And it wouldnt pleasant too. I mean, surely you dont wanna kno about the Mustachioed Fatso we are spanked by?


(The one that threatened to eat us once, dear, remember? The one that loved cgs units? Oh pity, you dont remember his speech about how the Slant eyes, The Euroes, and them Yanks would wank off on our face if we didnt read thos strips of A4 size sheets that he ordered us to read? Oh by the way, I got him on lease. Seven days. I get to spank him all I want)


So now, I hope I have conveyed the whole gravity of the situation to my esteemed reader. Nothing Interesting happens that way. Lots of things do, sure, but then who said anything about their being interesting eh?


So now, the dear darling of a reader (hmm, the right kind, I hope) must be twisting her right thumb 276 degrees (notice the sudden gender bias?) thinking (??? didnt know SHE could do THAT) about the vaguely fantastic possibilities that this decleration of my eventual intended intentions , and the fact that this is essentially a blog post about My head swimming and my stomach squirming, present in terms of the interesting incident
that i would presumably proceed to recount, and make HER misrable life a little less miserable to bear,if only for ten minutes, etc etc..


But guess what beauty (ok , and brutes are included too, albeit grudgingly on the part of this humble author) I have no story. What else did ya thing eh? Nothing interesting happens to me eh. I reside in dandruff county. What could be interesting in dandruff country eh? Nothing at all sweet love, Nothing at all.....


Shit. Did I just say all that? Was I talking all this while? Did them Nazi gunners hear me?

The Masters

In my Dark room, Sweet Music gushing through like Manna from heaven, Like inhaling fresh Alpine air, and I wonder. My mind wanders to landscapes seen, and unseen, over hills and meads and water it flies, In old forgotten landscapes dotted with red apples and particolored cows, of Snow capped Mountains, and Green slopes, and as I waltz to the Music, I wonder, what made Him write such Music.

They say Music is a higher expression of Human emotions. When there are words no more, Music holds fort. In fact, so deeply intertwined is our perception of music with the setting, that indeed, an astute observer might be able to gauge the mood and general disposition of another by what Music he listens to. As such, it might even be said that the Musician and his audience are indeed very much alike, for the Music appeals to both the Creator and the Listener.

But, novice that I am, some musicians bewilder me, probably because I gauge their character, what sort of a person they might have been, by the Music they compose.That is a trivial enough task for most musicians. Or at least, the individuals we are wont to call Musicians in our age of the Mediocre. Aye, even the greatest of our musicians, the ones who adorn our walls and our attire, are liable to be read quite easily.

Having turned my attention to the great masters, I failed miserably though. I am not much into Classical, and I dont understand the technical details of Music anyway. So when I hear Music, my mind immerses itself in it. I lose my capacity to impose emotions on me, The driver of my emotions becomes the Music,and when I look back at what I felt, I know what they felt.

But I suppose that is why they were known as the Masters. Inscrutable,Enigmatic, they ensured that even even hundreds of years after they were gone, they would play around with the minds of their admirers at will, without lending their own to scrutiny. They were above us, the common bourgeois. Its almost as if they could see me now, trying to understand what I felt as I flickered , my mind sashaying across cool green meads with pretty lasses in unpolluted times as I listened to the great symphonies,and Smirking in amusement. One moment, I imagined something unspeakbly great, so great that I could see nothing but a tiny section of it, greater than the glory of sixteenth century Europe with all its grand facades, even grander than all the Maharajas sitting on their Elephants of gold, showering diamonds on his subjects. The very next moment, the scene changes, Melancholy grey hills, a horseman on a grey steed veering in to a shady inn to quench his thirst, and the scene shifts back. Is the grey traveller a Knight in guise, sent on a Knightly errant , that he and only he can fulfil? Or is he a distraught gallant thundering off to avenge his love? and now his Horse gathers speed, like a bolt of lightning, cutting through the green fields, Stepping over stone and water, leaping over gorges and bounding over ravines , but never once faltering. And who is this child, an angel rather, playing the flute all the while? Covered in a raiment of Silver, She is Grace personified as she moves across white halls, never touching the ground, a sweetness exuding from her face that I will never put into words. And why does our Knight Errant draw his sword. What is his task? and lo, whole troupes of oriental dancers seem to be waltzing too, in rythm with the galloping of our knights horse. My mind is muddled, and I know such Beauty. Oh beauty, a joy to these unworthy eyes of Mine. I realize it all, but cannot put it in words, For I can find no words worthy enough.

And as I am swung around by the Masters of ages past, I realise that I am but a speck of dust. When with their music,I disappear from my own view, and what replaces is Bold as brass, Beautiful, Grand beyond words, Darker than the darkest woods, and Brighter than the newest sheen, All the emotions that I know names for, at once, overwhelming me simultaneously, Each moment a new Gush, an overwhelming tide of emotions breaking against the Shore of my Mind.

And all the while, I am thinking, How am I to tell one drop of water from another.

An ode to a Dear Beloved named Sleep (By a Bereaved Lover)

Sleep, Her name evokes fond memories of the days when I used to lie firmly ensconced in her gentle grasp, with my tiny hand grasping, well, grasping onto absolutely nothing. Safe, secure, Snoozeland, oh how beautiful her realm was.

There was a time, when I used to live a free life without these wierd contraptions that are aimed at preserving my modesty, the aim being based on a preconceived notion that I have a non zero amount of Modesty, in absence of which the above would be rendered null and void. The reader (may his tribe increase) might have guessed that I am talking of the time when I used to roam around Unclad, save in my invisible raiment, So Royal that they were invisible to all living eyes save mine, and Royal that I was, that sufficed.

Then, Sleep was mine. I was Grand beyond Human Comprehension, who , witless creatures, saw not my true form, but saw a tiny kid in dire need of a censor board. Anyway, Sleep was mine. A Wink, a Clap,A Sigh, A Yawn, and she arrived to her Earthbound Love Interest. I am told that in the distant past I have spent upto 20 hours a day in the enlightening company of my beloved Sleep.

My life was a Happy one, So I can imagine the reader (may his/her tribe increase exponentially this time if he/she is Still reading) getting a bit edgy wondering how exactly Sleep Deserted Me.

Well, By Toutatis, and Belenos, and all the High gods of the Gauls, Cursed be the Day I dared to do what I did that eventually led to a long winding chain of events, a gradual souring of our relation, that has culminated in us being legally separated.

It was when I was 15. I flirted with Another. And not just any other, But I flirted with Insomnia, Sleep's Cosmic Archrival through the ages. It was so tempting. I had a History examination the next day, for which I was yet to start studying at 10 PM. Sleep came to me (Oh God Bless Her Pure Soul), and fool that I was, I rebuked her and sent her away. That was fairly normal. Isnt it? Every relation has its fights. I wanted a bit of Space. That was all .

And then she struck. I dont want to steer clear of all blame. The perfect Seductress is one who chooses the right moment.And isnt yielding to temptation a Sin? Insomnia was too old a player of this hand for me to deal and get away unscathed. She came to me, and needless to say, I was already Irked at Sleep, I cheated on my Love. I cheated on Sleep, thinking that I can get away, thinking that misdeeds of a night cannot be caught if they are not repeated.

Alas, I was wrong. Insomnia turned out to be a snake. Beautiful she was , Oh yes, But, a Snake from Within. She poisoned my very existence, (and Sleep's too, poor creature), by ensuring that she did come to know of my infidelity.(I suspect Thought of finally breaking the news to sleep) . Sleep No longer came at my summons. She came, but was detached, disinterested. In place of the Loving gaze, there was a Cold Stare. Instead of showing my sweet dreams of Meads and sunshine, I saw nightmares.We tried. She did , I did, But I had broken the faith, and there was no way to repair it (You dont get a second chance with these Cosmic Chicks). We grew more and more estranged.

The rest, as they say, is history. yesterday, at 4:00 AM I met Sleep for the last time. She had her bags packed, and she was going away. But she still Loves me, aye. She showed me the sweeest dreams imaginable for three hours, all our happy memories compressed in those three hours, a lifetime compressed in a nap. Then she kissed me goodbye, wished me luck, and flew away. For ever.

Its 3:50 AM now.

Quiet

Life is all about quietude. We remember loud boisterous acts, Acts which make a certain splash in a certain sense, no matter how abstract. We are remembered, by others and by ourselves for our time in the sun,and yet it is surprising how much time of our lives we spend in the shade, doing, saying nothing of note, the pits of our existence according to the Philosophers of Old. Modern man often derides his ancestors. He says that he thinks. He says that he values quietude more than action. In a way, every man now thinks himself an intellectual.

There, that is the catch. Modern man's notion of quietude is that of an action. A positive action , taking into account a certain desired result, and again, we have the all too familiar splash. Even when he does nothing, he is being an intellectual.He has evolved from his forefathers, but that is not in a heightened ability to exalt the utterly commonplace, but extarordinary phenomenon of Existence. If he has evolved, then that is an evolution in degrees, a certain sophistication that makes men look like sages, that allows us to wear a mask.

But we seldom realize, that most of the time in our lives, the most extraordinary thing we do is Being.Let me repeat that

Being

that is, most of the time, we just are. It is in that sense of quietude, that the time we are in its antithetic state, the state of being "loud", of adding some colour to the uniform background noise that is our existence, fades in comparison like tiny specks of dust on a cement floor.And yet, so bright is their shine, that they stand out, like bright stars in the vast nothingness of space.

But where would those stars be , if they didnt have the vast nothingness of space to hold them?
All consequence is embedded in an infinite matrix of absolutely nothing. All thats is sensed, heard, seen, is drawn out on a colorless canvas of quietude.

Let me not be misunderstood. I am not advocating totally overlooking acts of consequence. For how else would we know that a man existed, and consequently led an infinitely quiet life, if it is not by his deeds? Would we ever deduce the existence of Nothing out there had it not been for the few bright specks showered on the heavens, the existence of a nation, if not by its heroes?

But yes, man has to recognize, that just like the sky is seen only because man looks up to the stars, just like a nation is noticed only for its heroes,a man is known only for his deeds, But, that does not represent a man in entirety. In fact, here it would be fair to say that it doesnt represent the man at all. Chronicle every second of a man's life, from his birth to his death, and leave out every second when he does nothing. What remains, is it the man? The only thing that represents the life of a man is the life itself. To experience it in in entirety, one would have to live it. All other representations of his life are just convenient projections to serve certain ends.

The day man realizes this, he would have had attained nirvana, He would have attained Eternal Satisfaction.

The scriptures say that We arrive in this plane with aspirations, and undergo this long arduous journey of life and death, of pain and tears, of jubilation and disappointment,till all our aspirations are exhausted. At the end of all aspiration, we see the commonplace that sustains it all,and the beauty thereof. Just like a little child , who watched the stars greedily, in a bid to see them all, to imbibe the aeons of wisdom emanating from them, and he watches them till he grows very old, and then one day, he sees it. He realizes , that in his youthful fervour, he never saw the sky, dark, black, devoid of feature, the infinite , the endless, the source of all the wisdom that he ever wanted. And then, he finds Liberation. He Attains.He exalts in divine joy

He is.

Extraordinary

Today I am scared.Inexplicably scared. Inexplicably scared that I might be mediocre. Inexplicably scared that I might not be extraordinary in anything at all. And well, since no one reads my blog, I dont mind saying it aloud here.

As far back as I remember, one part of me has wanted to be extraordinary. So extraordinary that I wake up every morning and am shocked by my own extarordinariness. I always wanted to be famous, and probably for people to worship me like a God. I always wanted to win the wimbledon, be rated as Rolling Stones as the greatest Guitarist of all time, and get the Nobel, all in one lifetime.I wanted to be extraordinarily happy. I wanted to be extraordinarier than the extraordinariest.I wanted my name to be engraved on every man's door, etched indelibly in the newborn baby's brain. Some part of me, the worst part of me probably, wanted me to be extraordinary enough to be able to do as I like, to slaughter all laws and rules lain down for common folk, and still wake up every morning to find that people worship me.

But what if? The question has been lurking at the back of my mind, and reading the Deathly Hallows inexplicably blew the dam apart into shreds. but what if I turn out to have a mediocre life? What if I have to grind it out like the rest of us?What will I do? It will shatter me probably to realize that I am but a man.What if after twenty years of being a physicist, I produce nothing for people to remember me by. What if sweating it out over the span of my life,I realize that I wont be mentioned in the same breath as the Gods? What if I land up with a girl who is incompatible enough with me to ensure that I am never extraordinarily happy, that I never experience the extraordinary heights of Cupid's unscrupulous doings? What if I die an ordinary death, writhing in my bed, unable to turn from one side to the other, writhing in the concious pain that my childhood dreams lie shattered with me upon my deathbed? What will I do then?

I feel exhausted. My 21 year old body seems like it has seen a lot more than a hundred. I am exhausted, and yet blood pumps feverish through all the veins in my body at the very thought. They say that perseverence is the only extraordinariness in extraordinary men. Is that it? And what if whatever I am putting into it is not extraordinary. What if I am just not good enough?I would even subject myself to the extraordinariest pain imaginable at this moment if only I knew how to, just for the sake of bringing in a tinge of the extraordinary into an otherwise ordinary life. If only I was a wizard..

In my 21 years , I have hardly shown any sign of any impending greatness. I am ordinary in all respects, and seem quite set to lead a normal "happy" life. But the very thought repels me. I have to be extraordinary. I couldnt look at myself in the mirror if i werent. If I am extraordinary , then it is only in one thing. This overwhelming desire to be extraordinary. This all conquering pain at slowly realizing that I am sliding down the well trodden path, with all the rest of humankind. I pity fellow humans, even if they suffer less than me, for knowing that they wont be remembered by posterity , and being perfectly agreeable to it. If I had to bargain me place in heaven to realize this maddenning craving for extraordinariness, I would probably do it.
But I cant.

I feel so exhausted suddenly that i can write no more. I feel sick, at myself and the world in which I live, incapable of suffering with me, happily gawking at me, thinking that I am a hypocrite, a gouged ego floating away before lightning struck me dead as burnt rubber an be.
I am sorry to anyone who is reading this,
I didnt mean to hurt you

My Intellectual demise

So we are about to start off again.On this mad parade of fools and clowns,in this sad charade of a thousand lies.I still remember , three years ago, with high hopes , when I attended the orientation camp meant for freshers in IITK. They talked of this place where they have assembled the brightest brains in India, to make them even more refined. I still remember all those hopes I had for my five years that I thought I'll put to the best possible use.


Did I just mention refinement? Pardon me if I have missed it, but I didnt see the refinement at all you know.Something about this place chokes me, ties me down grovelling in the dust. Maybe I have been too caustic to notice the good things. Then again, maybe there werent any good things.


One of my friends has a theory I am beginning to agree with. He says that every place has a spirit, who dwells in a higher dimensional space, and hence all his facets can never be simultaneously seen. However, when projected onto our world, that spirit takes up human attributes. So he says, the spirit that represents this place is a Rich Diseased guy, rotten and irritable at the core, Not an ounce of goodnessin him, but he is rich. Yes. Filthy rich. All manners of people, able young aspirant people rush to him, in vain hope that they'd be rewarded, but when they come in his influence, they become diseased like him. Maybe even slightly rich.But diseased. they become small scale clones of him. Rich, diseased, bitter, and so bad that even the word isnt bad enough to describe them.


So please dont blame me for being an asshole. I am sick. I am a sick bastard.Please dont mind when I spit on your car window, or when I pee on your lawn, when I hit a football into your window, or when you see me killing your pet chihuahua,or even when you see me passing lewd comments at you daughter. Because you see, I have lived here . Because I have decayed from within.

Because I have lived in fear, and so I feed fear.
Because I have lived in hatred, and so I breed hatred.
Because I have lived in sorrow,and so i'll be the purveyor of sorrow.
Because, no matter how alive I look, I am dead

Shall we Linearize?

I have been told many times over the last few weeks that I am killing myself by smoking so much. I have been for more than a year, but somehow, by some design of fate, nobody complained so far. But anyway, thats besides the point. Some days back somebody threw a random fact at me. I shouldnt really call it a fact, but anyway. Did you know, this person declared in a solemn voice, that each cigarette takes away 5 minutes of your life?

Now, it is really difficult to get me thinking...But this was so outrageous and preposterous a statement, that it did.I mean afterall, How should one man know how long a person would have lived had he not smoked? Why, I thought, does man linearize?

That was a rhetoric question. You see, since the dawn of time (or mankind rather) Man has seen things around him that he has miserably failed to understand. I use the term miserably. Its as if there is this vast machine with infinitely many gears and levers, and man gets to see the wonderous workings of that machine, but all the while there is really one thing that is eating him up...How does it work?

Man has a huge burden. Whoever made man made a big mistake. He gave man the power to think, but did not give him the power to comprehend. Man lives, and everything he does brings him closer to that one moment when he dies. And yet, He understand neither life, nor death. Its a scary feeling. We dont understand death, and yet we are forced to think about it. Animals avert death, as long as they can. We have to think about it. Its a quantum leap, and an immensely scary one.

Man doesnt understand how his brain works, and yet he has to think. He doesnnt know how he thinks, and yet he is forced to think about, among other things, how he thinks. His life is hell.

And so, to make his existence a little less poisonous, He linearizes. He makes statements like, "An IQ of 140 shows intellegence". I have absolutely no doubt that whoever devised the IQ test was a very dumb guy with a penchant for guessing which shape fits in best with three other shapes. Man makes statements like "each Cigarette takes away 5 minutes of your life", as if by not smoking, he has ensured that he wont be hit by a car on the road, wont suffer a cardiac arrest, wont get AIDS, wont fall from a building, wont commit suicide,and so on and so forth.

The wise , very long ago, were somewhat better in their efforts at relieving man of his burden. They devised fancy words like "Fate", "God" etc, to relieve man of that sickening feeling that somehow he could control his life, as simply as he can turn knobs, if only he could find the knobs. Call it the folly of wisdom (though I am rather inclined not to call it so), they realized that We are on a wild goose chase. All attempts at comprehension are futile, In fact, that is not why we were put on this planet. They realized that we are born so that we can have a good time as long as we can, and when we cant, well, we bid the world goodbye. Fair enough , isnt it?

No wonder I am a theist.Glory be to God.

And finally, the Dope Show

They say you are never good enough a writer to be able to write what your world turns into after you've doped...People write songs, paint cubist paintings, and do all kind of weird shit after they've doped, but ask anybody who has doped whether the sensations that u come across can be manifested into creativity, and they'll say, No son...There is absolutely no way you can tell the world what you feel, because it is quite frankly , out of this world.

So this is merely a feeble attempt to pay homage to whoever invented this shit, a very human effort at something that is enormous beyond human comprehension...We are talking in parsecs here.

So this is how it starts off. Recently I got dope (ahem) (real good quality stuff, god bless the farmer and provide him with more kids than he can feed and all that shit) and we (me and my friend that is...not the editorial "We") started smoking it...the first joint passed uneventfully...in fact i was starting to get very angry...(where is the high).
The second one turned out to be a bit loose...slightly on the wilder side...ahem...
That was what did it...we were doing the bullet (not really shooting each other, but rather keeping the smoke in till your partner hands you back the fag)

Three puffs into the second joint. Still nothing. I actually started thinking about faking a high.

And then, like a bullet, it struck.

Now when Marijuana hits you, first thing you feel is that everything has slowed down. Your hands might be making ultrasonic trips to and fro you mouth, but in the world you are entering, it'll seem like forever.So we slowed down. Well, nothing in it. Muscle reflexes. And then I started laughing (and continued in this rather uncomfortable state for the next half an hour)

Then it only grew better, and better , and better.

You see all these psychedelic works of art, and you think, what the heck is this.And then you reach a naive conclusion ; ah...this guy was doped, witless...what do you expect? Now, could you be more wrong? I think not!
Well, can you imagine seeing a shape corresponding to every sound you hear?
Can you even begin to try to attempt to imagine what the air molecules hitting against you tympanum look like? Can you imagine what colors they invoke in you brain? You catch a stray word from the outside world, and that bounces off the inside of your skull, and keeps bouncing, like an echo hall...and all the while, you see a yellow dart going around the periphery of a pink hexagon with blue dots in the middle.

And the language!!!! why are we humans so inefficient? All the while my brain was jabbering away in some strange and yet perfectly comprehensible language. Each event, each object that we see in our everyday spheres has a characteristic sound, that is as different from any other as one man's thumb from another's. When you drink water, when you see a dog cowering in the dark alley, when you puke, Everything you see or do has a distinctive ring to it. My brain was chattering away about outlandish things in this strange tongue, things that wouldnt even make sense now, made sense there.Why mother nature gave us English instead of this...Organic tongue, I can only wonder.

When i recall that,it makes me feel like a child watching iron filings creep slowly over a piece of paper, bewildered because i did not know that there was a magnet underneath. Well, weed makes everything transparent. You see the tiniest links, whole chains of events in a form that technology can never hope to reproduce, you see the first link in every chain. You see, you understand, and you pity the people around you for being powerless to even grasp the simple reality of the fact that they are in fact blind. Blind to almost everything that goes on around them. Blind because Nature chose it that way. Blind because Man was created by somebody who thought it best to let man see only the results of His complex manouvers . And be eternally puzzled.

Do you know what it is like to be God? I treat this question and the many I have asked as rhetorics, because I know that if you havent gotten high, you DO NOT know what it is like to be God. What it is like to be holding intellectual conversations with your cerebellum over a cup of purple coffee. What it is like to know all your pains and yet not be pained by them.

People say that they feel like jumping from a cliff after doping. I say , these people have never doped. Or they were too witless to realize that they werent doping, they were just drunk. For when you dope, You are totally aware of yourself. All your aspirations, all your thoughts, who you are, where you live, which tile in you bathroom is loose, everything. You are not out of your mind, you are too much in it. You are conscious of yourself. Acutely conscious. You are conscious of every nerve ending, and every nerve ending is conscious of you. I am sure, that whoever said "Whole is a part and part is but a part of the whole" (Dont smirk, I think it was Lord Krishna) doped a lot. Or maybe he didnt need to. He was God himself you see.

Anyway. I am blabbing a lot. That seems to be one major sideffect that has taken place. I blabbed non stop for two hours when I was high, and my dutiful biographers recorded such improbably quotable quotes as

"I am God"

"Did I tell you that I once killed Val Kilmer, fucked his wife, and then became him"

"The brain is like a bulb, easy to switch off"

"Drugs and sex go hand in hand, so make a dope movie now of me, and it'll sell like porn" (I like this one the best, just goes to show how acutely aware I was of my rather deplorable financial state :) )

So thats about it. I cannot claim to have conveyed a hundredth of what i felt. For that i'll have to dope again. But I hope I have given a push along the road which has a sign post saying "Hell this way, 3455000 kms" to all ye who cannot bear people who dope.

For face it. You are all cunts, and I am God

And the game plays you

This blog post is an unfortunate, but necessary addition to the shite piled here. Well, since it is necessary , we might as well get over with it quickly.

By the way,I just noticed that starting a post with "This blog post" gives the reader an uneasy feeling , as if the next words are half expected to be " is my last, so goodbye to Moo (my dear pet cow) (sniff)" , or something along the lines of "is my last, for I have found Light in Auroville ". Well, the masochistic reader neednt be scared. I have every intention of continuing with my gentle bombardments.

Anyway, this blog post has nothing to do with Shallow incoherent wordplays. Ahem . Did anyone dare to suggest that? It doesnt even have anything to do with the shallowness (and the depth thereof ) of our everyday lives and our day to day existence. I can imagine you getting to the very edges of your seats at this very moment. In fact, I am not at all writing about shallownewss, so you can get back into your seats .

No. Rather, I talk of that mythical creature, legendary in the circle of her clandestine devotees and yet unknown behind that thick veil of foundation and mascara, The greatest player of the greatest game mankind has ever played, A game that is so vast and complex that even realizing that you never play the game, rather it is the game that plays you can be called a revelation. The creature I talk of, is called as "Target" for reasons unknown (and not to be circulated for public connaissance (in the event of non- existence of nefarious designs) by individuals who have this information)

Do not get me wrong. No one has ever mastered the game. Philosophers have tried to comprehend the game since time immemorial , and have failed. Whatever it is all about, it is beyond the Human race to comprehend it. Target is no different than the rest of us in the sense that she also has scaled a fraction of an infinite peak. But, well, when placed on the same peak, it is easy to see that she is way higher up .

So it started like this. The game might have noticed that I cheat. So it sent along Target, for, remember, the game plays us. After the customary courtesies, I started playing my own little game, and thought I was a genius. Little did I know that I was a piece on a board. I started ignoring her. Generally works. But she did a somersault that firmly put me back into my place. She applied my own medicine to me, only, she was a lot better at playing the game that I imagined was my own invention and copyrighted belonging. Now they say that if a guy ignores a girl, the guy becomes ten times more appealing, but if it happens the other way round, well, if it happens the other way round, 90% of such cases culminate in a mental institution. Guys are a lot weaker in constitution you see.

So I started getting crazier by the day, and started acting as if I were in a trance. I gave motorized vehicles a shot, ( I mean tried driving them ), but they were not much fun. Vodka didnt relieve me either, and I dont think Pot will either. I tried washing my clothes this evening, That gave me some temporary relief, but its still there, clinging to me like a lobster clings to , whatever, you get the point.

And all this while, she has just been smirking. I am sure The game has cooked up a nice little concoction for her too, For even the greates are not immune, and the greater the player, the greater the need for that player to be humbled. Thats the irony. You think you are immune until it hits you like a rocket in your stomach.As long as you think you are playing the game, The game is happy. But as soon as you are aware of the game's existence, but you are naive enough to believe that you are playing with the game , then the game gets angry.

And then, you feel what its really like to be played

Reminiscences?

Its funny how the brain works. No, I am not referring to the left half of your brain or the right, the upper cerebellum or the lower cerebrum, I am referring to that tiny little department tucked away into those dark alleys of your brain, with the sheer confidence that it has concealed itself from your prying gaze forever. Yes, that one. I am talking about the Memory Department.

Its rather funny that I should be struck by it today, for today was no different than yesterday, or for that matter the day before that. I was reading through a rather riveting novel, in which one of the protagonists (???) was traveling through the rain swept plains of undivided India, marvelling with childlike wonder at the bizarre spectacle that the flooded fields seemed to a Sahib like him. And quite unexpectedly, I was carried back to a similar memory from the lost shelves gathering dust in the Department, a vision of flooded plains, and a bamboo shack floating as in defiance to the mighty wrath of nature. I dont even know how much of what comes floating back into my mind actually took place, and how much has since been embedded , thanks to the idiot box. It is so faint, a wisp really, and yet, I can still remember every damn detail of that shack floating in the field. The dull brown clumps of bamboo, everything. The surrounding details might have been constructed by unseen forces, but that shack I can vouch for. So poignantly beautiful a simple shack can be.

And when I cast my mind back along the stinky, abandoned by lanes, hidden deep in the mists of time, I notice, what I have seen all my life without noticing, that I have forgotten so much that I would deem unforgettable at the time of their occurrence, and yet I remember so much that I would be the first one to relegate to the category that we humans label by disgraceful words like trivial.

When I asked my dad to turn on the world news when I was five to impress a rather patronizing bhaiya who lived across the lane and was visiting my place for dinner. Or when I puked over my english exam in class 2 after getting overexcited about a bee that had entered the class, and afterwards I distinctly remember my teacher telling me with a lot of regret that I had gotten 97 as I had misspelt "King" as "Kink" (yeah, I was born horny), in five places. Or when I sat gaping open mouthed at Her during my class 12th board exam, noticing how small her hands were, noticing how the corners of lips pursed upwards while she solved her maths papers, how beautiful she looked sweating in that thin sliver of light illuminating her face.I remember a particular stone in Rue Moufettard for no particular reason. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it, and yet my glance fell on it every single day when I went to buy the paper.

And I remember now, this same thought passing through my head last year, as I was contemplating whether to blog about it or no, and then the rain, and me rushing back to the TV room just in time to see some Dutch guy fouling a Cote d'Ivoire player. And I was infuriated.

But anyway, I think I am rambling.In queen's english no less, but I am. Does the brain have a system, a method in its madness? How does he (forgive the gender bias) select which ones to archive and which ones to cast away? God knows, or does he??

Come to think of it, I remember having said that too. After being asked by my class 8 sanskrit teacher why I thought I was mentally unstable enough not to take a bath for a week. I dont remember what she did to me though

Sweat bites, and barks too

Yes. I finally am discovering every part of my body (the perverts need not read deeper into this sentence than i want them to) thanx to the unbelievably hot chennai weather. I had absolutely no notion that the weather can be so screwy so near the sea.

There I was, a peaceloving UP-ite , sticking to my routine , and I had the temerity (if you will have it thus) to go running at 6:30 this evening. Light sea breeze, temperatures dropping to decent levels, heck, this should be a walk in the park. When I was back, I was producing more sweat than I thought the water content of my body would be. I mean, sure, they do say that man is 70% water, but wow, I never thought that all of it was convertable into sweat. Why, it seemed to me that in places of such inclemet climes , the conversion of water from the "reserved for non sweat purposes" into sweat is as easy as it is to change dollars to pounds. Maybe its recession or something.

What followed is even more bizarre and grotesque. Needless to say that I was in the bathroom doing what one is supposed to be doing in a bathroom (once again, keep your twisted interpretations to yourself) long enough for my room mate to suspect murder by sweat,and when I came out, voila, I was sweating with newfound vigour, as if the bath had replenished my stores of water so that my body could sacrifice increasingly obscene amounts to some satanic sweat god. In fact, even now, sitting in the air conditioned cc, I can hear the vague murmurings of mutiny within my body, as if my sweat glands are waiting for me to step out into the heat so that they can plunge their hearts and souls purposefully into the worship of the demonic lord of sweat.

But , i tell them, that i'll run again. tomorrow. yup. My friends dont call me masochistic for nothing

Sub - Man (from the perspective of a xerox machine)

Being a student of limited capacities of classroom comprehension (limited is only a nice way to put it), I have , over the years, in a peculiar instance of personal adaptation, mastered the art of making scaled down drawings of what I see, on say a blackboard. In fact, I am an unquestioned expert in the art of maintaining proportions when I conscientiously indulge myself sombrely in the art of facsimiling everything in my field of vision onto my notebook.


Of course, it can be a tough ordeal even for a master like me when you are trying to draw all the the contents of the board when you are bein taught by Sub-man. I have, over the years, observed that no matter who is teaching, certain sets of drawings seem to look alike, with minimal deviation. I asked my dad long ago what this implied, and he replied with a somewhat quizzical and incongruous look on his face that "Letters of the alphabet " are bound to look alike, specially when one guy writes them. I wonder what he meant. I mean, English is pictographic isnt it?


But the trouble with Sub-Man is that nothing looks like anything else, and whats more, most drawings he makes look like gooey pieces of refuse. And if that weren't enough, when you are concentrating extremely hard on copying, He'll quack. yes. sure he does. My friends say that he actually means to say "Okay", but I'll bet any day that he is actually a Quack ..oops.. He quacks.
Why, that makes him a big ol' Quack doesnt it?I'll bet he actually doesnt want toteach us a thing,
rather, he is an agent from saturn trying to subliminally force us into slavery and damnation through his quacks, which convey some covert message to our subconcious self.


By the way, speculations apart, did I tell you that he teaches us something caled Quantum Mechanics? Has something to do with Bells and Cats it seems. Queer world. Sure is

The Valiant Spaceman Spiff

The day India lost, Vishnu predicted that a blog post is on its way. Well, he was right, in a way that is, though I am least bothered in callisthenics that the Indian team thinks it is indulging in every time it is out on the field. You get immune to the pain,the heartbreak. Ok in a way, I'd admit I AM in fact ..um.. a touch hurt.. Just a wee bit. In fact, I'd just about give an arm to see India play in the next round

Um. I dont like betraying that you know. The valiant Spaceman Spiff is hanging on the edge, the very edge. His last dose of BorkFluid, and he has 2 years to go. Two years to go in the madhouse, and he is down to his last vial. He cocks his Super Zonk, the 45 magnum of Intergalactic space, and he is at one transformed into all those long whispered, half forgotten characters that The Old Man once told him about. What was he called? Ah yes, Clint Eastwood. Wasnt that the name? Yes. Imagination is verily the key. Though the valiant Spaceman Spiff is chained to the dank prison floor, and has little or no hope of seeing out the next two years, he doesnt lose whatever little is left. He clings to it, and the wings of his fantasy enable him to roam the Intergalactic Medium a free man, as he once was, nay, freer than he ever was.

So where is the room for hate? The Valiant Spaceman Spiff, superhero that he is, also has his Idols, his Heroes. It is true that they have badly let him down. But has he not done the same to thousands of innocent victims of the Scum that populates the Galaxies today? They have forgiven him , at least so he hopes . They understand what immense pressure he was under. He hopes they know that he didnt mean to let them down. So how can he be angry, when he himself is grovelling in the dust, riding on the last wings of his fancy? Ah no, He is not angry. This is the season of forgivness. The season of change. Maybe the warriors he idolized for long have been enfeebled by long years of care and playing with The Fire?

Maybe , like his heroes, his time has come too. Maybe, Valiant Spaceman Spiff wont walk so proud any longer. Maybe the scurvy , slimy Turks wont flee from his glance any longer. Maybe he'll just be an old centurion sitting in a forgotten Bar in the Slums of the Universe, forgotten, bloated, an old degenerate freak. In fact he already is. He walks free no longer. He remembers the chores that his cruel taskmaster assigned for tomorrow. A broken Superhero, he trudges on to the banalities of everyday existence. He takes a sip from his vial to face up to the hardships his life entails...

Gee, maybe I shouldnt read so much of Calvin and Hobbes

Deja vu..and you thought he wasnt a champion

Life goes on in that undying circle, so do I. Barring the very obvious indications that statement makes towards the fact that forced sleeplessness during the Midsems has left me so tired that I cant sleep even now, I was actually referring to the (glorious) return of Sourav Ganguly, for whom I have, at this point in time, more respect than when I saw him unleash those furious sixes against Pollock, nay, indeed than I ever had for him.


For face it, all ye who cant bear the sight of him, He is made of the fabric of Champions. Like the greek heroes of lore, he has his failings. The greek champions were not Gods.They were ordinary mortals, whose extarordinary courage earned them the respect of even the Gods.The Short ball, his achilles heel, still remains so. It isnt as if he looks any better against the short ball than he did when he was kicked out.But its his cussed belief in himself that has seen him through an ordeal, that believe me, for 99.95% players at his age, usually spells their end.


I see Sampras fans (May their tribe increase) arguing all the time with Federer fans as to who the greatest was. In the end, it doesnt matter. For Sampras did a Laazarus in that 2002 US Open. You could see he was finished, playing against kids ten years his junior, with limbs that have seen 10 years less than his creaky joints. He hadnt won anything in two and a half years, and Tennis Pundits were wondering why he was spoiling a blemishless record by not retiring. He had after all , achieved everything, wasnt that so? But that last gasp effort proved everyone wrong, didnt it? He hadnt, achieved "everything". Now he has. And even when Federer goes past him, he'll have his place in the Valhalla of tired warriors.For now he bears the true mark of a champion.Being able to come back when the whole world believes (maybe even with a reason) that you are done and wrapped up.


So when Ganguly got run out on 98 in Nagpur, my friends were rather surprised to find that I was not in the least upset. For I realized , that it isnt about numbers any longer. Its about an old lion once again showing the cubs Who roared before. He isnt infallable.But I do sense that he is at the point in his life when nothing can touch him. He has attained, if you like, nirvana.How many seasons will he play? The fan in me says another three to four, and he well might, but It really doesnt matter anymore.He said in a press conference before he left for South Africa that he sensed at some level that his story wasnt written yet. It still lacked a suitable ending.Of course, people laughed.


"Do what you may,you'll never keep him out too long. He always comes back" , I heard one of my friends quip.The very ardent fan in me wants to believe that.But of course, deep within, you sense that this time when he fades away, he'll probably do so for good.But then who can discount lifes glorious uncertainties? and the extarordinary power of the Human Mind, which when tapped in the slightest degree, yields results that are strange to the very same human mind. But no more dark words of gloom. Our Hero has afforded us another hour of Joy, after countless such, so what if its probably the last.We have a world cup coming up , remember?


At this moment , I remember the words of a song that I always listen before Exams. The song never fails to lift my spirits. Here it goes


He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the better times:

Dont cry for me
Next door neighbour...

I get knocked down
But I get up again
Youre never going to
Keep me down

I get knocked down
But I get up again
Youre never going to
Keep me down...

I wouldnt be surprised if it turns out that he sings that to himself every morning.

An apology

Well, it just so happened that I was a bit ..too open in the last few posts I posted on this blog, Which isnt necessarily a bad thing, as I was given to understand, if one is writing in his diary.

But as it turned out, I wrote it on a publicly accessible domain, and one of the posts happened to have my name on it,so if you happen to google my name right now (as one of my esteemed friends did, but unfortunately he/she chose to remain anonymous when he/she brought it to my notice) the first link is the one to my blog, which I might add, is good enough to cause a miniature heartattack to decent folk, specially the last few posts.Humor, as some wise man must have said, comes in flavours, and I briefly forgot that though my posts are meant to be humorous, they might be viewed as offensive.

Ergo, my deepest regrets. If I have, by virtue of being too lewd , hurt any sentiments/feelings, my deepest apologies. Though I must add, that I personally dont see much harm in writing freely, though writing under your own name isnt always a good idea in a civilized society. Nevertheless, my sincerest apologies to anybody to whom its due.

Last but not the least, Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Mongrels and other lazy procrastinators

Well.... so here we are again... I must tell the fictitious reader that I am deeply concerned that I am over shiting on my own blog.A shithouse can also be taken beyond repair you know. Why , I still remember the days when this place had a beautiful mahogany panelled...whatever..you get the point I suppose
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Which brings me to the question, Why do we blog? It is, as many might (or might not) agree , a fad these days. I mean cmon. You honestly dont believe the bare your soul shit to the heavens shit? And even if some one were indeed baring his/her soul in the understood sense of the term, whatever would make some one read it. Here I am not taking into account the not so infrequent occurence of making your friends go through your blog with a beretta cocked at their temples (I being an eminent practitioner par excellence of this dying form of art) Indeed, In the words of Ace Ventura , "Denial can be a dangerous thing", something that you understand in its full glory only when you find youself in similar circumstances , with a cold hard steel barrell sticking up your arse. Whatever.
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Those who do not blog on the other hand, find it a highly tiresome and gruesome and obnoxious (dear, whatever happened to my vocabulary) actuvity. But well, in the absence of good quality Females and/or pornography (good quality too) , what else can one do? Its a sad situation to find oneself in. Lack of females at this juncture in ones life can be deadly. When you have Hormones pumping through your veins (sorry, I flunked Biology) or wherever they are s'posed to be pumping through, you need an outlet for your carnal desires. well, almost literally, you need parking space. Well whatever. I can almost visualize some decent peace loving folk who might have ventured out onto these unchartered waters getting a heartattack of sorts at the level of detail I am going into. Well, i'll make it short and sweet . We all need SEX . A simple three letter word, but dangerously effective at quelling the need to blog.
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Well.So where were we? Yeah, why do we blog. Oh well, coz we have nothing else to do...thats why. What did you think eh? I wouldnt suppose that we can fill in our dearth of good quality women, or good quality pornography by writing. Well, I dont suppose that women would fall for a guy because he can write (though lemme tell any girl who is reading this, and this is not self advertising or anything, that I am oozing in the primeaval sex appeal that is so necessary in order to take the sequence of events that eventually lead to ...whatever... or maybe more than one whatever. If you are good baby, I can help you get three or four whatevers..whatever). Oh well. see, nothing happened..not even a phone call to check whether I am worth it or not...damn
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So now you see, why we blog? Because we are free-males. Not that we like it (aw shit...I hate it in fact..bitch) But well, whats there next to getting laid or watching some one get laid by a playboy playmate ? why writing about it of course. So there you are. We are rabbits residing in a happy world filled with nasty grey wolves, which I am sure is not too uncommon..whatever
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ps: Anybody with good quality porn? I dont watch horses and human girls, or men and bitches, or elephants and 13 year old asian brunettes or whatever. I find it most disgusting

Munnar

I recently read a very illuminating article that compared blogging to fellatio. Apparently , the basis of the comparison, according to the autor of the blog (my face has a jim carrey like expession at the moment) is that both are ego boosters...so the aforementioned gentleman finds it imperative to denounce both varieties of hypocrites .

No, I dont know the person. I invite you to hunt him down , if you have the time. Recently , I saw a big debate on Youtube between some guy who claimed that hes the biggest porn star of the century and another who ran some kind of e-porn church.....Some anti porn site....That guy claimed that he is a "Porn Parish", and was supposedly passionately against porn...whatever, The civilized world is a real wierd place...heaven knows how we keep ourselves from going insane.

So recently, I went to a place that I was happy to find hasnt degenerated into a grotesque masquerade, as most things in our lives have indeed. The place is a remote tea plantation town, nestled about 5000 feet above sea level in Kerela, called Munnar.I am very sure that the rate at which they are cutting trees, there soon wont be any left. But well, thats besides the point. I probably never have breathed air fresher than i breathed while I was there. The fact that the breeze smells of tea (a very faint tinge of a smell, maybe even psychological) is merely an extra factor. I have often seen people (in movies and all) standing on a peak and spreading their arms and breathing in the air. I am always insanely jealous of people who get to do all these things... So I made it a point to climb as high as I could up a particular peak (which lay within a Mountain Goat reserve I visited) , and though I didnt make it to the top , I must say that it was breathtaking.Why, I even got a Nilgiri Tahr to pose against the scene of miles around ;))

Well. I am meandering, but I cant help it. For example, have you ever drove into a cloud while listening to Misty Mountain Hop? I assure you that it did indeed happen to me, and when I have finished convincing you that it really DID happen, I have also to tell you that it wasnt intentional. I just happened top be listening to some arbitrary playlist on my way to Munnar, when the car drove straight into what from a distance seemed to be a cloud some way above the road. So I was actually shocked (more like alarmed) when I suddenly saw that the car I was sitting in was driving staright onto that cloud, and moreover, it wasnt all that high at all, in fact it seemed to have totally gobbled up that section of the road. And well, you wont believe the next coincidence. The song finished just as the car was emerging from that cloud pocket. And the next song on the list happened to be Stairway to Heaven.

Did I just say that wierd things do not happen to me?

Well, since I am positively meandering, I will stop doing so. "Keep them short" one of my friends told me recently in relation to my blog posts. So I will.

And besides, if I am to believe Mr.Egotistical-Baboon-Catcher , I am merely posting this in order to boost my ego. I'd love to meet him one of these days

It is really exasperating to think of a suitable title to afford people aglimpse into what you have written!!!!!

I dont know why...

I just got an urge to write now...... I just happened to watch Runaway Bride awhile ago...a dose of mush after nearly three months of self imposed deprivation . I am not too sure lack of mush is necessarily a good thing for me, given that I happen to be a really mushy creature.

Ok...enough of this candyfloss yarn . I was just wondering about poached eggs and ponytails. I was thinking, that maybe having an above average vocabulary is not as nearly good a criterion for writing well as... well... as knowing how to write well,maybe? Or maybe writing what you feel about.

You see, thats the problem. The problem is that nobody reads your blogs until and unless its readable. So you write (ok I write) what I think what other people would like to read. But I forgot rule number one. The first and only rule of writing. You see, civilization, among other things, despoiled and laid to waste the immensely beautiful facts of nature,

And Imagination was one of them. When a dog barks on the streets, its because it has a discretely definable set of needs. Needs. Yes needs essential to its survival. But Human beings had something more. there was something more we were endowed with. Behavourialists viewed this extra thing as purely quantitative. So they said. animals can think. We can think more. So dont be too surprised is in the distant future, Humans plough the lands, while cows flog them.

But humans have something thats not discretely quantifiable.
Humans have Imagination.

But you know what, Since time immemorial Nature has attempted to bridge the great divide. Through our urges to impose uniformity on something thats essentially non-uniform. Its precisely our disciplining bent that makes us animals.

Yes siree.. So giving in to your primeaval instincts is not proverbially "Unleashing the beast". Trying to fit each and everything to the protype IS INDEED. Look at the animal world. Its ruled by order.Discrete order.
Dogs have certain howls when its hungry,certain others when its in pain. its just stimulus to response
Look at the animal world. Isnt it ruled by order?
deer eats grass. tiger eats deer. Would you believe me if I told you that I saw a deer eating a tiger?
You wouldnt, and I wouldnt blame you.
But would you doubt it if I told you that i imagined a deer eating a tiger?
See? Who tells us what we can think and what we cant?We can imagine as we wish

You know what? If indeed 1984 happens , Then it would be a demise of mankind far worse than George Orwell ever thought possible!!! For we would no longer be men. We would be animals.

And thats what I saw today.I had a revelation. Of sorts. I hope i'll have far clearer transmission when I recieve the ultimate revelation of my life . Heaven was cloudy today. So, to be very fair, the transmission wasnt that clear today. But I got the message fair and clear.

Dont write for others , a white winged creature seemed to tell me . I mentioned the white wings because Specifying only the wings of these ubiquitously invisible creatures has in fact led (in the past) people to believe that I am referring to annoying little pests. And they say ,"Dont listen to pests. Just spray a bit of Baygon on them. I have some at my home. You can take it home , and return it when you are finished. Thank you. Hallelujah."
And off I went on my pest extermination missions.

But I have seen today. I know who the pest really is.The pest , like what its feeding on, is in the mind. If the cabbage is within, how can the insect be without? No. its all in the mind. Its this annoying little pest, this li'l tendency of dechaosify chaos thats really the pest thats been feeding on my imagination. When I want to think, I think , but not what I was thinking, but about the words I am gonna use to make it look it more presentable.

Now, I no longer wish to make it ultra presentable. Just for the records, Its more of a letter to myself, a letter of apology to the creature I had kept in the darkest of dungeons in the remotest alleys of my mind. Yes, this is a letter of apology to my imagination. Who I have chained, poor creature.

Chained to the dark, Chained to the sky, The deep blue sky. U can see its silhoutte against the dark blue sky. U can see it writhing in eternal agony, A dangerous beast moaning in pain. Its dangerous, because if on the loose , it can lead to your isolation from humankind. Its really awkward. Humans are defined by the ever holding principle of "Cogito Ergo Sum". And yet, you feel at some level, that "jumping in the bandwagon" is, ironically, also what defines humanity.

So if you aint religious, U are a potato, if you were living in the 13th century.
If you dont write what ppl wanna read, you are an insane goat to be tied to a neem tree with a barbed wire in todays world.

But you know what? Its a sacrifice I make gladly. Hordes of demons and fairies, hellish jalapenoes and cloudy candy floss, fairies seen by the minds eye and nightmare that take you eyes out, await me.

Dreaming world beckons. Sandman throws sand into my eyes. I fade away.

If I died now, I'd die happy. I have rediscovered my best friend. He was just under the nets I had placed for him myself. but now i'll cut the ropes. I have my best friend back. mankind aint friends with me. So I cant help it if mankind finds me boring or wierd or any other thing like that , thats mankinds concern , not mine.

For i'll write as and what pleases me from now.And since we've gone a long way in proving that there is nothing called mankind , and identifiable human emotions and all that silly shite that really dont matter,Mankind can just as well go to hell.

Hallelujah

Stuffed squirrels ,cracked mirrors and other Shite

Its been a very long time since I blogged. More than a month to be precise. It isnt as if I havent had anything interesting happening to me these days. The problem, it seems to me, lies in abundance. Plenty is a pain indeed, and people yearn fot it!!

I have these really wierd ideas . But its as if I need to put them down in writing at that moment itself, otherwise swarms of other ideas come into my mind. I had this idea about squirrels. I really do admire them. They , to me , embody the very spirit of detachedness. They'll peacefully nibble at a nut for the whole day, while we humans crib and cry about our travails. You could even say that I am jealous of them.But just as I thought i'd write a blog entry about them, I started thinking of grandiose words ... "Effervescent","Transience",and all that shite that reallly doesnt matter. But words are dangerous things. They take you away from the road you were walking on, and put you in an altogether different city, familiar but different. So then I started thinking about how squirrels remind me of all those things that they should not remind me of, and then about why they should not remind me of the things I thought they should not remind me of.....You know, all that kind of silly shite.

So thats how it has been. A friend of mine told me to think about what I am going to write. Works for him. Doesnt seem to for me!!! I see these detached chapters of some great story, grander than you and I have ever read in my life. But I see them all jumbled up and mixed up, Chapter 49 after Chapter 2. And just like an ant on a rolling wheel, I can sense that there is something really huge going on, and it may be beyond me, but all these seemingly uncorrelated pieces of paper flitting by in front of my eyes are really meant to be held together by one cover. I guess thats what separates a great writer from ordinary ones(if you are ready to ascribe at least that to me). There is no Neverland, that magical place where you can go if you believe you can. Its right here, right now, scurrying by you like a squirrel. Dont try to grab it, just lose yourself in it. After all, reality is what we believe, isnt it?

So much for all that limbo. All that groping about for the torch is really a fruitless activity. All pretences at sense is really a wild jab at a demon that does not exist. Because that eternal quest of mankind to make everything everything sensible actually makes things more insensible. The truth of the jigsaw puzzle is not in the fact that they give a coherent picture when arranged in a certain way, but in the fact that they are meant to be jumbled up. Every piece has its own story. Look carefully. Each piece has a story to tell. Look at the edges. You'll see the places where the paper hasnt cut neatly, and how the paper tapers off towards the edges. That is its reality. Otherwise, if a picture is all that you needed, why not take a photo and stare at it!!!

Its possible that i'll never be able to write a contiguous line of action, because I stopped having continuous streams of thought a very long time back. Now i just have glimpses. These flashes of the world that i so yearn to be a part of, not knowing that I already am. I see these unconnected pieces flying like popcorn, not realizing that its my own life i am seeing. Sure its unconnected, but whoever said anything about an individual being connected!!!

So in away we are all like the guy in Memento...all of us lack ashort term memory...at least as soon as we try to do anything of substance...You remember your face when you see yourself in the mirror. You can recall you face. But is your own face imprinted in your mind in a way that it actually leaves its mark on everything you do? I would think not... Its not only easy to forget who you are, why you are thinking what you are thinking, and indeed what you were thinking, because its perfectly human to do so. The burden of mankind lies in its ability to think. Thats why we forget what we wrre thinking. There wouldnt be a problem if we didnt think at all!

And after all. All of us need mirrors. To remind us who we are. To help us piece together something that looks coherent, whereas nothing is. The mirror not only reflects reality, it constructs it.

Look into it. Is it you in the mirror, or are you a creation of it?

Another Day..

I type in the first line of this post, fully aware of the fact that the title of this post is so only because Mr.Petrucci and co. are playing a song bearing the same name for my royal highness at this very moment. I must warn you though, that I have absolutely no idea what I am writing about (and you thought I never had..imbecile)..I must also confess (and for this, I would not blame you if I draw at least a pained grimace from you) that the name Petrucci always reminds me of Miss Belluci, and her rather infamous scene that I have never had the privilege of being able to watch, but had had the rather discomfiting experience of sitting in a lecture sandwiched between two people hellbent on resolving arguments regarding the subtle nuances of the same, and that too on more than one occasion.

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Anyway.Another day I think. Life seems to be stationary at every point. They say when you are about to die,everything slows down to an infinitismal speed. Life moves on in slow motion as if to make a statement, that it does not accept the so called inevitability of death. The only other place that i have encountered "Bullet time" is in Max Payne and movies. My life seems to hang in a very similar position in the eternal abyss of time, frozen in some fantastic pose, neither moving forward, nor backward, just making blank statements and staring dead ahead, but never moving ahead into the kill (the existence of which I am postulating at this moment, for truely I have never seen it). Maybe I am dead, Maybe everyone I share my world with is.

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An old hunchback once told me that there is no kill . He told me that we are marrionettes in the hands of time. They say that a man shrivels up as he gets older, and when he dies, he is the same size as when he was five. My family has seen more drastic reductions in size. My legendary great great great great great grandmother's aunt, had undergone such a shrinkage, both laterally and longitudinally, that when she died ( at the most solemn age opf 156) they had trouble finding her body. But she kept getting louder, and when she finally died by tripping over a pile of books, her last cry could be heard across the village, and it is said that people came in from the next village to pay homage to the great departed soul. That is precisely what emboldened the British to renew atrocities on the villagers(which they had suspended indefinitely, fearing that the old lady would misconstrue their intentions, and might subject them to her wrath. But the my great great great great great grandmother ( who herself was 129 at that time, and with a ubquity to match), took up the lead, and finally started the movement that finally drove the British out of India. Its a little known fact that the British had to leave India maddened by the sudden emergence of befuddling tendency of the natives to shout at them in unison when they passed by in the streets.

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But , with the modern advances in medicine, I am very sure that I will be able to enjoy a comfortable death when I am seventy(or eighty). So its highly unlikely that I will display the circularity of life, and the moribundity of time when I am dead. But if one chooses, one can in fact. Just do not let medicine interfere in your life .

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But that takes nothing away from the fact that life is in fact still. Any timescale you take, life will inevitably seem to be static in that timscale, and yet paradoxically, you will always see huge waves rolling and thrashing in larger timescales, and myriads of eddies glistening like quicksilver in shorter timescales. And yet , in the timescale which is our typical timescale of registering any manner of change, there never seems to be any change. Life seems to be circular, and yet paradoxically, you cannot figure out where exactly it is changing direction at every moment that is so paramount for life to be circular.

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So maybe life is not like the long circular tunnel its often been likened to, where you eventually come back exactly where you started, and then you drop dead. Maybe life is like an island hanging in some abstract corridor, where you are given a gun when you are born. You stand in the very place where you were originally placed,and the tapestry on the wall never changes, while people, places, perceptions, histories speed by you. You have been instructed by God to shoot at whatever you can. And one sunny day, you shoot a handsome chap in faded jeans, and when you turn him over to see who you got, you stare into your own face. sixty years younger. Your judgement, clouded by all those medicines clears. But alas it is too late.

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You are dead

The Madcap... smokes...

First of all, this has nothing to do with Syd Barrett . Only that I was fascinated by the idea of a schizophrenic trying to record songs that would be inextricably linked with the state of his mind, and would thus almost be a first person narrative of schizophrenia. Not that it is implausible, or unthinkable, but that doesnt make it a bit unphanatsmagorical (note the deliberate introduction of that word . Browse through the blog, and if you are indeed inclined to indulge yourself in the utterly useless activity of finding a pin in a haystack, you may indeed come to the conclusion that i have a weakness for long fancy abstruse words, "phantasmagoria" being one of my favourites).

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I have started discovering windows now (that sounded obtuse didnt it?) . Windows of perception which I never even noticed before, leave alone their affording me whole new vistas into a reality that is as deliberately surreal as all other facets of human existence. The fact that all aforemontioned facets of human existence are indeed surreal, is also something that I saw from one of these windows. I have started discovering that a couple of Gudang Garams can afford a miniaturised version of what Calliope showed Homer ( Oh , you honestly dont think he did that all by himself without a muse??) . So what if Calliope really was a gigantic , perpetually lighted cigar?? A contestable hypothesis, but not one I would rule out completely. Symbolicism rules.

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The best part is arguably the flashes. You smoke one. Your whole body is gripped in unfelt tremors. Yours ears ring with unseen whispers, unheard apparitions floating in front of yours eyes. As with pornography though, Smoke in small quantities is a stimulant, not a depressant. The unnamed feelings give rise to an urge to feel them. So the subsequent Kreteks follow.By the time you have smoked three (three levels...not literally three....it takes three for me, it might take ten for a hardcore addict) , you alight to another world of tangible infirmity.

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All that seemed impalpable before seems to be the very things that make sense. Screams of forsaken delight, cascades of ideas, maddening flashes, the world alighting on yours shoulders, and then the only irony seems to be in the fact that you are still part of it.The magnified extrapolations of thoughts, where you seem to be able to think what you are going to think about what you were thinking yesterday, when you overheard somebody thinking aloud. And you are transformed into a child alone in a cathedral of a thousand painted windows, the sun shining bright outside, and the myriads of dream shadows coloring the floor, each shadow a dream, each dream a shadow. You start noticing each speck of dust flying about in the air , think what an atom is thinking, you are everything, and everything is you, And all of a sudden, you feel the pain of the grass when the careless schoolkid inadvertently kicked out a tuft out of the ground with his new pair of boots that his father bought him with a firm warning instructing him not to partake in such activities which would make it obligatory for him to buy a new pair within six months.You feel the pain , or what is better described by the urdu term "dard".You feel the pain because that is the only thing that is non transitional in an otherwise transitory existence. Everything dies, the pain lives on. Look at Darwin's theory, summed up beautifully in seven syllables , "Survival of the fittest". Look deeper.It talks of pain. Pain inflicted continuously by one aspect of this world on another, a sort of slow self decomposition, which in a way is necessary, as argued by philosophers, when the resources are limited. But the crux is pain.Feel it.

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Alas I stray too much. I am not numb anymore. I can feel each pin prick me, a thousand pins pricking me, thousand combing into one, tearing me apart. The sun sets on the world's intellect, even in this nocturnal world , the existence of which I am vaguely aware of, and which is vaguely aware of the fact that I am. In fact, so vaguely, that I being part of it, have doubts whether I am.Could it not be that i am a dream, a pipe dream, arising from the ashes in some antiquated ashtray in that old abandoned house with pink walls in that forgotten by lane in the city that Time built within my brain, waiting to be swept away by that slightest gust of the cold westwind that promises much but nevers arrives? Till then, I will recline on this easy chair, while watching the moon set over the amazonian jungles, mosquitoes biting me to death and injecting into my blood the residues of uranium from Chernobyl. Let the world think I am schizophrenic. I dont care, because I know that the world lies. Because I know that I no longer exist, And that I exist in everything, spread like marmalade over all of Life. I am in the lizard on the wall, in the molecules of Oxygen and nitrogen that strike against the calender fluttering against the wall, and In the red ink marking the state holidays on it. I am existence, Omnipotent, Ubiquitos.

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I think I will try out cocaine next. Heard lots about it.

A Confession

First, the confession : I suddenly realize that I dont want to do anything I am doing at this point in my life. I want to be me as I am, not me as I am NOW, but me as I REALLY am.

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The beat has been beating in my head, but I have been too stupid to notice it, too naive to hear it or shall I say, too Comfortably Numb. It has reached a crescendo though , this beat in my head (specially after I had the misfortune of watching a few movies and reading a few books that unfortunately washed away some of the crust that had deposited on my eyes), and has reached a pace, a sheer frightening rapidity that makes me fear its all going to spill out in a bloody mess sooner or later.Needless to say , it has come out of a rising feeling inside of me that what I am about to get out of my system is indeed something that I must get out before it is too late, though I haven't much of a clue what it would be too late for,because the situation I feel is already hopelessly irredeemable

.

So now i'll proceed to describe to the hypothetical reader, whom I assume to be the absolute epitome of perfection (rather unfairly, I realize, but bear with me) this Beat that has been beating in my head and driving me irrevocably insane.

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When I was a kid , (which is not all that long back , at least in the world's frame of reference) I used to be very fond of retorting to anything that my parents suggested that i did not quite approve of (and there were quite a lot of such things) with an all encompassing, all pervading argument that I didnt want to turn into a "vegetable" .Of course, there were certain parameters I had in mind, and were they within certain ambiguously defined upper and lower bounds, I would attribute the term "vegetable" to that entity. Well, ladies and gentlemen, lo and behold, for it struck me a few days back that I am in fact vegetating. Leading that very state of existence that held so many horrors for me when I was younger.

.

Of course, it isnt that bad. In fact , if you are sane enough (here sane is to be read as partially deaf,dumb, blind and completely incapable of independent thought, as I myself was some time back) , you would probably find me guilty of cribbing. You would ask, what does this guy want? He is leading a comfortable enought life. Attending to all his carnal needs. Why, he is even "doing well" . So what the hell can he be complaining about?

.

Let me ask you to ask yourself, are you doing what YOU wanted to do. (Okay, that was a rhetorical). You know, I dont know how the world converted me. I dont know when my "baptisme a la feu" took place. I cannot pinpoint a certain point of time when I underwent that sudden change of "plans" . I only remember , in the long lost abyss of the past, that I wanted to be an adventurer, a lover, a poet, flying through dusty desolate roads on my harley with nowhere to go, no aim in mind . And the next thing I remember was that (and this wasnt so long back) , was that I wanted to get into IIT. The mind plays cruel tricks , doesnt it, for I cant pinpoint this "momentous" event when I inadvertently sung the Requiem to my own boyhood Dreams.

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It would probably be fair to say that I am the perfect everything, to everybody apart from of course myself. Maybe because you can wrong yourself and get away with it. Nobody complains, and even if someone does, you can always ignore yourself , isnt it? Its just that you have to cut all connections with yourself, so that you can't hear youself screaming for breath on whatever intercom system that your "self" might be using. I have never connected with any single individual in my whole life. In fact, that was precisely what struck me when I watched "Before sunset". I have lead a hollow existence, because , in Celine's words , if god exists, he doesnt exist In individuals, but rather in the space in between, in the process of understanding somebody, even if that somebody is yourself, He is brought out in that effort made. I have never understood myself, or anybody else, so you can comfortably label me as quite..ah.."Godless".

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I want to be blatantly honest. Its so much of a relief when one is honest. Its so much better when you can see around the corners. Blind corners are dangerous things indeed. I want to be blatantly honest, like Yossarian, the protagonist(??) of Catch 22. I want to go around naked when I want to, like Yossarian did.If I love someone, I want to be able to tell them. Most of all, I want to be able to honest to myself. I want to be able to not give a fuck for a thing I this world. But you know what? I cant. I dont have the guts , the pluck to live my life on my terms, for I have the mortal fear of being labelled the eponymous rebel, the quintissential Prodigal Son. And you know what? The society is seldom more cruel than it is when it is picking after these so called "Rebels". That is why, I prefer a slow death than being something that surely must feel like being hurled down from a two storeyed bulding onto a freshly cemented sidewalk, enough to incapacitate and paralyze you for life, and yet not enough to kill you off.(Oh yes, I forgot to add. All this is coming out in a forced moment of revelation. So the next time you meet me, dont be too surprised if I refute the aforestated statement.Infact in all likelihood I WILL say that I am not afraid of any kind torment, and other such blah blahs).So I am afraid there is absolutely no way I see I'll find myself , at least in this stint on Earth.

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Sometimes I feel I can hold it no further. I want to scream my brain out, though some of my friends tell me that would be a most horrifying way to perish.Sometimes I feel tempted to overstep the line here and there. But , never have I actually. That warning flash in my mind always precedes any such thoughts that might have been directed at "breaking the rules", So I have never actually considered doing so seriously, ever.And therefore, you could probably label me as a masochist, a harmless gutless pooped ninny pied masochist, who is one solely because he is too scared to hurt any body else, and yet has the incapacitating neccessity to inflict pain.I have the wings , but I am afraid to use it.I fear the air is too thin , too rareified, that it cannot hold my weight. I see myself hurling down the fleecy clouds, hitting the ground in a dull disgraceful thud, why, I can even see myself lying in that dusty unmourned heap.That is why I cant even dare to think to use these wings.

.

But you know, one of these days, the way its going, I just might. And that day, I'll find myself, and something in me , something hitherto silent, unheard, just seems to tell me, that I'll be fine

I have no fucking idea what this is :-o

Ok. First of all, I have no fucking idea what this is all about, but you probably already got that from the title of this post. To cut a long story short, I "set out" to blog, and after sitting around for about an hour (with the odd porn clip thrown in) I suddenly remembered (dramatically of course, with appropriate Hitchcock style music playin in the background) that I have many unfinished unpublished posts, which I could publish. This one seems to be from three years back (:-o), and after reading it, it doth seem that I was (very) gay about three years back. However, that is besides the point. I have no fucking idea how I conceived this story would unfold. In fact, had I suffered head trauma and had my memory of the last three years wiped out, I can state with some certainty that one of two things would happen.

a) I would blame it on one my my currently gay friends who still can wield the ugly blade of flowery prose

b) I would actually know what the fuck I was thinking when i was writing this story, and hence probably know how this story was supposed to have ended

Reader must note that I do not quite know if memory wipeout reverts me to the state I was in three years ago, or leaves my state invariant and just erases my memory. But anyway. Help would be appreciated..

So here goes :

" It was a cold , damp, and oppressively still night. The air was thick with the sweet smell of death, as if death herself had descended on this barren wasteland ", He began. He had planned this for days. He hadnt written a blog entry for over a month.He had planned that he would write one starting exactly this way for days, in fact a week to this day to be precise, or "utterly precise" as he liked to say.He was happy, not to mention. He was, as we decent folk would say,
" a nice, dumb bloke" . He had an utterly maladroitly irritatingly unsettling habit of listening to the same song over and over and over again. He was, for instance playing "Zombies" for the fifth time today, and considering that the day was just two hours and sixteen minutes old, well, ladies and gentlemen, you have quite an achievement here. Anyway, back to his blog entry.

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"Nina glanced about herself furtively. She was a pale, a ghastly pale, and if she were to see herself in the state that she found herself , much to her own utter befuddlement , she would surely have a heartattack. It was beyond comprehension, at least beyond her comprehension. "

.

" She was normal, as normal and unremarkable as a mass produced Japanese car. Till this moment that is, when even she could discern that her life had suddenly taken a totally inexplicable, but all pervading change . She was never overtly intellegent, in fact it would be fair to say that she had never said an intellegent thing in her life , but then she had never said a dumb thing in her life either.But she was intellegent enough to know there was something the matter with her. She was a sweet little spoilt girl. She knew that her mother was obnoxiously rich , and that she had absolutely nothing to worry about. Her father of course, was a Son Of a Bitch (and she had a fair idea of that too, though she never bothered to ask him to establish the authenticity of the aforesaid assertion). She had a , shall we say, a "life" , as is the fad to have nowadays . Why, There she was, just four hours ago it seemed, indulging in lascivious talk over luscious food with men as stupid as she herself was, and maybe as rich. She had gone back home from the party, content with life and whatever else she could content with, and had gone to sleep, happy with life, with the smile that this guy had flashed her, with the way that guy had looked at her. In short, she was a dumb , sweet bitch whose sole aim in life was to get laid by a handsome guy who had enough brains to help her from losing all her money."

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"Anyway,she had come back home, and being utterly exhausted from doing nothing, had gone straight to sleep. And then the next thing she could remember was that she had woken up on the cold bench in that park by the pond that her mother had forbidden her to play in as a child, on the pretext that it was where poor children played. In truth, however, it was a sense of dread that the park evoked in her , a strange and inexplicably eerie sense of dread , that prevented her from letting her daughter venture into that park. She could not explain it, and being a superstitous woman, did not make any attempts to, and simply forbade her daughter to play there. So her daughter never did. "

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"Her first reaction was one of utter shock, as it should be when the subject is not clinically insane, which she definitely wasnt.She had sat there with her mouth hanging like those ridiculous cartoons, for a good fifteen minutes or so. In fact it would be fair to say that if IT had happened in those fifteen minutes, she would definitely have died of the shock.

Reflections on Shit (A Humble attempt to comprehend the complexities and subtleties involving consumption of shit)

Shit...
i can almost smell it...

"To (eat) shit or not to (eat) shit...that is the question"

-Shakespeare

Face it, if u dont talk shit...u hear it...
and inspite of the fact that i really dont have any affinity to shit...
still i'd rather spread it around than take it in...
U either make shit...or you eat it...
and eating shit is the ultimate demise for an intellectual being

Of course..there can be several heirarchial levels...
wherein one CAN in theory process shit processed by someone else and throw it out...

In fact all the shit that YOU produce is consumed by some poor fellow in some cranny of this world
(Feel Guilty the next time you shit)
shitty shitkins of a shitbag
confounded pickled gherkin

Of course another theoretical possibilty we can examine is a "Feedback" mechanism ...
u feed on ur own shit and refine it...
make it even more devoid of any useful contents that it might have...
come to think of it...nature rarely shows such phantasmagorical extravagance...but here we see one...
The shit we produce might not be unadulterated shit at all..

Inspite of the fact that i made a statement before that consuming shit may lead to an untimely intellectual demise which might otherwise under similar circumstances have been avoided, the statement made here itself being a very good example of shit that YOU are consuming at this moment and thereby running the risk of an untimely intellectual demise...
Shit..

so where were we....
ok...untimely intellectual demise...no...feedback mechanism..
so yeah
nature should have an inbuilt feedback mechanism...
or rather an inbuilt FORCEfeedback mechanism...
so that the shit goes around in a cycle until its completely devoid of anything that might be remotely useful to the human body...

think of it...

Eventually the human race is bound to need such a mechanism..
inability to eat shit is going to be the ultimate cause for the untimely demise of the human race...
when there will be 50 billion people on the face of this earth...
The feedback mechanism is the only thing that can work..
Of course...
perpetual motion is not possible...
but still this can serve us well...

Of course, every spark of genius is accompanied by a myriad of problems, albeit technical , but problems all the same...

Thermodynamics prohibits sustenance of perpetual motion...
otherwise we'd have been home and dry...
for example...

we produce about half a kilo of shit a day...about 50 percent is completely useless...
so when there are 50 billion ppl on this earth....how do you process that much shit??

Here is where the real spark of genius comes in...
We could make planets....

Think of it
if N = number of people , then amount of shit produced is directly proprtional to number of ppl..
and so is the number of people transferred to exotic locations for ever...

Hmm...truely...an Idea can change your life...

so the population always remains under control...
yippeeeee
Shit...that was goo....

(That typo was intentional)

In the end, i'd like to say(with all the air of sombre modesty that I can muster at this august moment of my victory in the battle that I have sustained for so long against all those kleptomaniacal baboons who did not believe in the Power of Shit) hope to have(in fact I am as sure of it as the fact that the sun actually rises from the west ) contributed to extending the longevity of the human race....

As some wise man once said..."I am sailing into the unknown...."(yeah...somebody with an IQ of above 140 must have said...ok...i did...)....

i hope others as brave as this valiant Shit-knight will also dare to look beyond...

ps: I am hoping to get felicitatory mails from people thrilled at the prospect of spending the rest of their mortal, as well the whole of their immortal lives on PLANET SHIT....

The world through my eyes...(Part 2)

Of course, I might ask myself at this point, that Am I talking to anybody??
and what are the implications if I am not???

Is the moon there when nobody is looking???

am i there when nobody is listening????

Do I exist even when somebody is????Or am I but a mirthless phantasm....A phantasm of my own mind....

A phantasm in the mind of a phantasm in the mind of a phantasm in the mind of a phantasm in the mind of a phantasm.......
flying awayawayawayawayawayawayaway......


Me Thinking (or M.T.)
- U will never get her... It is impossible....She is unattainable....dont you fucking realize????she is too good for you....and she ....Do you think that she would fall for your cheap overtures?? Dont you think the ball has been in your court long enough???
Or maybe she too is a phantasm in your mind....So she is behaving exactly the way you dont want her to....
just as is the case with you yourself

My god....nothing ever happens the way you want it to....could it not be that the whole world is a creation of your own brain????eloquently quaintly elegantly prettily eerie, but unreal...But by symmetry then all should have a similar imagined world...So all of us are truely there...but none of us sees the other, Tis only ourselves we see..

Man in blue T shirt...probably unshaven for two weeks...poor PhD students
- Excuse me...are you temp11??? I think I told you not to switch off any terminals even when you are stuck

(M.T.) -Gerrof me son of a bitch.....bloody arse

Me- No acacactually what happened was that...

blue T shirt- I dont think so....You see...(shit)

(M.T.) - &$#&%#&%#&%(*&)(IH
Every dog has his day.....You qualify to have your day by that statement...You bloody son of a bitch

Me- No...I am very sorry...I am sure I will manage call somebody the next time I get stuck (undertone) bloody f*****

(M.T.) - Hellish inferno...I hate this place....but I love it too... VampirishByVirtueOfSuckingHarlotInfested
Streets....Goat....What god made him I wonder???and whereof do I speak of with such grandiloquence??
This is a battle of egoes.... The Crab against the Goat...Nobody wins, because crabs dont eat goats and goats dont eat crabs....But both get hurt....Bad thing....this human thing called ego....always comes up when humans are chaffed....

Why could i not be like the Little Prince????

Because I am not....I am not pure of heart...of course I could be a prude....So that others think that I am...

So if others think I am pure of heart that means I am not...I am a prude....

Because nobody thinks that anybody else is pure of heart... We never really see anybody else save our own noses, do we.....So if we think others think us to be pure of heart then we are imagining that too....
which makes us prudes.....

lady in red kammez-
Do you know how to get this thing working???

me- of course

(M.T.)- why cant you ask someone else????WHY ME FOR GODS SAKE????
..............................................................................

(M.T.) - I think I will take a walk....I love taking that walk....nobody around...Sometimes i like being alone

I dont feel ashamed of myself anymore when I am alone....

I think i will take a short walk in short strides...

Short times of space in short spaces of time.....really...now isnt that so inexorable,......U should feel ashamed....copying verbatim from Joyce.....Not that he would mind though....

Myriads of blue fishes swimming in front of my eyes.....

Does She realize what she means to you????
are you not ashamed of harbouring such feelings for a sweet girl as her???You MentallyUnstableBaboonHavingBananasDreamingOfPinaColadas!!!!! How can you ever think of her like that....

You would hurt her if you were to tell her inspite of knowing that you would hurt her if you tell her that you have no intention of hurting her by telling her that which you are so sure would hurt her were you to tell her

Does that mean that the whole flaw lies in My knowing that I would hurt her feelings if I were to tell her???

Or does that make Me a quintissential brutish roguish animal(preferably a baboon) mentally retarded yet not devoid of a heart??(Such characters as are commonly shown in movies)

She is so very cute.....cute as a lemon pie...no....choclate truffle...bah...whoever said that choclate truffle tastes cute???It is voluptuous.....I love voluptuosity...but only in food...and I just realized that I am making it so much worse by writing thus of it.....

I wish the goat attempts to kill me tomorrow...That is the only way I can kill him and yet not be implicated...
Maybe if I am greviously hurt(but manage to kill him all the same) she will fall for me.....

No....this is so disgusting....Why am I thinking of her like that...I do not deserve anything as good as her....
Wait...but am I no good....I will kill now
......................................................................

Fat man,probably the kind who farts loudly in public....who doesnt fart????but this guy does it loudly....
bloody farty fartacious fartimously farted lungs of his-
Did you see X,You know, a person with a Blue T Shirt??
Me- No actually I havent seen him
(M.T.)-Muhahahahahaha
Farty- Oh, How strange...but I see...are you sure...How long have you been sitting here???
Me-Why, must be close to two hours now...
(M.T.)-Every Dog has his day!!!!!Mark My words..... Every Dog has his day
Farty-Oh I see...well...If he comes then tell him to meet me(muttering) bloody....
Me- Ok Sir, I will definitely tell Him

(M.T.)- Are you sure you should have done that ????
I mean, who are you kidding???

You are the most disgusting creature god ever managed to create

SHUT UP BLOODY VOICE!!!!! I DONT NEED YOU..... GO SCREW SOMEBODY ELSE....
PLEASE......

(waiting.....) I dont know....maybe he was right.....

Myriads of blue fishes swimming in front of my eyes.....Blue with silver streaks running down there spines....
These inexorable sharks try to eat them....But fail miserably....Flail around dear shark, but thou shalt never catch a prey so small......

Am i like the shark or the tiny fish???

Or something in between????

The middle class suffers always.....The tiny fish are big enough to bother them..... They are big enough to be eaten by the sharks, They are not big enough to fight the sharks, They are not small enough to make a meal out of the smaller fish....

Ah....The hellish ordeal that is being stuck in the middle.... and they say that the middle class holds the key
Probably that's not so untrue.... Who else would be food for the big fish???

The Moon is so beautiful tonight
There are clouds in the sky bright
A silver cream halogenic halo
that looks like an inverted volcano

O thee up in the stars of heaven
tell me truely,Do I love Her true??
Tell me ,for bear this pain I cannot
Tell me, tiny specks on a carpet blue??

I cant bear to think any more of her..... Shall I jump???? Take the leap???no....I am not as brave as Kate....
And I do not have a Leopold who loves me....

I think I will read Joyce....The sole soulmate of those beyond the reaches of their own soul.....The soul never dies....It only detaches from the mind and maligns itself in the sands and dirt of time....hurting us as it does so....Ay, The time is ripe.... It is raining outside....And as the rain drops patter with a gentle pitter patter upon the already pattered and battered stone steps, the world swoons around me..... I see it as I have never seen it before, almost as one who doesnot belong to this world anymore.... Ay, I see her here, I feel no regret, an apparition, covered in ghostly,but not ghastly halo....I know now, that this is the world of my imagination.The Time has come for me to start off on my journey.This is my world, as I see it....A phantasmal fantasy....An ecsatically mirthless hourglass...each grain of sand falls in measures....and each hour accurately mapped out in these inexplicably intricate movements of immovably tiny and yet supple grains...Ay,....tis world is strange.... The sand grains are too small to satisfu our curiosity...and the time it measures something too grand for us..... Surely there is no infernally hideously piteous predicament than being stuck in the middle......

The world through my eyes....(Part 1)

Our protagonist P.S.( known by various names to various people....of course...this might reek of
utterlynonconformistlypretentious-ity(The reader is supposed to surmise at this point that the author is clinically mad) ),well. so where were we...

aah yes....That ppl may think that This particular guy who by virtue of being the guy he is writing about, shouldn't deign to write about himself...That he should at least feign dignity if he hath it not......well...at this point the author of this forsaken blog is so utterly obfuscated as to his own intentions that he(which here ironically could also be replaced by the word "I") decides to let it be...

So..we are looking at the world through the eyes of a certain gentle(???)man called P.S.....Let us make it clear that his life is dominated by few characters.....He is senile for his age.....He also has unworldly conceptions about most people, which makes him really uncomfortable in company of most people....

His life is dominated by a mythical figure, a maiden we know he will never get...We will refer to her as "She" and "Her"....(pity of English language this....when something belongs to "Him" then it is "His"....Though "He" might not realize it....But it is hardly so with "Her"...when something belongs to "Her",it is "Hers"...and "She" invariably realizes it....) The person who is insane enough to read till this point will, the author(also referred to as "I", or P.S.) expects them to go to the next level of insanity and and see beyond the obvious implications of the statement which our royal highness "I" had the great majesty to reveal upon the poor brethern within the pair of round brackets a while back......

Anyway....Another mythical (or is it???) creature dominating his life is a person who is truely a skuldeggery-and-chicanery-ridden-maladroit-sonofabitch known as ...well...we will call him goat....
short and sweet....really useful animal too....most delicious hindparts....

Well....and there are other people that this rather interesting individual also dapples with...although occasionally.....

A rare display of sanity, of utterlybullshitty-though-rather-sane-piece-of-sanity.....The author,who hath the courage to run the risk of disembowelled by letting the world(????) in on his mental processing procedure
has decided that he will carry on in part two....

So read on,if you are insane enough....

The Shithead's name can be acronymised!!!!!!

Ahemmmm........
I think the pic should be self explanatory......NOW you truely know who I AM...........

When I fell in love with "Everything I do..."

Has it ever happened to you….that a song entered your head in a way that you cannot push it out?….Has it ever happened you are sitting there in L3 giving your TA201 exam, running desperately short of time (and being fully aware of that) and still you are humming the tune to yourself simply because you cant help yourself to it???

Happens all the time with me…Yes ladies and gentlemen…this is called falling in love..
It happened to me the first time I heard Bonjovi’s “Livin on a prayer”…and more recently…. It happened about two years back when I first heard “Unforgiven”….It happened a year back when I first heard “Wickerman”…..and wonder of wonders…
It happened day before yesterday …the song in question being Bryan Adam’s “Everything I do”

Well…the element of wonder comes from the fact that all the songs that have made it to my list of those with which I have fallen in love at first sight…(ok ok…not first “sight” per se)…are ones that I have just heard….Part of the sudden infatuation lies in the very fact that it is novel…..You have just heard it for the first time….and something in the tune has seized you…captured you in a way that you think it is inconceivable that it will ever let go….But voila …therein lies the wonder of the thing….the song in question is one I first heard about ten years back…And never….never till this day did it seize me the way it did few days back…

Those were the days when I had very little liking for music…..Not that I had little exposure though….:-))….I mean what with Elvis and Belafonte (my dad’s favourites….
How could I have little exposure to music when he made it a point to “turn it on”, as he put it….every Sunday morning, by popping a cassette of one of the aforementioned into the system)…and Dolly Parton and the Judds and Neil Diamond (my mom insisted that they were way better any day :-)))…and the traditional fare of Kishore and Manna Da (Oh yeah….now you know where my musical roots are from)…..Actually I was the odd one out in those days…A result of a rather ugly mutation of genes that rendered me incapable of appreciating music of any form… Much to the chagrin of my parents…who to artificially cure this trait of uncivilization sent me to a music class :-))))

Well…then music was born in me….(Ok that’s a pretty clichéd sentence…but cant really help it)….But this song belongs to those “Good old days” as it were….it was really my first foray into music of the nineties….When there was no music in my life to torment me (sniffles….followed by a really sentimental scene featuring me blowing my nose)…I remember the first time I heard it…It was when “Robin Hood and the prince of thieves” was being aired on star movies….I had no cable at my place …I went to somebody else’s place to watch it….Those were the wonder years….Why ,it was even before the time when I used to classify Bonjovi as rock…..Aah….but I remember it as vividly as if it were only yesterday….

And now I really must run….Not much time to write blogs when you are actually watching your ass being chewed off live…..But I cant help smiling…..This is pretty inconceivable….is it not….It is like falling in love with a person you have known…(with no accompaniment oh heart palpitations) for years…..Hmm….I can only wonder…can this happen in real life????



(Knowing evil grin….short lived though…There is a lizard making some nasty gestures at me…trying to scare me off…now can you believe THAT??)

Interpreting Dreams...

Well...actually...its not really a guide to interpreting dreams that i m attempting to write...
I have had two fairly spectacular dreams in the past week ...and voila.....i will subject u to the torture of having to read two utterly crappy poems that came out of them...


So here goes...dont shoot me


Dream 1: The Nightmare....I had something very similar two nights ago

I woke up late last night,breaking a cold sweat,
Was i not sure that I heard a creeky sound?
My heart skipped a beat, there was a buzz in my ear,
As i imagined ghastly demons and misshapen hounds.

I sat up in my bed, but the room I could not light,
As I saw the fearsome shadows on my pane,
My mind was benumbed by waking pangs of fear
I summoned all my courage, but twas all in vain.

And now I saw this strange shape in the sky,
Which I could see from the window of my room,
It was terror, aye, muted me to still of death,
As I saw, a snake coming out of a blood red moon!

My end is near, thought I in panic great,
My mind was waning,clearly I could not think,
Next thing I knew, I was lying on the floor,
wrestling with my pillow, just a bad dream!

Dream 2:gosh I am bad at this....Ok ...recursive dream :-))....U tell me what I should name It

I dreamt in my slumber's depth last night,
A castle,with a maiden fair and pure,
She had all that the heart can yearn,
But her face showed a cancer with no cure?

Then came a prince, handsome and brave,
Aye, a steel armour and a bayonet of goldm
His charm matched,his courage exceeded
The Knights you know from tales and lore.

The prince ,seeing a beauty so rare,
And yet with that sorrow in her tone,
Fought his way and broke the spell,
The princess was his for evermore.

The married and then a dark curtain fell,
I woke up,further I could not see,
But I wonder the look on your face indeed,
When I tell you, aye, the prince was me!!! :-))

The second one is for my secret love....

hmm.....long time no shitting on my blog....
well....i have been trying to study quantum for the last two or three days...the result being that i m turning(and at an alarming rate at that) into a lunatic....(oh...and u thought i already was)...

i wrote a few poems (murgi ne anda diya)....and if it drives anybody insane or encourages him/her to pull out his/her brain through his/her nose...please inform me...in that case i'll continue writing poems :-)))

Diversion

Who hasn't had the joys of a common thing called diversion,
When the mind is bent on work,tending to utter immersion.
And suddenly it wakes up,from drawn slumbers abyss,
And seeks delightful repose ,in lands of fancy and bliss..


Was it True

O was it true,that girl I saw yesternight,
O was it true,her frilly hair....
She was the one that stood out in the crowd,
She was the one with looks that dare.

Like the sea she had eyes dark green,
Playful,and yet with that wondrous gaze...
As if to entice, and then she vanished..
And left me all stuttering and in bewildered daze

Why do I write(couldn't think of a better title....:-))

My pen spews seas of blood today,
Vitriol is all that the quill would yield,
Oh,if i had the wish to write right now,
Would this be the state of affairs indeed?

And yet, I write,blundering upon words,
As a blind man on the shores of the sea,
Aah, he trips over a shiny little stone,
But he knows not, that a pearl it could be.

Why then,do I write this melancholy tune,
An aimless arrow,and yet with seeming aim,
Nay,no lovelorn wielding a lyre or harp,
Would play this for his beloved dame?

The question seems well enough founded,
And convinced I am that it meant me no ill,
And so I will end,but i'll end in rythm,
It thus gives me joy,and therefore I will.

For the love of thy life.....read not what follows.....because 'tis bullshit pure as bullshit can be......

Maybe it is the fact that my midsems have ended today,or maybe the fact that i spent 60 bucks on an utterly despicable movie....or maybe its the fact that i just happened to watch an awesomely gut wrenching match between australia and south africa....i dont know what exactly..
but something is affecting my fantasy that it is engaging in flightful vagaries of a nature not entirely foreign to me....but that is not to say that i completely comprehend them!!!

As I said...i am a bit awkward today...so awkward things thngs are coming to my mind...as they will obtrude the thoughts of a person not completely in hold of himself....for example...i was just looking back at the thoughts that have crossed my mind over the course of the day just ten minutes ago...I realized that my thoughts were so much similar to those of some of the characters i have studied thus far in my literature course .....So is it that I think in a way which follows a general algorithm,which is followed by the thought patterns of 99% human beings???

One major thought that seems to pervade all....me and my fictional counterparts, that is....is the unconcious fear of failure....I think i will be thought of as insane if I say that I am fairly brutal in my bouts of self examination....but thats the way it is....Its not only in me....I have noticed it in my friends as well... The fear of failure is in a very metaphorically significant (now what does that mean???? :-)) way the fear of fear itself....I would ask the reader to closely examine what he or she does when they discover that they have made a mistake in an examination....Well actually...i think anybody would have the answer to this question.....There is a violently valiant effort on the part of this person,who had the misfortune of having contracted this strange disease called Failure....a literally brutal effort to convince himself that the mistake infact wasn't.
Subconciously he knows that he is wrong...that his imagined grandeur and the glory bathin his soul would reduce to a ludicrous heap at the slightest whiff...nay , as soon as he gets the corrected exam book back!!!!

So I was thinking...why this all pervading fear of failure.....and why do we all have this overpowering instinct to unburden our soul by decieving our heart???? Is it because we are all pedants...at least the sphere of people I communicate with are in some degree all pedants...In fact, on a rethought...i think i should reframe this self introspective question.....Is it because that we all have grown up and have been nurtured by a world which has been brought up by its own set principles????....We have merely imbibed that which our world reflects....What would, for example ,be the situation of a man who has been removed from civilization when his powers were ,at best rudimentary??? would a man totally removed from mankind since infancy also have this fear of failure???..Is it a human instinct???? An instinct ,as in something that emerges from within....Something that all humans are born with???? Or rather something that we pick up from the world around us....something that we are not born with...but rather something that is imprinted on the tableau rasa we are all born with ( Ok ...dont jump on me....I meant a Semi tableau rasa....as in the fact that we are born with somethings....and some others are imprinted on our mind by our experiences.....So all i am asking is that is this an instinct ...and therefore to be categorized as one of the first kind....or is it a habit....and therefore obtained from experience)

The more i think of it....the more i am convinced that the logic is circular in this problem....
Maybe it is because of the fact that we are using our minds to examine our minds!!!!! maybe the mind has a will of its own...and it uses that will to ensure that we will never get anywhere close to the reality about how our minds work!!!!

The logic is circular in the sense that if i invoke what a certain gentleman called Darwin told us some two centuries back.....It is in the interest of the species...in terms of its survival and growth that the facts (well...if they can be called so) pertaining to the most crucial situations faced by members of that species as a whole be ingrained as instincts in the mind ....These are the things i earlier mentioned "emerge from within" in a way....Its a question of rates .....By the time the particular entity belonging to the species learns these "crunch facts" from experience...
and bear in mind that the experience should be substantial enough to form a habit!!!!....that thing would have died....

And yet....then what purpose does experience..."Experience" fulfill??...Why do we have a long term memory if the experience indeed is of no use.....It seems to be a wasteful vagary on the part of nature....After all...to say the fear of failure is ingrained in us all is quite ...well quite natural.....But does our experience not tell us this too.....Isn't there...therefore a redundancy ???

But nature as we all know....is NOT wasteful....(well that maybe a pretty conscientious issue...but well)...why this double....nature has no doubles....its a giant jigsaw puzzle...where no part resembles any other....There are uncountable number of pieces...myriads of them ....big , small.....And yet...almost inexplicably...they all fit into each other......So there seems to be a basic flaw in our understanding....

I will not attempt to write any more....Partly because i m pretty sleepy now....(that would have been apparent to the reader by now)...and partly because even through my sleepy and morbid sense of sense...i am vaguely aware of the fact that i am going on circles of ever larger radii.....And in fact i am drifting farther and farther away from what i started with.....Dont blame me....You should have taken the heading seriously :-))))

Is god attainable...random rantings of a confused physicist....

First of all,I shouldn’t be writing this….People of far greater credentials and wisdom than me have tried before me….and have failed….Or have they…forgive me…I am perpetually confused…But since I don’t feel like watching a movie,or sleeping,or studying…or indeed anything worthwile,voila here I go….However I don’t guarantee that I will make much…indeed any sense :-))


Ok, so what makes an unconditional believer like me re evaluate my stance regarding the creator….Several things actually…for example..one thing that really got me thinking was the so called “omnipotent paradox”…..An Omnipotent being is supposed to be capable performing all actions….simple….omni + potent….So what happens when an Omnipotent being performs(or attempts to perform) action that will limit his(forgive the gender bias) omnipotence….Will he succeed??...and thus lose his omnipotence….then he would no longer be omnipotent….Or will he fail….which in essence means that there are actions that our so called “omnipotent being” cannot carry out….and this would indeed destroy the concept of omnipotence….In fact this argument is used by philosophers who are opposed to the concept of a god (well…that’s a sticky statement to make) to falsify the concept of god…as a logical argument against the existence of an omnipotent being….There are still others who merely say that the flaw lies not in the concept…but rather in our understanding of it…Well…I am clueless….quite frankly..
So it seems our friend the philosopher has completely bamboozled us with his counterintuitive arguments…So lets not try to falsify or testify the concept of God….And let us address this concept in a slightly different…but not completely detached point of view….That of a wannabe physicist…:-))…


Since time immemorial (that’s my favorite paragraph starting phrase :-) ) man has been haunted by one question….Yes haunted is the word….That is….WHAT MAKES THE WORLD GO???....Look a bit deeper….it is an attempt at understanding God as we know it (I use it rather than he or she as I am talking of the concept of God rather than God as an entity)…And many a colorful explanation came for this question…One greek philosopher (I don’t remember his name) suggested that it is the love of one body for another that makes the world go :-))…of course …look beyond the obvious funny side…and you will see the first in the long line of concepts that culminated in the concept of a force…Another one I like particularly was given by several philosophers....both greek and vedic….that the world goes by chance…..Of course, a skeptic would dismiss this concept saying that it suggests that all occurrences are random….And yet in a sense isn’t that true?? Dont we see in this concept an ancestor of the quantum theory…If that be true…it would imply that the cornerstone of the revolutionary concept of quantum physics was laid in a world that was supposed to be at the center of the universe….and was supposedly circled by the heavens!!!!....But never mind my interpretations….The crux of the matter is that all these searchers of the “truth” searched God….The absolute truth…what our Vedas called Nirguna Satya …well forgive me for romanticizing this so much.. its in my nature
:-))… So man has made attempts to understand God…at least as we know it.


God has always appeared to be “just beyond the wall”…The key to the “mind of God”…as many would put it….appears to rest crucially on the answer to the Question of questions….one variant of which I mentioned above…and offshoots of this question….The most notable being the question of creation….one that has started to bother physicists a lot of late…The question that can be stated as “what came before before time” or “what came before everything else”….The answer to these interrelated questions and the key to truth always looms large….we seem to be ever closer to it….And yet nature thwarts us each time….In fact at the beginning of the twentieth century, a renowned physicist is said to have a addressed a conference thus “And as you all know, physics will be over within in the next two to three years…”…Of course he was referring to the fact that blackbody radiation was the only problem in physics supposedly left at that time…But this “only” hitch…as we now know it….opened such an immense can of worms that it culminated in quantum theory!!!.... We have since grown wiser…and you seldom hear such rash statements now a days….For man has toiled since the dawn of civilization in quest of truth…and Nature seems to take unbelievable amount of pains to make it tougher for us.. Its like an ocean….the deeper you go…the more you realize that its impenetrably deep….The question beckons us as a mirage would beckon a thirsty traveler…The more the traveler follows the mirage….The thirstier he gets….It is often found that travelers die of thirst at the gates of oasis….Is that the fate of mankind?? Are we going to die off from thirst of knowledge when we are inches away from the finish line??...That is, Is god Finite….just unattainably large??Or is God comparable to the mathematical concept of infinity… that no matter how far we go, We will always be infinitely far away from attainment of God……Or is it like going into an ocean….the deeper you go…the more impenetrable the ocean seems to be…till all of a sudden,the ocean floor pops out of the blue without a warning (that is if you haven’t already become a meal for an obliging shark :-)) )….Who knows….

Only time will tell….or will it??

Clinging to life...precious life..My views on Euthanasia

Well...before i begin...i will request the reader(if he or she exists...that is)..not to get upset in any way by what they read here...these are my views...and nobody is forcing anybody to accept them..U r free to think of me as a partially(or totally) crazed maniac if you so wish..

So here i go...i was sitting on the iit bus...and I overheard a conversation between the two ppl occupying the seat in front of the one on which I was sitting...the topic of discussion was evidently a recently deceased relative of one of the passangers....From what i heard,i could make out that the relative in question had been bed ridden for the last 10 years....He had lost his memory about 5 years back...and about 2 years back he became paralysed...a year back he slipped into coma...and 6 months back he was put on a life support system due to kidney failure(i think thats what it was).

I think most of you,would rather "not be" under such circumstances.The reason I did not use the word "die" is because this word has a very negative connotation...The situation here is..

well...its a situation where even the murkiest of all,death is not a bad thing to happen....I think its really difficult to imagine..at least i cant imagine...what life would be like if we cant remember anything.....what it would be like if are trapped within ourselves......helpless.......brings back memories of the song "ONE" by METALLICA....it must be one shit of a life to lead....if it can be called "life" at all,that is....

There was such a hoopla about the death of a woman in the states,whose husband decided to take his wife off feeding tubes after watching her suffer for eight years....i m not glorifying the mans bravery or anything....must have been a nerve wracking experience to watch your loved ones suffering the insufferable....I thought that this was a positive step...after all,Ethics and morals go to hell....there is nothing,absolutely nothing that gives us the right to make a person suffer like that

I think the main problem people have in performing or accepting euthanasia is the so called "peer pressure".I mean i think "Self Respecting People"(as they like to call themselves) are just too scared to think what the so called society would say if they did not take "enough efforts to save their beloved ones".People are too scared that the society would blame them of having ulterior motives....or maybe the society would say they did not want to waste money...I ask these people just one damn question....What fraction of the so called society...which seems to be nosy enough to make everybody's business its own...can truly be placed in the category of "Well Wishers"....How many would really help you out if you needed help...What gives them the right to decide What is right and what is not???

Another major problem which prevents the idea of euthanasia from gaining acceptance is the fact that EUTHANASIA is likened to SUICIDE....Now...the two things are different...remember

Suicide is a wilful effort culminating in the termination of one's own life...whereas...Euthanasia primarily means mercy killing...When a person is invalidated to the extent that I have described

,he cannot possibly Choose whether to live or to die...a human being at such an advanced stage of suffering,for example a person in perpetual coma,or the medical condition termed as "Brain Dead" cannot possibly have a choice....its up to the people who are supposed "wellwishers"(???)

to end the misery...Its not bravery to face such a circumstance...as you cannot show bravery when u lack consciousness....And its definitely cowardice to make somebody face such inhuman suffering....Suicide is a sin as it is running away from the shit you have created for yourself...and are too scared to look at....whereas Euthanasia is not...as it is alleviating unthinkable suffering....I mean...isnt that what the lessons in righteousness teach us..."Live and let live" People interpret the saying too literally...Keep somebody alive at any cost...thats what ppl understand by this...Its not really that...it means make sure you do whatever is within your reach to get the best out of your life...and at the same time ensure as far as possible that others get the best out of theirs...Having said that...i would like to ask only one question....Is it not within our reach to end the suffering of those we love....of those with whom we have shared moments to be teasured??

I hope i have convinced the reader(that is,if anybody cares to visit my blog!!!!!)that euthanasia is...well...it cant be ageeable....but atleast sometimes the only way out....But what i have written above are my views....I am not asking anybody to believe then.....And as i chanced to mention earlier....U r free to think of me as a maniac if that pleases you...:-))

Of Paupers and Princes......

Et voila...we have done it again....This time...the victim was none other than our very own Captain Corageous,Sourav Ganguly.In a decision that marks yet another dark day for indian cricket(god how many more will there be...) Sourav Ganguly...the man responsible for ushering in a new golden era in Indian cricket,was dropped after giving a solid performance in the Kotla test..In spite of the fact that he did not set the stands on fire with his stoic knocks of 40 and 39 in the two innings of the test,the fact remains that in both tests he played a sheet anchor role,holding one end up allowing the batsmen in partnership with him to play freely,and it would be fair to say that Sourav was instrumental in India's victory.

We Indians have quite a history of making our heroes cry,of reducing there reputations to ashes..Four years ago,it was Kapil Dev,who broke into tears on BBC...Yesterday,it was Sourav..well at least there are rumours that he cried...Four years ago,it was Manoj Prabhakar,whose pedestrian achievements need no mentioning...Yesterday it was a group of five wise men(with a collective experience of 49 tests and 103 ODI's that did in a man with over 15000 runs in international cricket,and who,even his harshest critics would agree,was one of the finest playersto don indian colours,and one of the most elegant batsmen of modern times.Surely he deserved better than the ignominous exit he got,considering the enormity of his contributions to Indian Cricket..

Of course,i forget,that there was a mastermind behind the whole fiasco.A man called Greg Chappell.Greg Chappell has had an interesting cricketing journeys as well..A manwho was one of the first exponents of Aussie Spirit,(that is of course,win by hook or crook) was one of the finest batsmen of his age.However,all his credentials are marred by one incident,which has gone down in the annals of the game as one of the worst instances of unsportsmanlikespirit,when he asked his brother Trevor to bowl the last ball of the world series final against New Zealand underarm to prevent them from scoring the five runs they needed for victory..Greg Chappell had a very good relation with Sourav,and in fact it was on sourav's behest thatChappell was appointed coach of the Indian Team..However the two had difficulty adjusting to each other,with the result that a public spat took place,which had an adverse effect on Sourav Ganguly's career.Since then,Chappell has left no stone unturned to keep Sourav out of the team,first stripping him of captaincy,then dropping him from the ODI team.But what happened over the last two days is quite astonishing..On day four of the Kotla test,Chappell told the press that he thought his spat with Sourav Ganguly was overdone by the Indian press.He even went on to say that he was happy the way that Sourav had fitted in with the rest of the team,and how he thought that Sourav was coming back to his prime form,and how he thought that Ganguly was a Mentor for the younger players in the dressing room.However,after day five,at the selection meeting,he voted against Sourav's inclusion in the team,claiming that his form was patchy,and if reports are to be believed,that the team did not need him any longer.His yes man,Dravid,obviously had nothing to say on this(poor jammy...he is 32....but i guess it is convenient to act like a kid some of the times)....Thanks to the immense and alarming sway he holds over the selection commitee,which is well known thanks to former North zone selector Yashpal,the other selectors (reluctantly?) followed suit,and voted against,and effectively ended the career of a man whose credentials are unquestionable,in fact who is comfortably the most skilled batsman of the great indian batting lineup(thats my opinion,don't bombard me for it).The point to ponder is,why did this happen..what did he do wrong this time..if u ask me,i will tell you that this is merely one man's immature attempts at a vendetta,in a fashion that maybe be expected from a banana republic,where a general is beheaded every second day,but certainly not out of a civilized(???) country like India. In fact,I have a gut feeling that Mr Chappell might eventually be a victim of his own dirty politics,as the signs don't augur well for him.And neither do they for his yes man Dravid..As for the rest of the board,well i didnt make much of them anyway,some of them having never played a test match...

Coming to Dravid,i can only say that i am decidedly disappointed in him..I had a very highview of him,and his glorious moments playing for India strengthened my belief that he is the perfect team man..But alas,I have been forced to change my views about him in the last six months or so..And it gave me a lot of pain to do so..The man,as i see it now,lacks integrity...He has kept mum on the Sourav issue throughout,and has by all means gained,in the form of the captaincy that he was so obsessed about..Does it behove a general not to stand up for a wounded soldier...Sourav always stood up for his players,and that is why he won the love and respect of his team...players like harbhajan played for "Dada".But i doubt wether Dravid will ever get that kind of a response from his team..Dravid is a bootlicker,and that is an understatement....i cant tell you what he really is without resorting to obsceneties,which i am in no mood to...Dravid has realized that by being Greg's yes man,he can hang on to the captaincy...whereas,if India start losing under his captaincy,and Sourav starts performing consistently(which by the way,he has given signs of already)then his captaincy might be in danger...and therefore the naturallly following course of action(natural for nitwits like him,ofcourse)...drop Sourav....Dravid gets to keep the captaincy,Greg gets to intimidate the team even more.....in fact...Greg Chappell can be compared to the British East India Company,and Dravid to the Rai Bahadurs appointed by them.Pathetic really,but can we help it.....i guess Indians,with their lack of integrity will accept it all the same....we accept everything..thats our problem...As for Dravid,every dog has his day under the sun,but,then again,life comes to a full circle.What he is doing today to his comrade,somebody will do to him at some point of time..As far as Sourav is concerned,well at the end of the day,its a sad end for a man who showed the way...but i guess there isn't much we can do about it...can we.except to salute the achievements of an extraordinary man,and who,...well for me...he is still my hero...

Jeremy

i was just watching the video of jeremy by pearl jam....and what i saw very much disturbed me..
from what i saw in the video,Jeremy is a guy who ,well he has his problems...guys at class laugh at him...and he is the sort of guy who doesn't speak out...he tries to communicate his troubles to his parents...but they dont listen to him...
in fact the lyrics of the main para go something like
"Daddy didnt give affection
and the boy was something mommy didnt care
King jeremy the wicked ruled his world
Jeremy spoke in class today"
so anyway,this guy is self contained....with no outlet for his worries,his fears,his anxieties...and finally one day he explodes....and he goes into class and shoots himself....
i mean the video kind of glorifies this...well this act...which i really dont have any words to describe (blame it on my vocabulary)
I mean i didnt see a point....u just go and shoot yourself...and all u get is a paragraph in the local
newspaper praying for the peace of ur tormented soul......whereas if that same guy had come back at the world with vengeance , and prove everybody that he is better than what ppl made him out to b,that wouldn't have earned an exaggerated orbituary,but it wud have earned him satisfaction...
anyway...i dont think i make much sense, do i???
mayb i m going a bit crazy ;-)))

Ennui

"Ennui"....(sigh) well that is what is afflicting me these days...sitting in front of the bloody comp for hours at a stretch.....u can feel very dumb indeed(as i do)....i mean i just realized...what do i do on the bloody idiot box(yep thats what a comp is,really) all day....check my mail,the one i check most often(my iitk mailbox)....no new mails....then i log on to orkut....scrap a few ppl.... read a few dumb scraps that ppl have written me....write back dumber scraps in reply.....then i remember that i have a hotmail account as well....log on to that as well.....10 new mails.....i open my inbox eagerly.....5 of the f****** mails are forwards....another one from walmart...asking me to claim a free gift card of 50 dollars(all i have to do is to travel 18000 miles to claim it of course) another mail from online hardware store....the other three mails are unmentionable...
i want to shout....then i remember that i have gmail account as well...in the mean time i start playing "stairway to heaven"...well i log onto the gmail account.....5 new mails....all of them from ebay.....fuck them ...why did i ever subscribe.....then i play few rounds of solitaire....and all the while i engage in some kind of shameless self pity...too boring, say to myself.......i blast of a few
villains in quake...even this is so boring......should i watch some movie????naahhh....i again check the maibox i check most often....no mail.....then i remember i have a hotmail account as well.........

My first posting

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