The Dreaming Tree

Every year, when the cold December winds freeze people elsewhere while my perma-summer town remains hale, hearty and gujju, I take a few minutes from my excruciatingly busy schedule to compile a list of what was. And as it is with all other lists, this is pointless-ness and inaccuracy taken to a newer level. To quote Drew Carey, 'the points don't matter, just like underwear to Sharon Stone'.

Anyway, shall we proceed.

2008's 5 Trippiest things:

1. Mess Food

Believe it or not, mess food is the king. It is difficult to explain, its like sweet smell of grass on a summer day, like the American intellect, like that feeling you get when a cricket ball slams into a man's crotch. Man hasn't invented words for these things. Apart from fuck of course. (To be pronounced with an elongated vowel sound.)

2. Porcupine Tree

A multi-coloured lava lamp. The colours merging, prancing around like Russian ice skaters. Layers on layers of music, which actually reminds me of the Castor oil viscosity diagram in the 11Th CBSE physics textbook. Held up by some solid bass, with chunks of pleasure thrown in by the drums almost arbitrarily. And as you pierce the layers, the occasional relief by the keyboards. Blue guitar sparks through the outer surface, the steady riff. Then the song ends and everything goes away.

3. Cows

Cute, very lovable, rather peaceful, pastel shades, abstract art shapes, wet nose, whiplash tails (for the BDSM fans), lazy and awesome competition at burpfests.
Ergo trippy.

4. Lollipops

I have often expressed my great admiration for lollipops. They are the tsars of confectionery. They are symbols of mankind, from pornography to innocence, a lollipop has the power to make you laugh, cry, dance and can choke you to death. Their names are the epitome of creativity and their flavours are swirls of joy( Oh my god! Festember's actually a lollipop.)

Most importantly you can ask someone else to buy you 5 of them because that makes you cute. But I swear you're ugly.

5. Stars

As a child I often wondered how, and very importantly why, did people name constellations. Now I certainly know how. Couple of spliffs and that's it. I remember spotting half of my wing out there, though Basu's nose was rather elongated. I spotted my favourite one just before leaving. If you slightly extrapolate the hunter so that Sirius B coincides with the bear, you will get... hold your breath... the lyrics for Stairway to heaven run backwards. Those devils! They knew everything!
Now for the other question. Why? Because its fun! I can imagine 2 Neanderthal Americans figuring them out:
NA1:"Dude look that chick in the sky has 2 noses"
NA2:"Those are her tits you moron"

etc etc

I know it is pretty bright.
But I like it :)

And the old blog redirects here, so I dumped all the old articles on this address.

Comments will be appreciated. Well at least the good ones.

Cheers!

I could see the end so clearly, before the beginning. Lonely again with my heavy olive rucksack and a broken spirit, staring at the airport doors. Just like it was beginning. I stared blankly at the permuting arrival lounge information board. The green lights next to every flight lit up, except one. People in ties, suits, shorts stormed out of the glass doors. All looking for a familiar face.

In a time when anyone would have a thumping heart and moist palms, I was morose. And as if the overwhelming sense of precognition that showed me the end wasn't enough, my iPod began a song I otherwise loved.

I could see everything. How we'd walk in through the same gate, through the same half built bridge, and dump our bags in front of the cafe. Sit together, have a sip. And before I could blink it would be time to go.

Through the glass doors again, past the burly guards. And I peered through the glass, slowly the sorrow dawning. The misty glass blurring my last glimpses. A lump in my throat, no crying of course, grown men don't cry. What if she turned back to see me?

In my quest for employment I chanced upon 14 prospective employers who innocently rejected me in the written test.
But there are very few souls as lucky as yours truly. There are people who have been through multiple long, torturous and most unfortunately failed interviews. That, and my interviews, cumulatively prove just one thing, interviewers depend a LOT on the gut feeling.

It is tough to accept the fact that humans, in the form of interviewers or any other, may like or dislike WITHOUT reason. Sometimes you just can't form a good impression of something. Like potato chips in a box. I find that really stupid. Who eats potato chips out of a box? and why? You need to be either extremely dumb or American. But look around now, everyone loves potato chips in a box, and no one knows why.

Interviewers think very similarly, being evolved mammals like us. Of course the inevitable question is- Why? Why was XYZ rejected?

And for a period of time, the length depends on the IQ of the interviewer or how much his company pays him, he is puzzled. He finds no reason, and of course he can tell the man who heads our placement operations that he just disliked the candidate. and thence continues the long, winding and recursive process of interview, lies and fabrication.

First our college lies to them.
Then they give us a presentation full of deceit, including efforts by one of the world's leading electronic chip manufacturers to prove that their "Dosti Cell" helps cure loneliness.
Then we tell them a truck load of bullshit in the interviews and make American Universities seem as stupid as American Presidents. We also stop short of declaring a fatwa on the GRE.
Then they lie to the college about why they rejected so many.

These of course form the main layers of deceit. Their sublayer, processes and sub-processes have been avoided to conserve the lucidity of the text.

Of course there are some really creative employers and in their excuses we find some traits in their personality exposed.

Here are some REAL excuses.

1. He salivated from his left side.
Everybody knows that salivating from your right side is standard business protocol. Although salivators are generally avoided since most of the world leaders have salivaphobia. Also salivators dirty keyboards and microphones.

2. The Middle Earth was unhappy.
Nothing left to say. Tolkien fan I presume.

3. He doesn't even know that a Bangalore Electrical Engineering firm has a branch office in the Breeze Hotel on the ground floor.
My favourite because the interviewer pointed his finger at me and said it as if branding me a heretic. I don't think winking and sticking my tongue helped, but the HR panel found it funny.

4. He wore a black tie.
What a fool! All IT companies have 2 standard advisors, the how to save Income Tax money people and Linda Goodman. And black ties are thrice as unlucky as two black cats walking anti parallely across the street. Stupid Engineer.

5. I don't think you are suitable for this profile(NOT the other way round).
Firstly, I sat for the company because I want the profile.
Secondly, why the fuck did you shortlist my CV?

There are so many more still to be documented that I could make another blog out of it.
Anyway, bottom line is placements more often then not are lotteries. You can do anything without luck, apart from trip of course.

The little sparrows play in the muddy puddle,
My stupid hair is in a bloody muddle,
The pages take too long to load,
Leaving me tired and bored,
For I find more joy than getting into bed with three,
In the art of penning shitty poetry.

She found us late on Friday night,
This furry ball of black and white,
Beady eyes and a rolling head,
Someone stop her from peeing on my friggin' bed,

Her name was Whisky

We stole all her milk and buried her bones,
Taped her mouth and stopped those groans,
Tied her up and put her in a sack,
But that stupid dog kept coming back!

Her name was Whisky.

So we gave her some beer and fed her some weed,
But that little bitch was from a different breed,
She lapped'em up like never before,
And by the end of the night she wanted more!

Her name was Whisky.

In on of my recent grasslandic voyages, I was bitten by the analogy bug. Quite bad, less of a sting and more of a love bite. As my mental graphic tirade journeyed from gay parades to post, I popped another trip candy in. Then came the analogy of the millenium, you know, ones that come only once in like, many months. 

Is it just me or does sambar make everyone fart?

Finally somebody has the brains to un-ban blogspot on our college server. And we're a leading engineering institute. 

It come when least expected,
or desired,
a naive eye that dwells upon a curve for a second too many,
or the meandering wind,
that throws strands of hair on a reminiscent cheek,
or an invading scent breeding familiarity,
first they trickle, glimpses, flashing little light bulbs,
playfully instigating the memories,
first comes the heat, the sweat, the entangled limbs,
then,
then a definite breach, a crumbling dam,
gushing through with vengeance,
a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
rapid, but not violent, not oppressive,
the debt of pain,
the insult of gauche,
all victim to pleasure,
surrender to intimacy,
only to find liberation in defeat,
moist palms, beaded temples,
and a smile etched in granite,
then suddenly,
the flood recedes,
the breach goes from saviour to sinner,
the mind wanders, desperatly searching for inspiration,
the eyes dart, all efforts thwarted by the dam,
now tall and strong, cunning and elusive,
the heart broods, begging for a few moments more,
of breathless pleasure, drowning,
no more touch,
or warm breath,
only a shadow on the mist,
of a smile etched on granite.
And as the sun settles,
the shadow will die,
slowly,
unless we peek over the edge,
and realize the sun never goes away.

Do you know this man? I wont be surprised if you don't.

His name is "Dimebag Darrell" Abbott. He was one of the brothers who founded Pantera. The first time I heard Pantera, the ex-glam now thrash band seemed more trash than thrash. First it was a wannabe-Van Halen and later a wannabe-Metallica (or deth).But they were instrumental in forming the Groove Metal genre and for that they deserve full credit. Unable to completely embrace thrash but, still carrying a very heavy sound with their ex-glam rhythm really helped them.

Dimebag was shot dead on stage by an ex-US Marine in late 2004,along with three other people on the stage. This was during a concert, this bloke stepped on stage fired more than a dozen rounds and also killed a 23 year old fan who tried to deliver CPR to Dimebag. He even had the nerve to stop, reload his firearm and continue shooting. He was stopped when an officer killed him with a shotgun.

In an article by William Grim called Aesthetics of Hate:RIP Dimebag and Good Riddance, he sides with the shooter commending him for his efforts. Grim is called an orthodox culture maven. The expert. He in fact writes for magazines that have wide distribution networks. He adds that Dimebag was killed by a culture that he created.

A former (elite) serviceman killing 4 people and then having his life end in the most disgraceful fashion, shot by a member of a sub-ordinate law enforcement agency. And then an intellectual praising him. Brilliant, and the United States continues to look for elements that egg high school shooters on under pillows and chairs.

A firefox music add-on yesterday just marqueed the text "Dedicated to Dimebag" when Machine Head's Asthetics of Hate was playing on my computer. I was shocked. I did not know that the man had died, not that I was a fan. But he was good, that's true. In fact the song is supposed to be a big FU to William Grim.

This reminds me of a certain degree of grief people feel(atleast I do) when a childhood hero has lost something.
Like when Hansie Cronje died. Or more recently McGrath's wife. Or the Chris Benoit tragedy, even if he was a make-believe business' mascot.
Anyway, RIP Dimebag.

My "My Generator" jokes, originally hatched in class are back.

Q) Why did the motor not allow the generator to be crowned Sarkar Raj?
A) Because power cannot be given. It has to be taken.

Having a sharp sense of hearing is a real bummer. Seriously. It has its advantages and with some Time Division Multiplexing you can eavesdrop on a number of conversations, and think at the same time. You also have the added advantage, if you can think fast enough that is, to hear things people normally say with a hope you don't hear them.

You know, the

"what did you say?"
"oh nothing... I was talking to myself"
"very well then, I won't return your silver plated, diamond studded, platinum tinged hunting knife"
"did YOU steal it?"
"are you accusing me?"
"how did you know I lost my silver plated, diamond studded, platinum tinged hunting knife?"
"you just said you lost your silver plated, diamond studded, platinum tinged hunting knife"
"how did you hear it?"
*sniggers and leaves banging the door on the way(if indoors)*

type of conversations.

This disadvantage of course, in my case, is something you need to live with everyday..eerrm..rather night. Night is the best time to experience stillness. If its late enough, turn off all electric devices around and just lie on the bed, soon to be drenched in sweat, but in absolute stillness. If you listen carefully you'll hear the bed sheet crumple, the mattress very slowly bearing you wait, the plywood under letting out soft creaks of displeasure. And if your watchman's awake, his heavy footsteps on leaves, not necessarily dry. Sometimes even on grass if its crunchy enough.

The not-so-nice part is living three storeys above the action, everything sounds a bit too..well.. misplaced. You need to listen carefully to figure where the noise is coming from.

Another grievous and often disgusting habit, when you can hear real soft noises you evidently tend to speak that softly (when the time comes to speak softly, of course). Which leads to accusations of other people being hard of hearing. I've thrown that term around on a couple of people so many times I'm sure they're sick of it. I'm trying to hear less by pumping large amounts of metal into ear plugs.. doesn't seem to be working.

Anyway, point remains that despite the bummers, listening can be great fun. And you can always tell women you're a great listener.

An average American gets married so many times that they made a reality show out of it. And in spite of my best efforts to avoid it, I ended up watching one. Its that mystical attraction that the disgusting has. Like how a few of my friends love "Nothing In the World" just because its a Paris Hilton song and listen to it only to criticize her vocal abilities.

Anyway, the show is called "For Better or for Worse". Quite a rhetoric, any American show about marriage has to be for worse.

Also seen recently is an advertisement about American Green Cards and how the country hands over 50,000 green cards in a drive to increase average IQ levels of the country.The approximate transcript says something like "Now, even you can Live,Work and Study in the USA and live the Great American Dream!!"

Great American Dream eh? They should call it GAD. There's already a band called Gatsby's American Dream that's called GAD.

Not so surprisingly, medical fraternities would squirm at GAD. It stands for Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Which of course means that you worry about absolutely everything and believe the world is snapping at your arse ready to snatch you state of peaceful existence drown you into cauldrons of misery. Not so surprisingly, one of the main sources of GAD could be WMD in Iraq.

Other versions of the Great American Dream include a startling discovery by a female American Senator, made popular by a youtube video, that claims "..we have seen societies being destroyed by homosexuality, which is more dangerous than terrorism.." . There you go. Generalized Anxiety Disorder again. Really? Can two men making out cause the fall of towers? or the absolute annihilation of countries?

I would love to change my impression about the world's foremost superpower and believe me I'm trying. Maybe I'm not smart enough.

Yes the blog has a new name.

When I was a kid I was always afraid of learning science. I had this constant fear that one day, somebody would disprove the existence of the atom. That all we studied would just be a waste of time. I figured it would take someone really smart. But that wasn't my biggest fear.

My biggest fear was that it would be me.

I was afraid of hammering on foundations I considered virtual. That all these castles we built in the air would all filter through as mere illusions cultivated by a string of creative storytellers. Only for me to snip their yarns and spin my own. In fact its a opinion I still harbour, however appalling it may be for a man of science and engineering.

Increasingly these days my questions divert to the intrinsic fabric that binds together all our desires. Our wish to work in jobs that pay and our pursuits for emotional reinforcement. Its not easy tossing these queries at yourself, they are questions you would avoid in a state of sanity. I have reasons to believe that all this peeking officially defines me as nihilistic. And although I have great respects for Nietzsche and his opinions, we must be aware of the fact that betrays him, he went mad.

Of course my philosophical positioning between bluntly Epicurean and the always-present but recently accepted Nihilism is quite a paradigm shift. One that required millions of pendulum laps, but evidently occurred much before my brain could absorb what nothing meant.

Another issue that has caught my fancy very recently is a challenge: to view life without time. To actually refute the existence of a past or a future. It sounds absurd and elongated contemplations may lead to the absolute disposal of the theory, it is exactly that issue that fascinates me. In fact, the entire concept is so absurd, I'm ready to think about it.

We are all puppets. And we all have strings, whose strings? Nobody knows. One of them could be yours itself. Only if we had the room to step back and look at everyone at the same time, we could deduce an approximate picture. Only if we had the room.
I'm like everyone. Just that I can see the strings. And I hope you see them too.

Don't you hate it when people say "don't you hate it?' and you actually don't hate it?

No I haven't been learning Italian and yes those are the only 3 words I know. 2 if you discount Italiano.

Being a Punjabi is always satisfying. That's because even if you believe in celibacy, you always have the food, to err.. please. And when I say that last night's dinner was in Little Italy, I hope readers don't relate the foreign fixture to the equivalence explained above.

After pulling down a place called MyLungi (or as the fancy folk call it, Melange), the Mumbai chain, Little Italy, opened up here. And all that Garfield really made me want lasagna.

Initial impressions were sadly not so great. The place still looks a lot like Melange, although to be fair, I don't think a total makeover should've been on their list anyway. The decor was confused. It was not exactly Italian, and it certainly did not make me feel Italian. I must admit the Gujju birthday bash on the table next to us did not help.

My least favourite part comes now though. An employee came over, poured us water and lit a candle on the table, with a sadak-chap plastic lighter. The one that poor autowallas use. The cutlery was classy and everything on the table looked rich. And then the plastic lighter. These guys really know how to ruin stuff. The ambience was decent and quite likeable. And then I heard Bryan Adams. Italian retaurant, Italian food, difficult to comprehend menu and really nice Ohm speakers. Everything was right. Then they play Alanis Morisette. Then Celine Dion.
AAARGHH!!! Someone tell them all these are mainstream Canadian artists. That means they're from Canada. Which is about 67million handspans from Italy. Some Italiano music would really add to the ambience. I'm not talking Opera and Pavarotti, but atleast some O sole mio.

The staff was well dressed, not Milan Fashionweek stuff, but good enough. The funny part was the when I asked a bloke what he'd recommend, the answers were B.13 and C.29. Quite convenient, would rather have them do their homework and learn names along with the numbers. And show people that you know names.

The food was brilliant. I absolutely loved it. And although all the pizzas being ordered tempted us, we stuck to pasta, lasagna and some farmer bread thing. Considering the prices I'd want everything to be perfect, no slip-ups. Not the case evidently. But the food was great, and the cooks deserve a pat on their backs.

I could feel its chamber burn my skin through the denim. That .357 is a real devil. Turned 3 zombies into ketchup. The undead sure got the un shot off by the magnum. I'd love to call it my babe, but its too darn powerful. And all that chrome. Its a man, a full grown evil flesh gnawing man. People say they hate because its too slow. But thats a truckload of bullshit. It would be faster if you could recover from the recoil, its like hitting a wall at mach 5.

Two more of those blood sucking leeches, I let the Beretta take them. After all, this one is the pet, the most docile, most likeable gun. It wouldn't hurt a fly, unless you shot at it of course. I know the boss is coming, I can smell it. Plus the AI is growing tired of getting its scary creatures gunned down like kids in an American school. This wont do, the machine has an ego as big as its code. Couple of more jumps and I'm in full view of a bunch of apartment windows.

Full view.

It hits me like missile from Moscow. Snipers. Bloody snipers.

My legs freeze and I can't move a muscle. The first muffled gunshot rings through the walls and ricochets of a dumpster. I lob a bunch frags and scram. Just one hit through the arm, the good one though. I hunt for a health pack and for all you know the AI might've just planted this one under my foot.

Fool! Of course they did!

I rise to see the boss on me, a Benelli levelled at me. 12 gauge. I'd survive it if I were a blue whale. The air would kill me most probably though. But fact remains I'm no blue whale and thats still a 12 gauge. Dodge just one shot, just one, I keep telling myself, by the time the shotgun's back you'll have the magnum bury a bullet in his crotch.

And then I see something else. It's not a his. Its a her. And she's smiling. Says I've done well. Stupid bot, smiling at me, 2 million lines of code and this is what they come up with. I could think of better female bosses hanging by my thumbs. But I've gotta give it to her, she's got me cornered. Quick draw it is, my end or hers.

In a split second the gun is out of my pocket and ready to roar. She laughs, loudly. Dares me to shoot, she dint need to. Half the barrel is empty and she's still standing there, can't believe it, not in a million years. She throws me her shotgun, this time I make full use, finishing all the shells with secondary fire. And everything went through her. Every single piece of lead hits the wall behind. This time she snarls and screams, "I'm the AI stupid! And you're in my world!". Then comes the pounce, coup de grace.

Epilogue 1: This piece, however fictional it may seem, is a true real life dream. Not nightmare of course, because I had saved the game just before the sniper trap.

Epilogue 2: I really need to cut down on the gaming.

You know what better than mindless first-person-shooter gore?
Mindless first-person-shooter gore with Thrash Metal in the background.
Welcome to the world of Machinehead+Quake. A world of double bass pounding rockets with plasma gun riffs.

A world I effing live in.

P.S: Shhhh! Don't tell anyone, I'm supposed to be writing CAT tests on the comp.

You may find this hard to believe, but I actually like Vista.
lightning
And the new Windows Media Player!
God kills a kitten

In flight Bhel puri.
Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.
Reliance phones.
A Ba on my side.
More reliance phones.
Business talk.
Pilot bashing.
Tea enquiries.
More Himesh Reshammiya ringtones.
One million Bhai/Ben per second.
More Tea enquiries.
70 year-old men in flaming red shirts.
70 year old women in shorts.
Still more Himesh Reshammiya.
Bharuch Peanuts.
Wannabe vegetarians.
Alcoholic fantasies.
Lots more Himesh Reshammiya.
Reliance petrol.
Reliance cornershops.
Reliance contraceptives.
Reliance lingerie.
Fat people.
Very fat people.
Fat people walking to the park.
Rich fat people driving to Talwalkars.
Parrots.
Torrents.
My window.
My bathroom.
My friggin TV.
Guess who's home, baby. Guess who's home.

For once I will let something remotely related to Paris Hilton enter my blog. But it stops at remotely of course.

A few weeks back I chanced upon an offer to eat a butter biscuit. I'm not really saying that its a big thing, but a lot like the butteryfly (no pun intended) effect, it caused extreme chaos.
Now circumstances were such that my wish to take another biscuit from the kind offer-er would be cruel. So I set up on a Frodo-like quest to find the original butter biscuits.

As soon as I got back from work on that fateful day I walked into the closest bakery I found. Adyar it was. About 7 PM. This place had a decently young and seemingly active crowd (blame it on the IT). And as soon as I entered this place a whiff of virgin, just born biscuits absolutely permeated my senses. Its like the smell of someone you love, and how you'd identify it. I really never thought I love butter biscuits, till that day of course.

Is it just me or does this place look good? LOL
I hope peoples like it nad drop in a couple of kind of words of exreme appreciation. :D

My last two bus ides have been absolutely wonderful. Not because there were no nagging women on the bus. That would make the bus rides heavenly. But because I came across two bands that I instantly fell in love with.

A couple of years ago, when I first heard Dreamtheater, I was more than impressed. They have an amazing lineup and their music is very progressive. Sadly there was one major flaw. They had a lead singer. And that thought ravaged my mind for a very long time. These guys were brilliant, they never needed a lead singer or a voice. Their music spoke truck loads.

And on one fateful night, I came across this video of them playing in Budapest I think. No one sang. And it was absolutely brilliant. Maybe more so because I was bored. Or maybe because I was extremely high.

But one fine day I realised a DVD of mine had their albums, as Liquid Tension Experiment. And that made my ride.

The other accidental discovery is almost shocking. I had never come across, till that fateful day, an American band that had the balls to touch a Lennon and a Zeppelin composition and then twist and remodel each of them into dark sinister songs. Till of course, I found two covers by A Perfect Circle. Of course, if it was anyone who deserved to cover the greats, it is this alternative-progressive super group. But the covers are, conservatively put, brilliant.

I am a huge Beatles fan and for someone to invade their musical sanctity and get away with it would be quite an achievement. And that is exactly what APC has done. Their cover of Imagine by Lennon replaces his mellow cheerful piano progression by sinister chords. The initial part of the riff remains the same but the is follow up changes the entire mood of the song. The drums are much more progressive and their almost out-of-phase-but-in-the-beat sound adds to the creepy effect. The vocals are top notch. A lot of layering and mixing is evident and that totally gels with the guitars. Personally I love the grumbling,growling bass the builds up.

I am also a huge Led Zeppelin fan, and although their sanctity has been penetrated like a lady of the trade by amateurs and pros alike, this cover of When The Levee Breaks is a class above. Its a song that is rarely covered. And as soon as it started playing, my first impression was, hold on, I know this bass line, and steadily the lyrics just followed. The characteristic drums are not missing, but have been converted into a sombre, unsettling version. The vocals are brilliant, including a Robert Plant like panting in the background.

And although they've been in hiatus since 2006, I'm looking forward to more materials, and this may sound weird, more covers!

One day, in a restaurant I have started detesting, I quite unfortunately happen to occupy a table next to a bunch of over-enthused college kids.
Quite apparently, they seemed to be from different colleges.
Do you know what is the worst part about a bunch of people from different colleges? The bragging. Its so plainly irritating. 
Anyway, I am sure my analysis will be certainly biased. So I've decided to accurately put the up the conversation here so that you can judge for yourself.

CG1:College Guy 1
CG2:College Guy 2
CG3:College Guy 3

CG1: Dude, you know in my college no one studies. Ever. Its like banned. If you study you get a year back.

CG2: Oh that's nothing. My college people dint study and still get year backs. The there are other who reverse study. They lose all their knowledge before their exams. These are normally the 9 pointers.

CG3: What? Thats nonsense. No one can lose their knowledge of course. But that 9 pointer part makes sense. Anyway, my college is way cooler. Everyone smokes marijuana. One day, my roommate smoked 450 rupees worth of marijuana.

me:Groaning and looking at the waiter. Begging him to get my food.

CG1: Oh thats peanuts. My roommate smoked 1500 rupees worth of maal. I'm not sure about this marrijuna. What is it?

CG2:Its the same thing stupid We put it in our mess food. Oh it was so much fun..blah blah blah

me:Still looking at the waiter. Making life size B52 models with tissues.

CG1: Does your hostel have LAN?

CG3: Oh what a stupid question (!) My hostel has 10 kzillion fourteen billion GB shared. We have all the latest songs, movies, games useless and absolutely non sensical photographs of rabbit couples and woodpeckers in wife swap like compromising poses.

CG1: Ha! Thats it? We have turtles and sea otters too.

CG2:All that is nothing compared to what you find on my LAN (One waiter brings a plateful of food. My eyes light up) Even before movies release, they're on our LAN because the photons in our lan move faster than light and hence they time travel. (bus boy laughs. Even he knows photons can't travel faster than light)

Waiter puts food on their table. My blood curdles. He looks at me and passes out.

CG2: (between mouthfuls) The food in our mess is so bad we found a cockroach in the pulao.

I fantasize cockroach pulao. Seems sumptuous.

CG1: OH thats nice. In our pulao we have to hunt for rice in between the cockroaches.

A small spider crawls up next to CG2's plate. He instantly throws up. He accuses the spider of ignoring the fact that he is brahmin.

CG3: Oh thats like the scent of summer. In my college people puke such stinky stuff that....

After completing a Live Size model of Pamela Anderson and INS Vikraant I realize my food has come. I gobble it up and make my exit. 

 
Some post trauma inquiries revealed that these were professionals who were actually working in a nearby company. They were reminiscing. Or whatever the word is.

As it often happens, my mood shifts from one level of randomness to another. And considering its love for entropy, the degree of randomness rarely decreases. Make that never.

The Wet Socks Study

In the Spring of 2007, Dr. Vocksman Joure, a Franco-German scientist at The Max Planck Institute of Scientific Research was washing his socks. It then struck him, that in this process his socks were obviously moistened, or as the layman would say, we. But in spite of his dedicated efforts they refused to stink. Dr. Joure was puzzled as whenever his socks were 'moistened' by the rain, they smelled like 5 day old cow dung after the beetles had their eggs hatching and larvae growing.

Being the brave scientist he is, he decided to venture into this unchartered territory armed with nothing but his razor sharp Swiss army knife, and what he liked to call intellect. Later he would regret his folly and blame it on his naive ego.

Anyway, Joure waited. Waited for summer to come. And all this time his mind was focused. Every morning he thought about his stinky socks and how his research would change the world.
And soon the rains were here. The rains. They were here.

His beacons of joy were lit, the flame of his research desire let loose its forked tongue and gasped for more scientific air. Oh! How they smouldered in his heart, his soul and mind were one. He saw nothing but the socks, he smelt nothing but the smell of wet socks and he felt nothing but euphoria and adrenaline of inching towards one of the greatest scientific marvels of the 21st century. He wept as his mind envisaged heroic welcomes and people thronging every city he entered.

Three hours later Dr. Vocksman Joure passed away due to a heart attack. Apparently emotional exhaustion was the cause.

Note: In his honour, the Wet Sock Study was officially suspended. This intriguing subject will never be dealt with again by any scientist in the world, and anyone who dares to defy this rule will be struck by the Vocksman Joure curse. This horrible curse causes socks to stink even after they are washed. Let us pay homage to this great man. Whatever little we know of, about this great smelly mystery is all because of him.

This is an article dedicated to all the Chennai Bus N00bs. I was once like you are now and I know that its not easy to recall something going wrong. (no, I don't like boy bands, this line just happened to be an exact match. Seriously.)
After in-depth analysis, pondering and near death experiences I have decided to formulate a list of rules that will govern the living and existence of every n00b that wishes to survive on a MTC bus.

Without futher ado, I present my ISO:190087 certified theory that has been approved by the head of theory approving council, Barbie, himself. Or herself. Hmmm... that might need another theory. Anyway enough of the distractions. Lets get down to business.

Abbreviations you better know (Or MC Conductor Bro ain't gonna be happy with you homie):

1. MTC: Metropolitan Transport Corporation (Chennai) Ltd. Where the Chennai and Ltd come from is a mystery. Some theorists believe the force is with them.

2. SRM: Seats reserved for Males. Please note M is not for MEN. It could be for MICE though, Although genetic studies seem to point towards Ninja Monkeys. Therefore, we settle for Males, whatever be the species.

3. SRL: Seats reserved for the Ladies. Note the word "Ladies" and the word "the" before it. I must warn you though, speak not about the dark lords or their throne (SRL).

Basic Rules:

1. A Male may never sets eyes or ass upon a SRL. This would lead to an instant and painful death due to Human Self Combusion.

2. When a she-who-must-not-be-named sits on a SRM, it automatically converts to a SRL. This is skill is learnt at a young age by all shes-who-must-not-be-named in the monastry. And although this might seem similar to a strategy game spell, beware, this is real and this is your life, or the lack of it, decided by your actions of course.

3. In case a Male tries to recapture the SRM which has the now been converted to a SRL, his fate is decided by the application of Rule 1. This is the reason why many shes-who-must-not-be-named wear gas masks and safety goggles. They must protect their eyes from the flames.

4. If, in the unlikely anamoly, that the SRM that was converted to an SRL is brought back to being an SRM, then what may seem like an educational video for the devil starts. In fact, recent reports have suggested that Satan himself comes down (or up?) and watches the scenario to learn how all hell is supposed to break loose. Subsequently, may hell dwellers have reported better torture facilities and infrastructure.

5. The conductor's and driver's seats cannot be classified as SRL or SRM. Though the Seats Reserved for The Ladies Rights and Protection Group(SRLRAP) is applying pressure on the State Government to apply Rule 2 to this procedure, the State Government has claimed lack of rights to do so and has instead promised free Guitar Hero 3 CDs to all shes-who-must-not-be-named.

6. In any event, or rather calamity, if there exists physical contact at any arbitrarily chosen point in the time-space continuum between the shes-who-must-not-be-named and a Male, all funeral expenses for the Male are to be borne by the closest kin of the Male. They must also pay for towels to wipe the bloodstains off the shes-who-must-not-be-named.

7. You must draft your will and complete all legal proceedings, including paying the bills before calling any of the shes-who-must-not-be-named dark and fat.

8. The above rules apply to everyone including Rajnikanth and Chuck Norris.

9. The growing Chink population believes they must also be included in the shes-who-must-not-be-named. It is believed the shes-who-must-not-be-named smiled at this suggestion. Sadly the reporter who is responsible for the valuable tit-bit could not see the light of day ever again as the smile turned him to stone. May his soul rest in peace.

No, this is not another post about my ever expanding Tamil prowess that has left Dravidian scholars in the search for the next The Onne ( or in english, the one). This is my experience living in TN for 3 years, a refreshing, fresh culture shock to my super adaptable mind, to warn it that well, its not genius, not yet.

- Its 14:00 hours. Its a Wednesday. Its also 43 Degrees Celsius. And there's a queue outside the TASMAC liquor shop. There are drunk people on the road, some have passed out maybe because of the heat. Maybe because of the alcohol. Next day, the newspaper casually mentions that 2 people died because they had too much XXX rum.

- I live in a state where alcohol is banned, or in a more refined way, prohibited (Gujarat). In TN, the government sells alcohol. The government. The one that is supposed to stop people from drinking themselves to death.

- Do you have any clue how much these buggers make out of alcohol? The last Google search lead me to an article in The Hindu that said, alcohol revenues in 2006- 6030 Crore, in 2007-7438 Crore. Its not a crore or two. Its a clear 23% rise. And its THOUSANDS of crores.

- Tamil Nadu is also the only place where I have seen public domestic violence. Mess workers beat up their wives in intoxicated fits of anger in full view of the college. Take a 23:00 hours bus back to college from trichy and half of the bus stinks of local liquor. And that's not all. All this can be seen in Chennai as well. My friends would often tell me how their neighbours would come back drunk and unleash household mayhem.

- Chennai, at least, is known to have a well informed and well educated vox populi, maybe its does. But its one vox that I don't see making a difference.

- Tamil Nadu also has an amazing music industry. They are, quite clearly, heads, necks, torsos and even pelvises above their bollywood counterparts. And they really know how to slap a bass.

- This is also the only place that I have physically seen, wherein exists a University with apparent credentials, that imposes dress codes, going to the extent of limiting the fairer sex to a certain set of bland colours. They have also banned mobile phones, for it is a device of the devil. A recent study has shown that my cat is smarter that the entire board of directors collectively.

- Having said that, I must also notify the reader of what Kollywood (yes it is called that, and is as ridiculous as Bollywood) has to offer. Every single videographic clip  that is made here has super-suggestive references. The movies and songs are saturated with sexual innuendos. And quite shockingly no one says anything.

- Also my recent foray into Tamil reality shows has resulted in a set of conclusions that may be treated as a set of rules when further research is done in this intriguing field of Discrete Tamizhism. Every Senthil is trained in carnatic music, which is a good thing. And a lot of slightly large, expressive women believe it is a good thing to bare their mid-riffs and dance wildly on television.  Good thing? You decide.

DISCLAIMER: The above views are not my own. They have been forcefully inserted into my brain by an American doctor's invention,  The Forcefullyinsertthingsintobraintor (Patent Pending). So blame America.

Recently, in the news, apart from Slapgate and the constant terrorism section, I came across this article that spoke about "Reverse Brain Drain". At first sight I thought, "This MUST be some stupid American way of actually inserting brains into empty skulls, in which case of course, Indian brains would go to the highest bidders, in which case, would'nt they be too dumb to know they need the brain?? Hmm... sound shady.. So quite surprisingly I decided to grant the article the joy of my vision (sounds japaneses.. like all your base are belong to us)".

Apparently "Reverse Brain Drain" or "niarD nairB" is the phenomena in which IIT grads are returning to India after working for X years in the US (X lies between 10 and 1789) and these  super philanthropic ninja monkeys claim that it is the love for their motherland and hunger for dal chawaal etc etc etc that has brought them back.
And that claim is almost as authentic as the fact that that Queen Elizabeth is actually a man. Almost.

What do you do in a country filled with people who think you've stolen their job? A country that is drowning in the sea of recession and believe that every Indian left on the planet is hell-bent on making sure that lasts? A country where "brown people" are treated like Christmas turkeys?

So much for their love for their motherland. As the ubiquitous tambi would put it.. poda.. die off.
I would'nt really complain if these guys just finished their masters, stayed there for a year to enjoy strip-bars and good beer and came back. But no! These guys settled there, started a American Football team (or family, whichever way they want it) and now, after more years than I might have seen, they're chickening out.

In all fairness they have a right to social security and dal chawal and all the etc they talked about, but why call it their love for the motherland?

And if you're young and opininonated and still in college and want to do something, here's the gauntlet, stay here.

1:30 AM
Purple moor, purple road and the purple moon. High on life and high on an organic group that he otherwise hated. As he stumbled towards his dry abode, an uninteresting square room with three equally boring companions, the lucid truth of the situation struck him down like talons on a wet toad. A mini fortune had turned him into this no holds barred, truth speaking, finger pointing, opinionated 19 year old with an extremely full bladder. Ignoring nature, he squatted on the road, head in his hands and a surprisingly clear series of thoughts. Wasn’t I supposed to be this way?, he asked himself.. Was I supposed to be locked in social chains of unwritten rules and approximate protocol? He allowed himself a smirk, my vocabulary’s increasing, thought he. And with the swiftness that sobriety often robs us of, he decided to act this way, always, to rid himself of the hesitation and apprehension that this world had given him in a gift wrapped heart shaped box.

Next Morning
9 AM
That dude is high! Take that for an entry. Reception as expected, recorded his mind, almost half mechanically. His plan was working, at least till now, his new policy of near transparency had left people stunned, bemused and a few times pleased. He had worked his way through situations that previously would’ve got him nowhere, with (yes this may sound corny) honesty. He finally struck down with venomous wrath on every little thing that seemed mentally constricted, forming this vague sense of belonging. And as he tucked into bed that night he prayed to god, hoping to have dreams of his favourite actress without her make up, for once.

5 years later
Our man had turned from ‘he’ to ‘HIM’, capitalization intended. A young man with the following of a pastry next to an ant hill. Hundreds now followed suit, mingling with his almost divine realization to produce a delicate imbalance in society that often reminded people of Lok Sabha sessions of the recent past. It was only after the above stated comparison was assimilated by the leaders of the world, that they realized immediate action was necessary. This world was not big enough for both of them. And the papers talked about it for quite some time, the rocket full of madmen.

That dear reader was my experiment with insanity. A little reminder that if you play with fire you get burnt. Before I place one final period on this rare message I would quote one of my favourite sons, who once said that there are two men in this world, the smart one who adapts to the situation and changes as per the society, and the stubborn one, who foolishly tries to change the world to his liking. Hence, of course, all the change in this world depends on the latter. So go ahead, get burnt.

Its been a long time, oh faithful reader who hath stumbled upon my blog (for the first time most probably).

On my recent trip to NITK, Surathkal I learnt quite a few things. But the biggest realization came out of the blue, or , well, black of outer space.
The beach next to which the college is so comfortably parked is a a 5 minute walk from the main gate. A walk that leads through eerie residential colonies, where all Hitchcock's of inspiration lives. On an innocent journey through this very road, our group found themselves in the middle of a blackout. The Karnataka power grid had seemed quite consistent in its inconsistencies and as in the previous occasions the probability that there would be light was, at best, negative.

So what do we do on a moonless night stuck in the middle of nowhere in complete darkness? I looked up at the heavens only to realise why god had created load scheduling and power cuts. It was alive with a million stars twinkling for our attention, another chance to play join the shiny dots and conjure constellations. And then it all came back, like the swat kats were bored of the past master and sent him to me.

I recalled how I once told a debate judge I wanted to be an astronaut. How I watched every moon documentary there is. How my first chemistry lab absolutely fascinated me. How my first physics lab's staff had to throw me out to make sure I did not camp through the night there. How I hated (and still hate) biology. How I wanted to study science and engines and trains and machines and generators and motors and circuits all my life.

Now languishing where I languish I wonder all those ambitons have faded away. Its as if they have been smothered. By an educational system that laughs when you are shocked by 440 V machines. That would trip you rather than warn you to look before you leap. A system where positive means lack of negative.

And most of all by an individual who wishes he was forewarned, who wishes he could sit in an armchair and learn all he wants to without having balding professors with crooked noses and twisted minds glaring down and monitoring every move as if his pupils were sick animals in a rundown zoo.

And here's the KO, an educational system that justifies all of the above and adds a prickly reminder, but no answer, to every question raised. And before you leave the room this cynical system will remind you its core value, change implies rebellion, and rebellion deserves death.

New Year? Bah! Humbug!
humbug humbug humbug.
What a funny word!

Back to college then, back to insanity. Back to my lovely room, with the lovely pictures. Back too cute cows and lovable dogs and irritating gaudy round letters on silly pictures of fat half naked women and hairy moustache sporting men.

Back to using commas.