THE PLACEMENTS

A Poem

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DISCLAIMER: This has nothing to do with the Catholic Church.

DISCLAIMER 2: Based on a real-life accident in the Poet's Life. ________________________________________________________________________

It is that time of day again, and it’s come none too soon;
As blazing morning gives its way to scorching afternoon.
We sit and sweat and swear and shout, and wonder what to do,
And in walks our PC*, saying “Lis’n up all of you!
I have something to tell you all, which is of great import.”
“It is this,” he says aloud, and waits for some retort.

Nothing is forthcoming, we are not the least interested,
And our PC mashes his teeth, his efforts have been bested.
He clears his throat, and straightens his collar,
He opens his mouth and he tries to holler,
His voice cracks and it comes out hoarse,
The silence is broken by laughter and roars.

“You all have your placements, and we PC’s have our job,”
He says with all importance, as he begins to bob.
“We have to make sure of one thing good and true,
And that is to ensure that we get every one of you
A job that’s worth your time, and also pays you money,
Stop giggling back there; this isn’t remotely funny!”

“Now the companies will come sometime this month or the next,
You’ll have to brush up on your syllabus, and get back to your text.
They’ll ask you some tough questions, there’s lots they’ll put you through,
And at the end of all this crap is a blasted Interview!
If you manage to clear it all, and shine in every session,
You’ll still have to wade through the dreaded Group Discussion!”

“Once you've gone through this, for better or for worse,
You’ll have your job,” said he, and ended with a curse.
The reason why he abruptly stopped midway through his talk
Was that someone from the back bench had biffed him with a chalk.
It was at this crucial moment that his phone began to ring,
And he walked out of class, screaming into the bloody thing.

We sat there completely stunned; we were totally confounded,
Was all this talk official and true or simply rumour, unfounded?
As we sat and pondered thus, in he walked again,
A smile was hitched along his face, in his pocket gleamed his pen.
“I have a meeting to attend now,” he smirked as he strode
His way into the classroom and stood next to the board.

“I believe there’s going to be some change; I have to check out what it is,
So you all wait till I get back, and talk of that and this.”
And with this shining parting shot, our PC took his leave,
And noise leaked into the classroom like water from a sieve.
We all sat there talking of our chances for a placement,
Of the ridicule we would go through, and of all the sad debasement.

’Twas about two hours later, we were ready to leave en masse,
When, like a genie from a lamp, our PC breezed into the class.
No smile was on his happy face, a frown divided his brow,
He put his hands up in the air and said, “Listen, now.
Some things have happened, I don’t know if it’s good or bad,
But hey! Things will turn out well, don’t look all that sad!”

“What I have to tell will be a little tough to take,
But what sense you can, out of it you’ll have to make.
I have tell you sadly, our college fucked the placement.
It’s true! There’s a whole meeting going on in the basement!
They for got to tell the companies that they’d have to come,
And so we have nothing now, it’s so bleedin’ dumb!”

“But then, don’t worry, all is not yet lost,
We will get the companies, no matter what the cost.
You will have your placements, and we will do our work!
Jai Hind!” he said, and left us in the murk.
And once more we were stunned and silence reigned supreme,
The college had once more succeeded in stomping on a dream.

Anger was heavy in our hearts, and hatred lay there too,
We argued for hours together, about what we had to do.
“Maybe we’ll have placements later,” someone said out loud,
And as if on cue, our PC returned, looking good and proud.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “all the patch-ups have begun,
We will have our placements, and our places in the sun!”

“But we may have the placements about three months from now,
When we’re all done with our exams, with difficulty, somehow.
And then you’ll all get your jobs, of this I guarantee you,
Well, now I have be downstairs, so I’ll see you when I see you!”
He waved to us, and smiled a smile, and walked out through the door,
And we all just sat there, just as worried as before.

We didn’t know what to make of this, whether it was true or false,
We didn’t know if they were trying to help us, or kick us in the balls.
Discussion didn’t help us any, and neither did debate,
We decided to call it a day, it was getting pretty late.
We all got up, as if on cue, and left the classroom, talking.
Inside that room we left the spectre of our placements stalking.

And with these words, this sombre account finishes.
I seek from you your kind comfort, and all your warmest wishes.
I must face this Nemesis, in a few months from now;
I hope it all comes out well; and I can take a bow.
I must leave now, having got out this story dark and bloody
For, my internals begin next week, for that I’ll have to study.

* PC – Placement Co-ordinator.

Voila!!!

For no other reason other than the fact that it is brilliantly written, I searched and located this quote from the Wachowski Bros' "V for Vendetta".

So I will put it up.

Read it and enjoy.

"Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin vanguarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose so let me simply add that it's my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V.

Evey Hammond: Are you like a crazy person?

V: I'm quite sure they will say so."

Wind ’em up, Boys!

10 WAYS TO IRRITATE LECTURERS IN A BORING CLASS ® – PART ONE

It has been brought to my notice that students in Bangalore are facing a huge problem. Lecturers, it seems, have resorted to making their classes and lectures really boring, and in addition to that, are getting more and more uncaring and supercilious (towards the students, that is). Appeals, petitions and complaints, I am told, are about as effective as holding up a newspaper against a charging rhinoceros (and I am also told that some of these lecturers do resemble that unfortunate animal).

I have thought a lot about this, for it struck a chord in my heart. You see, it may be that I do not attend classes. It may so occur that I often proclaim that education has not taught me anything and do maintain, like Mark Twain, that “I tried to learn, but my education came in the way.” But deep down inside, I know that I am a student. A card-carrying, fees-paying member of the Sloggers’ Union. And I feel I must do something, because, in the one or two classes I attended, I found the lecturers inexpressibly – even for me – boring.

So, I have thought long and hard about this, and I am happy to report that I have come up with a solution. I present here my 10 ways to get back at the lecturers. It is my opinion that the only way to get back at them is to irritate the hell out of them, in their classes.

I have come up with the following ways in which one may do that:

(Note: these steps mentioned below do have lots of references to a certain Arjun Sharma. This guy is one of my closest pals, and his humour quotient is rather on the high side – and it matches with mine. In several lecturer-bashing sessions, we came up with a lot of very sensible tips of invaluable efficacy in lecturer-irritating, and some of these are there below.

These work, of that I can guarantee you. Of course, they have the side-effect that you may be thrown out of class, but if you don’t want to get out of a class, you shouldn’t be reading this anyway. You should be sticking your head inside your microwave and turning it on.
Or jumping off your balcony.

For the rest of you, these tips work.

And so I have included Sharma’s name here, with suitable mention as the originator or co-originator of several “routines”, lest he sues me for copyright infringement. Now, read on, please.)

10 WAYS TO IRRITATE LECTURERS IN A BORING CLASS ® – PART ONE

1) The easiest. Talk very loudly to your partner or the person sitting next to you. Jab him or her in the ribs, and guffaw loudly. Say thing like “Oh Gawd BUT THAT WAS FUNNY!!!” or “Jeeessus!!! You should have seen her face when he did that!!!” or “Man!! That skirt!!!” very loudly and laugh. Guaranteed material.

2) When the lecturer hauls you up, look confused, and say “Oh, I’m sorry, missed that. What did you say? .... What? …. You’re taking a class? Go right ahead. I was just telling my friend here a hilarious story. You just go right ahead, boss (or lady, depending on gender.) That’s right. Carry on.” And sit down.

3) Sit bolt upright suddenly in the middle of the class, pick up your cell phone (Now, if you say that cell phones aren’t allowed inside classrooms and so you don’t carry yours, please go boil your head. Or follow the microwave routine.) and listen, showing great amazement on your face, slowly getting to your feet. Then look at the class, put out your hands, and scream “NOW WHADDAYA THINK ABOUT THAT??? HOW THE BLOODY HELL DOES THAT GRAB YOU! SHIT!!!” and sit down. When hauled up and asked to explain, yell again, “LOOK! IF YOU DON’T KNOW YOUR BASICS, THERE’S NOTHING I CAN DO ABOUT THAT.” Sit down.

4) Whenever asked a question by the lecturer, look scandalised and follow the Arjun Sharma Routine – say, “How rude! I refuse; I abso-bloody-lutely refuse to sell my body!!”

5) Similarly, whenever asked for an answer to a problem, a question or a solution, repeat very loudly your registration number (1DC02EC022 or whatever it is) and smile, and sit down.

6) This is known as the Sharma-SK routine, after the two greats who invented it. Get up suddenly, walk up to the lecturer, look interestedly at a piece of his / her clothing and say, “Excuse me, what is the maximum retail price of this item??” and look very fascinated, waiting for a reply. After some time, walk back to your seat, and sit down as though nothing happened.

7) We come now to the third routine. This I will call the Sharma-Manjunath routine. This requires two people. Say your friend and you. In the middle of the class, have your friend stand up, point at something on the desk / table and ask loudly, in a parodied Tamil / Kannada accent, “Yeh khya hai???” Now, you also stand up, peer intently, and reply, equally loudly, “Yeh LENGTH hai.” Both of you nod contentedly and sit down.

8) Purse your lips and make loud racing car noises in the class. Blow out air while making a farting-sort of noise, only much more squeaky. It will, with some practice, sound exactly like an F1 car. Practice till this gets really REALLY loud.

9) This one I will call the Simi Garewal routine. Whatever the lecturer says, lean forward, look really interested and say, “How interesting!” or “That must have been so hard for you…” or any of the usual crap Simi says on her show. When the lecturer looks smug after deriving a long formula, etc., say, “That was BRILLIANT!”, and stand up, clap very effeminately and giggle. When anything surprising is said, go with “Well! Whatddaya know about that!” or “Loo-hook at that, baby!” or, a la Simi, “How absolutely fascinating!”

10) Last one. This one is for guys (mostly). Very loudly, hum ONLY THE GUITAR INTRO AND THE GUITAR SOLO of the following songs:
BLACK SABBATH by BLACK SABBATH
INTO THE VOID by BLACK SABBATH
FIRE by JIMI HENDRIX
PURPLE HAZE by JIMI HENDRIX
Any other LOUD Hendrix or Sabbath number
Any FLOYD number
Any IRON MAIDEN / JUDAS PRIEST number
Any – absolutely ANY – DEATH / THRASH / SPEED METAL number
Any song with good, loud guitaring.

And remember, hum it. Don’t sing the words, just hum the tune (or use sounds, not words).

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These 10 ways should keep you occupied for at least a semester. You are free to change these to suit your situation, and also to work on new routines.

Mainly, remember, you are paying money to sit in those classes. So make sure you have fun.

NJOI.

People

Before I begin my rant for today, I have a request to all our readers. It is extremely demoralizing to check out the blog everyday and see that noone, save a few dedicated readers have bothered to leave comments. The humble request would be "Please leave comments, suggesting how we can improve ourselves." We both are painfully aware of the fact that somewhow we just can't seem to be catering to the audience, and are equally painfully aware about the fact that we are unaware as to just how exactly can that be done. Feedback is greatly appreciated for the simple fact that it will help us keep you better entertained, which is Random Tandem's basic premise. So help us help you. Even negative feedback, such as "Tell K to rant or write in normal language," or "Tell V that he really isn't that funny", while extremely damaging to our respective egos, will be appreciated. And now, onwards.

People always do end up surprising me. You think you know somebody, and then they always end up doing something that will completely surprise you. Sometimes positively, but predominantly it is an unpleasant surprise. Let us take an example:

Both the authors of this blog know a ridiculous excuse for an actor who tried to pass himself off as a director with absolutely no success. But he was tolerated by all for the simple fact that nobody wanted to stoop to a level well beneath them. And so it continued, the endless and pointless rehearsals, with all the actors reaching new heights of frustration and learning that their frustration threshold is indeed quite high. Unfortunately, with every growing day, our inept and grossly inadequate "DIRECTOR" grew more and more secure in his supposedly knowledge that he was indeed our fearless leader, and hence could take as many liberties as he wanted with us. We stayed silent. As our silence grew, so did his delusions of grandeur. And so it went on and on and on, with the end result being a cast who personally was willing to send him off to a firing squad, just to be rid of him. Much convincing, and the love of the script kept us together. We all proved to be excellent actors, for not only did we act out our parts with brilliance, but we also managed to keep the director ignorant of our feelings. I am extremely confident that he knew nothing about how much we hated him until recently. This man proved to be one of the most short-sighted idiots I have ever encountered. Sometimes, people are seduced by the glamour of a certain profession, and go in with the stars in their eyes, and no sane thoughts in their brains. As was the case with this blithering nincompoop. This dark-haired, flat-chested male(?) equivalent of a blonde simply saw himself taking the credit for everyone else's efforts, and nothing before that, or beyond that. The funds were lacking, but the actors weren't informed. The costumes weren't ready but the actors still weren't informed. Nothing was done, absolutely nothing was done...and YET, the actors were not informed. The actors offered to help share his burden, but in order to cover up his tracks, he declined initially, and then blamed the same people who offered to help later. A champion in passing the buck, this mook looked to make as many excuses as possible just to save his damn skin. And so the charade continued, as the excreta kept piling on and on and on.

The actors, a by now disgruntled bunch, with one exception (Mr. Passion For Theatre is on his own. He gets no sympathy from anyone) kept valiantly soldiering on, although. like the rats sensing a wreck, they too wanted to desert the ship. Yet, forgetting all else, devoted to the script and the rest of the cast, they held on, and tried to salvage what was left of the situation. Sad;y, it was a fight they just would not be able to win.

The matter reached a head on the day of the show. The director probably had been praying for an excuse all the previous week to ensure that the show would NOT go on, and the Gods were smiling on him. The law-enforcers also had something to do with it, but the raids gave the inept idiot a perfectly good excuse and citing the safety of the women, the play was cancelled.

The actors, now fuming, met and almost unanimously (no prizes for guessing the sole dissident) decided that they had had it, and that this man was toast. Further fuel was added to this already simmering fire by the revelation that the venue where we were supposed to be performing in less than three hours wasn't even booked. And the inferno completely broke out when the shameless sissy showed up near our meeting place, looking as if all was right with the world. Everyone unanimously quit.

Since then, this excuse for a man has tried a combination of apologies to passing the buck to slandering and blaming innocent bystanders, but his game has been busted. Each and every member of the cast is dying to get his/her hands on this numbskull and the heavens will shudder theday that happens. We all do our parts at warning the general public against even so much as thinking of associating themselves with this guy, and this is my oh-so-humble comtribution.

So, if a guy called Karthik Ram ever calls you and asks you if you are interested in working with him, decline...and if you can, throw in a few select abuses as well.

You will be doing the world a very big favor. Thanking you very much. Cheers and good notions.

V

Manipulator Overload!!!

People are manipulative. Yes, people.

Wait, that doesn’t give the necessary stress, let’s try italics.

People are manipulative. Yes, people. There. That’s better. I like it.

Whenever anyone says the word “People” (There you go, italics again) these days, my face goes into a sneer. A sneer which looks just like the one in the photo. Come to think of it, I think my friend who shot it said “Say… People!” instead of the usual “…Cheese!” or “…Baloney!” I have already written about the She-Woman. That (her included) is the kind of people I’m talking about.

I am not talking about genteel, well-groomed people. I’m talking of a set who exist a social rung lower than that. Well, alright, I haven’t really been among the lower dregs, the gruel-and-sometimes-used-up-footwear-eating section of the public, so I cannot really say whether the people I’m referring to occupy that stratum. But I’m sure, even if they are outwardly prosperous, in their scant, scurvy, paltry, measly little souls, they do come rather low in the evolution chart.

They think they can get away with anything. They think they can insult you, wound you, and then, when things need to get done, come and grovel at your feet, and they, these people, expect you to relent. How miserable, how small, how derisorily desultory, how delightfully pathetic!

Fools. Manipulation: they think it is sugary words coated with flattery, pleading, cooing and fawning, gelled sentences. Fools.

It must be drilled into the vast vacuums that swirl inside their empty skulls that they cannot take everyone for granted, that there are things called tact and diplomacy, and they cannot be bought at a 40% (flat!) discount at the neighbourhood Big Bazaar. They cannot treat other people (who, being relatively decent, do not deserve the scorn of italics) like excrement.

No, I am not going to elaborate the event that led to this rant. That involves disclosing information about things I'd rather not go into.

It’s just that I hate being used, and that is what is happening. There. That sentence is oblique enough to convey my disgust, and direct enough to convey my scorn, and start you thinking. Maybe, as time goes by and I mellow with age, maybe then I’ll name names and point fingers and maybe then I will aim, fire and kill someone.

Maybe. But for now I can only rant impotently. At least I can do this much.

I know it is of no use ranting, but it is a much needed catharsis. Though I wish I could ask all those people to read this, and how I wish they would have the sheer human decency to feel bad. But I can’t, and they won’t, anyhow. So let’s leave it at that.

Adios.

Eppur Si Muove

A herd of dinosaurs. That’s what they remind me of. Standing there, stolid, silent, dirty, splashed with mud and dirt, they resemble a herd of apatosaurs at the neighbourhood swamp. They rumble and sneeze, and they bellow. God that sound! It reaches down to my very roots and shakes me up from there. There is a guy, a person, in front of me, and he has on this ‘I’m a rebel, yo!’ T-shirt that says “I HAVE ONLY ONE NERVE, AND YOU’RE GETTING ON IT!” I feel like that statement, stamped in bold Matisse ITC font was written for me by someone above.

He looks at me looking at his t-shirt. He seems to be the “I spik Inglees. Solpa solpa” types; the ones who come from a land far, far away, with a language far, far more incomprehensible than ours. Like Nepal or Tibet. Or maybe Gangtok. I doubt he can understand his T-shirt, but I feel for him. He smiles at me, probably feeling glad that someone appreciates his wonderful sartorial sense. Not to seem rude, I smirk. He turns away.

In the belly of the beast, the heat is intolerable. Sweat runs in rivulets down my face, into my shirt, down my back. My undershirt is stuck onto my back, sticky. I swallow a couple of times; it doesn’t help. Sweat gets in my eyes, and out. The bellow sounds, again, echoing through the vastness of this…this place. Answers erupt from all around, the sound is deafening. It is a lonely sound, like monsters calling out to each other over some primeval bog, with no other species around. It is a teeth-rattling (can I say teeth-rattling? Or is it tooth-rattling?) sound. I shudder.

Sweat is slowly evaporating my deodorant. The stink around me is unbearable. Even with superior technology, at the end, all things said and done, we smell like shit. At least, those brothers of my species standing in front of me do. But I cannot get out. This is the only way, and I have to stay. I may suffocate, I may pass on out of my mortal coil, but I must stay. I do. I’m used to it now. The wait, the tension; the heat, the sweat. I’m used to them all.

Ahead, the whole herd is there. Standing there limply, baking in the horrible heat of day. They holler to each other, in their own code, and answers arrive by similar means. They seem content to just stand there till Eternity, but I know better. I know that sometime, sometime now their stagnation will turn to ponderous motion. And I have to wait.

The time has some. With a great creaking and howling the march begins. The huge forms in front of me move, slowly, oohhhh sssoooo ssssssssllllllloooowwwwwwlllllyyy. But they are moving.

A zephyr enters from somewhere, cooling my forehead but for a moment. It is a like a peaceful interlude, like a sudden piano solo in a heavy metal song (Opeth maybe, or Dimmu Borgir). Then it’s gone and the heat returns, like some demon. It envelops and chokes the life out of me.

But we are moving. The beast slowly rumbles, shudders, judders, creaks, shrieks and screams, and moves. Men all around shout, words unintelligible, gestures flamboyant, as we move out.

Finally.

Finally, we get out of the bus stand. Now it’s an hour and a half to my college. I curse the heat and the sweat and I hang on.

Time: 07:30 Hours.

The usual morning bus ride has begun.

P.S - Go here to know why this article was named thus.

Aaaaarrrrgghh!!!

Let’s face it. I try to write. And I think I can do that quite well, if only I can get my style down. To my credit, I try hard. Only I know how hard.

All right, maybe you do too, no need to look so sceptical.

I agree, it’s tough. Yes, yes, I know. Right. Roger. Hmmm, I used to say that too. Ohh-kkkayy.
Hey, can I continue my article now? Oh, is that so? Okay, okay, don’t get worked up. Right.

Where was I? I try to write. I try hard. Wait. I’ve already said that.

The point – yes, I have a point, and I’m getting there – is this: I suffer from the too-many-authors syndrome. I have read too many authors, and have loved too many. Authors, not bimbettes of the opposite sex. Though, come to think of it, that may also be tru—

I digress. Sorry.

I have loved too many authors. Which ones, you ask?

Well, lemme see. Wodehouse, MacLean, Carr (John Dickson, not Caleb), Herbert (Frank), Rex Stout, Delany, Chesterton.

Hence, my writing tends to have tinges of all these. In a way, it is tainted. I can be overly serious, or I can be overly funny, or I can be a gooey something-in-the-middle-of-these-two. Usually, I start out in one style and gradually progress to another, and thence to another. Very troublesome for my readers (so far, they number half the fingers of one half of one of my hands), for you see, they have to “drift in and out”. Tiresome.

I have been trying to rectify this, but then, every time a solution is nigh, something else crops up. I either lose track of my subject, or I lose interest. Due to these, my writing has tended so far to either tickle or pontificate, and neither well enough to warrant applause. My unusually large vocabulary is also of no use to me, for I almost never seem to use it effectively. All the words are in the wrong places (just go read one of my pieces). The long ones are there where none are required. Short, pithy sentences crop up where long ones might have added to the colour. There’s humour that isn’t funny; pathos that isn’t poignant. My writing has it all.

Hence (also, I tend to use certain words a lot. This essay has an overabundance of “hence”.) I am displeased. No wonder, you say. Yes. I agree. What? What was that?

Why? Why what? Why this article?

I’ll tell you.

My friend – what? Oh no, you don’t know him. Ah, okay – called me up today. I told him I started a blog. And he asked me a painful, personal question. “So,” he said. “How many hits do you get per day?”
I clenched my teeth and bit of a piece of my tongue.

What? No, no, I clenched my teeth, and then I bit off a piece of my tongue. No, not really, I didn’t really bite my tongue off. It’s a metaphor. M-E-T-A-P-H-O-R. Right.

So I told him. I guess I don’t have many hits, I said. Let’s see. I have told all my friends to read the blog. Three have remained ominously silent about it, one maintains that the posts are way too long to read, and another – well, it’s the same story for almost all of them. Nothing to say. But I continue to write. In the hope that I may better myself.

What? When will I end this article? Right now, if you want. Why?

Java City? Now? Oh okay, come on. Your treat right?

Chalo.

I read my post of last night, and frankly, even I was disgusted with myself. God, how boring is that post!!!! If you feel like coming and killing me, do so. By all means. I sure as hell wouldn't blame you. The law might, a completely different matter, but from my side, absolutely no objections.

Moving on. Firstly, a big HELLO to our most devoted reader, Mr. Arjun Sharma. And yes sir, I was in Pta, From the sixth to the tenth. Ah, good times. Mr. Arjun Sharma use to love to tell the story about how we were in a Gita recitation contest together, and I was starving. The organizers, sensing that we just might be hungry, decided, in their infinite wisdom to serve some upma as refreshments. I saw this as a welcome move. Mr. Sharma, although I'm sure he doesn't remember it now, chose that oppurtune moment to sneeze, causing me to dump half my food on the floor, and half on the bench we were sitting on. Now, I was mad, but more importantly, I was still hungry. So, following much deliberation, i scooped the food on my bench, which was rather clean, and then proceeded to finish it. This incident was repeated often, with Mr. Sharma taking undue advantage of the fact that I couldn't speak Kannada too well, and adding his own twists to the tale, knowing fairly well i couldn't offer a rebuttal. Ah, such a devious mind. SUch a devious mind.

Secondly, have you ever wondered about women? Of course you have..I mean we are all men here. They say one thing, and mean quite another. Even the great Sigmund Freud, a man i USED to admire until I found out that he too did not actually know anything; all his fancy razzmatazz(sp?) was just to cover up his actual ignorance, used to wonder, "What do women really want?" Decades since those words first came into Freud's head, I find myself joining the huge droves who also ponder the same question, which seems to be better than the debate on whether it is coffee or toffee.(Personally, I have tasted it, and i vote for toffee. No way could coffee taste that bad). I mean look at the evidence. They send you all these signs, and then rebuke you when you don't act upon them and call you a wuss. Or, when you do react to them, they say you are trying to take advantage of them. They send you e-mils telling you how they want to be treated and expect you to understand that it is their way of reaching out. You send something similar, trying to give an insight into a guy's mind, and they say we are Pigs. I tell you, there is no winning with them.

But that's not what this post is all about. Nor is it about the secret language that women possess. It's true. It exists. Stay tuned to this blog for further updates on that issue. That ought to keep you interested. No, this post will focus on a particular issue: CONVERSATION. Conversation, being one of the most important commandments of a successful date, is rather a bone of contention. I'm willing to bet that every guy out there knows atleast four girls who say that the first thing they look for in a guy is whether he is an intelligent conversationalist. Fair enough. Gives guys like me ample chances to score with women otherwise considered way out of our leagues. But this is where they lie. THEY LIE. It's true. They say they need someone to tlak to, but they just end up listening. The guy tries and tries and tries to make decent conversation, which usually involves some amount of dialogue, meaning both the guy AND the girl have to talk. But no. Permit me to give you an example.

Normal guy and girl are out on date. Typical date type behaviour is happening. A sample conversation:

Guy: SO tell me, what are your favorite authors?
Girl: Oh, I don't know. I don't have any favorite authors. I just like reading. Anything.
(The guy, who had planned to take a 5 minute break from thinking, is suddenly put back into the spotlight. Very cleverly, the girl has shifted the onus of the conversation back onto him)
Guy: Oh...what about movies?
Girl: I like them all.
Guy: Music?
Girl: Anything as long as it's nice to hear.
(Cue to ten minutes later where the guy has exhausted every possible conversation starting topic, and secretly wishes to cry, but is prevented by the simple fact that he is infact A MAN)

There you have it. What do they want from us? What? I asked this to a female friend of mine once, and she said that it's their way of making the man put in some effort. Ah!! As if asking a girl out, psyching yourself out of and back into the date, and finally showing up and waiting for her to show up as well isn't effort enough, they now want to test our talking skills. Seriously, mark my words. One of these days, it is going to be necessary to take an entrance exam before we get to go out with a girl, or even ask her out.

And I have kept up my promise. In the words of Russel Crowe-" ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?"

Cheers and good notions

V

A few Stray Thoughts

Sometimes, the entire universe exists just for one moment, just to get two peole together. And then, the next minute, the same universe is doing it's level best to keep the same two people apart. I wonder what's the deal with the universe? Is there someone up there who insisits on keeping me from true happiness? Alright, that was a little too dramatic, but hey, I'm a dramatic persona. It's a by-product of being a psycho student and a wannabe actor at the same time. Anyway, I digress...slightly.

One rarely has those moments when everything is just perfect, a perfect combination of moments leading to an absolute beautiful time. This occasion was one of them. It's wierd, considering I'm the kind who usually goes all out for the future, and never does anything on impulse. Okay I lie. I usually do a lot of things on impulse. A side result of thinking more with your heart rather than your head. It's easiest to fall in love. It's hardest to stay in love. That comes about because your heart tells you to fall in love. It's your head that thinks everything through and then decides whether this proposed insanity is advised, or ill-advised. Damn, I hate the head sometimes. But it always ends up being my savior in many many situations.

This is one time I tried to listen just to my head, and not let my heart do the talking. Unfortunately, my heart and head seem to work on two completely opposing teams all the time, except when they are united in their common goal of getting me into trouble. At such a time, the two mortal enemies become bosom buddies, and usually, I end up suffering. I know this post is becoming way too self-indulgent and depressing, but humour me. I promise tomorrow I'll come up with a better idea, one which is infinitely more entertaining.

This time around, I have officially spent every single resource trying to get myself out of this slump and back to normal. This involves keeping myself extra busy, avoiding the object of my affections, and being an all-round ass. That didn't work. I then decided to try a whole new approach, and try thinking about someone else. That also didn't work. So, basically I just decided, one fine day, that I can't fight this. So, I'll keep an open mind. I'll have some amounts of patience, which may let me down(knowing my luck, it's a very realistically possibility), and I have to remain an optimist.

I fell lonely. Not lonely, actually, just very much alone. I'm beginning to wonder if moving to Bangalore was a good decision. I love the city, and it's dedication to academics is amazing, but I've traded in too much, given up way too much, and subjected myself to more nonsense than i signed up for. Ah well, time goes on


Once again, I apologize.

Sincerely your's..

V

Aeon's Run, Logan's Flux

A Comparison of Similar Dystopian Visions Encountered in Two Disparate SF Films
In Simple Words: It’s AEON FLUX V/S LOGAN’S RUN

“The seeds of the Little War were planted in a restless summer during the mid-1960s,with sit-ins and student demonstrations as youth tested its strength.
By the early 1970s over 75 percent of the people living on Earth were under twenty-one years of age.
The population continued to climb—and with it the youth percentage.
In the 1980s the figure was 79.7 percent.
In the 1990s, 82.4 percent.
In the year 2000 — critical mass.”
- The first lines of William Nolan and
George Clayton Johnson’s

“Logan’s Run” (Novel)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Light, in the absence of eyes, illuminates nothing. Visible forms are not inherent in the world, but are granted by the act of seeing. Though the world and events do exist independent of mind, they obtain of no meaning in themselves: none that the mind is not guilty of imposing on them. I bid my people follow, and like all good equations, they follow; for full endowment of purpose, they do submit - in turn, they resign me to a role inhuman, impossible, and unaccountable. But I can no longer stand the sleepless nights. ...I think I am learning to love the Demiurge.”
- Opening lines of original ‘first’ episode,

called “The Demiurge” of Peter Chung’s

“Aeon Flux”.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Having seen, and to some extent, having enjoyed both Aeon Flux (2005) and Logan's Run (1976), I couldn't help but notice some startling similarities between the two. Let’s check them out in order.

Firstly, both are Dystopian Movies, from novels (Logan’s Run) and Comic Series (Aeon Flux) which were predominantly Dystopian. Both movies have considerable alterations from the sources.

I don’t think the basic stories of both movies need to be gone into; the comparisons will bring those out amply. Also, the Wikipedia articles (follow all links) provide more than ample information. Trusting that you will go through those articles I have provided links for, I will go on to the comparisons.

Let’s look at the similarities by category:

The Basic Premise:

Logan’s Run: The premise is this: the world’s population is age limited. No one can live beyond 30 years of age. Age is indicated by pulsing Lifeclocks in the middle of each person’s palm. Different colours indicate different ages. On the 30th birthday, the Lifeclock turns black. On reaching their 30th birthday, each person is euthanised in a "Sleepshop". This day is accordingly titled Last Day. There is also a vision of a place called "Sanctuary", where no one dies at 30, and some people who rebel look out for this, trying to avoid Lastday.
Aeon Flux: Cloning was perfected, and implemented on a large scale. But this has resulted in impotency. Initially, cloning successfully sterilised the people. But with time, gene pools have adapted, and fertility is returning. So those in power, the ones who are Pro-Cloning, eliminate all who pose a threat to the immortality offered by cloning; and so anyone showing signs of sexual potency (a female getting pregnant, for instance) is immediately killed. Therefore, broadly speaking, this is also an age limited society.

The World:

Logan’s Run: Here, overpopulation has destroyed the world. The obvious and oft-favoured Sci-Fi premise is adopted, wherein overpopulation results in enormous strain over a country's resources and reserves. Finally, due to starvation, lack of basic amenities and lack of sufficiently effective medical procedures, most of the population dies off. In the beginning of Logan’s Run, this has happened (Timeline: 2000, overpopulation. Some 20, 30 years later the movie takes place). The remnants of the Earth’s population, a handful, live in a Domed City, with the outside world being basically a wilderness into which no one is allowed to go. In order to avoid overpopulation, everyone above the age of 30 (in the book it’s 21) is killed off.

Aeon Flux: Similar premise. A virus kills off most of the world’s population. The rest now live sequestered in a City (A city in the movie, two in the orig. series), cut off from the outside world. Here it is specifically stated that nature has grown into a menace, so no one ventures outside. We see huge pesticide spraying machines at the City walls.

No one reproduces, instead the people are cloned when they die. Also, the cloning makes them infertile, so they cannot reproduce. Timeline is again close to 2000. Story takes place some 400 years later. Here, in these 4 centuries, cloning is perfected, but the drawback (infertility) is kept a secret.
Similarity: Both undertake the situation that the world will destroy itself. The remnants (only a handful in both cases, mere fractions of the total population before), will live sequestered inside Centrally Controlled Cities, knowing nothing about the outside world. Indeed they are prevented from knowing anything or even vernturing into the outside world.

Rebellion and Militia:

Logan’s Run: One is supposed to automatically report oneself to the Sleepshops whenever one’s lifeclock turns black, whereupon one will die. But there are rebels, called “Runners”. As the name suggests, Runners run away from Lastday. They escape into secret chambers (they are a big, organised society), and are hunted by the Sandmen (or ‘Deep Sleep Operatives’). Logan is a Sandman, and he is assigned to penetrate the Runners by having his Lifeclock artificially turned black. He infiltrates the Runners, and then, finally, joins them.
Aeon Flux: The cloning procedure also transfers memory. As a result of this, memory leaks are occurring. People are remembering their past incarnations. That they might realise what is being done to them is a foregone conclusion. Again, there are rebels, the Monicans (in the novel, Monica is a separate city, the other is Bregna. In the movie, Monicans are a secret society living inside Bregna.) Here again, Monicans start of as a group, finally growing into an organised society (or, as in the film, a rebel assassination squad), Monicans infiltrate the Council from time to time and try to get the cloning reversed or stopped. Both Council members and top Monican agents (like Aeon) get killed with startling regularity, but both sides are resurrected by cloning (Aeon Flux and Trevor Goodchild always recur).
Similarity: Both cases involve rebels who are cut-off factions of the larger remnant population. Both movies involve the rebels starting off small, then becoming public knowledge, then public envy. Finally, the public awakens.

Sexual Promiscuity and Openness:

Logan’s Run: The movie was considered sexually very explicit for it’s time. The Age of Sexual Consent was 15 (obviously, considering people would die by the time they are 21). Men and women have rotating scanners in their rooms, which will depict in series, pictures of members of the opposite sex who are sexually mature. One may at will choose any one person, and have that person sent to one’s apartment, where one may “do it”, at one’s leisure. Orgies also occur with great regularity, and anyone may invite anyone. Open use of drugs is also seen, though smoking is illegal. Sadism, sexual torture and self-mutilation are also depicted. Overall tone is very, very dark.
Aeon Flux: Considering that Aeon Flux was designed as the antithesis of a “good” hero, this series is obviously very explicit. Here, the stress is on Domination (Aeon and other agents’ dresses are leather, and frequently suggest FemDom and Sadism). Aeon Flux herself (a brilliant quirk, IMHO), is a model for a Foot Fetish Magazine called “Foozwak”. There is actually one episode which shows Aeon dying and going to a Heaven where her feet are eternally licked. (I’m serious, and I am not a sexual deviant.)
In almost every episode, Aeon dies. She is depicted as overconfident and arrogant, and these kill her every time. Also, instances are there where her sexual quirks delay her, causing her to be killed by soldiers/robots, etc.

The Ending:

Logan’s Run: Logan succeeds in going out of the Domed City and locating an Old Man (Peter Ustinov). He brings the Old Man back, as proof of Sanctuary (a place where people live to grow old, and are not killed on Lastday), and proof that there was civilisation before the concept of Lastday. The Domed City is torn apart and all survivors come out and look, awestruck, upon the Old Man, touching and marvelling at his beard, etc. – the signs of old age that they have never seen
Aeon Flux: The Monicans succeed. The Council is destroyed, and the people of the City are awakened. They destroy the City Wall and go outside, seeing the jungle for the First time.
Similarity: In both last scenes, the people surge out from bottom right of screen, and stare, overawed, at things they never thought to exist. In Logan, at the Old Man and in Flux, at the jungle. In both, people finally realise that they have been lied to and that life can be much, much better than it actually is. Society, in a way, awakens to life as it was, that is, our way of life. Apparently this shows that ours is the most idyllic life, given all the drawbacks, and this is much better than any Dystopian scenario.

Both endings are thus very, very simliar.

There. Another long article. This sufficiently compares the two. I will post something else if this is found to be insufficient.

Yours,
K.

The World is Sunday

Excerpts jotted down in a feverish frenzy of enthusiasm upon a reading of G.K. Chesterton’s “The Man Who Was Thursday”

On first perusing the precis of the novel, one gets the impression that TMWWT is another detective story by the creator of the inimitable Father Brown. It purports to deal with a man, a Scotland Yard Detective, who infiltrates the Supreme Council of Anarchists, a group of men solely bent upon serving Anarchy to the world on a platter. The Supreme Council consists of seven men, who for reasons of secrecy name themselves after days of the week, Sunday to Saturday. Our detective gets into this council also, and becomes Thursday. Thus the title, for we follow the actions of Thursday as he tries to prevent the world from dissolving into chaos and anarchy, and presumably, to find out who is Sunday.

The book, however, is vastly different. In the immense enthusiasm of Chesterton’s narrative style, the story takes on the nature of satire, farce and comedy all at one. As GKC himself wrote of TMWWT in an article:

“It was a very melodramatic sort of moonshine, but it had a kind of notion in it; and the point is that it described first a band of the last champions of order fighting against what appeared to be a world of anarchy and then the discovery that the mysterious master of…the anarchy…was a sort of elemental elf…who appeared to be rather too like a pantomime ogre. This led many to infer that this equivocal being was meant for the description of the Deity…
But this error was entirely due to the fact that they had read the book…not the sub-title. The book was called The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare…”

Somewhere down the line, you wonder, is the world already in Anarchy? Are we all anarchists? The language only tends to get better as the novel progresses. And the speeches towards the end are pure poetry.

Samples:
“I see everything,” he cried, “everything that there is. Why does each thing on the earth war against each other thing? Why does each small thing in the world have to fight against the world itself? Why does a fly have to fight the whole universe? Why does a dandelion have to fight the whole universe? For the same reason that I had to be alone in the dreadful Council of the Days. So that each thing that obeys law may have the glory and isolation of the anarchist. So that each man fighting for order may be as brave and good a man as the dynamiter. So that the real lie of Satan may be flung back in the face of this blasphemer, so that by tears and torture we may earn the right to say to this man, ‘You lie!’ No agonies can be too great to buy the right to say to this accuser, ‘We also have suffered.’

“When I first saw Sunday,” said Syme slowly, “I only saw his back; and when I saw his back, I knew he was the worst man in the world. His neck and shoulders were brutal, like those of some apish god. His head had a stoop that was hardly human, like the stoop of an ox. In fact, I had at once the revolting fancy that this was not a man at all, but a beast dressed up in men’s clothes.

“Then, I entered the hotel, and coming round the other side of him, saw his face in the sunlight. His face frightened me, as it did everyone; but not because it was brutal, not because it was evil. On the contrary, it frightened me because it was so beautiful, because it was so good.

“It was like the face of some ancient archangel, judging justly after heroic wars. There was laughter in the eyes, and in the mouth honour and sorrow. There was the same white hair, the same great, grey-clad shoulders that I had seen from behind. But when I saw him from behind I was certain he was an animal, and when I saw him in front I knew he was a god.”

“Pan,” said the Professor dreamily, “was a god and an animal.”

“Then, and again and always,” went on Syme like a man talking to himself, “that has been for me the mystery of Sunday, and it is also the mystery of the world. When I see the horrible back, I am sure the noble face is but a mask. When I see the face but for an instant, I know the back is only a jest. Bad is so bad, that we cannot but think good an accident; good is so good, that we feel certain that evil could be explained.”

“Listen to me! Shall I tell you the secret of the whole world? It is that we have only known the back of the world. We see everything from behind, and it looks brutal. That is not a tree, but the back of a tree. That is not a cloud, but the back of a cloud. Cannot you see that everything is stooping and hiding a face? If we could only get round in front—”


There. My appetite has been sated. Now it is only left for you to source a copy of the book, if you do so choose, and read it.

Thank you.
K.

The Only Thing I Miss...

I used to be a normal Indian Teenager some time ago. Now I look like the picture on the left.

I used to be a normal Indian Teenager. I used to hang out with pals, I used to watch movies and tease girls, and throw stones at stray dogs and lecturers. Those things, however, I still do. In moderation. There exists one major difference, because of which I wrote the first sentence in this article. It is this: in the good old days, I used to have a cable connection. I used to watch TV.

Now I don't, so I don't.

Flashback. Two months ago. I had cable.

TV was life. TV was GOD. Come back from college, curse it (college) for an hour or so, and PLONK! in front of the TV. Laze till dinner time, eat, PLONK! again. It was fun.

Outside, there were children, and people working hard at producing more children. There were trees and vehicles, smoke and pollution and swearing, but I knew nothing of that. To me, they existed but marginally, at the peripheries of my perception. I was immersed. And that too not with the News or the BBC. With movies, movies, movies and the like.

Enter: My father.

Complaints being laid squarely at the door of my declining academic whatnot, my paternal progenitor snatched away the cable. I tantrummed till I could tantrum no more. To no avail. The pater was firm. So, chopchopchop, and away went the cable.

At first, letting go was hard. The first month went by with me sitting in front of the television, staring at the silent screen, feeling sad for myself. Till about two in the morning. The second month showed a marked improvement: I stayed awake only till half past one. Then, slowly, I started missing TV so much, I started scrounging TV time at my friend's places. And then, I learnt.

I learnt to be happy. I saw them, sitting, eyes glued to the telly, tongues hanging out, at serials which seemed to have one goal: to show that sexual misconduct occurred in all familes. They saw the drivel in Kannada, and then in Tamil and then in Telugu. And still they were unhappy. They discussed it in college, at home, in mails, everywhere. And I detested it. But then, realisation pricked me: I used to be like that once!

Scenes flashed before my eyes: me sitting, drooling, discussing, shouting at some innocent who changed the channel, calling up a pal against all curfew to find out who died and who killed said person, I remembered everything. And finally, it dawned on me: I was better off this was. This was I had time. Time to meet friends, time to talk to my family members, time to go out, time to goout and buy books and movies (and as any buff will tell you, watching a DVD is totally different from watching TV...), I had time. And the newspapers sufficed for all the news I wanted.

Fast Forward: Now.

Now, to sound like Alex DeLarge, I am reformed, my droogies, I am changed. Say "TV!" and I cringe. I have grown up.

No, I am not forty years old.

No, I am not seventy-five either. I am just a 'reformed' teenager, and my psychiatrist reads my blog. I am Algernon's trans-dimensional brother. (Hey Algy! How is you, buddy?? My planet is fine, how's Earth??)

See?

But all said and done, I do miss one thing about TV.

Heavy metal. Other than that, the TV has nothing in it. I can't get my usual share of headbanging (And I hear Headbanger's Ball is back.) And that's making me mad. I can't help it.

...

...

...

...

...

The part of me that wrote this has been surgucally removed. This article will remain as proof of what a deranged mind can do.

My Own personal Profile

I feel it's about time I introduced myself. I know the verbose half of this blog's authors has mentioned us as a couple of disgruntled students, posing as intellectuals, and completely unbalanced in the mental section. Alright, maybe it's just me. But i feel that the introduction given doesn't do me enough justice, so I have prepared a reasonably decent list of frequently asked questions (FAQS) to answer any questions you'd have about me.

Alright. Let us begin. Start meezeek.

Q.1) Who are you?
Ans.1) I am one half of Random Tandem. I go by the moniker of V. You can call me The Rao, or insane, or whatever you want to call me. Shnu and nu are also acceptable. Unacceptable are Vish, and Lamer!! I am doing my Master's in Psychology, from the Indian Institute Of Psychology and Research. I'm a bit of a drifter, considering I have moved from Mumbai, to Bangalore, back to Mumbai, and returned to Bangalore.

Q.2) What makes you interesting?
Ans. 2) You don't think I am interesting? (shocked silence) Well alright. Let's see. I'm a fairly decent looking guy. I like to talk, but i also like to listen. I'm entertainment guaranteed, be it the way I can crack really bad jokes, so badly, that you'll feel so sorry for me, you'll laugh. Or my complete inability to stand on my own two feet without damaging some appendage of mine.

Q.3) What do you like?
Ans.3) I like to read, I like to ride. I like to do several things with my life that I haven't already done. I'd like to discover a totally different side of me which would impress women and leave them gasping for more, but i'll settle for what I am. I love psychology, been interested in it since my 9th grade, and still can't get enough of it.

Q.4) So, would you like to tell us something more about you?
Ans.4) Absolutely. I'm a simple little boy, who likes the simpler things in life. Many times, I prefer the company of a good book, and would willingly lose myself in it. Many other times I'm afraid to be alone because if your thoughts are as scary as mine are, then you'd be afraid to be alone with them too. I manage to make a complete fool out of myself everytime I'm out with an attractive woman (you know, sweating, gas, the works) but I manage to keep it under control most of the time, and when I can't, they don't notice it. Even if they do, I pass off as endearing, and boyishly charming.

I end up talking too much sometimes, and too little sometimes. Geez, this sounds like 10 reasons not to talk to me. Ignore most of the unflattering things said. I am just a nice guy, who alternates between boyishly cute, to sometimes handsome.

So if you find me interesting, leave me a comment. Take care. And good night.

She Tarzan, Me Scandalised

A humorous version of a very harrowing incident in the author’s life

By

Prolixus Neonatus

_____________________________________________________________________________________
CHARACTERS:

She-Woman: A woman about 7’2” tall, built along the lines of the Albert Hall, with a voice like a foghorn on a silent night. Strong tendency to make chopping gestures with spade-like hands, protruding eyeballs. The works.

Supporter: Non-descript friend of She-Woman’s. Not worth taking notice of except while he is speaking, when everyone laughs at his accent.

Heckler: Another supporter of She-Woman: his only duty, to heckle me.

Victim: Me. I. See pic above.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The scene: the class is in deep discussion. The Victim is gesturing argumentatively, all around him nodding sadly and sympathetically. General buzz of conversation. Planning is going on for a Class Party. Victim has made all arrangements, while She-Woman is trying to undo the whole thing, casting mud on Victim.

(Resounding drum roll)
She-Woman, Supporter and Heckler enter. All fall quiet. Heckler, smirk on face, oil on hair, goes and sits on last bench. She-Woman takes stance on dais, supporter stands bracingly below. She-Woman looks around, fire gleaming in her spectacles, her eyes find and settle on the Victim, who quails at the stare. She-Woman lifts her finger, points to Victim…

She-Woman: First point. You, YOU, have an ego.

Victim: Aham.

She-Woman: (Evil gleam in eye) Ha! Hem and haw! There is no escape for you!

Victim: I said “Aham”, not “Ahem.”

Supporter: Bhateetees??? Bhaat??? Bol bey saale!

Victim: Aham. Sanskrit for Ego.

She-Woman: Ho! Ha! Yes! You have an ego!

Victim: Yes.

She-Woman: What? What? What?

Victim: I said “Yes.”

She-Woman: I know that! You don’t trust anyone. You don’t trust me. What did I say? You say I refused to give out money from our funds.

Victim: Tell them how much.

She-Woman: How much? HOW MUCH??? YOU ASKED ME FOR 50 BUCKS EXTRA!!! HOW CAN I SIMPLY GIVE IT AWAY LIKE THAT? MONEY HAS NO VALUE FOR YOU??? I HAVE NO VALUE FOR YOU??? HOW CAN YOU???

Victim: (Also shouting) Yes, money has value. But I’m not going to grovel before you for a paltry 50 bucks!!

She-Woman: See?? You have an ego! A HUGE ego! (Supporter nods effusively. Bolstered, She-Woman continues) you don’t want me here, just be out with it. You hate me. You are turning the whole class against me!

Victim: What the hell! C’est la vie!

Heckler: Oy!! No need to show off your German, haan???

Victim: French.

Heckler: Who are you calling French? Watch it, maga!!

She-Woman: Don’t insult my friends. You have your own now. You hate me.

Victim: I only said it takes one person to spoil all the arrangements everyone has made.

She-Woman: (Draws huge, deep breath. Her eyes pop. So do two buttons.) See!! (To the class) see! He says I will spoil everything! He doesn’t want me to come! He hates me! Now, you are all fine with that? He is insulting me, you are all fine with that?

Victim: Oh shut up. You just go on and on, making no sense.

Supporter: Hai!! Bhaat see iss talling ees, somewan has told it to the other kilassmates. See is theyaar, yoo arr theyaar, see is not talling, who it ees? Bolo, bolo! It is bitbeen you and you!!! (Class sniggers. Silence at a growl from Heckler.) So, you arr tha kalpreet! Accept eet!

She-Woman: Yes! You are turning everything against me! You hate me.

Victim: Oh god. Save me. You spoiled everything for all of us now. No one has any more enthusiasm.

She-Woman: OHO!!! You are not escaping so easily! You are a coward! You cannot just run away like this! You have to learn to face up to your mistakes, you have to learn to be honest, you have to…

Victim: (Roars) SHUT UP! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT THE HELL YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! (Entire class goes deathly silent) You are simply trying to nitpick a good idea. I quit. Have your own f***ing party. Have fun. (Sotto voce) Rot.

Victim walks out of class. Entire class walks out of class. Heckler and supporter stay back to listen to She-Woman. Her voice can be heard Diminuendo.

She-Woman: He did this. He turned everyone against me. He hates me. I cannot work with him. He hates me…

(Curtain falls to the sound of the last thundering piece in Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake”)
______________________________________________________________________________________

Author’s note: She-Woman exists. The Supporter and the Heckler exist. The Victim exists, and when he is not depressed, writes articles like this one. Yes, he is me.

The Party could have existed. It was to be a Farewell Party. It is now a party to which we, my classmates and I, have bid farewell. Thanks to She-Woman.

Cut out the humour (my own sickly addition), and the scene happened. Yesterday.

Thanks for reading this. All ticket money for this play will go into buying a Firearm License. I have taken to hunting lately. Thank you.

P.S: “V for Vendetta” is a cool movie. Watch it.

Charlie

I miss home. I miss my old tiny alcove that I used to call my room. I miss my neighbour who used to keep staring at me so much that I thought she'd bring a rishta for her daughter to my mother. I miss the daughter who once complained to my mother that I had had a party in her absence, only to be dispatched with an awesome rebuff by my mother. I miss my mum and dad, and our entire sitcom family situations. I miss walking along the beach at night, coming back home and having dad sniff me all over to check if I had smoked. I miss having friends. I miss all the fun I used to have. I miss you guys. I do.

Enough of that. Withe the emotional segment for today's blog completed, let me tell you about Charlie. Charlie, another inhabitant of my Mumbai home, is my family pet. Other people have dogs, cats or even birds. Me, I have a lizard. And before the more perverse of you start thinking, he is really a lizard. The standard household lizard. Although Charlie is different. He has a green tail. Yes, I had something to do with it. I decided he must be different, so i sat him down and decided to paint a nice green identifying mark all across his back. I'd just finished his tail when Charlie had enough of it and decided to scurry off. So if you go to 10 Dattatreya, Bandra, and you see a green tailed lizard, assuming he hasn't lost it already, that's Charlie.

I first met this fine reptile when he decided to drop in rather unassumingly on my shoulder. I turned, and saw this baby lizard on my shoulder. Being the friendly sort, I said hello. He forked his tongue, in a manner which could either mean "I'm fine, just hanging around", or "Mind your own business, human." I assumed he was also friendly so I adopted him. Also, Charlie is one heck of a cockroach killer. Which automatically makes him my best friend. The do-or-die contest between Charlie and the deadly cockroach will be long remembered at No 10, especially since i was cheering Charlie on so loudly, waking up my mother and getting yellled at by her.

I miss ya charlie. Hope ya still keeping my home cockroach free.

Are you scared of cockroaches?

Thank you Arjun Sharma for not knowing the faintest thing about me and still managing to leave fairly encouraging comments. And yes, even though you use big words, you are still a good guy.

With the wannabe oscar -acceptance speech out of the way, I must now talk about something that is of utmost importance to me. Are you afraid of cockroaches? For me, atleast, the answer is a loud and resounding YES!!! They gross me out. They do. They seriously scare the bejeesus out of me. Don't ask me where i got that word from, it came as a result of some cartoon I once saw(yes, I still watch cartoons. Live with it.) But they do. The very idea of something having been on this earth way before me, and the probability of them being the only ones that will potentially survive a third world war, and the nuclear explosions that will cast a cloud on our fair earth is scary. Come on. Admit it.

Okay, fine. It's just me then, isn't it? Alright. I don't care. I don't. I'm still scared of them. Here's the deal. Next time i decide to ask out a woman, the first thing I shall ask them is if they are afraid of cockroaches.If the answer is no, and i hope it is, then the next question shall be if they mind me being afraid of cockroaches. If that is also no, then we shall continue. Otherwise, it is over even before it began.

But here's the worst part. My grandmother's house is overrun with them. They seem to rule the house, and regard us as mere mortals who just sub-let it. I'm afraid to even walk into my kitchen with them ruling over it. Far be it from me to intrude into their kingdom. But I have made certain observations.

The major congregation spot seems to be the kitchen. It is here that the Roach head rules with his harem. He gives orders, and distributes his minions around the kitchen, the living room, my grandmother's bathroom, and the main bathroom. And they seem to have their own peculiar timings. For example, the cockroach union has decided, out of infinite kindness for us humans, that they shall haunt the bathroom in my grandmother's bedroom only till 10:30, and then in military formation, they return to the kitchen. The ones in the master bathroom enter it only after 1 am. They very kindly stay out of my bedroom. But the kitchen is most certainly their domain. Fool is he who dares to enter then. They look upon this intrusion with utmost disdain, and no mercy shall be given. None I tell you.

This menace can't be stopped. Can't. Nothing works. The lakshman Rekha does nothing. Perhaps these cockroaches aren't as well read, and haven't grasped the religious significance of the Ramayana. HIT is a royal FLOP!! Nothing works. Nothing short of my grandmother accidentally crushing one of them.

This menace will soon grow. Stop forwarding e-mails about how some girl needs a kidney, and wake up to the growing COCKROACH menace.

With deep amounts of concern.

V

I wonder......

Yes, it's one of those "I wonder posts."

I completely agree that many people shadow their knowledge out of fear of being ridiculed. The ridicule comes about because of a stereotype. Certain people abuse the limited amounts of intelligence they possess, and tend to cast a bad impression people. So the general reaction when you do tend to speak a little too much about your passions is that you are immediately ridiculed, atleast inwardly if not openly.

Yet, I must disagree with the point that a sort of reverse subservience must take plece. To not be watered down is an extremely good idea. But to do so at the risk of rapidly portraying an air of superiority is quite infuriating, and at the very least, putting off. The reason is extremely simple. Agreed many people do make fun of intelligence and label it as showing off. Yet, there are a decent amount who do indeed wish to make conversation and are genuinely interested in what we have to say. The deal with being passionate about something involves making more people aware of what you believe in and what you are passionate about. It's not a worry about whether your language is watered down or whether others will judge you too harshly. True, layman's language is normal, but then again, there's nothing wrong in using it.

Whenever we meet, we talk the way we want to. We don't need to water down our language in front of others, but hey, no need to make them feel inadequate because they don't know what posterior means.

Cheers and good notions

VERBOSITY, INTELLIGENCE, SUBSERVIENCE

In today’s world, there is a clear dichotomy – socially speaking – between being intelligent and appearing intelligent. Intelligence is appreciated, yes, but an overt display of it is always frowned upon. The standard premise is that intelligence and intellectuality being with them a sort of inbuilt arrogance, along with the need to be publicly accepted and appreciated for them. Which, in simple terms, could be vulgarised as, “The intelligent sort shows off and wants to show off, for he wants to be adored.” The falsity of this statement needn’t be stated, but its effects must. They are disastrous. For what intelligence and intellectuality – almost always inevitably – bring along is a fear, a dread of being sniggered at, of being ridiculed and made a laughing stock out of. As a consequence, treating the intellectual as a sham causes pain and withdrawal. It may be observed that insecurity is also a common trait to the pure thinker. These detractions and criticism only make him feel more insecure. Also, such effects, over a long time, fray the keen edge of intelligence. The intellect weathers into mediocrity, his actions, thought and speech become pedestrian, and his achievements notably more humdrum.

The intellectual is somewhat sneeringly described by his detractors as a user of long words, a thinker of abstract, complicated ideas; as a possessor of eccentric beliefs. This, although true, is hypocritical, for it bespeaks only the smallness of thought in the minds of the detractors. The so called public displays of intelligence are unconscious. One who is prolix is so because he has been blessed with a good memory and a better lexicon. A thinker is able to do so for his mind is endowed with a clarity of thought and a clarity of vision denied to others. A writer writes, and a musician makes music, for the same reasons, because they can. And let’s face it, appreciation and awe can come only if the thing being treated with awe is not understood by the masses; in this instance it is true that familiarity breeds contempt.

So what, if anything, must the cornered intellectual do? Withdraw? Stop appearing intelligent? Adopt silence as the only solution and go unmarked and unrecognised unto the horizon?

Yes and no.

History is full of examples of those who stood up to the challenge and criticism and stood tall in the end. Would Beethoven have written such lovely music had he meekly accepted criticism? Would a Hemingway or a Rushdie or a Dickens written so beautifully had they toned down their words for the masses? Would we have our culture if the intellectuals bowed down to denigration? I think not.

But then these are the greats. What solace is left to one whose greatness hasn’t been established? Or one whose fame is yet to be made? Whence would he find the courage to stand up for himself, and shake his fists in the hands of disparagement? Wherein would he find the pluck to indulge in his talents? More often than not, he doesn’t fight back. He merely subsides into anonymity and subservience. He mellows himself so he can be accepted, he serves instead of commanding; he gives up instead of conquering.

And thus, we lose our wise to social mores. Cowed by criticism, or offended by it, they pull themselves out, either to sit and mope or to curse their lives away. They achieve nothing, taste not a drop from the fountain of Greatness. Probably Frost was mistaken when he wrote:

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

Maybe sometimes, it so happens that it is not treasonous to yield with a grace to reason, to go with the drift of things, to blend into the majority. Maybe, it is more soothing to be one of the many, pending sacrifices, than to stand alone and fight. For in the end, what can be achieved going against the grain? Enemies? Hatred?

It is at this junction that the question must be asked, is becoming one of the masses subservience? Is genius being sacrificed for adulation? And is it, at the end, worth it? Is it worth it that the world will never know about them, will never cheer them, but they will win friends, and positions and standing? The question is for each one of us to answer to our own consciences. And it must be faced.

So…

Maybe the road not taken must for the nonce be abandoned, and the beaten path followed. For, indeed, “the world, which seems to lie before us like a land of dreams, so various, so beautiful, so new, hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.”

The “wise men know at their end that dark is right, for their words forked no lightning.” They go, oh so silently into that good night.

They disappear.

Why don't boyfriends get jealous of me? Why?

Random Tandem member No.2 aka V: (God, that's getting boring to say everytime!!)

I have realized one thing, based on what limited feedback I get. I'm going to totally ignore the fact that nobody understands me, and not launch into another schmeel (yes it's a real word) about how I'm so misunderstood, yada yada yada. I'm also not going to admit that nobody laughs at my jokes. That is also known. The enlightenment I have received is that my damn partner uses too many big words, which is fine by me, and clearly by him as well, but I just wonder would it kill him to use accepted instead of acquiesced, or behind, or ass even. But no, this boy has to use posterior. I wonder if I have to pretty soon, instead of posting my own entries, I may just end up serving as his translator. So if you are wondering, if you see high funda english, that is member number one. If you see bad jokes, that's still member number one. However, if you see terrible jokes, in layman's terms, that's me.

Alright, enough of that. I just wonder. What is it about me? Am I not handsome enough? DO boyfriends think I can't seduce their girlfriends away? In case you are wondering what I am yapping about, I know a lot of extremely possessive boyfriends who would always be very angry, to put it mildly, if their girlfriends just so much as asks another guy for notes. But when these girls talk to me, their CIA agents, aka boyfriends instantly drop their threatening demeanours. Example-

Normal situation: Girl asks guy for notes, guy nods. Enter the boyfriend, who is usually built like a wall.

Boyfriend: How many times I got to tell you not to talk to other guys huh? You can't understand or what? I don't like this okay. I really don't like this.

Pan to same sequence, with girl asking ME for notes.
Boyfriend: Who are you with? V? Oh okay fine fine. V is no problem Tell him i said hi.

Aargh!!!! I'm not saying I will seduce your girlfriend away. I have my ethics, but still...is it too much to ask to just get a wee bit jealous of me? It would make me feel good.

Makes you wonder.

I'm really really bored.

How do they do it?

Random Tandem member No.2 aka V would like to dedicate this post to his little sister:

How do they do it? It always amazes me. Whenever I've been in a relationship, and it's ended, it always seems so much easier for the other person to just let go. Say goodbyes, and I hope we can still be friends, etc etc. How do they do it? Is it that easy? Do people indeed just change overnight? You go from I love you's to How are you's. Not the easiest thing to do for me atleast. I don't say the others are heartless, but I am amazed.

This is not just something I'm just ranting about. I always make the mistake of falling in love with every woman I've ever been with, and although I very rarely admit it, I know the truth. Most times, it takes me a heck of a long time to even try and think of anything else. But it seems extremely easy for others. Maybe they don't feel. Strongly, that is. Or maybe they do an amazing job of hiding it, and carrying on with their normal lives.

I don't critique, but I sure would like to always know that it's as hard for someone else as it is for me. After I've been dumped, the last thing I want to feel is that I just can't seem to move on. Maybe i just want the sun to shine down upon me again. Is that too much to ask?

Hope exists. Always. Just need to want to feel it.

Take care gruesome. I hope it'll get better for you.

Makes you wonder doesn't it?

V for VENTetta

Random Tandem member No.2, aka V says:

Interesting, it is. Here I am, blogging. I'd like to say it was the alcohol that finally convinced me. I would also like to say it was only to get my damn co-conspirator to just shut up and let me continue to enjoy the company of the women around me. But I think that I secretly thought it was a good idea. Secretly. But anyways, here I am. Blogging.

I have a very important question. And no, it's not "Why can't I get a girlfriend?". That question would require several great minds to think for several milli-seconds before they would dissovle into laughter. So let us leave that to them. No, I have always noticed that blogs tend to fall under two lines. Either they have to be funny, or they have to be angst filled. Agreed I do tend to fall into the same trap, but it's a peril of the trade. If you are as funny looking as me, you can't expect to get along simply on your good looks. So i asked my fellow random-tandem member. He said it is important to be either humorous, or distraught. And yes, humorously distraught also works just fine. I suggested being self-deprecating, and he said that i should just wait and let the readers comments put us down. After all, you guys also have to have something to do. So, after much thinking, and much less waiting, I have decided to be undecided, and let you laugh if it is funny, or come and literally bury the hatchet into me if you can't stand my jokes. (It's okay. I won't blame you.)

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm curious. When we meet someone of the opposite sex, and they are attractive, why do our tongues just freeze, and we start uttering rubbish. Maybe it's just me, but that's what happened to me fairly recently. I'm on a date, with a very hot woman, if I may add. The conversation is going pretty fine, by my standards. And then, suddenly, I just become all nervous, fumbling, stuttering, and basically, well, ME. Not a good thing. It is my good luck that the woman was an extremely good sport, who surprisingly might just have found it quite endearing. So I just might have a second chance, and therefore, some more juicy material to post. Well, I think it's juicy, and it's my blog, so it's juicy.

I'm done, and assure you I shall keep you entertained as thankfully, only I know how to.

I am bored.

Awesome signoff isn't it?

Makes you wonder.

FONS ET ORIGO

Random-Tandem (See Pic below) speak candidly about the reason for this Blog:

'Twas a couple of weeks ago. Distraught, disgruntled (well, not exactly disgruntled, but very far away from being gruntled), dismayed, we sat at Barista's on Cunningham Road, pondering our future.

We were left high and dry. The play that we'd been rehearsing for, with "blood, tears, toil and sweat", had gone down a theatrical drain. The director was absconding, the venues had never heard of us. Chances of us carrying on with another production house were remote indeed, like the Moon, seen from Earth: eminently desirable, but ultimately, too far away.

And on what we did next, K (Random-Tandem Member No. 1) says:

After some brooding, and choice swear words discretely uttered, we decided that coffee, though efficacious as a stimulant, was nowhere as effective when it came to soothing troubled minds. Liquor was strongly suggested, mainly by a very loud voice inside my cranium, and so we got our posteriors off the chairs, and left.

Two minutes later, we came back, paid the bill to an extremely irate waiter, and left in search of a friendly neighbourhood House of Mirth.

At the House of Mirth, we imbibed. Royally. Just as the floating ceiling was beginning to curve into rather delicious patterns, and the air was filled with smoke, the smell of beer and a strong sense of what Herr Heidegger chose to call 'Angst', for reasons known best to him, an idea sprung into my mind. Why not, I thought, why not indeed? Why don't we choose a proper outlet for the venting of our frustrations? Why don't we blog? And of this thought, I informed my partner, who took time off from staring into his glass and his ogling at the nearby females to listen to me.

Of this idea, V (Random-Tandem Member No. 2) says:

It was at this rather low point that my overly verbose and locquacious friend suggested, in many many words, that we start off a blog. I was skeptical, and rightly so, because barely anyone understands us. So the idea of letting ourselves be vulnerable to criticisms from everyone who decides to read our "work" was "extremely scary" (to be out with it in polite terms). But he was persistent, and after seven beers and the enjoyment of the company of a couple of very attractive women (I'm not too sure about the attractiveness, the beers had taken their toll on me), the idea didn't sound too bad. Apprehensions dulled, I acquiesced.

In celebration, we drank. Again.

Then we split the bill, a little unevenly in my favour, but heck, what's a little extortion among friends?

So, with a lot of fanfare, mainly in our own heads, this has become our first ever post.

Welcome.