The Indian Idle

I want but not really no I don’t

2011-03-08T18:18:00.003+05:30

When I was in college I remember being led to this office. I was part of a group of three who had been hired to hand out leaflets at malls and cinema halls. It was to pay us 150 rupees per day which at that time was damn good money. It still is, in some ways. So. The office.

It was an office for 8PM whisky. I remember standing there at eleven in the morning, waiting for someone to give us our leaflets so we could all go and pile into the Sumo waiting downstairs and take our cut from the main guy – the guy who had led us here and now sat on the battered sofa while we stood – and then get dropped at various malls and cinema halls across the city. Then she walked past me. This woman. This gorgeous angel of a woman. She was not too young, but definitely not too old. She walked past confidently, smiled at someone, broke my heart and went to a desk and sat down behind it. She was dressed in a saree and it was yellow with a red border. I remember it vividly. The office was in shades of sepia. Everything was brown and dusty and the curtains were drawn over the windows but the sunlight still poured in and the air shone with dust. Everything, as I said, was sepia.

And through it all she had walked, like a damsel of yore, and left behind her this very tangible sensuality amid swirls of dusty sepia motes. I remember her lips. They were vivid red. She had on some mascara. I do not think there has been another Indian woman who has created such turmoil in me.

She sat down, arranged herself, and flicked her fingers at the peon. He nodded and scurried away in the opposite direction. I looked. He returned with a tray, and on that tray was a glass. Full of whisky. And she took it and she drank it neat. I may not have known much, but I knew definitely that that glass was full of undiluted 8PM whisky. And she downed it. Sepia air, sensuous woman, and she swigged whisky neat.

I so wanted her job. And her, but that’s another thing altogether.

Since then, I have grown up. I have wanted many kinds of jobs. I have seen people with long hair who hang out all day at Koshy’s and whenever I hang out at Koshy’s all day the bill is in the multiple thousands, which means that these people can well afford it because they spend all day there most days of the week. At least, they are there every time I am. So they do something which gives them all this money, even though they spent most of their week at Koshy’s. I wanted that job.

Of course, they might simply have had extremely rich friends who had so much money and valued these long-haired people’s company so much that they paid every time. But I do not – and more importantly, did not – believe it.

I have seen people sitting and discussing the latest ads and how they played an important part in the story, the dialogues, the music or the tagline or the slogan. I was fascinated. I saw filmmakers discussing shots and I wanted to do that. I read Stephen King and Ray Bradbury on their writing habits and I wanted to do that.

And now, I have a job. A job that surprised no one – except probably my parents, who thought I would never get a job, ever. A job that - I thought – was very much in my element, baayen haath ka khel.

I enjoyed it. In the beginning.

Now I don’t any more. A friend told me that every job is like this. Sometime during the first 6 months this whole thing hits you and you wonder why you took it up in the first place. But I feel that this is deeper than that. Much deeper.

There is something else that my heart and soul want to do and that – unfortunately – is not this.

I think I am going to have to give in to my heart – and maybe my soul – otherwise, I am afraid that I will always stand there in the corridor and look at those people and want to be like them, want to do what they do, and never get to doing it.

Not that right now what I want to do is sit in a sepia room and drink amber whisky as dust motes swirl past billowing curtains –

Wait.

I didn’t say that.

Delete.

Ummm.

So. The main thing right now is:

How do I make my room sepia?

So, we are back

2011-02-23T19:26:00.002+05:30

Six months ago:

A loud bar, lots of beer, Rae, K-Man and V-dude sit, contemplating life and doing mental math to figure out the costs associated with ordering another round of beer, shoving in some whisky and heading home

In the midst of this, K-man gets a wistful look in his eye:

K-Man: Da! I miss this...you guys should move back to Bangalore

Rae: Hahahahaha! Yeah, and you should move to Mumbai while we are at it

K-Man: I am serious...we can sit around and do all the things we used to do before

V-Dude: Small problem...we all have work and lives to get to...(pauses at enquiring look from others)..well, at least the work part is true

Rae: Yeah man, I mean we can't just up and leave

K-Man: Yeah okay....fine...think about it...all I am saying

Cut to 5 months later:

V-Dude: (picking up the phone and dialing): Yo!!! Whaddup?

Monolith: Hey....long time, no hear...what's up...etc..

V-Dude: So..err...guess what..I am moving back to Bangalore

Monolith: Yeah awesome...so how long are you here for this time around? Short visit as always?

V-Dude: Err...no...I am moving back....like for good..like at least a year or so

Monolith: Seriously? Wow...cool

V-Dude: So I will see you soon...catch you in about two weeks

Cut to 5 minutes later:

V-Dude (on the phone): Maccha...I am back in Bangalore, this week

K-Man: For a visit?

V-Dude: No man, I took your advice...I moved back to Bangalore

K-Man: Le Gasp!! You actually listened to me?

V-Dude: Err yeah..now listen, about our blog.....

And this describes the past 6 months of my life...

in sum:

1) V-dude moved back to Bangalore, wider, wiser and definitely not wilder. Also has slightly gotten over fear of cockroaches

2) K-man still remains Verbose Kurien..also wider and now more focussed on writing

3) The monolith has expanded scope of talent

4) Rae sits in Mumbai and comments on blogs which feature her

5) Random Tandem are back

We hope to see you soon. Thank you for choosing to read the Indian Idle. We know you aren't spoilt for choice, and yet chose us..believe me...we appreciate the readership

Now watch this space

Courage - V

2008-05-23T01:33:00.002+05:30

My fourth grade teacher used to say : " Life is a lesson. You will always keep on learning. Don't confine yourselves to my classroom or any other classroom. Let your minds wander, imagine, enjoy, learn!!!!" I should also mention that my fourth grade teacher was HOTTTT!!!!!!! Small wonder then that I never really paid attention to anything she said at the time. But sometimes, your sub-conscious has this irritating little habit of retaining information that you would rather forget. This happened to be one of them.
Since then, I have moved away from that little room up on the fifth floor, my teacher probably won't recognize me now should she run into me on the street, and she probably still continues to teach snotty little fourth graders and give them similar advice. But words stay with you. She was right. Every single thing one does, no matter how small or mundane, teaches them something that they will probably take forward and better themselves with.
For instance, two years ago, K-man, after getting me suitably drunk to pay for his beers, suggested that we start a blog and co-write it. Were I in my senses, I would have said no. I have always tried to be somewhat of a recluse. I haven't really succeeded all that much, I admit, but hey, one can still try. To actually write something that would actually be scrutinized by over three readers, none of whom were my parents or well-wishing aunt, was scary. But drunken me said yes. I learnt something about courage that day and then on. Everytime I blog, it still scares me a little what some person would think of my writings. Do they find them good, having some amount of potential? Do they find them average, barely mediocre? Do they smack of just trying to appear more complicated than they actually are?? Do they just suck?? I don't know!! I still haven't mastered the art of writing the perfect blog, but I still do it. Rarely, I admit, but it is one of those things I never thought I would do, and now that I am doing it, I find myself still sticking to it!!
When we started this blog, we had two readers. Their comments meant a lot to us, and we did try and write in such a way that it would please all, me hoping to be funny, him hoping to prove his intellectual worth. He succeeded. I stopped caring after a while. Again, a lesson learnt from a comment left by one of the earliest readers of the blog : Stop worrying about the comments. He was right. Trying to sound funny often led to writings being forced, trying to elicit the "ha ha ha" from the readers. Those trying to be serious just resulted in whinings and ramblings being put up on the internet. So I stopped caring. I did ask for feedback, but as it clearly reflects, I never listened. It felt good. Once again, I was writing only for myself, and allowing others to read them, but not letting them influence what I wrote. The words come out a lot easier nowadays.

Courage is all about having the guts to take that extremely difficult first step. Once taken, courage is also about not taking the all - to - easy step back to the safe zone. Putting yourself in the line of fire is important. Preachy as it may sound, I speak only about my own personal experiences.

Growing up , I never was a brave kid. I still am quite a coward in many many ways. I get terrified to order a pizza from a pizza place, it takes me ages to go up and start talking to someone new, I would rather accept torture than going up to a random stranger and asking her out. ( I once did ask 12 girls out but that was a mere dare). However, one has to take the first step sometime. So I did. I took up a job in an industry that required me to take charge of myself and take responsibility for a lot of people who honestly couldn't care a hoot about what I thought. My entire first day of work consisted of me sweating to the point of dehydration. The second day went pretty much the same way. On the third morning, I walked up to a girl in office who I vaguely remembered from the haze of introductions on my first day and said "Help!!!" That's all it took. I was in, and friends with one of the most senior producers in the company who then helped me whenever I was in a tough spot. One little word, but the step towards that effort, from my side atleast, was completely draining. But it was worth it.

Courage doesn't necessarily mean fighting a lion bare-handed, or taking on wild horses single-handedly. Those are for the greeks and their ancient Gods. For me, courage is just taking the first step and leaving yourself vulnerable to whatever consequence that my arise. For me courage is sticking to that step no matter what the consequences are. Sometimes ask for help, other times fight for it by yourselves.

Sure picked a fine day to start pontificating. But heck, it's my first step!!!

A short story by V

2007-12-23T02:15:00.000+05:30

How did it all come to this??

The same question had been going round and round in the boy's head, swirling like a mental manifestation of the swirling whirlpool in the sea that was gently lashing the rocks atop which he sat. For now, the sea had satisfied itself with just swirling around the bottom of the waves, but soon, it would climb steadily higher andd eventually pound the rocks where the boy sat with unabated fury. That was just nature's way- get the aggression out of teh way and then return to a state of serenity. The same thoughts ran through the boy's head-how much longer before the wave would crash upon the rock and take him out to sea, further that he could swim back?? 'Would I even have a chance?', he wondered. 'Would I even want to?', he wondered.

'Was it really so long ago?', he thought. It seemed almost a lifetime away, the content phone conversations, the long walks, and the long hours of doing absolutely nothing, and yet being perfectly content. How soon the times had faded, how soon had the sun set on this little happy story.

The contented conversations had made place for nostalgic ones, the times spent doing nothing had now become too awful to even contemplate. The places they had visited, the songs they had heard, the movies they had watched together, all constantly popping into his senses, catching him unawares, reminding him that even he was just a slave to his memories. 'Memories?', he thought to himself. 'Ha!! Even the mere thought triggers powerful emotions!!! Memories evoke long forgotten feelings, long buried emotions, all bubbling up to the surface, like a fondue for the tired, the fatigued, the mentally weary!' Mentally weary?? Heh. Inspite of himself, the boy had to smile..well..make a brave attempt at smiling...in his current state, it looked a grimace at best.
Those words made him sound like an old man, aged prematurely before his time. And yet, yet, he asked himself, what right do I have to feel this rotten?? Surely one night's actions can't have made this much of an impact...surely I am exaggerating. Rational. Sane. These thoughts were exactly that. However, the boy realized with a shudder, rationality and sanity had nothing to do with his current state of mind.

Quick as an arrow released from the bow of an ace marksman, the images in his mind flashed to another scene: a scene where he had gracefully stepped down and removed any obstacles from the path of happiness to another....then to another scene, later on, in a clearing...the warm air mixing with the cool night breeze characteristic of an area close to the sea. There had been many others there, each seemingly benign beings, yet, each with a purpose to bring two individuals together and to ensure that the boy could do nothing but watch and stay out of it. 'In retrospect', the boy thought, 'I would have done well to avoid the thing entirely. I should have just stayed put and let the world go on.' As with most decisions, this too was made in retrospect, and not at the time when it should have been made.

The clearing still flashed in his mind, the laughs of the others, the carefully chosen questions, the seemingly playful challenges, the cheering of the crowd, a crowd of which he too was a part, a cheer in which he too took part, smiling, applauding, and yet, dying on the inside. Each stolen word, a knowing smile, a coy glance, a discreet touch, stabbed at him like a million arrow points. Yet, the boy kept up appearances, realising that each member of the company familiar with his history, were awaiting his reactions, as if to test his resolve. 'No', he thought, as he quickly dismissed the harsh thoughts jumping up to his mind, 'it wasn't malice. It was probably just curiosity.' He kept his emotions in check. He did his best to keep his face alight with happiness and let the sorrow lie deep within, and yet, it escaped him once. Just that once. He recovered quickly, but not quick enough. Those closest to him had spotted that momentary lapse. Sensing five pairs of eyes on him, the boy signalled his retreat. He waved his goodbyes to the party and said his goodbyes to the host, and left.

'And yet', the boy thought, 'and yet, they were concerned. They tried to help.'

The ocean's force had steadily increased. Spray was flying all over him, mildly soaking him. He smelt the salty acent of the ocean and felt the remains of the ocean spray on him, a solitary figure on the rocks. Alone. This burden must be faced by him alone. Only he could labor to get out of this chasm that he had created for himself and trapped himself in, only he could make the long climb back to the light where he had once been happy. Only he.

The ocean grew stronger and more furious. And yet the boy did not move. He looked up and saw a large wave gathering in the distance. He stoood up. Waited. His last thoughts were:

How did it come to this?

A comeback of sorts- A V post

2007-11-11T00:43:00.000+05:30

Hello devoted reader(s)

I am back, from the dead, or so it would seem. Change is a wierd thing. You dread it, and yet when it actually hits you. you seem to be so involved and absorbed in it that you forget that you were fearing it all this time. A similar thing has affected me. Life has been one major big blur that I forgot to take sometime for myself. I finally get the time and the first thing I do is blog. Heh. Shows my devotion to the arts.

I was ready. I was ready to take on the big bad adult world. I was ready to stand up and be counted. I was ready to put everything behind me and move forward. And for a while, it seemed so. And then, we hit our first roadblock. The head was saying "FORWARD!!!!", the rest of me said, "Hold on mate, what's your rush??" This disparity existing, mistakes were bound to happen. And so they did. The first one wasn't big, the second one was career-threatening.

Time to slow down.....and then take things one by one. Funnily enough, this is what everyone has told me, for any situation. This seems to be all-weather advice:

Me: I don't know which t-shirt to buy
Others: Take things slow.

Me: I don't know what to do
Others: Take things slowly.

The only time I followed that advice was while driving.

But now, I stood back and thought, "Why not?" So I stopped, I stayed still, I asked questions, I learnt. And I was ready to give it my second shot. This time it was successful, and greater responsibility was given. I didn't hesitate, but welcomed it. Thus, a new me emerged, no longer the type to spend long hours at coffee shops and listen to teeny-boppers gossip, or agonize about failed relationships.

However, these things don't last too long.

Free time being mine again, the same thoughts, the same pastimes come rolling back. However, I'm ready to face them all, and indeed I am, with a smile on my face, and a song in the head. (Just purchased a new ipod..heh).

Growing up really wasn't that difficult at all.

V

If there be a God... K

2007-06-10T20:54:00.000+05:30

If there really is a God up there...

Then, this is my prayer to thee.

First, we begin with the Psalm of K.

“K-man is an island entire of himself; every
inch
A piece of the continent, a part of the main;
If a clod such as he, be washed away by the sea,
Would anyone be the less, as well as if a promontory were,
As well as any manner of thy friends or of thine own
were?”

Would it? Would you?

I presume that You, as has long been suspected, have ulterior motives. Not just for the rest of mankind, but for lorn individuals, such as moi.

You’ve been at work hard, haven’t you? You’ve been canceling all my plans.

You’ve been making people disappear. Ditto with thoughts, concepts.

And so I stand here, reft of choice, alone.

Do you have something planned?

I don’t know, I’m just asking. I don’t want to know what it is. Just whether there is something.

And if You do have something in mind, make it good.

Can’t think of anything more to say.

So, I’ll sign off.

Yours,

P.S. Hope You read blogs.

ALL UP IN SMOKE

2007-06-07T10:19:00.000+05:30

BY K.

“The more you know, the more fragile we are.”
- Capt. Baker, in Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle’s ‘Lucifer’s Hammer’.

It seems to me that in latter years, the term “Scientific Development” has ceased to mean any development of a scientific kind and has gone on to become a never-ending series of gory, grisly warnings about how literally every single thing we humans do is so harmful. Refrigerators. Deodorants. Alcohol. Cigarettes. Television. Pharmaceutical research. Make up. Everything is harmful.

So why don’t we all just run away and die or something?

The more we learn, the more we realize how fragile we are. And thus, in the Second Millenium, we are freaking ourselves out.

Don’t use deodorants! Or fridges! The ozone layer is gone! You will by fried to a crisp by The Alpha Rays from Outer Space!!!

Don’t smoke! Your sperm will die, your DNA will shrivel and lose all its helical beauty – and so will your children! And your wife! And your neighbour’s dog will become infertile and can’t hump that b**ch down the street any more!!!!

Don’t drink! Your brain cells will die!! And as any interior designer worth his/her salt will tell you, what’s a brain without its brain cells??? Losing brain cells makes you more likely to get Alzheimer’s (a disease so destructive, half the medical community still pronounces it wrong)!!! (That is true, by the way. Because Alzheimer’s affects brain cells. Which OBVIOUSLY means, the less number of cells you have, the more chances of getting it. Hah. And we get taken in.)

The truth is, all these risks existed from ages ago. Cigarettes, if I remember right, were first smoked in the 1300s or so. They became popular very quickly. And if all these claims are right, we all should be stunted, sterile monsters now. And cancer should be running rampant. And AIDS.

Alcohol. Well, I need say nothing about that. It’s been around a LONG while. And we’re noticing harmful effects only now???

The thing is, we have stopped enjoying ourselves. We have stopped living and letting live. Now all we are concerned about is how much everything we do will harm us. We are so worried that these things will harm us, that the harm is already caused because of the worry rather than the activity.

Try this:

Tell a chain smoker he has a chance of getting a heart attack, but ask him not to worry – since every single human has a chance of getting one, as we all happen to have hearts. Ask him not to worry.

And catch another guy, who neither smokes nor drinks. Tell him these days risks have gone up by 17% which means he is more likely to get heartburn and attacks and AIDS and cancer and everything else. Basically FREAK HIS ASS OUT.

Now you have two people. One who has a high risk quotient, but is not worried about it. He is HAPPY. And another who has no risk, but is VERY WORRIED.

See which one gets a heart attack first.

In your heart, you know I’m right. It’s the worrying that’ll kill us off.

I’m not saying encourage everything, but at least stop freaking people out. Good lord! The scientists are putting out warnings which, if taken at one go, probably indicate that one half of the entire human population should be taken out and shot by the other half. And then, half of the remaining should be taken out and shot by the other remaining half and then half the ….

And then only two people will be left alive, and it won’t matter. Whatever one does will increase the others chances of death by about 50%. They’ll collapse from worry in about two minutes.

And the aliens will win.

Wait. I didn’t tell you about that???!!! Shit!

See, long years ago, aliens colonised the Earth. They tried to gain control by any means they could: started wars, assassinated Presidents, gave India independence, everything. But nothing was really effective. Then they hit on the solution.

They masqueraded as scientists and proceeded to totally confuse and scare us. The result? No free will anywhere. All of us will just lay down and die.

And I’m predicting it will happen that way.

The media will continue to show us all the Harmful Things and the Surveys that will show us How Harmful Harmful Everything Is.

And we’ll freak out.

In a couple of generations, we’ll be breeding men and women too shit-scared to do anything. Soon, no one will WANT to live any more. Indeed, it’s happening now, already!

Who wants to live if:
Taking a walk in traffic is equal to smoking three cigarettes?
Smokers get their DNA damaged and they’ll have stunted, horribly disfigured children!
Smokers’ spouses, colleagues, casual sexual contacts will all develop cancer and they will become infertile!
The ozone layer is gone! You can get skin diseases just by walking in the sunlight!
Typing things on a computer will give you extremely debilitating nerve diseases, which means basically you’ll have to amputate your hands!
Reading things on computer screens will harm your eyes!

LIVING will harm YOUR LIFE!!!!

SO DIE!!!

Epilogue:

We won!!! We won!!!!

- Alien Military Commander, April 13th, 2078.

THE HORCRUX PROBLEM – K

2007-06-05T20:04:00.000+05:30

I know I may be getting in well over my neck on this issue, but still. I’ve been audacious before, so why stop now?

The thing is, I consider a series – of anything: movies, books, comics – to be good only when all instalments are consistent. Which means that you don’t invent things for sequels that weren’t mentioned at all in the prequels. For reasons I shall explain later, I will call this the Horcrux problem.

I’m not saying all elements of the storyline of all instalments should be known beforehand. That is impossible. All I’m saying is, elements that are crucial to the climax/denouement/unravelling-of-plot of any story must be – and repeat MUST BE – elements well known, and they must have been introduced right from the beginning. All right, I’ll explain. Any story has certain elements in it which are needed for the ending or the solution of that story.

Think of them as analogous to the clues in a detective story. And like in any good detective tale, these ‘clues’ – to continue the metaphor – must be mentioned early on. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t solve a case with a single clue he found five minutes before telling us the solution, which clue is mentioned for the first time only when he finds it. That clue may be found to have a bearing on the case only later, but it is introduced as an element early on in the story. We know it's there. It's not a total surprise.

Thus, Clues must be present from the beginning, even if they aren’t introduced as such. In other words, it is enough if we know of the prior existence of the clue, even if it's importance remained unknown. This knowledge is what makes the solution – to borrow a term mathematicians are fond of – so elegant.

For example, suppose we have a story in which a villain must be killed. And we all know that there is some special way in which he must be killed. Forget what that way is, we know he cannot be killed by normal means. Example – Dracula and the stake. This is a crucial element. Hence, we must know about this from the first, even if we have no idea what the way is to kill him till the last story in the instalment.

Or, assume that a Secret Service agent is introduced in Issue 17. We must know of the existence of the Secret Service from Issue 1 itself (at least, within Issue 5). No point introducing the agent and then saying, “Whoops! Sorry we didn’t tell you, you see, there is this Secret Service…” It won’t do.

I hope you’ve got the point.

Now, the reason why I bring this up: I find that of late, too many books and movies violate this rule. I'll get to why I call it the Horcrux Problem:

The Horcruxes in the Harry Potter books are the best example of such errors.

See, there have been six Harry Potter books. Now we avid readers know that the main Villain is one Lord Voldemort. We know that there are absolute LEGIONS of very immensely powerful wizards who have dedicated their lives to killing this evil thing. But it isn’t until Book Five (if I remember right) that we learn about Horcruxes. Then we are told that destroying these things is essential to Voldy’s death.

Bit of trivia for buffs: Voldemort literally means “Flee From Death” of “Flight From Death” in French.

And we are also told that Dumbledore knew about these from the first.

All right, I admit that old Harry is too young to learn about this, but, how come none of the other characters ever mentions this? Not the muggles, not the Dark Followers of the Flee-er From Death, not the Good Wizards, NO ONE???

And this is strange, because half the novels centre on Harry solving something by total fluke, and mostly from overhearing things he never should have heard, being so young and nice and cute and all. So, why weren’t these essentials mentioned at all? Harry is told so much about Voldy, except the trivial detail that Voldy’s mouldering soul is contained in these Horcruxii and he can’t be killed without destroying the evil thingummies first.

Classic case of the Problem. Hence the name.

Another glaring case of the Horcrux Problem in the Harry Potter books:

Spells: It is believable that since in each book, Harry learns tougher and more deadly incantations because he is now in a higher class, he didn't know them from the beginning. All right. What about all the others? The seniors? The lecturers? Why don’t they all use these complicated mantras from the first book onwards? I'm not saying they must use it thrice every page, but at least once? They surely knew them? They didn’t learn them all only when Harry did? So why doesn’t anyone use any powerful spells till Harry learns them?

(Now everyone will say that once we know them, we learn in retrospect that they had been used before, or that things unexplained in the previous books are explained now that we know this. Like, once we know about the Avada Kedavra, we are told that Harry's mom and dad died due to that. Right.

I call that bad writing. Hah. That's a laugh. A bad writer on about bad writing. Right.

“Oh, Harry, now that you know what an Avada Kedavra Curse is – what? No, Harry, dear one, it is not a Tamil swear word, it’s a very bad curse – yes, that one. Good boy. Now that you know what it is, I just thought I might tell you – in passing, what? En passant, as the French say, and all that – your momma was popped off by that one. Yes, right, it’s definitely not cricket. Oh, by all means, have another cup of tea, old chap!”
It won’t do.)

I’ll give you another sample:

The Pirate Lords in the Pirates of the Caribbean series: Introduced only in the third movie. If Four Main Characters – Sparrow, Jones, Barbossa, Tia Dalma – are involved, and three of them are actually Lords, how come no one mentions it????

Another one, same source:

Calypso: If all sailors are as obsessed with the GODDESS as they are in At World’s End, how come they never mention her in the other two movies? I mean, she’s supposed to be the Goddess of the Seas and all that, right?

I'll stop here.

And as for you, off you go and find more cases of the Horcrux Problem.

And, before anyone calls me a nitpicker, I’ll get out of here.

See ya.

PIRATES 3. TRULY THE END – K.

2007-06-05T18:48:00.000+05:30

WARNING 1!!! NOT FOR FANS!!!!

WARNING 2!!! SPOILERS AHEAD!!!!

Somewhere, in an article to young writers, someone said to avoid melodrama, defining the term as follows:
“An action or a series of actions can be called melodramatic if the characters perform those actions without adequate motivation.”

By this definition, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End (hereinafter referred to derogatorily as POTCAWE) is MELODRAMA personified.

THERE. THAT SHOULD’VE SPOILED YOUR DAY. IF IT DIDN’T, GO WATCH POTCAWE.

This article shall be divided into two sections:
1) Comments.
2) How POTCAWE was filmed.

PART UN: COMMENTS

Johnny Depp – he’s done it. Invented a character so complete, he can even hold his own in a screenplay that is totally nonexistent. Meaning: even in a totally absent storyline, Capt. Sparrow does EXACTLY what you’d expect him to do. Saving grace 1.

Geoffrey Rush – he’s got the “Arr! Avast me hearties!!! Land ahoy!!” pirate down pat. Saving Grace 2. But, sincerely, Jeff old boy, DON’T play a pirate. In your next 73 movies.

Bill Nighy – Saving Grace 3. Enough said.

Kiera Knightley – STOP MIMICKING CAPTAIN JACK SPARROW. AND STOP THAT RIDICULOUSLY HIGH PITCHED SCREAMING. (Kinder tone) Go take some SERIOUS medical treatment for Anorexia Nervosa, put on some weight and shoot more nude magazine covers, preferably with a nude Scarlet Johansson next to you.

BONUS: Top Five Expressions that KK’s face is not made to display:
1) Hauteur
2) Grandeur
3) Grace
4) Anger
5) Disgust

BONUS 2: I think the leg shown at the end of the movie is a body double. No way it belongs on her.

Orlando Bloom – Please. You’ve made me like Legolas less. And I will never forgive you for it.

Chow Yun Fat – Please don’t waste your time in Hollywood. They’ll give you shitty roles. Waste of good talent. To come on with scars and die unsung. Sad.

All the extras who weren’t needed in the story but were there in the movie – I hope you all got paid, or got free lunches, or something.

PART DEUX: HOW THE FILM WAS SHOT

STEP ONE:
“Hey guys! I need sixty four storylines for this movie! I don’t care if they all connect. We’ll shoot them as short films and paste them together. The audience won’t never notice!!”
“Say, boss?”
“Yeah?”
“You used a double negative there. You said ‘won’t never’. That’s wrong.”
“Owwww!!! A smartass aye!!! MAKE THAT SEVENTY STORYLINES, YOU PRICK!!! AND I WANT IT BY TOMORROW MORNING!!!”

STEP TWO:
“We’ve called this film At World’s End. I know, I know, the plot’s got nothin’ ta do with that, but who de fok cares???”
“Say, boss?”
“Yeah, smartass. Whatsitnow???”
“I didn’t catch those last two words… de fok it sounded like… how’dja spell ‘em??”
“THAT DOES IT!!! ONE HUNDRED STORYLINES!!!! GEDDOWN ON THE FLOOR AND BEGIN, CADET!!! HUP TWO THREE FOUR!! HUP TWO THREE…”

STEP THREE:
“Guys!!! Get some good lines in for…ummmm… for… let’s see… Sparrow, Jones, ummmm… some sentimental stuff for Swann… And…that’s it! They won’t understand anyone else’s accent anyway!!!!”

STEP FOUR:
“We need to insult the people of India and the Middle East. Make pirates from those regions as ridiculous as you can!!! F**k racism!!!”

STEP FIVE:
“Hey!!! Holy mother of god!!! We’ve totally forgotten the whole sloppy wet kiss between Turner and Swann!!! F**k!!! What scene are we in now? Shit! The end fight? Damn it’s okay!! Sling it in there! Let’s have the sloppy wet kiss between Turner and Swann scene in the middle of the fight!!! No problem!!!! If anyone’s still in the theatres by that time, they can enjoy it.”

STEP SIX:
CUT!!!!!

End of movie.
End of franchise.
Thank God for small mercies.
End of article.
Thank God for larger mercies.

The Disgusting Paper Caper

2007-05-27T11:19:00.000+05:30

By K

- And then it was my turn.

When she uttered that last sentence, it was my jaw's turn to feel unbidden the grave tug of gravity. My eyebrows' turn to arch upwards in a vain attempt to vanish into my receding hairline. My heart's turn to thud in my chest, venom flowing bitter in my veins, anger suffusing my body and my face, turning the latter into some obscure shade of frightened cerise.

Wait. Understand:

I want to get out of this place. Badly. And so I write my final exams, without complaint. I hate it but I do it. But this one, this one took the cake and the frosty icing.

I wrote it, felt bad, sat there for an hour pondering why I waste my emotions on such disgusting things as exam paper-setters' awaited gruesome doom and the grisly demise of all members of their families.

The bell rang. I gave up my paper, prayed to all the Gods I knew to help me to pass in all the exams and I walked out.

And looked into her eyes.

She was smiling. I smiled back.

Wait. Understand:

I wouldn't smile at just any lecturer. But she was intelligent. She could speak flawless English. She drove a Ford Ikon and drove it fast and she drove it well. But she had an ugly face, so that spoils the whole James-Bond-Heroine build-up.

"How did it go?" she asked, still smiling. Probably she thought the paper was a good one.

Oh it was, and I gave it to her. "Bad, ma'am", I said, shaking my head so a forelock tumbled into my eyes. I wiped it back to look at her. One delicately shaped eyebrow was up. "Why?" Her strident tones couldn't hide the surprise.

I told her. "About sixty marks were out of syllabus."

The other eyebrow joined it's mate. "What? Why? Which ones?"

I told her. "One question had the action potential derivation, the cable equation derivation and voltage-frequency converter derivation all in one, and only for ten marks."

The smile withered. I continued. "Another question asked us to derive the Error Correction method using Inhibition techniques and Anti-Hebbian synapses. That's totally out of syllabus. They can't ask us to derive one from the other, they are separate in the texts." Let me explain. This question was like asking you to explain English grammar by defining Sanskrit grammar and then using German vocabulary to relate it to English. When I was done, the smile had vanished from her face.

I went on. "And there was Threshold Sharing Functions, which are not in syllabus, and questions worth two or three marks came for twenty marks and -"

"But how can they do that???" She was aghast, "Shouldn't someone tell them how to set papers?"

I tell you, it warmed the cockles of my heart to hear a lecturer say this. I agreed with her. I said, "I agree with you, ma'am. It was all out of syllabus. It's not fa -"

She interrupted me again. She held up her hand, I stopped. She said, "No, it wasn't out of syllabus..."

"What????" I frowned my incomprehension. And then she said it.

"This is a previous syllabus paper! You've got a paper set for the syllabus that was abolished in 1997!!!"

As I said, it was my turn.

A Bitter End

2007-05-14T20:25:00.000+05:30

The circle is complete. The wheel has spun round again.

When first V-Dude and I started this blog, this testament to angst and humour, my first stand-alone article was a bitterness-tinged quasi-play about a farewell gone wrong.

Now, the wheel has spun round. One revolution.

Now it is I who face the farewell. To mark the end of my Engineering. And a phase of my life.

A farewell bittersweet, but a life gone wrong?

Today as I sit, the bitterness is still there, the pain, the sorrow of missed opportunities and too-much-hope. But it is quieter, I am quieter.

More things have disappeared than appeared. More plans have gone down the drain than survived.

College, that entity which some miss, now becomes a large gray area in my memory.

A great man wrote, "What might have been is an abstraction, remaining a perpetual possibility only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been point to one end, which is always present."

The end is now.

And I write this, with the decision made in my mind, to sit tight, to forget, to forgive.

To begin again.

The Rocky Tryst-V

2007-04-13T23:12:00.000+05:30

A post describing the same adventure is on the Sailor's blog...that one has pictures...but this is slightly differently written.

That out of the way, onwards.

It so happened that the our birthdays happened to find us in Mumbai. One fine afternoon, I had to go meet a friend, and the sailor tagged along. He said he wanted to spend sometime by the sea. They had bonded during his short trip to Goa, and he kept getting drawn to it, like a bosom buddy he wouldn't get to meet for quite sometime. Plus, if he was out of the house, he'd be able to smoke. An added advantage. Irrelevant. The point being, we found ourselves on the promenade near my house. We got out of the auto and set out in our two seperate directions, me to meet my friend, and him to spend some quality time with the cigarette and the sea.

My meeting with my friend done, I decided to see what my dear blood relation was upto. I called.

Me: Maccha, where are you??

S: At Bandstand.

Me: Wait there. I shall join you.

One short autorickshaw ride, I strolled up to the sailor, looking thoroughly out of place amidst the couples who didn't really notice too much. We took a few pictures, stared into the horizon for a bit, and then decided that we should really be home. He protested, and I thought,"Well, we do have some more time. Why not go check out the old fort?" Now, before images come springing, this isn't the kind of fort which you find in old hamlets which smugglers use as their secret base. This run-down fort is pretty much the major tourist attraction. You got a food-court, vendors selling their wares, and other such stuff. However, the fun part is outside the fort.

Outside the fort, there is this strip of rock which seems to stretch all the way into the sea and back. After pottering about in the kiddy section(The easy portion of rock where a lot of couples were around) and observing some crabs, the sailor decided that one could get a really awesome snap on those rocks. Not one to shy away from an adventure, I agreed. "Let us go. Besides, there are plenty of couples all the way over there. Shouldn't be too bad!!"

Famous last words.

Well, not really, but I do love the occasional touch of drama.

So we set off, on the rocks, me in the lead, looking over my shoulders, occasionally barking instructions to the sailor to watch out for a particularly wet patch of rock. Thus, scrambling here, walking upright there, we reached the halfway point. A sudden urge to look up possessed me, and as I did, a wave crashed against the rocks and managed to drench me partially. I shouted a word of caution to the sailor, and he soon scrambled to stand alongside me. As far as we could see, there was none but the two of us in the entire stretch from then on. The sailor wanted to stop for a smoke, but realised that he'd be drenched before he'd taken two drags from the firestick, so he decided to postpone it. We moved on, this time, literally on our knees, trying to find footholds and handholds where there were none. The sea was starting to get furious, and I was starting to wish I'd never suggested this idea. The thought did cross my head to turn back, and as I said it to the sailor, it somehow seemed foolish to abandon the trip once we'd come so far. So we continued.

Now, here's where the rocks started to get extremely slippery, several stretches going underwater everytime a wave hit the reef. We had to scramble across when the water had receded, before the next wave hit, which meant that the rocks were still wet, mossy, and extremely slippery. So, on hands and knees, we crossed those piles of rock. We finally were close to the end of the journey, when the biggest problem presented itself. There was a break in the rocks, with no visible means of making it across. The link was underwater and two wave cycles on, showed no signs of surfacing. On a dry patch, given our heights, we could have jumped across, but I wasn't ready to take a chance with the slippery rocks. I turned back to ask the sailor what to do when he shouted "CAREFUL!!!!" the next thing I know, a huge wave has drenched me, and I slipped into the water. The sailor screamed an expletive, but I waved him back as the water was only ankle deep. I picked myself up again, and climbed the remaining portion to safety. Two minutes later, the sailor came up, soaked to the skin, but grinning from ear to ear.

We sat down, rolled down our jeans, lit a smoke, and watched the sun set over the city that never sleeps, and a few couples who really ought to have gotten a room. Just as this scene seemed like it could get no better.....

TRING TRING TRING

MOM: WHERE ARE YOU PEOPLE???? IT'S GETTING LATE!!!!!1111

So much for that.

It was fun anyway though.

Moments-V

2007-04-04T22:05:00.000+05:30

These are moments that, in their own little way, influenced my life.

1. K-man convincing me to collaborate with him on this blog- Agreed I only did it to shut him up and let me stare at women uninterrupted. Agreed, I ended up paying the bill for both of us tht day, and agreed that on the first, "joint" article, he changed what I had written and made it sound more like him. I'm writing a lot more regularly, and a lot of people ARE reading what I have to write about. It's probably the closest I'll ever come to having my work published. Therefore, I am happy.

2. Jazzy B's death- She may not know it, the rest of my friends might not know it, but that incident impacted me in many many ways, more than I would like mentioned on a public forum.

3. Moving to Bangalore- A change is good for everyone, no matter what direction it may take. Same in my case. Living away from home for sometime has made me realize quite a few things which I may not necessarily have realized were I still encased in my old life. Oh, and losing 21 kilos didn't hurt either.

4. Losing someone really special to me- To lose someone who still retains the right to be called my superior self because of something entirely your own fault is not something I'd really be proud of. But since we ARE discussing life-altering moments, this does find a mention.

5. The Trial- The first play that I ever performed outside of college surroundings, this play also was the most fun I've ever had on stage.

6. Realising that me cuz and me don't have to be in competition anymore- Twas the end of our tenth standard when this realization hit me, and ever since then, we buried the hatchet and have become pretty close buds now.

7. Every single relationship I've ever had- Agreed that this doesn't count as ONE moment, but to describe all of them is way too tedious, so it's grouped under one. I changed a little bit at the end of all of them, so it can be described as an alteration, in some way or the other.

That's it. Seven moments that have made me who I am today. And these are moments that will hopefully be described someday as the foundations of my personality.

Thanking you

V

Hello- A V Post

2007-04-01T23:37:00.000+05:30

It's been a while since I blogged. Truth be told, I'd run out of things to talk about Nothing funny happened, no noteworthy conversations overheard in coffee houses, no more interesting roadtrips to describe. So I thought I'd just lie low, test the market, and generally try and be out of the spotlight for a while. Didn't work...and now I am back blogging.

I recently turned another year older. Sobs and whines about how I am growing old would be best done in person, so I won't waste precious blog space doing it. I will however proceed to reflect on my different phases in life.

I'm 22. At age five, I was going to be king of the world. At age six, I had decided that king of the world had way too many committments and would need a very efficient secretary. That plan was abandoned. At age seven, I wanted to run away from home and be one of the Seven dwarves. I even wrote a goodbye note and everything...made it five minutes away from my house before my dad caught me and dragged me back home...and that's a hiding I won't forget for a really long time. Age eight, I had decided that the world bored me, and I'd grow up and be a catholic priest. That plan ended when I found out that one of the pre-requsites of the job was being Catholic. I don't think I had too many ambitions at the age of nine, or ten, for that matter. Eleven and my only wish was that I was tall. That lasted until i was thirteen. Age thirteen, I gave up wishing I could be tall...instead, I just wished that I was popular. I wanted to be one of those guys who was liked by everyone and had women dreaming about him...dreams a normal thirteen year old would have...but one can't have everything.

I was well within my angst-filled teenage years when I decided that angst was overrated and decided on insanity as my calling card. Be it getting thrown out of class for calling my literature teacher a feminist, or flashing a girl who was bugging me instead of paying attention in a class on exhibitionism, I made my own peculiar brand of insanity and stuck to it.

Age 20, I fell in love. And fell very badly. For the first time, after a really long time, happiness had entered into my life and looked like it was going to stay there. That lasted for a very brief time. Age 21, I just wanted to fit in, somewhere, anywhere...I also wanted Italy to win the World Cup...some dreams do come through..hee hee. The latter part of 21, I just wanted to be accepted in certain intellectual circles and not be thought of as a juvenile who had no important opinions of his own.

Finally, at age 22, I just want to be ME.

Maybe, finally, I'll get what I want.

Hopefully Yours

Two men, a car, and Freedom-V

2007-03-12T01:33:00.000+05:30

A rather ponderous friend of mine has recently acquired a car. He uses it wisely, for all the right things, including transportation. One fine day, or rather, night, he decided to go on a longish drive. As usual, I was the only one awake, and probably the only one willing. A brief telephonic conversation ensued.

Me: Hello??

Ponderous Friend: Hey, what's up?

Me: Err..nothing really..watching American Idol.

P.F: Huh??

Me: Yeah..really!!

P.F: Right. Wanna get some chai??

Me: Sure!!!

P.F: Cool...pick you up in half-an-hour.

This is usually how most of our roadtrips begin. We start of by deciding to just go drink some tea, drift along the roads lazily, make fun or bitch about randomly selected people, and that usually ends up in a rather long trip. This one was no different. We began by finding a tea vendor on the road to the National park. We sat down for a bit, overheard some software pros chat about life and how to foil a customer's mainframe, discussed each other's lives for a bit, and then decided to hit the road. The initial plan was just to go a few kilometres down the road and then turn back. However, as we went on, I began to remember paths that I used to bicycle down during my youth. Memories from long long back came flooding along, and we decided to go in pursuit of a busstop with a rather funny name..and from there to see if I could remember the road that led to the BDA complex.

After that, it was as if the road itself was speaking to us...inviting us to venture just a little further....teasing...coaxing..cajoling..not that we needed much convincing.....gladly we followed the invite. Onward and onward we cruised, with gentle music playing over the car stereo, until we reached the top of the road, and looked around us and saw the spectrum of lights of the various houses spread over the valley. An individual connect-the-dots style puzzle, for each to connect and play along...making your own shapes, figures, figurines. My thoughts were running along those lines when my friend turned around and said how this view reminded him of his hometown, and of younger and simpler days. That set us off on another quest to find another stretch of road that I was sure existed, but road signs were going against us. After several turns, retractions, a wait while a train went past us (still thrilling, no matter how old you are), we finally reached that fabled road, thereby proving that I was indeed right. Again, we turned a corner, came to the top of the hill, stopped the car, and watched an even bigger spectrum of tiny lights indicating houses as they stood, some clumped together, some slightly apart, and some standing completely aloof, solitary light-houses. The silence all around us, the calm, slightly chilly cold 4am air brushing through our hair, we stood there. Stood and looked around, each lost in his own thoughts. Atlast, daring to breask the silence, if only for a moment, I ventured, " The city sometimes is beautiful, isn't it?" He turned, looked at me, took in the view all around us, and said, "Yeah! It's got it's moments."

And so we stood there, each one allowing his thoughts flow freely, for almost 20 minutes, before a dog's howl somewhere in the distance brought us back to our senses, and we decided to move back. As we were heading back, as if to cap a truly memorable trip, we literally raced the sun, watching it make it's way in a graceful arc, (we lost the race, but the view was worth it). Finally, as the rest of the world was awakening, he dropped me back home and went back on his own way. Thus ended our journey.

I wish I'd taken some pictures of the tapestry of lights, or the sun making it's way from it's lair to it's rightful perch high in the sky. I couldn't, but sometimes, the best pictures fail to retain images the way a powerful memory can. I can't speak for the both of us, but for me, as long as I can rationally think, that view above the Nagarbhavi Hill will remain one of the most spectacular views I have ever seen.

Cheers and good notions

V

An Ode To Fruit (or lack thereof)- By V

2007-03-12T01:15:00.000+05:30

This post was inspired by a certain remark to the Resident Evil. The Monolith may feel free to take credit for the inspiration, should he want to. That said, as usual, this post is by V..yada yada yada..etc etc etc..and so onwards.

A new restaurant has opened up near the Monolith's house. On my return from the hometown, he suggested lunch at Lychees. Now, having no idea what the hell it was, I was understandably confused. Lychees?? Aren't they a kind of fruit?? Well, it so happens that that is also the name of the new restaurant. He said it was fairly nice, and easy on the wallet. That was the selling point. And so we ventured there. Now, this "restaurant" is more like a patio diner, spacious, sunny, and cheap. It also offers the eater the choice of a Kfc style crispy chicken and something known as a Zinker, which is awesome. I definitely recommend you try it.

But, I digress. I did not intend to submit a newspaper review on the restaurant. We were shown to our seats, and a little man with a notepad arrived to take our orders. I felt the need to have something to drink. I hunted for a fresh lime soda, and now finding it, I asked the waiter whether he had any. He paused for a moment, and then said that he did. Excellent. So may I please have a fresh lime soda?? Sweet??

Pregnant Pause.

Waiter looks at me.

I return the look.

Waiter looks at the Monolith.

The Monolith looks at me.

The spotlight suddenly being on me again, I repeated the order, thinking that there was something wrong. One Fresh lime soda, Sweet. Simple, tasteful and quenching. He couldn't not get it.

Waiter looks at me.

Uh oh.

Still looking.

Still looking.

Finally, something moved. He turns to me and says, with great thought, "Two."

"No no, One. ONE. " (holding up fingers to demonstrate)

"Two!"

"ONE!"

Another pause. He sensed that I wasn't understanding what he was saying. The linguistic barriers seemed to frustrate him as much as they were frustrating me. So, he went and explained the situation to his superior, who rapidly came by and informed me that we could order two because once he opened a soda bottle, it wouldnt be prudent to let half of it go to waste.

Problem solved.

However, I must make a mention. The said waiter has now become a rather good pal of ours, and makes it a point to wave at us whenever we go past, and serve us extra carrots whenever we are there. So say hi to Noful the next time you are at Lychees, courtsey me and the Big Boss as he calls him.

CONFESSIONS OF A SUSPICIOUS MAN

2007-01-30T10:45:00.000+05:30

- A Rant By K.

Why does it all look so suspicious?

This was the cause of a major argument between my mother and me some days ago. She maintained that every person has a right to maintain their dignity about their nationality, and a right to oppose any affronts to the same – remarks usually labelled ‘Racist’.

I maintained that all that is fine, but where does the line of contention lie if certain innocuous (or descriptive) words uttered in normally and essentially human tones of sarcasm or animosity are immediately taken as ‘racist slurs’? Who defines them? It is common at inter-racial meetings to refer to candidates as ‘Indians’ and ‘Americans’ just to demarcate. Why then, if a normal person does that, on national TV, is it taken to mean so much more?

I was glad, one day later to see that two top columnists shared my ideas.

One of them said:
“Paying Shilpa Shetty Rs 3 crore plus for enduring a few vilayati gaalis, has been a smart move for the producers of the show, which of late, had become as sluggish as its slovenly participants.”

Another vituperated thusly:
“Saving Shilpa has become like saving the whale or saving Private Lynch. Have we lost it? Why should we get…in(to) a twist over Shapely Shetty being reduced to a sobbing lump because a bunch of white bullies gave her a few verbal punches in broad limelight?
Why elevate the vacuous bubble gum of a celebrity show to a Michelin-starred debate on multiculturalism?
I refuse to make 'Indian' into a racial slur. And I wouldn't make an UN-necessary fuss about being called 'Paki' either, now that we greet every cross-border delegation like baratis. If Limey louts want to make these into hiss words, that's their problem.”

But other than these quasi-political and quasi-moral issues, I think the main problem that I saw, which disturbed me so, was the essential incredibility of it all. I mean the word in the basic and the basest sense: something that cannot be believed. It was all so suspicious.

In a conversation yesterday with some friends, a comment was made:
“Macha, if we are lounging, stinking, in our Bermudas with some beer and making porn jokes, and this seven-foot tall too-sexy ***** comes in dressed in a silk designer saree, and says (Herein a very credible imitation was made of the famous NRI/Hoity-Toity Nasal Indian accented voice): ‘Hi!! I’m ShilPA!!’ We would obviously say ‘Aw **** off, *****!’”

Also was heard this statement:
“So? Any toilet-paper using mother-****** would find it hard to believe that we use our hands…(And here the conversation went into a whole harangue on cleanliness and Paper v/s Hand. Not necessary.)”

The point is this, sarcasm, especially in a foreign accent, sounds very rude. But it isn’t. Think Ozzie or Rolling Stones. A “FECK ORFF!!!” sounds rude, where actually it is more of a daily catchphrase.

And the point is also this: Big Brother has always been known for the wrong things: Participants going in the buff (whole websites are dedicated to procuring and providing videos-with-sound of same), participants sleeping with one another and finally, participants behaving in the most horrible manner to each other just to get the other voted out. So, you are actually required to be impersonal, and at times, very rude, and all this has come to be regarded as an actual trademark of the show, people trashing each other and all that.

Because the deal is this: if you remain, you win loads of money!!! ONE HUNDRED THOU!!! (QUID!!!)

With classic quidnunc behaviour, if you’ll excuse the pun, I shall proceed.

Now, when Ms Shetty was asked to go on, we made a HUGE fuss about it. All Indians who surf porn know the ‘quality’ of BB. It is surprising that Ms S or the media made no mention.

Some days later, the world is SHOCKED by allegations of racism. Everyone most embarrassed. All public support goes to Ms S.

Ms S sniffles and blows her nose and stands seven foot three in her stockinged soles with classic figure and world drools and weeps, basically shedding water from two orifices simultaneously. Some people tie themselves in knots saying how embarrassed they are that such behaviour came out of them, and then the same ‘some people’ depart under a heavy, dark cloud. Then the same people take a six-month paid holiday to India on a ‘Healing Trip’. Though why coming to India should be considered one, the situation screams ‘BRIBE!!!’

The whole of the limey population are falling over themselves trying not to look racist, doing everything to look friendly.

Every single person who agrees with this votes for the aforementioned Amazon. To try and look very un-Racist. Result: Ms S garners 64% or something of deciding votes.

One day later, the aforementioned Amazon wins. Almost EIGHTY LAKHS of moolah (plus the 3 crores that she was already paid to attend (and maybe to accept ‘racist slurs’, who knows?) And she’s all smiles.

Quien sabe?

It looks very very suspicious. A brilliantly executed series of events, I agree, but it makes me feel very weird. Like Einstein must have felt when he came up with a brilliant plan, and then found out that the Americans had used the idea to kill millions of Japanese with the result.

In short, I am saddened. This smacks of Below-The-Belt tactics to me.

I’m sorry, but I don’t approve.

K.

BLOODY HELL!!!

2007-01-18T10:11:00.000+05:30

- A Scathing Review by K.

A while ago, I had published on this my blog my feelings about the kind of language used in the Times of India. I might have neglected to mention that the Hindu contains some of the best written articles, in the best English, by far. And this has been true from my grandfather’s days.

That image, unfortunately, was shattered rudely today.
See this review.

I haven’t seen this play. But even then, this review is GIBBERISH. That such things not only get accepted, but actually feature prominently in one of the nation’s largest papers – God!

BRING BACK THE SPANISH INQUISITION!!!

This is the first time I have ever felt like REALLY tearing a review apart. I’ve read some stuff in my time, but this takes the cake. I may get personal here, but really, this is something that must be done.

I shall take isolated examples. To prove my case. The review in BOLD BLACK. My comments in RED.

1) The play was executed well, with only a few technical hitches.
I am liking it!!! There is nothing else to say. This is as non-committal as you can get. Executed well – Okay!! Thanks!!! But no – wait! There were – only a few – technical hitches.
Right.

2) The stage is set to suggest these two locations with two Roman Coliseum like structures at the two ends of the front stage, and a pharaoh's chair at the centre.
A coliseum looks like this:

And a pharaoh’s chair like this:

I wonder how the stage would have looked with two Coliseums (or Coliseii). And classically, the Pharaohs were not known to use high-backed chairs. Most of the chairs of that period barely came off the ground.

3) The actions happen in the appropriate areas.

A VERY funny statement. I am liking ver' much.

4) The music too, occupies scenes between Anthony and Cleopatra…

Bad, bad music. It comes between the two lovers, thrusting its physical presence between their two physical presences.

...but (the music) ended rather abruptly...

every time.

Oops!!! Another hidden barb. Clever, clever writing.

5) The costumes were grand. Cleopatra was dressed in shimmering gold, and the rest of the cast in black.

Now this sentence, for some strange Grammarian reason, strikes me as INCREDIBLY funny. Classic usage of bathos or counterpoint. But let me not ascribe too much.

6) Keeping a basic style of the toga, the actors were given different styles in black.

Now this is amazing. A toga looks like the picture on the left.

From what angle do the costumes even resemble togas???

I really beg to differ on this point.

A Toga is classically a length of cloth almost TWENTY FEET long, wrapped around the body.

7) With same actors playing two roles, Tonse plays Charmaine and the soothsayer and the three main male characters — Agrippa, Anthony and Octavius Caesar — merged with other characters.

WOW!!! One woman, FIVE roles. Two female, three male. AMAZING!!!

And then comes this silent stunner:

8) The single flaw? The performance seemed rather dilute and unconvincing. The strength and resoluteness of Cleopatra even in her emotional shifts, vanity and diffidence is missing.

Now the thing is, this review contradicts itself every other sentence, and sometimes within the same sentence. And this above plum kinda negates everything else. The play was DILUTE (I assume the word is diluuted, but we'll let that go) and unconvincing. Cleo's strength and resoluteness were missing.

9) While none of the actors had any problems with lines, they too struggled somewhere with being convinced themselves.

I CANNOT understand this sentence. They weren't missing lines, but they struggled (somewhere), unconvinced about what????

Oops. I know, I know. You understood that sentence really well. Cool. Thou art better than me. I am just a nitpicker.

But, to continue:

I present to you, the FINAL PARAGRAPH!!! A SUPREME EXAMPLE OF THE WONDERFUL LANGUAGE OF GIBBERISH!!!

MAKE SENSE WHO MAY!!!

TAKE IT.

10) Sudarshana Gupta's work is apparent, nevertheless, her struggle to seem convincing as Cleopatra, only suggests that a play of Shakespeare, even if adapted, becomes in many ways both the best and the worst play for those who are working on it for the first time. Admittedly a difficult script such as this requires a lot of authorial and characterization support, otherwise faces the risk of showcasing good, potential talent, which ultimately does not touch.

Thank you.

I end here.

No, really.

I can go no more, my stomach hurts.

Luv,

To Post or Not to Post

2007-01-13T10:35:00.000+05:30

- By K, in a Quandary.

The thing is this. I went on a trip. I want to write about it.
But I am still daunted by The Middle-Class Brahmin's superlative posts of his travels.
Should I blog it or not???

I am thinking....

K.

More Travel!!!

2007-01-09T23:19:00.001+05:30

Happy New year Everbody
So says the blogger named V

I finally did some travelling. Every year, my close knit group of wierdos also known as my family goes to visit our religious deity, in a temple town known as Tuljapur, which is about an hour away from one of The Indian Railway's main bastions, a place called Solapur. COntinuing with the information, Solapur also has one of the busiest railway schedules, and at any given time, one can see a train either chugging in or out of the platform.

When I was old enough to be made a part of this tradition, roughly at the age of 4, we used to rent a room at the railway waiting rooms. These are large rooms with two beds, and extremely airy ceilings. I used to always hope that we got room number 3. That was the one with the self-flushing toilet. Perhaos i should explain. There was something amiss with the plumbing, and as a result, this particular toilet used to flush every twenty minutes or so. Aside from laughing at that, there's not much to do in there. No television or radio. The rent is for the room, and two thermos loads of tea. Therefore, I used to explore. Down the stairs used to lead me to platform number one, where I was allowed to go on my own after the age of 10. The big trains come on this platform, the Grade-A trains so to speak. The Udyan from Bangalore, the Dadar-Chennai express with it's colorful engine, the Jayanthi-Janatha taking a pit-stop on it's way to Kanyakumari all found a halt on Platform number 1. Considering Solapur is a pretty important station, the halt is for about twenty minutes. In days gone by, you could exit the train, help yourself to a steaming cup of tea and some excellent onion pakoras. However, the railways, in some insane twist, felt that those stoves would serve as means to aid terrorists and hence discontinued it. Damned paranoid fools. However, they still serve the best omlettes on this station, and i will swear by that!!

Once you get out of the station, the next thing I'd be exposed to was the bus-stand. If people have read my earlier post on how much I love travel, they'd know that busstands have a special place in my heart. This is no difference. Buses coming from the very hearts of Maharashtra pull in, and the clientele that exists serves to remind me that there is more to this state than the city of Mumbai. People still wear the traditional Gandhi caps, these ones white, speak pristine Marathi, and discuss the price of livestock, all adding to the quaint old-world charm. Ofcourse, the dry heat does it's best to sap you of all energy, and the hard water does make you reach for the cola bottle a lot more willingly than usual, but it's all a part of the rustic experience I guess.

Once you leave the town of Solapur, it's about an hour's journey through some sugarcane fields to the town of Tuljapur, wherein lies the temple of Tulja Bhavani. This town used to be extremely well-protected by Shivaji's soldiers, considering it was his deity as well. The temple is part of a fort, and still has a back gate that leads into the hills and to some of the higher vantage points. The temple experience I wont go much into, considering it's not really something I like. The crowds are horrible, the place is incredibly filthy, and begging seems to be the prime occupation considering the droves who descend on you. What I do like is the authentic batata-vada and kadak cha we always have after a trip to the temple. It's been as much a part of the temple going ritual as offering our prayers to the deity itself.

Thinkpotty may complain that he can learn all this from the History channel itself, so I assure him that I have steered clear, for the most part, of giving a Lonely Planet description of the two places. I merely tried to convey the feeling of wanting to go somewhere that this trip always brings out in me.

However, we try and improve the experience each time we go. The past two trips, our pit stio has no longer been the waiting rooms at the railway station. Instead, it is now a rather modernistic hotel which goes by the name of Hotel Ambassador and allows it's guests to watch AXN on it's TV sets, and an excellent view of the biggest cowshed I have ever seen, not to mention an excellent to smell the manure as it is being cleared. Sigh. Somehow, as I sit in my air-conditioned room, and watch tv from a very comfortable bed, I feel that this just isn't the same.

But the omlettes here also rock. There is a silver lining.

Pack your bags people. The World is at large.

Cheers

V

DO GO HERE!!!

2007-01-07T17:30:00.000+05:30

A wonderful site, with wonderful conversations. I believe it is to do with things English and Jeeves-ian, though I may be wrong.

Still, good fun.

Sample:

Ho Bloody Ho
Dear Boy,
GO AWAY, DAMN YOU. AVAUNT. BEGONE. YES, I KNOW. NOW JUST FARK OFF!!!!!!

(Apologies. I've just done the computer equivalent of embracing Rome in latter years and bought a Macintosh. As I have yet to work out how to turn off the STUPID PAPERCLIP, it keeps popping up and telling me that it looks like I'm writing a letter. Do you reckon St Paul had this problem? No wonder he was so bloody snippy with the Corinthians if he had a helpful animated paperfastener trying to reformat his scroll every third line).

Also do check out the Gentleman's Dictionary, full of words for those who haven't yet mastered the Queen's, King's or indeed, the Chaps' language...

Do visit this page:

http://twochapstalking.com/

Thanking you,

Yours sincerely,

I remain,

K-Man.

This Day I Share With Ye

2007-01-06T19:49:00.000+05:30

- A Supreme Indulgence, by K.

I am, on this day out of the plethora of others I have lived, immensely pleased. I have consulted authorities and found out things about the day of my birth, being the Fourteenth Day of June.

Just the day, not the year.

The things I have found out, about the events that occurred, and the people who share this day with me, I hope, will be harbingers – of essentially good fortune.

It is considered lucky if someone great has been born on one’s birthday, for the reason that the same set of circumstances that made them great, might work for you, as well – since you fall under the same stellar and astronomical signs.

Similarly, it is also considered decently good luck if a great man passed on, on your birthday, for some essence of his greatness may bow be embodied to you, since that person no longer has use for it. Consider that Stephen Hawking, probably the greatest post-Einsteinian physicist, was born on the day that Galileo Galilei shuffled off, so to speak, his mortal coil.

These are the people that share my birthday in one or other way:

Alois Alzheimer.

Karl Landsteiner – Discovered Blood Groups – a great man to anyone who has studied Biology.

Che Guevara – Indeed, I don’t know how to take this. But it’s a fact.

John Logie Baird – He gave us the TV. Great man.

King Diamond – I LOVE MERCYFUL FATE!!!!!!!!!!

Boy George – Boy!! My Karma Chameleon must have been Iridiscent!!!!

Yasmine Bleeth – YAY!!!!! I am louing it!!!!

Steffi Graf – DITTO!!!!

And many of my favourite authors share this day:

Harry Turtledove – One of my favourite SF authors.

Alan Jay Lerner - He gave us My Fair Lady. I need say no more.

Yasunari Kawabata – Japanese Nobel Prize winning author of The Master of Go and The Sound of the Mountain

Jorge Luis Borges – Love this guy, even if he had written NOTHING other than THE LIBRARY OF BABEL.

Jerome K. Jerome – SHARMA!!! NODI!!!

G. K. Chesterton – Now for this I must feel immensely proud, for whether it is my favourite detective Dr. Fell (Based on Chesterton), one of my favourite actors, Alec Guinness (played Father Brown in the only movie made of that series), one of my favourite books (The Man Who Was Thursday) or my writing (I write a little of mystery, in which my main inspirations remain Van Dine, Carr and GKC)….

Roger Zelazny – Again, I am bless’d for this connection: Zelazny is one of the true SF authors I admire, and his Lord of Light remains a great influence.

ALSO:

Superman debuted on June 14th, but so did the Boston Strangler.

Paris falls to the Germans, and Hawaii is accepted by the US.

Bonaparte wins at Marengo, and America accepts the STARS AND STRIPES as its Flag.

The world’s first BOURBON was, it is said, made on this day, and named after the place at which the Rev. Elijah Craig (reportedly) distilled it. The sailors on board the Battleship Potemkin revolted, unaware of this sublime fact.

We are first introduced to PHILO VANCE on June 14th, in THE BENSON MURDER CASE.

I, for now, rest my case.

K.

Silent Bloody Night

2006-12-25T09:48:00.000+05:30

- A Rant by K.

They started testing the loudspeakers at around six in the evening. I could feel unmentionable parts of my body (like the follicles of the hair on my head) quiver as wave upon wave of noise crashed into the walls of my house. And then, curse and blast it all, came through the hideously mutilated tunes of someone trying to sing ‘Silent Night, Holy Night’.
Apparently the speakers weren’t set right.

Another half an hour of MAYHEM, BEDLAM and SHIVAJINAGAR-AT-SIX-IN-THE-EVENING ensued.

About two hours later, two hours that I spent in mortal agony, children trickled out like the last drops of water from your kitchen tap when the water tank above your house just goes empty. They trickled out merrily, and their parents oozed out after them – these belong, in general, to a species much larger than that of the children, who, compared to these, are but ants to a behemoth – raising the general level of noise to Ungodly (or is it UnGodly?) levels.

I think Dante met up with Ser H.G. Wells, traveled forward through the time machine and by mistake came into the gardens outside our apartment, on the evening of the twenty-fourth of December, 2006. He came and he saw and he conkered. He saw the people milling about, the children screaming, the generally demoniac screeching of the loudspeakers, and he thought (to himself): “Now, wot shall we call this, my precioussss???” and several minutes later, came up with a brilliant word, so brilliant, so ethereally SEXY that he went back to his own time, and said to himself again (Great writers always talk to themselves, please note.): “Oi!!! Such a luverly idea-rr as that should be written about!!!” and he started his greatest work, to write about the Capital of Hell, PANDEMONIUM. My place. Of course, he started with some rot about how he came unknowing into the great dark forest, this forbidding place where every fear is renewed (“Which in the very thought renews the fear,” as Longfellow translated it), but you can get the general picture.

After M. Alighieri had come and gone, the party really began. My god. I have never seen such a thing in all my life. The term Bacchanalian would have to be retailored to fit this night. All in the name of celebrating Christmas Eve, these people decided to try, with just acoustics, to tear the roofs from the buildings around.

It’s a wonder the police didn’t catch them at it, seeing as this revel went on till around one in the night (I checked the time). I heard every kind of evil music, from the tunes of Dhoom 2, to all the possible Bollywood hits made all the more vulgar by the addition of the morphed Second-Millenium equivalent of that Eighties and Early Nineties phenomenon called “Jhankaar Beats”.

These people had hired some other people to see that the sound levels were kept insanely high, and the hired hands kept to their task well. Too well. (Indeed, if I’d been an Eighteenth Century writer, I’d have called them ‘Swarthy Ruffians, with a most evil glint in their eyes.’ But suffice it to say that these were probably from another echelon altogether, indeed, such a different echelon, that I could picture them in Tyre Advertisements for the Rural areas, under the motto of the ‘Echelon Man’.
Sorry.
Humour, ran away with me.)

I am sure half those kids will be deaf for the rest of the week (as will most of the senior residents), and most of them will still be breathing out the smoke that they inhaled in copious quantities during the bash.

It was horrible. And if this is the way we are going to usher in one of the most peaceful times of the year, I am extremely sorry.

We have never behaved this way on my home planet.

Bloody Humans!!!

K.

Thus Spake Monolith - From K With Love

2006-12-25T09:15:00.000+05:30

Great comments like this (Great both in length and Yoda-ness) ought to be treated with some respect. And of course, add to this the excitement that I feel about the fact that my value and my importance in the scheme of things on this great planet of ours is going to be gauged by none other than a pre-eminent Jedi Master!!! Ooo-er!!!

Here it is in full:

This very famous theatre person whom you respect very much...did he know that he was getting into theatre when he was doing his engineering?? I am guessing no. But he followed his heart. And that is all that we can do. Follow our hearts. They may take us through pain, suffering, take us to the depths of despair, to the very edge of the chasm of hopelessness. But we must continue to follow them or we lose our raison d’être! So follow your heart. And if your heart says no, then no it is. If it says yes then plough on and you will eventually see the light. Take it from someone who has been doing that for 14 years. I will make it. I am confident. Perhaps I am alone in that confidence. But I don’t care. I feel that this is my time. I will succeed. Your time of clarity will come soon. You have realised your dilemma. You will find the solution. The first step is faith. And the next 6 months. And to borrow from Rae's theme “The Force is with you, young Skywalker. But you are not a Jedi yet.”

Advice seems to be the best medicine, and I greatly appreciate it.

Dankeschon, Herr Ubermensch.

K.

A Quagmire Called Confusion - K

2006-12-24T18:37:00.000+05:30

I’m confused.
And I’ll be thrice-damned and say it thrice again. I’m confused. I’m confused. I’m confused.
There.

Extremely uncomfortable stage of life to be confused in, but there it is. No, I don’t mean that I’m plagued by the normal fears: love, acceptance, fame, blah. What I’m confused about is my future, six months from now.

Six months from now, I’d have finished my engineering. All my heart wants is that I get into theatre and writing, my two passions. But I’m afraid that may not be so easy. That’s where the confusion comes in.

Torn between getting a job right after my engineering, and doing what I love. Add to this the fact that of the few people I’d have loved to work with, one is bogged down by career and work, unable to meet any sort of schedule (I’m not playing the blame-game, just citing the reality of the situation); and another two will leave exactly at the time I finish my course (July ’07 or thereabouts): one to learn his craft and another to ply his trade. Plodding on alone is not something that seems such an attractive prospect.

And then, someone whom I admire greatly said yesterday that looking back now, from his position as a very famous theatre artiste, probably one of the true greats in the field, he was regretful of the fact that he had done his Engineering and thereby had probably wasted someone else’s seat, since he anyway got into theatre.
Though this struck a very painful chord, I cannot even say that, because I don’t know for sure whether I am getting into theatre or not.

I’m writing, a hell of a lot, and – to borrow a British idiom – slavering away at it like Billy-O, and even in that I haven’t reached that stage where I can confidently take my oeuvre of work to a publishers’. Hence all this blog-ranting.

And this is what is causing all the aforementioned confusion: the variety of future careers I can choose from and the uncertainty that I feel about taking the decision.

I don’t think the feeling’s going to go away anytime soon.

K.

YULETIDE me over

2006-12-23T23:51:00.000+05:30

This post is by V
Seriously, it's just me!!!!

Greetings. It's been a mixed bag of feelings so far. I am back home, something I have been eagerly awaiting since weeks. I've met friends, well-meaning relatives who made not-so-discreet whispers to my mum about how thin I have become, I've hung out with my parents and realized that they aren't so bad provided I don't live with them 24/7 and managed to get some good writing done. Sounds like fun eh??

And yet, not surprisingly, I manage to find myself in what the Monolith appropriately terms a "Funk". Ingredients:

1) More mood swings than before

2) Long periods of Silence

3) Just a dash of pensiveness

4) Long Solitary walks

5) Self-conversations for that extra blah!!!

Volia!!!! The perfect funk!! Serves one round of depression.
Warning: Excessive indulgence may lead to prolonged loneliness!!!!!

Jokes aside, I found myself turning increasingly to my oldest confidante, the sea. All around me, the season of merriment continues in full swing. The roads are decorated with fake snow, Santa Clauses are "Ho Ho Ho'ing at every street corner, boughs of holly deck every hall and Jingle bells are ringing everywhere. Yuletide spirit has replaced the traditional pollution. However, with my mood being the way it was, I thought I'd be spending the holiday spouting "BAH!! HUMBUG!!" at anyone who even dared think the words "Merry Christmas!"

It all changed two days ago. I was on one of my solitary walks at night when I heard a group of carol singers singing songs that reminded me of school days and the accompanying innocence. Louder and louder the music grew, as I stood entranced to the spot. And then, my personal Christmas miracle happened. Without my knowledge, my lips had started singing and my feet had started tapping.....

"....and then one foggy Christmas Eve
Santa came to say,
"Rudolph with your nose so bright,
Won't you guide my sleigh tonight?...."

It made for an odd symphony, a bunch of carol singers on one side, and a solitary figure on the other. But we still sang on, and then some more. At the end of it, we crossed paths and smiled greetings to each other and just being merry. As I returned home, I suddenly found my heart a lot lighter than when I had left.

My life may not exactly be rosy, but I think I'll get back to the gloom on tuesday. After all, there'll be no sad faces on Christmas.

So, "HO HO HO, and a pound of Fruitcake!!"

Merry Christmas Everybody!!!

V

My Year End Article (Couldn't Resist) - K

2006-12-14T21:20:00.000+05:30

(An article by K in the lines of similar articles by V-Dude and the Monolith, fellow writers; in keeping with the accepted formats used thereof. Michael Caine.)

Strange. It’s the Year End. And everyone’s writing about it. "Me too! Me too!" screams my pen, and I oblige. Noblesse and all that.

Wonder what this year was the year of. The Buffalo? The Yellow Lizard? The Morbid Hippopotamus? Whatever it is, it is

Over.

I’ve lived another three hundred and sixty five days. I’ve seen sunshine and rain, whisky and vodka (and have served them too). I have seen palm leaves casting wriggling shadows on broken panes of glass. I have seen purple and red strobes of lights caressing the dust on an empty stage. I have had water poured on me for another man’s whim; I have seen men cackling over the wanton killing of a Jedi Master when in the guise of an Engineer (all that for a shotgun :-) !!); men laughing over a game of Uno with steaming cups of black coffee at three in the morning.

I have made many successful DVD conquests, and for that I thank my fellow Conquistadoré. (You great!!!)

I have basked in the sunshine of a woman’s love for over one and three quarters of a year. I thank her for that.

Resolutions? I didn’t make any last year, so I have broken none. this year too shall be the same. Safer for me.

I am also grateful to the friends I have made, to the worlds they have opened up for me, to the realities I have seen through their eyes.

It is with an aching in my heart that I mourn the passing of another year, but it is with some semblance of joy that I welcome a new one.

All ye who shall go home for the holidays, enjoy thyselves (and I look forward to meeting thee upon thy return). All ye who shall accompany me in final exams in December (starting on Christmas Eve), here’s a sincere wish that we may all come through unscathed.

Cheers.
Live well.

K.

Yahoo!!! The Year End is here

2006-12-14T18:30:00.000+05:30

This is a post by V
Seriously, it's only Me!!!

I borrowed the idea for this post from the Monolith. I hope he does forgive me!!!

This is the first full year I have spent away from home for a long, long time, and I'm sure people are sick of my constant complaints of homesickness. So am I. So this post is not to say how homesick I have been, or will continue to be until I return home for good. Instead, this is a sort of "This is your life" segment in retrospect.

This year has been interesting. To be quite frank, it didn't start all that great, and hasn't improved tremendously, but it's gone by. Hence, perhaps the jubilation that the year is finally ending. Also, I look back and realise that I haven't learnt much from the things I have done. I probably will still go about making the same old mistakes again and again. So, all in all, 2006 is over...there is some amount of gladness, but pretty much a huge feeling of relief. The relief stems from the fact that I can clean out my slate for this year and start with a brand new piece of chalk and a blank slate to fill with next year's experiences.

However, I have learnt certain things..most of them eye opening...

I learnt that I'm not the only person who hates people butting into their lives.

I learnt that nice guys do indeed finish last. I also realised that I can't be anything but that.

I learnt that I may have my issues and my imperfections and faults. I also realised that I'd be bored if I were anybody else.

I learnt that you can't always shut out your heart. It will find it's way into the picture sooner or later and try and dominate your life.

I also learnt how not to let it do too much of that. Heh.

I learnt that I'm not that great an actor, but I still do enjoy being on stage..or atleast I used to.

I learnt that life doesn't stop because I am upset. Suck it up and get going. That's my new motto!!

I also had the good fortune of finding out what several people actually thought about me. It's good to know the truth, no matter how bitter.

Watching movies alone is not a bad thing at all!!

Each day gone is another day closer to departure. The countdown has begun!!

I've learnt that older friends, once they get rid of their parent views about me, are really the coolest friends you can every have. Monolith, Therapy, Rae and Thinkpotty, this one's aimed at you.

I really do have the best of both worlds in several ways.

My life really doesn't suck as much as it does. It still sucks, but not that much.

Falling in love, at ANY age, is still a lot easier than falling out of it. Comforting to know that my troubles aren't age-specific.

Sometimes. books can be better company than human beings.

There will always be tomorrows, and tomorrow will always bring a promise of something new. Just as one year ends, there will be another one beginning. There's still time for me to do all the things I want to do before I become one among the millions who travel along the same routine path. There's more challenges and more adventures...newer people to meet and swap embarassing stories with....better places to visit....and most importantly, more chances to follow my heart and hope that it will stick with me this time around.

There's a whole new bunch of stuff waiting for me. Any wonder why I love this time of the year??

The chill is in the air, but so's the spirit of cheer and good old fashioned hope. Drink it in my friends. Drink it in.

In Advance

HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!

V

Travel- By V

2006-12-05T23:34:00.000+05:30

Travel, writing and reading constitute my major passions. Discovering that it was indeed possible to fulfill all three at one time was one of my greatest discoveries. Making plans impulsively, going to the nearest bus depot, seeing which destination looks exotic enough, often settling for destinations whose names I couldn't pronounce-these thrills are almost unmatched.

Travelling by local transport gives glimpses and insights into local lives and allows you to experience the legendary local flavor. Be it travelling by a rickety bus wheezing and groaning it's way up a hill from Solapur to Thuljapur, or taking the ferry across Goa and hearing Konkani folk music and smellling the aroma of freshly caught fish on the way to the market may not sound appealing to most, but at that time, they are the best feelings and scents ever. If you travel by local transport as opposed to high-end Volvo buses, you meet all different avataars of people ranging from the Indian cyclops (the tourist with the camera permanently attached to his face) to the local know-it-alls and the occasional cool older person who shares his smokes with others.

Things I love about travelling range from making friends with complete strangers , joining a spontaneous game of antakshaari where melody and tune really don't matter, meeting the occasionally unaccompanied pretty woman.....AHHHH!!! Good times!!

My most memorable journeys include a 30 hour bus ride from Mumbai to Bangalore in a bus that had more cargo than passengers, a solitary trup to Lonavala which served as the starting point for a trek, and a monsoon visit to Goa at the age of 17. The last mentioned was my first impulsive journey and hence, will remain my most cherished memory.

I know I ramble a lot about being lonely and how much it bugs me. But travelling alone afforded me a freedom that all the solitude wouldn't even match. The freedom to do whatever I want without having to submit to another's wish, the freedom to stay in the cheapest hotel and not care as long as I had a bed to rest my head and a roof to keep the rains out. Lovely!!

I miss travelling. But soon, I shall have some more free time on my hands. Perhaps I sahll be able to bring my haversack down from it's dusty perch, don my travel cargoes, head towards the bus depot and then go in whichever direction my feet might lead me.

Perhaps there is time for some more adventure.

And so

Onwards
V

Exams-By V

2006-12-05T22:46:00.000+05:30

I walked into the newly re-christened (or so I thought) Bengalooru University only to find out that the name remained the same. However, the building has indeed gone in for an upgrade. No longer was it the ramshackle structure in which I wrote my first semester exams, the building where I was more petrified about the ceiling crumbling off onto my head rather than the fact that I knew nothing in the exam. Nor was it the half built structure where I gave my second semester examinations. This is an uber-modern structure with books I'd probably love to own when I make my first million, and facilities to die for. Ahhh....heaven!!!

Yes yes, I am getting to the point....

I wasn't here to praise Bangalore University campus. I was here to write about the funny feelings that exams invoke within me. I don't mean ha ha funny..more a sort of a mixed bag. I am usually nervous, but then again who isn't? It's the semester exams, and nervousness is the only normal feeling I get.

There is also a certain longing to meet people I met during the previous times I wrote my examinations. One of them has become a really good friend of mine over the course of the years. It's kinda nice actually to be one among a sea of students all waiting anxiously for the teachers to start distributing the papers, and look around and see more people.

I also end up feeling scared, not wanting to do my usual last exam stupid things. In my first semester, I ended up mimicking my external examiner's funny accent, then looking up at my invigilator's ashen face and realizing, with sudden dread, that she was right behind me. In my second semester, the same dread was again re-kindled with the realization that she was again my external examiner, and in my haste to beat it out of the viva session as soon as I was done, I ended up trying a half-running half-skating motion leading me to miss the entrance to my classroom completely, slip in a mighty puddle, which was conveniently placed outside the room, and colliding head-first with the Head Of The Department. Again, I couldn't wait to get out of there fast enough. But, there is an upside to everything. If i didn't have these mad things happen to me all the time. I wouldn't be me. The external smiled at me on my way to my classroom, and the now former head of the department gave me a broad smile and wished me the very best of luck for a potentially tough paper, which lightened my mood instantly. What will I do this time? Well, they've only started..the final day is still ten days away...let the suspense build I say.

The final feeling completing this mixed bag is a sort of a wearied happiness....the start of the examinations means that the term is almost done....the countdown has begun....I get a break, I get some time to myself, and most importantly, I get to go home. So, a kind of nervous longingness builds itself in my heart as I remove my pad, check if my hall ticket is firmly attached, smile at my friend from another college, and walk in, once again, to sit in the seat which, as always is too small for me.

Somehow, I really don't mind. I'm going home.

Cheers

V

Time to smile again??-By V

2006-11-24T01:38:00.000+05:30

Nostalgia has kicked in, it's that time of the year again when the temperatures drop and sleep eludes me yet again. Times like these, my mind starts wandering, and I return to thoughts of things gone by, and the direction my life is taking. These are the times when I think about things I really hate to think about, thoughts that underline the change that has swept through me.

It was with great happiness that I learnt that a couple of my friends from back home were dropping by our recently renamed city for a fleeting visit. Natural talks of "Let's meet up, dude", several follow-up phone calls to ensure that the meeting up actually happened, and we met over coffee at my neighborhood coffee house. I hadn't met these guys for ages now, and meeting them just brought back all the feelings of homesickness that I have tried to fight off for the greater part of two years. We just talked about college days, and other stuff that guys talk about..who's seeing whom, what's everyone else doing in life, etc...Shortly, discovering that my mind and my mouth cuold function as two complete seperate entities, I let my mind wander. Thoughts of home, my friends, my old life all came flooding back. It's only been two years since I left home, but it feels like an eternity. I've left way too many things behind-my private spot on the rocks, where I could just sit and watch the ocean for hours, the coffee house which my best friend and I had made ourselves so much at home, my best friend, not to mention the only woman I probably ever fell in love with...even something as inane as MY bed. Thinking of all this made me smile, a tad wistfully, but a smile all the same.

"Dude!", said my friend, interrupting my reverie," that is the first real smile I've seen on your face all evening. Boy, you've sure changed!" DId he really have a point? Had I really stopped smiling?? Maybe he is right. I can't remember the last time I was truly happy, the last time I smiled because I meant it, not just out of politeness. And have I really changed all that much? I went from being Mr. Popular back home to Mr. Nobody here. I learnt to deal with it, eventually, even fancying myself as a bit of a loner, but everything has a limit. A few moments of time to yourself or solitude is sought after by all, but everytime i walk into a restaurant, remove my book and read because I have nobody to talk to, everytime i go through my phone book to see who I can call and talk to, everytime i see a large group of people sitting together and having a ball of a time, everytime I walk into my classroom and see the rows and rows of empty benches and realize that there is nobody around to fill them, the loneliness hits me like an anvil falling onto the head of Wily Coyote.

Perhaps I have changed, Perhaps the facade has finally slipped. In many ways, I may remain an overgrown child, but in many ways, I've grown up far more over these past two years than I might have.

I may have been broken, several times in this period, but I know I always manage to bounce back. I guess growing up is good, change is necessary, and solitude is but a passing phase.

Perhaps it is time to smile again.

V

Of Making out, Phlegm and Much Much More!! - by V.

2006-11-24T01:03:00.001+05:30

I just finished a play. Maybe not as much as the other actors but I did my part. I will remember this play for a long time, not because the acting was so terrific, not because i adored the script, not because I amazed even myself by doing it in 3 days flat... I adored it for sheer ineptitude, incompetence and disinterest. Not to mention almost falling from a roof 40 feet high. It is a long story involving jute. Trust me...you dont want to know.

The advantage of doing a play is that you get to meet that rare species of human beings known as the theatre going audience. There were 3 days of this show and all 3 days gave me a glimpse into various sub-strata of this rare species. In order I will list V's top categories of the avreage theatre goer.

Day 1: I had to strain my eyes to find a memeber of the audience. Perhaps it was because I was not wearing my glasses. On this day we are introduced to the making out audience. These particular creatures always function as a pair, some more effective than others. The object is to minimise boredom and maximise excitement. Excitement for them and entertainment for us who managed to see them. Dont ask me why I was staring at a couple making out, especially considering that the girl was my ex-girlfriend.

Day 2: This day we a re introduced to a more civilised audience. Not a peep out of them throughout the show. Several times we had to have the lights focused into the audience to make sure they were actually there. Again, we meet a couple of specimens of the making out species. This was more raw...more animalistic. Sort of a "chomp off the jaw" genre. But then again technique is only refined with practice. I think there are more plays coming up. Ample time for practice I would say.

Day 3: By this time the actors have also realised that the only entertainment we are providing is to ourselves. And perhaps the harassed stage manager. Our third day audience was a mixture of the refined and the raw. On this day we are introduced to the species calles the "Coughers". Not to be mistaken for the well off, more the phlegmatic type if i may borrow an expression from Hippocrates. Allow me to give an example.

Cast member: Vaaatar..(Something unintelligible that was supposed to be water... I think.)

Now we observe a very peculiar phenomena. From the bottom left of the audience came a sound suspiciously akin to a snicker. It was a cough. from there it spread to the next row. And the next row. And the next and so on and so forth. It was sort of like a mexican wave with phlegm. Not to be outdone, the actors took it upon themselves to join in the chorus. From backstage came a sound that sounded suspiciously like "frigging morons". That was the stage manager. Probably to drown that out an actor on stage let out a really loud wail which originally was supposed to sound like "oh no!" but ended up sounding like a lion in orgasmic ecstacy. By now the actors and the audience were all one, each trying to out do the other. Which led to a very cacophonic symphony. "Cough cough"..."Vaaatar!!"...."Frigging morons"... "awwwww nooooooooooo!" interspersed with song and one very loud "AIYEEEEEEE!!!!" followed by a loud thud, which may have been the stage manager collapsing but was most probably just another actor knocking into a light or a prop backstage. Or potentially your honest blogger walking into a door. Somewhere in the midst of all this, we suddenly remembered that we had a play to finish and went for the curtain call... all incredibly smug about a very interactive performance. Group theatre at its best!

Somewhere out there a battlefield is still burning and the Monolith is still smoking.

As the lights fade out, one last time we hear "cough cough".."thud"... and "Frigging Morons!!!!"

This is Random Tandem member no. 2, V, reminding you, watch more plays. We need the money.

Cheers!
V.

To: VV

2006-11-19T10:21:00.000+05:30

(This article is dedicated to a very sweet lady, to whom I made a promise… that promise is now here, in words…
Floreat…)

It is strange when a building can evoke in you a response all out of proportion with the occasion. Was it because the building was my alma mater, or was it because it was the 25th anniversary of the school? Was it because I was compere, same as I was for the last three years of school life?

Or was it…?

Was it because the same, beautiful girl who’d stood next to me one that last Annual Day was standing next to me this time also?

Can time juxtapose feelings? Can a place carry memories? Maybe all the lives that passed through that old school building left their traces… imagine…
The lives, the games, the loves and the crushes of thousands of students, left behind in names scratched on fading paint, in marks on trees and in smashed glass…maybe those memories can talk…

And maybe they did talk, to me, yesterday… Another scene played itself out to me as I stood there, announcing the day’s schedule. The scene of a youth, torn between love and despair, standing mute, wondering whether to grieve at the end of his school days or to grieve at the fact that he would be leaving someone behind…someone just an arm’s length away, and a truth waiting to be told…

Strange…

I wondered how we all change, how something that could’ve meant life or death to me in school, was now something for me to smile at, as a fallacy of my jeunesse dorée. A smile must have come on to my face, or the beginning of tears, I don't know.

But people were looking at me, and so, memories of love put aside, another (though less truthful) smile on my face, I went ahead

and announced the next program.

Strange…

2006-11-09T18:59:00.000+05:30

And in the Darkness, Demons…

A Short Short-Story by K.

[Author’s note: This Biercean story/piece was inspired by the semi-mythical nature of certain events. The friend in whose house this happened will most certainly recognize mentions of them – and him – in the story; I request him to kindly forgive this trespass on my part, to forgive a writer’s enthusiasm for having twisted the facts. I am not portraying you, friend. The characters are mine own. Still, I apologise if anything comes across in the wrong sense.
Please forgive me.]

We are two scared men; living together. All alone. We dread the coming of the night; dread the visitations of our nightmares, our fears made flesh. Strange how in this time of demystification, of pooh-poohing of myth how the human mind conjures up images scarier than those any myth ever produced…strange…

The door groans as it is pushed open. The brand new, shiny steel lock glints against faded wood and rusty iron. The large house is empty and dark. The wooden rafters creak as they settle in for the night, tired from a long day of stretching and shrinking to the heat. The walls breathe, exhaling the miasma of years of accumulated smoke and whisky. The tang, with the odour of cigarettes and single-malt Scotch drifting behind it, assaults our nostrils.

...

He looks at me: I can see the tiredness in his eyes, as he can see the weariness in mine. Apathetic and disillusioned smiles stretch our faces. He motions towards the hall, his other hand making as though to hold a bottle. I understand. Time for M. Daniels. Silver Select. With ice.
…
The whisky is well inside us now, with a small amount of water. Heads are beginning to spin. The whisky educes humour, but behind our laughter we can see Hysteria grin, see Madness peer out from the unfathomable depths of Fear…The laughter is quickly silenced…there is work to be done. And it is getting late. Outside, a crow caws. The sound is so harsh it sets my teeth on edge; an involuntary shiver racks my body. I look at him, nod. He nods back. We do not speak. Stillness…

...
He goes into his room, to work and listen to music, his refuge against the demons. I return the bottle and glasses to the kitchen. The hall lights are silenced. Trees rustle outside and I know it is the wind but my mind…I can see images of horrendous beings clambering over the leaves, dribbling, slavering, peering in at the windows…A shadow moves across the shutters and I imagine red eyes looking into mine…

A scream tries to let itself out, but I prevent that, gagging in my dread…I do not want to scare the both of us. Failure has already made us weak. I take a book, and retire to my room. I shout goodnight so he can hear me but the sound is so loud it shakes our very souls…his mumbled response follows me inside my room. The window in the wall is open, it has no shutters. There is nothing scarier than waking up at an ungodly hour and trying to make sense of the shadows therein.

...
Mysterious creaks and midnight sounds leak into the room, the moonbeams seem to swish and whisper as they slide over the sheets…A rat squeaks. The book is no help, so I try to silence jangled nerves by reading out aloud.

Big mistake, for soon I can hear spectral voices chanting in cadence to mine…twisting the words…Being a Professor of Occult Studies is no used when you are scared: you can only give names to your fears…And I see the letters forming before my eyes…an innocent sentence…‘might like Ken…’ I see the starting letters…

m…l…k….MLK…Hebrew…Melekh...The King…But the Masoretic vocalisation reads Mōloch…The Devil…

MLK…Mōloch…

...
Bosheth! Shameful thing! Get away from me!!! “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour...”

I cannot stand it anymore, the words scream thmselves out my throat…Vade retro me Satana!!! Get thee behind me, Satan!!!

And then the meaning sinks through. I hear a rustle behind me, I turn round. But not fast enough…I can only see the swinging of the curtains…Something behind it must have moved…

...
I cannot stand it anymore. I get up, I run out of the room nto the darkness…I cannot find the light switch… VADE RETRO ME SATANA!!! I blindly rush to the main door, yanking it open, as behind me I hear two voices uplifted in song. Loud, very loud… “Regrets, I've had a few; But then again, too few to mention…” He takes his refuge in Sinatra. The same song plays through the night, a million times, till he has sung himself hoarse, and then Sinatra sings alone, keeping fiends at bay…

...
I rush out into the cold night, to the night of anonymous sounds, to the night of unknown insects making their insect sounds into the dank cold air, the night of Ba’al Mōloch, of Belial and Abaddon…

Behind me, there is the house, and Sinatra and darkness…

And in the darkness, demons…

I Don't Want To Be Me

2006-11-08T14:52:00.001+05:30

With due apologies to all those who think song lyrics do not form appropriate blog entries, I wish to paste below a song by Ian Anderson. I love the lyrics. And it kind of matches my mood right now (and the mood of someone else, I am thinking...)

I Don't Want To Be Me
by Jethro Tull
(Words: Ian Anderson)

Got a grand house out in the country.
Marble pillars holding the door.
Empty bottles lining the wall from the night before.
Got a Roller out in the garage.
But the wheels are stuck to the floor.
Got no reason to go anywhere--no friends call anymore.
I don't want to be me,
I don't want to be me,
I know it's hard to see,
But I don't want to be me.

Had me playing down at the palace.
I was declared the belle of the ball.
Made the boys take my goods and chattels away--
now I'm staring at an empty hall.
I don't want to be me.

Pardon me--I'm on my way.
Pardon me but I'm going.
Taking on the simple life and I feel the grass roots growing.
I'm going to ride the ragged road--
diamond spurs jangling into the sunset.
No circuits running overload--
Well maybe I'm not done yet.

Now there's nothing left in the cupboard
and three bears' been eating my soup.
My life is one big critical mess if you take a look.
And the butler's off in Ibiza on expense account gone berserk.
But I can't check out of this crazy world
without being a jerk--
I don't want to be me.

K’s Top 10 Reasons to Leave Bangalore (In Increasing Order of Importance) ®

2006-11-04T08:11:00.000+05:30

1) BENGALOORU. I do not think I need to say more. That name does it.
2) We’ll go with the classics now: POLLUTION

3) All the roads need restructuring and replanning.

4) Traffic SUCKS. There is NO road sense or sense of any other kind.

5) Public transport SUCKS. Drivers have no road sense, no manners, they are often indifferent and treat passengers like SHIT.
6) The people are indifferent, most of the time. Everyone wants to have only their way in the city, which is very irritating.
7) (Now we get down to brass tacks) ZERO NIGHT LIFE. Everything closes by eleven and the only places which do not get raided by the police and foster criminal cases about our rich scions.
8) Entertainment sucks. There is literally nothing to do if you’re not a shop- or a spend-aholic. (Though I guess this is true about every other city as well)
9) Smoking banned on stage. Now theatre artistes have to pay a fine (it’s HUGE) if they have a play featuring smoking, and they will have to justify the reasons. CRAP.
10) Smoking banned in movies. No more movies will be made featuring anyone smoking. And some IDIOT wants to ban screenings of all movies heretofore made which feature smoking. GOODBYE Bachchan, Shotgun Sinha, Devdas, Bogart, Wayne, all our heroes. Goodbye Tarantino.

THAT’S IT FOLKS!!!! TIME TO CLEAN UP OUR ACT OR GET OUT!!!!

Loving Regards,
K.

K's Totally meaningless Poem - 1

2006-11-03T08:14:00.000+05:30

Early in the morning, as I lie awake in bed,
Memories of last night runnin’ thru my head,
A song comes screeching right through the wall,
It’s my sister playing ‘Don’, sitting in the hall.

The remixed and re-mastered version of a classic
Makes me groan like some monster most Jurassic,
And as the singer tries to gyrate like Kareena Kapoor,
To them I feel like doin’ what was done to Tupac Shakur.

And then as the tempo shifts through the music blaster
I realise my sister has turned and started playing ‘Bluffmaster.’
The songs make gorge and bile rise in my throat,
As another stifled little scream dies in my throat.

How I wish someone’d play Sabbath or even the Stones
Instead of this shit that rattles all my bones.
Even as I sit in bed trying not to throw up,
I realise I just have to let my sister grow up.

And thus, cursing this setup, I groan and stretch,
Feeling – after all that – like a perfect little wretch.
And still the music comes at me, twisted and ugly…
I run into the loo, screaming –
“OH FREDDLED GRUNTBUGGLY!!!”

Addendum for Monolith:

Groop I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes,
And after you have read all the worst of my pomes,
And hooptiously drangle me
You will happily strangle me
With crinkly bindlewurdles
As I get through the hurdles…
Or I will rend thee in gobberwarts with my burglecruncheon
As I read my next poem during our next luncheon.
See if I don’t.

Apologia et Corrigendum

2006-10-31T09:54:00.000+05:30

*WARNING!!! This Poem is by K!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Seriously!!!!*

My apologies to V-Dude,
Late as it might be,
For people just don’t see, dude,
This was written by me.

It must’ve been so boring
And so incredibly vast,
And I can’t go imploring
That you go right to the last.

Yes, Monolith may read,
And Rae may comment,
As may another breed
Of a literary bent.

All right!
Let me stop this moonlighting,
And all this shammin’
I guess I’m just writing
For the Middle-Class Brahmin.

K.

My Problems With Language

2006-10-28T10:54:00.000+05:30

All right. There’s originals and there’s originals. And there’s the shameless Indian copies of the same. Songs, music pieces, movies, car chases from movies TV Shows, Reality Shows, and just about everything else. We, relinquishing the need to further our understanding and appreciation of our own Indian-ness, have even usurped the English language, and – to be fair to us, and to me, since I’m writin’ in it now – we have done a bloody good job of making it our own.

Such a dam’ good job that:
We are proud of flaunting it. We are proud of all our Booker nominees and winners and our Nobel Winners and our NY Times Bestseller list-making authors.

But, let’s face it, there’s some shockingly bad English out there that just jars my senses. Oh I know, I know, some will say I’m prejudiced, and others will smile, but this is serious.

If we want to woo firangs with English, let’s at least get it right!!!

I’m not talking about auto-drivers (curse that arrogant breed!) or waiters using bad language, or even incorrect grammar/English; I’m not talking about hippie wannabe software professionals and their faux accents. I’m talking BIG LEAGUE here.
Yes.
The Times of India.

F’r Chrissakes!!!! They bill themselves as the most widely read paper in the country (or was it Asia? The specifics escape my memory).

Read this article. Though the blood boils at the tales of the VIP Brats (I shall apply my immense intellect to that problem just a little while later), one thing catches the eye. One thing brings the bile to the throat, one thing jars.
This sentence:
“The car and the two bikes dashed sideways.”

DASHED sideways???? Who are you, O Writer??? A school-kid??? Dashed indeed! And this person starts off with high-falutin’ stuff about ‘kin of prominent personalities running amok’. Jesus.

Another sentence on a neighbouring article begins ‘Even as the shocked Deve Gowda’s clan…’ Plurals v/s apostrophes, anyone??? Singular noun followed by plural verb? Someone who sees that as proper English deserves flak on a Gargantuan scale. I would say nothing if my seven year old cousin did it, or even my classmate. But someone writing a headliner article for one of the world’s top newspapers??? I cannot let it go. And what happened to the World-Class editing? The Proof-readers???

Okay. Maybe these are isolated incidents (we’ll choose to forget such typos that occur everyday, thus exonerating all writers, proofreaders and editors, because it’s too stupid a duel to take up. We will never change. We will always show off and fall flat on our faces. Idiots, we are.)

And now, for the second situation:
This one is HUGE. This one is seriously embarrassing, because it occurs in a place that is supposed to wow all visitors, Indian and otherwise, a place of International importance and cultural relevance.

And it occurs so many times in just that one place that I, being Indian, wanted to run away and hide myself somewhere.

I was on a recent visit to Hyderabad when I happened to visit one of India’s most famous institutions, a place that people from all over the world come to see.
The Salar Jung Museum. The museum is brilliant, the arrangements and the lighting and the exhibits are all impeccable – well, as much as can be granted under the circs. But, the displays. The placards and the brochures that give information about each exhibit. Out of every ten displays, eight have typos, bad grammar, horrible mistakes with names and spellings, and basically, very bad English. Considering that the museum has THOUSANDS of exhibits (and I saw them all), this error count is no mean number.

Displays for such important exhibits as the Veiled Rebecca, the Paintings Gallery, the Indian Sculpture section and such are simply riddled with bad English. Add to this faults about names and places and people, and you get something that’s really embarrassing. This place is supposed to showcase our heritage and our cultural wealth. All it does is show what little care we take. I’m surprised that a museum that boasts collections from Europe and England and indeed, all over the world, takes such little care about what is said about itself on it’s own displays and brochures.

Alright, maybe I’m caring too much about what others will think of us, maybe I’m being too critical on my own nation. Maybe I shouldn’t be making such a big deal, but hey, I would do that same if it were in any other language, let me tell you. Kannada or Tamil or English. We raise so much hullabaloo if any other language is misused, why not this also??

I’m writing from a state that bans a movie because it considers the title offensive to a historical character (and that movie had nothing to do with that character at all, if anyone bothered to watch the first two minutes.)

A state that, to promote writers in its language, is sponsoring English translations of Kannada plays which are Kannada translations of English plays. (e.g. An English Version of P. Lankesh’s Kannada version of Tennessee Williams was on the books, I don’t know if it’s happening. An English adaptation of an English translation of a Kannada work happened a couple of days back – I’m serious: a Kannada play was translated to English which was then altered and adapted and then presented in English. True creativity.)

So I feel justified in saying that either we learn to do things properly, or we quit doing it at all.

Ever vitriolic,
I remain,
Yours truly,
K.

A Review

2006-10-15T23:16:00.000+05:30

Everyone I know said, Everyone we know dies, why do you want to watch it? But I was adamant. I said, No, I’d like to see for myself, if you don’t mind. They gave up. I bought a 3-in-1 DVD, with X-Men I, II and III. I proceeded to watch X-Men III or X-3, as it will go down in movie history.

It was, without doubt, one of the most difficult movies I have ever sat through. I know Brett Ratner is a good man in his own right, but I hope he had nothing to do with the development of the story for X-3. After seeing the cracks in Bryan Singer’s psyche in the way he destroyed Superman Returns, I’d like to think this was also a mistake – that is, I’d like to think that the storyboard for X-3 was also Singer’s baby during his difficult period. I would not like to think that anyone, any writer with a moderate respect for the movies, would go in for such a killing spree as this, unless he was of the mindset to make Superman Returns. That was some serious warped shit, man!

I am a writer. I love characters. I love death as it is portrayed in movies. I am a great fan of both Bergman and Pasolini. But comic book heroes exist in a world of their own. They are entertainment. I love them. I will watch anything. But I will not stand for such endings. You do not simply KILL superheroes.

Alright, sagas (Sagæ, you say, Monlith? Okay, sagæ it is.) – sagæ have to end. I agree. But it is not worth it to simply kill off everyone in the bloody piece. I admit, we knew that Jean was a Class-5 mutant, a Fifth Standard Party, as we know it in Ovar Yindiaa, but there’s no need to make her look like Nemesis reincarnated (and mutated, if you’ll pardon the pun). No need to have good ol’ Wolverine become a cryin’ lover. No need to have Charles X. Xavier show weakness, even if it was a scene of him being bested. The only person’s portrayal I liked was Ian McKellen’s, though even he needn’t have suffered such a fate. Halle Berry again was wasted.

Singer, please quit the Superman Franchise (unless you’re planning to continue with Superman – True Brit) and come back and end X-Men properly.

No, better still, come back and do another X-Men. Let the series not end.

One of the greatest wielders of the English language, and probably THE greatest of all of them thriller writers, Alistair MacLean, put it beautifully, when he had a German, one of the Enemy, say very simply, in one of his novels (Probably THE LAST FRONTIER, or one of the NAVARONE novels):

“No one should die like this. Not even our enemies should die like this.”

This is so very true, when it comes to X-Men III. A remake is needed.

Singer, please oblige.

A PUBLIC ANNOUNCEMENT!!!

2006-10-12T23:28:00.000+05:30

My Dear Readers...

The adventures of K-Man and V-Dude was supposed to be the newest post, but as I had saved it under drafts, it has come under random coffee house conversations..Kindly do read, and as always, leave comments...

Dhanyavaad

Random Tandem

Conversations at a Coffee House

2006-10-08T22:14:00.001+05:30

The devoted readers of this blog will remember an article which gave us tremendous insights into the mind of a teeny-bopper. This sort of gives us an overall perspective into the minds of people who visit coffee houses on a rainy sunday evening..

Our conversation begins, as most of mine do, sitting and waiting for someone, who was late. I was early..(kinda goes without saying), and having nothhign else to do, I eavesdropped. All around me, people were seated and conversing. I did not want to be rude, so I decided to just imbibe everything around me.

As i settle down, I take a customary gaze around the place to see if there is anyone I am acquainted with, in order to pass the time while I wait. There is noone. A table away from me, there are two gents who look like the weight of the world is on them. The elder of the two takes a puff from his cigarette and stares at the smoke he has just discharged with a mournful air, as if saying goodbye to a really old friend. The younger of the two is continuing to speak, with an extremely grave air, that seems suspended over that table.

Two tables away from me, two intellectuals are matching their wits in a gripping game of chess....I fight the urge to scream Knight to black 32...kill that queen...I lose...I scream...people look at me wierdly..and I sink back into my chair....

And one table away from that sit my favorite muses...teeny-boppers..both male and female..this crowd is loud..that is normal..it consists of three people...two male, and one incredibly attractive girl..I'm all male...I stare..and then, the conversation lifts my moods...

Boy: Macchha..I have reached a monumental decision (here, I am impressed he knows the meaning of the word and can actually pronounce it right,,,but perhaps I am being too harsh)

His two comrades stare at him...mouths agape...probably wondering what new style of jeans is he going to try to buy.

Boy 1: As I said, I have reached a monumental decision

The other male sitting at the table nods, as most friends do, while the girl giggles, as most girls do.

Boy1 : I need a very hot female best friend.

He's got my attention!!!

The other male looks up, lifts an eyebrow and listens. The girl continues to giggle. But suddenly, in the middle of the giggle, she feels the need to ask a question

Girl: But why?

Boy 1: Very simple..See, in all american tv serials, the best friends are always damned hot right?

He looks around for approval, and the friend, with all his frenzied nodding, now starts to look like a thinner version of Silent Bob. I also nod, but i hope they can't see me.

Boy 1: See, now if I have a hot best friend, we'll both go out with all the wrong people initially, and then we'll both realise that we need each other..and we've been right for each other all along.

More frenzied nodding, and even more high-pitched giggling...Personally, I think the other male at the table was wishing that the speaker would just cock up and buy him some coffee, but one msut be supportive, and like most good friends, he did an excellent job.

I decide to move onto the bathroom. Nature was calling and I didn't want it to leave a message. I amble in, push the door with full confidence, only to not have it yield under my grasp. Damn. SOmeone is inside. And so, I wait. As I do, a thought from a long-lost sms forward comes drifting to my head. " The length of a minute depends on which side of the bathroom door you are!" Truer wrods were not spoken. I still wait, patiently, trying not to think too much, but the only things that seem to come to my head are waterfalls, streams of water, flushes, and the rains. As if on cue, the heavens open up. I'm up against the elements. Finally, the door opens, the previous occupant wiping his hands dry exits the bathroom. I hold my nose and walk in. Ironically, the first thing I see is graffitti, fresh, mind you, loudly proclaiming " Do not take more than five minutes!!" Good advice.

I return to my table, and take my seat. My coffee and my fate for the evening have both arrived by this time, and so I take my leave from all around me, and begin to lose myself in her eyes.

And with that, cheers and good notions

V

The Adventures Of K-Man And V-Dude

2006-10-04T22:31:00.001+05:30

Super-heroes the world over, STEP ASIDE!!!!! There is a new tandem in town, with such magnificent super=powers, such mights, and most importantly, such incredible comic-timing. Presenting to you, with incredible amounts of confetti throwing, and loads of fan-fare, we present- "The Adventures Of K-Man And V-Dude!!!" Dan-dan-dannnnnnnnnn!!!!!!!!!

The Characters::
K-Man: Mild-mannered, if highly verbose, college student by day.....turns into the dark and moustachioed K-Man, scourge of villains and dictionaries alike.

V-Dude: Bumbling, stumbling,Klutzy sidekick. Super-powers include gluing back Ching Vases back together in record time

The Monolith- Mentor to the Dazed Duo, and provider of food

Our story begins in the warm and sunny city of The Roasted Beans..RBVILLE, if you will....our heroes were just aimlessly wandering the streets, as is their wont, randomly arguing about something which had caught one's fancy and not the others. Suddenly, the dazed duo super symbol flashes in the sky.

Verbose Kurien: Holy Smokes....

Nat-so-ver-Bose: That reminds me..you still have to pay me for all those....

Verbose-Kurien: Ohh!! Don't be so cheap!! We have important business to attend to!!! Quick...to the super secret hideout!!!!

Not-so-ver-Bose: We don't have one!!!

Verbose-Kurien: Well then, to the house of the Monolith!!!

Not-so-ver-Bose: Well then, lead the way!!!

Verbose Kurien: No, my friend, YOU get to lead the way!!!

Not-so-ver-Bose: You mean you finally trust me enough to lead the way?? As in me in charge?? Really? Really?

Verbose Kurien: Not exactly..I forgot the way to the Mentor's house!!!

Meanwhile, at the Monolith's house, a sinister plot is afoot.

Enter the super-villainess...Frizzy Girl...holding the Mentor hostage, she awaits the entry of our two heroes on the scene..

Monolith: You will never get away with this..

Frizzy: You actually think those two proteges of yours will be able to rescue you from this peril??

Monolith: Firstly, what peril? You have gotten me in my own house, in my own armchair, with plenty of food around. Secondly, you are unarmed. And thirdly, those two goofs, while they are goofs, will manage to swing something.

Frizzy: My henchmen will take care of them. Henchmen!!! (man-mountains arrive)

Man-mountain 1: You called, meydam??

Frizzy: When the dazed duo arrive, take care of them!!

Man-mountain 2: Jee sahiba!!! Chai Vaai pila doonn??

Frizzy: NO YOU IDIOT!!! HURT THEM!!!! HURRRTTTT THEMMMMM!!!!!

Man-Mountai 1: Jee Sahiba!!! (they leave!!!)

Monolith: Fine pair of henchmen.....

Frizzy: Better than those two bumbling oafs of yours!!

Monolith: We shall see!!

Frizzy: SILENCE!!! This is portion for evil laugh. Muahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!

Monolith: I am not afraid of you, or your henchmen...what can you do to me??

Frizzy: I can Bite!!!

Monolith:: Ulp!! HAALLLLLLPPPPP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Meanwhile, our two heroes, after a lot of bickering with an auto guy, have landed up at the house of their mentor. They Knock on the door..

Frizzy: Say you aren't home!!!

Monolith: What?? That doesn't make any...

Frizzy: (baring teeth) SAY IT!!!!!!!

Monolith: I'M NOT HOME!!! GO AWAY, AND DON'T COME BARGING IN AND HELP ME!!!

V-Dude: Okay..he is not home..what should we do now??

K-man: Boy, HE just said that he is not home, and that we should save him. Do you not get what that means??

V-Dude: We can go in and use his computer to find the emergency??

K-Man: Sometimes I wonder how you can have such little brains!! No, you bashibazook, it means that he is in trouble and needs our help. Quick, to the back gate..

Our heroes forcibly enter the house, loudly screaming, "EVIL DOERS BEWARE!!!!!!! THE DAZED DUO ARE HERE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Frizzy: Henchmen, ATTACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The two man-mountains depart to the back entrance..

BANG!!!CRASH!!!WHAM!!!KABOOMM!!!!OUCH!!!!BIFF!!!!BOPPP

Many sound effects later....our super-heroes arrive for the confrontation scene....

K-Man: Surrender, oh rough-haired one..we cannot be beaten!!

Frizzy: How did you manage to get past my henchmen?? How??

K-Man: We have our methods..

Frizzy: Those sounds were not you beating the living daylights out of them, were they??

V-Dude: Ofcourse not!! That was me falling into that pile of vessels which then fell and bonked your henchmen on the heads...

Monolith: (to the heavens) HOW??? WHY???? HOW AND WHY DO THEY ALL FIND ME????

V-dude: Surrender, enemy!! There is no way past me!!! K-Man, release the mentor while I take care of this one!!!!

Frizzy: HAH!!!! You take care of me?? Go home little boy...I know your secret fear....(produces a cock-roach) come any closer and I shall unleash it on you!!!!

V-Dude: EEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Frizzy: High-Pitched screams!! I can't handle them!!!!! (drops cockroach, which scurries away!!)

V-Dude: Who new being high-pitched had it's benefits??

K-Man and Monolith: We didn't!!!!

Emboldened by the elimination of his fear from the scene, V-Dude strides and picks up the arch-nemesis off from the floor, and ties her to the chair, after suitably gagging her!!! (Those teeth really hurt!!) K-man frees the mentor from the chair.

Monolith: Many thanks, Dazed Duo...you really came through today..V-Dude, I shall never make fun of your high-pitched tendencies ever again!!!

V-Dude: Really??

Monolith: Ofcourse I will....you jsut saved my life..it's not like you saved the country or something!!!

K-Man: We shall move on to bigger things!!Worry not sirrah. Wherever there be evil, there be the two of us to spread Justice's good name and make evil-doers repent (cue fanfare), to protect the innocent, to embolden the weak, to strengthen the meek, to defend the defenseless....

Monolith: Does he always carry on so much??

V-Dude: I am afraid so...should I interrupt him??

Monolith: You think he would even notice??

V-Dude: I doubt it!!

Monolith: Alright! Lunch?

V-Dude: Excellent suggestion!!! Lead the way Sirrah!!!

And so, we leave our heroes, knowing that as long as there are people who dare challenge the tandem, they will get the stuffing knocked out of them of course!!! And yes, K-Man did not notice that his sidekick and the mentor had left the room........................................as he continued his mission statement........................ending at 4 pm.............................................the next day.............

THE END

(Toot-toot-toot-tooot!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

In our next episode, K-Man and V-Dude take on Grandmother Lady. Stay tuned for more of the Dazed Duo's adventures...until then...live long..and prosper!!!!!!!!!!!!!

V

NEITHER JOY, NOR LOVE, NOR LIGHT...

2006-10-04T10:04:00.000+05:30

“…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…”

Matthew Arnold’s powerful, powerful lines. Today is a weird day, my friends. It is the day of a State-Wide Bandh. Nothing moves, no one ventures outside except the foolhardy – and adventurous shop-owners. Buses operate on a skeletal service, vehicles are sequestered. And thus, on this day when nothing moves, I wake up late. I go make my coffee and sit down to read the news paper. I switch on the TV, but nothing’s on except grey everywhere. I continue to peruse the newspaper. News of Shashi Tharoor’s backing-down as a result of a US Veto boils my blood, but who am I to interfere…

And then it happens. I catch sight of another article. And my blood really boils. Every hair on my moustache quivers with an excess of moral indignation, every common-sense related neuron walks away, waving it’s tiny little neuronal fists in the air (or in the surrounding CSF, to be precise). It is a tale of woe, of sheer stupidity, of a nation so long on the alert that everyone seems an enemy, insiders and outsiders alike, everyone is subjected to a ruthless examination that is revolting in it’s closeness (both of approach and mindset).

A Tamilian. In an airport. In a country whose name I do not wish to take, but if I had to set a Crossword clue for it, it would go thus:

1A) Country of you and me? (2)

He waits for his plane, this innocent Tamilian, this Indian National. Waits for his plane to arrive, waits for the Tannoy announcements requesting everyone to board their planes. And then he feels a vibration: his phone is ringing. With legendary Indian speed, he whips out his cell-phone, recognises the number as that of an old school-friend. Pleasure makes lines across his face deepen as he answers.

The two friends talk excitedly in Tamil, about a School Reunion game (may have been Cricket). They get excited, our man arguing with his friend about the outcomes and the various nuances of the day's play.
He argues..
when he feels
cold steel fingers grip his shoulder...
He turns....
And looks
Into the eyes of a steely young Airport Official. He is politely requested to hang up, when he inquires (“Hey! Am I not allowed to talk on the phone??”), only to be told forcefully but politely to hang up, and accompany the steely young Airport Official. Shaken, our man obeys...

And is detained in the Airport strong room. Soon, a higher official walks in, sits down, demands from our shaken compatriot an explanation. Our man is nonplussed. And then the senior man explains.

It seems our man was making suspicious movements in the airport. HUH???? In reply to an obvious qustion, the senior official explains...
And soon the truth is out: the steely young Airport Official considered the rapid flow of Tamil emanating from our man's mouth to be extremely suspicious and therefore, performed the Airport Official's equivalent of a Citizen’s arrest. An explanation ensues, and soon the stupid blunder is revealed. A young official's over zealousness. And then comes the insult:

Realising the error, the senior official apologises, but not before everything has become public. He speaks to Press people, and says, “Nothing to worry. Mr So-and-so (whatever his name was) has provided an innocent, satisfactory explanation.”

JESUS H. CHRIST!! SATISFACTORY EXPLANATION???

WHAT THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO DO? NOT TALK IN OUR MOTHER-TONGUES?
Does Tamil sound any different to someone ignorant of the language, than Swahili or Taiwanese??? Face it, this man was hauled because he looked suspicious. He looked Indian, which is the same as Saudi Arabian and Middle-Eastern in the West, both of which are synonyms for a word which I will not use here, but if I were to set a crossword clue for it, it would go thus:

2A) Play with TT? Error is radical. (9)

This is the ultimate fear. Not being able to let anyone speak in their mother tongue because it sounds suspicious to you. Why don’t you put up a make up stall outside? So we will all colour our skin lighter and why don’t you provide us with free accent-training, so we can all speak like you? Then there’ll be no suspicions. We’ll all be one big happy family.

And this is the country we are all going to, to study and make our fortunes. My god.

MY GOD.

To paraphrase,

“…the COUNTRY 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;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.”

Except the armies fight by day. And they are waiting, hankering, hungering for someone to grab, someone to incarcerate, someone to subdue. This is what we have come to. See and believe.

You decide.
K.

2006-10-03T22:02:00.000+05:30

THIS PLACE: A VITRIOLIC POEM

This place in which I presently live, this place in which I dwell:
This wasteland that people love to hate; and loathe and abhor as well,
This blasted patch, this cursed land on the outskirts of the city,
This place of very little pulchritude, and less’r electricity.
This godforsaken blasted place on the outskirts of the city,
Where the only people who smile at you, do so out of pity.

This place that no single person has any idea how to get to,
And when I try to tell them, we end up havin’ a set-to.
Most o’ my pals when asked to come say “It’s so friggin’ fa’!”
And one guy by the name of Sharma goes, “It’s a village, pa!”
And the buses are always chock-full with labourers and the like,
Asking someone to come home is like saying, “Take a hike.”

Any place in the city is too far to reach on time,
And when I do arrive, I’m so full of dirt and grime.
Which is not so surprising after two hours of standing
Crushed up against smelly people; all of them demanding
More space than they can get, so they can rest their arses,
And I even pay to do this! Yea! I pay for monthly passes.

There are no restaurants here, no bars or shopping malls,
Biharis own all the hardware stores, and Mallus own the stalls.
There are three colleges here, no less than seven schools,
There are four apartment blocks, all with swimming pools.
All the guys wear baggy pants and love hanging out of buses,
And rather than look at some of the girls, I’d marry platypuses.

Every time there’s a drop of rain, the electricity goes;
And the road become all muddy, to add to all my woes.
No Coffee Days, nowhere to relax, no nothing! And besides,
No Pizza place delivers here, curse their stinkin’ hides!
(Apparently they won’t come this side, ’cause they got police trouble.
My apologies to anyone from here, did I just burst a bubble?)

I don’t think I have to say anymore about this place where I am put up,
These many lines should have told the truth, so now’s the time to shut up.
And so, here ends this sad, sad tale of the place where I reside,
If anyone dares contradict me on this, I warn you, woe betide!
Any doubts you have I’ll try to clear, if it falls within my powers,
And anytime you want to meet me, give me a full two-an’-half hours!

I Still Rock !!

2006-09-19T17:45:00.000+05:30

What Famous Leader Are You?
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Cheers and Good notions.

I AM ALSO THE GREAT !!

2006-09-19T17:32:00.000+05:30

What Classic Movie Are You?
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Cheers and good notions

I am the great....

2006-09-17T10:16:00.000+05:30

What Classic Movie Are You?
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Gautham’s Next Movie

2006-09-09T14:17:00.000+05:30

See. I have watched these two films. Made by Gautham. And epiphany struck me. I saw the future.

One of these films was called Kaakka Kaakka (I hope the spelling is right and it doesn’t remind you of that other thing which we were so fond of saying in school) and Vettaiyaadu Veliyadu (sic). The former starred Surya and Jothika and the latter, Kamal Haasan and Ditto. Rather to the chagrin of my sister, who is a HUGE fan of M. Surya and is pretty pissed that he is marrying someone so round as Jothika, I found both movies just bordering on tolerable.

Gautham must never be allowed within miles of a script, a camera, or Kamal Haasan.

He is havoc. He is mad. He will make another film. I am sure of that. And I, being the Genius that I am, can give you the details of that film. I can! Really!! To paraphrase a line from a great playwright, I am basing this on certain things he did and certain observations I have made.

Getting down to brass tacks, the next film will have the following characteristics:

1) THE HERO: It will be Rajini. Come on! Who else is left??? He (Gautham)’s done Surya. He’s done the GREAT Kamal Haasan. Who is the only one in the whole industry who can take up after these two??? Right.

2) The HEROINE: The bubbly, effervescent Mrs. Surya alias Jothika of the “Mmm…enakku oru kiss kudu (pout)” fame.

3) THE MAIN CHARACTER (MALE): It will be a police officer. That was the case in both Kaakka Kaakka (KK hereinafter) and Vettaiyadu Veliyadu (VV hereinafter). It will be, it HAS TO BE, in the next one also.
Now see, in KK, the police officer marries Jothika, who gets killed by the villain. In VV, the policeman marries, his wife gets killed by the villain, and then he falls in love with Jothika. So what now?

Obvious!!! The policeman’s father, also a policeman, will marry and he and his wife will get killed by the villain. The son, now a policeman (wonder of wonders!!! Bet you wouldn’t have guessed that!!!!) will fall for Jothika, or Jothika will fall on him, in which case HE WILL DIE early in the film.
He will also have a drooping moustache.

4) THE MAIN CHARACTER (FEMALE): JOTHIKAJOTHIKAJOTHIKA. She will return to reprise her role for the third time. She will be something classy, a teacher (Yes!!! There are classy teachers!! This is KOLLY-BLOODY-WOOD!!!) or a software pro or something (Gautham will think of something. Maybe she will be a Teacher of Software. He is clever, that man, really clever. Beats me how he does it.) She will be chubby and will utter lines wonderfully with a pout and will cry and will squint and smile dangerously at the camera. The hero will fall for her, or she will fall on him and... Sorry, I can’t help cracking that one again and again.

5) THE LOVE ANGLE: One or both of the main characters will have broken pasts. They will meet at a coffee shop to discuss this (The shop was in Chennai in KK, New York in VV, maybe Chicago or Switzerland in the next one). Here, Jothika will say, “Mmm…enakku oru kiss kudu” or it's equivalent and then she will pout, whereupon the hero will fall for her, or she will fall on…Sorry.
Louuuu will happen.

6) THE DIALOGUES: What? What? You haven’t read this article carefully, have you??? THIS IS A GAUTHAM FILM! The dialogues will be retarded. Meaningless. Actors will adlib. Jothika will say “Mmm…enakku oru kiss kudu” and pout.

7) THE FAMILIES: The policeman will have an elder sister or someone similar to whom he will go and confess that he has fallen for Jothika (or that she has fallen on…Shit. I can’t stop myself!!!). The sister will ask him to go grab her, only more politely. Also, it is very possible that the villain will, to add to the pathos (Sadness, sorry. I’m sure Gautham won’t know such words as pathos.) kill some family friend. It has to happen, boss.

8) THE MUSIC: Will be a repeat of KK and VV. The lead song will have rhyming tamil words. KK had the inane “Kanäva Kädhala”, VV had it’s silly “Vénnilavé Vélli Nilavé”. (I love putting accent signs in tamil words.)
The camera will focus on Jothika singing INSANELY stupid sounds (I can’t call them words) like WOUUUAAUUUAAUUUAUU or YÉYIIIYAAAUUUUYYYEEEAAA. Rest of the background music will be very very VERY similar.
Don’t believe me???? Get both movies and watch them one after another. You’ll know.

9) THE TITLE: Obviously it will be two words, starting with the same letter. Maybe an SS or JJ or CC or something. ZZ or XX or AA or BB or... You get the picture.

10) THE ENDING: The hero will kill the villain in an airport. Wait! This is true! See: in KK, this happens in a shipyard. In VV, the scene almost identically shot and enacted, takes place in a derelict railway station. Ships, over. Railways, done. What’s left?? Airport. See?

HOW I KNOW ALL THIS?? SIMPLE.

It is obvious. Bernardo Bertolucci has said that every director makes only one film. That is, all the films made by one man are indications of who he is. If you put all the films of one director together, you will get an accurate picture of the man. Fellini had his idiosyncrasies, Kurosawa his histories and his sensitivities, Bergman and Pasolini had their obsessions, Kubrick had his genius and attention to detail. And all these are features of their movies.

Think Kubrick. Think Fellini, Kurosawa, Bergman (Sharma, I’m sure you know what I mean). Think (Snigger! Snort!) Tarkovsky or Antonioni.

This is true of Gautham also. He will keep on making the same film again and again, with other actors and Jothika. I think he made lots of research of policemen, and has enough material left over for another twenty films. Like Kieslowski’s Decalogues, he will make a Dodecalogue.

Or two.

You just wait and watch.

Love, cheer and lots of beer,

To Nihal And Sara

2006-08-28T22:54:00.000+05:30

Apologies to K...this post is close to my heart, and a rather tangential post to what we usually add out here, but it must be done.

Ladies and gentlemen, we youngsters are a very wierd species. I don't know when it became cool to have a million and one significant others in your life, or it became a given that relationships lasting longer than a specified period of time needs to be scoffed at, or even gazed at with a cynic's eye. Of most people I know, perhaps I have the cynic's eye more firmly implanted within my optic chambers, but even I don't get this wierd, warped way of thinking.

Therefore, it is with great joy that I learnt that two of my closest friends, Nihal and Sara, just completed four years of going out. True love still deos exist in this world, and these two guys truly epitomize that feeling. I've known them apart, and I have known them together. Both ways they are perfect, but I love watching the two of them together. To say that they are the best couple I know of, is no exaggeration..

Either ways, guys, here's to you..happy four years, and may your love always grow. I may be a million miles away, but I'm never gonna forget you guys. Happy Anniversary once more..

Cheers and good notions

V

THE MIND OF A TEENY-BOPPER

2006-08-13T23:17:00.000+05:30

THE MIND OF A TEENY-BOPPER

(DAN DAN DAN DAAANNN...DAN!!)

Tis a strange mood that one finds me in today..hence, in order to either welcome you all to MY strange mood, or enable you to go into stranger moods yourself, I shall present to you a conversation I was privelleged to eavesdrop on. Enjoy, or make your own decisions as you read along. Bear in mind that this conversation happened a good two months ago, and therefore some major alterations may have happend to the main characters. That disclaimer in mind, ONWARDS!!!!

The Mind Of A Teeny-Bopper (for want of a better title)

The setting: Cafe Mochas, Churchgate, Mumbai. A rather chilled out coffee lounge, complete with hookahs, waiters dressed in somewhat traditional Moroccan attire (I say somewhat because I don't know what proper traditional Moroccan attire would be) and a rather Arabic feel and smell to it.

The Characters: Two teenaged girls, henceforth referred to as Teeny-Bopper 1 and Teeny-Bopper 2, this blogger(trying to look as if women are always late when meeting him, no big thing etc etc, but secretly wondering where the hell his company for the evening is), the waiters and other patrons of above mentioned coffee lounge.

The story:
Our tale begins at 5 pm on a Sunday evening. This blogger was reveling in the air-conditioning and trying to sing along with the original version of Ayesha, when the two teeny-boppers, who were incidentally seated behind me, decided to start a conversation. Having nothing else to do, being naturally predisposed to eavesdropping and owing to the fact that they were really,REALLY loud, I decided to lend an ear to their conversation.

T.B 1(with a tone of voice to convey imminent world destruction): YOU KNOW WHAT JUST HAPPENED????
T.B 2(eyes wide open): WHAT??
T.B 1: I really don't know how to tell you.
T.B 2: Tell me WHAT??
T.B 1: It's just way too wierd.

At this point, I let my eyes wander and noticed that several other tables were also paying attention to this highly intriguing conversation. Satisfied that I wasn't the only depraved individual in the establishment, I returned to eavesdropping. Bear in mind that nothing of importance had been said during this short interval, owing chiefly to the fact that the waiter had returnd with their orders.

T.B 2(taking a sip of her cold coffee): So tell na, what happened?

Yes, what happened indeed? T.B1 took a glance around to see if anyone else was listening. Obviously, EVERYONE was, but I don't think she noticed that fact.

T.B 1(taking a deep breath): HE asked me out!!!!!!
T.B2: He? Who he? (catching the meaningful look in her friend's eye) OHH!!! HE!! EWWW!!!

Lovely isn't it, the way these people have with words???

T.B1: I know!! I was, like, shocked! I didn't even know he liked me.
T.B2: And what did you say?? Please tell me you said No!!
T.B1: Obvio yaar!! How stupid do you think I am??

I'm sure everybody wanted to answer that question, but curiosity prevailed, and we listened on, hoping she'd explain why exactly she said NO!!

T.B2: Oh, thank God!! (religious, aren't we!!)
T.B1: Ya! I mean, just look at the clothes he wears..(AHA!!! We are getting somewhere!!) I mean, those baggy jeans, those stupid black t-shirts...CHEEE!!!!

At this moment, all the gentlemen (our young hero included) looked down to see our baggy jeans and our boring black t-shirts and cringed! But hope springs eternal, they say! And so it was, even in this dire state of mind, as she further proceeded to explain how we could become un "CHEEE".

T.B1: I mean, if only he wore some nice fitting, flared jeans, some nice pastel shades, and shoes instead of floaters with socks, then maybe I'd have said Yes. (How sweet of her!!) But now, EWWWW!!!
T.B2: I KNOW!!!How could he even think of asking YOU out? (The nerve of this guy!! Imagine...asking HER out??)

At this point, the conversation disintegrated into a fit of giggles and meaningless talk. My sympathies went out to the mysterious HE, although I feel that had he heard this conversation, he would thank his lucky stars that she'd turned him down.

And now. let us analyze the lessons learnt from this dialogue:

a) Eavesdropping is good fun?
V: Yes..I mean No..i mean..oh, just use your discretion when eavesdropping. Anything else??

b) The two girls were the dumb blonde types?
V: Incase you weren't paying attention, YES!! NOW ANYTHING ELSE??

c) You are not cool??
V: Ahh!! You are correct, sir. You see, dear reader, my entire wardrobe consists of predominantly black t-shirts(much to my granny's despair) and really baggy jeans(she has a few choice words about those too). Therefore I AM NOT COOL!! It takes getting used to.

But hope springs eternal. I too shall hunt for some nice-fitting jeans, some nice pastel-shaded shirts and shoes!! I TOO SHALL BE COOL!!

Cheers and good notions,
V

P.S: I'm not actually going to buy those! So I'm uncool! Atleast I'm comfortable!

TULL!! (Part 2)

2006-08-01T22:45:00.000+05:30

And check this out. Visions of Delany again. You'd never guess from the name what it's about, and neither can you guess where it goes from the first stanza to the tear-jerker ending.

"The Chequered Flag (Dead Or Alive)"

The disc brakes drag,
The chequered flag sweeps across the oil-slick track.
The young man's home; dry as a bone.
His helmet off, he waves: the crowd waves back.
One lap victory roll. Gladiator soul.
The taker of the day in winning has to say,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
Dead or alive.

The sunlight streaks through the curtain cracks,
touches the old man where he sleeps.
The nurse brings up a cup of tea ---
two biscuits and the morning paper mystery.
The hard road's end, the white god's-send
is nearer everyday, in dying the old man says,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
dead or alive.

The still-born child can't feel the rain
as the chequered flag falls once again.
The deaf composer completes his final score.
He'll never hear the sweet encore.
The chequered flag, the bull's red rag,
the lemming-hearted hordes
running ever faster to the shore singing,
Isn't it grand to be playing to the stand,
dead or alive.

TULL! TULL!! TULL!!!

2006-08-01T22:40:00.000+05:30

Ian Anderson is a lovely lyricist. And this writing is so Samuel Delany. Just savour this:

"Budapest"

I think she was a middle-distance runner...
Could be a budding stately hero.
International competition in a year.
She was a good enough reason for a party...
(well, you couldn't keep up on a hard track mile)
while she ran a perfect circle.
And she wore a perfect smile
in Budapest... hot night in Budapest.

We had to cozzy up in the old gymnasium...
dusting off the mandolins and checking on the gear.
She was helping out at the back-stage...
stopping hearts and chilling beer.
Yes, and her legs went on for ever.
Like staring up at infinitythrough a wisp of cotton panty
along a skin of satin sea.Hot night in Budapest.

You could cut the heat, peel it back with the wrong side of a knife.
Feel it blowing from the sidefills.
Feel like you were playing for your life(if not the money).
Hot night in Budapest.

She bent down to fill the ice box
and stuffed some more warm white wine in
like some weird unearthly vision
wearing only T-shirt, pants and skin.
You know, it rippled, just a hint of muscle.
But the boys and me were heading west
so we left her to the late crew
and a hot night in Budapest.
It was a hot night in Budapest.

She didn't speak much English language...(she didn't speak much anyway).
She wouldn't make love, but she could make good sandwich
and she poured sweet wine before we played.
Hey, Budapest, cha, cha, cha. Let's watch her now.

I thought I saw her at the late night restaurant.
She would have sent blue shivers down the wall.
But she didn't grace our table.
In fact, she wasn't there at all.
Yes, and her legs went on forever.
Like staring up at infinity.
Her heart was spinning to the west-lands
and she didn't care to be
that night in Budapest.
Hot night in Budapest.

2006-08-01T22:31:00.000+05:30

TWO JOURNEYS

Journey 2.
Or
Further Adventures of a Furious Character

a.k.a.

The Drear Side

I have already mentioned the funnier aspects of a BMTC Bus Journey. That was Journey 1. But, being cursed to travel every single day, and that many times within the course of each single day, I have opportunity to study the sadder, more melancholy aspects too. Indeed, look at all the facets of Journey 1: the drunks, the smells, the fear and the loathing (to borrow but a phrase) and you will see what I mean – they can be a representation of the sadder side too.

If you do not see as yet, go by bus. To someplace, anyplace. Then come back home. Go, and come, by a crowded bus. Believe me, you will then know what authors mean when they say “a bespattered cross-section of the lower strata of humanity” or some such shit. Because that phrase means, roughly translated, “all the people who go by BMTC buses”, in Swahili. Other terms in Swahili meaning roughly the same thing are, “The UnderPrivileged”, “Smelly Cats, Smelly Cats” and “FCUKinkybuggers”.

It is a very depressing thing, going by bus. Very saddening, very maddening. Hey! I can write a poem about it!!! See (if I were to write it), it (would) goes thus:

It is really saddening, maddening,
It’s not the least bit gladdening,
The way you go by bus.
It’s all very depressing, oppressing,
And there’s also a little cross-dressing,
In the way we go by bus…

The travelers are so flagrant, vagrant,
And not too very fragrant,
As they go by bus.
I hope you see my meaning, gleaning
Something from this preening
Of how I go by bus.

And so on.

I am every day enveloped by the collective unconscious (No, not the new Herrera perfume for women, the feelings of the people) as soon as I enter a bus. Any bus. Crowded, uncrowded; stinky, fragrant – it doesn’t matter. There is a…sadness in the air, what’s left of it.

You get the feeling it must be really, really sad for all these people to be condemned to such a fate as to come by such dreary means everyday, and then you realize that you do the same thing yourself and you heartily agree with whatever you just thought now.

Some of the things you see outside the buses always seem to portray something of an idyllic, pastoral charm. Be it the early morning sunlight slanting through the leaves, the sambhrani smoke from earthen houses, the people meeting at the local bakery and having a cuppa chai. Or it is evening and amidst all the people rushing back home, you see someone walking a dog, some children playing, someone walking with a lover in a park.

I can clearly remember the line from Le Carré’s first Smiley,
“Beyond the trees, Smiley thought, cars are passing. Beyond the trees lies a whole world…”

Indeed, beyond the window, life exists. And it is somehow amplified by the fact that you cannot move at all, you cannot take too deep a breath – A metaphor between traveling in a bus and the ultimate oblivion? I don’t know. Maybe Death is an infinite BMTC bus-ride. The Final Bus-ride. Passes Not Allowed – when it is but human to move and breathe, these being the biological indications of life. An organism is said to be a living organism if it eats, excretes, breathes and is able to move from one place to another.

And then there are the drear scenes…

Moving through Kalasipalyam, I see policemen inside a bylane. The bus moves forward, crossing a police vehicle, and in it, dazed, eyes wide, sits an old woman. She seems shell-shocked, unable to move, blink, or close her open mouth. Her hair, and the whole left side of her face is caked with red blood. She just sits there, staring out through the protective grille, as the bus moves on.

We near Hebbal, and it is night. The roadlamps cast a sickly yellow glow over everything. There is a rotting pig’s carcass on the roadside, and some crows are making an evening meal of it. Right next to them, as though accentuating the metaphor of death, a man climbs down from an Ambassador, dressed in white dhoti and anga-vastram, to perform someone’s last rites in Hebbal lake. And then I remember that the Electric Crematorium is just on the other side of the road.

A little further ahead, are some…beings. Hermaphrodites. Eunuchs. Doubling as prostitutes. They sit on the roadside, no expression on their faces, clothes undone to display wares. Selling themselves. Gender-confused daughters of Hermes and Aphrodite selling themselves to the rest of humanity.

Dreary, bleary scenes. Scenes of life, the way it is. No gloss, no glamour. Just blood, and gore and flesh. And death.

Scenes from a moving bus. Life.

And, as usual, a Sabbath song comes to my mind. Also, in passing, I must state that Iommi and Ozzy are some of the GREATEST lyricists ever. Heavy metal rules. The lines I’m thinking of go:

Inclination of direction, walk the turn and twisted grift

With the children of creation futuristic dreams we sift

Clutching violently we whisper with a liquefying cry

Many deadly final answers that are surely doomed to die.

Won’t you help me Mr. Jesus? Won't you tell me if you can?

When you see this world we live in, do you still believe in man?

If my psalms become my freedom, and my freedom turns to gold

Then I'll ask the final question: if the answer could be sold…

The song is appropriately titled, “The Thrill of It All”.

A Strange Love Indeed

2006-07-29T01:42:00.000+05:30

This is not written for my benefit. This is not written to show off my literary skills. This is not written for my own viewing pleasure.

This is written at one a.m. in the morning with a lump in my throat. This is written out of a sense of awe and wonder, and of immense respect.

This, in brief, is written after viewing one of the most spectacular and perfect endings of one of the most brilliant films ever made.

I doff my miniscule hat to the huge intellects that were a part of this wonderful feature. To Stanley Kubrick, maverick director, auteur, genius filmmaker; to Peter Sellers, brilliant actor – maybe the most versatile actor ever; to Hollywood, I doff my hat. I salute you all, you who did this.

The clouds mushroom over a destroyed earth, as Dr. Strangelove plans to survive underground, ‘breeding prodigiously’ for a hundred years. And the beautiful voice of Vera Lynn hauntingly assures us that

We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day.
Keep smiling through, just like you always do,
’Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.

So will you please say hello to the folks that I know,
Tell them I won't be long.
They'll be happy to know that as you saw me go,
I was singing this song.

After the rain comes the rainbow,
You'll see the rain go, never fear,
We two can wait for tomorrow,
Goodbye to sorrow, my dear.

We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when,
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day…

Maybe we will, Vera. Maybe we will meet, Stanley and Peter, maybe we will meet again some sunny day. But till then, thank you.

K.

2006-07-28T22:06:00.000+05:30

TWO JOURNEYS

By

K.

Journey 1.
a.k.a
The Adventures of a Furious Character

It is 21:00 hours. V graciously agrees, with cig in hand, to keep me company till my bus comes. He puffs away. I wait. Four, five buses go by. None of them is mine.

Then V sees someone on the other side of the road. With a muttered ‘Excuse me’ he rushes across the road, weaving in and out of the traffic. He accosts a woman. I hope he knows her. (Sorry V, if it was a close friend, I didn’t know.)

And then it comes, my bus, with about 42 people hanging out of it. Like a pack of ghouls, those of us waiting for that bus rush forward, pushing, to get in. We get in.

The smell is unbearable, the heat suffocating. There is barely place to stand. People converse around me loudly. There are many people who are drunk, and they converse with almost anyone who is next to them, equally loudly. There is a very drunk, very old man near the door, mouthing obscenities at things only he can see, doddering. I wonder when he will fall out.

And suddenly, through the clutter, I hear a clearly Bihari voice scream into a cell phone, “Arre main abhi Orr Tee Nagger Bolisse Stasan mein utharne wala hoon! Haan haan! Mil gaya!”

And someone from behind him taps him and asks, very Kannada accented-ly, “Yakoos me! Vere you are geddown?”
The Bihari replies, “Orr tee Neggar.”
To which, the Good Kannadiga Samaritan says, “Too stapps. Wait. I tell.”
“Thenks.”

The bus lurches to a halt, loud curses erupting from everyone around. The conductor comes running from the front, getting in at the back, screaming for more and more people to get in. A villager gets in, crounches on the floor. Every stop he gets up with a jerk and asks the person next to him, “Idhu Hebal stop-aa?” He finds out the answer is no, and sits down, dejectedly. sorry, crouches down.

The completely smashed old man screams something unintelligible. Then he clears his throat loudly, hawks and spits. Immensely pleased by this, he starts off once again, screaming curses into the cold night air.

“Aur aap? Yoo arr vheyarr?”
“Lufthansa.”
“Achcha! Call centre?”
“No no.” A hand swoops upwards in the air, palm outstretched. “Flights. Plane. Bengaloor to Frankfurt. Yoo know, Germany capital.”

More people get in. Outside it is dark. The conductor screams and rushes forward again.

“Idhu Hebbal stop?”
“No.”
“Aiya.”

Two more drunk students get in and proceed to talk very loudly about some girl. I pity them and her. The conversation behind me continues:

“Yoo get tha normal ticket, it iss fiu thousand, ekksekyuteeu class is more costly. But serviss iss good. Drinks and all.”
“Achcha? How much eet ees? Exxeccutteu kilass?”

We pass a playground where some kids are playing volleyball under the harsh pool of light cast by a roadside lamp. The scene is somehow peaceful. I smile; it is nice to see these innocents, playing a serious game in a school playground at nine thirty at night.

“Yoo vatch verld cupp? Germany. Aaliver Konn. Grate player! Vat yae goal he keeping. He did nat play this tayam, but he is great player.”
“Hanji. But Jidane lost his touch.”
“Ya ya.”

The tottering old man steps off. He screams at the bus, and the passengers, some of them, scream back at him. He totters off, slowly. I wonder where he goes to, or even if this is his stop.

“Saar, yoo are geddown heeyarr.”
“Aji shukriya.”

We pass a series of bakeries. Their names are terribly funny. The first is called ‘Just Bake’, the second, ‘Al Bake’. I think of the Kannada equivalent and the bilingual pun makes me smile. The Bihari gets off. He screams into his phone,

“Abey sun na! ab main uthar gaya hoon! Bollisse stasan pe…” And he is gone.

“Idhu Hebbal stop-aa?”

“Illari.”

“Aiya. Thoo.”

The conductor comes back up. He smiles at me, and then tells me confidentially, “I have to keep going off front. You see, the driver doesn’t know the way…”

My spirits sink lower. There is still an hour’s journey left. And I have to keep standing, thinking all this stuff, till…
A finger jabs my shoulder. I turn around. The Lufthansa employee grins at me. He says:

“Yasskoos me. Vere yoo arr geddown?”

Uh-oh…

The Return Of The Native

2006-07-16T11:53:00.000+05:30

Hear ye! Hear ye!

Hearken all unto me, for good tidings I bring unto thee from lands afar! Ere I begin, it is with a great and uplifting happiness that I announce that…

The Prodigal hath returned!!!

Yea! Even unto this hallowed battleground wherein his words did once strive to gain readership, he hath returned! To begin anew his assault, to rejuvenate the shrunken wellsprings of language, to do whatever he did before!!!

In his absence, which many nay-sayers may have taken as indication of his desertion, it must be said that he hath faced many perils, and indeed, it was for the noble purpose of saving the land from a terrible scourge did he leave! But, fear not, good folk! He is returned!

Our Hero hath, in that perilous and forsaken journey met and grappled with many hideous monsters, winged and many-headed beasts, villainous demons and various other permanent residents (Class C Visa) of the Netherworld (South of the U.S.A) and in the end he vanquished them, yea, and even as they lay writhing on the bloody ground, he did stand upon their sunken heads and dance the Dance of Death, whereupon they succumbed to fatal injuries and breathed their last.

Their last breath, that is.

Whereupon after thus vanquishing the many hideous monsters, winged and many-headed beasts, villainous demons and various other permanent residents (Class C Visa) of the Netherworld (South of the U.S.A), he was beset by harems of lovely maidens, experienced in the art of pleasure, both in the taking and the giving of. Unto these wonderful creations of Our Dear Lord did he give himself up, and was plied with wine and vodka and many such refreshments for many days and similarly motivating entertainments during the nights. But at the end, duty beckoned with a long-distance collect call, and sadly and with great regret did he take his leave of the voluptuous maidens, for wonderful indeed was their pulchritude and amazing their voluptuosity and collective cleavages.

Then he undertook another perilous journey, yea, for was it not said in the Daily Forecast of the day when he began his first perilous journey that “You shall, in the course of the next twenty days undertake two, yes, TWO perilous journeys”? and at the end of this, his second, perilous journey hath he returned unto us, to bore us with his words again!

He hath returned!

Right. Now get back to whatever you were doing.

Slump period...surprisingly inspirational

2006-06-23T20:30:00.000+05:30

This one was written during a sort of slump..bored, tired, and surprisingly inspired, I undertook this task of writing, and I leave it now, for you, dear reader, to applaud or rubbish, as you see fit.

Well, back again for some random ramblings. Life’s thrown challenges, made some friends, realized that some others are just idiots, learnt to abuse in the vernacular, saw the first of my works published in an actual legitimate publication of sorts. Rather proud of it, although a lot of the women who read it weren’t exactly too pleased about it, and as a result I have just escaped being castrated, or suffering some more horrible fate, which was being planned for me. And that was just today. Note to self- must keep the Axe effect down to a minimal. Not talking about the deodorant. Just making sure I avoid someone who wants to bury the hatchet, I mean literally. Quite a number of happenings that have been going on, most interesting, bordering on the bizarre, but then again the bizarre is routine.

Personal triumphs, as well as unreachable depths in terms of sorrow, all reached within a week, gotten over with in another week, came to terms that “usage” is still quite prevalent everywhere, college atmospheres being the most, and this time gender role reversals took place. Feel quite the pioneer, really do. Contemplating nirvana, attainment of it actually. But then again, nirvana would seem rather boring in my context. Working on altering facial structures and expressions which would perhaps convey either being totally unconcerned, horribly impressed, so as to not being able to express exactly what to show, or that I am horribly constipated. All subject to interpretation. Creativity given a free hand, but curtailed due to rather disturbing idealistic reasons, laziness being the foremost. Lifestyle changes minimalistic, changes in thought processes, maximalistic, increase in amount of words made up, drastic. Contemplating making my own dictionary. Number of users- none. Wouldn’t use it myself. Consider idea abandoned.

Love life, let’s not get into that. Too many weird happenings in that area, “dow-jones indices” ascending and plummeting with alarming alacrity. Scary. Very scary. Hailed as a dude and a Casanova in the same breath. Feelings, not building up to crushes, hallmarks of recent times, hairless gentlemen, ex-boyfriends, and the unclear hairstyle all characters in the stories of the women who find mention in my story.

Inspiration eludes me currently, again the matter subject to interpretation. But this current state of mind I am in, quite refreshing, not to mention relaxing. Me, the stars outside my window, the rain falling gently, a steaming pot of coffee, and my thoughts keeping the Lord Of The Flies company. Stars twinkling, making a poet out of me. Not really, quite a utopian ideal that. But stars and the heavens above me, just me and my coffee, and perhaps some inspiration soon.

Cigarettes and curd anyone?

No kabir, no more fillies

Illusions

2006-06-23T20:25:00.000+05:30

Dear reader, before you continue, I feel I owe you an explanation with regards to why I insist on calling myself Lord Samuel Undergartner. Small explanation, really. In my second year, I attended a birthday party, which tended to be a bit on the boring side, so a couple of friends and me decided to come up with fantasy titles of english nobility and act out the part for the remainder of the evening. Turns out I took the whole game a lot more seriously. But I was young, it was fun, and I'd do it again if I had to.

Anyway, onwards....

Illusions (for lack of a better title)

Random facts lead to outright unexpected results. Things said , or done, are nowadays implying or seeming to do so, something else-either magnified, or something ever so unexpected (translation- contrary to what was said)

The grump and the cynic both met at the same time, with apparently the same agenda in mind. Both met at the same time and beat the sense into and the shit out of me. Good thing and about time too. Guys, where the hell have you been? In their absence, quite unexpected aspects of personality had shown up, which, fortunately after several hard blows to the knocks, went back in. (I’m talking about the aspects)

Mush-hater!!! Detester of the color pink, anything remotely pinkish (not to laugh. I actually know a lovely lady with the same name), detested by self-professed lovers and people who consider it a style to have items of clothing in bizarre shades of pink, with even more bizarre designs.( Fashion sense deterioration-indication of the apocolypse perhaps? Laughable really). Realist ever so slightly, but more importantly, welcome back the idiot with whom I so seem to (unwillingly) identify with. Ladies and other unimportant people, hail the return of Lord Samuel Undergartner, younger lord of the house of the royal Undergartners.

Ins(h)pirations lost, aspirations regained, inspired idiots laughed at, inshpired unfortunates sympathized with, ideal dreams re-conjured, and all round fear arising due to lack of preparations. Utopia, the ideal place, lies in ruins, after having seemingly deserted me. So much for all things grand and perfect. Hope still exists, though! Perhaps some new inspirations I shall seek, or shall be sought after by. (hoping for the vice-versa effect to kick in), or perhaps accept the loss, which symbolizes the beginning, but not the end, gracefully or not, who’s watching.

Lord Undergartner’s back. Hide the mush candy.

To each inspired idiot, his own inspiration. To everyman, his own muse.

Cigarettes and curds will do the job for me!!!!

Cheers!!

Grump's Entry

2006-06-23T20:23:00.000+05:30

This one I wrote a good three years ago, when I used to pride myself on being an absolute cynic.

Feel like I am on a streak out here……

Should actually rename myself “The Grump” because I seem to have a problem with every single thing in the world. Hmmm…. In that case just call me grumpy. The world already has “humor” writers, the world already has “serious” writers, and god knows the world has enough “humorously serious writers”. It s time for the rise of a writer who just likes to complain and just that. No healthy sense of humor, no dull reporting or predicting how our country is going to end up in the gutter and definitely no helpful sarcasm or a useful social satire…. The grump is here….and by god here he is going to stay and complain about every single thing in this world. Right enough of an introduction.

This week the grump s anger is rather misdirected. I want to be mad at one thing but have ended up being mad at everything. Be it the stinking, filthy plight of our city, or the attitude of it s citizens? Hell no! the grump is a teenage bastard (not literally, you idiots apologize to mom), frustrated, and pouring out what my therapist (lot he knows, lol) calls healthy angst! A natural expression of his frustrations madam, said he to my mom, no cause for worry… must be in love!! Like I said… lot he knows. Ah well!! That pretty much sealed my plight!! Now my mother thinks I am a lovesick puppy, my dad can t stop giggling to himself and me.. as for me I have to endure speeches which invariably start with, “the youth of today, no decency, spending parents hard earned money” or “in our times,..” yada yada yada.. doesn t matter that “our times” may have been yesterday, or the day before…. I am still worse than what my elders were at that singular point of time. The worst part is such speeches usually end with “ you are grounded”. Hmm seems somethings will never change.

Damn my therapist….. I pay him to help me out…… but seems that the damn useless intellectual can t do anything straight… and has got me in more trouble than I already was in. And to think I wanted to be like him. That’s not the scary part. The scary part is I still want to be a psychiatrist……hmmm has it s advantages. I can tell someone else s mother that their kid is in love. I ll watch him get punished…… here him endure the same speeches I have to go through….. have the same punishments meted out to him. The world will fear me….. crazy dr. they will call me…..they will run away…. Ha ha ha ha ha. They will pay me money, I will tell them things they already know…. Twist around the words…. speak in a higher vocabulary….. they will go home happy…. They will make me rich…… they will I tell you…

Hmmm long live suckers

Makes you wonder doesn’t it?

More Random Mutterings

2006-06-23T20:07:00.000+05:30

The commercialization of emotions…this has struck us all in recent times…we blamed it on globalization, then blamed it on the West, saying they have a bad influence on us. Believe me, money has begun governing matters of the heart anywhere, be it Vermont or Vizag. Don’t believe me? Look at love. “Love Will Keep Us Alive” is an embodiment of the new commercial avatar of “Archies And Hallmarks Packaged Sentiment- Love. Warning: May cause people to become stupid”.

For those of you wondering what the hell I am rambling about, sometime back.. on Valentine s day I made a rather sarcastic comment about how love, more than an expression from the heart has become a commercial marketing point. And for those who think that this is a retraction….. ha ha suckers!! Think again!!! I stand by everything I wrote…. It is true…. Ask any boyfriend and he will tell you that his love has cost him… and how…. But that is not important because apparently when you are in love you don t want to worry about increasing costs and instead choose to mask your disappointment and worries with a cheerful mask and a shrug and choose to think how your beloved makes your world go around, and how she is the light of your life. Yeah right… time to throw off the mask of rationalism, my brother. Face the realities… love may be the most exhilarating feeling in the world (obviously you haven t tried dope) and may give you an ecstatic feeling (seriously, try dope.. way cheaper), but it is also the most expensive thing in this world. Take all the money lovers have spent on each other, club it together, and one whole country will have enough to buy jaguar cars for every citizen. It s another point that that country might be Vatican City but you get what I am saying.

You may come at me again with knives and guns baying for my blood… love is good, I hear you say….. you poor misguided soul….. really I pity you. While you and your love are going around whispering sweet nothings and saying “I love you” s to each other……somewhere someone is going “ another sucker. All the world loves a lover, especially the sellers of love”. Never has the song “Love will keep us alive” had more meaning than in the present times…… think about it….love will be the biggest expenditure everyone of us will incur during our lifetime….ponder carefully…. And then threaten to slit my throat

Makes you wonder doesn t it???

Happy Thinking

V

VENI, VEDI, KABOOM!!!!!!

2006-06-23T20:00:00.000+05:30

I found a whole pile of my earlier writings...so I thought i'd make up for my earlier absence and at the same time find a way for the world to read these. Cheers.

I wonder, I ponder, I blunder. Those three actions would basically sum up my life. Julius Caesar’s immortal quote, translated to my life situations would read something g like: Veni, Vedi, KABOOOM! Translation: I came, I saw, it exploded. It wasn’t my fault, really. But arguing your case is really no use when a room full of grown-ups come charging into the room, see something broken, and assume that the 21 year old who’s holding the broken object in his hands is the guilty party. I tell you, there’s no justice in this world. I mean they don’t even want to listen to anything you might have to say in your defense. Terrible, absolutely heartless.

For example, this one time, I was playing basketball in the house. My mum had told me not to play in the house, using many colorful words to explain what would happen to my state of being if I disobeyed (layman’s translation- I’d be killed if I played in the house). Anyways, I assumed she was just being a mum about the whole thing and as her loving son, I was meant to disobey, and that it was in my destiny.(note from the dead- kids, don’t think this way at home) Well, I’m never one to go against anything that is pre-ordained, and well, I played ball in the house, and wouldn’t you know it, I broke something. Enter the dragon!! No wait, it’s mum!! Even worse!! Stay and face situation like a man!!!(translation- no way of getting out of there) I said, “mum, you knew I was going to break something. I really can’t stand to see you being disappointed, and so I did.” (at this point, I had on an extremely innocent face, angelic almost). However, mums know their kids better than anyone else, and my mum knows ME!! In short, that whole situation didn’t turn out entirely favorable. On the plus side though, I am now an expert at gluing back a priceless ming vase.

However this war between priceless household heirlooms and me is far from over. They sense my clumsiness, and it’s like they are stalking me, waiting for me to just move my hands in one direction or swish it in the other, and they will invariably place themselves at the receiving ends of my wild swings, waiting to be dropped and broken. I swear, it’s a conspiracy against me. They will implicate me, and I will always be blamed for their premature demise. Like I said, I’m always present at the scene of the crime. Those damn aliens always run away. I can’t positively manage to fly away or levitate away. I tried flying once and just looked like an ass swinging my arms. O ya. I ended up breaking something. Wouldn’t you know it??

I would try the levitation method, but that requires immense amounts of concentration, and knowledge of yoga, or so I’m told, and I don’t have the inclination to do yoga, nor the flexibility to do something like that. Sure, the yogis do it, but they also wear saffron loin cloths. That I don’t mind doing. Then again, the closest I got to doing anything spiritual was when I tried to hypnotize a friend of mine. It did partly work, he did fall asleep, but then I was told he had eaten too many idlis. Aw damn!!!!! Ah well.

But I digress……the fact of the matter is that every single breakable item has decided to conspire against me and the word has spread on the world wide breakable web. So the next time anyone decides to call me home for tea (make it coffee. I’m South Indian I need the coffee) make sure that all your valuables are locked safely away, and that they have no way of getting out.

Cheers and good notions
V

You Know This One's For You

2006-06-14T00:47:00.000+05:30

I've been doing a lot of thinking,
So much that my mind's given up,
Now it's just pure heart, nothing else....

So hear me out....

I've said all I had to say,
Tried to get you to see things my way,
But still, like always, you'll just say,
"Maybe it will work someday."

Now I know that i can't rhyme for nuts,
At this point, this poem's just going bust,
But I really, really don't care,
These words are going nowhere

It's just from me to you
"I'm falling in love with you."

I know I've said this time and time again,
But these thoughts keep clogging up my brain,
I'm honest here, please don't mock me
My brain and my heart just won't let me be

So I guess I'll just start of anew,
It's just between me and you,
"I'm falling in love with you."

I really don't have anything to say
Just thinking of you used to make my day
But now I know that's just wrong,
That's why I tried to write a song,
But I know this just wont make sense to you,
But it's true, yo..
"I'm falling in love with you."

I hate that I feel like this,
like a huge pile of shit,
But I want you to know this is not your fault
Just my senses leaving me deserted
In a dark and lonely vault

Well. this time I know what I want,
Happiness for you is all that I want,
And I hope you'll never ever know,
How my feelings for you continue to grow..

But this one's between me and you...
"I've fallen in love with you."

-This can either be a poem or a really bad song, assuming I decide to put a tune to it. Either way, it's my feelings..and I don't know why, but this sure as hell seemed the best way to express them-

Cheers and good notions

V

2006-04-26T22:36:00.000+05:30

THE PLACEMENTS

A Poem

_______________________________________________________________________

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!!!

2006-04-26T19:19:00.000+05:30

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!

2006-04-18T20:21:00.000+05:30

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).

_____________________________________________________________________
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

2006-04-13T20:07:00.000+05:30

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!!!

2006-04-13T19:43:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-11T22:07:00.000+05:30

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!!!

2006-04-11T22:03:00.000+05:30

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.

2006-04-11T13:46:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-10T23:53:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-10T21:58:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-09T17:57:00.000+05:30

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...

2006-04-08T01:31:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-06T23:37:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-06T21:44:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-05T22:11:00.000+05:30

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?

2006-04-04T22:10:00.000+05:30

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.

I wonder......

2006-04-03T21:41:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-03T20:42:00.000+05:30

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?

2006-04-03T14:25:00.000+05:30

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?

2006-04-02T23:22:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-02T22:16:00.000+05:30

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

2006-04-02T12:13:00.000+05:30

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.